#hope whoever reads this enjoys :)

[laurrelise]

peacefully scrolling through ao3 for a five + sibling bonding fluff fic because i was bummed about season 4 again and i suddenly come across…

………. mpreg five

[archonsbane]

BEAUTY IS TERROR

The gods crafted all mortals to have weaknesses, and foremost of many of Il Dottore’s is you. So when you ask him to be your companion to an annual winter ball, he is powerless to refuse. 

pairing. prime!dottore x reader, implied segments x reader, implied harbingers x reader, implied dottore x pantalone 

cw. gn!reader. reader is the tsarita’s child. reader referred to as they/them. dottore is a warning by himself. mentions & thoughts of violence + murder + human experimentation. drinking. biting. biting hard enough to draw blood. a bit suggestive but not nsfw. 

wc. 15k

an. first ever fic! hope you enjoy :D the title is from ‘the secret history’ by donna tartt. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away. 

He remembers the first time. He had been a child then, wide-eyed and tongue-tied, so unknowing about the world. His parents were fighting — they always fought, about money and work and him — and his father, a big man with small-set eyes and a hard mouth made for scowling, had begun to go on one of his drunken rants, prompting his mother to scream louder. He was crouched behind the stairwell, watching their shadows flicker and dance with the candlelight on the yellowed walls of their home. 

How hard he prayed that autumn day. His lip quivering, hands clasped together, every atom in his body searching for a hint of mercy from those who claimed to love him, both gods and parents. Stop, he would chant in his mind, stop, stop, stop. As brown and red leaves fell outside, as day turned to night, he prayed. He had never prayed so long or so hard until that day. The shouting never stopped and the gods remained silent.

Autumn reigned outside, and his faith died with the spring. It was a season of rot: the rot of the earth without, the rot of faith and soul within. He sucked in a harsh, shaky breath as the walls trembled from the screams. For a moment the house pulsed as though it had a heart. If it did, it had long been poisoned. 

He slipped out when the house went quiet, his parents dragged to exhaustion by their fight. There was no real goal in his mind, only that he wanted to run far, far away. He ran as fast as his little legs could take him, the wind in his hair, the distant call of birds at his back. He ran and ran and ran, and sooner or later the sun found him alone in the woods and free. 

Not for long. His parents found him three days later, surviving only on berries and the leavings of other beasts, grass-stained and muddied, yet cleaner than he had ever felt. He had shed his faith like a dirty coat, and his shoulders trembled with new-found purpose. That little rebellion earned him the worst beating he ever took in that house, but it no longer mattered. 

The next two times were far less pleasant. Even after all these years, they still rankle him. It had been a dark, starless night when the villagers came to cast him out. For his ‘madness’ and ‘monstrosity’, or whatever the hell they were shouting at him. He was too busy trying to not die to listen to all that. Some carried pitchforks, other crudely-made cudgels, and bats, yet all carried torches. It was like all the stars had come down from the sky to enact upon him his inevitable destruction. Inevitable, but Dottore did not believe in such silly lies anymore. He would take his fate and crush it with his hands and build a new one from smoke and ash. That house was the chain that tethered him to that broken old village. He burned it down that night, his parents still inside, and the chain broke; it was more than liberty: it was rebirth. He likes to think he was born on that ashen grass surrounded by the house’s fire and brimstone remains, sweaty and stained with blood. The Tsaritsa claims all the Harbingers are her children, but he knows he is not a holy child, just a creature forged from Hell. But Heaven imparted on him a farewell curse: the jagged scars that run down the left side of his face to his neck, smoking with resentment and remembrance. He left before the villagers could find out he was, in fact, not dead. 

Sumeru Akademiya, he thought, would be different. All the scholars were mad for knowledge, he had heard. So was he. He had expected to find a treasure trove of opportunity. He found old gray sages scared of their own shadows and peers who could not tell the difference between madness and truth. It was a shame, really. Nothing is as pitiful as something with wasted potential. But he had long learned if life did not go as planned, he would carve his way through, as a river changes the earth. And so once more he ran. 

The next time, fate would not catch him running like prey pursued. The Fatui had given him the opportunity to create the enhanced humans he knows could surpass the Heavens above. The next time, the gods above would meet their equal: a mortal man who, too, has learned the divine act of creation. 

“You’re thinking again.” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and back into the planes of reality. “Am I really so boring of a companion that your mind has to wander off?” 

He frowns, tapping at the armrest of his chair. Sometimes the memories come back to him unbidden, especially when he wants to think of anything but the present that sits in front of him. You sit across from him (it was his intention that he sit as far away from you as possible), legs informally crossed, your elbow resting on one knee and your chin cupped by your palm. You look nothing like the feared heir to Snezhnaya you normally are. Your grin is as pure and unfiltered as the spring sun, amplified by the fire roaring in the hearth, the look in your eyes warm and guileless. It’s a facade, unnoticed by the untrained eye. Your teeth are bared like a beast’s and your gaze is as sharp as a predator’s. When it pleases you to play the darling child of winter, you do. But he knows better. You like playing this little game with him — with all of the Harbingers, really, he’s seen how you’ve attached yourself to them, not only him, and it makes his chest tighten with some unnamed emotion — teasing him and complimenting him and following him around like some malignant ghost from the children’s tales. You’re a cruel little wolf like that. You play with your food before swallowing it whole. 

“You, boring? No.” Never boring. As irritating as your frequent visits are, he will always be kept occupied by one of your antics. “Unexpected? Yes.” You barged into his wing of the palace unannounced in the night, having completely evaded all his guards and segments, and casually sat down on his couch with a tray of tea and biscuits that seems to be a pacifying gift.

You pout mockingly. “Still haven’t forgiven me?” 

Irritation flickers against his skin. He readjusts his mask and scoffs. “It’s been five minutes, I require much more time than that.” 

“How ‘bout your gift?” You clasp your hands together. “Please? It’s your favorite. I got it from Lonnie.” Your leg bounces, an anxious habit of yours. What could possibly make you nervous? Certainly not his presence, you had made that clear, with all your unabashed visits to his lab, his foreign workshops, and now his own rooms. 

“I’d really rather have whiskey.” 

You raise a brow. “I didn’t bring any, and there aren’t any glasses.” 

“There’s a bottle in my drawer. Under the…” He trails off. He keeps indulgent snacks underneath a false bottom, just because, but you seem to already be aware of it. You slide out the wooden plank and hold up the bottle, the brown turned golden in the light of the fire. “... of course, you know.” 

He reaches for the tea cup on the coffee table, hot in his palms, but that never bothers him anymore with all the modifications he’s made to his body and swallows it all in one large gulp. Black tea with a twist of lemon. Four sugar cubes. His favorite. Somehow that makes his mood even worse. You hand him the bottle as you sit back down (closer to him now, which he does not fail to notice). He pours into his teacup until it almost sloshes over the edge.

The moment of silence stretches for a moment too long. He really wishes you’d just get on with it and end his misery, he wants to sleep or work or do something that removes the stain of you from his mind. Your face flickers like a flashlight in his peripheral vision, ghostly in the smoke. Your eyes glow terribly bright, a godly trait from your mother. It’s as beautiful as it is eerie. He transfers all his weight to his left foot, then his right, then back again. You wait for him to finish drinking, your gaze never leaving him. 

“Have you forgiven me now?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously calm. He swirls the whiskey around in his cup. The grandfather clock in the room ticks and tocks and he wishes for time to go faster just so he’d be rid of you already. “Do I have to?” He’s always dealt insolence back tenfold, ask any of his segments, or the poor, cursed souls who lie in his personal mortuary, many of whom have committed lesser crimes than breaking and entering into his personal space. “You really think you’re that special?” 

“Yes.” 

He wants to strangle you and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your stupid face. He wants to carve out those eyes so they’d never make him squirm under their gaze again. He wants to — he does not know what. 

He scowls and runs a hand through messy curled hair. “Five minutes, before I have my segments drag you out.” 

Amusement flickers across those too-bright eyes. You know that he knows he won’t. You let him pretend anyways.

“Wonderful!” You say happily, like a child just told they could play in the playground for a little while. “I need a favor.” 

There’s an unexplainable drop that he suddenly feels in his chest. He had expected you to be here simply to annoy him or make fun of his sleep schedule (that does not exist) or something stupid like that. Why, he cannot say it out loud. His company has never been termed as pleasurable anyways, as much as you continually seek it out. This is expected, it should have been. 

You place a cream-blue envelope with gold lining on the coffee table. He tears it apart, secretly smiling at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. The tattered paper has elegant calligraphy that marks it as from some noble-born priss, one of the many in Snezhnaya whose names he has never bothered to learn. They wrote that they were cordially inviting Their Imperial Highness to… 

His eyes narrow. “The Sokolov Winter Ball.” He waves the paper in front of your face. “No. No. No. Absolutely not—”

“—yes, oh, come one now, it’ll be fun—” 

“—you know how much I hate these things, and all those useless, simpering lords and ladies hate me—” 

“—they’re not simpering. Some of them are nice, like Duke Romanov’s daughter, and anyways, you’ll be with me the entire time and they won’t dare to insult a Fatui Harbinger to their face.” 

He slams the paper down on the table. The teacups rattle from the impact. He leans forward, chin raised in defiance. “No.”

You cross your arms and lean into the couch. “Too bad. I command you to go.”

"Can't you ask the others? Why torment me, specifically?" He gestures wildly with his hands to emphasize his irritation. 

You place a hand on your heart, eyes blown wide for extra effect. "Torment? Dear Doctor, you sadden me so. Can't I spend time with my favorite Dottore?" 

"Oh? And here I thought Gamma was your favorite."

"You're my favorite of all the non-Gammas. Anyways, I can’t really take an eleven-year-old to the ball."

"Just take Theta and be happy with that." 

"But I want to take you." 

There’s a desperate lilt in your voice that weakens his resolve. Could you really? This wasn’t just another one of your jokes, was it? He hates balls, hates the moronic socialites of Snezhnayan society, but absurdly, hope becomes a twittering hummingbird in his heart. 

He grits his teeth. "I should file this as some sort of abuse of power." 

He wants to deny you, he does. He knows he can’t. He feels the insidious truth squeeze at his black heart. 

You reach out and pat his head condescendingly. "You do that, dear." 

"Is there anything I can do to make you take someone else?" He waves his hand at nothing. "I'll give you my entire secret stash of chocolates." It's hidden beneath the false bottom of his desk. A very obvious hiding spot, but he doesn't think anyone should care much for a simple stash of chocolates. He prides himself on it, for all its insignificance. He's collected chocolate-covered hazelnuts from Mondstadt, boxes of assorted chocolates from Fontaine, white almonds encased in matcha-infused chocolates from Inazuma, and choco pies from Liyue. 

"Er," There's a strange, sheepish smile on your face. "No." 

“Will you leave even if I still say no?”  

“No.” And then, in a hushed tone barely above a whisper, the final blow to his resolve: “Well, yes, if you really don’t want to go. But consider it, at least? I want to do this with you.” You don’t look at him as you say it, you don’t turn that captivating gaze of yours on his body to make him squirm. Your face is turned towards the fire, the glow of it making your cheeks red. He almost believes you. He wants to believe you. 

You sigh at his silence. “You can get something out of this.” 

He raises an inquisitive brow. “Like?” 

“Archons, I don’t know. A favor for later. More funding. More… resources. Whatever. Anything I can wrestle out of the others.”

It’s a good deal, he muses. Your influence as heir apparent is not one to be undermined. Moreover, the other Harbingers are strangely fond of you. They would bend for you, and not just out of duty. 

A pause, and then, with a world-weary sigh he puts his face in his hands. He does not want to see your ebullience, it would hurt his pride too much. “Alright.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back and stuff them down his throat, but it's too late. 

A joyful sound leaves you. He hears the rustling of cloth and excited steps on the wooden floors before he’s enveloped by the warmth of your body. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, and your head rests on top of his head.

He flinches slightly. You pull away but your hands remain on his shoulders. He hates, hates how his heart leaps to his throat, how every atom in his body starts to vibrate with life. He cannot, will not, let you have this power over him. He tugs on his heartstrings like a puppeteer and wills his heart to turn to stone. 

“You’ll have a fun time, I promise.” You disentangle from him your hair falls over your eyes, and without thinking, he lifts a hand and brushes it away. You grab his hand and entwine your fingers together. “You won’t regret this.” 

“I’m there to accompany you and leave as fast as possible,” Dottore replies wryly, but his heart lurches. 

He cannot explain to himself why he allows the moment to go on longer than he should. You both stay locked in position, half-hugging with your hands intertwined. Your eyes are half-lidded, your eyelashes fluttering with a mix of embarrassment and playfulness.  His gaze trails from your lashes to your lips, red as cherries. His throat feels suddenly parched and his cheeks flush with warmth. From the fire, he tells himself. 

The grandfather clock chimes midnight. 

You watch with amusement in your eyes as he jumps back, elbow hitting the armrest, swallowing the noise that threatens to escape his body. Suddenly all the irritation comes rushing back up to the surface of his skin. Many a man has fled from that look, from the green children Arlecchino supplies them with to veteran soldiers who have faced blood-soaked horrors on the battlefield. 

You blink innocently. 

He rubs at his temple, glaring at the fireplace in order to avoid looking at you. You quickly school your lips into a languid smile and start to ramble on about the details — white tie, no theme, dinner, and a ball, don't be late, and remember your manners — and his mind has started to drift to the experiments he needs to finish. There's a particularly annoying disease that's been sweeping through the masses, and the Tsaritsa charged him with taking care of it. He's already gotten a dozen test subjects but one particularly insolent one destroyed a week's worth of research while trying to escape. Then there's a whole batch of delusion prototypes in need of a field test, and it's almost time for his segment's monthly inspection. 

"—and you need to learn how to dance." 

His head snaps up. "You're kidding—" 

"Nope," you say, cutting him off. Archons, one day, he swears to himself, he will make you shut up (How? A voice inside asks. He has no answer.) and his life will be all the better without your grating voice sniffing at his heels like a hungry dog. "You'll be taking classes with me starting next week. Mother says it's about time you learned, too. Everyone else knows." 

He scowls at you. You've got him by the hook — no matter what, the Tsaritsa's will cannot be questioned. A thousand times he deflected, making up excuses or sending segments in his place. He does not think it ever fooled his Empress, but she never pressed on it. She would forgive them a thousand little times over, but when she was steadfast in her resolve, her will was as unconquerable as a glacier. 

“Fine. Just get out already.” 

Your little chuckle rings in his ears. “Mother might call in the army to search for me if I linger.” 

Oh, thank Tsartisa. “Then go,” he says dryly. He really, really does not want to be accused of high treason today. Your mother was terrifyingly overprotective.

You roll your eyes. “That’s no way to see off a guest, but I’ll forgive you from the kindness of my heart.” 

For his personal gratification, he launches a throw pillow in your direction. You catch it with one unamused brow raised. You throw it back and it hits him in the face. 

You put on your boots and your cloak and slip out the door, gently closing it with a click. The fire is still roaring, but the room feels much colder now. There’s a strange, hollow place in the room he cannot help but feel that your shape should be filling. There’s a dull ache pounding in his chest. 

He rubs his eyes and moves to his desk, his perpetual sweet tooth aching for that chewy heaven in his taste buds. He almost thinks he's opened the wrong drawer when he finds nothing there, but with a flash of anger, he realizes there's a note in your familiar handwriting. 

Sorry. I'll pay you back. :) 

You insolent little minx. You ate all of it. 

He sighs and pulls back his leather chair. He falls into the soft fabric, all the tension in his body dissipating into the air. He’s too tired to be annoyed. All the energy he exerts in your presence could do that. He sinks deeper into the plush chair and stretches his legs underneath the desk. If there’s ever been a miracle in his life, it’s that his spine hasn’t broken yet from all of the bone-shattering positions he puts himself in. 

He’ll have to adjust his non-existent schedule now. The Doctor operates on impulse and instinct, rotating between experiments and whatever’s captured his attention, sometimes not leaving the lab for days on end or going out and doing more… personal research. He’s begun digging deeper into Ruin Guards, and what he’s found has fascinated him. You would like it, he thinks. He’ll have to tell you all about it one of these days. 

Archons. What have you done to him? Slipping through the iron walls of his heart and plunging yourself deep into the myocardium. You’ve infested his body like a disease, and now it seems all thoughts and actions have been dedicated to you. He hates it, he enjoys it, he cannot tear you out of him no matter how hard he tries, and he’s tried. Oh, so many times. 

Now that you’ve left, he allows his lips to curl into a sneer. That moment — the entire night, really — was just a weakness he has not yet stamped out. He wishes he could tear his heart out and stomp on it until it stopped doing that infuriating flutter whenever you’re near. He sucks in a harsh breath and taps frantically on the armrest. He is so, so fucked. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away, yet it seems you’re the one divinity he cannot escape from.

The morning before the first lesson finds him sleep-deprived, exhausted, and in an absolutely foul mood. The previous night (or, rather, three a.m. that morning), a Chaos Core went wild and exploded. It was the last in his stock. He sent Beta to hunt for more, but it would be a while until he returned with a sufficient amount and he had to put a hold on his studies ‘till then. One of his test subjects had also been spitting out defiance after defiance as of late, dragging his research longer than it should’ve gone on. He killed them, of course, sometimes you just have to cut your losses and be done with it, but it wasted so many days spent conducting test after test. The thought of it makes him furious all over again, but he cannot be in a mood today. 

Dottore has never found out the secret of looking as though he’s just waltzed out a Fontainian perfume commercial like Pantalone, but today he looks worse than ever when inelegantly he rolls out of bed. His appearance has never bothered him before, not with his mask covering the worst of it, but his hair sticks out in so many directions it looks as though he’s just been hit by lightning, his skin is sickly pale, and his eyes are wide and bloodshot. He drags a hand down his face and moans in exasperation. He knows you won’t care, but court conduct requires just a little bit of dignity from him. 

A much-needed shower and eye drops solve the worst of it (or so he hopes). He still looks like Death himself has come to haunt the palace’s hollow hallowed halls, but that was his common appearance anyways. 

The Fatui and the servants who go in and out of the palace keep their eyes trained on the ground as he passes by, a manic grin that shows sharp ivory teeth on his face. It’s an effort to keep up the appearance running on three hours of sleep, but the memory of that night rattles around in his mind, and he will not be that weak again. Just for fun, he turns his gaze on one of the new-bloods. The way they flinch brings a sliver of confidence back to him. 

A familiar figure makes him pause in his tracks. His grin is genuine now, and he feels this is a wonderful restart to a day that has, so far, been miserable. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Regrator.” 

He does not have to see the front of his head to know Pantalone rolls his eyes and stares pointedly off to the distance before turning around to face him. He looks as youthful as ever, still looking like an early thirty-something, as he has for the entire time Dottore’s known him. The smile on his face is polite and patronizing. 

“Dottore,” Pantalone forces out. He folds his fingers together across his stomach. “How… lovely to see you.” 

“Is it?” He gives the man a mocking smile and tilts his chin up with his hand. “Lovely, but so cold. Where are the happy smiles for me, my lord?” 

Pantalone scoffs and crosses his arms, half-turning away. “A wretched creature like you doesn’t deserve one.” So he’s dropped all formalities, then. This would be interesting. 

Dottore places his hand over his chest for dramatic effect, in a comically similar way that you had all those nights ago. “I thought we were getting along so well. You wound me, Lonnie.” 

“Good. I hope it kills you.” 

A faux gasp leaves his mouth. Pantalone’s eye twitches. He turns to leave, but Dottore wheels ahead of him and blocks his path, stretching his arms wide. As much as you annoy him, he can’t say he does not understand what you feel when you do. Pantalone, his favorite target, always elicits the best emotions that keep him entertained for weeks after. His rotten heart beats with energy. 

“Pantalone, Pantalone, Pantalone,” he says, in a child’s sing-song voice, “Won’t you indulge me just this once? You’ve been so busy, you’ve barely had any time for me and our oh-so-enjoyable meetings this month.” 

Pantalone looks close to pushing him out of a crystalline window. Dottore hopes he does not, the Tsaritsa does love her windows. 

“It seems you’re the one who does not have time today, Dottore,” He says, “You’re expected for your dance lessons in about, oh, five minutes, aren’t you?” 

Dottore hisses, his mood turning sour all of a sudden. “Who fed you that morsel of information?” 

“People like to gossip,” Pantalone shrugs, amused and unkind, “but if you must know, it was Theta who told your maids who told the guards who told my maids who told my secretaries who told me.” Damn that Theta. Dottore makes a mental reminder to reboot that impertinent pillock’s system without you finding out. “You really must hurry,” he continues on, oblivious to how Dottore glares a burning hole through the pillar behind him, imagining the ‘scolding’ he’ll give his segment when he sees them, “You wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, do you? I feel enough pity as it is that you’re their chosen partner. I can’t imagine why they would choose you…” 

“... over you, my dear Regrator?” 

Pantalone simpers, but an emotion Dottore knows all too well flashes across his eyes. They’ve known each other for too long and too closely, no matter how much he tries to hide, Dottore can break down that steel skin of his and pry out the truth from his chest. “I am far more handsome, and sociable besides.” 

“But they chose me.” 

Pantalone levels his gaze to Dottore’s. The corners of his mouth are curled down, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his narrowed gaze is sharp as a knife. He says nothing.

“You’re jealous,” Dottore says, jumping well over the line that all of the Harbingers put between their facades and the truth. His grin is wolfish and triumphant. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” 

Pantalone glares at him and turns to leave. “I have better things to do than be jealous of you. Good day, Dottore.” 

Dottore takes long strides to stand in front of him, blocking his path once more. Before Pantalone can open his mouth and spit out insults that could have him thrown into the far northern military camps if it were any other person, Dottore leans in and whispers into the shell of his ear, “I know,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, “things like being jealous of them, too.” 

He whistles a happy tune through his teeth as he leaves, the Ninth Harbinger paralyzed behind him. He does not pay any mind to how his skin has been set aflame or how his heart beats wildly in his chest. 

Yes, if he could only be that way with you, everything would be alright. He cannot understand why it’s so different from you. It’s the power, a voice whispers. It always circles back to that. Only three people stand above him now: that rat bastard Pierro, your mother, and you. You and your irritating smiles and your irritating laugh and your irritating jokes. You unnerve him with the way you hold his life so carelessly in your hands. A single touch, a mere look, and you could send him spiraling down to the depths if you so commanded. Everything he’s achieved in his life undone. In this pack of wolves the Tsaritsa calls her children, both by blood and bond, there’s a clear hierarchy in which you stand above all others. 

He and Pantalone can devour each other whole, but when it comes to you, he’ll have to force the bitter taste of defeat down his throat. It’ll take everything in his power not to gag. 

He’s ten minutes late when he finally arrives at the Queen’s Ballroom. The ballroom is beautiful, made of marble and gold furnishings. The floor is polished hardwood arranged in complicated swirling patterns that mimic the winter winds. The ceiling is painted with scenes of the nature of the north: galloping wild horses and sly foxes, wolves prowling through the green underbrush, golden ivy snaking at the edges as clouds raced on a blue sky. The crystal chandeliers are unlit and unneeded, the pale light of the morning provides enough to see clearly. This part of the palace is rarely ever open, the Tsaritsa is not one to throw balls and parties like so many of her aristocratic subjects do, so the doors stay locked. Of course, any exception can be made for winter’s favorite child. 

He barely even notices the dance instructors wheedling about in the corner. He immediately finds you, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling window. One leg is crossed over the other. With the morning light coming in through, you’re bathed in the brightest living gold. For a moment old prayers come crowding to the forefront of his mind. For a moment all that time spent on his knees seems to be reasonable, if only it had all been dedicated to you. For a moment you’re baptized by the sun, for a moment you’re holy. 

The cocky smile on his face, a remnant from that moment with Pantalone, crumbles. His breath hitches in his throat. Oh, shit. 

You turn to him, mouth pressed in a thin line. Your pointed steps ring across the floor as you stalk toward him, and he cannot help but feel like a trapped critter. He wants to fight or flee or do something —

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” you murmur, reaching for his gloved wrist with the lightest of touches. He swallows at the sensation of touch. “I was starting to think you had flaked out on me,” you say teasingly.  

“Oh, no, I was just… occupied with another business,” he mutters, looking back at the entrance. A smirk cannot be restrained. You raise an eyebrow and he shakes his head, still grinning. “It’s alright now.” 

Your answering smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. The two of you walk side-by-side toward the instructors on the other side of the room, close enough for your shoulders to brush against each other, a united front. He realizes, quite abruptly, that you were nervous too. 

The dance he has to learn is the Varsovienne Waltz. Their instructors are a pair of siblings, boy and girl, who look very much alike with dark eyes and dark hair. They regard him with the fearful respect most everyone regarded him with, taking care not to seem too patronizing. 

He first learns the fundamental dance positions. He thought he was mechanical, awkward, and unsure for the first time in years (Archons, how do you manage to coax these emotions out of him?). You said he was doing well, and the instructors affirmed so, but he cannot tell if that was genuine or from a place of fear. 

And then comes the actual dancing. 

They demonstrate it beforehand. Together, the pair of siblings glide across the floor with the gracefulness of swans fluttering about in the lakes. You had already learned this dance as a young child growing up in the icy walls of Zapolyarny, and so after the instructors had finished, you request to dance with one of them, if only to test your muscle memory. You take the role of follower, prompting Dottore, who guesses he would be assigned the role of leader, to imprint each step and twirl into his mind. 

He hates the sick feeling of anxiousness brewing in the pit of his stomach as he watches you dance. But it does not go away as he watches you laugh and toss your head back, not a hair out of place. It’s not a surprise you’re so good at this, each move perfectly executed, your angles a wonder of geometry. This kind of life was your birthright. But not for him, not for the boy who had grown up in an indigent village on the borders of Sumeru. His history is not what bothers him, though, he had shed it from himself like a coat a very long time ago. What bothers him is you. 

Vexation pools in his mind the longer he watches. He begins to impatiently tap his foot against the floor, his mouth twisting into a sneer. This was your life, not his. Dancing is not something the Second Seat of the Fatui Harbingers should be doing. Such a frivolous and foolish activity was not meant for a man of his nature. Heavens, what was he doing here? Hundreds of years ago you couldn’t have dragged him into the ballroom kicking and screaming if your life depended on it. Now he stands here, awake at six-in-the-fucking-morning operating on barely any sleep for you and your dance lessons that’ll be put into use for only one night. One night! 

You could do this to him. You could force him to take dance lessons like some twelve-year-old lordling. You could tear down the meticulously made steel and calcium walls that surround his heart with a sharp smile and bury yourself within the bloody tissue. You could make a home there, familiar and warm, floating above a poisonous black rot. Only you could coax half-forgotten emotions out of him that he thought he had sealed away centuries ago. Meeting you, he thinks, has been the worst thing that’s ever happened to him thus far. 

He wants to turn to leave but finds his feet rooted to the ground. 

He barely notices you’re done before you saunter up to him, hands your hips, your mouth pressed into a thin, worried line. 

“Are you alright? You look…” You cock your head to the side. “... not good.” 

“I’m better than I’ve ever been,” he rasps, extending a gloved hand. “Can we get on with it now?” 

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. A moment passes before you decide to stay silent and take his hand. 

The girl instructor lifts the needle on the gramophone and the record begins to spin. The music is a sweet, simple melody. He has never heard it before, but memories of days spent exploring the surrounding forest of his village catapult to the forefront of his mind: dipping small toes into warm springs as he ate sticky sunsettias, the juice running down his fingers, the warm, incessantly lovely sun on windblown hair. He shakes his head like a wet dog shaking off water. 

He does not realize just how much tension his body holds until you hum as he spins you around, your back to his chest, his left hand on your hip, and his right hand cupping yours. “You need to relax,” you say. 

“I am relaxed,” he replies stiffly. 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Your Imperial Highness,” he mutters, a sardonic smile on his face, “I think I am much more qualified to say what my body feels more than you.” 

You purse your lips but say no more. The look in your eye tells him you don’t believe him at all. 

The next three hours are agonizingly slow-paced, yet somehow when he reaches the end of it, are a blur of colors and shapes and unintelligible music as though he had been shot past it all. He would not be surprised if the gods somehow made time move slower then faster then slower than normal just to play another cruel trick on him for their own amusement. 

He isn’t terrible, and his rarely-used combat experience has finally found some employ, but he lacks your practiced poise or the easy grace of the instructors. He moves less like a human and more like some forest creature, his physicality more wild and jagged than it was elegant. The instructors tell him his lordship took to the dance more easily than most, and with a few more sessions could be flawless, but he does not pay any mind to them and instead places his gaze on you. Something unpleasant lurks behind your carefully-blank expression. His mind lurches with the sudden urge to find out what had gone wrong and go back in time and fix it. Trial and error is something he is intimate with, and his mistakes do not bother him, so long as he fixes them. He realizes, suddenly, that he wants to please you. 

Pantalone does not need to push him out a window, he’ll very well throw himself from one after this. 

“Walk with me,” you say, slipping an arm through his. Your expression is almost quiet. He has no choice but to let you lead him out the door and into the hallways. The guards at the door bow their heads and murmur the appropriate greetings. He does not miss how their eyes land on their interlocked arms for a second too long. People will talk. 

You both stroll through the hall in strained silence. He flexes his fingers. 

“Are you alright?” 

His head snaps to the side, his ears unbelieving. He had been bracing himself for a reprimanding, for jeers, for mockery. Not this. “Pardon?” 

Was that pity in your eyes? His jaw clenches. Anger, black and brutal, burns within. “Are you alright?” 

He tries to disentangle himself from you, but an iron grip keeps him locked in place. He forgets how truly strong you are. “I’m fine.” 

You sigh and look at the arched ceiling, as though exasperatedly asking it if it could hear his words. “Dottore, I’ve known you for a very long time. You overestimate your ability to lie to me.” 

He grits his teeth, forcing the words out of his throat. “I am fine. I have weathered much worse than dance classes, Your Imperial Highness. If you found some fault in my conduct or wish to admonish me then please, don’t drag it out.” 

“Admonish you?” Your eyes widen, startled. “What? No, I’m just—” 

He barks out a laugh, self-deprecating and cruel. “What? Pitying me?” 

“Worried about you.” You stop. You step forward and face him, eyes bright and shining, the corner of your lips curled into a frown. “Don’t be mean.” 

Worried. You were worried about him. His anger ebbs away and morphs into soft bemusement. You don’t move from your position, instead, you cross your arms and tilt your chin up in defiance like an angry child. He almost believes you’re genuine, but he knows better than to argue with that stubborn jut of jaw. 

He huffs, willing up his signature grin. It’ll be easier to make you happy if only to get this over with. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.” He flicks your forehead and thrusts his fists into his pocket and starts to stride forward. “I’m quite alright. If you’re wondering about my less-than-stellar performance, it’s the three hours of sleep I got.” 

You roll your eyes and scurry after him. Before he can escape, you grab his hand and lead him toward a wing of the palace he has been in only a few times before. Your own. 

“No, no, no, you’re not escaping me today.” A childish groan escapes him and makes you giggle. “You can sleep after this, but humor me for a bit and have breakfast with me.” 

“You didn’t have breakfast?” 

“Did you?” Fair point. 

He wants to go back to his room and sleep until sunset, but he cannot help but feel a spark of interest. Most of the time you simply hang about his laboratory and annoyed him, but for you to actually invite him to something as simple as breakfast with seemingly no other motivation than to spend time with him was a break from your norm. A very unfamiliar break. 

All his instincts call for him to flee. 

“Alright,” he says, against the better judgment of his head, “just this once.” 

The imperial family’s apartments are bigger than the Harbingers’, and much emptier. The hall is big and white and echoing, with wide hardwood flooring that was arranged in an intricate repeating diamond pattern. There are paintings of you and your mother, silver embellishments in the likeness of frost plastered on the walls, the furniture was elegant but plain, and the windows had no curtains. The only hint of your personality is the vases of your favorite flowers. Everything had an eerie, deserted look, haunted by the ghost of you. There were barely any people, only two stoic guards posted at the entrance and a maid that scurried past them. He never realized just how isolated you were from the rest of them; no wonder you sought the Harbingers out so often. 

Breakfast appears with instantaneous magic: fried bacon, sunnyside-up eggs, blinis, and biscuits. His stomach rumbles at the sight. He hasn’t had anything to eat that was more than trail mix in close to thirty-six hours, not that it bothered him significantly, he was used to getting distracted by his studies and forgetting to nourish himself. Thankfully, he had improved his body long ago so that it could weather mortal flaws like hunger. 

He wolfs down a slice of bacon while you slather a blini with butter and honey. He rarely eats with company if not forced to. Outside of that, he only ever eats with his segments on the off-chance they’re all free, which is simply a microscopic natural disaster filled with food fights and whining and endless bickering. But breakfast with you is a quiet affair. You eat with calm, methodological grace. He subconsciously looks at you, noting your dining habits, wondering if this was your favorite food. You catch him staring and send him a bemused smile. He looks away, suddenly interested in the tapestries that adorn the walls, feeling heat rush to his face. The windows are open and he can hear the world outside: birds twittering about, the recruits at their morning drills, servants rushing to do this and that. A stillness settles within his bones that he has not felt in a very, very long time. Part of him wants to rip it out, but another part shushes it. He is tired, sleep-deprived, and busy. He still has experiments to do, reports to check, papers to sign. But right now the sun is coming in, soft as a caress, and you are sitting across from him and smiling.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” you say suddenly, your words cutting through the silence like a sword. “but you seemed really out of it earlier.” 

He raises one eyebrow and takes a pointed bite of his bacon. “Is this a therapy session or breakfast?” 

You kick his leg beneath the table. “Archons, ‘ttore, I just want to be nice.” 

Nice. Inwardly, he laughs. He absently pushes the runny eggs around on his plate. “Hm. There were just a few things on my mind, nothing to worry about.” A pause. “I’m very surprised you haven’t teased me yet for my horrible dancing skills.” 

“Ah.” You prop your arm up on the table and rest your cheek on your fist. “Actually, I was expecting they’d be just as bad as your harmonica skills. But you’re actually okay. Not good, but you’re getting there.” 

He splutters. His mouth opens and closes, much like a fish, before he erupts. “My harmonica skills are amazing! You’re just deaf or inane or have horrible, horrible taste.” He pokes his silver fork in your direction. “I’ll have you know I was the best harmonica player in Sumeru, thank you very much.” 

You bite on your lower lip, vaguely amused. “Really now.” 

He leaps to his feet and leans forward, hands on the table, a flurry of feathers and cotton cloth and fury. “Yes, really now! If you weren’t heir to the throne I’d have you chopped up into little pieces and sold to the butchers for that.” 

“I think you’d miss the pleasure of my company too much to do that.” 

He harrumphs and jerks his head away. “You presume too much.” 

You laugh. It’s warm and comforting and familiar. He wants to never hear it again. “You’re so pretentious. Can’t you admit you’re just a little bit fond of me?” 

“Fond? I—” The word coils around his throat. No, he wasn’t fond of you. He was simply slightly more tolerant of you than everyone else. “—no. No, I’m not.” 

He isn’t, really, he isn’t. All these little moments were just lapses of mortal weakness he has yet to stamp out. Something else to add to his itinerary of things to modify. This acquaintanceship with you was getting too bold and too powerful and one of these days he’s sure it’s going to come crashing down on him. 

“I think you are.” You dangle your fork between your fingers. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” 

He waits for you to continue. But you don’t. You sit there and stare at him, twirling your fork, those eyes bright and big and full of inexplicable warmth. One corner of your lips curls up into an absurdly endearing lopsided smile. He banishes the thought from his brain. The silence stretches, on and on and on, until it becomes a blanket that suffocates him. 

He taps his fingers against the table. “You’re madder than I am.” 

“You of all people should know the difference between madness and truth.” 

“It’s not the truth.”

You peer up at him and cock your head to the side. “Is it?” 

You stand and circle around the table, dragging one finger on the wood. He turns his head to the door and away from you. You hover next to him, just a breath away from his skin. He fights to shove back down the shaky breath that threatens to escape him. He does not know why he doesn’t just move away, putting those barriers back up that he allows you to shatter over and over again. The pieces are on the ground, ready to be gathered and assembled once more. He is a scholar, he knows how to eliminate weakness, how to tear down and rebuild over and over again until his product becomes perfect; he can build on the evident fragility of his resolve when it comes to you. 

All it takes is discipline. He must throw you back as he throws back enemies on the battlefield. He must deny you any more ground. 

One hand intertwines with his while the other holds the pulse of his wrist. His heart begins to beat itself to death in his chest. He relents and turns to look at you, your face carefully blank, but he has known you for too long. Something stirs within your eyes, something hungry and wolfish.

You bring his hand to your lips and gently turn it over to expose the scarred skin peeking out from in between his sleeve and his glove. His wrist is barely an inch away from your mouth. You lean forward and bite, hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting. 

He jerks away, eyes widening with incredulity. “You—” 

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. There is no hint of remorse or disbelief for what you just did in your eyes. You smile at him, affable and innocent as a puppy. But there was nothing puppy-like in your eyes. How could he have let himself forget? You wild little wolf. His wrist throbs, but to his surprise and disgust, the sensation was not at all unpleasant. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, not sounding the least bit sorry, “I wanted to see what that would be like.” 

“You wanted to see what it would be like to bite me?”

“To mark you.” You move forward as he moves back, a twisted iteration of the waltz you danced earlier. “I don’t understand why you don’t let me in. Did I do something wrong?” His Adam apple bobs up and down as his back hits the wall. “Tell me, please.” 

He looks at you and runs his tongue over his teeth. Every coherent thought evaporates within the confines of his brain. He cannot let you know the truth. He cannot. 

“Get away.” His voice is hoarse. 

There’s the slightest hesitation in your muscles before you take a small step backward. In one swift motion, he lurches forward, grabbing ahold of your shoulder and your chin. He leans over you, red eyes blazing underneath the mask. Something cruel and sharp slithers in his veins and buries its fangs into his anatomy. He does not know who he is angrier at — you, or himself. You for being an inescapable prison where he was the prisoner. Himself for never trying to escape or not trying enough. 

He grazes his thumb against the outline of your lips. “You insufferable little brat,” he spits, “the other Harbingers may allow you to do whatever you please with them, but that weakness is not inside me, and you cannot root it out. You—” He squeezes your skin. “—you cannot conquer me, no matter how much you try.” 

Will you have him thrown out of the Fatui for this? Locked up in the deepest cell? Will you ask your mother to impale him on a glacier, forced to slowly wither away? He watches and waits for your response.

You smile and easily disentangle yourself from his grasp. You lean forward, one hand on his shoulder, your lips brushing against his ear. 

“Liar.” 

He does not think he’s upset you, but you’ve abstained from interacting with him outside of your dance lessons, which themselves have become awkward and brief. You regard him with the same absentminded politeness you would a waiter or a maid, your eyes glazed and the candor of your voice mild. Ever since that night, you’ve made no move to tease or touch. Even as you dance, your bodies locked in a tangle, every time skin brushes against skin your new-found coldness burns like ice. 

He tries not to dwell too much on your last conversation, on the phantom throbbing of his wrist where your teeth had bit into his skin. 

His life has become strangely empty now. There’s a hole in the shape of you begging to be filled, but no material could ever replace your flesh and bone. No one’s barging into his laboratory to annoy him or sneaking into his apartments at odd hours of the night. All for the better. 

Except it isn’t, because now it’s the night (or rather, morning) before the ball and he can’t seem to sleep and the past few weeks have been absolutely insufferable. He’s irritable, much more than he normally is, prone to commonplace mistakes, and worst of all, unfocused. His segments have noticed, even the younger ones, who have been increasingly more competent than him. He knows that they know the reason why; he sees the various looks of disapproval, amusement, and disgust. Zeta even had the gall to make fun of him for it, to his immediate regret, as Dottore scolded him with such ferocity they all went quiet in a rare show of obedience. Perhaps he should scold them more often. The resounding silence, if it happened more often, would undoubtedly improve their research and his moods. 

He stares down at the unfinished reports on the metal table, acutely aware of the laboratory clock ticking away the minutes. Another and another and another go past. He’s been staring dumbly at the thrice-damned half-empty papers for two hours now. He can feel Theta’s bemused eyes burning into the back of his eyes as he mops up the blood from their latest failed experiment. Suddenly the sloshing of the water is too much for him to bear. 

“Go. Leave that for the maids,” Dottore barks. He hears swift footsteps before they pause right at the door that leads into the segments’ living quarters. 

“You should sleep,” Theta says. Dottore turns in the swivel chair and shoots him a pointed look. “I’m not saying that out of, urgh, concern,” the segment hurries to correct, “only that, don’t you have something to prepare for tomorrow—” He shoots a glance at the clock. “—I mean, today?” 

“None of your business.” 

“We’re the same person if you hadn’t noticed, so yes it is my business.” 

Dottore rubs his eyes and stays silent. There’s too little energy within him to bicker right now. Theta is still rooted in his spot, smirking silently. He crosses his arms.

“Maybe,” he continues, with a mischievous lilt in his voice, “if you’re feeling too tired to attend, I’ll be glad to—” 

It’s almost comical how fast Theta goes flying into the metal cabinets. He lets out a groan of pain. Dottore does not even comprehend when he stood up and punched him. He only knows the way rage flared in his chest, that wild emotion that he could not name roaring in his ears. He had been the one asked to the ball. Him, over Theta. Theta was your favorite of all the adult segments, for who-knows-what reason, the segment that was him during his final year in the Akademiya. You always claimed it was because he was the most fun to be around (Only the Archons can understand your definition of fun) and so it was him you often asked after. 

But this time it’s Dottore that you wanted, and he would not let anyone take away what was rightfully his. (Your voice seems to whisper in his ear, as though you were standing right beside him, “I want to do this with you.”)

The second he realizes his thoughts, he’s tempted to shoot himself with one of the expertly made and modified Fatui guns. It’s the tiredness, he reasons to himself. The lack of sleep was poisoning him with irrationality. The last time he slept was… well. Approximately four days ago. 

He remembers the last thing he said to you, and thinks of your wolfish eyes and predatory grin. You cannot conquer me, and your sly answer, Liar. How is it, he thinks, that he has barely seen you in weeks yet your presence has enlarged and completely overtaken him? The scholar in him wants to pry around for answers, but another part, a mortal part he thought he had killed long ago already knows what the answer is. 

He wonders if you still actually want him to be your partner. With the way you’ve been ignoring him these past few weeks, you might truly prefer taking one of his clones instead. The only adult segments in Snezhnaya right now are Theta and Zeta, the latter of which was on the other side of the country doing research on the mysterious disease. Theta was the only true threat to his position… unless, of course, you decide to ask one of the Harbingers or your subordinates instead. 

To his surprise and mild disgust, uncharacteristic fear grips his heart. Shit. If you took someone else to the ball, he would lose the reward you had promised to grant. He needed it — Tsaritsa only knows how much people, especially certain bankers, love to get in the way of his research. 

The thought of you swaying in another person’s arms tonight almost makes him punch Theta again. 

Theta is rambling about something insignificant, still scrambled on the floor and clutching his bruised face, glaring daggers at his creator. Dottore would have paid more heed to a rat squeaking in the corner. Dottore jerks his head to the door. A dismissal. 

An annoyed sound leaves Theta’s artificial throat. “Looks like I touched a nerve there, Prime. Scared I’m gonna steal them away?” 

“No.” 

He huffs. “Whatever. It’s just one date, I’m always gonna be the favorite.” 

Dottore wonders if he can get away with Theta’s permanent deactivation without you finding out. Probably not. “It’s not a date.” Until now, he had never thought of it as such. But Theta speaking it into existence makes his heart thump. “It’s—it’s a business agreement,” he insists, privately cursing the stutter, “an acquisition of advantage.” 

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been applying that skin cream Pantyliner gave you every night? Even though you’ve never opened it until now?” 

“A certain image is required of me, not that your rat ass would know.”

“Honestly, it’s hilarious watching you fall over yourself for them.” 

Dottore hisses. “I’m not ‘falling over myself’ for them.” 

Theta grins, all that sharp teeth flashing in the fluorescent lights. “Sure.” 

“I’m not!” He sounds indignant, like a child protesting their involvement in mischief they were very much involved in. 

Theta rolls his eyes as he stands and disappears into the other room, snickering. “Whatever helps ‘ya sleep at night, Prime,” he calls after. 

Dottore sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m not,” he says softly, almost desperately, though, of course, no one hears it. Just the empty air, eating his words. 

He sighs again and glances at the clock, still ticking away. It’s half past three in the morning. You had agreed to meet at six in the evening. You had told him on the day of the last lesson, very aggressively, that under no circumstances should he be late, which he was infamous for being. If he slept now, he could get some much-needed rest before the ball. 

It’s a fitful sleep, though any sleep is better than none. He oscillates between the waking world and darkness, his body simultaneously feeling like it has been doused in fire and thrown into the icy-cold bays of Snezhnaya. Three-quarters after one o’clock he’s woken, gently and fearfully, by one of your subordinates. In a quivering voice, she tells him you had sent an entire team to “ensure full preparedness”, which he knows really was just to say, “don’t show up in a fucking lab coat”. He reluctantly lets them pull him around in a flurry of various outfits for him to try in a long, awkward, and agonizing two hours. He allows them to style his hair, clenching his teeth all the while, thinking about how furious you be if he harmed one of yours as his fingers twitch. In the end, the effort is barely seen — it’s really just a cleaner, shinier rendition of his usual hairstyle. 

They don’t do makeup. They know better than to cross that line. No one, save for the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers, has ever seen what's underneath the mask. 

The outfit they chose, in the end, was appropriately glamorous, though not as fancy as something Pantalone or Signora might wear. The royal blue fabric is soft against his skin, though his cravat seems tight around his neck. Strange, since he was the one to do it and did not deviate from how he usually did it. He tugs on the white fabric and realizes his hands are shaking. They haven’t in centuries, not since his expulsion from the Akademiya. White hot rage sears through his bones. You are the reason behind this resurfacing weakness. He has no doubt about it.

He almost wants to dive back into bed and flake out on you; it would be terribly amusing, but ultimately pointless. The consequences are not ones he wants to bear. 

He does not want to see the looks his subordinates will undoubtedly give him once they catch him on his way to the foyer of the imperial family’s private apartments, where you had agreed to meet. It was a revolting thought: The Second Seat trudging through the halls like a tamed dog The thought of it makes him want to puke. He’s already heard the multiple rumors of your relationship, has heard the giggles, has seen the coy smiles. He wonders if the other Harbingers experience it as well. 

Instead, he takes one of the palace’s secret passageways known only to the top three Harbingers, Pierro, you, and the Tsaritsa. The narrow stone hallway is dusty and dark, rarely used and reserved only for emergencies. He can see well enough with the enhanced vision he gave himself when he moved to an artificial body. He knows there are many more passages snaking through the walls that he does not know about, yet for all his explorations and the hours spent poring over the palace maps, he has never been able to find them. He supposes they’re for only you and your mother. Zapolyarny Palace was a strange place, filled with magic of a thousand years past. He’s heard rumors of ancient spells and complicated runes imbued in the walls of the palace, keeping out any who dare intrude.  

The passageways are filled with twists and turns, with multiple ladders and stairs and secret doors he had long since memorized in his mind. He emerges from behind a tapestry and steps into the deserted hallway adjacent to the foyer. 

Truth be told, he likes this part of the palace. He keeps his private estate and rooms in a similar sparse fashion, mostly because he just can’t be bothered to decorate. But he feels that the emptiness here is intentional. The beauty is quiet, serene even, as silent as the first brush of snow. Especially when the Empress is in one of her moods and true frost conquers the walls and floors and snow impossibly starts to fall indoors. When that happens, suddenly, the palace is transformed into a winter wonderland, conjured out of childlike whimsy. 

You await him at the bottom of the staircase. 

He pauses mid-step, the breath caught in his throat. He has never seen you so… dressed up, before. He knows you like going out on this excursion or that: to the opera with Pantalone or taking a pleasure barge with Columbina, and when out in the public’s eye a level of regalness was expected in your fashion. But alone with him, usually shut up in the labs or in his private estate, you wore simple clothes that allowed freedom of movement. 

But tonight you were glittering, doused in jewels he knows could fund him for years. The moonlight slants in through the windows, making you shimmer. He has never seen you look more ethereal, as though you had just stepped out of one of the Snezhnayan fairytales you so loved. And although he never grew up in Snezhnaya, looking at you he feels as though he has read those fairytales, has spent nights under the covers living in every word in his head. He looks at you and sees magic.

He realizes, suddenly, that he wears the same colors as you: royal blue and white. And then, just after that punch to the head, he remembers: royal blue and white are the colors of the imperial family. 

He swallows an emotion he does not want to touch with a hundred-foot pole. 

“Hello,” you say softly, terrifying warmth blooming in your eyes, “you aren’t late.” There’s a tease in the words. 

He harrumphs and looks away, trying to conceal the growing red in his cheeks. He thanks the Tsaritsa she does not keep her palace well-lit, even at night. “You ought to have better expectations of me. I know I’m not known for punctuality but I know when something is important.” 

You smile. It is blank and careful. “Well then.” You extend your hand. “Let’s go.” 

He takes your hand and lets you lead him to the awaiting carriage. Suddenly the room is too hot and stuffy and your body is too close yet too far. He wishes you’d press yourself closer but you haven’t in weeks, not since that fateful day. He almost misses it, before he catches the feeling and inwardly scolds himself.

Not for the first time, he wonders what game you’re playing at. You had declared, though indirectly, that you could conquer him, yet had made no move to do so. He squints at you from underneath the mask. Your face is set in a neutral, almost air-headed expression. It was the expression you used during boring meetings that you couldn’t care less about. Was he boring you? Exasperation and aggravation flood his mind. Him? Boring? He supposes he hasn’t been trying to poison you as of late. And anyway, it was you who came to him. He had never sought you out before if not for business reasons. Was he expected to make some kind of move? 

The ride to the Sokolov estate is coated in a heavy, awkward silence. Or at least, he thinks so. You don’t seem to notice. Or care. Zapolyarny Palace is situated outside the capital city, so the carriage ride takes more or less an hour. The hour is the longest he has ever experienced, except perhaps the hours he spent dancing with you. You say nothing the entire time, simply stare languidly out the window, your chin cupped in your hand. Midwinter already rules over the land, not that it really mattered when it seems two-thirds of the year saw snow. From time to time you put your hand through the open window and catch a snowflake. There were fleeting moments your eyes would meet, there would be a pause, then a quick aversion and you would both retreat into the invisible walls you had built around yourselves.  

He wonders if you expect him to apologize. 

The silence is enough to suffocate. 

Then, blessedly, the manor materializes in the distance. He almost breathes an audible sigh of relief. He has to restrain his body from jumping out of the carriage as soon as the door is opened. He exits the vehicle first and extends a helping hand to you as you shuffle out, like a proper gentleman. Not that he was one. 

You smile at him. Still, blank.

The Sokolov Winter Ball is an event for aristocrats by aristocrats. There are barely any Fatuus in sight, exempting the noble children who had joined to cur favor and prestige, though such children were few and far between. Though the Tsaritsa rules over all, there is undoubtedly enmity between the nobility and the Fatui; the two factions are caught in an uncertain back-and-forth of power, constantly at each other’s throats and on the verge of bloodshed. In public, members of both groups were expected to be cordial and pretend there was equality among them. So Dottore did get a certain satisfaction in seeing the lords and ladies of Snezhnaya bow before him, even if it was really to you rather than him. 

He almost falls asleep internally as you go through the motions of socializing, him following behind as he has nothing else to do: trivial small talk, false fawning and compliments, pretending to care about the latest gossips sweeping the city. You did seem to actually care about the latter, one of the many characteristics you shared with Pantalone. He, on the other hand, was utterly uncurious to the silly little lives of the people. 

They mostly pretend he does not exist. Not rudely, but fearfully. They understand Dottore is not exactly in the best of moods and offer only commonplace courtesies. 

He wonders how long you can go treating him like this, like some distant, half-hearted acquaintance and not… whatever he should be to you. He has never, ever been the slightest bit interested in socialization, but he wishes, just once, you would turn your head to him and chat. Even if the talk was the silliest of topics, even if he did not care a wit about them. He simply wants to hear warmth flood your voice once more, wanted to hear your ringing laughter.

He flinches slightly when he fully realizes the thought that had crossed his mind. 

“You should smile more,” you say to him as you wheel around the ballroom, trying to avoid another mother who hoped to introduce her dashing children to you, undoubtedly in hopes it will blossom into marriage. The thought of you marrying one of these pathetic pups stirs fierce vindication in his chest. “You’re scaring them.” 

“I am smiling,” he says, frowning. 

The utterly annoyed look you give him makes him laugh, the sound deep and full of heart. 

A little later, when the clock strikes nine, Duchess Sokolov practically materializes in front of the both of you with an element of surprise even Arlecchino would admire and only scheming, middle-aged women can conjure. Your startled half-smile makes her smile in turn, the look of it sly. After a session of unabashed bootlicking, where she complimented almost every piece of your body, from your feet to your eyelashes (the only other person he has ever heard say such things is him), she asked, with a grandiose show of humility, if Your Imperial Highness would do us the honor of opening the dancing with my son? 

If anything, Dottore admires her gall.

His body moves before his mind can comprehend what he is doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, smiling widely, making sure his sharp teeth are visible to anyone who dares steal you away. 

"The geir has already promised their first dance to me, Your Grace." The words come out wild and aggressive, like the barks of a wolf. "I'm afraid your son will have to wait his turn." If I let him have one. 

The duchess pales slightly and steps half a foot back. "Forgive me Lord Harbinger, I wasn't aware." 

You laugh and press your gloved hand to your mouth, a lovely gesture.  "Oh, please excuse Lord Dottore. He's a very particular person. I'll be glad to dance with your son after."

The Duchess visibly brightens and blunders away after numerous thanks, eager to tear away from Dottore's burning glare. You slip your arm through his and weave through the sea of bodies to the center of the ballroom, the party guests skillfully parting to let you pass. He does not think he is imagining your smirk.

As you near the center, Dottore ignores the hot flash of anxiety in his stomach. It has been so long since he has felt that emotion or other adjacent ones that it takes a moment for him to recognize it. Memories of those torturous hours spent dancing, and dancing, and dancing again resurface in his memories. Though not as graceful a dancer as you, he had reached a level of acceptable elegance towards the end that received glowing praise from the instructors. You had smiled, shrugged, and said nothing. It had left a strange empty feeling lingering within him. 

What reaction did he even want from you, anyway? He thinks the instructors weren’t lying; the fear in their eyes was minimal. He would most likely never dance again after tonight. So, it truly did not matter what you thought of his dancing. It did not matter. He had gotten over the anxiousness that came with socializing a very long time ago, and it is not the crowd that is making him nervous. So what is it that he fears?

He feels himself getting more and more agitated as you both pull yourselves into position: two hands outstretched and intertwined, his hand on the small of your back, yours resting on his shoulder. He feels the sharp, curious eyes on the both of you as the music starts.

“Relax,” you whisper. 

“I am relaxed.” 

“No, you’re not.” You squeeze his shoulder. “Your body is so stiff.” 

“I’m doing fine,” he grits out. 

“You’d do even better if you’d stop fidgeting and relax.” 

How could he relax when you’re so close? He can hear your breaths and count the lashes of your eyes. Your eyes already shine naturally with unnatural brightness, but beneath the light of the chandeliers, they seemed to gleam like the faces of a diamond. 

“Is something wrong? You’re staring quite intently.” Your voice evaporates his thoughts. He swallows nervously and looks away, his gaze darting around the room, hoping to see anything but you. “Dottore?��� The tone of your voice has been nothing but level for weeks, so the sliver of genuine worry that escapes into the words makes his heart jump. 

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

He moves as though he’s in a dream, lost and dazed. He cannot explain to himself why he leans in closer, or why he squeezes your hand cupped in his. He messes up — once then twice then thrice, missing a step or taking the wrong turn even though he memorized the entire routine in his head the night after your first lesson. It cannot be his memory, flawless as it is. 

It’s his heart, his Archons-damned heart, thumping against his ribs. It’s your inquisitive eyes on him, your cold skin pressed against his. It’s the way there is something genuine and vulnerable living in the light of your eyes. It is the way there is a very dangerous mortal emotion flooding his veins. It is the way he cannot help but want to press closer, wants to take you into his arms and sweep you off your feet this night, and many more. 

It is an utterly terrifying thought. This is what he is scared of, he realizes with a jolt that earns him a questioning look from you. This closeness, this… intimacy. Your hands on his skin, warm enough to make him believe you’re both human. 

How long has it been, he wonders, since he has wanted to stop running away. 

The music reaches a crescendo quietly, as though from far away. For all he can hear is thump, thump, thump, his mind all but submerged in the fervent tide of his own beating heart. 

When the dance ends, he needs more than one hand to count the mistakes he’s made. You had gracefully saved him from each mistake, maneuvering your body in such a way that the flow of the dance was upheld. As he bows to you, the crowd bursts into rapturous applause.  

Before he can even blink, numerous lords and ladies have already swarmed the both of you like angry bees, buzzing with life. Each vy for your next dance, the questions flying so fast you barely have time to plaster on a polite smile. You’re generally a sociable person, but your eyes widen as the crowd presses closer, each bothersome member trying to be louder than the next. Your gaze lands on him.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, scowling at the crowd. Briefly, he remembers you had promised a dance to the son of Sokolov, and then decides he could give less of a fuck about that. 

“Their Imperial Highness needs space,” he snaps. The response is instantaneous; he almost laughs at the way one girl jumps almost a foot back, banging into a boy behind her.   

You grace him with a thankful smile. He thinks he would kill all of the people in this room to earn it again. 

“I need air,” you declare, more to yourself and him than anyone else. Before someone can get in the way of your plans, you hook your arm through his and lead him out into the gardens. 

The Sokolov estate is massive, though not as big as Zapolyarny. The hedged gardens sprawl north, east, and west, with the manor at their backs. Though there are lots of small flowers here and there, it is mostly made out of small trees and shrubbery, unlike your own gardens back at the palace, which were bursting with all kinds of plants. It was hard for most greenery to withstand the cold so far up north, but the Tsaritsa had scoured the land for every flower that could grow in Snezhnaya and created for you your very own Eden. 

The glow from indoors lights up the pathways but slowly grows dimmer and dimmer as you both wander down the winding stones. He has no trouble seeing, a perk of inhabiting a modified body, and, it seems, so do you. A godly trait, perhaps. He would love to thoroughly study you one day, though your mother would probably not approve of it. 

You walk in companionable silence, arms still linked together. He wants to say something. What, exactly, he does not know. 

The manor has all but faded into the distance when you stop at a quaint marble pavilion, the night outside cool and still. There is a large pond next to the pavilion, bright and silver as a knife in the moonlight. Faintly he hears the chirping of crickets in the underbrush, the gurgling of water from a nearby miniature fountain, the honks of swans. 

You cross your arms and lean against the railing, eyes glazed and unseeing, lost in thought. He hovers behind you, uncertain as a child with an angry parent. The breeze cards its fingers through your air and makes it flutter with the wind. The air is sweet, and even the annoying chirp of the crickets softens into a mellow sound. You remain silent, your gaze trained on the water.

In the steady stillness, all those emotions from the dance rush back into his heart. Rage — at himself, at you, at the world — burns through his chest. How could he have been so stupid? So weak? He thought if only he played the game right, if only he took the correct steps, he would escape unscathed. He had not realized he never stood a chance. 

Gods and their goading, tricking everyone into believing fairness was not a shadow on the wall, fickle and false. He would have never won. 

You cannot conquer me, he had declared to you, already conquered. The more he writhed from your grip, the deeper your claws sank in. And if he ever does escape, it will be with claw marks on his soul. In this game you both play, he has played and lost. Defeat is a bitter taste on his tongue. It happened again. The gods have bested him again. 

And you. You did not even know it. You still gaze thoughtfully at the pond. He resents the way you still stand so serenely as his entire world comes crashing down around him. 

He has always been a man of action. He never waits, never stays still. Yet here he is. Staying still. 

When the silence swells into something unbearable, he says, "Am I really so boring of a companion your mind has to wander off?" He levels a cool gaze at you, hoping to mask the way his fingers flex at his side, the way his teeth grind against each other, and the way his heart thumps and thumps inside his chest. 

You turn your head to look at him. Your answering smile is amused. "You could never be boring, Dottore. Not you."

"Is that why you've been ignoring me for weeks?" The hurt slips into the words before he can catch it. He winces inwardly at himself, embarrassed at the sordid display of emotions. There's a flicker of pleasure in your eyes as the words soak in. 

You shrug like a child denying their wrongdoings. "I thought… I thought you’d be inclined to dissect me and damn the consequences if I approached you again outside our lessons, after our last encounter." His wrist throbs with the memory. Mischief slips into your voice. "Why? Did you miss me?"

Yes. "Hardly." 

"Really."

He scowls. "I barely noticed your absence." 

You rest your chin on your fist. “Mhm. Theta told me you were miserable without me.” 

That stupid, loose-lipped segment was asking for deactivation. Dottore truly does not know where the young segment got his penchant for gossiping. It was something that he, Prime, never did. But it did stem from spite, which is where ninety percent of his decisions originate from. “Theta, as you know, is a serial liar.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell him that the next time I see him. Anyways, I don’t think he’s lying. Pantalone told me you’re behind on submitting your financial reports,” you hurry to correct when he gives you a look, “more than usual, I mean. And I heard from a little dove you’ve gotten nothing done these past few weeks.” He makes a mental note to lock Columbina out of his lab. It’s a futile pursuit, he knows she’ll find a way in through Archons-knew-what means, but it doesn’t mean he can’t try. 

He arches a brow, though you can’t see it through the mask. “How arrogant of you to assume you’re the cause behind my recent… difficulties.” 

“I don’t think it’s arrogant to be correct. Or maybe it is. Would certainly explain the reason you have oceans of arrogance.” 

“Haha. What evidence do you have, anyways?” 

“Gut instinct.” 

Despite himself, he laughs. The sound is scraping and throaty. “You would make an absolutely dreadful scholar. You need evidence, my liege, before you go around making such far-fetched claims.” 

You say nothing. You slowly walk towards him, a wolf on the hunt, smiling all the while. He stays rooted to his spot, frozen. Watching. Waiting. There is a part of him, a concerningly large part of him, that longs to feel the warmth of your skin again. Another part wants to eviscerate that part. But he stands still, and he knows, oh he knows why. 

Was it truly such a miserable fate to be conquered by you? To be desired by you? He wonders if deer run only because they want to be caught by the wolf. 

You lift your palm to his neck. Your thumb pokes and prods underneath his jawbone. He leans into your touch, baring the hollow of his throat. You’re so close. You could do what you wanted, and a sick feeling tells him he would let you. You were poised to maim, to kill, to devour. But you don’t. You simply continue to press against his skin with the flat of your thumb. 

He realizes too late what you’re looking for. 

Your devilish grin is equal parts terrifying and utterly gorgeous. Mischief truly becomes you, he thinks dimly. “There,” you say softly. “Tell me, Doctor, why is your heart beating so fast? Hmm? And—” You remove your hand from his throat and his heart screams for you to place your hand on his body once more. You grip the edge of his mask, tilting it slightly up. Enough to imply your intentions. “—May I?” 

He does not mean to nod, but his body moves of its own accord. 

You let it fall to the ground. He has never considered himself to be the most handsome of men, even before the scars. And he has never cared much for his appearance. But suddenly he is aware of his rough skin, of the jagged lines that cut through the left side of his face. He wants to pick up the mask and hide once more. But the way your eyes sparkle as you take him in, all of him in, makes him feel crafted by the gods themselves. You gently brush your thumb against the bottom of his eye. 

“Dilated pupils,” you whisper. “Whatever could be making you anxious, my lord?” 

His eyes narrow and his scowl deepens, but he does not move. “Maybe I’m coming down with an affliction. Maybe I’m having a heart attack, or my drink was poisoned. Maybe your presence is so foul it is enough to kill me.” 

You laugh softly. He wants to record it and play it over and over again until his heart beats to its rhythm. “We both know that’s not true.” You caress his scarred skin with your knuckles. “Do you think I can’t tell? This is my mother’s domain, after all.” You do not say that foul, four-letter word. But you let it hang between the two of you like the blade of a guillotine. 

He's doomed himself, he knows. Human connection is not something the Second Seat should trifle with. Attachment is humanity's weakness, to be exploited and used for his own gain. The burn scars on his face remind him there is always, always something else the gods could take away. But though he has cheated death for these past four hundred years, he cannot cheat his own humanity. It is something he can never escape. It terrifies him. It beckons him closer. He thinks of your smile and your laugh. 

Your smile transforms, though your lips do not move at all. It becomes brighter now, something true and warm. He wonders how long you've been waiting for this. The sight of your smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon. A voice, unbidden, whispers in his ear: there are things worth burning for.

The breeze has stopped, he realizes. As though the very world is holding its breath. 

Oh. Damn it all to the Abyss. 

He closes the distance between the both of you and presses his lips onto yours. 

You taste like wine and chocolates and all things addicting and sweet. Your lips are softer than he ever dared dream of. The shocked gasp that leaves your mouth makes him smile against your mouth. He jumps at the opportunity faster than you can react. He surges forward and grabs your waist, pressing your chest against his. His teeth graze your lips and he can see your eyes widen as he bites down, hard. Your resounding whimper makes his chest bloom with pleasure. He understands, truly, he does, why you play your game with him. With all of them. To have you weaken in his grasp, to finally, finally elicit the same vulnerability you seem to conjure so easily from him, is an experience he will never forget. There is nothing in all of the world that is as addicting as stripping monsters into mortals. 

It seems like an eternity before you finally pull away, his hand still on your waist, a silver string of saliva connecting your lips still. Your eyes are blown wide and our fingertips brush against your lips, against his teeth marks. They come away red with blood. 

“You—” The word catches in your throat, and you splutter out weak noises before you regain your voice. “—you fucking bastard!” 

If I have to burn, you burn with me. 

He shrugs, grinning. “See? It’s as you said. I’m never boring.” 

His heart thumps with equal parts terror and euphoria at what he had just done. There is a part of him, smaller now, but still there, that still flinches in his head, utterly consumed by terror by what he has just done. To announce his heart’s desire so brazenly, so thoughtlessly. Yet it was a fair exchange. He had forced you to offer up your own heart as well. Catching you off guard was such a sweet sight, it excited him more than anything had in these past few years. If he had known the sensation of kissing you would be so sweet, he would have done it long ago. 

“Fuck. Fuck. What the hell?” Though he does not believe in karma, your panicked state cannot be described as anything but. “I didn’t think you’d…” You shake your head, laughing weakly. “Fuck.” 

You bury your face into his shoulder, still cursing softly. He debates pulling away, but instead, he wraps his arms around you. You seem so small, so fragile, like a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. He hums as he traces soothing circles on your back.  

"Did you miss me too in the past few weeks?" He asks impulsively. It is out of a desire to satiate his curiosity more than anything.

You draw in a shaky breath. He feels you smile against his skin. "Of course I did." The reply vindicates him.

Beat.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, looking down at your head. 

He nudges you. Had you fallen asleep somehow? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’d ever done. 

He does not catch what you say, what with the softness of your voice coupled with it being muffled by his chest. But you stir in his arms, still unable to look at him. 

“Is everything alright?” He repeats. 

“No.” A pause. “I’m a bit afraid.”

“Of what?” He asks, puzzled. 

“That if I look at you, my heart is going to burst from my chest.”  

It starts as small chuckles, then wheezing, the bellied laughter as he doubles over. Now you were the one holding him in your arms. There’s nothing funny about what you’ve just said. It’s not even a joke. But wasn’t it, in some twisted way hilarious, after all this time, how the scales have balanced themselves? 

You stare at him, incredulous, your previous anxious state shed like a snake skin. You disentangle yourself from him and slap his chest, hard, which only causes him to double down in his fit of laughter, clutching at his sore sides.

“What’s so funny?” You say shrilly. “Don’t laugh at me! Dottore!” 

“I’m not sorry,” he says after recovering himself, wiping a tear from his eye, laughter still laced in the words. 

“This isn’t funny!” You pout and stomp your feet on the ground indignantly, like a child. “You’re so mean to me.” 

He smiles. “Always, my dear. What did you expect?” 

You sigh. The sound is drawn out for dramatics. You cross your arms and turn your body away, chin up, a comical imitation of an irritated housewife. “I should’ve just taken Theta.” 

Suddenly the smile dies on his lips and his body is flooded with an ugly, twisting rage. Stupid Theta. Always ruining everything. “You don’t mean that,” he says coolly. “I’m the one you wanted to take tonight.” 

That evokes a sly smile from you. “Aww, are you jealous, my dear Doctor?” 

Definitely. He scowls. “Of course not.” 

“You seemed jealous back at the ball, too,” you tease. 

He recoils as though the words materialized themselves into the physical plane and slapped him in the face. “Of those low lives? Never.” 

“So, you wouldn’t mind going back to the dance I promised the son of Sokolov?” Urgh. He had hoped you’d forgotten about that. Anyways, it’d be a bit awkward to go back now. You’ve both been gone for so long you might as well ditch the party. And if you insisted on going back… well. He wouldn’t let that happen. You’d be forgiven, of course, and people fear him too much to make it an issue. He wonders what excuses you’ll have to draw up when you inevitably apologize to the Sokolov family for leaving so early. 

“It’s not worth your energy.” 

“But I only danced once tonight!” 

“It was good enough.” 

“You were not that good. I kept having to cover up your mistakes.” The words, though snarky, hold no actual venom. Though, it does prickle him. The overachieving scholar within yearns to be more than ‘not that good’. And anyway, who is Il Dottore, if not someone who goes above and beyond? Your smile urges him to take the bait. 

He does.

“Then,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, extending a gloved hand, “would you allow me to make up for it?” 

You place your hand in his.

Dancing has never seemed fun to Dottore. Little things (well, little socially acceptable things) have. It’s a waste of his time, in his opinion. The constant pursuit of knowledge has been his entire life. Even when he was mortal, he never understood what happiness such frivolous activities could elicit that books could not. Yet he does not recall a time he has ever felt such soft, weightless happiness as he does now. As he sways with you to invisible music in the sweet grass of the night. You mess up, and he does too. You trip on stray roots. He is unbalanced on the uneven ground. He blames it on your shared jumble of nerves. You giggle and smile and blame him. But you continue to dance, letting him spin you around as the moon bathes you in silver. Now all those years running from divinity seem so silly. How could he ever fathom running away from this? 

It disgusts him somewhat that he’s fallen into… whatever he could call this… so easily. All that time spent battling you, battling himself, all evaporated in a single night. All that effort turned to cinders. He finds that he does not mind as much as he should. He does not think the game has ended, no. You’ll play it again and again and again, until time reaches its empty end. He does not know whether he wants to devour you or be devoured by you. He does not find the latter as unappealing as it once was. Who could have guessed that pain could be pleasure? He pitied — no, he still does pity — mortals for their sad, forever-yearning hearts that beat for contentment, for companionship. Yet he finds that same weakness in him. It is utterly terrifying.

But as you spin in the moonlight, your laughter ringing in his ears, and his heart thumps and thumps, he thinks it is utterly, utterly inescapable. 

[mikakuna]

Hey! This is the music anon again! I was wondering if you had any jayroy fic recs? Or, given your latest post lol, only child Jay fic recs (or even JUST Jay and dick as Bruce’s kids fic recs) and if not that, then, an au where Jason didn’t pick up the mantle/was convinced not too, and is living his civilian life. I’ve read rara Avis by zoeleo already lol, Idk if you read that one?

omg hey!! i have a few fic recs for what you'd like to see but honestly i'm lacking a bit in jayroy! i'll link the ones that i rlly enjoyed tho <3 and alsooo the only-child jason fics are all set during his childhood sadly, so i don't have any where he's an adult and still bruce's only child :(

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48627046/chapters/122658637

When Batman rescues a twelve-year-old boy from a sex-trafficking ring, he ultimately makes the decision to look after him for a few days, feeling responsible for his current condition. Revealing his identity to the boy is the logical next step. Building trust was important, and Bruce needed Jason to trust him. There’s one slight problem with Bruce’s plan. Due to the effects of the Joker Venom, Jason doesn’t remember anything about meeting Batman, let alone Bruce Wayne. In Jason’s eyes, he’s been trafficked. And the man who brought him is none other than Bruce himself.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29237001/chapters/71790027

Jason’s background as a victim of abuse and childhood homelessness means it’s hard for him to trust, and to ask for things. After only a couple months in the manor, he still isn’t sure about Bruce Wayne.

https://archiveofourown.org/series/575182

When Bruce brings a new child home to the manor, Dick has a few choice words for Bruce about making him Robin. Convinced that Jason needs a stable loving family more than he needs a crime-fighting outlet, Bruce, Dick, and Alfred take on the challenge of bringing Jason up as civilian while still keeping their caped careers a secret.

Or: Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Dick Grayson is a Great Brother, Alfred is the Best Grandpa, and Jason is smol. Tooth-rotting fluff ahoy. (i'm linking this even though you read it for people who haven't yet! also i never read the ones with tim in it but those are a lot later in the series so don't worry, it's still jason and bruce centric)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730145/chapters/65210116

Jason Todd was kidnapped at nine-years-old and given two options. Work for his keep, or be forced to to work for his keep.

His life was not pleasant, but Jason was nothing if not a fighter, and dammit if was he going to let the hell around him kill who he was as a person. Or his dreams of growing up and going to college.

Those dreams suddenly came a little more into focus, when his idiot of a pimp accidentally tried to rent him to Bruce Wayne. Poor bastard could have never guessed he was the Batman himself. Heck, not even Jason figured that out, at first. And Batman had practically adopted him. (i loved this so much)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49876537

Jason doesn't die at the hands of the Joker. There are a couple of things he and Bruce might need to work through.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55020211

“You will fix this,” Alfred corrects him. “You will fix this, and let Master Jason know that you don’t care about his sexual orientation, that it changes nothing. That you were mistaken in what you said to him. That you certainly didn’t mean to imply that you thought any less of him for his choice in reading.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22637476/chapters/54102781

Batman makes it in time to save Robin from the bomb. He doesn't make it in time to save Jason from the Joker.

Or Batman is too late in every universe, but Bruce Wayne doesn't have to be.

+ jayroy:

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1328723

i've linked this one in a previous rec list but basically, this is an au series where jason escapes an abusive relationship and meets roy!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30004014

It was just dinner with family. A family large enough to be an independent militia, but that was all. Nothing serious.

Lian disagreed. (one of my fav crack fics!!)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52945642

a fic where the bats find out, one by one, that jason and roy are dating!

i really don't have much for jayroy since i'm pretty picky when it comes to jason fics and ship fics in general, but i'll reblog this if i find any others that i enjoy! in the meantime, hopefully these are some new fics for you to read!!

[chaosfairy18]

After reading Denial Has Limits by my dear friend @clevereverest I really really wanted to draw Bumswiftery in this AU and well it took a while but here they are after the fight in the 4th chapter!

Hope I did capture Bumlets' and Swifty's magic well enough and that you enjoy it :)

Little details:

as Swifty is a Florist he has lots of flowers on his jacket of course

the nordic runes on Bumlets' sweater are actually all the first letters of his names: around his collar are 'D's (for Dominic) as well as around the hem 'B's (Bumlets) and on the lower hem I just did repeatedly D.A.G (for his full name Dominic Alejandro García)

Skittery's clothes are meaningless except his bracelet which has black, blue and green, for all three boys :3

Also Skittery has some scrapes from the fight that they couldn't heal but it will be okay

Reference for the pose:

[peachywontyell]

ive had this bouncing around in my head for a while, so here we are.

i am a sucker for pretty boys with kind brown eyes and jaime fits that description perfectly...so i decided to give him a lot of pining (that is definitely reciprocated), he has to be a big brave boy and confess 🫶🏾 also, this is placed before the events in the movie !

inspired by

hanging out with jaime has always been very warm, cozy, comfortable. ever since you were children when you'd spend weekends riding your bikes around the neighborhood, only to crash at one of your houses after having way too much food. it happened so frequently that it got to the point where it just was the new normal for both of your families (impromptu get togethers were very common).

the friendship you guys had only grown stronger with each year that passed and well- there were definitely feelings there that weren't strictly platonic now. you were trying your hardest to push them away though, and jaime was having the same issues...however neither of you dared to even threathen the sanctity of the bond shared by confessing. that is until one summer came along, you guys had gone to different universities, and even though you called and texted daily, summer was when you guys could actually hang out like the old days. and here you were, having gone to pick up jaime from the airport with the rest of the reyes. as he walked through the gate you let his family say their hellos first- it's safe to say he almost drowned in hugs and kisses, and when you finally got to say hello you didn't hold back with the bear hug either.

you missed him dearly, and the weird feeling of anxiety, excitement and happiness settled in your stomach as he squeezed you back and actually just fully picking you up. it made the feeling in your stomach even stronger.

"JAIME DIOS MÍO BÁJAME"

"Que no, don't wanna"

"okay so if that's how this is gonna go, cárgame bien, señor"

suddenly you guys were in your own world, talking and laughing and everyone could clearly see what was happening here. milagro was gonna have a field day with the teasing as soon as she had a chance. he ended up putting you down- but only after he carried you all the way to the car. it was embarrassing yes, but now as embarrassing as the older couple that chuckled as you walked past and talked to themselves in hushed voices about 'how sweet young love is' and how they wished they could go back in time and experience it all over again.

that got you both blushing...and made the drive back home for lunch a bit...strange. nothing really changed, you still sat together and chatted, but jaime couldn't stop thinking about what they had said. did you guys actually look like a couple? should he had said something to them? the fact that he didn't mind if they thought so made him feel warm and fuzzy.

two weeks pass, and while you've somehow managed to push away those fuzzy feelings, things have definitely flipped for jaime- and milagro did not help one bit. she woke up much earlier than he did, you did too, and it usually meant that as soon as he walked out into the kitchen he'd see you just having breakfast.

"buenas morning" you say, trying not to laugh cause his hair looked bonkers, but even if you found it hilarious, it was still endearing, and the fuzzy feelings you had to fight every single day before meeting him were back and they were looking for vengeance. and when he almost put his full body weight on top of you for a hug not caring that you were in the middle of eating? well, you felt like you were going to die. "mornin...." he didn't move off. "jaime." "Hmmm?" "get off of me and go shower, tenemos que encontrarnos con el grupo in like an hour". with one last, extremely dramatic sigh, he moves off and does as told. it's not like he didn't want to spend the day with you and some of your other friends, they were his friends too, but he would much rather stay in and chill.

not even two hours later and you guys are at the little picnic area everyone agreed to meet up at, playing silly games, chatting and just catching up! and jaime just wasn't feeling it, he couldn't really pinpoint the reason why until he sees how talkative and close you are with one of the guys there. okay. that's fine. it's just a hangout, nothing is happening, you definitely aren't flirting with him. thank god someone called the guy over cause he didn't know how much he could take.

"so how'd the flirting go?" he thought he sounded casual, calm, normal. he did not sound casual, calm or normal. he sounded upset and looked like a sad dog. "what flirting- what the hell happened to you? why do you look so sad? ¿qué pasó?" "hm? nothing." he shook his head, making you squint. okay, if he didn't want to tell you, then you'd just come up with absurd reasons as to why he would be upset. "¿tas celoso?" funny how you got it right first try. you don't know that, though. "what? no- ¿qué?" he prays to god the blush creeping up his neck isn't noticeable, prays it doesn't betray him. "Ayyyyy si es eso you don't have to be, tu sabes que you're irreplaceable" you laugh and god is definitely on his side cause you're called over a few second later by someone of the order people and he can feel his heart beating so fast he fears its gonna burst through his chest.

the hangout went by smoothly, he genuinely couldn't be happier, even if at first he didn't want to be there. he has to admit, he did miss his friends, so he's glad he could spend some time with them. now you guys are laying on his bed, chismeando and just debriefing when the topic of him being "jelous" came up again. maybe he could just do it. he knew it was risky, but....he was willing to take the chance. "....you know what? maybe i was. maybe i was very jelous, maybe i still kind-of am." he felt you sitting up and all he could do was pull a pillow over his face and keep this shit rolling "you've always made me feel so comfortable and...warm, and ive always loved you, but at some point i think it turned into love...? does that make sense- no- it's fine- okay- look i just- de verdad que me gustas mucho y pues no sé- i don't wanna fuck this up aunque creo que ya lo jodí-" he huffs and sits up to face you, looking embarrassed and flustered "you're so special to me and i really don't want to mess up the friendship we have, okay? but i'd just...i'd really like to be yours."

you aren't sure if you should just kiss him or shake him by the shoulders. so you settle for taking his hand in yours, feeling your face grow warmer- if that's even possible after that confession. "jaime, look at me." that boy is holding onto the pillow for dear life, using it to still obscure his face while he shakes his head. he's trembling. you use your other hand to grab his face and look at you "please, just kiss me" "really?" "si-" and he does, like he's been starving. he almost doesn't let you pull back even though you both need to breathe. "jaime mi amor, you will always be my favorite pretty boy and im so happy i can finally tell you."

[suffarustuffaru]

If emilia had known all the manipulative and deceitful shit that echidna did to subaru in greed If and how fucked up subaru became under her influence, and how much Echidna despised everything about her and saw her as a useless, annoying naive doll, and eventually found out that Echidna was in fact so greedy and inhuman, do you think she would have changed her mind about Echidna and started to wary and disgusted by her? (Plus the talk of Beatrice waiting 400 years in Arc 4's Dream Castle would probably add fuel to the fire)

YES. absolutely. yes. itd be barely even a question, of course emilia would be wary of echidna and disgusted by echidnas actions if she (emilia) ever found this out. but im gonna explain why i think this🙏

we see some major instances of emilia standing up for herself—the biggest examples include her post arc 4 development, also her being mad about subaru calling her satella in arc 1, her arc 3 speech to the royal council (that was sadly glossed over in the anime but you can see it in the manga and its SUPER badass) and also her arc 3 fallout with subaru, etc etc. but the ones where she has more of a negative reaction, ie the arc 1 example and the arc 3 fallout with subaru—are particularly interesting to me.

the arc 1 example shows her standing up for herself with something that was done to her directly. subaru called her satella in public when shes already out there showing her face and being judged as she always is, but people arent usually so bold as to directly call her satella. its why she gets pissed—its a very personal insult, and its one that shes had to deal with for almost her entire life due to more factors out of her control (which is a reoccurring theme with her—shes rarely fully in control of many things in her life). this also is you know one of the examples where she DOES stand up for herself!!

but regarding the arc 3 fallout—yes, of course shes upset that subaru humiliated her at the royal selection when shes already bound to have a hard time because shes a half elf. of course shes upset that subaru broke his promise (especially when you remember her trauma with that), and of course shes upset because subaru absolutely looks like a massive liar right now (especially when you remember her trauma with that) and again, didnt keep his promise. but its interesting to note that emilia has this huge guilt complex regarding people being hurt because of her in some way (which isnt her fault at ALL but thats how it feels to her and this is how its often justified by perpetrators in universe!!). puck even tells her in memory snow that subaru keeps getting hurt because of her because puck is a shit father. so yes, emilia is upset that subarus hurt her, but so much of her dialogue in their arc 3 fallout is about how subaru got hurt because of her, and how she doesnt want subaru to be hurt anymore. a big part of why she leaves subaru then is because of that!! she was personally hurt, her trauma has been triggered by this too, shes been publicly humiliated on a deep level when shes already bound to struggle in the selection, and yet shes thinking more about subaru in this instance. that says so much about her.

and once you get to post arc 4 emilia in general—this is an emilia who is grown and is still struggling with her deepest insecurities but shes finally started to face them head on. of course shes gonna feel disgusted by what echidna did to subaru (and beatrice!!) if she ever found out—subaru and beatrice are very dear to emilia, and theyre the two people emilia is closest with thatve been affected by echidna the most.

i just think that on the scale of things echidna has done, emilia would care the least about how echidna feels about her specifically. not in the sense that emilia wouldnt care, because she does. she cares deeply about what others think of her and she always tries to be kind and nice and proper. she always tries to prove herself to others because she always has something to prove. shes the half devil, and shes someone whos often overshadowed both in universe and narratively.

echidnas feelings on her are only unique in its intensity and mystery—we see echidnas face scrunch up and she looks and sounds like shes going to cry when she admits in the anime that she hates emilia. we dont know why, only that this is the one and Only time we echidna with such negative emotions of this caliber? but echidna is probably far from the only person in the world to hate emilia and see her as useless and annoying and naive. and echidna is most definitely not the only person to hate emilia in the first place for various reasons.

emilia is extremely aware of just how many people despise her. how could she not when its connected to her appearance and existence? shes reminded of that like 90% of the time she steps outside. or when she thinks about other demihumans or about the fate of her own people. would it still sting for emilia to learn about the full depth of echidnas hatred? yeah, because like i said, echidna really has a personal vendetta against emilia, and also because this is all poking and prodding at the same core insecurities emilia has—that emilia is and will always be some useless doll thats paraded around. would it make emilia a little wary because echidna has a personal grudge? yes. of course. when theres a threat to emilia herself personally, that tends to extend for other people (such as her camp), so she unfortunately has to think about that. and of course emilia would probably also be wondering Why its so personal for echidna.

but emilia will IMMEDIATELY fixate more on the fact that echidna deeply hurt beatrice and subaru.

emilia is someone whos hated by the world, someone whos near constantly targeted unfairly in various ways—but she continually chooses to try and be kind and try to keep her courage and try to do the right thing even as shes completely terrified. shes deeply scared to hurt others due to her traumas and Various Experiences. she may not be entirely certain what love is, but she has felt it numerous times and loves her loved ones a lot. she cant fathom someone like echidna, who locked her own daughter in the library to wait for a person who isnt real just so echidna could watch and see what happens. echidna used her own daughter like some sick twisted lab experiment, and emilia would be even more deeply uncomfortable when you remember that she too was put in a princess room by her mother figure (which was well meaning and WAY different than beatrice of course, but im sure the room parallel would be Uncomfy anyway). and beatrice was waiting for 400 years too, emilias going to be so grief stricken and angry on beatrices behalf!!

and subaru's behalf too!! but let me go deeper into explaining greed if first.

when it comes to greed if, i dont like to entirely attribute everything to echidna here—mainly because i dont want to ignore subarus agency in all of this. subaru is the antithesis to someone like emilia or reinhard—subaru has infinite choices. hes choice itself. he can change in any direction and make whatever choices he wants and nothing can stop him once he sets his mind to something.

and greed if subaru continually makes decisions that makes him and everyone around him worse. he threatens felt and rom to leave the election to manipulate reinhard into joining him. he holds meili hostage in a cell to control elsa. characters like garfiel and ram understandably resent him for his manipulative bullshit. otto leaves because of it. emilia and beatrice’s mental health are completely and utterly destroyed because of his actions. yes, echidna is VERY MUCH to blame for how subaru ended up. he accepted her contract when he was vulnerable and at his lowest point, and now hes in this horribly toxic dependent relationship with her because shes the only one he can confide in. she helps him plan things, she helps him move things along. shes made him worse all this time, and while she plays a HUGE role in greed if for this reason, subaru continually makes the choice each and every single time to keep going down this path. he can try and turn around at any point, but he doesnt. hes a horrible person now, which i think should always be remembered in general for the vast majority of the ifs. he is a victim and a perpetrator at the same time. hes not innocent anymore—everyone is ultimately stuck under his control in greed if because he’ll just keep abusing rbd until he gets what he wants. no one whos near subaru has any free will here. echidna whispers in subarus ear and subaru chooses to listen to her and make more shit decisions.

is echidna guilty for essentially manipulating subaru into accepting her contract and becoming worse as a result? yes. is subaru guilty for doing all the things he did following accepting the contract? yes. these two things coexist. granted, i would still give echidna more of the responsibility for greed if of course, i just don't want to ignore what subarus been doing either hah.

but basically emilia finding out about all of this gets extremely complicated Very Fast.

to find out the full extent of the shit echidna does to subaru in greed if, emilia would have to know about rbd. and emilia finding out rbd is a whole other complicated subject on its own, but long story short, her guilt complex regarding hurting other people is gonna really FLARE UP. her worst fears have basically been confirmed with the existence of rbd because subaru has chosen time and time again to be involved with her, and being involved with her unfortunately means that he gets caught in the crossfire of ALL the things that keep trying to hurt emilia (which again isnt her fault and she has no control over any of this happening). so theres the double whammy of 1. emilia finds out rbd and 2. emilia finds out about greed if which brings whole other layer to this.

emilia is inevitably going to be horribly horribly guilty and In Despair over rbd. but then theres greed if, which shows echidna taking advantage of subaru for her own greed, subaru growing Worse because of echidna, and greed emilia also growing Worse in addition to everyone else involved in all of this. this is absolutely horrifying on multiple levels. OF COURSE shes also angry and grief stricken on subarus behalf—from her perspective, subaru has gotten hurt because of her and other people Repeatedly. she WILL blame herself for not doing enough (even though again, subaru and the people around them have made their own choices). she'll get angry and upset that subaru has even had to carry a burden like this alone, that hes been hurt so many times, and the fact that emilia herself is at the core of all of this. thats absolutely fucking terrifying. subaru has gone all this way for her. from her perspective—how can she possibly make up for all of this? she cant.

and then it gets even more terrifying because greed if subaru is a dark version of him that takes all his ugly traits and exerts control over everyone around him. hes miserable. hes horrifying. hes quite frankly an eldritch horror masquerading as this smiling mannequin version of natsuki subaru. and if emilias finding out about greed if, she has to find out about this other version of her thats all her worst traits amplified as well—shes a useless doll in the sense that greed if subaru removed emilias choices and did everything for her. hes the new puck to her, and puck was already a terrible parent by also exerting control over emilia in his own ways only to do horrible shit (see: destroying the whole world after she dies) behind her back. you know what that sounds like? subaru. and greed if subaru continues to enable this in emilia—hes responsible for her turning out this way and he continues to take care of her by doing everything for her because he now has this emilia that wants to bend to his every whim and follow everything he tells her to do. thats all she has left. subarus actions caused her to snap in this way because he never gave her a chance to actually flourish on her own. he never tried to help her rather than control her. and its why, in all her instability, she nearly freezes everything around her every time she gets angry and upset (see: her nearly having a breakdown after seeing subaru got hurt because of beatrice). greed if subaru has essentially gotten his "dream girl" in the worst way possible—emilia is now fully and completely dependent on him. she never had the chance to be otherwise.

its so incredibly clear when you read greed if that the moment emilia gets on the throne of lugunica, because she will, because subaru will absolutely make that happen, emilia will become a puppet ruler because shes too mentally unstable now to actually rule. because again, subarus made the choices for her this whole time, and it broke her.

greed if beatrice is also similar because really all subaru did was drag her kicking and screaming out of that burning mansion. yeah, from his perspective, what other choice did he have? he had to save beatrice. and theres no denying that greed if subaru has good intentions, but he has a hard time seeing and treating the others as people. theyre just like dolls that he has to drag around, and then he has this whole list of people that need saving, a whole quota he has to fulfill, so he drags them kicking and screaming along with him instead of talking to them as equals. as people.

greed if subaru is the subaru that keeps abusing rbd and going back in time over and over again, but not once is he actually using it to do something like, i dont know, wholeheartedly try to save beatrice by letting her make the choice to save herself like in canon main route arc 4. instead he just dooms her by never letting her choose and by never even trying to talk her out of it. or maybe he has, but he never understood how to do that in the right way. main route subaru figured it out by fully taking the time to understand her on a deep level and empathize with her. beatrice was the one to make the choice to save herself. greed if subarus had Infinite Tries and he never figured out how to actually save beatrice. mainbaru treated beatrice like her own person. greedbaru treats beatrice, and many other people, INCLUDING HIMSELF, like an object. he doesnt save them because he sincerely loves them, at this point. or maybe he does, but its not in a healthy way because hes just saving them because he has to. its an oligation, not a sincere desire to see them happy and safe and fulfilled in ways thats good for them.

and main emilia, i think, would Absolutely be horrified by herself. and i think shed pity greed emilia, but she'd also be disgusted. greed emilia is everything that emilia has hated about herself. greed emilia is the worst of her personified. but emilia would pity her. greed emilia has zero control over herself, her emotions, her own life. the two most important men in her life—puck and subaru—hurt her so deeply that shes just that far gone. and main emilia would be horrified by greed subaru of course, but i think shed be disgusted by all his manipulation. its sad and pathetic and Terrifying to watch. but of course its complicated.

and i hate the idea that emilia cant handle anything complicated (which tappei continues to push forward because hes fixated on making emilia "stupid" and "pure" and "innocent"), but while i think emilia would struggle to wrap her mind around all of this (because honestly who WOULDNT be struggling to do that with all of this shit aljsdlfjsdf), emilia would try her best. and she'd turn to echidna more because subaru wouldnt have turned out that way without echidnas influence. greed if subaru, after all, is still a victim. an imperfect victim, but still a victim, at the end of the day. but i think emilia would eventually have to reconcile that puck, while he did love her, wasnt the best (AT LEAST more than what she already kinda did in arc 4, because she doesnt know the full extent). he was far from it. he failed her in a lot of ways. hes hurt a lot of people. and emilia would have to know that subaru is capable of doing these horrible things too, but the subaru she knows and loves now is far different. shes sorry that hes had to deal with all of this alone. she'd be deeply sorry for greed if subaru, even. these things have nuances and i fully believe emilia will be able to understand even if it takes her some time to do so (because again—WHO WOULDNT feel complicated feelings about this??).

its like how subaru continually forgives the people around him for things theyve done in other timelines—theyre not the same people in the main timeline now. emilia would recognize that, because she herself is someone who sees the ugliness of the world, someone whos experienced it, and someone who wants to reject it all and try her best to choose kindness and love. and she knows that shes capable of that same ugliness too (see: greed if emilia) (see: her killing pandora numerous times after pandora tore apart her family and home) (see: her doing the arc 3 fallout with subaru) (see: her accidentally hurting others in frozen bonds) (see: her accidentally freezing her people) (see: her lowest points in arc 4). but—isn't that part of being human?

i do think that despite everything, emilia would pity echidna a bit. echidna, who deeply loathes her but is driven to tears over it for Unknown Reasons. of course that wont stop emilia from being disgusted by echidnas actions though.

yeah so anyway tldr: emilia deserves to go absolutely feral because i absolutely think she would go apeshit on echidna if she found out about what echidna did to beatrice and subaru. shes fully capable of it and we've seen her go feral multiple times okay. the moment she finds out about her loved ones being hurt shes gonna be like cradling them gently to her chest and then she turns around and goes feral on whoever hurt them 😭 it is SO over for echidna. (AND GREEDBARU, if emilia had the chance to.)

[harmonytheme]

don't think twice (it's alright) (5442 words) by effete chapters: 1/1 (complete) | hayray | hollyoaks

Lucas had thought that maybe, maybe, there was a chance that Dillon was wrong. That he was making it all up, somehow. That he and Leah were mistaken. That it was all a dream or a false memory. Something. But there’s no denying it. Not now that the evidence is laid out bare in front of him like this. Dillon reflects back at him in the baby’s almond-shaped eyes, in his brown skin, in the wispy black hair curling over his forehead and the thick eyelashes shadowing his cheeks. He's Dillon’s son. He’s Dillon’s son.

[gatzbright]

sweater weather

dnf fic, 1.6k, one shot, general, ao3 link [Established Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst With a Happy Ending, Fluff]

A cry escapes George’s lips. “Dream—” Dream brings George closer, holds his face in two large palms. “Tell me when you’re hurting, sweetheart,” he whispers thickly, “and I can try help.” George shakes his head. “No,” he says, weepy, “‘s’too much—” “Never,” Dream says. He holds George’s gaze. “You’re never too much—nothing you ever feel is ever too much.”

[Or, The tide brings in old feelings, and George feels the ache.]

[mewkwota]

Dracula After Meeting Simon Belmont for the First Time (Probably)

Good morning everyone, I keep forgetting not everyone has seen how I very much accurately draw Simon and his muscles but it always gets me when someone does anything like this in their tags.

[lsttpn]

ok

so

lestappen rbr teammates but everyone thought that charles wouldnt fit in at redbull and he proved them wrong by bonding with max verstappen so hard that they become unbeatable in grill the grid

so bare with me and get this

charles announces his departure from ferrari and everyone is shocked because this guys breaths and lives and loves and adores ferrari even in the worst moments so they are like wtf is happening

when he announces that his move would lead him to rbr, they are like wtf are you doing you will not survive verstappen you will be out of place you wont get on with the guy at all

he was out of place because he still felt like an intruder but he quickly got over it because simply max

so, he liked max, that was obvious. like he would not deny in that. charles knows that he liked max since he was a kid but he coped with it when the inchident happened, he coped when max entered f1 three years befor him, he coped when austria 2019 happened, he coped when 2022 happened.

so he couldnt do much about it because it was. a crush. yeah

he thought hey since we are teammates i can get over it and just bond with him like a normal person and just get him as a friend off track and a rival on track

simple

but jesus christ max is so nice that its painful

its terrible. max is nice and thoughtful and a cool guy and pretty and hot and ugh charles almost regrets not resisting another win of barely points so that the merc seat would open. almost

almost because he and max just work so well. off track, on track, everyday every time they meet they just.. click

and its funny too because he knew even before he came to rbr that they click, he knew since he was little and he let other people be convinced that they will not work because they have no business in thier relationship and stuff but being so close to max made him aware of this constantly

and its enjoyable being in eachothers company and they are so relaxed with one another that they start a genuine strong friendship which led them to random talks at 3 am on random days of the week at eachother houses

this is where its starts

they are expected to film a video for the first grill the grid of the season at the next gp

while they cant know what they will be made to do, max knows a couple of people from f1/fia pr and he could easily get the info on what they are suppose to do

he tells so to charles one night while they were hanging out in monaco, maxs flat, just eating takeout and playing fifa

now charles is a competitive person and he hate losing at those videos and is absolutely fed up with being called a babygirl himbo so he tells max to hit those pr people up and beg them for the prompts so he can study them and win

max, another competitive person, absolutely agrees with charles and they shake hands: dammed be the actual champion, that they sure will win but the grill the grid champions is more important at 1 am on a wednesday

so they start to prepare themselves by studying for the video and they are doing study dates between interviews and team debriefs

and they absolutely smash the competition

they both come first, tying ofc and they are absolutely ecstatic

so they do that again and again

some of those challenges are made to be for both teammates so they work even better when they are together, placing first by a margin not only in the championship

and its so fun, the study dates and the absolute nerding they both do and it makes them even closer

at one point,on a study date they have their fluffy oh moment and they just.. get it now that the feelingtm are revealed

and they are fluffy and in love and they do their little cheater stuff and at the end of the season, when they are drunk because they won the constructor championship and charles won the drivers one, one of them slips up that they cheated the whole grill the grid season and every other driver is enraged (mainly geroge and lando tbh thats how i see it)

and they are like tf why did you tell charles you have contact with the pr people?? to max and he says something like i wanted him to win no matter what. in a casual tone

and charles is literally so drunk on love at the moment and says someting cheesy like yeah even if you cheated you still won my heart and its cute and nice and fluffy and tooth rotting sweet and just

lestappen bonding as teammates

and so sweet

ugh its 3 am im done i love this concept i changed it 2 times tho

anyway if you read this ty!, it was a lil thing i had in mind and i couldnt resist not to write it

and ik quality is probably bad, its because this is the first time im writing someting like this but i could not care less ( lie i really hope its at least readable as in i hope there is coherence)

[bunnyboy-juice]

lets hear it for the femmes who have strong boundaries re: eating ppl out but will gag themselves on all forms of cock without a second thought 🥰

this post is about lesbian sex

[saturdaynightghostclub]

The Many Lives of Arthur Llewellyn

You know how sometimes you can look at a person and just know, instinctively, that they came from some cosmic elsewhere? Their face, their clothes, their speech—it all belongs somewhere specific, somewhere other than where they are. Every now and then you come across a time-traveler, an astronaut, a lovelorn Victorian in the body of a twentysomething city-dweller. Your Arthur is one such curiosity, you think. A cursory glance would place him on a street-corner in Greenwich Village, or smoking a cigarette beneath a gas lamp in San Francisco. He’s got that foggy beatnik thing going for him. That he exists among the long-haired, strong-armed Seattleites of 1995 must mean that someone out there in the galactic mist is looking out for you; by all accounts, you should never have met this walking anachronism.

But you did, and against all odds he’s currently sitting at your dining room table and using a set of nail clippers to mend the clasp of a necklace his mother insisted was too broken to continue wearing. He suggested she take it to a jeweler, and her subsequent “Why bother” had riled him up to the point that he insisted on fixing the damned thing himself because, in his words, “Why bother? Why bother buying anything if you’re not going to take care of it? You just throw your clothes away when they get holes?”

“I can feel you staring,” he says now, without looking up. Guilty as charged, you hide your smile behind the copy of Howards End that you’re pretending to read. Maybe he’s a weary ship’s captain, taking meticulous care of what few possessions he has that remind him of his faraway home. Maybe somewhere he’s stowed a pair of red boots, made from fine Spanish leather, for safekeeping until he returns to his aching sweetheart on the shore. Maybe you have an overactive imagination.

Aunt Juley is sick, and Helen won’t come home to the grieving Schlegel family, and won’t she reconsider ending her engagement to Paul? Who cares, when Arthur Llewellyn is carefully slinking toward triumph in the battle against his mother’s gold chain? You turn a page without reading it, your eyes still trained on your boyfriend’s long fingers until, with a soft and disbelieving gasp, he holds the chain up for you to see. The clasp looks brand-new, and even if he did only fix it to spite his mother, your heart flutters with pride—he’s a sensitive one, whether he likes it or not. You happen to know that the necklace was given to Mrs. Llewellyn by Arthur’s father: an emerald pendant, her birthstone. The Llewellyns are not sentimental people (with the exception of their son, that is); according to Arthur, he’s had to practically beg them not to donate his great grandmother’s china sets on more than one occasion. As a consequence, his own apartment is full of antiques and souvenirs he couldn’t bear to see thrown away.

You move closer to him under the pretense of inspecting his work, rising from your chair to stand beside him.

“Very nice,” you say, “are you sure you want to keep going with this teaching thing? I think you’ve got a real future in jewelry repair.”

Arthur tilts his head back to look at you, placing the necklace down on the table. You run a hand through his hair, letting your palm come down to cup his face. He leans into you like a man deprived. You sometimes wonder if his immediate family’s stoicism did a little damage to the part of him that now seems to need your touch like oxygen. “Funny,” he says, “I was thinking the same thing. You think they’ve got good benefits?”

You smile, running your thumb across his sharp cheekbone. He’s been frustrated, you know, in the days leading up to the start of the school year. The school’s curriculum, which he says is “unbearably boring,” leaves little room for creativity, but he’s trying his best. He’s starting his students with The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy this year.

Arthur is flexing his hand repeatedly, probably working out a cramp from his delicate operation with the nail clippers. You perch on the edge of the table, sliding back to a full sit, before taking that hand in both of your own. Slowly, gently, you massage the tension out of his fingers while he looks on in awe. “You want to get out of here?” You ask, “It’s a gorgeous day. Take a walk with me?” He nods, allowing you to lead him out of your apartment and into the midday air, perfumed with lilac and salt.

Your building is on one of those dreadful Seattle hills, the ones you don’t realize are as steep as they are until one day you put on your favorite sundress and realize your calves look absolutely stunning. You lead Arthur up the block, ignoring his halfhearted protests until you’ve made it to the top of the hill. There, he lets his hand go to the small of your back, keeping it there as you continue to walk. After a moment’s silence, he leans over to kiss your temple. “I love you,” he says. Casually, like he has so many times. Like it’s a way to fill the silence instead of a world-bending declaration, like he couldn’t bring you to your knees at any moment with it.

“I love you too,” you say, knowing it carries the same weight for him.

“Can I be so corny for a minute?” He asks, his hand moving gently up and down your back as you walk.

“You can be as corny as you want,” you reply. Never in your life have you seen this kind of earnestness in a man. Never in your life have you even wanted it—never, until you had it.

Arthur takes a deep breath. “I’m really happy,” he says, his voice hoarse, “I’m so fucking happy.”

“Sounds like it,” you tease, nudging him.

“I am,” he finally smiles, “I am. It’s scary though, you know? I’d kind of reached a point where I thought happy was a myth. Or, no—not a myth, I just thought it was something for other people, right? Like, when they’d talk about how happy they were, I thought either that they were exaggerating or that there was something wrong with me, because I didn’t know what they were talking about—does that make sense?”

You stop walking for a moment, turning to Arthur. “You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says. You respect his lack of sheepishness. “I’ve had to, you know? It’s like I’m experiencing this whole new facet of human life I didn’t know existed. Like maybe I thought I knew, and you’ve just turned everything upside down.”

You’ve got no choice but to kiss him. There, on the street corner, where it’s nothing short of edenic, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and press your lips to his, hard and sweet. He gasps against you in that way that you love, that way that lets you know you’ve taken him by surprise once again. His shock is only momentary, however, and within seconds you’re wrapped so tightly in his arms that he’s all you can feel, all around you.

“Arthur,” you say, coming down off your toes and letting your hands drag down his chest, “if this is all it takes to make you happy, then neither of us has anything to worry about.”

The boy is grinning in earnest now, eyes fixed on your face. “Oh, fuck,” he says, shattering the illusion that he is anything but a west coast twentysomething, “Jesus, honey…”

He’s running a hand over his face now, like he’s trying in vain to wipe the smile from his features. “What?” You ask, grinning something awful yourself.

“I just saw the future, that’s what,” he says, sweeping you once again into his arms, “I saw my entire life in your face, it’s all you. All you, forever.”

You can’t help but to laugh, a stunned expulsion of joy you weren’t expecting to feel. “Oh god, you’re stuck with me then?”

“There was never anything else in the cards for me, to be fair,” he says, “and just to be clear, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Arthur’s a bit of a mystic about things like that—souls and stardust and past lives—it took you by surprise at first, but you’ve grown to realize it’s maybe the thing that makes the most sense about him. Of course your out-of-place, out-of-time alien creature of a boyfriend thinks—knows, if you ask him—that the two of you are cosmically entwined. And you, for your part, know that you would rather die than deny him these little fantasies. After all, it’s you who sees a thousand lives in his face, each more complex and profound than the last. Between Seattle and England and outer space and the Pacific ocean, you find yourself hoping against your own iron-clad logic that the two of you will find each other again after this life (and after, and after, and after).

[kira-light0]

The prettiest princess

[berry-hwa]

As per my suggestion...!!

heres the promised mermaid au fic!!! I might not ever finish it because theres a lot of worldbuilding and writing stuff that i dont have time for😔i havent looked over this in a while and it isnt beta read either so ignore any mistakes!! All that aside now, pls enjoy!!

Well, here I am.

Looking up, her expression hardly wavered at the luxurious and magnificent hotel she stood in front of.

Here it is. Tres Spades.

Her glance shifted low to the dark blue dress she wore specifically for the famous I.V.C held at the hotel. Her pearl necklace reflected the huge amount of light from both the inside and outside and her silk, white gloves held onto a matching white clutch. She wasn't gonna look like anyone present at the party, but she was fine with that. The party wasn't what was on her mind anyway, it didn't matter if she stood out or not.

All she had to do was get to the penthouse.

Walking through crowds and crowds of people, her white heels clicked with every step she took on the recently cleaned floor. As she reached the room the I.V.C was held at, she was suddenly startled by someone talking behind her.

"Woah! I've never seen you around here. Is this your first time attending the I.V.C perhaps?"

She spun around to find two men looking at her, their eyes not leaving hers. She recognized one of the two almost instantly.

"Oh! Why yes, this is my first time here. I was looking for Mr. Ichinomiya? He was supposed to escort me to the party." She flashed a radiant smile, hoping to catch the two off-guard. As she stared at them, she realized the identity of the second man who strangely wore a fedora hat.

"Oh! We're his accomplices, and I haven't heard anything about you from Mr. Ichinomiya...would you give us your name?" The blonde smiled, crossing his arms and waiting for an answer. Her heart slowly began beating faster as she thought of a made-up name.

"Misaki. My name is Misaki." She extended her hand out for a handshake, which the brunette took and gave the back of it a gentle kiss. Her heartbeat slowly went back to normal and her smile slightly fell.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful lady. My name is Mitsunari Baba, but you can call me Micchy or Mitsu for short. And you probably already know who my friend is." Baba glanced back and forth between the blonde and the woman.

"Of course, Kisaki Ota. I'd be ashamed if I didn't know who you were." She bowed and internally cringed, her patience slowly running low. She wasn't here to chat up some men...but, if they managed to get her up to the penthouse, at least the lying would be worth it.

"You flatter me Miss Misaki! Now, what was that about Mr. Ichinomiya escorting you to the I.V.C?"

"Ah, right. We talked over the phone weeks prior to the I.V.C, but he must have forgotten. He's a busy man after all, and so am I." Lying in situations as such was her specialty, but for some reason she felt as if she was being read easily. Can they tell?

"Boss is a very busy man. If you'd like, we could escort you around the I.V.C ourselves?" Baba gave her a handsome smile that would swoon women in her place, but she was barely phased. It wasn't her job to begin flirting with a thief.

She tried to shake off the unusual feeling she felt when she realized Ota's smile had also fallen a bit as he stared at her. Not at her, but her necklace specifically. The only explanation that sat right with her was that he'd been looking at it from an artist's point of view. She didn't know if he realized the necklace was made out of real pearls, however.

"I would appreciate it very much, Mitsunari." She smiled again for the sake of being polite.

From nearly getting lost in the sea of people to stumbling upon a mysterious looking hallway and being sold at a black market auction held in the basement of the hotel, she was only a few steps away from her goal. It didn't matter who bought her, she would escape them either way. Her eyes were set on finding one man and that man only. Her surprise when she heard she was sold to seat #100 came as a shock even to her. She fell right into the hands of the man she had her eyes on.

The cage she sat in had been carried all the way up to the penthouse, her heart racing as she realized how close she was to her target. Even if they didn't speak and wore masks, she knew exactly who the two men that carried her up there were as well.

And when she was brought in, she found herself face to face with him. Eisuke Ichinomiya.

"Who are you?"

"Boss, this is the lady that we-"

"If you let me out of this cage, I will tell you exactly who I am and what I'm doing here."

She stared at the five men who stared back at her. Her smile from earlier was replaced with a fierce gaze at Eisuke, who was staring at her cautiously.

"And how do we know you don't have any ulterior motives?" A strong looking man stood up which she quickly identified as Soryu, Eisuke's childhood friend and a mobster.

"If your security is good at checking whether or not people have weapons on them, then you don't have to be afraid Mr. Oh." She held her chin high and smiled internally at his slightly bewildered face.

"...You know who we are?" Eisuke spoke, eyebrows narrowing as he stared at her through his eyelashes. She could sense he was conflicted and a little confused.

"I know you all. And we'd be able to talk like normal people if you let me out of this cage," She crossed her arms, gaze not faltering as she stared back at Eisuke, "But we probably already know the phrase "normal people" doesn't suit you at all, right Ichinomiya?"

She saw his eyebrow twitch. As she guessed earlier, Baba and Ota took their masks off, their gazes switching back and forth between the woman and Eisuke.

"Is your definition of a succesful individual 'abnormal'?" Eisuke crossed his arms and took a sip of his wine, placing it on the table in front of him afterwards.

"I think we both know what I mean here." Her gaze went to the wine glass in front of him. Lowering her open palm, she aimed it directly at the glass before knocking it over, the wine spilling on Eisuke's leg.

All the men's eyes widened and Eisuke swiftly stood up, panic evident on his features.

"Eisuke, go!" Soryu suddenly yelled at him. Realizing he had to move as fast as he could, he dashed towards the staircase with a curse, managing to make it up before anyone could see anything.

When they made sure he was out of sight, everyone shot a glare at the woman. Only Ota seemed to stand still, still comprehending what had just happened.

"What the hell was that?" Soryu approached the cage, gun in hand now. The woman only grinned as the realization that she'd indeed found the man she was looking for began setting in.

"I think you know exactly what it was." Her fingers tapped at the golden cage as the mobster stared her down. She felt confident knowing she wouldn't be killed in that moment after what she did. They needed answers and she was aware of that. There was also no way they'd let her go unless they heard the full story, unless they didn't let her go at all. She was bought by them after all.

"I...don't get it. How did you knock over that glass?" Baba stared, still a little stunned. She rolled her eyes and glanced at the thief who was looking at her for an answer.

"I'm pretty sure you know that as well." Before looking away, she caught a glimpse of Ota looking almost...solemn, as he stared off into the distance.

"Come on now, you can't all play dumb. I'm here for one reason and one reason only."

"And that is?"

"Eisuke."

Soryu stared at her once more with a stern look on his face. Was he gonna let her out? She made it clear she'd explain everything if she was out of the cage...but how could he trust her like that? Especially when he didn't even know her name?

"Open the cage Mitsunari." A deep voice from the back spoke, the woman recognizing it as Mamoru's. At least he's not entirely stupid, as much as he is lazy.

Baba hesitantly reached into his pocket to take out a key, Soryu stepping away to make space. Opening the cage, the woman stepped out, arms crossed over one another. The men continued to stare at her for a moment before they heard footsteps coming from the staircase.

Her eyes immediately locked with Eisuke's as she looked up. He looked both furious and confused as he walked down each step.

"I'm gonna ask this one last time. Who are you and what are you doing here?" Making his way towards her, he stood in-between Baba and Soryu, eyes staring daggers into the woman. He only recieved a grin in return.

"I heard a siren call from miles away, and it lead me here in your hotel."

The CEO stared in pure confusion. He almost wanted to laugh at how ridiculous she sounded. A siren call. Is she for real?

Sure, it might not have sounded...that ridiculous, given the situation he was suddenly thrust into in less than twenty seconds. His eyes traveled to her neck adorned by the pearl necklace. He could feel his throat going dry even as he swallowed.

Those are real pearls.

And, sure, seeing real pearls hung on a string as an accessory wasn't the most unusual thing Eisuke had seen. But the way this woman was dressed bewildered him.

He estimated the cost of both her dress and heels were most probably around 200 dollars. Her gloves were made of silk, therefore they had to have been a little expensive. The pearls were what threw him off. A single, real white pearl was already expensive, but her necklace consisted of at least thirty pearls that varied in colors and shapes. He even recognized one of the rarest blue pearls hung onto the string, and he could feel the nervousness bubbling to the surface the more he stared.

"You've...gotta be kidding right?" The thief asked, gaze shifting to Eisuke who tried so hard to keep his expression as neutral as possible. Both him and Soryu were begining to catch onto the situation.

"I'm very serious. I came here specifically to talk to Eisuke, on behalf of my people."

"Your...people?" Puzzled, Soryu raised an eyebrow at her, his eyes now also shifting to look at Eisuke.

"I know what you are Eisuke. And we need your help." The woman's tone slowly morphed into one of pleading, as did her expression. Eisuke stared for what seemed like hours before sighing and turning his back to her.

"You have five minutes to explain."

"Five?!"

"Yes, only five."

She stared at his back as he walked over to the couch and sat down, Soryu and Baba following. She was glad she got the opportunity to talk...but five minutes? Really?!

"Alright I...just, do you mind bringing a glass of water?" Her gaze went to the artist who seemed to think about her question a little longer than he had to before nervously answering.

"Sure..." He put on a smile and strode over to the kitchen in the penthouse. Taking a deep breath before exhaling, her gaze returned to Eisuke who now sat on the couch, waiting for his explanation.

"First of all, I'd like to apologize for barging in all of a sudden and spilling wine on you. You were probably all confused and angry, especially you, Ichinomiya." Her heels clicked as she walked over to the four men, Eisuke's eyebrows forming into a frown as he recalled what happened.

"Apologize another time, get to your story." He swiftly crossed his legs and rest his chin in his palm as he waited for her to begin, as if he were a teacher about to listen to a student's excuse for a missed assignment.

By the time she stopped staring Eisuke down, Ota had come back with a glass of water as she'd asked. Funny how she has barely been here for five minutes and is ordering people around as if she owns the penthouse.

Thanking the artist, she set the glass down on the coffee table and waited for Ota to grab a seat, only for him to stand next to the couch Baba, Soryu and Eisuke sat on.

"As I said...I know what you are, Eisuke. Even if you might not know exactly what you are, we desperately need your help." She began, voice brave despite her slowly plummetting spirit.

"Who is this "we" you've been throwing around?" Baba exclaimed before getting interrupted by the woman.

"I'll get there. Let me explain."

"You fell into a pool when you were young in London...right?" She raised an eyebrow and looked at Eisuke for his reaction. He definitely didn't disappoint. His eyes went wide and he was now listening to her more cautiously, the nervous feeling on the verge of overflowing.

"You became a mermaid. Or...a merman. Otherwise known as a siren." She explained like she was some lunatic, but Eisuke knew better than to assume that when she was right. Except he had no idea what she meant by the siren part of it.

"How do you know any of this. Only my manager and some acquaintances are aware of what happened. How did you manage to find out what happened a decade ago?"

"That's not important. What is important is that I'm a real mermaid born at sea, and my people have and I have been threatened by the human race for years," She looked down, remembering the last moments with her family before they were taken from her, "They sacrificed themselves so I would stay alive and get help."

"It took you this long to find me?" Eisuke interrupted, his thoughts now racing. Had she been stalking him? Did she somehow bribe someone to tell her about him? What kind of help did she need exactly?

"I've known about you ever since you fell into that pool. You see, I'm from Britain myself, and all of us have known about you ever since that day." She explained briefly, not leaving any room for questions as she continued quickly afterwards.

"You're the first merman to have ever fallen in the pool in that cave in nearly sixty years. It just so happened that you became a siren on the day the last merman transformed 43 years before you did." She briefly caught a glimpse at Ota looking down at the floor as if he was holding something back. Did he wanna ask a question?

She decided to ignore it, passing it as just him being lost in his thoughts.

"This is...too much information," Eisuke rubbed his temple, her words barely registering. He was finally used to being this weird form of a human after so long, and suddenly there's so much information shoved into him it's almost too overwhelming.

"You think? You gave me five minutes to explain, I'm using that time wisely." She may have been aware of the conflicted situation he was in at that moment as he slowly took in what she was saying. Still though, she figured she might as well drop the bomb as quickly as she could, even if it confused Eisuke at first.

"We've been looking for a siren for years now due to our problems with the human race. And that just so happened to be you..."

Her frightless demeanor began to wear off, quickly replaced by someone in genuine need of help. Eisuke stared at her, her words still registering. So he was a siren. Was it good that he finally knew his identity after so many years? He certainly didn't feel any better knowing, that's for sure. What if she was lying?

"Can you prove to me in any way that you're telling the truth?"

The woman stared at him. Of course, Eisuke Ichinomiya of all people would never believe some girl suddenly showing up at his penthouse, telling him he was a damn siren and that there were real mer-people living in the sea with no proof. The whole story seemed like a sick joke. Even if she knew things many others hadn't known, even if she held information that Eisuke had never revealed publicly...he had to know.

"If you'll allow me to," She raised her open palm once more and focused her energy on the glass of water in front of her. Soon enough, they saw what looked like a bubble rise out of the glass. Eisuke knew she wasn't lying the moment he saw the "bubble" rise higher and higher, but still wanted to see what she would do. As the water reached her head, her hand suddenly dropped to her side, as did the bubble. The CEO's eyes widened as it splashed over her head and he was already begining to count down the seconds it took for her to transform. No sooner than that did Baba get up and rushed over to her, holding her up by her arms as her legs disappeared and were replaced by a sparkling blue tail.

"Is that enough proof for you, Ichinomiya?"

[phantomdecibel]

Whistling Thorn

Endurance of the soul.

Or – Eurylochus meets Astyanax, featuring Lil Ajax.

__________________

It was the dead of night when they finally landed on the island, and Eurylochus was alone.

Or, well –

Almost alone.

Hesitantly, he pulled back the blankets again, just to confirm what he’d already seen, grimacing in confusion all the while. In all honesty, it made no sense.

Because – moments before Odysseus and Polites had left to speak with the locals, promising to be back by sunrise at the latest, They had handed him something. Or rather – shoved something into his arms and ran, something suspiciously heavy and bundled in cloth.

As they’d started away he’d unwrapped the thing, vaguely noting the increase in the speed of their footsteps, revealing–

What. The ever-loving fuck.

“Good luck!” Eurylochus could still hear the amused-terrified lilt to Polite’s voice as he’d left, and Odysseus’s muffled snickers echoed in his mind.

Being in charge of an entire fleet, responsible for the safety of six hundred (five hundred and ninety eight) men? That was fine, Eurylochus could handle it. He was the second in command, he’d had plenty of experience in leadership and keeping people alive, he could look after the crew while Odysseus was gone, and everything would be fine. It was Odysseus and Polites who had the dangerous job, exploring the unknown on their own with no backup.

He knew what he was doing.

Or –

He did know what he was doing; what to expect, how to handle being in charge.

He didn’t know how to handle this, though.

Because in that moment, right after they’d docked and his friends were about to leave, that Odysseus had walked up to him and handed him a bundle wrapped in cloth, and Polites wished him good luck, and they’d vanished, Eurylochus – curious to a fault – had unwrapped the bundle to see what it was.

In his arms wasn’t a heavy bundle of cloth. It wasn’t flowers (like one might expect from having Polites involved), or weapons, or even their last bit of food.

No.

His friends had dumped a sleeping infant in his arms and, ignoring his cries and questions, booked it off the ship.

Eurylochus was… stumped.

He’d never been good with children, even when he’d been a child himself. Odysseus was their brain, Eurylochus himself was the muscle, and Polites their unwavering moral compass (and quite often the one to get them out of trouble with his perfect innocent act).

(…or get them in to trouble while remaining out of it himself, as the smug little bastard saw fit.)

…

…where did they even get it from?

They were on a boat! In the middle of the godsforsaken ocean. There was no reasonable explanation for Odysseus and Polites having, somehow, acquired a baby. And leaving it with him of all people. Him!

Did- did they get it from Troy? Has there, seriously, just been a child on board for the weeks since they left back for Ithaca? …how had they even been feeding it, anyways?

“I am going to be having words,” Eurylochus grumbled to himself, trying to adjust the infant in his arms so it could sleep more comfortably, “with those two, when they get back.”

Walking across the deck, in the dark of night, back towards Odysseus’s quarters, Eurylochus was struck by a sense of deja-vu. Odysseus, rushing past as Troy burned behind him. Odysseus, barely noticing Eurylochus grabbing his shoulder, Odysseus clutching desperately at his chest. A cry, a wail not necessarily inhuman, but certainly not something that belonged on a boat.

…Polites, a brief look of shock marring his expression, before loudly declaring that their Captain was crying, and dragging him into his cabin.

Eurylochus had dismissed it at the time. Odysseus, try as he might to dispute it, cried all the time. It wasn’t exactly an abnormal occurrence, and that night had been difficult on everyone, that man most of all. But now that he held a sleeping child in his arms, retracing Odysseus’s steps from that night, Eurylochus couldn’t deny it any longer.

The odd hours, the growing bags under his friends’ eyes… they’d snuck an infant on board.

If there hadn’t been the risk of alerting the crew, Eurylochus would have cursed his friends out right then and there. As it were, that would raise too many questions – maybe even wake the child. Silently plotting his revenge would have to do for now.

Maybe he’d toss the both of them overboard, just briefly, before the ships departed the island. Once they finally weren’t wanting for food, he’d… he’d, throw their bread at them, or something. Make them drink the salty ocean water. Anything to make sure they knew just how fucking stupid they were, brining an infant onto a warship, and then leaving it with him with no warning! How were they even caring for it? Feeding it? Didn’t babies need fresh air and sunlight, wasn’t that something that Penelope had said once as she sat outside with little Telemachus–

Ah. Of course.

Eurylochus looked down at the child in his arms, slowing to a stop by a lantern.

With his darker hair and little wrinkled nose, the infant could almost be mistaken for Odysseus’s son. He wasn’t, of course, Odysseus would never cheat on Penelope, but the child certainly resembled Telemachus, as he had been when they’d left years ago for this horrid war.

Of course Odysseus had gotten attached. Of course Polites had helped him hide.

Bleeding hearts, the both of them. Eurylochus sighed, long and weary.

Of course he was going to help them take care of the kid.

Hide it? No, that wouldn’t be healthy, for his friends or the child. Growing up on a boat probably wouldn’t be incredibly healthy for the kid anyways, but keeping it cooped up for however long it took to get back home would be even less so. Ugh. This was all getting so complicated, and Eurylochus was exhausted.

Couldn’t they have wait until morning to hand off the kid they’d picked up gods-knew-where?

In that moment, the child woke up.

“No, no –” Eurylochus shushed as it started to scream bloody murder. “Shhh, sshhhhhh, you’re fine, you’re fine –”

The infant continued to disagree. Loudly.

“Shhhhh,” he tried again, to no avail. Eurylochus started walking again – hopefully the motion would help soothe the screaming banshee. “Come on now, there’s no need for that, you’re fine – oh why did they decide to leave me with this thing?”

“Eurylochus?” A new voice called. Of. Course. someone had heard the child, wailing it’s head off. He couldn’t be that lucky. “What’s that noise, sir, is everything alright?”

He shook his head with another hearty sigh as the youngest man in the crew came stumbling to a stop by his side. “Everything’s fine, Ajax. Your captain is simply an idiot, and decided to leave me to deal with it while he’s gone.”

Ajax, incredibly unused to hearing anyone badmouth his captain and king, stared at Eurylochus with wide, horrified eyes. The moment was broken as the infant wailed again, and Ajax, coming to terms with Eurylochus’s apparent bout of mutiny, glanced down.

“…sir – is, is that a child?”

“Why yes, yes it is,” Eurylochus deadpanned. “Whatever gave it away?”

“The screaming, for one,” Ajax leaned towards him, trying to get a better look at the infant. Eurylochus didn’t bother trying to stop him, and just kept walking. “Where did it come from?”

“Not a clue.”

“How can you not know?”

“Well it’s not like it’s mine,” Eurylochus shot the man beside him an incredulous look, and Ajax threw his hands up in surrender. “The Captain just handed him off to me before he left.”

The child wailed again, long and drawn out, and Eurylochus rocked it awkwardly. Was it hungry? Probably, Telemachus had certainly been in constant need of milk. Which, on a ship, there was none of. How had it survived this long?

“Uh, sir?”

“Yes, Ajax.”

“Do, uh, do you need some help, there?”

Oh thank the gods–

Eurylochus whirled towards the younger man, practically shoving the infant at him. “Please, I don’t know why it won’t stop crying–”

Ajax laughed, a little awkwardly, but graciously accepted the screaming bundle. Eurylochus continued to lead the way back to Odysseus’s cabin; hopefully they’d be able to find whatever his friends had been feeding the little hellion with, or something of the likes.

“Err, are we allowed in here?” Ajax hesitated in the doorway. The child had started to run out of energy again it seemed, but it was definitely still complaining.

“He dumped a child on me with no explanation,” Eurylochus huffed grumpily. “He can deal with it.”

Slowly, Ajax crept inside. The child, held much more securely in the young man’s arms than in Eurylochus’s own, finally quieted, apparently much happier simply being back in the room. Maybe it had been cold?

“Sir,” Ajax handed the infant back to Eurylochus, who had no choice but to accept. “If I may, I’d suggest you talk to the Captain about brining the kid out during the day, some. I think he’s afraid of the sky.”

“That I will do, Ajax, that I will do.” Holding the child in the crook of one arm, Eurylochus turned to scan the room. The kid still didn’t seem particularly happy, glaring up at him and kicking its weak little feet, but at least it’d stopped screaming. “Thank you for your help.”

“Not a problem, sir!” Eurylochus could hear the smile in the young man’s voice. “Should I tell the crew that there’s nothing to worry about?”

Well, he hadn’t been planning to keep the kid a secret, anyways.

“That would be a good idea, please. I’m going to see if I can find something the kid can eat – let me know when Polites and the Captain return.”

“Yes sir,” Ajax agreed, and hurried back out of the room. Eurylochus directed his attention to a chest, one tucked away in the corner of the room. He wished there were a crib, somewhere, so he could put the child down, but settled for holding it in one arm as he used to other to rummage through Odysseus’s things.

The child kicked him again, disapproving. It didn’t seem to like him very much.

Well. Eurylochus glanced down at the child, and the child glared back up at him. It would just have to deal with him, and him it. Just until sunrise.

Just until sunrise.

_________________________________

Whistling Thorn is part of an au @hahahaghosty and I are working on! TECHNICALLY it’s not the first installment, but it IS near the beginning lol, so special thanks to them for helping out w this fic!

also also, I know that lil Ajax is not actually a teenager. However, I have beaten cannon to a pulp with a sledgehammer, stuck the goop into the blender to smoosh it up even more, and then used it as fertilizer for my dying plants. Cannon doesn’t exist anymore. let it go.

Keep an eye out for more Flower AU :D

[arrowscringevalley]

Hey so I made that crossover fic

And some doodles about it

Here's the uh

Thing

Heheh