Tumgik
#and he was in a fucking tux..which was weird but oh well anyways
stealingyourbones · 4 months
Note
Prompt Idea: Danny has plot armor.
To start off, Danny’s whole family knows he’s Phantom, and they had to run from Amity because of the GIW. They wind up in Gotham because that’s the one place that The Government doesn’t really mess with.
The reason behind Danny’s plot armor is that in this world, Danny became incredibly overprotective of his friends and family in order to make sure he doesn’t wind up as Dan, ironically making the chance of that happening much greater than before.
In order to prevent this, Clockwork gives Danny and his family a blessing. It works like this.
Imagine you rolled a dice. To Clockwork, there are now 6+ possible alternate timelines that can ensue. Clockwork’s blessing allows those possible timelines to be restricted to only one or two, all of them good for the Fenton family.
In effect, it was like plot armor. Scarecrow attacks a library with Jazz inside? Oh, looks like her parents need her to pick up Danny early, or she drank too much water and needs to go to the bathroom, which just so happens to have a window just in reach that she can escape from.
Maddy needs to get a job? Well, Jazz’s university needs a new chemistry professor (last one was kidnapped by a rogue) and they’re in a bit of a rush so they’ll skip looking for a teaching certificate. No one cares anyways, it’s Gotham.
Jack needs something to do? Well, besides hunting ghosts, he’d always wanted to open a food truck! With Jazzy making sure nothings contaminated and some (slightly modified) recipes from the Ghost Zone, he can finally chase his dream in a big city with his Phantom Food Vehicle! He wonders what some of those shady men came up to him for, or that odd stout fella in the tux.
(The Phantom Food Truck has become a recent cryptid in Gotham. Except it’s not a cryptid, because everyone’s seen the video of the truck hurtling down the street like it’s chasing down the devil, cop cars and vigilantes alike on its tail. And yet, no one could find it. Not even the Bats. That’s about when everyone gave up. When they learned that you don’t find it, the Phantom Food Truck finds you.)
As for Danny? He’s entirely unaware of this, to focused on keeping his head down. It works, for a while. Before fate came knocking in the form of a wicked smile, as if there solely to ruin his day.
The Joker wasn’t having a good day either. He started out having a jolly old time, joker toxin gassing a small high school, making sure to leave macabre presents for his dear Batsy, and then what happens? This random kid just starts running around, helping students, saving teachers, what’s he gonna do next huh? Save a cat from a tree?
What’s worse, his useless henchmen couldn’t even land a hit on the kid! He swears, Bill doesn’t even seem to be trying.
Whatever, they managed to corner the brat, looked like he was standing in front of some other children. So Joker lines the shot, and he fires.
The gun jams.
Alrighty, he takes one from a random mook, and he shoots again.
The gun jams.
No one’s moving at this point. Where there was once dread and tension in the air, there’s just confusion. So Joker points the gun at a goon, pulls the trigger, the shot goes off.
He turns back to the Robin-ish looking twink, and he pulls the trigger.
The gun jams.
And as he starts walking towards the kid to just kill it himself, he wakes up in the Arkham hospital wing with his last memory of the encounter being him slipping on the glowing green contents of some weird looking thermos that the kid had thrown earlier in the fight. What the FUCK was that.
Clockwork doesn’t even care how pissed the Observers are any more, this is hilarious.
it's to the point of ridiculousness that the Bats have an entire file on Danny and they think he's a meta with a luck ability and nothing else.
1K notes · View notes
catdemontraphouse · 8 months
Text
Through having an autism moment for one of my favorite movies and its related medias (the current Beetlejuice fixation) I came to the following conclusions:
*Beetlejuice’s favorite color is probably red, which is probably a reference to the color of the star he’s named after
*Beetlejuice enjoys fashion and could even possibly be considered a designer (yes rly) Despite being a grungy character who’s known for being smelly and gross… he is a designer/seamstress with a vested interest in fashion???
Yes I’m going to explain in horrifically unnecessary detail. (It’s the autism) and yes this draws from all the juices but tbh any one of them would work as a stand-alone example (except maybe musicaljuice but he’s critical to the sewing part and also he’s the cute one)
————————-
The argument for Beetlejuice being an amateur designer:
There’s an interview somewhere with the costume designer for the musical that says they wanted the pinstripe black and white suit to look like it had been repaired and modified over the years, because since Beetlejuice was a loner, he’d been solely responsible for making and maintaining his wardrobe. So like, he sewed his own suit by his lonesome out of fabric of some sort. Because if it was magic why the hell would it need repairs? Which suggests at least to me that he *enjoys* making clothes because why go through all that work if you can materialize anything at will? And I mean it fits so, I’m sure it wasn’t his first ever pattern making and sewing experience.
There’s also the way toonjuice refers to his suit as having “never been washed” on numerous occasions so I don’t reckon it’s something he just makes from magic and poofs into nothingness on the fly? Though toonjuice could be argued to buy his clothing since they never stated he made it and he lives in some kinda monster city idk. I’m saying that suggests physical matter somehow not like, idk a temporary illusion? If you can wash it, it has some sort of mass to it right?
Listen, why the fuck a guy who can make his own patterns and sew an entire suit would not wash it is beyond me but okay. Anyways the point is there’s a suggestion being made here by the franchise that Beetlejuice makes his own clothing in the traditional way by sewing together some sort of permanent matter. I can’t say I get the same impression from moviejuice though. There’s not much to suggest his clothing isn’t just temporary magic bullshit, save for the visible decay… ok wait maybe it is made of permanent material. 🤷‍♀️ either that or the dust, tattering and moss is a fashion choice? 🤨🤨
Ok so for this next part let’s just like, put aside the weirdness going down with the wedding thing in the movie (btw I’ve seen it numerous times and I feel like it’s def “a green card thing” in the original as well, pay attention to the characters’ behaviors/interactions throughout the film with one another and u can see what I mean.)
Beetlejuice probably designed that red wedding dress right? Because he materialized it or pulled it out of thin air or whatever? And the matching red tux, same thing. I kinda think that was the fashionista in him taking the excuse to make dramatic evening wear lol. Using Lydia as a Bratz doll dressing her up in his designs smh
There’s also how jazzed up and amused he was by turning Otho into a walking fashion faux pas, or at least I have to assume that’s what he was doing when he ripped the guys outfit apart and replaced it with something that caused Otho to scream in terror. How tf does a smelly guy in a crypt know what’s considered a style no-no unless he’s into this shit lol
Tumblr media
Oh and uh if you’ve ever seen the cartoon he dresses himself up in all sorts of little outfits on the fly, like very frequently. If nothing else he’s coming up with the concepts for these clothes, maybe not constructing them himself in every version of the franchise but he’s at least designing the outfits in all of them or so I assume. He also gives other characters makeovers or new outfits on various occasions. It seems for Beetlejuice, the living are like breathing Barbie dolls he sees no issue with dressing up in his latest creations.
I’ll now explain the “favorite color is red” thing:
*Beetlejuice doesn’t wear many outfits in the movie, but three out of the four I can remember had red in them. The aforementioned wedding outfits were primarily red. His shirt under the coat in the guide outfit is red. 🤷‍♀️ (Adams undershirt that he copies is red but I don’t rly think it counts) Whenever he’s seen wearing a saturated, non-neutral color, it’s red.
Tumblr media
*didn’t he crash a little red car in the model at one point?… I just watched this movie again like last month and I forget already. That car in the photo, he crashed it into a fire hydrant earlier in the movie, didn’t he? Idk maybe not
*his tombstone has his name written on it in red
*toonjuice always has red nail polish 🤷‍♀️
*idk if this counts for anything but the nightclub Juno created to lure him away from the Maitlands was entirely red idk
*and the star Betelgeuse is a red supergiant, so yeah
Bonus entry is this guy a reference to Viy or am I overthinking it???
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Yeah ok I’m def overthinking it. 🤦‍♀️
That’s all i have to say. All that crap above. Bye.
Tumblr media
20 notes · View notes
columboscreens · 2 years
Note
Thoughts on Revival!Columbro?
okay anon you asked for it--my big boy post
so first and foremost the thing about columbo is that while good columbo is outstanding tv, even bad columbo is still watchable tv. there are exceptions like the universally-detested no time to die, in which nobody even dies (presumably due to lack of time)...
Tumblr media
this episode is only good for daniel davis, dan butler, and seeing columbo dance like an animal crossing character in a tux. with an unfortunate dye job no less
...but usually at worst they're just Fine. it's more that the OG series sets the bar so high that you can't help but feel disappointed with the newer episodes. columbo at its zenith contains so many excellent moving parts that the modern episodes feel cheaper, including, probably most upsettingly, falk's performances. sometimes they ring true to our old boy and sometimes they're...pretty phoned in.
that isn't to say that there are no stellar revival columbos! columbo goes to college, rest in peace mrs. columbo, columbo cries wolf, all in the game, amongst others all fall under the scope of (mostly) respectable reboot outings.
now i'm biased because 2003 is still fresh in my mind and it's fun to see columbo in the world that i remember best, but i'm a pretty big fan of columbo loves the nightlife. it's in many ways a final return to 70s form--a little kooky, but rooted in more quiet drama vs the weird screwball tone the 90s was after. also i'm not subjected to swells of cheesy music or a forced THIS OLD MAN motif every three minutes which is a massive plus.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
plus he does a ton of bizarre old man shit and it's wonderful
that said, as mentioned in the post linked above, there are many valid reasons to enjoy a latter-day columbo that don't relate to the quality of the episode. yes we know the plot is godawful. yes norm from cheers is a terrible murderer. yes all these minor characters are awful and wooden and this writing is wretched and oh my god whose idea was it to make every musical cue this old fucking man
and yet you still just want to see columbo himself in new situations, which was always like half the joy of the show anyway. we want to see him solve crimes but also maybe fish a rat out of a dumpster or wear crazy pants. you never know
Tumblr media Tumblr media
both of these episodes are at the bottom of the heap but worth watching for...well. whatever this is.
so...why is the latter series a nadir for columbo? for lots of reasons, but one i would most culpably peg to falk himself--his egregious flanderization of columbo. between that, the wacky 90s scores, the odious gags, and the cartoonish characters, the new series is borderline a kid's show.
columbo at his truest is a silly little guy with a sense of humor. he doesn't take himself too seriously, but takes his work deathly so. the result is a generally sweet, affable, yet relatively straightforward and subdued disposition. this fine characterization, along with the superb casting around him, made him seem living and breathing, grounded in our world.
reboot columbo is not. he is much of the time a shell, a caricature of his old self. not columbo, merely trying to be. it's my understanding that falk got bored of playing columbo the same way all the time, but the new approaches he tried were more miss than hit. a certain gravitas was lost. his face locked in an infuriating Perma-Squint, he mumbles something incomprehensible, picks up a tuba, and then floats into the sky. he is no longer on the murderer's nerves. he is on yours.
Tumblr media
this scene isn't even bad in concept, i would've killed to see 70s columbo whipping out the high school band kid skills. it's just done so cheesily that i can feel my blood pressure rise when i look at it
the old series sort of very lightly paws at the prospect of the paranormal without forcing it. it's interesting, it's thought-provoking. maybe he is just a really sharp guy, but maybe he's got a sixth sense, who knows! lieutenant how did you get into my car
in the new series, columbo at times makes these insane assumptions which dissolves that sense of "chase" and verisimilitude that made the OG series so good. original columbo is sharp and will do everything it takes to catch you. he starts from square one and makes deductions, his conclusions and means to the end seem logical and practical, albeit at times "extra".
neo-columbo knows you did it just by smelling you and shows up in your living room at 3 am cross-legged on a levitating magic carpet with his eyes aglow humming ancient druidic chants
(now that i've described that i kinda wish that were true)
anyway that's what's lost in the newer series, the whole kernel of what makes columbo good--being grounded in some element of reality, respecting the viewer's intelligence, and leaving them to fill in their own blanks as the credits roll.
there were lots of directions in which they could've taken the character in old age. but going from "rambly guy who skillfully pantomimes being a space cadet" to "actual cartoon character who does little but squint and hammily bumble around"--especially when he starts growing old enough to make that less endearing and more concerning--not only doesn't work, it feels like an insult to the character they'd carefully crafted. at the risk of sounding melodramatic, you're almost left with a sense of betrayal.
Tumblr media
sorry sir. it's terribly bright in here...
only slightly subordinate to the poor characterization is the writing quality. or lack thereof, that is; between budget constraints, catering to a different crowd, and general dip in quality in american TV, you have some scripts that are irredeemable. the NBC columbo staff treated each episode like a carefully-crafted film and ABC treated each one like a wednesday night sitcom. it shows. instead of holding onto the high production quality that made the show great, they made it like any other middling, budget tv movie series of its time, at times (mid 90s especially) veering into hallmark movie territory.
originally, levinson and link themselves would come up with story ideas, clues, and "gotcha"s, and then forward those ideas to talented writers like steven bochco, peter fischer, et al. to churn out new scripts. in the newer series, they'd recycle old cutting room floor scraps, use old, rejected scripts, and option other mystery/procedural plots into which they'd shoehorn columbo (ed mcbain's 87th precinct birthed two of the most horrendous of them--no time to die and undercover).
Tumblr media Tumblr media
what sick fuck asked for this. who ever wanted to see geriatric columbo get sucker kicked in the face. bye
i could say even more but this post is already entirely too long-winded. i guess i'll give an honorable mention to falk's second wife, shera danese, who i consider an underrated thorn in this show's side. her columbo performances are distractingly bad. despite this, he kept nepotistically sticking her in every other episode which wears very thin very quickly. it's the cherry on top.
anyway tl;dr latter-day columbo is generally cheesy and flanderized but not always. it sometimes even pulls off a win, harking back to the glory days of yore. it's still worth a watch (or a skim at least), and there are always things to enjoy about it. even undercover is worth a peep, if only for tyne daly, harrison page, and...this.
Tumblr media
lookin good, king
85 notes · View notes
ojirominaj · 3 years
Text
omg i forgot to tell y’all one of my dreams it’ll be in the tags though
2 notes · View notes
harrowharkboygf · 3 years
Text
rating the locked tomb characters by how good their met gala outfits would be
gideon nav
we can surmise from the “rapier with skulls puking other skulls” quote that gideon’s personal style, if she wasn’t beholden to the ninth house dress code, would be Loud and Tacky and A Lot. therefore, i think she’ll go all out with the theme. her outfit might not look objectively good per se — it will probably be a little too excessive and not super classy — but she will absolutely fulfill the theme and she will have fun, and that’s the most important part! 9/10
harrowhark nonagesimus
oh harrow will go all in on this. she will definitely be of the opinion that all guests should have to submit an essay explaining exactly how their outfit fits the theme, and she absolutely will get annoyed at the people who just wore simple black tuxes and dresses. she‘ll start planning her outfit months in advance, and it’s going to be incredibly complicated and very symbolic. her outfit is probably be a lot creepier and more goth than the rest of the guests, but it’ll still go perfectly with the theme anyways. 10/10
ortus nigenad
how much effort ortus puts into his outfit will depend SOLELY on what the theme was. if he thinks it’s a stupid theme he’ll put in zero energy whatsoever, and if he thinks it’s a good theme he will put in the work and come out with an outfit that’s definitely creative, even if it doesn’t look super great and is a little bit of a stretch on the theme. 7/10
judith deuteros
judith definitely does not care. she does not care at all, and if you asked her what the theme was, she couldn’t even tell you. she wears a simple black tux or black dress every year, and yes she looks hot as fuck and very classy and all of the gay girls on twitter go wild over it, but it’s not particularly creative or befitting of the theme. 3/10
marta dyas
marta cares a lot more than judith does, but she still focuses more on the event itself than the outfit; she’s more excited to dance, talk with her friends and acquaintances, and see other people’s outfits. if the met gala didn’t have a theme, she’d still be happy, but since it does, she’ll try to fit the theme as best she can! she refuses to sacrifice her own comfort or ability to dance in favor of an outfit though, which is very fair of her. no matter what, though, she looks good! 6/10
coronabeth tridentarius
oh you KNOW corona is acing this. she starts planning for her outfit a year in advance, but unlike harrow, she’s way less pretentious about it and willing to do something that might make fun of herself a little or make others laugh. she makes sure to call everyone she knows who’s going to make sure that their outfits won’t be too similar. she also makes sure that ianthe and babs’ outfits go good with hers. it’s the bane of her existence that judith won’t go to the lengths that she does. she fits the theme perfectly, she’s creative about it, and she looks hot as fuck. 100/10
ianthe tridentarius
as mentioned above, ianthe’s outfit is always designed to fit with coronabeth’s. it’s always very similar — not quite the same, but very close. same idea, slightly different execution. it’s always fitting with the theme, and looks really good objectively, but there’s a lack of investment and heart that ruins it a bit, especially next to corona’s extravaganza. still, when she’s next to the other guests, she definitely wins. 8/10
naberius tern
babs cares WAY more about looking good than he does about fitting the theme. his outfit is always a lot less creative than and themed than ianthe’s and corona’s. he never sidesteps the theme entirely, but he often refuses to go all the way in favor of not looking too weird. this is kind of a moot point, since he always looks a little weird anyway. 5.5/10
isaac tettares & jeannemary chatur
the awful teens were coordinating outfits each year, and each year they desperately want to fit the theme and do something cool, but they’re a little TOO eager about it. there’s always either a little bit too much going on with their outfits for the message to be fully cohesive, OR they didn’t go all the way because they were too embarrassed to do so. however, they definitely try their best and that’s what matters! 7.5/10
abigail pent & magnus quinn
abigail and magnus treat the met gala like a halloween party. they’re committed to the theme, but not in the militant, obsessive way that harrow and coronabeth are — it’s more that they have fun planning their coordinating outfits because costumes are fun! often their take on the theme is very nerdy and sweet, but maybe not super well done. still, they compliment everyone on their outfits and are so genuine about it that they get points anyway. 7/10
palamedes sextus
pal could honestly care less about the met gala, but he attends anyway and spends the whole night deep in conversation with anyone who will talk science with him. as such, his outfit is. Very Lacking. cam usually designs it for him and it fits the theme pretty well and looks objectively good, but he gets points off for not coming up with it himself. 5/10
camilla hect
pal and cam don’t wear coordinated outfits, but they are still somewhat cohesive, as cam plans them both. camilla’s outfit is definitely much better than palamedes’ is — it fits the theme and is more creative and she just generally looks hotter. however, she’s not putting the same level of energy most of the people listed above. but it’s fun, it looks good, and she passes the test. 7/10
dulcinea septimus
dulcie’s attitude towards the met gala would be very similar to magnus and abigail’s in that she treats it like a fun opportunity rather than a life-or-death situation, but she definitely leans more “tasteful” over magnus and abigail’s typical style of “dorky”. she follows the theme closely and she looks good! 8/10
protesilaus ebdoma
pro always goes with dulcie, and he just dresses in an outfit that she’s planned to be coordinated with hers. he’s a little bemused at the intensity of some of the others, but he goes along with the whole thing because it makes dulcie happy. points off for not coming up with his own idea, points added for looking very dashing regardless. ortus is fuming at how well-put-together his outfit is. 5/10
silas octakiseron
silas shares the same all-or-nothing attitude that ortus has towards the theme, but when he approves of the theme, his execution comes very close to beating out harrow’s outfit in terms of Drama and Sophistication. his outfits are often a little impractical — they’re hard to walk in or require elaborate props to be transported alongside him — but they’re worth it. 9/10
colum asht
colum just wears a suit the same color as whatever silas’ outfit is that year. boring! 2/10
augustine the first
augustine tries his hardest, but he never quite nails the theme. somehow, it always goes straight over his head, so when he explains it to people, they’re always like “*confused head tilt* hmmm, okay now i think i get it! huh!” he looks,,, fine in it, and he tries. he tries! 4/10
mercymorn the first
mercy’s sense of style in general is very good, so she always comes in a dress that’s fashionable and well-designed. the problem is that she actively abhors the idea of a themed party; she actively campaigns to the organizers each year to not do a theme. she thinks that everyone who does the theme is ridiculous. as such, she ends up with a low 3/10
cytherea the first
cytherea has a good Idea for the met gala every year, but for some reason — she bites off more than she can chew or she fails to accurately articulate her vision or she procrastinates until the last minute — that idea never translates into an actual outfit, so she always falls back on a simple, soft clinging dress. fashionable, but unfortunately not very standout-ish. 3.5/10
gideon the first
gideon (original flavor) just wears a boring black suit every year. THE most boring black suit ever. 1/10
pyrrha dve
okay, admittedly we haven’t seen that much of pyrrha in canon, but from what we do know, she is smart and talented and funny and good at everything and has a dramatic streak and is incredibly hot. therefore, i think we can surmise that she’ll absolutely nail her met gala outfit. it’ll fit the theme, it’ll be very original and very well-done, and she’ll be sexy as fuck! good for her! 15/10
john gaius
he wears the exact same black tux every year. the same one. he pays no attention to the theme whatsoever. this is very confusing, since HE is the one who organizes the met gala and picks the theme! weirdo! even worse, john makes a point to give backhanded compliments to people he thinks don’t fit the theme or don’t look good. bitch! -10/10
341 notes · View notes
Note
So more on the Beauford Swan AU, how do you think Alice and Rosalie's relationships with him are different? I assume Rosalie doesn't compare herself to Beauford the exact same way she compares herself to Bella, and Alice's Barbie Bella dream probably doesn't translate directly into a Ken Beau. How would that effect their initial relationships and the eventual family dynamics (Let's just assume this is the Beau Gives Up and Asks Carlisle to Turn Him version)?
Ooooh, interesting question anon.
For reference the Beauford AU: one, two, and three.
Specifically, we're in post number three, where Beauford survives Edward (huzzah for Beauford).
Rosalie
Rosalie's relationship with Beauford is a rollercoaster of weird.
At first, Beauford is a nothing special human. Rosalie's a little amused the girls are going wild for him, and she sees the appeal if you're into sensitive pretty boys (not Rosalie's type), but it has nothing to do with her.
As you point out, Rosalie doesn't have that conflict with her own beauty and comparison to Bella. Just per being a man, Rosalie will not compare herself to Beauford constantly.
Then Edward has his Biology breakdown and becomes increasingly weird.
Rosalie probably still suggests they kill off Beauford for nearly being crushed by a van. While Rosalie did have inner conflict over Bella, most of what informed that was Rosalie's lack of desire to move, that wouldn't change because of Beauford.
She probably wonders what the hell Edward's deal is, why is he obsessed with this guy, and then she has her "oh" moment.
Edward is gay.
Edward has always been gay.
Suddenly everything makes sense. The fact that Edward has shown 0 interest in Rosalie, that he showed 0 interest in Tanya who was practically throwing herself at him, that he shows 0 interest in any woman period.
Rosalie never suspected as much before, or at least, never put two and two together. But of course Edward is gay, it all makes sense now.
Edward doesn't like that idea, not at all, and accuses Rosalie of being a jealous shrew who is so offended by the idea that Edward isn't attracted to her that she accuses him of homosexuality.
Rosalie never said a word of this out loud.
The family has the biggest fight they've ever had. And, somehow, it's not over the murder of Beauford, but Edward's sexuality. No definitive conclusion is reached, but if you ask Edward, he is most definitely a heterosexual hot blooded man. Now, if you excuse him, he's going to go sneak into Beauford's room to crush the spiders that might sneak onto his pillow.
But back to Rosalie and Beauford.
Rosalie becomes increasingly exasperated as Edward romances Beauford without admitting he's romancing Beauford. He also does ridiculous things like adamantly refuse to turn Beauford into a vampire.
Rosalie tries to point out that he and Edward have no future like this. Edward doesn't care, he'll nobly leave Beauford anyway, as soon as he has the strength to. Rosalie tries to point out that a man doesn't take another man to a romantic Italian dinner (where he can't even eat anything) unless he's romantically interested. Edward tells Rosalie that she's never been as beautiful as she thought she was!
Rosalie decides, "fuck it", and she will be a part of Beauford's welcome committee when Edward invites him to meet the family. She's only given a few hours notice, but she just feels so bad for this guy. Edward's stringing him along, but is too in love with his own closet to ever have a real relationship.
She has no idea what Beauford thinks about it, but she's just dying of secondhand embarrassment. And yes, she thinks that Beauford should probably live a human life, and that Edward should either leave him alone or turn him, but at the very least she has to explain that her brother's an idiot.
Well, turns out, Beauford is also an idiot. And he's weird.
Rosalie finds herself meeting the most sensitive, womanly, man she's ever seen in her life. This guy is a delicate flower, she feels like if she breathes on him he might shatter into a thousand pieces.
He's very polite, very charming, but she watches as he does things like cry at Edward's piano playing and then let Edward eat his tear.
What the fuck?
Rosalie throws her hands in the air. There's no helping these two, they deserve each other, Rosalie out. Well, the baseball game happens, which turns into a disaster and a half.
Rosalie still likely gives her "Why are we risking our own deaths over this guy we don't even know" and Beauford assumes that Rosalie hates him (not helped by Rosalie giving him "are you crazy" looks all the time as well as Edward telling Beauford that Rosalie is jealous of his beauty and Edward's very platonic affections for him).
That summer Rosalie barely sees Beauford. When she does, he and Edward are cuddling on the couch. She asks if Edward's admitting he's gay yet, the answer is always no. She rolls her eyes and leaves to work on her cars.
New Moon happens, Rosalie doesn't know what to think anymore, but she supposes this is a decent outcome. Beauford gets to live a normal, human, life and move on.
They're back six months later.
Fast forward a bit and Beauford is turned by Carlisle. Rosalie sits down to think about it, Carlisle makes it clear why this happened, and she's back to feeling bad for Beauford.
Edward treats him like trash, he's downright vicious to Beauford, and Beauford looks like he's about to cry constantly. Rosalie reaches out and the pair have a good long talk about life, the universe, and her Pig Brother Edward.
Rosalie assures Beauford that Edward will get over it, he'll forgive Beauford eventually, and someday he'll stop being an ass. Beauford is comforted, but Edward never stops being an ass.
Rosalie and Beauford end up best friends instead.
They have nothing in common.
Alice
Alice still makes Beauford her Barbie Beauford, but with a slightly masculine twist.
She buys him fabulous clothes, so that his closet is filled with blazers, turtlenecks, and very tight pants. She still throws him a sweet sixteen eighteen, only instead of a million pink candles the candles are now blue.
Beauford is still utterly mortified.
She gets him a tux for Prom and Beauford ends up going with Edward though neither Edward nor Beauford realize they're in fact going to Prom together as a couple.
Alice still sees Beauford as her best friend and is absolutely ecstatic for his and Edward's "friendship". As Alice never sees the pair having sex, she is absolutely fine with the platonic label and fully agrees with Edward that theirs is a very platonic relationship.
Alice is still the best friend Beauford ever had because he has no friends and doesn't know what friendship is. Though he kind of wishes she'd stop buying him clothes.
Their relationship goes down the drain after Beauford is turned.
As Beauford and Edward's relationship falls apart, he looks to Alice for comfort, but she has none to provide. She doesn't see him and Edward working out any time soon and, well, glad you're a part of the family?
Alice realizes that her and Beauford's friendship isn't going to work out either. She's upset about this, but doesn't see any way to salvage it without completely alienating Edward. Alice will choose Edward.
Alice ponders over might have beens and wonders when the future shifted but quietly watches as Beauford becomes closest with Rosalie.
181 notes · View notes
limenysnocket · 3 years
Text
The Plan
Tumblr media
Summary: It's your birthday (hooray!) and you still have to work (not so hooray). Nevertheless, you can still count on your friends to cheer you up, but not as much as your loveable boyfriend who insists you spend your birthday with him and a romantic dinner, rather than at a party your friends set up.
Warnings: Swearing, drinking, Taika (yes, he gets his own warning), some content may be explicit-ish.
Request: @whatwememeintheshadows
A/N: So people are actually planning their fics nowadays???? Did I not get the memo or something??? These come straight from my head????
THIS IS SO LATE I'M SORRY. Happy (very) belated birthday.
Tags: @honorarytenenbaum @olyvoyl
○●□○●□○●□○●□○
Okay, so maybe work was less of a bitch today, you had to admit. People were nicer to you today, you got an extra thirty minutes added on to your lunch break just because, and, of course, you got a couple of dirty birthday cards and some cash, but that really shouldn’t matter, should it? What did matter, is that you would get to have some you-time, all by yourself, with your vibrator, a couple of movies, and some nice, low calorie ice cream (that tasted like total shit). At least... That’s what you thought would happen.
“You should totally come party with us! I’ve got the booze, Jess has the men, and we’ll make a whole night out of it! Alcohol, strippers, and dancing! How does that sound?” your friend, Enid, reiterated everything for you at least one thousand times today.
“If I wanted a stripper, I’d ask Taika to dye his hair, shave himself everywhere, and oil up a little. That’s the only sight I’d be happy to see, thank you,” you huff and smile. You appreciate the effort to get you out and about, possibly be a little frisky, but your heart just wasn’t in it, and that was much to Taika’s luck.
“Oh, come on. Taika can’t have that much of a grip on you! He has a lot of ‘female friends’, so what’s wrong with you having some ‘male friends’ hm?” Jess cooed to you, but you immediately whirled around, insulted that she would even suggest that you would do such a thing. And you were sure Taika had female friends, yes, but they were just friends. Nothing else. Although, his flirtatious behavior scared you sometimes, at parties. Some of the women would just swarm him, and you feared any one of them would catch his fancy more than you did.
“No. I don’t want strippers at whatever the hell you’re planning,” you stated again, firmly this time. Your two friends whined again, Jess lowering her head in defeat.
“Fine, but can we still bring booze? Invite a few more friends to party?” Enid asked, setting a hand on your shoulder and pleading to you with large eyes.
You chew at your cheek and think for quite some time. Your friends want to throw you a genuine party, and God knows how long it’s been since you’ve hung around a group of unfamiliar faces, especially since you started to date a Hollywood writer. Maybe it was just what you needed. Taika was supposed to be busy for the night, anyway.
You succumbed to the pressure, and nodded. “Okay,” you agreed. “But if we get any noise complaints, your talking to the cops for me.”
“Hell yeah! You’re not going to regret this! Just you wait! Go home and clean your place up a little. I’ll be by in an hour or two to get things set up!” Enid clapped her hands together in mischief, and Jess suddenly looked more spry. You gave her a warning glance, and she only grinned back, before skipping away, chatting gayly with Enid at her side.
You can’t believe the shit you just got yourself into, and you still wouldn’t believe it, the moment Enid and Jess arrived with their arms full of cheap liquor, streamers, finger foods, and a bunch of colorful-looking lights that look like they just came from a Wal-Mart Christmas sale. As soon as you gave them the go-ahead, they started tearing shit open. Between setting up, your phone started to ping over and over again, as well as your friends’ phones. Apparently, just a few hours was enough time to notify everyone in LA about a party, who it was for, and where it was going to be at. 
You just sat back and sipped on frozen margaritas (meant for the party, but it's your party so you didn't give two shits), until the party started and there was a heavy flow of people rushing into your home. Invited or uninvited.
When things started getting wild, that's when a pact was made. Enid and Jess would be cleaning up your house after this was over. You were already stepping over beer cans as it was.
You can't even say you were having fun there. You barely knew anyone. Most of the people there were just randoms looking for a good time, and unfortunately you saw some of them getting that good time in a dark corner. You made an excuse to run upstairs and lock all the doors of the bedrooms before anyone could think about getting there. That's what you thought, at least.
The party was getting to be too much, too quickly. In haste, you locked yourself into your bedroom, and took a step back. You could still hear the muffled voices and loud, posh laughter on the other side of the door. Those girls would pay. You rush over to your window, overlooking your backyard and see people divebombing into your pool, creating waves and getting people outside of the pool wet. People were leaving their trash everywhere, and many red, plastic cups floated in the (for now) clear waters. You didn't know how much more you could take. Maybe parties weren't your thing after all. Especially with strangers.
You sit back on your bed and you don't even bother looking out the window anymore. It was best to stay inside your room, if you didn't want to be molested or assaulted by some dumbass who thinks it's okay to anonymously grope women in crowded areas. Your face buries in your hands, griping to yourself how this would be over in a few hours. Right?
There's a subtle knock on your door, and you jump. It's in the regular, stiff-three order, so you are very hesitant about going and getting it. Then, there comes the "shave and a haircut" tune. Not a very good one, and kind of slurred, guessing by the way there was a loud thud at the very end, the person knocking was shoved against the door. Damn you and your pity.
You're quick to move, despite the strong feeling telling you not to. You just knew some poor soul was being smooshed out there. Fuck, you were nervous. This was screaming bad idea, but you were going to pull through anyway. The plan in your head seemed childish, but it should work fine if the person was desperate enough to get in. One quick swipe of the door, and you're golden! Surely...
You flick the doorknob lock and gulp, keeping a tight grip. On the count of three-- and after having to restart because another desperate knock jumbled up your thoughts-- you sent the door flying open. Sure enough, a heavy body came tumbling in with it, tripped, tried to balance, then ended up crash-landing cartoonishly into your bed, bonking their head a tad on the wooden post at the end of the frame. You hissed a little bit, then closed the door again. You rushed to their aid as the person looked up.
"I thought you liked private parties more than this," a soft, kiwi accent cooed at you, obviously through unbridled pain. This bewildered you even more.
Taika was sitting on the floor, legs extended out in front of him, making him look like a giant from your angle, and he was dressed in a blue tux, black dress shirt, and polished black shoes. Well, they seemed a little scuffed now.
"Shit, Taika-- what the fuck are you doing here?" you drop to your knees and cradle his aching head. He winced at the touch, but was too happy to see you again to deny it.
"Well, I came to take you out on a surprise birthday dinner. Maybe pick up a bottle of wine and go dancing with my favorite person, you, under moonbeams and twighlight," his head bobbled from side to side, which didn't help his animated character, "but it seems to me you have company... and a lot of it."
You sigh and brush an unkempt curl back into place while he cheekily grins at you. "This wasn't my idea," you murmur. "Friends set this up. They'll also be the ones to take it down. I didn't really want to spend my birthday with anyone this year. Makes me feel old."
"Well, you seriously should have known someone was about to stop you from taking another bite of that shitty ice cream in your freezer. They dished it out in shot glasses down there. Even a sober chick couldn't handle the taste," Taika snorted playfully and you rolled your eyes. He seemed to be taking this situation surprisingly well. It was weird. "But it was much to my misfortune that your 'friends' got to you before I could. Maybe I should have settled on a birthday lunch, but that didn't sound too appealing to me."
"Would have been much better than the chicken salad and dry-ass piece of cake I had for lunch today," you fired back. He sighed again and stood up with a groan. You followed with him.
"What now?" he mumbled, stroking the stache on his upper lip, then letting the tips of his fingers wander down to his smooth, freshly shaved cheeks.
"Well, we're both stuck here, so I suppose we settle in for the night and wait it out." You plop yourself down on your bed again and just stare up at him. He doesn't move, however. His eyes were focused on the window, more specifically the lock on it, and he was nibbling at his bottom lip. He was thinking. Some people might call it strange to watch him think sometimes. He really was like a cartoon. With one tap of his foot, he spun around on his heel and faced you.
"New plan," he clapped his hands together. "Get dressed."
You were confused for the next fifteen minutes or so. He helped you pick out a deep blue dress that would somewhat match his and black heels. He was escorting you all over the room with his hand on your lower back. He even tried to do your makeup for you, but he was so inexperienced, you had to take over. The last time he had to do someone's makeup was on the set of the original, five-minute What We Do in the Shadows film.
While you finished your makeup, he was practically smooching your window. He was staring at it like a dog asking to go outside. It made you a bit nervous, seeing the cogwheels turn in his head. He took your hand and lead you to the window, unlocking it and pushing it up.
"Want to go first?" he said behind a proud smile. When he only received silence and a pure, "what the fuck," stare back to his face, he shrugged, and stepped out the window himself. Luckily, you knew fully well he wasn't about to fall flat on his face and die on the pavement below. You had a screened back porch, with a roof over it's head as well, since the seasons tend to get very hot and sticky and mosquitoes just love to lay visits. He stepped onto the roof, trying not to bring too much attention to himself. Once he had bounced down, he brushed himself off, then looked up at you, expectantly.
"Come on, then! Don't have all night!" he hollered and waved to you. "Need me to catch you?"
You gulped, not bothering to answer him. You gently scooted your lower half out the window and taking your heels into your hand. You didn't want to break an ankle on the landing. "Lord, give me strength," you muttered, squeezed your eyes shut, then took a leap of faith. You tried not to squeal as the rushing air flew by you like sticky wind, but before you knew it, your feet touched slanted ground. You felt like you were about to tumble, but strong hands met your waist and kept you up.
"Beautiful!" Taika beamed and kissed your flushed cheek.
"I hate you sometimes," you slapped his chest and made him laugh. He took your hand and started leading you to the other side of the porch roof, and came to the end, where your driveway supposedly was. Parked dead center was Enid's big, black SUV. Tall enough to just be a little hop away from the roof.
"One more, leap, dear?" Taika was on the move again, but you grabbed his sleeve before he could actually make the jump.
"Taika, no. That's Enid's car. She already spends so much on gas, think of how pissed she'll be if she has to remove dents from her roof!" you explain, nervous from the outcome of this little plan of yours.
"Sweetheart," Taika said airily, turning his full attention to you and taking your hand again. "If she was a good friend, she would have known a massive party like this would have pissed you off. Plus, I don't think just cleaning the house is going to get even with this God awful day. So, why not put a few dusty footprints on her car, hm?" Taika was back to grinning, and before you could say anymore, he had leapt away and landed on top of the car with a large thud. He motioned to you with a swipe of his hand. You were in way too deep with him to give up on him now.
You followed through, heels swinging in one hand, and he caught you again like the perfect, Maori prince charming he was.
Car hop, after car hop, he lead the way and made sure you were okay with every stop, until you reached a small enough car to hop down, scale the lawn and make it to his jeep.
"That was," you said, breathless. You couldn't find the right words, and Taika just chuckled at you.
"Exciting?" he filled in the blank space on his own, cocking an eyebrow.
"Yeah," you laugh, fanning your chest and brushing a single strand of hair back. "That's a good word for it."
"Well, excitement doesn't stop here," he opened your door into the jeep for you, bowing respectfully and playing everything up for you, like you were royalty. "I have everything set up for you to have a great night with yours truly. As long as everything goes according to the plan this time..."
62 notes · View notes
blownbybakugou · 3 years
Text
1K Special | The Chick From Chicken Hut|
Thank you all so much for getting me to 1K! Here is a gift from me to you!
Pairing: Hawks x Fem!Reader
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 2k
The gentle breeze of the night lightly ruffled his feathers as Keigo shuffled quickly to his favorite fast food place; Chicken Hut. The chicken was the best in town, and despite it being mildly unhealthy, Hawks was obsessed with the chicken they had there. So much, that at 3am, if he had cravings for it, he’d go and get it. Much like now. Keigo strutted through the entrance of the meat scented shop and leaned against the front counter, not bothering to look at the cashier. “I’ll have my regular.” He claims cheekily, batting his eyelashes under his yellow face covering. “And that is?” A voice asks, tapping their fingers against the tabletop. Keigo flips around quickly, expecting the guy that usually knew his order. But instead, he saw you. The glowing, beautiful, alluring woman before him. “Sorry, I’m new. I’m guessing you come here often?” You ask softly, giving a small smile. Dumbfounded, Hawks just stares at your glossy lips, almost in a trance at how welcoming they looked to him.
“Uh, hello? Do you want me to call an ambulance?” You ask, waving a hand in front of his dazed orbs. “No, no! I’m fine. Can I have 2 large buckets of chicken legs, with a small side of mashed potatoes?” He chuckles, rubbing the back of neck that was hot from embarrassment. “Okay! That will be ¥2186” You exclaim, sending the order to the back. In a flash, around ¥10,500 was slammed down onto the counter. “Keep the change.” He states, a grin forming onto his lips. “Um, a-are you sure? This is 100 US dollars, sir. I can give you change-”
“No, you can keep it. I have money to spare.” He boasts, his big, scarlet wings twitching behind him. “Yeah, okay.” You grunt, putting the money away and going to the back to see if his food was ready. You honestly just didn’t want to have to make conversation with the cocky bastard, and you knew if you stood there with him, you’d obviously have to. He did oddly look somewhat familiar to you, like you had seen him before. You try not to let the thought cloud your mind for long, as the food was ready. Since it was 3am, the order was out relatively fast, and you were quick to hand the abnormally large bag of meat to the bird-like man. 
“Thanks for coming to Chicken Hut, come again” You say, waving him off as he checked the contents of the bag. He gave you a quick wink when he walked out of the store, and it was just then when you realized why he looked so familiar. That was the pro hero, Hawks.
.
.
.
The next day, Keigo came back, this time bearing flowers. ust to make sure you would be there, he made sure to arrive at the same time he had beforehand, even though this time his craving for chicken wasn’t as heavy as before. “Hello, beautiful lady.” He chirps, sticking the flowers out for you. “O-Oh. Well, it’s not everyday that I get flowers from a pro hero. Thank you, Hawks.” You smile. You were still a bit irked at how much money he flaunted at you yesterday, but this action nearly made you forget about it completely. “Ah, so you do know who I am.” Hawks laughed, eyes crinkled from enjoyment. “I didn’t realize until you walked out yesterday. Guess I was a bit tired from all the late nights.” You claim, brushing back some out of place hairs. “Well, I’ll have-” “2 large buckets of chicken legs and a small side of mashed potatoes. Already put the order in.” You giggle, leaning your chest into the edge of the counter.
“So, I brought you these because I wanted to take you out for a cup of coffee. Get to know each other and stuff. Are you interested?” He asks, removing the yellow tinted goggles from his head. You felt heat rise to your cheeks and neck at the confession, but you covered it up swiftly by looking down at your fingers. “Yeah sure. I guess it has been awhile since I’ve gone out.” You mumble, finally looking up at the blonde hero. “Glad to hear, little bird. Is tomorrow at 3 good with you?” He grins. Your heart skips a bat at the nickname, but you do your best to cover it up with a snide comment. “Is it 3pm or am this time? Because I don’t know if I can keep up with your hectic sleep schedules.” You laugh, and watch as Keigo rolls his eyes. “I’m not the one who works at 3am.” He scoffs, then joins in on your laughter. “Okay, you win. Tomorrow at 3pm.” You emphasize the pm, giggling at the end to make him smile again. Because you were beginning to think his smile was addictive.
.
.
.
You were taking your sweet time getting ready, knowing that you didn’t have to meet up with Takami for another 30 minutes yet, and you also needed to make sure you looked perfect. You had given Hawks your number to tell you where you would be meeting up, and no more than 5 minutes after he had left with your digits, you got a message. 
.
You entered the café, looking over the scenery and people, before spotting Hawks’ crimson wings near the window booth. “Hey, you made it.” Keigo smirks and gestures to the seat across from him. You gingerly sit down, and return the smile he gave you. "Yeah, well how could someone skip out on a date with the pro hero Hawks?” You respond. "A date?” Kei chirps up. You giggle, nodding while maintaining an evident blush across your cheeks. “You really know how to make a man bend to his will, ya know?” you brush off his comment with your own. “I work at Chicken Hut, the only way could make a man-bend to my will is by holding his order hostage” You roll your eyes. “I don't know, you caught my attention with one look.”
.
.
.
The date went on for hours, long after the café closed, until it was time for your night shift once again. “C’mon, not even a discount?” “Nope, sorry. You got to pay for your food like everybody else.” The pout on Keigo’s lips made you weak to your knees, and mindlessly, you walked to the back to retrieve his chicken. 
“Here, take it.” You huff, your cheeks glowing a red that could make Hawks’ scarlet wings jealous. “Looks like my little songbird has a little crush on me” Takami hums, wearing a flashy grin that made your face burn a little hotter. “The fact that you’re referring to me as your songbird means that you feel the same way, idiot.” You backfire, jumping over the counter to face him. “What’re you gonna do about it, little chick?” He says smugly, looking into your eyes to take his dominance. “This.” You catch his lips, moving them rhythmically with him and drape your arms over his shoulders. The kiss was only a few seconds long, but you knew that you weren’t the only one who felt the flying sparks between you two. And that fact made your nerves calm down slightly, the nerves that were making your confidence shred to bits, and making the tips of your ears a bright shade of red.  
“Aw, is my little chick embarrassed?” You turn away, only for him to grab your jaw, and pull you back towards him. His wings wrapped around the both of you, caging you in his arms. “Have you ever had a dream, little chick?” Keigo asks, his voice making you shiver. “Of course I have!” You mock. “What is it then, Ms. Confidence?” He shot back, chuckling. “I wanted to be a chef, or at least be the apprentice of one. But sadly, that kind o stuff requires real money. Money that I don’t have.” You mumble to him. The food prep team were all in the back, and you could nearly feel their gazes burning holes into your head, which was barely sticking out of the top of Keigo’s wings. “Looks like my little bird has an audience.” He purrs, stroking your hair with his calloused hand. “I think they’re looking at you, bird brain.” You roll your eyes, all while wondering how long you could keep up this faux act of assertiveness. Hawks clicks his tongue, tapping your bottom lips with his pointer finger. “Such mean words, songbird” He whines, releasing you from his wing-trap. “Anyway, I’ll be off now. Thanks for the free food babe” He winks, speed-walking out of the place, into the breezy night. But you were happy knowing that he would come back the very next early morning.
.
.
.
Oh how wrong you were. You may have gotten a little hopeful of your 3am fling, and that’s what drug you down when you saw that the blonde hero didn’t come in the next day. You had been so excited, that you had even prepared his food before he came in, and made sure to keep it warm in the back. You thought you were being smart, prepping it early so he wouldn’t have to wait long, but when he didn’t show, your efforts were wasted. One man and woman clad in tuxes entered the place, making your hopes completely drown. “Hello, what would you like?” You say, your voice dull and emotionless. “2 large buckets of chicken legs and a small side of potatoes” The female responded. Your eyes widened, but then the second one spoke up. “And we would also like permission to escort you to your new workplace.” He deadpans. “New workplace?” You ask. The agent look-a-likes don’t respond, only gesture to the door. Removing your uniform apron, you grab your coat and purse and follow them out. 
.
.
.
You were intimidated by the large building they had brought you to, but you knew this building all too well. It was Harumi Kurihara’s chef’s school, the one you had been saving up to get in, for years now. “Ma’am, would you like us to walk you in? Or you would go in by yourself and meet up with Mr. Takami.” Your eyes practically bulged out of their sockets when you heard that name. “Hawks?” You chocked, watching as the female went to your side of the car and opened the door for you. “Indeed. We should go, he is waiting” You shuffled out of the car, and into the exquisite structure. “Hey, Bird-Brain!” You call out, treading towards him. “Mean-Lady, what do you think?” You lad into his arms, pressing your lips against him expertly. “Fuck you. I don’t like you because of your money, so don’t spend this much on me.” You grumble. “That was an awfully weird ‘fuck you’, songbird.” Keigo smirks. “And also, I didn’t spend money on you. Harumi and I are close friends.” You scoff, and give him yet another kiss, thanking him properly. “Thanks. But don’t do this again. I’m not the fondest when you flaunt your connections and money.” You deadpan, pecking his lips once more. 
“I got other things I can flaunt, don’t worry.” His hands slithered to your rear to hold you up, and then he squeezes your ass suggestively. You suddenly hear the pattering of heels against the white marble tiles, and look over to see Harumi Kurihara herself. You shake, your nerves overtaking you.
“Don’t worry baby. You’ll always be the chick from Chicken Hut I love.”
68 notes · View notes
laketaj24 · 4 years
Note
I love the Henry series with the kids. How about Henry and the Brigade on Mother’s Day, if you don’t mind! Hope you’re doing okay!!!
Coupon
Author’s Note: happy Mother’s Day to all you out there!! I hope everything is going well! here is a little drabble!! Happy Reading Loves!
Warnings: Mild Smut
Tumblr media
 It was mother’s day. Henry liked to go overboard, which he should you’d given him five children with two more pending arrival. The kids were quiet, that was the first odd thing about the day, you’d heard no crying, fighting or screaming down the hall. The second weird thing was that Henry had beat you out of bed on a day that he wasn’t required on set. You swing your feet to the ground and slip on his shirt, it was your favorite thing to wear, it smelled of him, and most importantly it fits over your now protruding stomach. The twins were due for arrival in two months, but there was no way they were actually going to be carried full term.
“Henry.” You opened the door, and there was Chance in a tuxedo holding a rose. “Chance.” You swooned at him in the little suit. “You’re up early.”
He hands you the rose and then holds out his hand. “Come on. It’s a surprise!”
You bend down to meet him. “Where are we going?”
“No more questions.” Henry stood at the bottom of the steps in his tux, the same one he’d graced the red carpet with a few times. His hair was a little shaggier, falling to his face, but he was still perfect. “If you would please, step down into the spa, Mom. And the boys will start the ultimate treatment.”
“Oh, god.” You mumbled as you waddled down the steps. They were all in tuxes, all of them resembling their father in some strange way. All of them melt your heart right before your eyes. The living room had different stations at the first station. There was Bennet. He held the plate of your breakfast, and Cole held the bottled orange juice.
“Take your seat.” Chance smiled.
Allen and Maverick were on the couch, holding a painted sign. “We love you, Mom.” But their little bodies were busy and ready to jump off at any minute. You sat down next to them. “Thank you soo much.”
“Now, after you eat, the kids are going to clean their rooms, right?” Henry cocked his brow awaiting their answer. He bargained on every holiday with them. If they cleaned, they got what they were likely gonna get anyway, but no one caught on but Bennet.
“Right.”
“Good. Now, mom,” he smiled at you. “I’d like to sincerely thank you for giving me an army Cavills, and for the day, they are your personal servants.” His accent made laugh. Henry sat in front of you, resting his face on the palm of his hand. “What would you have them do first?”
Tumblr media
 The boys catered to you the entire day, and it was great. The manicure Henry gave you even looked halfway decent. There was more polish on your fingers than your nail, but you liked it.
“The red on your skin is hot.” Henry laughed.
You stared down at your hand. “If you say so.”
“That is great craftsmanship. Next time, when you’re not pregnant, I’ll rub your feet and paint them too.” He slid over the little booklet containing coupons. You had yet to flip them through them, but he seemed eager, especially now that the kids were asleep. “Redeem one.” He whispered.
The first coupon read: Fast Meal. Guaranteed Satisfaction or another orgasm on the house. “What in the hell does this mean?” You laughed.
“A fast meal.” He smirked. “Lay down.”
“I don’t want to redeem right now.” You playfully kicked him as his hands traveled up your thighs. “What if I need it later.”
“This one is  sample.” Henry’s small kisses left a wet trail up to your thighs, and he pushed your legs apart. He touched your cotton panties and then tugged them down your legs. He rubbed your stomach before his lips met your clit. “Every time.” His tongue flicked over your clit again. “I think about you pregnant with my kids, I want to fuck you and make it happen again.” He whispered. Henry thrust his tongue into you, and your hands clenched at the sheets. His words made it even hotter, but the swirl of his tongue knowing just where to touch to make you squirm.
His cock throbbed, the only thing he wanted to do was dive into you. The mewls fill your bedroom, and immediately you tone it down. The last thing you wanted was for the kids to walk in on you and Henry fucking again. It’s hard to explain to them what’s going on.
Henry groaned before sucked on your clit, lapping up your juices. Your body shook as he pushed you over the edge. Your legs shuttered, body coiled, and then a scream erupted from you. Henry muted you placing his cum tinged lips on yours and before he nestled beside you. “You’ll have to keep quiet,” Henry whispered before his cock pushed into you from the side. He lifted your leg and sunk into your deeper. “Shit.” He moaned.
“Be quiet.” You chuckled, throwing your ass back to get him to start fucking you.  
Previous Part
470 notes · View notes
burnedbyshoto · 4 years
Text
Under the Mistletoe
pairing: todoroki shouto x fem!reader
warning: smut, cursing, fluff
word count: 8,467
a/n: I didn’t want to edit this last night so lmao... sorry!!!!! anyways, this is super cute and yall should like.....read it :D
Synopsis: The mistletoe tradition is known by all, and if used correctly it can end in a sweet moment. Too bad Todoroki Shouto believes that people fuck under the mistletoe and not kiss under it.
✩✶✩❇✩✶✩
“So you’re telling me that when two people meet under a mistletoe they have to...” Shouto trails off as he looks at the green plant nestled in between his fingers. “They have to—”
“They have to fuck, yes,” Kaminari nods his head. 
His arms are crossed over his chest, his eyes closed as he nods. His words, of course, are a flat out lie, but to Todoroki Shouto it seems as if his friend is speaking the truth. “It’s why it was never put up during our Christmas celebrations at school! With some of you guys not turning eighteen until after Christmas and all. That could have turned out to be child porn or something!”
“I haven’t had sex though,” Shouto huffs as he throws the mistletoe towards the blond who yells as it hits his head. “I don’t think I want to be caught underneath it. Didn’t Mineta wear a hat with it attached to it last week though?”
“Yeah, but that’s the only way Mineta can get girls, plus didn’t you see how the girls avoided him like the plague?” Sero pipes in, a large grin on his face as he takes the mistletoe and throws it above Kaminari’s head.
Shouto, however, sees this as a substantial poof.
“Bro, are you telling me you wanna fuck?” Kaminari winks as he looks up at the mistletoe.
“No, I just don’t think you’ll ever get to smash without this either!” Sero laughs as Kaminari slaps the mistletoe from Sero’s grasp.
“Would you fucking bastards GET OFF YOUR ASSES and come fucking help out?!” Bakugou roars as he enters the living room where the three men were sitting around.
Shouto stands up first, his eyes looking at the mistletoe that lays innocently on the floor. White people were pretty weird for starting that tradition.
Of course, it wasn’t to say that Shouto didn’t want to meet anyone under the mistletoe! Had it been a tradition where he would get to kiss someone it would be different, but fucking? Having sex only because you were caught under a plant was a bit too much.
“Todoroki-kun, are you okay?” Midoriya asked as he walked while hold two tables to put up for the dinner. The boys of the since graduated class 1-A were in charge of hosting the first annual Christmas party. Of course on because Iida volunteered them all.
Shouto nodded his head as he smiled strained, “I’m going to be avoiding the mistletoe all night.”
Midoriya looked at the fallen plant as he quirked an eyebrow, “Really? I thought it could be a great idea to get— mmph?!”
Shouto’s eyes widened as he saw Kaminari, Sero, and Kirishima covering the One for All user’s mouth. They began dragging him away, their mouths at his ear as they whispered at him.
“Todoroki-kun, Kirishima-kun!” Iida yelled as he brisked over with red cloth in his hands, “I need your help in spreading snow out in front of the house! It hasn’t snowed enough yet!”
“Iida, what do you think about mistletoe?” Shouto asks as Kirishima jogs over to them.
“It’s a weird tradition,” Iida admits as he rubs the back of his neck. “But there’s too much to do, and the girls will be here within an hour!”
“Don’t worry bro,” Kirishima laughs as he slings an arm around Shouto’s shoulder. “Just avoid the mistletoe! Unless... you want us to send y/l/n-chan your way!”
Shouto couldn’t hide the flush the built on his cheeks at those words. The joyous laughter of Kirishima’s teasing didn’t help either.
✩✶✩❇✩✶✩
Shouto stared at himself in the mirror.
Iida had insisted on formal wear tonight. He believed their first Christmas celebration outside of U.A. was a cause to ditch the Santa gear. It was definitely weird celebrating Christmas with his friends and not wearing the Santa suits.
But Shouto chose a dark navy blue suit, a white button-up, and a slim black tie. His fingers buttoned one of the buttons on his jacket before putting in silver cuff links. He was ready.
Stepping out of the bathroom, Shouto placed his clothes into the designated room. It seemed, however, that he was the last one ready as everyone else was sitting at the grand table. It had been beautifully prepared by Sato and Tokoyami. The aroma of the cooking food filled the air causing Shouto to sigh, he was quite hungry.
“Bakugou, where’s the mistletoe?” Shouto asked his ash-blond friend who was walking around with his hands shoved into his pockets. Shouto watched as Bakugou groaned as he whipped around towards him.
“What makes you think I would fucking know, hah?” Bakugou grunts as he rolls his eyes. “It’s hidden for a goddamn reason, you’re not supposed to know!”
“Would you help me look for it?” Shouto asks as he rubs the back of his neck.
“HAH?! Why the hell would I look for it with YOU, half and half bastard?! Are you trying to—?” Bakugou’s mouth was then taped shut. Shouto watched on in confusion as the ash blond’s attention was stolen by Sero; who was now running away in his white tux from the storming blond.
“Why aren’t they just being bizarre!” Aoyama dramatized from Shouto’s left. Glancing over, Shouto chuckled at his friend dressed in a literal suit of armor that was blinding to the eye. “Now, are you confessing your feelings to Mademoiselle y/n? Christmas is the most romantic time to do so!”
Before Shouto could speak to the smirking blond, Iida bursts into the dining area with coats in his arms.
“The ladies have arrived!” He announced.
Shouto watched as six girls entered the room talking amongst themselves.
They all wore Christmas appropriate formal dresses, and yet his heart fell as he was quick to see that you weren’t there.
Where were you?
✩✶✩❇✩✶✩
“I know I’m very late!” You exclaim into your phone as you struggle to shove the dark red evening dress over your body.
You weren’t supposed to have stayed as late at work as you did.
Missing the bullet train back to your apartment, you had completely missed the preparation for the party. Lucky for you, your neighbor had a useful quirk that let him do makeup and hair in ten minutes. So after offering him your soul (a promised meeting from his favorite Pro Hero Froppy), he agreed to do it.
The formal wear, however, was a bit too much in your opinion.
One month ago Iida had sent out appropriate outfits to gather ideas of what to wear for today. To put it simply he wanted a full-blown ball gown for a party for twenty-one of you.
So there you sat in your room, pulling the dark red dress into place. It had a semi sweetheart neckline, the bodice was made of soft velvet, and the skirt was multiple layers of red lace. Overall it was cute and simple. Slipping on your white heels you grabbed your coat and presents for your friends. Placing your phone to your ear you raced out to where the taxi was waiting for you.
“Iida won’t let anyone eat until you’re here! And I’m positive Bakugou is going to kill Midoriya out of a hangry fit if you don’t get here quick!” Mina once again tells you as you give the taxi driver the address.
“It’s not my fault villains decided to be villains where I work! Had it been my decision I would’ve been there with you guys! Plus it’s starting to snow,” you sigh as you pinch the bridge of your nose. “Tell Iida you guys can start eating, I’m not offended!”
“Girl, I told him that one hour ago, and again right before I called. Trust me, we’re not touching the food until you’re here!”
“Wow, you didn’t even want to wait for me?” You tease as you watch as the taxi drives into familiar areas.
“You know I’m teasing, besides loverboy here won’t let anyone eat until you get here too~!” Mina giggles in her sing-song tone.
“Don’t call Shouto that!” You groan as you try to calm your flaring cheeks. “We’re friends!”
“Friends who have the sexual tension that brings god to her knees! And the romantic chemistry that makes the cutest couple tremble in jealousy!” Mina exclaims. “Don’t worry, we saved you the seat right between him and me!”
“Mina!”
“Oh, gotta go! Bakugou AND your precious Shouto~ are demanding an update, see ya soon cutie!”
“Mina—”
The line went dead as you puffed out your cheeks.
Sometimes Mina was too slippery for her own good.
The rest of the taxi drive was quiet. Your taxi driver most likely wanting to get you out as soon as possible to go home themselves. Your eyes focused down at your cellphone that was getting text messages demanding your location.
Most of which was spam from Kaminari and Uraraka who seemed to be the most starving. Sighing, you shared your location with the class’s group chat for the next twenty-four hours. So they could track you for the next few minutes it would take for you to get there.
kaminari: i dont think ive ever been this excited to see y/n in my life… ever… and im 98% sure i had a crush on her 0.0
you: omg i told you guys you could EAT stop HARASSING ME
sero: tru lets blame iida
iida: You all would have been very upset had we eaten without you! Besides, this is our family so we have to wait, it’s only polite. - Iida Tenya
mina: …
you: …
midoriya: …
kirishima: i thought someone ingrained it into iida that he doesnt have to text… like that…
momo: I believe it is okay, Iida-san! It is confusing to know who’s texting on this chat! Sincerly, Yaoyorozu Momo
bakugou: hurry the FUCK UP Y/N
you: id rather die
“We’re here,” the driver sighs as they turn around. “That’ll be 2,000 yen.”
You smile in gratefulness as you pull out two 2,000 yen. “It’s a tip for working on a holiday, thank you!”
“Happy holidays.”
“To you as well!”
You stepped out of the car and closed the door behind you. Your eyes fluttering as you watch the snow fall in front of you. A shiver runs through your spine as you pull your coat tighter around yourself. Holding the presents closer to you, you walk down to the front door. You take notice of the heaps of snow in front of the lawn and grin. Although you had no evidence, you bet Iida made Shouto and Kirishima create snow unknowing that it was going to snow this much.
Opening the grand door, warmth and the waft of cooking food invaded your senses. Removing your coat, you heard chairs scraping against the floor as a small mob of people raced to greet you.
“Merry Christmas!”
“Season greetings!”
“I’m so fucking hungry, thank Santa you’re here!”
“Move bitches I get the first hug!”
“Let me grab her coat first!”
It had been a while since you had last seen everyone. But in this moshpit of who you would consider being among your best friends, it warmed your heart. “Thank you, Iida,” you smile as he nodded in response.
“You followed the guidelines quite well, you look great!” Iida compliments as he turns to put your coat away.
“Of course she looks great, we all went out together to a dress shop!” Jirou sighs as she pulls you into a hug.
You greeted everyone, hugging them all as you went until you finally found the one person you wanted to see. His hair styled slicked back and his hands rested in his pockets as he smiled at you. Your face felt like it was heating up as you stepped closer to him.
“Merry Christmas, Shouto,” you smile as the dual-colored man smiles at you. You pull him into a hug.
“Merry Christmas, y/n,” he mumbles into your hair. “I’ll take those from you?” Shouto offers as he grabs the bag with the presents.
“Thank you,” you say letting go of the bag.
Shouto nodded as he turns on his heel to put the presents away.
“TIME TO EAT!” Kirishima and Kaminari roar as everyone starts making their way back to the dining table.
“Just to let you know, there is a mistletoe somewhere here, in case you want to make a move,” Mina whispers in your ear.
Oh, this dinner seemed like it was going to get increasingly harder to stay composed.
xxx
“It’s present opening time!” Iida exclaims as he ushers the class into the living room where the tree and presents resided. “Please have a seat, Yaomomo and I have organized the different piles for everyone! Until you have been seated will you receive your pile!”
You were talking with Tsuyu as you entered the living room. Your eyes shining as you took in a beautifully decorated living room.
“You boys did an amazing job at decorating!” You exclaim as you grin, the night had been going perfectly so far.
Dinner had been lively and hilarious. Old banter and topics bleed into the night’s conversation made your heart ache for the old days. It seemed so long ago when you spent every day for three years with these guys. You missed it.
With Mina at your left who discussed her new fighting style. Shouto at your right who talked about his life at home. His family had finally was becoming something he loved completely. While you two had late night discussions talking about it no one else knew about it. It was invigorating to see Shouto grin and laugh in conversations. His old dense self was still ingrained in him yet he’s grown so much since his fifteenth year. You were proud of him.
You watched as Tsuyu took a seat on the couch, her eyes trained on you as she spoke. You moved to sit next to her until something shoved you to the side.
“Oh, that’s my seat!” Mina exclaimed as she sat next to Tsuyu, her smile large as your eyebrow rose. “There’s more, don’t worry!”
You turned around and saw a seat near Midoriya who was near Tsuyu. It seemed you could continue your conversation about her position as a Hero Commander. Midoriya would like that conversation as well.
“That’s my spot!” Uraraka shouts as you were about to sit down. You sighed as you stood back up, your eyes raking the couches for a place to sit.
“There’s a spot by Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya said pointing at Shouto. Shouto was sitting on a seat that was a bit too large for one person, but too small for two.
“Thanks,” you smile as you walk over to Shouto. “You mind if I squeeze in next to you?”
Shouto looks at you, his eyes intense as he shakes his head, “No, go ahead and sit.”
You sat at his left with a grin. Your body pressing into his left arm as he concentrated on Iida, and with a nudge, you captured his attention. “I hope you like the gift I bought for you,” you whisper as Iida begins handing out the piles of gifts to each person. Ojiro helping as they were big.
“I don’t think I could hate anything you could give me,” Shouto whispers back as he grabs his pile from Iida.
“Random panties I find on patrol?”
“I’d be honored you thought of me.”
“That’s so gross, Shouto,” you laugh as you take your own pile from Ojiro.
“You’re the one touching random panties from the streets of Japan!” Shouto retorts as he helps you settle your pile onto the floor.
“Touche, Shouto,” you grin as you shove him with your shoulder, “touche.”
“Because it is Uraraka-kun’s birthday coming up, she should go first!” Iida suggests and everyone agrees.
“Oh, I need to tell you something,” Shouto whispers as you cheer on Uraraka who is lifting a gift over her head.
“What is it?” You ask turning your head towards him.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispers before focusing back in onto Uraraka. She lifts out multiple bags of strawberry mochi with a triumphant scream.
“You look handsome tonight, too.”
It doesn’t take long before presents are being opened and you’re feeling content pressed into Shouto’s side.
From Aoyama, you got a crystal mirror that sparkled in the light. The poem about the North Star engraved into the back of the mirror.
From Mina, you got workout clothes specific to a dance class you and the girls were planning on attending together. They were in your favorite color and came with a jacket with your name stitched into it.
From Tsuyu, you got a plushie. It was of your favorite animal and held lots of tiny little snacks that you could carry during a patrol.
From Iida, he presented you with a pair of exercise shoes you had been needing for a while. After all, sparring with Bakugou and Midoriya left your old ones disintegrated.
From Uraraka, she bought you a charm bracelet that had two charms on it already. One of the U.A. building and another of a small group of girls.
Ojiro gave you got a new winter coat. It was white, waterproof and insulated. Your jaw on the ground as you tried it on because it made you look like a marshmallow and you adored that.
Kaminari gave you got his mixtape. On the cassette were a bunch of Kaminari originals he had been promising you for years now, and now you had a copy. That and a gift card to your favorite restaurant.
Kirishima gave you a new ankle and wrist weights. Something to help with your manly journey to becoming the best hero!
Koda bashfully announced that you were getting an all-inclusive trip to an animal and tea shop. Something he gifted everyone in the class, and an event you girls were quick to plan.
Sato gave you a free pass to let him bake you anything you wanted. Another gift given to all the girls, and another gift you girls were excited to use.
Shoji had gifted you a massage gun. Something you had enveloped him in a hug for minutes afterward because it was something you had been meaning to buy.
Jirou’s gift was in a white envelope, two VIP tickets to your favorite band. A very discounted item because her parents knew them and the fact that she was a Pro Hero too.
Sero’s gift was something that made you laugh, it was a high-quality blanket. Soft to the touch, with the ability to keep you warm in a blizzard! It had a class picture printed on it photoshopped with Kaminari’s wheey face onto everyone’s picture.
Tokoyami gave you a picture album with the class’s best memories. It also had many more blank pages for your own pictures.
Hagakure bought you a new set of makeup and brushes. Brushes that you had been eyeing the time you two had gone shopping together too!
Bakugou bought you a new outfit. It was definitely an outfit for warmer weather, and he got annoyed when you went to hug him.
Midoriya made you a present. It was two notebooks full of analysis and suggestions that you had asked for when sparring. You wanted to continue improving and Midoriya was definitely going to help you.
Mineta bought you a gift card to use at a local lingerie store. On the one hand, it had a lot of money on it, on the other hand, you wanted to destroy it.
Momo blushed as she stood up, her grin wide as she looked at everyone. She apologized about being able to properly buy everyone an honest gift as she had been busy these past few months. Nut she promised she made up for it. She had paid off everyone’s apartment/house rent or price. Or in Iida’s and Shouto’s case their groceries for four months.
“This is for you,” Shouto whispered as he handed you a thin rectangular box. “I didn’t want it getting smashed so, I held onto it. I didn’t forget to give you a gift.”
Your eyes focused on the gift that was wrapped in red and silver wrapping paper. Your fingers gently taking it from him as you nodded. Shouto had been giving everyone else gifts with things that reminded him of them. It had some of the most hilarious items to date. But the box told you nothing, no hint, no clue. The attention of the group was on Aoyama who was modeling the new outfits that were gifted to him.
His eyes bore into you as you opened the gift, your eyes widening as you opened the box. “Shouto…” you trailed off as you looked down at the simple yet gorgeous necklace that lay in the box. It had a single diamond on it, yet you knew that it was more expensive than anything you’ve ever bought in your life. “W-What?”
Shouto remained silent as he gently pulled the necklace from the box, he asked you wordlessly to turn around so that he could place it on you. You complied as you shifted in the seat.
“I promise I looked everywhere else for you before choosing this!” Shouto admits as his warm fingers push your hair to the side. The cold chain presses into your skin as you look down at the jewel. “But no matter what I looked at, this was the only thing I liked for you. So, no, I don’t regret or worry about buying you this because I know it was meant to be yours.” His breath teased your exposed skin and it took everything within you not to melt as he fixed your hair.
Not knowing how to thank him, you pulled him into a tight hug, your arms holding him near as he returned the hug. Your lips pressed gently against his cheek, “Thank you, Shouto.”
You pull away and look back to your friends who were still focused on Aoyama who did a spin. Your fingers grazed the shiny jewel, and you lay your head against his shoulder as you consume the fashion show laid out for you.
Xxx
“You’re confessing to him, right?!” Mina hisses as the girls called an impromptu meeting seconds before you were "about to kiss Shouto" on the couch.
“Mina-san, she was about to kiss Todoroki-san right before you ripped her from his grasp!” Momo sighed as gave you an apologetic smile.
“Y/n has liked him since high school! Her first kiss with Todoroki-kun is not going to be while Bakugou is modeling his clothes!” Hagakure defended Mina as she crossed her arms.
“First off, I was not going to kiss him,” you defend yourself as you point a sweeping finger at your friends. “I was going in to get lint in his hair!”
“There wasn’t lint in his hair,” Tsuyu chimed in to which everyone agreed.
“Leave her alone!" Jirou waves her hands, to which you thank her. "She was going to take the lint out with her teeth! To show him what that mouth do!”
Jirou snorts as you shove her.
“Do you see that rock on her neck?! You know she’s not gonna show him only what that mouth do, but also what her—!” Uraraka snickers as she was interrupted by the kitchen door opening.
“Y/n?” Shouto asks, his eyes wide as he sees that you’re flustered and pointing your fingers at them all. “Um… I was wondering if we could talk?”
“Right now?” You squeak as you smooth over your dress. “Of course right now, um, yes let’s go!” You declare, glaring at your friends as you walk towards Shouto. Grabbing his hand and dragging him out of the kitchen the door closing behind you.
“They put up the mistletoe outside right?” Momo whispers as she looks at Jirou who gives a thumbs up.
“Yes, Kaminari said they convinced Todoroki to talk with y/n outside.”
“Does… does Todoroki-kun even know what to do under the mistletoe?” Uraraka asks as she realizes her sheltered friend was still learning new things to this day.
“The boys must’ve explained it to him,” Hagakure insists as she nods. “You can’t fuck up explaining that you kiss someone under the mistletoe. Besides, they want them to get together too!”
Xxx
“Fuck, it’s cold,” you shiver as you wrap your jacket around you.
“Sorry,” Shouto apologizes as he grabs your hands in his. Heat immediately spreads through your skin. He was warming you up, the cold winter air is ignorable, as you and Shouto walk towards the edge of the porch. “There wasn’t any room in there that was private enough, and I needed to talk to you about something important.”
“Oof, don’t tell me you meant to give this necklace to some other girl named y/n,” you tease as you rest your back against the snow-covered railings. “If so, I’m going to need to fight both you and her for it.”
“No, no,” Shouto chuckles as his thumb rubs smooth circles into your skin. “But it is about the necklace.”
You nod your head as you squeeze his hand reassuringly, “What about it?”
“It’s not… too forward is it?” Shouto asks as he takes his right hand to brush your hair from your face. “If you think it’s too much I can take you to return it for something else you’d like.”
The worry and concern that are heavily etched into his face make you laugh softly as you shake your head. “Even though I can’t give you something as great in return, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”
“What do you mean? I liked your gift.”
“Shouto, it was a two paid in full all you can eat meals at that soba joint you love, of course, you were going to like it!” You tease as you think back to the hole in the wall you had introduced Shouto to a few months ago.
“Yes, I have to starve for a week to make the most of your gift,” he teases and you snort as you shove him. Your eyes roll as you focus your attention back onto him.
Wait, what was that?
Your eyes flew back up to the ceiling as you saw the powdered with snow mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. Your jaw dropped as your heart rate spiked. The hands that were in Shouto’s felt sweaty as you ripped your hands from his.
“What’s wrong?” Shouto asks as he follows your gaze up to the ceiling.
“Mistletoe,” you breathe as your eyes widen. This screamed like a setup to you, but how could the girls know the two of you would have made your way out here?!
“Oh.” Shouto’s voice nearly squeaked.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Shouto whispers, his cheeks glowing in embarrassment or from the cold, you had no idea at this point. “If you’re okay with it, um... I’ve never done this before.”
You lick your lips in anticipation and the feeling that Shouto wants to kiss you back. Your heart hammers in your ears as you smile. “It’s okay, I have,” you laugh gently.
“... you have?”
“Yeah!”
“O-oh…”
“It’s okay, it’s something I try not to remember,” you input as you shake your hands. His disappointed, flustered, and jealous aura screaming at you as you cup his cheeks. “You’re the one I wanted to meet under the mistletoe anyways.”
His hands slip through your jacket, holding your waist in his grasp as he lets out a shaky breath. Shouto’s eyes rise to lock on yours finally, and you nod at him.
“Wait you want to do this outside?” Shouto whispers as you near him.
“You’re supposed to do it under the mistletoe,” you mumble as your lips connect with his. Your lips end all arguments that he has as Shouto stills.
The kiss was slow, your eyes closed as you gently coaxed his stiff lips to move with yours. Shouto moved with you smoothly, the kiss gently growing in passion as he pulled you in closer. The kiss burns you as your lips languidly move against each other. Your hands moving from his cheeks to tangling into his gelled hair.
It was perfect, and you found yourself pulling away, ready to confess your feelings for him. But Shouto didn’t seem to be on the same page as his lips pressed against your throat. The feeling of his heated and soft lips against your colder skin made you suck in a sharp breath of air. Your head tilting backward as he peppered clumsy yet attentive kisses against your skin.
“S-Shouto,” you moaned as your fingers grabbed onto the collar of his jacket. This wasn’t what you were expecting from him. Nor was it something you believed to come from a visit under the mistletoe. Your peaked breaths soon calmed, they smoothed into soft and shaky moans as his teeth teased your sensitive skin.
Shudders flew through your body as his tongue caressed your skin. your mind was sinking into a sinking pit that is until he trailed his tongue to the cleavage of your breasts.
“Shouto!” You squeak as you shove his jaw up, his eyes locking on yours confused and drowning with lust.
“What’s wrong, love?” Shouto asks as a strand of hair falls into his eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Is this how you meet everyone under the mistletoe?” You pant as your mind is racing too many thoughts a second, you can’t keep up as there is a heat building in you. A heat that begged you to get over your shyness and just let him kiss you in such a lewd way. But this wasn’t Shouto, it couldn’t be.
“I’ve never been under a mistletoe before,” Shouto mumbles as his lips press together. In this brief hesitation, it seems that he remembers something. “Who have you… met under the mistletoe…”
Your face warms as you sigh, it wasn’t a memory you much enjoyed.
“It was Bakugou, but only because the damn store owners were so insistent on it!”
This confession made Shouto still. His eyes turning a near black with emotions you hadn’t seen on his face in quite a while.
“Shouto? Are you okay--mmph?!”
His lips were back over yours immediately. His bruised lips fervently danced against yours as he held his right hand to the back of your neck and the other firmly onto the small of your back. His kiss was demanding, sultry, and overwhelming.
Your questions of his emotions out of your mind as your ass hit the porch railing. The cold snow burning through your dress made you cry out, and Shouto’s tongue presses into your mouth. Your back arches as his left-hand leaves your body. It slams against the railing and the snow melts, and the tongue in your mouth warms you as you shudder in his hold.
Not wanting to be manipulated like this, you ignore how your body feels like it’s melting in his hold. Your mouth suckles onto his tongue. Your hands fist into his hair, making him moan into your mouth as you tug on it sharply.
You can feel the falling snow hitting your cheeks, but your body temperature has spiked so high that it melts before it can make complete contact.
Ripping your mouth from his, your lips trail down his neck, nipping and sucking hickies onto his pale skin. The harsh pants that escaped his mouth and the shaking of his form further incited you as your painted lips met the collar of his shirt.
“Should we go back to my place?” You ask as you pull away, your hands fisting around his tie as you look into his lust-fueled eyes.
“I thought you said we had to do it under the mistletoe?” Shouto questions, his upper lip in almost a sneer as he uses your hands to loosen his tie. Your eyes widened as he stripped off his jacket. He placed it onto the railing that was turning the snow into steam whenever it made contact. “Did you take Bakugou home after finding yourself under the mistletoe with him?”
The words were a near snarl, his eyes angry, his face jealous.
Some part of you wanted to utilize this. You wanted to use this surplus of emotion Shouto was emitting to get him to fuck you against this railing. Another part of you, a louder part of you, demanded to know what was wrong.
“Why would I bring Bakugou home?” You ask as you take Shouto’s flushed cheeks in your hands. “It’s mistletoe, not a porno.”
Shouto blinks once, twice, thrice.
“W-What?”
“Mistletoe, not porno,” you repeat confused. “Shouto, you’re supposed to kiss under the mistletoe.”
It’s then that Shouto’s body freezes. His eyes widening as he stares at you.
His face flushed, lips were swollen from kissing, and hair messy.
“You’re… you’re not supposed to fuck?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper as he shakes his head.
The small sentence causes your heart to beat wildly as you stare at him, your hands moving from his cheeks to your mouth. “NO!” You squeak as Shouto takes a step back from you, his head dropping.
Coldness envelopes you as Shouto nods his head, “I’m sorry for forcing myself on you, y/n. I… I should go.”
You watch as Shouto turns on his heel, his back stiff as he walks towards the door.
Everything in you screams at you to make him stop, pleading that you pull him back and say you’ll still fuck him. The kissing itself had ignited a fire within you. And there was nothing else you wanted but Shouto to subside the need and desire that had built within you.
“I like you,” you reel as you find yourself taking several steps forward as Shouto’s hand touches the door handle. “I have feelings for you, and when I found out that I could kiss you tonight I took the chance! I know you might be feeling a whole bunch of different emotions that I can’t list. But I want to let you know that I wasn’t letting you do that because of the mistletoe, Shouto! I genuinely really like you and I was going to let you fuck me against the porch railing I was that ready.”
Shouto is frozen at the door, his back tense as his hand drops. You watch in what feels like slow motion as he turns around, his eyes locking on yours. It clicks, his confession is silent as he walks back towards you.
The world has gone silent as Shouto cuts the distance between the two of you before you could react. His mouth pressing against yours as you’re sent walking backward. Your hands grasping his biceps as you’re pressed against a familiar railing.
“I like you,” Shouto gasps against your lips. “Fuck, y/n, I like you so much.”
You don’t answer him as you instead sink your teeth into his lower lip, a groan leaving his mouth as you pull away. His eyes flash dangerously, something new stirring within him as your lips come crashing together again. In a tangle of lips and tongue, his hands leave your waist and grab your ass through the fabric of the dress. The cold is ignorable and the jacket around you is making you sweat as you moan into the kiss.
The melodious sound escaping your mouth stirs Shouto on and his leg slips between your thighs as you arch into him. His leg presses indescribably into your crotch, so you do what you must and grind your hips against his leg.
The grip on your ass tightens as Shouto begins to guide your hips into wide circles against his leg. The grinding pleasures you. The slowly building pressure overwhelming you as you whine against his mouth. His name escapes your mouth like a prayer, soft and hopeful as your mouth suckles against his tongue.
“It’s too hot,” you whimper as you pull away, Shouto trying to follow you with his mouth as you tilt your head. His wandering lips press against your neck and you sigh as you shift to take off the jacket.
“You’re going to get sick,” Shouto warns. His hands leave your rotating ass as he tries to slip the coat back over your shoulders.
Taking his hands and instead press them onto your breasts. As his eyes shifted to your breasts, you dropped your coat to the floor and you stare at him with a growing smirk. “Then you better fuck the cold away.”
His eyes take you in and he slowly nods, his hands groping your breasts as he growls in response, “Don’t think I won’t.”
“Big words for a virgin,” you moan as warmth spreads throughout your body.
“Those are fighting words for someone who’s at my mercy,” Shouto snaps as he pinches your side.
A pained moan escapes your lips as Shouto’s teeth sink back onto your neck. His tongue then lashing out to smooth the wound that was left in its place. He continues to mark your neck as your gasping praises and grinding hips gives him the confidence to continue. His touch is intoxicating and you find yourself whining for more, begging that he do more. Finally, with a deep chuckle, Shouto pulls away from your neck, his lips red and raw.
His eyes trace your body as his hand’s trail from your breasts back onto your ass. Your eyes widen as he picks you up as if you weigh nothing, his hands massaging your flesh as he places you onto the rail. A low sigh escapes your lips at the feeling of the warm wood underneath you.
Your chest heaves with your quickening breathing as you see that this position gives Shouto the perfect entrance to fuck you out here.
There wasn’t much you could do outside. With snow blanketing the world, your friends indoor, and both you and Shouto craving the other there was only so much you could do. Fully expecting Shouto to start unbuckling his pants, your eyes shot open as he lifted the skirt of your dress. His heated fingers trailing up your cool flesh.
Trembling you watched as his fingers reached your panties. His finger stroking your folds as your hands held tightly onto his shoulder. Your pussy aches for more. Your panties soaked from the thigh riding and the being so overwhelmed with emotions for Shouto.
You can do nothing as you feel your panties being peeled from your skin. The soft fabric trailing down your legs and you watch as Shouto looks at them before pocketing them. A smirk overcomes his facial features as you watch him. He takes your wrists in his right hand and moves them behind your back. Your eyes widen as a familiar sound hits your ears.
“I might be a virgin, but I’m not a prude,” he whispers into your ear as cold ice encloses your wrists. “You have only a few minutes to get yourself to cum against my fingers, or else… well, I don’t want to find out.”
Unintentionally, you whimper in both pleasure and pain as the coldness seeps through your skin and your pussy throbs at the threat. Should you heed his command or make him recant. As you contemplate that, you rub your legs together. The slickness of your essence much more noticeable without the fabric in place, and you moan.
Shouto smirks as he looks at your moving legs, and he takes his left hand to trace your inner thigh, teasingly, barely touching your skin. Your eyes flutter as they brush against your slit right before he plunges two fingers into your wet heat. Cursing his name, your walls tremble against him as you press your forehead onto his shoulder. His fingers are warm, but your heat is even warmer.
“Is something wrong?” He feigns innocence as his fingers curl against your wall. They circle within your cunt as you whimper lewdly.
“N-No!” You stammer. The freezing sensation of the ice is almost ignorable with his fingers beginning to push within you. He nods as he begins to move his fingers slowly. Your body squirms in his hold as he increases his speed. Soon his fingers pump within you at unimaginable speeds, your head throwing backward at the pleasure. Your hips find themselves bucking against his fingers as you mewl.
The ice begins to burn as his thumb brushes against your clit.
Your eyes clench close as you surge forward. Your lips pressing against his as you attempt to stop your loud moans. Shouto swallows your moans as he continues to pound his fingers in you. A third one soon entering as his thumb flicks against your clit.
So close, you’re so fucking close.
You can feel the pressure building in you, the coil tightening as you cry out his name, pleading for him to make you cum. Shouto muses at your desperation but does not relieve you of your desires as his fingers leave your cunt. You cry at the expulsion, your pussy craving for him to reenter your needy cunt.
Instead, your wrists are set free from their icy cage. Your skin feels like its burning as Shouto places his fingers into his mouth. He's licking your essence off his skin and you whine at the visual.
“I decided that I want you to come around my cock instead,” Shouto chuckles as you glare at him.
“You’re a dick,” you whine as you watch as Shouto loosens his tie after removing his jacket.
“You’re the greedy one who wanted to fuck right here,” Shouto hums as he unbuckles his belt. You stare at him feeling your pussy throb at the impending sex.
Your eyes fall onto his cock as his pants bunch at his knees, and your mouth dries at the sight of him. Eight inches and thick, his hand fists against his length, low grunts escaping his mouth as he steps near to you.
“Are you okay with this?” Shouto asks as the head of his cock brushes against your wet folds.
You nod your head as you shudder at the sensations that run through your veins, “Yes, are you?”
He nods too as he grunts softly. He begins to grind his cock against your folds. The increased pressure than what he was doing before makes you moan as he coats himself with your juices. Your hands hold onto his biceps as he continues to move his cock between your folds. teasing your clit instead of penetrating you and you whine in protest. The stimulation of your clit appreciated but you wanted him to fill you up.
“Will you just fuck me already?!” You rasp as you pathetically circle your hips against his length.
Shouto chuckles as he locks eyes with you, “Maybe.”
Your mouth opens to argue, but you’re cut off by him pushing himself into your needy pussy without warning. His length barely fits entirely within you, and his girth causes your head to spin as he stretches you out. “FUCK!” You hiss as your head presses into his collarbone.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Shouto shudders as your walls spasm against him, overloading him with sensations as he tries to calm himself. “Y-You’re so fucking tight.”
“Move, Shouto,” you beg eagerly needing more friction from him. “Please fucking move.”
With a grunt of confirmation, Shouto rolls his hips. You curse as his hips move outward before bottoming back into you. Your hips move in time with his, and intermingled moans resonate within your now joined mouths. His thrusting picks up speed the more comfortable he gets. His moving hips slamming against yours as you cry into his mouth. His hand grips your waist as he pulls you from the railing, one of your legs hooked around his waist as the other shakily stands. He slides his other hand down your back so that he can cup the bottom your ass. It’s a stretch and it adds to his vigorous thrusts into your cunt.
The feel of Shouto’s pelvis slapping against yours is your remedy — you’re craving him even more and he is well aware of that fact.
You’re swelling with euphoria and lust when he decides to amp up your pleasure by bringing his right hand to your clit. His fingers circle against your clit with his ice-cold touch, it shocks you as your heated body jerks under the new temperature. With the added temperature play, it feels as if your body is breaking under his will. Your pussy clenching at sensations he’s giving you. Your hips rolling against his pounding hips, and he moans in return to how your walls clench against him.
Your head lolls to the side as you’re overwhelmed by the blazing heat in your core. The pressure of your cunt heavily evident throughout your entire body. You needed to keep it together, you wanted to keep going. The head of his cock finally comes to press against your sweet spot as he shifts your hips and you shriek.
“Fuck! Please, right there!” You beg as Shouto shakily nods, his hips coming to snap into that same spot over and over. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you’re no longer able to speak. You’re completely overpowered by his snapping hips.
“Will you come for me,” he groans out, his voice a pleading hope.
Your head nods frantically as you're unable to trust your voice. The action satisfies Shouto as he hisses lowly. Faster and harder, his fingers switch from pressing small circles to large figure-eights on your clit, while his hips slamming faster into you. You can’t handle the pleasure any more, and you feel your high coming.
“Shouto,” you gasp as he presses a kiss against your mouth again. His hands moving to lift you up, you can only cry in pleasure as he slams your back against a pole. His hips continuing to snap into you at insane speeds. You’re not able to keep up as sparks ignite in your veins as he slams into you over and over.
Your orgasm hits your body and it’s as if you’re falling away into ecstasy. Your mind spinning and dazed from the continuous world-altering sensations. You cry out his name as he still continues at his unmerciful pace. That is until he suddenly pulls out and drops you onto your shaking legs.
Whining at the loss of his cock, and the fact that you’re now on your feet, you open your shut eyes and stare at him unable to speak.
“Turn around,” he growls. You can’t believe he wants you to go for his own orgasm with you in a whole new position. Was he really a virgin you question as he fists his cock as you reposition yourself onto the railing. Your chest presses weirdly onto the wood as your knees buckle, and you look over your shoulder to see Shouto raising the skirt of your dress.
Shouto doesn’t ask to insert himself in you again. Your fingers grip the railing as he slams back in and you let out a sharp cry as you seize forward.
He starts up a brutal pace with his hips slapping against your ass with each and every thrust. Your hands move to your mouth as you cry as you rock forward with every thrust. His hips remain steady as his pace accelerates. You watch on a dazed high as snow falls onto your moving hair. Your fingers shoved into your mouth like a gag as he grips your hips. You use all of your willpower to push your hips back against his to meet him thrust by thrust.
Slowly, he starts to vocalize more and more. His lips moaning your name and crying out. He keeps one gripping hand on your hips while the other slips to your clit. Your mind snaps as he begins rubbing meticulous shapes onto your puffy nerves.
You can tell he’s close.
He’s chanting your name against your spine like some mindless prayer to you. His hot breath fanning onto your exposed skin. The hand on your hip grips you tighter, definitely bruising your skin. So you grip the railing with one hand and the other remains in your mouth.
“Are you ready?” Shouto growls while nipping at your skin. “Ready to take my cum?”
“Yes! Please, Shouto!” You choke out from your fingers, the pleasure and overstimulation reaching their tipping point once again.
“Then fucking come.”
Your toes curl as you let out a sob of pleasure. Your arm is unable to support yourself anymore as you let your torso slam against the railing. The circles on your clit finally stop and your abused cunt clenches around Shouto’s cock. Your body reaches its second orgasm of the night, and Shouto arrives with you.
He cries out a “Fuck!” and your name as his speed spills within you. It’s the loudest he’s been all night, which makes you whine at the sound of your name being said so vulgarly from his mouth. As your cries become breathless pants, you press your hands against the railings. The saliva on your fingers turning cold as the two of you stand still for what feels like some time. You feel him slide both of his hands on top of yours to intertwine with yours as cum spurts out of his cock, filling you up.
He rubs circles on top of your hands with his thumbs as he slides himself out. The feeling of him gone makes the both of you whimper at the loss of each other’s fill. You feel some of his cum seep out, and you shudder at the emptiness your cunt now feels.
You slowly stretch back up, your body hurting and now quickly turning cold with the lack of his heat.
Shouto is two steps ahead of you as he grabs your tossed coat from the floor and wraps you tightly within its fabric. “There,” he smiles as he pulls up his own pants, his face still flushed for different reasons.
You giggle as you shake your head, “Did I really get dicked down because of mistletoe?”
A snort escapes Shouto’s lips as he nods, “You did.”
“Well, I do like you, Shouto,” you whisper as he finishes dressing. “It’s not just because of the mistletoe.”
“I know,” Shouto whispers as he takes your cheeks in his hands. “And now this is me asking you on a date and if you’d like to be my girlfriend.”
Joy fills your heart as you laugh softly. “I’d love to be,” you say as your lips meet his in a gentle kiss right under the mistletoe.
✩✶✩❇✩✶✩
taglist (message to be added):
@flayvus @antigenius @mariahschoices @cherry-pie-shay @the-secret-thief @vampire-dumbass @monst
2K notes · View notes
lovelylogans · 3 years
Note
so idk if requests are still open for wyliwf but i’m a sucker for dee in aus and it seems like he gets a bit of redemption before the most recent oneshot. If you feel up to it, i’d love to read something on that
debutante
part of the wyliwf verse.
chapter one | next chapter
notes: this ask was sent right after odds are! look, i know i’m overlooking several of the rules of the debutante ball, but honestly, so did gilmore girls, so. source material, here.  i hope this can serve as a distraction for some of you today—please go out and vote if you are able and if you haven’t already! also happy birthday logan!!!
A debutante or deb (from French: débutante, “female beginner”) is a young woman of aristocratic or upper-class family background who has reached maturity and, as a new adult, comes out into society at a formal “debut” or possibly debutante ball. Originally, the term meant the woman was old enough to be married, and part of the purpose of her coming out was to display her to eligible bachelors and their families with a view to marriage within a select circle.
or: logan wants to dismantle the cis-heteronormative patriarchy with his bare hands and teeth if necessary, roman delights in dresses, virgil fucking hates tuxedos, patton’s really proud of his son, and dee thinks those sanders’ might not be so terrible after all.
“i need a dress.”
patton blinks, glancing up from the kitchen table where he’s organizing his notes for midterms for his business degree. bright side, last set of midterms patton would ever have to take! dark side, midterms. “just, like, generally, or…?”
the slight attempt at a joke dies when he catches the look on logan’s face—clenched jaw, eyes flashing—and he sets down his papers.
“i’m coming out,” logan continues.
“kiddo, you did that when you were about eight,” patton points out. “remember? i said i loved you and i was proud of you and i’m so glad that you trusted me enough to share that moment with you and thank you for telling me, and we went and got ice cream at lucy’s, and then you tried to use the whole sentimental thing to get me to ask out virgil because you were supposed to have a positive gay role model in your life, as if us being separately gay wasn’t enough in this town whose main tourist attraction is its rich history, from the times of our founding fathers to the times of pride.”
patton’s quoting the most recent town brochure, here.
“no, dad,” logan says, and arches his eyebrows significantly. “i’m coming out.”
the double-meaning clicks in his head.
“no,” patton says, hushed—he isn’t sure if it’s in awe or horror. “like—like, debutante coming out? or, um, wait, like—like—?”
“the male equivalent is a beautillion, and no, i mean like debutante coming out,” logan says. 
patton pauses, waiting, but logan says nothing, until patton says, “kiddo, either your attempts at trying to push this information into my brain via telepathy aren’t working or my brain’s too fried from midterms to catch the implications of what you’re saying, i’m gonna need more details than that.”
logan drops into the other seat at the kitchen table, huffing out a slow breath. 
“you remember dee.”
“your former rival turned weird allies that are still sometimes rivals, yes,” patton says. 
“who came over to our house once.”
“for the gsa poster-making thing?” patton says.
“right,” logan says, and arches his brows, waiting for patton to catch on.
“when… he mentioned he was also trans?” patton elaborates.
“right,” logan says. “i think dee’s parents are trying to out him, because they informed him of their intentions to sign him up for the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball.”
a cold feeling crawls uncomfortably in his stomach.
presenting him to society. a debutante ball. undeniably, harshly female. one of the main benefits of the timing of patton’s coming out had been so he wouldn’t have been a debutante—the very concept of doing that had given him this exact same cold, crawling feeling.
“dee gave me about five separate explanations as to why, of course, so i don’t particularly know why they’re choosing to out him now,” logan says briskly, “but i have a plan as to how that’s not going to happen.”
“you’re… going to be a debutante,” patton says slowly.
“well,” logan says, and fishes out a piece of paper from his backpack. “hopefully, not just me.”
FIGHT THE PATRIARCHY, the title screams in huge letters, then subtitled with Become a debutante or an escort today! Why should women be the only ones who have to go through this? Be a better feminist and put on a dress, if you’re a boy, or a tux, if you’re a girl, and if you fall outside of the gender binary, the choice of debutante or escort is up to you. Contact Logan Sanders for more details. there’s two copies—one blank, and one with an already modest list of names. which is probably to be expected, debutante balls were a big deal at chilton, except the usual names that would be listed under escorts are listed under debutantes, and vice versa.
“dermot, tristan, brad, henry, roger,” patton reads off, slow, and then he looks up at logan. “and madeline, lem, lisa, summer, and ivy.”
“well, it’s hardly fair that girls have to go through all this primping and glamming up just to be seen as presentable to society,” logan says briskly. “boys should come out into society, too.”
“which is your cover story,” patton says slowly, putting it together. that cold, uncomfortable feeling is turning into a warm glow that’s turning up the corners of his mouth.
“right,” logan says. “if a group of boys will show up in pretty white dresses, all very serious about their intentions of being presented to society, with their escorts of girls in tuxes, then—”
“then everyone will think dee is part of the ploy.”
“exactly,” logan says. “his secret is kept under wraps and no one has to know.”
 patton leans abruptly over the table to wrap logan up in a hug.
“hey,” logan complains, but patton just squeezes a little tighter.
“you are,” he says, choked up, “such an amazing friend, kiddo.”
it sounds like something he and christopher might have done as a prank back in the day—christopher in the dress, patton in the tux—but this—this—
patton lets go of him, grinning hugely. “i am so proud of you.”
“so you’re okay with it?”
“okay with it?!” patton laughs. “you’re protecting your friend from getting outed in a way that would be very embarrassing and schooling high society about how weird it is that they still present their daughters like they’re cattle for purchase! of course i’m okay with it!”
“so, dress?” logan asks, and honestly, patton’s just about ready to grab his wallet and haul logan to the finest dress store he can find, before logan continues, “if grandma still has it, we could probably steal the one she was intending to use for you from the cellar.”
that cold feeling is back. “ah.”
logan blinks. “what?”
patton sits back down. “i forgot about your grandparents.”
“what about—?”
patton chews at his lip. “mom’s a part of the daughters of the american revolution.”
“why does that matter?” logan says, and patton sighs.
“oh, you know by now that things work differently in grandma’s world than ours,” patton says. “just—i definitely support your right to do this, but just… know that if a fight comes out of this, i will not regret it or back down, okay? i’m always on your team.”
“well, i know that,” logan says, like it’s obvious, which, fair, it probably is, or at least patton hopes so, it’s his job as a dad to be on his kid’s side. “i’ll bring it up at dinner on friday, we’ll see how it goes over then. they’re less likely to yell at me.”
“it’ll just be us and grandma, your grandpa’s in… i think copenhagen?” patton says, considering, and waves a hand. “some historical city across an ocean, anyway, and virgil’s working.”
virgil is almost always working on friday nights. it’s only partly because he owns the diner, but it’s also because, well. friday night dinners. patton doesn’t blame him for avoiding them—even with the buffer of a couple months, it’s not exactly an easy relationship between him and patton’s parents.
“well, that’ll be something,” logan says briskly, then stands. “i’m going to go put one of these sheets on sideshire high’s bulletin board.”
“good call, a ton of kids here would want to crush heteronormativity and an excuse to wear a pretty dress slash tux,” patton says. “i’m betting you’re gonna ask roman?”
logan looks like he’s trying not to flush, and he adjusts his chilton jacket. “he’s the one letting me in. he’s still there for cheer practice.”
“ahhh,” patton says, only a little teasing. “well, let me know what your plans for the afternoon are, it’ll probably be virgil’s for dinner tonight, ‘cause,” and he lifts up a sheaf of his papers for emphasis.
“isn’t it always?” logan points out, and, with that, he departs.
“my little baby, off to destroy people!” patton calls teasingly after him, grinning, so proud he feels like he’s about to burst.
“i’m destroying the cis-heteronormative patriarchy!” logan calls, and then there’s the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut.
patton’s going to take him on a trip to bookstore and he’s buying him everything he wants.
“granmè, i’m home!” dee calls, dropping his backpack at the door and hanging his bowler hat on the coat rack.
“hello, mister slange.”
“nanny,” dee acknowledges. he’d address her by her first name, if he knew it. he admires that about her; it’s something they share.
nanny soledad used to be his nanny, back when he’d needed such things; she’s from the dominican republic, which his parents thought was “close enough” to being haitian that it would be enough to help him adjust. which is accurate enough geographically, but not culturally. honestly, he’s surprised his parents even bothered to look as far as geographically. 
but now he is too old for such things, and his grandmother’s memory problems are growing more and more apparent by the day, so nanny had made the transition from the ancestral slange manor to the slange family townhome, where his grandmother evelyn lives.
the townhome is a bit run-down, in comparison with the manor; no multiple wings, no murals on the ceilings, no precisely selected statues in the alcoves. instead, the townhome is a conglomeration of furniture collected by the family over the years; all of it high-quality, expensive, but almost none of it matching, with persian rugs thrown down over almost every hardwood surface, armchairs cluttering the spare corners, paintings hanging dilapidated with no rhyme or reason to their collection. it feels a bit squashed and claustrophobic, sometimes, with its dark woods and narrow hallways and secluded rooms, in comparison to the aggressively, purposefully airy nature of the manor with its open floor plan and silver accents and crisp, neutral colors.
the townhome is closer to chilton, so dee had reasoned to his parents that there was no reason to keep using too much gas to have him make the commute home every night. his parents, frankly just happy to have him out of their hair, had acquiesced swiftly.
well. they tended to like him out of their lives, until they needed him for something. until he needed to act like a doll. dee pushes those thoughts away; he’s thought about it quite enough today.
so dee and his snakes and his clothes were stationed in one guest bedroom, nanny and martha in the others, and dee would return to the ancestral home on weekends and long breaks. it would stay that way for as long as he and nanny could get away with it.
especially with the latest developments. dee suppresses a shudder at the way he’d handled himself earlier in the day, and instead turns his attention to nanny.
“where is she?”
“your grandmother’s in the greenhouse,” nanny says, then, seeing the look on his face, “not gardening, you know i would be supervising if she were.”
“the azaleas are in bloom,” dee acknowledges. “she does like the azaleas.”
“that she does,” nanny says, and falls into step beside him. “i’ve had martha gather some cuttings sent up to her room. bertie is out running errands, but he should be back in time for supper. ingrid will be in later for dinner and should be sticking to the menu, unless you have other requests. it’s lobster linguine tonight.”
“all fine,” dee says, and winces to himself at how distracted he sounds. he needs to stop thinking about it. he needs to focus on the now. the present. thinking about his parents’ ultimatum looming over his head would do no good right now.
“now, she’s taken her medicine for the afternoon and requested some tea. would you like some as well, perhaps a snack?”
“whatever she’s requested will suffice,” dee says. “thank you, nanny.”
nanny nods, and departs for the kitchen. dee continues through the house, to the backdoor, and into the greenhouse.
greenhouse is a bit of an exaggeration. it’s really more of a solarium that’s been overcrowded with pots and planters, in addition to the gardens outside. there’s floor-to-ceiling windows, and the room is overwhelmed with wicker furniture. it’s calming, in here; to say that there’s a lot of earth tones would be an understatement, and the light filters in gold and tangibly warm. 
it’s the most open-air part of the house, but less like the manor; if the manor was like some renaissance painter’s imagination of heaven, all pearly white clouds and soft pastels, this was an impressionist painting’s portrait of a landscape—plants and woods and life, verdant and vibrant and vivid. 
the greenhouse is also the warmest room in the house, which he’s sure is part of why it’s his grandmother’s favorite. dee’s already moving to shed his capelet and gloves; if he doesn’t, he’ll get disgustingly sweaty.
his grandmother is sitting in her favored rocking chair, seemingly not having heard him open the door. her reading glasses are perched on her nose, about to slip off, and she’s deeply absorbed in her book.
“hello, granmè,” he says in french.
that makes her look up, and she smiles at him, reaching out her hand.
“hello, my sweet,” she says warmly, and he reaches out and squeezes her hand carefully—he has an irrational fear that one day, if he forgets his strength, if he squeezes too hard, he’ll snap the delicate little bones in her frail hand easier than blinking. she switches to french. “did you have fun at school?”
he scowls, settling in the rocking chair beside hers, separate by an end table that’s teeming with books. “it’s school, grand-mère.”
“that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun,” she says. “did you learn anything interesting, at least?”
that logan sanders is just as unsurprisingly terrible at comfort that one would expect?
instead, he says, “we’re supposed to start reading sula for homework today.”
she brightens, as he knew she would—his grandmother adores all things toni morrison—and they begin talking about books, and other works by toni morrison, and their favorite parts of said books, which eats up the better part of the fifteen minutes it takes nanny to deliver the tea tray to the greenhouse.
“thank you, nanny,” evelyn says, still in french. nanny nods—she’s fluent in spanish and portuguese and english, not quite in french, but she knows enough to get by in a conversation—and withdraws from the room without a word.
dee swiftly takes the teapot before his grandmother can attempt to pour it herself—her plus a heavy pot of near-boiling water was a hospital visit waiting to happen—and switches to english, saying, “would you mind plating some of the battenburg for me, granmè?”
“as long as you have a crumpet,” she says. “you’re a growing boy, noodle.”
“yes, yes, fine,” he sighs, pretending to be put-upon at both the pet name and the insistence of somewhat healthy eating. “a crumpet too, then.”
he fixes her cup as she likes it—two sugars, a splash of cream—and trades her teacup and saucer for a plate of snacks before he works on making his own tea and she arranges her own plate. he notices that she has reached for none of the savory options, instead opting entirely for sweets.
dee hides his smirk in his tea. 
they continue chit-chatting about all kinds of things as they work their way slowly through tea, a holdover from his english grandfather. even though grand-mère’s french, she’s too fond of teacakes and snacking in general to really do away with it, even nearly two decades after his passing. they talk about the azaleas (yes, they look exceptional this year) running the household (bertie was going to visit his grandchildren next week, yes he’d make sure bertie would pass on her hellos, yes he’ll manage fine without him, it’s not like nanny and martha and ingrid won’t be here) and his academics (yes, he thinks the semester’s going well.)
they talk about everything except the thing that’s weighing most heavily on his mind. 
she might not know. she might not even remember.
dee pushes that thought away. once they’ve finished their tea, he excuses himself to do his homework, leaving her to her book and her admiration of the lilies, and nanny smoothly institutes herself in his chair, with the guise of a magazine to make it seem like she wasn’t supervising his grandmother.
dee picks up his capelet, gloves, and backpack on his way up to his room. back at the manor, he has a whole wing, but here he just has his room. it suffices.
he sits on the bed, briefly, in sight of the full-length, gilt-edged mirror, to sweep the capelet back around his shoulders and ensure that it’s sitting on him properly; he could probably get away with taking off his binder, as he’s home and they aren’t expecting visitors, except he very much does not want to do that right now. he pulls on his gloves, covering his vitiligo-ridden left hand first; his dermatologist swears his particular case is segmental, which typically doesn’t expand with time, but it feels like it has been.
but then again, it is just his left side affected. so. perhaps the woman who’d been to school for twelve years and was a specialist in his particular condition was right.
dee toes off his loafers, debating crossing the room and entering his walk-in closet to store them properly on the shoe rack, but decides against it—the singular item of clutter makes his room seem a little more lived-in.
it’s not that he doesn’t like his room here; they hired decorators to redo it back when his grandmother moved in and he started spending more time here, years ago, so the walls are a subtle shade of gold, with an accent wall plastered with an art-deco black-and-gold theme was behind his bed. his bed is massive and plush. everywhere he looks, things are black, gold, and white, in that order of frequency.
it’s just not very… well. lived-in.
his room at the manor house is worse, though. just about the only thing he likes there is the aesthetic of the gold. the chandelier and tufted wall and personal tv and absurdist decor that screamed “this is too expensive for you to even look at!” he could do without.
he might have to look at it all the more, soon. he’s dreading it.
“homework,” he reminds himself, “homework.”
he makes a beeline for his desk, where his snakes are settled in their vivarium, all lazily sunning themselves under the heat lamp, tangled together in a loose pile.
“layabouts, the lot of you,” dee informs them. luke, leia, and han do not seem to care.
dee settles at his desk, getting out his agenda, his books, and his notebooks. he gets out his favorite pen and sits, ready to get started on his to-do list for the day.
and that’s where his brain stops focusing on school, and starts focusing on what happened at school.
there are several locations in chilton that seem like they were designed specifically for crying.
the most popular ones are the almost-always abandoned bathrooms near the journalism lab were a good bet for most, with the stress of deadlines; and, considering they tended to share with the chemistry and biology labs, that was tripled, and therefore the most commonly-used choice. it wasn’t uncommon for med-school-aiming seniors to duck out around finals week and return after a carefully scheduled five-minute crying break, red-rimmed around the eyes. most were polite enough not to mention it to their faces.
then there was the kiln room; considering it was mostly empty, all bare walls and concrete, excepting for the periods of time where there were ceramics classes or art club, of course, it went mostly empty, and tended to be the discerning choice for arts-inclined students.
and then there was the option that he had opted for today; steal into the senior’s lounge, near the rear exit of the school, and hunker up into the most hidden corner, giving himself until the bell for the next class bell rings to have his breakdown where no one, not nanny or ingrid or bertie or martha or god forbid granmè would be able to hear him, the urge he’s been holding in since he descended from a lie-in yesterday morning to see his parents both sitting at the table. at granmè’s house. to speak to him.
which, really, was never a good sign in the first place, but even for his parents it was a particularly fucking terrible—
the exit door opens.
shit. shit.
dee hastily uses the ends of his capelet to wipe at his eyes and then rummages in his backpack, yanking out the first book he lays hands on, hoping against hope that he can pass it off as skipping class, he can manage that, his reputation wouldn’t even take a hit for that, whereas if someone like louise fucking grant caught him crying—
“are you skipping class?”
dee makes a show of glancing up, nonchalant, at the person who’s spoken.
“are you?” dee contests. logan sanders shakes his head, his hands braced on his backpack straps.
“no,” he says, then, “the bus popped a tire on the way to school.”
“another count against the bus,” dee murmurs, and he turns his attention back to the book, feigning a loss of interest.
logan has not walked away. in fact, he’s walking closer. dee clears his throat, hoping that he won’t get close enough to see his puffy, red-rimmed eyes. he’d specifically planned this particular crying jag so no one would see his puffy, red-rimmed eyes.
“are you skipping class?” logan repeats. dee stifles a curse. damn journalist.
“so what if i am?” dee says, and he might have pulled off his airy tone, if his voice hadn’t cracked on the last word. dee coughs, to cover it, but now logan is walking closer.
“were you… crying?” logan says uncertainly.
“no,” dee lies. and honestly, getting caught might be worth it for the expressions that wars across logan’s face—pained awkwardness overwhelms it, but there’s concern, and discomfort, and a sense of do i have to, and honestly, if dee wasn’t in such a shitty mood it would be pretty funny.
“may i sit?”
“will you listen if i say no?”
“probably not,” logan admits. “even if you weren’t crying, which i’m pretty sure you were—”
“—i wasn’t—” 
“—your attendance is as good as mine, i’d still want to know why you were skipping class.”
dee makes a show of sighing, but shoves his backpack a little further away and scoots further into the corner. logan nods, settling his backpack beside dee’s, and sits close to dee. not quite side-by-side, but just far enough away that it’s clear he’s offering dee the choice to lean closer. it’s strangely thoughtful. he remembers, distantly, logan at his birthday party; he’d ducked hugs a lot of the time, only accepting it when he couldn’t substitute a handshake. he wonders if logan doesn’t like physical contact, and tucks away the idea of investigating that for potential use later.
logan pauses, before he says, almost kindly, “the book’s giving you away. you’re reading the scarlet letter. we read that last quarter. i highly doubt you’d be rereading it. you made your dislike known enough as we were reading it, not that i blame you for finding it dull and archaic. it is dull and archaic.”
dee bites back a curse as he makes a show of glancing at the book. he knew he should have cleaned out his backpack after midterms, but no, he’d been too busy—
“i like the scarlet letter,” dee lies, and logan looks at him, arching an eyebrow.
“try again.”
“what?” dee says. “i could.”
“you literally overrode class one day to complain, at length, about how stupid the plot is, how overblown and over-long the prose is, and that hawthorne desperately needed an editor. which i agree with, by the way.”
“well,” dee says. “i could still like it.”
“please,” logan scoffs.
he turns the book in his hands and reduces a shudder. god, what a terrible book. he’ll toss it as soon as he gets home.
“well, i like sleep,” dee says lightly, “and one should always have sleep-inducing material on hand. it’s remarkably effective. i like it for that reason, how about that?” 
logan smiles, with a little hum of acknowledgement. a i don’t believe you but i think your excuse is funny enough that i won’t press you on it hum. dee’s heard it many times.
they sit in silence for a couple minutes. long enough that dee thinks that he’s going to get away with it—if they’re quiet until second period, then dee can steal away and have an excuse ready by lunch, if need be.
except logan clears his throat, and dee braces himself.
“if you’d like to… talk,” he says stiffly, and he coughs again. “i am—here. clearly. not just physically, as i am now, but as a means of support. i suppose.”
dee rolls his eyes. “how convincing,” he says, and ignored how clogged-up his voice sounds, all of a sudden.
“yes, well,” logan says. “of the many things my father’s taught me, one thing he apparently hasn’t been able to pass down is being particularly good at navigating these… emotional kinds of conversations is not one of them.”
dee would laugh at the look on logan’s face when he says emotional, if his brain wasn’t stuck on my father. 
“your dad,” dee says, a strange tone in his voice, before he can stop himself.
logan’s dad, who was raised in this environment, in this world, and, somehow, had managed to be openly, proudly trans.
logan’s dad, who had been trans, without his parents attempting to publicly interfere with the way he presented himself.
must be nice.
“yes,” logan says cautiously. “what about my dad?”
dee takes a deep breath, and, immediately, two concepts begin to war in his mind.
don’t tell him, one side screams. the whole reason you’re out here is because you don’t want people to see weakness!
he has access to a unique perspective that, to your knowledge, is only shared by yourself and that other person, he argues with himself. and the largest part of this that would be kept secret, he already knows. and you have blackmail in hand if he were to suddenly confess with this additional quest for information.
dee lets out his breath. he says, “does your dad talk about the way it was for him? back then.”
logan stiffens, ever so slightly, in surprise.
“not often,” he says, the cautiousness still lingering in his tone. “he’s only ever really told me a little; bits and pieces. not details, you understand, but…”
logan pauses, collecting his thoughts. dee almost snaps at him to hurry up; usually, logan’s a decent enough public speaker, but the whole dramatic pause thing he did sometimes was really quite annoying.
“i know that it wasn’t easy, for him,” logan says. “that in part, the reaction helped fuel his desire to run away, in addition to my existence and the further stigma that’s associated with that. there are likely old issues of the jefferson that could provide the nastier details; i’ve given him my word i wouldn’t seek them out. i don’t particularly want to. in addition to the writing skills of the jefferson being terrible, i am not particularly inclined to read transphobia and terrible rumors about anyone, much less my father.”
another pause. then, “he had a bonfire for all his dresses and skirts.”
dee turns to him, startled. logan’s dad? that soft little puffball?
“i know,” logan says, seemingly agreeing with how out-of-character it seemed. “my other father—christopher—helped. he’s been saving stories of his various teenage rebellions, too. he used to be rather…” a brief hesitation. “a rabble-rouser.”
dee snorts. it sounds very snotty and terrible and he immediately wishes he hadn’t.
(also—well, dee had known that logan was technically a hayden, it was just he hadn’t really heard logan outwardly express it, ever. he knows that christopher is located in california, somewhere. he wonders how logan handles that. something to look into.)
“why do you ask?” logan says.
“you know why.” 
“all right, that was poorly phrased,” logan says. “why ask about this now?”
dee hesitates. logan adds, awkwardly, “if you don’t want to answer—”
“it’s… fine,” dee says stiffly. he clears his throat. he looks at his shoes.
logan is one of the smartest people you know, he reminds himself. he wouldn’t tell. he knows you’d immediately move to destroy him if he told.
keeping his eyes on his toes, he says, forcefully light, “my parents have entered me into the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball. apparently, they’ve decided to stop humoring this phase i am going through, as i am now sixteen, it is time to cease such childish rebellion and enter society properly, as a—” dee stops, abruptly.
“as a gender which you are not,” logan finishes for him. his voice is very, very quiet.
dee clears his throat, and redirects his gaze from his shoes to the wall across from them. he’s very conscious of logan’s eyes on him, examining him, staring at his face for any sign of weakness.
“dee,” he begins, haltingly.
“it doesn’t matter,” dee says, except for the fact that it very much does matter. 
“that’s not,” logan begins, then, “i don’t,” and then, a frustrated sigh, before he says, “i’m sorry.”
“don’t,” dee snaps. “i don’t want your pity.”
“the definition of pity is the feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others,” logan snaps back. “as a fellow member of the lgbtq community, of course i feel sorrow and compassion at the information that someone does not have the support of their parents, and that lack of support will cause that someone will be outed publicly without their consent.”
dee doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to stare at the wall. his jaw is clenched so tightly he thinks his teeth might break from the pressure.
“is there anything i can do?” logan says stiffly.
dee keeps his eyes on the wall. “no,” he bites out.
they sit in awkward silence for a few more seconds. it feels like an hour. then:
“what if i stopped it?”
dee scoffs.
“what?” logan says.
“please,” dee says. “it’s the dar debutante ball.”
“we can get you out of it.”
“the bill’s already paid,” dee says. 
“then we’ll stop the ball,” logan says.
“i’m sorry, have you met the ilk of your grandmother and her friends?” dee says pointedly. “you think you’re going to rob them of the chance to trot their precious little darlings around in a circle for all the men to drool over?”
logan’s back straightens. dee, finally, turns to look at him.
it’s like dee can see the lightbulb go off over his head.
“what?” dee says.
“nothing,” logan says, except he’s smiling.
“what,” dee snaps.
“nothing,” logan repeats. “it’s just—i might have an idea.”
“might,” dee repeats.
“might,” logan agrees. he’s clearly about to say more, but the bell rings, and there’s the beginning of shuffling steps that means people will emerge into the hallways. logan scrambles to his feet, swinging his backpack over his shoulder, before, belatedly, offering a hand to dee.
dee considers it. he accepts. logan helps haul him to his feet.
“your idea,” dee says, picking up his own backpack.
“you’ll see,” logan says, and dee huffs at him, before beginning to head off to his next class—
“dee?”
dee turns, and logan offers an awkward little facial expression that might be a smile.
“if you want to talk about it—”
“we aren’t friends,” dee says, cutting off whatever platitude that he’s clearly building up to. an idea. probably a lie to try and make dee feel better.
“i know that,” logan says, firmly. “but if you ever do… want to talk about it.”
“i will,” dee says, and tacks on, “if i want to.”
“okay.”
“but i probably won’t.”
“that’s fine.”
dee hesitates. “but if i do—”
“i’m around,” logan says simply. 
“i doubt i will,” dee says, attempting to resume his haughty expression.
“you know where to find me, if you do,” logan says. 
dee rolls his eyes, as if that conversation was very trying and not something that threatens to create an even bigger lump in his throat, and resumes his route to his science class.
“mister slange, dinner!” nanny calls, and dee startles. he clears his throat and puts down his pen, rising to his feet.
“coming, nanny!” he calls down the stairs.
find him. right. like the idea of talking to logan sanders about anything else in his life is even slightly appealing.
no, he tells himself. the idea of getting to know logan sanders? maybe even becoming something other than rivals? not even a little bit nice.
as soon as virgil comes out of the kitchen, roman has this Look on his face that makes virgil immediately say “no.”
“you don’t even know what i’m asking yet!” roman protests.
“i can tell you’re plotting something just by the look on your face,” virgil says.
“ah, but technically i’m not the one plotting, logan is,” roman says, and, well. that’s outside the norm. roman tends to be the plotter of the things that give roman That Look on his face, the one that reminds virgil only a little painfully of remus.
“okay, why am i involved in the thing that logan’s plotting?”
“patton’s in on it too,” roman points out. “and, uh, my mom.”
virgil pauses, contemplates, and says, “i don’t know if that’s a warning sign or not.”
“well, logan and i can explain when patton and him get here for dinner,” roman says. “in the meantime—”
“please don’t order something that will make your mom kill me for violating your meal plan too terribly, i don’t think i’ve recovered from last friday,” virgil says wearily.
“ugh, fine,” roman says, and orders something that is at least passably healthy, which he could really teach to his boyfriend and—and virgil’s boyfriend.
virgil’s boyfriend, patton. nope, even after two and a half months, it’s still bizarre in the best possible way.
by the time virgil puts roman’s order in, and carries out about three more, he’s carting a tray across the diner as the bell jangles and two familiar faces walk in.
“hey,” patton says, and leans in to give him a brief, welcoming kiss. habit. routine. thrilling. patton runs a thumb along virgil’s stubble, grinning at him.
“hey yourself,” virgil says, and jerks his head. “roman’s in a booth over there, and apparently i have a plot to be brought in on?”
and then patton… puffs up with pride? literally, puffs up. whenever he’s proud of logan, his posture gets better and he puffs his chest out a little and his chin tilts up, like logan achieving something is an achievement for patton, makes him more confident in himself. virgil guesses a lot of logan’s achievements owe at least a little credit to patton’s parenting, though, so it’s a fair trade. logan doesn’t seem to be complaining.
“that you do,” patton says, a little smug.
“okay then,” virgil says. “brainstorm your pitch and i’ll be right over.”
he drops off dinner orders—mrs. torres and a gaggle of other older ladies who coo and giggle and wave to roman, who blows kisses back, because he’s the default adopted son/grandson for any active older woman in town—before he sidles up to the sanders/prince booth.
“right, okay, orders, then plot,” virgil says, flipping to a new page in his notepad and clicking his pen.
patton and logan put in their orders—virgil successfully convinces them both to trade in something unhealthy for either a salad (patton) or a side of vegetables (logan)—which he notes dutifully, before he slides in beside patton in the booth.
“okay,” virgil says, and he nudges patton. “pitch.”
“my idea, actually,” logan pipes up, and virgil obligingly turns his attention to the younger sanders.
“so,” logan says, folding his hands. “i am coming out.”
“um,” virgil says, dropping his gaze pointedly to where roman’s resting his hand on logan’s wrist. “you did that. like, eight years ago.”
“that’s what i said,” patton says, pleased.
“let me rephrase,” logan says, and his nose wrinkles. “i am coming out in the sense of the viennese waltz, i will be deemed of good breeding and marriageable age, must have dowry, seeking males with a trust fund, fluffy white dresses, et cetera.”
“oh, jesus christ,” virgil says. “what friend roped you into being an escort for this thing? because that is not a friend.”
“keep listening,” patton chides, a laugh in his tone.
“well, that’s the thing,” logan says. “i’m not going to be an escort.”
virgil considers this for a moment. “i’m not following.”
“logan’s creating an army to charge upon the daughters of the american revolution so we can destroy the patriarchy,” roman says, bright and perky.
“i’m recruiting like-minded members of the next generation to make a statement about gender equality,” logan corrects. “in other words: i shall be the one with a dowry, seeking males with a trust fund, in a fluffy white dress.”
“uh.”
“me too,” roman says sunnily. “i’m going to be wearing a fluffy white dress, too. plus a ton of other kids in our grade—the idea’s really caught on. ooh, logan, we can recruit some of the dance girls as escorts!”
virgil tries to picture it: a group of boys in dresses, girls in tuxes, gasping, scandalized rich people. the idea brings a smile to his face.
“oh, good idea, we should send put a sign-up sheet in the studio,” logan says.
“wait, you said i was going to be involved,” virgil says, his brain catching up with him. “where do i fit into all that?”
“well,” patton says. “isadora and i decided to set up a kind of etiquette-and-dance crash-course day for all the kids involved, because despite my best efforts i have not purged the viennese waltz or my numerous etiquette lessons from my mind—”
“you, cultured?” virgil teases, and patton smacks virgil’s arm playfully.
“with no help from you, thank you very much,” patton says. “anyway. since isadora and i are teaching the kids, and there will be an influx of fluffy white dresses and tuxes…”
it clicks. “alterations.”
“got it in one,” patton says cheerfully.
virgil’s a pretty decent tailor, for an amateur—he’s done his fair share of hemming dance costumes, or fixing suits, even some emergency repairs for some wedding dresses, over the years. he’s about to say something along the line of are you sure i should do this, i don’t think i’m qualified for something so fancy but then he catches the hopeful look on logan and roman’s faces, and—
“all right, fine,” virgil says, and he stands. “just let me know when and where, yeah?”
logan grins at him, and roman chirps a thank you, and patton giggles, soft, as virgil makes his way back for the kitchen.
fancy debutante tailor. he guesses he can handle that. it’s not really a step outside of the norm, so it’s not like he’s doing anything super out there, like the kids are.
virgil thought too soon.
by the time he re-emerges from the kitchen, ready to wipe down the counters, patton and logan are at the table finishing up the last of their meals, and roman’s at the counter, shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes snapping to him. 
“hey,” virgil says. “you need a refill of water? because i’m telling you now, if you’re going to try for dessert, you may as well give up now—”
roman rolls his eyes. “no. it’s about the debutante ball.”
“okay,” virgil says, and tosses his towel over his shoulder. “what about it?”
“it, um,” roman says, and clears his throat. “ugh. apparently, your father’s supposed to present you at the ceremony.”
“oh,” virgil says. 
“and, um, since i don’t really have a dad,” roman begins.
“i could alter a tux for your mom?” virgil suggests. “since everyone’s already doing the whole ‘screw gender’ thing anyway.”
“i—no, no, she’s probably going to do backstage stuff to make sure that the sideshire kids aren’t spooked by the rich people,” roman says. “plus, she’d hate wearing a tux.”
“yeah, fair enough,” virgil says. he thinks the only time he’s really seen her dressed up is when she has to, during a recital or performance or something. “okay. i could help with the tux of… i forget his name, what’s that guy who was your one-on-one instructor during the nutcracker? sergio, right? i could drive you to visit sergio—“
“sergio is in portugal,” roman says, looking an odd mixture of helpless, amused, and frustrated. “y’know. where he’s from?”
“oh,” virgil says. “um, there’s always taylor? you know he’d be super into the whole pomp and circumstance thing.”
“taylor,” roman says. “virgil. you of all people. recommend taylor.”
“i know, okay, i know, but i’m kind of coming up blank here,” virgil says. 
“coming up blank?” roman repeats, the frustrated part becoming more clear.
“i’m trying here,” virgil says. “you could—”
“oh, for god’s sake, dumb-utante, i’m trying to ask you to escort me,” roman snaps. 
virgil’s jaw drops. just a little. 
“oh,” he says.
roman flushes a brilliantly bright red, and looks down at his shoes.
“i—just, whatever, okay, you don’t have to,” he mutters, and scuffs the toe of his shoe over the diner floor. he needs new ones—the white, rubbery part of his converse is overrun with mud and sharpie doodles, the aglets frayed, part of the high-top worn from where roman grabs it to shove his foot into it every morning discolored. 
remus used to wear green converse, sometimes, the most casual in his extensive collection of costume-style clothes. he remembers telling roman this, when roman was pretty little and ms. prince had enlisted virgil to take roman out for back-to-school shopping, and virgil had bought roman his first pair. he’d been little, then. six, he thinks. maybe seven. they’d gotten ice cream after. roman had gotten rum raisin, and virgil ended up having to eat the rest of it when roman pronounced it “ucky” and roman had ended up getting his usual chocolate-cherry. virgil had made roman pinky-promise that he would get a small one, so he wouldn’t spoil his dinner.
but roman prefers high-tops, and remus had always gotten classic chucks. roman loves red, and remus loved green. 
they’re different, remus and roman. like night and day. it still makes virgil feel a little strange whenever he thinks about how much longer he’s known roman than he’d known remus—really, it had topped out a few years ago, much longer if virgil was just considering how long he and remus had been friends. so much of his relationship with roman was built on the basis of being the last of remus’ friends still in sideshire, other than ms. prince, and so he was one of the only ones who could tell roman about his dad. do what his dad would have done.
remus probably would have bought roman his first pair of chucks when roman was a baby, those little tiny shoes that can sit comfortably in the palm of virgil’s hand with plenty of space to spare.
but remus is dead, and so buying roman his first pair of signature red shoes had fallen to virgil.
basically everything remus would have loved to do with his son had fallen to virgil, really, if ms. prince hadn’t taken care of it first.
apparently, your father’s supposed to present you at the ceremony.
“no,” virgil says, strangely choked up. “that’s—that’s a good idea. cool. i can, um. i can do that.”
“really?” roman asked, eyes snapping up from his shoes. he smiles like remus when he’s plotting, that much is true, but when he smiles when he’s just happy—all virgil can see is roman.
“yeah, sure,” virgil says, and then he coughs into his elbow to clear whatever’s lodged in his throat. “just, uh. just keep me updated on, y’know. details.”
roman’s grin grows a bit more delighted, a bit more remus-like. “are you crying?”
“what? no,” virgil scoffs.
“because you sound like you’re about to start crying.”
“i was chopping onions,” virgil says lamely. “this has nothing to do with you.”
“oh, i better check my calendar again, i didn’t realize it was opposite day,” roman says gleefully.
“you’re the most obnoxious teenager i’ve ever met,” virgil says, and roman laughs, even as he’s backing away, slowly, toward the door. virgil rolls his eyes, and moves to wipe down the counters.
“and you have to wear a tux!” roman calls, and virgil’s head snaps up.
“wait, what, no way—“
“shave off the five o’clock shadow, too, i won’t be looking scruffy by comparison!” roman calls, opening the door. virgil scowls, rubbing a hand along his face—yes, he goes stubbly sometimes, especially during winters or when he’s busy, but he doesn’t look bad with facial hair, he just looks a bit off today because he woke up late—and the reality hits him. a tux. dressing fancy. being involved in a high society ceremony.
“the tux is bad enough!”
“you’re forgetting the tails, the cumberbun, plus white gloves!“ roman says, ticking it off on his fingers.
“i take it back!” virgil calls. “i’m not doing this anymore!”
“too late, i already signed you up!” roman shouts, and disappears from the diner before virgil can yell at him anymore.
a tux. tails. white gloves.
a cumberbun.
dammit, of course roman would manage to net him into some kind of makeover.
it’s been a shitty day so far. 
something kept interrupting his sleep last night, so when he finally managed to get to sleep, he slept through his alarm. granmè was already having a bad memory day, repeatedly calling out for her dead husband and not recognizing nanny, which means she probably won’t recognize him, so he had to keep out of their way, and as he was walking out the door he saw bertie holding up something ensconced in a garment bag, lips pursed in disapproval, whose length could only mean the arrival of a fluffy white dress, a nice reminder of the thing that dee was dreading.
and it isn’t even eight yet.
“move,” dee snarls to the particularly amorous couple blocking the path to his locker—really, people, it was seven forty-five in the morning, did they always have to start the day attempting to tie their tongues together?—and they shuffle aside, to a vacant stretch of wall, presumably to resume their excessive pda.
dee rolls his eyes. typical.
except—
“slange,” one of the makeout participants says. dee ignores him, placing the books he’d had to bring home for homework in and pulling out the books he’d need for his morning classes.
“hey, slange, i’m talking to you,” he repeats. 
dee rolls his eyes with all the sarcasm he can muster, and directs his gaze to them; summer, absently wiping some stray lipgloss off with her finger, and tristan, leaning over.
“what,” dee says, in the crispest tone he possibly can.
“didn’t take you for a troublemaker,” tristan says, grinning still; dee notes, sourly, that summer could probably spare some energy to wipe off the sticky lip gloss on tristan’s chin, too. 
“excuse me.”
“oh, right, right,” tristan says, and rolls his eyes. “fighting the patriarchy, excuse me. hey, if that excuse is enough to make it look good on your college resume, you wouldn’t happen to know how to—”
“you already know all the people in our grade who write papers for a fee, dugray,” dee says, already exhausted and snippy and—he hates to even admit it to himself—confused. “take it up with henry, if you must. and wipe off your face before you go to class, you have holographic glossier smeared everywhere. it’ll give you away to julia, she doesn’t wear lipgloss.”
summer gapes at him, and immediately begins to screech something along the lines of “what is that supposed to mean, i knew you didn’t block her like i told you to!” but dee’s already tuning it out, slamming the locker door shut and making his way to homeroom. frankly, summer should have dumped tristan the second he told her that she wasn’t allowed to talk to other boys. the pair of them were toxic together—half the material he had on tristan were things that he wouldn’t want summer to know.
the other half would, if it made its way to the right hands, get him sent off to military school.
dee’s saving most of the rest of that for when he gets really annoyed with tristan.
he might be there in ten minutes if he didn’t get an answer—what did tristan mean, trouble-making? and tristan dugray, fighting the patriarchy. please. tristan’s as emblematic of a toxic, rich, straight white boy that there could be. tristan adores all the trappings of the patriarchy; it better allows him to pursue whatever girl he wanted into being his girl of the week, despite the fact that they weren’t particularly wanting to be his girl of the week, whenever he and summer were on a break (and, most of the time, when they weren’t.)
except that isn’t even the only time.
henry, dermot, lem—even shy little brad, who usually breaks out into cold sweats at the sight of him since the whole theater incident in sixth grade, seem to be attempting to make eye contact with him as he walks down the hall, like they were in with him, or something. like they were suddenly friends.
dee stews, furious, at the very idea they could know something about him that he doesn’t know—until he sees lisa approaching logan sanders, who seems to be loading up his backpack.
dee frowns. logan wouldn’t like lisa—well, obviously, he’s gay, but also, lisa subscribes to her parents’ politics, including the epithets of “fake news,” and he’s pretty sure that alone would spring logan into a furious tirade like little else could.
dee pauses.
fight the patriarchy, tristan had said. trouble making.
“what if i stopped it?”
and then he moves immediately toward the locker.
“—long as you don’t say why, then yes, of course,” logan says.
“duh!” lisa chirps. “hilarious, lo-lo, seriously.”
logan’s face twists up as politely as he can manage at the sound of a cutesy nickname, but he can’t really say anything, since lisa’s already flouncing off to be discriminatory and heartless on her parents’ orders.
presumably.
“what,” dee says, “was that.”
“i know,” logan says, turning back to his locker. “lo-lo. what am i, a puppy?”
“not that,” dee says. “you know she’s—”
“a terrible person who stands against everything i am, yes,” logan says mildly. “but she’s wealthy and has a fair amount of—” a near-sneaky glance at a notecard in his hand— “clout, amongst the puffs.”
“the puffs?” dee repeats, his voice already sounding strange.
“you know, the secret sorority,” he says nonchalantly. “one of them, at least, and certainly the most desired to join—”
“i know who the puffs are,” dee says, in a tone that clearly denotes do you think i’m stupid, i’ve gone to this school for longer than you have.
“ah,” logan says. “right. well, i would have gone through francie jarvis, who is less diametrically opposed to—” he makes a sweeping gesture up and down his body, “but she was absent yesterday, so. lisa was the obvious in.”
“why do you need an in with the puffs?” dee says. 
logan glances up and down the hall—god, way to show off you’re discussing something sensitive—before he pulls a leaflet out of his backpack, handing it to dee.
FIGHT THE PATRIARCHY!
dee skims it, and feels his eyebrows rise higher and higher, even as his throat gets disturbingly closed up.
“i noticed that a lot of the puffs are due for their debutante ball,” logan explains, even as dee stares at the—the excuse, the excuse that logan’s pulling for this elaborate ruse, that, if it works—
i won’t be outed.
dee swallows, hard. he folds the leaflet back up, and clears his throat.
“the puffs are a decent enough start,” he says, voice perhaps a bit thicker than normal. “as they’re the most socially prized secret society at chilton, it was a good place to begin—people will want to emulate them, especially those who are attempting to get puffed. mostly freshmen, but there are a few sophomores who are sixteen that’ll join. but you need to pivot your focus—the old crows and the skull and dagger would probably gain more participants per club capita.”
“old crows?” logan says uncertainly.
“the secret society for a select few seniors,” dee says. “who have likely already had a coming out, but it’s not uncommon to do multiple. skull and dagger would probably love an excuse to cause chaos, but that’s sorted, so long as you bother tristan some more. and if you’re going to come at it from the fight patriarchy angle, you’re going to need to get the clairosophic society involved.”
“the…?”
“another secret sorority,” dee says. “do you only know the puffs?”
logan abruptly looks sheepish, and dee sighs, put-upon.
“well,” he says. “clearly, you need my help pulling this off. of all the secret societies at this school, only ten are worth mentioning—”
“only ten?!”
“—so we can get people through those,” dee says, “and yes, ten, i thought you were a journalist, aren’t you supposed to know how to research these sorts of things?”
“well,” logan says. “i’ve already gotten a group of kids from sideshire, but clearly, i’ll need your help on the social side at chilton.”
a beat, and then, uncertain, “if you’re okay with this.”
dee stares at him for a long few seconds.
“if this works,” dee says carefully, trying to directly telepathically communicate i am okay with you attempting to cover for me like this, please count me in, “you’re going to have a hell of a college essay on your hands.”
a grin breaks out on logan’s face.
“as if i don’t have three drafts written already,” he says, and dee allows himself to grin back at him.
“now,” he says. “the clairs,” and logan readies a notebook, and, if dee were at all prone to clichés, he might say something like, this is the start to a beautiful partnership.
but he isn’t. obviously.
logan has his game face on.
patton’s seen this face countless times before; before he walks into mayor porter’s office to demand answers beyond pr statements, before they entered charleston’s office his first day at chilton, when coming face-to-face taylor after his latest piece that critiqued the way he handles town government.
he’s seen it while they were driving to the exact same place, too; before holiday parties, before birthday dinners, before the first-ever friday night dinner. but he hasn’t pulled up to the sanders’ mansion looking like that in months.
patton puts the car in park, removes the keys, and wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers for what must be the dozenth time that night.
“i’m on your side,” patton reminds him. 
“i know,” logan says and opens the car door, ready to storm up to the door and… well. tell emily that he was going to join the debutante ball.
which she’d probably be thrilled with, if he was the one escorting a girl in a white dress.
it would almost be a little funny to think about, if he wasn’t so nervous—emily expecting patton to go through a debutante ball in a fluffy dress, only to be derailed by the fact that he wasn’t a girl and, you know, the teen pregnancy; emily then expecting logan to escort a lovely young lady on his arm only to be turned around by logan doing it in a fluffy dress.
patton wipes his hands off on his pants again before he rings the doorbell. 
he has never seen the woman who answers the door before.
which isn’t surprising; new maids crop up at his parents’ house like weeds. he’s really hoping that therapy would help make a dent in that habit of his mother’s, but no dice yet.
“hi,” patton says, as kindly as possible—he always tries to be as kind as possible to the maids, just to make up for whatever future tiny offense that they might get fired for. one time he got grounded for two weeks for helping esperanza polish silver and practice his spanish. poor esperanza, he’d liked her.
plus, ever since the whole “being a homeless housekeeper” thing, his sympathy had really only escalated for them—he feels a level of solidarity, even if he’s not a housekeeper anymore.
“hello,” the maid says; she has an accent, patton thinks probably german. she’s blonde, and patton can see only half her face from the way she’s practically hiding behind the door.
“you’re new?” patton asks, and she nods.
“okay, well, hi,” patton says, offering a hand to shake. “i’m patton—”
she shakes his hand hurriedly, before pulling back further into the house.
“—and that’s my son, logan. what’s your name?”
“liesl.”
“hi, liesl,” he says warmly. “i’m emily and richard’s son, she’s expecting us for dinner?”
“oh! please, come in,” she says, flustered, opening the door further. 
“i, uh,” she says, “can i, um. get you a drink?”
“you know what, that’s okay!” patton says brightly. “we can handle it.”
a pause, before patton says in an undertone, “if you’d like to hide in the kitchen before my mother gets down here, please go for it.”
a look of relief breaks out on her face. “really?”
patton nods.
“thank you,” she exhales, and scuttles off to relative safety.
logan waits until she rounds the corner, before he says, “she won’t last another day.”
patton sighs, moving to hang his coat on the rack. he would tell logan that’s not a very nice thing to say, if he wasn’t right about it. “i know, poor thing.”
as they continued into the living room, patton could hear his mother coming down the stairs; less than a few seconds later, she rounded the corner, landline phone firmly affixed to her ear.
“—don’t forget that the dar meeting’s on tuesday, it’s at three o’clock and all the women are extremely punctual…”
emily makes eye contact with patton to roll her eyes, as if to curse the entire customer service industry; patton shrugs at her, just a little, before he lightly bumps logan’s shoulder and murmurs “soda?”
logan nods, drifting off to investigate the latest influx of tiny figurines that definitely weren’t there last week, and patton goes to the drinks cart to prep their drinks for the evening.
her mother’s talking about heddy cubbington—ah, so she’s talking to a caterer, then—and patton leans into her line of vision just enough to wiggle a bottle of gin at her, mouthing “martini?”
okay, he might try and make it a smidge stronger than usual. honestly, if she’s a bit off her game from more gin than usual, then maybe she won’t freak out as badly as patton is kind of expecting her to!
but regardless, his mother nods, even as she’s telling the caterer about her very precise tasting methods that they’ll have to follow to a t, and patton reacquaints himself with the process of preparing a martini exactly as his mother likes it—there was a stint of about a month or so when the hotel’s bar staff was incredibly short, way back in the day, so he picked up a few cocktail tricks here and there. 
he wonders if he could still manage to do a lidless shaker flip without spilling anything.
before he can try, though—and probably hear his mother’s outcry about trying his absolute hardest to stain her rug—his mother hangs up on the phone with a fervor, rolling her eyes as she did so.
“honestly, sometimes it’s like the only person with any sense,” she huffs. 
patton hums, carefully straining the martini into one of the coupes. he would do a martini glass, but those tend to spill more, the coupes hold more liquid, and she prefers the material of the coupes anyway—less likely to have fingerprint smudges, which also means one less thing to use to potentially snap at poor liesl. “troubles with the dar, mom?”
(okay, so maybe he’s busting out his old tricks to put his mother in a good mood—there’s almost nothing his mother likes more than gossiping and snipping at the members of the dar that aren’t pulling their weight, and once she’s expelled a bit of energy ranting like that, it usually meant less energy could be spent ranting at him.)
she sighs, settling on her usual spot on the couch. “constance betterton is running this event into the ground—” patton presses the martini into her hand, and she looks startled, momentarily, before thanks him briefly and continues on her tirade, including the perils of unsold tables and constance’s absolute inability to plan a function. 
patton hands over logan’s soda and directs him to the couch before he can crack open any books of interest, because logan will probably spend most of the dinner ignoring them if that happens, and since richard is on a business trip again that means it will be just him and his mom, and with how nervous he is over logan’s upcoming proposal he absolutely cannot do that, and then he goes and makes himself a plain club soda because him drinking sounds like a not-great idea right now.
by the time that particular train of conversation runs out of steam, it’s enough to carry them to the dining room. 
“so, logan,” emily says, as liesl attempts to set a land speed record for serving salads in her quest to get back to the kitchen, “is there anything new in your life?”
patton’s pretty sure that it would be impossible to pick up on who’s more nervous, him or liesl.
“there is, actually,” logan says, somehow entirely unfazed. “dee slange—you remember, you took me out to lunch with him and his grandmother evelyn—”
“oh, yes,” emily says, “wonderful woman, incredibly talented gardener. she’s coming out less and less lately, it’s been a while since we’ve had a good, long chat.”
“—we’re arranging a bit of an extracurricular project,” logan continues. 
“oh?” emily says, sounding interested. she picks up her fork and begins to eat her salad. “you two are getting along, then?”
“we’ve come to an understanding,” logan says coolly, and even as nervous as patton is, he can’t but grin a bit at his son. we’ve come to an understanding. really, logan, it wouldn’t hurt to say that you’re friends now.
“wonderful,” emily says briskly. “good that you’ve put that petty rivalry behind you.”
patton bites his tongue rather than start on a rant about the seriousness of physical assault.
“quite,” logan says. 
“so, what’s this project?” she asks, with a slight gesture of her fork. “you two are interested in journalism, from what i hear, is it something like that?”
logan sets his fork down. “actually, grandma, it has to do with you, tangentially. mrs. slange is a member of the daughters of the american revolution. like you.”
“a research project, then?” she says. “richard will probably have some books for—”
“not really,” logan says. “we’re both arranging for greater participation in the debutante ball. i’m coming out.”
patton holds his breath. here we go.
emily chuckles. “the correct term for the young gentlemen is escorting, logan. are you both escorting young ladies, then? anyone i know?”
“oh, i used the correct term,” logan says mildly. “i’m coming up with a partner later, but i was actually going to ask if you ever bought a dress for dad to use before he came out.”
emily lowers her fork.
patton’s pretty sure that even if he was about to breathe, he wouldn’t be able to.
“i’m going to be a debutante,” he says, very slowly, as if explaining something he thought to be obvious.
“you’re not serious,” she says disbelievingly.
“i am,” logan says. “we have approximately twenty-five participants so far, and we’re recruiting more. so. do you have a dress or not?”
“that’s absurd,” emily says. “i mean—my grandson, gallivanting about in a dress, how will that look?!”
“you were going to let dad do it,” logan points out, and before patton can say hey, nice point! emily swivels to face patton, piercing him through with a glare. “did you put him up to this?!”
before patton can squeak out anything, logan putting down his fork with a clang louder than necessary, and she turns to face her grandson.
“i was simply asking if you had a dress,” logan says. his voice is very, very even. the game face has reappeared. “i can ask again, if you’d like. do you have a dress suitable for this occasion, or should i shop for my own?”
emily and logan stare each other down. patton’s eyes dart between them both.
his mother has a variety of nicknames: the cobra, from her antiquing friends, because she’d squeeze and squeeze at you until you complied. wicked witch of the west, by some of her shopping friends, over the levels she’d go to over something as simple as a pair of shoes. 
christopher had joked once that “people considered what patton’s mother would do in a given situation, dialed it back, and they’d have what mussolini would do, then they’d dial it back, and they’d have what stalin would do, and then they’d dial that back and then it starts approaching what a sane person would do.”
she’d once forced an ex-president out of a hotel room because theirs had been bigger than theirs. a president. of the whole united states.
patton’s gearing himself up to provide as much supportive parent backup to logan that he possibly can, and also cursing himself for taking the time to hang up his coat, because if he hadn’t and just kept it with him they could make a quicker escape, and palming the car keys in his pocket. he puts together comebacks for my friends will be at this event and undignified and what will people say?!
and then patton takes a closer look at his mother’s face. it’s not her version of the game face, patton notices.
and then patton puts together what that expression is, with no small amount of surprise.
she’s calculating.
she’s calculating, patton realizes with no small amount of shock, if it’s worth it to go up against logan.
because logan is definitely wearing his game face, coupled with a defiant, angry look that, with another shock, it reminds him of him. it reminds him of him when he was a bit younger than logan is now—and, he realizes, his mother must be recalling those hellion days too.
at last, his mother sighs, wipes her mouth a napkin, and stands. “i might have something suitable.”
patton’s left sitting there, gaping. his mother. his mother backed down. his mother. did not fight with logan when it was clear what he was doing would interfere with her social status. 
his mother!
“well?!” emily snaps. “do you want to see it or not?!”
he and logan exchange a look before they scramble out of their seats, heading after her as quick as they can.
they’re going down to the basement, which holds a conglomeration of things and also patton’s second-most-frequently-used sneak-out route. the wine cellar’s down here, along with his parents’ collections of luggage, and matching white wardrobes filled with all kind of things, and gifts from granny trix that his mother has refused to display over the years, and art and furniture deemed out-of-fashion but were still held fondly enough to be stored in the house—it was, by far, the most disorganized segment of the sanders’ mansion.
of course, there were still clear paths to each segment of the basement, so it wasn’t as disorganized as, say, patton’s garage, but still. disorganized by his parents’ standards.
so patton follows logan who follows emily, past life-sized dog statues, past a stack of steamer trunks and matching carry-on luggage, past framed paintings of some of patton’s old family members, past the rows of old wines stored for an occasion fancy enough for them, past candlesticks and antique tables, past crates and cardboard boxes filled with, patton’s sure, more of the same, until they get back to yet another white wardrobe.
“it’s in here somewhere,” his mother says, already flipping her way through rows and rows of hanging garment bags, before she makes an “aha!” sound and plucks free a garment bag that looks identical to all the rest, before sparing it a fond glance.
“we got it in london,” she says fondly, “never actually worn, of course, but goodness, the plans i had for the seamstresses…” and patton feels a squirming sensation in his stomach that he hasn’t felt in a very long time; the same one he’d get every time he was dragged into a department store, the same one he’d get every time he knew he had to wear whatever was laid out on the bed for whatever party or get-together his mother was having, the same one he’d get when his mother’s friends, over for tea, would croon, my goodness, how pretty you are! 
patton clears his throat before his mother can start reminiscing on the times of dresses and skirts past, and says, “maybe show logan the dress, mom?”
“oh,” she says, seemingly successfully jolted out of whatever fashion-induced daydreaming session she’d fallen into, “yes” and unzips the garment bag, to reveal—
well, patton doesn’t know what he’d expected, really. all he can see is a lot of white, puffy tulle. 
“can i try it on?” logan says. “just to see it.”
emily hesitates, clutching the delicate fabric, before she hands him the garment bag with no small amount of reluctance.
“we’ll be upstairs when you want to give us a little fashion show,” patton says, carefully catching his mother’s elbow before she can rethink any of this. “let us know if you need help zipping it up or anything?”
logan nods, and begins the process of carefully unearthing the dress as patton steers his mother back up the stairs.
“he’ll need help getting into the dress,” emily protests.
“if he needs help, he’ll ask,” patton counters, firmly. “he’s sixteen, he’s helped roman with a lot of elaborate costumes like that before. he’ll manage. let’s give him a bit of privacy.”
patton glances back in enough time to see logan shooting him a grateful look, and patton shoots him a thumbs-up—he’d always hated it whenever his mother barged into a dressing room to “help,” so he’d always tried his best to let logan have his privacy when it came to this kind of thing.
also, okay, maybe the weirdness of having his pre-selected debutante dress he’d never worn or even really known about coming back to haunt him in some way is getting to him, just a little bit. 
“how did this idea get into his head?” she asks suspiciously, as soon as they’ve cleared the last of the steps and relocate to the living room; patton crosses to sit on the couch, and maybe walks a little slower than usual to get an answer straight in his head.
“i don’t… exactly know, why this, i mean,” patton says slowly—which is a little true, he doesn’t know exactly why logan chose this course of action over anything else—and fiddles with his suit jacket. “um, but i know it’s important to him. and dee,” he tacks on unnecessarily. “so, i’m all for it. a thousand percent.”
she surveys him, before she says, “you know more than you’re letting on, though.”
“not my story to tell,” patton says, and it surprises him, how firm his tone is. “but i am really behind logan doing this.”
she sighs, as if he’s a child all over again. “you would be behind logan doing anything. will you keep that attitude if he decided to drop out of school tomorrow?”
“okay, first of all, that sounds more like me,” patton points out. “in fact, that was me. logan is at least channeling any trouble-making tendencies toward something productive.”
“productive,” she says. “the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball—”
“—is an outdated, sexist ‘tradition,’” patton says, using finger quotes, “that will, at worst, turn out to be a college entry essay for logan, and at best be a nice, eye-opening event to some of your friends, who, if i recall, were not particularly enthusiastic about that whole upholding,” time for finger quotes again, “‘the promise of equality for all, and we share an obligation to help our nation fulfill that founding promise.’”
emily’s eyes widen, and oh boy, patton sure said a lot more than he meant to there, so he braces himself for what might be a fight, but luck happens to be on patton’s side tonight.
“dad?” logan calls.
“yeah, kiddo?”
“i need help with the buttons,” logan says, voice distinctly closer than before; like he’s hiding around the corner.
“okay, well,” patton says, about to get to his feet to go and help, but then logan turns the corner.
the dress, patton sees, is… surprisingly simple, for his mother’s taste. there’s delicate, appliqué straps, with a modest scoop neckline. the bodice is delicately embroidered, and the skirt is unadorned tulle. 
the dress is simple, he realizes, a little startled, because even before his mother was shopping for it, he had made his distaste for elaborate dresses and gowns clear. she must have picked this out for him in an attempt to garner his good graces with this dress; this was what she must have thought his tastes would have looked like.
he still would have hated it.
it twists up his stomach a bit more, thinking about what would have been, what his mother probably thinks should have been, but patton plasters a smile on his face, rising to his feet, pushing that out of his mind and trying to focus on how logan looks in the dress, not on the fight that would have happened if patton had seen this dress, if he’d had to wear it, before he’d come out.
it’s a little bit short on logan, but that’s to be expected—patton had been a pretty short teenager, and logan’s taller than patton is even now, after a half-foot testosterone-induced growth spurt. the skirt would have swept along the ground if patton was wearing it, if he’s calculating right; as it is, it hits logan somewhere above the ankles, giving it a “fifties flare skirt” kind of vibe. the bodice isn’t really thought out for someone with as flat a chest as logan’s, either, but at least it follows the path of his torso—no need to try and lengthen that.
“very handsome,” he says, before he rounds to logan’s back to examine—ah, yes, as he expected, the buttons up the back are all delicate and tiny and fiddly, and almost impossible for logan to fasten on his own, because he’d never had practice with things like this before. “yeah, okay, let’s see how you fit into it—gosh, i must have been almost a foot shorter than you are now when mom ordered this dress. we’ll definitely have to alter it—”
“do you have a tailor in mind?” emily says.
“virgil’ll do it,” patton says absently, as he’s a little surprised at how easily his fingers remember to maneuver the little pearly buttons—muscle memory, he guesses—and glances up to see his mother arching her eyebrows disbelievingly.
“i know he sews,” she says, voice clearly tinged with doubt, clearly about to say but.
“uh-huh,” patton says, turning his attention back to the buttons. “he’s really good at it, too. he’s done some emergency fixes on wedding dresses and stuff, so he knows how to work with gowns.”
there’s a soft hmph.
“he’s going to be altering dresses and tuxes for the sideshire kids involved in this,” patton continues, then, “all right, hon, that’s the last one. is it too tight, too loose…?”
“fine, i think,” logan says. “tight, but i think i can manage for now.”
patton flips a strap of the dress that’s gotten all twisted around, before sidestepping the skirt—they’ll need to get a crinoline so that it puffs out properly, patton can tell—and observing the entire look, how it seems now that logan’s fully dressed.
it’s a bit odd, definitely. logan’s only ever really worn dresses when he was roped into it as a kid, mostly while playing dress-up with roman—logan’s always been pretty attached to jeans or slacks to pair with his ties or bowties—so seeing logan in a dress is an unusual enough occurrence that it strikes patton’s brain as something completely new.
the dress, as delicate-looking as it is, combines with logan in a strange contrast that works; he looks nice in white, and all the delicate details seem to change what they emphasize—the scoop neck makes his collarbone look graceful, demure, but the thin straps emphasize the broadness of logan’s shoulders, the muscle there. the dress is all soft, sweet femininity, a look that logan doesn’t rock very often, because all the rest of it is logan—who usually favors a straight-forward, business-like, traditionally masculine look. 
he looks good.
“give us a twirl, kiddo,” patton says, mostly teasing, but logan obliges, lifting himself onto his tiptoes to spin himself around, the skirt flaring and settling. patton applauds.
and then he smiles, because logan is kind of smiling, but also kind of trying to hide that he’s smiling, because it’s probably the first time in about ten years that logan’s spun around in a long skirt, and hey, skirts of any kind might mess with patton’s gender dysphoria, but he also remembers how satisfying it is to spin around in a really long skirt.
logan plucks lightly at the skirt to make sure it’s all hanging straight, before he glances over and says, and patton only knows it’s tinged with slight nervousness because of how well he knows him, “what do you think, grandma?”
patton turns to look at his mother for the first time since he’d started fastening logan’s buttons.
emily’s staring at the pair of them. and staring. and staring. patton’s about to prod logan to maybe ask again, before—
“heels,” she says.
“what?” logan says, glancing up from the skirt.
“that dress will never work if you don’t wear heels,” she says, a glint in her eyes.
logan says, “heels are scientifically proven to cause foot, ankle, knee, and back problems. also, they are a tool of the patriarchy, designed to slow a woman down.”
“oh, it’ll be required,” she says. “as well as elbow-length kidskin gloves, pantyhose, a crinoline—”
“that’s ridiculous,” logan huffs.
“uh-huh,” patton says absently, recalling his own experiences with heels. “that’s a debutante ball, kiddo.”
“and if you’re going to do the thing, you may as well do it properly,” emily says decisively, standing up. “i might have a pair of heels that will fit you, just so we can see the amount of height you’ll need—”
and she’s off, heading straight for her closet. in retrospect, patton thinks, he probably should have expected his mom being more on board when it came to clothes.
“help,” logan says, looking at patton pleadingly.
“hey,” patton says, holding up his hands with half a laugh, “this was your idea.”
logan looks like he’s sincerely regretting it.
virgil’s putting away the last of the dishes he’d washed (patton would probably get on him, later, for doing chores that patton was going to do later, and how you don’t have to do that, honey!! but he was bored, he did some dishes, sue him, also patton always gives him this smile whenever he does things like this, so it is for slightly selfish reasons) when he hears patton’s car pull into the driveway, and the motor cuts off.
virgil smiles to himself, and makes sure that he’s put everything away properly, before he meanders over to the couch and tries to make it seem like he hasn’t been cleaning patton’s kitchen. he’s obviously going to get found out as soon as patton notices his sink is empty, but.
he can hear logan’s voice floating through the door, “—glad she took it okay, but dad, you had to stop at that store right then—?”
“i probably should have warned you,” patton, a laugh in his voice, “but honestly, well. you are gonna have to wear the gloves and crinoline at least, and since you’ve never—”
the door opens, logan carrying a garment bag, patton carrying a shopping bag, “—walked in a pair before, it’s probably smart that you—virgil, hi, honey!”
virgil rises automatically to his feet as patton’s face brightens, and patton rocks up on his toes to give him a greeting kiss. 
“i thought you were working?” patton says.
virgil shrugs, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “things were slow enough, i figured i could let jean close. hey, l, is that the dress?”
“it is,” logan says.
“so that went okay?” virgil says, and logan scowls, ever so slightly. 
“virgil’ll need to see you in the heels you’re intending to wear to get the hemming right,” patton says. “won’t you, virgil?”
“yeah, i’ll have to use it to see if the skirt needs more length—and heels, huh?” virgil says, glancing at logan.
logan scowls even deeper. “grandma seems to be under the influence that if i’m going to be a debutante, i’m going to have to do it properly. therefore, heels.”
“and elbow length kidskin gloves, and a crinoline,” patton says, ticking them off on his fingers. “i have a list.”
“should probably wait until you get the petticoat to tailor the dress,” virgil says. “could i see it, though? you don’t have to put it on or anything. i brought a—”
“oh!” patton says, catching sigh of the torso-only mannequin sitting in the corner of the room.
“i’ll just keep it here for logan’s dress,” virgil says. “i figured a headless one would be less… creepy.”
“it’s appreciated,” logan says, before he hands over the garment bag, and virgil unzips it, starting to unbunch the skirt and wrestle it onto the mannequin.
“i hate heels,” logan grumbles. “have you seen the studies on what wearing these things on a regular basis will do to your spine?”
“uh-huh,” patton says. 
“not to mention your feet,” logan says, scowling at the shoebox like it’s morally offended him.
“also,” logan continues, “heels are an invention of the patriarchy! they were originally meant to help men secure their feet in stirrups, and then it became a symbol of nobility and class, so they’re inherently classist, too!”
“oh, absolutely agreed,” patton says. 
“i can’t believe grandma insisted on heels,” logan says. “flats would be fine.”
“yeah, i probably should have guessed she wouldn’t let that part go, given the lessons,” patton says.
logan glances up, frowning. “lessons?”
virgil glances away from where he’s fluffing out the skirt of the dress, too, to see patton with a strange look on his face; half nostalgia, half regret. it’s a look he usually gets when he’s talking about growing up in the sanders house.
“oh, yeah,” patton says, reminiscent. “as soon as i was deemed old enough, we had walking practice lessons, me and your grandma.”
“…what,” virgil says. because. what?
patton laughs, just a little. “yeah, every day for half an hour a day, one summer! she’d make sure i had proper posture in heels. i had to balance a book on my head, too, to make it even more cliché.”
logan looks, perhaps, a little cowed. virgil, on the other hand, is just—
sometimes, it knocks him totally off-guard, whenever patton talks about the various absurd things he had to do, pre-transition, as the sole scion of a rich family. etiquette lessons and country clubs and going to the opera and flower arranging and walking lessons. patton remembers a lot of it, clearly—of course he does, for so long it had been deemed that patton would be a house spouse who raised kids for a similarly wealthy scion of an esteemed family—but it always throws virgil off, just a little.
he briefly pictures patton—long-haired, in the admittedly few pictures patton has shown virgil of himself at that age—chin tilted carefully up, but not too far up, one of the too-big grimoires from richard’s library wobbling on his head, eyes fixed on one of the portraits emily has dotting the house, walking loops around the living room as emily critiqued his posture and stance with a hawkish eye, the click-click-click of heels on hardwood the only thing to break up her commentary.
“i mean,” patton says, breaking that particular mental image. “you know. at least you’ve only gotta wear heels for this one thing. women are expected to wear heels all the time. and since you’re selling this to a lot of chilton students as experiencing what women experience for a day…”
“…i will shut up about the heels,” logan mumbles.
patton ruffles his hair, and, seemingly detecting the mood that’s dropped over logan and virgil—thinking about what it would be like, to be raised like that—and says, in a gentle tone, brushing logan’s hair back into place, “heels really aren’t so bad, once you get used to them. it does just take a bit of practice, i promise.”
logan sighs, and looks at the box a smidge less distastefully than before. “i suppose i’ll have to try it to see.”
“that’s the spirit,” patton says brightly, and virgil shakes himself and refocuses on fastening the buttons of the dress, before stepping out from behind it to get the full effect.
“it’s a bit short on you, huh?” virgil comments, already digging around in his breast pocket for the notepad he usually uses to take orders.
“i think it’ll look very audrey hepburn once we get the crinoline,” patton offers. “the flare skirt thing, y’know.”
virgil nods, jotting this down; as he is, he asks, absently, “logan, was it tight, loose, itchy, anything like that?”
“tight,” logan says immediately, “and a bit itchy.”
virgil’s brow furrows thoughtfully as he considers what to do about that—brick davis had already stopped by the diner to tell him their nickname they were going to use while they were considering other names to eventually adopt and show off their dress, and they had some sensory issues and had already told him that they loved the shape of the dress, but they already knew that if they could feel the itchy gemstones it would be enough to make them have sensory overload, so he was already brainstorming fixes for that—but he jots it down all the same, before reaching out to pinch at the skirt and lift it, then let it go, just to get a sense of how it moved.
“i mentioned earlier that it makes sense, since i was probably a foot shorter than he was when mom ordered that dress,” patton says. “but if there’s a way to just loosen it a bit, maybe, and make the flare skirt thing look more intentional?”
“that’ll all be in the,” he gestures, “crinoline, petticoat, whichever you get. a crinoline would probably be the better choice, if you really want the fifties vibe—logan, you’re cool with the fifties vibe?”
“fine by me,” logan’s voice floats from the couch, then, “how is this supposed to work?”
both patton and virgil glanced over in enough time to see logan holding up a high heel—white, of course, and very sensible-looking and, if virgil had to guess, three inches tall, maybe four, at the highest. 
patton blinks. “putting them on already?”
logan shrugs, and says, intentionally casual, “if they take practice, why not start now?”
patton pauses, before he clears his throat and crosses the room, and says, “yeah, okay. do you need help?”
virgil crosses the room, too, if only to get a look at the dress from a full-view angle, and he hears a ka-CLUNK as logan staggers to his feet. he turns in enough time to see logan pinwheeling his arms wildly, and patton reaching out to balance him.
“whoa, easy,” patton says. “let’s not walk yet—”
“not that i didn’t before, but i now, truly, know that i never would have been cut out to do pointe with roman,” logan announces, arms stilling, but still held out for balance.
patton laughs. “there’s a bit of a difference there—he’s been on tip-toe since he was learning to walk, honey.”
“you wouldn’t let patton set you down on wet grass until you were three,” virgil points out, which is true—he and patton had laughed a lot back then as logan had avoided bare feet on grass at all costs, doing some interesting baby gymnastics in his attempts to avoid it.
“i hardly see what that has to do with my balancing capabilities,” logan mutters, a little embarrassed, the way a teenager always is whenever someone brings up baby stories.
“okay, speaking of tip-toe,” patton says, “you’re putting all your weight on your toes, you gotta let the heel touch the ground.”
virgil leans a little to see—and indeed, logan is balancing on his tiptoes, as high as he can, the white heel hovering off the ground. logan, slowly, lowers and lowers until the heel thumps as it hits the ground.
“good,” patton says, hand still on logan’s shoulder. “let’s just get used to how that feels, yeah?”
logan frowns. “the weight distribution is different than i expected. i thought it would all be in the toes, not in the—” he cuts himself off.
“heels?” patton finishes for him. “that’s all okay, just—i’ll let you know how to walk. but you’re kinda getting the feel for it? is it okay if i let you go now?”
logan nods his assent, so patton takes a step back—not far enough that he wouldn’t be able to lunge for logan if logan fell—and logan wobbles, just a little, but he manages to regain his balance quickly enough.
“they hurt,” logan says, frowning.
“toe-pinching like it’s too small, hurt, or—?”
“i think it’s my feet aren’t used to it hurt,” logan admits.
“that’s perfectly normal,” patton says. “your grandma used to tell me to throw on shoes super early so that my feet would get all nice and numb.”
“that’s sick,” logan says. “the patriarchy is evil.”
“amen, brother,” virgil says dryly. 
logan preoccupies himself with shifting his bodyweight this way and that, trying to grow accustomed to it, so virgil goes over to inspect the dress a bit more—this dress, honestly, will probably be the most adjustment-intensive, so it’s probably good that it’s logan’s dress—half-listening to patton and logan discuss how logan should distribute his weight and any adjustments he might need to make to his posture and on and on.
considering patton was incredibly short, back then, it’s honestly probably a miracle that this dress even slightly fits logan well enough—and honestly, the fifties skirt effect would probably save virgil a lot of work, rather than spend any time on figuring out how exactly the lengthen the skirt to brush the floor. it’s not like virgil can really start any work right now, considering he really does need to have logan in the heels and crinoline to really get a feel for how the dress looks, but he can gather a few ideas on supplies he might need, fixes he could use for any potential problems.
it looks like his days are going to be filled with those kinds of questions for a while. brick davis wasn’t the only sideshire high student asking virgil to help with their dress; a large chunk of roman’s class had followed his lead, since, to virgil’s everlasting amusement while comparing him and remus, roman was a popular kid that people wanted to emulate, and roman’s friendship slash tutorship of all the students of isadora prince’s dance studio meant that there would also be an influx of tuxes—which, fortunately, were probably going to be way less labor-intensive than any of the dresses.
virgil’s busy jotting down things he might need to bring over or buy, not just for logan’s dress, but for all the dresses and tuxes of the sideshire kids, when patton says, “all right. walking time, do you think?”
“walking time,” logan agrees, with the grim, matter-of-fact determination of someone about to start to climb everest. 
“okay. now, remember, let’s start with half-steps, slowly, we can work your way up to your usual walk slash pace,” patton says, and virgil glances up in enough time to see logan cautiously put a foot forward.
he wobbles, and patton lunges forward, catching his hands—”i gotcha, i gotcha,” patton says, a bit of a laugh in his voice, as logan sways his way back to a balanced stance. a stray thought tickles the back of virgil’s brain, but he can’t quite identify what it is before patton starts talking again.
“don’t walk heel-toe, i’m sorry, i should have mentioned that—try putting weight on your toes first.”
“okay,” logan says, and renews his grip on patton’s hands, before carefully stepping forward once again. the thought pings at virgil again, and his brow furrows, ever so slightly, trying to identify what it might be.
“that’s it,” patton says, encouragingly. “just like that! you’ll get the hang of it in no time.”
and that’s when the thought clicks into place—it’s déjà vu.
virgil’s brain flashes—logan, all of sixteen, not quite secure on his feet, but nevertheless trying to walk forward, patton moving backward with him, their hands clasped together.
it reminds virgil of logan learning how to walk.
and the mental image blooms into his mind, crystal clear, like it was yesterday; logan, all of ten months old, wearing his tiny overalls and his tiny t-shirt and his tiny little tennis shoes, mouth open and showing off all of his newly-grown baby teeth, tongue sticking out as he’d take one toddling step forward, two, patton kneeling on the black-and-white diner tile and saying in the exact same, near-laughing tone, that’s it, honey, that’s it! papa’s gotcha! c’mon, lo-lo, you got this! the sight of logan walking new enough that it was enough to stop twenty-three year old virgil in his tracks, watching eagle-eyed as patton shuffled backwards on his knees, eyes wide, encouraging and watchful, and so thrilled as logan babbled a stream of nonsense at him, stamping his way forward, hands wrapped around patton’s fingers.
and a laugh breaks through the memory, and suddenly he’s back in the present; virgil, all of thirty-nine, watching a nearly-full-grown logan, in his officious suit jacket and tie, struggling to take a few steps forward in his new high heels, brow furrowed still, but no childish urge to stick out his tongue; patton, taller, healthier, happier, overall, voice deeper but the tone’s still the same—absolutely thrilled at the concept of logan learning how to do anything, another milestone for logan to succeed in, another instance to celebrate. 
virgil remembers, too, logan’s soft, chubby little baby hands, wrapped around virgil’s fingers, staggering toward him, the way virgil’s voice would get softer and how quickly it became second-nature to catch logan if he fell. logan’s shrieking laughs, logan’s babbling in his ear, logan’s cries going quiet when virgil shushed and rocked him.  the sweet, babyish sigh logan would let out whenever he fell asleep against virgil’s chest; his head resting against virgil’s shoulder, his weight and warmth in virgil’s arms. 
logan’s far too big for that now.
virgil’s heart pangs—when did they all get so old?—but especially at the sight of logan, almost an adult, taller than patton, nearly as tall as virgil, and almost as old as patton had been that day he’d crashed into the diner for the first time. 
and now here he was; in high school, and preparing to be presented to society as an adult. granted, as somewhat of a prank. but the idea’s still there; logan is almost an adult. soon, logan would be making his way in the world.
soon, he wouldn’t need them to hold his hands. 
“you got this!” patton cheers, as logan slowly, gradually, walks a lap of half-steps around the room without wobbling too much, without the fear of falling down. “you’re gonna be a heels-walking professional by the time of the debutante ball!”
virgil swallows, and echoes patton, voice perhaps a bit thicker than usual, “yeah, kid, you definitely got this.”
logan glances up from the ground to flash a quick smile in virgil’s direction, and virgil takes a deep breath before he crosses the room to take a look at how logan’s handling it; sure, patton had had walking-in-heels lessons, but virgil had definitely worn heels more recently than patton had.
and logan still needs them to hold his hands, for now. just a little while longer.
74 notes · View notes
theawesomeally · 3 years
Text
Before We Met (Preview)
Prologue
In a world inhabited by mythic creatures, love was commonplace several millennia ago, though difficult to master. After his training advances over the decades, his powers became obsolete and were largely discarded.
[The camera zooms in on the city and two blazing specks of light dash all over the place as one shoots lasers at the other. We then see an enemy aircraft flying throughout while it's chasing a young man, who is running from the pursuer. We see full closeups of a guy in his craft and Rocky as he runs. The scene freezes after an explosion with Rocky barely missing it.]
[voice over]
Through the years I have been known by many names. Marshmallow, The Furry Lover, The Daredevil, Frisky Two Times and then The amazing Ryan Reynolds. But to most, I am Rocky, the awesome one!
[Some other women, leaning across the wall, and Rocky getting his shades from his pocket. Put it onto his eyes. While he puts his hoodie onto his shoulders. Rocky was dressed like a gentleman, but he fought with honor or dignity and pulled at the knot into his tie. Females are not meant to grab his attention, and if it does. To be fair, he heard most of what he'd said up to this point. The parts that weren't of his interest, anyway.
Okay, maybe that wasn't much]
His sigh is heavy with exasperation,
"Can you keep your dick in your pants at the gala?"
Grab his phone from his pocket, automatically switching it out of Bluetooth mode, and bring his earphone up to his ear.
I will never forget you, Margarita. [The female stops and cringe after hearing the name. His blue prominent eyes were not well adapted to winking. They were rather of the sort that closes solemnly in slumber with majestic effect.
Rocky pretend to consider as Rocky step out of the car and button his tux jacket. "Hmm."
"Nice wheels, sir," the valet says, unconcerned that he was on the phone. Rocky pull out his wallet and flash a fifty-dollar bill. "Take care of her and this is yours."
"Yes, Mr. Rocky."
"I mean, Rosa. Uh...sorry. I think maybe I should go.???." She wrapped her arms over her chest and shook her head with a smirk curved across her face. Rocky grinned and raised an ironical finger in salute Rocky starts backing away. "You can't get away with it." the security guard muttered, holding out one hand. He was moving very slowly, thinking Rocky was the enemy or something. Blinks at her as a farewell, but glance with a smug as he sees the vampire's ring. Mind was so wrapped up in thought that he didn't notice the familiar vampire standing behind him. A vampire with bad breath psycho. "Hey, come on, dickie! You're trashing public property here!" He is thinking about how he had to sneaked up onto the roof and is currently standing a few feet behind him.
Rocky then gently slides the ring off the vampire's finger using his katana.
Light glinted off a myriad of his Katana and the vampire ring. Spray from the dust to blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater moistened his palms as he gripped the eagle. His eyes were as blue while the vampires eyes were cold as the stormy weather.
"Hey, it's Gale calling," says Rocky called over his shoulder to one nefarious vampire. "Love the shiny suit. Really brings out the sex trafficker in your eyes." Rocky had commented, half jokingly and straight up confident, how that guy would have been considered handsome - if he ever bothered to smile.
Cut to a shot of a cliff.
A grim expression again carved itself into the soldier's face as he gazed up at the jeering vampires, their bodies smeared with blood, upon the cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances from such advantageous ground, one being was mused. The sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck as a human shield or the solid surface of the earth.
Cut back to the fighting scene. Rocky is skewering a guy with his swords, and kicks the vampire in the chest, sending him back down and puts his sword away. The guy gasp and starts fighting with Rocky. This continues for awhile until Rocky get's away again. Using two fingers he salute the vampire as a goodbye.
Making a soft chuckle. He flicks the vampire ring up into the air. It comes back down and lands into one of the streets, causing his background to explode. The shards of fire fell in slow motion behind him.
He is consumed in the explosion, as his body can be seen flying off the ground, flipping off the camera as it goes. "Oh, fuck." Rocky mutter under his breath. "Oh, I'm sorry." A small apology leaving his lips with a smirk.
"That will teach you, not to mess with me," A familiar voiced ask, up righting his head as he walk over the circles and appeared in front of him,
(narrator)
So, I know what you're thinking. Why is that incredibly handsome guy being chased by a madman with a huge shiny fangs from the Civil War?
[The scene freezes after an explosion sending Rocky flying off the ground from the ground. After the dust settles, leaving Rocky lying unconscious on the ground.]
This guy's got the right idea. Well, to be honest, it feels like I've been the captain of my whole life. Is this too much? Am I going too fast? It's kind of what I do--You know what? Let's back up.
[We see the whole fight going in reverse as well as frames of future clips for a split second each time, one passes as Rocky mimics a rewind sound effect] Cut to close-up of Rocky gets up to his feet. Cut to him sitting on the side of the gable roof at night. Wondering how long it would be before he saw the city again. He had been born with a wandering heart, and he embraced adventure, unafraid to face the dangers often presented by journeys into unknown places. Leaving civilization behind for the wilds of the frozen north, legs dangling over the side as he listens to his Walkman next to him playing 'Shoop.' Rocky was vaguely singing along, making hand gestures along with the lyrics, but he was focused on his own drawing, while listening to the music and coloring a picture with crayons. We see that the picture he's drawing is him shooting the vampire in the head, he was doing it with some crayons he had with him.
It was fun to see that getting shot in the head, even if it was just a crayon drawing. He'd never soon change it to a reality. And then turned his head and stared directly at the camera, or the person reading, or just whoever balls happened to be paying a lot of attention to him.
Wha- Oh! Oh, hello. I know, right? Who's balls did I have to snap to get my very own story? I can't tell you, but it does rhyme with dick. And let me tell you; he's got a nice pair of fucking underwear, he finished in an Swedish accent.
They'd get that joke, right?
Anyway, I got places to be, a kiss in the ass to fix, and - oh! hot weird vampire to kill.
He watched eagerly as the flashes of light began to appear below him – lots of rippers were a very dramatic little shit, after all – we're panning quickly towards the edge of the roof he was sitting on. Now having an appointment to keep, Rocky was quick to get onto edge of the roof and, in one fluid motion, opens a music playlist called Tunes of Anarchy on his Walkman, and the song "Where Evil Grows" by The Poppy Family stays playing in the background as he jumped off the roof, landing in one of the coolest bar in Mystic Falls. It seemed that they had been drinking peacefully, listening to 'Angel of the Morning,' but when Rocky landed and that's when their peaceful night was over.
They look around for which they finally see as Rocky stands at a wooden doorway wearing a cowboy hat, black sunglasses, and red a white hoodie as he opens a music playlist called Tunes of Anarchy on his Walkman. Opens up and the door swings open and the music resumes with people dancing and lights flashing as he goes inside the bar.
Nothing.
Absolutely positively not a fucking thing.
First one person turned, noticing him. Then more followed, until the whole patron was hushed, waiting. Everyone was watching, the same bewildered look on all of their faces. Eyebrows raised and narrowed eyes, etc. God, for months he'd played this moment over and over inside his mind. It most definitely never turned out like this. Whatever this was.
As he walks up to the bar. The room was narrow and about 90 feet deep. Light did manage to worm its way into the establishment, though. It seeped through the windows scattered along the walls, and through the gaps in the door between its wooden panels. A bar on the left at the front, then some upholstered horseshoe benches, then a cluster of freestanding tables on what, on other nights, might have been a dance floor. Then the stage, with the band on it. The band looked as if it had been put together by accident after a misfiling incident at a talent agency. The bass player was a stout old black guy in a suit with a vest. He was plucking away at an upright bass fiddle. The drummer could have been his uncle. He was a big old guy sprawled comfortably behind a small, simple kit. The singer was also a harmonica player and was older than the bass player and younger than the drummer and bigger than either one.
The guitarist was completely different. He was young and white and small. Maybe 20, maybe 5-foot-6, maybe 130 pounds. He had a fancy blue guitar wired to a crisp new amplifier and together the instrument and the electronics made sharp sounds full of space and echoes. The amp must have been turned up to 11. The sound was incredibly loud. It was as if the air in the room was locked solid. It had no more capacity for volume. But the music was good. The three black guys were old pros, and the white kid knew all the notes, and when and how and in what order to play them. He was wearing a red T-shirt and black pants and white tennis shoes. He had a very serious expression on his face. He looked foreign. Maybe Russian.
I watched them for a minute, and then I looked away. My name is Rocky, and once I was the most wanted man, with heavy emphasis on the past tense. I have been out nearly as long as I was in. But old habits die hard. I had stepped into the bar the same way I always step anywhere, which is carefully. One-thirty in the morning. I had ridden the train to West and walked south on Sixth Avenue and made the left turn on San Francisco bar and checked the sidewalks. I wanted music, but not the kind that drives large numbers of patrons outside to smoke.
His attention was taken away from patrons. It was at that point that he saw the young beautiful woman alone at her table, Her name tag read Katy, and her shirt clung tightly around her chest. Her hands worked quickly and gracefully with the bottles as she poured them another and took the empty's away.
I watched her in the gaudy, reflected light, with the music shrieking and pounding all around me. The two guys watched her. Her bodyguard watched her. She watched the guitarist. He was concentrating hard, key changes and choruses, but from time to time he would lift his head and smile, mostly at the glory of being up on the stage, but twice directly at the girl. The first of those smiles was shy, and the second was a little wider.
What met my eyes was a beautiful girl with golden hair and a bright smile that melted my heart. She was blond and blue-eyed, American woman who have a glow, and a smoothness complexion. She lives in New York, singing, listening to a band, and I was in love with her angelic voice. That was clear. There I was, a guy further back in the room, stood in the room staring at her. I was 6ft tall, wide man with a white hoodie and a black leather jacket under a hoodie. She was part of the reason I was here with her back in a city when we were at the age of 19 or less.
It wasn't the kind of glossy place that had a policy about dating rich girls, either for or against. Some call it a gold digger, and I guessed they had looked at her and her minder and made a snap decision against trouble and in favor of tips.
The part of her gaze that wasn't wary was filled with adoration, and it was all aimed in his direction. She was rich. She was alone at a table near the stage and she had a pile of A.T.M fresh twenties in front of her and she was paying for each new bottle with one of them and she wasn't asking for change.
She was a waitress and I loved her.
The woman stood up. She butted the lip of her table with her thighs and shuffled out from behind it and headed for the counter in back. I got there first. The sound from the band howled through it. The ladies' room was halfway down. The men's room was all the way at the end. Rocky leaned on the wall and scanned the room. As Rocky watched her walk in and squeeze through the crowd and she sat down on the bar stool, 1 feet away from him.
"Hey, Raoul, look what this kid dragged in. Oh, wait! That is the guy!," but they didn't hear. Too much noise. He caught them by the elbows, one in each hand. They spun around, as if ready to fight, but then they stopped. Fortunately for him, the first two who approached her were quick to heed her dismissal. She wasn't there to mingle with huge ass in leather jackets. She was just there to grab a drink and relax and pretty sure she made that pretty clear when she shot the first couple of idiots down.
The third guy, however, wasn't ready to take no for an answer.
"How about you let me buy you a drink, sweetheart?"
Their sex appeal eyes pried upon their eyes from the television screen above the bar and looked at the newcomer. With his hair greased back and one-size-too-big biker jacket on, the guy looked like prime wife-beater material. Perfect. Just what they needed to interrupt his evening.
"Thanks, but I'm good," she said curtly, gesturing to the beer bottle in front of her.
"That's it? You're gonna chug that shitty beer and call it a night? Come on, let me get you a real drink."
She scoffed. "What? Like those idiots you got over there?" she glanced past him at the table where he and a couple of his friends had been sitting.
"It's a warm-up. Trust me, honey, we're just getting started over there. You should join us."
She wanted to roll her eyes. "Like I said, I'm good."
She made the move to turn away and focus her attention back on the football game on the television when the guy grabbed her by the arm.
"What the hell's your problem?" This guy gripped her arm tightly, this guy's face practically scrunched up in a beastly snarl. "I don't like to be ignored, y'know?"
She yanked her arm out of his grip and stood up to face him directly. She knew pretty damn well where the conversation was headed and sure as hell were not about to get in a bar fight with their ass glued to the seat.
Before she could open her mouth, a familiar voice spoke up from behind her.
By hearing it and raising their head to turn to his voice, her smile grew a tad wider, recognizing the voice immediately. They simply looked so annoyed, at least much more than usual. His lips pulled into a tight frown, while their eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowed, back hunched over slightly if you'd look hard enough. Yep, those guys are just being grumpy as usual, but seemingly much more grumpy, except with their eyes laced with the slightest bit of concern. For herself, most likely.
The said person stopped, and looked over their shoulder to the voice. She put on a mellow look close to her usual one. Confrontation- unnecessary confrontation- was not exactly his thing. He tended to avoid fights like these. He could hold his ground better than most, but he preferred to keep out of the brawls and spats that others got involved in.
A voice caught his ear, she sounded like she needed help, despite the overconfident tone the stranger used. "Look, I don't wanna interrupt, but is this guy bothering you?" he looks up at her and says greeted casually, as casual as someone could be hanging for dear life. She looked up at me, startled that he was there. "I'm sorry. Did I scare you up?" he softly asked, when she turned to get a good look at the stranger in his handsome voice. She wasn't expecting the sight she was met with. A pair of piercing blue eyes smiled over her, puffing out her cheeks childishly when she looked at him. After she looked to her right to find Rocky taking his place beside her. Her pinkish lips turned up in a small smile as she ducked her head briefly with a laugh before tucking her hair behind her ear, "No, you did not," she said. He couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice. She turned her head to look at him, catching his gaze with her own. He gave a small smile, stroking her hair softly with his index. "So, What exactly are you doing here?" she said softly, trying to maintain an even tone of voice.
"Oh you know, I was just passing through the neighborhood when I thought I caught a whiff of filthy human garbage coming from this place," he said,
"And sure enough here I am."
Desire pools dark and deadly in his groin. Gaze up at her, releasing her lip. Katy flush a deep crimson in her cheeks, and he runs his index finger down her cheek before handing her the headphones. "I'd like to kiss you, too, but you won't let me down, are you?." Rocky asked her. Besides, he's pulled the straps so tight he can barely move.
Amused smile on his lips, he's wearing his enigmatic half smile. He glances down at her, light blue-gray eyes alive, he glances up when she looks at his way and their eyes lock. And in that brief moment, she was paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at her with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into her, as they lost for a moment staring at each other.
It's there in the air between them, that electricity. It's palpable. He can almost taste it, pulsing between them, drawing them together.
"Oh my," she gasps as she basks briefly in the intensity of this visceral, primal attraction. The two men stood back, saying nothing, but looking at him with hard eyes.
Katy had, somehow, stammered out some sort of reply that must have made her look insane. Coby, hearing her, had come over to check on her and had ended up having her go make Rocky's a drink while they chatted. Ever since that first meeting, though, Katy had completely fallen for Rocky. There was something about his smile, or maybe it was his eyes? Whatever it was, it made Katy's entire body feel light as a feather.
To be continued....
2 notes · View notes
Note
for the otp game gimme the og pairing, kate and Matt Murdock c'mon u kno u want to
Getting back to my ROOTS love it
1. What was their first impression of each other?
“WHOMST this garbage can?” with a side of “oh no he’s hot” for Kate like, okay, it was more of a “oh you’re a COMPETENT garbage can” but still, a garbage can. 
2. What is their ship name?
Mattkate? amongst my various playlists and document names they are also “feathers and horns” and “evil eyes and daring dodos” “
3. Describe their relationship dynamic.
garbage just kidding. in a lot of ways they are opposites attracting--Kate is good with big plans but has trouble with details while Matt is ALL about details. Kate is a contingency planner, while Matt is more impulsive--at least when fighting crime. Kate has a LOT more practical experience than Matt does. That’s flipped in their romantic relationship--Matt’s more likely to slow play something or be cautious while Kate has a “ah fuck it” mentality. Go for broke, fix the damage later
4. What was their relationship like before they got together?
pftpfpfpf antagonistic but in a dumb way, like, both of them constantly spiritually eyerolling at each other but also secretly impressed with the other’s skill. they were weirdly touchy-feely with each other early on in their friendship, due to checking on each other’s injuries, etc (weird for them, not weird touching)
5. How would they describe each other?
they both think the other is reckless which all of their friends would think was hilarious if they all also didn’t have a stash of bloodstained towels that are Matt and Kate’s fault
Matt thinks Kate is one of the strongest people he’s ever met, and she’s...not forgiving, exactly, but always willing to give people a chance. he also thinks she’s really funny.
Kate describes Matt as simultaneously the smartest person she’s ever met and the dumbest person she knows. He’s brave, selfless to a fault, and has a “look at all the fucks i give” mentality that she really admires
6. What do they love about each other?
Matt loves Kate’s determination and her steadfastness. In a lot of ways, she’s easily distractible, terrible with time, but if she says she’s there for you, she’s there, no matter what.  She’s also not afraid to tangle with powerful people, so the have that in common,
Kate loves Matt’s “Stick it to the man” attitude, how deeply he cares for his friends, and that he’s normal, mostly, but saw a problem and decided to do something about it.
7. What do they have in common?
concussions
also looking at people they have no business tangling with and fucking with them anyway. 
8. What are some differences between them?
Kate is very aware that she’s human. This is something she’s aware of in fights and forgets after, so she’s bad at taking care of herself.
Matt knows he’s human and ignores this fact during fights but is VERY aware of after. So he makes sure Kate takes care of herself.
Matt also angsts a lot more than Kate about the morality and legality of vigilantism, whereas Kate’s been doing this since before she could vote so she’s kind of over it. Matt also has a lot more doubt over being a superhero and Kate’s all in. 
9. What made them realize they were in love?
they’ve lowkey been in love for most of their relationship, honestly, so for both of them it was a lot of little things building up over time. One morning Kate was tying Matt’s tie for court and he had a split lip--he was going over his opening statement, drumming his fingers on her hips and she just went ah. that’s what this feeling is. it wasn’t like, a startling revelation, just something that settled back in her gut, something that was always there.
Matt realized he loved Kate, like, truly madly deeply, one day listening to her snoring in the vents between his office and hers. Looking back, though, he thinks he first started falling in love with her when she threatened to get into a physical altercation with Stick
10. What are their love languages?
cuddling. they’re SUPER physically affectionate. or not even affection, just touching to check in on each other. 
they also bandage each other’s wounds
11. Do they get married? Who proposes and how?
i know nobody will believe me but I DON’T KNOW!!!! Because Kate doesn’t see the point but Good Catholic Boy Matt MUST GET MARRIED. Matt probably resigns himself to them never getting married and then Kate proposes to him after some fancy event--basically her in a full length evening gown on one knee (that pops very loudly) and Foggy whooping in the background. 
That, or one of them is hospitalized and there’s some Shenanigans with letting the other in and Matt’s like “never again. we’re getting married,” and Kate’s like “fine but we’re using my insurance” (while she’s hooked up to an IV and oxygen)
it’s the least romantic thing ever but both of them think it’s PEAK romance and get very sappy and emotional about it. Sister Maggie is over the moon. Father Latte is stoked. They are completely unaware of the fact that Kate actually has to be convinced to have a Cathoic-ish wedding, and that Clint is very upset he’s not allowed to perform the ceremony
Kate’s dress is fabrics Matt likes to listen to against her skin. Matt wears a burgundy tux with an arrow tie bar. 
12. What would happen if they never met? Matt’s life is the show, Kate probably winds up back in California. I hate to be like “Matt dies young” but that’s what happens, folks. 
13. Who dies first? How does the other one react? this isn’t real life. fuck death. also, considering Matt has been missing, assumed dead, i can say Kate reacts Not Well, takes down a drug smuggling ring, becomes invested in Frank Castle as a human person, (re)joins SHIELD, and teaches Karen self-defense (seriously, it’s like...a whole thing I started writing)
14. Are there any love rivals? Frank Castle, Elektra Natchios, and movie!Matt. Two of those have polyamory potential. one is just getting his ass kicked
15. Describe your favorite moment of that ship!
their UST cuddle sessions. where they’re like “we’re not cuddling” but they TOTALLY are
16. What do other characters think about this relationship?
mostly varying shades of “oh my god, they’re gonna die”. Most of their friends think it’s cute--Frank Castle doesn’t get it at all, Foggy sometimes wonders if Kate is a bad influence. Father Latte LOVES them together, can’t wait to marry them. Clint doesn’t think Matt’s good enough for Kate, but that’s pretty typical. 
17.Describe or write a really fluffy scene!
this is a post-midland scene where father latte yoinks Kate into the church
Sister Maggie glares and bitches—who knew nuns bitched?--but the other bed gets pushed up against Matt’s. Kate’s not entirely certain what Sister Maggie thinks is going to happen—Matt’s clearly not in any position to do much more than sleep and moan in misery—but the nun’s eyes soften a bit when she sees Matt’s hand still clasped between Kate’s.
“I’m not leaving him,” Kate repeats, aware that she’s starting to sound like a petulant child and not much caring.
It’s done, though, and Kate lays on her side, facing Matt and still holding his hand like it’s a lifeline. Exhaustion settles around her like a heavy blanket and Kate fights through it to wriggle just a little bit closer to Matt, close enough to press her forehead against his arm, remembering other times they’d slept like this that seem so long ago.
Matt doesn’t wake so much as he slowly drifts toward consciousness. There’s something different about it this time, something he can’t quite remember that makes him anxious and excited all at once.
Someone is holding his hand, something is warm all along his side, and even though his hearing is muffled, Matt can hear someone crying out.
He breaks the surface and gasps for air.
So much pain, his leg feels like it’s on fire and his skull feels two sizes too small and his ribs crackle with pain every time he breathes.
But something--
Someone is holding his hand, hugging his arm and he can’t smell or hear or taste but the calluses and the scars are familiar and Matt's heart leaps into his throat.
“Kate,” he croaks, squeezing at her hand while tugging at her arm. “Kate, it’s nightmare, wake up.”
Matt can’t even count on one hand the number of times that method of waking Kate up has worked, mostly because it never has, but this time, someone’s looking out for them because it does.
Kate jerks upright, her breath coming in sharp pants that echo in the silence, loud enough that even Matt can hear. Her hand tightens around his as she catches her breath, gulping in enough air to make a sad, heartbreaking little noise. “It’s real, you’re alive?”
Matt doesn’t respond because he’s using what little energy he has to reach for her with his free hand, his fingertips clumsily bumping against her cheek.
She makes that sad little noise again, one that Matt knows would rip right through him if he wasn’t already in excruciating pain.
She’s leaning over him, then, the tips of her hair brushing against his bare skin before she’s raining kisses on his face, light, gentle, sweet kisses.
This is familiar, Matt thinks, feeling like this might have happened a few hours earlier, before someone changed the room so she could lay down next to him.
He doesn’t know how to comfort her. Before—this, before everything, he would have listened to her heartbeat before deciding if he should ask her if she wanted pressure or space. And he would have either scooted to the far edge of the bed, or he would have rolled on top of her, setting his weight on her to keep her grounded and present.
18. Describe or write a really angsty scene!
sooo uhhh not strictly mattkate but from a wip where Matt doesn’t let Kate know he survived the explosion at midland and Kate stumbles into the punisher season 1 storyline uhhh i have nothing to say for myself
“He left me.”
“What?” Frank’s thunderous gaze is fixed on Kate now, and she falters under it.
“Matt. He, um. When he. At Midland,” she stumbles through the thought and Frank softens. “he didn’t just—I don’t know what Karen told you—he didn’t just die—he--he stayed. Her name was Elektra.” Kate takes a deep breath and it’s like she’s rehearsed this, how she would say it and the words come too easy.
“She was he ex-girlfriend, former love, from college. She came back into his life about the same time we met you. And it was rough, you know? They still had feelings for each other, but he picked me—or maybe he didn’t, maybe it was because she died and that made the choice for him. There’s a lot of magic bullshit in this story,” Kate answers Frank’s unspoken question. “And it was magic bullshit that brought her back to life, only not quite right. Not quite human. She’s who they were fighting at Midland.” Her eyes prickle hot with tears as she says the worst part, the part her mind worries like a dog with a bone when she can’t sleep at night. “He chose. To, to not let Elektra die alone, he chose her over me. He decided that life with me was worse than death with her,” and there it is, the whole ugly, painful truth,  I wasn’t enough, it was Elektra all along, and it burns the back of her throat, it constricts her chest. The tears burn tracks down her cheeks, cooling along her jaw. “I hate him. He made me believe—I thought what we had was real. I thought he loved me--”
Her voice breaks on a sob she can no longer contain, and all at once Frank surrounds her, his arms crushing her to his chest, his gentle shushing ruffling her hair. “Hey there, sweetheart, hey, it’s all right. He loved you, anyone could see that. He could have gotten trapped, could have gotten hit in the head, we don’t know.” His hands drag up and down her spine. “I’m right here, sweetheart, it’s okay.”
19. Talk about a headcanon you’ve never talked about before. so it’s not exactly MattKate but Kate was married to America, once, in space, and they just...forgot to get divorced after they broke up. So there’s a whole thing with the three of them that involves Matt and America becoming really good friends--I mean, they both like punching stuff, that’s a solid basis for a friendship, right? And they get lunch every few months and Kate’s just like “why is my ex-wife texting you” and, of course, the “Kate and Elektra dated” headcanon, which dovetails really nicely with Matt/Kate/Elektra ot3. Kate and Elektra just sprawled on Matt’s couch asking him to bring them food because they’re heiresses they’re too pretty to get things themselves
20. What does a typical date look like for them?
Kate trying to keep Matt from listening for crime. Kate grilling Matt about the kitchen, Kate guessing the relationships of the other diners and Matt telling her if she’s right or wrong. Stopping a mugging on the way home and making out in an alley.
21. What’s a really significant moment in their relationship?
WHOOPS MISSED THIS, but it’s the first time they take Fisk down. it was them working as a team, recognizing their romantic feelings, just. all around a good day. it’s an anniversary they celebrate every year
13 notes · View notes
petersasteria · 4 years
Text
Red - Tom Holland
Pairing: Basketball Player!Tom x Reader
Requested? Nah
6k reads celebration on Wattpad x
Tom Holland Masterlist || Ultimate Masterlist
* * * *
Everyone is destined for someone and they're called 'soulmates'. You've always believed in soulmates and you've always dreamed what it would be like to meet them. You never really understood how the soulmate system works before, but as you grew older it wasn't that hard to understand.
You thought you were the only one with this problem, but it was completely normal. Your parents explained it to you when you were younger.
Apparently, everyone is born seeing all of the colors except one. It varies from person to person and it's like that, because it has meaning behind it. The meaning depends on how the said soulmates felt when they met. For your parents, they weren't able to see the color pink until they met. Pink means hope. It gives a sense that everything will be okay.
Your parents met each other at a mutual friend's wedding and coincidentally, they're the only ones in their group of friends that aren't married yet. But they're still hopeful. So they unknowingly went to the open bar together at the reception and when they made eye contact, they were able to see the pink flowers and pink decorations. They smiled at each other and they just knew.
Then of course, they got married and had your older brother, older sister, then you.
Your brother found his at the early age of 9 and your sister found hers at 16. Both of your siblings are now married and engaged and you're now 18 with no boyfriends, no flings, and no soulmate.
After a person meets their soulmate, they go to the soulmate agency to get matching tattoos to signify that they're each other's soulmates. The agency also sets up their date based on the information that the agency has on them. The agency then sends an e-mail to the newly found soulmates' families to inform them on the joyous occasion.
You found it a little bit weird that there's a soulmate agency to do all that, but that's life.
"Chad asked me to homecoming!" Y/B/F squeals. You roll your eyes and turn to her, "Well duh! He's your soulmate! It was bound to happen. Why are you so excited? It's not like he'll ask someone else to homecoming."
Y/B/F frowns, "What's wrong? You never have an attitude unless something's wrong. So, what's wrong?"
You sigh heavily and clutch your books to your chest, "My sister's stressing about her wedding and she's been such a bridezilla and as her maid of honor, I had to deal with her in planning! Her negative energy is rubbing on me."
"Well that's upsetting." Y/B/F giggles. "Anyway, I have to go. See you tomorrow!"
"See you tomorrow!" you call out to her. You then realize that you're the only person in the hallway and you make your way out of school to go home. Just then, someone bumps into you and you fall face first into the ground. Your books are scattered and the very important notes for your sister's wedding are flying away before you even get the chance to get them.
At this point, you didn't care about your books. You didn't want your sister to yell at you again so you immediately scramble to your feet and quickly grab the very few notes that are still on the ground.
"Watch where you're going!" a voice yells. "You're so fucking careless!"
This made you mad.
You turn around to see a boy and for some reason, both of you are experiencing headaches. You look at the boy and the basketball uniform that was grey, is now a very strong and vibrant color of red.
He looks at your grey scarf which is slowly turning red and his eyes widen in realization, "Y-You're my soulmate?"
You were about to say something but he cuts you off, "Ugh, I can't believe this! I can't believe I'm soulmates with someone who can't see where they're going."
"You're the one who bumped into me! If anything, you're not watching where you're going! You made me lose HALF of the notes for my sister's wedding!"
"Well if you stood up faster, you would've gotten all of it!"
"Well if you just paid attention more, you wouldn't bump into me and none of this wouldn't happen!"
"Mr. Holland, are you ready to go home?" both of you look at the man in front of you wearing a tux and he has a serious look on his face. He looks about 45 years old or older.
"I'm kind of in the middle of something here, Bernard." the boy next to you says. "I'm arguing with- with- I don't even know who the fuck you are!"
"Y/N Y/L/N." you snap. "There. Are you happy Mr. Tom Holland, member of the basketball team?!"
He rolls his eyes and scoffs, "I'd be happy if you weren't my soulmate. I've waited for my soulmate for YEARS and this is what I fucking get?! Fuck you, Y/N."
What he said hurt your feelings. It was an asshole thing to say.
"Well, it's not my fault, is it?" you say softly. "I'm just as disappointed as you are, but you don't see or hear me blaming you."
"Pardon me, sir. But if you are soulmates, you must go to the soulmate agency right away." Bernard interrupts.
"I'm not going anywhere with her!" Tom says in disgust which makes you hurt even more. Your own soulmate didn't want you. How depressing.
"But it's the rule. There's a consequence." Bernard says.
"What's the consequence?" you ask. Bernard shrugs, "I'm afraid no one knows, because no one dares to break the rule."
"How does the agency know that we've met, anyway? They're not here. How do they know someone is breaking the rule?" Tom challenges.
"Oh, they're here." Bernard taunts. "They're watching everywhere."
You and Tom couldn't help but feel scared and find that information creepy. Bernard continues, "So, shall we go to the agency?"
"Fine." both of you grumble in response. Both of you are now sitting in the backseat far from each other. You were sitting in silence when Bernard breaks it, "It's really nice to have a soulmate. It's great to know that you'll have a partner for the rest of your life without second guessing. You'll realize that soon."
The car stops and you look out the window to see that you're in front of the soulmate agency's building.
"I'll wait at the outdoor parking lot." Bernard informs as you both thank him and get out of the car. Bernard drives off and you and Tom look at the building.
"I can't believe we're actually doing this." Tom sighs, walking inside as you follow him.
"I can't believe I'm actually here." you mutter.
You both walk to the receptionist who immediately smiles at you, "Mr. Tom Holland and Ms. Y/N Y/L/N, correct? You met at 2:45 pm outside of your school and now you can see the color red."
You and Tom look at each other in shock. Bernard was right; they're watching everywhere.
"Um, y-yeah. Who-Who do we go to? What happens next?" you stammer.
"Go to the second floor. They're waiting for you." the receptionist smiles and nods at the direction where the elevators are. Both of you quickly walk inside the elevator and press the 2nd floor.
You arrive at the second floor and see only one person there. The second floor was weird. It's only a long hallway from left and right, the elevator doors open at the center of it, so you're greeted by the wall. You and Tom exit the elevator and begin to walk to where the person is. You reach the person and see a woman in her mid 20s.
"Tom and Y/N, I've been expecting you." she smiles and motions for both of you to sit on the chairs across from each other in front of her desk. "I'm giving you your matching tattoos which will be placed on your wrists just like everyone else. So, would you like to tell me why your colors are red?"
"What do you mean?" Tom asks.
"When you saw each other, you both saw the color red. Why is that?" she asks.
"I'm sorry, I'm a bit lost. I don't know what you're talking about. Does that have a meaning or something?" Tom is confused. He was interested in the thought of soulmates, but he wasn't aware on how it works.
"Red means anger." she shrugs. "So why were you both angry when you met?"
"I wasn't actually mad at him. I was just having a bad day. My sister's getting married and she's all bridezilla and she made me write down important notes for her special day." you confess. "Now half of those papers are gone and I can't even imagine how angry she'll be when I get home without those."
"I wasn't mad at her too." Tom sighs. "I got a D on my paper on history and I really worked hard on it. I got so mad and yeah... here we are I guess."
She grins, "Your matching tattoos will be paper, because that's what made you mad." She starts preparing her tools and does both of your tattoos. After some time, she finishes and smiles at the both of you, "You may now go to the 3rd floor where you can see each other's files."
You and Tom thank her and leave. Both of you look at your matching tattoos as you walk to the elevator.
"You know," you start. "I guess it's not that bad."
He shrugs, "I guess. Sorry about what I said. I was just so mad and stuff."
"That's okay. I'm sorry too." you both enter the elevator and press the 3rd floor. You arrive there and the third floor is the same as the second floor. This time, there are three people there. The one in charge and the soulmates.
As you walk closer, you can hear them giggling. Soon, the soulmates stand up and happily leave. The one in charge is a lady who looks 30. She motions for both of you to sit down on the chair that are next to each other in front of her desk.
"I've now sent an e-mail to your families and I've now set a date for both of your families to meet. Now, it says here that both of you strongly dislike Halloween. Why?"
"I've had a bad experience." both of you say at the same time and look at each other in shock after that.
"Well, let's give it a good experience, eh?" she winks. "Your first date will be on the 31st of October."
"Why so far?" you ask.
"Well, your files say that both of you are extremely busy and you're unlikely to arrange something."
"Okay, but why Halloween?" Tom asks.
"Like I said, it's to give you a good experience." she chuckles. "Besides, you might end up loving that day, when you go on a date together."
You and Tom stay silent, still not believing that this is all happening.
"Okay, you may leave now." she says.
"What happens after the first date?" Tom asks.
"You're free to do whatever you want, but you must stay loyal to your soulmate. You're technically dating at this point, but you have the freedom to officially ask her to be your girlfriend at any time after the first date." she answers.
"Why ask her to be my girlfriend after the first date? Why not before?"
"Normally, people ask someone to be their girlfriend after the third date and that's the formal way. But you have the freedom to ask whenever after the first date. Besides, you wouldn't have time for each other at the moment. That's why I set the first date on the 31st of October, remember?" she chuckles.
"Right." Tom nods. "Well, thank you." Both of you stand up from your seat and she calls out, "I'll see you again when you propose!"
-
"Bernard can drive you home." Tom says as you and him walk to the outdoor parking lot. You shake your head, "Nah, I'm good. I'll just walk home or catch a bus."
"Y/N, don't be silly. You're my soulmate now and I'll blame myself if anything happens to you." Tom blushes. You giggle, "Fine. Only because I don't want you blaming yourself for anything." You smile at each other and you both get inside the car.
Both of you sat close to each other and both of you knew that things will be different from now on and things will be alright now that you have each other.
* * * *
Thought I'd write a soulmate au but like it's super different from what you usually read sksks
Tagging my mutuals: @fanficparker @myblueleatherbag @sweetdespairbarnes @justasmisunderstoodasloki @tommysparker @marvelousell @lcvelyparkers @lovingsiriusoswald (thanks for helping me sis uwu)
83 notes · View notes
Text
When Lightning Strikes Twice
Summary: Ten years ago, Steve Rogers made the mistake of letting go of the love of his life, Bucky Barnes. 
Today, Bucky is getting remarried. 
Steve is just gonna have to deal with that because lightning never strikes the same place twice. 
Everyone knows that. 
((essentially just a reworking of the ending of that movie Sweet Home Alabama))
Characters: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 1.6k
Tags: past relationship, fluff, marriage
written for @captain-rogers-beard​‘s  Flex Your Writing Muscles Challenge.
Prompt: 
Tumblr media
Thunder claps overhead. Off in the distance, lightning scatters through the clouds. Steve walks along the shoreline, kicking up sand with each step. Under his arms, he carries a few more lightning rods. He’s already shoved a few into the ground. He wonders briefly about the wedding and immediately tries to push the thought out of his mind. The love of his life is marrying someone else tonight and there’s nothing he can do about it. 
Well, no. There is one thing he can do. He can be happy for Bucky. Steve loves him and has loved him since they were a couple’ve kids running around the streets of Brooklyn getting into trouble. All he wants is Bucky’s happiness. Even if that means he’s found it with another person. Steve can be happy for him. 
And he will be. He just...needs a little time.
It’s just hard when he remembers everything. Every kiss. Every fight. Every time they said they’d love each other to the end of the line. Steve even remembers when they were ten-years-old and walked along this very same beach to watch the storm clouds roll in and Steve first proposed the idea of marriage. 
“What’re you talkin’ about, punk?” Bucky had laughed. “I’m only ten-years-old. I’m gonna see the world! Travel! Learn about everything! I can’t do that with a husband.”
“Why not, jerk?” Steve asked. “What’s so wrong with bein’ married?”
“Nothin’.” Bucky shrugged. “But you want roots and I want wings!”
Bucky held his arms out and his head back, and just as he started spinning around in a circle, it began to pour. Big, thick drops of water dropping down on them in an instant. 
They shrieked and laughed and opened their mouths to catch the rain with their tongues. They held hands to dance and tumbled all over each other. They let loose a blood-curling scream when lightning struck just a few yards away from them. 
Steve turned to run back the way they came, but Bucky grabbed onto his wrist to pull him where the sand had been hit.
“Not that way! This way!” 
“Why?!”
“Because lightning never strikes the same place twice!” he yelled back. “Everyone knows that!”
When they reached the smoking spot on the beach, they were shocked to discover what the lightning left behind. It looked like glass. Smooth and iridescent. 
Without thinking, Steve reached out to touch it, but Bucky made sure that he didn’t.
“Don’t touch it, dummy, it’s hot.”
“What is it?”
“I dunno.” Bucky looked at him with a smile. “Why would you wanna marry me anyway?” 
Steve glanced into those steel-blue eyes. Like glaciers. Not cold, but sparking and filled with hidden depths. And he only had one answer.
“So I can kiss you any time I want.”
Those eyes widened and brightened with a smile, and Steve, smaller than him then, wrapped his arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his lips.
They found out later that the lightning hitting the sand just right caused fulgurite. Steve’s made a living out of collecting it and turning it into glass sculptures while Bucky found his calling across the country as an author. 
Steve has all of his books. Romances mostly. Space adventures and magic and love in all its beautiful forms. 
Steve had been heartbroken when Bucky left for California ten years ago to pursue an education in creative writing. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault even though Steve tried like hell to blame him. Bucky asked Steve to go with him after he’d been offered a coveted writer’s fellowship to the University of Southern California. Steve, stubborn to the core, told him New York was their home.
He knew immediately that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life when he came home to an empty apartment. Steve even went out there once about a month after he left to try to win him back. To convince him to come home with him. 
When Steve got there with flowers and ready to declare his love for him, he happened to see Bucky coming out of his new building, he stumbled to a halt. Bucky looked amazing. Brilliant and beautiful as his eyes fell closed and he smiled up at the bright, sunny sky.  
There Bucky was. Wings spread and soaring. And Steve couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to try to clip those amazing wings and have him crash to the ground just because Steve wanted to be his husband. Bucky deserved better.
So Steve went back home to New York, signed the divorce papers so that Bucky could fly without him, and started his art studio. Wanted to make something of himself so maybe he could win Bucky’s love again. 
What he hadn’t expected was Bucky showing up about thirty days ago engaged to someone else. Almost as though he was seeking his permission. Or blessing. Or...Steve’s not sure. 
But seeing him after all these years, after the initial awkwardness, felt as though not a day had gone by. They laughed. They teased each other. They caught up. All the while Bucky and his family here in New York made the final plans for his wedding. 
Bucky even stopped by the other day with an invitation. A part of Steve wants to follow his mother’s advice and go to the wedding. But Steve thought the ex-husband at the new wedding would be a little weird. Not to mention heartbreaking. Sure, their marriage right out of high school didn’t even last the full summer, but still. Weird. 
Those dark clouds are rolling in faster now and the next thunderclap brings with it a downpour. Well, at least the world can cry with him. 
Steve chuckles darkly at his ridiculous thoughts and wipes those few tears away with the back of his arm as he works another lightning rod into the sand. He made his biggest mistake. Now he has to live with his biggest regret. 
“Hey!”
The shout from behind him, just loud enough to be heard over the pounding rain and rumbling skies, startles Steve. He turns. Sees Bucky standing there, wearing a tux, no shoes, and sopping wet. Water drips off the ends of his hair, which, up until a few moments ago was probably styled beautifully. Doesn’t matter that he’s soaked to the bone and in a ruined tuxedo. He still looks gorgeous. 
For a moment, Steve just stares. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure he’s not imagining this. 
“Bucky?”
“I got somethin’ to say to you, punk.”
“What’re you doin’ here?!” Steve calls back over all the noise. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a wedding?” 
“Yes! Yes, I was!” Bucky sounds angry. He looks angry, too, but Steve isn’t sure what he did this time. “I was supposed to get married!”
“Did...did you...not get married?”
“No! No, I didn’t get married!” He huffs and shakes his head. “I didn’t get married because the person I’m in love with wasn’t there!”
Steve’s heart skips a beat. He knows he fucked up, but he can’t imagine someone else making the same mistake he did. How could anyone ever let him go?
“Were you...left at the altar?”
“Oh, no. No, they were there. But you weren’t! You weren’t there, Steve!” He stomps his foot and growls through his teeth. “Why didn’t you come after me?” Bucky steps up and punches Steve once in the arm. Hard. And then does it again and again. “I waited for you, Steve! I waited ten years and you never came!”
“I...I did...” Steve tries to say as he cringes away from Bucky’s anger which hurts a hell of a lot more than any of his punches. “I came after you, Bucky, I swear!” 
Bucky takes a breath, a step back, and wipes his face of some of the water dripping down it.
“You...you did?”
Steve nods. “I did. About a month after you left. But I saw how happy you looked and I...I couldn’t ask you to give that up. A-and, I thought that if you flew, then you’d fly away from me. But I also didn’t want to be a stone around your neck. Bucky, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I let you go without a fight. I”m sorry I didn’t go with you. I--” 
“Steve...” Bucky reaches out and touches Steve’s cheek. “You were never a stone around my neck. I thought spreading my wings meant that I couldn’t keep my roots. But when I saw you here again and...I realized that I can have my wings and my roots. I want you to be there when I land. Just like I wanted you to be there when I flew. Because I love you, Steve.” 
The glands in Steve’s throat swell. He thinks he might burst into tears. If Bucky’s really saying what he thinks is... 
“I...I love you, too, Bucky. But...what if we had our shot already?” he asks. “You said it yourself, lightning never strikes the same place twice.” 
This makes Bucky smiles with a shake of his head. 
“You silly punk,” he says. “It already struck. I wanna marry you and spend the rest of my life with you.”
Heart growing beneath his ribs, Steve can’t help but grin wildly at that. At Bucky saying he left his own wedding, tracked Steve down to their spot on the beach, and came out in the pouring rain just to tell him he loves him. 
“Why would you wanna be married to me, Bucky?”
Bucky’s smile makes his eyes sparkle brighter than any stars hiding behind the storm clouds.
“So I can kiss you anytime I want.” 
An elated giggle bubbles through Steve’s chest as Bucky flings his arms around his neck and they kiss, and when their own lightning strikes, something beautiful is created all around them. 
68 notes · View notes
baekhvuns · 4 years
Text
Bad boy | Baekhyun XII
Tumblr media
( series masterlist )
part twelve.
word count : above 1.5k
pairing : baekhyun x reader
theme ( s ) : ANGST.
Tumblr media
“What’s going in here huh?”
Yuna asked as she twirled her glass of champagne, I looked at Baekhyun in shock and he did not utter a word.
“Ah Yuna don’t worry! We were just playing a game we used to play when we all were in high school!” Eunhye came to our rescue, I but my lip and looked at Eunhye as she gave me a sly wink.
“A game? This close? Baekhyun?” She looked at Baekhyun who smiled softly, “That’s the whole point of the game, you make the other embarrassed.” He said as we all nodded, catching on to whatever he was narrating.
“Yea!” We all said simultaneously as Yuna rose her eyebrows before looking at me, eyes gazing up and down.
“Ah Yuna, don’t worry! I wasn’t planning on playing anyway!” I said, I wasn’t wrong, he came up to me
She walked away but before she did, she looked at each and everyone of us. But I know she looked at me with an unreadable expression.
“I’ll go up early.” I said before walking out this hall with my mind all over the place.
What is Byun Baekhyun doing?
Okay but do you mind it?
I quickly shut the thoughts away before walking towards the car, “Joohyun! Joohyun! Wait!”
I turned around to see Baekhyun running towards me, “What?” I snapped as he catches his breath and leaned his hand on the car.
“I’m sorry for whatever I did today and for well . . Yuna.”
“That’s fine, I understand it’s weird to see someone’s fiancé with a different women.”
“Yea but you are not a different women..” Baekhyun muttered as you catched onto this words.
“Then what am I Byun Baekhyun? The girl who you fired? Huh? Why did you invite me here! At your wedding? In the country I told you was my dream?!” I yelled, not caring the fact that tears threatened to fall out of my eyes.
He stayed quiet as I scoffed, “Baekhyun, answer me!” I yelled as he his hardened gaze looked at my face.
“Can we please forget the pas—“
“NO! Let me make it clear to you Baekhyun, you left me when I told you who I was! You didn’t even contact me, message me or even stop me from going that day! and heck you sent me your marriage invitation?!”
“Byun Baekhyun answer me!” My tears were all over my face as I held onto both of Baekhyun’s shoulders demanding for an answer
“I DID!” He looked at me, “I did try to reach you, I asked everyone where you went! Where your address was! Where you worked but nothing worked!” He ran his hand through his hair and took a few steps back.
“What are you saying?” I asked looking at him with widened eyes, he scoffed before continuing.
“I looked at everywhere you possibly could be, but I couldn’t find you! It’s like you wiped your existence out my world!”
“I begged and begged everyone where you were! But there was no avail!” He yelled, he took a deep breathe, “So I thought you had moved on, a deep mistake.”
“I moved to Greece because it would make me feel closer to you! And then I found Yuna, and I got to know her well. I thought since you had moved in, I would too.”
“So I started to go on dates with her, every date with her would remind me the things you did. Every little action or an intimate moment.”
I scoffed, “And then one day, I decided to ask her to marry me. That’s when I found out that Eunhye was in contacts with you, but it was too late. . . I was engaged.”
“—and the only thing you could do was call me here for your wedding. . . . So you could see me one last time?” I said as he nodded slowly
“You thought I moved on from you, truth is, I tried too. But I couldn’t help and remember you and what you would and wouldn’t have done!” I said before wiping the tear that rolled over my cheeks, his teary eyes now exchanging looks with me
“Tell me what to do Joohyun, tell me what to do.”
I sat inside the car and closed the door, “Nothing Baekhyun, it’s too late now.” I motioned the diver to start driving, as the car started to move.
I could see his lifeless face looking at me through the mirror, wiping all the tears that had rolled down. I leaned backwards and closed my eyes.
I can’t do this anymore.
***
Next day.
I hadn’t left my room since I came back. I decided that I would leave for Korea on the 27, on the day of his wedding. So that I wouldn’t be there after, to see his face again.
“Joohyun? Can I come in?”
“Hi, yea come in.” I looked towards the door as Sehun walked through them and jumped on the bed.
“You.” He pointed his finger to me, “And Baekhyun.” Oh no, did he hear us yesterday?
“What’s wrong with you guys?! You haven’t come downstairs and he hasn’t stepped inside the house!” He sat on the bed huffing as I chuckled at his complaint.
“There’s nothing wrong, I was too tired to get out of bed.” He looked at me and gave me the stare, we called it the “I-dont-believe-you” face
“I don’t know about him, he probably has work.”
“Joohyun, you can’t lie to me you know?” He looked at me as I smiled at him, he sighed in defeat and kicked the floor.
“All I’ll say is, don’t leave what was meant for you.”
***
In the span of two days, I avoided Baekhyun. Sometimes when I was thirsty at night, I’d make my way towards the kitchen to grab a drink but instead bumped into him.
He tried to talk to me, but I would move past him. Other times, everyone would play random games which would sometimes put us in the same team.
“Ah Joohyun! That’s not how you do it! Follow what Baekhyun is doing!”
I looked up to see his face, expressionless, before he started to do the steps and I copied.
Moments like these only hurt me, and hurtled him too. Yuna would give me her constant glares and cling on to his arm whenever I was in the room.
And now, today was the day. It was Baekhyun’s wedding day.
Eunhye had came to my room and got ready here, “YAH Joohyun! Are you okay? I’ve called you like five times?” She looked at me as I smiled,
“Of course, I’m good!” She looked at me, before hugging me
“I know, I know. You and him aren’t on the best terms, heck everyone noticed. But Joohyun, remember that now it’s not too late to change your mind.” You looked at her in shock,
“What? They Haven’t gotten married yet?” She smiled sheepishly as I slapped her arm playing before continuing to apply my eyeliner.
Biting my lip, “I don’t think we both want that Eunhye.” I muttered before walking out of the washroom.
***
Now we all waited downstairs, for the groom to come downstairs so we could congratulate him.
“Yah what is this? The groom seems like he’s turning into a bride!”
“He’s making us wait too long”
“Baekhyun! hurry up!”
“We know you’re handsome! hurry up already you bride!” Chanyeol shouted as everyone laughed, Jongdae gave me a glance and went upstairs to his room.
“Oh Joohyun, are you okay?”
“Hm? What why?” I frowned, as junmyeon continued, “Ah never mind, you know—“
Chanyeol jabbed his stomach before laughing out loudly, as everyone made random jokes I couldn’t help but notice where Jongdae was, and why wasn’t Baekhyun coming downstairs?
“Joohyun.” Suddenly I heard Jongdae call me from up the stairs, motioning me to come upstairs.
I but my lip, as he pleaded. Nodding I made my way upstairs, “I’ll be back, I left my gift box in my room!”
As I reached upstairs, jongdae pulled me into the hallway, “Yah kim Jongdae what is this?” I asked slightly irritated.
“Talk to him.” He said as my eyes widened, my mouth opened to answer—
“Please. I think it’s only right for you guys to talk.” He forced me inside his room, as the door flung open.
I saw Baekhyun standing at the balcony, Jongdae whispered to go near him and closed the door.
“Baek—“
“Joohyun! I can’t do this.” He looked at him as I looked at him up and down, admiring the way he liked. My heart fluttering at the way he looked, his jet black tux and black tie, his hair slicked back.
“What do you mea—“ he suddenly engulfed me into a hug, nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck. Bringing my hands to his shoulders I pushed him back.
“Joohyun, I love you. I fucking love you! And I can’t let go of you.” His eyes teared as my heart broke
“Baekhyun what are you saying. . .” I whispered out, he suddenly cupped my cheeks and looked at me right in the eye.
“I love you Joohyun.” He said before kissing me as my tears rolled down my cheeks, I sobbed between the kiss as we both pulled back.
“Baekhyun, I’m sorry I can’t do this, you’re getting married. Yuna’s waiting for you.”
“And you’ve been waiting for me since years.” He caught me off guard as I looked up at him
“Baekhyun listen to me, today is the day your life I’ll change! You’ll be married to the love of your life, so please forget about me.” I sobbed as I leaned into this chest, one last time.
“Baekhyun! hurry!
“Now let’s go, they’re all waiting for you.” I said as I avoided eye contact with him and took his hand in mine before walking downstairs.
“The groom Byun Baekhyun has arrived!” I said as I smiled and looked over at Baekhyun and walked him down
“woah, as expected from our man!”
“That’s my boy! Lemme take his photo! Sehun move away!”
I let Baekhyun join the boys before telling him to “be happy”
“Sir the car is ready.” The chauffeur suddenly came in as we all nodded and made our way towards the party bus.
During the bus ride, everyone was dancing and enjoying as songs were being blasted. As for me, I sat and drank the champagne that was provided to us. Glancing at Baekhyun who I didn’t realize was looking at me with a sad expression.
I made a smiling gesture towards him and nodded, “Enjoy!” I mouthed as I drank the liquid not realizing that a tear had dropped down my cheek, and I quickly wiped it away before Eunhye pulled me to dance.
Suddenly the bus came on a halt, telling us that we had reached the hall. Everyone got out quickly but Baekhyun stopped me, “Let’s go.” I squeezed his hand and got out, and made my way towards the the wedding hall.
Gulping I made way inside, I could see Yuna’s friends look at me as I greeted Baekhyun’s parents and took a seat in the front row with all of us sitting together.
My heart hammered against my ribcage, my hand flew to my chest, “It’s going to be okay, please calm down.” I whispered to myself before biting the inside of my cheek to prevent any water pouring out of my eyes.
“Ah! Now can we please welcome the groom!”
Everyone stood up, as we all looked back towards Baekhyun walking in. His eyes never leaving mine, my lip quivering as I bit the insides of my lip.
I hope she treats you right, hope she buys you your favourite flower, stay up and watch your nerdy movies with you, feeds and gives you all the love in the world.
The piano had started playing, not helping in the environment I was in. I smiled at Baekhyun, a big bright smile as I could see his jaw clenched.
I’m sorry Baekhyun, I ruined our chances.
Soon after, Yuna had walked in looking like and absolute goddess in the white gown. Realizing she was the one for him, I was just someone hard to forget. As I was looking at her, I could feel Baekhyun’s gaze one me.
“Congrats!” I whispered to Yuna as she walked down that aisle beside me, raising her hands she met Baekhyun’s before muttering something that made her smile and for Baekhyun to crack a smile.
There, that looked like the perfect couple.
We all sat down as the priest had entered, I could hear him congratulate the couple. Smiling I bit back my tears, before my phone buzzed.
“Eunhye, I gotta go.” I said as Eunhye looked at me in confusion before nodding.
I walked away, from all this mess. As I stood in the back of the hallway, standing in the middle of the entrance. I saw him take the ring from the flower girl and he looked at me, I smiled.
His eyes widened at my sight, he opened his mouth as I motioned him to look at Yuna who had the expression of a five year old getting candy.
Tears burst out as I cupped my mouth. Turning backwards, I started to walked out. I gave a glance back to see him looking at me with his tears rolling down his face and Yuna wiping them. Giving him a sad smile, I walked out.
Tag list: @strawbaeri-s @forbyun
119 notes · View notes