#now we just follow the lawyer’s advice and we’ll be golden

[carry-on-my-wayward-butt]

it took several days and a tropical storm flash flood of like eight feet but WE MOVED OUT OF THE SHITPARTMENT YEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHH

[thelastspeecher]

Angela Pines AU - The Favorite

I had another bit that I was going to write before I posted this, but I spent a good chunk of my day today working on a job application and I’m craving some sweet, sweet writer’s validation, so I’m posting it now.

(Btw, a reminder, I wouldn’t mind an ask or two for this AU...nudge nudge wink wink.)

———————————————————————————————————–

              “Mr. and Mrs. Pines?”  Filbrick and Caryn looked over at Angie’s kindergarten teacher. “May I have a word with you?”

              “Fine, but you better make it quick,” Filbrick rumbled, crossing his arms.  The teacher glanced at Angie, obediently standing with her parents.

              “Alone.”

              “Go play with your friends for a bit, angel,” Caryn said.  She gently shooed Angie away.  At five, she was firmly settled in with the family, despite looking less and less like a Pines with every passing day.  Her hair was golden and silky, unlike the Pines dark brown curls, and it was already evident she would be slender, not broad-shouldered.

              “What is it?” Filbrick asked the teacher.

              “Well, I had my suspicions on Angela’s first day of class, but I decided to wait until the first week was over to be sure.”

              “Be sure of what?” Caryn asked.

              “Your daughter is remarkably advanced for her age. The only other child I’ve seen as intelligent as her was your son, Stanford.”  Filbrick and Caryn exchanged a look.  They’d noticed Angie’s smarts, but weren’t sure whether they were imagining it due to their fondness for the girl.  “However, she has behavioral problems not unlike Stanley’s.”

              “My daughter’s behavior is perfect,” Filbrick growled.

              “She’s well-behaved, yes,” the teacher said, quickly backtracking.  “But she’s struggling to make friends with her classmates, and she’s hyperactive and distractible.”

              “All children her age are,” Caryn said.

              “Angela is more hyperactive and distractible than her classmates,” the teacher said firmly.  “I’m not sure why, but I wonder if it might be due to anxiety.  Anxiety in girls sometimes manifests in that way. Have you noticed her being particularly anxious at home?”

              “She had a traumatic event happen when she was three,” Caryn said after a moment.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that caused her to have anxiety.”  The teacher nodded.

              “I’d recommend scheduling an appointment with her pediatrician, just to get her checked over.  The sooner she gets help, the better off she’ll be.”  The teacher walked away.  Angie, who had been watching the conversation curiously, rushed over.

              “What was that about?” she asked.  Filbrick ruffled her hair.

              “Nothing, angel.  Your teacher was just telling us how smart you are,” he said.  Angie beamed at him.  Her smile was gap-toothed right now, as she was just beginning to lose her baby teeth.  “C’mon, your brothers are waiting in the car.”  Angie eagerly ran off.

              “If she’s as smart as Stanford, Angie could be something great,” Caryn whispered to Filbrick as they followed at a more sedate pace.

              “We already knew she was special,” Filbrick rumbled.

              “Well, yes.  But a smart girl like her could be a splendid nurse.”  Filbrick tensed.

              “No.  No daughter of mine is gonna go into nursing.  I don’t want her dodging attacks from druggies or cleaning bedpans.”

              “Maybe a teacher, then,” Caryn suggested. Filbrick nodded.

              “Yes.  Teaching would be good for her.  We need better teachers in this world.”

              “Though, it’s worth mentioning that teaching doesn’t pay much.”

              “She’ll be able to land a doctor or lawyer.  Her husband can support her.”

              “That’s a good point.”  Caryn frowned thoughtfully.  “Hmm, maybe she could be an art or music teacher.  She likes singing and painting.”  Filbrick nodded again.

              “I agree.  We should do what we did for Stanford.  Sign her up for the things she’s good at, make sure that she becomes amazing at them.”

              “Yes.  We need to encourage her intellect.”  Caryn grabbed Filbrick’s hand and laced her fingers with his.  “We’re so blessed, Filly, to have such a wonderful family.” Filbrick grunted wordlessly in response, eliciting a soft chuckle from his wife.

-----

              Stan sat behind the counter, idly polishing new inventory for display.

              “Thank you!” Angie chirped cheerfully.  The customer she had been speaking to left. Angie looked up at the clock. “That’s the last one of the day.” She went over to the door and flipped the sign over to read “CLOSED”.

              “Stanley!” a voice shouted.  Stan sighed.  He looked over.

              “Yes, Pops?” he asked.  Filbrick, who had just come downstairs, glowered at him.

              “Why was your sister running register on her day off?”

              “She asked,” Stan said simply.  “And since she’s good at it, I figured she might as well.” He bit back the urge to point out that Angie was the only one who didn’t have to work in the shop every day. Filbrick sighed.  He looked at Angie.

              “Angel, on your day off, you shouldn’t be in the shop, fleecing rubes.  You should be practicing your painting.”

              “I like working in the shop,” Angie said. She took a deep breath.  “And, actually, Pops, I was thinking…”  She took another breath.  “I think I’d like to run the shop.  Once- once you step down.”

              “No,” Filbrick said shortly.  Stan’s eyes widened.  Very rarely was Filbrick so firm with Angie.  Judging by her expression, Angie was just as shocked as Stan. “Angela, running a shop like this is a man’s job.”  Angie clenched her hands into fists.

              “What- what makes you say that?”

              “You’re a very talented and wonderful young lady, but you won’t be able to take care of the shop like your brothers could.”

              “Why not?”

              “I already explained myself.  It needs a man to run it.  And when you get married, your last name won’t be Pines anymore anyways,” Filbrick said.  Angie ground her teeth.

              “Maybe I don’t want to get married,” she snarled. Filbrick stiffened.  “I’m the best one to run the shop!  I’m just as personable as Stan, just as smart as Ford, just as thorough as Sherm, and I can sell them all under the table!”

              “Those things don’t matter.”

              “Why not?!” Angie shouted.  Stan winced.  “Those are the things it takes to run the shop, and I have them!”

              “If you were a young man, maybe I’d let you take over someday, but you’re a young woman,” Filbrick said, his volume beginning to rise.  “You’re meant for something else.”

              “Like what, teaching?  You always say to hedge your bets, do the thing that has the highest likelihood of working out,” Angie argued.  “I don’t know if I’d be a good teacher.  I know for a fact that I’m good at taking care of the shop!”

              “Stop arguing with me like you know better than I do. You’re still a child.”

              “I’m thirteen, not three!”

              “That’s enough!” Filbrick roared.  Angie took a step back, visibly unnerved.  “I am your father, Angela Diane Pines.  You will do as I say and not complain about it.  Am I understood?”  Angie glared furiously.  “Am I understood?” Filbrick growled.  Angie’s shoulders tensed.

              “…Yes, sir,” she ground out.

              “Good.  Now, go to your room.  I’ll talk to your mother about how we’ll punish you for talking back like that.” Angie stormed past Stan and upstairs. Filbrick looked over at Stan. “Finish closing for the day.”

              “Yes, sir,” Stan said.  Filbrick went upstairs.  Stan sighed.  As he finished closing up the shop, he thought about Filbrick warning that Angie would get punished.  It was an empty threat, and everyone knew it.

              She won’t get punished.  They don’t punish her for anything.

-----

              “Stan, Ford?”  Stan and Ford looked up from their comic book and sketchbook, respectively.

              “What’s going on, Ang?” Stan asked.  Angie stood in the doorway of their bedroom, rubbing her arm nervously.

              “Um, I wanted your advice.”

              “Advice on what?” Ford asked.  Angie closed her eyes.

              “…Dealing with Pops,” she said quietly.  Stan burst into laughter.  Ford scowled down at Stan from the top bunk.

              “Stan!”

              “Can you blame me?” Stan asked.  “Angie’s the only one who’s always on Pops’ good side, and she wants advice on dealing with him?”

              “I’m not always on his good side,” Angie said.  She walked into the living room and sat on the bottom bunk bed, next to Stan. “Remember when I told him I wanted to run the shop?”

              “Yeah.  You yelled at him and didn’t get punished.”

              “But he didn’t let me do what I wanted.”

              “You might want to rephrase that, Angie,” Ford suggested gently.  Angie groaned loudly.

              “You know what I mean!  I asked to run the shop, and he told me, in no uncertain terms, that he wouldn’t let me.  And not for any real reason.  No, it’s because I’m a girl.”

              “Yeah, that was bullshit,” Stan said.

              “It was!” Angie said.  “It was absolute bullshit.”

              “Language,” Ford warned.  Angie glared at him.

              “Shut up.”

              “…Fair enough.”  Ford closed his sketchbook.  He climbed down to sit on the bottom bunk, on the other side of Angie.  “I’m guessing that what you want advice for is related to that argument?”

              “Yeah.”  Angie looked down at her feet.  “You guys know that Mom and Pops have things planned out for me and that they have their own ideas of what a girl like me should do.  Well, it’s mostly Pops who has those ideas.”

              “Yes, we’re very aware that the expectations Mom and Pops have of you are different from what they have of us,” Ford said.

              “They’re gonna have you be a teacher, for one thing,” Stan said.  Angie nodded.

              “Yeah, that’s what they want, but it’s not- it’s not what I want.”  She took a breath.  “I want to be an artist.”  Stan and Ford nodded.  “How am I supposed to tell Pops?”

              “Well, first off, remind him that you’re his baby girl,” Stan said.  “Use those big blue eyes of yours, wear something cute, and don’t hesitate to cry.”

              “That’s just what I normally do,” Angie said, rolling her eyes.  “I don’t think the method I use to get Pops to buy me new paints will work for this. I’m telling him that I don’t want to go into the career he’s had planned for me since I was little.”

              “You’re still little,” Stan said, ruffling Angie’s hair.  At this point, it was obvious that Angie would stay at her decidedly below average height; she had never even gotten a formal growth spurt, unlike her brothers. She pouted at him.  “But I know what you mean.  Hmm.  Ford?”

              “Use Pops’ emotions for you against him, yes,” Ford said after a moment.  “But also come in with a fully prepared argument.  Come up with an answer for any possible reason he might give that you should be a teacher.”  Angie nodded.

              “Anything else?”

              “Don’t raise your voice,” Ford said.  Stan nodded.

              “Yeah, I know you like to fight back, but that won’t get you anywhere with Pops.”

              “Got it.”

              “Don’t stress, Ang,” Stan said, putting a hand on her shoulder.  “If anyone could pull this off, it’d be you.  You’re the favorite, after all.”

              “Don’t say that,” Angie mumbled.  “It makes me feel weird.”

              “It’s the truth,” Ford said with a shrug. Angie scowled.

              “That doesn’t make it any better.”

-----

              Stan sat on the sidewalk where he had been thrown, the duffle bag in his lap heavy.  Tears pricked his eyes.

              Pops had a bag ready.  How long has he been planning on kicking me out?  He took a shuddering breath.  At least Angie didn’t see.  One of the most important tasks he had as an older brother was protecting his baby sister, and that included keeping her in the dark about how bad their father could get.  Stan slowly got to his feet.  The front door slammed open.

              “Stan!” Angie shouted, running out of the building. She tackled Stan in an enormous hug. “What’s- what’s going on?  I heard noise, and Ford said- he said that Pops-”

              “Angela Diane Pines, get back inside!” Filbrick rumbled, appearing in the doorway.  Stan stiffened in fear.  Angie spun around.  She stared at Filbrick with plaintive blue eyes.

              “Pops, is what Ford said true?  Are- are you really kicking Stan out?”

              “Angel, he has to be punished for what he’s done,” Filbrick said.  He walked over and took Angie’s hand.  “You should go back to bed, you don’t do well when you get woken up.”  Angie yanked her hand away.

              “How could you kick out your own son?” she whispered.

              “He ruined Stanford’s shot at that fancy school.”

              “But not on purpose!  Right, Stan?”

              “It- it was an accident,” Stan mumbled nervously. “I was pissed, but-”

              “If I don’t do anything, your brother won’t learn from his mistakes,” Filbrick said firmly.

              “Then punish him some other way!  Don’t put him on the street when he’s still a teenager!” Angie said fiercely.  Filbrick scowled.  Stan quailed, but Angie, who didn’t have much experience being on Filbrick’s bad side, didn’t back down.  “If you’re kicking him out, then- then you’re kicking me out, too!”  Angie grabbed Stan’s hand.  Filbrick’s face went slack.

              “Angie, don’t do this,” Stan whispered to her. “You’ve got a future.  You’re only fifteen!”

              “You’re only seventeen,” Angie said, her voice firm.  “And we’re Pines.”  She gripped Stan’s hand tighter.  “We stick together, even when the world’s against us.”  She looked back at Filbrick.  “Be prepared to lose your youngest son and only daughter, Pops.”

              “I…” Filbrick started.  Angie sniffled loudly.

              “I can’t stay with a father that I know is comfortable kicking out his own son, especially when- when-”  Angie’s voice got choked up.  “When the son he kicked out was born his.  I wasn’t born yours, Pops.”  A few tears began to trace their way down Angie’s cheeks.  Filbrick finally caved.

              “Okay.  I won’t kick him out, angel.”  Filbrick pulled Angie into a tight embrace.  He glared at Stan.  “Go back upstairs.  You can stay, but you’re on thin ice.”  Stan bolted for the door.  When he got to his and Ford’s bedroom, Ford looked up from the West Coast Tech brochure he was staring at.

              “I see Angie convinced Pops to let you stay,” he said numbly.

              “Yeah.”  Stan dropped the duffle bag to the floor.  “She did.”

              “Pops is a fool for not wanting her to take over the shop, if she can get even him to back down.”  Ford threw the brochure in the trash, got up from his desk, and climbed into the top bunk.  He turned away from Stan.

              An hour later, Ford was sleeping, but Stan couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.  The bedroom door slowly creaked open.  Stan sat up.  He squinted in the darkness.

              “Angie?”

              “Yeah.”  Angie quietly walked over.  She sat on the bed next to him.  “Are- are you all right?”

              “Are you?” Stan asked.  Angie looked at him, bemused.  “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

              “It shouldn’t have happened.”

              “That’s just how Pops is.  Honestly, I’m a bit surprised it’s taken him this long to wanna kick me out.”  Angie stared at him in shock.  “Angie, it’s okay.  I’m okay.”

              “It’s a good thing I was there,” Angie said softly. Stan’s stomach churned.

              “Yeah.”

              It is good she was there.  But why do I feel so weird about it?  Pops likes her best, this isn’t new information.

              “It sucks that you had to get caught in the crossfire.”

              “Hmm?  Oh, you mean when I started crying?” Angie asked.  Stan nodded.  Angie looked away.  “Those tears might have been fake.”  The churning in Stan’s stomach worsened.  “Don’t get me wrong, I was really upset by everything, but I was more angry than sad. It’s just that, well, you know how Pops gets when I cry.”

              “…Yeah.”

              He melts like your Barbie did when it got left in the car a few summers back.

              “Go back to bed,” Stan said after a moment. “He was right, you shouldn’t wake up and then fall back asleep, it’s not good for you.”

              “Fine.  But I did mean it.  Us Pines have to stick together.”  Angie kissed him on the cheek.  “Good night, best brother.”

              “Good night, best sister,” Stan replied.  Angie got up and left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.  Stan laid back down.  Tears sprang to his eyes.

              Why did it take my little sister crying to make Pops let me stay?

[ddagent]

I know we just got it, but is there a chance of a follow-up to Brienne being able to read people's minds? It's sooooo good.

I have been absolutely overwhelmed by the response to telepathic!Brienne, and I truly hope you enjoy this follow-up! Thank you to @resthefuture​ for this AMAZING moodboard! 

Part One, “Noise” can be read here.

Brienne’s elbow jerked, and a nearby coffee cup tipped to the side; brown liquid spilling across the conference room table. Her colleagues scrambled to clear away the papers littering the surface; a flurry of thoughts bombarding Brienne as she suddenly became the focal point of the meeting. 

What a klutz. 

You’d think someone with arms that long would have better control over them. 

What is Tarth even doing here? She hasn’t worked on a proper case in months. 

Fuck; thanks a lot, Tarth! Why don’t you go back to the bridge you crawled out from?

She shouldn’t be here. She probably has a concussion. 

Brienne looked up at that last thought; Jaime Lannister’s voice cutting clear across the din. Despite the concern in every syllable, the senior partner sat in his chair, scrolling through his phone with disinterest. He seemed utterly oblivious to her mishap at the other end of the table. And, yet, Brienne was sure it was him. Sure it was his voice, filled with longing, that had called out for her to look at him for once. And, yet—

“Are you finished, Ms Tarth?” Brienne opened her mouth to respond, but Lannister didn’t allow her the opportunity. “Good. Stone: update on the Greyjoy case.” 

As one of her fellow associates launched into the latest legal battle between the brothers warring over their father’s will, Brienne dropped to her seat; cheeks flushed. On a normal day, knocking over a coffee cup and drawing the ire of a senior partner would rank amongst one of her worst. But her newfound...ability pushed it to the very top. Her colleagues barely tolerated her. Renly Baratheon used her. And Jaime Lannister— Well, Brienne wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him just yet. 

The meeting finally drew to a close, and her colleagues filed out one-by-one. Renly was the first to leave; he had an appointment with an intern at the advertising agency on five for some illicit fun in the men’s bathroom. Her colleagues had casework, calls to make, games to play. Brienne was the last to rise, and almost the last to leave. Jaime Lannister remained sitting; his manicured fingertips tracing the grain in the wood. 

“We don’t do injury claims here, Ms Tarth.” 

Her forehead furrowed. “I’m–I’m sorry?” 

He pointed at her face. “The bump on your head. This is a serious firm, taking on serious cases. You won’t find anyone here to take your case if you decide to sue.” A lawsuit is too good for whatever animal did that to you, anyway. A broken jaw would be better. 

“I—” Brienne was tired of half-finishing her sentences; so overwhelmed was she that words were far beyond her grasp. So she swallowed, straightened, and said: “I don’t intend to sue, Mister Lannister, but I do intend to press charges when the gold cloaks catch whoever was responsible.”

If she hadn’t heard his soft, aching thoughts, Brienne would have missed the taut line of his shoulders; the tightening of his grasp around the table. “You were attacked?” A broken jaw is far too good. I’ll call Tyrion; he knows people. We’ll have him buried by day’s end. 

“No!” Brienne blurted; Lannister’s eyes widening at her sudden outburst. Fuck. “I mean, I was attacked, but only because I was trying to save someone else from being mugged.” 

“Well, aren’t you the gallant knight.” Like Ser Blue. Tall, strong; I bet you could pin me–no, Jaime, not in the workplace. “We have an excellent healthcare policy, Ms Tarth; we here at Lannister, Baratheon, and Targaryen pride ourselves on it, in fact. I suggest you use it.” Please go home, Brienne. Get some rest. 

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But this was me covering my own arse; if you decide to sue us later for breach of care or...whatever, your case won’t hold water. I’d get some ice for your head, though. That bruise makes you look even uglier than usual.” 

Lannister rose from his seat and made his departure from the conference room. He looked like the Warrior as he departed: expensive suit, well-cut mane, golden grin. But Brienne could hear his thoughts, and they betrayed a different kind of man. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did you say that, you idiot? Now she’s going to think you think she’s ugly, and judging from last night’s— Brienne was grateful when Lannister disappeared from her eye-line, and she could no longer hear him. If she had any doubts that his thoughts were about her, they had evaporated some ago. Jaime Lannister, the most eligible bachelor in King’s Landing and a disgrace to the legal profession, liked her. 

Too many thoughts. Too many questions. Too loud. Too much noise. 

Brienne retreated to her office, adjusted the blinds and shut the door. She logged onto her company laptop and pulled up a search engine, deciding to start at the beginning. Hearing people’s thoughts brought up more than a few results about mental illness. Telepathy was a more prosperous search, although Brienne was led to more than one site promising to teach people how to read thoughts for a monthly fee. Her search came up with nothing as to how to control or stop it; the most useful advice she saw was not telling a maester she could hear other people’s thoughts. 

After a while, Brienne opened a new window and typed in Jaime Lannister. 

As expected, there was the firm’s website; a series of tabloid articles detailing his well-publicised affair with his step-sister. The images tab revealed numerous photoshoots for various magazines, including a charity calendar of various attorneys in the city. Renly’s month had been in Brienne’s kitchen all year round. The news tab made mention of cases he’d won – and the Aerys Targaryen debacle. He’d wrecked Targaryen’s defence on purpose; had almost been disbarred had his father not come to his aid. Jaime Lannister was deplorable. And he liked her. 

Before Brienne could fall down a rabbit hole about what that said about her, there were two knocks at the door. Renly didn’t even wait to be invited in before he came inside, throwing her that winning smile. “Hey, you.”

She quickly pulled down the lid of her laptop before he could see the pictures of Jaime and jump to the wrong conclusion. “Hello yourself.”

“So, earlier, I mentioned that very special job for you?” 

“Right.”

“Shall we head to my office? We can talk about the case, one-on-one.” Come on, you never miss the opportunity for some alone time with me, Brienne. Take my special job, so I can get some jobs of my own down at the Club. “I’ll get the tea – no coffee.” 

“I–I can’t.” Are you serious? Brienne was serious. She was better than this; a better lawyer than this. Now she knew the truth, she would not let herself be used in such fashion. “I’m afraid I’m working on another case already.”

Renly chuckled. “Well, as a senior partner, I’m sure we can move a few people around.” Are you really trying to play hard to get, Brienne?

“The case I’m working on is for a senior partner. Mister Lannister asked for my help.” 

Oh, fuck off he did. He can’t stand you. “He did?” At that exact moment, as if the Gods wished to test Brienne further, Lannister walked by her office. “Jaime, can I bother you for a minute?”

“Why stop at a minute?” Why couldn’t you have run the Storm’s End office? Your brother is a bore, but at least you know where you stand with him. “What’s wrong, Renly?”

“Brienne here says you’ve asked for her help on a case? I was rather hoping she could help with mine.” 

Lannister’s head swivelled towards her; one eyebrow raised, intrigued. “She did, hmm?” Don’t tell me you’ve finally wised up to this arse, Tarth. She had. And if it came down to it, she’d rather listen to his thoughts than Renly’s. What a sorry state her life had become. “Well, she is. Working with me on a case.”

Renly spluttered. “But–but Brienne and I have a special working relationship.”

Oh, I know all about your relationship. She does all the work while you galavant around town. “Well, this case requires Ms Tarth’s special skillset. Sorry, Renly. Guess she’s mine now.”

Brienne was about to voice an objection over being treated like property when she heard Jaime’s inaudible sigh. If only. 

[asoftervirge]

Of “Love” & Murder - (11/13)

CHAPTER TITLE: The (Black) Cat’s Out of the (Body) Bag

RATING: PG PAIRINGS: P. Sanders/V. Sanders (main/one-sided); R. Sanders/V. Sanders (former); V. Sanders/L. Sanders (former); V. Sanders/D. Sanders (former); Remy/E. Picani (side); T. Sanders/OMC (mentioned)

CHAPTER WARNINGS/KINKS: mentions of Murder, Vengeance, hint at Virgil’s Tarantula, slight Manipulation, Alcohol, Moral Talks, mentions of various murder methods (arsenic and shooting someone), allusions to Suicide, Lord of the Rings references, mentions of Remus Sanders CHAPTER SUMMARY: Patton finally comes to a decision.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: After all the death and killings and murders, we’re back to having PG chapters! :D Now we come to the final 3 chapters of the story and we get to see what Patton will do (if he does anything) to Virgil. ;) Plus we get a small little introduction to a new character! Oh, and we get some returning characters too. lol Have fun reading everyone! xx Virge

INSPIRATION: This post by @phantomofthesanderssides

AO3 || Buy Me A Ko-Fi!

Once Dorian faded away, everything began to hit the confectioner all at once. He tried to comprehend all he was told, but it just proved to be too overwhelming.

Virgil really wasn’t what he seemed.

The paintings in the hallway were destroyed because he wanted to erase their identities.

And the doors are bolted because they were where they were murdered.

Patton felt like crumbling to the floor, yet his legs wouldn’t buckle. So he slumped back against the leather chair he was still in, resting his head against his hands. His baby blue eyes were a whirlpool of emotions.

He was wounded, betrayed, hurt, and every negative emotion he could possibly think of. He fell for the widower’s flattering compliments, his imposing stature, his captivating gaze. He was the fly who unknowingly walked into the spider’s parlor.

When his mind was calm enough to truly process everything, his heart ached for the victims who came before him. Virgil’s husbands.

Roman Scarlet. A beautiful thespian who dazzled audiences every night with his brilliant acting and singing, until her career was tragically cut short by a single red ribbon around his throat.

Logan Oxford. A clever novelist who wished to spread xyr love and passion for knowledge around the world, but xe were silenced by ingesting arsenic from a book and a cup of tea.

Dorian Cain. A silver-tongued lawyer who’s cunning and sliminess made him be seen as Virgil’s equal, only to be outsmarted by the widower in the end via a lone bullet to the forehead.

And he, Patton Hart? A golden-hearted chocolatier who makes sugary goodies for those who walk into his shop, and if he wasn’t careful, he would soon be meeting the same fate as them.

Slowly, he felt something almost akin to rage slowly seep into his being. It was unfair. Unfair that three remarkable people had to meet their deaths as a result of succumbing to the dark, ill-intended temptations of Virgil.

…Virgil Nyx. A former bookstore clerk who may seem anxious and unassuming, yet he used savvy and manipulation to climb the social ladder; and he continued these methods to lure people into his home, marry them, and then murderer them.

One part of the confectioner wanted to run away. Run away so he and his friends could find away to put the three-time widower in jail and be able to live another day.

However, another part of him wanted to avenge them. Avenge the three— or maybe more— who couldn’t escape before it was too late. He doesn’t want any more horrible injustices to occur under Virgil’s thumb (he could almost hear Dorian chuckling in his ear at that).

“Patton?” a distant-sounding voice called out.

The confectioner froze. It was Virgil. He didn’t want the widower to discover where he’s been this entire time. Making sure he wasn’t going to get caught, he quickly left the deceased lawyer’s former office and rushed back to the foyer.

Just as he did so, Virgil exits the tea room.

“Ah, there you are Patton. I was wondering where you went,” he says upon seeing him. He raises an eyebrow upon seeing the slightly disheveled appearance of the confectioner. “Is everything alright? Did something happen while I was gone?”

How could you ask me that when I know you don’t really care at all? Patton thought as he watched Virgil feign concern for him. “I’m fine.” he reassures him, fixing himself up as best he could. “I just—” He needed to come up with a lie, and fast.

“You didn’t go anywhere I told you not to, did you?” Virgil’s eyes sharpened, his tone accusatory.

“N-No, no!” Patton exclaimed, hoping the widower would buy the lie. “I-I just…thought I saw a spider on my way back from the bathroom and it freaked me out…that’s all.”

Virgil blinked, expression unchanging. Then, he chuckled, perhaps a little sheepishly. “Sorry about that,” he tells him as he walks up to him, placing his hands on his arms. The confectioner wanted to flinch and pull away but he didn’t want to raise suspicions. “Sometimes Jezebel likes to get out of her terrarium. Sneaky girl.”

Patton’s eyes widened a little. Well that lie could have been true!

“But I promise she’s pretty harmless,” the widower reassures. “I know you’re an arachnophobe, so just tell me if you see her and I’ll put her back where she won’t hurt you.” He presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. Patton made a face. “You wanna head back to the tea room now? There’re some chocolates left over.”

“Actually, I think I’m gonna head home,” Patton tells him, moving to grab his coat and umbrella hanging from the coat hanger near the door. “I’m starting to not feel very well, so I’m gonna call it a night.”

“You sure?” the widower asked, following close behind. “I’d really like it if you stayed longer. We can continue chatting over those chocolates, I’ll even make you some more hot chocolate. Or I could give you something…a little bit sweeter. I have a rare bottle of Madeira wine that will pair quite nicely with any dessert you make me.”

The confectioner almost shivered at his insistent persuasion. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t going to fall for it. He faces the widower once more, an innocent expression now on his face.

“I’m positive, Virgil.” he tells him. “But I promise I’ll see you again soon.”

Virgil opened his mouth, wanting to try and encourage him to not leave, but seeing that puppy-dog eyes and cutely pouting lip made him relent. “Oh…very well.” He says, not sounding all too pleased. “Have a good night, Patton.”

“Goodnight.”

With that, he all but rushed out the door. Upon closing the door, Patton took a deep breath and collected himself before he opened his umbrella.

He was going to need his friends’ advice with this one; because, whether it be morally sound or not, the confectioner was going to do everything he could to make sure Roman, Logan, and Dorian were finally able to rest in peace (and that he wouldn’t be joining them).

…

Driving to Storytime felt different the second time around.

The first time he did so, Patton was feeling excited; excited about his potential relationship with Virgil, not really wondering if it was anything to be concerned about. But after talking to his friends and cousin, hearing how he started as a bookstore clerk then became one of the wealthiest men in the city, only started to increase his subdued suspicions.

And now? Patton was confused, but determined to do something; knowing the truth about Virgil and all that he’s done in an ex-number of years has changed things. Listening to Roman, Logan, and Dorian talk about their stories brought light to a man that he deemed to be a little untrustworthy in the beginning.

Now he just had to reveal the truth to his friends and hope they would believe him, and give him any advice on what to do next.

Seeing the familiar neon pink sign of the lounge brought a bout of nervousness to the confectioner’s being. He hoped that tonight would go well, because he needed them to understand what had been hidden from them in regards to Roman’s death.

But it wasn’t just for Roman. It was for Logan and Dorian as well, along with any other victims that he wasn’t warned about. Everyone who Virgil scammed, seduced, and destroyed just so he could maintain a squeaky-clean image, everyone who believed in his lies and suffered for it.

Lastly, it was for himself too.

Entering the lounge, it was the exact same as last time: people of all ages, genders, sexualities, and ethnicities coming together to be enthralled with a show. Cigarette smoke thickened the air and the sound of alcohol being poured not only hit the glasses, but his ears as well.

As he made his way over to the bar, his gaze lingered on the photo of Alejandro and Roman, eyes primarily focusing on the late starlet.

Thomas saw him out of the corner of his eye. “It’s good to see you again, Pat— Patton?” he asks, seeing him staring at the photo of his late husband and best friend. “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I did. Three of them, Patton thinks as he slowly turned away from the photograph. He sees his cousin Emile, Remy, and Toby all sitting together, chatting and drinking.

Emile was the next one to notice him. “Hi, Pat— Patty? Why do you look so blue?”

Remy and Toby also looked in his direction.

“I’m fine, really.” he nods. After sitting down, he takes a moment. “…although, I have something to tell you guys, but I don’t know how you’ll react to it.”

“Ooh~! More gossip!” He leaned a little closer to Emile and Patton, ignoring the ‘hey!’ he received from his cousin. “Well go on, Patty-cakes! Give us the details!”

“Please don’t worry, Patton.” Thomas reassures. “Whatever it is you have to tell us, we’ll all be supportive and take it well…at least, I hope we do.”

All of them nod, looking at him expectantly.

“…well, okay…” Patton takes a deep breath. “I-It’s…It’s about Virgil…”

The air suddenly grew thick around them.

“Is it now?” Toby asked.

“What did he do?” Rey grits out. “I swear to fuck if he did anything to you I’ll—”

“No.” Patton states immediately. “It was anything he dd to me…at least…not yet, I hope…”

“Patty? What do you mean by that?” Emile asks worriedly. “You’re kinda scaring me.”

At first, silence. Then, “Virgil did it…he killed Roman. It wasn’t suicide.”

Suddenly, time and everything around them seemed to have stopped.

The confectioner didn’t have the heart to gauge their reactions, keeping his head down.

Emile’s eyes were widened in shock, hands pressed against his mouth.

Remy slammed his shot down hard, eyes glowering with rage under his sunglasses.

Toby stopped drinking faer whisky, hand clutching the glass almost to where it would break.

And Thomas? Poor Thomas, his fist kept clenching and unclenching the rage he held in his hand.

“What?” Toby finally growled.

“Oh that motherfucker!” Remy screamed. Thomas quickly shushed him so he wouldn’t cause a scene. He didn’t give a damn though. “Are you fucking shitting me?!”

“How do you know this, Patton?” Thomas asked, trying to maintain a neutral expression.

Patton didn’t know how to explain it. How was he supposed to say that he encountered the ghosts of Virgil’s dead spouses and they explicitly told him all about their deaths? Plus, they all warned him that he could be the next victim if he wasn’t careful!

So, like with Virgil before, he had to lied even if it made him feel gross. “I-I saw things in Virgil’s house that look like they belonged to Roman,” he says. “One of them was a photograph…of all of you in front of Storytime. From Valentine’s Day about 7 years ago.” Okay, that was half-truth so he doesn’t feel as gross.

Realization slowly dawned on Toby, Remy, and Thomas.

“Their wedding photo…”

“But that isn’t all,” Patton continues. “I found things that belonged to Virgil’s other spouses.”

None of them could comprehend what the confectioner just told them.

“Wait, other spouses?!”

“Virgil had more than just Roman?”

Patton nodded. “There was Logan Oxford—”

“—The famous novelist?!” Emile exclaimed in shock. “I have some of xyr novels at my house! I’ve told you about xem before, Patty! They said xe killed xemself by drinking laced tea!”

Laced with arsenic. “And there was also Dorian Cain—”

“—Prosecutor Dorian Cain?” Toby’s eyes widened. “The infamous Courtroom Serpent? Shit, I remember Roman’s brother going to him to try and prosecute Virgil but he declined to do so. He shot himself in the head about a couple months after.”

He was shot in the head, but Virgil pulled the trigger. “From what I saw, Virgil married Logan sometime after Roman died, then he moved on to Dorian after Logan’s death.”

“So, Virgil goes after a celebrity and then marries them; and after a while, he kills them and moves on to another target?” Emile says aloud, trying to piece together everything his cousin had just told to them.

Remy (lightly) slammed a fist down against the bar top. Resting his head against his arm, he mumbled out, “Are you fucking serious right now…?” It was like he couldn’t believe it, and he couldn’t! All of this was too much for him.

Beside him, Toby rubbed his back while Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder. They all were grieving the same way; they grieved before when Roman first passed away, this time, they did so with the truth in their minds. It was like losing their best friend all over again.

Patton sighed. “I just don’t know what to do,” he runs a hand through his curls. “I mean…I want justice to be brought to the victims and have Virgil get the punishment he deserves…but he’s gotten away with so much. And to make matters worse, he’ll deny having any evidence in his possession.”

“Turning him in is the responsible thing to do, Patty.” Emile tells him.

“Uhm, fuck that!” Remy exclaims. “If the fucking police ain’t gonna do shit, you may as well take matters into your own hands!”

Emile looks at his boyfriend in shock. “Are you…” he leans closer to him. “Are you actually suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?!”

“Yep!” Remy downs another shot. “And damn proud of it!”

“Patton,” Emile looks back at his cousin. “You’re not actually contemplating murder, are you?”

“W-Well…”

“Good!” Remy grinned. Toby hummed in agreement. “Give that bastard what he deserves!”

“No! Patton! This is wrong!” Emile exclaims in shock. “This— This isn’t like you! You’re so much better than this, I know you are!”

“I know it too, Emmy!” Patton says. “But I just— I want to be able to avenge them.”

“And you can—”

“By murdering him!”

“—By not murdering him.” Emile insists, glaring sharply at Remy. “Bring him to the police.”

“Nope.” Toby shakes faer head, going back to faer whisky. “Ain’t gonna work.”

“Why not?” the therapist glares at his boyfriend’s cousin.

“Emmy,” Remy looks at him, lowering his sunglasses. “If that bastard’s gotten away with three murders— maybe even more— the hell makes you think the police will get his ass, and with almost no evidence to boot?! Who knows, they’re probably working with him or some shit!”

Glaring, Emile turns back to his cousin. “Patty. Let me give you some advice I learned from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.”

“Ain’t that a fantasy book, Em?” Toby raised a brow at him. “Don’t you like Disney and cartoons and stuff?”

“I do. But Ralph Bakshi made an animated movie about it in 1978, so it counts.” he explains. “Now, Patton, there’s a moment in The Fellowship of the Ring where Gandalf the Grey and Frodo Baggins talk about Gollum. And Frodo says that it was a pity that his Uncle Bilbo didn’t kill the creature. However, the wizard tells him that it was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand.”

“So you want Patton to pity him?!”

“He says: ‘Pity and mercy: not to strike without need.’ However, Frodo says that he feels no pity for Gollum and that he deserves death—”

“Just like Virgil does!”

“— And Gandalf says: ‘Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life…Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. For even the vey wise cannot see all ends.’ Just like with Bilbo’s pity on Gollum, your own pity, will rule the fate of many.”

Remy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Emile, I get what you’re saying, I do! But Virgil doesn’t deserve pity, I don’t fucking care what you say. He’s a serial killer, someone who deserves to die! If Patton does what you say and pities him, who knows if he’s gonna be next, or there will be other victims!”

And that’s why I’m tempted to do it, Patton thinks. Because I don’t wanna die, and I don’t want there to be other potential victims.

The confectioner interrupts the arguing with a sigh, running a hand through his curls again. “I appreciate your help everyone…but I’m still not sure of what to do.”

Emile and Remy stop and look at him, expecting him to tell them but he doesn’t.

One sighs in defeat while the other huffs in annoyance.

“Y’know,” Toby pulls out a marker from faer pocket. “If you ever come to decision, I know a contact you can possibly use.” He writes on a napkin and hands it to Patton. “I’d highly advice you to be careful though, he’s a…bit of a wildcard. But I have no doubts that he’d help you if you asked him to.”

Patton wanted to ask how he knows this specific contact, but it’s better not to comment on it.

“Thank you, Toby.”

As he gets up to leave, a hand gently grabs his wrist. He discovers that it was Thomas, who looked conflicted yet he tried not to show it on the surface.

“No matter what you end up doing, Patton, we’ll still be here to support you.” he tells him.

Patton nods, smiling gently. “Thank you, Thomas.”

…

After talking to his cousin, Toby, Remy, and Thomas about his moral conundrum, Patton felt a little bit better but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t expressing some ickiness about it. What managed to keep making it seem alright, was the fact that he was doing it for justice. That was what mattered to him the most.

He sat on his couch in his apartment, looking blankly at the coffee table. On its surface were books about desserts and baking in the upper right corner, a ‘Thinking of You’ card from Emile sat nearby— a picture of Funshine and Love-A-Lot Bear sticking out of it, the latest positive review of Patty’s Sweet Confectionaries that he had yet to frame, and a child’s note drawn in big bubbly and colorful lettering.

Staring right back at him though, were the items that belonged to, or mentioned, Virgil’s husbands.

The newspaper headline stating Dorian’s “suicide.”

Logan’s posthumously released novel.

A programme of Roman’s last performance at the lounge.

Carefully, with gentle fingers, he traced over certain parts of each, gaze slowly morphing into one of sadness and heartbreak.

Emboldened words of “DORIAN CAIN,” “FOUND IN OFFICE,” and “GUN IN HAND.”

Dedicated words written for Virgil.

Roman’s beautifully illustrated face.

Patton did his best to shove away the stab in his gut. Even though they all had their faults— deceitful, abrasive, and promiscuous— none of them deserved to die they way they did.

It only added fuel to the already burning ember inside of him. He wanted to avenge them in the best way he can; a way that will allow them all to be redeemed for the price they had to pay.

A sudden bark pulled him from his thoughts.

He looked down and saw his puppy, a chocolate labrador, pawing at his legs, almost like he was trying to comfort his master. Patton smiled— small and shaky— as he ran his hand across their dark brown fur. The scratches brought comfort and satisfaction to them both, Patton the former and the puppy the latter.

“Oh…sorry, Chocolate,” he says softly. “You’re probably hungry, aren’t you? I know I’d go barking if I didn’t have food in my belly too.” Oddly, the pun felt weird on his tongue, and that was definitely a first for him.

He got up, almost sluggishly, taking the assorted items with him, and walked into the kitchen. He stood on his tippy-toes and reached in the cupboard, pulling out some homemade dog treats for his puppy. He loved making them for the dogs he occasionally walks and pet sits.

With Chocolate munching away on a couple treats, his attention turned back to the newspaper, novel, and programme. He would be taking a serious risk if he decided to go along his path, but he would have to fight fire with fire.

Suddenly, he remembered the contact that Toby gave him.

Making his way to the phone, he pulled the napkin out of his pocket, the phone number given to him shined in dark green ink. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, he picked up the phone and dialed it.

“Hello…?” he says as soon as it stops ringing on the other side. “Is this Remus Verde?…Oh, you go by Remus Duke now, I’m sorry! Hmm?…Uhm…M-My name is Patton Hart, I got your number from Toby Hallows. I run a shop called Patty’s Sweet Confectionaries, but that isn’t the reason why I called you.”

Patton took another deep inhale, follow by a deep exhale.

Then, he said, “How would you feel about helping me avenge your brother’s murder?”