#I hope that I manage to surprise and delight you again for old time's sake

[wheelingstars]

Kissing Booth

ft. @aresmelaina in which help is offered and accepted

Ares

"Hey. I guess the spot's not taken?" Ares grinned as he pulled back the chair, his slowness making it look a bit inelegant, though that didn't shake his attitude. "Busy day so far?"

Beth

"Ares!" Beth beamed, delighted to see him, if concerned. "Are you meant to be so far from a place to rest? Should I scold you and match you back?"

Her tone was playful, but she had no hesitation in doing so if needed. "On and off. I'm so glad the spot was open for you, though."

Ares

"Hey, the doc let me go home, so my place of rest is technically Luc's house. Which is right across the plaza. I'll hopefully manage." Ares said with an equally playful, dramatic tone, grinning. "I'm glad to. It's good to see you. Feels like we've barely seen each other. I didn't realize how we mostly see each other after raids. Which just means we should meet more outside of them." He smiled. "You look good."

Beth

For his sake, Beth circled around to the front, resting a hip against the booth. "Well, I have a cart I can fetch if you come over faint. Haul you back with my big old muscles."

Raiding wasn't always clean, safe work, but Ares somehow forever had a smile for her when they met. It couldn't have been genuine every time, but Beth never felt it was her place to press.

"Oh!" The compliment hadn't been expected. She indicated her face with a silly little flourish. "Fleet insisted I upgrade the look for this. Thank you. I'd compliment you back, but I don't know if you'd believe me right now."

Ares

"You know you'd have to get me up the library stairs, right? Though you could just dump me in front of the exit." Ares laughed, managing to ignore the ache in his chest. The next comment made him grimace, though mostly playful. "Yeah. I still look a bit beat. I know, I know. You're making up for the both of us right now." He was close enough to nudge her hip with his elbow. "I'll look good when I'm healed up. Then we'd be unstoppable."

Beth

She flexed one arm pointedly. "I said big muscles, Ares. Do you doubt my power?" Her laugh died almost immediately at his wince, getting closer to fuss over him without knowing what to do. "Oh, I shouldn't be making you laugh."

Again the flattery surprised her, and Beth cupped his cheek in one hand. "You're very nice to say so, honey. But I expect your worst day is prettier than my best."

It was her turn to laugh, poking the end of his nose. "You heal up and it's a plan. We'll take on the world like Superman and Ares."

She patted his knee gently. "Now. There are a few options at the kissing booth, but I'm a little nervous about hugging you with my very big, huge, large muscles and sending you back to Renee."

Ares

"Proof that you're wrong on that is right in front of you. And this isn't even my worst day." It really felt good, just talking and being playful with someone. Ares had missed it. And Beth absolutely was pretty, no doubt about that. She'd been before changing up her look, too. They'd gotten along well enough so far, too.

"Ah, that'd be really bad. Getting hugged to tightly would send me straight back to the clinic. Renee's tired of my snoring at this point, she might smother me." Ares sighed dramatically, then grinned. "I don't mind holding hands. Or kissing you."

Beth

"You'll give me a big head, Ares, smooth-talking like that." She carefully ran fingers through his hair, wary of any places that could be tender. "I hope you take time to look after yourself, honey."

Beth giggled, and then touched her fingers to her mouth. "You snore? I'd have reckoned sleep walking." His answer was agreeable enough, and Beth wondered where he tucked away the killer instincts Ike preferred in his Raiders.

Gathering his hands up in hers, Beth swung them idly between the two. "Did you ever go to a dance in Junior High? Kids just stood and swayed like this." Well, Ares was sitting, but the point remained.

Ares

He couldn't help but lean a bit into the touches as she ran her fingers through his hair, enjoying the affection. "Yeah, I am. I rest a lot. I even do all the exercises and drink lots of water." A model patient, so he'd heal up as quickly as possible. He didn't protest when she shifted to hold his hands.

"God, yeah, I did. We had those in the gym, with a disco ball and punch and all." The memory was distant, but enough to make Ares grin. "I went on one my girlfriend. We ended up bouncing and going to McDonalds." Ares did his best to sway with her, follow their little impromptu slow-dance. "What about you? Any fun memories?"

Beth

And drink lots of water. Clearly others had questioned him more specifically. "That's real good, but I don't just mean your body, honey. A person's spirit needs mending, too, sometimes."

She tried to imagine Ares as a teenager, to erase the lines of years and see the blue-eyed boy with his whole future waiting. It sent her heart nostalgic, a pang for the boy. "Lord, why always the disco ball?" It was easy to laugh, to smile with Ares.

"Senior prom - my friend group all went together. We were that classic impenetrable wall of popular girls dancing together." Beth gave a happy little sigh, and improvised a stooped spin under his arm. "Ever miss those days? When we were immortal and knew it all?"

Ares

"Like meditation? Mayra's big on spirituality. " Ares offered, his smile faltering just barely. His spirit needing mending was... maybe too big of a topic for now. Not something he wanted to drudge up now. So, instead he focused on her, their little dance and delve into the past, the spin that made him laugh.

"God yeah. When the biggest problem was who would make the cut for football team, or some bad grades. It was like..." He tried coming up with his own words, but failed. "... we were immortal. You're right. It was a whole lot easier." That made Ares miss it. A sharp pang of nostalgia for a time he couldn't really go back to. Too much had happened, both with them and the world. "Life isn't so bad now, though. Where do you think you'd be? If this whole thing hadn't happened?"

Beth

Beth's laugh was not unkind. "Maybe." He didn't seem keen to elaborate, and so Beth let the subject pass.

Ares' laugh was so easy, like bells at Christmas, and Beth wished he would always feel as light as he sounded. She kept his hand in hers and perched carefully across his lap. "If I'm too much on you right now, don't you spare my feelings, honey."

A shimmy to settle and Beth considered his question. "Well now, I'd still be working the same job, I suppose. Maybe get a dog, I guess."

She paused, aware of the banality of the answer. "Oh, teen Beth - you were so cool and now you're this." It was easy enough to laugh at herself, at least, before returning the question. "What do you reckon you'd be up to?"

Ares

As soon as she sat down on his lap, he wrapped his arms around her so she wouldn't slip off, looking up at her. "Ah, don't worry. This is great." He resisted the urge to lean his head on her shoulder, instead looking up at her. "Hey, I like adult Beth. She's a dog person, and she's great at dancing. And she's here." Ares grinned. "You were a therapist, right? Did you like it?"

Her turning the question right back made his smile falter a little again. For some reason, he remembered his talk with Mike, the question he'd asked. "Ah, that's... kinda complicated. I didn't really...." Ares trailed off, grimaced, then gave into the urge, tilting his head forward and bumping it against her shoulder. "Prison. That's where I was when the outbreak happened. I still had some years on my sentence. Drug charges." He sighed, staying close to her. She didn't seem like a person who'd judge him. "After that, uh... a job, maybe? Construction? I was always good at that. Is that an answer?"

Beth

"Aww, Ares, you'll give me a cavity, all that sweet." Even injured he was a steady, solid place to be. "Occupational Therapist - a little different. I, ah, learned about a person and then I'd find ways to help them live their life as normal as possible." She thought of Lucien, and of his discomfort with exposure. The last thing she wanted to do was share confidential information - even with his brother. "I really did, Ares. It was so rewarding to help folk's quality of life improve."

He seemed so uncomfortable in sharing, so Beth only curled her fingers through his hair in little brushes, letting him choose if and what to share. Then, the drop to rest against her shoulder that seemed so... yearning? Nervous? She let his breath tickle her skin and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. "You could've said you'd hop a train car to ride the rails, and that would've been just fine by me."

The way Ares asked if the answer was valid - Beth had to wonder who taught him to doubt such things. In opposition to his worry, she gently tipped his face up to ensure he'd see her eyes when she spoke. "I ask because I'm interested, not ever because I'm looking to judge what you say."

Ares

"Yeah. Sorry, I wasn't... trying to accuse you or anything." Ares said, still not looking up. "And that's probably not how you meant that either just now." There was a small laugh in his voice. She didn't seem like the type of person who'd judge people. Not for things like that, anyway.

"You know, you could still do your job in Redwood." Ares raised his head again from her shoulder to look up at her. "I mean, maybe you are. There are probably a lot of people here who could use that. Coming in from the outside and then having to settle back down isn't easy for a lot of people. I think you could help them. If you still wanna do that. Inventory manager slash occupational therapist."

The excitement gave way a bit, and Ares smile softened a little. The closeness felt nice. Some of the nervousness falling off of him. "You're really great at making people feel better, you know that? I mean, you probably do."

Beth

She couldn't help the smile; Ares was so intent on being understood. How often had his words been misinterpreted? How many times had he been given no chance to explain? Oh, Beth thought, please let the other Raiders not be party to it.

Surprised by the suggestion, Beth thought of Lucien again and hesitated. "Oh, I'm always happy to consult, if the doctors wish or someone asks. If you'd like help, by way of example, while you're on the mend."

One palm pressed to her heart, Beth bit back several Southern turns of phrase. "That is a very kind thing to say, Ares. Very kind. Thank you." Again she carefully stroked his hair, worried still about bumping some unseen injury. "You've done my heart good, too, honey. No doubt you do the same for others around here. If you didn't know it - now you do."

Ares

"I... think I'm okay." Ares took a moment to think about it. "I'm doing pretty okay. Some stuff is harder, but I'm doing a lot better already. Just hard to bend down right now." He knew she hadn't meant it physically. And he considered it, for a moment. Asking for help. He could use it. He told Nicki to talk about her feelings, asked her what she'd been through. He should do the same. Still, he hesitated. Pushed it back, for the moment. It was made easier by her fingers trailing through his hair, accepting his words. What she said made Ares light up.

"I hope so. That'd be pretty great, actually. Kinda glad I could help you." Ares smiled, eyes glimmering as he looked up at her, having to tilt his head back a little. His soft smile turned just a bit crooked. "So... would it be wrong to ask if I could kiss you now?"

Beth

It wasn't her nature to push; people needed to decide for themselves when it was time to share, and with who, and how. But something here felt... different. From okay to pretty okay to some things being harder. Beth reckoned the initial answer was for others, and the final much closer to the truth.

She carried on petting Ares, while debating internally, fingers drifting down the scalp to his neck without realizing. "Just know that it's okay to not be okay, Ares. We all need help sometimes, and you're allowed to ask. Even if it's just for a listener."

Oh, those blue eyes, closer than she'd ever seen them. And a sparkle there, like a Golden Era Hollywood star. Even the permissible "flaw" of a crooked smile reinforced the perfection of the rest of him. Hardly any wonder at all that Nicki had swooned.

His request was the reverse of most visitors. To kiss her, instead of being kissed. That wasn't lost on Beth. Ares seemed forever to be seeking permission, approval, guidance and clarity. "I think this is about the most appropriate place and time for it, honey."

Ares

He didn't say anything else just yet. He raised his hands to cup the side of her face and then gently tugged her down enough so he could kiss her. Gentle and affectionate, just holding her for a few moments.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. "You know, I could get used to this. Is that bad?" He huffed a soft laugh and then kissed her again, a bit more energetic this time, but still gentle. Her words were still running circles in his head. Of course she was right, it was okay to ask for help. And he needed help, didn't he?

"I think I need help." He muttered, up against her lips, his voice quiet. "I already talk to people about it, but it's not really enough. I'm messed up."

Beth

Stars above but he was so careful, holding her like porcelain. The consideration made her blush before Ares' had even kissed her. Even that was delicate. Again she thought of those Golden Era Hollywood stars and their perfectly chaste affection.

Ares flashed that smile again and, oh, the way he asked; with those eyes and that little laugh. Redwood's answer to Montgomery Clift. Entirely too easy to forget the conversation they were having, to lean into his warmth, the texture of his beard.

She stayed close, sharing breath with Ares as he spoke against her. Curling her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, Beth nodded. "Okay, honey." It was hardly more than a whisper, a simple and accepting sound.

She held Ares as tightly as she dared, still concerned for his injuries. "If you don't know what you need, we'll figure it out together."

Ares

The way she said that. Like she was grabbing his hand and walking side by side, gently leading him towards whatever he needed. Like they'd figure it out and everything would be okay.

"Okay. Yeah. That'd be great." His voice was quiet, but with how close they were he didn't need to be loud. He sighed softly and leaned into the gentle affection. Huffing a soft laugh, he leaned in to kiss her again, quicker this time, a little relieved.

"Thanks, for offering. I mean it. Same goes for you, if you need help. I'm here for you." He nuzzled against her cheek with a smile. "Mind if I kiss you a bit more?"

Beth

A little voice inside reminded Beth that this man was a Raider. They all concerned her for one reason or another; with Ares it was the impossibly dulcet manner. His confession had confirmed and changed her impression of him all at once; something Beth would sit and stew on later.

"Oh, honey that's so kind." Beth found his shift from confession to request temporarily confusing. It felt as though Ares rolled all intimacy into one, something Beth scrambled to keep up with.

Her own laugh was closer to a giggle; his beard tickling at her face. On impulse, she leaned back to finger-comb it, thoughtfully studying the curl and texture before answering. "No, honey, I don't mind."

Ares

Like a dog leaning into chin scratches, Ares tilted up his head up when Beth an her fingers through his beard. He liked hearing her laugh like that. He didn't say much more before he leaned up and kissed her again, this time a bit longer, a bit deeper, running his fingers along her temple to brush a strand of hair away from her face. He wasn't quite sure how long he'd been kissing her when he pulled back just enough.

"You know, I really wouldn't mind doing this more often." He smiled, his lips still almost brushing against hers, before he finally fully tugged away. "I should probably get back to the library. Luc's probably wondering where I am." He didn't quite let go of her just yet, his arms still wrapped around her. He grimaced a little. "And this chair's killing my back. I'm getting old."

Beth

He really was a tactile man; and while he'd asked her consent more than once, she'd never call Ares hesitant. Beth couldn't remember them having touched so much as hands before, but everything he did felt as though they'd already been long familiar with each other.

Her eyes were still closed when Ares broke contact. The laugh was quiet, hardly more than an exhale. "I'll take that compliment." Of course, Beth felt immediately guilty when he mentioned the discomfort. "Oh! I'm so sorry, honey!"

She slipped from his lap, smoothing the dress down briefly. "Can I walk you back next door? I could ask the clinic for something - for the discomfort?"

Ares

"Hey, no need to be sorry! You didn't do anything wrong. My back's just messed up." Ares rose from the chair, using the booth table to take some of the weight off his aching back.

"I'm gonna be fine. Library's not that far. My legs still work pretty well. And Renee already sent me home with a bunch of ibuprofen. Ares smiled, trying to reassure her. Beth seemed really worried about him. He grabbed the cane he'd become accustomed to using.

"See you around, though?"

#thread #re: ares #ty for thread!

[bookshelf-in-progress]

💬

I'm pulling this piece deep out of the archives. This fragment has lingered in my imagination even though the superhero universe it sprang from never came together.

A bit of context: Yvette is a touch telepath who once used her powers to run cons with a charming mind-controlling telepath. She eventually found religion and left her life of crime to work as a sort of social worker helping superpowered youth. Now years later, without warning, her former partner has come waltzing back into her life.

“Get out,” she said. 

“Yvette Colby,” Simon said, shaking his head in mock disappointment.  “I don't expect a welcome parade, but I thought you could manage a simple 'hello.'”  He swiped a chair from the edge of the room and swung it on the far side of her desk.  He leaned back in it, left foot on his right knee.  “Spare a few minutes, for old time's sake.”

“Stop it” she sneered.  “Your tricks don't work on me, and never will. You can’t mind control a telepath.” 

“Who says I’m trying to control--?” 

“And I stopped falling for your ‘charm’ long ago.” 

He smirked. “Ah, but a man can hope, Yvette. Time changes many things.” He looked around the room, at the peeling paint on the walls, at the crumbling furniture, at the chair leaving splinters on his pressed three-piece suit. “Including, it seems, your tastes in decorating.” 

“Get out,” Yvette repeated.  “I mean it.”  She pulled a phone from her pocket and stuck her thumb on the emergency speed dial.  “If you're not out of here in thirty seconds, I will call the police.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “But what have I done wrong?” 

“Many,  many things.” 

“This argument again? Sweetheart, those were gifts…”

“Not the way you obtain them.” 

“No way to prove that, is there? And besides…” He rested his hands behind his head. “The police will never haul in a fellow as nice as me.”

Yvette moved her thumb to another button.  “I'll call in the extraordinary task force.”

His smug smile expanded into a grin of delighted astonishment.  “You really are serious!  I'll admit that'll be a trifle more inconvenient, but useless in the end. There's not a test in the world that can pick up my abilities.” 

“They know how to recognize mind control.” 

“Not the way I do it. I’m not pulling anyone’s strings. I highlight a few memories, brighten up some positive emotions, and make them fond of me. They choose to do what I ask because they like me. It’s nothing detectable. Nothing harmful.”  

“Oh, there's plenty of harm,” Yvette said.

He winked.  “Not to me.”

Yvette's stomach heaved.  “I am so glad,” she rasped, “that I can hate you.”

#answered asks #adventures in writing #scarvenartist #look! i *can* write original fiction!

[chanfictions]

Chidori

18+ CONTENT! MINORS DNI!

Kakashi x Reader

Part 2

Playing with electricity, mind games, smut, smut, smut.

2.4k

It's all fun and games until your boyfriend acquires intel that you have some unfulfilled fantasies involving his chakra nature.

You and your big fucking mouth.

You knew getting drunk and shmoozing with that old pervert was a huge mistake, but inebriated you was just a treasure trove of curative ideas for the raunchy author's writer's block, and he was footing the tab. One cup of sake after another and your most titillating fantasies just rolled right off of your twisted tongue in a drunken game of Never-Have-I-Ever, Kink Edition. Little did you know that your traitorous mountain of a drinking buddy would slink off to your boyfriend later with all of the intel he had gathered from you.

You made a mental note to sic Tsunade on him later. Now, however, you had more important things to worry about, namely the chirping cracks of lightning surrounding Kakashi’s hand as you shifted nervously in your rope bindings. "Babe, shouldn't we talk about this?" You squeaked nervously as you twirled in place like a little marionette with your arms bound above your head.

"What's there to talk about, hm? Jiraiya told me just how exciting you thought it would be to play with electricity." The eerie calm in his voice as he circled you, wielding that handful of sparking doom sent lusty shivers up your spine. You were a thrill seeking fear slut, and Kakashi knew it. The danger held in his palm twisted your insides into the most delightful knots and left you dripping with excitement.

"I meant… oh, I don't know, a violet wand or something designed for use on the human body, not an assassination jutsu!" You stammered and your voice climbed in pitch. Your eyes widened the closer he got to you. The scent of ozone filled your nostrils, and all of the little hairs on your body stood on end from the static beginning to collect in the air.

"What's the matter, kitten? Don't think you can handle it?"

"Do I think I can handle a jutsu you use to literally pierce people's hearts as FOREPLAY?!" Your voice entered the soprano register as you gnawed your lip and spun around him again, tipping about on the balls of your bare feet.

A chuckle purred deep in Kakashi’s chest as he pulled his mask down with a light curl to the corner of his mouth. "That is what I asked you."

Words failed you, and all you could manage was a high pitched squeal as he ghosted the edge of that jutsu around your exposed stomach, just barely kissing your skin with static. Your breath caught in your throat as your heart leapt into your mouth.

"You haven't forgotten your safe word, have you?" He mused while continuing to circle you like a silver-haired lion.

Another squeaky yelp that sounded like a 'no' slipped from your lips as your bugged out eyes followed the sparks and you twitched away from his hand.

"What we should talk about is your racy little conversation with Master Jiraiya yesterday." Kakashi’s dark iris glinted with the reflection of those chirping bolts as he traced a less dangerous finger along your trembling jawline, tipping your chin upward. "Naughty girl, telling that old pervert about your little fantasies before even I had the privilege of hearing them." His voice was a mere gusty murmur blowing beneath the deafening crackle humming right next to your face.

"We were just talking about his unfinished book," you insisted in a shaky chitter as your eyes locked on the blue chakra leaping from his fingertips. Boy, did Kakashi know how to push your buttons. The ache between your legs had you twisting your thighs as that knot of excited fear tightened in your belly. He had barely laid a finger on you since hanging you up, and you were just fluttering for some kind of stimulation.

Another dark little laugh rolled in Kakashi’s chest. "You should really know better by now, kitten," he purred, bringing the jumping bolts ever closer to your skin, letting little shocks nip and draw goosebumps on your waist as he trailed his sparking hand ever closer to your very erect nipples, making you squirm anxiously. "Master Jiraiya and I are very good friends. He tells me everything."

You swallowed hard, breaking into a bit of a sweat. "So… um… what else did he tell you?" Your voice cracked under the strain of the pitch you were reaching while you bit your lip. Keeping your heaving chest away from his hand was growing more difficult with the little slack you had in your rope.

"Now, where's the fun in giving up my leverage?" A sly smile tilted his lips. "You might want to stop squirming before this arcs… electricity can be so unpredictable, can't it?"

A high whine hummed in your throat as your eyes flicked from that devious smile back to his hand again. He wouldn't, right? Another hard swallow had you nibbling on your lip in hopeful anticipation and wringing your bound hands. That chirping sound terrified you, as you knew it all too well from fighting alongside the silver-haired jonin. Your heart raced in the best possible way, that fear leaving you aching and wet.

"Oh, but you'd like that, wouldn't you? I can see it in your eyes," he murmured in your ear, sliding behind you and pulling your body tightly against his with his tamer hand, tracing a line from your navel up to the breast he firmly cupped. You felt that bulge of desire for you straining the fabric of his pants when you were pulled in and gave your ass a little teasing wiggle against it. He trailed his lips along your neck up to your jaw. Deft fingers rolled a hardened bud, sending tasty jolts through your body, making you arch into his touch. The chattering spark in his left hand hovered inches from your skin. "Say it."

"K-kakashi, I--" you stammered nervously. He could no doubt feel your racing pulse beneath his lips as he kissed his way along your neck.

"It's simple. Either you want it and you tell me as much, or you don't and tap out, but we both know what you're going to say." How that man managed to maintain such an aloof coolness while terrorizing you like this was just beyond you.

With your blood rushing in your ears, you bit your lip and dropped your head back against his shoulder. "Light me up," you breathed lustfully before you even realized what you were asking for.

With a knowing chuckle, Kakashi obliged. The pitch of the chirping shifted, and hot points of light licked your skin, leaving you gasping in surprise. The little lightning strikes were fiery and felt sharp like the edge of a knife being dragged over your flesh. You had expected it to really hurt, but as usual, Kakashi had twisted your head around in a delicious mind fuck, letting you think he just might fry you up until the very last moment. The sensation beautifully toed the line between pain and pleasure, sending literal shocks through your body. Arching your back, you bit your lip with an excited squeal as his hand hovered just above your nipple, peppering it with a storm of static. "Did you really think that I would touch you with an actual Chidori?" The tone of his voice sent shivers up your spine.

"It s--ah-aaah-oounded like the rreeeal one," you gasped in a breathy moan as those sparks danced around your torso. Tiny bolts pierced your skin like needles without leaving so much as a mark in their wake. The most shocking aspect of this newfound kink was the smell. It never occurred to you that electricity had any kind of defining odor, but this did, and you couldn't get enough of it.

More soft chuckles hummed behind you as Kakashi’s breath fanned your neck. His sparking hand ran circles around your breasts, sending shocks straight through your body to your throbbing clit. The sensation was amazing and left you arching into his body, swaying your hips against his own waiting lust. "Are you trying to tell me something, hm?" He punctuated the statement with a nip of your neck and began trailing his new favorite toy downward.

"W-w-aaaait a minute!!" You squeaked in surprise at a dog-whistle pitch, wiggling your hips again in an effort to avoid that hand as you had quickly realized what he was about to do with it.

"You know the word to use if you want me to stop," he murmured, more and more amused by this. "Otherwise, I'm going to find out if I can get you off without actually touching you." He slid his feet between yours, prying your legs apart and stepping lightly on the tops of your now inward turned feet to keep you rooted.

The next sound coming out of your mouth was a shrill, giggling shriek that rolled into a loud moan. Kakashi brought those sparking fingers down to your slick clit, hovering just above it and sending little lightning strikes grouped in pulsing waves directly at the most sensitive spot. The electric chakra jumped around your dripping pussy, sending all new sensations ripping through your body. The inhuman noise you were producing grew loud enough that Kakashi had to muffle your mouth with his other hand to prevent the neighbors from thinking he was murdering you.

Your eyes rolled back in your head as you let out another loud wail. Pins, needles, and precise strikes of heat from the electricity coursing through you sent your muscles contracting in waves in time with the pulses leaving his fingers. Your walls fluttered around nothing, absolutely starving to be filled. The intensity was unlike anything you had ever experienced. Your legs trembled as the pitch of your voice rolled chromatically skyward.

Kakashi hummed praises in your ear, kissing along your exposed neck as he kept that one hand clamped firmly over your mouth. With a sly smirk he whispered in your ear, "Let's turn things up a bit."

To say you saw stars as he did just that was an understatement. The heat and force applied by those biting strikes of sparking chakra increased, intensifying your involuntary muscle contractions. Your legs nearly gave way as the first heavy wave of the night crashed over you and stole the air from your screaming lungs. Your walls clenched desperately. The knot of heat in your belly finally burst.

"Mmm, so that does work. Good to know," he mused, turning up the power as you rode out that first release until you wailed again and bucked your hips into his hand. Cutting the chakra off for the moment, he pressed hard against your puffy clit, rubbing circles to keep you teetering on the edge of blissful insanity.

"Mmmfffff--K-kakashi, please," you begged desperately around his hand. You were throbbing, aching, pining to be filled. "N-need you, need you now--"

As swift as the bolts of lightning crackling about in his hand, Kakashi had you untied from the rope, stripped his own clothes, and pinned to the mattress just a few steps behind where you were hanging. With a bruising kiss and a hand tangled in your hair, he ground his hips against your throbbing pussy, eliciting a lewd moan from you into his mouth. Hungry, desperate, and needy for him, you snapped your legs around him, urging him to stuff you. There was no need for the usual prep with how wet that electricity had gotten you. You gasped with eyes rolling back into your head as he abruptly rutted his full length into your aching core, sending you right back into outer space, digging your nails into his shoulders and locking your legs around him.

A low growl rumbled in Kakashi’s throat as your walls attempted to crush his cock. He swallowed your moans and wails from his movements in equally ravenous kisses with one hand still tangled into your hair. As you rode out yet another blinding orgasm, he snatched one of your knees and pinned it to your chest to achieve more depth that left you teetering on the edge of blackout. It was so fucking good. You clenched around him again, finally with the satisfaction of being stuffed so full and babbled incoherently. "Fuck-- Kakashi, so fu-haaah-ah-big -- can't -- oh, gods-- I--"

Hearing you unable to string together a coherent sentence filled Kakashi with immense satisfaction as he ground deeply into your impossibly tight little hole. Picking up the pace, the force of his thrusts rocked the bed noisily into the wall, though it likely couldn't be heard over you. He smothered your rambling cries with his mouth, leaving trails of bites and hot breath down your neck before coming back for more. He groaned loudly as you bit his shoulder while fluttering around him yet again to stifle your own noise. Nail marks decorated his upper back from your desperate attempt to hold onto something as he railed you into oblivion. His breathing quickened before catching in his throat and erupting as a guttural growl when he delved into you to an impossible depth, painting your insides white.

You were nearly choking on your own saliva as you dropped your head back into the mattress beneath you, fighting to catch your breath. Kakashi buried his face into the curve of your neck, gripping you tightly and murmuring soft affections as you both slowly drifted down from that impressive high. You could hardly feel your legs from how hard your soul had been fucked out of your body. He remained there, buried in you with your leg still trapped, trailing his fingers along your cheek while you tried to remember your own name.

"That was… ridiculous," you breathed heavily, coiling your arms around his neck.

Kakashi just chuckled, trailing his lips up your neck to yours again. "Well, now that you can speak again, perhaps we can finish the conversation we started earlier," he mused, running his fingers along your side teasingly.

You were not running on full steam and just pressed yourself tightly against him. "Hmm?"

"Mmm, electricity wasn't the only thing you were talking about with Master Jiraiya…" Kakashi spoke in a husky tone and trailed off with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

You peered up at him, face beginning to flame with embarrassment and a slight hint of dread as you remembered the depth of your drunken chat with the sannin who was definitely going to get pummeled for this later.

Oh, shit.

"What's this I heard about shadow clones?"

#naruto x reader #kakashi x reader #naruto smut #kakashi smut #chanfictions

[depressedacadamia]

17 year olds don’t make good decisions

Summary:  it's exactly as the title suggests. On Nico's 17th birthday, he decides to do exactly as the title suggests and ends up visiting his boyfriend at the infirmary.

A/N: THIS WAS INSPIRED BY @rainnows and @daughter-of-sunshine from this post. ALSO SHOUT OUT TO @marbleheavy WHO CHEERED ME UP WHEN I WAS TALKING ABOUT BEING SAD ON BATHROOM FLOORS. Thank you @solangeloweek for this fun challenge! I actually managed to complete it without burning out halfway unlike with writers month which I PROMISE will be finishing. It feels super cool to tag people as if I had a tag list. Anyhow, hope yall enjoy the final day in will solace's bday week and comment! <3 from Persephone.

Read on AO3             Masterlist. 

Perhaps trying to give himself a lip piercing all by himself in the solitude of the Hades Cabin was not the best idea. That said, Nico was trying to celebrate his 17th birthday and he had been looking forward to getting a lip ring that he had seen Thalia wear recently and of course, Nico was impressed.

But Nico was even more impressed when Thalia had told him that she had pierced her lip herself like a badass motherfucker. At the time of course, Nico's first thought was wondering whether the hunters of Artemis had a dress code and if so- were piercings included? (Because he knew that Apollo would definitely want in on that.)

But now, as he held his bleeding lip which dripped over his fingers and pulled out the metal needle which had come in the packaging, he realised that just perhaps this wasn't a great deal. He grabbed some tissues and held them to his lips in the hope that the applied pressure would at least stop the big gush of blood but after several impatient minutes of doing so, he began to slightly panic.

Why hadn’t the bleeding stopped? Did he hit a blood vessel? Obviously he must have since he was bleeding! Was it veins or arteries that were super dangerous? God, why was blood so red? And why did this hurt so damn badly- he’s been stabbed for goodness sake! He was a soldier and it was a boo boo lip that was getting to him?

He rushed to the infirmary in panic- he doubted many people would see him and he deeply cared about his lips; afterall, how else would he kiss Will?

“Why are you holding that to your mouth?” Will asked when he saw his boyfriend walk through the infirmary doors. “ You’re not meant to eat tissues. If you were hungry, you should have bought a happy meal.”

Nico, who was still bleeding profusely into the tissue, turned it around so Will could; see his blood stained face and almost ripped lip.

“It won’t stop bleeding,” Nico managed to whine out in pain.

“What did you do?!” Will shouted in horror.

“I DON’T KNOW, YOU’RE THE DOCTOR!”

“I’M A HEALER, NOT A DOCTOR!” Will, truly panicking, screamed back. The two stared at each other, eyes wide open and finally, Will realised that while Nico was a soldier, he wasn't a healer. Sure- he inflicted injuries but he didn't fix them. In other words, Nico was completely clueless.

Will repeated the question, this time with a calmer tone. “What did you do?”

He changed his gloves and sat Nico down so he could have a look.

“I shwied oo iercee my wip,” Nico tried to speak as Will held his mouth open, taking a glance at the bottom of his lip.

“Sooo?” Nico said once again, over exaggeratedly as his boyfriend prepared to clean the wound.

“There’s a hole in your lip.” Will said, without a fraction of surprise as he began to clean the wound, lightly dabbing the soaked cotton ball at the injury.

“Ouuchh,” Nico tried to move away, but Will - in a very threatening manner- stopped him with a manic gleam in his eye that read No <3.

The two sat there as Will managed to stop the immense bleeding. Quite luckily for Nico’s reputation, there weren’t many people in the infirmary that specific evening and therefore, it was only Will and a couple of other healers- who weren’t scared of Nico but let him think so- who knew of the accident.

“Why did you even want to get your lip pierced in the first place?” Will umbled as he began to clean up.

“Because.”

“Because what?”

Nico replied in innocent honesty. “ It’s cool.”

Will choked at the simplicity of the answer. “Because it’s cool?”

Nico, similar to a puppy, nodded with eager delight. Sure, his lip piercing had not gone the way he had wanted and it was a shame that he’d have to wait for his lip to heal so that could try again but in the end- his lips still seemed to be working.

“Let me get this straight,” Will paused, “ You got a lip piercing, you willingly attempted to put a hole through the flesh of your lip because you thought it looked cool?”

“No,2 Nico huffed slightly. “Also you can’t get anything straight.”

Will sighed, “ And you’re about to make a gay joke to hide your own religious truama, aren’t you.”

“Oi!” Nico cried. “ No fair! You don’t get to ruin the punchline of my joke and expose my psychological trauma!”

Will gave a small chuckle to himself as he finished cleaning up and Nico patiently- which was relatively surprising- waited on the bed. He moved his fingers to gently prod his lip where the injury had occurred a while ago, a bit surprised to feel the flesh there to be swollen and burning hot to the touch.

“Willll,” Nico complained. “ My lip is puffy.”

The blond healer scoffed in response. “ That’s what you get for trying to pierce your lip by yourself.”

“But Thalia did it by herself and it looks so cool!”

“Is that what this is about?” Will turned around suddenly. “ Because Thalia told you about her lip piercing.”

Nico folded his arms looking away slightly. “ She didn’t just tell me, she was wearing her lip piercing and I for one think it looks awesome.”

“Yeah, I can really tell from the state of your lip,” Will laughed dryly.

“You’re being meaner than usual, sun boy.”

“You’re being stupider than usual death boy.”

“See!”

“I think I'm allowed to be a bit annoyed at the stupid attempt you made ot pierce your own lip without the aid of anyone else- or at least your boyfriend-, who, might I add, is a healer!”

“So I’m meant to be running to you every time I might have a problem and supposedly need some help with it?”

“Yes!”

Nico, ready to retort back an ‘I thought so”, paused. “Oh.”

The infirmary fell silent as they both stood staring at each other while the sun set behind=d them in the background. Will’s skin glowed under the light and Nico’s eyes glinted. They stared at each other and suddenly within a beat all the tension in the room rushed out and they both started laughing at one another. Suddenly a tall, black haired boy scrambled into the infirmary with mischief written all over his gleeful face.

“So?” Percy painted. “Did you actually try and do the piercing?”

To say the least, Will demanded an explanation.

#will solace #will solace bday week #will solace fanfic #Nico Di Angelo #Nico Di Angelo fanfic #solangelo #solangelo fanfic #solangelo fluff #will x Nico #Nico x will #will solace fluff #Nico Di Angelo fluff #percy jackson #Percy jackson fanfic #Percy jackson #Thalia grace #Thalia grace mention #Nico x will fluff #will x Nico fluff

[alj4890]

I have ask my lovely fanfic write! What if we get Liams POV when Drake and Riley are star gazing at Lythikos. It never really says what Liam was doing when all of this was happening. And we know his room has the best view so how could he not see Drake and Riley laying in the snow? I wonder how he feels knowing he can’t be the one she’s with.

You know, it would have been great if Liam, in canon, had a chance to ask about what MC did when out with Drake, Maxwell, or Hana. As incredibly sweet as he is, he had to have suffered with twinges of doubt and jealousy. I would have loved for him to mention Drake and the MC becoming nearly inseparable at Lythikos, especially after Drake being a jerk in the previous chapters. Here's my take on Liam's POV during that scene.

@gkittylove99 @krsnlove @kingliam2019 @texaskitten30 @yourmajesty09 @mom2000aggie @ofpixelsandscribbles @twinkleallnight @lodberg  @amandablink @neotericthemis  @mm2305 @sfb123 @iufilms

Masterlist

One Night in Lythikos

It had taken a while to finally break free of Olivia, but Liam managed to end her tour of her home by pleading exhaustion. He hated to do that to one of his oldest friends, but she was starting to act like their relationship was more than what it was. He didn't know how to gently break it to her that his own feelings remained unchanged since first meeting her at the age of six.

How could he possibly feel anything more for any of the ladies when a certain American continued to steal his heart?

Liam leaned against his bedroom door after bidding Olivia goodnight. He wished he could have returned downstairs to see Riley once more. Their few minutes of ice skating had not been anywhere near enough the amount of time he needed with her. His lips quirked into a fond smile as he thought of the glimpses he had seen of her with Drake snow skiing. Asking his best friend to look out for her had been the best idea he had ever had.

If he couldn't be with her all the time, at least he could rest easy in knowing she would be cared for by Drake and Maxwell. He couldn't think of anyone better for support and encouragement.

Maybe Hana. That particular lady had surprised him with her genuine sweetness. He was relieved that she was not a suitor who chased after him. After their cronut trip in the capital, he knew that Hana was nothing more than a friend and viewed him as such. He had no doubt that once he chose Riley that she would be a part of their close circle of friends. She had the ability, like Maxwell, to bolster their moods with kindness and a willingness to be of service.

He was thrilled that she and Riley had each other to help them through their first foray into Cordonian society. He had known most of his suitors his entire life and he sadly knew how catty and insulting some of them could be. Court life could be cut throat amongst the nobles. They rarely did anything without expecting something in return. Hana and Riley were both breaths of fresh air in his world. They were nice and thoughtful simply because it was who they were. He hoped once this was over that neither of them became jaded.

After stoking the fire in his fireplace, he poured himself a much needed drink, slipped his overcoat on, and stepped outside.

He walked past the hot tub and stood looking out over the snowy wilderness of Olivia's home. The quiet peacefulness reminded him how hectic his life had become these past few months. He missed his old life and the ease of being a spare to the heir.

He had never envied Leo's place in the royal line. All the expectations and pressures his brother had been under had worried Liam. So much of it was caused by Leo's rebellious nature, yet he knew his older sibling desired to do the right thing for Cordonia. He had tried to encourage him and help guide him towards what was needed from their future king. He had no idea that his efforts would be the central reason behind Leo's abdication.

Somehow, Leo had seen the king Liam could be before anyone else. It was perhaps the greatest compliment his brother had ever given him. Their late night walk though the capital had been eye opening. Once Leo placed the notion of Liam taking the crown in his mind, it felt right. It felt like he had finally found his purpose in this world of theirs. It felt like his destiny.

And now, as he stood there looking over this icy part of his kingdom, he felt the next part of his destiny seem to crystallize.

Riley.

Their meeting in New York followed by Maxwell seeing that the two were meant for something more than a chance encounter pointed at how special she truly was to Liam. Just the thought of her made him smile. The happiness he felt grow with every single moment spent near her was an unexpected delight that life had given him. It was as if she was his reward for not shirking his duty to his country and family.

Liam took a long sip as snowflakes began to fall around him. Flipping his collar up when a brisk breeze blew, he decided to go back inside for the night. He took one last look at the majestic mountains and took a step back. Movement in the valley caused him to pause.

His eyes narrowed as he tried to make out who was down there.

That's Drake.

He shook his head at his friend roaming the countryside without a coat on. Something must have happened to make him leave the manor without it. The man had always been a stickler with making certain one has the proper essentials when outside.

There was only one thing that Liam could think of to drive Drake into rushing out. He must have had a fight with a noble. Given the animosity between his friend and a certain duchess, he knew who had made the freezing temperatures more preferable to her hospitality.

"Drake! Wait!"

Liam froze at the sound of that particular voice. He immediately saw the woman he was unable to stop thinking of run through the snow.

"What are you doing out here, Brooks?"

What is she doing out here? More importantly, why is she chasing Drake?

"I wanted to see if you were okay." Riley replied.

Liam could tell just by Drake's posture that he was shocked. No one else in their lives had ever run after him to see what upset him.

Drake rubbed the back of his neck while speaking in too low of a tone for Liam to hear. The prince found himself leaning out over his balcony's railing, hoping to find out what they were saying.

His eyes widened when Drake pushed Riley down into the snow.

"Hey!" She yelled. "What was that--"

Drake fell back beside her.

Very close beside her.

"Yes, m'lady?"

Since when did Drake ever purposefully use m'lady?

"Drake, this is gorgeous!" Riley exclaimed.

What is gorgeous? What is going on?!

"There's nothing like a meteor shower, especially up here at this altitude."

Liam looked up and saw what they did. He had forgotten how often Drake and Savannah would chart and plan camping trips around these astronomical events. It had become a special time for the siblings once their father died.

And now he is sharing this with Riley.

An unusual feeling crept over Liam as he watched the two lay with their heads close together, pointing up at night sky. A bitterness intertwined with a growing anger that Drake got to do something like this with her. Something romantic.

If anyone should be enjoying this with Riley, it should be me! I'm the one she came here for! I'm the one who longs to simply see her smile. Drake has been cruel about her becoming a suitor. Why is he now being so nice? He got to spend the entire day with her while I was stuck with Olivia. Don't I deserve some part of Riley's time away from the court?

Liam couldn't believe his own thoughts and feelings. He had never been jealous of anyone before. Drake was more than just his best friend, he was family. Yet in this moment, Liam thought he could have easily banished him from the kingdom.

Guilt began to take over his frustration.

Why would I begrudge my best friend receiving kindness for once at court? No one gives him a chance or even an ounce of the respect he deserves. Riley has the ability to cut right through a person's outer appearance and see their true self. How could I selfishly wish to have that all to myself? I want the two people I care about the most to be friends. Don't I?

He watched as Drake stood up then reached to help Riley off the ground.

Is it my imagination or is he holding on to her hand a little too long?

Liam's eyes narrowed as they walked side by side back to the manor. At one point, Riley stumbled causing Drake to reach out and take her hand again.

"Can't have you hurting yourself out here." Drake told her. "The last thing I need is your death on my hands."

Riley's laughter drifted up to Liam.

"I think Bertrand might even be upset if that happened."

"Which is why we are going inside. Dealing with one Beaumont is hard enough." Drake added.

Is he...teasing her?

Liam lost sight of them as the pair headed for the front door.

He turned and headed back into his room, tossing back the rest of his scotch. Once inside, he tore his coat off and went to the fireplace. Bracing his hands on the mantle, he dropped his head forward while dealing with the new emotions flooding through him.

He needed to spend time with Riley. Not only for the sake of seeing what type of queen she would be, but he simply needed her. His mind went through possible activities they could do over these next few days.

Whatever I do, it has to be more romantic than what Drake did tonight.

That thought made his head jerk up. He stared at his reflection in the mirror above the mantle. Had he become a jealous man? Had Riley awakened this unknown part to his personality? Was he going to be petty enough to try and outdo what was most likely an innocent activity Drake had allowed her to take part in?

He honestly did not want to answer any of those questions. He doubted he would enjoy learning what kind of man he truly was.

He rubbed his hands over his face and turned back toward the balcony doors. His eyes fell upon the hot tub outside.

"I'll invite her to share that with me." He said softly.

Plans to do so and how to enhance the romance it presented began to form in his mind.

Liam knew he shouldn't feel this way, but he was bound and determined to make a memory for Riley be one of the two of them sharing an unforgettable romantic moment.

#choices the royal romance #liam x riley #drake x riley #trr olivia #trr hana #trr maxwell #choices the stories you play

[bookstantrash]

A/N: Next week uni exams start and I won’t be able to write for a while, so I did my best to finish this chapter on time before I go MIA for some time.

You can check here Pemberley’s Lake, Hooked on You and Smells like petrichor and paper, part one, two and three of my Nessian Pride and Prejudice AU.

The sound of music

Cassian could not sleep. His mind kept coming back to the greenhouse.

To Nesta and her lavender and vanilla scent and how lovely she looked amidst the flowers.

He would not lie to himself and say he did not let his lips linger a little bit longer than necessary on her temple.

Or that he had not felt some resemblance of male pride on seeing her wearing his jacket.

That he had not imagined her wearing it after they had come back home from a ball or one of Gywn’s operas.

That he had not imagined Nesta tucked close to his side, his arms around her and a smile on his face as he heard her talk about her day.

His imagination, it seemed, was his worst enemy.

“You are delusional Cassian” he mumbled to himself “Delusional”

Sighing, he touched the pressed daisy chain again. He had taken it out of his drawer and left it in front of him as he worked on some papers regarding his properties, thinking the numbers, reports of complaints or requests would help tire him out enough to make sleep come.

Cassian had no such luck. He worked until the entire pile had been properly looked through, and even three glasses of his strongest brandy could not make his thoughts of Nesta go away.

Nesta, who was currently sleeping in one of Pemberley’s guest rooms after much freeting from Mrs.Potts and her friends about catching a cold. Cassian had made sure to have her room properly warmed and a glass of hot chocolate delivered to her first thing after they arrived from the greenhouse.

Her friends had been delighted to spend the night, and he had almost asked them to forego the inn completely and just stay at Pemberley for the rest of the month. But he did not want to mess their schedule and ruin their trip. He knew that Gwyn was on a short vacation, as were Emerie and Balthazar, and Nesta could not stay away from her younger sister, Elain, for too long, given that they had no male relative to look after their household and wellbeing in the meantime.

Maybe a trip to the kitchens would help him. A midnight snack was bound to make his sleep come soon, and he was sure he had heard one the maids saying that Chef Ramsay had baked chocolate cookies.

Safely putting the bookmark back in his drawer, Cassian only bothered to throw a robe on before quietly making his way down the hallways. He was not worried about being shirtless, given that most of the house was for certain sleeping.

Deciding to take the long way to the kitchen in hopes of tiring himself, he was surprised to pass by the library and see light coming from underneath the doors. Thinking that maybe someone had forgotten to check the place in their rounds, Cassian opened the oak doors to find the candle light. He could not risk a fire happening in the library out of all places.

He followed the faint glow until he found himself with a most surprising — but very welcome — sight.

Nesta was currently curled up on his favourite chair reading a book in nothing but a thin nightgown and he momentarily forgot to be annoyed at her for not covering herself after being caught in the rain if only because by the way she was seated he had a privileged view of her bare legs.

Cassian knew he should announce his presence, his conscience yelling at him how improper and scandalous it was to see her in such a private moment. But he let himself stare at her for another minute, commiting to mind every single detail, from the way the ribbons in her nightgown accentuated her waist — he recalled how small it had seemed when they had danced at Feyre’s ball, his hand spanning nearly halfway across — to how the white colour made her eyes look more grey than blue in the candlelight.

“Fancy seeing you here” Cassian said in greeting, clearing his throat.

Nesta nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard him, quickly scrambling to straighten herself up when she realised she was not alone.

“I am sorry, you had said I could come whenever I wanted and I—”

"Could not sleep?” he asked, and Nesta only nodded.

Oh dear Mother, she wanted to crawl into a hole on the ground and disappear. Why was it that she was always finding herself in embarrassing situations when it came to Cassian?

It was true she could not sleep, her mind replaying her evening with Cassian, from the moment she stepped on the library to when he kissed her temple in the greenhouse.

She had tossed and turned in her bed for hours, her creative mind conjuring images of a future with him.

Of long strolls in the garden and picnics by the lake.

Of hours spent reading quietly side by side in the library.

Of running her hands in his silky hair, coming up with new ways to style it.

Of Cassian’s coat around her shoulders and her head on his as they came back from a late evening of dancing or parties with their friends.

Why could she not stop thinking about him? Why had he not left her mind since they had first met each other and why did her heart skip a beat whenever he was nearby?

She looked at him, flushing all over when she noticed that he would have been completely naked from the waist up were it not for a robe, which had loosened up a bit, revealing a bit of his naked chest.

For Cauldron’ sake, did he not own a shirt?

“What are you reading?” he inquired, and she quickly averted her gaze from his chest.

Little did she know he was also trying very hard to not stare at her bare shoulders or her chest, cursing once again whoever had gifted her such nightgown.

He could bet his fortune it had been Emerie, recognizing the modice’s preference of off shoulders designs.

“Oh, it’s a romance” Nesta felt her ears getting even hotter “By Sellyn Drake. You have a rather large collection here. Some are even first editions”

“She was a dear friend of Pemberley’s previous Lady” Cassian said, motioning for her to take a seat as he told her the story “The Lord sponsored her, both because he saw how her writing brought joy to his wife and also Lady Drake’s talent.”

“She soon became extremely famous and still kept sending the previous Lord her books even after his wife passed away” Cassian smiled faintly “He sold Pemberley and moved, but I kept the library as it was, just adding my own books here. Lady Drake comes once a while to visit and get inspiration for new novels, although she says she is to retire soon.”

“Y-you know her?” Nesta’s voice had gotten an uncharacteristic high pitch “You know Sellyn Drake personally?!”

“She is a very annoying old lady” Cassian said rolling his eyes “Always asking me if I will not take a wife so she will have someone more interesting to discuss her books with whenever she visits.”

“I cannot believe you are friends with one of my favourite authors” Nesta said in disbelief.

“But I would not have pegged you for a romance reader” she added, arching an eyebrow.

“I could not very well leave those books here to gather dust, could I?” he answered, squirming on his seat.

“Tell me, did the scary General Commander of the British Armies shed a tear in any of them?” her voice had a teasing tone and Cassian was almost left speechless by that fact alone.

Nesta inclined her body in his direction, apparently having forgotten she was not wearing modest attire at all and that Cassian was desperately trying to keep his eyes on her face instead of her chest.

“I promise not to tell anyone if you did”

And then Nesta Archeron gave a little sideway smile that made Cassian lose his breath.

He did not know what he had done that made her take such liberties with him, but he for sure was not going to complain.

“I did not cry” he finally managed to answer, angling his body in her direction and smirking when he saw a faint blush adorning her cheeks “But I will not be heartless and say it did not move me a little.”

They were close once again. So close Nesta could see that his eyes had little green speckles on them and that the brown looked like molten chocolate.

They were eyes one could drown and all she wanted to do was to indeed drown on them.

“Next time Lady Drake plans on coming to Pemberley I will make sure to invite you too” Cassian said softly, straightening himself “It is quite late. I will accompany you to your room.”

As if on cue, Nesta yawned, quickly covering her mouth with her hand.

“I only have one chapter left” she tried to argue, suppressing another yawn.

“Such a headstrong lady you are” he smiled and took the candlelight “The book will still be here tomorrow.”

Nesta followed him begrudgingly, twisting her nose in annoyance even though she was yet again holding back another yawn. Cassian thought she looked like a tiny angry kitten, laughing internally.

They walked back to her room in a comfortable silence, and sooner than he would have liked they had arrived.

“Well, then, here we are. Delivered safe and sound”

“Thank you, your grace” Nesta opened the door but did not get inside, as if she too did not want to part with him.

“Have a goodnight of sleep, my lady” he said, dropping a kiss on her hand before he could dwell too long on it.

“Goodnight, your grace” she breathlessly answered, finally getting inside and leaving Cassian standing outside her door.

Needless to say, both fell asleep quickly after that.

~•~

“For Cauldron’ sake are you incapable of sending prior notice of your arrival? And it is way too early to be drinking wine Morrigan, even for you”

Cassian had arrived to have breakfast and found Rhysand’s cousin casually seated at table, twirling her glass of wine at nine in the morning.

“I came here straight from Vivian’s. It was a long journey and I needed the wine. Besides, I am family! I knew you were going to like my surprise visit” Mor blinked at him.

“Always a pleasure to see you” Cassian answered, sitting beside her and promptly dumping a large portion of bacon and eggs on his plate “I take you introduced yourself to my other guests?”

“Of course” she snorted, making Georgiana laugh “Except for Miss Carynthian and Sir Oristian, that is. It seems they went into town early to see something in relation to their business.”

As if on cue, the dining room doors were open and Balthazar and Emerie walked in.

Emerie had opted to wear trousers today — Cassian thought it was to not be belittled by some stupid mercants and show with just who they were dealing with — and a white shirt with long sleeves with a forest green vest. Her curly brown hair was down and she had a gleam in her eyes that told him her business transaction had been a success.

She really was a sight to behold but it still startled him when Mor spat out her wine.

Mor never wasted wine.

“Sorry for our late arrival, Balthazar was being a weakling” Emerie said, sitting in front of a very much flustered Morrigan.

“I was not. You are the one who never lets the other have the upper hand” Balthazar pointed out.

“Please, you know that piece of silk was not worth that much!” she spread jam in a piece of toast, waving the knife in a rather aggressive manner.

“Maybe, but if you keep that up you will gather more enemies than business partners”

“Good thing I have you as my bodyguard” she batted her eyelashes innocently, making Balthazar roll his eyes.

“You are Miss Carynthian. The Miss Carynthian?” Mor asked in awe, her coughing fit finally over.

“The one and only. I take you know my shop?” Emerie asked with a smile.

“I absolutely adore your designs!” Mor gushed, and they fell in a very excited talk about gowns and fashion trends.

“Did you have a goodnight of sleep?” Cassian whispered to Nesta, who was seated beside him.

“I did, thank you for your concern, your grace” she answered, grabbing a chocolate cookie “I hope you also had a pleasant sleep?”

“The best sleep I had in years” he winked at her, that sideway smile of hers appearing again.

“Lady Nesta, my brother has told me how brilliantly your dancing  is” Georgiana butted in, and Cassian resisted the urge to throttle her.

His younger sister was lucky there were other people present or he would do just that.

“He is too kind, my dancing is not that memorable” Nesta said, a bit embarrassed.

“But my brother never lies!” Georgiana exclaimed, receiving a glare from Cassian “He told me how the whole ballroom stopped to watch you as you danced.”

“Oh, thank you for the compliment your grace”

“It was nothing but the truth” Cassian assured her, sending daggers at Georgiana, who was sweetly seated by his other side as if she had not just told Nesta how infatuated with her he was.

“I wish I had your talent” Georgie sighed “I am really shy at balls and never really want to dance even if I am asked to. I usually throw my dancing card in the trash in fear someone will write their name there.”

“But I love to watch my brothers running from the scary mammas” she added with a devilish grin, failing in a brotherly bickering with Cassian.

Nesta felt her heart break over Georgiana’s fear of dancing. Apart from reading, dancing was one of the few things that brought Nesta joy. It made her feel alive, the music allowing her to get lost on the moment and forget the pressures high society placed upon her.

Dancing made Nesta feel empowered, in control of her own destiny.

Georgiana deserved to feel like that too.

And that is why when Emerie, Gwyn and Mor went shopping together while the gentlemen went horse riding, Nesta proposed that she teach Georgiana how to dance.

“Are you sure of it?” Georgiana asked nervously, glancing around the music room as if someone was going to appear out of nowhere and laugh at her poor performance.

“Rest assured. You will be dancing flawlessly at the end of the day” Nesta gave her a reassuring smile “I am going to take the male role, so please place your hand on my shoulder.”

Georgiana did as instructed, and soon they were dancing.

“You just need to have fun and relax” Nesta said, making Georgiana twirl “Even if you do not know the steps but act like you do nobody will blink. Dancing is not something that is supposed to be suffocating, but to free you.”

“You mean like this?” the young girl asked, and did a step completely opposite of what was expected in a waltz that made Nesta laugh and follow her.

In no time they were not dancing the waltz but just messing around, their laughs and delighted screams filling the room. They were having so much fun that they were oblivious to Cassian watching them from the door.

The gentlemen had returned to Pemberley and decided to move to the game room, their initial amiable horse riding outing transformed into a racing competition whose draw made Balthazar and Azriel — who revealed themselves to be extremely competitive — propose a rematch in a billiard game.

Cassian soon grew tired of watching them betting who would win, deciding to fetch a book to help distract himself. He was called to the music room by the sound of loud laughs, his heart threatening to burst when he saw Nesta and his sister having so much fun.

“When are we to expect a proposal, my lord?” Mrs. Potts said to him, having stopped to welcome him back when she noticed just who he was watching.

“I have no idea what you are talking about” he answered, a soft smile on his face as Nesta dipped Georgiana, making her laugh even louder.

“It is clear as day to all of us how much that lovely lady means to you” the old headmaid replied “I have never seen you happier since she arrived here.”

“I assure you, there is nothing going on between us.”

“Do not let your fears stop you from being happy” Mrs.Potts motherly said, noticing his bitter tone “You more than anyone deserve to be happy and feel loved. And I noticed how she looks at you, I do not know why you cannot see it.”

“Such busybody staff that I have” was all he said, Mrs.Potts smiling and leaving him alone to continue his watch.

But it appeared their talking had warned them of his presence.

“Brother! Were you spying on us?”

“Far from it Georgie. I thought nobody was home but your laughs made me want to investigate” he stepped inside, closing the door behind him “Balthazar and Az are so competitive they were giving me a headache”

“Nesta was teaching me how to dance” Georgiana said, a bright smile on her face.

“I saw it. She is a great teacher” Cassian said, and Nesta had to look away lest he saw how much happy his words had made her.

“I have a great idea!! Why don’t I play music in the pianoforte and you two dance? That way it would be much easier to see how to dance properly”

Nesta panicked at Georgiana’s words. Last time she had danced with Cassian it had been out of spite for his comment. She would not deny that she had found him a pleasant partner or that she had had fun dancing with him, but Nesta doubted he would want to dance with her again.

However, little did she know Cassian could not have been happier than the moment his sister suggested such a thing.

“That is a wonderful idea Georgie” he said to his sister, all the while planning to write to Rhysand concerning an increase in Georgiana’s dowry.

He had already forgiven her words earlier at breakfast.

Didn’t she say she wanted a new horse? He could arrange for one to be delivered first thing in the morning tomorrow.

Georgiana clapped her hands in excitement, leaving them standing in front of each other as she sat by the piano.

“You are not dancing!” she called out, her fingers moving expertly on the piano keys.

Cassian cleared his throat, offering his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

Nesta accepted his hand, placing her other on his shoulder.

“You may”

They fell in that pleasant and calming atmosphere as Georgiana played, Cassian leading her effortlessly, but she felt he was cautious, even a little stiff.

“I do not bite, your grace”  Nesta said, daring to tease him “You do not have to be afraid.”

“I would not mind if you did” he said back without thinking, his eyes widening as he realised he had said that out loud.

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean—” Cassian made to release her hand and step away but Nesta gripped his shoulder harder, stopping him.

“Do not tell me the great General Commander is left without a strategy when it comes to some defenceless lady” Nesta appeared to be nonchalant on the outside, but inside she was apprehensive.

What if she had gone too far? What if he did not see her as a friend? What if he was bothered by her teasing?

But to her relief he gave her that smirk of his that made her blood boil, stepping closer to her, their chests touching.

“For you, I have no strategies.”

And they really began to dance.

The music was still there. Georgiana played beautifully and on another occasion Nesta would have wanted nothing more than to just sit and listen all day to her playing.

But the music was no longer the most beautiful thing in existence.

Nesta got lost on him as they danced, the music a faraway background sound.

She got lost on his bright smile and noticed he had dimples.

She got lost on the way he moved with her, a body made for brutality which now moved with grace, keeping up with her.

She got so lost on his warm eyes — more green than brown at the moment —  that she felt herself moving even closer, her breath mingling with his.

“Cassian—” his name left her lips without her consent, and she almost froze when she noticed she had not used his title.

Cassian did not care, his smile only getting brighter.

“You may call me informally. We are friends, are we not Nesta?” he said quietly.

“Yes, we are.” she answered, her body tingling all over at the way he said her name, as if it was a prayer to the Mother.

Georgiana — having taken notice of the rather romantic mood — started a new song as soon as the other finished, neither of the pair paying her no mind.

Next morning, Cassian gave her a new horse, the fastest and most sought out in the market. No one had the barest ideia how he managed to get hold of it so fast, or why he was gifting it to Georgiana.

Neither explained the reason, just shaking on it as if it was a business transaction.

•

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#nessian #cassian x nesta #nesta archeron #cassian #pride and prejudice AU #sarah j maas #sjmaas #sjm books #sjm fanfic

[mefiman]

Hamato Family’s First Visit to the Hidden City

Story request by @rottmntrulesall. Hope you enjoy the story, bud! ^^

"C'mon, everyone! Hurry up!" Michelangelo's impatience was obvious in his excitement. He and his siblings were finally going to show their dad's relatives for the first time to the Hidden City for two reasons; one: to view the many wonders of the other world and two: to have a formal, proper meeting with Draxum's parents. The latter part had instilled some unease into the Hamato siblings, especially Saki who was wary about stepping foot into a mysterious world and was about to see for himself the father and mother of the "monster" who altered his younger brother many years ago.

"Are you sure this place is safe?" Hamato Kenji asked. Raphael glanced at his uncle, understanding his uncle's concerns. "We've been there a lot, Uncle Kenji! We did encounter a few dangers there before but other than that, the people there don't usually attack humans unless provoked." Raph assured his uncle.

"There are a lot of places to visit like the many resorts and spas if you want to have a massage and ooh, Señor Hueso's Run of the Mill Pizza where they make one of the best pizzas! I know the manager of that place, we're amigos~" Leonardo took the chance to quip in.

"I can't wait to see Grandpa Mons again! Wait till you guys meet him yourselves, he's the nicest, sweetest grandpa you'll ever meet! He's still as strong as he's gentle!" Mikey said happily.

"I wonder if Grandma Chemia has some wicked new inventions to show me!" Donatello exclaimed.

"This would be my first time seeing my grandparents, Arachne..." Ariadne whispered to her best friend, Arachne.

"You've never seen them before?" Her friend asked.

"Once when I was a baby... I haven't seen them for years." The yokai femme told Arachne.

"Alright, kids, you've shown us all that you're excited to bring us to visit the Hidden City, Mikey, can you open the portal now?" Splinter asked.

"Sure, Dad!" Mikey got to work quickly.

Draxum felt a tinge of anxiety inside himself. He could not recall the last time he visited his creators ever since he moved out of home to pursue his alchemy researching, away from his parents' constant arguments, half of which is about their preferred methods of raising him. It was a surprise how those two still manage to live under the same roof despite their obvious clashing personalities. He guessed that they tolerated each other just for his sake. His parents had never produced any more offspring after him and one of Arachne’s parents...

"Hey, are you okay, Dad?" A female voice asked him. Draxum jolted from his pondering to find that his daughter, Poison Ivy asking him out of concern. He just gave a small smile as he ran his clawed hands over her helmet. "Am fine, just thinking about your grandparents." He assured her. He marveled how Ivy much had grown from the last time he scientifically created her with his and Lou Jitsu's DNAs; she being so tiny as a developed newborn infant growing in a liquid chamber to a young lady around the boys' ages. From what he knew later on, Splinter raised her along with the Turtles. Ivy had lived her life at first as a normal human teenager until her yokai genes started appearing. The initial discovery of her origins did shake her world but over time, she had learnt to accept and use them to assist her brothers in their adventures. She was intelligent like Draxum and his mother with his father's gentle, mature nature as well as Splinter/Lou's sassiness. She loved to study on botany and coincidently, her powers involved using vines and summoning plant like monsters at will. She recently revealed her sexuality preference as a lesbian and had a girlfriend who is a fellow classmate and witch trainee/apprentice in disguise. Both her creators and siblings were happy for her. As of now, she was cradling her younger sister, Venus de Milo was giggling and squealing as April, Ariadne and Arachne cooed and tickled her belly.

The group watched Mikey draw a symbol on the wall at an alley. Once the symbol was drawn, an open portal revealed. The Hamato siblings' mouths went ajar, not believing what they just saw. "if you think that's mind blowing, you haven't seen nothing yet!" Mikey grinned. His three other brothers and the three girls each took hold of one of their Hamato uncles and aunts's hands. The moment they all jumped into that portal, they found themselves staring at a massive part of a what seemed to be a huge city. The sky above was unlike Earth's skies; instead it was orange with some brown. The architecture of the buildings there were monster shaped with some tall, castle like structures far away from the city. There were a lot of people of all shapes, sizes, colors and appearances walking, running, passing by each other, buying their needs or doing their usual business trades. The Turtle family allowed their Hamato relatives to take in their first view around them. Saki's eyes were bulging out of his sockets, he could not believe for his life what he was seeing. Anthropomorphic, mostly consisting of animal, everyday objects, monstrous and supernatural like individuals roamed every part of the streets around him, he felt as if he was having a strange dream that defied logic! Nori on the other hand, looked right and left, taking in interesting sights that captured her attention. Underneath a calm façade, Kenji was freaking out internally at the new, foreign view. Hiroki was squealing in delight similar to a child had just discovered a world made of toys and sweets. Her twin, Hikari was a bit calmer than his sister, feeling a thrill of danger running through his veins. Last but not least, the youngest Hamato sibling, Mei's stance looked poker face yet she looked around to see if there were any Gothic like people that she can interact with. The Turtles and the girls grinned, seeing the reactions of the others.

"What do you think? Surreal, huh?" They ask.

"Amazing.."

"Fascinating..."

"I can't believe what I'm seeing..."

"Someone please tell me that I'm dreaming..." Saki mumbled, still not believing.

"No, you're not," Draxum replied, going straight to the point with an indifferent expression. "May we please hurry to my parents' house, I bet they're waiting for our arrival..."

"Oh yeah!" Mikey clapped both his hands once. "Lead the way, Draxy!"

Draxum sighed as he took the lead of the group. Along the way, there were a few whispers around and behind Draxum coming from the city people but Splinter and Ivy took hold of both his hands and gave a comforting, assuring squeeze, making him feel better. Ariadne gave her uncle a comforting hand on to his shoulder. They were soon out of the main city square to a further distance into the woods. They had to climb up a hill for a while until they reached a big mansion residing there.

"We are here at last. My childhood home..." Draxum said, looking at the grassy, serene valley below, reminiscing the times where he as a little one ran galloping around the field, cartwheeling with glee among the flowers and his sire teaching him the basics on how to defend himself the predator way. Both father and son spend their days in the early years, sparring with each other...

"Draxum, my son!" The former alchemist warrior villain snapped out of his memories to find himself being engulfed into the arms of none other than his dear, loving old father, Monsrage who brought his only son into a crushing bear hug which knocked the wind out of his lungs. "How have you been, my little baby boy? It's rare that you visit us but it's so wonderful to see you bring your family along! How delightful!" the older yokai gushed, his bushy tail wagging with unlimited enthusiasm like an excited puppy. Monsrage was rather huge and muscular with perked up, pointy ears, silky straight black hair unchanged through time and a fairly long beard to match. Like Draxum before, he wore a battle mask. He had a significant dark upperlip. His body had different shades of blue just like his son, Draxum when he was armored. Monsrage's eyes were the same like Draxum's. His feet in particular, was a noticeable difference. Unlike his wife and son, his feet were shaped like a lion's paws, fitting for him coming from a predator species.

"Father, it's great to see you... but can you please let go now? I can't breathe..." Draxum choked out, being smothered by his sire's busty chest. Monsrage immediately loosened his grip, apologizing profusely while checking to see if he had accidently broken any of his son's bones. Draxum shook his head, smiling a little. His sire had never changed all these years, still a concerned worrywart. And he bet his mother had not either...

Chemia on the other hand, was greeting the rest of the visitors with feverish energy. She was a redhead with shades of pink for her skin colour and her ears, long and drooped. Her eyes had a little twinkle in them, a part of her eccentric personality and plump, red lips. Like her husband, she wore a mask. Donnie, April, Arachne and Ivy were given a whirlwind hug the moment they came in front of her. Monsrage went back to the mansion with his son to give the new visitors, the Hamatos, April, and Arachne a warm greeting as well as welcome his beloved grandchildren with his signature bear hug and proceed to pepper their faces with smooches which they were delighted to have especially Mikey, Ariadne, Ivy and Venus. Monsrage and Chemia ushered them all into their humble abode. The Hamatos were initially skeptical about meeting Draxum's family but they were soon warmed up to them. Later on, the mansion was filled with guffaws of laughter as Monsrage showed them all baby pictures of his son which embarrased the poor warrior scientist. Donnie, April and Ivy were treated to Grandma Chemia's latest creations. Monsrage himself had a blast, playing with Venus and sparring with the Turtles and the girls. Arachne was delighted to meet her grandparents as a young adolescent, telling them about her achievements, adventures and that her own parents are doing well. The Hamatos became comfortable talking with Draxum's parents over some snack delicacies. Overall, everyone had a wonderful time at the Hidden City.

I had fun writing this! Was tiring but oh so worth it.

The Hamato siblings (minus Lou/Splinter) and Venus de Milo belong to @rottmntrulesall while Ariadne and Arachne are the OCs of @mikeykawaii/@mikey-ho. Monsrage, Chemia and Poison Ivy along with the mention of the witch girlfriend belong to me, @mefiman. I hope you don’t mind me incorporating your girls into this story, @mikeykawaii but I’ve been dying to add them in, especially Ari meeting her grandparents! ^^ 

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #tmnt #my art #ocs #baronjitsu #a teeny bit mentioned

[thedistantdusk]

Expectations

For the Hinny Christmas Fest, so kindly organized by @fightfortherightsofhouseelves​! Got this one in just under the wire! :D Thanks to @floreatcastellumposts​ and @kmi-kmi​ for giving it a look over for me! Rated a soft T for references to sex. On AO3. 

________

Molly Weasley is a lot of things. But she’s not an idiot. 

Even if she hadn’t once been a teen in the throes of a serious relationship on the heels of a war (which, incidentally, she was), she did raise seven children. Seven Gryffindor children. Seven Gryffindor children who, by default, have each thought themselves far more competent at sneaking around than they truly are.

As such, she’s fairly certain of when Harry and Ginny became... intimate... this summer. Not that she wants the details. Her interest is limited to ensuring that her daughter — that all of her children, Harry and Hermione most definitely included — are well-informed on the inherent risks of what they’re doing. The knowledge of their intimacy was just one of those things that even the most oblivious of parents would have found impossible to ignore. In the span of two days, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny went from “taking long walks in the garden” to feigning yawns and calling it an early night at 7 PM. Besides, Ron and Hermione had already been to Australia by themselves; only a moron would truly believe their nights were strictly filled with knitting caps for house elves. 

And as has been said before, Molly is a lot of things... but she’s not a bloody idiot. She knows some might expect her to maintain a puritanical stance on sex (as if she hadn’t birthed seven children of her own). She knows some might have disagreed with her stance on letting things unfold as they did. But as she’s learned over the past year, happiness — true happiness — is hard to find. 

After months of thinking she’d never see happiness on her children’s faces again, she first spotted it in Ginny’s eyes last May. Back then, it was a creeping, hesitant sort of look... the type that dipped its toes in the waters of joy for a split-second before retreating like a frightened doe. 

But as the weeks progress, she sees it more and more often — and not just in Ginny’s eyes. She sees happiness in the lazy quirk of Harry���s lips as Ginny takes his hand beneath the table. She sees it in the bobbing of Ron’s Adam’s Apple as Hermione descends the stairs in a sundress. She sees it in the way Hermione let a sandal dangle from her toe as she tilts her chin towards the sun.

By now, the four of them have coupled up properly, just as she suspected they would. It was in equal parts charming and bittersweet, but Molly knows better than anyone that there’s nothing quite like a war to rearrange one’s priorities. 

And when she considers all of that, plus the fact that certain fractals of darkness will never truly leave them (just as they’ll never truly leave her)... who would she have been, really, to snatch such joy away?

So, yes, Molly spends the summer fully aware they’re intimate beneath her roof. But after the plague of chaos and confusion and uncertainty and fear that followed their family for close to a year, she honestly prefers them beneath her roof then in a tent somewhere, filled with cat piss and loneliness. 

However — and Molly admits this part makes her a bit cheeky — she does enjoy the unnecessary pageantry they go to over the summer to conceal what they’re doing. The four of them actually think they’re good at hiding it, even as Harry rakes his eyes over Ginny’s... erm... back. Even as she Hermione parades around the kitchen in Ron’s old jumper. Even as she hears, each night, as Ginny’s feet land in the attic as Ron’s land in Ginny’s room. Alas, the whole thing is too hilarious and contrived for her to spoil, so she simply doesn’t. 

But then the girls return to school after a summer that’s both agonizingly long and tenderly fleeting. Harry and Ron find a flat together and enter training. What remains of their lives returns to normal, even though Molly feels she’ll always be picking up the piece of a puzzle that can’t be solved. 

She keeps herself busy as fall turns to winter, though. She volunteers with Ministry relief efforts. She writes to Ginny often. She makes an effort to try harder with Fleur, to rebuild her relationship with Percy, to assist George if she can, to stay close with her husband. She knows her life will forever be separated into two parts: before and after. She knows that the remainder of her days will contain a deep-seated longing that tinges her world with shades of gray. This is a unique type of pain, she knows… the sort of pain only a mother can feel. The sort of pain that takes her breath away if she lets it. 

But she also knows the best way to keep moving is to maintain the traditions that made them a family in the first place. 

So she sticks to holiday routines as Christmas approaches. Waking early. Cleaning the house. Decorating with tinsel and paper chains. Preparing for everyone’s arrival. Christmas will never be the same… not without him. But if only for George’s sake, Molly knows she needs to try. 

She suggests that Harry spend the night on Christmas Eve, just so he isn’t alone; she assumes (correctly) that they haven’t quite got the nerve to ask if Ginny can spend the night at the flat instead. By now, Harry is essentially an overnight Christmas fixture anyway; even when they do get up the nerve to ask, Molly expects he’ll continue to stay over. Or so she hopes so, anyway. The alternative still makes her feel a bit broken, but she’ll cross that bridge when it comes. 

So when Harry, Ron, and Ginny head upstairs after a night of festivities on Christmas Eve, Molly assumes they’ll be back to their old tricks. Hermione’s spending the night with her parents, but it wouldn’t be the least bit surprising if she apparates in. After all, they think they’ve got a foolproof plan that’ll last through everyone’s departure from school. Announcing she’s been aware of this plan the whole time would only spoil things… and Molly doesn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. Not this year. 

After a half-sleepless night, Molly rises early on Christmas Day. She continues to stick to routines, to never deviate from what she can control; today is a day that could be especially miserable, if she lets it. So when she emerges from the toilet at half past seven, she doesn’t expect to see anyone in the cold, dark corridor. From the amount everyone drank last night, she assumed their switching-bedrooms routine would be pushed back, just a bit. 

Then again, it’s not just anyone she sees in the corridor, his foot poised on the step leading to the attic. 

It’s Harry. 

Sleep-tousled, disheveled Harry — and as much as it makes her cringe to admit, he does look… more relaxed. 

At least until they make eye contact. 

For the life of her, Molly’s never seen anyone transform so quickly from chuffed to terrified. Any hint of relaxation slides from his face, his back going rigid. Harry freezes, stock-still, his white-socked foot still poised on the step, his eyes filled with the sort of blinding terror she hasn’t seen in seven months. If it weren’t for that, really, she’d find the whole thing humorous. But seeing as how she’d rather not see that look on his face again, she opts to take pity on him. 

After a bit of gentle prodding, that is. 

“Harry, dear,” Molly says softly; she’s certain Ginny’s still asleep, but it’s best not to chance it. “Wherever are you going so early in the morning?”

Harry swallows and awkwardly moves his jaw like he’s forgotten how to speak. “I’m, erm,” he starts, his voice torn between graveled with sleep and high-pitched with terror. “I’m… going to the toilet?”

Molly can’t help the smirk that crawls to her lips as she nods to her left. “You’ve just missed it, dear.”

Shit. 

Harry doesn’t say the word, but it’s written across his face, plain as day. He shifts his weight, his face blanching even more; she can almost see the wheels spin in his head as he thinks of another excuse. 

“I’ve… erm. Sleepwalked?” 

Molly’s smirk broadens to a full-on grin as she crosses her arms over her chest. Is that how he’s going to play it? In that case, she’ll keep up the ruse, too. 

“Oh? What an unfortunate affliction!” she exclaims, hoping she’s masking her amusement with feigned concern. “You’ll need to see a healer, Harry. How have you managed to make it down such steep steps in the first place? It’s remarkable you’ve stayed safe so far! In future, I really think—“

But when Harry cuts her off, it’s not with another excuse; it’s with a remark that’s hasty and blurted, but ringing with truth. He just blinks, sets his jaw, and gives her with an expression so endearing, so honest, that it makes her entire Christmas. 

“—I’m going to marry her, Mrs. Weasley,” he interrupts, removing his foot from the step as he turns to face her… and right in front of her face, the hollow fear in his eyes fades into sharp nobility. 

He draws a deep breath, running his hand through his hair, even as Molly’s head spins, even as her heart leaps to her throat, even as his words breathe more life into her soul than she’s felt in months. 

“So I’m sorry if this”— he gestures to Ginny’s room— “is weird. Really, I am. But please, believe me when I say I’ll do the right—”

But Molly has no idea if he says another word. She’s even too taken aback to correct him on the Mrs. Weasley bit. Because she can’t stand another bloody second of Harry having to justify himself… not when she’s thrilled that he’s in her life. That he’s in Ginny’s life. That he’s saved their lives. 

Not when he’s just confirmed what she’s always hoped and dreamed for: that he would truly, properly join their family. 

She’s not even aware of her feet running towards him, of the delighted squeal from her mouth as tears of joy stream down her face. All she feels is Harry relaxing against her shoulder, his arm awkwardly patting her on the back, even as she continues to jump and shriek.

“Not erm… anytime too soon?” he manages, through her hysterics. “I just didn’t want you to think—”

Oh, please! 

Molly pulls away from the hug with a sharp glare. “Harry,” she says firmly. “Of all the things I’ve thought about you, doing the wrong thing never even crossed my mind. So I’ll hear none of that. I just…” She trails off, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t know you’d be so serious so fast! But of course I’m happy, dear. So happy!”

Harry gives her a fervent nod and a smile… and unless she’s very much mistaken, she can see the hint of a tear in his eye too as she pulls him in for another hug.

Marry her.

He’s going to marry her! Harry Potter is going to marry her daughter! He’s going to stand at the altar, his green eyes brimming, the cause of his scar a distant memory. Molly can envision Ginny in white, her red hair gorgeous in contrast, her face split into a smile she can’t contain. Or maybe none of that will happen. Right now, Molly doesn’t really care. All she knows is that they’re to be married... and the thought alone is absolutely beautiful, isn’t it? That something so lovely could come from a year so dreadful?

In truth, Molly did expect this — eventually. After all, she spent months observing how Harry looks at Ginny. She’s seen the softness in his eyes and the protectiveness in his jaw. It’s clear he loves her; Molly just never expected she’d be given permission to properly call him her son in the same year she lost one. 

And as she cries and hugs him, Molly is happy for two things: that her family will soon be even bigger and happier than she’d ever hoped... and that her daughter (approximately ten meters away) has always been a very heavy sleeper.

#hinnychristmasfest #hinny fanfic #harry/ginny #expectations

[shouldntcryoverit]

Fireworks

Dad!Rex x Jedi!Reader

w/ Padme, Anakin, Ahsoka, Obi wan and the Skywalker twins ;)) they’re all very much alive and happy.

After the war, with no order 66 because I said so. This is my first time ever writing children, a weird milestone i know, but I hope I did okay let me know! I was gonna give the 501st boys a mention or a scene, but it didn’t feel natural and I couldn’t squeeze it in - so if you want them there, they’re there <3

Also I decided on the name Mira as ‘mirjahaal’ translate to ‘peace of mind’ in Mando’a, and I just know that Rex would name his kid after something like that. (also i felt smart with the whole deeper meaner situation)

taglist -> @pinkiemme

———————————————————————

“Da!”

Rex swivelled his head to the table he had been called from. He still reacted to ‘Captain’ as a variation of his name, but for around three years now ‘Da’ had caught his attention far quicker.

“Yeah C’yare?”

Perched on the edge of the table was his four year old daughter, Mira, smiling smugly as she puffed out her chest and straightened her back just how she’d learnt from Cody. She beamed as her father walked over and pressed a small kiss to the top of her head.

In a short check formed out of habit, he recognised her now braided hair, which had been partitioned into two dainty lines down her blonde head. He had gotten better at doing hair for her sake, but not that good; Leia must’ve gotten ahold of her. Whereas Luke was becoming so much like his father, Leia already had the willpower and strength that mimicked her mother, though that was no bad thing.

Her dress, again courtesy of Padmé, was a beautiful blueish pink colour, and it matched in harmony with the rosemary hue of the sky that bled through the wide windows behind them. It was almost night, and somehow there was an undeniable peace in the air. Perhaps it was something about the time of day, or perhaps it was purely because nowadays there were hardly any reasons for it not to be peaceful.

“Tell Unca Ani I’m right!” Mira spoke with surprising indignation for someone so small. That had always made people laugh.

“I’m not wrong!” Anakin proclaimed, appearing to be hurt by the child’s comment, but failing to hide his grin.

He was rested against the kitchen counter, still slumped like he always did. He perked up slightly as the ‘argument’ began again.

Jaida was near enough to have heard most of their conversation from where she sat beside a dozing Ahsoka. She was mostly focused on the datapad in her hands: lists of still uncompensated troopers that still needed to be helped, but she was far more inclined to listen to the sounds behind her. She smiled distantly at how Anakin acted around her daughter. He softened, even as Mira babbled away.

As Rex and Mira sat and stood respectively, Anakin found it almost laughable how much they were alike. She looked so much like her mother, but her blonde hair and honey eyes were the exact copy of his, that was undeniable.

“Unca Ani say that on Flucca plants glow in tha dark!” Rex smiled sweetly at his daughter’s awe “But that’s imbossible!”

“It’s not!”

“Nope!” Mira popped the ‘p’ like Jaida always did. Anakin laughed at that. It was a solid argument.

“Well, then we’ll go to Felucia. You can see it all for yourself.”

It was a promise Rex was happy to make, especially as Mira lit up at his words.

“Gotta be careful though, sometimes they bite!” Jaida teased from behind the sofa back.

As Mira giggled, a knock sounded from the door to the apartment. Ahsoka stirred up in her light sleep, though Jaida hushed her and moved instead. She pushed off the couch beneath her, winking at the grinning toddler before she made it to the door.

As it opened, Padmé and the twins were revealed, both looking perky behind their tired faces. Luke looked half asleep in truth, but Leia was tugging the senator along with a fist she’d latched onto a few fingers. It had been a long day; no words were needed for Jaida to understand that.

“Hey! You all look so tired what happened?” Jaida laughed lightly as she welcomed them into the room.

“Yoda went bonkers.” There was a hint of remorse in Luke’s voice.

The Jedi chuckled, “What’s new?”

Padmé watched with kind eyes as her children weaved off, and laughed as Ahsoka only just managed to reposition her posture before she was attacked by them both. Luke and Leia were only a year and a bit older than Mira, but they matched each other in energy.

It took them no time at all to close the door and cross into the kitchen where Anakin, Rex and Mira were. Mira had resorted to asking about the different planets, to which Anakin found himself wishing to remember the answers. Rex couldn’t help himself from laughing at the exchange.

“Is the Senate in disagreement again?” Jaida asked as she grabbed a mug for Padmé’s tea, and judging by how she rubbed her temples she suspected she was right.

“Not entirely; it’s just this new vote. Some of the Senators are too focused on the expenses of it all, and I can’t blame them. It won’t be cheap, but it needs to be done.”

“This that liberation bill Cody was talking about?” Rex interjected.

“Yes, it should be simple enough. Only they’re just some people who I can’t seem to budge on it.” Padmé sighed, but didn’t hold that annoyance for much longer. “But anyway I didnt come here to discuss even more politics, how long until they start?”

The reason for their gathering. It wasn’t often that coruscant had fireworks, but when they did it was always something spectacular. The cause for this celebration was particularly important; the 5th anniversary of the end of the clone wars. The senate had decided without much debate to introduce the idea of fireworks, Anakin even joked that it was the quickest they’d ever decided something, yet it was still exciting nonetheless.

Ahsoka got up from where she had been talking to Luke and Leia and grabbed a fruit from the bowl. She laughed along with what conversation had been happened, and grinned at each joke and jibe.

“It’s a shame Obi-wan couldn’t make it back in time.” The togruta spoke after his mention.

“It won’t be the last time we have something like this, and plus, I think Mandalore have something planned as well!”

Ahsoka shrugged in agreement at Padmé, taking a bite at the same time.

“Oh, look!” She spoke between mouthfuls. They all followed the line of her outstretched hand, looking towards the window now beginning to light up in disarray.

“It’s starting!” Luke interjected. He pushed through to the front with Leia hot on his tail. And indeed it was, the beginnings of bright crackles started to compete with the stars behind them. The fireworks were just above the senate building, bemusing the gathering with small, golden splashes of light in intricate patterns. It wasn’t loud, the apartment being so far away, but the distant sound of bangs made Mira jump a few times.

Rex comforted her, taking her up in his arms. She relaxed as soon as she knew she was safe with him; he kept her safe. That was the promise he’d make a thousands times over and more if he could. Jaida met his eyes, and hugged his arm with her head rested on his shoulder. Everything was right; real. The war was over and they had won. The fireworks were a beautiful touch, but nothing could displace the satisfaction of watching your own life grow into something you never even imagined it could. Rex had endured enough, and now he could honestly say it was worth it. He kissed Jaida’s forehead as she melted into his side.

The smaller, yellowish bursts began to grow: feeding into the sky as pinks, oranges, blues and greens spiralled off from their sources. Each pop of colour that continued into circles or stars had it’s own mind, yet still unfolded as if it were puppetry. Some shot straight up and exploded after a minute of delightful teasing, and wove between themselves like missiles. They were the ones that made Luke squeal in excitement the most.

Others whirled in spirals, endlessly collecting momentum and continuing in their talented hast; or shattered into millions of personalised sparks you couldn’t choose which one to follow. They tumbled down in rains of coloured stars, settling as if the art they’d shared with an entire silent city was only fiction. Their message was received in awe, and Jaida held a teary gaze even as they faded. Luke and Leia clapped, Mira laughed, but the adults shared pregnant silence, a moment for what they had found for themselves. Children, family, peace. Love.

The war weighed heavily, it always would. But it was over, they had lived, and a new life had begun.

#captain rex x reader #rex x reader #captain rex #incorrect clone wars #rex headcanon #clone headcanons #clone trooper headcanons #501stlegion #501st battalion #501st #the clones #the clone wars #clone wars anakin #anakin skywalker #padme amidala #anakin x padme #luke skywalker #leia organa #leia skywalker #padme skywalker #obi wan kenobi #commander cody

[songsformonkeys]

12 days of Christmas Pedros. Short little ficlets based on prompts that can be found here. One ficlet every other day. Thank you @yespolkadotkitty for the beautiful banner!

Day 11 - “Oh my God, I didn’t get you a present!” - Dave York from the Sturdy Home verse

This was going to be the first Christmas without Dave. Even though it really shouldn't have come as a surprise, the holiday had still managed to sneak up on you. You'd had so many other things to think about while attempting to glue together the shards of your broken life this past year, and subconsciously you had hoped that if you just ignored thinking about Christmas then maybe it just wouldn't show up this year. Of course, that plan hadn't worked. The girls had started putting together lists for Santa already at the beginning of November.

Christmas had always been Dave's favorite holiday and you had been wholly unprepared for how to handle it without your husband being there to guide you through it. You couldn't do this on your own! Not without Dave and especially not with the man who looked like Dave but was different from him in a million little ways.

December had rapidly approached and with it, your anxiety grew. Dave asked a few times if you needed help or if there was anything he could do to assist. You shot him down every time and in the end, he stopped asking. You knew you were being ungrateful but the thought of watching Dave decorate a tree or help wrap Christmas gifts would have shattered you completely, and no one wanted a broken mom for Christmas.

The girls somehow handled their dad's amnesia better than you did. You hadn't talked to them much about it but their eyes didn't fill with sadness every time they looked at him and, instead of crying, they only reacted with rolled eyes and slight frustration when Dave did something unexpected or forgot something they thought he ought to have remembered. Your youngest had started referring to him as David, and when you had carefully reminded her that David was still her dad – trying to convince yourself as much as her – she'd looked at you with an amount of patience that no six-year-old should be able to possess.

”I know, mom. But not all the time. Sometimes he's just David.”

You hadn't known how to respond to that.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The month of December flew by faster than it had any right to. Decorations and preparations weren't nearly as lavish as they had been in previous years but, all things considered, you thought you had done a pretty okay job and both the girls and Dave seemed pleased. For everyone's sake, you had opted out of going to the family dinner at your parents' house. Dave was still a little wary about meeting people he was supposed to know and your own constant state of exhaustion didn't make for the most entertaining dinner guest either.

Instead, you'd put together a small dinner with just Dave and the girls. Dave had gotten up early and made bread. It tasted just like the bread Dave had made every other year and he had apologized when he'd watched your eyes tear up after he'd offered you a slice on Christmas morning. The girls had brought home decorated gingerbread cookies from school. The frosting tasted of sugary chalk but Dave still complimented them.

Gifts were exchanged and the girls tore into the colorful paper and squealed with delight at their new toys and clothes. For just a few moments, as you watched your daughters and listened to their happy laughter, you forgot to be sad and smiled with them.

The smile only slipped when you looked over at Dave and found him already watching you, with a curious expression on his face. You looked away again.

”Don't forget those,” Dave said, pointing at two remaining gifts, hidden deep underneath the tree behind where the other gifts had been. You frowned, not immediately recognizing the paper, but it clicked why when you watched Dave swallow nervously as the girls tore off the paper from the gifts that were clearly his doing.

You jumped when Alice screamed in delight. Dave's shoulders dropped and relief washed over his face as he laughed. You couldn't tear your eyes away from his smile. Both girls got up and more or less flung their arms around his neck, the new plush cat and rabbit squeezed into the middle of the group hug.

”Thank you, Daddy!” Alice squeaked against his shoulder and the house of cards, which you spent all your waking hours carefully assembling crumbled once again as your hands began to shake and you found it difficult to breathe.

Dave looked over at you and now it was his smile that slipped and disappeared, replaced by a look of worry. You stood up and with a flimsy excuse of getting water, you fled to the kitchen.

You didn't hear Dave follow you until he spoke up.

”Should I not have done that?” he asked carefully, keeping a respectful distance to where you were leaning against the kitchen counter with your back to him. You took a deep breath and turned around, forcing a fake smile onto your face.

”No, Dave, it was very sweet... You got their favorite animals right too. I'm sorry. I'm just...”

”Thinking of him,” Dave finished sadly. You bit your lip to keep it from trembling.

”You...are here,” you replied in a shaky voice. Dave held your gaze and you forced yourself not to look away.

”I'm trying to be,” he said softly, but with a stubborn resolve that was all too familiar.

”I know.” You pushed away from the counter and his hands twitched at his sides, almost reaching for you before he stopped himself as he realized you were just heading towards the doorway to the living room. He cleared his throat.

”Let's get back to the girls.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You let the girls stay up a little too late and when you decided to finally call it a night, they were both so tired that their eyes were only half-open as they staggered up the stairs. The silver lining was that they were also both too tired to protest when you ordered toothbrushing.

While they brushed their teeth and slipped into their pajamas, you helped put their opened gifts on their respective nightstands so they would be the first things they saw when they woke up the next morning. Everything was neatly arranged, except for the cat and the rabbit. The plush toys were held tight in the girls' arms as you read them their bedtime story. Irrationally, you wished that you would have gotten a plush toy to hug at night as well.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you came back downstairs, Dave was relaxing in front of the TV, his feet propped up on the coffee table. You made a beeline for the kitchen, pouring two glasses of wine before you joined him.

”They're sleeping like logs,” you told him as you handed him his glass. He thanked you and took a small sip before returning his focus to the TV, which was showing some sort of Christmas concert.

”I'm surprised they even made it up the stairs. Especially Alice in those unicorn boots,” he said with a soft chuckle.

”If only they had inherited your fondness for practical footwear,” you teased with a small smile. Dave turned his head away from the TV to look at you. You watched him back.

”Hey...” he said slowly and set the glass of wine down on the table. Your pulse sped up and you gripped your own glass of wine a little tighter. But Dave turned away from you and started feeling for something between the couch cushions. ”I uh... I got you a gift too,” he said and when he turned back towards you he held a flat, square box, the size of your palm in his hand. It was wrapped in navy blue paper with gold stars.

”Dave...” you said, surprised and then a little ashamed. ”Oh Dave, I haven't gotten you a present.”

Dave shook his head before you could attempt any apologies.

”You have given more than enough already,” he assured you before looking around the living room with a soft smile. ”My first Christmas for example.”

You watched him quietly until he nodded his head towards the gift in your hands.

”I was nervous with the girls but this is even worse so please...”

”Yes, sorry,” you apologized and picked at the edge of a piece of tape. You were less aggressive in your unwrapping than the girls had been and less vocal when you finally got the box open, revealing a delicate necklace with a small golden heart hanging from a thin gold chain. In fact, you were completely silent as you stared at the gift. The symbolism of it didn't escape you and suddenly you found it harder to breathe around the growing lump in your throat.

You looked up at Dave and, as always when he did something unexpected, your paper-thin defenses crumbled into nothing and you started crying.

”Hey...” Dave said softly again and reached out to swipe the pad of his thumb across your cheek to gather up the first tear that escaped your eyes and rolled down your cheek.

You still couldn't speak, so with the box clasped tightly in your hand, you leaned forward to wrap your arms around him. You could count on one hand how many times you had hugged Dave since he came back, but he immediately responded by curling his arms around you, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was.

He wasn't your husband, but he was sweet and caring, and for the first time you weren't hugging him as a substitute for someone else.

You held each other, perhaps for longer than what was necessary but you didn't want to let him go just yet and neither did Dave, it seemed. You still stained his shirt with your tears but it wasn't the heartwrenching sobs from the other times.

When you pulled back, you held out the box for him.

”Will you help me put it on?”

Dave nodded and you turned your back to him. When his knuckles brushed the back of your neck as he fastened the tiny clasp of the necklace, you closed your eyes for a moment and let out a slow breath before you turned back to face him.

”Beautiful,” Dave said and the intensity of his gaze made your cheeks burn warm. As you held his gaze, you brushed your fingers over the little heart. It was still a bit cold to the touch but slowly, it was beginning to warm up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @yespolkadotkitty​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedropascalito​ @pedropascallion​ @ohpedromypedro​ @knittingqueen13​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​ @mourningbirds1​ @alwaysbethewest​ (Merry Christmas. Here’s your Keep Reading) @heatherbel​ @larakasser​ @fromthedeskoftheraven​ @seawhisperer​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​ @mrschiltoncat​ @pajamasecrets​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @ilikechocolatemilkh​ @dornish-queen​ @holographic-carmen​ @thirstworldproblemss​

#12 days of Christmas Pedros #dave york/reader #dave york #equalizer 2 #my writing

[ibijau]

Sunday 11th: Free spot - Age/role reversal, where Nie Huaisang is the oldest with a bratty little brother, while Lan Xichen is the sweet and happy Second Jade of Gusu Lan

This will be a two parter at minimum and the role reversal won’t come up until part two oops

Also on AO3

Inside Lan Qiren's office, Nie Huaisang bowed deeply before the renowned teacher. 

"I leave my brother in your capable hands," he said, before turning to Lan Wangji and bowing again. "Please, make sure he doesn't create troubles. I trust your judgement in these matters, so punish him if need be." 

Next to him Nie Mingjue scoffed, as only a boy unused to discipline could. Nie Huaisang, who was the entire reason his brother often came off as a stubborn brat, sighed. The Lans would have a lot of work with that one.

Lan Xichen, who had been standing behind his brother, stepped aside to grab Nie Mingjue's arm, smiling brightly. 

"I'll make sure he behaves," he promised. "If he does anything bad, I'll tell Brother and Uncle." 

"Xichen-ge!" Nie Mingjue cried out, betrayed. "I thought we were friends!" 

"We are, but Nie zongzhu trusts us. Don't you, Nie zongzhu?" 

"I trust you most of all," Nie Huaisang said, amused as always by this too earnest second master of Gusu Lan. He almost laughed when Lan Xichen's face turned bright pink at his comment. It was always fun to compliment those Lans. "Lan Er-gongzi, please take good care of my little brother. I know you will be a good influence on him." 

Lan Xichen preened, until Nie Mingjue elbowed him in the ribs for this betrayal. This time, Nie Huaisang really couldn't help laughing. He exchanged a glance with Lan Wangji who also looked amused, in his own manner, while Lan Qiren just sighed and dismissed the two boys so grown-ups could speak in peace. Well, two grown-ups and Lan Wangji, who wasn't quite nineteen yet, but often behaved as if he were already in his seventies or more. 

"How are things in Qinghe?" Lan Qiren asked, inviting his guest to sit while Lan Wangji served tea for both of them. 

"Better these days," Nie Huaisang confessed. "We haven't had another plot against us since that last time. I think everyone is coming to term with me being in charge until Mingjue comes of age… And five more years isn't so much to wait." 

Lan Qiren nodded, knowing as well as Nie Huaisang what that sort of waiting felt like. Though of course, the circumstances were different. 

Lan Qiren's place within Gusu Lan could never have been contested, while Nie Huaisang was only the talentless son of a dancer turned concubine. On the other hand, Nie Huaisang would be truly free in five years, when his father's true heir could be crowned sect leader, while the best Lan Qiren could hope for was that in eighteen months Lan Wangji would become more involved in sect affairs, but Lan Qiren would remain regent unless his brother decided otherwise. 

Although Nie Huaisang got along well with Lan Qiren who was little more than a decade his senior, he was close friend with Lan Wangji who was only a few years younger. And so, for the sake of his younger friend's wellbeing, he hoped Qingheng-Jun would continue leaving the burden of power on Lan Qiren's shoulders. Lan Wangji deserved to have a free youth, or at least as free as his temper allowed. 

"How long is Nie zongzhu staying?" Lan Wangji asked, sounding hopeful. Or at least, Nie Huaisang gathered he was hopeful, he could be so hard to read. 

"I really only came to drop Mingjue," Nie Huaisang sighed. "Things are more stable, but I'd be a fool to stay away too long. But you must come visit me, Wangji. We haven't chatted in so long, you really must. I'm even willing to go on a Night Hunt if need be." 

A near smile appeared on Lan Wangji’s face at that offer, both of them knowing what it cost Nie Huaisang to say such a thing, but also that he really would if it was the only way to see his friend. 

-

It had not been the worst Night Hunt Nie Huaisang had ever been on, mostly because he'd let Lan Wangji do all the work. In exchange, he was the one paying all the expanses, and so had dragged Lan Wangji into a nicer inn than his friend would have picked. Someone had to spoil Lan Wangji, and Nie Huaisang was happy to do it. He hadn't managed yet to convince his friend to have a little meat, but the night was still young, and it was just the two of them since they'd requested to have their dinner served in their room. In private, Lan Wangji occasionally relaxed a little more. 

"So, I hear Mingjue’s making friends?" Nie Huaisang said, pouring himself some wine. "Those Yunmeng boys?"

"Jiang gongzi," Lan Wangji confirmed. "They have frequent arguments. They always make up." 

"It's good he's met someone with a temper to match his own," Nie Huaisang laughed. "Xichen lets him get away with too much. He writes to me, you know?" 

"Nie gongzi?" 

Nie Huaisang shook his head. "Mingjue wouldn't write to me if his life depended on it, the brat. No, I meant Xichen. That boy is adorable, he took it so seriously when I asked him to take care of Mingjue, and now he gives me updates. Wangji, you have the best brother, I want to trade."

"Hm. No." 

"How selfish!" Nie Huaisang whined. "Just you wait, in five years I'm free! I'll seduce Xichen, get him to the Unclean Realm with me… Then he can make sure Mingjue behaves, while I'll be painting all day." 

Lan Wangji rolled his eyes, before taking a sip of tea. 

"Oh don't worry, you wouldn't be left alone," Nie Huaisang said with a wide grin. "Maybe Wei Wuxian could be convinced to stay in the Cloud Recesses?" 

Instantly, Lan Wangji spit his tea on the table, glaring at Nie Huaisang who howled with laughter. 

"Huaisang!" 

"Blame your brother! He's the one who told me about it. I thought he was joking, but… Seriously, Wei Wuxian? Ah, Wangji, you'll always surprise me." 

Lan Wangji's glare intensified, as if the very idea of him liking anything about a brat like Wei Wuxian were an insult to his character. It would have been more credible if Nie Huaisang hadn't known his tell, and noticed his red ears.

"He's smart, and talented," Nie Huaisang noted, a little more seriously. "A brat, sure, but he'll calm down with age. I can't say he's my type physically, but you're entitled to your bad tastes." 

"A sect leader can't marry a man," Lan Wangji sternly noted. 

Nie Huaisang shot him a surprised look, shocked that Lan Wangji would even be thinking of something so serious. He would have to write to Lan Xichen about this. If Lan Wangji's crush was this deep already, they needed to help along. Propriety didn't matter much in the long run, Nie Huaisang had learned early. 

And besides, there was always Lan Xichen to give heirs to the Lan sect. 

-

Discussion conferences were never much fun. Those held in Nightless City, even less so. Nie Huaisang hated most other sect leaders, though he felt justified in that by the fact they didn’t like him much either, with the exception of Lan Qiren, who was an old family friend, and Jiang Fengmian, who was too weak willed to hate anyone. Everyone else treated Nie Huaisang like an idiot for his continued insistence that he would abdicate in favour of his brother as soon as Nie Mingjue was ready for it, never understanding that aside from his lack of interest for the job of sect leader, he would merely be obeying his father’s own wishes.

Nie Mingjue was their father’s true heir, Nie Huaisang’s only role was keeping the throne warm for him.

Of course nobody except Lan Qiren would understand that. A bunch of greedy, selfish fools the whole lot of them, who would have sold their own fathers and sons to grab a little more power. The worst, by far, were Jin Guangshan (who’d always taken the old Nie sect leader for an idiot, since he would never have recognised a bastard, let alone married the whore who bore it) and Wen Ruohan (who rumour said had murdered his own father indeed, and who had certainly killed Nie Huaisang’s, something for which he’d pay someday). If either of those two dropped dead before him, Nie Huaisang would only have laughed and left them to rot in the sun.

Which wasn’t to say that either of them knew that.

Nie Huaisang hadn’t survived years of internal conflict in his sect without learning a few things, and so he made sure to be especially polite to those two very powerful men. It annoyed Nie Mingjue to no end, but he wasn’t sect leader yet and couldn’t do anything about it.

And so, Nie Huaisang had to pleasantly talk with those two awful men while the juniors of all sects took part in an archery contest. It wasn’t Nie Mingjue’s greatest strength, but he did well for himself, so Nie Huaisang was determined to congratulate and praise him for his hard work. Meanwhile, Wen Chao had failed horribly and been eliminated very early on, which delighted Nie Huaisang more than words could have said, even if he forced himself to babble that surely it couldn’t have been anything but bad luck. Not that anyone really cared, anyway. The stars of the day were the Twin Jades of Gusu Lan and Wei Wuxian, who had done so well and would have been in the top three together, if not for some incident forcing Lan Wangji to give up.

When the contest was over, Nie Huaisang rushed to go meet his brother and his friends, eager to congratulate the boys… and to escape the grown-ups.

It amused him to find Nie Mingjue having an argument with Jiang Cheng, with Wei Wuxian laughing to the side and Lan Xichen watching them indulgently, like a benevolent older brother to those three terrors. And out of the four of them, Lan Xichen was the first to spot Nie Huaisang approaching.

“Nie zongzhu, were you looking for your brother?” he asked with a bow that the Yunmeng boys imitated. “Did you see how well he did in the contest?”

“Very well indeed,” Nie Huaisang agreed. “Though I found myself mostly watching you. I knew Lan Er-gongzi was a skilled archer, but this was amazing. I wouldn’t be surprised if the heavens had opened to welcome you as a martial god, you were simply brilliant.”

As always, Lan Xichen blushed at the heavy praise, which was the very reason Nie Huaisang did it. That boy always reacted so strongly to any little compliment, it was simply a joy to see.

Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes, and slapped his brother’s shoulder.

“You’re such an embarrassment, Da-Ge,” he muttered. “Can’t you behave normally sometimes?”

“Did I say something wrong? Lan Er-gongzi, did you feel insulted perhaps?”

“Not in the least,” Lan Xichen replied, his cheeks turning a brighter shade of pink. “But perhaps Nie zongzhu is… a little too generous in praising me. I only got the first place because Brother had to quit. Otherwise, he would have won for sure.”

“Second place wouldn’t be bad either,” Nie Huaisang insisted. “And having a calm character in the face of adversity is a quality in and of itself, one that I envy. Lan Er-gongzi just needs to accept that he is a very skilled young man. He wouldn’t have been picked as the first most eligible bachelor of this generation otherwise!”

This was, without a doubt, the brightest shade of red that Nie Huaisang had ever seen on poor Lan Xichen who clearly felt greatly embarrassed by that list that had started circulating some months earlier. It was a fairly accurate list though, and one Nie Huaisang could have written… except he would have placed his brother higher (seventh only was an insult) and removed himself from it (he was eighth only because of his current position as sect leader, and did not intend to ever marry if he could avoid it).

"You're such a creepy old man," Nie Mingjue grumbled, elbowing him in the ribs with more force than was really necessary. 

"Nie zongzhu isn't old, he's only twenty two, right?" Lan Xichen protested, before turning to the Yunmeng boys who had been watching them with great amusement. "That's not so much older than the rest of us, right?”

“It’s barely older than our sister,” Jiang Cheng conceded, always trying so hard to be polite even when it did not come to him easily. Nie Huaisang really hoped some of that would rub on Nie Mingjue over time.

“So it’s settled, Nie zongzhu is not old at all,” Lan Xichen decided. “Nie zongzhu should really spend more time with us, instead of other sect leaders.”

While Nie Huaisang couldn’t help laughing at that very tempting offer, Nie Mingjue glared at his friend. For some reason, Lan Xichen turned bright red once more and had to look away. Ah, he really was too cute, none of the other Lans were ever so sweet.

“I’d do so gladly, if I truly had a choice, but duty is a cruel mistress,” Nie Huaisang theatrically sighed. “In fact, I’ll abandon you again now. I only wanted to get a chance to congratulate all of you for your amazing performance. You’ve all done very well, and I feel lucky to have seen such talented young men perform like this. Now though, I must return to sit with boring old men and pretend there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

The four boys had the kindness of pretending they were disappointed to see him leave. At least, three of them had to be pretending. Lan Xichen was sweet enough that he might have been sincere in saying he wished Nie Huaisang could have stayed, though Nie Huaisang had no doubt they’d all have much better fun without him.

Ah, to be young and free.

Nie Huaisang wondered what that was like.

-

The news of the burning of the Cloud Recesses reached the Unclean Realm a few days after it happened, carrying with it grim rumours. Qingheng-Jun was either wounded or dead, his eldest son captured or dead as well, and as for the youngest, no one seemed to really know. Maybe he too was dead, leaving only poor Lan Qiren to pick up the pieces, as he had already done more than once now. If the political climate had not been so tense and the Wens so clearly looking for excuses to attack everyone, Nie Huaisang would have flown straight to the Cloud Recesses to check what had really happened and offer his support.

Just days after they heard about the Lans, a messenger came from Qishan Wen, ordering that twenty young people of Qinghe Nie should be sent to be taught properly in cultivation matters, among which one at least needed to be from the main clan itself.

Nie Huaisang, who was no fool, understood what that truly meant. The Wens wanted to have his brother in his power.

His first instinct, of course, was to refuse. He hadn’t spent six years protecting Nie Mingjue from coups and attacks within their sects just to hand him over to the people who had murdered their father, the ones who Nie Huaisang suspected to have supported at least one or two of those coups. And yet, after thinking on it for a few hours, Nie Huaisang realised that this choice, like many others, wasn’t quite in his hands. So he summoned his brother to the throne room, hoping that treating this like official sect business would make Nie Mingjue a little more willing to bend to his authority.

It did not quite work.

In fact, it did not work at all.

"I'm not letting you send me there as a hostage!" Nie Mingjue roared when Nie Huaisang announced his decision.

"I'm your sect leader and your elder brother,” Nie Huaisang pointed out, trying not to wince. This was going exactly as bad as he had feared. “If I give you an order, you have to obey." 

"Some sect leader you are," Nie Mingjue snapped. "Always bending before everyone, trying to stay on the good side of the man who murdered our father. If I were sect leader…" 

"Well you're not, not yet. And you'll never be unless I keep you alive!" Nie Huaisang shouted, before taking a deep breath to calm himself. "Mingjue, just because nobody has tried to kill me recently doesn't mean they've given up on it. If I resist Wen Ruohan and start a war, they'll turn on me, on us! And even if they don't, who would side with us against the Wens? Jin Guangshan covets our territories, the Lans are weakened, and Jiang Fengmian doesn't have the numbers to be of any use. Qinghe Nie is alone. We're alone, Mingjue. Please understand that. Please let me protect you."

Nie Mingjue glared at him and stepped closer. He’d grown a lot recently, and was slightly taller than Nie Huaisang. He was likely to keep growing, too, and would probably be as imposing a man as their father… if he stayed alive long enough for it.

Nie Huaisang begged any god that might be listening to keep his brother alive.

"Protect me?” Nie Mingjue spat, looking down at his older brother. “Are you sure you're not just sending me there to get killed by the Wens, so you don't have to pretend anymore that you'll abdicate in my favour? After all you've gotten so good at leading the sect, and I'm just a brat, who'd blame you for wanting me dead?"

Nie Huaisang slapped him. 

It wasn't a strong blow, and with their difference in cultivation and power, it couldn't have hurt much. In fact, Nie Huaisang’s hand probably stung more than his brother’s face. Still Nie Mingjue found himself stunned into silence and pressed a hand to his cheek. 

No matter how bratty, headstrong, or disrespectful he'd been before, Nie Huaisang had never once hit him until that day. At the same time, Nie Mingjue had always taken his brother's defence whenever someone accused Nie Huaisang of plotting for power, knowing full well how much it distressed his brother that anyone would think him capable of harming Nie Mingjue. 

"I hate you," Nie Mingjue hissed. 

"Hate me if you like, you're still going to Qishan," Nie Huaisang replied. 

"If you were a real sect leader, a real cultivator…" 

"Well I'm neither!" Nie Huaisang exploded. "I don't have the strength to start a war, and I even less have the power to fight in one! In four years, when you sit on that damn throne, you can declare all the wars you like, lead this sect however it pleases you! But until then it's me who decides how we're playing this game, and I say we are not going to give Qishan Wen an excuse to slaughter all of us!"

"I really hate you," Nie Mingjue retorted, still rubbing his cheek. "I wish your mother had never come to Qinghe." 

"I wish the same. I'd rather have been the obscure son of a whore than to lead this stupid sect for you. Now go and pack your things! I need to decide who else I'm sending." 

Nie Mingjue stormed away, cursing loudly and stomping his feet. Nie Huaisang waited until his brother was far enough, and collapsed on the throne, curling up on himself to cry.

He could have taken the whole world accusing him of scheming and being a bad brother. Even if Lan Wangji or those few Nie elders faithful to him had suddenly turned on him, he could have borne with it. But to hear that Nie Mingjue too doubted him after all was more than he could take.

It took him a long time to calm down, but he did eventually. And then, as he was quite used to doing, he pushed aside his feelings and set out to decide what would be the best way to protect his brother. Nie Huaisang stayed up all night making a list of nineteen Nie disciples who could be trusted to keep Nie Mingjue safe not simply from whatever the Wens had in store for them, but also from his own temper.

His brother would survive this.

Nie Huaisang refused to consider any other possibilities.

-

When Nie Mingjue and the other disciples returned, exhausted and on foot, Nie Huaisang ran to his brother and hugged him in the middle of the courtyard for an embarrassingly long time. It alarmed him when Nie Mingjue didn’t push him away or complain, as he’d started doing over any displays of affection these last couple of years. Instead, Nie Mingjue pulled his brother closer to him, as if needing the closeness as well. Later Nie Huaisang would worry about what might have caused this big boy of nearly seventeen to so desperately need a hug, but right then he just took this rare gift and enjoyed it while it lasted.

When at last Nie Mingjue reluctantly let him go, Nie Huaisang looked around at the other disciples. He frowned when he counted two missing, when he saw wounds on several of them. These boys were his, almost as much as Nie Mingjue, and it made his blood boil that anyone had harmed them. He quickly gave orders for the healers to check on them and food to be served for them, before dragging his brother to the privacy of his quarters to hear what had happened.

It worried him again when he sat on his sofa, and Nie Mingjue not only sat near him but curled up against his side, the way he used to do as a little boy.

Then his brother explained everything that had happened, the punishments, the threats, the slaughter in that cave, the monster, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian being lost to the world perhaps, the long run home, and… Nie Huaisang pulled his brother as close as he could. They both knew better than most how carelessly cruel Qishan Wen could be, but this was a new low.

“I shouldn’t have sent you,” Nie Huaisang whispered against his brother’s hair. “You were right, I shouldn’t have.”

“They’d have attacked us, like you said,” Nie Mingjue replied. “Wangji-ge said that they were well prepared when they came to the Cloud Recesses and would have killed all of them if Lan Qiren hadn't given in about burning the library.”

“We’re not Gusu Lan,” Nie Huaisang hissed. “We know how to fight back. I shouldn’t have risked you, I’m so sorry.”

Nie Mingjue only hummed in answer. After a moment he pulled back from his brother, looking horrifyingly serious.

“Da-Ge, do you think we’ll really have a war now?”

“If they attack us, we’ll defend ourselves,” Nie Huaisang replied. “If they attack our friends, we’ll come to help them. If they attack the Jins… I’ll send Wen Ruohan a basket of flowers in thanks, and then we’ll still prepare for war. I don’t think it can be avoided now.”

Nie Mingjue nodded. “I’ll help. I’ll fight, I’ll lead men, I’ll do anything you tell me. Anything except stay away from the fight,” he quickly added before Nie Huaisang could say a thing. “I’m not too young for it, and with their numbers you know we can’t spare anyone. If Wen Chao is standing at his father’s side, why shouldn't I stand at yours?"

The idea of Nie Mingjue in battle, of him facing not just monsters but actual people capable of far more harm than any supernatural creature, left Nie Huaisang breathless with horror. His little brother shouldn't have had to deal with that, not yet, not ever. Nie Huaisang’s soul screamed in protest. 

Most of his soul, anyway. 

The part of him that had been fighting daily to maintain power over Qinghe Nie so it wouldn't be stolen from Nie Mingjue saw this upcoming war as an opportunity. If they did well enough for themselves, if Nie Mingjue proved that he had the potential to make a great leader, the way Nie Huaisang knew he would be when his time came… It could buy them peace within their sect, turn a few more elders and ambitious cousins to their side. If they could be made to see Nie Mingjue the way Nie Huaisang saw him… 

It was a risk to take, but it'd be worth it if it worked. 

And between Nie Huaisang's cunning and Nie Mingjue’s everything, how could it not work? 

As long as they were together, Nie Huaisang felt capable of anything. 

-

Roughly a month into what they had dubbed the Sunshot Campaign, Nie Mingjue barged into his brother's tent, dragging behind him a bewildered young man by the name of Meng Yao. A new recruit into their sect, arrived in Qinghe Nie shortly before Nie Mingjue had escaped from the indoctrination camp. A young man who showed great promise, Nie Huaisang had thought, putting him among the troupes led by his brother. 

Nothing to do with the fact that Nie Huaisang had taken notice of Meng Yao for their similar backgrounds and, knowing how some of their disciples could be, decided to leave that young man under the protection of Nie Mingjue who did not tolerate anyone to be badmouthed for their origins. 

Nie Huaisang had expected that sooner or later his brother would talk to him about Meng Yao, hopefully in good. 

What he hadn't expected was Nie Mingjue demanding that Meng Yao be made his second in command right this instant. 

"Did Meng gongzi agree to this?" Nie Huaisang asked, deeply amused by the shock on the young man's face. 

"Why would he refuse?" Nie Mingjue retorted, so sincerely puzzled that it made his brother laugh. 

They had all seen some ugly things this past month, but Nie Huaisang was grateful that his brother hadn't been too changed by it yet.

"Please just ask that man what he wants," Nie Huaisang chuckled. 

Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes, as if his brother were acting obtuse on purpose, but he did ask Meng Yao whether he wanted the job or not. 

Meng Yao hesitated, which marked him as someone clever enough to realise the amount of responsibility he'd get if he said yes. But he did say yes, which spoke of a certain hunger for better circumstances that Nie Huaisang would have to keep an eye on. Ambition had never been a trait he liked in others, lacking it so much himself. 

"Well if everyone wants this, I can only agree," Nie Huaisang announced. "Welcome to this mess, Meng Yao."

"Thank you for this honour, Nie zongzhu," Meng Yao replied with a deep, elegant bow. "I will try to be worthy of it." 

-

The weeks that followed were both some of the hardest and the best that Nie Huaisang had ever lived through. 

He had not been confronted with such levels of fear and stress since the first year after his father's passing. At the same time, he wasn't alone to face it all this time. His brother was now old enough to fight some battles of his own, literally and metaphorically, which took a huge weight of Nie Huaisang’s shoulders. And Meng Yao, although dropped into this unprepared, had soon proven to be a great asset as well as a great friend. 

It had been so long since Nie Huaisang had made a friend. Not since his father's descent into madness, in fact. All those years he had only had Lan Wangji and Lan Qiren to turn to, and he liked both of them immensely, of course, but there was so much they simply couldn't understand. 

Meng Yao did.

He knew what it felt like to be the son of a mother only, no matter how glorious the father. He knew about disdain and fighting for respect, about needing to be better than anyone just to perhaps be treated the same. Meng Yao was the only person to understand what Nie Huaisang’s life was like, and he was ever so glad that his brother had decided to take a fancy to the young man. 

He hoped Meng Yao would stay with them for good, a perfect addition to their little family. 

He told Lan Wangji as much, a few weeks after Meng Yao's rise in ranks, too delighted by the way things were going to keep the joy to himself. 

They were technically meeting in the Nie camp to plan a joint attack by Lan and Nie forces, but Nie Huaisang refused to make any decisions until Nie Mingjue joined them and gave his opinion. He was the one who knew the field's situation best after all, and he generally understood military manoeuvres better than Nie Huaisang. So as they waited for him to return from a quick reconnaissance mission, Nie Huaisang did what he did best and chatted endlessly. 

Because Lan Wangji was always so quiet, it took Nie Huaisang a criminally long time to realise his friend seemed a little out of it that day. 

"How is it treating you, being sect leader?" Nie Huaisang asked. "To rise to power in such circumstances, that can't be… I can't imagine."

"It was similar for Huaisang," Lan Wangji soberly replied. "I have people to rely on." 

"Oh, right, I heard Xichen made it home safely! It must have been such a relief! I know I was worried for him. But him and the books were safe in the end, right? You must have been so relieved!" 

Lan Wangji nodded, quite earnestly, and yet something still didn't look right. It had to mean the reason for his melancholy was the last possible option. And that, sadly, also meant it was not something Nie Huaisang thought he could help with. Still, even just by lending a friendly ear… 

"So, I hear you were there when they found Wei Wuxian again?" 

Lan Wangji flinched at that name, visibly so. 

It had been barely two weeks since Wei Wuxian was found, but already odd rumours had reached Nie Huaisang, rumours that didn't quite fit the image he had of that brilliant but silly boy. The state in which Wen Chao's men were said to have been found was… 

"It must have been rough, hiding three months like that, or being a prisoner of the Wens," Nie Huaisang hesitantly said. "And after what happened in Lotus Piers… But I'm sure he'll be back to normal with a little time, and then you can go back to inefficiently flirting with him." 

"No." 

"Why not? Come on Wangji, I'll even help you!" Nie Huaisang offered, delighted by the idea. "I know that type, they flirt with everyone, but it takes them by surprise when someone flirts back. Just smile at him a little and I swear…" 

"No," Lan Wangji repeated, more insistently. "It is me or Xichen. I will not be my father. I will not take my brother's choice from him." 

Nie Huaisang blinked a few times, trying to understand what Lan Xichen had to do with anything. 

"Wait, Xichen likes someone ?" he gasped. "Oh. Who is it? Do I know her? Is she pretty? Had he started courting her?" 

"Him. Not yet. The circumstances aren't right." 

"Oh." 

Nie Huaisang pinched his lips, a little disturbed by the idea. He had nothing against men who preferred other men, having that taste himself. And even if he had liked only women, since he suspected that Nie Mingjue had a thing for pretty boys as much as girls, he could never have found that sort of preference disgusting. 

Still, it felt odd to him that Lan Xichen might have a crush on anyone. Perhaps that was because Lan Xichen had never once mentioned it to him. Not that they were close by any means, but they had written to each other so often that year Nie Mingjue was in Gusu, Nie Huaisang thought that Lan Xichen had come to see him as another brother figure, one in whom he might have confided more easily than in Lan Wangji. 

Clearly, he had thought wrong. 

"So what if you both like men?" Nie Huaisang said, choosing to ignore his discomfort when Lan Wangji’s was greater. "There's always the option of getting a concubine. My grandfather certainly did, and back then cut-sleeve weddings weren't half as accepted as they are now." 

"Concubines are frowned upon." 

"You Lans need to stop ruining your own lives. Get that Wei boy, Wangji, and let Xichen get… Who is it, anyway? Someone I know?" 

Lan Wangji threw him an unimpressed look, the one he had whenever he thought Nie Huaisang was acting obtuse on purpose. For once, it wasn't the case. Still, it meant that it had to be very obvious. Nie Mingjue, perhaps? But that seemed unlikely, Lan Xichen used to joke in his letters that he wasn't sure if Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng were arguing or flirting. That also took Jiang Cheng out of the picture. Wei Wuxian then? But no, Lan Xichen was so supportive of his brother's affections, it was impossible. 

Nie Huaisang was stumped. Aside from these three, he couldn't imagine who Lan Xichen would have been friendly enough with to fall for them. 

He was about to ask for clues when his brother stomped into the tent, followed closely by Lan Xichen and Meng Yao who both looked rather worried. 

"How nice of you to join us at last," Nie Huaisang noted lightly, as if this were a perfectly fine and polite way to come in. "Please Mingjue, sit down so we can commence." 

He gestured at a sitting cushion next to him, only for his brother to glare at him. 

"You need to write a recommendation letter for Meng Yao," Nie Mingjue ordered. "He wants to join Lanling Jin, but they've refused him before. They won't dare if he comes recommended!" 

Nie Huaisang felt his blood freeze. He tilted his head, trying to catch Meng Yao's eyes, but the young man refused to look at him. An admission of guilt in itself. 

"Meng Yao, I don't think that's a good idea," Nie Huaisang sighed. "Aren't you happy with us? Aren't we treating you well? You know how much we value you, you're the only person I trust to look after my brother. If you leave…" 

"He's Jin zongzhu's son," Nie Mingjue interrupted, as if that were news to Nie Huaisang. "He has a right to be in Lanling Jin! If they were stupid enough to turn him down before, I'd like to see them do that again, when he has the support of another great sect!" 

Nie Huaisang smiled without joy, full of affection and pity for his little brother. It must have been wonderful to be such a righteous and honest person that you couldn't understand that others weren't.

But Nie Huaisang had long ago learned how other people were, and so he could guess just how awful of an idea this was. First of all, Jin Guangshan was a man who loathed all his bastards, and hated being told what to do. Secondly, if Nie Huaisang were to give Meng Yao a recommendation, it would just be the son of a lowly concubine supporting the son of a prostitute. Between whores' sons, of course they would help one another, people might say, and then dismiss all of Meng Yao's skills because they had been praised by the wrong person. 

It would be such a disservice to Meng Yao. It would be sending him to people who wouldn't appreciate him the way Nie Huaisang did. 

It would be losing a friend, when he had so few. 

"Jin Guangshan doesn't like me much," Nie Huaisang said at last. "I'm not really sure…" 

"Please, Nie zongzhu," Lan Xichen pleaded, stepping forward. "It is really important to Meng gongzi. Maybe if Wangji too writes him a letter? After all, we owe him as well." 

"How so?" Nie Huaisang asked. He shot Lan Wangji a surprised look, but it was Lan Xichen who spoke again. 

"When Wangji sent me away with our books, I met Meng Yao who rescued me and protected me," Lan Xichen explained, smiling at Meng Yao who was looking more and more embarrassed. "Without his help and advice, I would surely have been caught by the Wens, and who knows what might have become of me." 

"He never said." 

Meng Yao risked a glance at his sect leader, and smiled weakly. 

"At that time, I wasn't sure who could be trusted with such sensitive information," he confessed. "And besides I wanted to be accepted for my own merit. I wanted a chance to truly prove myself, relying only on my skills and hard work." 

"And you did!" Nie Mingjue exclaimed. "So Da-Ge will write you a letter to present to Jin Guangshan. We'll be sorry to lose you, but family is what matters." 

Nie Huaisang pinched his lips. Nothing good could come of Meng Yao leaving them, he was one of theirs now, he belonged with them as surely as if they shared blood. 

But if Nie Mingjue truly wanted this, if he was certain of his decision… it was high time that he started becoming more involved in their sect's life, and this was part of it. Besides, what was the worst that could come from it? 

"I'll write you that letter, Meng Yao," Nie Huaisang promised. "I hope you find in Lanling what you seek. And if you do not… You are always welcome in the Unclean Realm. Tomorrow, in a year, in ten… You are our friend, Meng Yao, and leaving today doesn't mean you can't return later." 

And he would return, Nie Huaisang was certain of that. Still, the pain of losing this skilled collaborator, this valued friend, was compensated somewhat by the explosive joy of these three boys. Meng Yao bowed deeply in thanks, while Nie Mingjue broke the stoic persona he was trying to put on lately to hug his brother. As for Lan Xichen he smiled more brightly than Nie Huaisang had ever seen him before, saying again and again how grateful he was that Nie Huaisang was helping him repay his debt. In a very un-Lan manner, he even knelt next to Nie Huaisang and gave him a brief hug.

When Lan Xichen jumped back to his feet to return at Meng Yao's side, Nie Huaisang’s eyes met Lan Wangji, his friend once again giving him That Look. 

Nie Huaisang glanced over at Lan Xichen, so excited for his friend's good fortune, while a very overwhelmed Meng Yao could only stare at him with open gratefulness and affection. 

Oh. 

Well, that settled the issue, Nie Huaisang thought despondently. 

They would never have kept Meng Yao anyway. 

#xisangweek2020 #xisang #nie huaisang #lan xichen #mdzs #honestly there isn't that much xisang in this part oops? #it's mostly nie bros stuff #jau writes #Jau draws #age reversal au

[snowbellewells]

Self-Promo Sunday: “A Litter More Than They Bargained For”

Hey there friends and shipmates! I’ve taken a couple of weeks off on the Self-Promo Sunday posts, but I was looking back through some of my older pieces and found this fluffy one shot offering from a couple years ago. (It was part of the amazing @cspupstravaganza event in 2019.) I didn’t make it any cover art before, so I’ve added that to it as well. Taking place sometime post- season six; Hope is present and a toddler, but Henry is still there as well. That makes it canon divergent future fluff, I guess? Apologies if you’ve read this one before, but maybe you’ll get a little smile from revisiting it.

Also available on both AO3 HERE and on ff.net HERE

“A Litter More Than They Bargained For”

One pet she could have handled. One pet would have been perfectly manageable. A single, sweet-natured, reasonably well-behaved small pet - maybe a cat or a rabbit or even a hamster - wouldn’t have really changed anything about their lives in the seaside house or their daily routine that much. In fact, she and Killian had already been discussing a surprise for Hope in the form of a kitten from the litter her mom and dad’s barn cat had recently birthed, completely charming their pre-schooler upon her first visit to them at her grandparents’ farm.

Somehow, instead, all of Emma’s best-laid plans had been inverted and overturned, as so often seemed to happen in their chaotic magical town. When they had gone into the station that particular morning, they had found a large, mud-caked, burr-riddled dog tied to the bike rack and whining pitifully upon first sight of them. Emma was too disgruntled at the culprit for figuring out that their whole three person department were soft touches for strays as she charged foward to untie the poor beast, to even realize that the critter was already rooting into her affection. Needless to say, rather than their intended adoption, they had managed to take in a shaggy, slobbery mixed breed almost as large as a Shetland pony, with at least some Irish Wolfhound in its ancestry, according to the shelter attendant.

Gleefully mimicking that last declaration in her toddler voice, Hope had leaned over out of Killian’s arms to reach for where the huge hound lounged panting on the exam table, tongue lolling and tail thumping happily as she babbled, “Wolfie! Wolfie!” and patted along the dog’s back and shoulders as well as she could.

The thick, scruffy grey fur covering the animal’s lanky form did indeed resemble a wolf to some degree, and Kililan chuckled good naturedly at the easy moniker their daughter had seemingly bestowed. “Well, it would seem our little love has already christened her, Swan,” he commented lightly.

Emma wasn’t fooled by the casual demeanor covering her True Love’s words. She felt her last chance of finding a more suitable home for a dog of that size outside the town limits (preferably with acres for it to run) fade as she realized that her husband, as well as her little girl, was already attached. Killian wanted this dog more than he would admit.

Reaching out to stroke the gentle giant’s head resignedly, Emma reluctantly admitted to herself that the poor stray really was a sweet dog, despite her astonishing proportions and the amount of extra responsibility she herself would no doubt be taking on. “Hear that, Wolfie?” she questioned, looking the dog in the eyes rather than either member of her family, whom she could feel nearly vibrating with excitement beside her, “I guess you’re as good as ours.”

Henry only confirmed the permanence of the decision when he got home from the high school after his editors’ meeting for the school paper. Though a dog had never been something he had particularly asked for - they had spent so many of his growing up years being flung from one realm to another, either trying to rescue some member of their family, or seeking the needed magic item to fight some new villain, that it hadn’t left a lot of time for house training puppies or taking one for leisurely evening strolls. Still, as Henry came up the walk and saw Wolfie stretched out on the porch, Hope cuddled against her side and Emma and Killian curled together on the porch swing, the way her nearly adult son’s face had lit up and he’d rushed forward in excitement had shown Emma that kids didn’t really grow out of loving dogs, no matter their age.

Ruby, or perhaps the irrepressible brunette’s inner wild animal, seemed to find their new addition, and the rather obvious name Hope had latched onto, especially entertaining. Due to Wolfie’s size, the Jones clan now ate outside at the patio tables when they stopped for breakfast on the way to drop Hope off at Ashley Hermann’s Pumpkin Seeds Daycare, and before Henry took off for class and they headed on for the station. Her mother’s best friend didn’t even try to hide the fact that she saved back either bacon, sausage, or ham especially for Emma’s pet each day, laughing when after about a week Wolfie came to her the moment she exited the diner’s front entrance, before she could even reach their table, and began nosing at her pockets for the expected bounty.

However, it was Granny herself who startled them with a matter of fact question about a month after Wolfie had joined their family. The diner’s proprietress had come out to wait on them herself that morning, a real nip in the air as November neared, and explaining that Ruby was lying in for a while after the full moon the night before. Her half-spectacles perched on the very end of her nose, eyes sparkling with every bit as much pep and mischief as her exuberant granddaughter when she neared their table, sleeves rolled up to her elbows despite the chill and a pencil tucked behind one ear.

“The usual, Captain?” Widow Lucas asked with a playful nod to Killian, “or are you and your crew feeling adventurous this morning?” While awaiting their answer, she reached into her apron for her order pad, also pulling out a juicy ham bone for Wolfie.

“Here you are, darlin’ girl,” she continued, bending to offer it to their canine companion, much to Wolfie’s approving delight as she barked a ‘thank you’ and took the treat into her drooling jowls with an almost humorous care, then immediately dropped to hold it between her massive paws and began gnawing away.

When Granny stood to face them again however, a knowing smirk was painted across her face, taking their breakfast order seemingly long forgotten. “You don’t have a clue that dog is carrying a litter of pups, do you?” she asked, shaking her head at what she seemed to think was their dense naivete.

Crossing her arms, Granny watched a variety of reactions cross the four faces before her. Henry looked awed and curious, while Hope practically bounced on Killian’s knee asking, “Puppy? Puppy! We having a puppy?” 

Killian’s brows rose in surprise, and Emma was already shaking her head in disgruntled exasperation. “Really?” she sputtered, narrowly eying the diner owner as if she might be playing some sort of elaborate joke at her expense.

Then, plunking her head down to rest on her arms crossed on the table, she sighed as her daughter contiuned to chortle in delight and Henry and Hook laughed heartily, in spite of their manful efforts to hold back for her sake. “Why am I even surprised?” Emma muttered. “Of course, she is.”

***

From there, they learned that apparently the shelter owner did not have it out for them, but that it can be genuinely hard to tell when a dog is expecting until they are quite close to their due date. It also turned out that Granny’s lupine sixth sense had been right on the money. Within another couple weeks, they could see for themselves that Wolfie’s stomach was rounding and she was nesting in corners throughout the house, particularly favoring the warmth of the laundry room between the dryer and the wall. Seeing as how canine gestation was only eight or nine weeks from start to finish, and their mother-to-be was already showing, it was a bit of a scramble to prepare, knowing the litter of pups would soon be on its way.

As had become typical since Wolfie’s arrival, this too went well beyond what they had expected. On the night they returned from Hope’s Thanksgiving Play at the preschool to tiny yips and whimpers greeting them the second the door opened, the entire Jones family was stunned to discover eight small wriggling bodies jostling for place against Wolfie’s exhausted form where she lay curled into the mound of old blankets and towels they had created for her once her fixation on her laundry room nest become plain. Various rather wetly bedraggled and squirming balls of grey, black, white and mottled mixes of those three colors in coat greeted their eyes, prompting Killian to comment rather drily, “Well, now there are nearly enough of us to crew a pirate ship.” He chuckled, shaking his head, as he added, “Mayhap we can give them proper nautical names this time, rather than letting Hope call them the first word that pops from her mouth.”

“Paaa-pa!” their daughter protested indignantly, stomping her little foot on the linoleum tile and placing chubby fists on her hips. “I did not!” In her two braids, beaded headband, and fringed brown “Indian” dress from the play, she made more an adorable than a threatening sight as she intended, but Killian nodded to their daughter dutifully all the same. “My apologies, little lass. Of course you didn’t. I must have been mistaken.”

Emma rolled her eyes and shook her head at his mannered playfulness with Hope, though her heart warmed inside her as well, loving that their little girl had never known anything but a devoted, adoring, present father, who might have to be pulled back from spoiling Hope at times, but would never let her down or abandon her. The two of them could melt her every defense, just as Henry had always done. Even if it did sometimes leave her trying to be the voice of reason, Emma didn’t truly mind.

Henry, for his part, snorted inelegantly at their nonsense, crouching to pet a nervous-looking Wolfie on the head and scritch under her chin the way she liked. “Don’t worry, girl,” he mumured soothingly. “We won’t hurt them. You’re all safe here.”

Her son grew thoughtful for a moment, mulling something over, then looked up when he asked excitedly. “What if we did pick nautical names for them all? Like Jack and Jib and Scurvy?” He was grinning from ear-to-ear now, as his Author’s love of wordplay awakened - an expression Killian quickly mirrored.

“Aye, lad, those are great! And perhaps Scoundrel and Buccaneer as well?”

“Hey, hey, guys,” Emma broke in, trying to stop their now-steaming train before they got any more carried away. “Let’s not get too into naming them. The families who adopt them may not be looking for pirate dogs.”

But her husband and son were already on a roll, adding Barrie (in a nod to the Englishman who had created Killian’s literary counterpart) and Doubloon to the list of potential puppy monikers, and not paying her words the slightest bit of attention.

***

Finding homes for their doggie brood proved more difficult than Emma had hoped. If nothing else, it had worked out that they were being weaned just in time to join a family for the perfect child’s Christmas present. And, much as she had intended for them to have a quiet little tabby kitten padding after her through the house rather than a train of panting, yipping, running and tumbling balls of shedding fluff, the pups were sweet and incredibly cute. So she couldn’t understand how every time she thought she had someone poised to take one home, it fell through at the last moment.

With a sigh, she turned away from the sidewalk where old lady Hubbard was walking away. Still cradling Cutlass and Matey to her chest, one in each arm, Emma crossed the porch to sink onto the porch swing with a dejected air. She bent to press a kiss into each of their soft, fuzzy foreheads, murmuring what good babies they were and that it wasn’t their fault. Intellectually, Emma knew it was rather ridiculous to be trying to comfort two puppies who were now playfully rolling and tumbling in her lap, not the least bit concerned at the interview’s outcome. They really had been particularly good as their potential new owner had arrived to meet them; sitting calmly without barking or jumping up, sweetly licking the elderly woman’s fingers affectionately when she offered them, and looking even more adorable than usual with their coats freshly bathed and brushed, so black and silky that their fur nearly shone. All their neighbor had seemed able to focus on though was that they might get under her feet and cause her to fall. When Emma had spoken to her before, the older lady had seemed so anxious for some company now that the last of her many children had left the house, but once she had arrived to see the puppies, all she kept saying was, “I’m all alone out there. If I fell, I might lie for days, unable to get up, and no one would know.”

Emma shrugged her shoulders and ruffled the pups’ fur once again; annoyed, but not sure what to make of the situation. Standing, she was about to take the two little rascals back inside when Killian arrived home for the evening.

“They’re both still here?” he asked curiously, one eyebrow arched in question.

Something niggled at the back of Emma’s mind with his question, whispering that he didn’t seem especially suprised. Shaking her head in silent answer, Emma ushered man and dogs back into the house and headed toward the kitchen, where she still had all of the dog dishes to fill.

“Ah well, Love,” Killian replied, something about his voice just a shade too nonchalant. “Perhaps it’s for the best. As energetic as these scalliwags sometimes get,” he laughed and scratched Matey’s belly when she rolled over to bare it in supplication, “they might have proven a walking hazard to one of advanced years.”

Emma was about to question him further, shocked that Killian had hit on exactly what had stopped the potential adoption, but at that moment Wolfie and the other six of her offspring burst into the kitchen and set up a chorus of barks and howls for their dinner, toenails clicking on the floor and tails thunking against the cabinets. So it wasn’t until later that night, as she was speaking to her mother on the phone, bemoaning yet one more failed attempt at finding the pups permanent homes, that the niggling puzzle piece at last slid into place.

“Well,” Snow offered hesitantly, “I’m sorry it fell through, Sweetie, but you know Mrs. Hubbard isn’t all that steady on her feet these days…”

Suddenly, it all added up: Mrs. Hubbard’s unexpected concern with puppies tripping her up around the house, how Ashley had at first thought they might take one of the puppies, only to be convinced by someone that mice would be much more fitting for class pets at Cinderella’s daycare, and how Aurora and Philip’s second child, Hope’s little friend Rory, had suddenly decided she wanted a white Persian kitten whose hair she could put a pink bow in, “like ‘Rie from ‘Ristocats” Aurora had explained in her daughter’s own words when she’d called to tell Emma.

“Oh my word!” Emma shouted, startling her husband, kids, and the pile of dogs sprawled over them in the living room where they were watching tv. “It was you all, wasn’t it? My whole family has been working against me this entire time!”

Looking sheepishly guilty, Killian and Henry both wordlessly shook their heads in denial. Her mother floundered for a defense for a few seconds and then simply fled by ending the call. But when Emma’s eyes came to rest on her daughter, Hope merely grinned widely, a shameless glint of mischief in her green eyes, and nodded her head in confirmation.

“Why?” Emma sputtered.

“Then the puppies are all ours!” her toddler chirped happily, falling back against Wolfie’s shoulder with a giggle, to which Wolfie merely huffed at the impact, then nosed Hope a bit further from the edge of the couch, as if she had one extra pup to watch out for and was making sure the child didn’t fall.

“We’ll see about that,” Emma grumbled, staring each of them down in turn. But, when she flopped down on the armchair in the corner, trying to hold onto her righteous indignation, and Scoundrel came over to check on her, pawing at her leg until she picked him up, and then nudging his grey snout flecked with white patches into her armpit as he stretched out across her chest and promptly fell asleep, Emma was smart enough to know when she had lost the fight.

They were the family with nine dogs now - an entire seaworthy crew.

Tagging a few who may enjoy (or enjoy again!): @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @thisonesatellite @artistic-writer @hollyethecurious @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @thislassishooked @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @ohmakemeahercules @scientificapricot @gingerchangeling @teamhook @revanmeetra87@resident-of-storybrooke @elizabeethan @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @xsajx @donteattheappleshook @darkcolinodonorgasm @winterbaby89

#self promo sunday #cs oneshot #ouat canon divergence #future fluff ff #a litter more than they bargained for

[lorei-writes]

Virtue: Patience

Or a story of a certain return at the beginning of winter

Nobunaga x MC Fluff Content Warnings: none

Ahh, finally, I’ve been dying to post this for the last...The last... MONTH! @kamesama​ you were my victim! Have a Happy New Year and...! I hope I did well as your Secret Santa. 

Air pricked her fingertips, morning winds – not warm, yet not quite cool either – whirling between buildings, pulling few stray leaves remaining over the streets into pirouettes and carrying them above rooftops. Mai rubbed her hands together, hot breath warming her skin as she exhaled. Faint redness marking her ears and nose, she tightened the scarf around her neck, haori over her shoulders keeping her pleasantly warm. With a sigh, she turned around one last time, sliding door closing shut behind her as she abandoned the comfort of their shared castle, her day beginning with that very first step outside.

Air pricked her fingertips, morning winds – not warm, yet not quite cool either – whirling between buildings, pulling few stray leaves remaining over the streets into pirouettes and carrying them above rooftops. Mai rubbed her hands together, hot breath warming her skin as she exhaled. Faint redness marking her ears and nose, she tightened the scarf around her neck, haori over her shoulders keeping her pleasantly warm. With a sigh, she turned around one last time, sliding door closing shut behind her as she abandoned the comfort of their shared castle, her day beginning with that very first step outside.

Mai busied herself with work, hours beginning to slip between her fingers, the sun setting seemingly as soon as it had risen. Following a well-practised pattern, her fingers guided needle through layers of fabric, neat seams falling in place according to her plan. Her brows knitting together, she strained her eyes, light slowly becoming much too dim for her taste. She bit on her lip, her pace only increasing as her shoulders tensed, final touches being added with masterful precision by her – so very tired yet still dexterous – hands. The knot was tied off, the residual thread was cut off... Air held hostage in her lungs begging to be released, Mai exhaled sharply, her memory failing her whenever she tried to recall the precise moment she stopped her breath. Hurriedly, she folded the garment and rose to her feet, passing the door of her sewing room the very next moment, wishing to fulfil the last delivery of the day. Perhaps if she returned late enough, she’d… Patience is a virtue, she chastised herself for even considering the possibility and shook her head frantically.

If asked, she’d claim she had adapted to her life in Sengoku well enough, her goals and aspirations having crystallised in her mind long ago. It wasn’t exactly like what she envisioned herself doing, her future becoming past, clogs of time turning her desires somewhat anachronistic – yet she managed to find fulfilment in it, her creations bringing joy to others, just the way she wished for them to. The order held securely in her arms, wind played with her hair, a stray strand daring to try and obstruct her vision, her hand reaching to push it back into its place behind her ear. Her brows knitting together, Mai stole a glance at the sky, houses she passed on her way lighting up on the inside. She picked up her pace.

Another greeting, another praise, a happy customer she hoped to see again – and yet, when she stepped out onto the streets again, Mai suddenly felt summer creep into the air, as if a wormhole opened somewhere nearby just to invite it into her world. Frosty wind sped past her, prompted to life by a sea of horses rushing towards the castle gates, hundreds of hooves drumming against the ground. Snowdrops of familiar pennants grew around her, the crest she was waiting to see blooming over them. Whinny, and laughter, and shouts, and bickering – a joyous cacophony unlike anything else she had experienced in her old life, forming a melody just for her to indulge in. The head of the column flickered away, lights seemingly glowing brighter upon it passing them – and he shone, his black armour reflecting warm yellow lights, ember-like sparks inviting themselves to dust over his form. Mai ran.

Patience is a virtue, she had to remind herself, each step bringing her closer to seeing him again. Her elbows pushing through the crowd, she shouted her apologies, faces of passers-by disappearing in the overall commotion of her surroundings. Cold nibbled at her skin – and yet she felt warm, only the fire materialised in a form of a human far ahead of her mattering in the moment. Her chest burned, the crowd gradually thinning out as the division approached the castle gates, the bridge trembling under the impact. Surrounded by soldiers from all sides, Mai leaned against the railing, her body forcing her to rest as her lungs struggled for breath.

As if she called him, Nobunaga turned around – and he stood high, still seated in the saddle over the black horse, certain kind of longing igniting his carnelian eyes. He saw her, from over the bridge and through the crowd, despite dim lights and conversations that would muffle her regardless of how hard she would try. Nobunaga dismounted, his voice rising above the crowd as he gave his orders, his legs seemingly moving on their own to carry him to her. Their eyes locked – and it was quiet, at least in this snippet of the universe between them, her arms moving to cross behind his neck, as if to traverse the distance that kept them separated in both time and space. “Welcome home,” Mai uttered, a few more words getting stuck in her throats. I missed you, you ass. “I’m home,” his voice rumbled through his chest, his embrace tightening – although he seemed to have somewhat relaxed, stiffness melting away from his form.

Voices broke past the obliviousness surrounding them, reminding them of what was yet to be done before they could retreat for the night. Reluctantly, they broke apart, his hand lingering over her shoulder a little longer than it should have, as if to protest against the decision of its owner. “It will be over soon,” Nobunaga whispered, redirecting the entirety of his power to turn away.

Patience is a virtue. Yet she despised the idea of waiting any longer. It couldn’t have been helped, however, that much she was aware of – ruling came with its set of privileges, the price being equally grand if one were to treat their duties seriously. Minutes stretched into hours, quarters becoming weeks – or so it felt, her mind tricking her to believe the corridor ahead of her was vaster than the world itself. Mai sighed, letting her fingers comb through her hair, no pins keeping the strands from falling down her shoulders and over her yukata. Soon, she tried to soothe herself, soon.

Mai closed the door behind herself, a faint laughter startling her. She turned around abruptly, Nobunaga already waiting for her inside, a cup of sake in his hand. How..? Had she taken that long to get ready for bed? She blinked fast, a smile she’d rather keep to herself finding its path to come over her face. Having snuck inside through the balcony, a wind pushed her forward. Without thinking, she reached for the cup, pressing its rim against his lips a moment later – and then followed with hers, her eyes catching a glimpse of surprise hidden in her lover’s features. Straddling him, Mai let her arms cross behind his neck, alcohol burning her tongue. The beverage having disappeared, she hummed into the kiss, his hands falling onto her hips to draw her closer. She gasped, his attention turning towards her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as frost from outside crept up her calf…

Frost. Mai opened her eyes, her head snapping to the side. “Fireball?” Nobunaga asked, looking up at her. He followed her gaze carefully, a certain emotion he couldn’t quite decipher pooling in her irises. Her fingers pressing into his shoulders, he waited for her to reveal what troubled her – until he realised he had misunderstood the situation, her entire form appearing to shift as to embody delight. White specks flew inside through the balcony door, circling above the ceiling before inevitably melting upon contact with the first object in their way. One by one, they became more daring in their conquest, a single snowflake finally finding courage to oppose the very lord of this domain. Gracefully, it landed on the very top of Nobunaga’s head. The blow was fatal, the universe collapsed – although not so much from the direct impact, but from her laughter, her lips curling up as body form shook, her hands already pushing her up and away from him, her feet rushing her outside. His enemy appearing to slow him down, Nobunaga struggled to hurry after her, the distance between them only growing… Perhaps he didn’t mind.

He didn’t need any source of light to see her – her eyes were brighter than any and all of the stars above them combined, shining with desire and emotion he wished he was able to match. Her lips parting slightly, Mai rested her back against the railing and leaned over it, her hand reaching for his. Nobunaga accepted it without question, holding it securely as not to risk letting her fall. “It’s beautiful,” she gasped, turning her gaze towards the city below them, life seemingly buzzing between the buildings as humans huddled for warmth. However, he didn’t reply. Mai straightened her back, their fingers entwining as he pulled her forward – and she wanted to ask, to see whether everything was well, but she couldn’t have, the loving affection in his eyes causing her to blush. His arms closing around her waist, Nobunaga turned her around, his cheek pressing to the side of her head as he hugged her from behind. “It is, indeed,” he let out a soft light. “Yet you’re equally fascinating, Fireball.” Mai burst out laughing, hiding her lips behind her palm. “Oh? How come?” she teased him, her hair tickling his neck. “Because I could have all the stars in the world, but it is the joy in your eyes that I would never get tired of watching.” Sudden honesty – flattery? – caught her off guard, hot blush spreading to the very tips of her ears. “I think we should drink a toast then. Or perhaps hot tea would be more fitting…” she trailed off, her voice but a low hum. “I want to watch it a little longer.”

Steam rose into air, hot stream flowing out of the kettle and into the cups resting over the tray. Seated onto the balcony floor, they leaned into each other, a blanket thrown around their shoulders keeping cold at bay as they huddled for warmth. Snow shimmered, stray lights prompting it to glow as it dusted their forms. Somehow, he still held her hand in his.

***

It seems lakes have frozen over completely, just the way we discussed.

It will take me another day or few more, but I shall find time for us to go and “skate”.

Prepare yourself. I won’t have frost marking your skin.

I missed you the entire time I was gone and I do intend to make up for that.

I want to see your joy, Mai.

Nobunaga

Tag list: @datenoriko​, @nad-zeta​, @tsubaki3192​, @jiyuu-chan​, @missjudge-me​, @ikemencrossedmyth​, @plumpblueberry​ , @nimeryaa​, @nuttytani​, @thesirenwashere​, @milas-imaginarium​, @kisara-16​, @yukas-clover​, @alerialumina​ , @cheese-ception​ , @iamryxx​, @cottonfluffballofdoom​​ ,  @mineko811​ If you want to be tagged under my future works, let me know (any way works)! ^^ Also, if you have some preferences (for example: you’d rather not be tagged under some series, etc.), please, tell me.  If you don’t want to be tagged anymore - please, do not feel bad about it, just say so :)

#nobunaga oda #ikesen nobunaga #ikemen sengoku nobunaga #ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikemen series #my ff #my writing #secret santa

[atruththatyoudeny]

Monthly Reads | October 2020

Happy 28th! I probably sound like a broken record already but I have to say it again: this fandom has an insane amount of talented writers! I am in awe! Every single one of you is my hero! ♥♥♥ Here are all the 23 fics I read and loved this month:

✧ Welcome to The Rivalry | 2tiedships2 | a/b/o - strangers to lovers - enemies to lovers - rivalry - college - 19k “Welcome home!” Niall yelled, clapping his hands in excitement. “Isn’t it great?” Louis looked between Niall and the house, unsure how to respond. “I don’t understand,” Louis finally managed to say. “Aren’t we a little old to be living so close to campus?” Niall scoffed. “You’re only twenty-four for fuck’s sake. There is still plenty of partying left for us to do. What better place than one street over from where a car was set on fire after the Michigan game last year?” “Is there proof of that? Did the car have Michigan plates or something? Is there a photo I can send in a DM to Wolfie?” As if on cue, a Twitter notification popped up on Louis’ Apple watch. He had tweeted again. Or a reverse You’ve Got Mail au inspired by the Ohio State/Michigan rivalry. Featuring duplex neighbors, (kind of) enemies to lovers, and an anonymous Twitter feud between omega Louis and alpha Harry.

✧ Back to Seventeen | crimsontheory | teacher - soccer coach - 26k As a first grade teacher in a small town in Illinois, Harry’s life is pretty simple. He loves his job, is close with his family, and has a best friend he would go to the ends of the earth for. When a new soccer coach starts at the local high school, things start to get a bit more exciting for Harry. Because that coach just happens to be Louis Tomlinson; the guy Harry was unrequitedly in love with in high school. Or the one where Louis moves back to his hometown and Harry realizes he’s still not over his high school crush.

✧ Sigh for Sigh | logogram | historical - a/b/o - regency - miscommunication - pining - marriage of convenience - 11k When his father's sudden illness forces Harry to get married in a hurry, he's delighted that Lord Louis Tomlinson is the one who makes him an offer. Being married to Louis is just as wonderful as he imagined, except for one thing-- they haven't mated yet. Or the one where they're both idiots, Harry's afraid to say what he's thinking, and Louis's just trying to be honorable.

✧ We Can Find a Place to Feel Good | yeah_alright | 1960s - High School - school dances - 8k 14-year-old Harry is ecstatic to finally be old enough to experience the time-honored tradition of school dances. But with each year that passes and each dance he attends, he’s realizing they’re not all he used to hope they’d be. Especially when he can't actually dance with the person he most wants to. Maybe he and Louis can figure out their own ways to keep dancing, anyway.

✧ At Risk, I Fold | clare328 | canon compliant - established relationship - angst - emotional hurt/comfort - miscommunication - anxiety - implied/referenced alcohol abuse - 15k 2015 is a stream of hotel rooms and whisky on the rocks, tired glances and touching hands under tables. It’s the bears and the bees under a rainbow sky, and Harry and Louis have to figure out how to grow up together, instead of apart.

✧ Carry These Feelings | LadyLondonderry | fae Á faires - established relationship - magic - 3k Harry is one of the fae, and has to return to Court once a year to please the Queen. He makes a detour on his way home to Louis. Two weeks and I'll be home.

✧ Hung Up High in the Gallery | lovelarry10 | friends to lovers - slow burn - pining - 14k "Louis, lay still!” Louis sighed loudly, and Harry watched his chest puff out as he inhaled deeply, the breath he let out loudly making Harry’s curls shift. “I am, stop being so fussy. Can I see yet?” “Nope,” Harry remarked, smiling to himself. “I’m doing your chest next. Shit, this is going to look so good, Lou. Your tan and these colours… why haven’t we done this before?” “Because we haven’t been this drunk in a while, and it never occurred to me until tonight?” ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ When Harry’s best friend, Louis, comes to support him at his art show, he decides they need to do some celebrating afterwards. How fast do the lines between friends and lovers get blurred ... or better, get painted?

✧ Love you in the dark | Perzikje | historical - wedding night - arranged marriage - dubious consent - 10k The story of a historical wedding night: in which Louis is quite unaware as to just how clueless his brand new husband is about sex. They try their best to figure it out together.

✧ Victorian Boy | audreyhheart | historical - victorian - royalty - enemies to friends to lovers - slow burn - angst - murder mystery - 101k Victorian AU. Harry the virgin Duke of Somerset knows little of love, while Louis the sly Duke of Warwick knows too much. When the two dukes come together for the Bilsdale fox hunt in York, Harry finds himself drawn into Louis' bed. But when secrets from Louis' dark past come to light, Harry fears that the fox isn't the only one being hunted.

✧ the anticipation of knowing you | sweetrevenge | strangers to lovers - neighbors - light angst - 13k Hello Neighbor! Just wanted to let you know that you were having sex so loud and scarily I called our building manager and security officer because I thought you were hurt. P.S. I sent them away when I heard you yell ‘cock’. I’m sorry that I heard that, but I wanted you to know in case they stopped by to check on you or something. Sorry! Your neighbor Louis Tomlinson in apartment #306 After Louis overhears his next door neighbor having sex, he doesn’t really expect anything but awkward hallway encounters to come from it. Instead, he’s surprised to find himself in a whirlwind pen pal relationship with the sweet, albeit loud, baker next door.

✧ We'll Be All Right | dandelionfairies | married couple - accridents - 13k Harry is performing his one night only show in LA but there are four very important people missing.

✧ The Last Song of Your Life | reminiscingintherain | famous/not famous - Rays of Sunhsine - homophobia - 21k As Harry glanced around at all of the faces, he froze as a very familiar pair of blue eyes leapt out at him. A pair of eyes that he hadn’t seen since before the One Direction bomb exploded. A pair of eyes that he never expected to see again. ~~~~ or the famous/not famous AU, with first love, miscommunication, interfering bandmates, and adorable little sisters.

✧ Her | jaerie | a/b/o - trans character - transitioning - dysphoria - anxiety - quarantine - 7k The buttery swipe of a high quality lipstick was almost a sexual experience in and of itself. This time a deep colour with purple undertones which drew out the emphasis of long, dark lashes and perfectly contoured cheekbones. It was a look for loose and styled curls, feeling the classy formal nightclub vibes reflected back from the mirror. The silky plum coloured slip dress would be perfect to debut. The tags still needed to be cut free from the new garment that hung in the closet, but tonight was the night to set it free. When Harry gets home, she can finally be who she wants to be. Letting someone else in always feels like a distant daydream to her... until it suddently isn't.

✧ Loving You's the Antidote | lululawrence | Stylinshaw - a/b/o - touch deprivation - hospitalization - soulmates - polyamory - anxiety - friends to lovers - no smut - 11k Nick and Harry had never been an obvious match. When eighteen-year-old Harry, newly presented as an omega, came home freshly bonded to Nick, a man nine years his elder and a beta no less, Anne had been more than skeptical and Eileen had shared some harsh words of her own. That didn’t deter them, though, and their families soon realised there really was something special about the bondmates that allowed them to work together almost seamlessly. It was only a few months later that Harry started getting sick. Or the one where Harry and Nick have been able to keep Harry's disorder at bay over the course of their relationship, but when they move to London and away from their support system, they find themselves in desperate need of help.

✧ Like A Neon Sign | reminiscingintherain | canon compliant - mentions of death - fluff - 8k Harry had always been perfect to Louis, through every age, through every stage, and in all the important ways, he was proud to have been able to witness the growth that Harry had experienced first-hand.

✧ We Had Everything | lightswoodmagic (sarah_writes) | exes to lovers - getting back together - famous/not famous - 3k “You know Harry’s coming, yeah?” Louis’ fingers twitched, faltering where he was straightening the knot in his tie as he tried to ignore the false nonchalance in Zayn’s voice. He had no idea how he missed the name on the invite list, how he skipped over the initials on the small gifts, didn’t notice the elegant swirl of Harry’s name inked onto an emerald green place card. Or, Louis and Harry fell apart, and Louis' never forgiven himself. He gets a second chance at Zayn and Liam's wedding.

✧ True To Your Heart | reminiscingintherain | Mulan AU - a/b/o - 13k The world was at war with itself. In the small country of Enilenif, in a tiny, often overlooked corner of the world, young Alphas were quickly signing up to fight, desperate to protect their Omegas and their country as Aidem began to attack their borders. A few defiant Omegas tried to enlist as well, but were firmly turned away with disapproving looks by the staff in the office. Harry Styles was one such Omega, sighing heavily as he kicked at a small stone on his walk home.

✧ What the Water Gave Me | larryatendoftheday | fantasy - mermaids - long distance relationship - 29k When a mermaid crawls out of the sea to listen to Harry sing, it changes everything.

✧ it’s hard for me to go home | localopa | angst - breakup - getting back together - 5k don’t call me baby again

✧ The Prince and the Thief | jaerie | Fairy Tale - a/b/o - strangers to lovers - violence - kidnapping - threats of rape/non-con - 19k Harry is an omega prince locked in a tower and Louis is the thief sent to kidnap him. Nothing turns out as planned.

✧ Up On The Shore | wordsnnotes | Eroda AU - magic - epistolary - friends to lovers - childhood friends - emotional/psychological abuse - angst - long-distance relationship - domestic violence - 34k Magic has been outlawed on Eroda ever since President Cowell came into power, and all the magic people had to go live on the island of Stonell. Things are not looking good for Harry when he finds out he's a magician and his abilities seem more and more out of control. Thankfully, his best friend Niall's mother has the idea to put him in touch with Louis, a magician boy living on Stonell. They begin a secret correspondence and drama ensues. Or: Louis hides his feelings under sarcasm, Harry is too sweet for his own sake, everyone is a rebel, the mums are amazing, Harry's dad is a jerk, and I'm struggling to make it understandable without using normal narration.

✧ this town's just an ocean now | louistomlinsons | exes to lovers - friends to lovers - summer romance - miscommunication - childhood friends - light angst - fluff - 31k “I have really great friends. Do you remember Louis? You guys were always hanging out when you were growing up.” Harry remembers Louis. Harry remembers Louis. Suddenly, his throat feels way too dry, despite the ice cream he keeps licking at. He chokes a little on a chocolate chip before saying, “I, uh. I remember Louis.” Her face brightens. “We have dinner every Sunday. He owns the house now. His parents moved further north, and he wanted to stay here, so they just gave it over. Now if you want to worry about someone being lonely, that’s who I worry about.” inspired by watermelon sugar, featuring picnics on the beach and boys being dumb

✧ I Am the Blinking Light | dearmrsawyer | ghosts - shipwreck - 19k There is a legend of a lighthouse far out to sea. It can’t be found on any map, and those who do find it never return. They say a ghost haunts the lighthouse, and you can hear it calling out in loneliness on the ocean waves.

#28th appreciation #fic rec #my fic rec #monthly reads #completed fics #larry fics

[the-psychopathist]

Kilgrave Analysis

I finally finished season 1 of Jessica Jones and I had to make an analysis of this version of the Marvel villain Kilgrave (known as The Purple Man in the comics), real name Kevin Thompson in the tv series, played by David Tennant. Without further ado let’s deep in!

Kilgrave, born Kevin Thompson, developed a severe brain malfunction at a young age and was fated to become brain dead. His parents, both scientists, tried to save him with experimental treatments. But those treatments were extremely painful and even inhumane. We are first introduced to Kilgrave’s backstory through a video of him as a child, seemingly getting abused for the sake of some cruel experiments only by his parents, which are portrayed as “mad scientists”. This revelation may have brought some sympathy to Kilgrave, thinking that he was an abused child brutalized by cruel parents, but we learned later that Kilgrave lied. His parents were actually trying to save him and didn’t abandon him right after. After the experiments cured Kilgrave and gave him his mind control power, they stayed with their child and took responsibility for their actions. Young Kilgrave abused his power on them, mind controlling his parents to satisfy every of his whims, regularly throwing tantrums at them and hurting them. He forced his mother to burn her own face with a stream iron. At some point it was too much for his parents who feared for their safety and they ran away, leaving their son to survive on his own.

But, even if Kilgrave lied about certain parts of his past, it doesn’t mean his grudge against his parents was unjustified. From his perspective as a young child, his parents were torturing him. The fact they were trying to save his life doesn’t change how painful, frightening and traumatizing the experiments done on him were. We even see him panicking when he sees the video of himself getting abused. It’s normal that he grew resentful of his parents and felt like they didn’t love him and only cared about their work. With his new power, it’s not that surprising that a grudgeful and traumatized kid would have used it to get revenge on his parents, who he viewed as his abusers. And after being actually abandoned by them (although it’s understandable from their perspective), Kilgrave’s grudge only grew stronger, as well as his feeling of not being loved. He was left to survive on his own, using his power to force people to give him shelter and feed him. Honestly, it’s not that surprising that he ended up as a remorseless and unempathetic monster growing up, given his pasts and his power to literally bend anyone to his will. No wonder he ended up as a selfish prick who thinks the world revolves around him, as it literally is from his perspective.

Kilgrave confessed that he never knows when people are just acting upon his words of if their actions are from their own free will. His power most likely isolated him from others and prevented him from creating genuine bonds with others. People are basically just tools for him to satisfy his needs so he stopped seeing them as human beings. He doesn’t care about their feelings, their needs, their pains. Only his needs and feelings matter. This made him callous and remorseless, as well as causing him a serious lack of empathy and complete disregard for human lives.

When Jessica asked him if he does have a conscience or regrets his actions, he said that he does have a conscience, but that his was “selective”. Throughout the series he never showed any consideration for anyone other than himself and at a certain degree, Jessica. So it’s not that Kilgrave is unable to feel empathy, more that he became so desensitized to others’ feelings that he can’t empathize with them anymore. But it’s not impossible for him to feel a certain amount of empathy as shown with Jessica. Though this empathy has limits and he doesn’t seem to have any issues with trying to harm or kill her if it benefits him or on a whim if she enraged him. He did seem intrigued by the idea of becoming a hero, but that was just a way for him to be closer to Jessica and for his own self-satisfaction to have people be genuinely grateful to him, which he never experienced before. It just feeds his narcissistic nature.

Another characteristic of Kilgrave is his complete inability to accept any responsibilities for his actions. He forced people to kill themselves numerous times yet refused to be called a murderer. Even if they had no other choice to obey him and end their lives, he doesn’t accept the blame. He’ll blame them for being an inconvenience to him or say that he just removed nuisances from society. He also forced Hope to kill her parents as a way to get revenge on Jessica, blaming her for their death. He was apparently totally unaware that he was a rapist. When Jessica rightfully confronted him about raping her, he was genuinely shocked. He really didn’t even consider that what he was doing was rape. He denied the accusation, saying that he brought her to nice restaurants and hotels. He refuses the label of murderer and rapist because it would be like admitting his wrongdoings and he can’t. He wants to be seen as a victim and blame others for his actions.

Kilgrave is also a big egomaniac and narcissist. He’s a selfish man who doesn’t take insults against him lightly. The first time we actually saw him, he forced a rather wealthy family to shelter him, not only ordering them to let him in and feed him, but also added that they are “delighted” to have him as a guest. When Trish insulted him on radio he sent someone to kill her and after she apologized live, he was pleased enough to let her live. As mentioned earlier, he was shocked and upset when Jessica called him a rapist, thinking that she should be grateful that he brought her to nice restaurants and hotels. To him, it’s an honour to be with him. He doesn’t accept the slightless disrespect towards him and will make sure the person who dared insulting him will pay. Upon learning about Jessica’s relationship with Luke, Kilgrave felt deeply offended that she chose Luke over him, even accusing Luke of sabotaging his relationship with Jessica.

He also seemed to have abandonment issues. He resents his parents for abandoning him and, according to him, not loving him. This feeling seems to have worsened after meeting Jessica. After Jessica broke from his control and left him to die after being hit by a bus, Kilgrave felt abandoned by her. He grew to resent her and be obsessed with her. He meticulously planned his revenge against her, using Hope to do so and forcing her to kill her own parents to hurt Jessica. When he managed to convince Jessica to live with him in her old house, he grew extremely worried that she might leave him again. 

That brings us to Kilgrave and Jessica's relationship. When he first met her, Kilgrave was attracted to her beauty, but also mainly intrigued by her power. Just like him, she was special. “But underneath it all the power, just like me. Though not quite as good, of course” was what Kilgrave told her. It seemed that for the first time, Kilgrave might have found someone he can relate to, someone similar to him… but, he felt the need to say “not quite as good”, showing his narcissistic side and his incapacity to see someone as a genuine equal. Despite that, we can see that Kilgrave valued Jessica differently than his other victims. He kept her for months as his “lover” (sex slave) and genuinely believed himself to be the perfect gentleman with her. At some point he even didn’t give her any orders for twelve hours, to test her loyalty and if she truly loved him. For him to even consider that, he must be delusional or desperate for Jessica’s love. For someone to actually love him. And given that Jessica is similar to him, he feels like maybe she can accept him. Kilgrave remembered this event in his own twisted reality, thinking that for the 18 seconds Jessica wasn’t under his control, she was acting true to herself, therefore actually loved him. In reality, Jessica actually tried to escape but was too slow. As a punishment, Kilgrave ordered her to cut her own ears: "You never appreciate anything I do for you. If you can't listen to me you don't need ears... Cut them off”.

Right when Jessica started to cut her ear, he changed his mind and told her to stop, gently hugging her. Kilgrave never seemed to have changed his mind when he decided to mutilate someone. I wouldn’t say he had guilt, but that he does care a little bit about Jessica. In his mind, he rewrote this memory and convinced himself that Jessica stayed with him and that she loved him. Obviously, it’s important for him to feel that someone loves and stays with him willingly, as he was never able to experience that in his life due to his power.

After Jessica broke from his control he became obsessed to get her back. He felt once again abandoned and unloved. When he finally managed to meet with Jessica again, he confessed her love to her and promised he wouldn’t use his ability on her anymore. He bought back Jessica’s childhood house without forcing the current owner to leave as a sign of good faith. He then made sure that everything is the same as when Jessica was still living there, showing his deep obsession about her. Jessica agreed to go live with him in her old house, but simply to get a confession out of him for the murder of Hope’s parents. Kilgrave is completely delusionned, convinced that he can make Jessica fall in love with him and stay with him willingly with such overconfidence. He still used brainwashed people to make sure Jessica doesn’t try to leave or hurt him and became really worried when Jessica went on a walk, showing again his fear of abandonment.

But we learned later that he didn’t promise to not use his power on Jessica out of sympathy and concern for her, but because he knew his power didn’t work on her anymore. Well, maybe he wasn’t sure, but he had a doubt, and trying to use his power on her and failing would have revealed to Jessica her advantage over him. He had to keep control, so telling her he won’t use his power anymore preserves the illusion of power he has over her and makes him look more sympathetic and in good faith. Obviously, if he was sure he could use his power on her, he would have done it without a second thought.

When Jessica deceived him and kidnapped him, interrogated him, tortured him in order to get a confession, he grew resentful against her. When confronted by his parents, he snapped, telling them how much he felt abandoned. After his mother tried to kill him to stop his rampage, he ordered her to stab herself as many years she had abandoned him, killing her.

He tried to manipulate Jessica, convincing her that she loves him and stayed with him on her own free will when he didn’t use his power for twelve hours, until she revealed to him that she just didn’t have the time to escape. This broke Kilgrave's delusion that Jessica loved him all along. Feeling unloved and abandoned once again as well as having his massive ego hurt, Kilgrave became angry at Jessica and started trying to kill her. He forced her to watch her crush Luke blow himself up and mind control him to attack her, as well as using his father’s knowledge to make his power stronger in hope he can control Jessica again. He seems to keep changing his mind between killing Jessica or getting her back, showing how impulsive and unstable he can be. He did say his conscience (empathy) is selective, and Jessica seems to be the only one he cared about, and here we can see how easy it is for him to not care anymore if it benefits him. He even said that he would enjoy killing her but still hesitate if he truly wants to kill her, control her, or break her heart.

He eventually tried to use his power once again against Jessica and seemed to have succeeded. Kilgrave thought that Jessica was playing him so he controlled Trish, forced her to kiss him and claim he will make her her slave and rape her everyday to make Jessica react. Much to his surprise, Jessica didn’t move, making him believe that his power worked again on her. He is rejoiced, ordering Jessica to smile for him, which she does. He then told her to not worry and that she’ll come to love him as he loves her, somewhat trying to comfort her and again craving Jessica’s love. But turns out, Jessica wasn’t under his control, she grabbed her neck and out of irony told him to “smile” before she breaks his neck, killing him. His obsession for Jessica and desperate need for her to love him caused his undoing.

Throughout the series, Kilgrave has been referred to as a “psychopath”, a “sociopath” and “psychotic”. Do any of those terms adequately describe him? Well, medias tends to misuse mental illnesses and disorders and throw those terms for any “crazy” murderous villains. Do any of those diagnoses actually fit Kilgrave’s mental state? Quick summary, psychopaths usually refer to someone who is born that way and has a lack of empathy, fear, stress and anxiety due to a thinner amygdala. Psychopathy is considered as a neurodevelopmental disorder, a disorder that affects the development of the nervous system and leads to abnormal brain function. Nowaday it’s often referred to as “primary psychopathy”. “Sociopath” is an outdated term that doesn’t have any medical meaning anymore. It’s more of a pop culture term used for psychopaths, antisocial personality disorders, or just evil characters in general. So let’s forget about that one. I mentioned primary psychopathy, there’s also secondary psychopathy (who is also referred to as sociopathy sometimes). Secondary psychopaths aren’t born that way, they are mold and shaped by their environment, upbringing and possible trauma. While primary psychopathy is characterized by callousness, shallow affect, manipulation, and superficial charm, while secondary psychopathy is associated with impulsivity and lack of long-term goals, and is related to hostile behaviors. They don’t totally lack empathy, their empathy is more “selective” and unstable. Antisocial Personality Disorder is a personality disorder, something that is developed, not innate. ASPD doesn’t equate a violent criminal either but is characterized by a lack of remorse and disregard for others and the law. Not all primary psychopaths have ASPD but all secondary psychopaths do and is often comorbid with borderline personality disorder, which is characterized by abandonment issues and emotional impulsivity and unstability. Both primary and secondary psychopathies are in the spectrum of narcissistic personalities (without necessary being NPD), but not everyone with ASPD is also narcissistic.

Phew. Ok now that I’m done let’s go back to Kilgrave. Let’s cross out primary psychopathy. It’s obvious Kilgrave isn’t born that way and he showed multiple times fear, stress and emotional instability. He was made that way by his environment, upbringing and trauma. I talked before about how narcissistic he was and I do believe he could have NPD. He has a grandiose sense of himself, he viewed himself as special and unique and thus above others, great sense of entitlement, exploitative, lack of empathy and arrogant. He also seems to show signs of ASPD, he fails to obey laws and norms, he’s a lying, deceptive and manipulative person and do so for his own profit or self-amusement, he’s quite impulsive, irritable and aggressive and has a blatant disregard for the safety of others, he can’t take responsibility and lack remorse for his actions. I also mentioned his abandonment issues, how he fears that Jessica will abandon him and how he craves for her love. Those might be related to borderline personality disorder, which is described as: “disturbed sense of identity, frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment and extreme reactions to such, black and white thinking, impulsivity, intense or uncontrollable emotional reactions that are disproportionate to the event or situation, unstable and chaotic interpersonal relationships, distorted self-image, self-damaging behaviors, dissociation and is often accompanied by depression, anxiety, anger, substance abuse, or rage”.

I do think some of those criteria fits Kilgrave. I think he might have those three personality disorders or partially have them, all in the cluster B and comorbid. That would put him in the category of secondary psychopath. The fact his empathy can be selective and unstable regarding Jessica seems to also point to that conclusion.

I think Kilgrave is a well-written villain, his psychology and psyche is accurately portrayed in the series, even if his behaviours are explained they aren’t justified. He’s not just evil for the sake of being evil, we actually see how he became that way and can understand him. After all, evil is made, not born.

#jessica jones #marvel's jessica jones #kilgrave #the purple man #killgrave #kevin thompson #analysis #psychopathy #sociopathy

[lovelylogans]

debutante

previous chapter | chapter two | next chapter

part of the wyliwf verse.

warnings: mention of creepy adults/pedophilia, transphobia, memory loss problems, food mentions, kissing/making out, arguing, 

pairings: logince, moxiety

words: 21,995

notes: there are spoiler warnings for the first three seasons of downton abbey, and dee and logan have a discussion of journalistic ethics that includes a mention of a teacher that is creepy toward teenage girls; it’s an abstract idea for the sake of argument, there is no actual creepy teacher, but i wanted to put a warning in here anyway.

⁂

he really needs to get on patton about getting a new rug for his bedroom, virgil muses.

his bare feet are resting against the hardwood of patton’s floor. patton, who usually clings to inanimate objects with an intensity fueled almost entirely by reminiscing, even patton had admitted he probably should let go of the raggedy bedroom rug, and he’d been meaning to replace it, but. he hasn’t yet. so virgil’s sitting on patton’s bed, waiting for patton to finish brushing his teeth and washing his face, so that they can curl up in bed and go to sleep. 

that’s a new thing—it’s not entirely new, but new enough that virgil feels too awkward to just curl up in patton’s bed and wait for him to come back. so. virgil is sitting here, in his pajamas, thinking about patton’s bare bedroom floor and his need for a new rug.

and not thinking about the various strides he and patton have been making in their relationship, slow but sure. virgil knows that patton’s really excited, and eager to move forward in their relationship, and virgil is too, but, surprise surprise, virgil’s anxious about it, so patton’s been very understanding about moving at a much slower pace than he’s used to—“you’re worth it, honey,” patton had said, his chin hooked over virgil’s shoulder as they cuddled at night, “there’s no rush at all. it’s been this long, ya know? i want to do all of this right,” and really, virgil did not deserve patton, he really didn’t.

there’s the sound of bare feet padding down the hallway, though, and virgil looks up, smiling despite himself, as patton opens the door. 

“hey,” he says warmly, closing the door behind him and shutting off the light—the lamps on the bedside tables are still lit—and patton continues his path, only detouring to lean down to kiss virgil sweetly before he sits down on his side of the bed. 

“hey,” virgil echoes, and at last swings his legs up on the bed, settling back against the pillows. “how was your day?”

this part he likes a lot, too—this, sitting in the same bed, talking about their days. it’s cavity-inducingly domestic.

patton hums, already squirming to be under the covers, and virgil copies him; they’ll move to cuddle once they’re done talking, virgil knows, so he mostly just stays where he is.

“the usual,” patton says. “um—got news of a wedding incoming, so i’m sure i’ll be going nutty about that in… a year and half or so.”

virgil knows that the weddings held at the inns hold some of patton’s favorite and least favorite parts of the job—helping make people happy, seeing people fall in love all over again, making everything so beautiful and lovely, but also, bridezillas and flighty grooms—and he smiles, mentally calculating. “you don’t usually get fall weddings, right? that’s mostly a spring/summer thing.”

“i know!” patton says brightly. “i hope they timed it nice so that it’s a warm fall day, and they get all the pretty leaves falling, and the sun hits the ceremony just right…”

“that sounds nice,” virgil says honestly, because it does—a picturesque fall wedding, sookie making some fancy version of an apple fritter for appetizers, a pumpkin-flavored cake. “fall wedding, i mean. it’s so pretty here in fall, i know we get boosted tourism because of it, but. not many weddings.”

“not many weddings,” patton agrees, and squeezes his arm. “and it’s a lesbian wedding, too, so from the conversation we had, i really think they’re gonna lean into the whole witchy-alternative vibe. the word celestial was thrown around a lot.”

“oh, that’ll be really fun,” virgil says, refining his mental image—black dresses and a tux, maybe, star-studded hairpieces, lots of fairy lights. “you’ll have to remind me when it’s actually being set up, i want to see how they decide to decorate. you never get to do witchy lesbian alternative celestial-themed weddings.”

patton laughs, and leans in a little closer to virgil. “no, i can’t say i’ve ever gotten to help out with a witchy lesbian alternative celestial-themed wedding. so that’ll be fun!”

patton continues with other work things—he has a much sooner wedding in spring, and unfortunately it is not a lesbian wedding, but a double wedding of two sets of insufferably rich twins, so there’s a lot to deal with there—before he winds down and says, “well, that’s about it with me, really, how ‘bout you?”

“um, pretty calm, pretty typical,” virgil says, before he reaches over and squeezes patton’s thigh. “oh, before i forget, the middle davis kid—”

“yeah?”

“—going by brick for now, while they’re trying to figure out what fits better,” virgil says. he leaves his hand on patton’s thigh, because. well. he can.

“brick,” patton says, delighted. “oh, that’s a great nickname for them—every time i see them, they’re insistent that they’re gonna bulk up and hit a growth spurt any day now.”

virgil allows himself a grin—brick is a pretty ironic nickname for a skinny little korean-irish kid who’s been hankering for their growth spurt since they could have possibly hit puberty, and now at age fourteen it was definitely becoming a bit more plaintive, but they also said it’s because they have the subtlety of a brick, so it fits in at least one way.

“they are still using they/them pronouns, right?” patton checks.

“yeah, still they/them,” virgil says. “you’ll have to ask them if they’ve added any pronouns when they turn up for your get cultured day—which is why i brought it up, brick brought by their dress for me to try and alter so that sequins don’t constantly scrape, so that’ll be a fun little challenge.”

“ooh, i hated wearing sequins at their age,” patton says sympathetically, and pats virgil’s arm. “good luck with that one.”

“other than that, though, today was mostly boring, my interesting stuff all has to do with the debutante ball,” virgil admits, rubbing his thumb back and forth over patton’s thigh. “oh, except for the part where kirk’s trying to sell topical funny t-shirts now.”

“ah, kirk,” patton says fondly. “where would the town be, without kirk and his seemingly millions of part-time jobs?”

“yeah, well, the best he could come up with today was rudy ate oatmeal, so i’m not really holding out hope for the funny t-shirt business,” virgil says.

patton snorts, and then tries to pretend he hadn’t—but, really, kirk becomes way less aggravating when you take him as comic relief. virgil knows, it’s the way he’s managed to stand all of kirk’s eccentricities over the years.

“anyway, yeah, that’s about it,” virgil says. “how'd the dinner go—i mean, i know emily at least gave you the dress, so that went okay, right?”

patton shrugs a shoulder and says, “i guess. i mean, i have a feeling this isn’t over, but… gosh, you should have seen her and logan stare each other down.”

“intense, huh?” he prompts, when patton goes quiet. he squeezes his thigh again, because physical touch is one of patton’s top two love languages. he knows, they took the test together.

patton chews his lip, before he says, “he looked like me. back then, i mean. the look on his face. my mom must’ve seen it a million times when i was his age.”

virgil squeezes a little tighter.

he knows that patton’s teenage years were rough. again, patton doesn’t really like to talk about them—virgil doesn’t blame him—but virgil did see patton struggle through the later end of his teens, and he was there for him when he’d broken down in tears. now, with as old as he is, as removed as they are from it, having seen logan and roman grow up and realizing how truly young patton was when they first met, the thought of teenage patton—struggling so fiercely in a house full of people who hadn’t understood him just made him, how hard patton had had to work to get a better life for himself and his son, the years of therapy patton had gone through—just made him want to grab patton in a hug and never let go.

“so,” patton says, pauses, and lets out a sigh. “i don’t—i don’t know. it went okay. but seeing logan copy me like that, i just…”

virgil leans over to kiss patton on the cheek.

“the difference between you as a teenager and logan as a teenager is massive,” he says lowly. “because logan’s got you, and me, and roman, and ms. prince, and rudy. he’s got this whole bizarre town. you had you, and christopher, i guess, but he didn’t understand. you’ve learned coping mechanisms that you passed onto logan, so he knows other ways to redirect his feelings. if he’s being rebellious to help protest something he thinks is sexist or unjust, i think that’s a pretty good reason to rebel. you did a great job with him. he’s a great kid. yeah?”

“yeah,” patton says very quietly. “yeah, he is.”

“you’ve come really far,” he says, and leans to see patton better, and gently pokes at patton’s cheek, just to make him smile, and he adds, “plus, i’d think if teenage-rebel you came to the future to see that your son’s protesting the gender stuff you’d been struggling with, i think that would’ve made you pretty happy, huh?”

and, yes, patton does smile at that, and something in virgil relaxes at the sight.

“yeah,” patton says. “yeah, i think it really would’ve.”

“well, good,” virgil says, and kisses his cheek, before he decides to just kinda go for it and lean in to wrap his arms around patton, initiating the cuddling early. “so, other than that déjà vu—”

“it went okay,” patton says, wiggling into virgil’s arms. “i mean—still weird to look at the dress that my mom bought for me. but other than that, it was okay.”

virgil hums sympathetically, and presses a kiss to patton’s head.

“well,” he says. “i’m gonna adjust it so that it’s logan’s dress, and his dress only. does that help?”

he feels patton smile against his collarbone.

“you know,” he says musingly. “i think it really does.”

⁂

logan has never walked into a store afraid to touch something before.

granted, most stores he walks into are grocery stores or convenience stores; clothing stores, sometimes, mostly before the school year or whenever roman decides he simply must check out the latest collection of things that the outlet mall in woodbridge had to offer. most of the time, the stores logan knew were quiet, maybe with some inoffensive music piped in, with products he knew how to use, or how they looked.

this was not the case in a bridal boutique.

which is where logan and roman are; though logan had the dress once intended for his father, roman still needed to get his own, and had so enticed logan to come along with him to help him choose.

it’s a saturday afternoon, and they’re technically on a date. there’s a bookstore just across the street, and a frozen yogurt parlor near there, and a thrift store they could dive into so logan could see the second-hand books and roman could hunt for some kind of retro statement piece.

logan inspects his hands again. there’s a stray inky blue smear across his hand that must have gotten there when he was taking his notes earlier today. he eyes the pearly-white tulle suspiciously, and takes a step closer to the center of the room, away from any of the merchandise.

objectively, he knows that touching these delicate, temperamental fabrics and testing the sensation of them by running his hand along the skirts won’t harm them, but. logan has laid eyes upon the price tags in this room. he is not going to even slightly risk ruining these dresses, somehow. 

roman’s spinning some kind of tale for the bemused, yet seemingly enthusiastic dress attendant—something something debutante ball, something something drag family induction, something something the most experimental stuff you’ve got!—and logan considers a dress a shade of blush pink so light it’s practically white, with a delicate, lacy flower overlay, the whiteness of the flowers being the only thing to really give away the pinkness of the dress itself. he wants to reach out and rub the material between his fingers.

he also knows that, with the location in the store and the quality of the material, the dress likely costs upwards of five thousand dollars. possibly more. maybe even double.

“logan!” and logan looks away, to where roman’s waving him back toward the dressing room section. thank god, somewhere to sit and not worry about accidentally tripping over a dress and leave an irreversible mud print from his shoe, or something.

the attendant burbles something along the lines of “so supportive!” that logan doesn’t really listen to, and doesn’t really have to respond to, because she’s pointing roman in the direction of a dressing room and logan gets to sit down in a chair and finally not worry about catching a ragged edge of his fingernail in a veil and accidentally ripping it in two.

logan waits until the attendant leaves, and says, “you’re really getting a dress from here?”

“it’s not all high-end,” roman says. “they have some old samples that they’re desperate to get rid of—that’s the kind of thing i want.”

logan nods, absorbing this, and his shoulders start to relax. obviously, roman’s monetary discretions are not up to him, at all. considering it comes from either his mother or working at his mother’s studio, therefore it should primarily be roman’s concern or ms. prince’s concern, but it is reassuring to know that roman isn’t about to ransack his college fund to get a pretty dress he’ll wear once as a prank.

the attendant comes back with armfuls of tulle, which roman claps his hands at with excitement, and steps into the dressing room with her. the door closes behind them, and logan can just barely hear their muted conversation beyond the door.

logan digs around in his backpack and pulls out his history textbook, his history notebook, and a pen; he may as well study while roman’s getting primped.

he gets through about a third of the chapter on enlightenment ideals by the time the door opens again.

he puts down his pen and glances up in enough time to carefully fold his lip under his teeth in an attempt not to laugh.

roman makes sure the attendant is occupied with adjusting the train before he pulls a blech! face at logan, one he’s accustomed to seeing whenever someone attempts to serve roman anything with cauliflower.

blech, logan thinks, is right. the fabric looks like it’s made of aluminum foil. it’s all bunched up in the front, like the dress is made of paper that’s been crumpled up by a giant hand, but there’s a long train in the back, and the whole thing is bedecked with big, chunky gems, like plastic rhinestones.

of the pair of them, roman’s always been the more fashionably-minded one, but even logan can tell this dress is not good.

“what do you think?” the attendant asks.

“it’s…. unique,” roman says diplomatically, smoothing his hands along the fabric; the bodice is strange, and clearly not fitted to suit roman’s chest. “definitely on the right track toward campy. but, um—”

“you tend to favor golds over silvers,” logan offers, which is true; one of roman’s signature colors was gold for a reason. “the crumpled look isn’t the best, either. you could certainly pull off a, um—”

he makes a hand gesture, and roman offers, “high-low skirt.”

“—right, high-low skirt, but the bodice isn’t the best, either,” logan continues. “something more theatrical would suit your personality, certainly, but i think that’s more in terms of, you know. a very outdated dress, or maybe something ostentatious, but not—”

“not this kind of ostentatious, yeah,” roman finishes for him, and the attendant looks between them, seemingly starting to question why she took in two teenage boys to try on dresses. the look falters, though, and she pastes a smile onto her face—professionalism must prevail, logan supposes.

“back to the dressing room, then!”

she trots roman out in a few other options—an a-line dress with a lacy bodice and a tulle skirt, a trumpet dress with chantilly lace and a sheer back, a relatively simple a-line dress that roman keeps twisting around in to gleefully poke at the massive bow perched at the small of his back—and logan offers commentary when asked. as she sees roman adjust the bow again, the attendant smiles.

“you like the bow?”

“i like the bow,” roman agrees, grinning. “i look like a birthday present.”

“all right,” she says. “i’ll bring out something a bit more experimental again—”

at the looks on their faces, she adds, “not quite as avant-garde as the first dress. actually, it’s fairly old-fashioned, but i think it might have that theatrical aspect you’re looking for. i’ll go back and change you out of this one and bring it back for you so you can take a look, does that sound good?”

roman agrees, and accepts her hand down off the stand, with a wink at logan, before they go off into the dressing room together. logan turns again to his history textbook; he’s nearly done with the chapter, which means one less thing to stress about when he should be focusing on a date with roman.

he can hear roman laugh from inside the dressing room and, unbidden, the corners of his mouth lift, too. either this dress is hilariously terrible, or roman’s thrilled at the idea of wearing this dress which he thinks is perfect for him.

when roman hops up onto the stand, logan honestly can’t tell which it is.

it’s like some fashion designer decided to stick every terrible fashion trend from the eighties onto one dress. there are big, puffy balloon sleeves made of tulle, secured with rosettes, in addition to typical spaghetti straps with smaller rosettes all over them; there’s a panel of beading down the bodice; there’s an overlay of rows and rows of ruffly tulle over a skirt of satin.

and, of course, there is a big, fluffy bow, perched right at the small of roman’s back.

it is extra. it is absurd. it is dramatic.

“i love it,” roman says gleefully. “oh, my goodness, it’s so much!”

it is, of course, roman.

“you look beautiful,” logan offers, and roman flashes a radiant smile in his direction, before he turns to offer his exuberant thanks to the attendant, who seems relieved (”we’ve had that sample longer than i’ve worked here, i’m sure they’ll be thrilled we’re rid of it!”) and takes roman into the dressing room, to help him out of the dress and go ring him up.

logan packs up his history book with some satisfaction; he has succeeded in taking notes for this chapter, which meant that frees up some time tomorrow, which meant he could probably work to get ahead in his latin class.

or, more likely, his dad would insist he go out and do something fun, despite the fact that he’s clearly doing something fun now. and yes, fine, he’s brought his textbooks, but clearly there was time to study here, so logan will provide this chapter of notes as an example as to why studying in the midst of a date was necessary.

logan slings his backpack over his shoulder just as roman emerges from the dressing room, in the same outfit he’d been in before he’d enlisted on a dress-shopping extravaganza; despite the fact that he’s wearing a red linen button-down tucked into a pair of high-waisted, dark-washed jeans, along with a dark overcoat to fight any of the last of the spring chill, a look that still seems very put-together—it seems almost like he’s a little underdressed, after all of the wedding dresses.

he doesn’t voice this—underdressed or not, roman constantly looks lovely—and instead he offers his arm, saying, “shall we go pay?”

“we shall,” roman says in an officious british accent, probably making fun of logan, just a little, but he laces his arm through logan’s anyway, and tugs him out of the dressing room area, to the front, where he chitchats cheerfully with the attendant and takes the truly massive garment bag, hoisting it above his head to avoid letting it drag on the ground.

“virgil’s going to have a hell of a time with this dress,” roman says gleefully. “should we go and grab a cummerbund for him? you know, just to make things easier for him.”

“he’s going to complain the whole time he gets all dressed up,” logan points out.

“i know,” roman says brightly, and tugs logan again. “c’mon, let’s go drop this in the car so we can go get fro-yo. i hope they’ve got gummy worms, i wanna make the super-fruity bowl this time.”

“so it falls to me to make some chocolatey flavor, i suppose,” logan says; for the pair of them frozen yogurt, unlike lucy’s, is prone to sharing, and as to avoid unfortunate flavor combinations, such as pineapple tart and whoppers, each of them make a bowl for each flavor—one for fruity flavors, and one for chocolatey flavors. “do you think i should combine coffee and fudge brownie?”

roman kisses him on the cheek, even as he’s pushing the door of the dress store open. “you’re a genius, my darling love.”

logan realizes in the middle of a bowl of coffee-chocolate frozen yogurt that roman’s managed to get him to leave behind his textbooks in the car, along with the dress.

he can’t bring himself to mind all that much.

⁂

this plan straight out of the plot of an early 2000s movie, if early 2000s movies had meaningful and visible trans characters, is somehow working.

dee still can’t believe it, somehow, even after a weekend of getting texts from known-but-aren’t-supposed-to-be-known members of secret societies like the porcellians (the porks, to those in the know, and dee is most decisively in the know) and the clairs and the skull and dagger and the sphinx club and the order of the gorgon’s head—truly the secret society names at this school were something else. 

he’s consulting his list on his way to meet up with logan to give him a morning update (could use some more involvement from the knights of the lamp and the old crows, and if he’s truly dreaming big he’ll try to crack all twelve of the twelve peers) when he glances up to see logan at his locker, looking truly startled as he’s being accosted by a freshman, who is waving a piece of paper at him with a fierce look on her face, her voice loud, but dee can’t quite make it out over the chatter and clatter of the morning crowd getting their books for the morning, and catching up over the latest weekend gossip.

as he gets closer, he realizes who it is. poppy mcmaster, whose legal full name is so genuinely atrocious that he could only feel pity for her when he’d scanned all the freshman’s files early in the year. who in their right minds named a child coppelia parthenope mcmaster and expected them not to get brutally bullied? unless, of course, they somehow preternaturally knew that poppy would turn out with the kind of aggressive, single-minded ambition whose brashness made her preschool teacher cry.

he mostly knows her because their families move in similar social circles, as ten generations of mcmaster have attended harvard. she stands at all of 5’2”, quite a bit shorter than logan, and yet she seems to be threatening him.

dee sidles closer to get a better look at her—dirty blonde hair pulled half-up, intense dark brown eyes, chilton uniform in perfect regulation—and approaches right as she’s saying, “some discretion, for the love of god—”

“dee,” logan says, spotting him. “um, this is—” and he glances at her, eyebrows furrowing. “you didn’t say your name.”

“coppelia mcmaster,” dee says, partially to show off but also because, coppelia. “or are you going by parthenope again? or something short for parthenope, anyway.”

poppy scowls at him, fierce, and snarls out, “poppy.”

“of course, of course,” dee says placidly. “poppy. how long has it been? i don’t think we’ve spoken since your bat mitzvah. mazel tov, once again.”

“todah,” poppy says, with the kind of tone one usually reserves for saying thanks for a present they resoundingly dislike. “you’re involved in this whole debutante plot, aren’t you?”

“well, yes,” dee says. “logan’s brainchild, of course, but one could say we’re co-parenting.”

poppy then proceeds to shove a familiar piece of paper into his hands, and she says, “mr. gardiner nearly saw and grabbed this if i hadn’t pretended it was a participation sheet from the student council.”

dee sucks in a breath, turning over the sign-up sheet—oh, wonderful, they have gotten another member of the twelve peers—but his eyes also land on the Contact Logan Sanders for details.

“thank you,” dee says at last, and turns his eyes to logan. “how many of these are up around the school?”

“three,” logan says. “that one included.”

“well, we’ll have to take them down,” dee says decisively. 

“what?” logan says.

“you’ll get in trouble,” poppy says. “detention, suspension, maybe.”

“we are planning to disrupt a large social event for the daughters of the american revolution,” dee says, and glances at logan. “as you can likely imagine, social protest is not exactly the kind of press attention chilton would like to receive.”

logan scowls, and says, “tinker versus des moines—”

“—was a public school,” poppy says impatiently. “i know you came from the backends, sanders, but this is a private school. different rules apply to us.”

“plus, we’re recruiting for protest,” dee says. “i’m not sure how well the tinker test will hold up for us, and i’d rather not find out. the word’s been spread enough, we can further recruit over private text message and dms.”

logan concedes this point with a nod, and he says to dee, “i’ll defer to your judgement.” then, to poppy, “thank you for interfering. that would have complicated matters unnecessarily.”

poppy shrugs, and says matter-of-factly, “it’s common knowledge that either of you will likely be editor when i enter the franklin junior year, i may as well attempt to establish myself as one of your proteges this early on to improve my chances for being assigned the better pieces junior year, and to provide an even clearer path to editor senior year.”

logan looks startled at that, and dee turns admiring eyes to poppy—he’d known her ambitions, of course, but planning this far in advance was preparation that dee could appreciate.

she says to logan, “do you have an escort yet?”

“um,” logan says. “no. no, i don’t.”

“all right then,” poppy says, and fishes out a reporter’s notepad from the side pocket of her backpack, removing a pen from her breast pocket, scrawling, and then ripping out the paper and handing it to him. “consider the slot filled. i’ll do it.”

logan looks at the paper—her phone number—and then back at her. “you’re joining?”

“obviously,” poppy says. “the clairs are involved. my cousin was a clair, her mother was a clair. the connections you make with clairs last the rest of your life. if this helps me get closer to joining with them, i’ll do it, just so i won’t have to spend all year killing myself to get in. plus my mother has been insistent i attend a debutante ball for ages now, she’ll be crushed i’m doing it in a tux, and crushed that i’m not going for the puff route like her, but these are the sacrifices we must make.”

she doesn’t sound particularly sorry about crushing her own mother, but logan acknowledges this with a nod, digging around in his own backpack for a flyer before handing it to her.

“everyone is going to attend a sort of crash-course in debutante ball culture,” he says. “the dance, the bow, the curtsy, so on. here is the address and any supplies you should bring. do you already have a tux, or should i send you some information for rentals?”

“rentals,” poppy says, and exchanges a look with dee—dee knows logan wasn’t raised in all this, but seriously, a rental?

“i take that as a no,” logan says, undeterred, before he zips up his backpack again. 

“fantastic,” poppy says. “i was wondering about the strategy for establishing a working relationship with you, i’ve known him,” she flicks a dismissive gesture toward dee, “for years. it just so happens that this route will also help take care of my social life and allow me to enact some form of teenage rebellion, because it’s been scientifically proven that teenagers who rebel constructively form a robust sense of self and are more likely to a have a clear sense of direction, beliefs, or relational commitment, and those who don’t may find it hard to settle or focus on building a meaningful and satisfying life. this is excellent multi-tasking.”

poppy looks delighted. logan looks like he might be developing a headache. dee has found this a typical reaction to people within proximity of poppy.

⁂

virgil looks up as the bell rings and immediately steps out from behind the counter.

brick is struggling cheerfully with a stack of tupperware in their arms, and virgil takes the top few so that brick can see.

“i got it,” brick complains.

“i don’t want you tripping over chairs, i’m sure you can handle the weight,” virgil says. “i was thinking you could set up over at this table here—right by the door, but out-of-the-way enough so that you don’t have to deal with anyone bumping into you. that cool?”

“yeah, that’s cool,” brick says. “thanks, virgil!” and immediately sets down the tupperware on the table in question. virgil follows suit, setting down his own load, and arches his eyebrows, impressed.

“you guys could put fran and lucy out of business with all these baked goods,” he says.

because that’s what brick is here for—the first shift of kids manning a table for a bake sale, to raise funds to make sure the sideshire kids can afford their slots in the debutante ball. 

brick stares at him for a few seconds.

“sarcasm,” he elaborates, because brick doesn’t really pick up on that too well, most of the time.

“got it,” brick says. “um, i’m gonna go help ellie—they brought a few other things, so save up that comment for them, i’m sure they’d get it.”

“need any help?” he says, knowing full well that brick will say—

“nah, i got it!” brick says, and darts out of the diner again. virgil waits by the door, just in case they need someone to open it for them—which they do, brick with another load of tupperware, and elliott with a poster tucked under their arm, a register in hand, and a plastic jar under their other arm.

“hi, elliott,” virgil says.

“hi, virgil,” elliott says.

“right over here,” virgil says, gesturing to the table, “do you need any help?”

“um, do you have tape?” elliott asks, frowning. “i just realized i don’t have any.”

“tape, got it,” virgil says, and ducks into the back to see if he’s got any in his office.

by the time he’s come back out, brick and elliott are already seated behind the table, arranging the last of the opened tupperware, with the plastic jar having a sign taped over it saying DONATIONS FOR THE BALL, and virgil pauses to dig a ten out of his pocket, dropping it in the jar before he hands over the scotch tape.

“thanks, virgil!” brick cheers, as elliott quietly thanks virgil for the tape and goes about taping the poster to the front of the table. it’s definitely homemade—there’s glitter, and marker, and there’s a little flyer taped beside it that explains what exactly they’re trying to do at the debutante ball.

“you want drinks?” virgil asks, tucking his thumbs into his front pockets. “on the house.”

“ooh, cocoa, please!” brick says. “the—the minty one. do you still do the minty one?”

“i still do the minty one,” virgil says. “peppermint should be a year-round flavor. ellie, you want anything?”

“cocoa/coffee,” elliott says.

“that stunts your growth,” brick points out.

“i’m taller than you,” elliott tells brick, who bristles and immediately opens their mouth, and virgil ducks out to get their drinks.

by the time he brings back the two steaming mugs, brick is finishing off their tirade with “—i’ll end up built like korra, and then you will see.”

“drinks!” virgil says, and sets the mugs down in front of them. “uh, just so you know, we hit one of those weird lulls, so we’ve probably got half an hour or so before things start picking up for dinner rush.”

both of them make noises of acknowledgement.

“so,” virgil says, settling in a chair near them. “elliott, i know you were thinking about what you were gonna wear slash do, did you decide that?”

“i, um,” elliott says, fingers tracing the rim of the mug. “i thought i’d wear, like, a half-dress half-tux thing. i dunno if i’m gonna debut or escort yet, though, that kinda depends.”

“that sounds cool,” virgil says encouragingly. “do you have a picture?”

elliott does, but since it’s only partly designed—their sister liked messing around with fabrics like that—it turns out all the sideshire kids who are planning on going to the ball are in a groupchat, so after elliott’s phone pings with a message from there, there’s a brief tangent that ensues because elliott sends out virgil says hi to everyone and a picture of the bake sale, so virgil gets to hear about everyone’s plans which is also cool. and he also records a video with brick that brick pinky-promises to just send in the chat, so he ends up learning one of the latest memes that the kids are watching these days. god, he’s old.

“the debutante thing’s really awesome,” virgil says. “i kind of wish i’d gotten the chance to do it back in the day.”

elliott looks up at him, and says, “you do?”

“yeah,” virgil says. “i mean, i’m not roman or anything, but i still wear makeup a lot of the time, i’ve got a few makeup palettes, i wore some skirts back in the day—”

brick’s head snaps up at that, and they say, “you did?”

virgil blinks—he’s not sure why this is surprising, but.

“yeah, i did,” virgil says. “i bet i’ve probably still got them buried in my closet somewhere. my heels, too.”

this also gets elliott’s attention.

“you do?” elliott says.

“i mean, maybe,” virgil says. “i might have donated them, i dunno, but—”

“why don’t you wear skirts or heels anymore?” brick says.

“well, right now?” virgil says, and gestures to the outside. “it’s cold. but, uh—i don’t really know.” 

and it hits him—he doesn’t really know. he just kind of kept going for jeans.

“just a habit, i guess,” he continues to the kids, because i don’t know is a bit of a weak answer. “it’s easier to match things with jeans. plus, it looks kinda weird to wear a nice flowing skirt and then just, like, a hoodie and a pair of sneakers i wear all day because i stand all the time. and wearing heels while i stand all day is just asking for a sprained ankle.”

“yeah, that makes sense,” elliott says. “sneakers kinda clash too.”

“but you wear boots too,” brick says, and points. “you’re wearing boots today.”

virgil glances down at his combat boots, the ones that he’s also got the gel foot insoles in. “well, yeah. i guess i am.”

“and leggings or tights would probably help with cold,” elliott says.

virgil looks between them, and says, “you two want me to wear a skirt, don’t you?”

“yes,” they both chorus, unapologetic.

virgil pauses, considering this. well. he definitely has at least one skirt, maybe more, they’re probably just tucked away where he doesn’t see them everyday. and he is fully down for these kids running in there and shaking up the patriarchy. and he does support men, or anyone on the gender spectrum who doesn’t fit soundly in the box of “woman,” wearing more traditionally feminine clothing, as long as they’re comfortable with it. and the surprised looks on these kids faces when he’d mentioned he used to wear skirts more often, and then the studies he’s read of how much representation means to kids...

he turns and calls out, “jean?”

“yeah?” jean calls from the back.

“i’m gonna run upstairs for a second, would you mind keeping an eye on things out here?”

jean calls back an affirmative, and brick and elliott exchange a look, before turning back to virgil.

“are you—?”

“maybe,” virgil says, standing, feeling a strange sort of excitement just from their excitement, but also, it’s been a really long time since he’s worn a skirt, and he’d liked wearing skirts. “again, i can’t remember if i’ve donated ‘em, but—”

“awesome,” elliott says, while brick is nodding along with them, wide-eyed.

“all right,” virgil says, and then, “uh, cool” and makes his awkward exit, heading upstairs for his apartment.

it takes a bit of digging, but he does manage to find where he’s stashed his skirts over the years. he’d even managed to fold them neatly before he put them away, so they’re not even that wrinkled or anything. and then he remembers the various struggles of matching an outfit with a skirt, because in his mind, a skirt outfit has to be at least a little fancy, and so after he examines and discards nearly every shirt in his wardrobe he ends up pairing a plum, long-sleeved button-down with a black pleated skirt that falls down to his ankles, even after he tries to make the skirt a bit high-waisted.

and then he gets a little more carried away, and smokes out his dark eyeshadow and pops some purple glitter in the crease and the inner corner and does a little cat-eye for the eyeliner and puts on plum lipstick, before something in his brain says back away from the makeup products, you are in danger of re-enacting your teenage emo phase, and so he does, not without a bit of a longing look at the black eyeshadow, because this is fun. why hasn’t he done something like this in so long?

he has to pick up his skirt one hand as he walks his way down the stairs, before he tugs aside the curtain that covers up the stairs that lead up to his apartment, and steps out from behind the counter.

brick and elliott swivel to look at him in almost-hilarious unison. and then they just. stare.

oh, the staring. the whole staring thing is why he hasn’t done something like this in so long.

virgil clears his throat, running a hand through his hair to make sure it isn’t too messy. “is it that bad?” he tries to joke.

“i,” brick says, voice strangled, “am gay.”

“uh,” virgil says, unsure of what to really say to someone less than half his age declaring that, then, “i’m with patton, happily so, and also, i am way too old for you, you are a kid.”

elliott rolls their eyes, and says, “they mean you look, um. good. you look really good,” and then they elbow brick in the ribs. brick shakes themself.

“yeah!” brick says. “you look. good. you look good!”

the bell above the door jangles, then, which means brick and elliott are distracted by attempting to sell baked goods, and virgil escapes to behind the counter, ready to start up for the dinner rush.

(he does take a few seconds to remind brick and elliott that anyone over eighteen is too old for them, at the moment, and the dangers of grooming, and also he is here if they need to talk about being concerned for anyone or if they need someone to talk to, in general, before brick says, “ugh, fine, jeez, you sound like the guidance counselor” so that takes care of that particular situation, virgil guesses.)

virgil does get a few compliments on his appearance, throughout the dinner rush, and also a few questions about why he’s dressing up nice, which means he can direct their attention to the baked goods table (brick and elliott leave after a couple hours, and so a couple more sideshire high students start their shift) and the cause that they’re raising money for, so. things are going well.

he ducks back in the kitchen, for a minute, when the staring gets to be a bit Much and he needs to take a second to breathe. he’s not super anxious, necessarily, it’s just—well, he frequently has the thought people are looking at me, which tends to make him anxious, and that’s true tonight, so. he needs to take a bit of a breather. and so he cooks.

cooking’s been a good outlet for his anxiety, ever since he was a kid and didn’t really get what anxiety was, ever since he was an asshole teenager who had recently been wrangled into his first therapy session by his parents following a doctor’s diagnosis. it’s almost always the same—if you follow the same directions, you’ll get the same result, almost always. and, sure, it could be an outlet for creativity, too, if he so chose, but right now he’s grilling burgers and assembling salads and making pasta. it’s an adventure in multitasking he does almost every day. he knows what to do, and so he does it.

he feels calmer by the time they’re in the midst of the dinner rush, partially because of the time spent in here, but also because the increased business is something that’s also familiar and somewhat comforting. so he chances poking his head out of the kitchen door, evaluating if he’s ready to enter back into the fray and start helping out with the waiters. 

he pokes his head out just in time to see roman, logan, and patton sliding into a booth, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief—those are people he can definitely go over to and not start to feel nervous just because they’re looking at him.

he’s about to fully step out and make his way over unnoticed by everyone else, except—

roman looks up, and makes eye contact with him, and declares “virgil! i came as soon as i heard!” loud enough that virgil can hear it over the background music and the dull roar of the dinner rush conversations.

virgil winces a little, before he sheepishly walks over to the table. he probably should have expected this, given roman’s vocal and often repeated desires to give virgil a makeover.

all three of them come into view—roman, eager at last that virgil is stepping outside of his typical fashion comfort zone; logan, mostly neutral if a bit curious; and patton, who is staring at him, eyes wide behind his glasses, and visibly swallowing. a flare of heat burns to life in virgil’s stomach at that, and so he turns his attention to roman, so that he doesn’t start blushing and his thoughts don’t become immediately obvious.

roman looks him up and down, surveying him, before he says, “you look like a goth femboy version of a librarian fantasy.”

virgil runs a hand down the skirt, a little self-conscious. “oh.”

“but,” roman says, pulling a face at him, seemingly detecting virgil’s mood change, “at least you’re showing some sense of style. this is an improvement over your daily wear, believe me. one would even say substantial.”

“oh,” virgil says, more sarcastic this time, with an eye-roll to boot. 

“however,” roman says, “can i request that you at least extend your color palette to something that would not look at home as a poster for an emo pre-teen? and your foundation, virgil, you do not have warm undertones, you have neutral undertones, if you’re going to start wearing makeup more you need to have a summer and winter foundation—”

virgil reaches over to flick roman’s ear, and roman complains “heyyy” before logan glances up at him.

“why wear a skirt today in particular?” logan says.

“oh,” virgil says, and jabs a thumb in the direction of the bake sale table. “y’know, i figured i’d support you kids. people ask me why i’m all dressed up and so i get to point ‘em there, and then, you know, solidarity,” he says, taking his skirt in hand and swishing it a little. “win win.”

“all right,” logan says and looks across the table at roman, cocking his head.

“roman,” he says. “what is a ‘femboy.’”

roman folds his lip under his teeth.

“um,” roman says. “well, y’see—”

“i’ll get you some waters!” virgil says, before he has to bear witness to roman explaining that concept to his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s dad. he knows that a femboy is just people who are male or non-binary presenting themselves in a feminine way, the word kind of started around his teenage years, but he also knows that particular expression on roman’s face means that virgil has probably missed some segment of Youth Internet Culture that might provide the backstory behind the newfound popularity of the word a bit… complex.

by the time virgil comes back, logan is jotting something down on one of the notecards he carries around with him all the time, and roman looks normal, so the conversation must not have been too awkward, but patton—

well. patton looks at him, once again looks like he’s swallowing his own tongue, and turns his face back down to the table, but not before virgil can spot the pinkness in his cheeks.

oh. interesting.

virgil has to swallow himself, before he readies the notepad.

“what do you want for dinner?” he says, in a tone that is perhaps a bit gruffer than normal, and patton immediately and not-very-subtly puts a hand over the back of his neck to hide that that’s going pink too.

very interesting.

virgil doesn’t get much of a chance to observe this interesting phenomenon—it is dinner rush, after all, and he’s got other customers—but when he does observe it, it brightens that low flame in his stomach, like someone slowly turning the knob on a gas stove, and patton grows gradually more bold. 

looking at patton’s general personality, one would probably assume that he’s a generally shy boyfriend—hand-holding and kisses aplenty, to be sure, but fairly unassuming when it comes to public displays of attention.

looking at patton’s general personality, one would probably not assume that patton is a flirt.

but he is—he is absolutely a flirt, and a startlingly adept one at that, so when virgil swings by the table perhaps a bit more frequently than he usually would, patton stares at him with a little smirk on his face and with zero shame as his eyes roam over virgil’s face, his arms, his mouth. 

patton looks up at him from under his eyelashes, biting his lip just so, and virgil nearly drops patton’s plate—and notices, distractedly, that patton has managed to use virgil’s distraction to finesse his way into a helping of fries instead of the vegetables or salad that virgil would usually suggest.

and when virgil brings over the bill, handing it to patton, patton takes the bill and then takes virgil’s hand and kisses his knuckles with a cheerful “thanks, honey!” and virgil has certainly forgotten any anxiety that might stem from someone staring, because it’s patton who’s staring at him.

patton, who had gotten so flustered at the sight of virgil in a skirt that his eyes nearly popped out of his head; and now, patton, resting his lips against his knuckles for just a moment, lingering, and virgil feels like an elizabethan maiden about to make her way to the fainting couch because of it.

virgil excuses himself to settle the bill, and also maybe rest a cool hand against his own cheek. honestly. it was a kiss on his hand.

he’s about to go back the table and hand back patton’s card, but he glances up as the bell jangles, roman and logan already leaving, and patton stepping close to the register, his hands behind his back, rocking up onto his toes and back onto his heels.

“hey,” virgil says, and shakes himself, before he offers patton’s card. “um. here.”

“thanks,” patton says, tucking the card into his pocket, before he bites his lip. “um. could we go up to your apartment and get the book i asked to borrow?”

what book, virgil wonders, before patton hastily adds, “if you have time, i mean, i don’t wanna—take you away too long,” and oh, he wants to go—okay. okay.

“i have time,” virgil answers, maybe a little too quickly. “um—sarah,” he calls, “me ‘n patton are going upstairs for a little bit, so—”

“we’ve got things down here,” sarah says, “go, go” and so they go, patton reaching out to grab virgil’s hand and squeeze, running a thumb over his knuckles. and so they ascend the stairs.

virgil shuts the door behind them, and turns to face patton.

“i was, um,” patton clarifies. “i was asking to come up here to see if you wanted to kiss for a little bit.”

“i know,” virgil says, then adds, because consent is important, “i do.”

“oh thank god,” patton breathes out, and before virgil can get out a response, patton surges up against him, rocking up onto his tiptoes and pressing virgil back into the wall, and virgil barely has the time to wrap his arms around him before patton’s kissing him with searing heat.

patton is a remarkable kisser, genuinely the best that virgil thinks he’s ever been fortunate enough to kiss, and patton knows the precise angle to tilt his head and the precise way to possessively splay a hand at the back of virgil’s neck to make the kiss deep and heady and excellent, a kiss so downright lascivious that virgil’s thoughts about retiring to a damn fainting couch doesn’t seem near dramatic enough.

virgil is distantly aware that patton must be rocked up onto his tiptoes, and he splays his hand at patton’s waist, squeezing him gently, giving himself the excuse that it might help patton keep his balance a bit better, and also because his hand fits so beautifully at patton’s waist it could make virgil cry, the warmth of him even through his sweater and the way he can feel patton breathing in unsteady breaths, so maybe virgil isn’t the only one who is losing it here a little.

simultaneously, like they’ve choreographed it, they stumble back together until patton’s knees hit the arm of the couch and virgil practically falls on top of him, virgil barely breaking the kiss to make sure he hasn’t crushed him before patton’s twining his fingers into virgil’s hair and dragging him back into the kiss, wriggling a little so that his thigh is pushed between virgil’s, and virgil groans into his mouth, patton greedily swallowing the sound.

time goes a bit fuzzy, then, everything narrowed down to patton’s breathy gasps and the slick slide of his lips and the warmth and pressure of a thigh between his own and patton’s wandering, unabashed hands in his hair, on his back, wandering down to give him a cheeky squeeze, gripping at his thigh, like patton’s using the touches to punctuate a sentence that virgil has no hope of reading but it sure sounds nice anyway. 

and then there’s a loud sound—someone’s dropped dishes downstairs—and they break apart, the pair of them looking toward the apartment door, startled, and as soon as it sinks in what it is that’s happened, they look back at each other.

patton’s smiling up at him, plum lipstick smeared all around his mouth, coy and unashamed, but with a little quirk at the corners that tells him that make out time is probably over. it is an image that immediately sears itself into virgil’s brain that will probably pop up at incredibly inconvenient moments, but he cannot really feel bothered about that right now, because christ is that unexpectedly hot.

virgil clears his throat, because there’s never exactly a non-awkward way to end something like this, that is until patton’s brow creases and he reaches forward to touch virgil’s lips.

“oh, no,” patton says, a little distressed, “i messed it up!”

“i can redo it,” virgil promises immediately, barely even thinking of the words before they’re out of his mouth in attempt to make that coy little smile come back, and he clears his throat to try and make his voice go back up to its usual octave, not the gruff and low near-growl that came out of his mouth. “um—you kind of have—”

patton’s brow creases even more, before he wiggles a hand free from under virgil and smears a finger beneath his bottom lip, holding it up to see for himself, and he giggles.

“i guess i do,” he says, and beams up at virgil. “be a dear, would you? i don’t wanna walk out there and make it too obvious that we’ve been mackin’ on each other this whole time.”

virgil nods, and, regretfully, rolls off of patton to go to the bathroom, attempting to steady his breath the whole way. 

he bends to get the makeup remover from under the sink, and straightens, at last looking at himself in the mirror.

he looks thoroughly kissed.

his plum lipstick is smeared all around his mouth, down his chin, which shows off how his lips have reddened and gone a little swollen; his black hair is ruffled, especially sticking up in the back; and the generally gobsmacked, slightly stupid look on his face is a dead giveaway that he’s been spending time kissing patton.

there’s the soft padding of footsteps, arms wrapped around his waist, a face pressed between his shoulderblades, before patton pokes his head around him to see himself in the mirror, too.

he bursts into more giggles at the sight of them—matching messy lipstick, matching messy hair, matching slightly stunned look, except on patton it doesn’t look stupid at all, it looks like he’s thrilled with himself, a smirk playing around the corner of his mouths, like a particularly flirtatious cat who’s caught particularly prettily painted canary.

virgil can’t help but grin, too, and patton arches up to press a deliberate kiss to tendon of virgil’s neck, and virgil’s grin turns into a groan, more out of frustration than anything.

“what?” patton says, smiling playfully at him in the mirror. 

“if you keep doing that,” virgil says, and then he’s at a loss for words, but patton seems to get it, slipping out from behind virgil but still leaving an arm wrapped around his waist.

“i don’t particularly want to stop, either,” patton agrees, before he reaches up to turn virgil’s attention away from the mirror, and so that he’s looking directly into patton’s eyes instead. patton continues, voice lush and full of promise, “i’d keep you up here all night, if you wanted, but, well.” 

“we’re taking it slow,” virgil says ruefully.

“we’re taking it slow,” patton agrees. “plus, you’ve got a diner to close, and i’ve got a kid at home who’ll probably stay up too late reading if i don’t bug him about bedtime.”

“yeah,” virgil says, but he can’t help but sigh a little—they’ve both agreed that moving slowly is the responsible thing to do, they’ve talked about it a lot, first to agree to slow then later to refine their mutual definitions of slow, which turned out to be pretty damn different at first, but. well. 

“i know,” patton agrees fervently. and he really does—he’s literally the only other person right know who understands exactly how virgil’s feeling, and that sets him at ease more than anything.

“all right,” virgil says, and peels back the top of the makeup removal wipes package, removing one. “lemme see your face.”

patton obligingly tips up his chin at virgil, smiling.

virgil cups the underside of his jaw and works to clean off patton’s face, gently rubbing away the plum smears around patton’s mouth with a purposefully soft hand. 

it takes a few wipes for virgil’s lips to twitch up into a smile, too.

“stop it,” virgil scolds, without any heat.

“stop what?” patton says, still smiling.

“you’re smiling at me,” virgil says. 

“what, i can’t be a little happy that i spent some quality time with my fella?” patton asks. 

virgil ducks his head, because that’s one of his top two love languages, and patton knows it. instead, he says, “‘course you can, i am, too. but you’re gloating.”

patton’s grin widens, and virgil sighs, lowering his hand—he won’t be able to help patton at all with patton grinning up at him like that.

“i have,” patton says, “the prettiest fella. i’m allowed to feel at least a little smug that you’re the belle of the ball tonight, darling.”

“stop,” virgil grumbles, looking away.

“what?” patton says. “it’s true! you’re gorgeous, honey.”

virgil mutters under his breath and rubs at the back of his neck—he isn’t the best with accepting compliments, he never has been, especially when it comes to things like this.

but, well—

“so,” virgil says, staring at the makeup wipe in his hand. “you… liked it?”

“liked it?” patton says.

“y’know,” virgil mumbles, and gestures vaguely up and down his body—the skirt, the makeup. “it.”

patton grins up at him, and tugs him down a little so that they’re eye-to-eye.

“i,” patton purrs, “love the skirt.”

it takes a little bit longer to get polished back up after that. and if, perhaps, virgil walks around the diner a bit more at ease than before, with a bit of a stupid smile on his face even after patton blows him a kiss on his way out of the door, well. that’s virgil’s business.

⁂

christopher calls when logan’s studying at the diner. his dad’s already headed home, most of his dinner conversation having been rhapsodizing his deeply-held desire to put on his pajamas. virgil’s busy behind the counter settling everyone’s bills now that the bulk of dinner rush is over.

it’s still unusual enough to logan that christopher brings himself to call semi-regularly now—even stranger that it’s weekly, and on a set schedule. wednesday nights at seven. he even remembers to call precisely on schedule, most of the time. but still—every time his cellphone buzzes and lights up with a photo of him and christopher and dad at a sanders-hosted thanksgiving a few years back, he’s surprised.

it takes quite a bit of work to unlearn sixteen years that consisted mostly of irregular, unscheduled visits and not showing up when the visits are actually scheduled, logan supposes.

“hey, kiddo!” christopher says brightly.

“hi, dad,” logan says, digging around for a bookmark, before giving up and placing a clean knife in his science textbook to mark the page and closing it. 

a moment later, logan curses his mental preoccupation with studying and the upcoming phone conversation he’ll have to have—the napkins are right there.

“so, what’re you up to?”

“studying.”

“you’re always studying,” christopher says, and there’s something in the tone that sets logan’s teeth on edge; he knows that christopher isn’t exactly academically inclined, and in fact would likely be better described as an academic anarchist, seeming to disdain upon the opportunities and privileges he was given with no strings attached that logan would almost certainly kill to have, not to mention many other people who would put it to better use, but. it’s not the time to pick a fight, logan supposes.

“yes, well,” logan says. “i have science test this week.”

“you’ve always got tests.”

“chilton is an academically rigorous school,” logan says, in a tone that implies he’s explained this a hundred times, because he has. “and i would like to maintain my position as a competitor for the top of my class. how are… things?”

this allows him a brief reprieve—since the official collapse of christopher’s business, not too long after he’d visited last fall, he’s been picking up a variety of odd jobs and temporary work, whatever catches his interest—christopher spends about five minutes explaining that he’s found some temporary work at a bar, now, to make some spare cash as he looks for something more permanent during the day. 

“—but yeah, that’s about all that’s going on with me right now.” a pause. then, christopher prompts, “how about you?”

logan shrugs, even though christopher can’t see it. “not very much. the test. i think i did well on a pop quiz on monday—”

he explains his various schoolwork and extracurricular activities—christopher hums in all sorts of places—before he adds, “oh, and roman and i went on a date on saturday.”

“hey, finally, something fun!” christopher says. before logan can even say something like but the debate team’s mock trial was fun, he says, “what’d you do on your date?”

“we had frozen yogurt,” logan says, “and roman wanted to go to a thrift store to get some things, and we both got a couple books, and roman got something for the ball, so that’s good—”

“whoa,” christopher says, “hang on, rewind. the ball?! what ball?”

logan winces.

because, well. it’s complex to navigate building a relationship that he initially blackmailed his father into, rather than have him propose to his dad. it’s even more complex to figure out how to handle a dad who had, for sixteen years, mostly showed up in irregular, unscheduled visits and not showing up when the visits are actually scheduled. 

he has a dad. for the vast majority of his life, patton has been the only biologically-related adult on whom he could rely. if there was ever anything a parent needed to be involved in, whether it be a parent/teacher conference, or parent’s night, or a parent volunteer for his classroom—he’s always penned down patton sanders without a second thought. virgil, occasionally, if he’d known that his dad had a scheduling conflict, but—always, patton first. that’s just the way it is. christopher had never even stepped foot in sideshire before last fall.

but now, well. now, he has to navigate should i have asked him to come back for this? because the rules say he needs his dad to escort him. 

and for so long, he has been so used to only having one of those. (well. two, but one biological dad. the other one kind of adopted him on sight and now he fusses after logan getting proper vegetable and protein intake.)

having both parents be involved in your life is even more unnecessarily complicated than i could have anticipated, logan thinks, before he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“um, yes. a ball. the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball, to be more specific.”

“you’re kidding,” christopher breathes out. “jeez, what kind of dirt does emily have on you that you had to recruit your boyfriend to escort some girls, too?”

logan blinks. “i have no idea why a handful of soil would motivate me to do that?”

“no, like—” christopher begins, and, perhaps, logan was overemphasizing his usual ignorance for use of slang just to give himself a break.

“well, that isn’t the case, regardless,” logan says, before he decides to just get it over with. “he was getting a dress. we both have one. we’re going to be the debutantes, not the escorts.”

there’s a pause.

“is this a gay thing?”

logan cringes, ever so slightly—christopher sounds more bemused than anything, so logan doesn’t think it’s a necessarily passive-aggressive comment, rather a more genuinely ignorant one.

“no, it’s not—” logan says, and pinches the bridge of his nose a little harder. “it’s not, um. a gay thing. we’re recruiting a lot of chilton students and sideshire kids to join in, it’s more of a public statement than anything.”

“oh,” christopher says, still with that tone of bemusement. then, “a public statement of what?”

“we’re making a statement about how sexist it is that society still deems it appropriate to trot young women around like that,” logan says. “we—the boys, i mean—are wearing dresses as a gesture of support and solidarity with them.”

“oh,” christopher repeats.

there’s an even longer pause.

“how many people did you say you got to join in?”

“we’re almost at forty, the last time i checked,” logan says, and christopher whistles lowly.

“your grandma’s gonna throw a fit.”

“we told her, actually,” logan says. “i wanted to see if she still had the dress she was going to make dad wear.”

“and how’d she take that?”

“she’s making me wear heels,” logan grouses, and christopher laughs.

“well, can’t say i expected her to be especially nice about anything,” christopher says. “so, tell me all about this massive prank you’re cooking up, then, i knew that some of my teenage troublemaking had to rub off on you somehow.”

though logan wants to say it’s not a prank, he supposes that it doesn’t exactly harm the movement if christopher thinks that; it’s not like he’s about to tell christopher the real reason, after all.

but logan tells him, all about the chilton kids, and the sideshire kids, and the upcoming Culture Day that his dad and isadora were organizing, and the bake sale that the sideshire kids were doing to raise money to actually enter into the ball in the first place, and the way logan’s had to hide sign-up sheets from teachers, and it seems to go okay. 

that is, until christopher says, “hey, i guess if you’re going as a debutante, you need your dad to escort you, right?”

“oh,” logan says, and coughs. “um, actually, dad’s already doing that.”

there’s another long pause.

“oh.”

“i mean,” logan says, and shrugs, even though christopher can’t see it. “you’re saving up for other things, you hardly need to come out from california just to do this.” 

“i would’ve,” christopher says, defensively. “if you’d asked.”

“right,” logan says, and the sarcasm slips through before he can even really attempt to modulate it into something resembling politeness.

“i would’ve,” he repeats, more insistently. “i know i haven’t been the best—”

“look, i have to get back to studying,” logan says, cutting off whatever platitude about i know i wasn’t present for you throughout your childhood, when you most would have needed the stability of your other parent, but i am trying now after you had to blackmail me into not upsetting your life, “next week, we’ll talk?”

another pause. a defeated sigh.

“sure, kid,” he says. “yeah. i’ll talk to you next week. same time. love you.”

logan flounders, for a moment, before he says, “next week, then, bye,” and hangs up before christopher can return the farewell salutation.

logan takes a moment to lift his glasses so he can press the base of his palms into his eyes, before he resettles them on his nose and opens his science textbook again.

the conversations with christopher are… something. they tend to go cordially most of the time, even, it’s just—

well. like he’d thought earlier. he’s so used to having one parent, and christopher only ever making contact irregularly. no guarantee for birthdays, no guarantee for christmases, no guarantee for thanksgivings. no guarantee for if logan really wanted to lean on someone, if he’d be there, solid and steady, or if logan would be sent sprawling to the ground. metaphorically.

it’s a bit like that cartoon that logan recalls, as a child—lucy, holding the football, insisting that she wouldn’t yank it away at the last second, leaving charlie brown tumbling head-over-heels.

christopher has insisted that he wouldn’t yank the ball quite literally since logan was born. forgive logan if sixteen years of ending up flat on his back hadn’t exactly endeared him to exactly trust that christopher would hold the ball steady, even if christopher had ended up being much more punctual and consistent with phone calls than expected.

it’s just—difficult. to adjust. to really believe that christopher might stick around, this time.

he suddenly feels his (already immense) sense of respect for patton rise all the more, because he trusts people like this all the time, no matter how many times he’d ended up flat on his face; logan’s thought it naivete for so long, that now that he’s attempting to practice it, he finds himself… well, if he’s to continue the metaphor, he’s found himself unwilling to even attempt the run-up to the ball.

logan attempts to shake himself, as if the thought is something that he can dislodge, like water in his ears. he refocuses on his textbook and readies his pen for any notes that he needs to take. which he does, for a while, his pen scratching a familiar rhythm under the quiet rush of other people’s conversation, and the soft, inoffensive music the diner plays, that is, until the plastic of the pen cracks under the force of his grip. logan scowls, and tosses the pen aside.

“here.”

logan looks up, startled; virgil’s standing over him, holding a small plate. he’s wearing another skirt today—purple, and it falls just below his tights-clad knees.

“what’s that?”

virgil sets down the plate, careful to avoid any notebooks, pens, or textbooks. there’s a slice of loganberry pie on it, which is actually logan’s favorite, despite the downside of the many puns his dad has made about logan liking loganberry pie.

“you look like you need pie.”

“i do?” logan says cluelessly.

“pen tossing usually signals the need for pie,” he says.

“you,” logan says. “brought me pie.”

virgil arches his eyebrows. “i could take it back.”

“thank you,” logan says quickly, sliding the plate toward himself, as if virgil would snatch it away, and virgil snorts, reaching out to ruffle logan’s hair before he retreats back to the counter, and—

and it really is just the sugar that has logan’s shoulders relaxing as he stares at his science notes, he tells himself.

⁂

the science test is predictably grueling. logan sits at his lunch table, his brain still tracking over various formulas and small facts he’d memorized, as if in a half-stunned stupor.

there’s the sound of a tray clacking on the table. logan looks up, startled.

dee, in his usual cape and hat, looks over at him, and arches his eyebrows as if daring him to say something. after logan blinks at him owlishly, dee resumes settling himself, as if he has sat at logan’s lunch table a great many times and not at all as if this isn’t the first time he’s done this.

come to think of it, logan’s uncertain if he’s ever even seen dee during their lunch period before. he sets aside the question of then where does he eat??? and instead reaches into his lunchbox, grabbing something at random to start eating.

a clementine. okay.

logan starts peeling the clementine as dee gets his lunch tray in order, and dee says, very casually, “would you like to come over so we can discuss arrangements?”

logan’s fingernail catches; he resists the urge to curse as he punctures the fruit, and instead reaches for a napkin to wipe his hand dry of juice.

“arrangements…?”

dee looks at him. “for the project.”

logan’s test-addled brain then proceeds to panic and mentally trace over every single one of his shared classes with dee, attempting to pinpoint how on earth he possibly could have overlooked an upcoming project, before—

oh.

“i—yes,” logan says, and resumes peeling the clementine. “yes, that works out fine, i think. um—do you live near a bus stop?”

dee flaps a gloved hand at him dismissively. “i’ll have one of the drivers take you back home.”

one of the drivers??? then, he has even one driver???? what on earth necessitates plural drivers???

“i… sure,” logan says, rather than comment on that, “i’ll text my dad and tell him i’ll be home late.”

dee nods, and so logan eats his clementine in sections as dee’s lunch tray depletes with a rate of speed that would already be impressive if not compounded by the fact that logan doesn’t even really see him eat, before he pulls out his phone and texts his dad, I’m going over to Dee’s after school, I’ll let you know how long I’ll be there when I have a better idea of the time frame.

he’s walking to his next class when his phone buzzes, and he glances at his phone. 

Dad: okay!!! say hi to the adults and be on your best behavior! love you, have fun!!!

he is uncertain how much ‘fun’ will weigh into the activities for any event at dee slange’s house.

⁂

dee’s pretending to be on his phone almost the entire time a chauffeur drives them back (he could have driven, but he hadn’t felt like it this morning, so therefore he didn’t have his car in the afternoon) but really he’s looking out of the corner of his eyes at logan.

logan is sitting stiffly, and he has been since he’d gotten into the car; it’s as if he’s nervous he might scuff up the leather if he moves. he’s holding his backpack in his lap, and his eyes keep darting to the driver, suit-clad and silent, and out the window, before glancing at dee, and then back out the window. 

as they creep up to the gate, and the chauffeur inputs the code that’ll open the gate so they can drive up the maple-lined driveway, to the house, dee has abandoned the ruse entirely, because logan looks the most confused dee’s ever seen him look.

the look only grows more obvious once they break past the trees, and logan actually gets a good look at the house; dee knows the townhome was designed to be magnificent, especially on first glance, but he’s been so accustomed to it that seeing logan’s eyes dart from the fountain in the middle of the driveway to the sprawl of primroses and lavender and hydrangeas and all the rest of the landscaping, and the towering height of it all, the brick crowded with overgrown ivy and climbing roses. the historic townhome may not have multiple wings, and it might not really hold a candle to the ultra-modern mansion where his parents live, but it still, certainly, is impressive.

“you live here?” logan says, stunned.

“obviously?” dee says.

he’s tempted to say something like if you ever saw my parents’ house, maybe pull up that old e-edition of a magazine that had covered it once, just to see logan’s eyes pop out of his head, but the chauffeur puts the car in park and logan’s saying “thank you, sir,” and scrambling out of the car as quick as he can.

dee arches a brow, and the chauffeur moves to open the door for him, because he was raised with manners, jesus, wasn’t this emily and richard sanders’ grandson? one would think he’d know something about how to comport himself.

his brain provides several mental images, though: the little yellow clapboard house logan lived in, the absurdly picturesque tiny town full of brick buildings and repurposed barns and colonial charm, logan’s voice saying, my dad and i were effectively homeless until i turned six, and feels a strange clenching in his chest. 

dee shoves it down and arranges his face into his typical boredom by the time he’s walking up to the front door, logan quickly falling into step behind him.

he opens the door—the chauffeur’s going around to the servant’s entrance—and by the time he’s stepping through the door, nanny has materialized at his side, and looks only slightly surprised that there is another teenage boy with him.

logan is too busy looking around at the entry hall—the rugs, the paintings, the furniture, the post-its stuck up on the front door—to really notice any of that, for which dee can’t help but breathe a little sigh of relief.

“hello, we have a guest,” nanny says. 

“i told granmè,” dee says, and his stomach sinks as nanny gives him a sideways look, as if to say you know better than to let that serve as a notification system anymore, before she refocuses on logan.

“your name, young sir?”

“um, logan,” he says, looking boggled that he’s being called sir, and adds, “sanders. logan sanders.”

“emily and richard’s boy?”

“their grandson, yes,” logan says, looking to dee for some kind of help; dee would shrug at him, if he wasn’t kind of enjoying watching the usually unflappable logan flounder a little bit.

nanny nods, and says, “welcome to the lavandelands,” which is technically the townhome’s name, but they only ever use it to introduce the house to new visitors, so dee forgets the townhome has a name at all until it comes up again—it’s the same with the manor, which is technically the hearthfields. logan doesn’t seem to notice, nodding at her like he can’t think of anything else to do.

nanny turns to dee, instead, and asks, “would you care for any refreshments?”

“just the usual tea should suffice,” dee says. nanny looks at logan.

“um,” he says again—dee is a little delighted, because he has never heard logan get so knocked off-center before, and after all this attempted antagonizing about his grades all it took was bringing him to his house—“just—just water’s fine. thank you.”

nanny nods, says, “i’ll be with your grandmother in the greenhouse. mr. sanders, it was a pleasure to meet you, please have mr. slange ring for us if you require anything,” and sweeps off.

“you have a greenhouse?” logan says blankly.

“we have a greenhouse,” dee confirms. “you can see it later, if you’d like. shall we go study?”

logan nods, and falls into step behind dee; dee considers going to the dining room, the way logan did when they were making posters at his house, but he wants nanny, bertie, ingrid, and martha to have plausible deniability in case his parents demand to know if they’d heard anything about this, and so he leads logan up the staircase and into his room.

it’s been cleaned today recently, he can tell; it smells like the lemon candles he likes, the ones martha lights whenever she airs out his room, so the room is in its tidiest iteration; vacuumed rugs, swept and mopped hardwoods, dust-free surfaces, with a made bed and no mess anywhere anywhere.

it practically seems like a hotel room, if not for the legal pad on his desk with his handwriting on it.

and of course, logan crosses almost immediately to the desk; dee only catches on a minute later, when he bends slightly to get a better look inside the vivarium.

“luke, leia, and han, right?” logan says, glancing at dee for confirmation before scanning the plants and rocks; dee crosses over, too, and gestures toward the rock in the back corner—mostly hidden by plants, but the sun lamp shines directly upon it.

“they like to nap here,” dee says, and he’s right—luke and han are curled up, sunning themselves, and logan makes an ahh noise when he spots them too.

“they’re larger than i expected,” logan says, staring at them, eyes lit up with curiosity.

“mm,” dee says vaguely. “females tend to be longer and bulkier than males. leia’s biggest, she’s a little over two feet.”

“where is she?” logan says. “you said she was the checkered one.”

dee tries his hardest not to seem surprised, but—logan remembers his snake’s markings. from a a throwaway comment he made nearly a month ago. 

“probably hiding,” dee says. “she likes to stick near the water, so she’s probably curled up under the lip—”

logan kneels down, all the better to see, and he says, “i see her!”

“asleep?”

“i think so,” logan says, and frowns. “i’m not as familiar with snakes as i am with other reptiles, though.”

dee blinks. “which reptiles are you familiar with?”

“frogs, mostly,” logan admits. “lots of frogs and toads would be around the pool, when we lived at the inn, and they’re very common in the pond there. salamanders and lizards, sometimes, during summers. i had a brief phase of hunting for reptiles and bugs, i thought i would be a reptile research journalist, or something—i kept bringing them home and dad had to pretend he wasn’t scared of any creepy-crawly bugs or scaly things, he’d call over virgil so that there was someone i could show all the bugs to who wouldn’t get freaked out.”

dee has a mental image, then, of logan—shorter, and baby-faced, holding up a salamander and babbling to this mysterious virgil about its various properties, who would nod and ask questions and generally care what a child thought, his dad shoving down his fear long enough to listen to logan, because it’s something that interested him, something that logan cared about.

and then a memory of himself, hip-deep in snake research books, trying to tell his new adopted parents all about why snakes were so interesting and cool, and receiving three snakes for his first birthday state-side and overhearing maybe she’ll shut up about the stupid snakes now, his mother saying at least we won’t have to see them, they’ll be in her room, maybe she’ll stay there more and children should be seen and not heard as nanny and martha tidied up the wrapping paper from his birthday party—

he squashes the not-jealousy with extreme prejudice. 

“oh, and the occasional turtle,” logan adds, breaking dee’s train of thought. “not many snakes, though; not many of the inn’s employees were keen on letting the five-year-old try to find out if one was venomous or not, so i’d be stuck watching if they ever found one.”

“...right,” dee says, unsure of what to really say to that. also, he’s a bit busy listening to the purposefully-heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

“so i’ve never seen snakes up close like this,” logan finishes, and dee just. nods.

fortunately, a knock on the door breaks any lingering awkwardness; dee calls out “come in!” and nanny comes in with a tray of a typical afternoon tea.

“just leave that on the storage bench, thank you, nanny,” dee says briskly, and so nanny sets the tray of snacks on the bench at the base of dee’s bed, before she presents a water bottle to logan, and says, “there’s a chilled glass for you on the tray.”

“oh,” logan says, and takes it. “um. thank you.”

almost as if he’s unable to help it, his fingernails tap-tap-tap against the water bottle as he looks at the design, whatever sense of culture shock that might have faded after looking at the snakes rearing right back.

“thank you, nanny, that will do,” dee says, and nanny nods to him, before she departs and closes the door on the way out.

“this water bottle is made of glass,” logan says, as if it’s a question.

dee arches an eyebrow at him. “do you not like water served in glass? do you only like plastic containers for your water? shall i call for nanny to get you a plastic cup?”

“no,” logan says, “no, it’s just—” and he squints at the label, before he looks up at dee and says, “this bottle of water is from a glacier.”

“you can keep the bottle, if you like,” dee says, “we have plenty more.”

“the source is only accessible from the ocean.”

“yes, i heard you,” dee says. “it’s not like i would already know this, since i have lived in this house and had that water for years, but do go on.”

“our goal was to create the world’s first luxury premium glacier water product with unmatched quality—purity—elegance. created from an award-winning source, from the hat mountain glacier in beautiful british columbia, canada, we have captured the hearts of water connoisseurs worldwide,” logan reads from the label, and looks up at him. “dee.”

“i don’t understand what your issue is with the water,” dee says, even though he’s very aware that logan’s issue is primarily you even have fancy WATER?! but it’s fun to see how absolutely bemused he is over it. “if it’s good enough for water connoisseurs worldwide, it should certainly be good enough for you.”

logan hesitates, before he sits on the bench at the end of dee’s bed, and picks up the chilled glass. oh, nanny set out to impress, that’s one of the nice crystal glasses that granmè only ever really brings out for parties.

it also has the added benefit of logan’s eyes becoming even rounder behind his glasses, and looking between the water bottle and the glass, as if weighing if he’s blue-blooded enough to consume it, or if he’s so much of a commoner that taking a sip of it will cause him death, like the false grail in indiana jones.

evidently, the combined hayden-sanders genes must win out, because he carefully pours himself a glass, and then looks even more hopelessly confused when he turns his attention to the tea tray.

really, dee at the start of the school year would be clapping his hands in absolute glee at how much he’s managed to catch logan off-guard.

“are these cucumber sandwiches?” logan asks faintly.

“ooh, yes,” dee says, plucking one for himself and promptly shoving it into his mouth, fast, so that sanders won’t notice while his attention is captured by their snack. “plus pear and stilton, here, and ham-brie-apple, and pesto chicken, and those ones are prosciutto-fig, i think. of course there’s scones and clotted cream, battenburg, crumpets...”

“you,” logan says, looking hopelessly lost, “you just asked for tea?”

dee looks at him, amused, even as he’s pouring himself a cup of tea. “my grandfather was english, sanders. it’s afternoon tea.”

logan blinks, before he says, “i didn’t know that. that your grandfather’s english, i mean.”

“and my grandmother’s french,” dee says. “my particular branch of slanges relocated to the americas much later than your branch of sanders did.”

“you know that?” logan says, startled.

“of course,” dee says. “sanders’ came over on the mayflower, daughters of the american revolution, et cetera et cetera. our grandmothers have been friends for years, did you really think i wouldn’t know?”

he waits a beat, before he adds, “and, well. know your enemy.”

“i suppose you took that much more seriously than i did,” logan says at last, before he reaches for a safe option—a blueberry scone—and cracks it open, spreading it with jam.

“yes,” dee says pridefully, “yes, i did.”

logan rolls his eyes, even as he plops a generous helping of clotted cream on top—

“oh, cornish method, interesting,” dee says, just to see that confused look come rearing back, and is immediately satisfied—

before logan shakes himself, and says, “why did your grandparents relocate here, anyway?”

dee tries his very best not to brighten too obviously, it’s just—it’s been so long since someone so blatantly handed him an excuse to spin stories on a platter.

“well, that’s a very interesting story,” dee says, leaning back, “and really, it all starts with my great-grandfather. or, rather, my great-grandfather’s very distant cousins. you see, my family had a lordship—”

logan looks at him, surprised.

“—a very minor lordship,” dee says, “technically barons, not dukes or anything. you probably wouldn’t have heard of them, it’s not like they were major members of the house of lords or anything. anyway, my great-grandfather didn’t know that, because again, he was a very distant cousin, and the main line of the family had three daughters. no women could inherit.”

logan frowns. “sexist.”

“mm, quite,” dee says. “anyways, they were counting on a closer cousin to inherit—a second cousin, i believe—but he tragically died in a boating accident, and so the family came calling to my cousin—who was a solicitor at the time—and brought him to the estate, which was called,” dee quickly casts about for an alike-enough name, “...upton priory.”

and so dee goes on cribbing details from the first three seasons of downton abbey, changing names and having a merry old time. logan gets close to realizing—he says “that sounds rather familiar, actually,” when dee reiterates the whole plotline of his supposed great-grandfather’s valet getting arrested for supposedly murdering his wife, to which dee says, “it was quite a scandal, perhaps you’re remembering the details from your grandmother, goodness knows she’d find it fascinating,” which buys him even more time until he kills off his great-grandfather, the matthew stand-in, after the birth of their second child.

logan frowns, and says, “well, that’s rather sad, but—i thought you said your grandfather was eldest? why would he give up a lordship?”

“why else, sanders?” dee says, and gestures expansively. “love.”

logan arches his eyebrows, and takes another sandwich—he seems quite partial to the pesto chicken and ham-apple-brie—and says, “go on, then.”

and so dee goes on stealing details and weaving a story, this time from the king’s speech, explaining how his grandmother was a divorcée (she is not) and his grandfather wanted to marry her anyway, as they’d met and she’d become his mistress during an outing to new york (possibly true, but in the same way that the moon landing being faked is possibly true) but as she was a divorcée (again, untrue) and he was a prominent member of the church of england (as far as he knows his grandfather was a catholic) to have a lord marry a divorcée had caused quite the drama between the family, and then dee cribs even more details from downton abbey to describe the fight, mounting and dramatic and full of high passions, going on for another fifteen minutes, until his grandfather finally decided—

“to abdicate the throne?” logan finishes dryly; they’ve picked the tea tray mostly clean of snacks, by now, and logan’s long since finished his water and has stolen a cup of tea. “i didn’t realize you were a descendant of edward the eighth. should i have been calling you your majesty this whole time?”

dee tries his very hardest not to pout, but he does cross his arms. “how long have you suspected?”

“around the time you said he gave a lordship ‘for love,’” logan says, “but i knew for sure when you started talking about how your grandmother became a mistress in new york. she’s french.”

“damn!” dee says, not really angry at all, but still, he had to keep up appearances. “i managed to fool brad with that whole backstory until he saw the king’s speech five years later.”

and then dee waits; he waits for logan to get mad, or to snap at him for wasting time, something that dee will attempt to brush off and maybe even laugh at. he waits for logan—journalism-obsessed, fact-checking, scientifically-minded logan—to react to what was dee, essentially, lying straight to his face for about half an hour.

but then:

“well, that’s brad,” logan says, “it doesn’t take much to fool him, i’d imagine.”

dee smiles, pleased. “no, it doesn’t.”

“so where was the other stuff from?” logan says. “upton priory, i mean. i’m assuming that doesn’t exist. i know the story from somewhere.”

he’s… curious.

he’s curious??? dee repeats to himself—this is logan, who is, as stated, journalism-obsessed, fact-checking, scientifically-minded—he doesn’t seem mad. he just seems… intrigued.

this bears much more investigation that dee would have thought prior to inviting him over.

“downton abbey,” dee allows. “i can’t believe you caught onto the historical significance of edward the eighth meeting his mistress in new york, and yet i throw three season’s worth of downton abbey at you and not even a little bit of recognition.”

logan shrugs. “i’m not very good with pop culture. that’s more—” and very suddenly he looks like he wants to slap a hand to his forehead, if logan was at all prone to dramatic, cliché gestures like that. “roman. he was going on for days about matthew dying in the same season they killed off sybil, that’s where i heard all of it before, it’s from roman.”

“the boyfriend,” dee says. 

“yes, the boyfriend,” logan says, “who is very excited for the excuse to wear a pretty ballgown, by the way.”

dee accepts this for the subject change it is, and digs out his notebook and a pen.

“right, then,” he says. “as previously discussed, i’m handling chilton participants, and i’m pleased to announce that with the addition of ana salazar, the entirety of the clairosophic society are involved.”

“oh, excellent,” logan says, and so dee goes on listing chilton students they’ve enlisted—he’d been right, recruiting the puffs and the skull and dagger had caused a wave of wannabes to join in too—and they discuss setting up a form for people to ensure that they’ve paid their way in, dee eventually digging out his laptop and making a couple drafts of one. 

as he does that, logan talks about the sideshire students (behind on payments, but they’re doing an ongoing bake sale at virgil’s, which, dee doesn’t know how small town things work, but he supposes he should trust that logan knows what he’s talking about) and logan taps his own notebook with his pen, going over all of the entrants and discussing anything that needs finer-tuning—not very much on their end, it turns out, but they’ll definitely need to have another meeting after what logan’s dad is apparently calling get cultured day, where he and logan’s boyfriend’s mother will teach everyone the dance they’ll need to know and the proper way to curtsy and so on.

logan scans over his notes, nodding in satisfaction, before he says, “we were a bit oversaturated on debutantes, the clairosophic society should help balance things out with escorts.”

“ana wants to go with janey,” dee corrects. “so she and janey are already taken, but otherwise—”

he blinks. “ana and janey are dating?”

dee looks at him, amused. “you know nothing about the social stratosphere at chilton, do you?”

“i don’t have much tolerance for gossip,” logan says. 

“really?” dee says. “i’d think that as a journalist you’d keep an eye out for these kinds of things.”

“i don’t report on gossip,” logan says. “what do i look like, francie jarvis? anyone else who lives and breathes that rag?”

“what, the jefferson?” dee says. “are you kidding? that’s the most useful thing that chilton’s ever provided me, and i’m including the education, here.”

“useful?” logan repeats, looking as offended as dee had expected him to look when logan would catch on to dee lying his ass off for half an hour straight. interesting. 

“well, admittedly, they can be rather behind when it comes to certain things,” dee says thoughtfully, “but the chaos that happens on the day it comes out? masterful.”

logan frowns. “i thought you wanted to work on the franklin.” 

“oh, i do,” dee says. “like i said, they’re not exactly cutting edge, i can do better with a well-coordinated social media check than they can do with an entire staff full of rumormongers. the whole,” and he flaps a hand, “truth and investigation thing, for the franklin, that’s interesting. besides, the franklin has more effect when it targets adults; with the jefferson, they just want to confirm that the algebra and the calculus teachers are having an affair, which they are—”

logan looks perplexed. “how do you—”

“—don’t ask,” dee says. “believe me, i wish i didn’t know.”

his eyes narrow, as if to say why should i believe you? which, good. he’s learning.

“but in the franklin, one can publish a deep-dive anonymous investigation and get shady male teachers tossed out of the schools on their ear for their too-frequent uniform checks and saying that uniform skirts are distracting. the franklin has more real-world power.”

“not that an investigation of an adult potentially preying upon teenage girls isn’t important,” logan says, “because it certainly is, but journalism isn’t about acquiring power. it’s about holding those in power accountable.”

“isn’t that the same thing?” dee points out. 

“no,” logan says. 

“but it is,” dee says. “because the concept of holding power is so multi-faceted. everyone’s idea of power is different. the upper class has power, the president has power, the people protesting have power. people like francie jarvis and tristan have power, but then, so do you and i. but all of those kinds of power are different.”

“well, that i agree with,” logan says cautiously, and then he frowns. “how do i have power?”

dee looks at him. he looks at him harder.

“what?”

“you’re kidding,” dee says. “you’re a sanders and a hayden.”

“the haydens are not particularly pleased that i am a hayden,” logan says. “the haydens would adore nothing more than to tidily remove me from the family tree.”

interesting.

“but they can’t tidily remove you being a hayden from everyone’s memory,” dee points out. “and, well. power can be privilege.”

“well, i certainly have privilege,” logan says. “i’m white, i’m a cis male, i’m attached to an affluent family.” he frowns, and amends, “families, i suppose.”

“oh, good,” dee says. “you’re a sane person who recognizes white privilege, i won’t have to kick you out.” 

also—attached to an affluent family, not part of an affluent family. more intrigue.

“anyways. you have plenty of power—take chilton, for example. say you wrote that piece on a pedophilic teacher that i was talking about. it would be due to your actions, your hard work and diligence, that removed him from his post. that doesn’t seem like power, to you?”

logan shakes his head, and repeats, “that’s what journalism’s about. just because there are effect from the story i write, to hold said teacher accountable, that doesn’t mean that is personally driven from me. that would be a response—from parents, from students, from headmaster charleston, eventually. there are responsibilities that journalists have, important ones, and we serve a purpose for society. perhaps the story has a powerful impact, or the story is emotionally powerful. that doesn’t mean that i am powerful. i didn’t direct people to fire him, i didn’t influence anyone. i would have presented the facts and exposed his wrongdoings, that’s all.”

“well, i suppose it does depend on your definition of powerful, that’s accurate enough,” dee says thoughtfully. “but the more philosophical idea of what is power? isn’t what i’m trying to address, at the moment, i’m addressing you. another example, then—academically, you’re powerful. tristan dugray would pay a tidy sum for any one of your study guides.”

logan frowns. “i wouldn’t cheat.”

“yes, yes, you’re very moral and ethical, good for you, you’ve passed the after-school special test,” dee says dismissively, “but specifically, for this definition of power, it’s a certain level of strength. but that’s a different kind of power, than, say—”

“tristan dugray never getting in trouble for his foolish pranks because of who his father is,” logan says.

“right,” dee says, “although you’re wrong on that front, he’s a prank on a bad day away from being sent to military school, but—yes, you’re seeing my point. power varies, power changes.”

“well, i never disagreed with that,” he says. “but those aiming for power—their main idea is almost never let’s be a journalist! unless they’re decisively within the yellow journalism era, or if they are fictional character charles foster kane. and even then, he was a media magnate, his attempts at journalism were just to manipulate public opinion and make a lot of money.”

dee sighs longingly and says, “if i were white, that would be my ideal era to work in.”

“what,” logan says, and suddenly they’re talking about yellow journalism—logan is very boring and against it, because he likes things like accuracy and facts—and then logan looks like he’s about to blow steam out of his ears when dee tells him that his ultimate career goal is to write for and maybe run something like the national enquirer, which leads to even more discussions on journalism, things like what qualifies someone to be a journalist and who decides what journalism is, and they’re on a little side-tangent about journalism as portrayed in films when there’s a knock on his door.

“mister slange, mister sanders, dinner is ready,” nanny says, and dee tries his best not to startle, because—logan’s been here for three hours. and he has not once gotten annoyed at dee for reasons outside of journalistic, ethical, or moral debate, and even then, logan seems to set all of that aside relatively easily.

and dee, apart from making up his entire ancestral backstory, has barely even lied.

“coming!” dee says, and then to logan, “i hope you like snail caviar.”

an expression of panic pops up on logan’s face, and dee laughs at him.

“kidding,” he says reassuringly. “it’s french onion soup and croque monsieurs.”

logan looks relieved, and he even laughs, and then proceeds to bump into dee, the way that friends on tv shows jostle each other when one tells a particularly biting joke, and then logan pauses, looking at dee.

very suddenly, dee thinks, oh.

does he think he’s my friend?

they’ve been debating for the better part of two hours, and dee lied to him for half an hour, and dee has been purposefully throwing as many rich-people things into conversation as possible to get logan looking baffled, and logan thinks that they are friends.

is that what friends do?

dee clears his throat, before he grabs logan’s bicep in a way he hopes is normal and does not at all give away that he has not had a friend since he immigrated to the united states, and says, “come on, then, i’ll let you stick your head in the library on the way.”

“you have a library?!” logan asks eagerly, following along as dee tugs him down the hall, and dee tries his very best not to smile too openly.

⁂

dee’s house is…a lot. it’s a lot.

(dee had pulled up a picture of his parents’ house to show off how it could be his own personal xanadu, when they’d been talking about citizen kane, and logan has mentally tabulated the publication he was talking about to fact-check that, because that—that was just absurd, even more so than this one.)

but the smell of french onion soup and croque monsieurs—essentially french ham-and-cheese, either sandwiches or baked lasagna style—is a little more comforting. logan knows these smells, baking bread and ham and melting cheese and onions—granted, virgil’s diner does a french onion soup, but he’s sure it’s not as fancy as what he’s about to eat with dee.

and, as they cross into the dining room, his grandmother, seated at the head of the table.

logan’s technically had lunch with mrs. slange before; it had been at the country club, and he’d been more preoccupied with glowering at dee, but he has met her and spoken with her. she’d been nice; she’d spoken to his grandmother quite a lot about landscaping, and flowers. azaleas in particular, he’s fairly certain.

she’s a rather diminutive woman, her already short stature shrunk down even more from age; her hair is thin and pure white, fluffing up in a way that makes logan think of dandelion fuzz. her face is wrinkled, especially with smile lines around her eyes, her mouth. she’s wearing a cardigan over a button-down, much like his grandmother wears on particularly casual days, but whereas his grandmother prefers solid colors, mrs. slange’s cardigan is white with embroidered pink and purple flowers; it matches her pastel pink button-down. 

by all accounts, she should register in logan’s mind as a fragile old woman; a nice one, one that seems to have more concern about her flowers than anything else. but there’s something glinting in her eyes—flinty, icy blue—that reminds him very much of dee, despite the fact that they are not biologically related.

it’s cunning, logan thinks, or intelligence—she must have both in spades, to help raise someone like dee.

she smiles at dee, and says something in french—logan can manage a basic spanish conversation due to his proximity to the princes, and he’s taking latin classes, but he’s absolutely hopeless with french unless he lucks out and they say something with a latin root word—and dee responds in kind. logan notes that their accents are different. logan puts together, barely a second after he notices, that one of haiti’s two official languages is french.

logan spares a second to wonder if dee can speak the other, haitian creole, before his grandmother turns to him directly and says—something in french. he has no clue what.

“il ne peut pas parler français, granmè, utiliser l'anglais,” dee says, looking almost a little amused at logan’s expense—well, logan can put together he can’t speak french, use english, just based off of context clues.

she starts a sentence in french, pauses, furrows her brow, as if unpuzzling it, and then continues in lightly accented english, “welcome to our home.”

“thank you very much for having me,” logan says, his dad’s be on your best behavior! text at the forefront of his mind, with his dad saying evelyn, right? i always liked her shortly behind. “your home is beautiful; the landscaping’s lovely.”

her wrinkled face settles into its worn lines she smiles.

“mer—” she begins, shakes her head, takes a breath, and then continues, “thank you very much. the roses are finicky little things, this time of year, i’m quite pleased with how they’ve turned out. i think they’ve thrown their last primadonna fit until fall rolls around again.”

and from there, it’s easy to prod her into conversation as they eat the soup course—logan mentally apologizes to virgil, but if he’d taste it, he’d probably agree that this french onion soup is better than his, too—just by asking about the various plants she tends to favor, the particular conditions that each seems to like. the conversation seems perfectly fine, if not for dee staring at the pair of them out of the corners of his eyes, as if monitoring their conversation to make sure neither of them says anything unseemly. 

which is a little unsettling—logan doesn’t think he’s said anything horribly rude to an old person lately, unless one counted his paternal grandparents last fall—but the conversation seems to be fine. logan admits that most of his knowledge of plants is theoretical, scientific, which prods her into asking about their shared science course, and dee takes over that conversation.

it’s fine. the whole dinner is fine, and it seems to be going well, even, and he keeps on thinking so and thinking so as he digs into the main course of croque monsieurs, and she says—

“how do you find the meal, christopher?”

it takes logan a second to register what’s wrong with that statement, and, as soon as it does, unwittingly, his eyes flash to dee.

dee has frozen, fork halfway to his mouth. it’s like he has to buffer for a moment before he visibly stiffens, setting the fork down. logan is about to excuse it as a slip of the tongue—she had known both his parents, surely, perhaps it was just a misstatement. most people in his grandparents’ sphere exalted his resemblance to christopher, even though he was quite clearly a carbon copy of patton excepting his sharper bone structure, straighter hair, and thinner frame, until—

“logan, granmè,” dee says, in a very gentle tone that does not at all match his fists curling up on the table. “this is logan, christopher’s son. do you remember? we had lunch with him and emily.”

her brow furrows, and she says, “right. of course. logan.”

she quite sounds like she thinks that dee is pulling one over her head, and she’s going along with it, the way one did when a small child was pulling an incredibly obvious joke on them.

she maintains that tone and slips a couple more times—christopher, how are straub and francine? as logan’s halving his croque monsieur; christopher, didn’t you say you were going out to california? when the maid, as tight-faced as dee, is setting dessert on the table. 

and it dawns on him, slowly: why dee had to prompt her to use english, when she was born speaking french, and why it had taken her a few seconds to clearly switch over in her head when dee went from french to english at the drop of a hat; why there were so many post-its near the front door; why the household staff had seemed surprised at a visitor, despite the fact that dee had told his grandmother he was bringing home a guest; why his grandmother had said she’s coming out less and less lately, it’s been a while since we’ve had a good, long chat; dee keeping a keen eye out, as if he’s monitoring what they’ll say; not for him, logan realizes, for her. 

she has a disease. she’s aware enough that her gardens are in splendid shape, she’s aware enough that she clearly knows who dee is, but. but she can’t remember who logan is.

it is an exceedingly awkward dessert.

he can’t deny the chocolate-raspberry souffle is absolutely delicious, though.

⁂

the dinner is over. nanny is taking granmè to the library. logan and dee are left alone at the dinner table.

dee has been mentally preparing for this since his grandmother’s first slip—comebacks, things to say, particularly acerbic and witty things he could summon up if logan is rude about it. he’s ready. 

that is, until logan just says, “can i see the greenhouse?”

dee blinks at him. “what?”

“the greenhouse,” logan repeats. “you said i could see it after dinner. can i?”

okay, dee thinks. changing the setting of the argument. he isn’t sure what logan’s play is here, but—

“sure,” dee agrees, and stands, purposefully languid and unhurried. “follow me.”

and so he leads logan through the narrow hallways of the house, mostly ignoring logan as they go (“is that a velázquez?” he demands of a painting, which dee doesn’t really deign answer to—of course it’s a velázquez, does his family seem like the type to settle for a framed imitation) and at last comes to the door of the greenhouse, which he opens without ceremony.

logan walks in. dee expects him to maybe go to sit down, and ask dee why his elderly grandmother thought he was his estranged father, but no—logan beelines straight for the hostas.

well. okay. dee trails after him, meandering vaguely around the greenhouse. logan’s route seems to make sense to him, and only him, but he pokes his nose close to each plant, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he crouches to examine the soil, the roots; if dee was walking into this situation with no prior context, he’d think perhaps that logan was an enterprising botanist who had just gained entry to a highly regarded greenhouse.

but logan is just in the greenhouse of an old lady with memory problems, who he did not know was an old lady with memory problems until she repeatedly referred to him by his father’s name. 

and so dee follows as logan examines fauna, and flora, and the goddamn soil. everytime logan hums with interest, dee thinks it’s a precursor to the beginning of this conversation, but no, he’s just humming at the plants. the plants. they’re plants, his grandmother’s plants, so he’s used to his grandmother being very fond of them and rambling about them even if he’s mostly indifferent about them, most of his emotion toward plants being if it makes granmè happy. the key word in that sentence is granmè. he does not particularly care if these plants make logan happy. he cares what logan will say about his grandmother.

they’ve looped three-quarters of the way around the greenhouse by the time dee’s patience runs out.

“well?!” and it tears out of him in a kind of snarl. logan, from where he’s crouched beside the lilies, blinks at him, his fingers resting on the arm of his glasses, as if he’s about to adjust them again.

“what?”

“what,” dee repeats, then, “what?!” and before he can even think about it, he has his bowler hat in one hand, thwacking logan over the head with it.

“ow!” logan says, clearly more out of the surprise of being thwacked when he wasn’t expecting it. that, or logan is a big baby, dee didn’t even swing that hard.

“what,” dee repeats, jamming his hat over his head again before logan can see any semblance of hat hair, “what, are you kidding me, sanders, of all the times to go quiet when you clearly have questions, you choose now?! say something!”

logan blinks at him, before he says, very slowly, “about…”

“my grandmother,” dee snaps. 

“ah,” logan says, then, almost like he’s reciting something for his latin class, “i am… sorry that she is ill, and i respect your privacy during this time?”

dee actually leans forward because of the force of the Look he is giving logan.

“you know i’m bad at this kind of thing,” he says defensively. “what do you expect me to say?”

“i don’t—!” dee says, and nearly throws up his hands, but he is not allowing himself to get that carried away. “i expect you to say something! not just wander around the greenhouse and let me wait and see if you say something stupid!”

logan looks at him, and says, “was that insensitive of me?”

dee’s eyes must look close to popping out of his head, because logan’s hands are already rising to protect the crown of his head, like he expects dee to hit him with his hat again.

“do you,” he says, and gives dee a strange look, “do you want to talk about it?”

“not particularly!”

“that’s what i thought!” logan says. “i assumed the prior agreement of you wanting to speak to me about anything that particularly affects you would take precedence—”

agreement, dee mouths, and mentally backtracks, until—

“my parents wanting to out me and you coming up with this whole debutante plot and my grandmother having dementia are two different categories!”

“i didn’t think that a statement like ‘if you want to talk about it, i am here’ needed categorization!”

“the previously agreed upon ‘it’ was specifically about my parents’ plot to out me by way of american daughters of the revolution!” dee says, near-hysterical.

“okay!” logan says, “okay, fine, i put forward the terms of that particular definition of ‘it’ being broadened to anything particularly troublesome in your life and wait on your acceptance, or your proposal on how exactly to renegotiate ‘it’, does that help?”

dee stares at him, jaw hanging open, and says, “there is no way that you are an actual person, are you serious?!”

“i don’t know what you want from me,” logan says, near-mournful, and the absolute absurdity of the situation sinks in enough that dee starts laughing.

his parents want to very publicly out him without his consent, his grandmother has dementia that will only get worse and worse and it will only be a matter of time before his parents realize what is happening and send her into a nursing home and force him to move back in with them, the household staff who are the closest people he had previously considered friends have no choice but increase their focuses on spying on him for his parents in order to distract them from noticing anything wrong with granmè, or else risk unemployment, and logan is here talking about renegotiations like they’re on a legal team, and talking sure as shit isn’t an option, so dee can’t do anything but laugh.

“christ,” he says, and half-crumples, half-slides to the ground beside logan, who looks very bemused. “putain de merde, sanders.”

“i’m assuming that’s impolite,” logan says primly, and dee snorts.

“yeah,” dee says, in the same tone would say duh. “yeah, impolite, let’s go with that, shall we?” 

logan pauses, for a few seconds, as if allowing dee to get his bearings, before he says "dementia?" with a tone of curiosity that has dee swiveling his head to glower at him.

"sorry," logan says, not sounding particularly sorry.

"journalist habit," dee mutters, beating logan to the punch for his own excuse.

"yes."

they sit in silence for a little longer.

"i didn't know she knows that particular side of the family," logan says. "the haydens, i mean."

"oh, yes," dee says absently. "we probably lunch with them about twice a year, sometimes more—less now, though, now that they've moved away."

"huh," logan says, then, "what are they like?"

"what, you don't know?" dee says, glancing at him.

"not particularly," logan says. "i've only met them three times, and considering i was still in the hospital post-birth for one of them and was learning how to crawl for the other—"

"huh," dee echoes.

how weird it must be for logan, to hear that dee's had more regular interactions with his grandparents. both sets, probably; he would have remembered if logan had gotten dragged into various family gatherings the way he has.

"they," logan says, purses his lips, and says, "the haydens were particularly transphobic."

"yeah, well," dee says. "that doesn't surprise me."

"homophobic too," logan says, and he glances at his hands before he looks sideways at dee. "deviant was the exact word used in my presence. i'm assuming there was more, but dad kicked me out of the room before i could hear anything else."

dee rolls around various replies in his mouth. he could offer sympathy, or something equally socially accepted and something dee would have no problem letting roll off his tongue like a well-rehearsed monologue.

but.

he would tell all of those monologues to people who don't know that he's trans, that have never been to either of his houses, that have never listened to him spin a lie for half an hour and not be mad about it. he would tell all of these monologues to someone who didn't know that his grandmother has alzheimer's.

so dee doesn't offer a monologue. he offers something that he assumes logan might appreciate, something he'd recognize in a fellow colleague: curiosity.

"which dad?" dee asks. "patton or—"

"patton," logan says, cutting him off. "christopher walked me out, though, to make sure i actually stayed out."

another pause. it seems like curiosity hasn't been the outright wrong move, so dee strives for more questions.

"are you close?" dee says. "with christopher. i've only met him a couple times."

logan's mouth twists downward at the edges.

"i don't suppose you'd be willing to offer definitive parameters for close, would you?"

"no, not really," dee says. "closeness is subjective."

logan shrugs a shoulder. he looks almost uncomfortable.

"what?" dee says, interest now piqued—because if he didn't know any better, he'd say logan looked guilty.

"i," logan says carefully, "might have blackmailed him."

"you what," dee says, turning to face logan head-on, not even bothering to hide his shock. or his delight. he doesn't bother hiding that either.

"after the visit last fall, he," and the corners of his mouth twist down even further. "well, that doesn't matter anymore. anyway, i dug up as much of his public financial and legal records that i possibly could and made him a deal that i'd extend equal efforts in getting to know him as he would getting to know me. we have a standing weekly phone call now."

"you blackmailed him?" dee says gleefully.

"with public information," logan says huffily. "it's not like i hired a private investigator or anything—"

"nuh-uh, nope, you used the word blackmail," dee says merrily. "you don't even have to justify it with saying where you got the information, you still used information you dug up on him to coerce him into a deal. that is the textbook definition of blackmail."

"i don't know if it's the textbook definition—"

"nope!" dee says. "nope, i'm not listening to your semantics. you blackmailed someone."

"you don't need to sound so thrilled about it," logan grumbles.

"are you kidding?" dee demands. "this is by far one of the most interesting things i've ever heard about you. please tell me there's more misbehavior like this in your past—no, no, wait! i'll figure it out myself!"

"good luck with that," logan says. and then, almost randomly, "everyone says i look like him."

dee stays quiet—give the interviewee time to consider their answer, if it's short, mel had lectured once. always leave a couple of seconds for them to think about if they want to add on to their answer before you move to an entirely different question.

"i mean," logan says, and runs a hand through his hair. "other than this, i don't particularly understand why. i pretty clearly favor my dad—ugh, patton, i favor patton, this is the problem with two dads—but everyone says i look like christopher. my grandparents—both sides—their friends, a couple teachers. it's usually rather frustrating, and though i can't prove it, i have a feeling it's somewhat rooted in transphobia, for most of those friends."

he pauses a beat, as if understanding where he's going with this particular line of conversation. dee suddenly feels a lot less excited about the potential for uncovering any more of logan's past misconduct.  

"but," logan says. "it, ah. it makes more sense, if your grandmother has more recently had contact with that particular side of my family—"

"don't," dee says, and the exhaustion in his voice almost stuns him.

"don't what?"

"don't," dee says, and flaps a hand. "don't make excuses for her. she has alzheimer's, she's not stupid. everyone's patronizing her now and i hate it, even though i find myself doing it sometimes, it's like everyone's scared that they'll somehow catch the alzheimer's if they don't talk to her like she's a toddler."

and now logan's the one who's quiet, just for a little bit, like he's strategizing how to carry out the rest of the interview. 

except, dee thinks, this isn't an interview. this is a conversation. this is that talking thing that logan offered so readily, back when dee had come out, back before logan came up with this whole absurd debutante plan. 

it's just—difficult. to consider turning this strategizing, conniving part of his brain off. he isn't sure if he ever has, ever since he was first notified it was there in the first place. why would he turn this piece of himself off when it protected him, when it kept him aloof and above it all and safe to conduct himself in the way that felt most true to him? if it took lying and manipulating along the way, so be it. he has no patience for attempts at moralizing the way he lives his life. immanuel kant was a fucking moron who would have gotten himself and his friend killed because he decided his perfect duty was to always tell the truth. what was the point of something like truth if it hurt you? if it put you in danger?

it's not even a choice. 

or, at least. it has never been a choice. because logan is no murderer at the door, or machiavelli-wannabe gossip, or high-society rich person who held so much more power than one could even think of through backdoor deals and secret donations, who had adopted a poor orphan from haiti because it might look good as an accessory, and people would think them charitable, and they would barely even thinking about that poor orphan from haiti growing into their own person with pesky, inconvenient things like wants and needs and opinions.

telling the truth would logan would be... telling the truth to logan. logan, who lived in a tiny, pleasantville knockoff town with things like dance marathons and punnily-named cat-themed stores. logan, who had once blackmailed his own father in order to obtain a standing weekly phone call. logan, who had a trans dad, and who had a boyfriend that he had brought to the school dance, and danced with him, and kissed him, and it didn't even occur to him to care who might see, who might disapprove.

logan, who was once homeless and penniless, and who had extended various sources of information that dee had in his hands, ready to drop into the public eye at any given moment.

logan, who had just sat and talked about citizen kane with him and didn't catch onto three seasons worth of downton abbey but immediately clocked a reference to wallis simpson. logan, who had looked helplessly confused at the sight of fancy water and finger sandwiches and afternoon tea. 

logan, who might think that they are friends.

it might become more of a choice then, dee thinks. 

so when logan asks, very quietly, "how long have you known that she's sick?" it only takes dee swallowing down the saliva rising in his throat to be able to answer.

"she was diagnosed about three and a half months ago," he says. "but i've known something's wrong for a lot longer than that."

logan swallows, too, and dips his head in a brief nod, as if to show he's absorbed the information.

"i'm sorry," he says.

dee could say any number of things: she could live as long as twenty years after her diagnosis, but it's more commonly four to eight years. or one day she's going to forget who i am and i am absolutely terrified. or when my parents catch on they're going to send her away to a nursing home, and i won't be able to live here anymore, and i'll go crazy if i have to stay in that house for too long, their screaming and shouting will drive me crazy. or you don't even know the half of it, the household staff that you probably think are so nice and who practically raised me have no choice but to spy on every little thing i do because otherwise they'll get fired.

but for as much as dee can briefly turn off that part of his mind, he cannot turn it off all at once. there is no way he's opening the floodgates of information like that. they might be friends, but dee isn't in hysterics. he can control himself. he can control this. 

"yeah," dee says, and tips back his head to look up at the ceiling; half of it is glass, leading up to where it joins the rest of the house. the sky is bleak and black tonight, with no moon or stars in sight. "yeah, me too."

⁂

the chauffeur closes the door behind logan, and logan has to fight the urge to jump, even though the chauffeur was also holding the door open for logan to get into the car in the first place.

he has to shake himself before he turns to look at the front door of the lavandelands; dee is standing outside, letting the light spill out of the house and backlight him enough that logan can see him leaning against one of the columns, one arm casually wrapped around his stomach. his bowler hat overcasts his eyes.

"your address, sir?" the chauffeur says, and logan has to fight the urge not to jump again. he tells the chauffeur the address to virgil's, anyways, and turns his head to look at dee again.

haltingly, he lifts his hand and waves, just a little bit awkward. dee's shadowed form doesn't move.

there's a brief moment where logan's left with his hand raised in the air, and he cringes to himself ever so slightly before he starts to lower it.

but then, dee lifts a gloved hand, and tosses logan a lazy, three-fingered salute off his bowling cap, and logan tries to smile a little bit. he can't quite manage it, but he's pretty sure the chauffeur isn't judging him for not looking pleasant enough, as the chauffeur’s a bit busy pulling the car into a neat, three-pointed turn, before beginning to drive away.

logan glances over his shoulder, just enough to see dee, shoulders slightly slumped, re-enter the house. logan lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and redirects his attention to his phone, which he's mostly been neglecting this entire bizarre sojourn at dee's.

he takes enough time to text his dad and virgil that he'll be dropped off at virgil's, so he can pick up a study snack before he heads back to their house, and reassures his dad that he doesn't have to wait up for him or anything. 

he reads a text from roman—a brief complaint about a girl in his dance class, not one of the ones he teaches but the class he actually takes, and logan sends a response that he hopes sounds like the proper, thoughtful response to a mostly inconsequential venting message from his boyfriend.

and then he sits and stares at his homescreen, still that selfie of roman, his dad, and virgil that they took last fall, when he was staying at his grandparents, before everything with thanksgiving and patton's pneumonia had rather tidily messed that week up.

because he has his dad, and his other dad, and virgil, who consists as a dad figure, and he has ms. prince, in her way, and he has roman, a wonderful supportive boyfriend who he has always been able to talk to throughout most of his life. he has rudy, even if he has never particularly leaned on rudy as a means of support. he has maria, and meredith and mark, and his host of cousins from the danes side of the family. he has his grandparents in their own strange ways, even if their relationship prior to this school year would best be described as stilted. he has friends from sideshire high and his teachers and mentors that he left there.

dee has practically no one.

it seems so obvious, looking back at the start of the school year, how dee had seemed so desperate to cling to his academic superiority over everyone in the grade, because that's what he has. he has an ill grandmother, and exceptional grades, and three snakes. he has a former nanny and the rest of a household staff who seem more preoccupied with his grandmother's care. he has his secretive stance in the chilton social ladder, but he didn't have friends. 

logan worries his lip between his teeth. he is incredibly ill-equipped to handle this kind of situation. honestly, he's probably fortunate he only escaped with dee hitting him with his bowler hat; anyone who attempted to have an emotion-centric conversation with logan knew that he wasn't exactly the ideal person to talk to. that's never been his forte.

it has always been his dad's. his dad, who dee had seemed fascinated with, who certainly had a certain level of similarity in their life experiences. and though logan, of course, would never betray confidences...

he could, perhaps, offer some of his vast support system for dee to partake in. leave the choice to him, of course, but. but at least logan would have tried.

and so logan takes a breath, and sends out a text.

Logan Sanders: Dad, would it be all right if I asked Dee sleep over the night of the Culture Day you're planning with Ms. Prince?

#my post #text #my fic #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #the sideshire files #moxiety #logince