On a Wednesday in the third week of November, Garcia sent him a text that said: cardamom roll. The R Street bakery. Saturday. Get there before ten or they sell out.
He looked at this.
He wrote: noted.
Garcia: I'm not telling you to go to the bookstore after.
He looked at this.
Garcia: I'm just telling you about the cardamom roll.
He looked at this for a longer moment.
He wrote: Garcia.
Garcia: Reid.
He wrote: are you.
Garcia: I'm giving you information about a bakery. What you do with it is entirely up to you.
The Anvil and the Spinster-Chapter 12: A Small Alliance, Born Beneath Roses
Summary
She wins the quiet ones first.
A garden. A walk. A choice.
And suddenly—
Summerhall starts choosing her back.
Warnings
soft politics
slow burn (it’s simmering 👀)
found family beginnings
emotional tension > action
“he watches / she builds” dynamic
Morning came softer the next day.
Not with brilliance — but with a pale wash of gold across the eastern windows, as though Summerhall had chosen restraint.
Emma woke before the bells.
Maekar still slept beside her, though lightly — he always slept lightly. One arm rested over the coverlet, the other near enough her waist that she felt its warmth even without touch. In sleep, the severity of him eased. The lines at his brow softened. The weight he carried seemed, for a handful of breaths, set aside.
She allowed herself a moment simply to watch him.
Then she rose.
The dragon pendant lay cool against her skin when she stood; she fastened it before calling for her maid. She chose a gown less severe than the day before — dove-grey with subtle red embroidery at the cuffs. Summerhall did not need to be announced every hour.
Today, she intended to listen.
She found Daella in the small inner garden.
The princess sat on a low stone bench beneath a climbing rosevine, hands folded too tightly in her lap. She had the pale loveliness of her house — dark hair braided simply, violet eyes thoughtful and distant. A book lay open beside her, though she was not reading.
Emma paused before stepping fully into the space.
“May I intrude?”
Daella startled slightly, then hurried to stand. “You are not intruding, Princess.”
Emma smiled gently. “If you call me that every time, we shall never speak comfortably.”
Daella hesitated. “Father says titles matter.”
“He is not wrong,” Emma said. “But we are to be family.”
The girl studied her for a moment, then sat again — cautiously. Emma joined her.
For a while, they watched the bees drift lazily between blooms.
“You like the garden,” Emma ventured.
“It is quiet,” Daella replied. “People speak less here.”
“And when they do?”
“They forget I am listening.”
There was no bitterness in it. Merely observation.
Emma glanced sideways. “And what have you heard?”
Daella’s fingers traced the edge of her book. “That I am gentle. That I am too easily frightened. That I should become a septa.”
A wry little smile ghosted across her mouth.
Emma did not laugh.
“And what do you believe?”
Daella was silent for a long time.
“I believe I see things others do not,” she said at last. “Not dreams, like Daeron. But feelings. Tensions. When Father is angrier than he shows. When Rhae is hiding worry. When Daeron drinks because he is ashamed.”
Emma’s chest tightened.
“That is not weakness,” she said softly.
Daella blinked at her, surprised.
“It is a strength of a different kind.”
The girl’s posture shifted — just slightly. As though a burden had been adjusted.
“You do not think me foolish,” she said carefully.
“I think you're observant.”
A breeze stirred the rosevine overhead, petals loosening and drifting down around them.
“Will you change Summerhall?” Daella asked.
“I hope not too much,” Emma replied. “It breathes well already.”
Daella considered that.
“I would like,” she said quietly, “to learn more about governance. Rhae prefers courtly matters. Daeron… prefers his drinks and dreams.”
“And you?”
“I prefer understanding.”
Emma smiled. “Then you shall sit beside me when petitions are heard.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Father—”
“Will not object to his daughter learning.”
Daella hesitated only a second before nodding.
A small alliance, born beneath roses.
Later that morning, Emma sought Daeron in the training yard.
She found him not with a blade — but perched atop the low stone wall bordering the sparring grounds, a goblet in hand though it was barely past midday.
Below, squires clashed in controlled rhythm.
Above, clouds drifted slow and heavy.
“You are late,” he said without looking at her.
“I was not aware I had been summoned.”
“You were expected.”
She stepped up beside him, leaning lightly against the wall. “By whom?”
He lifted the goblet. “By curiosity.”
She reached out without warning and plucked it from his hand.
He turned sharply. “You presume much.”
She sniffed it lightly. Wine. Strong.
“It is early.”
“So?”
“So,” she replied calmly, “if you intend to drink, at least make it worth defying convention.”
For a heartbeat, indignation flared in him.
Then — unexpectedly — he laughed.
It was brighter than yesterday’s brief huff. Younger.
“You would lecture me?”
“No.”
She handed the goblet back.
“I would walk with you.”
His brows lifted. “Again?”
“Yes. Unless you fear being seen with me.”
His chin tilted. “I fear very little.”
“Prove it.”
He slid down from the wall, landing lightly.
They did not take the same ridge as the day before. Instead, Daeron led her toward the western slope, where the land dipped into a shallow valley dotted with scrub and wild grass.
“You asked about my dreams,” he said after a while.
“I did.”
“I dreamed last night.”
Emma kept her gaze ahead. “And?”
He swallowed.
“Of fire again. But not destruction.”
She waited.
“Of something… waiting.”
The wind shifted, tugging at his loose hair.
“Waiting for what?” she asked.
“For courage,” he said quietly.
She studied him then — truly studied him.
“You think it is about you.”
He did not answer.
“And perhaps it is,” she continued. “But fire does not always consume. Sometimes it forges.”
His mouth tightened slightly. “You speak in riddles.”
“No. I speak with patience.”
They reached the low stone marker at the edge of the valley. He stopped there.
“Do you fear dragons?” he asked abruptly.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have chosen to live among them.”
That drew another flicker of that reluctant smile.
He sat on the stone, elbows on his knees.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then—
A shadow moved across the ridge above them.
Emma looked up.
Maekar.
He did not approach. Did not call out. He simply stood at a distance, watching.
Not with suspicion.
With attention.
Daeron followed her gaze and stiffened slightly.
“He thinks I am fragile,” he muttered.
Emma shook her head. “He thinks you are his son.”
Below them, one of the younger squires stumbled during practice. Laughter rippled across the yard.
Daeron watched in silence.
Then, unexpectedly, he whistled sharply and called down advice — crisp, precise correction of stance and footing.
The boy below straightened immediately, adjusting.
Maekar’s head tilted almost imperceptibly.
“You see?” Emma murmured.
Daeron scowled faintly. “See what?”
“You do not only dream. You have a sharp mind.”
His jaw worked.
On the ridge, Maekar descended at last.
He did not address Emma first.
He approached Daeron.
“Your stance is still too wide,” he said without preamble.
Daeron rolled his eyes — but he shifted his feet automatically.
Maekar stepped closer, adjusting his son’s shoulder with a firm, economical touch.
“Balance,” he said. “Not force.”
There was no tenderness in the gesture.
And yet—
When Daeron obeyed, when he corrected himself without protest, Maekar’s hand lingered half a breath longer than necessary at his son’s arm.
Pride.
Quiet. Fierce.
Emma watched it unfold like something sacred.
Daeron glanced once at his father, searching.
Maekar gave the smallest nod.
Approval.
It was enough.
For a fleeting instant, Daeron’s expression softened into something almost boyish.
And Emma felt it — that delicate shift.
Not resistance.
Belonging.
Maekar turned to her then.
“You encourage him,” he said.
“I listen,” she replied.
Daeron cleared his throat, as though uncomfortable with the air growing thick between them.
“You should attend the hawking this afternoon,” he said to her abruptly. “If you mean to know Summerhall.”
She arched her brow. “Is that an invitation?”
“It is a test.”
Maekar’s mouth twitched faintly.
Emma inclined her head. “Then I accept.”
Daeron met her gaze — no longer wary.
Not entirely trusting yet.
But open.
And as the wind swept across the red hills of Summerhall, Maekar stood between wife and son — not as a barrier.
But as a bridge.
The fire, it seemed, was not only in dreams.
It was here.
Waiting.
Chapter 13
The hawking began before the sun had fully burned the mist from the hills.
Summerhall’s red stone still held the pale hush of morning when the household gathered along the western rise. Falcons shifted beneath their hoods; leather creaked; horses stamped in the cool air. The sky stretched wide and open — a clean blue waiting to be written upon.
Emma stood with her glove laced tight at her wrist.
Daeron approached carrying a sleek peregrine this time, the bird restless and powerful, talons flexing against the leather.
“You return,” he said, as though he had not quite expected her to.
“I dislike leaving a challenge unfinished,” she replied.
He studied her a moment, then nodded once.
“Good.”
Rhae appeared at her other side, already gloved, expression composed and faintly critical. “If she drops it this time, I refuse to chase it.”
“I did not drop it,” Emma said mildly.
“You wobbled.”
“That was a controlled adjustment.”
Daeron barked a short laugh.
Across the rise, Maekar watched as the falconers prepared the lures. His presence was not loud, but it anchored the gathering. When he stepped toward Emma, the air shifted subtly around them.
“You will take the merlin again,” he said.
“Am I not yet trusted with fiercer wings?”
“You are being trained,” he replied evenly. “Not tested.”
She arched her brow. “You test me constantly.”
His mouth twitched faintly. “That is different.”
He adjusted the angle of her elbow, his gloved hand closing briefly over hers.
“Do not chase the bird with your body,” he murmured. “Let it return to you.”
“I am not in the habit of chasing things that fly away.”
His eyes flicked to hers — brief heat, quickly banked.
“See that you do not.”
Rhae made a soft sound of impatience. “If you two are finished speaking in riddles—”
Daeron smirked. “They enjoy it.”
Emma smiled and lifted her arm.
The hood was removed.
The merlin leapt into the air like a released breath — swift, slicing through sunlight. It climbed higher this time before banking sharply toward the lure dragged below. The strike was clean.
Emma did not flinch.
She waited.
When the bird circled back and settled firmly onto her glove, steady and sure, she felt the small triumph deep in her bones.
Daeron gave an approving nod.
“Better.”
Rhae folded her arms. “Acceptable.”
Maekar stepped close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.
“Well done,” he said quietly.
It was not merely about the bird.
She felt it.
Daeron launched his peregrine next. The bird soared higher than the merlin had, wings cutting the sky in wide arcs. For a moment, it seemed it might not return.
Daeron’s jaw tightened.
But instead of reaching for wine — as he might have before — he lifted his arm again, steadying his stance the way Maekar had shown him.
The peregrine wheeled.
Returned.
Landed.
A small breath left him.
Maekar crossed the short distance between them and clasped his son’s forearm.
“You did not rush it,” he said.
“No,” Daeron replied.
“Good.”
That was all.
But the pride in Maekar’s gaze was unmistakable.
Emma watched the exchange with quiet satisfaction.
The wind shifted, catching her skirts and carrying the scent of grass and leather and sun-warmed stone.
Summerhall did not glitter.
It endured.
And today, it soared.
By midday, the hawks were hooded once more and returned to their mews.
Emma found Maekar in the western solar reviewing accounts with his steward. He dismissed the man with a nod when she entered, though his eyes remained on the parchment until the door closed.
“You are displeased with something,” he said without looking up.
“I am considering something.”
“That tone usually precedes upheaval.”
She moved to the window, gazing down at the inner yard where squires crossed with buckets and bundles of wood.
“Summerhall functions,” she said. “But it does so unevenly.”
Now he looked at her.
“Explain.”
“The petitions come without order. The steward keeps records, but they are not cross-checked. The kitchens report to three different hands. The training schedules overlap with supply deliveries. It works because you demand it work — not because it is structured to.”
His brow furrowed slightly.
“You would reorganize my household.”
“I would strengthen it.”
Silence followed — not hostile.
Measured.
Maekar rose slowly from his chair.
“You have been here for weeks,” he said. “And you already see fault.”
“I see potential.”
He approached her, boots soundless on stone.
“My father ruled through spectacle,” he said quietly. “I rule through discipline.”
“And discipline thrives under clarity.”
His eyes searched hers.
“You would shift authority.”
“I would define it.”
“And if they resist you?”
She met his gaze without wavering. “They will not.”
“You are certain.”
“I am patient.”
A long pause.
Wind pressed lightly against the open shutters.
“You would place Daella among the clerks,” he said finally.
“Yes.”
“And Rhae?”
“In correspondence. She misses little.”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face. “No.”
“She will excel.”
“And Daeron?”
She stepped closer.
“With the training masters. Formal responsibility. Fewer idle hours.”
Maekar studied her as if weighing steel in his hand.
“You intend to give my children roles in governance.”
“They already have roles,” she replied softly. “I only intend to acknowledge them.”
He exhaled slowly.
“You move carefully,” he said.
“I move for Summerhall.”
His hand rose — not abrupt, not claiming — but deliberate as it settled at her waist.
“You speak as though it is yours.”
“It is ours.”
The correction lingered.
His thumb brushed the dragon pendant at her throat.
“You would reshape what I built.”
“I would stand beside you while doing it.”
The tension between them shifted — no longer challenging.
Alignment.
“You ask much,” he murmured.
“I ask to serve.”
His gaze darkened slightly at the word.
“You are my wife,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You do not need to earn ground here.”
“I am not earning it,” she replied gently. “I am tending it.”
That stilled him.
A long, steady moment passed.
Then —
“Very well,” he said.
The words were not grand.
But they carried weight.
“You may draft the changes. We review them together.”
She smiled — not triumph, but warmth.
“Together.”
His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, drawing her closer until the space between them narrowed to breath and heat.
“You do not retreat,” he observed.
“Neither do you.”
A faint huff of amusement.
“Stubborn woman.”
“You married me.”
He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to her mouth — not urgent, not restrained. Measured.
Claiming and conceding all at once.
When he drew back, his forehead rested briefly against hers.
Chapters: 12/?
Fandom: Holby City (TV 1999)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Serena Campbell/Bernie Wolfe
Characters: Serena Campbell, Bernie Wolfe, Holby City Ensemble, Original Characters
Additional Tags: BDSM, Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Safewords, Angst, Smut, Masturbation, Self-Doubt, Self-Discovery, Light Bondage, honourifics, Praise Kink, Spanking, Aftercare, Romantic Tension, Something to lovers, Sexual Tension
Summary:
Serena has always depended on being in control, but finds herself drawn toward something she doesn’t fully understand. A single decision leads her into an unfamiliar world where someone else is always in charge.
He woke up slowly, as after a simple afternoon nap. Heavy eyelids that didn't want to open wide at all. He didn't remember where he was or why everything seemed cold and damp around him. He blinked a couple of times to focus on the ceiling of that room and soon the memories resurfaced. It was not a room, it was a stone prison buried in a mountain. He barely sighed, trying to express his resignation, but his ribs protested causing him to hiss in pain.
At that moment he felt something fresh and wet touching his forehead and turned to the left to understand what it was. A little girl? Right, Sarah. Bloomgate's daughter. Thanks to the constant absence of light, his eyes had become accustomed to the dark. Of course, he didn't see the child's face perfectly, but he distinguished her features. She was there by his side, focused as if she was doing something extremely important. Near her legs, right between their bodies, was what appeared to be a bucket. He didn't understand whether it was made of wood or metal. If it was dark because rusty or it was colored. The only information he could get from that object was that it was filled with water. This was because the little girl had just turned to the bucket, put something in it and when she raised her hands, Jake had clearly heard the roar of the water.
What the little girl had in her hand seemed to be a piece of cloth. And after wetting and squeezing it carefully, she put it on his forehead. Maybe she didn't notice that Jake was watching her, because she kept making those movements like she was in a trance.
Jake: "Hey..."
As it wanted to demonstrate, the little girl jumped on the spot, slightly surprised to hear his voice.
S: "You scared me!"
Jake: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. Are you okay?"
S: "It's too cold here. Reminds me of that little hut on the mountains where my dad used to take me for the holidays."
As she spoke, she continued to wet the cloth and pass it over Jake's face. She did it gently, as if she had been afraid to break him. Her eyes and slow movements suggested to Jake that the kid was tired. She had probably been taking care of him for quite a while.
S: " But I had my warm clothes, not this dress."
Jake saw her face saddened and so, weakly raised the only good hand left to reach her hand, before it reached his forehead. She looked at him and her mouth curved slightly, making him realize that she was crying.
Jake: "I have never seen snow...I guess it's nice."
She pulled up with her nose making a small smile and shaking her head.
S: "Mhm..."
Jake: "I'm sorry they got you involved in all this...but we will get out of here."
S: "Why is Dad taking so long? Doesn't want to save me?"
At those words, Jake felt like a punch in the stomach. He pulled up slowly, trying to pry his still healthy arm. He held his breath as his body shouted at him to stop, not to move, but he didn't care. That little girl was suffering and needed comfort. Of course, he wasn't the world's greatest expert in emotions and things like that. Physical contact for him was often limited to a classic handshake. But he remembered that in a truly terrible moment, MC had told him that she would like him to hold her in a hug. To console her and make her feel safe. He had no way of fulfilling MC's wish, but he knew she wouldn't get angry if his hug was for that little girl.
So once seated, with a couple of really painful maneuvers he reached the nearest wall. When he got there, he leaned his back against the wall, feeling the cold and the jagged surface pricking his skin through his shirt.
S: "Ah! What are you doing!? You shouldn't move like that."
Jake, panting, raised a hand towards her and told her to get closer.
Jake: "Yeah...I know...I know."
The little girl got up and before going to him, she wet the piece of cloth again and squeezed it.
Jake: "But you were right. It's too cold there. Here is way warmer."
S: "Really?"
Jake: "Sure. Sit here next to me and try. It's really great."
The little girl, a little wary, did what he had told her and with slow movements sat a few inches from him.
S: "Mmm. Liar. It's not warm at all."
He opened his arm inviting her to approach.
Jake: "Maybe you should be closer to me."
She was doubtful for a moment. Then a chill of cold shook her body and she approached Jake, hugging him and clutching him. Jake smiled in the darkness of that cell and then settled in better, carrying his arm on the girl's shoulders. His ribs protested when they felt the kid's arms and body crush him like an octopus.
Jake: "Ow, ow. Don't squeeze me too much, I'm not a Teddy Bear."
S: "...I'm sorry..."
Jake: "It's okay. Now, I have to tell you something."
The little girl didn't look up, busy finding the best position so that her ear could hear the rhythm of Jake's heart.
Jake: "Your dad is doing his best to come here to save you. You have to trust him. Right now he might even be out here."
S: "Really?"
Jake: "Yeah, why not? But we have to believe in him. We must also rest, so when he arrives we will be ready to leave."
At that precise moment the little girl yawned and then rubbed one eye. Then she snuggled up at his side and closed her eyes.
S: "But...what if dad comes to save me and finds me sleeping?"
Jake: "Then I'll wake you up. Don't worry. You took care of me, now it's my turn."
Jake stood still for an indefinite time, until he felt the child's breathing become calm and regular. She had finally fallen asleep. Holding her close to himself, he sighed, resting his head on the wall. Alan would surely come to save Sarah, but Jake wondered why they had taken the Chief of Police's daughter. It was a risky move and worried him. The fact that Sarah was there with him probably indicated that they were holding Alan in check. Maybe they were blackmailing him and that couldn't be good. Not for him at least. If that was indeed the case, they probably thought Jake had entrusted Dedalus to him. But that was not the case.
Jake knew there was only one person that program would be safe with, but he hadn't been able to contact her. MC had disappeared from the radar and as much as he had tried, he had to give in to the evidence that he had been too good a teacher. MC had learned from him to disappear, not to be found. But he always had a plan B. Sending the program to Lilly through Nymos was the only possible alternative. And then he was lucky that there was a camera in his prison. Nymos was programmed to follow him through every kind of device possible. It was so quiet that it would go unnoticed in any system. Most likely he would have managed to sneak into a government system as well, if they had been the kidnappers. But that was not the case. The man who held him captive and tortured him was not from the government. Indeed, if it had been for him he would have gladly thrown the whole world into chaos.
Markus. He hadn't heard that name in years now. He never imagined that he would see him again in such circumstances, nor that he would be his torturer. They had met many years before. He didn't remember very well where. It seemed as if Markus had always been in his life. They were best friends at the time, almost brothers. They were simple nerds who cared about everything and nothing. They spent their days programming computers and eating junk food that Markus' mother, who was too busy with work, ordered online. It wasn't great, of course, but he liked it. Then one day Markus' grandfather died and Jake thought his friend wanted to abandon his passion to help the family. Not having a father to raise him, it was his grandfather who took care of him and his mother. She did a humble job, but it didn't allow her to bring enough money home to support her family. The grandfather then worked hard to help as he could. But after his death, something had changed. Markus' grandfather had left him a box with lots of photos and documents. "History teaches us" was written on top of the lid. Perhaps it was his way of ensuring that what was written in there was never forgotten. As a reminder. But when Jake, convinced by Markus, took a closer look at what the man had left behind, he realized that this was not the case. That legacy told a story of punishment and torture. Of wars and destruction that only a fool would have allowed. It turned out that Markus' grandfather had been enlisted, as a young man, in a secret government project. "Protection and containment" was written in one of the documents, but it had nothing to do with those two words. All that was in that box was the account of a historical period that had been almost completely erased.
From there they began their searches to find more information. They learned about MKULTRA and how the "subjects" were conditioned to do what the powerful wanted. They discovered that Markus' grandfather had been one of those subjects and that he had done terrible things in his life. But then, in one of the notes in the grandfather's notebook, they found a name. "The Minotaur". Under this name an annotation with the calligraphy of the man "saved my life". From that moment on, the two searched for the Minotaur far and wide. For Markus it became an obsession, to the point that he lost his mind. He hacked into numerous government computers and found the physical location of the archives where they kept the MKULTRA project segregated. He formed a team of criminals experienced in stealing sensitive data and succeeded in stealing that project. He wanted to use it to give those who had corrupted his grandfather's life the well-served.
Jake tried to dissuade him several times but without success. So, remembering the notes of the man who had raised Markus, he decided to take action to stop him. After finding secret information about the Minotaur project, he managed to steal it. He always kept it with him, taking care to let Markus know that if he ever even tried to bring that crazy project back to life, he would stop him. He remained in the shadows for years, waiting and hoping that Markus would never make his move. But he didn't know that his former friend was on his trail. When he decided to let his guard down to find his missing sister, Markus had already located him. On the one hand he expected it, Markus was unable to surrender. On the other hand, he had always hoped that with the passage of time Markus would think again. Unfortunately, however, that was just a dream. Now he was there, stuck in a situation he couldn't get out of without help. Luckily for him, Markus hadn't turned off the cameras that watched him and Jake still had an ace up his sleeve.
He looked around for an object. Something he could have made noise with. Unfortunately, however, there was not much. Only the chain that held an ankle tied to the floor. It was not the best but it had to make good use of it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 12/14
Fandom: Shadowhunters (TV)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Characters: Magnus Bane, Alec Lightwood, Jace Herondale, Isabelle Lightwood, Maryse Lightwood, Robert Lightwood, Luke Garroway, Simon Lewis, Clary Fray, Jocelyn Fray, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Camille Belcourt, Raj (Shadowhunter Chronicles)
Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Minor Character Death, Homophobia, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Malec, mentions of domestic abuse, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Magnus/others, Temporary Alec/others
Summary: When Magnus Bane walks into Alec’s third grade classroom, a scowl printed on his face and a permanent chip on his shoulder, Alec has no idea that, one day, this scrawny smart-ass will mean the world to him.
He has even less idea that he’ll mean just as much to Magnus.
In which Magnus and Alec are destined for each other, everyone around them can see it, and sometimes, love is found in the most unexpected places.
(Childhood best friends to lovers AU, set over fifteen years.)
