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nathandrakeisabottom · 2 years

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Saving Horses: Sam Drake x Reader

Summary: On a quiet beach in Madagascar, you ride Sam and try your best to teach him that maybe after fifteen years in prison, he doesn't need to fight anymore. That maybe he can find a way to relinquish control despite everything.

...With mixed results.

Warning: Explicit. 6k+ words. Topping Sam, one slap, violent to tender. This one is a rollercoaster. Dedicated to all the other gamer girls who believe bottoming is for everyone.

You’ve always wanted to have sex on the beach.

Beating waves rhythmic and mirroring bodies moving, sand beneath, between fingers and toes and hair, sea-breeze wind whipping warm and voyeuristic, whispering sweet nothings for you when tongues are too busy with other things. It’s sensual, it’s romantic, it’s classic.

You’ve always wanted to have sex on the beach.

But then again… what person hasn’t?

“You’re going too slow.”

But Sam doesn’t make it as easy or sensual as you always dreamed it would be. He’s whiney, combative, and the sand ripples out around his body from how much he’s squirmed and thrashed about for the past half-hour. He’s impossible to pin down, even when you know he wants to be.

His skin is dewey, clammy, his fingers thick and strong, but yours are stronger to trap him down. Sam is a mystery and you’re addicted to trying to solve it. Cocaine is nothing (trust me, he’s offered it before), heroin is nothing, his adrenaline laces up whole and raw and far better than any drug through your body when he presses himself against you. His danger doesn’t frighten you, only brings your own danger further and faster to the surface. You like meeting the person you are when you’re with Sam.

“No, you’re going too fast.”

He tries again, for what must be the tenth time tonight, to buck back up into you— but that wasn’t the deal. So you don’t let him. Why in the world would you let him?

When Sam snuck into your tent earlier that night, begging that he tried his best to not sound like begging, you said you'd help if, and only if, you did it on your terms.

It's a warm night, humid and husky. The kind of night that begs you to take a risk. Even the whispering winds of fluttering palm fronds, twittering animal sounds of the nocturnal, your own heart pounding loud and fearless between your ears— it all calls for something else tonight. Like the island itself wants a deeper danger, something to talk about, something that leaves a mark.

And suddenly you realize, you’ve never properly dominated him before.

What a shame, a disgrace, really. Lost time and opportunity you’ll just have to make up for tonight.

But he doesn’t make it easy. Sam never makes anything easy.

So you pin him down harder, fingers meeting soft sand until they dig and contradicting nicely against hard hands that grip pistols so much better than a woman’s hips. And he hisses, still fighting it, even after all this time. You can’t quite seem to convince him that he doesn’t need to fight anymore.

Guess fifteen years in prison will do that to a person.

“Sweetheart…” He grits out, but it’s an empty threat. He’s naked, public, vulnerable, unarmed, and if you were to be suddenly ambushed, you’d be his one and only chance of survival. He has nothing left to threaten you with. You may be smaller than him, surely easily overpowered, but clearly he doesn’t actually care to. Because he still hasn’t yet. He just doesn’t want to admit what he wants.

And his body doesn’t seem to want to admit it, either, because even still— he tries again. Fruitless, desperate, stupid. He thrusts up harder, and he actually makes it a couple inches deeper this time, your body weak and hiccuping right alongside his frantic, agitated movement.

You’d call him a bad boy, but it’d be disgustingly, shamelessly corny. And you’re not in the mood for cliches tonight.

Not when he’s this close to giving in.

“Sam…” You mimic cruelly back to him, scrunching your thighs tight so he can’t move.

You swear, you’ll wait all fucking night, til the tide rises so high that you’re both swept away to sea before you let him have his way.

“Just… just fucking move, would ja?” He sounds breathless, a sign of something finally relinquishing. And impulsive pride shocks rash and reckless up your sides, his words paleing falsely to the tone he actually suggests.

“Awww, you’re so romantic, Samuel.”

He rolls his eyes and snorts dryly, head lolling lazy against the sand below, maybe embarrassed that he even got himself into this situation in the first place. Maybe just stunned that he finally found someone as quick and cutting as he is.

You feel brave.

There was once a time where Sam used to frighten you. When you were too afraid to ask where scars far too long and deep for a household kitchen knife came from. The feeling that radiated up your spine whenever you’d catch him too early in the morning, still pulling his shirt down over his back, and you’d see the whispers of tanned skin and dewey shoulder blades, it was a feeling that inspired more fear than ecstasy. Like he might read your mind and deck you for desiring him so presumptuously. And it’d probably hurt like hell because his arms are strong as fuck.

But you’re not afraid anymore. And you have no remaining fear in wanting him, in commanding him, in destroying his ironclad ego to rubble.

“...Say please.”

His eyes flinch and his eyebrows furrow, because if it was anyone else saying it, he’d probably kill them right then and there. And he grits his teeth— you hear the sound of his molars grinding, even beyond his pursed lips— as if he still has to stop himself from doing it. His eyes are deadly, but it only makes you want to push him farther. Because you know now that there are no more limits he won’t be willing to let you cross.

“Jesus. Fucking—” He tosses against the sand, an easily-foreseen temper tantrum in its own right, but your hands still hold him steady. Even when your grips slips far looser than when you began– you now guide rather than hold him, really– he acts as if you’ve chained him in a medieval torture chamber, cruel cast iron unbreakable and only purpose providing pain til the very last moments of his swift demise. But you’re on a quiet beach during low tide, and he’s twice your size, and the night is swift and playful and romantic— and you see the exact moment where his strength fumbles and falls. Even if he refuses to meet your eyes when it happens.

“...Please?”

He’s reluctant, yes, but it’s more than enough. Because Sam never relinquishes. He never gives his power to somebody else.

But he is. And you’re proud of him.

So his prize is well-deserved.

You begin to slowly grind forward against his body— an innocent treat that might morph into something greater if he’s good— then back, then forward again. Only because you’re nice. And he groans responsively, dark, deep, and warm, but forcing his lungs into quieter depths because he doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction. Because he doesn’t want to prove you right.

But still, it’s enough.

“Good boy.”

Yeah. Okay, fine, one cliche.

Maybe it’s cruel that you say it. Or maybe you actually mean it.

“Fuck you.” But all his counter does is make your pussy squeeze tighter around him, because you can tell he’s just angry that it turns him on. A giddy grin stretches your lips wide, and it’s obvious he can’t help the way it infects him, even minutely. He rolls his eyes when he smirks, as if that’ll actually somehow hide how happy he is. How happy you’ve made him. And your heart thuds hard in your chest when it calls his name in wanton victory: …Sam.

The last thing you thought you’d ever be allowed to say.

Good boy, Sam.

And finally, you start bouncing, zealousness tentative but rewarding, and his hips and wrists twitch against your touch, as if he’s doing everything in his power to not wretch himself free. To not meet you into a rhythm far too hedonistic to possibly forgive. He knows you won’t let him, so he forces himself down even when your fingers don’t.

“Jesus, can I at least touch you?” He gasps out, finally asking for what he wants, instead of just taking it. A wonderful change that would be criminal not to encourage.

“...I guess.” But your begrudging tone is theatrical, facetious, and you shrug as if you’d rather clean your fucking bathroom than let him hold you. Even when that couldn’t possibly be farther from the truth.

But you know he likes it when you play with him.

He chuckles, sweet like honey, and his body heaves forward in an instant to grasp you tight in his arms— at least as far as your weight will allow. You release him, true, but you’re not relinquishing total control. That is a non-negotiable. You figure your hands at his chest is a reasonable truce, a boundary drawn in the sand in case you change your mind, but it gives him just even leverage to press his mouth up against your tits. Kissing and tonguing until he sucks, and he drowns you deep into the ocean, even at lowest possible tide.

That in itself deserves its own bounty— and you’re shocked to discover that when he really wants to, when push comes to shove, Sam is astonishingly good at earning his rewards. The way his stubble and teeth meet your rawed, ravaged skin becomes alien in just how soft it is, not unlike the beads of shore between your toes, curling with every touch. He weighs heavy inside of you, hot as magma and oozing in languid curves, like you’re nothing but a mobile vessel for his heat, his natural disasters, his destruction.

If he’s not going to erupt first, you certainly are.

But you can’t possibly let him know that. Secrets simmer sizzling and bright between your moving bodies; your type of intimacy parades nerve and mystery like an irresistible mask— subtext: thick humidity— and you won’t let him breathe. Sex is like battle. Even now, as he lets you take whatever you want in whatever rhythm you see fit, his teeth fit marks into your fragile skin: a warning, a recompense. This is what I’m taking in exchange. It’s so rare that loving Sam is unconditional. Because Sam likes conditions, likes rules— so he has an excuse to break them.

“Ow!” He punctures your chest and you bleed out everywhere and die.

…Okay, probably an exaggeration, but his teeth are sharp and he’s on a quest to prove something. So it’s basically the same thing.

“Do you mind?!”

All Sam does is giggle in reply, one of those drunken, mid-pitched chuckles that has you smiling even— especially— when you don’t want to. Like you’re his buddy and he just told an outstanding joke about a rabbi, a priest, and a well-hung pirate. (The punchline is far less funny than he makes it out to be, but you always fall right into his bed, anyway. Old habits die hard, I guess.). But still, you smile, because you like the idea of being a part of his club. Even if it’s one of those ‘Boy’s Only’ type deals.

“No, I don’t. But thanks for asking!”

Oh, reeeaaal funny.

“Smart-ass.” You spit, but he’s quick to make an overblown apology, kissing quick up your chest and back towards your neck. Awwww, baby, I’m so sowwy. Did I huuuurt you? But no fucking way he’s sorry. He’s never been sorry in his entire goddamn life. All that happened was that you let him get away with something. His favorite. Sam treats sex like shoplifting, like graffiti, like sneaking weed on an airplane, like promising he won’t try anal and then slipping in because ‘you were just so wet, it went in all on its own!’ It’s all about what he can get away with.

But if he’s ever going to meet his maker, it’s going to be you.

And finally, he’s met his maker.

So you force him back down, grabbing and maneuvering his hands to dirt even as he fights back— “Oh, c’mon! Fine! I’m sorry! Is that what you wanna hear?”— the punishment he deserves far more than any reward. Even if it recoils your own pleasure back deep into your body’s core, it’s worth it to see Sam’s face, slack-jawed in awe and disbelief that you’re actually going to put him through this.

“If you’re gonna act like that, I’m not gonna give you what you want.”

Simple. Completely reasonable, really. But Sam whines and writhes like you’re sentencing him to the pits of Hell.

“...Are you gonna be good?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m gonna be good.” He grits his teeth, and it’d almost make you laugh, just how pissed he is, how much power you have over him, how he can do absolutely nothing about it.

But then you see something else, something far worse, in the dark recesses of his chestnut eyes, past more than a decade of isolation, of mutiny, of desperation, you see it:

Sam’s walls closing back in.

So your threats can remain nothing but empty. He’s not like other people. He won’t wait for something that never comes.

You realize, for the very first time, that your cruelty has limits— and guilt laces like burning ice up your sun-kissed skin— that you would punish him for not being better at taking something he was never built for in the first place. No, built is the wrong word. …Conditioned. Sam doesn’t know how to give up control anymore, because he hasn’t gotten the privilege to. Not in fifteen years. Not without getting a shank in the back.

But he’s trying. He’s trying for you.

So you have to be more gentle with him. Coax him where you want him. Reward him with plenty. Until the day that he’ll take what you give, without the scavenged fight that’s imprinted itself on every grain of Sam’s spirit. One day, he’ll realize he doesn’t have to fight.

But maybe today is not that day.

…You can only start by teaching him.

Sam groans deep and molten, like liquid caramel, when you gift him your grinding body in return. Smooth movements, easy, careful, a reminder of what he’ll receive if he allows himself to breach dangerous waters, past the point of all he’s known before. His cock twitches sweetly when you echo him with sounds of your own— even like this, it’s so good, fucking incredible– and it only entices you to continue. Even just riding him is a rarity— maybe something about it frightens him– so you try your best to give him a reason to ask for it next time. And again. And again. Until his head spins with velvet pleasure, rich magentas and dark, plum purples and bucking hips he finally learns to pin down. And it becomes the only thing he’ll ever ask for again.

“Finally.” He hisses– but you pretend you don’t hear it.

Fine. For now, you’ll let him believe what he wants. Eventually he’ll learn that his pleasure isn’t something inherently obliged. One day he’ll learn that he has to earn it first.

But it quickly becomes difficult to remember that you had any original intent to begin with. It’s been so long since you’ve had Sam inside you. One day is too long, let alone a week. And after this, Jesus fucking Christ, one minute apart will feel like an eternity.

He’s just big enough to consider being too much, but not enough to actually go through with stopping once he’s already started to breach. The sharp pain of his stretch has since dulled— Sam’s kisses are enough to have anyone wet within seconds, he’s even timed it before (a dangerously unnecessary ego boost)— and all that remains is his wonderfully overwhelming girth, no space for thinking, no space for doubts, no space for anything but more, more, more.

Sam, Sam, Sam.

Your own thoughts perpetuate a perfect rhythm, stinging skin meeting the naked curve of his hips, clit thumping just right against the sharp dip of his pelvis. You grow woozy. Making love to Sam always feels jarring, exciting and dangerous, romantic and violent, and you never quite understand the person you are when you’re with him. But you like that. You like becoming a person who does instead of thinks.

You take visceral action. You want to touch him. You touch him. He laughs. You touch him with tooth and nail. You dig into his skin till it breaks. He stops laughing.

Embarrassment doesn’t clot in your veins in the way it normally does when you reach out to grab, clasp, touch along his chest, feel the coarse hairs there, the hard edges and slippery skin, allow the shiver that tells you you’re doing something right.

“Does it feel good?” Somehow you fear the answer.

But all Sam does is guffaw at such stupidity.

“What…? Of course, it feels fucking good. Why the fuck would it not feel good?”

“No… I mean, like this?” And that’s when his eyes widen, pretending to search for the meaning when it’s obvious he already knows it.

The waves beat against the shoreline, the sounds of a timid intermission, the closest thing you’ll ever come to a silence with Sam, but you can hear his heart thumping louder than all of it. Proof that he is still alive. Even after everything.

You give him his life back with a single movement. And he groans alongside your squeeze, warm and wet and calling his name in a way it hasn’t been for fifteen years. A pleasure he hasn’t known for even longer.

You want him to say he likes it. A little for yourself, yes, but mostly to give everything back to him: contentment, safety, vulnerability, the ability to be surprised, the allowance to be more than what he was before, and to accept that time has changed him. That he wants something different. He wants to be someone different.

“...Yes.”

He’s brave. He’s so brave. And that something different, that someone different, you see him flash across his eyes, shimmering and soft below a full-mooned sky. Gentility that he forgives himself for. Defenselessness he allows.

You both breathe as one in the kind and the quiet. Predator and prey sizing each other up in the stillness of a wood, but choosing to let the other pass. The fight just isn’t worth it.

So again, you move. Carefully, like autumn leaves drifting and settling on wind-swept driveways, and he might break, crunch, if you step on him too hard. Your arms cage him, keep him, and he studies your face with cautious interest when you press forward to meet him closer. His breath feels like fear against your skin, but you pray a smile can wane it. You’re doing so well, Sam. I’m not going to hurt you.

And he smiles in return, biting his lip to smother something wider, the sign that he’s ready for more. You pick yourself up from his broken bits and fall back down hard against him— hips spiking pointed pleasure like something giddy they can’t contain. It races fast along your skin, giggling and gossiping in delight at the sounds of Sam weakening. You’re making him feel this way. You’re making him feel good. Keep going, keep going, keep going.

His fingers clench and unclench, but this time he doesn’t fight, only twists his head to meet solid sand. And closes his eyes to enjoy it. Bliss wracks his body and you can tell by the way his cock moves inside you, throbbing and twitching and you can practically hear it, echoing in sync with the motion of his lips, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows around a groan, trapped and fruitless behind closed teeth. Even still, he’s a man who thinks he should be quiet. Not because he’s shy or because he doesn’t like the sound of his own voice (if how much he talks is any indicator, he must love it), but because he feels like he’s supposed to.

Faster. To drive his orgasm out of hiding. To make him cry for you. He’s big and warm and your pussy can’t possibly stretch any further, a ‘just-barely’ fit, like the universe made you first— and then made Sam just to fuck with you. But somehow, the imperfection of it all makes it that much more perfect. He slides deep because you let him, smooth and easy, because you’re better at control than he is— your hips bouncing and your skin itching and stinging where your thighs meet his from how fiercely you move.

But you don’t stop because you’re finally getting somewhere.

His obedience drives you wild: taming someone so normally greedy and ravenous, under you, by your own hand, you bring him to heaven on earth. All on your own terms. And your intent warps and shifts, even when you don’t notice it at first. The pride at such an impossible feat pumps your blood like a beating drum that plays in the homeland, a well-earned victory after war. And finally, he moans— because he’s sick of being quiet.

And you won. You’ve already won. You’ve worn down Sam’s walls— you can feel him about to come, throbbing fast and whining desperate– you’ve unarmed him.

So you lower your defenses in turn, release your pin on his wrists and lean your form back to rest against his bent knees and shaking thighs, hands clamming for purchase even as he jerks and spasms beneath you— a champion bull rider, with the inability to fear for death. You have control. You’ve always had control.

Your fingers reach down to bring your body and soul to thunderous climax, thumbprints spinning in desperate circles against the rounded tip of your clit, a reward for the impossible. You close your eyes to let the pleasure sink deeper, release your spirit from grounded realms, release any reason to think at all, as ecstasy crescendos and you’re nearing the top of the mountain and the work and effort will make it all the more sweeter, a success, a taming, a capture you’ve earned—

But then, your entire body goes into whiplash, and you fall hard and fast enough to force your stomach into a fearful dive. Before you can even register it, Sam’s arms are around you and crushing you back to his chest, pounding his cock inside you so violently, so selfishly that it makes you scream.

Motherfucker.

He chases his release with selfish audacity. And he’s a snake. You believed him until he gave you no reason to believe him ever again. Rage takes hold. Betrayal takes hold. His teeth clamp shut around your neck, your collarbone, any softness you saw gone in an instant, skin clapping so hard against yours that you’re afraid the entire world might hear. And he would love it. Of course, he would. He would fucking love that, wouldn’t he.

And to think that for a second you really believed you had changed him.

“You fucking brat.”

You don’t even realize that you’ve slapped him until the palm of your hand starts tingling. Vibrating. Sharp and stinging and raw like a sin you chose to commit. And the guilt makes it better. Violence with merit. Brutality that was warranted. And you don’t know how you expected it to go any other way. Not like this. Not with Sam.

But Sam doesn’t yell, doesn’t fight back, doesn’t do anything. He only laughs, face pressed into the soft sand below, and face wounded and red and glaring back at you. Contradictions. It’s what makes him him. But the laugh isn’t dry, humorless, like a warning to prepare for something awful. It’s the sound of the ability to be surprised. The joy of meeting someone just like him. The same blood. The same rage. The same need for control. The thrill of the one and only person who just might be able to beat him at his own game.

And you feel him inside of you, twitching, prodding, throbbing, yes.

He likes it.

“Huh. Figures you’d be into that.”

…

Oh shit.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a fatal abandon.

You don’t even know why you said it. You didn’t stop to think before you said it. You tease, you flirt, you play. You play until it becomes real. You play until you hurt him.

Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did I say that? WhydidIsaythatWhydidIsaythatWhydidIsaythat—

There’s only one millisecond of shock— Sam’s eyes swim and wave like a pool you can finally see the bottom of— before they cloud over once again. And you see every bullet he’s ever shot, every fire he’s ever started, every scar he’s ever given. You see the scar he’s about to give you now.

And now you’re starting to think he might actually kill you.

Right here and now.

But the empty space of tantalizing fear, of thinking instead of doing and doing instead of thinking, leaves you with a weak point, and any physical stability you had is immediately snatched away as he tears you down to the Gates of Hell beside him.

The hand you used to hurt him becomes held tight between knuckles, knuckles that you’ve seen break bones like uncooked spaghetti, and fingers trapped between teeth, teeth you’ve bumped into with your own half-way to a rocky, then devastatingly satisfying kiss. And you’re like a knight in the dragon’s lair, sword tossed asunder, face to face with snarling lips and smoke wisping from open, flaring nostrils.

Yeah, Sam’s gonna kill me. Actually, really, truly kill me.

He’s done it before. Why not now? Why not with such good reasoning.

You can’t lie and say you wouldn’t deserve it if he did.

“Say shit like that again and I’ll bite your fucking hand off.”

He spits it like it scorches, like his lips brew acid and he’s willing to burn. And you know he means it. His dark eyes spin in gearing circles: maybe sizing you up, debating why he would let himself get mixed up with a relationship dynamic so chaotic, so label-less, why he would even bother with a woman just as wild as he is, why there was a teensy tiny part of him that might be enjoying all of this, despite it. Why maybe that part of himself wasn’t so tiny at all.

Or maybe he was just rationalizing the force he’d need to properly cut through bone.

But you’ve said it before and you’ll say it again: even like this, even with murder in his eyes and your life in his hands, you’re not afraid.

You’re not afraid of him anymore.

Plus, you’re no fool. You know what he actually means. You speak Sam well enough to understand. From behind dilapidated orphanage walls, nicotine-flavored haze, and caramel eyes he won’t ever let anyone close enough to see beyond, you hear the whispers of what he’s actually saying, so quiet that even he can’t possibly hear it:

‘Please pick me anyway, please pick me anyway, please pick me anyway.’

And so you do.

You pick Sam.

His grizzled voice sounds so sweet smothered by a fatally earnest kiss. It makes sense that he grunts in surprise at first, the sharp movement of your hand from his teeth skidding hard and probably leaving a pink streak of ripping skin. But the pain is minimal in comparison to how tender the following touch is, your individual fires stoked clean by a gentility you should have given him a long time ago. His lips are so much softer than you expect— how come you don’t kiss him enough?— stubble scraping raw in, again, the Sam Drake classic standard: contradictions.

You make it go on longer than the first instinct to part. Longer, deeper. Stay. I’m sorry. I’ll protect you better this time. And his tongue tastes like immediate forgiveness, retribution you steal from his throat because fuck, it’s completely needless. He even moans, high-pitched and mouth-watering against your own, a swoon you can’t believe you get to pull from him. It’s delicious, and you’re grateful, and you want more.

But you need air, and as soon as you break for it, Sam’s hand is at your neck, curling around, pulling you closer. More. I forgive you. I’m sorry. His eyes are so much brighter, sweeter than you’ve ever seen them, moonlight reflected, someone beautiful reflected. He’s trying. He’s trying. He’s been conditioned. You can teach him. You can teach him how to love without taking.

And maybe that’s something you need to learn, too.

“Be good for me, Sam. I know you are.” Your fingers play kind across his scarred, masculine features, tracing over rough grain and battled-raged skin that must’ve once been soft. You can imagine it having once been soft. You can imagine him having once been soft.

So you kiss him again. Because you know that person is still there somewhere. And you pray he hears what you’re saying to him, to every version, to every part of him:

I’ll never let any of it happen to you ever again.

He grinds back inside— maybe because that’s the only way he knows how to thank someone— but this time it’s gentle, careful, asking for permission. Like a single utterance of the word ‘please’.

And of course. Of course he can.

“...Thank you.” You can’t tell if his words are a response to your praise or the tentative thrust you make against him afterwards. Maybe meeting each other half-way can be enough. You move again, sweet and syrupy and smooth, squeezing rhythmic and going down easy when he presses you to him for another kiss, something precious you just assumed he never really wanted.

But he does. It’s clear he does, grinding steady, patient, waiting for you to speed things up physically, but shameless in how desperately he begs for your lips on his. He meets you passionate and wild, heart beating loudly against your chest. He’s still adrenaline-high from before, cock never softening for even a second, every moment a reason to stay excited, active, waiting for the next adventure to keep him on his toes. It’s a roller-coaster. Hard to soft and frantic to patient and all over, back again.

Before you know it, you’re sweating, panting, writhing. You scramble against each other with pleading ferocity, begging for something from the other that you are far too willing to give tenfold. Your kisses are sloppy now, wet, too much tongue, and far too exhausted to even properly fuck onto each other anymore, just movement. Movement of any kind is enough. As long as it’s messy. As long as it’s with each other.

“Sam—” You move and his hands are on you. And fuck, his name tastes so good in your mouth, salty like ocean water, salty like his cum when you know you’ve earned it. And he whines. You know he likes the sound of that.

You aren’t gonna last long. Of course, you aren’t.

But Sam lasts even shorter.

“Fuck…” His motion is quickly becoming a victory lap, shuddering and haphazard, rhythm pointless and drive already drained. He’s tired of fighting. He’s tired of the ego. Maybe meeting someone like him isn’t so bad. Maybe he likes the sound of an equal. You squeeze wet and holy around him, sucking dry, taking everything, even the things you know he doesn’t want you to see. But it’s all perfect to you, every single bit of it.

You smile to yourself.

I mean, come on. It’s Sam. How could it possibly not be?

“I’m gonna come.”

Oh my god. He never tells you beforehand. And somehow that, such a simple change, is enough for satisfaction. He has the capacity for change. He does. And you’re going to get him there, one day, no matter how much loving it takes.

…Okay, maybe just one more try.

And you reach down, carefully so as to give him the chance to say no. But when he doesn’t, that’s when you finally pin him down. And he looks up at you with this smile on his face, like he just remembered something funny, but is far too tired to tell it. He smiles like an inside joke that’s just for the two of you. And the joke is that he likes it. That he could actually maybe get used to this.

So you ride him home to ecstasy. His eyes lay open, watching you, dazzled, utterly bewitched, strength dashed and useless under a wicked spell of your own creation— and even if it wasn’t, you know he still wouldn’t use it. Because he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to.

It’s the funniest joke of all fucking time and it’s funny because it’s true. His lips twitch to purse and smirk and bite against its own and he doesn’t know how to settle on any expression since every single one will prove you right. Even in darkest night, his cheeks awash with a blooming fire, face stoked and passion enraged, oxygen a prey he can never quite catch enough of— and he’s beautiful in the capture he swore he’d never allow himself to fall victim to.

“Come on, sweetheart, come for me.” And he giggles sweetly at his own pet name being used against him. You push him farther, harder— down, down, down, even when he has nowhere else to go— and his cock twitches desperately inside you, almost like it’s trying to escape, pleasure far too delectable to possibly survive through. But he will, he’ll survive. You’ll make him survive. You’ll guide him to the other side yourself. Whatever he needs from you, you’ll deliver. Anything. Fucking anything.

It’s Sam.

And he pushes up into you one last time, hips hiccuping and driving forward into oblivion, making this sound that causes the entire universe to crumble below you. Sam comes— and your heart breaks into a million tiny pieces. His cries mirror twisted features, moonlight illuminating agony, every cell in his body tensing and vibrating and releasing. You pray he’s releasing so much more than what sex can provide. Sam comes— and you love him.

You barely even realize how your own orgasm has become an afterthought, fingers circling between your legs with little intent. But still, eventually you spill over in a warm wave that is just as satisfying as anything more crescendous. It ripples up your core, through your lungs, explodes your heart, drives you straight through insanity, and the warmth of Sam’s joy and pleasure and body beneath is the only home you could ever possibly need.

As soon as you both settle, it’s the smaller details that come into such deeper focus. The cool sheen of sweat glowing off Sam’s skin, the gentle thrum of peaceful ocean swells, the sweet rhythmic throb of Sam inside you, still giving everything he has left. And for seemingly the first time ever, you’re able to enjoy a moment with Sam in complete and total silence. No words needed. Just the waves and your combined breathing. Just you and Sam.

But action is a language he understands far better than words, and he’s invigorated just as fast when you gently press your lips to his. Where there was once time, there’s now frantic desperation. You can’t help giggling when one kiss is enough trigger for him to roll you over into soft sand below, chasing intimacy with contradictory aggression. He kisses like you’re the first person to kiss him in fifteen years. Which is ridiculous, absolutely fucking ridiculous, because—

Oh.

…Oh.

Sam.

And so you allow him his eagerness. Smile into it even wider. Kiss him even when you realize how foreign it is. And on the next break for air, as soon as his tongue slips back from yours, sweet and tangy and raw and rough and finally soft again after so many years, you find the courage to point out the strangest part of all:

“You know, Sam, I realized… we never really kiss.”

His eyebrows jump in a sort of comically confused grimace. Huh. The gears are turning, eyes darting across your face before they settle on the unfortunate conclusion that you’re right. He’s clearly stunned at first— you don’t try to hide the bittersweet yearning that coats your call— but quiet vulnerability quickly gives way to his usual sarcastic ways, and he whips out some quippy line before he can let the uncomfortable feeling simmer any deeper.

“Nah, I’d like to think we just like getting to the good part.”

Jesus Christ.

You roll your eyes and he chuckles to have thrown you off your rhythm, just for a second. But even still, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s met his equal, an expert at his own game, and you double down as you trace patterns along the hard lines of his chest, draw him back down to the place he’s still so eager to escape from. It’s just going to take some time to keep him there.

“You know, some might consider the romantic intimacy and deeper, spiritual connection to be the good part.”

His breath stutters against your fingers, small and frail and crippling him better than any weapon, and he hums to himself in thoughtful amusement.

“Hm, big words for such a little girl.”

“Small words for such a big, strong man.”

And immediately his lips part to spit some retort in return. But for seemingly the first time in his entire life, he has none. He’s got nothing. Nothing as good as you can possibly retaliate superior.

And so all he can do is chuckle sweetly— before he braves the unexplored territory past defense, past ego, past every instinct to fight back, to fight for the life he doesn’t need to fight for anymore. And he kisses you. Sweet, tender, staying.

And when he finally breaks:

“You're a good boy. You're good, Sam.”

There’s only one millisecond of shock— affection swimming in his eyes beneath waters that he finally allows you to see the bottom of— before you choose to do the impossible, do instead of think, and roll him back over before he can think of something cleverer than you can.

#sam drake x reader #uncharted 4: a thief's end #samuel drake #sam drake #uncharted smut #uncharted x reader #the original line of 'figures you'd be into that' is SO bad i had to keep it exclusively in my selfship google doc #top sam!!!! what are yall afraid of!!!!!

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oh-no-my-hand-slipped · 2 years

Note

Thank you for the recent prompt! And here is a new prompt for you:

There is a colony of powerful forest sprites living deep in the Whispering Wood. Peaceful and solitary, they are responsible for protecting the wood and its magical inhabitants from harm or intrusion.

One of the spirits has a peculiar ability: whenever they sneeze, they emit a blast of strong defensive magic, usually manifesting in a force field around the wood, or around the sprite village. In times of danger, they have utilized this ability for protection with good success, but avoid doing it often due to the risks and discomfort of induced sneezes.

In the midst of a wartime, they find themselves using this sprite's ability more than usual. Because of the abuse their poor nose has been taking, they catch cold for the first time in decades. What happens next?

What a wonderful way to get back into the sneezing scene! A poor, sneezy people pleaser finally falling ill? What could be better?

Perhaps a stern physician that softens as he treats his patient?

*********************

“For gods’ sake!”

“Woah, woah now…”

“…they’ve stopped…don’t know…”

Aster passed the many caravans, carts, and horses that made a zig-zagged line that crowded around an unknown source. Some were craning their necks to see over each other, others were complaining in shrill voices, and even a few dogs were sniffing around the forest floor. With much pushing and shoving, Aster made his way to the front.

An enormous tree, with trunks knitting and twisting around each other, fanned the sky with dewey green leaves. Pink buds dotted the branches, though it was too cold for them to bloom just yet. Despite there being no door that Aster could see, windows were carved into the trunk - and most were lit with a warm glow.

However, as Aster stepped closer, he felt his body tingle, then be sprung back by an invisible force. He squinted, shielding his eyes from the sun.

Upon closer inspection, the tree was surrounded by a royal blue sheen, with only the tips of its leaves being uncovered. Every time an unfortunate traveler or animal tried to pass through, a pulse of energy would send them to the ground. One warrior tried to run through the protection charm, only to be thrown into the side of a noble’s carriage.

“Starlight Shield?” Aster murmured, examining the charm. “Or perhaps a small Wall of Tears…no, the consistency is more buoyant than that…”

He reached into his sleeve and revealed his wand: a dark oaken beauty with a single purple bloom protruding from the tip. Aster waved it once, and the flower opened with a ray of violet light.

“Exponentia dispelarius.”

The flower’s petals curled, and the vines carved into the wand began to glow. After a few moments, Aster moved his wand in wide circles around himself, and the tree’s field of magic immediately recoiled. Shielded by his spell, Aster darted through the charm. He heard the crowd’s muffled cries of disbelief and indignation, but didn’t dare turn back.

Once inside the magical field, Aster noticed something quite strange. Instead of the charm being cast in one thin dome, there seemed to be countless layers - one on top of the other.

One casting would certainly suffice, the wizard thought. And if a creature can pass through one, they can certainly pass through the others. Why could anyone cast such a spell more than once?

Quite a bit more than once, Aster soon noticed. Not only were there the layers behind him, but new layers would suddenly sprawl over the older ones, passing over him like ocean waves. As he got closer, the ripples of magic became more and more frequent, and it was becoming difficult to hold his wand steady.

Finally, though, he made it to the base of the tree. He traced the bark with his fingers, trying to find any opening.

“Psst! In here!”

A small hand appeared behind the edge of the tree, gesturing to Aster.

“Hurry! I think he’s going to-”

Suddenly another wave boomed from the tree’s base, almost knocking the wand out of Aster’s hand. Quick as a flash, he was yanked inside, the charm falling back in on itself.

The room inside the tree was quite dark, and smelled of earth and salt. Aster’s eyes barely had time to adjust before the hand appeared again, this time paired with the wide-eyed face of a sprite. After blinking a few times, Aster could see them more clearly.

Despite sprites being known for their cleanliness, this one was absolutely haggard. Their long, blond hair was strung about every which way, and the garments they were wearing, as well as their sun-tanned face, was smudged with dirt and grass.

“Thank goodness you’ve come,” the sprite said, bowing low. “I was afraid his magic was too strong.”

Aster slipped his wand back into his sleeve. “Who’s magic, exactly?”

“Oh, yes, of course. All will be explained soon - but time is of the essence.”

“I understand. And the patient?”

The sprite’s ears lowered, and they began tugging on their garment’s tassels.

“I-I believe it would be best if he told you himself.”

Aster nodded, and the sprite began to lead him through a maze of tunnels, stone staircases, and and slopes of clay. All the while, they were talking almost as fast as they walked.

“We have called physicians, clerics, wizards - none of them seem to have the answer. And he’s getting worse by the day. The more magic he conjures, the worse he feels. Oh, he is just beside himself! No one can seem to console him!”

“Why…is he so…distraught?” Aster gasped, trying to keep up with the sprite.

“He knows that his magic is keeping travelers from passing through the forest,” the sprite explained. “He can’t stand the thought of bothering anyone.”

“Can he…not cast the…dispelling charm?”

The sprite shook their head. “This kind of magic has no dispelling charm. The spell will only end when he feels himself again. But as long as he’s worrying himself sick, we’re trapped here.”

In all of Aster’s years as a physician, he had never heard of a sickness that could cast spells. Magic flares, yes. Xenophon’s Curse*, yes. Certain ingredients causing allergic reactions, yes. But never a spell-casting disease, and much less a spell that couldn’t be scattered.

As they traveled through the trees massive trunk, Aster began to hear strange, muffled noises echoing through the halls. Each of these sounds was followed by the buzz of magic and a dull boom.

“He must have seen you come through,” the sprite said. “The stream of visitors we’ve had through our tree has made him quite upset, I’m afraid.”

After one final dirt staircase, Aster was led to a long line of doors, each with elaborate designs carved into them. The noise had grown louder than ever, but it was so muffled that Aster had no idea what it could be. The sprite stopped in front of one of these doors, and put a finger to his lips.

“I’ll speak to him first,” they whispered. “I’ll retrieve you in a moment.”

The sprite entered the room, and the sounds that had been coming from the room stopped short. There were quiet murmurs of talking and a few sharp hiccups before the sprite opened the door again and beckoned Aster to enter.

“He has requested to talk to you in private,” they said before letting him in. “But I will be right outside if you need me.”

Aster nodded, and the sprite scurried out as he closed the door behind him.

The room was scarcely furnished, looking more akin to an inn’s peasant suite than a bedroom. There was a fireplace, a bed, and a small wooden table, where a well-dressed sprite sat on an old wooden chair.

Despite his polite smile, there were tear marks running down his face and onto his pointed chin. His nose was red and swollen, and he kept one knuckle pressed firmly against it.

“Good borrow,” he said stuffily, extending the hand that wasn’t occupied with his nose. “As glad as I am to see you, I’b sorry…I…”

He sniffled.

“I’b sorry you bust see be in such a state.”

Aster set down his bag, and shook the patient’s hand. He noted the warm palms and the cold tips of the fingers.

“I assure you, I’ve seen much worse,” Aster said, taking a stiff seat on the edge of the bed. “And who shall I be treating today?”

The sprite cleared his throat. “L-Lieutenant Harbinger. Ubber defense.”

“Mhm. And the reason for summoning?”

Lieutenant Harbinger rubbed his septum. “Well, few weeks ago, I caughd this cold, and dow, I can’t s-stop…”

Harbinger’s nose began to twitch, and he began to rub it more vigorously - but to no avail.

“Sdee…hee…!”

The sprite took out a worn handkerchief and buried his nose into it.

“iiiiii’YESHIEW!”

A burst of blue energy haloed from Harbinger’s nose, crackling like a loose fire. Aster heard another distant boom, and, from the room’s window, he saw the magic field grow another inch, prompting cries from the people and animals below.

“Sdeezing,” the lieutenant finished, blowing his nose. “And thad wouldn’d be sobething for a wizard to concern thebselves with on its own-”

“So you’re casting the protection charm?” Aster interrupted. “By sneezing?”

Harbinger gave a nervous smile. “Usually I only use by magic whed the village is in danger, or if the army needs protection. But since I’ve fallen ill, I can’t…h-help byself…”

He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching his nostrils closed for a few moments before continuing.

“They’re usually easy to stifle until we need theb, but dow I can’t k-keep them…bah…hah…!”

Aster ducked his head just in time before Harbinger let out another violent sneeze. But, this time, he didn’t stop. Or, rather, he couldn’t.

“iiiii’YESHHHU! Hih…ii’ETCHIEW! i’CHIEEEW!”

With every sneeze, Aster watched the magic field grow larger and larger. Shrill screams, barking of dogs, and yelling of children and their mothers ensued, as well as a general cacophony of terror. Lieutenant Harbinger tried to speak through hitches and gasps, but it was no use.

However, Aster was quick to act.

The physician leaned forward, lifted Harbinger’s head up with his hand, and then squeezed the sprite’s nose between his index and middle finger. Aster felt Harbinger’s nostrils flare against his fingers.

“I can see why you summoned me,” he said shortly, struggling to get his quill and scrolls out of his bag with one hand. “Let’s see…shield charms with each sneeze…inflamed nostrils…fever…shortness of breath…”

While Aster was writing, he felt Harbinger’s nostrils flare even larger. He tightened his grip, causing the lieutenant to yelp.

“Sensitivity in the sinus area…” Aster continued, not looking up.

Harbinger whimpered, but stayed silent through Aster’s note-taking.

Finally, the paperwork was finished, and Aster put the scroll neatly away.

“Now, where were we…?”

The physician finally met his patient’s gaze.

Harbinger’s eyes were squeezed shut, and fat tears rolled down his cheeks. Their bottom lip quivered as they tried to squeak out an answer. It was then that Aster realized how hard his grip had been on the sprite’s nose.

He quickly let go.

“Pardon-”

“Hih…iiiiiiii’YESHIEEEEEEW!”

Aster was thrown back, hitting his head against the hard clay wall. He slid down to the floor, willing himself to stay conscious as his vision blurred. He managed to make out Harbinger standing up, hand over his mouth, and a flash of blue before everything went dark.

Aster felt his temples throb as he opened his eyes again. The room spun for a moment, but he was able to blink away his dizziness.

Harbinger sat at the desk with his head buried in his arms, shaking with silent sobs. Shimmering around him was the same protection charm he had cast around the tree - though only just big enough to cover the desk.

Aster slowly stood, rubbing the back of his sore head. He tried to be as quiet as he could, but as soon as he regained his balance, Harbinger shot up, his streaming eyes wide with panic.

Aster reached out his hand.

“Lieutenant…”

“D-Don’d cobe ah…any closer…!”

Harbinger’s reddened nose flared to life, and he covered his nostrils with both hands. Aster took a cautious step.

“I didn’t mean to handle you so roughly,” he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. “But you can’t stay in that field forever. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”

“I didn’d me…hee…!”

Harbinger struggled against the building sneeze. Aster backed into the wall.

“Lieutenant…”

“I tried to tell yeh…heh…HEH…!”

The sprite’s nostrils crackled with magic as it flared one final time.

“iiiiiiiii’EEEEETCHUUUUU!”

The magic field around Harbinger ballooned, spreading across the floor.

“ii’CHIEW! CHIEW! CHIEW!”

Every sneeze made the field inch closer and closer to Aster, until he was backed into the corner of the room - only a big enough sliver for his thin frame. The wizard could feel the magic singeing unlucky strands of hair.

Harbinger snuffled, his fit finally coming to an end. Exhausted, he rested his nose on the back of his hand, only breaking the silence with a rough cough. Aster’s heart pounded in his throat.

One more sneeze, and he would be dead.

Aster’s mind whirred. A protection charm that couldn’t be dispelled, and an urge to sneeze that seemed to come and go as it pleased…

But a protection charm isn’t cast at random, he thought. Even the most powerful wizards need a source of internal energy to bring the spell on. Concentration, or anger, or…

Aster looked at Harbinger. They trembled at the physician’s gaze, and their nose began to twitch.

…fear.

Aster gripped the sides of the wall. It all made sense. Harbinger’s magic was trying to protect them the only way it knew how - by sneezing away anyone it thought posed a danger to them.

Including me, he realized, his heart sinking into his stomach.

He was supposed to help Harbinger, but he only ended up as another enemy to be protected from. He had forgotten the most important part of being a physician: the patient.

“I’m sorry.”

Harbinger hiccuped. “P-Pardon?”

“I’m sorry,” Aster repeated, feeling his eyes start to sting with tears. “You are very ill, and very scared, and you are only doing what comes natural to you.”

He swallowed.

“And all of these strange creatures have been coming into your village, no doubt poking and prodding you for their research. No wonder your magic felt so…threatened. It’s only trying to protect you, you know.”

Harbinger wiped his nose on his sleeve, not meeting Aster’s eyes. However, as the wizard spoke, the magic field began to shrink, leaving a few inches past the tips of their shoes.

“I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to protect yourself from me,” Aster continued. “I only want to help you, but certainly wasn’t acting the part. I suppose you could say my bedside manner is a bit rusty.”

Harbinger sniffled, laying his head back into the desk. Dark circles laid under their eyes. The field was now only just large enough to cover the sprite himself, and the blue sheen flickered. Aster could see that casting such powerful magic so suddenly drained what little energy he had left.

He reached out his hand and touched the magic field with the tip of his finger. The field collapsed like an enormous bubble, leaving only a cloud of cold smoke.

“Why don’t we leave the questions for after you’ve had some rest?” Aster said, putting his hand on Harbinger’s shoulder. “Do you have any undergarments you could wear? Or at least something a bit more comfortable?”

“Mmm…” Harbinger murmured. He was already dozing off.

********************

It was quite a while before Harbinger woke up again. After getting him into his undergarments and leading him to bed, Aster spoke to the other sprite, who he now knew as Poinse, in a larder down the hall.

“It seems that this is more than a physical illness,” Aster explained. “Harbinger’s sneeze spells are brought on my fear, not day-to-day irritation - which is why no common potions have been able to cure him. This, along with his sinus sensitivity from the cold, means that his sneeze defense mechanism is more difficult to ignore.”

Poinse wrung their hands. “Will he be alright? Is there any way to treat him?”

“Along with mild cold remedies, he’ll need to take a few days of bed rest and gentle recreation. That should curb his urge to sneeze, which will cause the magic to fade.”

“What of all those people outside?”

“I shall take care of it,” Aster said, taking the wand from his sleeve. “All they need is a bit of direction.”

The wizard flicked his wand once, and he was immediately outside the tree, surrounded by the thick crowd of people and animals. He put two fingers in his mouth and blew, letting out a loud, shrill whistle.

“Hear me!”

All conversation stopped except from a few murmurs of surprise and annoyance.

“I am here to guide you through the magic field,” he announced. “I know you have markets to barter from and taverns to visit, but you must listen closely. I will divide you into groups and take each line through one by one. Those of noble cause take precedence, then the sick and elderly, those with women and children, and then civilians-”

“Why should w’ trust you?” a merchant called out. A few people around him loudly agreed, clanging their weapons or banging pots and pans. More and more people joined, and soon the entire crowd was screaming to be heard.

“He’ll bring it on top of us as soon as we’re inside!”

“…who died and made you king!”

“…should just go around…!”

Aster lifted his gaze to the sky, pointing the tip of his wand to his neck. He opened his mouth, and to the crowd’s terror, let out a screech that shook the leaves from the trees. Once everyone was quiet, Aster continued.

“Unless you would rather make camp here and waste away from hunger,” he spat hoarsely, “or be eaten by wild beasts, I suggest you trust my methods. Those that would like to stay can do as they wish, but your death will not be on my hands.”

Despite the grumblings and hushed insults, the crowd quieted, and Aster began to divide the throng of people. Once everyone was in their places, the wizard pointed his wand towards the field. A passageway began to form, and he called the first group to begin their journey through.

The sun was setting by the time everyone had made it to the other side, and chilled air made Aster’s sore arms even more painful. He could barely cast enough magic to gain passage into the tree again.

By that time, Harbinger was awake, reading a book with half open eyes. He smiled when Aster came in at sat in a chair next to the bed.

“Good borrow.”

Aster chuckled. “‘Morrow’ was quite a few hours ago, lieutenant. But I am glad you were able to sleep through the travelers passing through.”

“Poinse told be,” Harbinger said, yawning. “As a member of the high court, I speag for by people whed I thang you for your service.”

Aster bowed his head.

“As but one wizard, I receive your thanks with the utmost humility and honor.”

For the next few days, Aster went between nursing Harbinger back to health and letting the many travelers through the magic field. When the sprite felt more energetic, he told him about his exploits and battles - especially the most recent schism.

Many weeks before, Harbinger was using his sneezing charm almost constantly, spurred on by wildflowers and exotic spices his superiors would shove under his nose. Even after the war was over, however, he would feel his nose twinge at the slightest sound.

“Have you no other magic to protect yourselves?” Aster asked.

Harbinger sniffled. “We have natural magic, yes. But when you can protect your entire village with just a sdeeze, it’s…hard to refuse.”

The conversation soon turned to Aster, who admitted he had his own war a month prior - not against armies, but against a horrid plague that had spread near his cottage.

There were no other physicians in the area, so Aster had to take most of the patients. The disease they had was common enough to him, but completely new to the plagued villagers. It took quite a while for them to become well again.

“I was so used to such pestilence,” Aster explained, averting his gaze, “that everything became a plague to me.”

Harbinger made a sympathetic noise in his throat. “I’m sorry for your misfortune. Plague is a terrible thing to live through.”

Aster waved his hand, hurrying to change the subject.

“As they say, ‘No disease is as vicious as a listless physician.’”

Harbinger thought for a moment, dabbing his nose with a handkerchief.

“We have a different saying: ‘Build no walls when there is no war.’”

Aster clicked his tongue once. “Touché.”

*******************

A week passed before Aster knew it. He was on a first name basis with a few of the sprites, and the winding hallways became easy to navigate.

One morning, Aster walked into Harbinger’s room to find the sprite fully dressed, crouching at the window with a boyish grin on his face.

“Oh, Aster, you’re just in time! Look!”

Harbinger pointed out the window. The magic field, which was once so thick and solid, was now almost clear. Colors swirled on its surface like a rainbow on a bubble.

“Is it going to burst?” Aster said, craning his neck to see.

Harbinger’s grin widened, and he reached into his coat.

“Perhaps not on its own…”

He pulled out what looked like a length of branch. However, the middle had been carefully carved out. Harbinger then pulled out a single metal pellet no bigger than a kernel of corn.

“I haven’t done this since I was a boy,” the sprite said to himself.

He loaded the pellet into the hollowed stick with one finger, using his other hand to carefully open the window. Harbinger put the stick close to his lips, giving one final look of glee to Aster.

“Watch this.”

He took a deep breath, and blew hard into the stick, launching the pellet high into the air. It arched over the courtyard outside the tree, then fell like a diving hawk. With a small ting, it tore through the magic field.

The charm collapsed, flooding the air with white smoke tinged with swirls of blue. The clouds tumbled to the ground and broke into small puffs that rolled along the grass until dissipating into the dewey air.

“Bullseye,” Harbinger said, putting the stick back into his coat.

“It’s as if we’re on a mountain,” Aster breathed. “I’ve only seen paintings…”

The pair watched the smoke settle, the last of the blue hue disappearing with the shining sun. The grass bent with the gentle spring wind, and the trees rustled along with them. Various birds flew onto freed branches, singing and whistling to each other, inviting their brethren with open wings. The wood seemed to spring to life again.

Harbinger gave a contented sigh.

“It’s good to see my forest again.”

He turned to Aster to point out a songbird that had landed close to them, but, much to his surprise, instead of the wonder he held a moment ago, his friend’s eyes were closed and his head leaned forward.

“Aster?”

Aster started awake, reflexively grabbing his wand sleeve.

“Ah, yes,” he stammered. “Do forgive me, Harbinger. I’ve grown…weary all of a sudden.”

Harbinger frowned. “Did you not sleep well?”

“I slept quite well,” Aster said, holding his head. “I seem to sleep better here than in my cottage…”

“Well perhaps, my friend, you need to rest a bit more. The view will always be here.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Aster ran a hand through his hair, his gaze heavy with fatigue. Harbinger put a hand on his shoulder.

“Why don’t I show you back? I don’t want you sleeping on a staircase.”

Aster mumbled something in agreement, and the two walked together to the physician’s room. Aster’s usually quick pace was sluggish, and Harbinger had to keep a hand on him to make sure he didn’t run into anything. They seemed to hardly be able to keep their eyes open.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Harbinger asked as he opened the door to Aster’s room. “You look a bit pale.”

Aster cleared his throat. “Only a bit of magic strain, I’m sure…”

He turned his head and coughed a few times into his cloak.

“A bit of sleep and…I’ll…”

He took a long sniff, rubbing his septum.

“I’ll be…fih…hih…!”

Aster hid his head completely in his cape.

“hhhh’TCHU! h’TCHU!”

“Blessings, my friend,” Harbinger said, offering a handkerchief. “Oh, I hope you haven’t-”

“hhhhhhh’TCHIEEEW!”

“Alright, let’s get you to bed.”

Aster snuffled into Harbinger’s handkerchief as the sprite led him to bed, covering him with an old but cozy quilt.

“Just a bid…snf…” Aster slurred, congestion creeping into his voice.

Harbinger tucked the quilt under the wizard’s sides.

“It seems my cold didn’t go as far as I would have hoped.”

“I d-don’d…hhhh’TCHUUU!”

Harbinger clucked his tongue. “Blessings. Gods alive. You could protect a kingdom with that nose!”

Aster would have laughed at the joke, but he was already fast asleep.

#ohnos fics #snz #snz kink #snzario #snzblr #snezblr #snz things #snez kink #snezario #snz scenario #whump #whump blog #whump stuff #whump prompt #whumpblr #whump fic #whump writing

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officialrtg · 11 months

Text

Death in the Family (Elemental)

Elemental City General Hospital, 6:00 PM, Room 112

The room was all quiet, there was only one occupant in the room, but was in a painful sleep.

Dewey laid in his bed, the tumour had grown over the last two months which had caused most of his organs to shut down, even opening his eyes to look around was a painful experience.

Hundreds of things were in his arms to keep check of his pulse and what was still working in his body.

While out for the most of the time, he could hear the outside world with family visits and final goodbyes from friends. It became heartbreaking over the last two months with hearing Brook’s hope for him to recover, dwindle to the point where she silently crying every time.

He kept a tally of who visited him, who wasn’t Dr Coral, over the last two months he was in ICU.

Brook: 82 times (Twice Every Day) Brie: 71 times Jerry II: 70 times Lake: 67 times Harold: 66 times Alan: 65 times Wade: 56 times Eddy: 20 times Liv: 1 time #1: 1 time #2: 1 time

The light above him was growing slightly as he heard the door to his room open to a multitude of people.

“Hey Dewey bear.” Brook’s voice sounded as she walked to his side, he then felt his bed shift.

He breathed deeply as he painfully opened his eyes that hadn’t been opened in over a week to see his entire family and his mother along with Jerry II.

“Ha-Harold.” He asked for Harold who he could see through his blurry vision.

Harold leans forward to see the charcoal and bright yellow eyes of Dewey to listen to what he had to say.

“I want you to protect my wife from now on. You care for your sister a lot but if anything happens, I will find you.” He says, recounting the warning that Harold gave him all those years ago.

“Dewey. I will.” Harold says with slight sadness

Dewey then looks towards Brook who’s tears were already flowing out of her but she was keeping her cries at bay.

He blinks momentarily and she looks to see the eyes had reverted back to the beautiful baby blue that she first fell in love with all those years ago.

“Oh, Dewey!” She whispers, her cries slightly creeping out, but she was so happy to see his pure eyes that reminded her of the last 31 years of her life with him.

She was comforted by her children with all three hugging with love. Alan stepped forward to talk to his dad for the final time.

“How are you doing?” Alan asked.

“Feeling better.” His dry voice evident

“Take care of your mother for me, please.” He said as his voice grew shallower and shallower, his hand reaching out for Alan which Alan held, the tears streaming down his cheeks as Eddy went to comfort him.

“Dad… Please don’t leave.” Alan pleaded with him

Dewey’s breathing got quieter and quieter, he looked up at his shiny crystal of his life, the two shared eye contact.

His final act was to smile at Brook before he straightened out and then he sighed, his body became very relaxed as he passed on.

The final thing he felt was a kiss from Brook on his forehead and Alan’s hand before it slipped out of his son's grasp.

#pixar elemental #elemental #brook ripple #dewey ripple #wade ripple #alan ripple #lake ripple #harold ripple #eddy ripple

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luluwquidprocrow · 3 years

Text

(the three-part folding mirror)

the denouements & the snickets, olaf, r, olivia

teen

15,985 words

The year the schism gets worse is the year one of the quarterly information costume parties is held in the grand ballroom on the third floor of the Hotel Denouement.

@lyeekha won my commission in the @asoue-network fandom against hate raffle and asked for the denouements, so i put together some shenanigans with the denouements and the snickets, with slight ernest/lemony kit/dewey frank/jacques, and a few other associates hanging around ~

some minor warnings – language; smoking; brief mention of murder; referenced parental death; identity anxiety about being seen physically and personally

title from i am alone by they might be giants

10:59 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

Kit skirted the perimeter of the crowded ballroom, stopping at the side wall by the drinks, one eye on the table and the other on the dance floor. She couldn’t put her back to it. Not now. There was a tall, potted boxwood nearby, unreasonably lush, almost slouching against the decorative golden pillar beside it. She picked up one of the wineglasses, the only signal she could think of to properly get his attention. She’d have to find Lemony as well; where was he?

The plant coughed.

“J,” Kit whispered, “listen to me.”

A few of the branches parted, and Jacques’s blue eyes appeared out of the green. “What happened?”

Kit breathed slowly. Her free hand curled into a fist, crinkling up the fabric of her dress. She swallowed. It did not help. She gripped the glass. Beneath her feet, the floor gave a slight shudder as the clock out in the lobby readied itself to chime the hour.

“Someone in this very room has—”

WRONG!

7:25 PM—Above The Lobby

It was Saturday night, and Saturday night always meant one thing—Guess The Guest.

Ernest stood in the small alcove situated around the gears of the hotel clock, far above the lobby, and looked down. Like any other night, the sleek gold and red lobby was filled with people, loitering around the front desks and the fountain and each other before they made their way up to the grand ballroom on the third floor. Well, the ballroom was different. This was a work event, as Frank had so brilliantly labeled it on their schedule, so no one was a regular guest tonight. Frank, who had never appreciated the joy in making up grandiose lies or exaggerated half-truths about the strangers who came in and out of the hotel, certainly wouldn’t appreciate the thrill in watching all of his associates in costume and trying to guess who was who, either. Dewey thought the game was slightly mean, because Dewey was just too kind for this sort of thing.

It was good that Ernest was not Frank or Dewey. Not right now, anyway. Ernest knew how to get joy out of the little things.

He watched a flash of green scales move erratically through the lobby, a cheerful voice calling enthusiastic greetings that echoed all the way up to the ceiling—Montgomery. There was a reason he did undercover work so sparingly. Two women in nearly identical butterfly costumes by the door, one purple and one white, hand in hand, standing close together—Ramona and Olivia. It was nice to see them together. A woman with a deep blue dress that swept around her like a wave—Josephine, here alone. Ernest had it on good authority that the Anwhistle brothers weren’t coming. Another loud voice, but deeper, following the confident swath a tall figure in black cut through the crowd—Olaf. Ernest turned away, in time to catch a glimpse of a long red cape shifting from behind one pillar to another around the edge of the room, carefully avoiding Olaf—aha. Kit. Which meant another one was nearby. Not that the Snickets had arrived together, because none of them ever did, but where there was one there was always at least one other, ready to make a decent amount of trouble. (Ernest liked trouble. The little things, of course.) And there, near Ramona and Olivia, Lemony Snicket, a figure shaped in grey shadows.

The alcove door opened. Ernest knew exactly who it was, so he didn’t give him the courtesy of turning around, keeping his eyes on Lemony. Grey was a fitting color on him, on the long line of his shoulders, his legs. Ernest’s stomach flipped over, once.

“It looks like a full house tonight,” Frank said, standing beside Ernest. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and folded his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t sure.”

Ernest leaned a hand on the alcove railing. “Takes more than a murder to stop a party, I suppose,” he said.

Frank didn’t reply, but Ernest knew that for once he agreed. The double murder in Winnipeg two months ago had, like any other sudden, suspicious death they’d dealt with over the years—Ernest shuddered and flexed his fingers—barely made a ripple in VFD, except that after the funeral, everyone had closed ranks significantly tighter.

This worried Frank; this did not worry Ernest. Very little truly worried Ernest, at the end of the day. That, of course, only made Frank worry more, but Ernest couldn’t help that. Frank would find something to worry about if Ernest was still on “his side”. Ernest had much more pressing commitments than the heavy, idle worry that everyone else shuffled between themselves without any results, and it wasn’t that he’d be found out. It was change. The real kind of change, not the noble one, not the fragmentary one. Change Ernest could see.

He shifted his hand on the railing once more. If he kept thinking about it, he was going to argue with Frank, and they’d rehashed the argument so many times the past few months without any resolution that it was better, Dewey had eventually insisted, if they just didn’t talk about it at all. So they wouldn’t. Ernest stood next to his brother, and the silence dragged out between them, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock gears, and they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at all.

“Ernest.”

Almost.

“Frank,” Ernest said back, in the same critical tone, tilting his head to the side and giving his brother a look.

Frank shot him a flat and unimpressed stare in return. At least he still did that. “Promise me you won’t do anything—” he paused, his face pinching in an aggrieved sort of way before he settled on a word. “—rash tonight,” he finished.

Ernest laughed. “I don’t intend to do anything rash, Frank.” Of course not. You couldn’t carry out a pre-established plan rashly.

“I should hope not. I—”

The door opened, again. Dewey burst into the alcove, all smiles as always, and stopped on Frank’s other side and leaned over the railing, gazing into the lobby. Like Ernest and Frank, he wore the muted red manager uniform, because somebody had said it was the “host prerogative” to not dress up for a costume party. Somebody had felt bad about it when Dewey was disappointed, but somebody had still not relented, and there they were, a matched trio, everything outwardly perfect.

“Everyone’s costumes are so beautiful,” Dewey said. “Who’s that, in the big blue dress?”

“Josephine,” Ernest and Frank said at the same time.

Ernest raised his eyebrows. Frank, stooping so low as to actually guess the guest? Even Dewey blinked at him in surprise. The tips of Frank’s ears went slightly pink, but he didn’t say a word.

“Oh, Frank, you left your name tag downstairs again,” Dewey said. He pulled the name tag from his pocket, the slim gold rectangle glinting briefly in the soft light of the alcove, and pressed it into Frank’s hand.

“Thank you,” Frank murmured. But when Dewey turned away, Ernest saw the tag disappear from Frank’s fingers, most likely slipped up into his sleeve. None of them wore their name tags with regularity—the black ‘manager’ embroidery on their jackets was really enough—but Frank’s kept showing up places, and Ernest and Dewey kept giving it back to him, every time. Ernest didn’t quite know what to make of it. He wondered about asking Frank about it, but he didn’t want Frank to take it as another argument. Ernest didn’t actually enjoy arguing with Frank. About small things, sure, like Dewey’s stupid poetry and Frank’s inane hotel schedules, the sorts of things brothers argued about. But Ernest was sure Frank would make it into another one about VFD.

Dewey was studying the lobby, one hand on his chin. Ernest watched him go from one friend to another, then stop when he got to Kit’s red cape sweeping towards the stairs. It was an unusual color for her, but Dewey, whether he thought it was nice or not, knew how to identify someone from the pieces they let slip through too. Kit was straightforward about everything, and the way she walked, determined and with an endpoint in sight, was no different.

Ernest and Frank exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” Frank drawled, “when’s the wedding?”

“I look best in black,” Ernest put in. “Take that into account, Dewey.”

“I look best in blue,” Frank said. “Take that into account.”

Dewey’s face went its typical six shades of red, flushing through to his ears as well as he jumped back from the railing and sputtered, “What—we’re not—we haven’t even—I don’t—Kit’s not—you two are impossible.” He stormed out of the alcove, shutting the door with a slight snap behind him, because Dewey had never slammed a door in his life.

Ernest enjoyed a brief chuckle with Frank before his brother fell silent again. The lobby crowd was thinning as everyone made their way to the elevators or the stairs, or to the bathroom, or, perhaps, to some clandestine hallway somewhere else. Ernest could see the ring of neatly-trimmed boxwoods lining the lobby now. He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was one more than usual, sitting right inside the door.

He leaned forward, squinting. “Did we always have a boxwood there?” he asked.

Frank moved his head down a fraction of an inch and considered the lobby. “Of course,” he said. Then he straightened his sleeves one more time, and left the alcove.

7:35 PM—The Lobby

Among the Snicket siblings, there was an ongoing discussion about the best hiding place. Kit preferred the quiet, professional approach. She stood behind newspaper stands, put her face into books and brochure racks, stayed in the shadows of a store awning. Lemony was difficult about it. He thought the best place to hide was the least likely place someone would look for you; the place you wouldn’t look for yourself. He took dangerous perches in train station windows, seats in restaurants he vocally hated, or sophisticated and cramped corner cafes that had never heard of a root beer float.

Jacques, meanwhile, with a lifetime of hiding experience, always liked to hide in plain sight. People barely ever remembered what was right in front of them as long as it appeared relatively normal. And there were a number of options—a large potted plant could be overlooked among a dozen other potted plants, people received packages every day and wouldn’t notice if there was one more oversized box, every city park lost track of how many statues were supposed to be there, even a regular man in a fine suit crossing the street or driving a taxi was expected and forgettable. Another boxwood was just another boxwood sitting in a free space in the empty Hotel Denouement lobby, slowly making its way to the ballroom for optimal eavesdropping. Another volunteer in costume was just another volunteer in a lion costume borrowed from Bertrand, for the moments tonight when Jacques had to communicate information to an associate.

That was the point of the party, after all. Jacques couldn’t deny that everyone liked dressing up—he liked dressing up, a little—but the main objective for most of them tonight was the passing of relevant information that had happened in the three months since the last official gathering (not counting the funeral). It should have been at Winnipeg, as they usually were, the organization taking over the Duke and Duchess’s sprawling, sparkling mansion, the couple’s easy laughter flowing from room to room. Jacques didn’t blame Ramona for not wanting to do it after what happened there. He doubted she’d actually been in the mansion since, although it was entirely hers. But the Hotel Denouement was a suitable replacement. It was too public to ever lose its neutral position among both sides. No one was going to get killed here, Jacques was certain. But he was mildly worried something else would happen. He didn’t know what. But something.

Especially considering Lemony was here. Not that his brother was a troublemaker—Jacques would never say it out loud, at least—but because Lemony wasn’t supposed to be at the hotel tonight. He had told Jacques that he was going to be with Beatrice and Bertrand, who were working on plans for an upcoming assignment. This meant two things—one, that Lemony had lied to Jacques. But Jacques had counted on that. He had assumed, however, that Lemony meant the three of them were finally going on a date and hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Two, that if Lemony never did anything idly, without a specific purpose, then he was here for an unknown reason. Something else was going to happen, Jacques was certain. Something Lemony wanted to be here for.

First, though, he had to get the boxwood he was hiding in from the lobby to the ballroom upstairs. The pot was significantly heavier than Jacques had counted on.

8:05 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Every time they all got together, Frank was so amazed at how many of them there were. Despite some noticeable gaps—Beatrice’s overbearing presence, for one, which Frank was happy to do without for an evening—the grand ballroom had barely any free space. Every available and noble associate was here, and it filled Frank with a sense that everything was going to be alright. All these people, including himself, doing what was necessary to keep the world quiet. Tonight would be fine. Ernest wouldn’t do anything regrettable; Dewey would forgive him about the costumes and the gentle ribbing; the meeting would pass without incident. Tomorrow would come. Sometimes Frank almost thought that it wouldn’t. Typically when Ernest was being difficult, but tonight even he seemed to agree that the organization—their organization—was impressive.

He spotted a potted plant by one of the drink tables, a boxwood that matched the ones lined around the room and back in the lobby. One branch was bent out of place. Frank would have to have a word with the person responsible later. But he should fix the branch now.

Everyone he passed on his way across the room gave him a quick nod, a brief smile. Frank returned it as that familiar buzzing started under his skin, like it tended to in groups. He shrugged it aside. He gave the controlled smile of a manager with everything in place, and no one said a word.

All of a sudden, his view of the boxwood was blocked. Through the mass of associates came Olaf, head to toe in a suit and mask of black, spiky fur, smiling with all his teeth, unceremoniously pushing a woman in a silver dress painted like a large, rocky moon aside on his way towards Frank. Frank steeled himself. You never knew what you were going to get with Olaf, if he would try and charm you with a reckless humor or annoy you with a joking cruelty. It was one of the many reasons Frank had never particularly cared for him.

“Ernest!” Olaf exclaimed when he got close. He hooked an arm through Frank’s. “Lovely to see you, wonderful party.”

The cold, dark hand twisted its way along Frank’s insides. It gripped down through his chest, put a film over his eyes that made the room seem distant and wrong. The party continued around him, Olaf was still talking into his ear, and Frank couldn’t hear any of it. The name tag pressing into his wrist up his left sleeve didn’t help. Just because it was his didn’t mean it was him. His name meant nothing if no one was going to care about who it was, about what made Frank instead of Ernest or Dewey. No one should need evidence to tell the difference. No one should make a mistake between the three of them. How many times would it happen?

Time was still passing. Frank blinked once, twice, until Olaf’s voice filtered back in and the noise of the ballroom swelled up once more.

“—incredibly delicious, I have to say, but, to be frank with you—ha! This champagne has seen better days, which one of you is responsible for this travesty?”

Frank smiled, a little turn of the corner of his mouth, the professional smile of all three of them. If Olaf wanted Ernest, alright. Frank would be Ernest. “Frank,” he said. The word sounded like it couldn’t possibly have come out right, but Olaf didn’t break his stride, so it must have.

“That does not surprise me in the least,” Olaf said. “Meanwhile, allow me to take up one single minute of your time,” he continued, and pulled Frank into the shadows by the door. Frank’s stomach gave a terrible lurch as the stark terror he woke up with every morning came back, riding over the dissonant gap he still felt between his body and his brain. What did Olaf want with Ernest? Had Olaf found out about him? Frank had covered up for Ernest before, but would he be able to keep doing it if more people knew?

“Have you thought about it any more?” Olaf asked, leaning close.

The sheer relief that Olaf didn’t know battled with the swooping fear that Ernest was doing something new Frank didn’t know about, and with Olaf. He remembered, with startling clarity, the last time he talked to Kit, when she told him that Olaf had been spouting dangerous ideas about the organization and trying to rope in as many people as possible. It was one of the reasons, according to the rumors Frank had heard elsewhere, why he and Kit had ended their relationship. What was he trying to get Ernest into? Ernest needed absolutely no encouragement, and neither did Olaf. He had to say something.

“I have,” Frank said. It was the safe answer when you were pretending to be someone else.

Olaf grinned again, big and excited, which was a terrible sign. “And?”

“No,” he said, because it was also the safe answer, and the faster Frank could untangle Ernest from whatever trouble he was into this time, the better. “Sorry to disappoint,” he added, with the cool tone Ernest used.

Olaf frowned. “Really? I must admit, I am a little surprised. I mean, I know you weren’t entirely on board, but you’d given it a shot before, and I was hoping you’d come around again.”

Before? They’d talked before? Frank thought a series of incredibly inappropriate words Beatrice was always using that he would never say out loud.

“But!” Olaf pivoted quickly, in his speech and his actions, spinning on his heel away from Frank and shrugging broadly. “Who am I to bend your arm about it! I’ll keep you in mind, though, in case.” He showed all his teeth, his eyes glittering. “And keep me in mind, next time you have anything else worth sharing, will you?” He flounced off again, tearing through the crowd.

It took a few minutes for Frank’s heart to go back to where it was supposed to be from where it was thundering in his throat. He put his hands in his pockets and gripped the fabric, something real and his to hold onto.

Anything else worth sharing. Since their apprenticeships, Frank and Dewey and Ernest had been tasked with organizing a great deal of information, mostly about the history of the organization, but sometimes, and especially as they got older, the very information that was passed along between volunteers. It was part of the reason Dewey had started building his personal archives in the basement. He liked the business of collecting facts. Of course all three of them were still being given that information. Of course Ernest still had access to every single piece of that information. Ernest, collaborating with Olaf, Ernest, sneaking around behind Frank’s back, Ernest, who had promised, at the beginning of all this, that he wasn’t going to jeopardize their positions by doing something stupid.

Ernest, what are you doing?

8:40 PM—The Archives, In Progress

Dewey was not hiding. He liked parties a great deal, and he loved people, but like his brothers and everyone else, he too had his own appointment to keep tonight.

His just happened to be in the basement.

He still sort of felt like he was hiding, especially the further he went into the archives. But things always needed organizing, and while he waited, he had to do something to keep his hands busy. He searched for a set of organization accounting records for five minutes before realizing he’d already shelved it, last week.

So Dewey was nervous. Plenty of people were nervous. Olivia went around all the time being nervous and no one gave her any grief for it. But Olivia didn’t have a sister to give her any grief for it. And Dewey didn’t mind, not really. He loved it when his brothers teased, because it meant they were getting along. But this time it was slightly personal. Because he was meeting Kit, and he was nervous.

Kit was—well, normal. Like Dewey was normal. He loved his brothers, but Frank was high-strung and made it everyone else’s problem, Ernest was often disagreeable for the sake of it, and with the Snickets, Jacques was always hiding in furniture and Dewey didn’t think he’d ever seen more of him than one hand and possibly an eye at a time, and Lemony was wonderful but sometimes too cryptic and morbid for Dewey’s taste. He liked things a little more sensible, comfortable, pleasant. And Kit was organized, reasonable, quiet when other people were reading, cool under pressure. She let herself get lost in books and people she cared about, underneath all the professionalism. Her smile was a careful, slow thing, something private she only showed you if she genuinely liked you. And it meant a lot to be on the receiving end of that smile.

His brothers didn’t get it. He wasn’t involved with Kit, and he wasn’t going to ask her out, because you didn’t do that with Kit. If Kit wanted to spend time with you, that was her own choice. She never did anything she didn’t want or she hadn’t thought through first. That she wanted to spend time with Dewey, specifically, to see him, and no one else, was nice. It made the whole of him feel all tingly and weightless. He wanted their meeting in the archives to be as nice as that feeling.

Dewey grabbed a set of Agatha Christie translations he kept on hand for when things got boring (rarely, but Beatrice got bored easily, and if you gave her a translation she sat down for a while to prove she could read it) and walked to the next aisle to shelve them. His foot snagged on something in the middle of the floor and he stumbled, hugging the books close to his chest so they didn’t fall. He turned around to see what it was, and found Kit blinking up at him with wide eyes from where she sat on the floor, a thick book open in her lap, her long red dress pooled around her on the floor. Her dress had an off-the-shoulder neckline, but most of her shoulders were covered by the matching red cape pulled around her. In the wide diamond of skin left between the cape and the top of the dress, he could see the sharp edge of something black around her collarbone, a point of the nearly-finished tattoo she’d been getting done. The red sleeves disappeared into short white gloves, with her hands folded together at the bottom of the book pages. Oh. Dewey’s heart pounded for a horrible, exhilarating moment, his mouth going dry. He swallowed once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling wryly, closing the book and sliding it gently back in the middle shelf. “I got distracted.”

“Oh, no, that’s completely understandable,” Dewey said. He folded himself down beside her, crossing his legs, still clutching the books to him. “Happens to me all the time. What were you reading?”

Kit smiled again, and it was that slow, beautiful smile, her eyes lighting up. “Have you heard,” she said, “about the cookiecutter shark?”

Dewey had absolutely heard about the cookiecutter shark. “Isistius brasiliensis,” he said. “It can travel in schools, and it bites little circular sections out of fish, like a cookie cutter. Have you heard about the brownsnout spookfish?”

“Barreleye fish, has mirrors in its eyes. Toothless upper jaw,” Kit replied easily. “Anostraca.”

“Fairy shrimp, they swim upside down,” Dewey said. He leaned forward, grinning. “Sometimes even found in deserts. Frilled shark?”

This was his favorite game, with his favorite person, in his favorite place. Both of them were librarians, or librarian-adjacent, so he and Kit dealt in information, not only about nobility but about the rest of the world around them. And the whole world was so fascinating, and there was so much to know and share, so how could you not try and see who could stump the other first?

“An eel-like living fossil, with six pairs of gill slits. Chaunacidae.”

Dewey scrunched up his face, thinking. “I think you got me there,” he admitted.

“Sea toad,” Kit said, looking pleased, “and coffinfish. Deep-sea anglerfishes. The sea toad has fins that can be used as leg flippers.”

“Really? Wow.” Dewey made a mental note to check that out later. He hoped, on the scale of unsettling sea creature to pleasantly spooky sea creature, that it was somewhere in the middle. “So besides oceanic intrigue,” he said, “what else is going on with you?”

“I’m supposed to get something from Frank tonight,” Kit said. “But, I also came to give you this. From Bertrand,” she clarified, and then picked through the seams of her dress, which revealed themselves as hiding at least ten different pockets.

When he had the time, Dewey wanted to study clothing design. Kit and Beatrice always found the place for so many pockets that you could never see from the outside, and Dewey wished he had the same capacity in his slim manager’s jacket and trousers for all the things he wanted to carry around. Poetry; chocolate-covered pretzels; the pencils Kit always left behind; spare buttons; sturdy rope, in case he needed it; maybe a mini chess set. He’d have to work on it. Maybe he could hide them in shoulder pads, or his shoes.

Kit pulled out a book from a side pocket. Dewey finally put the Agatha Christie down, piling it in a neat stack between them, and took the book. It was the one Bertrand had spoken to him about last week—Undercover Underwater: Diving For The Truth, a truly terrible murder mystery novel he said Dewey had to read to believe. He was greatly looking forward to it.

“That was awfully sweet of him,” Dewey said, running his thumb over the cover. He looked for a place to put it, and then just put it on top of his book stack. It felt a little sacrilegious, if it was as bad as Bertrand said, to put it on top of Christie, but he didn’t want to misplace it. “Thank you very much.”

Kit shifted on the floor and put her back to the bookshelf. “Did you hear the Anwhistle brothers finished building that marine research and rhetorical advice center?”

“Yes,” Dewey said. “I guess that’s why they aren’t here tonight? Josephine was all alone when I saw her earlier.”

“They should’ve celebrated with the rest of us,” Kit said. “What a massive architectural achievement—and I wanted to hear about the leeches, too.”

“Yes!” Dewey exclaimed. “Have you seen them yet? I haven’t.”

“No,” Kit said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not in person. Ike gave Lemony one of the earlier ones as a paperweight some time ago but I haven’t been able to see their recent work yet. I hear the teeth are impressive.”

“Cookiecutter shark impressive?”

Kit grinned. “Potentially.”

Dewey laughed. He wished he and Kit could go see them, together. For the scientific curiosity. For spending time with someone who really, really wanted to see him. No, for the oceanic intrigue, of course. “You know—” Oh no. He hadn’t intended to actually start the sentence, but it was out, and Kit was looking at him expectantly, and Dewey was rapidly losing all handles on the conversation. His face was heating up. Everyone else made talking to people whose company they enjoyed look so easy, but the words jumbled together in his mouth. “We should—go? I mean—not right now, but, soon, we could—to the research center—for the leeches, for, for science.”

Pink colored Kit’s face under the freckles along her nose. “For science,” she said. Then—“Not a date,” she added firmly.

“Definitely for science,” Dewey insisted. “Oceanic intrigue, and everything.”

“Yes,” she said, blinking quite a few times. “That would be fine.”

They stared at each other for the longest minute of Dewey’s life.

“We should probably get back up to the party,” he said. The archives were feeling much, much too close, all the books and shelves pressed up against him, the point of Kit’s tattoo still peeking out from under the edge of her cape.

Kit nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

8:55 PM—The Ballroom—Near The Piano

Next—Jacques had to find Olivia.

He abandoned the boxwood by the east wall, for the time being, out of sight near the piano, where a man with a white half-mask played a pleasant Beethoven sonata while a woman in a sharp, pointed gold suit argued with a man dressed as an octopus with a hat. They did not notice Jacques, even in his own costume, but he noticed them. He noticed everyone in the room so singularly. He’d almost forgotten so many people could be in one place at the same time. You spent a lot of time alone, hiding in small spaces, you got used to yourself.

Olivia was easily identifiable. Nothing she did could ever disguise the tightly-wound nervous energy coiled inside her, not the shimmery white butterfly wings curled over her shoulders or the mask of purple flowers on her face. Something always gave her away. Tonight, it was her hands, twisting together as she talked to someone in a large, leafy tree costume, so consuming Jacques couldn’t make out the face. He scanned the crowd, trying to locate Ramona in her reversed purple wings and white mask. He saw her making her way towards one of the drink tables. Ramona wouldn’t leave Olivia alone for long.

The tree left soon after, and Jacques made his way over to her, getting a decent amount of elbows into the side along the way. “Olivia,” he said, when he stopped in front of her.

Her eyes passed over him and onto the rest of the room, like she was staring straight through him. Jacques frowned. He’d certainly said something. He’d certainly moved, Olivia was right in front of him. People moved around them without sparing him a second glance; someone said a cheerful hello to Olivia and she returned it. His voice dried up in his throat, like if he tried to speak he’d never make a sound. When was the last time before this he’d spoken out loud? No one expected him to talk, in his line of work. When had he done it? No, perhaps she simply hadn’t heard him.

He cleared his throat a few times. That was a sound. That was undeniably a sound. Jacques existed here.

He touched his hand to her wrist. “Olivia?”

Olivia jumped nearly a foot. She turned her head from side to side frantically, and Jacques gave her a short wave.

“Oh!” Olivia pressed her hands against her chest and laughed, breathless. “Oh, Jacques, you startled me. How are you?” she asked, as unfailingly kind as always, as if he hadn’t just frightened her. She looked like she wanted nothing more than for Jacques to tell her the long, substantial answer, instead of the polite one. He almost did. But Jacques was here for business.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Alright,” she said, still smiling. “Ramona’s gone to get some champagne, would you like to join us?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “I have a message for you.”

Her bright smile faltered, her hands seizing together again. “I see,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival.”

Olivia blanched. “The—the hinterlands?” she repeated. Her voice trembled. “That’s, ah, terribly far away, isn’t it?”

“It is a distance from the city,” Jacques conceded, “but not far.” It was far from Winnipeg, though. It was very far. Eventually, Ramona would be back there, at least in some capacity. Things would be different, especially if Olivia was wanted in the hinterlands permanently.

“Jacques, I really—I don’t—I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “I promise, I’ll think about it.”

An assignment from headquarters was not exactly optional. Her eyes darted somewhere behind him, and Jacques knew who she was looking at. She and Ramona had just gotten together only recently, before the Duke and Duchess’ deaths. Any kind of love was difficult within the confines of their organization, but the solace here, Jacques thought, was that she and Ramona were both there. They would never be that far away. They might see each other a good deal less, but they would see each other.

“You can take your time to leave, if you wanted,” he said.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice was firm. “But, thank you for letting me know, Jacques.” She gave him her soft, breezy smile again, and slipped off through the dance floor.

Jacques watched her go. They would see each other. That was an invaluable thing, in their line of work. Being seen. Sometimes even the best person you loved with your whole being couldn’t see the part of you that mattered. To be seen when you disappeared from the rest of the world—that was worth holding on to. It would be difficult. But he had no doubt Olivia and Ramona would do it.

The floor rumbled, like it always did before the lobby clock chimed.

9:00 PM—Room 687

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Does the clock always sound like that? Like it’s saying wrong?”

“Incessantly,” Esmé sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I think Frank’s responsible. Heaven forbid he goes an hour without reminding everyone else how little he thinks of their decisions, you know.”

9:00 PM—The Ballroom—North Drink Table

The hotel was not Winnipeg. But right now, that was exactly what Ramona wanted. The modern angles, the warm, well-lit ballroom, the dark corners and firm rigidity of it all currently felt homier than the soft, open pinks and whites of the Winnipeg mansion. She was glad to have another excuse to avoid it and the constant questions. Tonight, she was going to see her friends, and dance with Olivia, and drink champagne, because Olivia said every occasion was cause for celebration and champagne, and Ramona was going to have a good time. She picked up two champagne flutes from the table and took a sip of one in the careful way her mother taught her, so she didn’t leave lipstick on the glass. Her heart stuttered as she saw the press of plum purple streaks on the glass when she pulled it away. The hotel clock was chiming, sounding like a heavy, distorted vibration of a word. It was right. The lipstick was wrong.

Who had done it? Everyone wanted to know. The firestarters? Likely, but they had been quiet for some time, and Ramona wasn’t going to point fingers without evidence. Some older enemy? Ramona didn’t know enough about whoever that was to consider them. Someone new?

She didn’t want to think about it. Her parents were dead, and she’d found them, and she didn’t want to think about who could have done it or why they did. It wasn’t going to change that it had happened. Ramona wasn’t looking for answers. She was looking for—

An arm slung around her shoulders, jostling her and the champagne, which sloshed around in the flutes as she lurched forward. Scratchy fur and outrageous cologne bore down on her, and she knew exactly who it was.

“My dear duchess,” Olaf said, squeezing her tight. “How have you been?”

Ramona found it in her to roll her eyes. Some people didn’t like Olaf, which she completely understood. There was something about him though, as brash and outlandish and obnoxiously tactile as he was, that had to make you laugh sometimes. She felt comfortable, close to a friend. “Just peachy,” she said. She offered him the other champagne glass; she could get another for Olivia. “Champagne?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Olaf said. He hooked his free hand around both glasses and set them back on the drink table. “Look, I wanted to give you my sincerest condolences—” And he did look sincere, sliding around in front of her, his hand still on her shoulder, the joy immediately gone from his face and replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. She was struck by it, by how glassy and shiny his eyes were under the dark of his mask. “I’m sorry about your parents, Ramona.”

Her mouth wobbled at the edges. She knew Olaf could understand. They’d had similar positions in the organization their whole lives—their parents their chaperones, their time split between assignments and society, the safety that existed in his manor as well, its own controlled pocket of the world, like Winnipeg had been, like the Hotel Denouement was, too. She thought of the Count and Countess, still alive. She hoped they’d stay alive.

It wouldn’t do to cry at a party. Ramona picked up her flute again and took another small sip. “Thank you,” she said.

And just like that, he straightened up and pulled away from her. Some of the mirth found its way back into the shape of his mouth and his arm found its way back around her, this time a tight grip at her waist as he steered her back into the crowd. Ramona felt slightly less consoled than ten seconds ago. Easy come, easy go, with Olaf. “I hate thinking about you all alone in that big house,” he said with a sigh. “All that room, all those things—remember when I knocked into that vase in the hallway?”

“Very vividly,” Ramona said.

“A glorious time!” he crowed. “Well! At least you’ve got all of us, haven’t you. What are your friends if not your family, et cetera, et cetera.”

But he still understood. That was what made it so important to be here tonight. What were all the people in the room, the friends she’d grown up with, people she knew and loved, if not her family as well, just as much as her parents had been? They were more than associates or volunteers, stepping in around her not to fill a void, but to offer back some little part of what had been taken from her. Her throat tightened up as she thought about it. Everything they did was hard, but it was also so special. Ramona wanted to hold it close to her and never let it go.

“And what wouldn’t one do for one’s family, am I right?” Olaf continued. “So, if you ever need me for anything—a shoulder to cry on, although certainly not in this jacket, or, say, a partner in crime, or a willing participant in any daring assignment you might come across otherwise—do not hesitate to let me know, okay?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

Ramona stumbled to a halt as Olaf stopped abruptly. He looked down at her with a gash of a grin. “People like you and me, we’ve got to stick together, duchess.” He gave her a squeeze one more time and then finally let go, dashing away.

Goodness, but he was rough about things. Ramona gave herself a shake, trying to collect herself back into order. She stood up on her toes to try and see where he’d gone. She didn’t get much more height, already being in heels, but she did manage to see him already making grandiose hand gestures across the room to those white-faced triplets Ramona had seen once or twice. They were younger than she was, still in their training. The three of them stared at Olaf with three immaculately raised eyebrows. Ramona chuckled a little, dropped back down, and went back for Olivia’s champagne glass.

9:40 PM—The Ballroom—Center

Over an hour had passed, and Frank hadn’t seen any sign of Ernest. He had better things to be doing than keeping track of Ernest, and yet here he was. He couldn’t have gone far—the hotel was enormous, but it was a hotel. The whole world contained on nine floors. You couldn’t disappear from it.

Frank edged his way through the dance floor, searching for him through three separate groups of associates doing three slightly different versions of a circle dance. A snake and a tree frog whirled past, a phantom with them, a tangled shape of dark greens and blacks and bright blues and exuberant laughter. When they’d gone, Frank found himself in the center of the floor and face to face with Dewey, coming towards him from the other direction, his cheeks pink.

“Are you alright?” Frank asked immediately.

Dewey blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Just dancing. Is everything okay?”

He should have known, but Ernest had him on an edge he hadn’t expected to be tonight. He tried to look apologetic but wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. “Have you seen Ernest?”

“Not since earlier,” Dewey said. “Oh, and Kit was—”

“When you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

Dewey’s shoulders drooped down. “If I see him,” he said. “Then I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and he meant it. He smiled at Dewey until he smiled back, and then Frank moved past him, pushing back into the crowd.

He hadn’t meant to be short about it, but Frank’s worry never came out like he wanted it to. It became biting irritation instead, or a slow-simmering temper he never let boil, or professional, distant orders about hotel business, or a refusal to talk at all in case he said the wrong thing. More often than not, he still wound up arguing with Ernest. He didn’t argue with Dewey, but their conversations were so much more stilted than they should have been lately.

But it was because he feared Ernest was going to slip away from him one day and never come back. Realistically, it was unlikely. After all, Ernest was still here. Indecision entering their home hadn’t taken him away from it. But what if that changed, one day, and it was Frank’s fault, because he reacted too quickly or too slowly? And Dewey—Dewey was so sweet and so kind Frank thought the world might crush him. He had to keep them close, and he had to keep them safe. It would’ve been so much easier, though, if Ernest wasn’t so difficult about it, if Dewey understood that Frank didn’t want anything to happen to him, if they would listen.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He’d look for Ernest on the way, but for one small hour, Ernest was going to have to wait.

9:59 PM—The Floor Behind The South Drink Table

Through typical party events, The Herpetology Squad (Plus Hector) found themselves on the floor behind one of the drink tables.

“So how do you tell them apart?” Gustav asked, stirring his drink with a spoon. “Because, and I do feel terrible about this, but I can’t do it. We’ve known them for ages, and I can’t do it.”

“Frank is taller,” Monty said immediately, and very confidently.

“What, no, he can’t be taller, they’re triplets,” Hector said. “Do genetics work like that?”

“Hey Haruki,” Monty called around Gustav and Hector, “do genetics work like that?”

Haruki leaned into Hector’s shoulder and considered it. “I’m really not sure,” they said. “But, I always figured, Ernest was kind of quiet, and Frank was kind of stern, and Dewey was kind of, well, kind.”

“But that seems so reductive,” Gustav pointed out. “You can’t just identify a person down to one base trait and leave it at that. And I say this as a screenwriter and director. You need to be creative.”

“All your characters sound exactly the same, though,” Hector said, frowning. “Or, like, so different, I don’t think you’re keeping track of them between scenes.”

“Oh, that’s awfully rude,” Haruki said.

“No, he’s right,” Gustav said. He hung his head into his hands, his glass tipping sideways through his fingers. Haruki reached over and grabbed it, twisting their arm around and up to slide it back onto the drink table where it’d be safer. “I always thought they did, and now I know for sure. I’ll have to renounce film making and go back to herpetology. Or, submarines. I can’t disparage your honor too, Monty.”

“Oh, Hector, you hurt his feelings,” Monty said. He patted Gustav on the back consolingly. “Gustav, you write wonderful scripts. I loved the, the Werewolves In The Rain.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I can’t handle a drunk Gustav,” Hector said, closing his eyes. “Gustav, I’m sorry. To be fair, I only watched—what was it—” He waved his hands around. “—the one with the—you know—”

“Vampires In The Retirement Community,” Haruki said.

“And it was once. And—hey, weren’t we talking about something else?”

10:10 PM—The Short Hallway Between Rooms 40-45 and 46-49

Unassigned numbers within the Dewey Decimal System were not the trouble they appeared to be to a hotel based on it. They still existed in the hotel, no matter how much Ernest had protested that it made no sense to have rooms that had no theme or purpose in a hotel whose very purpose was theme—Frank and Dewey’s rebuttal was that it made no sense to nonchalantly remove numbers out of their sequential existence because they didn’t fit in neatly otherwise. They existed. They didn’t have themes, even this stretch of ten, which had been previously designated but was now just a blank space between encyclopedias and magazine publications, which left the rooms relatively blank and boring, typically unnoticed and unused, but they still existed.

In the brief, dark hallway between the two sets of unassigned rooms, Frank could sit on the bench against the wall, and he didn’t have to think about family or the hotel. Frank sat featureless in the shadows and thought about himself. Usually, it meant he felt better about everything. But tonight, with the worry set aside once more for now, all he felt was that chill through his insides again, when Olaf mistook him for Ernest.

He took the name tag out of his sleeve and turned it over in his hands. Frank was a man in a manager’s jacket, with a face that looked like two other faces, someone who could be anyone. The name tag did nothing but identify him without caring who he was. What was it that made Frank himself, the imperceptible, innate existence of him that mattered? His love for Ernest and Dewey? Visible. His organization? Trivial. The fear he was going to lose everything? Meaningless and a weakness, in the face of everything else. It was hard to say for sure. He had gone his whole life getting mixed up with Ernest and Dewey and it was exhausting to keep trying to prove he was real when it felt like the world was rubbing him out. He leaned his back against the wall.

He heard Jacques before he saw him, like always. Exact, economical footsteps, nothing extraneous, the tap of his expensive shoes on the rugs, the swish of his jacket. Everything measured, as it had to be.

Jacques appeared around the corner, that bent piece of the boxwood plant stuck in his hair. He seemed to brighten when he saw Frank, like Frank’s presence set something off inside him. Frank watched him. What did Jacques see, when he looked at Frank? What was it that made Jacques notice, over and over again, over other people? How was Jacques so certain that when he looked at Frank right now, at that moment, that Jacques was looking at him?

Jacques sat down next to him on the bench. Frank had seen him in a mask earlier, something terrible and orange, but it was gone now, and he faced Frank fully. He was inches away from Frank, and Frank could see every part of him, even in the dark—the calm, if tired, resolution in the set of his jaw, the way he waited, still and patient, as if he could do nothing else. He had the darkest eyes of his siblings, a steady and unchanging deep blue.

“That which is essential is invisible to the eye,” Jacques whispered.

Frank let out the breath he’d been holding. How long ago had he said that to Jacques? “I initially said that to insult you,” he said.

“It was deserved,” Jacques said. “And I never forgot. Do you know how I always know it’s you now?”

“Enlighten me.”

He put his hand against Frank’s jacket, resting his fingers against the fabric to the left of the buttons. Jacques kept it there, and he didn’t take his eyes off of Frank for anything, not even when the heartbeat under his hand sped up. Frank felt almost split open to the core. He always did, every time. Jacques saw whatever it was. The man who was always hiding knew exactly who he was, because he looked.

“How very sentimental of you,” Frank managed. His breath hung between them. He traced the side of his thumb over the collar of Jacques’s shirt, just below the skin. If he moved his hand just a centimeter he’d be able to feel his heartbeat as well.

“It’s the truth,” Jacques murmured. “Sentiment is—dangerous. Truth is immutable.”

“Do you know how I know it’s you?” Frank said against his mouth.

“How?” Jacques asked.

Frank finally pulled the branch out of Jacques’s hair. “You do terribly stupid things.”

Jacques laughed, and the sound vibrated all the way down through Frank’s throat.

10:19 PM—Room 366

Frank had to be somewhere. Kit was not overly concerned with finding him, but she would rather do it sooner than later. She worked from the ground floor up, combing through the hallways but finding no sight of the Denouement, until she was on the third floor again. The faster she found Frank, the faster she could, maybe, go back to talking to Dewey. About completely professional things, of course. The fact that she felt different when she was with Dewey was simply because he was pleasant, welcome company. He wanted to look at leeches with her, for the delight of science. They expected nothing from each other but a nice time.

She immediately pictured Beatrice waggling her eyebrows at her, if Kit had said that out loud. Not that kind of nice time, she thought, but the mental Beatrice kept laughing joyously at her.

“He’s a nice person,” she grumbled to the empty hallway. He was calm. Regular. Okay. The exact opposite of everyone else, Beatrice. Could she go five minutes without them all picking apart her romantic life? This was why she wasn’t interested. This was why it was strictly nice. There were other, more important things that needed her attention.

The door to Room 366 was ajar, and Kit, who had naturally been trained to investigate the suspicious, investigated the suspicious. She slid herself carefully through the gap in the door and into the dark room. She’d been in there a few times to know it was an absurdly comfortable meeting room, with plush chairs and a bookcase that spanned the length of the far wall. A figure sat against the side wall, reaching up and tapping ash from a cigarette out the open window. For a moment, they looked like a blank, featureless shadow, until a light outside the window shifted and Frank—no, Ernest’s face resolved itself in front of her. The tip of the cigarette burned bright orange against his fingers.

“I heard about you and Olaf,” he said. “Would you like an apology, since I’m sure you’ve been getting enough I told you so’s?”

Kit sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” But she shut the door and walked over, sitting down on the floor beside him. She took her own pack of cigarettes out of one of her dress pockets and accepted Ernest’s lighter to light one. She never carried her own.

“He did,” she muttered, giving the lighter back. She brought her legs up and wrapped an arm around them. “Tell me, I told you so. Not in so many words, of course, but I knew he was thinking it.”

“Ah,” Ernest said. “The disappointed look of, I’m not going to say it, but I’m going to think it, in your general direction. Which is worse.”

“Exactly,” Kit said. “At least argue with me so I can tell him he’s wrong.”

Ernest breathed out a long line of smoke. “Yes.” She thought he was going to say something else, but when he didn’t, Kit pressed on.

“He acts like it was my fault,” she said. “Should I have known better? I—” It was a harsh thing to admit, but she and Ernest didn’t do this to lie to each other. “Yes. Fine. But he acts like I can’t be left alone now to make my own decisions. He keeps following me, hanging around.” She slouched against the wall. “My own brother thinks so little of me.”

Ernest hmmed. “Well—”

“Do not. Do not say I’m short. I’m not short. Jacques has one inch on me, Ernest. Esmé is short. I’m not short.”

“Sorry,” Ernest said, laughing.

“Say it,” she said, and pushed her elbow into his side.

“Ow—Kit, you are anything but short.”

“Thank you.” She took her elbow back. The two of them sat in silence, blowing out small circles of smoke as the cigarettes smoldered down. “What’s Frank disappointed about?”

Ernest waved his hand with the cigarette dismissively. “Frank’s disappointed he can’t find a tie that matches the custom paint in the lobby,” he said. “It doesn’t take much for him. I was five minutes late, I didn’t give him the mail on time, I missed a meeting, and he just—” He did an obviously perfect impression of Frank’s unimpressed stare.

Kit snorted. She had to admit, Frank did look like that a lot, even if you caught him in a good mood.

“If he wasn’t so difficult,” Ernest muttered, “he’d be almost bearable.”

“Wouldn’t they all,” Kit sighed. “Brothers.”

“Brothers,” Ernest agreed.

10:25 PM—The Ballroom—West Hors d’oeuvres Table

Dewey stood at the hors d’oeuvres table, away from the crowd of his friends, surveying the food. At least, with everything going on, there was always good food to look forward to. It was awful to glare at it like he was. He’d felt so good after talking to Kit, and now he was glowering at little rows of canapes like they were the source of his problems.

He wasn’t usually upset with his brothers. No matter what they did, he knew they had their reasons, and Dewey loved them regardless. But sometimes they really were impossible. Frank’s quiet temper and Ernest’s secrecy and indifference had driven such a wedge between the two of them that when Dewey suggested they didn’t talk about it, it had seemed like the best idea at the time to get them to go forward. Otherwise, he’d been worried that Frank was going to say something he’d regret, because he wasn’t going to change Ernest’s mind, and Ernest might’ve done something terrible. Dewey didn’t think he was capable of something truly terrible, because Ernest was his brother, and he knew Ernest. They both believed in a right way to live, just in different ways, so Dewey respected him. You couldn’t let anything change that. But he was still as worried about Ernest as Frank was, and he had just wanted the arguments to stop.

But it had led to Frank and Ernest almost refusing to talk to each other, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was pleasantries or conversations that skirted the edge of an argument, which was worse. Dewey particularly hated it lately, when he was asked to pass messages between them, typically from Frank. He wasn’t a messenger system, he was their brother, and he was, in fact, if either of them cared to remember, the oldest. But they treated him like someone to protect because he wasn’t as forceful as them. He frowned down at a section of tiny shot glasses of—he picked one up. Gazpacho. It looked so charming and Dewey couldn’t even appreciate it.

What it came down to was, the schism couldn’t come between him and his brothers if they didn’t let it. Just like his current irritation couldn’t come between him and his brothers if he didn’t let it. He considered it, because he was angry, but he didn’t let it change anything.

He found a narrow, palm-sized spoon from one of the other hors d’oeuvres and poked at the gazpacho with it. He thought, for a moment, about the Anwhistle brothers, sitting in their brand new marine research and rhetorical help center, probably having a lot of fun together talking about fungi and grammar. Gregor and Ike were two of the most different but most companionable people Dewey knew. Nothing got between them. They probably didn’t forget who was the oldest. Who was the oldest out of them, anyway? They probably didn’t let it matter.

Oh, Dewey was letting it get to him. He piled some of the gazpacho onto the spoon and took a bite. He wished Bertrand had been able to come. Bertrand would’ve loved the appeal of the gazpacho as well. Bertrand didn’t have a single sibling to complain about and he would’ve enjoyed the gazpacho wholesale. He could’ve stood around with Dewey at the table, and maybe they’d have brought in Lemony, too, and talked about flavor profiles. Lemony, who was legitimately the youngest of his siblings, commiserating over cold soup about how they never stopped trying to protect him either. Who could possibly think Lemony of all people needed protecting, too? There was always that quiet, competent energy around him.

Dewey finished the gazpacho and put the jar on a passing hotel attendant’s silver tray. Where was Lemony, actually? He was sure he’d seen him earlier. Dewey remembered, because it was the first time he’d seen Lemony in a long while. Wherever he was, Dewey was sure it was probably more enjoyable than here.

10:32 PM—The Ballroom—Dance Floor

“Josephine,” Olaf said, sidling up behind her, “Jo, angel of my eye—”

“The correct word for that expression is apple,” Josephine interrupted. She did not take her eyes off of her plate of puff pastry. “We’ve been over this.”

He continued, persistent as ever, his smile stretched like candy. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, angel of my apple?”

“No.”

10:45 PM—The Elevator

The night was passing by, and Kit still hadn’t found Frank. She’d made it all the way up to the ninth floor with no sign of him. Was he the type to be on the rooftop sunbathing salon? Unlikely. But she should check, just in case.

She had her hand against the rooftop door when the elevator dinged behind her. Kit turned to look. The elevator doors parted, revealing the gold-walled interior with rather harsh lighting, and there was Frank, standing with his hands folded behind his back. He caught Kit’s eye and gave her a slight nod. “Kit.”

“Frank.” She stepped into the elevator beside him and pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors closed, she smelled smoke for a moment, and her heart leapt before she realized the cigarette smoke must’ve clung to her gloves. She tugged them off and stuffed them into one of her pockets.

“I heard the Anwhistles finished the research center,” Frank said, as the elevator started to move down.

“Yes.”

“And the mycelium—are they still working on it?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Frank sighed. “Do you have any concerns?”

“Some,” Kit admitted. There was no denying it was dangerous. Necessary, but catastrophic if it ever got out of hand. “If anything happens, it can be dealt with.”

“Good,” Frank said, decisively. Silence dropped through the elevator, the hand counting down the floors moving slowly from eight, to seven, to six. Frank raised an eyebrow; Kit realized she’d been staring at him. “Is something wrong?”

“I was under the impression that there was—” More, or something else entirely. It was Kit’s understanding that Frank was to give her a list. There was usually only one kind of list that mattered in their organization, and unless she had radically misjudged the ages of the Anwhistle brothers after personally knowing them for years, they wouldn’t be on that list. “—something more specific,” she wound up finishing.

Frank looked at her with his impassive, unimpressed mask. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The hand moved again, six to five to four. Kit had the strangest sensation that she was missing something. She should’ve been given that list, not subjected to a brief interrogation, especially about something she was already aware of. The smell of smoke flitted in front of her again.

Disbelief shot through Kit like an arrow, pushing the air from her lungs. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. She stared at the man in the elevator, and he stared back, cool and collected. It couldn’t be. Because that would mean—but the longer she looked, the more certain she was.

“Frank quit smoking,” she said quietly, “but you didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I—”

Kit slammed her hand against the stop button on the button panel, and kept her hand there, boxing him in against the wall even after the elevator had halted, the counting hand stuck between four and three.

“Don’t lie to me, Ernest.”

One Month Ago—City Headquarters

It wasn’t like there was, say, an initiation ceremony or anything. They’d been through that already, there was no need to do one again. You knew what you were getting into this time, you were just, “changing sides”. And it was so subtle that it barely mattered. Nothing about Ernest’s life really changed otherwise. He ran a hotel with his brothers. He ranked tea brands with Dewey during lunch. He played loud music in Room 784. He carried a lighter in his pocket that he used for other things. He went to headquarters, sometimes as himself, sometimes as Frank, never as Dewey. He acquired messages, and took his sweet time delivering them or delaying them, spaces of time where nothing changed, either. He almost wondered what the point had been, until he overheard Frank spout off some noble patter again. At least he wasn’t like that. At least Ernest knew better.

And since nothing had changed, no one knew. Not even the “firestarters” knew there was another one, namely because Ernest hated the name and disliked a great deal of them, but also because Frank made him be so careful about it. He thought a few people in VFD suspected, or at least suspected someone of switching, because everyone could feel something was happening and they were trying to pinpoint a source, and it was only a matter of time before someone suspected a Denouement. Triplets were naturally suspicious. But it wasn’t like they could do anything, even if they ever had proof—how often did anyone know which Denouement they were talking to, anyway? It was likely Ernest could exist like this for the rest of his life.

The thought almost stopped him on his way into the city headquarters. Day after day of calculated, performative nonsense without an end in sight. Age sagged through him. His bones were too heavy and to move them another step was impossible. He kept walking.

What had made Ernest change? That, exactly that. Change. He’d lived in VFD for practically his entire life, and nothing was different there, either. There had been no great strides made towards the nobility they all talked about, only tiny little steps that were easily set back. Ernest watched his friends and his family get sucked in by this big, dramatic fight that never ended, a fight none of them had ever initially had a part in. He’d learned that you couldn’t achieve “nobility”, whatever that even was, by a bunch of absurd spy behavior and kidnapping, or by coded messages and age-old discussions that went nowhere, or by acting like information weighed more than your life, by pretending any of that was normal. None of it did anything. Ernest was going to find some way to make something happen, to make what they’d lost worth it, and if it meant Frank thought he was a traitor, fine. He’d do it even if Frank didn’t appreciate that Ernest was doing it for him.

The note for Frank that he’d intercepted said that there was a file under the fifth floorboard of the back staircase in the city headquarters. Frank was supposed to give it to Kit.

He made his way to the back staircase. It went up to the observatory, which no one had used since Esmé burned that spot into the rug with her telescope out of protest. The corridor and the staircase were, predictably, deserted. Ernest slowly lifted the fifth board, but it came away without resistance, so he pulled it up all the way and saw the slim folder waiting inside. He took it out, replaced the floorboard, and sat down at the bottom of the stairs. He opened it.

He wanted to crumple the folder in his hands but he made himself breathe and look at it. It was the upcoming recruitment list. There were some he recognized faintly, distant associates, long-lived families in VFD, but a majority of the names he’d never seen before. New families to carve apart. He flipped through the pages—addresses, dates, times. A few photographs. Ernest closed his eyes and held them shut tight. When he opened them, he was still looking at the folder.

Of course none of it mattered, he thought bitterly, shoving the folder into his jacket. He could intercept or stop a thousand messages and there would still always be more. There would always be more children, more fires, more lies, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop it.

Ernest leaned the side of his head against the banister. He thought about Olaf, suddenly. He’d been trying to corner everyone lately, Ernest among them, talking his ear off about big ideas that Ernest agreed with, but Olaf had a habit of taking an age to follow through with them. Ernest did not have the time to wait an age. He’d shared some information with Olaf a few times, on the off chance that it would spur him into action, but Olaf had hidden it away, for “later”, and it obviously had not helped.

Maybe the only way you could fight a long game was to play the long game back. Maybe that was what Olaf was doing. He was on to something, at least, with his words. Maybe Ernest could try again. Maybe he could learn to wait. Maybe the payoff would be worth it. Maybe.

Ernest stood up. He didn’t at all feel like going home, but he wasn’t going to stay at headquarters any longer.

The staircase creaked. When he looked up, he saw Lemony Snicket at the top by the observatory door, standing like he’d always been there.

“What are you doing up there?” Ernest asked.

Lemony watched him carefully. Ernest got the distinct feeling that he was being appraised. He shivered. When they were younger, you could look at Lemony and see the gears working in his head, like watching—yes, like watching change take shape and form and meaning before your eyes. Lemony Snicket was going to do anything, lead them all anywhere. Ernest hadn’t been foolish enough to believe a twelve-year-old in a brown hat was going to demolish VFD from the ground up. Then Lemony had disappeared, and in the years after resurfacing at sixteen, he looked less and less like that powerful, mythical figure everyone had worshiped and more like he’d seen too much. Ernest sympathized.

But here, Ernest finally saw it, that hunger they’d all talked about. In his eyes, bright blue in the shadows. Physical change, a juggernaut of determination. Ernest’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lemony said softly. “Do you think we could talk?”

10:50 PM—The Elevator

Damn.

The disbelief on Kit’s face was gone, replaced by a blazing, dangerous fury, the threatening and exacting professionalism she hid inside her on full display. She wasn’t all that short, Ernest thought, inanely. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff out of this one. She knew. It was significantly more terrifying than Ernest had imagined it would be. How stupid could he have been, to forget about the way that cigarette smoke would cling, to think Kit Snicket wouldn’t notice. “Kit—”

“How long?” Kit demanded.

“Does it matter?”

He could see that it very, very much did. Kit was already disgusted over dating Olaf; that she’d spent so much time with Ernest when he wasn’t on her side was going to eat her alive, Ernest knew. He winced.

“It wasn’t personal,” he tried.

She glared at him. “What were the names Frank was supposed to give me?”

That, he was going to hold on to. They’d already burned the papers, anyway, up in the observatory. No one was going to get that list now. “I guess you’ll never know,” Ernest said.

Her hand clenched on the button panel. She stepped closer. For a wild and uncontrollable second that seemed to spin out into eternity, Ernest imagined she was going to kill him.

“The elevator is going to start again,” she said lowly. “We’re going to walk out into the lobby. You’re not going to make a sound. We’re going to go to headquarters.”

Ernest didn’t like what he was going to do next. But he was always going to have the upper hand for one distinct reason.

He swallowed and straightened the edge of his sleeve. “Who’s going to believe you, Kit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Regrettably for you, I am at a distinct advantage,” Ernest said. “You and I are the only two people in this elevator. You did think I was Frank. Who will be able to figure out who was who when you try and tell on me? Who can really know for sure?” He hesitated, but it was true. “Why, I could be Dewey, even.”

Kit slapped him across the face, her cheeks flushed a fierce red. The force of it stung hard, knocking Ernest’s head to the side. She removed her hand from the wall and stepped back.

“Does it help if I’m sorry?” he asked, gingerly rubbing the side of his face.

“You aren’t,” Kit said.

Ultimately, it was true. He wasn’t. He was sorry he’d been caught more than that he’d done it. Ernest regretted nothing about what he’d decided to do. Not in his line of work; and Kit was the same, too. But he was sorry he was going to lose a friend.

Kit didn’t have friends, though. You were with or against Kit Snicket, and she always made that abundantly clear. Ernest touched his cheek again, and then lowered his hand.

“I’m not,” he said. He took the elevator key out of his pocket and put it into the lock on the button panel, watching Kit the whole time. She watched him back. The elevator slid into motion, settling down on the third floor.

The doors opened.

11:00 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

“Who?” Jacques asked.

Kit turned slowly back to the dance floor. Was one of them still here? Had she been followed out of the elevator? She locked eyes with a Denouement across the room. Which one? Was it Frank? Was it Ernest, again? Was it Dewey? The clock was still rumbling under her feet. The glass trembled in her hand and she felt almost sick, anger and shame and fear churning through her. She was in a nightmare and she couldn’t shake it off. The triplet held her eyes for a long moment and then walked away.

“Kit.” Jacques had a hand on her arm; he must’ve gotten out of the boxwood. “Who?”

But she couldn’t get the words out, not here. Ernest was right. She was at a disadvantage when she couldn’t prove it. If she pointed the finger now, what would be done? What could be done? How could he do that to Dewey and Frank? To put them in the position where they’d unknowingly cover for him merely by existing? Did they know at all?

What would she do if her own brothers—no. She couldn’t even think it. Kit couldn’t fathom the idea of her brothers doing anything like this.

“We have to find Lemony,” Kit said.

11:02 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Frank still couldn’t find Ernest. He did not have the time for him to be hiding like a child; where was he? Frank had looked everywhere over and over and was back in the same ballroom again, scanning through the associates for what had to be the hundredth time. He caught Kit’s eye—and stopped.

There was cold and intense fear looking back at him. It was unbearable to have it directed at him, and Frank turned away after a few seconds.

Ernest. A thousand possibilities ran through Frank’s head, each of them worse than the last. He had had enough. Frank strode towards the main doors, just as he saw Ernest making his way out of them as fast as possible. Finally. Frank followed him out into the hallway and grabbed onto Ernest’s arm, whirling him around.

“I asked one thing of you tonight,” Frank said.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Ernest repeated. He wrenched his arm out of Frank’s grasp and put his hands in his pockets. “And I didn’t, thank you.”

“Apparently I wasn’t specific enough,” Frank said. “When I said that, I clearly meant, don’t do anything stupid that’s going to compromise the family and our position in it. What information have you been giving Olaf?”

“Who said I was?”

“Olaf.”

“You know, that hurts a little, that you’d believe Olaf over me.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. Fine. Olaf was less important, anyway. “Then what did you do to Kit?”

Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Did I do anything?”

It was agonizing, seeing such a carefully blank mask on your own face staring back at you. Frank didn’t hate him, but he came close. “What have you done, Ernest? Do not lie to me.”

Something fractured through Ernest’s expression. “I just—miscalculated,” he muttered. “She found out.”

“She found out?” Frank echoed, his heart skittering in his chest. It had finally happened, and Frank couldn’t protect Ernest this time. Kit wouldn’t keep this a secret, not by a long shot. By morning—by midnight, because nearly the whole organization was already here—everyone would know. And Ernest didn’t seem the least bit concerned about it. “Ernest—”

“It’s fine,” Ernest said coolly. “Considering she can’t prove it.”

The world detached from Frank’s consciousness. Kit’s fear made a sudden, terrible sense. Ernest had used him as a shield between himself and the organization, on purpose, he’d positioned Frank and Dewey as pawns whose only use was whatever Ernest wanted. Frank could feel his hands shaking. They didn’t feel like his hands.

Ernest sighed. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “You’ve pretended to be me, that’s the only way you would’ve found out about Olaf. Don’t act like you didn’t use our face as an advantage too. That’s what we do. That’s what this family does.”

Anger burned through Frank, hot behind his eyes. That had been different. A sharp fury that had been building somewhere inside him all night snapped apart. “You are not a part of this family.”

He regretted saying it the second the words were out. Of course Ernest was still his brother. That was an immutable fact. But Frank was so tired of trying to hold onto Ernest when Ernest so blatantly didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at family, he was looking at a stranger, who stole his face, who used his name, who threw it around like it meant nothing, who denied everything noble and proper and real. It wasn’t how a brother was supposed to act. But it was how Ernest acted, and now Ernest was staring at him with an open, wounded expression, something Frank hadn’t seen since they were children.

Frank ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Ernest’s jaw trembled for a second, his mouth pressing into a thin, flat line. “I don’t think I am.” He took one step back, a hard glare in his eyes, and then walked away from Frank.

11:20 PM—The Rooftop Sunbathing Salon

Ernest hadn’t figured on Frank being angry, because, primarily, he hadn’t figured on Frank finding out at all. He hadn’t figured on Kit realizing what he was doing, either. Well, that was on him, but Frank didn’t need to be so—he didn’t have to say—

Shit, Ernest thought, breathing hard. He came to a stop in the dark, empty hallway some floors up from the ballroom and let himself think it, pressing his palms into his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. He’d have a brother after this, sure, a family member who stood by him and ran a hotel with him and played nice, but he didn’t know if he’d have his brother. He would have an associate, like everyone else, a found family of people who loved on conditions, not a family. Not his family.

He had to find Lemony. Just because he’d been hiding all night didn’t mean he was exempt from this.

Lemony disliked heights, open spaces, and decently-sized bodies of water, which was why Ernest found him on the roof, sitting on one of the pool chairs, his mask discarded beside him. He was studiously avoiding looking at the pool or the ocean or the night sky, dark and enormous above him. The rooftop salon was never used at night, but there were small lights along the edge of the pool and the railing, giving off slivers of stark white light. The brief anger Ernest felt downstairs evaporated the longer he watched Lemony not-watching the world around him. He wanted to say a million and one things to him, but the one that came out was, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“What do you know about exposure therapy?” Lemony offered as a response.

“Enough to know you probably shouldn’t use it for heights,” Ernest said. “Among other things.”

“Point taken,” Lemony said. “What would you say if I told you I was now too frightened to move?”

“That you brought it on yourself,” Ernest said, but he didn’t mean it. He walked over and sat next to Lemony on the pool chair. Ernest stole a quick glance at him again, brief and fleeting. To look consistently was dangerous; Ernest always had to make a distinct effort not to touch.

“Your sister found out,” he said. “Not about you, but about me. She also hit me.”

Lemony’s head shot up. “What?” He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing Ernest’s jaw as he turned his face towards him. They trailed warm over his right cheek, where his skin still smarted from Kit’s hand. Here in the dark, Lemony’s eyes were so bright again, full of concern, directed right at him. Ernest held himself so still, barely breathing.

Falling in love, if you could call it that, with Lemony was what Ernest personally considered the most ill-advised thing he’d ever done, even after lying to Kit. Lemony loved other people, and it was clear in everything he did, in the way he looked when they weren’t there. But Lemony understood what Ernest wanted, and Ernest craved that with a destructive ache.

Really, who else were they supposed to fall in love with but each other? They didn’t know anyone else. No one was going to get this life but them. It was probably why half of VFD had a crush on Beatrice, honestly. It was terrible, but none of them seemed to be able to stop doing it. Ernest included.

“You—” Lemony’s hand jerked back, shrinking down between them onto the chair. “What happened?”

“She knew I lied,” Ernest said. “About the information and about being Frank. I got out of it, but—she won’t trust us again, I think. And Frank—probably won’t trust me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Lemony said. “I didn’t mean for—”

Ernest shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It wasn’t. He and Lemony had both just wanted something, desperately. Ultimately, they’d still succeeded, in the end. They had. Change he could hold in his hands had happened. He still felt hollow about it all, everything drained out of him, but he didn’t regret doing it. Not at all. The hurt would go away and he’d do it again. “What we did—that mattered.”

“It did,” Lemony whispered. “But I never like the cost.”

“Why did you do it?” Ernest asked softly.

Lemony smiled ruefully. “I guess I didn’t want to stop trying.”

The real, noble answer, Ernest thought. Why the “firestarters” and Ernest would never get him. He raised his hand. Slowly, without looking, he put it on top of Lemony’s. Lemony turned his hand over and gripped Ernest’s tightly. He knew that the way Lemony would try from this moment forward would be different than the way Ernest would, and he wanted to have this moment while it lasted.

Ernest stood, tugging Lemony up with him, and let go of his hand. “You should go back downstairs,” he said.

11:30 PM—The Ballroom—South Drink Table

The party would be over soon, but you’d never know it, the ballroom still thronging with people. But most of the dancing had died down, and Dewey was taking mental stock of how clean up would start. He found one of the attendant’s silver trays and picked it up, estimating how many glasses he could fit on it.

Frank came back into the ballroom and made a beeline for him, pale. Dewey’s shoulders tensed up yet again. What had happened now?

“I can’t believe it,” Frank muttered, grabbing a wineglass.

“Whoa, hey, hold on.” Dewey took the wineglass back and set it off to the side. “What happened?”

“He—” Which meant it was Ernest. Again. Dewey’s patience with both his brothers tonight was wearing extraordinarily thin. “He’s been passing information to Olaf this whole time.”

“To Olaf?” That was not what Dewey had been expecting. A flare of worry burned through him and curled his hands around the tray. “But—”

“No,” Frank said. “This time, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of covering up for him, and he’s going to have to deal with this mess himself.”

Olaf was certainly a threat in one way or another, but it seemed a disproportionately vicious answer for Frank. Dewey frowned. “Did something else happen?”

Frank looked so—frantic, was maybe the word, a terrifying energy breaking out of him in quick bursts of anger on his face. He looked at Dewey, and the emotion seemed to cage itself back in.

“He was found out,” Frank said quietly. “About being a firestarter.”

Dewey had counted on it happening. It seemed unlikely that it would be able to remain a secret forever. It still hurt to hear. Things wouldn’t be the same as they had been, if people knew about Ernest. Dewey imagined the division between the three of them only growing larger, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to do anything about it if it got too wide.

Something broke in Frank’s expression again, and Dewey startled—it looked like guilt. “Don’t defend him,” Frank hissed. “Dewey, he’s going to get away with it. He’s going to ruin what we’ve worked for, what you’ve worked for in the archives—do you want all of that information in the hands of the enemy?”

Dewey clutched the tray. “Ernest isn’t the enemy,” he said, darkly. The agitation from earlier at the hors d’oeuvres table shot back into him.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Frank said. “I—”

Dewey slammed the silver plate down on the drink table. A real, genuine slam, like he’d never done before, the glasses around it rattling. Frank stared at him, gaping a little.

“He’s still here,” Dewey said. “That’s enough.”

“Dewey—”

“That is enough.”

12:00 AM—The Lobby

Jacques had never seen Kit so unsettled. Even when she’d been arrested she’d kept her composure. But she stood beside him in the empty lobby, tapping her foot against the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. He still couldn’t get out of her what had happened, but it was obvious from her face in the ballroom that whoever betrayed them had to be one of the Denouements. It was a sobering realization, the worst possible outcome of the schism that had been building for too long. One of three identical triplets being a traitor complicated matters, although it was easy to figure out which one it was that had done it. Things were going to change after tonight.

He took a small, brief moment to appreciate that Kit actually wanted to stand next to him and acknowledge him as her brother. Lately, he’d gotten the impression that she couldn’t stand him. But now she needed him, and it was a relief to Jacques to still be needed by his siblings. He never thought he did that successful a job of managing to keep them all together.

The elevator dinged, and Lemony stepped out, adjusting his jacket. The only evidence he’d been at the costume party was the mask tucked under his arm, because his suit was as plain as ever.

“Finally,” Kit muttered, and she ran over to him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly, something none of the siblings had done since they were children.

Lemony froze, and then hugged her back. He met Jacques’s eyes across the lobby.

Jacques knew it, immediately. Lemony had played a part in what had happened tonight with Ernest. It shouldn’t have surprised Jacques as much as it did. Lemony had held a perilous position in the organization for years now, and this wasn’t the first time he had wound up disagreeing with Kit about recruitment. But it was the first time it had involved other people. That made it dangerous.

Lemony shook his head a fraction of an inch. Part of Jacques relaxed. The three of them might still be okay. He wondered, with a slight jolt, how the Denouements would fare.

Kit pulled away from Lemony. “Where were you?”

“Did you know the rooftop sunbathing salon has night lights?” Lemony said. Jacques couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked over to his siblings. “Very pleasant. I recommend it.”

Kit rolled her eyes, and she led Jacques and Lemony through the lobby and out of the hotel.

“I’ll drive you both back,” Jacques said. “It’s on my way.”

“You brought the taxi?” Lemony asked.

“Regrettably,” Jacques sighed. “I still seem to have it.” Headquarters refused to take it back for some reason, even after Jacques insisted he didn’t need it. It had been six months since the initial assignment with it and he was still driving it, and probably would be, for the foreseeable future. He took his keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll drive,” Kit said.

“You will not drive,” Jacques said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Kit said, snatching the keys out of his hand and walking briskly out of his reach. “Jacques, did you say something about hives? There aren’t any bees nearby.”

“Trees?” Lemony said. He jogged ahead a little and caught up with Kit’s pace. “They do look particularly lush this time of year, now that you mention it.”

“No one is in a rush, and Kit, give me my keys you are not going to drive—” His siblings raced ahead of him down the front drive, and Jacques ran after them into the night.

1:55 AM—The Ballroom

Olivia and Ramona stayed on to help the Denouements clean up. Ramona had insisted, saying that it was no trouble at all, and she owed them for being so kind to host the party. She was very good at insisting; Olivia had never seen anyone able to resist the charm of Ramona cheerfully demanding she was going to help and they were going to have to deal with it. She hid her smile in the champagne flutes she was stacking on a tray as Ramona talked with one of the triplets on the other side of the ballroom. She picked up the one rimmed with half-rings of Ramona’s deep plum lipstick and giggled.

She’d have to tell Ramona about what Jacques told her, of course. But for once, Olivia wasn’t all that worried about dealing with it. It had been an extraordinarily pleasant night otherwise. Ramona was happy, some of the glow back in her face, so Olivia was happy too.

All the glasses were stacked, the plates piled together, the tablecloths folded up, the lights finally dimmed. There was only one Denouement left in the room, and he stopped Olivia and Ramona on their way out. “Olivia, could I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Olivia said.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Ramona said, squeezing her hand, and she disappeared down the hallway, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor behind her.

Some people expected Olivia to be able to tell the Denouements apart, and some people expected her to be as clueless as most others as to who she was talking to. It wasn’t terribly hard to tell them apart, because Olivia liked to pay attention, but what she could never remember what when she was supposed to know and when she wasn’t. Here, she knew the one in front of her was Frank, most definitely. There was a weight to the way Frank carried himself, not like he assumed he was in control, but like he assumed he had to be.

“What is it, Frank?” Olivia asked.

He hesitated, which was rare for Frank. “When was the last time you saw Miranda?”

Olivia blinked. Had she misheard him? “What?”

“Miranda,” Frank said again. She hadn’t misheard. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Miranda?

“I—I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I—” When was the last time she saw Miranda? Years and years ago, wasn’t it? Shortly after they’d been taken. Olivia hadn’t minded. Miranda was older than her, not by much but by enough, and enough that they weren’t kept together. Miranda had thought it a chore to look after her, and Olivia hadn’t liked being seen as a chore. She wanted a sister, not a babysitter. So she’d been okay when Miranda was gone. They went to different classes, made different friends, passed each other in the hall without saying a word until their apprenticeships, where Olivia was shuffled around from chaperone to chaperone and Miranda—went where? What had become of her?

The questions spun through her head, dizzying, but they kept coming. What did Miranda look like, now that she thought of it? Had she looked like Olivia at all? Would she recognize her own sibling, like she could easily identify the Denouements? Would she know Miranda if she saw her in a meeting, on the street, at one of these parties, if she was an enemy? But what made a person wasn’t appearance—how did Miranda act? What made Miranda, in the way Frank’s quiet made him? How could she not know what made her sister? Miranda was her sister and it hit Olivia, squarely in the chest, that she didn’t know a single thing about her.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her gaze darting across the floor. How had she gone all this time without thinking about her? How could she not know? How much had she forgotten?

“I’m sorry I asked,” Frank was saying. “Olivia. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Olivia whispered. She took one step back, then another, almost hitting the edge of her dress with the point of her heel, and another, then made herself turn around and leave, back downstairs, through the lobby, anywhere else but there.

Olivia hurried out into the night with the front doors banging open after her; the humid air was sticky on her skin, sitting heavy in her lungs as she tried to inhale. She saw Ramona past the front archway, leaned back against her car a way down the front drive, her shoes beside her and her feet in the grass, the shape of her soft and fuzzy in the heat. Olivia tore off her mask and scrubbed her hand over her eyes, wiping the tears on the side of her dress.

There was a weight on her shoulders, more than just the heat. She had the horrible sense that she was going to turn around and see Miranda. Olivia wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the city, she wanted to go somewhere she’d be away from this. She wanted to take Ramona—would Ramona go with her? She had her own things to care about besides the violent anxiety shaking Olivia from the inside out. She had a duchy to take care of. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with Olivia.

We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival. The carnival was miles from the city, out in the hinterlands, flat and desolate blankness. Maybe she should go. Maybe that would be better. She would be away from the city and be one place where no one had to bother her and she couldn’t bother anyone else. Maybe.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut again, and when she opened them the tears were gone and Ramona came into focus, all of her slender and beautiful in the moonlight. Olivia ached to look at her.

She went over to Ramona and slid her hand into hers, tucking her face into the smooth skin of Ramona’s shoulder. “I want to go somewhere else,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Ramona said, her other arm coming up and folding around Olivia, drawing her close. “We can go anywhere you want.”

Behind her, through the open front doors, Olivia heard the hotel clock starting to chime again.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #lemony snicket #jacques snicket #kit snicket #frank denouement #dewey denouement #ernest denouement

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there-must-be-a-lock · 3 years

Text

Introduction to Erotic Poetry (Spencer x Reader)

Dorky librarian!Spencer. Because why not?!

487 words, mature.

This was not how you thought the evening would go.

Part of you knows you should be back in your dorm room, but your paper is the furthest thing from your mind as Spencer slides a knee between yours, grinding forward. You brace yourself against the shelf with the other hand, almost knocking a book to the floor.

“S’okay, nobody else here,” Spencer says hoarsely. He slides a hand through your hair, tilting your head back for another hot, hungry kiss.

Spencer. Until very recently, you didn’t even know his name; he’s always been Cute Grad Student With Glasses in your head. You’ve been flirting with him all semester, not to mention daydreaming about him, but you never thought this could actually happen.

You’d skidded into the library just as it was supposed to close, begging him to let you get just one book, and he blinked bemusedly at your outfit — yoga pants, thin camisole, frizzy hair — before giving you a shy smile and a nod. And on your headlong run across campus, you must’ve dropped the scrap of notebook paper with the appropriate Dewey Decimal number on it, so you had to frantically ask Spencer for another favor. He seemed to take it in stride, locking the front door to prevent any more after-hours visitors before he led you over to the right section.

Not only did he know the Dewey decimal number for e.e. cummings’s book of erotic poetry, but when you told him which one you needed, he started reciting it absentmindedly as he led you through the stacks — he only seemed to remember which poem he was reciting when he stumbled over a particularly suggestive part, and you watched his ears go bright red as his voice trailed off.

He presses his thigh between your legs and cups your ass with both hands, using the leverage to grind up at the same time as he pulls you down. The pressure is just right, and you groan as he tugs your hips, moving them in little figure eights. You let your head fall forward on his shoulder, stifling a needy noise against his soft knit cardigan.

The rest is sort of a blur, honestly. Spencer has you pretty much pinned against the shelf, leaning against you and supporting most of your weight with the pressure of his hips… which is good, because you’re definitely feeling a little wobbly in the knee area as he slides a hand down the front of your yoga pants.

His long fingers twist up skillfully, and the sudden friction makes you whine even before he finds your g-spot, circling and stroking with the pads of two fingers. Then his thumb rubs back and forth over your clit, and the wave of pleasure that ripples through your body makes you feel completely boneless.

For someone who couldn’t say the sexy part of a poem out loud, he sure seems to know what he’s doing.

#HHDD #happy hump day drabbles #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fic

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janetbrown711 · 3 years

Note

"its fine, really! I'm used to it...” “what you meant you’re used to it??” but yax

After careful and long hours of research, Yakko came to the conclusion that he at least admired Max.

He had only seen Max in person once, but there was just something magnetic about the far-away prince that intrigued and fascinated Yakko. So much so, that for the next month or so, Yakko dove headfirst into studying all he could about Max and his country. He tried to share the fascinating history and details with his younger siblings, but they clearly weren't as into it as he was. That didn't deter him though, he was determined to learn absolutely everything he possibly could- even going into Angelina's old private study for books.

It was weird not having her around to stop any of it. Was this what pure joy and excitement with no downsides was like? If so, Yakko really liked it.

Either way, he was ecstatic when his mother told him she was officially making plans to take him to Disneyland to see Max (and diplomatic stuff, but they both knew that wasn't the main reason). Upon hearing the news, he then hurried and changed his studies entirely into conversations and how to have them.

Upon his and Max's first encounter, Yakko realized he was terrible at conversations, but now Yakko swore he'd be better than good- he'd be a conversation master. He studied examples both fictional and non about advice and how royals interact with each other and conversations one was supposed to hold and he complied his notes into a handy notebook that could fit into his pocket in case he got into a tough spot mid conversation. After all- he'd probably be there for hours and hours- that's a long time to be entertaining.

So he poured himself into his studies for a week or so (time was really alluding his grasp as of late) and before he knew it, it was time for him to go. However, not before a weird reaction from Wakko he wasn't expecting... seriously, if anything, Yakko expected Wakko to be happy for him because that meant he wouldn't have to hear about Disneyland for awhile, but instead he got really accusatory. But his parents assured him that it was nothing and his mother went to comfort him while he prepared for his journey.

"That's a big notebook," Dot said, lurking by his door as he flipped through his notes for what must've been the millionth time this week.

"I have a lot to remember," Yakko said, putting it in his pocket.

"Why do you care so much?" Dot asked. Yakko blinked.

"I just... do? He's the first friend I've had... ever," He said, making her move so he could head out the room.

"But I thought me and Wakko-..." Dot didn't finish her sentence. Yakko stopped.

"Max is just... different. I can't explain it- I'm trying to understand, but he's really just... different. A good different," He tried his best to explain, but he knew it fell short.

"Oh... you must really like him?" Dot asked.

"I guess, yeah," Yakko blushed. "He's just- the coolest person I've ever met, and now that Grandma's gone and I'm free to just- hang out with people, yeah," He scratched the back of his neck, aware of the fact he needed to get going. When Dot didn't respond to that, he pursed his lips.

"Welp- I gotta get going," He gave a quick wave, not waiting for her to return it before getting going- he wanted to spend as much time as possible in Disneyland.

Hurriedly, he rushed down the halls all the way down the grand stairs and out the main doors to the carriage, where his mother was waiting for him.

"Getting something?" Lena teased, as the coachman opened the door for them.

"Just a few notes," Yakko said, following his mother as she entered. She chuckled.

"You don't need to be so nervous, dear. From what I've seen, Max already likes you very much," Lena said soothingly as the carriage started to move.

"I just... I want this to be perfect," Yakko sighed, and leaned against the window of the carriage.

Lena snorted. "You and I have a lot in common," She said, fiddling with the fingers of her gloves.

"The last time I was out of this castle before the incident was- well... the wedding... but before that? I don't think I've ever been out..." The queen looked back as her home grew further and further away. "Outside of parties and suitors I've never really dealt in diplomatic situations. God knows my mother never prepared me for half of the things- I just..." She took a deep breath.

"I want this to go perfectly too... but Scratchnsniff says perfection is an impossible goal and we should aim for something more obtainable," She reminded herself. Yakko glanced at her briefly, before returning to the window.

He wasn't sure what he thought of Scratchnsniff. Dot and his parents all seemed to like him, but he still hadn't opened up to him, even though it had been over a month now. They'd be doing... okay sometimes, but the moment the doctor tried talking about Angelina, Yakko refused to give him the satisfaction. He knew he was there to help but- yeah... That wasn't going to happen any time soon.

"We got a long ride, huh?" Lena chuckled, more nervously this time.

"Yeah..." was all he said. He had a lot on his mind, and he could tell his mother did too. Hopefully, by the time they actually arrived, they'd be able to make sense of everything and enjoy their time in Disneyland- though they'd have to wait and see.

.o0o.

The ride wasn't terrible, but it was rather long and tiresome, so it was easy to say that when they finally arrived they were both relieved.

Both Yakko and Lena were surprised at just how different Disneyland was from Warnerstock just from the windows. Everything was brighter, orderly to the point of confusion (to them anyway), and boy oh boy was it big. The castle itself was the biggest example of this, as it seemed to have countless towers and was impossible to take in all at once. Then again, the royal family was quite large and Disney was known for it's welcoming nature and having guests often, so it didn't really surprise them. It was just a lot to take in at once.

However, they didn't have to take that all in for long, as they were guided inside by a few guards and were taken to the throne room, where the three kings were sitting- a duck on the left, a mouse in the middle, and a very tall dog on the right.

"Angelina? Wow, it really is you! How have ya been?" The Mouse immediately stood upon seeing them enter.

"Mickey! Oh it's been years hasn't it?" Lena chuckled and went and hugged him, which the mouse gladly returned, leaving Yakko and the others very confused.

"Do... you... know him?" Yakko raised an eyebrow.

Lena cleared her throat and stepped back. "Right- yes, I forgot to tell you, Michael here was a suitor of mine back in the day," She explained. "Obviously, it didn't work out, as both of our hearts belonged to another, but it wasn't a completely terrible three days."

"Oh please, I'm Mickey to friends," Mickey said. Lena nodded.

"Right, yes, Mickey," Lena corrected.

"Oh," Yakko nodded slowly.

"You must be Yakko then. It's a pleasure to have you as a guest," Mickey smiled and shook Yakko's hand. The dog king's head perked up.

"It's a pleasure to be here," Yakko replied, hoping his nervousness wasn't showing.

"Prince Yakko?" The dog king stood and walked over. "It's a pleasure to meet you, h'yuk," He laughed as he shook Yakko's hand. "Max has told me about you."

"Oh, you must be Goofy, pleasure to meet you," His nervousness increased tenfold. He couldn't believe he didn't put that together upon seeing him immediately.

"Daaaaaaaaad," Max entered the room, looking at the ground with his face red as a tomato.

"Hiya Max! I was just introducing myself to your friend here," Goofy grinned, still shaking Yakko's hand.

"This is why I don't tell you things," Max muttered to himself. "Can we go?" He asked, grabbing Yakko's arm, freeing him from the handshake.

Mickey nodded. "Of course, we got our own business to deal with, you two have fun," He said, and with that, Max practically dragged Yakko out of the room.

"I am so sorry you had to deal with that," He sighed as the guards closed the door behind them and Max let go of his arm.

"Deal with what?" Yakko tilted his head slightly.

"My Dad- he just- he doesn't know when to stop no matter how many times I talk to him," Max shook his head. "C'mon, I know a good spot to hang out. Watch out for running triplets."

"Running triplets?" Yakko raised an eyebrow.

"Huey, Dewey and Louie like running around without warning- as do Morty and Ferdie and if Daisy's over then so do April, May and June- just keep an ear out for them," Max explained, checking both ways before crossing a hallway.

"Right, right," Yakko nodded, not really understanding how they'd ever be allowed to do that. Then again, not having a tyrannical grandmother around probably let them have a lot more freedom and fun.

The pair went down a few halls, always checking both ways as they went, before they reached a room that Max let him into to reveal that it led to a fairly small room with a few chairs, but outside of that was a large balcony it was clear the dog prince frequented.

"Nice place," Yakko admired the room as Max opened the glass doors for him.

"I come here a lot to clear my head," Max said, closing the door behind him. "And to get away from my family."

Max must've really not liked them, huh...

"Yeah... I could really use a place like this," Yakko admired the craftsmanship of the columns holding up the railing.

"Watch this," Max winked, picking up a stone from a pile of rocks, and throwing it down into the giant pond in the garden bellow, causing a massive splash and ripple.

"Cool," Yakko said.

"It's nothing really," Max blushed again and went to where the rail met the wall and sat on it. "Wanna sit?" He patted the spot next to him.

"Oh- I uh-..." Yakko peered over the edge cautiously. It wasn't too far a fall, but still. It was easy to say it was far enough down to make even the most un-acrophobic person a little nervous.

"Oh, are you afraid of heights? I'm sorry, I-"

"No no no, I can handle it," Yakko swallowed his fear and sat next to him, glad that it was wide enough for him to feel supported. Still, he wrapped his tail around the edge loosely as a precaution.

"So... what do you think?" Max asked. "Of Disneyland, I mean."

"I think it's really... different. Very organized, very..." Yakko thought to himself. "Very homogeneous and large, yeah."

Max snorted. "Homogeneous?"

"It means similar or 'the same'," Yakko cursed himself internally. Max laughed with a little 'hyuk' in there that made Yakko relax, though a familiar fluttering in his stomach returned.

"You're really smart, aren't you?" Max asked.

"Yeah... my grandmother's pride alright," Yakko looked at the garden.

Great, barely five minutes into the conversation and he already broke his number one rule he wrote to himself: Don't bring up Grandma.

"I don't think it's your grandma's fault you're smart. If that was true, then I'd be a lot more wacky like Dad," Max did his best to reassure, which despite all odds did kinda work.

"You keep bringing up how much you don't like your family," Yakko commented. "Why?"

"Why? You've barely even met them- they are just beyond crazy and drive me up the wall with how embarrassing and tiresome they can be," Max crossed his arms.

"I mean- my sibs can be a little crazy at times but I still like them," Yakko said.

"You don't know them," Max sighed, looking out to the garden too. Yakko decided it was probably best he drop the subject for now.

However, after that was a long stretch of silence, and Yakko started to panic as it got longer and longer and he couldn't think of a thing to say. Thankfully though, he remembered the notebook sitting in his pocket and he slowly and carefully took it out and looked for a good conversation starter.

"What is your favorite type of weather?" He asked, quickly slipping it back into his pocket. Max immediately burst into laughter.

"Where'd you think of a question like that?" He asked.

"If you don't like it I can ask a different one," Yakko turned bright red as he flusteredly turned over, pulling out the notebook and flipping through it.

"Do you have a notebook of conversation starters?" Max caught a glimpse.

"Whaaaat? Me??? Pssshhhh," Yakko adamantly denied, but he sighed, knowing he had been caught.

"Yeah... I figured since I majorly screwed up talking like a normal person last time I'd take some notes so the conversation would be far less depressing and not so... trauma centered," He admitted, showing him the notebook.

"Wait- you think you're screwing up?" Max seemed baffled, which confused the Warnerstockian Prince.

"I mean- yeah..? No matter what I do I always end up thinking about the same stupid topic and I dunno... you seem so much more normal than me," Yakko admitted, looking away.

"I feel like I've just been a bumbling dork this whole time," Max admitted too. "You've been really smart and interesting this whole time, with your fancy words and observations about stuff and... yeah," He scratched his neck.

"You think I'm interesting?" Yakko looked at him.

"Yeah man," Max looked at him, though only briefly. "You're... cool."

That made the fluttering increase tenfold.

"You're really cool too," Yakko smiled. Max nodded his head in acknowledgement, looking out to the garden once more.

"You know... I promised I'd give you some sporting pointers when you came by. Perhaps I should 'make good' on that promise," Max said, gesturing to the pile of rocks and other such objects clearly designated for throwing into the pond.

"Okay," Yakko agreed to it, putting the notes back in his pocket, following Max as he went over to the pile.

"The trick is that it's all in the wrist, and if you keep your eyes focused on where you wanna throw it, it does a lot to help it actually go there," Max said, as he picked up a rock and threw it with all his might, and it crashed far into the pond.

"In the wrist, huh?" Yakko nodded and acted like that made sense. He then picked up a rock, and threw it with all his might. However, his might was rather pathetic, and all he managed to do was to crack the tiling around the pond and it shattered into pieces, as Yakko felt the blood drain from his face.

"Max, I-i'm so so so so so so sorry, I-i-" Yakko sputtered out apologies but Max just started laughing and laughing.

"It's okay Yakko. We're royalty, remember? My dad'll just have someone fix it, it's totally cool," He placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "But hey, other than that, that wasn't half bad."

"She'd totally kill me if I did that at home though," Yakko cursed himself.

"She? Who, your mom? Cuz from what I've heard she's a big sap," Max said, confused.

"Not mom, my grandma," Yakko sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

"Your grandma's dead, Yakko. She can't punish you for that. You can break all the tiles you want here, it's cool," Max said, now deeply concerned for his new friend.

"Right- you're absolutely right. I'm sorry," Yakko took a deep breath.

"It's cool... I get that it must be hard moving on from that," Max's hand lingered on Yakko's shoulder a minute before he put it down.

"Yeah..." Yakko sighed as he realized he broke the rule yet again.

"I know you probably don't want to, but if you ever need or want to talk about it, I'm more than happy to listen," Max offered. Yakko smiled a little.

"Thanks... that means a lot more than you probably know," He said. Max smiled too.

"You're a lot cooler than you give yourself credit for, you know?" Max said. "You may not be the best at sports, but you are really good at talking, which is more than I can say."

"You sell yourself short," Yakko disagreed.

"Maybe we both do," Max shrugged, returning to the ledge.

"Yeah... maybe," Yakko said, sitting next to him once more.

As they began to chat more about much lighter and happier topics, a warm spring breeze began to rush by and Yakko began to just... notice things about Max. The way his fluffy and wild hair flowed in the wind, the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about one of his passions, his cute laugh that he always seemed to try and suppress, the way he stuck his hands in his pockets, his smile, the compassion and comradery in his eyes...

Yakko could gaze into those eyes for an eternity.

"It's getting pretty late... isn't it?" Max began to notice the sky beginning to turn a rosey shade of pink as the sun began to set.

"Yeah... I guess that means we have to get going soon, huh?" Yakko tried to play it casually, but he knew he'd miss Max dearly. Max's side glances told him he felt the same.

"Maybe you can write to me? A-and maybe... Maybe I'll convince dad or Uncle Mickey to take me to Warnerstock?" Max scratched the back of his neck, clearly trying to play it cool.

"I'd love that," Yakko smiled, before pondering if using the word "love" was inappropriate. It wasn't like he- well... liked him, or anything... right..?

"Okay," Max smiled back.

They stayed smiling at each other much longer than was normal, though neither really minded.

"Maxy? Yakko?" The voice of Goofy called for them outside the room outside the balcony.

"I need to go," Yakko said. "But... I will write, I promise."

"I believe you," Max nodded. "Though... don't be surprised if my letters are short and my handwriting attrocious- I'm not the best when it comes to any of that stuff," He said, getting down from the rail, offering his hand to "help" Yakko down.

Yakko took it.

"I'm sure it won't be any worse than Wakko's," He said.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Max chuckled as Yakko got off, still holding his hand.

However, they instantly let go when Goofy entered the room.

"There ya are- you're mom's looking for you. It's gettin' late," Goofy said, opening the glass door.

"Right, yes.. thanks, dad," Max pursed his lips and looked away.

"I'll write, I promise," Yakko said.

"Y-yeah, okay," Max nodded and smiled. "I'll... see you soon."

"See you soon," Yakko nodded, before forcing himself to walk away (a task that was a lot harder than he expected it to be). Goofy then guided him back to the throne room, where his mother was talking with Mickey and Donald (Yakko figured that was who he was), but she stopped when he entered.

"There you are," She smiled as he returned to her side. "Have fun?"

"Yep," He nodded briefly, hoping she didn't expect him to get into detail here and now.

"It's been great catching up, Angelina," Mickey told her.

"I couldn't agree more. And it's been a pleasure meeting you two, Goofy, Donald," She nodded at both of them. "I'm afraid I must get going, but I'd love to meet up again sometime- or possibly take Max off your hands for an afternoon," Lena teased Yakko, causing him to turn red.

"I'm sure he'd love that," Goofy smiled.

"Have a safe trip," Donald said in the scratchiest, most garbled voice Yakko ever heard in his life. It was so incomprehensible he had to actively bury his shock and confusion as to not offend him.

"Thank you," Lena nodded at the three of them. "It's been a pleasure, truly."

"Yeah.. see you," Yakko felt like he had to say goodbye too, but having not just spent the past several hours with them, it felt awkward. Mickey chuckled.

"See you," He said.

With that, Lena and Yakko made their way out of the castle and back into their carriage and began on their way back home.

"So... how was your day?" Lena asked once the carriage began to move.

"It was nice. Max is... cool," Despite his research, cool was still the best word to describe him.

"That's good, he seems like a very nice kid," She nodded in approval. "I wouldn't mind having him over sometime in the future."

"That'd be great," Yakko agreed with enthusiasm that made her laugh.

"Okay, I'll arrange a date," She chuckled.

"What about your day? How was all those meetings?" Yakko asked, not just out of politeness but a genuine curiosity.

"I half expected Mickey not to remember me, so it was a pleasant surprise. And Goofy and Donald are quite the lovely characters too, very strong personalities. I can see why their kingdom works so well," She said with a nod.

"But I know you really don't want to hear about all that. Please, tell me more about Max," Lena said.

Yakko told her all that happened, not glossing over a single detail. She listened with intent, and couldn't help but laugh here and there.

"It sounds like you're rather fond of Max, no?" She said.

"What do you mean?" Yakko blinked. His mother chuckled to herself.

"Oh nothing, I'm sure you'll figure it out on your own in due time," She said.

"Okay..?" Yakko raised an eyebrow, not sure where she was getting at. However, it was clear she wasn't going to be giving any more hints so Yakko dropped it.

Whatever it was, she clearly had perfect faith he'd figure it out sooner or later, so perhaps it was best he focus on other things- like what he was going to write in his letter to Max. There would be so many topics to choose from, and this time he'd have all the time in the world to think of a perfect response. Honestly, he should've started writing letters sooner. It just made so much sense- Yakko could think of the perfect response before sending it away and he could read over Max's responses over and over again. Maybe he could even find a box to store them in. That sounded really nice...

Yakko thought back to his mother's words, and decided it was true.

Yakko was rather fond of his dear friend, Max.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 The End

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