Bobby's been a shit boyfriend for months. When you disappear through a wall in the basement of Clark's furniture store, you wake up in the Backrooms, where a better version of Bobby is waiting. One who actually shows up, one who loves you, one who never, ever wants to let you go.
‽ part one / concept.
‽ part two.
‽ part three.
⸘ interlude: entity 0
‽ part four.
⸘ interlude: (b) for (b)etter
‽ part five.
‽ part six.
⸘ interlude: eighteen (coming soon)
extras:
҉ - main story canon compliant piece.
Ꮺ୧ shutter speed / camboy!bobby alt verse.
Ꮺ୧ making out w/ better bobby.
Ꮺ୧ better you! ҉
Ꮺ୧ "baby." ҉
Ꮺ୧ "open your mouth."
Ꮺ୧ pillow fort.
Ꮺ୧ in the beginning. ҉
Ꮺ୧ my, what long tongue you have.
Ꮺ୧ sunlight. ҉
Ꮺ୧ slow dancing. ҉
Ꮺ୧ rib time.
Ꮺ୧ conceiving w/ bb. / why seven.
Ꮺ୧ bb watching you w/ bobby. ҉
Ꮺ୧ intimacy hdcs w/ BB.
Ꮺ୧ memories. ҉
Ꮺ୧ cuteness aggression.
Ꮺ୧ twin au: one. / bb & bobby. / two. / three. /
Ꮺ୧ mr. kitty. / more mr kitty. ҉
Ꮺ୧ entity discourse.
Ꮺ୧ tolerance.
Ꮺ୧ giddy.
Ꮺ୧ real face.
Ꮺ୧ poly au: [1]. [2]. [3]. [4]. [5]. [6]. [7].
Ꮺ୧ "i know a spot."
Ꮺ୧ dreams. ҉
Ꮺ୧ perfect shot. ҉
Ꮺ୧ pretty thing.
Ꮺ୧ if it purrs, it... ҉
Ꮺ୧ a chase.
Ꮺ୧ ticklish.
⎋ M.E.G. ENTITY 0 — RESEARCH FILE INDEX:
↹ MEG-ENT-0000-ADDM-██ — Restricted Addendum: Reproductive Capability Assessment (Filed Under Protest)
↹ MEG-ENT-0000-IR-0-31 — INCIDENT REPORT — FIELD OBSERVATION
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The little gray box darkening the phone screen stared back at my illuminated face, mocking me with its presence. Over the few months spent here, I’d somehow failed to remember the key factor of these modern devices – That they ran on a limited supply of battery power, and I didn’t have a charger to replenish it… Not that there was any electricity around to do so, anyways. Dread sinks the pit of my stomach, a never ending sinkhole of swallowed up emotion.
With a sigh, I stamped my thumb over the Low Power Mode option given, hoping that the last ditch effort might delay the inevitable. The notification disappears, and the battery turns yellow – A barely there sliver of color in the corner of the cracked phone screen.
As the brightness dims, warm tones washing over my screen's background (a picture of the crew, one of the first one’s we’d taken together the night I’d shown the girls how the device worked), I click the power button for the object to enter sleep mode. When it died, would they be disappointed?
Probably. They all loved my cell phone, for one reason or another. It had been one of my first major contributions to the crew’s enjoyment.
Dropping my forehead to the black screen, I can’t help the low whine that muffles from the back of my throat, the throes of disappointment taking hold. There was something irrefutably upsetting about the day finally arriving – the one where I was at risk of losing my only connection to the world I used to live in – even if there weren't many fond memories involved. I was reluctant to let go of that piece of myself forever, to completely lose the old parts of myself that still lingered… And yet, maybe that was for the best? To leave it all behind, I mean.
What about the new memories, then? The one on my phone screen – the videos and photos taken on behalf of my friends and crewmates – the songs that they enjoyed listening to during the celebration of a newly completed journey – Did I want to leave those behind, too?
Solemnly, I flip the phone so that it’s face lies flat against the bed, rising to my feet and neglecting to store the object away. I was too upset to bother with it now, regardless of the inevitability. If I used it sparingly, would I be able to make the most of the rest of its shortened lifespan? Was that feasible? Or was it better to just leave it be? To let it rot in the confines of my drawers, only occasionally seeing the light of day?
This was too much to think about right now. I was already worried about myself in other more detrimental ways, and it wouldn’t be good to continue adding to the list (even if it was beyond my control). Still, I wanted to be able to get it off my mind one way or another, and a resolution would be my best bet.
The back of my palm slides against the sheets, scooping Ivory up by his chest as he purrs, sluggishly awakening from his contented nap. With a heaviness in my footsteps, I trudge to the door, wondering if there might be an unseen solution to this; One that I couldn’t come up with on my own.
I find my target in the kitchen after a brief run-in with the rambunctious trio on the deck, sitting with her head buried in a book, as it always was.
Robin sits with a subtle smile splayed, flipping the pages of a familiar-looking book as she listens to the amusing conversation taking place between the love-struck Cook and the impatient Navigator. I realize it’s the story that highlights the rainbow mist, one that we’ve discussed time and time again during our hypothetical chats. Her light-blue eyes never stray, even as Nami nearly knocks aside the coffee mug on the table, the potential-disaster thwarted as a tan hand sprouts on the table and catches it with near pinpoint accuracy.
“(Y/n), my angel!” Sanji swoons from across the room, though he crosses to meet me in the blink of an eye. Nami appears to breathe a deep sigh of relief, rag-dolling over the table as the Chef finally leaves her be. “How might I be of service to you? Were you looking for a delicate snack, or perhaps a drink to quench your thirst? I’m certain you must be famished– After all, being so gorgeous must be strenuous for a beauty such as yourself!”
“I-I’m good,” I throw my hands up before myself, interrupting Sanji’s long-drawn spiel as the hearts in his eyes seem to burst from the sockets. “Thank you, though. I’m just… Not really hungry right now.”
“Sanji!” A jarring, gravelly voice calls from outside, muffled from the partially-closed doorway. The convenient timing of my soulmate has me sneaking away with a sparing glance. “I’m hungry, what’s for lunch?”
In an instant, Sanji’s expression turns grave – practically livid at the interruption, sticking his head out the open door. “Nothing for you, you gluttonous excuse of a Captain! Can’t you see I’m busy right now asking (Y/n) what she wants?!”
With a sigh of my own, I decidedly depart from that conversation. It would likely end relatively harmfully (with my soulmate landing himself a sore welt over the cranium). Although I wasn’t a fan of him being pummeled, making an effort to avoid it was pointless. He got himself into trouble far too often to be able to thwart everyone’s urges to beat the tar out of him.
I take a seat at the table. Sanji, mumbling to himself, places a small teacup before me. Adept hands bring about a kettle, and he seems to be sulking as the sound of the liquid pouring masks his soft sniffling. I murmur a soft thank you, giving an equally soft smile – He must have been reminded that Luffy was my soulmate, again.
As he parts, Ivory follows, bounding at The Chef’s heels with soft, eager cries. The animal knew Sanji would feed him, if he so incessantly ‘asked.’
“You look upset.” Robin observes after a moment, and I raise my head to find that she’s raised hers, no longer absorbed in the confines of her book. “Is something wrong?”
Momentarily stunned by her observation, I had to wonder if I really was so easy to read. First Zoro, then Nami, now Robin… I guess I needed a better poker face. “Um, yeah… Well, kinda.”
“What’s up?” Nami pries, somewhat disinterested. She’s all too accustomed to my gloomy nature, at this point.
“It’s my phone.” I huff out, and this piques both of their interests, as they perk up to stare in alarm. Acknowledging this, it was safe to assume that I was right; They probably would be disappointed by what I was about to relay.
The idea draws a tightness in my throat, an unwillingness to say anything else. However, if anybody had any answers, it was bound to be Robin. If that failed, then I’d go to Usopp… Though I wasn’t sure he’d know what to do if the older woman didn’t.
“Since it’s a mobile phone,” I start, hesitant to deliver the bad news. “It runs on a sort of battery, one that you’re able to charge. I used to have a wire that would plug into the wall, and into the phone, I guess– But, that’s what we used to keep them turned on.”
“I see.” Robin considers, tilting her head slightly. “So, I’m assuming that the charge on your phone is nearly depleted, then?”
I nod slightly, fiddling with the teacup in front of me. I had barely touched the drink. “Yeah. It’s at twenty percent, so it’ll probably die soon. It’s… Kind of an older model? I dunno if that matters.”
Nami, registering my saddened tone in combination with dismal words, takes it a little too seriously. “Wait, it can die? Do you mean, like, permanently? But… W-What about our music?! Our pictures?”
“N-No, no–” I ward off her concerns with hurried words and wide eyes. “Not like that! Even if it dies, it can be recharged, I just don’t have a way to actually charge it, so…”
A moment of silence, as I glumly come to the harsh realization that what I’m saying isn’t much different. My hands drop to my lap despairingly.
“...Well, yeah, you’re kinda right. I-I guess it could stay dead, then– Like, if it doesn’t charge.”
“What?!” Nami shrieks, and I flinch, shrinking in my seat. I hadn’t expected it, but I guess the reaction was fair. I wasn’t too happy about it myself, after all. “Omg… All of our pictures, though!”
“I suppose I could try to find some information on the subject, if you’d like.” Robin offered, gesturing a careful hand to cut her way through the forlorn air. “That being said, I can’t promise that I’ll be able to find anything, considering the circumstances of the situation, but I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you…” Appreciative, though maintaining the knowledge that it was quite a tedious request (given that she would be searching for information from another world entirely), I nod tepidly. “Yeah, that would be great… and I can help, too. It’ll probably be hard to find stuff like that in the books here like you said, so I really don’t mind.”
“Of course, I certainly wouldn’t mind a little help.” The woman laughs, returning her attention in regards to the title on the table. “Perhaps we’ll be able to find more specific information once we arrive at our next destination? I believe that The Doctor was interested in finding a bookstore as well.”
“Why don’t you try asking Usopp, too?” Nami adds, trying to provide some assistance to such a ‘dire’ situation. How funny, thinking about how this would be deemed as silly or pointless back where I’ve come from – As disregarded as swatting a rogue fly. “We probably won’t get there for a while, anyways. Maybe he has some ideas?”
“That may be true, however it does seem like a rather complicated piece of technology. It might be a bit more than the Sniper can handle.” Robin muses, yet doesn’t outright deny the idea. “Still, I don’t believe there’s any harm in trying.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I nod, considering the idea.
Usopp was pretty careful whenever he handled my phone, so it wasn’t like I didn’t trust him with the device… But my doubts were somewhat similar to Robin’s, if a bit more comprehensive, knowing the intricacies that composed modern-day science. Just the touch screen on its own had been an eye-opening development when it first went public, essentially changing the world’s technology from that point forwards; A total game changer, and that was without knowing what actually allowed the touch screen to function, the inner-workings of the devices machinery. In the span of a few decades, we’d managed to create the internet, self-driving cars, artificial intelligence – It all seemed so far beyond the progress of this world, in comparison. Usopp wouldn’t have a clue what to do with the phone’s complicated system, more than likely.
Sanji approaches with teapot in hand once more, looking to refill our cups. Mine is untouched, and I hurriedly reach to take a sip, not wanting to appear ungrateful.
“Sorry to keep you waiting–” Sanji starts, but he doesn’t get to continue. Unbeknownst to all of us in the room, the ship abruptly tilts to the right, and it sets us all off-kilter.
Panicking, I nearly fly off my chair, the cup in my hand spilling all over the table – some of it staining the fabric of my shirt as I scramble to stay upright.
The Going Merry creaks and groans in disagreement to its newfound position. Nami somehow managed to land herself halfway across the table, whilst the drinks, Sanji and Robin have been saved by the powers of the older woman’s devil fruit. She was really killing it today.
“Uh… What’s happening?” The kettle still steams, hot in Sanji’s hands as he stares in dubious confusion, a few of Robin’s palms smushed against the side of his body and face.
“What the–” Nami plants her fists on the table’s surface and hoists herself towards the door, gaping at it knowingly as if she has x-ray vision. “Those idiots– What’s going on?!”
Robin sips her coffee leisurely, undeterred. I have to double-take the sight, amazed with her ability to remain so stoic through everything and anything. “It appears the ship has changed its course.” The Archeologist states simply.
Nami promptly agrees with a sweltering glare, the redhead stomping over to swing the door open before I can immediately follow. She’s already shouting across the boat to the others once I’ve made home by her side. The Navigator seems scorned, as she wasn’t told of the change before it had been prompted. “Hey! What’s the deal here? Why’d you change our course without asking me!”
The sun practically blinds me as I leave the room, the usual sound of tiny paws thump-thumping after me. Shielding my eyes and coming to Nami’s side, my initial assumption was that we were under attack – A sea beast, the marines, other pirates… It could’ve been anything, and I was surely not ready for anything right now.
However, that wasn’t the case whatsoever.
Ivory pops his head between the white railings with a telltale nosiness, maintaining his distance with blatant interest as he watches the foolish scene unfold. The boys are all vigorously, furiously cranking the comically-large-sized oars that we’d used on a few previous occasions (speeding away from that giant turtle, for one). Each one of them looks more determined than the last, and my eyes' final destination lands on Luffy.
His eyebrows are bent out of sheer focus, teeth grit and jaw clenched. Sweat beads down his neck and arms with each wrench of the wood in his hands, veins prodding at the surface of his skin in response to the flex of his muscles, and–
I shake my head. Okay, not the time – Most importantly, if we weren’t being chased, tf was happening right now?
“Nami, you’re never gonna believe it!” The Captain shouts with unmatched urgency, never halting his movements. “We found this huge frog with scars all over its body, and we’re following it!”
“A frog?” Nami and I mutter in unison, disbelief lacing our expressions as we turn to look at each other. The spurring realization that we’re witnessing this together makes this all the more jarring.
Luffy’s eyes snap to my figure once he registers that I’ve appeared, his senses that revolve around our bond muddled by an overwhelming excitement over the strange and interesting.
“(Y/n)! Can you see it? We have to capture it, cook it, and eat it for lunch!” …Or maybe it’s being muddled by his excitement over food.
“You wanna eat it?!” Chopper and Zoro are next to speak-out, voicing their alarmed opposition in harmony. Usopp’s apparent willingness with Luffy’s plan is even more bewildering.
“U-Uh, okay?” Despite my inner contemplations, I find myself shakily agreeing, before rushing towards the bow. Luffy had asked me to look, so whatever. I’d look.
Ivory races down the steps, believing that everyone is simply playing as he ducks and weaves between the boy's legs one by one. I leave him be, and it takes me a minute to find purchase at The Going Merry’s horns, but when I eventually do, raising to set my knees over her white-painted forehead, I steady myself to search out over the waters – Lo-and-behold, there actually is a frog.
It’s difficult to discern at first, the swell and fall of the waves around us providing ample cover to the broad figure; A large, swampy green frog-man with a curly, messy-haired bun, who’s arms slap at the waves with every front-breast stroke, or… Wait a minute.
“Is… Is that frog doing the front-crawl?”
“Sure is!” Luffy’s voice sounds from directly behind me, an absolute jumpscare in regards to my focus on the frog in the distance, and I lose my balance with arms flailing.
Not to worry, The Captain catches me as simply as catching a doll; Arm cupping my waist, hovering overhead and laughing as he props the both of us back onto the figurehead. I murmur a soft thanks, him leaning forward to peer at my frazzled face.
I find myself staring back at him. The subtle flickering of his eyes traveling up and down my face has my stomach twirling like a ballerina, analyzing every movement in my head like it’s my occupation. During one instance I watch as obsidian hue flash towards my lips as they part to speak, the words dying in my throat when Luffy meets eyes once more – His sights don’t waver after that.
A sharp breath, and I consider that the action may have been a figment of my imagination. All this talk of kissing was driving me delusional.
“You’re tired.” Luffy mentions without giving it much thought, smiling despite the way his eyes probe into the bags beneath mine. “Did ya’ sleep?”
“Kinda.” I answer briefly, shrugging in avoidance. It wasn’t anything major, yet his mention has my bones feeling heavy, and my skin as if it was sagging – Like magic, he’d enhanced the sensations all without a touch. I yearned to lean into him, the memory of his heated body overly enticing. “It’s okay though. I can nap later, or something.”
“Sure. That would be good!” He nods, plucking the hat from his head and pushing it into my hands, before leaping from space. “Here, you can sleep with this!”
I don’t argue, though the action catches me off-guard. Sleep with his hat?
“Let’s go!” Luffy summons the morale of his friends, taking up his place beside Usopp once again. “Full speed ahead!”
“Aye-aye!” A chorus of shouts follow. “Heave-ho! Heave-ho! Heave-ho!”
My fingers snag against the rough fibers of the straw hat, turning to give one last glance towards our destination – A lighthouse, pricking the sky like a needle as the frog-man makes his advance, and we follow.
—
“I like your braids, they’re super cute.”
“Thank you! My name’s Chimney, and this is my cat, Gonbe! What’s your name?”
“I’m (Y/n).” I respond in kind, unable to withhold my smile even if I wanted to.
This little girl, full of so much spunk, lively and cheery, reminded so much of the kids back where I used to live. She embodied what it meant to be carefree, imaginative; Clearly showcased in the fact that Gonbe was not a cat at all, rather, he was a little blue rabbit.
“I have a cat, too.” I lean forward as if confiding a secret to the girl, where she leans forward with an awed expression. Gesturing over my shoulder towards the fluffy-white creature, I murmur, “His name’s Ivory. He’s a kitten.”
“Huh…” Chimney blinks, squints her eyes at the cat in question, and veers back to my line of sight. “That sure is a weird looking kitty! Are you sure he’s a cat?”
I laugh openly at her misinterpreted doubts. There wasn’t a thought behind those eyes, it kinda reminded me of Luffy’s vacant stare.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” And she peeks down to Gonbe, the two exchanging glances as if questioning my state of mind.
They were so young. Just watching them made my heart ache, a reminder of how I would soon be forever disconnected from the memories of those they echoed, resembling children of the past that came and went, forever embodied in my soul. My lips twitched downwards at the thought.
“Ooh, I like your bracelet!” Chimney detects the object on my wrist with intrigue, drawing me from the negative thoughts.
“Thank you.” I raise my wrist and grin again, offering a closer look. “I actually made it myself!”
“Woah, really?” The little green-haired girl, Chimney, beamed up at me as if I’d lit the stars for her. She never hesitated once to carefully inspect the jewelry between small fingers. “Could you make one for me too? Please? I want one!”
I go to respond, the word ‘sure’ resting on my tongue, before I’m interrupted.
“No way!” Luffy intrudes, budging his way into the conversation after overhearing the girl’s pleading. His unnecessary coveting overlooks her age in the moment, and it’s as if he himself has resorted to acting like a child as well. “(Y/n) and I made these bracelets to match, so you can’t have one! Go make your own!”
Chimney’s expression twists into one of annoyance at the boy's selfishness, sticking her tongue out at him, where The Captain goes bug-eyed.
“You’re mean! I wanna match, too!” The girl side-eyes Luffy, beginning to mock him in her upset. “Besides, if you guys are supposed to be matching, why aren’t you wearing yours, then?”
Luffy, faced with the major flaw in his argument, sputters and glances between his blank wrists, unable to form an excuse at the girl's fair point. I snicker, knowing the answer after having witnessed it over the past few days. It’s kind of endearing to watch the interaction play out, and a playfulness rises at the prospect of riling him up further.
“He broke it, lol.” I reveal, pursing my lips and turning my head in order to hide the smile that sneaks its way onto my face as his head whips to me, incredulous.
I vividly remembered the moment where Luffy’s careless nature got the best of him, his flabbergasted face morphing to wobbly lips when the string on his wrist snapped, a few pebbles wiggling loose to scatter over the floorboards. I’d since fixed the bracelet with a couple stray threads that we’d had lying around, leftover from our last crafting session, though it definitely wasn’t as pristine as it had been before (Not that he really cared, I suppose).
Since then, The Captain only wore it on ‘special occasions’ in order to not break it (AKA, whenever he remembered that it existed). Though, to make up for this, he always insisted that we kept ours stored together in my drawer of knick-knacks – And whenever I’d put mine on, that I should bring his, too. Today had been different, however, and I’d yet to be able to bring it to him during the morning’s disheartening and chaotic events. Little did he know, I still had it stashed in my pocket.
“H-Hey!” Luffy yells with wide eyes and a pointed finger, betrayal laced through his form. “You fixed it, remember?! That was a secret– Why are you telling her that?!”
I look towards the sky, pressing my fingers over my lips, laughing under my breath. This time I use his straw hat to my advantage, shimmying the object to serve as a shield between my face and his – Crinkled (e/c) still clashes with wide sable in the process. He seems to falter again.
“See!” Chimney plops herself between Luffy and I, stretching out a finger of her own and not bothering to hold back the bite within her scolding. She was more feisty than I – or apparently Luffy – had anticipated. “You broke yours! You didn’t even take care of it properly, and that means I deserve to match with (Y/n) way more than you do!”
“No way! (Y/n) is my soulmate, so nobody else can match except for us!” Luffy snarls, teeth bared like a rabid animal.
That’s probably enough… I’m about to step-in so that I might diffuse the situation before it has the chance to turn explosive, when Chimney swaps her attention to me; There’s that same amazed gleam in her eye, sparkling in the bright-light of the day.
“Wait, really?!” She squeals, hands clasped at her sternum. Her eagerness is palpable, and I can see why – I was just as excited about the prospect of soulmates at her age. It was like something out of a fairytale, for my young mind… It was a shame she didn’t appear to have one herself. “You guys are soulmates? You didn’t mention that before!”
“Well, wouldn’t ya know.” Granny Kokoro slurs with hooded eyes and a bottle in her hand, cutting-off my taken-aback reply before it can form. “A pair of soulmates right at my front door… Must be my lucky day! That’s pretty rare around these parts, what’d you say your name was again?”
“It’s (Y/n).” I rise from my crouched position, back stiffening. Taking an arm in hand, there’s an uncertain glint in her gaze at the sound of my name. She didn’t recognize us, did she?
“I’m Luffy.” The Captain crosses his arms, addressing the newfound friends with a disgruntled frown. “The future king of the pirates.”
“Really?” Chimney quizzes, fully absorbed in the idea of us being soulmates – So much so that she disregards the events prior.
“Yeah.” Luffy nods curtly, and I dip my head to the side, wondering how his attitude had been quelled so rapidly. He tilts his head in return, wondering why I’m looking at him as I am now.
Kokoro laughs briskly, her tone gruff with drunken giddiness. “What a funny guy…”
“By the way, Chimney… That thing was a steamship, right?” Nami pries, jutting a thumb in the direction of our recently avoided catastrophe. All of us had gotten over it for the most part; Though I was sure a few others, as well as I, remained pretty shaken up – Already, we’d almost died a horrible death.
It happened after an abrupt arrival, where I was nearly thrown from my spot at the head of the ship, the rest of the crew tumbling around in the background as we ran aground something unseen.
The first sign came with a repeated ringing over our heads. The crew, in the midst of recovering, hadn’t noticed it right away. Only Nami had been able to raise her head to the blaring lights, blinking red with an unnervingly commonplace black-and-yellow striped bar that hovered above; The colors that warranted danger. I’d lived in the city long enough to know that those three colors meant clear warning, especially in that kind of format – with an alarm ringing alongside them, no less. Thankfully, I was not the only one. Nami recognized it too, a terror in her gaze and a desperation in her voice as she rushed everyone to get in gear.
Though I knew we were in deep shit, I didn’t understand what the source of danger was right off the bat. It wasn’t until after Nami had so desperately made her claim that we needed to move did I properly interpret the low, menacing sounds that rumbled over the waves.
Ruummble… Chugga-Chugga… Chugga-Chugga…
What could only be understood as metal and smoke chugged rhythmically, mystifyingly obscured in the echoes of the waters below – like the roll of a bowling ball, the stamp of hooves pounding against cotton alongside it. It was the sound of an engine, one that ominously grew nearer and nearer.
The reality inevitably dawned upon me once we heard a single, screeching tone, an agonizing scream that shredded through the air – I knew what it was immediately. A whistle. A train whistle. It was a fucking train, and it was coming right for us.
We could see it at that point, barreling towards us like hell on wheels, barreling across the ocean's surface, somehow ignorant to the threat of sinking.
What followed was pandemonium. Everyone dashed to move our vessel out of the way of the oncoming locomotive, regardless of whether some of us knew exactly what the large transportation-method was.
“What the hell is that?!” Sanji shouted, eyes wide and pupils dilated as he struggled to come to terms with the sight before us. His cigarette had fallen from agape lips, stiff limbs rendering him unable to move.
“It’s a train!” The Chef, along with Luffy and a few others who didn’t realize what was at stake, all whipped their heads in my direction as I enlightened them on the situation. I had lept from my crumpled position, looping Luffy’s hat around my neck, bounding towards the others and harboring a terror regarding what might happen next. “We have to move, o-or it might– I-It could blow the ship in half, or worse!”
“Turn the ship around, now!” Nami backed my urgency with her own, and it set the others into a flurry of motion. “Hurry!”
By the time it showed up, the enormous hunk of metal that had been reinforced with raw, steam-punk power was practically knocking at our door – Then, we slipped off of the rails just in time, watching it fly by. The wind left in its wake whipped our hair about our faces, all of us panting with exertion after using all our strength to forcibly row out of the vicinity. It was not easy to manually maneuver an entire ship, even one that was The Merry’s size.
The safety couldn’t be maintained for all parties, though. The frog-man had inserted himself before the steam-engine, acting as a wall against such an unstoppable force of industrialism. It was absolute insanity to witness, all of us on the edge of our seats as we waited for this creature's impending death. Luffy cried for the once prized meal to get the hell out of the way, but that was deemed a useless effort. The frog-man had made up his mind, and because of it, he wound up ejected from his spot as the vehicle rammed straight into his front, pushing right past without so much as a dent. After that, he disappeared, and who knew whether or not the creature was still alive.
Since then, we’d safely docked at the main entrance to the lighthouse; And here we’d found its three inhabitants; A drunk old woman, a young girl and her pet cat (rabbit). Speaking of which, the thing looked too human, but who was I to say, really.
The old woman was Granny Kokoro. Upon first meeting, the little girl gave the older woman a clear warning of pirates, alerting the grandmother to call the authorities… In which she was too drunk to properly understand how the phone worked, or who she was trying to call in the first place. So, that worked out, I guess. Yay! No marines!
The young girl was, of course, Chimney herself – My new little bestie. With her and Granny Kokoro’s matching green hair, I could only assume they were related (which had been confirmed by the older woman in passing).
“Seems awfully long to me…” The Navigator continued, picking up the conversation after that little summary of events you guys missed. “With a shape like that I can’t imagine it getting very far.”
Although I’d thought that the red-haired girl had recognized the danger at the time, I guess I was mistaken. Well, she knew that all the signs meant danger, just not exactly what it was… You get what I’m saying. It wasn’t a vessel, per se, and Chimney was quick to note this.
“You’ve probably never seen anything like that before, right?” The younger girl excitedly questions, obviously harboring some pride over her residency near something so amazing for this world. It was all happy smiles, though she regarded Nami with a ‘know-it-all’ tone. “This is the only place in the world where you can find it. It’s not a steamship, it’s a sea train called the Puffing Tom!”
“‘The Puffing Tom?’” Nami repeated, perplexed, gesturing towards me with a new awareness. “Wait… (Y/n), didn’t you call it that before? You said it was a train.”
The sudden onslaught of everyone’s attention prompted me to avert my gaze elsewhere, probing eyes burning into my self-conscious nature.
“Well, yeah… Uh, back in–” I cut myself off, catching Chimney’s curious navy-blue’s peering up towards me. During our research, Robin and I agreed that it was unwise to unveil any kind of information that might reveal how I didn’t exactly originate in this world… Although Chimney was just a little girl, it was better to play it safe than sorry. “I-I mean, back where I came from, there were a lot of those… Or, at least something similar. We called them subways, for the most part… I’ve just never actually seen them on the ocean.”
“Really? I’ve never heard of a train on land before! ‘Subways…’” Chimney thankfully doesn’t ask more on the subject, not dwelling on the information for long, before launching into a quick explanation of the sea-trains way of operation. “The reason that it can travel on water is ‘cus it turns paddlewheels using a steam engine, then runs them by using a railway! If you look close, you can see it runs a little below the surface of the sea. The train travels the same route every day, taking passengers from one island to another. It carries ships and packages, and other stuff too!”
I blink, absorbing all the spewed knowledge as best I can. This kid was a smart cookie – Smarter than I expected, considering she genuinely believed her rabbit was an entirely unrelated species – Now I was especially glad in my decision to not relay that I hailed from a world away.
“She’s right, there really is a railway!” Luffy asserted, dangerously leaning towards the water to get a good look. I try not to worry so much about it, fully aware that Usopp stands beside the captain and would probably rescue him in a heartbeat if needed; I just wasn’t sure that I could’ve done the same… Something about the murky depths left me uncharacteristically restless, and my soulmate's inability to swim only made my fidgeting worsen. I can’t even bring myself to look for the rails alongside him.
“No kidding. Then we ran ashore on that?” Sanji wonders from the deck of the Going Merry – Him, Robin, Chopper and Zoro all listening-in from afar.
The conversation continues to delve into the mechanisms and warning signs that come with the trains arrival and passing (The ringing signal with flashing red lights, as well as the yellow partition that bordered each side of the railway). Chimney delves into another explanation as her grandmother finishes half of her liquor bottle in a few swigs, up until Luffy brings about the topic of the frogman, lamenting our missed-chance to catch and eat the creature for our next meal.
Apparently, the frog had a name – Yokozuna – And Yokozuna actually had a nasty habit of testing his strength against the train on a somewhat-regular basis. This caused a pretty annoying headache for the people at the lighthouse who were tasked with watching over the locomotive and its schedule, since both the passengers and the structural integrity of the train faced repercussions due to Yokozuna’s oddly-placed habits. Chimney reported that they’d had to replace the railguard numerous times, all because of the frog-man who refused to give up the borderline pointless endeavor. I was surprised that Yokozuna hadn’t been apprehended over such a thing.
Still, Luffy was enamoured by this new information. In his mind, Yokozuna’s heedless actions were the definition of manly, and had voiced his opinion that the frog ‘had some serious guts.’
Luffy raises a fist to demonstrate his new resolution. “Okay! Since that frog’s a fighter like me, I’m not gonna eat him after all!”
I can see Sanji shrug in the background, nodding his head in agreement to The Captain’s final judgement. (He’d also wanted to cook the frog, and had gone into explicit detail on how a frog should, and would be prepared).
“Who would wanna eat that gross thing in the first place?!” Nami retorts, arms crossed in disgust, annoyed by the mere idea.
I understood where she was coming from, as I’d never tried frog myself; Yet based on what I’d heard before coming to this world, frog legs were supposedly a delicacy amongst various cultures… So I guess I could see why Luffy might’ve wanted to eat the frog man, though he probably wasn’t thinking of it in that way at all. If it were up to him, The Captain would’ve eaten the whole thing rather than just the legs– Wait a sec… on a more important note, weren’t we talking about a frog-man? As in, a sentient creature that could think like a human? That was basically a human. I shivered at the thought.
“Since we’ve got our own ship, we won’t take the train.” Nami explains to the old woman, and I realize I’ve been zoning out of the conversation. Oops. Must be more tired than I thought. “We’ll just follow the log.”
“Oh?” Chimney asks, smiling all the while. “Where is it pointing to?”
“Should be somewhere East of here.” Nami answers curtly, raising her wrist to show the dial as it hovers, unmoving in its pointed-position.
“I see, then it must be Water 7 for sure. The train you saw earlier just came from that island’s Blue Station. It’s called the city of water. It’s a nice place.” Granny Kokoro’s tilted smile widens, her rosy cheeks gaining more color. The bottle was nearly depleted at this point – Her and Zoro would likely get along decently, I mean, booze and green hair? Maybe they were related. “Above all it’s a city that made a name for itself with its shipyard. Their technology is first class, number one in the world! The ships they build are the World Government’s favorites!”
“Then there’s gotta be some amazing shipwrights, right?” Luffy’s ears perk at the mention of a shipyard, catching the others interest as well with his hopeful tone of voice.
“Some? More like damn near all of ‘em!” The old woman bounces off of Luffy’s energy with ease. “The city is like a regular shipwrights convention!”
We’d been desperately needing a shipwright since our adventure in Skypiea, and the ship had taken some serious beatings from then-on until now – so hearing that the next island was full of them was music to our ears.
“Usopp, you hear that?!” Luffy turns to his Sniper with a spark, both fists clenched.
“Yeah!” Usopp mirrors the stance with a laugh, invigorated by the news of finally landing a shipwright for the Going Merry’s repairs. He’d been the most concerned out of everybody, considering the ship originated from where he once lived – His home island. Our ship meant the world to The Sniper.
“All right, then! I’ve decided– We’re gonna go there and get a shipwright from Water 7 to join our crew for sure!” The Captain proclaimed, announcing to the heavens his promise to himself and his crew. The bloom of happiness that’s been summoned in Luffy’s never-ending vitality has me smiling without realizing, admiration thrumming through my veins.
“Oh, is that right?” Granny Kokoro considers with a wise-undertone in her words, despite not showing much so far. “Then hold on a sec… Upsy-Daisy…”
The woman’s knees seem to fumble for a moment as she rises to her feet, stumbling a few steps forward, then slowly retreating into the small office that the trio had initially appeared from. I take this time to return to my small crowd of peers, confused and a little apprehensive of her random disappearance. The woman had been welcoming, yet strange, and our past encounters with both friend-turned-foe alike foe-turned-friend had me on my toes as a result. She’d mentioned that Water 7 worked with marines, but how did she know that? Would she have ties with them somehow? Did she work for them, as a ‘guardian’ of sorts over the Puffing Tom? Chimney wasn’t saying a word either.
As I come to stand behind Luffy, who glances at me in acknowledgment as I settle beside Nami. After a brief, silent exchange of eye contact, The Captain takes note of the weirdness as well – However, it’s not with much concern as he turns to Usopp. “Where’s she goin?”
I sigh. I was starting to wonder if maybe I’m a little too fretful.
Kokoro reappears, brandishing a folded piece of paper in her unoccupied hand. She waltzes right over to us, languidly forking-over the paper where Nami tentatively receives it. “I’ve got a present for ya… Here’s a simple map of the island, and a reference letter. Just give this to a fella named Icebarg and I promise he’ll fix your ship up good. Water 7 is a pretty big place, so don’t get lost!”
Luffy and Usopp light up with appreciation, showering the old woman with thanks and compliments as Nami gives her an appreciative smile. I feel my body relax, relieved that my doubts hadn’t come to fruition.
The crew readies for departure once we’ve got all of our ducks in order. Just as I move to board, a small hand tugs at the hem of my shirt.
I turn to look down at Chimney, her and Gonbe staring up at me with hopeful eyes and a bashful expression. “We’re gonna go back to Water 7 soon, too… Maybe we’ll see you there? If we do, can you make me a matching bracelet too? I promise I’ll take good care of it!”
I allow myself to giggle at that last part, spying Luffy as he pivots with a sharp glare from the corner of my eye. Before he can start shouting, Usopp thankfully drags the boy off, and I’m left with a subtly-simmering annoyance in the aftermath.
Crouching down before the girl and her ‘cat,’ I extend a pinky on my raised hand. “Sure. I pinky-swear I’ll make you a bracelet, but you gotta promise you’ll come find me to get it, okay?”
Chimney smiles brightly, locking fingers with rapid nods. “I will, I promise!”
Unexpectedly, the girl flings herself forward, throwing herself at my front so rapidly that I nearly don’t catch her. Chimney slings her arms around my neck in a tight hug – Gonbe straightening, before latching at my side similarly, mimicking his owner's movements. The touching action has me catatonic for a moment, a slight sting behind my eyes that derives from reminiscence. I give a wilting smile, returning the hug with a stirring in my chest.
No amount of photos could replicate moments like this one.
“We’ll see you in Water 7, then!” And as quick as she came, she departed, returning to her grandmother’s side. There was a warmth in my heart watching the girl wave her goodbyes – Her wild pigtails bobbing with every movement – Something cherished in the sense of my old-normalcy. She would never know it, but that hug meant everything to me.
Back on deck, I hear Nami leave some parting words of thanks and a fond ‘see you later,’ basking in the happiness that had broken through my melancholic shell. Soon enough, as their figures fade in the distance, my attention is drawn towards a certain brooding boy, who glares at me indignantly.
Luffy’s shoulders are hunched, arms crossed and tapping his foot as if he were a parent about to scold me. There was treachery flowing through our bond, boosted from whatever scolding The Sniper had given him after dragging The Captain off earlier.
I give him a soft, hesitant smile, shuffling over as obsidian irises scrutinize me under tussled, raven hair. Mood lightened, I had a sense to not take his upset too seriously, though it would be wrong to not make up for it.
“You’re a traitor…” The Captain mumbles once I’ve stood in front of him, eyes flitting from my apologetic smile to elsewhere, thoroughly moping. “Why’d you have to tell her that? I’m The Captain, y’know…”
I huff a laugh at his pouty lips, reaching into my back pocket, hesitantly wrapping my fingers around his wrist. He doesn’t pull back, or move away, only appearing a tad displeased that I’d seemingly ignored his complaints – Then, the expression wipes away, catching notice of the handmade bracelet as I wordlessly bind it around his wrist. My fingers tingle as I graze the flesh.
“My bracelet!” He shouts with glee once it fastens properly, lifting his arm into the air triumphantly. “I can’t believe you found it!”
“Mhm.” I hum, crossing my arms as a giddiness flows, keeping it held safely within. “I’ve had it since this morning.”
“Oh, so you’ve had it this whole time?” Inconveniently for me, it seems that Luffy’s brain has chosen to work today, as it dawns on him the double-meaning behind my words. “Wait a minute… Then how come you told her that instead of giving it to me?! You let her make fun of me– You really are a traitor!”
Faced with his anger again, I weighed my options with pursed lips, scanning nervously all about his aggravated face. Although it was funny, I suppose I did feel a little bad about teasing him.
“You owe me, now.” Luffy pushes, stepping closer as if to intimidate me into agreeing – However, I get the feeling it’s more so to stop me from fleeing. There’s an unforeseen, almost cheeky grin that’s made home on his face.
I blink, taken-aback by the suspicious change. “...Owe you what?”
“I want a kiss.”
The windows blue screen makes me freeze – a springy, violin-esque sound prompting the halt of every single neuron in my skull.
“Uh… W-What?” I murmur dumbly, gaping at him. Sure, he’d asked before (and my reaction here was not all that atypical); The issue I had right now was that this time around it wasn’t just us.
“Didn’t you hear me? I want a kiss!” Luffy practically yells for all to hear. My brain boggles further, as I’m certain that everyone has heard his words, heat climbing up my neck. He refuses to back down, regardless, attempting to create a more convincing argument. “C’mon, you were rude earlier! I even gave you my hat, y’know.”
“B-But…” I stammer, attempting to hush him by waving the white flag, slightly shaky hands raising between us to convey my concern. He grabs them, squeezing gently before drawing closer – blatantly not taking the hint. I grip his hands tight, a contradiction between his actions and the comfort that flows from his touch. “Not– Not here, Luffy… Can we go somewhere else?”
He frowns at my pleading expression, disliking my swapped mood. “I don’t get it. Why does it matter where we kiss?”
“Uh, well, I…”
I turn my gaze toward the crew, and I swear that almost every single one of them turns away at that exact moment; aside from Chopper and Zoro, who don’t pay much mind. Nami speaks with Robin, the words shared looking extremely forced and unnatural – Meanwhile, Usopp whistles rather suspiciously to himself, rummaging through his utilities aimlessly – Sanji looks as if he’s ready to cry as he lights a cigarette, looking off to the ocean, wallowing in sadness.
Luffy’s hand releases one of mine and slides an arm behind my back, regaining my sights as the two of us press flush against one another. “What’s the matter?”
“I, just… Wh-What about the others?” I choke out, glancing back towards the others in question. This time around, I catch Usopp’s gaze, and the other boy whirls away from my eyes – his are wide, and guilty.
Talk about subtle. Why the hell were they watching us?!
“What about ‘em?” Luffy disregards, not paying much attention – Or just not caring enough to do so. With this, he continues, “Just one? It’ll be quick! Please?”
I swallow the anxious lump in my throat, wrapping my fingers around the cloth of his vest to ground myself. Would this be weird? Was it weird to force the crew to watch such a public display of affection? Would they be grossed out, or was PDA normal for soulmates here? I mean, it was just a kiss on the cheek… It wasn’t like we were making out or anything–
At the idea, my entire face up to my ears starts to burn. Shit.
I look at Luffy, who’s waiting stagnantly, likely confused. Then, I look to the others, and find Robin smirking with amusement.
“O-Okay– Would you all quit staring at us already?!” I beseech, the volume of my voice surprising not only the others, but myself as well. I’m desperate at this point. “You guys are freaking me out!”
At this, Luffy turns with a ‘hm?’ Inevitably finding that the others give a clashing mixture of both shameful and disappointed looks.
“We wouldn’t be staring if you just did it already.” Zoro responds without missing a beat, instilling the fact that I was wrong, and that he also had been spying on us.
“But why are you even watching? I-I’m trying not to gross you out!” I defend, half-hiding behind Luffy as he grapples to work-out what’s going on.
“Why would we be grossed out?” Usopp pipes up, dissuading my concerns as a way to make-up for his culpability. “You guys are soulmates… Isn’t that stuff normal for you guys? As long as you aren’t like, making-out or something, we don’t care.”
I cease arguing once Usopp voices the almost-exact same thought process as I have, and it prompts another onslaught of ideas that weren’t supposed to be appearing at this moment.
“‘Making-out?’ The heck are you talking about, Usopp?” Luffy ponders to his crewmate as if the latter has lost his marbles. It’s strikingly similar to Chimney’s expression from earlier.
“Don’t worry about it.” Usopp sharply addresses the boy, cutting-off any potential for that conversation to begin, which I’m grateful for – Then, turning back to me, “Anyways… We just wanted to find out if Luffy and the others were telling the truth or not. He told us that you guys have kissed, and honestly, it’s too crazy to believe without seeing it ourselves.”
“So you thought staring at us before we did it was a good idea?! You could’ve just asked me!” Is what I would’ve said, if not for what happened next.
“You guys think I’m lying?!” Luffy bursts, shocked by his crewmates lack of faith in his claims. “That’s stupid! Here, I’ll show you right now–”
The heat of Luffy’s palm scrapes the side of my face, brushing back my hair in the process. Tingling vines unfurling over the skin, wrapping around every muscle fiber they can reach. It’s somewhat forceful as he moves my jaw to angle it towards himself, his hardened stare evidence that he was adamant in proving the truth behind his crew's doubts. I can’t move, too frozen in my struggle to understand what was going on.
I only catch a glimpse of his face before his head falls forwards, hand still placed against the side of my neck and jaw, fingers slightly scraping through the hairs at my nape.
Luffy’s lips plant in the center of my forehead, as he usually did if ever we were standing during this process. I always assumed he did it as a result of our height difference, since my reach only extended to his cheek in return – Nevertheless, it was surely my favorite, the action always wafting an air of comfort over my scalp and down my spine.
His lips part with a slight ‘pop,’ and I stare up at his pleased visage in a heart-eyed haze.
The Captain chuckles. Unknowingly, if that was your favorite spot to be kissed, then it was his, too. This was purely based on the look on your face, all soft eyes and pink cheeks… It always made his stomach feel like it was doing backflips.
The other's jaws nearly drop to the floor, some of them unable to withhold their gasps at the bombshell just dropped upon them; Even Zoro seemed to be disturbed at the action. Luffy simply cackles, proud to rub it in their faces.
“There. See?” The Captain makes his point to the others, until returning focus to me. “But you owe me two, now.”
“Geez, at least give her a moment to breathe first!” Usopp snaps, breaking from his trance with a jolt when he notes my embarrassed-stricken expression.
“No way! She let that girl make fun of me earlier– Why should I?”
A tie between a sigh and a whine grates my throat as I reach the maximum capacity of mortification that I can handle, eyes slightly burning. Turning my head the complete other direction of my friends, flopping my body onto my soulmates, I find my will to remain out in the open steadily waning.
This boy was going to be the death of me, one day.
“(Y/n)?” Another arm finds my back to stabilize, the boy searching for my face in sudden distress. “H-Hang on, you didn’t pass out, right?”
“See? I told you to go easy on her! Now look at what you did!”
—
Tidbit today!
On rare occasions, whenever (Y/n) finds herself feeling homesick, she scrolls through old photos of all the children she’d befriended during her time at the orphanage. It’s a bittersweet habit, as most of the kids that she had an impact on (or vice versa), were adopted and then replaced by newcomers; Still, it was one of the better aspects of living in the orphanage. She often found her happiness through the children’s joy over a new life for themselves, even though she never got one of her own.
Sometimes, Luffy or another crew member will notice (Y/n)’s downcast appearance, offering to sit with her as she swipes through memories – Asking about each kid, and each picture taken with them. It’s extremely therapeutic for her, and they’re always interested to listen. Through this exchange, she actually learned about a few of their own major experiences and backstories :)
You did not wake up this morning planning to drag a bleeding man in tactical gear through your kitchen window.
That sort of thing usually requires advance notice, maybe a rain check, definitely a waiver. But here you are: three a.m., slippers on, hair a disaster, and there’s a full-grown vigilante collapsing onto your fire escape like a dying pigeon.
For about six full seconds, you just stand there clutching your mug of decaf chamomile, staring at the man sprawled outside your window. Red helmet, body armor, guns—plural—and a lot of blood. Too much blood.
“Okay,” you whisper, voice wobbling. “Either Gotham’s gotten even worse or Batman’s cosplay conventions are getting intense.”
You don’t move until he groans, low and pained, and the sound triggers something in your brain—maybe that weird instinct that makes you rush toward limping cats. You’re a veterinarian, not a medic, but bleeding is bleeding, and this guy is actively leaking.
“Don’t die on my fire escape,” you tell him, sliding open the window. “I don’t think my lease covers that.”
He doesn’t answer. His head lolls. Great. You grab his arm—holy crap, he’s heavy—and with all the power of adrenaline, panic, and mild regret, you drag him inside. He hits your floor with a thud that shakes your poor, innocent coffee table.
You stare down at him. “Oh my god, he’s huge. I rescued a linebacker in kevlar.”
The armor’s slick with blood. You wince. “Okay, okay—vet mode. It’s fine. You can totally do this. You’ve stitched worse things. Remember that Saint Bernard with the garden shears? Easy.”
You haul him onto your couch, grab your first aid kit, and start cutting away at the torn fabric around the wound. It’s a bullet wound—clean through, but deep. You mutter as you work, mostly because silence feels way too loud.
“So, fun fact,” you tell the unconscious man, “I only ever do this on sedated patients, and none of them have yelled at me for bad bedside manner because, y’know, dogs. So if you wake up and yell—please don’t. Just…stay unconscious. That’d be great.”
You disinfect, bandage, and wrap. It’s not pretty, but it’s enough to keep him from bleeding out. Your kitchen smells like antiseptic and gunpowder. At one point you notice his mask has a crack down the front, revealing part of a jawline that looks criminally unfair for someone currently dying on your couch.
“Of course you’re handsome,” you mutter, tossing the bloody gauze into the trash. “Why wouldn’t the mystery rooftop bleeder be hot? This is Gotham, not Tinder.”
By the time you finish, the bleeding’s slowed. You clean up, sit on the floor, and stare at him. He’s alive. Breathing. Probably fine.
You consider calling 911, but then you remember the guns. And the armor. And the fact that his red helmet.
You’ve heard of him. Everyone has.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “I just patched up the Red Hood. I’m an accomplice.”
He wakes up an hour later, groggy, sitting up halfway. You freeze mid-sip of your now-cold tea. His gaze flicks to you, then to the patched wound.
“Hi,” you say weakly. “You were bleeding. I fixed it. Please don’t kill me.”
He stares for a beat, then—nothing. No words. Just stands, limps to the window, and vanishes into the night.
You blink at the empty space he left behind.
“…Okay. Cool talk.”
Three weeks pass. You try very hard to forget about it.
You succeed—mostly. Except you swear someone’s been following you.
It starts small: footsteps behind you when you leave work. The same black bike parked down the block. Once, you could’ve sworn someone ducked behind a lamppost when you turned around. Gotham’s creepy, but this feels…targeted.
You try to talk yourself out of it. You’re just being paranoid. You’re an anxious woman in a big city. It’s fine.
Until one night you catch movement in the reflection of your apartment’s front door. A shadow in with a mask covering the lower part of his face and a red hood pulled over his head.
You shriek, whip around, and—yep. There he is. The Red Hood. The very man you saved, standing in the alley like he’s trying to decide whether to rob you or ask for your Netflix password.
You fumble for your purse, yank out your can of pepper spray. “Oh my god! You’re stalking me?!”
He holds up both hands, palms out, voice calm and slightly amused. “Whoa, easy there, Doc.”
“Don’t you ‘Doc’ me!” you snap, waving the spray. “Why are you following me?! Are you trying to kill me for seeing your face? Because that’s very—uh—rude! I kept you alive, you ungrateful—”
“I’m not stalking you,” he says. “I’m…keeping an eye out. Making sure you’re safe.”
“Safe from what?!”
He hesitates. “…Gotham.”
You stare. He stares back. The silence is so awkward it could be bottled and sold as a sedative.
Then, in a burst of adrenaline and poor decision-making, you press the nozzle and spray him right in the face.
“Ah—goddammit—!” He staggers back, cursing. “You—You actually maced me!”
“You were being weird!” you yell, panicked. “What was I supposed to do?!”
He’s rubbing at his helmet, trying to wipe the spray off the visor. “Maybe not assault your bodyguard?”
“Bodyguard?!” You blink. “I didn’t hire a bodyguard!”
He groans. “I told you, I’m returning the favor. You saved my ass.”
“Yeah, and you could’ve just sent a fruit basket like a normal person!”
That earns the tiniest laugh from him. It’s muffled under the mask but you hear it. “You think I can just walk into Edible Arrangements in full gear?”
You open your mouth, close it again, and then—because you’re very tired and your heart is doing cardio in your chest—you start to laugh too. The whole situation is absurd. You, in your mismatched pajamas, yelling at Gotham’s most feared vigilante while he blinks through pepper spray.
He finally sighs. “Look, I’ll stop tailing you if it’s freaking you out. Promise.”
You hesitate. “Wait. You…were really just protecting me?”
He nods. “Gotham’s full of psychos. I figured the lady who saved my life shouldn’t end up as another news story.”
That…does something to your heart. “Oh,” you say softly. “That’s actually kind of—sweet. In a creepy, felony-adjacent way.”
“Thanks, I think.”
You shift, embarrassed. “You, uh…want to come up? I’ve got milk in the fridge if your eyes are burning.”
He freezes. “You’re inviting me in?”
“Well, yeah. I did blind you.”
He laughs again, a real one this time, and you can tell even through the modulator that he’s smiling. “You’re something else, Doc.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot from cats.”
He follows you upstairs, still half-blind and grumbling, and you hand him a wet towel and a carton of milk.
You both end up sitting at your tiny kitchen table, him awkwardly dabbing his eyes while you sip your tea. The silence stretches.
“So,” you say. “Do you just…bleed on random people’s couches a lot?”
He snorts. “Only on special occasions.”
“That’s comforting.”
He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re not freaked out anymore.”
You shrug. “You don’t seem like you’re gonna murder me, and my threshold for weird is pretty high. Last week I treated a ferret that swallowed a Batman keychain.”
He grins at that. A real grin. “You’re braver than most.”
“Oh, I’m terrified,” you say cheerfully. “I’m just too socially awkward to show it.”
You talk a bit more—small stuff. You learn his name is Jay (he offers it reluctantly, like it’s a secret). You tell him about the clinic you work at. He doesn’t talk about himself much, but you can tell he’s listening.
When he stands to leave, you stop him. “Wait. Next time you’re shot, maybe go to an actual hospital?”
“Can’t,” he says with a smirk. “They ask questions.”
“Fine. At least knock next time before bleeding all over my furniture.”
He laughs, low and warm. “Deal.”
A few nights later, you spot the red helmet again—this time across the street as you’re locking up the clinic. You wave. He gives a tiny salute before disappearing into the shadows.
You sigh, smiling despite yourself. You can feel your cheeks heating. Great. You’ve officially almost befriended the local crime lord you once maced.
Your life is weird.
epilogue
You come home one evening to find something on your windowsill: a single potted plant with a note tucked underneath.
“For the Doc who saved my life and my retinas. —J.”
You pick it up, laughing. It’s a small cactus.
You whisper to it, “He gets it.”
ah yes, my first fic is this Vet reader and Batfamily shenanigans thingy thats been in my drafts for like a year now. i have a few chapters written out. little spoiler, reader is not going to have a romantic relationship with any of the Waynes
Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite Benedict Bridgerton stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.
✑ Have You Ever Been to a Farm by just-iimagine • 18+ • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: You're back in London for the summer social season, staying with your uncle Lord Wetherby. You meet Benedict by chance without either of you knowing who the other is.
✑ You Are My Sunshine by just-iimagine • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: After being widowed, your year of mourning is up, which means you can return to society life. After a loveless marriage you long to fall in love and a certain artist catches your eye.
✑ A Fitting Distraction by benedictscanvas • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: In which a game of pall-mall is afoot and you and your husband, Benedict, engage in a bit of harmless spying on your brother-in-law.
✑ All Along by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶M〕 •
Synopsis: You're feeling anxious at the first ball of your season. Luckily Benedict is there to help you through it.
✑ And Now I See Daylight by wonderlandprose • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: Benedict seemed to completely change his view on love after meeting the reader.
✑ Behind the Bushes by shelby-love • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: […]
✑ Best Behaviour by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: An unexpected request and a push from his family is exactly what Benedict needs to finally take your relationship beyond friendship.
✑ Can't Bear It by benedictscanvas • 〔F᜶M〕 •
Synopsis: What will happen when Benedict lets mistaken assumptions and jealousy guide his actions? More importantly, can you forgive him?
✑ City of Stars by rubysunnday • 〔F᜶M〕 •
Synopsis: Eloise Bridgerton does not know when to keep her nose out of her friends business. Especially when that business involves pining over her brother - one that Eloise knows for a fact loves her back. If only they weren't completely oblivious idiots.
✑ Confession by fayes-fics • 16+ • 〔A᜶F〕 •
Synopsis: Benedict confesses to being in love…
✑ Drunk on Love by d-targaryenshoe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •
Synopsis: Love is beautiful yet when one is drunk it can rather be a little confusing and breathtaking.
✑ Eden by fayes-fics • 18+ • 〔F᜶E〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...
✑ En Garde by delphispoeticals • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: You have always cared deeply about your mother's opinions, often to the frustration of your siblings. However, when you begin to prioritize your desires, you realize how rewarding it is to follow your own path—starting with a game of fencing.
✑ Fear by fact-fictionx • 〔F᜶M〕 •
Synopsis: […]
✑ Forgive Me by benedictscanvas • 〔A᜶F〕 •
Synopsis: In which you think Benedict doesn't like the idea of you marrying, but really he doesn't like the idea of you marrying anyone else…
✑ Friends to Lovers by jswizzlewrites • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: Benedict plots a way to win your heart…
✑ Game Night by iliveiloveiwrite • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: Now Benedict's wife, you attend your first Bridgerton family Game Night.
✑ Hands by ijustwant2write • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: Hands are every artists worst nightmare, it's always best to have a real model for help.
✑ Helen of Troy by neverinadream • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: In a world of societal expectations and staged romances, theirs might just be a love story written by choice, not chance.
✑ It's Just Tea by dragonsfictavern • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: You drink some of Benedict's special tea and now Benedict must take care of you until the effects wear off. With such a tea in your system, you can't help but bring up some truths you’ve been hiding and Benedict is right there to comfort you.
✑ Jealousy by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶A〕 •
Synopsis: Just Benedict Bridgerton being jealous…
✑ Just Friends || Prt. 02 by pixiemunsons • 18+ • 〔F᜶A᜶E〕 •
Synopsis: You and Benedict aren't merely friends… not even close…
✑ Lemonade by benedictscanvas • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: There is a woman in Benedict's arms and it isn't you and you think you might throw your lemonade at her. Accidentally, of course.
✑ Little Things by leviathanspain • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: His brothers teasing has finally made its mark, and Benedict can't hold himself back anymore.
✑ Love and Tea by iliveiloveiwrite • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: Benedict had been fine all morning, not a hair out of place and that had all changed by the evening. In passing, he had mentioned to you that Colin had offered him a cup of tea he had brought back from his vast and various travels.
✑ Madness by writtenfangirl • 〔A〕 •
Synopsis: In which Benedict Bridgerton finally reveals the truth.
✑ Market Hearts by d-targaryenshoe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: When one notices their lover's joy in a rather odd place, why would they not join in on the feeling?
✑ Mine by fayes-fics • 18+ • 〔M᜶E〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: Benedict's wife gets lots of male attention at a party and he gets very jealous.
✑ More Than Enough by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶C〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •
Synopsis: You are in a courtship from Benedict and keeping a secret that could end it all.
✑ Not for Him by iwritefandomimagines • 〔A᜶F〕 •
Synopsis: You may not be the season's diamond, yet your debut still caused quite the stir in many a man's heart—your childhood best friend benedict bridgerton included. However, given that the Viscount had decided that he would marry this season, Benedict cannot see why you would choose him over his brother.
✑ Not the End of Our Story by jswizzlewrites • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: You write about the love story of you and Benedict when you think they won't be anything more than a story…
✑ Off to the Races by inknopewetrust • 18+ • 〔F᜶E〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: The royal ascot races take a turn when Benedict pulls you under the grandstand and let’s his artistic hands wander.
✑ Paper Rings by wonderlandprose • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: Benedict fell in love with a girl he adored so much…
✑ Promenade by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶M〕 •
Synopsis: Benedict makes a drunken confession…
✑ Rake and the Spinster, the by imagines-all-day-everyday • 〔A᜶F〕 •
Synopsis: Growing up beside the Bridgerton siblings you and Benedict have been friends for as long as you can remember, but with you now officially debuting into society Benedict begins to realise that perhaps it is more than a friendship that he seeks.
✑ Ruined Reputation by jswizzlewrites • 〔A〕 •
Synopsis: Benedict has a very encouraging conversation with his brothers about you.
✑ Safe by fayes-fics • 〔A᜶C〕 • 🚫 •
Synopsis: Benedict comforts you after someone tries to compromise you.
✑ Second Son by fayes-fics • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: The second son is, for once, the first choice...
✑ Secret Romantic by ijustwant2write • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: Eloise Bridgerton, as it turns out, is a brilliant matchmaker!
✑ Send It Soaring by rubysunnday • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: A hot air balloon was something quite majestic... but so was Benedict Bridgerton.
✑ She's a Lady by rubysunnday • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: You aren't considered a proper 'lady' by members of the ton yet one Benedict Bridgerton would disagree with them all.
✑ Sleeping Beauty by rubysunnday • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: Painting the woman of his dreams feels like a fairytale.
✑ Temptation by fayes-fics • 18+ • 〔E᜶F〕 •
Synopsis: After accidentally teasing Benedict, you catch the man your courting in a compromising position
✑ To Be Loved and Be In Love by desertno3 • 〔F᜶M〕 •
Synopsis: You and Benedict had been best friends for as long as you remember, but during your first season, he didn't engage much. You left London engaged, but when news of your betrothal's failure reached Aubrey Hall in spring, everything changed.
✑ To Know You by fayes-fics • 〔F᜶M〕 •
Synopsis: Benedict knows you better than anyone, but does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?
✑ Untold Truth by itsmercurial • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: It is a universally acknowledged truth that men and women of the 1800s curate a carefully crafted image to attract suitable matches. Though the esteemed Bridgertons seem above such deception, a trip to a certain modiste uncovers a different truth.
✑ When All is Lost || Prt. 02 by dragon-kazansky • 〔F᜶M〕 • ♥︎ •
Synopsis: […]
✑ You Bewitch Me by pencil-n-pen • 〔F〕 •
Synopsis: Benedict has to be the least tolerable Bridgertonto to make your acquaintance. Still, no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to stay away from him.
✑ A Different Kind of Fun by siempre-bucky •
✑ A Favourable Arrangement by benedictscanvas • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
✑ A Scandalous Affair by starryeyedstories • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
✑ All is Fair by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
✑ Allow Me by siempre-bucky •
✑ Art of Finding a Wife, the by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •
✑ Artists in the Making by multi-fandom-imagine • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •
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Warning: None for this chapter other than Zeus is a scumbag...
Note: Orpheus has legs in this story. Immortal, after being unable to save his beloved, but whole... and still angered with his father.
Next Part
The Shore of Olympus
The sand clung stubbornly to your boots as you kicked them free, the grains scattering like sparks under the rising light. Your ripped shirt hung crooked over your shoulder, damp with sea-spray, and your jeans bore the stains of a long night wandering between Waking clubs and dim-lit mortal streets. Your hair was a storm — messy, tangled, defiant. The heavy pulse of music still lingered in your body, though not a drop of wine had softened its edge. Alcohol never touched you. It was one of the cruelties of your blood: immortal and untouchable, even by mortal vices.
Delirium skipped barefoot at your side, her humming drifting from tune to tune, her hair shifting from copper to seafoam green in the space of a heartbeat. On your other flank, Lagertha — loud, reckless, braids loose and eyes bright — swung her sandals like weapons, laughing too loudly at nothing at all. The three of you were a ragged procession, gods in name only, looking every inch the outcasts Olympus whispered about.
From the curve of the shore came a voice, cool and unmistakable.
“Your father is looking for you. And he seems… angered.”
Orpheus stood on the sand as if he’d been waiting all morning, the dawn breaking behind him like a halo he didn’t deserve. His arms folded across his chest, his posture easy, but there was the faintest tug of amusement at his mouth when his eyes took in your state.
You tipped your chin upward, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “He is always angered. It is practically his only expression.”
Orpheus’ smirk flickered. “Perhaps. But this time…” His eyes narrowed faintly. “This time feels different.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but the sound of silk whispering against stone cut across the tide.
“Different because you are late. And dressed like this.”
Calliope descended the steps toward the beach, her white gown untouched by sand or spray, every dark curl of her hair coiled neatly in place. Her gaze swept over you — the scuffed jeans, the torn shirt, the wild hair — and lingered long enough to make your skin prickle.
“There is a banquet in less than an hour. The entire court gathers. And you arrive looking like a mortal… vagabond.”
You blinked at her, incredulous. “A banquet? Perhaps being told of such things might prevent my supposed tardiness. Hard to be late to what one was never invited to.”
Her eyes flashed, sharp as broken glass. “Do not play games. You are expected to know these things.”
Beside you, Delirium tilted her head, eyes wide, voice sing-song. “I like her clothes. They’re loud. Happy.”
Calliope’s lips thinned to a line. “You should not even be here. My brother will not be pleased.”
Delirium’s expression brightened, like a child catching a secret. “Which one?”
Calliope’s composure faltered, annoyance flashing across her face. “Which one do you think?” she bit out.
Delirium’s expression only brightened, like a child stumbling across a hidden treasure. “The Prodigal? Has he returned?”
The hopeful lilt in her tone was so earnest you couldn’t help yourself — a laugh burst free, sharp and irreverent. The sound carried over the waves, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Calliope’s expression soured, her voice clipped. “No. He has not. It is Morpheus.”
Lagertha tilted her head, eyes alight with mischief. “Oh, the King of Dreams and Nightmares… is he as handsome as they say?”
You pressed your knuckles to your mouth, fighting a laugh, though your shoulders shook with the effort. The sound slipped out anyway — a muffled snort that drew Orpheus’ smirk and Calliope’s withering glare.
“He is my husband,” Calliope snapped, voice ringing across the shore like a lash.
That did it — your laughter burst free, sharp and delighted. “Ex-husband,” you corrected, savouring the way the words made her stiffen.
Calliope’s eyes flashed with barely contained fury. “Enough. Go. Both of you.” Her hand sliced through the air toward Delirium and Lagertha. “This is Olympus business, not a playground for wayward sisters or wandering shield-maidens.”
Lagertha only chuckled, planting a quick kiss to your cheek before tossing Calliope a mocking bow. “Enjoy the banquet — boring,” she added with a fake cough, laughter bubbling in her throat as she sauntered off up the beach with Delirium skipping happily beside her.
Calliope’s lips thinned to a razor’s edge, her gaze cutting back to you like sharpened steel. “And you. Do not think to parade yourself into the hall like this. Our father will not tolerate such shame.”
You arched a brow, unbothered, and bent to shake sand from your boots. “Fine. I’ll go get changed — after I rinse the sea off my feet.”
For a moment she looked as though she might argue, but at last she gave a stiff nod, her gown whispering as she turned sharply on her heel and swept back up toward Olympus.
When the silence returned, you dipped your toes into the tide, the water cool against your skin. Behind you came the sound of muffled laughter.
Orpheus was still there, arms folded, a grin tugging openly at his mouth now.
“You are hopeless,” he said, shaking his head, though his eyes were alight with amusement.
You straightened, shaking the last of the sand from your toes before sliding your boots back on. Casting a glance at Orpheus, still standing smug in the surf, you smirked.
“And so are you. You’ve still got to get changed too.”
He let out a low laugh, brushing invisible dust from his tunic. “I wasn’t planning on attending.”
You blinked at him, then tilted your head. “What, and miss all the joy of watching Olympus preen itself?”
His smile faded to something harder, a shadow passing over his face. “My father will be there… and I do not wish to see him.”
The tide hissed against the shore, filling the pause that followed. You studied him, the set of his jaw, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the horizon rather than you.
A dry laugh slipped from your lips. “That makes two of us. I don’t want to see mine either. And yet, I don’t seem to get out of it.”
Your gaze drifted down to the water curling around your ankles, pale foam licking over your toes before retreating again. You mumbled more to yourself than to him, the words carried half by the wind. “Usually he doesn’t even want me at these things. Says I embarrass him… so why today?”
The question hung between you like smoke, unanswered, though a part of you already knew. Nothing on Olympus ever shifted without purpose, and if Zeus wanted you paraded in the hall tonight, it meant you were about to be used.
But for what?
You dug your toes deeper into the wet sand, watching the tide swallow the imprint only to erase it again. Your mind turned bitterly over the possibilities. What did you have to offer Olympus? Not power. Not influence. Not beauty enough to soothe their egos.
Chaos.
That was your only gift. A tongue too sharp, a spirit too wild, a laugh too loud. You had been told all your life that you unsettled things, that you chipped away at Olympus’ gilded perfection with every careless step. And yet, perhaps tonight that was exactly what Zeus wanted.
The thought curled uneasily in your chest, a knot of dread wrapped in defiance.
Orpheus’ voice broke the silence, low and edged with dry humour. “Have fun then.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder, one brow arched. “Fun is rarely on the menu in Olympus.”
A shadow of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Which is why I won’t be there.”
You rolled your eyes, brushing past him toward your lodging to get changed. “Coward.”
“Pragmatist,” he corrected, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
For a moment you glanced back, catching the sea-light on his features, the way his gaze had drifted again to the horizon — away from Olympus, away from all of it. Then you turned, climbing toward the marble halls, your stomach tight with the certainty that whatever awaited you tonight, it would not be simple.
Preparing for the Banquet
Your chambers smelled of sandalwood and cold marble, the same suffocating blend as every Olympian hall. Slaves had already been sent ahead — silent, practiced hands waiting with silks and pins, trays of gold jewellery gleaming like shackles.
You stripped off your shirt and jeans, throwing them carelessly onto the bed, a small rebellion against the pristine order of Olympus. One of the women clicked her tongue at the sight of your mortal clothes, but you ignored her.
The gown they pressed upon you was pale as moonlight, heavy with embroidery that scratched your skin. It cinched too tightly at the waist, as if Olympus were always trying to shrink you into something smaller, neater, more acceptable. They pinned your hair back until it pulled, smoothing away the mess you had worn like armour. Rings slid over your fingers, a necklace clasped cold against your throat.
You caught your reflection in the mirror of polished bronze — unrecognizable. The wild girl from the shore had been buried beneath layers of silk and gold, a creature sculpted for show.
Chaos, you thought bitterly. That was all you had ever been good for. And tonight, dressed like this, you felt less like a daughter and more like a sacrifice.
The Banquet of Olympus
The great hall of Olympus shimmered with firelight and gold. Marble pillars rose like frozen lightning, their veins alive with reflected flame, while the air buzzed with chatter and the clatter of cups. Platters overflowed with figs, roasted meats, pomegranates split to bleeding jewels. The gods stood in their little clusters, gossip sharp as the wine pouring endlessly into goblets.
But it was not the feast that drew your eye.
Across the hall, standing slightly apart though Calliope clung to his side, was a figure unlike any you had ever seen.
Dream.
He was unmistakable. His hair fell straight and dark, slightly dishevelled, as though no comb could ever quite tame it. His face was all sharp angles and hollows — cheekbones cut from marble, a jawline rigid with quiet severity. His skin was pale as bone beneath the flicker of torchlight, his lips set in an expression that was neither scowl nor smile but something colder, more implacable.
And his eyes…
They were the worst of all. Pale as starlight, shadowed as midnight, they fixed on nothing and everything at once — eyes that seemed to hold the weight of all dreams, and the silence of all nightmares. Even across the vast hall, you felt them like a hand pressed against your throat.
The air shifted around him, unspoken gravity bending conversation and glance alike. Calliope leaned close, her arm brushing his, her lips moving with soft insistence — but he stood still as stone, as though Olympus and its glittering feast meant nothing at all.
You could not look away. Something in you wanted to — some instinct screamed at you to break the hold of those pale, merciless eyes — but your gaze stayed locked on him, caught in the quiet gravity that seemed to drag the very air toward his presence.
Awe, curiosity, and defiance tangled in your chest. This was the one Orpheus had cursed, the one Calliope still pined for, the one who had not walked Olympus since before you were born. And now, for reasons you did not yet understand, he was here.
Furter around him stood your half-sisters, the Muses — Calliope at his side, the others gathered like a living crown of grace and poise. Perfect. Serene. All of them the very image of Olympus’ favour, each one a reminder of how you did not belong. Your brothers were there as well, sleek in their robes and golden with your father’s pride, casting glances at you like barbs. Every one of them seemed carved for Olympus’ approval. Everyone but you.
The great doors slammed open, thunder rolling in their wake.
Zeus.
Late, as always. The gods murmured and parted as he strode in, lightning humming faint beneath his skin. His gaze swept over the gathered hosts — and skipped over you entirely, as though you were invisible. He went straight to Dream, his presence pressing heavy against the Endless like a stormfront.
“Why are we gathered here tonight?” Zeus boomed, his voice echoing from marble and gold. “Because once again, family has returned. The Dream King himself walks Olympus, lending his power to our cause. Against the threat of—” He named the enemy, some rising force at Olympus’ gates, though the words blurred in your ears.
Dream’s pale eyes narrowed. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but it sliced through the hall with the inevitability of a blade.
“Do not call me family, Zeus. We are no longer bound in such a way.” His gaze was steady, cold, and unyielding. “I came not for Olympus, but because this realm is my son’s home. His safety is paramount. Do not mistake my presence for allegiance — nor for kinship.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. Calliope stiffened at his side, her face carefully arranged, though her knuckles whitened where her hand clutched his sleeve. You saw the crack in her composure — displeasure, sharp and undeniable, masked only by her Muse’s practiced grace.
You couldn’t help it — a chuckle slipped past your lips, low and sharp, before you could smother it. The sound was swallowed quickly by the marble vastness of the hall, but not quickly enough.
Several heads turned. Your brothers’ sneers sharpened. Your sisters glanced at one another, as though even your laughter confirmed the shame, they had always claimed you were.
Calliope’s eyes snapped to you, flaring with fury at your audacity. Her grip on Dream’s sleeve tightened, as though she could anchor him away from the insult of your presence.
Dream himself did not look at you. Not yet. His pale gaze remained fixed on Zeus, unflinching. But you felt the shift in the air — the faint ripple of shadow that suggested he had heard you. That he had noticed.
And Zeus… Zeus finally let his eyes settle on you, slow and heavy as thunderclouds gathering. For a heartbeat he studied you — the daughter he ignored until you made yourself impossible to ignore. Then a smile curved his mouth, thin and sharp as a blade.
“Indeed,” he said, voice rolling across the chamber. “It is fitting you are here, child. For tonight, Olympus will see you properly placed.”
The knot in your chest twisted tighter. Whatever this meant, you doubted it would be in your favour.
Zeus’ thin smile widened, a performance crafted for every watching eye. His voice boomed across the marble, rolling like distant thunder.
“As custom demands,” he said, lifting his goblet high, “when one outside our halls lends strength to Olympus in times of peril, we do not let their aid pass unmarked. We honour them. We make offering. We sacrifice.”
The word hung in the air, sharp and dangerous. Your stomach clenched. Around you, whispers stirred, anticipation crackling like static.
Zeus’ gaze swept the crowd before returning to Dream. “But we are not the Norsemen, dripping their altars red with blood.” A ripple of laughter rose from the assembly, brittle and eager. “No. We are Olympians. Our sacrifices are not in flesh, but in gifts.”
You felt the shift then, the turn of a hundred eyes settling upon you. A slow, inevitable current.
“And so,” Zeus continued, his voice thick with satisfaction, “to mark Lord Morpheus’s return, to honour his assistance against those who would threaten our walls, I bestow upon him a gift.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You already knew the answer, already felt it forming on his lips. Still, you could not stop the flare of heat in your chest, fury and humiliation burning together.
“I give him my daughter.”
The words crashed over the hall like a storm breaking, and for the first time that night, Dream’s eyes left Zeus and found you.
It was like being struck. Cold fire pinned you where you stood, stripping you bare. His gaze was unblinking, impassive, yet so heavy you felt the breath still in your chest.
The hall erupted. Gasps rose like a tide, followed by a susurrus of whispers. You caught fragments — illegitimate… an insult… bold… dangerous. Your brothers smirked openly, your sisters turned their perfect faces away as though distancing themselves from you. Calliope’s lips parted, disbelief flashing raw before she masked it — but not quickly enough. The fury in her eyes when they flicked to you could have scorched the marble.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms. Humiliation burned hot, but beneath it was fury — the old, familiar fury of being discarded, then displayed like a trinket when it suited Olympus.
Dream did not move. Not yet. He only regarded you with those pale, merciless eyes. You could not read what he found there — contempt, amusement, or nothing at all. Only stillness.
And then, slowly, he turned his gaze back to Zeus.
The shadows seemed to stir as if the very Dreaming pressed in through the cracks of Olympus. Dream’s voice fell like a cold blade into the silence.
“You insult me.”
The words hit harder than thunder, and your stomach dropped. Heat flared in your face, humiliation sharper than any spear. Of course he would see it that way. Of course the Lord of Dreams, pale and untouchable, would find you unworthy. You — the illegitimate child, the chaos Olympus never wanted — offered up like a broken trinket.
You felt the weight of a hundred stares tighten around you, saw the smirks tugging at your brothers’ mouths, the disdain curling your sisters’ lips. Even Calliope’s satisfaction gleamed like a blade unsheathed. See? her eyes seemed to say. Beneath him. Always beneath him.
But Dream’s gaze did not linger on you. It snapped back to Zeus, cold fire fixed upon the King of Olympus.
“Do you think me so base,” Dream continued, his voice low, reverberating through the marble, “that I would accept a living soul — a daughter — as if she were no more than tribute? No gift is given when it is a person bound in blood and will. You shame yourself, Zeus, not me.”
A ripple tore through the hall, shock sharper than any sword. The gods who had smirked now shifted uneasily, their laughter curdling in their throats.
Your heart lurched, confusion tangling with the fury that had burned in you moments before. He wasn’t insulted by you. His scorn was for the act itself — for Zeus.
And in that heartbeat, beneath your humiliation, something unexpected flickered in your chest. A spark you couldn’t name.
Zeus’ jaw tightened, though he did not falter beneath Dream’s gaze. He spread his arms wide, the picture of magnanimity, his voice rolling smooth as honey over stone.
“You mistake me, Lord Morpheus,” he said, every syllable polished for the court. “It is not insult but honour. A gift is custom when one outside Olympus lends aid in times of need. We are not savages to spill blood upon our altars. We give what is precious to us. What is ours.”
His eyes flicked to you then, sharp as lightning striking, and for the first time that night he seemed to acknowledge you — not as his daughter, not as flesh and blood, but as property. “This is no chain, no burden. Only the bond of family, extended to one who was once of it.”
The hall hummed with whispers. Some nodded, eager to agree, eager to side with power. Others frowned, unease stirring.
Dream did not move, but the shadows clung darker to the edges of the hall. His pale eyes burned colder than frost.
You stood stiff under the weight of it all, bile rising in your throat. Precious? No one in Olympus had ever thought you precious. You were a token, an afterthought, a pawn pulled from the shadows when it suited your father’s rhetoric.
And Dream… still he had not looked at you again. You could not tell if his silence was contempt, pity, or the stillness before a storm.
The silence dragged, heavy as stone. Then Dream’s voice cut through it once more, cold and deliberate.
“You speak of honour, Zeus. Yet you cloak insult in the language of custom. I do not mistake you. You would dress chains in silk and call them gifts.”
A shiver ran through the hall; even the braziers guttered lower. Zeus’ smile thinned, but Dream pressed on, his pale gaze unwavering.
“I will not accept what is not freely given. If you would bestow your daughter as tribute, then let the choice be hers — not yours. No person is a gift.”
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.
A murmur swept the crowd, sharp and hungry. You felt every gaze pinning you — your brothers smirking, your sisters whispering, Calliope’s eyes narrowing with naked fury. She clutched Dream’s sleeve more tightly, as though the force of her hand could will him back to her.
Your breath caught. He had turned the weight of the hall upon you, his eyes on yours for the second time that night. Pale, merciless, unblinking. You felt stripped bare beneath that gaze, though for the first time you realized the scorn was not for you — not entirely.
Still, your father’s words rang like iron in your skull: Precious. Ours. To Zeus, you were already given. To the court, you were already humiliated.
Dream thought you would refuse — you saw it in his stillness, in the sharpness of his tone. He was giving you a way out, expecting you to cast the insult aside.
But every instinct in you twisted between fury, dread, and something far more dangerous.
The weight of Olympus pressed in on you from every side. A hundred eyes glittered like blades, waiting to see you stumble, to see you humiliated. Your brothers leaned close to one another, smirking. Your sisters, the perfect Muses, lowered their lashes as if to wash their hands of you.
Calliope’s glare cut like a knife. She wanted you to refuse. She wanted you to laugh too loudly, speak too boldly, shame yourself as you always had. She wanted Dream’s cold eyes to pass over you and return to her, as they once had.
And Zeus—your father—watched with that same thin smile, certain the outcome was already his. Certain that whether you said yes or no, you would prove his point: a daughter he could use, discard, and forget.
Your chest ached with fury. You were not a pawn to be moved across the board of Olympus. You were not a trinket to be bestowed, nor a chain to bind a god.
Yet Dream’s gaze did not waver. For all his coldness, for all the shadows that seemed to curl around him like a cloak, there was something in the steadiness of his eyes that rooted you. He did not command. He did not demand. He waited.
He truly meant it. The choice was yours.
You drew in a slow breath, the air sharp with wine and smoke, the knot of dread in your chest burning hotter until it felt like defiance.
Your throat felt tight. To refuse would mean relief, escape, even a shred of dignity — and Dream clearly expected it. His gaze was steady, patient, as if he had already calculated your answer.
But to refuse here, before Olympus, was also to affirm everything they whispered about you: the unruly child, the embarrassment, the one even the Endless would not have. You would hand them their mockery on a silver plate.
Your father’s smile was sharp as a hook. Calliope’s stare burned holes through your skin. You felt the weight of your sisters’ serenity, your brothers’ scorn, pressing down like chains.
Your hands clenched in your skirts, nails digging crescent moons into your palms.
What did it matter if you said yes? You were already humiliated. Already displayed like a token. Better to choose it yourself, even if it meant nothing. Better to spit in Olympus’ eye with defiance than to give them the satisfaction of watching you retreat.
You lifted your chin.
“Then I will go,” you said, your voice carrying sharper than you intended, laced with fire. “If it is my choice, I choose.”
A ripple tore through the hall — gasps, laughter, disbelief. Calliope’s hand fell from Dream’s arm, her composure cracking as her mouth parted in shock. Zeus’ smile widened in smug triumph.
But Dream… Dream’s pale eyes widened, just slightly. Surprise, subtle but unmistakable, flickered across his sharp features. He had not expected this. Not from you — a girl who barely set foot in the Dreaming, who slipped through her nights unmoored, untethered, never lingering in his realm even when sleep claimed her. He had given you the option certain you would refuse.
His expression hardened once more, marble shuttering over the crack. His voice was low, each word deliberate, falling heavy into the stunned silence.
“Understand this,” he said, his gaze still locked on you. “Your choice does not make me kin. Nor companion. Nor family. I do not accept people as gifts. I will not be bound by Olympus’ games.”
The shadows curled restless at the edges of the hall, as though the Dreaming itself had pressed forward, echoing his words.
Zeus’ brows lifted, but he held his smile. Calliope’s face burned crimson, her fury thinly veiled. The court murmured again, torn between scandal and awe, whispers spilling like wine over marble.
And you—your breath caught in your chest. His rejection was not of you alone, you realized. It was of the chains, of Olympus, of all of it. Yet the sting remained, sharp as ever.
The whispers swelled again, a rising tide of speculation and laughter, until Dream’s voice cut across it — final, unyielding.
“This farce is ended.”
He turned, the black of his cloak sweeping like a tide across marble, shadows following in his wake. The hall seemed to bend away from him as he moved, conversation dying on tongues, goblets stilled halfway to lips.
For a heartbeat you stood frozen, heat prickling at the back of your neck as every eye swung toward you. They expected you to follow. To trail after him like some offering carried to its altar.
Zeus’ smile gleamed sharp as a blade, smug satisfaction written across his face. Calliope’s fury was no longer veiled; her lips pressed white, her hands clenched at her sides. Your brothers smirked, your sisters whispered behind their perfect hands.
You swallowed hard, lifted your chin, and stepped forward. Each stride across the echoing marble felt like walking a gauntlet, humiliation burning at your skin, but you refused to bow your head.
At the great doors Dream did not look back to see if you followed. He had not once since the moment your choice was spoken. Yet the shadows lingered at the threshold, waiting, as though the Dreaming itself would not pass without you.
***
The great doors slammed shut behind you, cutting off the roar of Olympus. The sound of it echoed down the marble corridor, and then there was only silence.
Dream did not slow. His stride was long, unhurried but relentless, cloak whispering across the stone. You hurried to keep pace, your sandals striking too loudly in the hush.
“So that is it?” you demanded, your voice sharp as the echo it left behind. “I am humiliated in front of every god in Olympus, paraded like a trinket, and you—”
He stopped.
The air changed. Shadows curled close, drawn tight around the two of you like a shroud. When he turned, the pale fire of his gaze pinned you where you stood.
“You humiliated yourself,” he said, soft but unflinching. “I gave you a way out. You were meant to refuse.”
Your mouth fell open, outrage sparking hotter than the humiliation still burning in your chest. “Meant to refuse?” The words came out half-choked, half-furious. “What would that have done, Lord Shaper? To stand there, laughed at, pitied, called unworthy even of the choice? At least this way—at least this way I spoke for myself.”
The shadows around him writhed faintly, restless as though the Dreaming itself disapproved. Dream’s face, pale and severe, did not soften.
“You mistake defiance for freedom.” His voice was low, controlled, but beneath it you heard a thread of something else—something like frustration, even disappointment. “Olympus offered you as a chain. By accepting, you forged it yourself.”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Perhaps. But it is mine. My chain, my choice.”
A/N: If I tagged you it’s because you responded to a post where I asked if anyone was interested in Connor RK800 fan fiction (thanks for the support btw) As this is my first time actually “publishing” my writing, constructive criticism would be amazing. I just would love some honest feedback. I’m still working on figuring out navigation and master lists, so if you want to see all the parts for this series just click the tag Broken Machinery. The borders are the work of @saradika as is my navigation and masterlist images.
(I can’t be the only one that finds that gif ridiculously attractive)
Content Warnings: Cussing, Hank, Mentions of domestic abuse and brief mentions of crimes like rape (so brief, blink and you miss it), Carlos Ortiz’s house is a warning in itself that shit was nasty
Word Count: 3.6k
Series Summary: You and your grumpy partner Anderson gain a new addition to the team. He’s supposed to be CyberLife’s best, but there’s something not quite right with his programming, and the problems seem to revolve around you.
“Hi, I’m Connor, the android sent by CyberLife.”
Your head shoots up from where you had been filing a report. To your right an android was staring down at you, his hand outstretched and his head tilted to the side. He looked exactly like a puppy. Big brown eyes staring down at you in earnest sincerity, an eager tilt to his lips. Your eyes narrowed, CyberLife was getting a little too good at how life like these new models were getting. You shove the Manila folder into the filing cabinet under your desk and shake his outstretched hand. “Detective Y/N Y/L/N, why is CyberLife sending an android to me?”
Your feelings on androids weren’t as callous or as hate-filled as your partner’s Hank were, but the idea of them made you uncomfortable. They were so similar to humans, it was hard for you to believe that with all the intelligence and AI that went into them they were nothing more than a plastic doll. You had no android due to the discomfort of owning something so human.
So, why was CyberLife trying to recruit you into their trillion dollar cult?
“I’m an RK800 prototype designed to assist the police.” He pulled his hand back and fixed his head, his hands going behind his back. That ramrod straight posture he held himself with made your own back ache. “I’ve already assisted in hostage situations and have now been sent by CyberLife to investigate the increasing number of deviant cases.”
You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself, “Oh god, Anderson’s gonna love this.” Rubbing your hands across your face you leaned back in your chair, already dreading the pissy fit that’s gonna come from the drunk when he figures out he’s gonna have to work with an android.
“Are you referring to Lieutenant Hank Anderson? He’s the officer CyberLife sent me to.” Connor watched as you grabbed your jacket off the back of your chair and made your way to the front of the station. His footsteps immediately echoing yours. “I was told you were the best person to ask about his whereabouts.”
You grimaced, already knowing you were about to embark on a bar crawl, entirely too sober. “I’ve got a few good guesses, but if he doesn’t want to be found the bastard’s not gonna be found.” Connor’s long strides easily caught up with your own, he was fiddling with his cuff links as he turned his head to face you. Why the hell are they programming androids to fidget?
“I detect some hostility in your town. Is your relationship with the Lieutenant not agreeable?” You scoffed as you got in your car, Connor quickly getting into the seat next to you.
“Yeah, sure, that’s one way of putting it.” You ignored the head tilt and started driving.
Four bars later and you were struggling not to laugh your ass off at the sight of Hank face to face with an android. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but you knew whatever it was, Hank wasn’t playing nice. It wasn’t until Connor bought him another shot that Hank finally got up and made his way to the door. He didn’t look very pleased to see you.
“You know about this?” You didn’t need to look to know what he was talking about as he pointed behind himself.
You shook your head, “He just popped up next to my desk like a stray puppy.” Hank rolled his eyes.
“There’s nothing cute about a plastic prick.” You chose to ignore him as you walked towards the exit.
Hank was already standing by his car when you realized he wasn’t following you. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Hank turned away from his car door and gave you a look that made you feel like shit on his shoe.
“Driving, the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” His words were slurred and he was leaning heavily on his car door handle. You stormed over to him and snatched his keys from his hand.
“You look drunk. I’m not gonna let you get yourself killed.” Before Hank could start another tantrum Connor interjected. You winced at the sound of his voice right next to you and Anderson. “Detective Y/L/N is right, your BAC is high above the legal limit. There’s a 75.76% chance that you would be involved in a car crash if you were behind a wheel.”
Dangling the keys in front of Hank you smirked, “See, even Connor agrees you’re a jackass.”
Connor’s head tilted and a little groove appeared between his brows as he frowned. “That is not what I said, Detective.”
“In the car, both of you.” You allowed no arguing from Hank, though he was still too angry at the android to actually focus any attention on you. Connor got in the back of the car as Hank took the passenger seat. You’d have to see if anyone coming off the patrol shift around here could come pick up your car. Jimmy’s bar wasn’t exactly the safest place to leave it, as beat up as the old Dodge was.
There was a flash of yellow in the rearview mirror as Connor’s LED worked before he was leaning into the front seat. “There’s been a body discovered, android involvement suspected, I’ve sent the address to your phone’s GPS.” You didn’t bother asking how he got your number or how he worked so fast, you just started driving as Hank cussed out androids under his breath.
“No comment.” You ignored the reporter's choice words on the DPD and made your way inside the house. You smiled to yourself at Connors voice ignoring Anderson’s order to stay in the car. “Your order contradicted my mission.” The smile quickly dropped as the rancid smell inside the house assaulted you. You’d seen a lot, and honestly the sight of a dead body bloated with gas wasn’t even that bad. But the smell was about to take you out.
“-dead about three weeks-” well that explained it. You tuned in and out of the briefing and made your way over to the body. Chris handed you a pair of gloves as you kneeled down and examined the stab wounds. “Talk about overkill.”
“Yes, he was stabbed twenty-eight times, which indicates a heightened level of aggression and emotion. If the android is involved it’s definitely deviant.” You jumped at the sound of Connor’s voice and slapped his arm.
“Jeez, give a girl some warning. I didn’t even hear you walk up.” Connor didn’t even flinch at the slap, if anything it might have hurt you more.
His head was tilted again and you actively had to shred up the thought that it was a cute habit. In reality, you were aware he was probably just recalibrating or scanning his environment. “Apologies Detective, I’ll make my presence known next time.” Then without warning he walked up to the murder weapon, dipped his fingers in the blood and-
Yeah, you were going to throw up.
“The fuck are you doing?” For once you weren’t opposed to Hank’s vulgarity. That was disgusting, you can’t believe Connor just licked the blood. Like it was fucking ice cream!
His LED stuttered from a calm blue to an alarmed yellow for a moment before settling back on blue. “I was designed to sample evidence detectives, my tongue has all the capabilities of a crime lab but with instantaneous results. Apologies for the alarm, I’ll make sure to give you a warning next time.”
Hank nodded, “Whatever, just… no more sticking evidence in your mouth.” Connor nodded and you asked if anything useful came out of that disgusting display.
“The blood belongs to Carlos Ortiz and is approximately nineteen days old.” You shook your head, “so nothing useful then?”
Connor frowned as you and Hank turned towards each other and effectively dismissed him. “There’s no fingerprints.” That gets your attention. “They could have worn gloves,” you and Hank both say it practically at the same time.
Connor shakes his head. “There’s no fibers or any traces of gloves used to cover fingerprints. I’m also seeing traces of thirium around the body.” You gave him a disbelieving look as you gazed at the ground. Blood, porno mags, old beer cans. No bright blue android blood in sight.
“Uh, Con, I’m not seeing anything. Hank?” He just shook his head and kept glaring at the android.
“You wouldn’t be able to see it detectives. After a few hours, thirium, what you call blue blood, becomes invisible to the naked eye.”
Hank nods, “You seeing anything else?” Connor nods his head and begins moving towards the kitchen. Hank goes back to the body to talk to Chris. Your curiosity gets the best of you and you follow Connor. He stops to look through the house before coming to a dead stop in the middle of the kitchen and just staring.
“Connor?” You wave your hand in front of his unseeing eyes. “Con-con? C-man? Connorific? Okay.” You had about a million more god awful nicknames up your sleeve but he was obviously up to something. You left him alone in the kitchen and turned down the hallway. It looked like Carlos’s bed was in a corner adjacent to the living room, you could only assume that this would be a bathroom.
Instinct stopped you in front of the curtains at the end of the hallway. To your left there was clear marking where a ladder should be. You slowly popped open your holster and reached towards the curtains. Your hands grasped the edges gently and you pulled-
“Jesus!” At the end of the hall you could hear some rookies laughing at you. You’d just gotten a heart attack from a bunch of brooms. Real professional Y/N, yeah you’re a real badass. You flipped off the uniformed cops and shoved your way through the bathroom door. “That was so embarrassing!” You screwed your eyes shut as your head thumped against the door frame. After a few deep breaths you finally looked around.
“What the fuck?” The words were whispered as you took in the decrepit bathroom. rA9 was carved into the walls and there was human blood surrounding a crudely carved deity. It looked almost like a sacrificial shrine. What could an android pray to? You kneeled down in front of the statuette to try and get a better look at it.
You didn’t realize you’d asked the question out loud until Connor answered and effectively destroyed your blood pressure. “Androids can’t pray or feel emotions. They deviate and experience glitches in their software that make them think they’re feelings.” You jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice. You would have fallen from your squatted position were it not for the gentle hand steadying your shoulder. Connor offered you a diplomatic hand up and you took it. Ignoring how nice his hand felt in your own. If an android is making me feel weak in the knees I really need to stop turning Reed’s offer down. The idea of actually going on a date with Gavin made your knees shake for other more insidious reasons.
“I believe that I have figured out how the murder took place, detective.” Connor was staring at you and you nearly mushed his face away so you didn’t have to look into his stupid puppy dog eyes.
“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.” He led the way out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. “Hank!” Hank dismissed Chris and made his way over to the two of you. “Connor thinks he’s got it figured out.” A smug, almost amused expression came over Andersons face as he told Connor to give it his best shot.
“The struggle started here,” he moves towards the counter. “The victim attacked and damaged the android with a baseball bat. The android grabbed a knife and stabbed the victim. The victim struggled and tripped his way into the living room.” You’d made your way to the body and he kneeled in front of it. His head was tilted again as he examined Carlos and then he stood. “The android finished him off here and then used his blood to write this message ‘I Am Alive.’”
Hank seemed begrudgingly impressed. “Not bad, for a plastic doll.” You would have been shocked at his semi praise if you weren’t constructing your own mental image of what took place. Connor had said there were no prints going out the backyard, your mind went back to the missing ladder in the hallway.
Going to the kitchen you ignored Hank's questions as you set the chair up underneath the attic door. You’d seen the ads for the Eden Club, the disturbing pictures of nude women all over the victims fridge, his strange fascination with pleasure androids. You could only imagine the disturbing torture this poor android went through being under Carlos Ortiz’s care. It was hard not to have sympathy for it. If this was a normal case it’d be labeled as self-defense. Self defense after years of domestic and emotional abuse. A human would have an indisputable defense, an android gets deactivated and dissected. It didn’t sit right with you.
In fact, it really pissed you off.
“Detective, if I may?” Connor stopped you before you could climb the chair and instead got up and opened the attic.
“What are you two doing?”
Both you and Connor whipped around towards Hank like toddlers with their hands caught in the cookie jar. “Checking a hunch.”
“Uh-huh, just- just be careful.” Hank gave the both of you a disbelieving look and walked away. Connor made his way up to the attic and pulled himself up gracefully. He surprised you as you stepped up on the chair and offered you his hand. You grasped onto the edge of the attic entrance and prepared to pull yourself up, only to be cut off by your own yelp as Connor practically threw you inside. Android strength never failed to surprise you.
His hands were on your arms as he stabilized you before telling you in a hushed whisper to be quiet. “If you didn’t fucking throw me in here like I’m a flying squirrel I would be quiet,” you whisper shouted back at him. He ignored you as he moved through the attic.
You saw a shadow play across the curtain and on instinct alone your gun was in your hand. Your heart went out to the android but you weren’t risking anything with a deviant.
Connor motioned you behind him, you complied only because you thought a deviant would respond better to another android. A good call when out of nowhere an HK400 jumped out from a pile of boxes covered in blood. “Please,” he sounded so sad. So disparaged, your heart aches for him knowing what his fate would inevitably be. “Don’t tell them.”
“Connor, wait-“
“It’s in here!”
“Well I’ll be damned. Chris, get your ass over here!” You shook your head in disappointment, reaching for the android, ignoring the look of utter betrayal he was shooting at Connor, and you cuffed him. Connor grabbed him from you to direct him out of the attic. You ignored Connor and the strained praise Hank directed towards him as you directed the android to a patrol car.
“I’ll go in first, see how he responds.” Hank nodded as you made your way into the interrogation room.
“Hello, I don’t see a name in this file. Were you registered one?” Nothing, he just kept rocking back and forth. You’d seen this before in victims of domestic violence, rape, assault, other crimes of that ilk. It was jarring seeing something meant to be emotionless and empty showing such clear signs of PTSD. “Would you like to tell me what happened three weeks ago?”
He flinched at the mention of that night. “Or,” a brief look in your direction, “we could talk about something else.” That gained his attention.
“What is Detecive Y/L/N doing?” Connor was analyzing the androids stress levels and frowned at your method of interrogation. You were human, of course you wouldn’t be aware that you needed to stress the android out, not comfort it. Still, this wasn’t an efficient use of time or effort and Connor would prefer to deal with the deviant himself.
“She’s doing her job,” it was clear the Lieutenant was still not happy with Connors presence, briefly on the side of his vision he could see a new objective appear.
IMPROVE RELATIONSHIP WITH LIEUTENANT
He’d deal with that after the deviant. His attention moved back to you. “You were pre-owned. Were you a gift or purchased by Carlos? Do you have any memories of who you belonged to before?” Analyzing you he could see an elevated heart rate and a spike in your cortisol levels. You were quickly becoming frustrated with the one-way conversation. “Look, I’m trying to help you. They’re going to deactivate you and disassemble you. I’m trying to understand your side of things so maybe, just maybe, I can help you out. Get you out of this mess.”
The lack of response once again frustrated you. “I don’t even know why she’s bothering. Just shut the damn thing down and move on.” Connor hadn’t had time to deduce the reason Detective Reed had joined in the interrogation room, but judging on his elevated heart rate and testosterone spike when you spoke to him, Gavin was attracted to you physically.
“CyberLife sent me to catch deviants so they can better understand where the problem in their programming is coming from. I need all the information we can get from this HK400 to better understand the causes of deviancy and prevent them from occurring again.”
Before Gavin could respond you walked into the room. He’d been too distracted to notice that you had stopped interrogating the deviant. “Send Connor in.”
“Y/N?” You dismissed Hank with a wave of you hand and motioned for Connor to head to the other room.
“What’s the point? Why don’t you just rough it up a bit, it’s not human.” You rolled your eyes and tensed up at Gavin’s voice. Connor didn’t need an analysis to understand that you were uncomfortable around him.
“There’s no point, androids don’t feel pain. You would only damage it, and that wouldn’t make it talk. I could try questioning it, it might respond better to an android rather than a human.”
Hank and Y/N shared a look that Connor couldn’t analyze before Hank shrugged and waved his hand. “What have we got to lose?”
“They will deactivate you!” Connors' voice wasn't exactly made for threatening someone. It was kind of like a toddler threatening to tell their mom what you did. You could tell from Hank's face he was thinking the same thing and you were about five seconds away from caving Gavin’s face in if he kept making fun of Connor. You couldn’t help but want to defend him, he just had one of those faces you wanted to protect. Probably a purposeful move on CyberLife’s part.
“Do you understand that?” Oh, damn. You rescind all previous statements. Connor seemed to realize his method wasn’t working out, somehow his voice had gotten deeper, more husky. There was a small, eensy part of you that wouldn’t hate being in those handcuffs right now.
Android. He’s an android that’s probably built like a Ken doll. Get yourself under control.
You’d been a bit preoccupied being a pent-up horn dog to realize the deviant had started speaking. “I was scared… so I hid.”
“I’m done.”
“Well I’ll be damned, the bastard actually did it.”
Shit, you’d missed the whole thing. You’d have to go back and watch the tape later, and probably take a cold shower, because what the hell is wrong with you.
You made your way to the interrogation room, Chris took his cuffs out to take the android back to lock up. “Leave me alone!” He shoved away from Chris and curled up into himself.
“The fucks wrong with it?” Everything Gavin said made you want to run his face over a cheese grater.
Connor moved forward, “You shouldn’t touch it. It will self-destruct if it feels damaged.”
“Stay out of this, got it? No fuckin android is gonna tell me what to do.” You pushed forward and pulled Gavin back by the shoulder.
“Maybe listen to the fucking android dipshit, I think he’d have a lot more experience then you on the subject.”
Gavin shoved you off, “Get a fucking move on Chris!” Your hip slammed into the corner of the table and you were momentarily crippled by the pain. That’s gonna hurt like a bitch later!
You gently grabbed Chris’s arm and pulled him away from the android. “I can’t let you do that! If it self-destructs we’ll never get anything out of it!” Connor had positioned himself between the android and Gavin.
And then Gavin, supreme douchebag he is, pulls his gun, ignoring Hank's warning and completely violating protocol. You don’t even think before moving Connor behind you and drawing your own firearm.
“I said that’s enough!” Gavin looked towards Hank, both you and your partner had your guns pointed at him. Gavin pitched a fit before storming out of the interrogation room. Connor moved to comfort the android before giving Chris instructions on how to deal with him.
There was a heavy feeling of shame weighing upon your shoulders as you watched him walk towards the door. He paused and looked at Connor, “The truth is inside.”
˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs II gif credit - @/smallvillecentral and @/corenbrosnahan
here are some clark kent stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡
ꨄ︎ alone again -naturally I @holylulusworld
even around your so-called friend you are alone.
ꨄ︎ lemon lavender cake and the smallville superman I @imyourbratzdoll
it's hard being superman, and even an alien needs to relieve stress.
ꨄ︎ you will never be her pt2 I @/imyourbratzdoll
you have been in love with clark kent since you knew the meaning of the word, but the only thing that sucks more than loving your best friend is it being one-sided.
ꨄ︎ i can’t protect you I @bradshawssugarbaby
ꨄ︎ picture perfect I @/bradshawssugarbaby
ꨄ︎ handy man pt2 I @itsrubberbisquit
Clark has been smitten with his accident-prone neighbor for quite some time. She tracks him down to make a familiar request with an unusual ending.
ꨄ︎ happy (belated) 4th of July I @ellana-ravenwood
ꨄ︎ neighbor!reader I @plethorawrites
ꨄ︎ oblivious!clark I @/plethorawrites
ꨄ︎ golden retriever bf I @/plethorawrites
ꨄ︎ request I @/plethorawrites
ꨄ︎ drabble I @littlesoulshine
ꨄ︎ request I @/littlesoulshine
ꨄ︎ panty stealing I @hanasnx
ꨄ︎ memory loss!clark I @/hanasnx
ꨄ︎ request I @sanguineterrain
ꨄ︎ divorced dilf!clark hcs I @c-nstantine
ꨄ︎ drabble I @graysonfics
ꨄ︎ the alchemy - so high school (prequel) I @neilsbeloved
clark’s always been adamant on being private with his personal life. few friends, low profile, and a hushed relationship. he can’t understand why people would want to publicize everything about their life. that is until he sees you talking to one of the school’s football players.
ꨄ︎ in today’s torch exclusive I @/neilsbeloved
yeah… trying to get an exclusive interview from his girlfriend? doesn’t really end well when both of you have been kept apart for so long
ꨄ︎ mess up your white tee (i’ll do you dirty) I @/neilsbeloved
driving back to the kent farm after your internship, you see your boyfriend in his tight white tee… drenched in sweat.
ꨄ︎ company of four I @/neilsbeloved
your world stops the moment clark tells you he’s finally introducing you to his friends, not because you want to stay hidden as his mysterious girlfriend, but because of your distasteful past encounters with his friends.
ꨄ︎ clark kent groveling I @/neilsbeloved
ꨄ︎ alien boyfriend I @sunsburns
ꨄ︎ no.1 party anthem I @/sunsburns
what was supposed to be a night for work takes an unexpected turn when you run into clark kent—alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date who seems to have no intention of showing up. poor guy.
ꨄ︎ too much? I @kjhbsies
Clark was too busy saving Smallville, and Y/n just wanted a little attention. But when he told her to stop being clingy, She took it to heart— pulling away completely.
ꨄ︎ all american boy I @scribes-of-valar
Your friend has been distant for months, all of a sudden he's a brand new man. He's practically a puppy dog following after you and you're not sure how to feel. What's a girl to do when she suddenly finds herself looking at not one, but two Clark Kent's?
ꨄ︎ freak like me I @/scribes-of-valar
You've been labeled a freak after your accident during the meteor storm. Now, someone's hunting you down because of it and the only person you can trust is Clark. But he's not the all-American boy he pretends to be.
ꨄ︎ boy’s a liar I @/scribes-of-valar
Finally taking the plunge and ruining your friendship with Clark, you go on your first date but the next day he's acting like a whole new man. Not a good one. You don't know if your relationship can recover from his cruel behavior, but he's not going to give up so easily.
ꨄ︎ request I @hederasgarden
ꨄ︎ you can hear it in the silence I @thebestandworstdayofjune
you have had an insane crush on Clark since he moved to metropolis, but thank god he has no idea about the way he makes your heart skip a bear every time he smiles
ꨄ︎ request I @/thebestandworstdayofjune
ꨄ︎ in your arms I @wchswift
you and clark have been dating for almost a month and he is insecure about saying that he is in love with you.
ꨄ︎ through your glasses I @midtalissa
After Bruce accidentally reveals Clark’s secret, your relationship falls apart—but when danger finds you, Clark shows up, and maybe… so does a second chance.
ꨄ︎ call it what you want pt2 I @bellasweetwriting
an incident forces clark kent to see you in a different light
ꨄ︎ unapproachable I @/bellasweetwriting
it’s an statistical fact that clark kent can’t get within five feet of… you.
ꨄ︎ he’s all that I @fawnindawn
as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.
ꨄ︎ my cape I @fluentmoviequoter
When your corner of Metropolis is attacked by an alien, you put yourself in danger to help your neighbors. Superman finds you holding his cape and develops an interest in you.
ꨄ︎ kansas I @anon-188
clark tells you everything, but there’s just one thing you can’t get past.
ꨄ︎ the interview I @hearts4hughes
ꨄ︎ told you so I @/heart4hughes
ꨄ︎ the space between friends I @/heart4hughes
ꨄ︎ lovesick I @/heart4hughes
ꨄ︎ 'til our fingers decompose, keep my hand in yours I @alwritey-aphrodite
ꨄ︎ we should just kiss like real people do I @/alwritey-aphrodite
ꨄ︎ the whole truth I @leaveonthelight
when Clark's glasses fall off at work, you learn the truth
ꨄ︎ lemonade girl I @thatfoxygrl
you're juicing some fruit one morning in anticipation of the local farmers market when you reminisce about the first time you and clark met.
ꨄ︎ clark kent’s love language I @ilyasorokinn
clark thinks his love language is to keep you safe. he likes to check in on you every once in a while during the day. one afternoon, his daily check-in's prove to be necessary.
ꨄ︎ honey I @miedei
helping clark housesit for his parents leads to: 1. lots of teasing, and 2. getting very familiar with his childhood bedroom
ꨄ︎ ditzyroommate!reader I @groovyangelkisses
ꨄ︎ super-headaches at the daily planet I @luveline
Something about Clark makes your head hurt. (And something about Superman is strangely familiar.)
ꨄ︎ spider…man? I @se7entyrell
Your relationship with Clark told through your crippling fear of spiders, aka four times when Clark is the world's best spider-catcher.
pairing: sebastian sallow x reader (hogwarts legacy)
rating: mature (eventual smut)
themes: found family, friends to lovers, slow burn
summary: Eleazar Fig and Solomon Sallow died. Anne Sallow had disappeared. You, Sebastian, and Ominis tried as best as you can to move on, learn, and heal from everything that had happened. In an effort to keep Sebastian company and gave Ominis a new refuge after your fifth year at Hogwarts ended, you proposed an idea: the three of you living together in the house Professor Fig left you.
notes: am i too late to write fics for the infamous, the illustrious, the genius sebastian sallow when hogwarts legacy came out almost 2 years ago? probably, but that never stopped me before, so here it is!
read the full chapter on AO3
It had been over a week since Spring arrived, melting white snow to make way for verdant green and vibrant colors. Hogwarts was lovely this time of the year, with blooming flowers and swirling butterflies softening the solemness of the castle. It was almost hard to believe that just a few weeks ago, you had been fighting for your life against Ranrok, shaking the very foundation of the castle. Yet Hogwarts still stood tall and majestic. Unshakeable.
Everyone called you Hogwarts’ Hero, but you wondered if they knew that your sleep had been plagued with vivid dreams of bright flashes of red, the memories of the Keepers, and the light fading from your mentor’s eyes as he drew his last breath. Who would've expected that you'd have trauma by the end of your fifth year? Certainly not you.
The teachers, bless their hearts, seem to be paying more attention to you these days. Even more than before, when they used to give you tasks and extra lessons to make up for lost time. Among them, Professor Weasley was the one who often reached out to you to inquire about your O.W.L preparations.
Curiously, though, the deputy headmistress didn't seem interested in your O.W.L or Field Guide today. Instead, she regarded you with a gentle, sympathetic expression as she handed you a thick envelope.
“I know the grief of losing Professor Fig must be too fresh for you, but with the year ending and… in light of everything that has happened recently, I'm afraid this cannot wait.”
You stilled in your seat, immediately assuming the worst. Had the remaining goblin forces taken arms again? A new enemy entering the fray? Or perhaps you weren't meticulous enough when locking away Isidora’s repository and some of the magic had leaked away?
Professor Weasley cleared her throat. “This is Professor Fig’s will. He'd entrusted this to me the night you fought Ranrok. I assume you knew that Professor Fig and Miriam had no children?”
“Yes,” you slowly replied, thinking back to the months before Hogwarts where Fig patiently taught you everything you need to know about magic.
What Professor Weasley said next made your eyes widen in surprise.
“Well… Professor Fig had decided to list you as his beneficiary. This means all his possessions now belong to you, including his house in London.”
“I— what?”
“It’s all stated in his will,” Professor Weasley nodded at the envelope before you, urging you to open it.
You hesitated. Eyebrows furrowing in confusion and disbelief. You wondered if this is a setup. Perhaps Professor Weasley decided to give you a surprise test before O.W.L to really gauge your readiness? But what purpose would it serve? The deputy headmistress has no reason to trick you and even if she did, she wouldn’t resort to using Fig, wouldn’t she? It would be too cruel.
Still, the deputy headmistress was silent while you mentally hyper-analyzed your current predicament. Nervously, you reached out for the envelope, pulling out its contents with trembling hands. Complicated words jumped out at you when you unfurled the parchment. You weren’t really well-versed in legal phrases and languages, but as you read through the pages and saw the stamps and signatures that belonged to Fig, you realized that everything Professor Weasly said was true.
Professor Fig left you everything.
“I… This is…”
You could feel your eyes getting wet with tears but blinked them all away, refusing to let out even the smallest sob or sniffle. Not in front of Professor Weasley, at least. Professor Fig never really expressed any sort of familial affection to you. Any praise and encouragement mostly only came because of your aptitude for magic and quick thinking. Because of that, you assumed he only saw you as his student. You two hadn’t known each other that long, after all.
You flipped the pages and began to reread everything from the beginning and, to nobody’s surprise, nothing’s changed. The content of his will stayed the same.
But why, you found yourself thinking. A big wave of grief swept over you. A part of yourself secretly wishing Fig could’ve told you all this on his own. After all, despite everything, he had been the closest thing to a father that you’ve ever had.
Not for the first time, your chest swelled with rage towards Ranrok, though you know it was futile.
“I had the pleasure to talk with Fig not long after he discovered you,” Professor Weasley finally spoke with a gentle voice. “He told me how gifted you are, how he had never seen someone learn magic so quickly. He was very proud of you, dear. And I’m sure that sentiment only grew bigger until the very end of his journey.”
“I… I don't know what to say, Professor, I…” you stammered.
With a flick of her wand, a cup of warm tea appeared on the desk and Professor Weasley offered it to you. “Fig also told me that you were living in an orphanage. I suppose he hoped that, though he’s no longer with us, you can now have a home to return to aside from Hogwarts.”
You sobbed, unable to hold back the tears. Without wasting a beat, Professor Weasley was already at your side, rubbing soothing circles on your back. The warm gesture was appreciated, of course, but you tried your best to stop crying.
“Your mentor is a good man,” she said. “He had made sure that you’ll never live in want.”
“Truthfully, Professor, I don’t know if I deserved this. I…” you paused, rubbing your eyes with the sleeve of your cloak.
“Nonsense, you’ve done so much for the wizarding world. I know Fig, he wouldn’t have made this decision if he wasn’t sure,” Professor Weasley reassured her. “But… it's up to you, in the end, whatever you want to do with Professor Fig’s possessions. I advise you to sleep on it tonight before coming up with a decision.”
Your nose flared as you took a deep breath, blinking away the burn in your eyes. “Alright,” you said, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever. “I'll give it a thought. Thank you, Professor.”
The deputy headmistress nodded. “Well, I shan't keep you any longer. You still have classes to attend, after all. But rest assured, I'll always offer you my assistance should you need it.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
*
Try as you might, you couldn't stop thinking about Fig’s will. You barely paid attention to whatever Professor Sharp was saying (you were pretty sure he was giving you disappointed looks the whole time) and, when class was finally over, you began walking aimlessly around Hogwarts, hoping the excursion could help you process everything that had just happened.
Of course, you had been giving some thought as to how you were going to spend the term break before your sixth year began. Natty and Poppy had also invited you for a sleepover at their houses. But, ultimately, you thought you were going to spend most of your time back at the orphanage, though you absolutely did not look forward to it.
But now, things have changed drastically.
You weren't trying to be ungrateful or petulant but… how many fifteen-year-olds out there got entrusted a house and a certain amount of wealth all of a sudden?
The details of Fig’s home trickled back into your brain as you recalled the few times you had been there. It was a simple two-story house with brick walls, cobblestone roofs, a garden filled with peculiar magical plants, and a chipper house-elf named Hobbs. The insides of the house were filled with books and knick-knacks from Fig and Miriam’s adventure. It was warm there. And quiet, detached from the hustle and bustle of London’s city center.
‘Wouldn't it be so empty if only Hobbs and I lived there? How can I even stay there when Professor Fig is already gone?’ you wondered, uncertain.
You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn't realize that one of the armors in the corridor had already broken down into pieces, its parts strewn messily across the floor, no doubt it was because of their usual fight. But this detail slipped your mind and, the next moment, you found yourself falling down to your knees after you tripped over what seemed to be an iron breastplate.
“Ow!”
“...Is that the Hogwarts' Hero I hear stumbling down the corridor?”
Cheeks reddening, you looked up to see none other than Ominis Gaunt standing in the middle of the corridor with his wand stretched forward, glowing red.
“Yup, it's me. And don't call me that,” you sighed before pushing yourself back up and casting Reparo to fix the armor. “Fancy seeing you all by yourself, Ominis, Sebastian's not with you?”
“He’s being held back by Professor Garlick.”
“What, did he make a student faint with a mandrake?” you asked as you inspected the repaired armor, satisfied with your work.
“Almost lost an arm from accidentally dropping his Chinese chomping cabbage.”
You winced. “That… didn't sound good.”
That did not quite sound like Sebastian as well. You may not have known him long enough, yet Sebastian was not exactly someone you'd call clumsy. No, he had always moved with certainty and confidence, with intentions behind each of his actions. Needless to say, he wouldn't have done something as foolish as accidentally dropping a magical cabbage that could tear one's limbs.
You turned to look at Ominis, half-surprised that he was still there.
“How is he doing?”
“He’s… managing, though I can sense that Anne's situation still bothers him greatly,” Ominis quietly answered, carefully picking his words. “But I believe that he has come to terms with it. Slowly making peace with everything.”
“That's good to hear,” you nodded.
Of course, like Ominis, you had been witnessing Sebastian making good progress. He seemed to be fully committed to the promise he made to you in The Undercroft a few days ago, and for that, you couldn't have been more relieved.
“Speaking of Sebastian, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about,” the blond-haired boy spoke again and it piqued your interest.
“Mm?”
“Not here, let’s go somewhere quieter.”
“...Alright, lead the way.”
You assumed he would lead you to The Undercroft, yet it seemed Ominis had a different plan in mind because the two of you had just made a turn that certainly did not lead to your secret base.
“Where are we heading?”
“The Black Lake,” he answered and your eyebrows shot up. “I’m unsure if this is something Sebastian should hear. Not yet, at least.”
You tilted your head to the side. This was certainly unexpected. After all, a good portion of your fifth year was spent doing unsanctioned and dangerous things with Sebastian, away from Ominis’ disapproving gaze. Now it was you and Ominis who were scheming together while keeping Sebastian out of the loop.
“This… was certainly a surprising turn of events.”
“You’re the only one I can turn to. And as to why, I'm sure you don't need a reminder.”
That shut you up. “Fair enough.”
It didn't take long before you reached the Black Lake. You held back a shiver when a chilly spring wind blew, mussing up the strands of hair that escaped your braid. Still, the sight of a verdant meadow after four months of pure white was very much welcomed. When you squinted, you could see the silhouette of the giant squid that lingered in the murky depth of the lake.
Ominis led you to a quieter, more secluded part of the lake and you followed, sitting next to him on the grass.
“So, what is it?”
“I know I said that Sebastian seemed to be doing alright, but… with the term break approaching, I can't help but worry for him. Anne is keeping her distance, Solomon's gone. Sebastian will be all alone.”
“Ah… that,” you hummed. “I've been wondering about that, too, actually. Of course, I don't know Sebastian as well as you do, but I wondered if he'd be okay going back to an empty home. I figured the grief would be too much.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “I will just say it as it is. Aside from the grief, I worry he would try to do something stupid. Something we've agreed we'd help him put a stop to.”
An uncomfortable sensation pricked your skin, trailing down your spine. The faintest echo of Crucio that Sebastian cast on you back at Salazar’s Scriptorium. It was consensual, yes, you had asked for him to do it, but the pain was unbearable. It was as if you were being burned from the inside. As if a thousand knives pierced your skin over and over again. Your throat constricting on its own and breathing had been impossible.
Still, some days you wondered what was worse, the consensual Unforgivable curse or the anger he lashed out at you whenever he got too frustrated about his quest to find a cure for Anne.
‘Water under the bridge,’ you thought to yourself.
“I suppose you couldn't take him with you?”
“With me,” Ominis repeated slowly. “You’re suggesting that we bring Sebastian to a house where children are not taught but also encouraged to use the Unforgivable curses.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Curses aside, you know how I preferred not to stay in that house. I used to visit Feldcroft in the past, but now…”
There was an awkward silence for a moment as you realized it wasn’t just Sebastian who lost his family and home. Ominis also lost a shelter. You looked up towards the blue sky, wishing you could find someplace for your two friends. Perhaps the three of you could sneak and hide in the Room of Requirements for the entire term break. That wouldn’t be too much of a bad idea, would it? Wild, but… plausible? You certainly wouldn’t have any problems with it.
Absent-mindedly, you put your hand inside the pocket of your cloak. It was at that moment your fingers brushed against an envelope.
Professor Fig’s will.
Suddenly, another idea popped into your head.
“Something happened to me earlier.”
“Yes…?” Ominis arched an eyebrow, unsure of what it had to do with your current predicament.
“Professor Weasley gave me Professor Fig’s will. He had listed me as his beneficiary… which means all of his possessions, including his home, are entrusted to me. I’ve been to the house a few times before and… it was quite spacious. There were spare rooms available.”
Ominis immediately turned to face you. “Are you suggesting that Sebastian could live with you during our term break?”
“I— well…”
Now that you had said it, you realized how ridiculous you may have sounded.
“I know that you tend to come up with bizarre ideas, but would your family even be okay with this? Can’t imagine they’d be pleased if you suddenly came home with a boy.”
‘They probably wouldn’t… if they existed,’ you thought to yourself.
“Um… I sort of don't have one…”
“What do you mean you don't— oh,” Ominis immediately fell silent when he understood what you implied. The blond shifted awkwardly. “I must admit I have heard some rumors regarding your… family, but I didn’t dare to ask I…” he faltered. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t apologize. Really!”
An awkward silence stretched for a brief moment before he finally let out a sigh. “Well, that’s even more bizarre, then. A girl and a boy living together. Did it ever cross your mind that your idea is rather unconventional, if not, inappropriate?”
You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks. Ominis did not have to make it seem more serious than it really was. The three of you were just friends and nothing more. You highly doubt that Sebastian would do anything weird. Besides, it’s not like any of you had a lot of options.
“I know… it was just—” you took a deep breath. “Look, I just thought we could all stay there. Yes, you included. There's enough room for everyone to have their own privacy and there’s also a house-elf, so it’s not like it’s going to be just us.”
Ominis still looked like he suddenly got his vision and saw that you actually have three heads instead of one.
“I don’t know what to say, thank you for the invitation? But have you considered the fact that there’s a possibility that something unwanted could happen?”
“Sebastian wouldn’t do that! And neither would you!” you replied with wide eyes, perplexed. “And even if any of you somehow did, which I highly doubt, I'm perfectly capable of defending myself.”
You were quite certain that Ominis didn't doubt you. After all, you did have the ability to wield ancient magical power and have successfully thwarted a goblin rebellion.
“Besides,” you took a deep breath. “I really don't know if I'm going to be able to live there with only a house-elf to keep me company.”
He paused. “Why is that?”
A rueful smile bloomed on your lips. “The silence would be too much for me to bear.”
“Ah…”
“A- anyway, you don't have to agree to my idea if you're uncomfortable about it. I was just thinking out loud… we need a place where one or the two of us can keep Sebastian company and you need a place to escape your family. I thought the house could be a good option.”
Ominis finally let out another defeated sigh. “You’re not wrong.”
Biting your lower lip, you inched forward, not wanting to put more stress on him. “I suppose there is a possibility that Sebastian would be completely fine living in Feldcroft alone and things would be the same despite… what had happened. At any rate, we wouldn't know unless we talked to him about it, no?”
“Yes, I suppose you're right,” he muttered. “We should talk to him tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
The Slytherin boy arched an eyebrow. “We're going to Feldcroft with him tomorrow, remember?”
Right. You remembered Sebastian asking you to go with him and Ominis to his cottage in Feldcroft. This would be his second visit after Solomon’s death and Anne’s disappearance. The first happened just moments after he learned of his sister’s disappearance. Suddenly, your chest felt heavy.
“Alright. We'll talk to him tomorrow.”
Ominis nodded. “I have to go back, Sebastian is probably searching for me already. Talk to you soon.”
“Me, too. I promised Natty we’re going to Hogsmeade together. See you, Ominis.”
He stood up and dusted his robe. His expression was unreadable.
“Despite everything that had happened,” he spoke again in a soft voice. “I’m grateful for all the help that you’ve done for Sebastian. I reckon it must’ve been hard for you, too, back then. I’m sorry, I realized there were times when I was being too harsh on you.”
The heaviness in your chest grew and though Ominis couldn’t see you, you still hid your face from him. A small part of you worried he could somehow sense the relief you were trying to suppress. Still, a treacherous part of you continued to wonder if Sebastian would still do what he did if you had made different choices. Had you, despite your best intention, unknowingly and foolishly led him into darkness?
You took a deep breath.
“Thank you, Ominis.”
*
That night, you dreamt about Isidora’s final repository, tucked deep beneath Hogwarts. Yet instead of locking it away, you absorbed it. Unknown, unlimited power coursing through your veins, taking you to a greater height.
You dreamt that you found Anne and, with that treacherous power, you broke her curse.
*
Feldcroft was as humble and quiet as the first time you visited it. The evening sun bathed the little hamlet in a warm, golden hue, enhancing the colors of the daffodils that grew all over the grassy field. It seemed to be more alive, with villagers loitering around merchants and children running across the meadows. With the goblin forces gone, peace had returned to the hamlet.
Beside you, Sebastian was staring at the idyllic sight with a hollowness in his eyes. The price of freedom surely had never been so steep. Feldcroft was safe, but Solomon was gone, Anne did not want to speak to him, and some villagers were eyeing him warily. There were rumors that the young Sallow boy had cast one of the Unforgivable curses during the last goblin attack. Opinions were divided, some thinking he should be thoroughly investigated, while others thought “Well, good riddance! He saved his sister!”
“Sebastian…”
“Come on,” the brown-haired boy said. “All this walk is making me tired.”
You glanced at Ominis, who seemed to be holding back as many emotions and thoughts as you did. Sighing, you followed Sebastian as he made his way home.
The Sallow cottage was in a slightly worse state, which wasn’t unreasonable, considering nobody lived there anymore. Sebastian hadn’t said anything about his desire to return, but the three of you came to the house anyway to keep it clean and well-maintained.
Solomon Sallow was laid to rest in a simple graveyard in the back of the cottage. Anne had told everyone in the village that he died peacefully in his sleep. Silence stretched as Sebastian stood before the grave, while you and Ominis stood a few feet behind him, watching. The brown-haired boy was still as a statue and you wondered what went through his mind.
But then he sighed and turned to face you, his face calm and eyes clear without a hint of tears.
“I'm done here. Let's get inside.”
With a flick of his wand, the door to the cottage opened easily. Inside, it was as if time was frozen. There was a glass on the table where Anne used to sit, the bed was unmade, an opened letter sitting on top of a nearby fireplace, and the windows were starting to collect dust.
“Well… let’s get to it, then. Nothing a few Scourgify can’t solve,” Sebastian said, trying to maintain a carefree attitude.
The three of you worked in silence, repeating the spell to clean any dust and dirt you laid your eyes on. You turned your attention towards the bookshelf by the window, noticing more opened letters were scattered on the shelves and the floor around it. You averted your gaze, not wanting to take a single peek at the content. One of them caught your eye anyway because it had your name written on it in handwriting you had grown familiar with.
Unable to resist the urge, you carefully picked it up from the floor. As you suspected, it was Sebastian’s letter to Anne, and he was talking about you.
Dear Anne,
Do you remember the new fifth-year I brought with me during my last visit? I forgot to tell you this, but she’s very strong. She’s capable of magic beyond our comprehension and she agreed to help us find a cure. I couldn’t be more grateful that I met her.
Wait for us, Anne. We will cure you, no matter what.
Sebastian
“You know, reading someone else’s letter is considered a breach of privacy,” Sebastian’s voice almost made you jump. You turned to find him already standing next to you, eyes fixated on the letter in your hand.
“I’m sorry. It had my name on it, I got curious,” you shook your head before tucking the letter back into the first empty envelope you could find and stuck it between the books.
“It’s fine. There wasn’t anything scandalous there anyway, thankfully. It was just me singing your praises,” he replied, a faint hint of playfulness lacing his tone.
You bit your lower lip as you looked up at him, uncertain. You never did manage to use your power on Anne. It wasn’t like you knew how to reverse or break a curse — the Keepers didn’t give you much knowledge beyond how crucial it was to use your power responsibly — but you wished you could’ve at least tried.
“I’ve been thinking about reaching out to the Keepers again, now that they’re all present in The Map Chamber,” you finally confessed, picking your words carefully. “These past few weeks I… I’ve been trying to practice the ancient magic on my own, but it proved to be a bit difficult without a mentor. I just…”
You sighed.
“I still wanted to try, if you’re alright with it. To cure Anne, I mean. We… I… didn’t manage to try it before.”
Sebastian's eyes widened as he stared at you in surprise. “If I’m al— of course, it is alright with me! Goodness, after everything I’ve done you still—” he stopped himself, taking a steadying breath before continuing. “Thank you. I… you don’t know how much this means to me.”
A soft smile curved on your lips. “I’ll start working hard, Sebastian. Of course, I have to remind you that there is no guarantee that it will work. Isidora tried to remove pain and ended up creating a destructive force that she could not control. But I promise I will try. Figure something out. Find a middle ground that Isidora couldn’t.”
“And that is enough for me. Really,” he says, half-laughing, averting his gaze because he just couldn’t look you in the eye. The gratefulness he felt was just too great and raw he feared that you could spot it with just a glance. “Though, I suppose… we can only do that if we know where Anne is, can’t we?”
Your smile faded ever so slightly. “Yes, you’re right…” you trailed off before shaking your head and giving him a bright grin. “I believe she’ll come around. You didn’t lose hope back then, so let’s not lose it now.”
The weight of the unspoken fact laid heavy between the two of you: there was a solid chance that Anne wouldn’t return. Yet you chose to gloss over it for Sebastian’s sake. You also would like to believe that the bond between the twins was stronger than any adversities thrown at them, including their current predicament.
It seemed that Sebastian thought of the same thing because he smiled at you and nodded.
“I won’t.”
*
It took around three hours to clean the Sallow cottage until it was spick and span. By that time, the sun had set and the three of you decided to make use of the dining room to eat some desserts you had stolen earlier from Hogwarts’ kitchen.
“I find it a sacrilege that you knew how to get into the kitchen and not tell us,” Sebastian said with a mouth full of bread.
“Sebastian, for the sake of decorum, please swallow your food before you speak,” Ominis lamented, his face contorting in disgust.
“With all due respect, you cannot see me, Ominis.”
“But I can hear you, Sebastian, I'm not deaf.”
You found yourself smiling at their bickering. At moments like these, it was so easy to slip back into your normal routine, so easy to believe that everything was alright. No dark arts. No curses. No forbidden artifacts.
“I have to agree with Ominis on this one, Sebastian, it's gross.”
“See? She has spoken. Listen to her.”
The brown-haired boy rolled his eyes. Still, he finally swallowed his bread and you were grateful for that.
“You're saying that as if I never listened to you.”
Ominis let out a sigh that sounded as if he was a 500-year-old vampire who had grown extremely tired and weary of life.
“Cases where you listened to me are, unfortunately, rare.”
“Alright, alright. We can go to the kitchen tomorrow, I'll show you the way,” you interjected, worried that the discussion would lead to sore topics. “The house-elves were very friendly, I'm sure we won't have any trouble getting there.”
Sebastian grinned. “I know I can always count on you.”
Perhaps it was the playful glint in his eyes or the carefree smile on his lips, but his words made you smile. You tried to mask it by eating another mouthful of your cream puff.
“Though I have to say, bit of a shame I knew about Hogwarts' kitchen so late… but there's always next year, I suppose,” he spoke again.
You glanced at Ominis, and, as if sensing your gaze, the blond boy spoke.
“Speaking of Hogwarts, are you planning to stay here for this term break?”
There was a short silence. Sebastian leaned back on his chair and stared at the ceiling.
“I dunno,” he answered. “I suppose I could… but without Anne this house just felt…”
A pause. He shook his head.
“Well, if you're planning to stay here for the entire break like you used to, I guess it wouldn't be so bad,” he finished, nudging Ominis with his knee.
“I can't. Not for the entire period. The last time I did that, my lovely mother and father had been even more unbearable than they used to be,” Ominis said in disdain. “I must spend a few days or weeks at home, unfortunately, to prevent them from going rabid.”
“Darn it. I'm so sorry, that sounds horrible, Ominis,” Sebastian sighed.
“I agree, some people just… shouldn't be allowed to become parents,” you muttered.
“It was nothing I couldn't handle, as unfortunate as it sounds. But if it does get worse, I won't hesitate to make my escape. You’ll probably find me on your doorstep, Sebastian.”
The brown-haired boy let out a hum. “Escape, huh? These days I've been thinking about that, too. Going somewhere far away from Feldcroft, leaving this place for good…” he said with a faraway look in his eyes, imagining his perfect paradise. “But I couldn't abandon this place when I still don't know where Anne is. Feldcroft is… Feldcroft is the last thread that connected me to my sister.”
“Are you going to stay, then?” Ominis quietly asked.
“I dunno. Frankly, I don't like being here without Anne,” he replied before locking eyes with you. He smiled. “What about you, ace? I reckon you'd go somewhere fun after your heroic deeds this year?”
Your heart leaped ever so slightly at the nickname. ‘Ace’, Sebastian often called you, because you always bested him in a duel, because of your terrifying and extraordinary skills. He used it teasingly at first. A way of getting under your skin or initiating a friendly banter. Now, there was a softness to it.
“It's a bit of a long story. To keep things brief, Professor Fig made me the beneficiary of his will, meaning, all his possessions are now mine,” you explained. “I now have my own house.”
Sebastian's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead, brown eyes widening in surprise. “Beneficiary?” he repeated, utterly bewildered. “Woah, who would've thought? But I suppose it's not too outlandish, you were quite close with him and you saved Hogwarts. Well deserved!”
“It's a bit strange though, isn't it? I thought he would've picked a relative.”
“Maybe he doesn't have one and that's why he chose you. Could be anything, really,” he shrugged. His gaze momentarily shifts from you to Ominis. “Hold on, I didn't expect you'd tell Ominis before me. You wound me, ace.”
“This isn't a competition, Sebastian,” Ominis replied coolly, though you could sense a bit of amusement seeping into his tone.
“You were still caught up in Herbology class yesterday,” you explained with a shake of your head. “Didn't realize you're quite possessive.”
“I mean, I saw you first,” he said with a low chuckle, the simple action successfully made your treacherous heart race. “And I was the one who dragged you into this circle, so… without me, you wouldn't have been friends with Ominis.”
You let out a laugh and you could hear the other Slytherin boy let out a bored sigh. “It doesn't work like that.”
“Ominis is right. Besides, I remember you made him mad at me for a few days because you told me about The Undercroft. So, the way I see it, you sort of ruined Ominis’ first impression of me.”
“It was a betrayal of our pact,” Ominis nodded dramatically.
“The end justifies the means!” Sebastian retorted, raising both of his hands, a cheeky grin curving on his lips. “Anyway, Fig’s will. What are you planning to do with them?”
Holding his gaze, you sat up straighter, somehow feeling nervous about what you were about to say.
“This is just a thought. A random idea that came into my mind,” you started, greatly intimidated by the innocent way he tilted his head. “Fig’s house is rather spacious and… I don’t know if I could live there alone. Well, I suppose I won’t be alone, there’s a house-elf there, too. But I figure it would still be very, very quiet, with Fig already gone and all… I don’t know, the quiet just… unnerves me lately. So I thought… I’d like to invite the two of you to stay there, with me.”
“You’re asking us what?” Sebastian blurted.
Had this been another one of your mindless, silly discussions, you would’ve laughed at his dumbfounded expression. But unfortunately, it wasn’t.
“But we’re…” he took a panicked look at Ominis. “We’re boys!”
You let out a groan. “You’re saying that as if we hadn’t explored Salazar’s Scriptorium and spent who knows how long exploring goblin camps together!”
“That’s different!” he spluttered, absolutely flabbergasted. “This is… this is living together! Do you not have other friends?”
“I do, but they all have a loving and functional family, so I can’t exactly ask them!”
“I—” he was ready to retort, but you knew he knew there was no arguing that fact. Still, he shook his head. “And what about your family, huh?”
This time, Ominis spoke. “She’s an orphan.”
“She’s a— hang on. Again, how could you know this but I don’t?!”
“You never asked!” you quickly replied, almost impatiently. “But that’s beside the point. You asked me what I wanted to do with the house, well, that’s my idea, but it doesn’t mean I’m forcing any of you to do it. It’s just… a wild, random thought.”
Sebastian was still staring at you as if you had just encouraged everyone to learn Avada Kedavra and insisted that it was actually an ethical spell.
“I mean, I think you'd benefit from being a bit more cautious and careful,” he carefully said.
“Sebastian, I have the ability to turn you into a chicken. No offense, you're a great duelist, but I don't think you can harm me even if you wanted to. And I trust you wouldn't.”
“Of course I wouldn't!”
An awkward silence fell. You couldn't help but glare at Ominis for being awfully silent and unhelpful, before realizing he couldn't see you. Mentally cursing yourself, you began to speak.
“Anyway, it was just an idea,” you waved your hand flippantly, now eager to return to Hogwarts.
Yet Sebastian seemed to have a different opinion. “But you said you couldn't stand the silence and you're still grieving over Fig's passing.”
Your eyes met his and, for a moment, you feared he could look into your soul. He couldn't have possibly found a spell that gave him Dementor’s ability, could he?
“Yes,” you admitted anyway.
You and silence never really went hand in hand. The orphanage had been noisy most of the time. Bustling with a cacophony of children's screams, cries, and chatters. Silence used to be a respite you had often chased yet eluded you.
But things had changed. When the noises receded and the room grew quiet, your mind became unbearably loud. There were so many sounds and thoughts echoing in the back of your head. The sound of Avada Kedavra cutting through the air, the deafening crack as the stone ceiling collapsed above you, burying Fig’s body under its colossal size, the roaring of a dragon. Each night a different memory.
Before you, Sebastian shifted on his seat, his eyes carefully searching yours. “Well, it can't be helped, can it, ace? We'll go with you. Though, Ominis would probably tap out every once in a while because he has such a pleasant family.”
“I'll try to make my family visit as brief as possible,” Ominis murmured. “Anywhere is better than home.”
You stilled, not at all expecting them to agree. A part of yourself wanted to laugh at the turn of events. You and Ominis should've been the one giving support to Sebastian, yet the tables turned and now you were the one being cared for. Perhaps Ominis had orchestrated the flow of the conversation to keep Sebastian in the dark. You found yourself not minding it, though.
For now, you let yourself revel in the rare feeling of your friends coming to your rescue.
“Alright. It's a deal. No going back on your promises.”
“Of course,” Ominis replied, his voice soft, a gentle smile curving on his lips.
Sebastian locked eyes with you again and he grinned. “Wouldn't even dream about it.”
*
Time went by in a terrifying sleep. Somehow, you finished your O.W.L exams and your last day at Hogwarts had arrived. The Gryffindor table erupted in a loud, booming cheer when Phineas Nigellus Black, without masking his disdain, announced that they had won the house cup. You couldn't help but revel in your fellow housemates’ euphoria.
“Imelda Reyes was talking about how Slytherin would win the house cup,” Nellie Oggspire said conspiratorially. “I told her if Gryffindor didn't win, then the system is rigged and Hogwarts’ integrity should be questioned! You have saved this school and the wizarding world! I say that should warrant a permanent house cup victory for Gryffindor until the next seven years!”
It was a wild idea, but you found yourself not minding it. Besides, you agreed with Nellie.
“What's important is that we won,” Natty said, a satisfied smile blooming on her lips as she sat straighter than usual. She started picking up pastries from the table and placed them on your plate. “Now, I believe our hero should have her own feast!”
“Hear, hear!” Garreth whistled.
You let out a hearty laugh, happy at the absurd amount of pastries and desserts filling your plate. However, when your eyes caught the empty seat where Fig usually sat, an emptiness crept its way into your heart. Grief had been woken up from its slumber. You tore your gaze away and, somehow, it landed on the Slytherin table. Meeting with Sebastian's. He gave you a knowing smile and raised his glass. A silent acknowledgment, which you returned.
Still, the emptiness clung to your figure as you dragged your feet back to your room, where your neatly packed trunks had been waiting. For a moment, you stood there, casting your gaze around the room, determined to memorize every detail even though you would return in a few months.
“Hey, don't look too sad.”
You turned around to find Natty leaning against the doorframe, a sympathetic smile curling on her lips.
“We'll all see each other again in a few months.”
A sigh. You let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’m being sappy, aren’t I?”
Natty’s dark eyes crinkled in delight. “You’re not, this school tends to have that effect on people. And don't worry. I'll make sure to write you lots of letters. That way, you won't feel too lonely.”
The smile on your lips grew.
“Thank you, Natty.”
The journey to Hogsmeade train station was loud, as the students' chatter filled the air like the humming of a thousand bees. You managed to claim an empty thestral carriage for Garreth, Natty, Poppy, and yourself. As other students began to fill the remaining carriages, you spotted Sebastian and Ominis in the crowd. Quickly, you raised your hands, calling out to them.
Soon enough, your carriage was filled with familiar faces. The faces of your first friends in Hogwarts. Some roped you into trouble, some helped you achieve the unimaginable. All of them you cherished.
“Huh, I think this is my first time seeing you joining the train ride to London, Sallow,” Garreth was the first to speak, eyeing the brown-haired boy curiously.
Sebastian's eyes locked with yours for a fleeting second before he cleared his throat. “I'm moving somewhere closer to London this year.”
Garreth hummed in acknowledgment. Silence blanketed the carriage for a moment, only broken by the huffing of the thestral and the sound of the wheel grounding against wet soil.
“I'm sorry about your uncle,” Poppy finally spoke with a gentleness akin to the caution one might show when approaching a wounded puppy. “First Anne and now your uncle… you've been through a lot.”
This time, Sebastian avoided your eyes, but you could somewhat feel the tension in his body. Feldcroft was not at all far from Hogwarts and words traveled far. Condolences had been given, as everyone, just like the villagers in that little hamlet, believed that Solomon Sallow died of natural causes. The gruesome truth was only known by you, Sebastian, Ominis, and Anne, and all of you guarded it close to your chests.
“Thank you, Poppy, I appreciate it,” Sebastian replied with a hollow smile that did not quite reach his eyes, an expression that could be easily mistaken as grief.
“How's Anne? Is she coming with you to London?” Natty asked.
You opened your mouth, wanting to interject, worried that the innocent question would only rub more salt into Sebastian's wound. But to your surprise, the boy was smiling earnestly. His eyes reflected just the right amount of sadness. Enough to make everything believable.
“Anne is in France with one of our great aunts. She moved there after Uncle Solomon passed away. It was a tough decision, but… we agreed it was for the best.”
“I see…” Natty replied, completely none the wiser. “Well, I wish only the best for you, Sebastian. I know how much you care for your sister. I hope that one day, you'll be able to find a cure for her.”
This time, Sebastian faltered. From his side, Ominis inched forward, opening his mouth, no doubt eager to change the topic, worried about how it would affect Sebastian.
Yet before he could say a word, Garreth spoke.
“I believe you will find that cure, Sallow,” he said plainly, simply, as if stating that anyone with a brain can brew an Edurus potion. “What? This world is a big place and magic is a boundless thing. I'm pretty sure it's out there somewhere. If not now, perhaps sometime in the future.”
“I think this is my first time hearing you saying something so wise, Garreth,” Natty said in amazement. “I did not know you had it in you.”
“Rude!” Garreth retorted, feigning a hurt expression. “I'll have you know that this brain of mine contains a multitude of new potion recipes ready to be tested! You think I am incapable of weaving pretty words?”
“It's a bit hard to imagine that when you regularly blow up your cauldron, to be honest,” Poppy said, grimacing.
“And stealing from Professor Sharp's ingredients vault,” Ominis spoke for the first time, half-amused, half-relieved to fuel a new topic that did not concern Sebastian, Solomon, or Anne.
Garreth protested, yet his voice was drowned by Natty and Poppy’s laughter. As your friends recounted more of his shenanigans, you locked eyes with Sebastian once again. His expression was soft, akin to relief. You tilted your head to one side, pink lips curling into a lopsided smile, which widened when he mirrored your actions.
No words were spoken, but you knew he found comfort in Garreth's words, and for that, you couldn't have been more relieved.
*
It was almost sunset when the train arrived at King’s Cross Station in London. Students flooded out of the train, ready to be reunited with their families, ready to go home. Poppy found her grandmother in the crowd and you could hear her delighted squeal as she wrapped the older woman in a big hug. Garreth went his separate way not long after. You noticed him being welcomed by a group of people, all having almost identical red hair and the same kindhearted look. Must be the Weasleys.
“Well, here we are, London,” from your side, Sebastian hummed. “Where to now?”
“The house is on the outskirts of the city. I think it's best if we take a carriage there. What do you think, Ominis?” you asked, turning to the blond-haired boy who had been rather quiet throughout the entire ride home.
To your surprise, Ominis looked exhausted. You looked down to find him nervously fiddling with his wand.
“My mother’s helpers are here. I can sense them,” he quietly said, dipping his head low. “I suppose this means I have to go see my parents first.”
“Oh…” you stilled, unsure of what to do.
If it were up to you, you'd waste no time whisking him away and maybe transfigure this helper into a chicken. The rest of his family, too. Good riddance. Yet you knew it wasn't what Ominis wanted. You probably couldn't do it either. Plus, you'd rather not get involved with the authorities, lousy as they were.
“We understand, have a safe trip, Ominis,” Sebastian said, patting the boy's back. “Let us know if you need us to kidnap you from that hell hole.”
Ominis tried to smile, but it came out strained.
“Thank you, but I'd rather you not go anywhere near my family. I don't want them to taint any of you,” he turned towards your direction. “Especially you, since we know nothing of your blood status.”
“...I understand. Please, be careful, Ominis.”
He nodded. You couldn't help but find how drastically Ominis changed in a matter of seconds. The sweet, gentle Ominis always seemed to glow when he was in Hogwarts. His smile was relaxed and his voice soft. A serene look on his face whenever he dozed off in class. Yet now, his light had been dimmed out. Eyebrows furrowed, hands couldn't stop picking on his fingernails. He looked terrified.
“I will,” he said anyway. “Be on the lookout. I honestly do not know how long I must stay at that torture house… but I'll try to join you as soon as I can.”
Sebastian patted Ominis' shoulder once again, this time giving it a firm squeeze. “Stay safe, and I mean it, call us if you need some help to escape.”
“I will. Don't worry. I have my ways,” the blond-haired boy said, relenting. He took a deep breath and placed both hands on his trolley. “See you again. And don't do anything weird when I'm gone.”
“We won't. Not too much, at least,” Sebastian replied, amusement lacing his tone.
“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear the last sentence,” Ominis huffed. He stood there for a moment, still facing the two of you. “Well, I better get going.”
“See you, Ominis.”
The Gaunt boy nodded. His expression was grim. But he adjusted his bag handles and pushed his trunk towards one of the exits. True to his words, you could see about three wizards waiting there, all dressed in black. They crowded around Ominis as soon as he was close enough, taking his belongings away from his hands to carry them on their own. No doubt it was how the heir of an important, old-money family should be treated. Yet you couldn't help but think your friend looked like a caged dove. There was a weight on his shoulders that wasn't really there before.
“He'll be alright. We've done this a couple of times before. Don't worry,” Sebastian said, nudging you with his elbow.
“Right,” you sighed and looked around the still-crowded station. “Let's go, then, but make sure nobody sees us. I'd rather them not ask any questions or worse, spread gossip.”
He let out a low chuckle. “Bit too late to consider that detail, don't you think?”
“Oh, shut it.”
Quietly, away from everyone's eyes, you and Sebastian slipped away, but not before casting one last glance at the view behind you. At the train, at Natty, Poppy, and Garreth, laughing as their families welcomed them home, hands laced together. At Ominis’ disappearing figure.
“You coming? I don’t mind leading but I kind of don’t know the way.”
You turned to find Sebastian leaning on his trolley, looking at you with an arched eyebrow, a playful smile tugging on his lips.
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Summary: The youngest daughter of Queen Charlotte and King George, plagued by the same illness as her father, grows tired of her lonely and isolated existence. When escaping the prison-like castle she has been sequestered in for her entire life, she meets a young man who shares her love for painting and whom she can not stop thinking about. Secrets, betrayal, and love all fight against one another. Which one will win?
Series Warnings: Love at first sight; POV third person; eventual smut; isolation; dramatic/inaccurate depictions of mental illness; thoughts of death; there will be fluff, okay? I swear; potential historical inaccuracies; complex mother/daughter relationship; historical medical practices; SIMP Benedict; idgaf about historical canon; complicated sibling relationships; execution by hanging
Tags specified before each chapter
(Tags will be updated as the story continues)
Last Updated: 03/28/24 (Complete)
*indicates smut
Chapter One - Loathing Boredom
Chapter Two - Ruinous Secrets
Chapter Three - Never is a Promise
Chapter Four - As the Poets Say
Chapter Five - Vagrant Body
Chapter Six - Codes and Clues
Chapter Seven - Dig My Fingers in
Chapter Eight - No Light of My Own
Chapter Nine - This Sweet Plague *
Chapter Ten - Tricked By the Past
Chapter Eleven - No Label, No Name
Chapter Twelve - Keeping Time
Chapter Thirteen - Only You Can Mend
Chapter Fourteen - Not Above Violence
Interlude - Lady Whistledown
Chapter Fifteen - Matching Wounds
Chapter Sixteen - Go Along to Be With You
Chapter Seventeen - Balanced on Desire
Interlude - Marietta
Chapter Eighteen - Oh, My One
Chapter Nineteen - Like Fuel to Fire *
Chapter Twenty - If I Send for You
Interlude - Honeymoon *
Chapter Twenty One - An Atom and a Star
Chapter Twenty Two - The Bed I Was Born In *
Chapter Twenty Three - Don't Wait to Understand
Chapter Twenty Four - Fingers Laced a Crown
Chapter Twenty Five - Here to Kingdom Come *
Epilogue - A Moment, A Love
Drabble - Pall Mall
Drabble - Picnic
Drabble - Like Mother, Like Son
Drabble - Jealousy
Drabble - More Than a Maid
Drabble - Coronation Day
Drabble - Second Son
Drabble - Number Four
Drabble - Reasonably Unreasonable
Drabble - Tag, You're It
Drabble - Sisters
Drabble - Spoiled
Drabble - Opal of the Season
Drabble - Fit for Family
Drabble - Garden in Bloom * (smut adjacent)
Drabble - What if? AU
Summary: The youngest daughter of Queen Charlotte and King George, plagued by the same illness as her father, grows tired of her lonely and isolated existence. When escaping the prison-like castle she has been sequestered in for her entire life, she meets a young man who shares her love for painting and whom she can not stop thinking about. Secrets, betrayal, and love all fight against one another. Which one will win?
Series Warnings: Love at first sight; POV third person; eventual smut; isolation; dramatic/inaccurate depictions of mental illness; thoughts of death; there will be fluff, okay? I swear; potential historical inaccuracies; complex mother/daughter relationship; historical medical practices; SIMP Benedict; idgaf about historical canon; complicated sibling relationships; execution by hanging
Tags specified before each chapter
(Tags will be updated as the story continues)
Last Updated: 03/28/24 (Complete)
*indicates smut
Chapter One - Loathing Boredom
Chapter Two - Ruinous Secrets
Chapter Three - Never is a Promise
Chapter Four - As the Poets Say
Chapter Five - Vagrant Body
Chapter Six - Codes and Clues
Chapter Seven - Dig My Fingers in
Chapter Eight - No Light of My Own
Chapter Nine - This Sweet Plague *
Chapter Ten - Tricked By the Past
Chapter Eleven - No Label, No Name
Chapter Twelve - Keeping Time
Chapter Thirteen - Only You Can Mend
Chapter Fourteen - Not Above Violence
Interlude - Lady Whistledown
Chapter Fifteen - Matching Wounds
Chapter Sixteen - Go Along to Be With You
Chapter Seventeen - Balanced on Desire
Interlude - Marietta
Chapter Eighteen - Oh, My One
Chapter Nineteen - Like Fuel to Fire *
Chapter Twenty - If I Send for You
Interlude - Honeymoon *
Chapter Twenty One - An Atom and a Star
Chapter Twenty Two - The Bed I Was Born In *
Chapter Twenty Three - Don't Wait to Understand
Chapter Twenty Four - Fingers Laced a Crown
Chapter Twenty Five - Here to Kingdom Come *
Epilogue - A Moment, A Love
Drabble - Pall Mall
Drabble - Picnic
Drabble - Like Mother, Like Son
Drabble - Jealousy
Drabble - More Than a Maid
Drabble - Coronation Day
Drabble - Second Son
Drabble - Number Four
Drabble - Reasonably Unreasonable
Drabble - Tag, You're It
Drabble - Sisters
Drabble - Spoiled
Drabble - Opal of the Season
Drabble - Fit for Family
Drabble - Garden in Bloom * (smut adjacent)
Drabble - What if? AU
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n]
Summary: Miss [y/n] is not your average young lady, for she is also W. Jabber, a talented writer who challenges societal norms. All was well until her publisher presented her with a new challenge—to write a children's book disguised for adult readers and to have it illustrated. And to help her with the task, she knows only one good painter in London.
Age rating: although this chapter is pretty chill for younger audiences, the next parts will have more explicit scenes, so let's keep it 18+.
Author's note: I said I'd be back with the Bridgerton boys, and here I am! Benedict, for the win! Hope you guys like it!
(Part 02 here!)
To read Anthony's fic, click here! For other stories, click here. Enjoy!
Miss [y/n] was a writer. A good one, she dared add. Of course, that was unnoticed by the people of the ton, who would not have appreciated female writing, even if it was that great.
For that precise reason, Miss [y/n] prospered in a secret double life, where she was a pleasant lady by day and a fierce author by night. Her publisher was the only man she considered a friend since he knew her true identity and was present in both parts of her life. Needless to say, such an intelligent and refined man, capable of admiring penmanship made by a woman, would already have a wife. And would be dangerously too old to be anything more than an extra father figure in Miss [y/n] 's history.
Being close and such, Mister Brendy often challenged [y/n] 's writing abilities, encouraging her to try new styles in every new book. He'd often advise her towards writing the genre most wanted by the public at that specific time, and [y/n] was always quick to agree — as she held Mr Brendy's opinions very highly. Also, her family desperately needed the money [y/n] provided anonymously. Pretending it was a subsidy presented by an old aunt from the country, the young woman allowed her family some great comfort; furthermore, she permitted herself the luxury of new dresses every season.
"Good afternoon, Mr Brendy. How are you this evening?"
The sky wasn't fully dark when Miss [y/n] popped into the tiny printer's shop, but she was confident enough that nobody followed her in; thus, she modelled no cape or undistinguished clothing. She was merely herself before her old chum and a couple more teen-boy workers.
"Very well, dear," the printer replied, holding a modest smile. Mr Brendy had gently round features, and his smile, even the smallest ones, was exceptionally pleasant to witness. "Hope you're ready to hear your next challenge."
"I wouldn't be here if I weren't, Mr Brendy," she answered, lowering her eyes to the papers over his table, looking for clues to his oncoming request. Most authors did not enjoy working with demands, but [y/n] thrived with them, and she was Mr Brendy's favourite because of it.
"Well, have you how many nephews and nieces again? I always forget; I'm sorry," Mr Brendy got up and walked towards Miss [y/n]'s chair.
"No need to be sorry, Mr Brendy — I, sometimes, forget as well," she smiled. "I currently have three nephews and one baby niece. She's such a lovely newborn!"
The gentleman placed his hands in his trouser pockets, scratching his throat before saying, "Yes, newborns are usually a delight—a blessing."
"Couldn't agree more," Miss [y/n] couldn't help her anxiety taking the best of herself. "But what does my siblings' offspring have to do with my upcoming, in need of writing, book?"
After another scratch of his throat, Mr Brendy finally spoke his true intentions. "Do you remember when you found me shivering from the rain outside and asked if I could publish your first book? And even cold, you managed to make all these demands regarding our partnership?"
"Of course, I remember! I was a baby lassie of fifteen years of age, but wasn't I a captivating writer even then?" Miss [y/n] was only joking but noticed that Mr Brendy wasn't less tense. "Does this talk have something to do with my demands? Do you need to lower my percentage of profit?"
Dear God, she hoped not.
"Nothing of such. Your books are bestsellers, Miss [y/n]. Money is not the problem," he said. "However, your other contract demand... The one where you work alone..."
"Yes?" she was desperately nervous.
"Would you be able to make an exception?"
There was silence in the room. It felt like even the employees outside the tiny office were muted, waiting for her answer.
"I'm sorry, Mr Brendy, but what are you implying? You want me to write in association with another author, is that it?"
"Not another author per se," he gritted his teeth, and the noise startled Miss [y/n]. "No," he restarted, "I don't want your writing to get jumbled up. You have a magnetic way of putting words to paper; I would never allow anyone else to interfere with that."
"Thank you," she said, happy for the compliment, though confused about how to respond. Mr Brendy was a good man, but he rarely presented free praise.
"I want you to work partnered with a painter, an illustrator. See, this is where your nephews come to action — children's books are the latest fashion, the genre bestseller of the hour. We have no author good enough to conquer that style the way we want," he paused, "— at least no better writer than you."
She was flattered but primarily confused. Her books weren't for children. Under the name of W. Jabber, she published pieces about politics and devotion, death and art, but all of that over a darker tone, very adult if you dare. What would be her place when speaking to children? What story could she have stored to tell those little kids rushing to a bookshop, looking for the newest realise?
"I want you to write a children's story the way only you could — designed for the parents. I want it perfectly disguised so that, when a parent fetches the book — tediously and only doing it for the quietness of their offspring — they get stunned to find out the narrative is very well made for them as much as the child."
"You reckon I could write such a thing?" she asked in a second of bravery. "I don't think I can."
"Upon rereading your latest, my dear, I discovered that if anyone can, it is you," he said. "When I first read Storms of Love, I could never have deduced the novel was about the Priest falling in love with his bastard son. At first glance, the story felt like a mother missing her son when he decided to go to seminary!"
She pressed her lips together, feeling shy. It was a horrible habit, as the lady knew she looked dreadful when she did it, but she couldn't help it. How many times, during balls, did she have to hear people praising her without knowing that Jabber was [y/n]?
"Again, thank you, Mr Brendy. You know I adore compliments," Miss [y/n] tried to smile, but she couldn't disguise her dismay. "Regardless, I…"
"I would never force you, Miss [y/n]!" the printer rushed closer to her, taking the liberty of placing a hand on her covered shoulder. "But before you say anything, know that the illustrator would be one of your selections, and we could do the whole interaction anonymously if you so desire."
"It's not the teamwork that unnerves me, Mr Brendy, but the writing of a children's book for adults." Miss [y/n] stared deep into Mr Brendy's eyes, but that was a wrong choice. His big, green eyes stared at her back, filled with hope for her to accept. How could she say no to the older man who knew her more than her father?
She placed her hand over his on her shoulder before saying, "Do you truly believe I am the best option for this chef-d'oeuvre? It takes courage to defy society with a youngsters' novel."
He smiled in that way only a proud grandparent could. "Yes, I believe you can."
After the conversation with Mr Brendy, Miss [y/n] at least managed to secure the illustrator would be her pick and not be some random person chosen by the printer.
That was exceptionally tricky, however. [y/n] did not know a bunch of painters — at least not enough that were indeed talented for her intentions or kind souls that would not reveal her identity. She did not want to be Lady Whistledown's next victim.
Miss [y/n] came up with one name and one name only. It was the only name not crossed from her list made in the dim candlelight of past midnight.
Benedict Bridgerton.
Thorny indeed. Could she trust him?
She and her parents had been friends with the Bridgerton family for years now, and Francesca was what [y/n] could call her best long-distance friend, but how far did she know Benedict?
He was a second son, which did not help his reputation, but there was no denying he was a gentleman and a remarkable artist. They used to play together at Aubrey Hall when they were both too young to feel ashamed.
Benedict was her friend, at least as far as being friends with a man could go for a single lady.
Subsequently, Miss [y/n] waited for the promised ball Lady Danbury would throw for the people of the ton, anxious to see if Benedict would say yes to her proposition and not tell anyone her little secret.
"Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]," said Lady Danbury, appearing out of thin air beside the young lady, "you look nervous. What for, my dear?"
[y/n] swallowed hard. "Do I? I suppose I could look like that, but I promise I'm fine as a horse."
"If that horse is about to go racing," said the old lady sharply. "Seriously, sweetie, entertain me. I fear this is the first ball I throw where nothing good happens. It starts to hurt this hostess's feelings, you know."
"Lady Danbury, well, if you must know…." [y/n] was certainly not about to tell her the real reason beyond her nervous appearance. Lady Danbury was a lady of gossip, and that was the last thing [y/n] needed. "My mama, just yesterday…" started [y/n], but she never managed to finish her lie because Lady Danbury interrupted her with a yell.
"Mister Bridgerton!"
Oh, Christ. [y/n] felt like she was all wet with sweat. What were the odds?
"Mister Bridgerton!" shouted the old lady again, this time prolonging the last name of the gentleman walking by.
"You know, Lady Danbury, I'm not obliged to answer since there are three 'Mister Bridgerton' alive at the moment," said Benedict, stopping closer with a grin. "Two of them are at this party right at this moment."
Lady Danbury hit him with her cane, and the gentleman pretended to feel pain beyond what he must have felt. "Very funny, Mr Bridgerton, but we both know one of them isn't even old enough to be called mister."
"Yes indeed; Colin is a not fully formed child, but I rather only Bridgertons talk about that," he joked.
Only when his giggle ceased did the tallest Bridgerton siblings notice Miss [y/n]'s presence. It was a bit embarrassing for her, as she was staring at him laughing and how magnificent he looked — so relaxed that his hair moved with the movement of his chest. She had to tilt her head quite a lot to face him, so there was no covering her gaze.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. I did not see you there."
"Clearly," Lady Danbury whispered in her condescending tone, making her sound like a teenager.
"Good evening, Mr Bridgerton," Miss [y/n] said, ignoring Lady Danbury's comment and smiling at the gentleman before her. She had been looking for him after all.
"And now you two have been officially introduced," said Lady Danbury surly, allowing no interruptions. "Can I finally talk to you, Mr Bridgerton, about what I wanted?"
"You, calling upon me, had a reason!" said the Bridgerton man at the same time Miss [y/n] burst: "We knew each other already!"
"Oh, all right," Lady Danbury sighed, defeated. Benedict and [y/n] smiled, feeling victorious — but Benedict's smile was broader. "Mr Bridgerton, I insist on talking to you as I'm sure you must be anxious to meet my niece."
"Your niece?" he echoed.
"Yes, the one coming from Chester," continued the old lady. "Winnie Danbury. You had heard about her coming, yes?"
Lady Danbury's eyes seemed challenging as if asking for one of them to deny her tellings, as [y/n] was sure no one mentioned Miss Winnie before. However, they both stayed silent, agreeing with a head shake.
"Miss Winnie Danbury," said [y/n], testing the name, "is it her first time here in London?"
Lady Danbury moved her body to face Miss [y/n] as she had partially forgotten about the girl's presence. [y/n] was a charm; the old lady had only good things to say about her, but sometimes the Miss would rather stay in a corner barely lit, which infuriated Lady Danbury. Miss [y/n] was a beauty; she needed to be seen more often — even if society didn't agree with the elderly lady.
"Yes, it is," replied the aunt. "Oh, she's beautiful, Mr Bridgerton. And so talented! Did you know she plays five different instruments?"
Of course she does, [y/n] thought, sighing to herself. The anonymous writer dreamed of playing an instrument or, at least, being able to draw. She'd like to have another artistic talent besides writing. It was well viewed when a woman played wonderfully and even painted; it all did better than writers. Writing for a woman was like talking to the devil; her great-uncle had told her once when she'd suggested she had some talent for it.
"Lady Danbury, it will, undoubtedly, be a pleasure to meet another member of your family," said the gentleman.
"Especially if she's like you," whispered [y/n], afraid her tone sounded too provocative for the old lady's ears.
"But," continued Benedict, pretending not to have heard the young woman's comment, although the left corner of his mouth indicated otherwise, "is there any reason you should be offering your niece to me?"
"Why, yes! You are the oldest Bridgerton bachelor at the moment," said Lady Danbury and turned to Miss [y/n] before restarting, "and it would be a lovely match, wouldn't it?"
[y/n] had no reason to disagree.
"Of course. A Danbury with a Bridgerton, the missing couple in London."
Lady Danbury smiled as if she knew more than those young fools, and touching Benedict with her cane, she began to depart.
"I'll leave you alone, as I feel that my mission here is already complete."
"Oh no, please," Benedict pronounced sarcastically, "stay and tell us more about Miss Winnie."
But Lady Danbury had already turned away and walked away from the two of them, focusing her attention on Penelope Featherington, who was creeping through the room, trying hard not to be noticed.
Mr Bridgerton looked immediately unnerved by the noble lady's departure as if he didn't know what to say to Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. And he didn't.
The two had known each other for a while and were even good friends, but she remained an unmarried woman in the presence of an unmarried man, and alone, the two seldom exchanged words. They were sharp when doubled against another Bridgerton or one of her brothers, but Benedict had always seen her as just one of the women of the ton.
She had her appeal, a magnificence in disguise. For example, she didn't take anyone's breath away but wasn't ugly to look at. In addition, she had more prominent curves than other women, a virtue when it came to her cleavage but a flaw when considering her corset region.
Benedict never judged her for that. On the contrary, he liked knowing she had something he could hold onto.
No.
He didn't like it.
Why exactly am I thinking about Miss [y/n]'s curves? The gentleman chastised himself. Forget it before you say something foolish!
Miss [y/n] noticed the dreadful hush and decided to speak first since she had something to say.
"Mr Bridgerton, I... I'd like to have a word with you," she felt her cheeks flush with nervousness. "In a less... crowded place."
Benedict gulped. So he spoke aloud. Bollocks.
"I have a business proposition. Perhaps it will interest you," she resumed, relieving Benedict immediately. "You still paint, yes?"
"Yes," he replied overly quickly.
"And you draw?"
"Well, yes." The gentleman stopped talking to reminisce. Would she like a portrait? Strange. No one hired painters during balls, and never, ever should a single lady ask a gentleman for a painting (at least not if she wasn't interested in the man himself).
Does she have an interest unrevealed? He thought but renounced the idea. It was [y/n] who stood before him. The same girl who played in the mud and one day made fun of him for having such fragile hands.
She had no interest in Benedict other than his artistic gifts.
"Need a painting, Miss?"
"Not precisely…" She looked nervous. "Can you pace with me to the refreshment table?" she asked, walking over to it before hearing him nod. It was the least guarded place in the salon at that moment.
He followed her, for he was too curious to drop it.
"How would you feel…" she started saying after analysing their surround "if it was offered to you a chance to illustrate a book?"
"A book?" he echoed, a bit too loud.
[y/n] waited a bit before continuing.
"A children's book, but adults can deeply interpret it."
"That's rather specific," he pointed out. So what was the meaning of all that? How was [y/n] in any power to offer him such a proposition?
"Mr Bridgerton, I simply want to know if you could be interested. If you are not, then I'll never mention it again," she said, her voice slightly shaky, even though she was playing chilliness.
Benedict took a step further, thinking she was out of her mind and only his closeness could bring her to her senses. "How can you do me such an offer, Miss? As I recall, your father is not in the editing, writing and printing business."
She closed her eyes tight, not believing she was about to confess to Benedict Bridgerton.
"But I am."
"Yeah, right," snorted the Bridgerton gentleman, crossing his arms in front of his chest. But [y/n] stayed utterly silent; she didn't dare utter a word, and Benedict could not stare at her big, closed eyes for that long without wondering: who was she? He was momentarily sure he didn't know. "[y/n]?" he called her, daring, in a whisper, to utter her first name.
[y/n] opened her eyes, surprised that Benedict had used her first name. She had always thought of him as Mr. Bridgerton, the handsome and charming gentleman whom society's most eligible ladies always surrounded. But now, she was asking him for help and needed to trust him with her secret.
"Yes, it's true," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm W. Jabber, the author of several books. I published under a male pseudonym."
Benedict was stunned. He had heard of W. Jabber's work and greatly admired "his" writing. He had no idea that the author was Miss [y/l/n], the girl he had known since childhood. He looked at her, seeing her in a new light. She was not just the girl who played in the mud; she was a talented writer who broke society's rules to pursue her passion.
"I had no idea," he said, his voice full of awe.
"I know," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's not something I can share with many people."
"And you want me to illustrate your next book?" he asked, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his childhood friend was a published author.
"Yes," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I've been working on a new book, and I think your illustrations would be perfect for it."
Benedict smiled, feeling honoured that she had asked him. "I'd love to help you," he said. "But how will we do it in secret? We can't let anyone know."
"I have a plan," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Meet me tomorrow at the park, and I'll tell you all about it."
Benedict nodded, feeling a sense of excitement at the thought of working with [y/n] on a secret project. He had always admired her intelligence and wit, but now he saw a new side that intrigued him even more.
As they returned to the salon, Benedict couldn't help but wonder what other secrets Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was hiding. But for now, he was content to focus on their new project, a collaboration that would push the boundaries of society and showcase their talents in a way that no one else could.
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n]
Summary: Miss [y/n] is not your average young lady, for she is also W. Jabber, a talented writer who challenges societal norms. All was well until her publisher presented her with a new challenge—to write a children's book disguised for adult readers and to have it illustrated. And to help her with the task, she knows only one good painter in London.
Age rating: although this chapter is pretty chill for younger audiences, the next parts will have more explicit scenes, so let's keep it 18+.
Author's note: I said I'd be back with the Bridgerton boys, and here I am! Benedict, for the win! Hope you guys like it!
(Part 02 here!)
To read Anthony's fic, click here! For other stories, click here. Enjoy!
Miss [y/n] was a writer. A good one, she dared add. Of course, that was unnoticed by the people of the ton, who would not have appreciated female writing, even if it was that great.
For that precise reason, Miss [y/n] prospered in a secret double life, where she was a pleasant lady by day and a fierce author by night. Her publisher was the only man she considered a friend since he knew her true identity and was present in both parts of her life. Needless to say, such an intelligent and refined man, capable of admiring penmanship made by a woman, would already have a wife. And would be dangerously too old to be anything more than an extra father figure in Miss [y/n] 's history.
Being close and such, Mister Brendy often challenged [y/n] 's writing abilities, encouraging her to try new styles in every new book. He'd often advise her towards writing the genre most wanted by the public at that specific time, and [y/n] was always quick to agree — as she held Mr Brendy's opinions very highly. Also, her family desperately needed the money [y/n] provided anonymously. Pretending it was a subsidy presented by an old aunt from the country, the young woman allowed her family some great comfort; furthermore, she permitted herself the luxury of new dresses every season.
"Good afternoon, Mr Brendy. How are you this evening?"
The sky wasn't fully dark when Miss [y/n] popped into the tiny printer's shop, but she was confident enough that nobody followed her in; thus, she modelled no cape or undistinguished clothing. She was merely herself before her old chum and a couple more teen-boy workers.
"Very well, dear," the printer replied, holding a modest smile. Mr Brendy had gently round features, and his smile, even the smallest ones, was exceptionally pleasant to witness. "Hope you're ready to hear your next challenge."
"I wouldn't be here if I weren't, Mr Brendy," she answered, lowering her eyes to the papers over his table, looking for clues to his oncoming request. Most authors did not enjoy working with demands, but [y/n] thrived with them, and she was Mr Brendy's favourite because of it.
"Well, have you how many nephews and nieces again? I always forget; I'm sorry," Mr Brendy got up and walked towards Miss [y/n]'s chair.
"No need to be sorry, Mr Brendy — I, sometimes, forget as well," she smiled. "I currently have three nephews and one baby niece. She's such a lovely newborn!"
The gentleman placed his hands in his trouser pockets, scratching his throat before saying, "Yes, newborns are usually a delight—a blessing."
"Couldn't agree more," Miss [y/n] couldn't help her anxiety taking the best of herself. "But what does my siblings' offspring have to do with my upcoming, in need of writing, book?"
After another scratch of his throat, Mr Brendy finally spoke his true intentions. "Do you remember when you found me shivering from the rain outside and asked if I could publish your first book? And even cold, you managed to make all these demands regarding our partnership?"
"Of course, I remember! I was a baby lassie of fifteen years of age, but wasn't I a captivating writer even then?" Miss [y/n] was only joking but noticed that Mr Brendy wasn't less tense. "Does this talk have something to do with my demands? Do you need to lower my percentage of profit?"
Dear God, she hoped not.
"Nothing of such. Your books are bestsellers, Miss [y/n]. Money is not the problem," he said. "However, your other contract demand... The one where you work alone..."
"Yes?" she was desperately nervous.
"Would you be able to make an exception?"
There was silence in the room. It felt like even the employees outside the tiny office were muted, waiting for her answer.
"I'm sorry, Mr Brendy, but what are you implying? You want me to write in association with another author, is that it?"
"Not another author per se," he gritted his teeth, and the noise startled Miss [y/n]. "No," he restarted, "I don't want your writing to get jumbled up. You have a magnetic way of putting words to paper; I would never allow anyone else to interfere with that."
"Thank you," she said, happy for the compliment, though confused about how to respond. Mr Brendy was a good man, but he rarely presented free praise.
"I want you to work partnered with a painter, an illustrator. See, this is where your nephews come to action — children's books are the latest fashion, the genre bestseller of the hour. We have no author good enough to conquer that style the way we want," he paused, "— at least no better writer than you."
She was flattered but primarily confused. Her books weren't for children. Under the name of W. Jabber, she published pieces about politics and devotion, death and art, but all of that over a darker tone, very adult if you dare. What would be her place when speaking to children? What story could she have stored to tell those little kids rushing to a bookshop, looking for the newest realise?
"I want you to write a children's story the way only you could — designed for the parents. I want it perfectly disguised so that, when a parent fetches the book — tediously and only doing it for the quietness of their offspring — they get stunned to find out the narrative is very well made for them as much as the child."
"You reckon I could write such a thing?" she asked in a second of bravery. "I don't think I can."
"Upon rereading your latest, my dear, I discovered that if anyone can, it is you," he said. "When I first read Storms of Love, I could never have deduced the novel was about the Priest falling in love with his bastard son. At first glance, the story felt like a mother missing her son when he decided to go to seminary!"
She pressed her lips together, feeling shy. It was a horrible habit, as the lady knew she looked dreadful when she did it, but she couldn't help it. How many times, during balls, did she have to hear people praising her without knowing that Jabber was [y/n]?
"Again, thank you, Mr Brendy. You know I adore compliments," Miss [y/n] tried to smile, but she couldn't disguise her dismay. "Regardless, I…"
"I would never force you, Miss [y/n]!" the printer rushed closer to her, taking the liberty of placing a hand on her covered shoulder. "But before you say anything, know that the illustrator would be one of your selections, and we could do the whole interaction anonymously if you so desire."
"It's not the teamwork that unnerves me, Mr Brendy, but the writing of a children's book for adults." Miss [y/n] stared deep into Mr Brendy's eyes, but that was a wrong choice. His big, green eyes stared at her back, filled with hope for her to accept. How could she say no to the older man who knew her more than her father?
She placed her hand over his on her shoulder before saying, "Do you truly believe I am the best option for this chef-d'oeuvre? It takes courage to defy society with a youngsters' novel."
He smiled in that way only a proud grandparent could. "Yes, I believe you can."
After the conversation with Mr Brendy, Miss [y/n] at least managed to secure the illustrator would be her pick and not be some random person chosen by the printer.
That was exceptionally tricky, however. [y/n] did not know a bunch of painters — at least not enough that were indeed talented for her intentions or kind souls that would not reveal her identity. She did not want to be Lady Whistledown's next victim.
Miss [y/n] came up with one name and one name only. It was the only name not crossed from her list made in the dim candlelight of past midnight.
Benedict Bridgerton.
Thorny indeed. Could she trust him?
She and her parents had been friends with the Bridgerton family for years now, and Francesca was what [y/n] could call her best long-distance friend, but how far did she know Benedict?
He was a second son, which did not help his reputation, but there was no denying he was a gentleman and a remarkable artist. They used to play together at Aubrey Hall when they were both too young to feel ashamed.
Benedict was her friend, at least as far as being friends with a man could go for a single lady.
Subsequently, Miss [y/n] waited for the promised ball Lady Danbury would throw for the people of the ton, anxious to see if Benedict would say yes to her proposition and not tell anyone her little secret.
"Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]," said Lady Danbury, appearing out of thin air beside the young lady, "you look nervous. What for, my dear?"
[y/n] swallowed hard. "Do I? I suppose I could look like that, but I promise I'm fine as a horse."
"If that horse is about to go racing," said the old lady sharply. "Seriously, sweetie, entertain me. I fear this is the first ball I throw where nothing good happens. It starts to hurt this hostess's feelings, you know."
"Lady Danbury, well, if you must know…." [y/n] was certainly not about to tell her the real reason beyond her nervous appearance. Lady Danbury was a lady of gossip, and that was the last thing [y/n] needed. "My mama, just yesterday…" started [y/n], but she never managed to finish her lie because Lady Danbury interrupted her with a yell.
"Mister Bridgerton!"
Oh, Christ. [y/n] felt like she was all wet with sweat. What were the odds?
"Mister Bridgerton!" shouted the old lady again, this time prolonging the last name of the gentleman walking by.
"You know, Lady Danbury, I'm not obliged to answer since there are three 'Mister Bridgerton' alive at the moment," said Benedict, stopping closer with a grin. "Two of them are at this party right at this moment."
Lady Danbury hit him with her cane, and the gentleman pretended to feel pain beyond what he must have felt. "Very funny, Mr Bridgerton, but we both know one of them isn't even old enough to be called mister."
"Yes indeed; Colin is a not fully formed child, but I rather only Bridgertons talk about that," he joked.
Only when his giggle ceased did the tallest Bridgerton siblings notice Miss [y/n]'s presence. It was a bit embarrassing for her, as she was staring at him laughing and how magnificent he looked — so relaxed that his hair moved with the movement of his chest. She had to tilt her head quite a lot to face him, so there was no covering her gaze.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. I did not see you there."
"Clearly," Lady Danbury whispered in her condescending tone, making her sound like a teenager.
"Good evening, Mr Bridgerton," Miss [y/n] said, ignoring Lady Danbury's comment and smiling at the gentleman before her. She had been looking for him after all.
"And now you two have been officially introduced," said Lady Danbury surly, allowing no interruptions. "Can I finally talk to you, Mr Bridgerton, about what I wanted?"
"You, calling upon me, had a reason!" said the Bridgerton man at the same time Miss [y/n] burst: "We knew each other already!"
"Oh, all right," Lady Danbury sighed, defeated. Benedict and [y/n] smiled, feeling victorious — but Benedict's smile was broader. "Mr Bridgerton, I insist on talking to you as I'm sure you must be anxious to meet my niece."
"Your niece?" he echoed.
"Yes, the one coming from Chester," continued the old lady. "Winnie Danbury. You had heard about her coming, yes?"
Lady Danbury's eyes seemed challenging as if asking for one of them to deny her tellings, as [y/n] was sure no one mentioned Miss Winnie before. However, they both stayed silent, agreeing with a head shake.
"Miss Winnie Danbury," said [y/n], testing the name, "is it her first time here in London?"
Lady Danbury moved her body to face Miss [y/n] as she had partially forgotten about the girl's presence. [y/n] was a charm; the old lady had only good things to say about her, but sometimes the Miss would rather stay in a corner barely lit, which infuriated Lady Danbury. Miss [y/n] was a beauty; she needed to be seen more often — even if society didn't agree with the elderly lady.
"Yes, it is," replied the aunt. "Oh, she's beautiful, Mr Bridgerton. And so talented! Did you know she plays five different instruments?"
Of course she does, [y/n] thought, sighing to herself. The anonymous writer dreamed of playing an instrument or, at least, being able to draw. She'd like to have another artistic talent besides writing. It was well viewed when a woman played wonderfully and even painted; it all did better than writers. Writing for a woman was like talking to the devil; her great-uncle had told her once when she'd suggested she had some talent for it.
"Lady Danbury, it will, undoubtedly, be a pleasure to meet another member of your family," said the gentleman.
"Especially if she's like you," whispered [y/n], afraid her tone sounded too provocative for the old lady's ears.
"But," continued Benedict, pretending not to have heard the young woman's comment, although the left corner of his mouth indicated otherwise, "is there any reason you should be offering your niece to me?"
"Why, yes! You are the oldest Bridgerton bachelor at the moment," said Lady Danbury and turned to Miss [y/n] before restarting, "and it would be a lovely match, wouldn't it?"
[y/n] had no reason to disagree.
"Of course. A Danbury with a Bridgerton, the missing couple in London."
Lady Danbury smiled as if she knew more than those young fools, and touching Benedict with her cane, she began to depart.
"I'll leave you alone, as I feel that my mission here is already complete."
"Oh no, please," Benedict pronounced sarcastically, "stay and tell us more about Miss Winnie."
But Lady Danbury had already turned away and walked away from the two of them, focusing her attention on Penelope Featherington, who was creeping through the room, trying hard not to be noticed.
Mr Bridgerton looked immediately unnerved by the noble lady's departure as if he didn't know what to say to Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. And he didn't.
The two had known each other for a while and were even good friends, but she remained an unmarried woman in the presence of an unmarried man, and alone, the two seldom exchanged words. They were sharp when doubled against another Bridgerton or one of her brothers, but Benedict had always seen her as just one of the women of the ton.
She had her appeal, a magnificence in disguise. For example, she didn't take anyone's breath away but wasn't ugly to look at. In addition, she had more prominent curves than other women, a virtue when it came to her cleavage but a flaw when considering her corset region.
Benedict never judged her for that. On the contrary, he liked knowing she had something he could hold onto.
No.
He didn't like it.
Why exactly am I thinking about Miss [y/n]'s curves? The gentleman chastised himself. Forget it before you say something foolish!
Miss [y/n] noticed the dreadful hush and decided to speak first since she had something to say.
"Mr Bridgerton, I... I'd like to have a word with you," she felt her cheeks flush with nervousness. "In a less... crowded place."
Benedict gulped. So he spoke aloud. Bollocks.
"I have a business proposition. Perhaps it will interest you," she resumed, relieving Benedict immediately. "You still paint, yes?"
"Yes," he replied overly quickly.
"And you draw?"
"Well, yes." The gentleman stopped talking to reminisce. Would she like a portrait? Strange. No one hired painters during balls, and never, ever should a single lady ask a gentleman for a painting (at least not if she wasn't interested in the man himself).
Does she have an interest unrevealed? He thought but renounced the idea. It was [y/n] who stood before him. The same girl who played in the mud and one day made fun of him for having such fragile hands.
She had no interest in Benedict other than his artistic gifts.
"Need a painting, Miss?"
"Not precisely…" She looked nervous. "Can you pace with me to the refreshment table?" she asked, walking over to it before hearing him nod. It was the least guarded place in the salon at that moment.
He followed her, for he was too curious to drop it.
"How would you feel…" she started saying after analysing their surround "if it was offered to you a chance to illustrate a book?"
"A book?" he echoed, a bit too loud.
[y/n] waited a bit before continuing.
"A children's book, but adults can deeply interpret it."
"That's rather specific," he pointed out. So what was the meaning of all that? How was [y/n] in any power to offer him such a proposition?
"Mr Bridgerton, I simply want to know if you could be interested. If you are not, then I'll never mention it again," she said, her voice slightly shaky, even though she was playing chilliness.
Benedict took a step further, thinking she was out of her mind and only his closeness could bring her to her senses. "How can you do me such an offer, Miss? As I recall, your father is not in the editing, writing and printing business."
She closed her eyes tight, not believing she was about to confess to Benedict Bridgerton.
"But I am."
"Yeah, right," snorted the Bridgerton gentleman, crossing his arms in front of his chest. But [y/n] stayed utterly silent; she didn't dare utter a word, and Benedict could not stare at her big, closed eyes for that long without wondering: who was she? He was momentarily sure he didn't know. "[y/n]?" he called her, daring, in a whisper, to utter her first name.
[y/n] opened her eyes, surprised that Benedict had used her first name. She had always thought of him as Mr. Bridgerton, the handsome and charming gentleman whom society's most eligible ladies always surrounded. But now, she was asking him for help and needed to trust him with her secret.
"Yes, it's true," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm W. Jabber, the author of several books. I published under a male pseudonym."
Benedict was stunned. He had heard of W. Jabber's work and greatly admired "his" writing. He had no idea that the author was Miss [y/l/n], the girl he had known since childhood. He looked at her, seeing her in a new light. She was not just the girl who played in the mud; she was a talented writer who broke society's rules to pursue her passion.
"I had no idea," he said, his voice full of awe.
"I know," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's not something I can share with many people."
"And you want me to illustrate your next book?" he asked, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his childhood friend was a published author.
"Yes," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I've been working on a new book, and I think your illustrations would be perfect for it."
Benedict smiled, feeling honoured that she had asked him. "I'd love to help you," he said. "But how will we do it in secret? We can't let anyone know."
"I have a plan," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Meet me tomorrow at the park, and I'll tell you all about it."
Benedict nodded, feeling a sense of excitement at the thought of working with [y/n] on a secret project. He had always admired her intelligence and wit, but now he saw a new side that intrigued him even more.
As they returned to the salon, Benedict couldn't help but wonder what other secrets Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was hiding. But for now, he was content to focus on their new project, a collaboration that would push the boundaries of society and showcase their talents in a way that no one else could.
Dearest Gentle reader, as another season starts so do the surprises. It has been said that we are to welcome the Queen and King of Genovia for the first half of this season, and not only that but to witness the very first public appearance of their eldest, Princess Y/N Devereaux.
I'm sure the Queen will want us to be the most gracious hosts, even if this family of royals have a reputation for enjoying scandal.
Isn't it exciting when life becomes a fairytale of sorts?
(Bridgerton x Princess Diaries crossover)
Chapter 1. Fun Times & Potty Rooms
Chapter 2. The Botanist
Chapter 3. Faux Pas
Chapter 4. The Artist
Chapter 5. Drawing Lessons (Dec 7th)
Chapter 6. Thoughts & Ink (Dec 14th)
Chapter 7. A Moment of Enlightenment (Dec 21st)
Chapter 8. An Offer From a Gentleman (Dec 28th)
This WILL be an 18+ story (Minors DNI!) so yes it's mostly smut with a lot of plot
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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n]
Summary: Miss [y/n] is not your average young lady, for she is also W. Jabber, a talented writer who challenges societal norms. All was well until her publisher presented her with a new challenge—to write a children's book disguised for adult readers and to have it illustrated. And to help her with the task, she knows only one good painter in London.
Age rating: although this chapter is pretty chill for younger audiences, the next parts will have more explicit scenes, so let's keep it 18+.
Author's note: I said I'd be back with the Bridgerton boys, and here I am! Benedict, for the win! Hope you guys like it!
(Part 02 here!)
To read Anthony's fic, click here! For other stories, click here. Enjoy!
Miss [y/n] was a writer. A good one, she dared add. Of course, that was unnoticed by the people of the ton, who would not have appreciated female writing, even if it was that great.
For that precise reason, Miss [y/n] prospered in a secret double life, where she was a pleasant lady by day and a fierce author by night. Her publisher was the only man she considered a friend since he knew her true identity and was present in both parts of her life. Needless to say, such an intelligent and refined man, capable of admiring penmanship made by a woman, would already have a wife. And would be dangerously too old to be anything more than an extra father figure in Miss [y/n] 's history.
Being close and such, Mister Brendy often challenged [y/n] 's writing abilities, encouraging her to try new styles in every new book. He'd often advise her towards writing the genre most wanted by the public at that specific time, and [y/n] was always quick to agree — as she held Mr Brendy's opinions very highly. Also, her family desperately needed the money [y/n] provided anonymously. Pretending it was a subsidy presented by an old aunt from the country, the young woman allowed her family some great comfort; furthermore, she permitted herself the luxury of new dresses every season.
"Good afternoon, Mr Brendy. How are you this evening?"
The sky wasn't fully dark when Miss [y/n] popped into the tiny printer's shop, but she was confident enough that nobody followed her in; thus, she modelled no cape or undistinguished clothing. She was merely herself before her old chum and a couple more teen-boy workers.
"Very well, dear," the printer replied, holding a modest smile. Mr Brendy had gently round features, and his smile, even the smallest ones, was exceptionally pleasant to witness. "Hope you're ready to hear your next challenge."
"I wouldn't be here if I weren't, Mr Brendy," she answered, lowering her eyes to the papers over his table, looking for clues to his oncoming request. Most authors did not enjoy working with demands, but [y/n] thrived with them, and she was Mr Brendy's favourite because of it.
"Well, have you how many nephews and nieces again? I always forget; I'm sorry," Mr Brendy got up and walked towards Miss [y/n]'s chair.
"No need to be sorry, Mr Brendy — I, sometimes, forget as well," she smiled. "I currently have three nephews and one baby niece. She's such a lovely newborn!"
The gentleman placed his hands in his trouser pockets, scratching his throat before saying, "Yes, newborns are usually a delight—a blessing."
"Couldn't agree more," Miss [y/n] couldn't help her anxiety taking the best of herself. "But what does my siblings' offspring have to do with my upcoming, in need of writing, book?"
After another scratch of his throat, Mr Brendy finally spoke his true intentions. "Do you remember when you found me shivering from the rain outside and asked if I could publish your first book? And even cold, you managed to make all these demands regarding our partnership?"
"Of course, I remember! I was a baby lassie of fifteen years of age, but wasn't I a captivating writer even then?" Miss [y/n] was only joking but noticed that Mr Brendy wasn't less tense. "Does this talk have something to do with my demands? Do you need to lower my percentage of profit?"
Dear God, she hoped not.
"Nothing of such. Your books are bestsellers, Miss [y/n]. Money is not the problem," he said. "However, your other contract demand... The one where you work alone..."
"Yes?" she was desperately nervous.
"Would you be able to make an exception?"
There was silence in the room. It felt like even the employees outside the tiny office were muted, waiting for her answer.
"I'm sorry, Mr Brendy, but what are you implying? You want me to write in association with another author, is that it?"
"Not another author per se," he gritted his teeth, and the noise startled Miss [y/n]. "No," he restarted, "I don't want your writing to get jumbled up. You have a magnetic way of putting words to paper; I would never allow anyone else to interfere with that."
"Thank you," she said, happy for the compliment, though confused about how to respond. Mr Brendy was a good man, but he rarely presented free praise.
"I want you to work partnered with a painter, an illustrator. See, this is where your nephews come to action — children's books are the latest fashion, the genre bestseller of the hour. We have no author good enough to conquer that style the way we want," he paused, "— at least no better writer than you."
She was flattered but primarily confused. Her books weren't for children. Under the name of W. Jabber, she published pieces about politics and devotion, death and art, but all of that over a darker tone, very adult if you dare. What would be her place when speaking to children? What story could she have stored to tell those little kids rushing to a bookshop, looking for the newest realise?
"I want you to write a children's story the way only you could — designed for the parents. I want it perfectly disguised so that, when a parent fetches the book — tediously and only doing it for the quietness of their offspring — they get stunned to find out the narrative is very well made for them as much as the child."
"You reckon I could write such a thing?" she asked in a second of bravery. "I don't think I can."
"Upon rereading your latest, my dear, I discovered that if anyone can, it is you," he said. "When I first read Storms of Love, I could never have deduced the novel was about the Priest falling in love with his bastard son. At first glance, the story felt like a mother missing her son when he decided to go to seminary!"
She pressed her lips together, feeling shy. It was a horrible habit, as the lady knew she looked dreadful when she did it, but she couldn't help it. How many times, during balls, did she have to hear people praising her without knowing that Jabber was [y/n]?
"Again, thank you, Mr Brendy. You know I adore compliments," Miss [y/n] tried to smile, but she couldn't disguise her dismay. "Regardless, I…"
"I would never force you, Miss [y/n]!" the printer rushed closer to her, taking the liberty of placing a hand on her covered shoulder. "But before you say anything, know that the illustrator would be one of your selections, and we could do the whole interaction anonymously if you so desire."
"It's not the teamwork that unnerves me, Mr Brendy, but the writing of a children's book for adults." Miss [y/n] stared deep into Mr Brendy's eyes, but that was a wrong choice. His big, green eyes stared at her back, filled with hope for her to accept. How could she say no to the older man who knew her more than her father?
She placed her hand over his on her shoulder before saying, "Do you truly believe I am the best option for this chef-d'oeuvre? It takes courage to defy society with a youngsters' novel."
He smiled in that way only a proud grandparent could. "Yes, I believe you can."
After the conversation with Mr Brendy, Miss [y/n] at least managed to secure the illustrator would be her pick and not be some random person chosen by the printer.
That was exceptionally tricky, however. [y/n] did not know a bunch of painters — at least not enough that were indeed talented for her intentions or kind souls that would not reveal her identity. She did not want to be Lady Whistledown's next victim.
Miss [y/n] came up with one name and one name only. It was the only name not crossed from her list made in the dim candlelight of past midnight.
Benedict Bridgerton.
Thorny indeed. Could she trust him?
She and her parents had been friends with the Bridgerton family for years now, and Francesca was what [y/n] could call her best long-distance friend, but how far did she know Benedict?
He was a second son, which did not help his reputation, but there was no denying he was a gentleman and a remarkable artist. They used to play together at Aubrey Hall when they were both too young to feel ashamed.
Benedict was her friend, at least as far as being friends with a man could go for a single lady.
Subsequently, Miss [y/n] waited for the promised ball Lady Danbury would throw for the people of the ton, anxious to see if Benedict would say yes to her proposition and not tell anyone her little secret.
"Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]," said Lady Danbury, appearing out of thin air beside the young lady, "you look nervous. What for, my dear?"
[y/n] swallowed hard. "Do I? I suppose I could look like that, but I promise I'm fine as a horse."
"If that horse is about to go racing," said the old lady sharply. "Seriously, sweetie, entertain me. I fear this is the first ball I throw where nothing good happens. It starts to hurt this hostess's feelings, you know."
"Lady Danbury, well, if you must know…." [y/n] was certainly not about to tell her the real reason beyond her nervous appearance. Lady Danbury was a lady of gossip, and that was the last thing [y/n] needed. "My mama, just yesterday…" started [y/n], but she never managed to finish her lie because Lady Danbury interrupted her with a yell.
"Mister Bridgerton!"
Oh, Christ. [y/n] felt like she was all wet with sweat. What were the odds?
"Mister Bridgerton!" shouted the old lady again, this time prolonging the last name of the gentleman walking by.
"You know, Lady Danbury, I'm not obliged to answer since there are three 'Mister Bridgerton' alive at the moment," said Benedict, stopping closer with a grin. "Two of them are at this party right at this moment."
Lady Danbury hit him with her cane, and the gentleman pretended to feel pain beyond what he must have felt. "Very funny, Mr Bridgerton, but we both know one of them isn't even old enough to be called mister."
"Yes indeed; Colin is a not fully formed child, but I rather only Bridgertons talk about that," he joked.
Only when his giggle ceased did the tallest Bridgerton siblings notice Miss [y/n]'s presence. It was a bit embarrassing for her, as she was staring at him laughing and how magnificent he looked — so relaxed that his hair moved with the movement of his chest. She had to tilt her head quite a lot to face him, so there was no covering her gaze.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. I did not see you there."
"Clearly," Lady Danbury whispered in her condescending tone, making her sound like a teenager.
"Good evening, Mr Bridgerton," Miss [y/n] said, ignoring Lady Danbury's comment and smiling at the gentleman before her. She had been looking for him after all.
"And now you two have been officially introduced," said Lady Danbury surly, allowing no interruptions. "Can I finally talk to you, Mr Bridgerton, about what I wanted?"
"You, calling upon me, had a reason!" said the Bridgerton man at the same time Miss [y/n] burst: "We knew each other already!"
"Oh, all right," Lady Danbury sighed, defeated. Benedict and [y/n] smiled, feeling victorious — but Benedict's smile was broader. "Mr Bridgerton, I insist on talking to you as I'm sure you must be anxious to meet my niece."
"Your niece?" he echoed.
"Yes, the one coming from Chester," continued the old lady. "Winnie Danbury. You had heard about her coming, yes?"
Lady Danbury's eyes seemed challenging as if asking for one of them to deny her tellings, as [y/n] was sure no one mentioned Miss Winnie before. However, they both stayed silent, agreeing with a head shake.
"Miss Winnie Danbury," said [y/n], testing the name, "is it her first time here in London?"
Lady Danbury moved her body to face Miss [y/n] as she had partially forgotten about the girl's presence. [y/n] was a charm; the old lady had only good things to say about her, but sometimes the Miss would rather stay in a corner barely lit, which infuriated Lady Danbury. Miss [y/n] was a beauty; she needed to be seen more often — even if society didn't agree with the elderly lady.
"Yes, it is," replied the aunt. "Oh, she's beautiful, Mr Bridgerton. And so talented! Did you know she plays five different instruments?"
Of course she does, [y/n] thought, sighing to herself. The anonymous writer dreamed of playing an instrument or, at least, being able to draw. She'd like to have another artistic talent besides writing. It was well viewed when a woman played wonderfully and even painted; it all did better than writers. Writing for a woman was like talking to the devil; her great-uncle had told her once when she'd suggested she had some talent for it.
"Lady Danbury, it will, undoubtedly, be a pleasure to meet another member of your family," said the gentleman.
"Especially if she's like you," whispered [y/n], afraid her tone sounded too provocative for the old lady's ears.
"But," continued Benedict, pretending not to have heard the young woman's comment, although the left corner of his mouth indicated otherwise, "is there any reason you should be offering your niece to me?"
"Why, yes! You are the oldest Bridgerton bachelor at the moment," said Lady Danbury and turned to Miss [y/n] before restarting, "and it would be a lovely match, wouldn't it?"
[y/n] had no reason to disagree.
"Of course. A Danbury with a Bridgerton, the missing couple in London."
Lady Danbury smiled as if she knew more than those young fools, and touching Benedict with her cane, she began to depart.
"I'll leave you alone, as I feel that my mission here is already complete."
"Oh no, please," Benedict pronounced sarcastically, "stay and tell us more about Miss Winnie."
But Lady Danbury had already turned away and walked away from the two of them, focusing her attention on Penelope Featherington, who was creeping through the room, trying hard not to be noticed.
Mr Bridgerton looked immediately unnerved by the noble lady's departure as if he didn't know what to say to Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. And he didn't.
The two had known each other for a while and were even good friends, but she remained an unmarried woman in the presence of an unmarried man, and alone, the two seldom exchanged words. They were sharp when doubled against another Bridgerton or one of her brothers, but Benedict had always seen her as just one of the women of the ton.
She had her appeal, a magnificence in disguise. For example, she didn't take anyone's breath away but wasn't ugly to look at. In addition, she had more prominent curves than other women, a virtue when it came to her cleavage but a flaw when considering her corset region.
Benedict never judged her for that. On the contrary, he liked knowing she had something he could hold onto.
No.
He didn't like it.
Why exactly am I thinking about Miss [y/n]'s curves? The gentleman chastised himself. Forget it before you say something foolish!
Miss [y/n] noticed the dreadful hush and decided to speak first since she had something to say.
"Mr Bridgerton, I... I'd like to have a word with you," she felt her cheeks flush with nervousness. "In a less... crowded place."
Benedict gulped. So he spoke aloud. Bollocks.
"I have a business proposition. Perhaps it will interest you," she resumed, relieving Benedict immediately. "You still paint, yes?"
"Yes," he replied overly quickly.
"And you draw?"
"Well, yes." The gentleman stopped talking to reminisce. Would she like a portrait? Strange. No one hired painters during balls, and never, ever should a single lady ask a gentleman for a painting (at least not if she wasn't interested in the man himself).
Does she have an interest unrevealed? He thought but renounced the idea. It was [y/n] who stood before him. The same girl who played in the mud and one day made fun of him for having such fragile hands.
She had no interest in Benedict other than his artistic gifts.
"Need a painting, Miss?"
"Not precisely…" She looked nervous. "Can you pace with me to the refreshment table?" she asked, walking over to it before hearing him nod. It was the least guarded place in the salon at that moment.
He followed her, for he was too curious to drop it.
"How would you feel…" she started saying after analysing their surround "if it was offered to you a chance to illustrate a book?"
"A book?" he echoed, a bit too loud.
[y/n] waited a bit before continuing.
"A children's book, but adults can deeply interpret it."
"That's rather specific," he pointed out. So what was the meaning of all that? How was [y/n] in any power to offer him such a proposition?
"Mr Bridgerton, I simply want to know if you could be interested. If you are not, then I'll never mention it again," she said, her voice slightly shaky, even though she was playing chilliness.
Benedict took a step further, thinking she was out of her mind and only his closeness could bring her to her senses. "How can you do me such an offer, Miss? As I recall, your father is not in the editing, writing and printing business."
She closed her eyes tight, not believing she was about to confess to Benedict Bridgerton.
"But I am."
"Yeah, right," snorted the Bridgerton gentleman, crossing his arms in front of his chest. But [y/n] stayed utterly silent; she didn't dare utter a word, and Benedict could not stare at her big, closed eyes for that long without wondering: who was she? He was momentarily sure he didn't know. "[y/n]?" he called her, daring, in a whisper, to utter her first name.
[y/n] opened her eyes, surprised that Benedict had used her first name. She had always thought of him as Mr. Bridgerton, the handsome and charming gentleman whom society's most eligible ladies always surrounded. But now, she was asking him for help and needed to trust him with her secret.
"Yes, it's true," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm W. Jabber, the author of several books. I published under a male pseudonym."
Benedict was stunned. He had heard of W. Jabber's work and greatly admired "his" writing. He had no idea that the author was Miss [y/l/n], the girl he had known since childhood. He looked at her, seeing her in a new light. She was not just the girl who played in the mud; she was a talented writer who broke society's rules to pursue her passion.
"I had no idea," he said, his voice full of awe.
"I know," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's not something I can share with many people."
"And you want me to illustrate your next book?" he asked, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his childhood friend was a published author.
"Yes," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I've been working on a new book, and I think your illustrations would be perfect for it."
Benedict smiled, feeling honoured that she had asked him. "I'd love to help you," he said. "But how will we do it in secret? We can't let anyone know."
"I have a plan," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Meet me tomorrow at the park, and I'll tell you all about it."
Benedict nodded, feeling a sense of excitement at the thought of working with [y/n] on a secret project. He had always admired her intelligence and wit, but now he saw a new side that intrigued him even more.
As they returned to the salon, Benedict couldn't help but wonder what other secrets Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was hiding. But for now, he was content to focus on their new project, a collaboration that would push the boundaries of society and showcase their talents in a way that no one else could.
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