#anyway i am still taking requests for this verse but i suppose i should probably... sigh... come up with my own ideas

[kinetic-elaboration]

June 19: Jasper/Monty, 16th Summer

Jasper/Monty in the Southern Gothic AU for @backpacktheory. Thanks for the request Tried my best with this one, though I kind of struggled with it.

~980 words, written in about 40 minutes

*

Their sixteenth summer, Raven teaches them how to drive, using her pickup truck and the flat, pale grassland in front of her house. Monty gets behind the wheel first. Raven rides shotgun, and Jasper stretches out in the bed in back, staring up at the sky sketched over with thin, pearly wisps of clouds across a shimmering blue, feeling the truck describe circles and awkward, bumpy squares as Monty practices shifting gears and making turns. He takes them up and down the rutted dirt driveway and then onto the paved road that leads eventually all the way back into town, and Jasper holds on tight to the edge of the truck bed, only the white grip of his pale fingers visible like a creature crawling itself free, when they take the first wide turn too wide. "What are you doing?" he yells. "Trying to throw me out? It's like I'm riding a bucking bronco here!"

He can make out the sound of Monty laughing through the glass of the back window, and Raven's hard-edged, clipped voice giving another command. The truck dips briefly off the shoulder, and then rights itself again.

The next day, they switch positions, and Jasper fumbles with the clutch as Monty sits in the back, yelling alternating jokes and encouragement, clapping and whooping when the old truck finally bumps forward. Its wheels crunch over the dead and flattened grass.

The seasons stretches still long and dry ahead of them, threatening fire in the underbrush.

Some days they spend right up through the late guttering of the evening at Raven's place, helping tend to her lawn, cooking dinner with her, for her, in the kitchen in the back of her house, the first of the slow-rising old mountains looking over them through the window above the sink. Bits of colored glass hanging there catch the hot and shimmering light. The air grows warmer and heavier still with the heat from the oven and the stove.

They get their licenses just in time for one summer road trip: a ritual to end the season, a pushing at the boundaries of things. Monty drives because he likes it more. Jasper sits next to him in the passenger's seat, cranks the window down and sings along to the radio, lets his hand ride along the waves of the cool breeze they create. Oh it's still devilish hot in late August, and barely any rain still for weeks. The stillness that everyone is trying to break, with their sprinklers, the hiss and click of them, and their standing fans whirring, and music through the open windows of their houses, the stillness comes with a sort of language of its own. Monty isn't bothered. When Jasper can't stand it, he comes over and lies on Monty's floor and picks up every quiet sound he can discern, bug noises in the garden, the creaking wooden frame of the old house.

They drive out to the next town over, which is bigger than Arkadia, and noisier, dusty gray sidewalks and sizzling pavement beneath their feet, wander into record stores and book shops and spend an hour in an antique store with a host of strange and byzantine, crowded rooms. In the narrow aisle between some creepy porcelain dolls and half-complete sets of old dishware, Jasper crowds against him, and Monty wraps an arm around him, and he thinks about the dishes they'll put in their kitchen when they're older and how far away and how close older seems, all at once.

On their way home, they pick up sandwiches, and picnic on the side of the road, just outside of town. The twin billboards loom large over them. Monty tips his head all the way back to stare at the closer one, how it intones to him The Devil Is Real in faded old text. A distant warning echoing through time. Jasper's hand is holding his, half-hidden in the grass.

Almost no breeze and almost no rain, but sometimes the air seems to ripple and breathe around them, and the grass bends lazily over itself, and the long highway stretches without a curve in sight. Only one car has passed them, this whole time. The sun shines unclouded and bright, skimming over the tops of the tallest trees, and the heat presses in, and he breathes deep and feels it heavy in his lungs.

The Devil.

He'd give everything to know what is real.

"It feels like you can see forever," Jasper says, all of a sudden, and Monty follow his gaze and sees that he is staring down the long road home. His eyes flicker then to the trees, and to the rounded mountain peaks, and then into the tall grass that whispers and rustle at the highway's edge. He can't see the billboards, because his back is to them. But Monty can feel, as if it were in his own chest, every hitch in Jasper's breath.

Sometimes they just feel it, like a pressure or another sense. The sense that they are not alone. If it's the Earth itself or another presence, if it's just the growing pains of learning and understanding, of feeling out the edges of this knowledge that, sometimes, it feels like only they in the whole history of the world have ever found, he doesn't know. It's a whisper on the skin. It's a dread feeling in the pit of his stomach, a sickness, a craving.

He holds on tighter to Jasper's hand.

Where Will You Be When He Comes Again? the other billboard asks, a warning, a taunt; the edge of it is ripped, where half a cross still stands, and through a hole in the corner, Monty can see straight through to the blazing hint of sunset on the other side. Where Will You Be?

Where is he now?

They pack up their stuff and head on home.

#the 100 #jonty #jasper x monty #jasper jordan #monty green #devil's gonna get me one of these days #mine #my writing #the year 2023 #2023: free write #2023: answers #i have very mixed feelings about this one fam but i also need to go to sleep #anyway i am still taking requests for this verse but i suppose i should probably... sigh... come up with my own ideas

[rayofsunas]

s/o who dies.

A/n: listennnn, I wasn't going to write something dark, but then I unregretfully decided to listen to edgy/dark audios and I was suddenly in the mood to write this so yeah lmao. also, guess what? I'm planning on making a discord server right after posting this! so, be on the lookout for that when I get it all sorted out. also, note for Scaramouche's that the reader inserts tend to lean more femininely versed (I hope that's okay), the only reasons why I do that is because one I simp and I'm female AND two since I am doing a mini-series for Scara, I've kind of based his imagines/fics around that universe (baby daddy universe). I haven't started his yet, but consider these part of that series' universe. anyways as always thank you for requesting anon and enjoy! <333

Summary: you die + how the boys cope afterward.

Parings: Albedo/Gn! Reader, Xiao/Gn! Reader, Scaramouche/Fem! Reader

Warnings: swearing, angst, death, poison, illness/cancer, murder, arson, obsessive behavior

Word count: 2.1k

Albedo

"You need to keep this on your head." Your lover said for the one-hundredth time, placing the cold cloth on your forehead once again after taking it off only seconds earlier.

"This is pointless," You said, no longer wanting to ignore nor hide behind the invisible thick curtains of the obvious death sentence approaching. "My body rejected the medicine the first twice doses, what's a third time going to do?" You asked, knowing Albedo wouldn't answer; your hope was to knock some sense into his thick skull. but he was too worried trying to ignore the obvious as you had previously been doing, not anymore though.

This was saddening to watch, both Albedo's unfolding and the girl who accidentally poisoned you, whimpering into Sucrose's shoulder. She was only a young girl, barely seventeen when she was chosen to work under Sucrose and your boyfriend. She was very good at Alchemy and luckily had a desire to practice the craft. But unfortunately, she hadn't paid much attention when it came to Surcrose's educational poison lesson and had unknowingly mixed up poisonous liquids and materials.

After tipping over some clutter in Albedo's office and knocking over a test tube laying unsealed on the counter, you had realized the contents spilled on your skin, bleaching into your pores. You had been tasked with bringing the famed alchemist and his assistant some vials and materials for the collection of a rare butterfly they had found. It was both telling and obvious that something was wrong when you never showed up with the required materials requested and it was already too late hours later when the chief Alchemist, his assistant, and Alchemist in training came bounding down the stairs of Albedo's home laboratory.

It didn't take long for the trio to realize something was wrong. Sucrose had found the vile on the floor, most of its contents spilled and in a little puddle, plus your state on a nearby lounge chair was obvious; slumped awkwardly, forehead visibly sweating, eyes closed, breathing raspily.

You accepted the first doses of the supposed nullifying medicine without hesitation, just wanting the numbing feeling to go away. But when it never kicked in you decided it would be best to save the medicine, because it wasn't working. Your time was coming.

"Since the medicine is taking immediate effect, you should try to get the contents out of your system," He said, reaching out for you. Badly you wanted to argue that the medicine wasn't working at all, but he wasn't listening and already has his lean arms wrapped around your middle, helping gently lift and guide you over to the sink.

You hear materials being shoved to the side and soon enough you had your head dangling over the sink, shaking hands gripping the metalled edge tightly. Soon enough, Albedo's hand was on your back rubbing up and down, hoping to comfort you, it wasn't working though. You could only think about your death, what the other side would look like. Could there even be heaven or hell, maybe a place in between, maybe nowhere...?

As soon as you felt the urge to vomit, you did, and despite it being utterly disgusting Albedo seemed to welcome it happily. He took this as something good, but it only worried you when you saw the reddish hues in the bile.

"I think they should leave." You muttered acknowledging Sucrose and Elizabeth, the taste of gooey, metal only becoming more apparent. The blonde agreed, nodding and muttering "Okay."

As Sucrose lead Elizabeth towards the stairs, the pair heard you say. "Goodbye Sucrose, Elizabeth." Which only seemed to make the young girl wail louder.

You sighed sadly once the silence was back. Just your thoughts of death, and Albedo's slowly crushing heart.

"You should probably leave soon as well. I don't want you to be here when I go." Albedo frowned at your statement, head shaking.

"Don't say things like that."

Of course, he'd say that. Why did he feel the need to ignore this when it would only come back to hurt him even more later on when you were gone?

"You're the smartest man I know and we both know where this is heading," You said, head feeling much heavier than before. It was getting closer to your time. "I'm going to die, and you can't do anything about it."

"I'm not leaving your side. We promised to stick together through everything, you can't ask me to leave."

"I guess... But promise me this."

"When I go, stop blaming Elizabeth. It was an accident..." You said sincerely. Albedo wanted to make a fuss about it, tell you he'd never been able to forgive her. But for you, he would try. If it was your list desire, your last wish, he'd make it come true. Though it would be difficult. Accidental or not, she was the reason you were leaving him here, alone.

"Okay, I'll try..." He said honestly.

"Thank you," You said, letting out a shaking breath you had been holding for a very long time. Now you felt much more peaceful. "And since I know you stubbornly won't leave," You started, finally turning away from the sink to look into his cerulean eyes. "At least hold my hand."

"Of course, love."

even a year after your death, no matter how hard he tried, there was still this nagging feeling every time he looked at Elizabeth

he wanted too badly forgive her, but he couldn't

she had, although accidental, taken the one person that meant so much to him and he'd never forgive

Albedo is gonna be distant towards everyone he knows and it's completely purposeful

he doesn't like the pitiful gazes that people send his way and he hates that all the captains stared at him at your funeral

obviously, some questioned if he was able to stay in the field

he hadn't taken any time off, even when Jean advised he was welcome and that it would be best

tbh, albedo's going to have a hard time for a while

Xiao

Why did it have to be you? Why not him? He'd feel much better knowing you could live another day, after all, he'd been living a very long time.

But no, the fallen Archons, Gods, Yaksha had chosen you to join them. He wished that weren't the case

Humans and their pathetic vessels... So weak, he thought. Allowing something like cancer to beat them.

No matter how harsh it sounded, he didn't despise you, no. It wasn't your fault. You didn't ask for this. He just knew that if you were a godly being this wouldn't have happened like this or at least not so soon; Xiao had known Gods that had terminal illnesses to live years. Why couldn't you be like them?

He hated watching you lie there in that bed, immobile, sickly, and tired, and all you could say was that everything was going to be alright, that he'd be alright.

But it wasn't. He wouldn't be okay without you. He would struggle daily, fall deeper into a hole. You were the light of his life, the only light in his life. And you were gone, just like that. Turning external scars into internal ones tattered all over his dying heart.

Xiao for the longest time has been by himself, so the people of Liyue know it'll be harder for him to overcome this, no matter what he says or does to prove otherwise

Zhongli in particular knows how hard this will be for his friend

his first and probably last love, dead, gone in the blink of an eye

he'll continue fighting all the monsters he crosses, becoming even more violent when he does so, trying his best to get rid of this stupid sickly feeling of heartbreak

but it won't go away, no matter what he does, no matter how absurd

he just wants the feeling to go away, he despises that feeling so much

if you have a secret place somewhere, like in the mountains, Zhongli often finds him there, wallowing in invisible self-pity

"You know they wouldn't want you to be like this." Zhongli would say, only trying to help

but it doesn't

it only enrages Xiao, even more, fuels him to push everyone out of his life again instead of letting them in like he'd done in your presence

Scaramouche

How dare you. How dare you leave him like this. Alone, nonetheless with a toddler to raise who kept crying for her mommy. He couldn't do this without you, he didn't know how to raise a child, speak to her with the gentle care that you did. That was your expertise but now he'd be doing it solo.

And never again would he entrust someone who he cares about, into ignorant, incompetent arms. Never again will he ever allow any member of the Fatui to watch after his daughter; no matter their rank or position. They had one job while he was away doing business in Liyue. Guard your home twenty-four seven, accompany you into Inazuma's port town should you need anything, watch after his daughter while she plays happily in the luscious Inazuma fields. And they couldn't do that. All he gave them was one simple task, watch and keep you and your daughter safe. Instead, they slacked off, probably drunk in some bar while you were being brutally attacked by murderous mercenaries, left to fend for you and your daughter, only to die protecting her and leave your home to be severely burned.

He knew those idiotic Fatui soldiers were incompetent the moment he stepped foot into the harbor and found that everyone seemed to quiet down. Especially the eerily silent soldiers flanked on each side to welcome him home; he was the highest-ranking soldier in the land of Inazuma after all. Not a single one bothered to step forward and tell him what was wrong, what they all criminally allowed happen. Scaramouche only realized what had happened when he was mere minutes away from arriving home, his daughter had come running from his widowed mother's arms, the sight of smoke rising in the air, from the direction of his home. You were nowhere to be seen.

It all happened so fast, in the blink of an eye. His daughter was clinging to his shirt and his mother only stared with tears of pity.

It didn't take long for the puzzle pieces to be put together and before he knew it, Scaramouche was standing in front of his home, part of it burnt to a crisp and black.

He didn't need to ask what happened, he didn't need to know where you were, because he already knew. What he didn't know was who exactly had done this. But he was going to find out, now.

Incompetent, selfish, bastards. They would all pay for this. The lazy piggish Fatui soldiers who he should've never trusted with such a simple task and the thieves who had murdered you. They all had it rightfully coming.

Scaramouche hates the world after he lost you

he hates it so much and can't understand how this had happened

he's not a good person, so he blames it on karma and those stupid idiots who couldn't protect you

ngl, he's not gonna be around much after your death... his mother would argue that he should be here to raise your daughter, because she's also in pain and doesn't understand that this isn't some game of hide and seek this time

instead, he's focused and driven by revenge

he doesn't listen to a word anybody says, he's much more dangerous than before, and he only trusts his judgment

anyone trying to get him to stop his mission, is someone who doesn't want to see him happy he thinks (though that's not true at all. they hate that he is obsessive over this) but he will personally put a stop to that

and he'll only return home to his daughter and mother when he finds who did this and they along with their bloodline is exterminated

while he's gone, the remainder of his family is relocated somewhere he knows they'll be safe, for example, even though he despises childe, he knows his mom and daughter will be safe with his family

sorry, but Scaramouche will hold this deep-rooted hatred and love for you after you die

yes, he still loves and misses you dearly, but he hates you for leaving him alone, hates that although it wasn't intentional and out of your control, that you were gone

no matter how hard you tried to fight, it was selfish of you to leave him like this

he's not going to stop until he believes whoever was behind this is dead

and in his case, he'll stop believing when he chooses, even if they are innocent/guilty, he'll keep going

3.19.21, rayofsunas

#rayofsunas #genshin impact #genshin impact imagines #genhsin impact scenarios #albedo #albedo x reader #xiao #xiao x reader #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader

[dialovers-translations]

DIABOLIK LOVERS Do-S Kyuuketsu VERSUS II Vol.5 Ruki VS Kou [Track 1]

Original title: エデンの林檎

Source: Diabolik Lovers VERSUS II Vol. 5 Ruki VS Kou [CD not owned by me]

Audio: Here

Seiyuu: Takahiro Sakurai & Kimura Ryouhei

Translator’s note: I probably should have planned this a little better instead of doing two VERSUS CDs back to back but this is the last item on my current request so I’m rolling with it anyway. I do enjoy the VERSUS II series a lot because the lunar eclipse makes the boys act a little different from their usual self which is very interesting! Definitely a huge improvement over the original VERSUS CDs which are just one hour long of the MC suffering and tons of blood-sucking scenes. xD

Track 1 ll Track 2 ll Track 3 ll Track 4 ll Track 5 ll Track 6

→  LIKE MY TRANSLATIONS? SUPPORT ME ON KO-FI!

Track 1: Apple of Eden

*Flip*

Ruki: ーー And so at this cursed moment, Eve thoughtlessly reached out her hand and grabbed the fruit, before picking off a piece and consuming it.

You listen carefully.

Ruki: Pain washed over the earth as the ground rumbled in agony as a sign of grief. Everything had been lost. The snake who had tempted Eve sneakily slithered his way back into the bushes.

You speak up.

Ruki: Hm? Is something the matter?

You tell him you recognize the story. 

Ruki: Ah, this story must seem familiar to you, no? Livestock. It’s a snippet from Paradise Lost, a story you should be well versed in. I just felt like reciting it out loud. Did I interrupt your own reading?

You shake your head.

Ruki: I see. I’m glad then.

You close your book.

Ruki: Why don’t we let our eyes rest for a bit and have a little chat? After all, as you can see, the collection of books here is so extensive, you could never finish reading them all even if you spend an entire lifetime’s worth on it. According to what that man once told me, all knowledge from across the whole world has been gathered here in Eden.

You seem impressed. 

Ruki: In other words, your body will not last if you do not take a break every now and then. No point in acting tough.

Ruki gets up.

Ruki: Well then. Let us go watch the waterfall from the balcony on the other side. With the sun setting, we should be able to witness a beautiful scenery.

You grab hold of his hand as the two of you head towards the balcony.

Ruki: Karlheinz-sama is the one who invited us here, but what is your impression of Eden so far?

You admit it is a bit overwhelming. 

Ruki: That makes sense. I was shaking on my legs when I first came to this land after I had just become a Vampire.”

The two of you step out on the balcony.

Ruki: I could not believe such a beautiful place actually existed in this world. That being said, to this day I am still not quite sure if this still counts as part of the realm of the living. (1) ...Well, at the very least, we can conclude this area is not normal.

You tilt your head to the side.

Ruki: The waterfall comes pouring down surrounding the castle, with flowers blooming all year round. The temperature is never too cold nor too hot. Yet the sun still sets as the moon rises. I can definitely see the resemblence to Heaven.

You ask Ruki how it is possible. 

Ruki: I assume all of it is influenced by Karlheinz-sama’s magic. This is truly a mysterious place. ...Hm? The full moon has become visible in the East.

You turn your head.

Ruki: Don’t you think it looks somewhat different from usual? ...Ah, I see. The eclipse must have started.”

You nod.

Ruki: You must have certainly heard the word before? I am sure it must be happening tonight. I can sense the voice of the moon. ...Tsk. Don’t tell me he called us over here, knowing very well that this would happen...? No, I suppose I am overthinking thing. They say that the lunar eclipse makes us Vampires grow unstable. There have even been cases of conflicts between two Vampires as a direct result of such, or at least that is what I have heard. Although I am not certain if the same effects will occur to our Mukami family.

You ask him why.

Ruki: We were originally human, remember? Although we are far from powerless thanks to the blood given to us by Karlheinz-sama.

You frown.

Ruki: What’s wrong? There’s no reason to be anxious. You get to spend this special night at Eden, be sure to enjoy it to the fullest.

He suddenly closes in on you.

*Rustle*

Ruki: Livestock...You came here for that reason as well, did you not?

You protest. 

Ruki: Hmph. No point in acting stubborn and trying to deny it. Stay with me tonight. This is not a request. It’s an order.

You become flustered.

Ruki: Or have you perhaps promised to meet up with someone else already?

You shake your head.

Ruki: Then I see no problem. The nights at Eden are long. I shall cherish you thoroughly.

You sigh.

Ruki: Are you feeling dissatisfied?

You tell him you’re only a little sleepy. 

Ruki: In that case, I do not mind telling you about a strange tale which occurred here in Eden as a bedtime story. ...Mmh.

*Smooch*

Ruki: ...’Alf Laylah wa-Laylah’ (2) like those in the book you read earlier, okay? Thousand and One Nights. I wouldn’t be opposed to telling one story after the other. Speaking of which, the Thousand and One Nights features a King who had grown bitter after his wife’s unfaithfulness, inviting women over to spend the night only to kill them each time, until a clever woman decides to tell him bedtime stories till morning and therefore evade her own death.

*Rustle*

Ruki: Mm...

*Smooch*

Ruki: I honestly would not mind spending a thousand nights with you.

You seem surprised.

Ruki: Is it strange to hear those words coming from me?

You nod.

Ruki: I do not believe that to be the case myself, but if you say so, you must be right. This might be proof that I am affected by the moon.

ーー TO BE CONTINUED ーー

Translation notes

(1) The term この世 or ‘kono yo’ literally means ‘this world’ and it is often used to refer to Earth/the place you live in while you are alive. The opposite would be  あの世 or ‘ano yo’, which is used to refer to the afterlife, Heaven/Hell. 

(2) The Arabian title of ‘Thousand and One Nights’

#diabolik lovers #dialovers #ruki mukami #kou mukami #diabolik lovers VERSUS II #diabolik lovers translation #diabolik lovers drama cd #drama cd

[brahkest-fr]

Fuckin uhhh Taro musings and Janus is there

Taro flicked his tail, brushing gently against Janus’ leg who was at the moment spacing out over a stack of dishes messily smeared with this night’s takeout dinner.

“Here I’ll wash those,” he grabbed the stack and moved over to the sink.

His ivory hair was down and ruffled as was its usual state after a night of drinking and going out on the town in drag. He grabbed it up in a clean, tight bun and tied it back, a few strands hanging down the sides of his face. He adjusted his tube dress that was probably a little too short and not so comfortable for chores. He let the sink run and fill up, soapy water engulfing his wrists. He looked back at Janus who simply stood staring with his usual sparkling eyes that were now just a bit hazy with weariness.

Taro uttered a low laugh, “Hah, still buzzed, Janus? I told you, you couldn’t handle it.”

“Whatever grandpa,” he snapped up, “I’m not the one who almost fell down the stairs tonight sober,” he sneered, taking the clip on earrings out of his ear.

Taro’s lipstick stained mouth turned down as he narrowed his eyes, “Hmph, they're new heels and was breaking them in.”

“By breaking your ass?” Janus bent over and held his back in mock pain.

Taro whipped his arm and splashed Janus who scurried away beyond the kitchen into the adjacent living room. He toppled on the couch and groaned after a few snickers at Taro’s direction. The couch was cozy and he was a little groggy from their night out so he lounged, heavy and eyes fluttering, but the itch from his fishnets was nagging. He sluggishly sat up, reaching up his dress to unhook the garters holding up the stockings. He slipped them off and threw them on the coffee table, feeling relieved. After some minutes, Taro strode over with his purse, plopping down on a leather recliner. He undid his hair, letting it fall to his shoulders again and took out a packet of makeup wipes. He snagged a few then threw it to Janus who caught it with some difficulty.

Taro wiped his face, blush and dark eyeliner staining the cloth. He looked to Janus, “You going home or staying here?”

“Do you want me to stay?”

Taro was midway undoing an earring before pausing, “Why do you always answer like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like that! With questions.”

Janus smiled, “I like putting you on the spot.”

“Tch.” Taro gingerly placed his earrings on the table and combed his hair with finely manicured claws dotted with tiny pink petals.

Janus leaned in, half an eye smeared with mascara, smug as ever, “You didn’t answer me.”

Taro squinted, brow raised. Anyone else would have immediately received a sharp hook to the jaw for such brashness but it was never like that with Janus. Maybe a long time ago when they first met and Taro’s opinion of the fae was pond scum adjacent. Even then he couldn’t help but avoid punishing Janus for his impetuosity. He was simply too useful and good at his job.

-

That’s what he would tell himself anyway, as he sat irate in meetings with his officers who would complain about the brash young fae that threw his weight around as if he were a breed larger. Each request to restrain Janus was met with excuses from Taro, many of which were legitimate but others being deeply rooted attempts to disguise his favoritism. It didn’t fool anyone though and no one was surprised a sentimental Taro attached himself to someone else after his wife had left so suddenly. He was never really sure if Janus acted as some substitute for Mellow who was in many ways like him: loud and opinionated and a thorn in his side. The difference was Janus was here. And she was not.

He often tried to suppress those thoughts which he felt were more selfish than genuine. A piece of his life’s puzzle had long since been missing and for some time, Janus felt too lopsided and out of place to fit. He wracked with the idea that Janus could be anything more than a particularly talented goon but that was quickly drowned out by the many imaginings of how they could be something together. As years passed, Taro and Janus saw each other less as boss and goon and more as close friends. Taro persistently kept up appearances but his favoritism would often slip which, in the beginning, surprised Janus who wasn’t very well versed in reading Taro’s stone faced demeanor. Nowadays, he could read him like a book. It gave Taro a sense of weakness, being figured out so easily, but also a sense of comfort. He wanted someone to know him again. It was lonely, being at the top of the world.

Things became harder when Rose hatched. Taro was so desperate to keep what little shred of solace he had with Janus that used Rose to do it. He regretted it deeply but the damage was done. Taro made it his mission to make himself integral to their lives, in some part to atone for his actions and another to gain the sense of family that he longed for. He knew it was selfish and so did Janus but the fae never pushed him away or rejected the help. Taro felt good knowing Janus needed him but the guilt if it all reminded him that it was his fault in the first place. It was wrong of him to throw himself into their lives like a train without brakes but he always gave Janus the opportunity to refuse. He hoped at least, Janus knew that. It was never something the two talked about, always concerning themselves with Rose this and Rose that. Maybe they just avoided conflicting for her sake.

Taro focused much of his attention on Rose to compensate for the emotions running wild in his gut. It was easy to lose himself in the care of a hatchling. He was familiar with the motions, having taken the late night responsibilities of caring for his own kids when Mellow went to sleep. Rose was much like them in the way that the Icewarden was like the Flamecaller. She screamed a lot, bit anything within reach, and persistently tried to rip his whiskers off. He simply could not be anymore proud of the little girl with murder in her eyes laced with a softness reserved for only those closest. He felt himself go back in time with her, back to a period where he was a father and was allowed to be kind and open and vulnerable. But at the same time, she was like sandpaper: chaffing his conscience in painful ways that made him regret being a part of anything at all and yet... smoothed out all the hard edges he built up to protect himself.

He wasn’t keen on admitting it but Rose was everything he wanted in a child. Unlike his own, she was raised in the mob life, trained to defend herself and strike back with a ferocity not unlike his own. She grew up to be crude and calculated despite the cutesy exterior. Taro’s idea of family was twisted and warped by his chosen life path but he felt good - enabled by Rose and Janus, both of whom were very familiar with this unconventional lifestyle. They were the things Mellow and his children weren’t: warm and loving but violent and realistic, tempered by the brutal streets of Hewn City. Mellow... she dreamed of this life but when it came down to it, she couldn’t stay. The stars in her eyes faded once she finally reached the peak of the city’s high rises and looked down on everything she had to crush to get there. So, one day, she left with the children to reevaluate her life and Taro, miserable but understanding, let her. Rose and Janus however? They wouldn’t leave him. That particular thought always hit him like a kick to the gut.

Selfish.

He wasn't supposed to have this slice of happiness but he carved it out all the same with a confidence that disguised pained hesitation.

The first time Taro “mentioned” his feelings to Janus was a cold night on the balcony of his apartment. It was snowing that night and Janus busied himself to catching snowflakes on his tongue that he remarked tasted different than the ones back in Ice. Taro couldn’t be bothered to decipher the intricacies of frozen water and Janus noticed. He leaned on the railing beside Taro and bumped an elbow to his side.

“You alright man? Been kinda spacey today.”

Taro stared out into the heart of Hewn City, mindlessly following cars as they zipped around the grid of streets below. His whiskers drooped ever so slightly, a motion unnoticeable to anyone else but present company, as he mouthed a few nothings then spoke, “Of course I am.”

Janus pursed his lips, “Uh huh. Come on, Taro, you should know by now I’m not stupid.”

Like a book, Taro thought.

“Seriously, Taro. What’s up?”

Taro shifted on the railing, turning around to lean back against it, face to the sky. Snow fluttered down softly, landing on his face where they melted instantly from the flush of heat rising to his cheeks. Janus watched curiously as Taro tilted his head in his direction but just enough to keep his eyes out of full view.

He mumbled, “Been thinking about us.”

Janus perked his ears, “Us? What about us?”

Taro gingerly inched his tufted tail towards Janus’ and it lingered there, longer than it usually did. Janus was all too familiar with Taro’s little mannerisms, slight touches and quirks that he came to learn were the ways he preferred to communicate. It was easier than words for him despite how articulate the imp was normally. In many ways, Taro was as poor at talking about his feelings as Janus was at understanding them but in that moment on the balcony he understood. Taro didn’t look his way but continued hanging his head back, snow catching on the loose strands of hair sticking out of his ponytail. It was a pleasant moment the two cherished in silence, the feeling of mutual understanding as a warm embrace against the chill. Janus didn’t move a muscle in fear of Taro retracting and looked towards the sliding door of the apartment. Rose was inside on the couch, sharpening one of her many knives and oblivious to the two outside.

Janus halfheartedly smiled, not quite sure if he was doing it right, “I getcha.”

“Does it bother you?” Taro’s deep voice was barely audible.

“No, it’s just,” Janus scrunched his face, “I guess I don’t know how to feel about it yet. Sorry if I look weird, I’m just trying to figure it out. You know how it is.”

Taro inched closer, “I know. I just figured I should say something.” He gestured vaguely, “In some...way, before, you know, I die or something.”

“Pff, you’re not that old.”

“I could get assassinated you know. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Janus paused for a serious moment then quipped, “Rose does really like your apartment...”

Taro slapped his tail against Janus’ leg and he jumped away laughing. Times like this would occur over and over again as Taro became more comfortable with his little visions of domestic life with Janus and Rose. He gave away little signs and signals of his affection even if Janus did not always reciprocate, which was fine with him. He was simply happy being allowed to indulge in such gestures, only saddened when he was too embarrassed to be himself in front of Rose who had a rather big mouth and made it obvious that the two were being mushy gushy old men. It was funny how Taro could beat a dragon near to death in his office and order Rose to giddily mop up the blood but shirked at the idea of being too intimate with Janus. Part of him didn’t want to push the fae and another wanted to keep up appearances even though he could hardly care at this point and violently made sure no one else did either. He could be patient though. Janus was perpetually trying to figure himself out and Taro was happy to let him. He had an entire lifetime of coming to terms with his own feelings and wanted to afford Janus the same luxury.

-

Taro twirled a hair around a finger as he crossed his legs and lounged back. He cocked his head in mock thought, eyeing nothing in particular about the living room. Janus' shiny dress creaked and crinkled as he leaned in closer, elbows on the cusp in his knees.

"Come on man, I'm running out of leg here."

Taro smiled warmly, "Stay. Please."

“FINALLY,” he flopped back and slouched, “I’m going to bed. All my shit’s back at my place so gimme one of your shirts because there’s no way I’m sleeping in this.”

“I’ll give you that ‘Foxy Grandpa’ one Rose gave me for my birthday.”

“On second thought, maybe I'll stay in the dress.”

#I wrote this half awake pls no bully #anyway SOMEBODY said I was blueballing everyone with these fuckos so here you go some actual mush #smh making me actually advance my lore like some kind of content creator #fr lore #taro #janus #flight rising #imperial #fae #long post

[simpsiren]

hellooo! I love your writing style!! hope everything is going well for you. if it’s possible, I would like to request a chenle imagine where the reader is also an idol and they do a collab then eventually get into a relationship? thank you!!! <33 stay safe and take care of yourself!!!!

genre. angst, fluff

word count. 2.4k~

warnings. none!

a/n. i hope you’re doing well too! omg this req is certainly adorable and i couldn’t help myself to just make this so fluffyy anyways i hope you’re staying safe as well and enjoy readinggg!! <3

“So...”

The air between us was thick. The silence was extremely uncomfortable. I didn’t think that working with NCT’s Chenle for a collab would be anything like this. I didn’t like how I got the request to do this so suddenly, and I didn’t have the right to reject since my manager kept forcing it on me.

We were stuck in the conference room. Everyone that’s part of the collab have already left and told us to get the song started. Chenle was seating on the opposite side, head hung low as he twirled his pen between his fingers, staring down at a blank sheet of paper. “Why did you suggest that we composed the music ourselves? It would have been much easier if we didn’t have to.” I said, shaking my head and leaning forward, an elbow on the table as I pinched my temples.

Chenle sighed and lifted his eyes off the paper and onto me. “I’m sorry for wanting to be original?” He retorted back, lifting his free hand up to run it through his hair and shaking his head, his fluffy hair following.

“I know we don’t want this. So let’s just tell our managers to call it off.” I stood up from my seat and headed to the door. Just when I had my hand on the door handle, Chenle slammed his pen on hard on the table, the sound pierced through my ears, flinching a little due to shock.

“I already accepted it and unlike you, I don’t have the heart to let people down.” His eyes intimidatingly trailed from the paper and to me. Our eyes locked and we had an intensive staring competition to what fet like almost a minute. “So sit and help me write the lyrics.”

I huffed with frustration, stomping back to the chair and sitting down roughly. “We can work on it next week. Does it have to be now?” I asked with annoyance.

It was late at night. I didn’t have the mood to do this. And I bet neither does he. It’s only been hours since we met in person and we’re already having such tensions. It’s probably my fault that we got off the wrong foot, but I’m just that way. My manager knew me well enough to know that I don’t like doing collabs with other idols. But here we are. And Chenle is giving me zero chances to back out.

“You know what? Fine. We can stop here. But I better have some sort of idea from you.” He breathed out, clearly sounding annoyed as well. He pushed his chair back and grabbing his belongings. After cleaning the table, he went to the door. After glaring at me and rolling his eyes, he left.

I placed a hand on the table, leaning my body as I faced the door. I scoffed, glaring as if he was still standing there.

“Why did Mister Koh make me do this?” I whined out angrily, slamming my head on the table as I groaned out.

I was informed to meet Chenle at a recording room. And when I got there, I was met with an extremely intimidating Chenle. I don’t know what he’s pissed about. But he was looking at me as if he’s staring into my soul. Or perhaps it was just his resting bitch face. Either way, I did not like that look on him. Is he only like this towards me?

“I’m here. And I did come up with a few ideas.” I sat down on the chair beside him. He was sitting in front of a piano. He spun his chair around to face me. “You’re late.” Chenle stated with a firm tone.

I nodded my head. “Yeah. Not my fault. I had a recording session.” I simply replied, matter-of-factly. I began putting my bag down and taking out my notebook that had my ideas along with a pen. “Did you come up with the melody for it as well?” Chenle asked. He got closer to me, peeking at my notes. I closed it and pulled it away from his eyes.

I gulped, realising just how close he was to me. The two of us looked at my notebook that was in the air before making eye contact. I didn’t know what happened, but we didn’t bother moving back, or pulling away from each other’s gaze.

I cleared my throat, shaking my head as I placed the notebook back down and flipped to the pages where I had my ideas. I slide the notebook to Chenle. He grabbed it and allowed his eyes scan through the notes. “I liked the one you cancelled out.” Chenle said with a shrug. He moved his chair to the piano and began playing a few notes.

I read over what I cancelled out and remembered why I did. “You weren’t suppose to read that.”

“But I did. And I like it.”

“But I don’t.”

The two of us looked to each yet again, his brows cocked up while I blinked my eyes. “Let me try something.” Chenle started pressing on his piano again, switching from key to key like trail and error. He then cleared his throat and propped my notebook in front of him. He leaned forward to read the lyrics and began singing. I was able to note a few things from just watching him for fifteen seconds.

One, his voice was beautiful. Of course, that’s true to all idols in the world. But his was unique. For the first time in a long time, I felt goosebumps forming on my skin when I heard it for the first time. I mean, to be honest I never listened to NCT which is why I’m so unfamiliar. Again I blame Mister Koh for dragging me to work with someone I have never known about but that’s besides the point. His voice is the kind that could put you to sleep, one that puts you at complete peace no matter the situation, it makes the world slow down and revolve all its energy around him, and only him.

Second, he’s fast. Very fast. In terms of being able to sing my lyrics with a melody together with a piano. I realised how he was able to note the feelings the listeners should get from my lyrics, and bringing it out with the piano. He sang it very well. I loved it, as much as I want to deny due to Chenle.

“How’d you even-” I asked, gasping weakly at the end. Chenle gave a warm smile. A new smile that lit up his entire face, not the expressionless one that gives off bitchy vibes. He was truly happy, that I could instantly tell. It was a smile that’s entirely different from last week. I kind of felt my heart softened at the sight.

“Let’s work with this.”

It’s late at night. Very late into the night. The two of us had long schedules today but yet we had to meet at the recording studio to finish up the song. We’re almost finished with it. 

“We can end it off with the chorus but sing it in a different key. And back it up with some high vocals.” Chenle suggested, looking at me. I nodded my head, rubbing my eyes and forcing them open, trying my hardest to not fall asleep on sight. “Want to try recording the high note?” Chenle fiddled around with the controls in front of him. I never knew how that thing worked. I took in a deep breath, swallowing after.

“I can’t do high notes. I mean I used to but it’s not my thing anymore.” I let out, resting my cheek in the palm of my hand. Chenle sat there in silence, not knowing what to reply. He seemed tired as well, seeing how long he took to process my words. He eventually hummed but shook his head. “I want you to try. I think it’ll sound good.” Chenle insisted, standing up to open the door that lead to the recording booth.

I frowned, lazily shaking my head. “Please we can just use your voice for that part.” I tried flashing him my puppy face, eyes batting in his direction as my brows sunk and I deepen my frown, to which he responded with a scrunched up nose and face, scrutinizing me up and down. “Don’t ever do that again. It looks horrible on you.” Chenle dryly commented, his bead jerking towards the recording studio. 

I sighed and pushed myself off my chair, walking towards Chenle. I flared him a glare with feigned exasperation. Chenle chuckled softly and closed the door as soon as I entered. Chenle went back to his seat in front of the control panels. After seeing him adjusts a few more things through the glass, he leaned forward.

“I’ll start playing from the end of verse two. You can try singing your part of the bridge if you’d like.” Chenle spoke into the mic after I placed my headphones on. I hummed and nodded my head. After a few seconds of warming up my voice, I gave him a thumbs up and I signal to start the music.

It began playing in my ears and I took in a deep breath before singing. I took Chenle’s advice offering to sing a note or so higher than I usually do. It felt uncomfortable which made me stop singing for a moment as I got nervous. 

“It’s okay. Keep going. It was nice.” Chenle whispered calmly. I felt myself being soothed and calmed by his voice yet again. I turned my head to him, who was looking back at me with hopeful, gentle, and sweet eyes. He dipped his head down slightly as a way to urge me to keep going. 

I puffed up my cheeks and huffed quietly, waiting for my part to come in. At that moment, I couldn’t take my eyes off Chenle, and neither can he. We locked eyes and time paused. In that split second, I took a picture of the moment in my head. I didn’t know why, but I wanted it to be remembered. A simple thing like holding eye contact with Chenle had my stomach churning and butterflies being produced. I couldn’t possibly be falling for Chenle, right?

I continued to sing, my eyes still fully locked on with Chenle. I flashed a soft smile after I finished. Removing the headphones, I placed them down and walked out the recording booth. Chenle immediately stood up from his seat and run up, pulling me to him and hugging me tightly. 

“That was amazing! Why didn’t sing like that in your other songs?!” Chenle shouted with excitement. I stood there frozen, not being able to move an inch of my body. I felt my heart skipping a beat, heat rushing up to my cheeks. Why am I feeling like this? As if I had always hoped for something like this to happen over the times we’ve spent together.

Chenle notice how I wasn’t hugging back. I was so stiff. He pulled away, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck, breathing out a soft chuckle. “S-Sorry about that.” He whispered. He had his head up, was looking everywhere but me, which made me tilt my head in awe.

“Thanks. It felt weird at first.” I interlocked my fingers in front of me. “Should we order food? I’m hungry.” I asked, trying to change the subject so we wouldn’t have to face this weird gap between us. Chenle nodded firmly and quickly, grabbing his phone out of his sweatpants. “Let’s see what they have.”

I looked at the time. 3:02AM. We just finished eating and we were sitting silently on our phones next to each other. I yawned loudly, covering my mouth to excuse myself. I felt my eyes closing and my brain switching off. I was this close to falling asleep. But I knew we still had to record the full song.

“You tired?” Chenle whispered, not looking at me as his eyes were kept glued to his phone. I hummed softly, my head hanging low as I kept jerking myself awake. “A little. Just let me sleep for a little while longer before we record again.”

Suddenly, I felt a hand lightly pressing on the side of my ear. It was Chenle’s, slowly guiding my head to rest on his shoulder. “Was just trying to get you comfortable.” He blurted out, he tilted his eyes down on me before quickly switching back to his phone, coughing lightly. I chuckled. “Thanks.”

I closed my eyes fully, smacking my lips as I moved my head around a little to find a comfortable spot on his shoulder, which eventually ended up being the crook of his neck. Absentmindedly, I breathed in his scent. He wasn’t wearing any perfume but it smelt like he was. I sighed calmly.

I felt his body moving, His arm was placed around my shoulder, pulling me closer to him. I felt my heart beating faster as I realised I was laying on top of him, his chest going up and down as he breathed.

“Are you okay with this?” Chenle asked politely, his hand going up to my head and stroking my hair gently, his touch ever so light and fragile. “Oddly enough, I am. I’m just too tired.” I rest my head on his chest, my eyes were now back open since I cannot shake the fact that we’re in this state. Why am I enjoying this so much? What’s Chenle doing to me?

I was the first one to wake up. He sleeping figure still below me. I slowly lifted up my hand, my fingers traced the features of his well made face. I moved my hand up to his hair, ever so lightly running my fingers through them as I took the time to admire its softness, twirling them in my fingers.

“Enjoying my hair?” Chenle said, voice low and raspy. I gasped lightly, looking down from his hair and my eyes met his. He had a slight smirk on his face. I scoffed and pulled away, sitting up straight and folding my arms. “Didn’t.” I felt his hand on my wrist.

Out of the blue, he pulled me back down in an instant. He smiled softly. “Again.” He simply said. I raised a brow. “What?” I questioned, utterly confused. He guided my hand back up to his hair. I blinked my eyes rapidly. Chenle didn’t speak a word after, closing his eyes as I assumed he was going back to sleep.

I bit my lower lip in nervousness, playing with his hair again as he hummed in satisfaction. I laughed and shook my head. “Cute.” I whispered.

“You more.” Chenle wasn’t asleep.

#nct x reader #nct #nct 2020 #nct imagines #nct 127 #nct ff #nct fluff #nct imagine #nct scenarios #nct angst #nct chenle #chenle #nct zhong chenle #zhong chenle #nct fanfic #chenle x reader #nct chenle x reader #nct chenle fluff #nct chenle imagines

[lovelylogans]

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.

#anonymous #ask #my post #text #my fic #my fanfic #the sideshire files

[vintagedolan]

sweet creature (egd)

ethan hates when he has to leave you for even a few days, so when he gets back, he has a little surprise planned

word count: 4.3k

warnings/tags: fluff, and then some smut to round it out WOO we goin through it today ladies and gents, harry styles (music) is involved :) 

dedicated to my bruna bby ( @ethanhes​ ) who is so strong and the sweetest girly I know. I love you!!

feel free to send in requests! and check out my masterlist if you wanna :)

Like hell you were gonna make another trip - you slid the last grocery bag onto your arm, ignoring how they were digging into your skin as you started your walk into the house. If anyone had watched you try to navigate your way in the door, it probably would have been quite the sight. But you succeeded, emerging into an empty kitchen, heaving the heavy bags up onto the counter.

Usually, you’d yell down the hall, summon the boys to help you unpack. But it would be futile - no one was home. Not even Sterling was around - the three of them were off on Wakeheart business, at the factory in Arizona where everything was actually produced so they could approve all the candle production.

You’d gotten a few pictures from the trip - bright colorful sunsets, Grayson and Sterling smiling from across the table at breakfast. But your favorites were the stupid little selfies he kept sending. Your phone buzzed in your pocket as if on cue.

Another snapchat from Ethan, this time of him with a metal straw trapped between his teeth and big smile on his face. Adorable, as always. 

cold brew mood. miss you x was the caption that flitted across the screen. You screenshotted it just in time. The next buzz was a text from him.

:(

why you screenshot

cause you looked cute

send me one back, I miss you

You rolled your eyes at that, deciding to make him wait for a minute while you started to put the groceries away. You’d only unpacked two bags before your phone buzzed again.

hey

show me ur face

omg gimme a minute 😂

im putting away the obscene amount of oat milk I just bought

DID THEY HAVE THE GOOD KIND

yep. bought three cartons

holy shit I love you

gray says he loves you too 

but I love you more

You sent him a quick snapchat to appease him, unsurprised when you got the notification that he’d screenshotted it. He always got like this when he was away - even more clingy than usual, constantly wanting to communicate with you somehow. You had to admit, you loved the idea that you were always on his mind when he wasn’t with you, even if it did mean you felt like you were constantly on your phone.

what else are you doing today?

idk might lay out by the pool for a while

without me? 😔

you should go shopping

You frowned at your phone, looking at the few boxes of pasta you had left to put away before you typed back with a huff.

I literally just got back from the grocery what do u mean

not that kind of shopping

fun shopping. like for clothes

The thought was tempting - with everything going on, you hadn’t gotten anything new in months. To be fair though, you hadn’t really needed anything new - you were just hanging around the house anyways. 

do you want me to go so I’ll stop wearing all your clothes

yes

kidding baby you know I don’t care. but you should get some new stuff, you deserve it! just use my card

I hate using your card

It wasn’t a lie. Ethan had gotten you a credit card linked to his personal account for emergencies almost six months ago, and you’d only used it a handful of times when he insisted. You never wanted him to ever think that you cared about him for his money. 

I’d be buying whatever you find if I was there, it’s the same thing

You grinned to yourself, plan already hatching. He didn’t say what you had to buy. You’d just get something small - a pack of socks, or a basic tee - with his card, and pay for the rest of it yourself. 

alright alright, fine

But his next text had you rolling your eyes. He knew you too well.

and you have buy real clothes. like at least one dress

Even though he wasn’t there to see it, your eyes squinted in accusation. 

why a dress?

you’re being sus what’s this about

you’re so stubborn holy shit. I was gonna buy you dresses for the harry concert so I want you to pick some out for yourself

Damn. You’d almost forgotten that the concert was supposed to be that night. Ethan had bought the two of you tickets back when they went on presale, using his connections to get the two of you amazing seats. E had been almost as bummed as you when it got postponed, disappointed that the night he’d had planned for you had fallen through.

it got rescheduled to august baby, we can go shopping then!

i’m impatient

omg really? I had no idea 

just go buy some dresses and send me pictures. we’re back at the factory, gotta go. I love you!

love you too!

Knowing that if you sat down you probably wouldn’t get back up, you turned back to the door with a sigh, grabbing your keys and wallet from where you’d just stowed them, heading back out to the car.

You climbed into Ethan’s Tesla, hitting your preset button on the door so the seat moved forward to where you could reach the pedals. He always insisted you take his car if he couldn’t drive you, always wanting you to be the safest you could be. It was still a bit intimidating to drive something so expensive, but you did it anyways, heading to the mall that housed most of your favorite stores with your mask on.

It turned out to be one of those days where nothing caught your eye. You really looked, scoured through the racks, hoping to find anything that looked remotely appealing or like your style. You even tried on a few that you had hopes for, but they were a bust. 

Feeling defeated you stopped for a while and got some coffee, sitting and people watching as everyone passed in their masks. Your eyes wandered to another store, one you rarely went into - it catered to your style perfectly, but everything was far out of your price range. 

But looking couldn’t hurt. Right?

That backfired as soon as you walked in, smelled that perfect fragrance that seemed to dust all the soft fabrics in the place. 

Before you knew what you’d done, you had so many options thrown over your arm that it was starting to ache. 

You stopped looking, headed to a dressing room to try and narrow down your search. Some of them were automatic no’s, the cut not flattering or the color clashing with the undertones in your skin.

But there were three winners - a tight green one that hugged your curves, a casual denim overall number that would look adorable with the right shirt, and a blue sundress that tied into a bow at the back, the fabric brushing your upper thighs.

You snapped pictures in each one, knowing Ethan would help you decide. Your bet was on the green one - he was a man, after all. But his response just made you roll your eyes.

you look hot as fuck

buy all three

no

yes

they’re expensive

I didn’t ask how much they cost. You like them all. therefore, you buy them all

it’s simple really

ethan

y/n

just tell me which one is your favorite please

if you don’t buy all three i’m just gonna go back and buy them for you later

or I’ll order them and have them shipped to the house

stop

getting online now 😌

stop it

placing an order 😌 😌

ethan grant

last chance

fine

im sticking my tongue out at you. you can’t see it but I am

ouch, im hurt

are you headed home after you buy them?

well I’m sure as hell not spending anymore money, so yeah. why?

just wondering where my girl’s gonna be. drive safe. you took the tesla right?

of course I did.

good. hurry home. but don’t hurry too much. safety first

You quirked an eyebrow at the last text - he was being so odd. He’d only been gone for two days, usually it wasn’t this bad for him. Who knew what he’d be like tomorrow before he got home.

Changing back into your clothes in a hurry, you put your rejects out on the return rack and carried your three choices to the register, trying not to listen to the total before you put Ethan’s card in the reader. 

You left the mall swiftly after that, trying to ignore the eyes on you. In reality, no one was probably looking at you, but you felt like everyone was staring as you carried your expensive bag and got in a fucking tesla. You never understood how Gray and E could walk around with such expensive things and not be fazed in the slightest. 

The drive home took longer than you would have liked considering the traffic you got caught in, but you just turned your music up, humming along as you crawled down the road towards your exit. When you finally got there you let the tesla take over, pulling you off the interstate and starting down the smaller roads that led to the house. 

Your first clue was when the song changed. At first you didn’t think much of it - you had every Harry song saved to your library, it wasn’t unusual for one to come up. 

But then, one verse into Fine Line, it skipped, the intro of Two Ghosts starting. 30 seconds later? Falling started to play through the car. 

“What the fuck?” You muttered, quickly switching off autopilot, afraid that the car may be glitching. It was only a few more minutes until you got to the house, and in that time the song switched again twice, all Harry songs. 

When you pulled into the driveway and put the car in park, your phone buzzed with your second clue.

welcome home baby

omg are you watching the cameras? that’s creepy as fuck

also the tesla just got super weird but I swear I didn’t fuck up your car

just come inside

You obliged, grabbing your bag and heading into the house.

Clue number three was that the pasta boxes you’d left on the counter were gone, put away no doubt on the shelf that you couldn’t reach. You froze.

Someone was in the house.

You only had a moment to be scared before Ethan appeared around the corner, your favorite grin adorning his face.

“Boo.”

You dropped the bag, running the few steps it took to get to him before you threw your arms around him, breathing him in as he hugged you to him tightly. 

“You guys weren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow!”

“Caught an early flight so I could surprise my girl. Gray and Ster are still in Arizona.” He leaned back so you could look at him, shrugging as if it was no big deal that he’d cut his trip short just to come home to see you.

“Didn’t you have stuff you needed to do?” 

“No, we knocked it out today.”

“Then why didn’t Grayson come ba-”

His lips were on yours then, catching your words as he kissed you hard, a hand coming up to your cheek, thumb running over your cheekbone. “Are you gonna keep asking me questions, or are you gonna let me actually surprise you.”

“There’s more?” The butterflies that only he could bring fluttered in your stomach, and you bit your lip, looking up at him. He leaned down past you, reaching for the bag you’d dropped, placing it back in your hands.

“Maybe. Go put on one of your new dresses, then come out back.” He pressed a quick kiss to your lips before he let go. “Hurry.”

“Okay!” You were practically giddy as you hurried back to Ethan’s room, laying the dresses out on the comforter and trying to decide on one. It took a few minutes, a few switches of holding them up to you in the mirror before you settled on the blue sundress, situating the big sewed bow in the middle of your back. It had a built in bra that was surprisingly comfortable, making it the easiest choice.

Shoving your dresses back in the bag, you didn’t even bother with shoes. You just headed straight for the backyard - but you froze in the living room, taking in the sight through the doors.

The sun was setting on the horizon, painting the sky a baby purple, the clouds a pop of pink as they floated, scattered around. The city was starting to light up below you, and the moon hung high above it. But your eyes were on something - someone - entirely different. 

Ethan was standing in the grass, wearing one of his nice pairs of shorts and a short sleeve patterned button down - you hadn’t even noticed his outfit earlier, you’d been too excited to see him. He was holding a bouquet of sunflowers in his hands, the petals bright yellow even in the dim light.  

He caught sight of you through the glass and immediately hid the flowers behind his back as he stood up straight and smiled like a guy coming to the front door to pick you up for prom.

You pulled the door open, stepping out into the cool California air. It felt almost cold against your flushed cheeks as Ethan looked you up and down, letting out a low whistle.

You just laughed, stopping a few steps in front of him and waiting for whatever he had planned. 

He whipped the flowers around with a grin, holding them out for you with one hand, leaving his other arm tucked behind him. “Happy concert night!”

What you didn’t see was the remote in his other hand. He clicked it with his thumb, and the whole back yard lit up. There were twinkling christmas lights lining the roof and wrapping around the tree to the side of the house. He’d brought out Grayson’s projector and pointed it at a white sheet he’d hung up - you watched it for a moment, laughing when you realized it was projecting a slideshow of the pictures you two had taken together over the last year. And finally, you noticed the speakers had turned on, starting to play one of your favorite songs. Sweet Creature.

“E-”

“I know it got rescheduled, and we’ll have so much fun when we go. But, I still wanted to make tonight special. So, it’s kinda just date night, but... Harry Styles edition?” 

Closing the gap with a few steps you threw your arms around his neck, flowers and all, so you could kiss him. 

“I love you so much,” were the only words you could find, and you hoped he knew how much you truly meant them.

“Love me enough to dance with me?” 

You froze at that - you weren’t much of a slow dancer, and Ethan had even less experience than you did. But the thought of staying so close to him made your heart flutter, so you nodded, letting go for a moment so you could sit the flowers down safely in the grass.

He pulled you back into his arms, hands settling on your waist as yours went around his neck. His fingertips ghosted over the bare skin on your back below the bow, sending shivers up your spine. 

It didn’t matter that Sweet Creature was a tiny bit fast for a slow dance - the two of you weren’t doing more than swaying back and forth anyways, foreheads touching, totally lost in each other. 

He spun you a few times, even throwing in a little dip that made you both laugh before he kissed you, leaving you a bit breathless when he pulled you back up to standing. 

“You bring me home,” he sang, slightly off pitch and so quiet you could barely hear, but it was so sweet that it even brought a few tears to your eyes. You blinked them away so you could see his face as you both smiled. 

The energy picked up a bit as the songs continued to shuffle, Carolina coming on next. You both jumped around hand in hand, looking like total idiots you were sure, stomachs sore from laughing at and with each other by the end. You paused a few times throughout the next songs to watch the slideshow, laughing at some of the pictures he’d chosen, remembering the stories behind them.  

When Sunflower came on, Ethan opened his arms again for a dance and you quirked an eyebrow.

“You know, Mr. Styles doesn’t have as many romantic songs as I thought he did. This one’s not bad though,” Ethan mumbled as the two of you swayed back and forth quickly, spinning around and around.

“This song isn’t even romantic, it’s about him missing his ex,” you explained.

“You analyzed those lyrics hard huh.”

“Oh don’t act like you haven’t dissected every Cudi song five times over.” You squinted your eyes at him in accusation and he just laughed.

“Touché, touché. Maybe the sunflowers weren’t the best Harry related gesture then huh.”

“I still think they’re beautiful,” you reassured him. 

“Thought it would kinda be weird to give you a watermelon. Though, I guess that would have sent a much clearer message.” 

The mischief in his eyes told you he knew exactly what that song was about.

“A little on the nose, don’t yah think?” You scrunched up your nose at him as if to prove your point. He reached out for your hand and you laced your fingers with his.

“Never.” 

And then he was walking, half pulling half guiding you back into the house, through the glass doors, down the hallway, into the bedroom. Your skin was hot, partially from the change in temperature, partially from the hands that were wandering over your skin as soon as the door was closed.

Ethan’s hands traced down your arms, fingertips over skin, then over fabric when he got to your waist, further down to your thighs and then you were gasping as he found his way under your skirt. His hands spread out, large and commanding over your ass, resting there for a moment, squeezing before he moved north, fingers hooking into your panties, guiding them down until they fell off and you could step out of them. 

Your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, blindly undoing them as he kissed you. You found yourself pausing, hands tracing over the new yet familiar skin that revealed itself with each one you managed to loosen until finally, finally it was open and you could push it off his shoulders. 

His hand found the bow, roughly starting to tug until you reached back and caught him.

“Baby don’t pull. It’s sewed, it doesn’t come undone,” you cautioned, barely pulling back, unwilling to put any space between the two of you. 

“Stupid,” he grumbled, pouting a bit until he realized that he could pull the fabric off your shoulders, freeing your chest. He hummed a bit in satisfaction, hands moving to squeeze your tits, and then he was kissing them, sinking lower, lower until his knees hit the floor.

“Oh fuck,” you squeaked, knowing exactly what was about to happen. 

Ethan looked up at you from his knees with a teasing grin and a quirked eyebrow, waiting for your permission. You nodded, trying to breathe as his hands ghosted up your thighs, up to your hips. 

And then he ducked his head so he could get under the fabric of your skirt, ready to get to work.

Your knees buckled as soon as you felt him, tongue warm and flat against you. One of his hands came down, tracing over your skin until he got to your calf, lifting it just barely and pushing it out to widen your stance.

You whimpered as he sped up, his satisfied hums adding to the sensation in a way that had your legs starting to shake already. Your hands dropped to his head, and you pushed the fabric off the top of it so you could get to his hair, tugging. It just made him go harder, burying himself deeper. You folded forward, bracing on his shoulders, overwhelmed as you alternated holding you breathe and gasping for air, squirming.

“E, Ethan stop, my legs are gonna give out, wait,” you gasped, pulling on his hair. 

He paused, ducking out from under your dress and smiling up at you, lips swollen and pride booming.

“That’s the best compliment you’ve ever given me I think. But I’m not done yet, lay down.” 

You did as he said, turning around and climbing onto the middle of the bed before collapsing onto your back, rolling over and looking for him. Ethan was one second behind you, crawling above you to hover over you then duck down to kiss you hard yet somehow sweet at the same time.

It was instinct to reach down to his waist, let your fingers ghost over his waistband, tuck underneath it in a blind search. He sucked in a breath through his teeth when you wrapped your fingers around the tip. He shook his head at you, making you pout.

“Tonights about you, not me.”

“But I want to.”

“Raincheck. Best fucking raincheck ever, but raincheck. Just lemme take care of you.” 

He kisses you until you forget your argument - you’re putty in his hands as his lips trail back down. He pushes all the fabric of your dress together so it’s just a band around your tummy and then he picked up where he left off.

“Fuck E, just like that, oh god.” You were squirming again in a matter of moments, his stubble rough against your thighs as he worked you over. He felt your body tense up under his hold, smiling as he gave it all he had, giving that extra little push that sent you tumbling, clenching, writhing over the edge. 

He peppered kisses to your thighs as you caught your breath, and then he reached up, fists closing around all the fabric of your dress.

“Lift your hips up,” he instructed, waiting for you to bridge up so he could wiggle the dress off over your hips. He tossed it towards the closet, moving back up towards your face, bed dipping down with his weight.

“No fair,” you pouted, reaching down to tug at his shorts and boxers. 

“And I’m the impatient one.” 

He stood back up off the bed, quickly shoving down the clothing he had left and stepping out of it. 

“Much better.” You grinned wide when you saw he was blushing at your words. “C’mere.” 

He happily listened, crawling back above you and dropping a bit of his weight down as he sunk to his forearms. 

“So missionary is the way to your heart huh? So vanilla.” He bumped his nose against yours.

“You have a pretty face, sue me,” you laughed, bringing your hands up to his neck and pulling him down for a kiss as he dropped his hips, searching for just a moment before he pushed inside. 

You’d lost count of how many times the two of you had been just like this, intertwined and enthralled with each other, but you knew you’d never get tired of it as long as you lived.

“I love you.” It came out as a breath when he bottomed out, his lips resting on your shoulder, back curled up at an angle that let you feel every muscle, every ridge of his body. 

“I love you. You’re my dream, you know that?” He started to rock his hips, unwilling to go too far from you as you clung to his back, relishing in the feeling of him on you, in you, all around you. 

This would always be your favorite way to be with him - sweet and soft, just your bodies together, nothing else. You couldn’t think of anything better.

He shifted just barely, thrusting in at a different angle. You knew he was searching, and you gasped when he brushed against your g spot, your whole body shuddering.

“There she is,” he whispered, a prideful grin on his face as he hit it over and over. Watching you come undone below him would always be one of his favorite views. “Look at me baby, I wanna see you.” 

You did your best in your blissed out state to listen to him, turning your head from where it had fallen against the pillow to look at him while he picked up pace. Your legs curled around his back, holding him to you, urging him as deep as he could go as you chased the orgasm that was building in your gut.

He stared at you for a few moments, and then as if he couldn’t help it he ducked down to kiss you, open mouthed and rough as he pulled his hips back, thrusting forward with more force than he’d used yet. 

“Oh fuck Ethan, fuck,” you moaned, holding onto him for dear life. When he snaked one hand between the two of you to find your clit, you were done for. 

His breath caught in his throat as you clenched around him and you heard the whimpers through your cloudy haze, mixtures of pleasure and your name as he came undone, hip stuttering and then stopping when he finally hit his high. 

Once he’s caught his breath he rolls the both of you over so you’re resting on his chest, listening to his heart rate settle back down under your ear. 

“I’m so glad you came home early,” you sighed, hugging his bare torso as he chuckled.

“Me too baby. Me too.”

#BRUNA DIS IS FOR YOU #I wrote this assuming everyone loves harry styles cause if you don't wyd haha #HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT PLS TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK #ethan imagines #lynds writes #ethan dolan #dolan twins #ethan dolan imagine #ethan dolan fanfiction

[tsarisfanfiction]

I Promised

Fandom: One Piece Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Tragedy Characters: Law, Shachi

“Promise me,” Shachi had said once.  “No matter what.“  Law wished he hadn’t.

So this has been kicking around in my wip folder for literal years - I think I actually wrote most of it in 2018 - and those of you who pay attention to my side pages on my blog might have seen this teased under Tales From The Heart.  It’s technically Tales-verse, and will be archived under the series, but due to a character death, I’m posting it as a separate fic.  However, it references chapter 94 “Immortal” of Tales From The Heart, and actually I believe the idea for this fic came from a throwaway comment I got for that chapter?

“Law!”

Exhausted as he was, Law couldn’t move fast enough, his eyes tracking the blow headed straight for him as he stumbled back half a step and braced for the impact that seemed likely to kill him.  Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have cared at all, but with a crew that meant more to him than life itself he realised he didn’t want to leave them, not now and not ever.

The collision was solid, shoving him backwards until his back hit something hard; some rubble debris from the fight, probably.  A weight followed him, crashing into his chest and pushing all of the air from his lungs.  His back hurt from the rubble, blood soaked his front.  There was no pain at the point of impact, but that was probably shock.

He opened his eyes to see the damage – when had they closed? – only to gasp as his throat choked up. Ginger, a colour unmistakable even in the battlefield, clouded his vision, alongside askew shades and weeping eyes.

Shachi’s eyes were green. Law had never been close enough to tell before, even in thirteen years.  Once upon a time they were probably striking, before being ruined by snowblindness.  Moisture welled up in them and Law moved instinctively to fix his shades, a trembling hand wiping away the tears.

The act drew his attention to the blood dripping from Shachi’s mouth, the laboured breathing. The fact that the blood soaking into his own top was coming from elsewhere, wasn’t his.

“Law,” Shachi croaked, voice weak and trembling even as his lips pulled into a pathetic excuse for a smile. Law’s eyes widened in horror as the situation started to sink in.  “Are you okay?”  Law was numb, trembling as his nakama tilted forwards before his hands moved on autopilot, catching the ginger’s weight.

“You-” he tried, feeling the blood coating his hands in seconds.  So much of it; they needed to stop the bleeding now but he couldn’t even draw on his Room and conventional treatments wouldn’t be fast enough.  “Shachi-”

The ginger coughed, blood splattering Law’s face.

“It’s okay,” he wheezed, as though he wasn’t painting Law’s world crimson with every passing second. “It’s okay, Law.”

It wasn’t okay, wasn’t okay at all.  Law tried to move, to do something even though his bones felt like lead, only to be brought up short by quivering hands on his face, wiping away tears he hadn’t realised he was crying.

“No.”  The voice was broken, cracking on the single syllable and barely louder than a whisper.  It took Law a moment to realise it was his.  He didn’t have any stamina left, the muscles in his arms trembling from supporting the ginger’s weight and his knees trembling in warning that they couldn’t keep him standing much longer.

That didn’t stop him from dredging up whatever he could, pushing out the Room from his heart and ignoring the burn that warned he was draining his own life.  The blow would have been enough to kill Law, and Shachi was weaker.  He didn’t even have Armament Haki capable of absorbing any of the attack.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” he managed, letting gravity take over and pull them to the ground.  He needed his hands free for this, even as Shachi gave him a bloodstained grin.  The crimson stained his lips and cheeks in a way that was all too similar to Cora-san’s eternal grin; his final grin.

Law was a doctor.  He didn’t need his abilities to tell him that Shachi’s wounds were fatal, even as he shoved him over to lie on his back – roughly, but he didn’t have the strength to use any finesse.  Shachi was beyond feeling the pain, anyway.

There was only one thing he could do, short of letting Shachi die and that was not an option, was never an option.  Law had suspected that one day things would come to this: exchanging his own life for his nakama, just like Cora-san had exchanged his life for Law’s all those years ago.  Unlike the Ope Ope no Mi’s other abilities, this one didn’t need any stamina to use. It would take its payment at the end.

A hand grasped his own, pale where it wasn’t stained with blood, halting him with strength it didn’t seem like it should have had.  Dead man’s grip, the back of Law’s mind whispered in despair, and he tried to tug his hand back, to continue the operation.

“You promised,” Shachi rasped, somehow managing to sound strong even though his voice was faint. “No matter what.”

Of course, Shachi was the one that had found him the day he’d learnt about his ability to exchange his life for another’s.  He wasn’t the only one that knew Law could do it – such a thing, while kept close to his chest, couldn’t be hidden from Penguin or Bepo for long – but he was the only other one that had read the papers detailing how to do it.  No-one else would have known until it was over.

“I won’t let you die,” Law snarled back, tugging furiously at his hand to no avail.  “What would that do to Penguin?  To the others?”

“The weak… don’t get to choose how they die,” Shachi quoted, reminding Law of the phrase he’d said more than once.  “Law… Captain…  Am I that weak that I don’t get to choose?”

“No,” Law admitted, unable to even imply that Shachi was anything other than strong – in many ways, stronger than him.  “But-”

“Everyone dies sometime,” Shachi cut him off, his grip increasing further.  Law wished that was because his strength was increasing, and not because his muscles were starting to seize.  “For a pirate… I can’t think of a better death… than saving my nakama.”

“Shachi-” Law wanted to complain, scream about how it wasn’t fair and that he refused to let Shachi die, requests be damned, but one look at the content look on his face, marred only by a furrowing of his forehead that Law knew was Shachi’s concern that he wouldn’t be listened to, and he couldn’t do it.  Not to Shachi.  “You idiot,” he mumbled around a suddenly too-thick tongue.  His vision blurred, but despite that he could see the moment the ginger relaxed, realising that yet again – for the final time – he’d out-stubborned Law.

“Law... look after Penguin, would you?” Shachi asked, and Law’s heart seized.  Penguin.  How was he supposed to face the older man?  “He’ll… understand.  A-and, Law?”  Law made a noise of recognition, no longer trusting his voice.  “Look after yourself.  You probably know… this already, but j-just this once… I’ll say it.” He paused, taking as large a breath as his rapidly weakening lungs allowed.  The rasp cut through Law sharper than any scalpel.  “I love you.”

He was smiling.  Law wanted to shout at him, to tell him he wasn’t allowed to say that and then die smiling, but before he could gather his thoughts into enough coherency and get the first word on his tongue Shachi’s chest – heaving weakly since the blow – stuttered and then stopped.

The noise that escaped Law’s mouth instead was a cry of anguish.  Tears blurred his vision, but not enough to hide the fact that even in death, Shachi was still smiling.

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #heart pirates #tales from the heart #tsari writes fanfiction #trafalgar law #shachi #character death

[spaceskam]

Inspired by @aewriting's fic because oh my goddddd

ao3

Michael knew a lot of things. He was smart and aware and was sufficiently sure that his species better than the entirety of the human race so there was no point in giving a shit.

Yet, for the life of him, he couldn't stop grinning as he looked at the assigned rooming system for their class trip.

 Michael," Max hissed as he leaned over, his own copy of the syllabus and rooming system in his hand, "We need to request to room together instead."

"What, why?" Michael said, struggling to tear his eyes off the 4D - Michael Guerin, Alex Manes written on his paper. The idea of watching him get ready in the morning and seeing how long it took him to put on his makeup had Michael squirming for some reason.

"Because," Max said, eyes wide like he should've pieces it together, "What if something happens?"

Michael frowned. "Are you still having issues?"

"Yes!" Max insisted, "So we need to both request room changes."

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to say for why I want a room change?" Michael scoffed. He didn't say that he really, really didn't want a room change. Alex was easily the most interesting human being he'd ever seen. If Michael was going to have a human friend, he'd be it. This felt like a good excuse to get to know him.

Max scanned the page to see who Michael was rooming with.

"Easy, it's Alex. Say you're not comfortable rooming with someone who's, you know," Max said, shrugging to fill in the blank. Michael's eyebrows raised.

"Oh, fuck off, I'm not pretending to be a homophobe so you can get off in the shower to the idea of Liz Ortecho's shampoo without worrying someone might see a power outage," Michael told him, shaking his head, "You can go a weekend controlling yourself. And, if not, Iz can work her magic."

"You're a terrible brother."

"Love you too."

-

By the time they were loading onto the bus, Michael's excitement had bled into nerves.

Sure, he was better than humans, but humans were also notorious for thinking they were hot shit. Would Alex be a shitty roommate? It was only a couple days, but that was still hours where they'd be alone in the same room together. Would they bond? Would he piss Alex off? Would they get in a fight?

They'd both been in a lot of fights.

While everyone else packed towards the back of the bus, Alex sat up from behind the teachers. He'd already put his headphones on from what Michael sound see, ignoring every glare Mr. Rowe gave him for it as he tried to give them a big, preparatory speech. Subsequently, Michael didn't hear much of it either.

Most of the ride was like that, actually. It was a long 3 hours, but his eyes kept drifting to the only boy who sat alone with his eyes closed. He was bold and didn't give a shit which Michael was envious of. As much as he tried, he always cared a little bit, at the very least what Isobel and Max thought of him. But Alex didn't. And, to make matters more distracting, the sun seemed to hit his face in just the perfect way that it seemed he was torn out of a goddamn magazine. Another thing to be envious of.

"Will you stop staring at him?" Isobel scolded from beside him, "People are already going to be asking you if you're sleeping with him after you're alone with him every night, are you really trying to make the rumors worse?"

"Would it mean I get to punch someone in the face?" Michael asked. Max scoffed from where he was leaning over the seat behind them to join the conversation.

"If you do that, you're going to be in a lot of trouble."

"I'm already always in a lot of trouble, might as well have a good reason," Michael suggested, shrugging his shoulders. He smiled as his siblings shook their heads.

He let his eyes drift back to the godlike, Michelangelo-sculpture-esque man that was Alex Manes.

-

Mr. Rowe passed out each the key cards to everyone, giving a speech about being responsible. No parties, no drinking, no leaving past curfew, no this, no that.

Michael’s eyes followed the way Alex’s slender fingers grabbed the key card before slipping it into the back pocket of his tight jeans. He didn’t smile, he didn’t speak, and he simply embodied the vibes of every dull bad boy that popped up in shitty YA books. Except he wasn’t dull. That’s what made him interesting.

Alex must’ve felt him staring though because he looked over and Michael looked away so fast he almost hurt himself.

“You’re going to piss him off if you keep staring at him,” Isobel scolded, pinching his arm. He glared at her, rubbing the skin she’d attacked. “The last thing we need is you getting in a fight.”

“I’m not going to fight Alex,” he insisted, sneaking another look over at the boy he’d be spending the entire weekend with, “I promise.”

“Well, make sure you keep your phone on you so you can text me if things get weird,” Isobel said. Michael rolled his eyes.

“Okay, Mom.”

“Everyone has their keys? Okay, then we should be set for the night. Go find your rooms, get settled, and we’ll head down for dinner at 6:30, alright? Then back to your rooms for the night. Make sure you’re taking showers, we’re going to the Grand Canyon tomorrow and the last thing I need is anyone smelling like they haven’t bathed and they’re baking under direct sun,” Mr. Rowe preached, inciting a few whispered laughs and accusations about who he was talking about. Michael knew it probably wasn’t directly at him, but he shifted uncomfortably anyway. “Again, have your alarms set. I’ll knock on doors in the morning, but we’re all meeting down here at 7 in the morning and if I have to go hunt you down, we’ll have problems. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” 

Eventually, they all started making their way towards their rooms. Isobel, Max, and Michael all opted for the stairs along with a few other students while the rest waited for the elevator. They made it to Michael’s room first and both Isobel and Max gave him wary looks.

“Jesus, you both seem to forget I have more control than you,” he said. They shared a look.

“Yeah, but only in one way. I just don’t want you to get in trouble,” Max said. Michael rolled his eyes.

“Stop parenting me.”

“Okay, fine,” Isobel said, holding up her hands in defense and subsequently becoming more parental. Michael rolled his eyes and turned to the door.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, pushing into the room and closing it behind him.

He didn’t mean to slam it as loud as he did and he definitely didn’t mean to startle the boy who was already in the room. Alex had seemed to jump out of his skin and looked at Michael like he’d lost it. Michael gave an apologetic smile and tried not to think about the fact that this was the first time they’d ever been alone. Hell, this would be the first real conversation they’d had. 

Actually, he couldn’t remember a time Alex Manes had ever spoke outside of throwing insults at jocks or when they were forced to debate designer babies in 10th grade. Alex had been the only one who was anti that didn’t play the God card. He’d gone on a long spiel about how it wasn’t a guarantee, about how parents paid all that money to have a child exactly how they wanted, but what happened if it didn’t work that way? Nature vs. nuture, he’d said. A baby could look the part, but if it didn’t act the part, they had parents accusing them of losing hundreds of thousands of dollars. That was the moment Michael knew he was more than a YA bad boy.

For a moment, he wondered if Alex thought he was the YA bad boy. They both fit different sides of the same profile. Alex was punk and hardened, Michael was thrown through the system and had a stint in juvie the summer before, and both of them had been in more fights than necessary. Oh, God, what if Alex thought he was bland?

“I felt each bed, I took the one that makes less noise,” Alex said simply, voice deeper than Michael remembered. Was it hot in here?

“Why? Don’t wanna wake me when you sneak out?” Michael asked, trying to act normal. He wasn’t well versed in making friends, but he knew staring at them like a deer in headlights was not the way to go about it.

“More like don’t wanna wake you when I stay up all night,” Alex responded, not offering a smile as he focused back on the bed. He had a duffel bag and he pulled out a long wire, kneeling on the bed and reaching over to plug it in the wall. His shirt slid up as he did so, revealing a small patch of tanned skin on his back that Michael found inexplicably interesting.

“Well, good news, I don’t really sleep either.”

“Seems like that’s why we got roomed together,” Alex said, dropping onto the bed after he plugged it into the wall and then plugged the other end into his phone, “Same answers on the questionnaire.”

“Seems like it,” Michael agreed. Alex paused for a moment, looking over at him with dark, curious eyes.

“And you don’t have a problem with this?”

“Are you gonna kill me in my sleep?”

“You just said you don’t sleep,” Alex said. Michael raised his eyebrow at the lack of an answer. It earned a small smile from Alex that made Michael’s heart skip a beat. “No, I’m not gonna kill you.”

“Then we’re all good.”

“And the rumors don’t bother you?” Alex prodded. Michael dropped his bag beside the other bed and laid down, grinning mindlessly as it groaned under his wait.

“The rumors about me don’t bother you?” Michael shot back. Alex eyed him for a moment. Michael fully expected him to elaborate on the rumors about himself to get his question across. It wasn’t uncommon for people to think Michael just didn’t get it. It didn’t matter how smart he was: you look homeless, people treat you like you’re helpless. But Alex didn’t fill in any blanks.

“As long as you don’t kill me in my sleep,” Alex said with a shrug, falling against the pillows and putting his attention onto his phone. Michael watched him for a few extra seconds before he shook his head, pulling out a book to pass the time.

He was definitely going to get a friend out of this. Who knew?

-

Michael was dead weight on the bed.

They’d had a full buffet for the students and Michael had eaten more than he’d eaten in a long time. As good as it was, he also felt like he was about to succumb to a food coma. So much for staying up all night.

He ended up waking up bright and early anyway, though. The birds started chirping before the sun rose and he rolled over in irritation. Alex was laying on the bed, curled up and asleep with his phone screen still on and shining towards the ceiling. Michael laid there for awhile, fading in and out of sleep until Alex’s alarm went off at 6.

Alex woke up with a pout and a sigh, stretching his limbs out and arching his back. Michael watched him mindlessly, watching his legs shake at the tense muscles before he slowly dragged himself up and Michael pretended to be asleep. The first step to making friends was decidedly not watching them while they slept.

Michael stayed in bed as Alex quietly grabbed his makeup bag and disappeared into the bathroom. Was it weird that Michael was a little sad he closed the door? Yes. Yes it was weird. What the fuck.

Around the time one of the teachers knocked on the door to tell them they should be awake, Alex reappeared all dolled up. His makeup was in full force, his hair done in a skillful way, and sporting black jeans and a black t-shirt. His cheeks seemed extra sparkly, though, and Michael nodded in approval.

“Nice face,” he said simply, grabbing a pair of jeans. Alex blew air from his nose in response.

“Okay.”

“Mhm.”

They both went down for breakfast and to gather to load the buses and head to the Grand Canyon. Alex, despite his friends, sat at the front of the bus by himself again. Liz and Maria sat towards the back and behind Kyle, leaving him alone. Michael felt bad.

“While you aren’t required to be on a strict buddy system with your roommate, I definitely suggest staying close by them because you will be needing to do check-ins together. We’re not trying to have anyone run off, alright? Understand?” Mr. Rowe announced.

“Yes, sir,” they all agreed and it seemed good enough for him, signalling for the bus driver to go ahead.

“So, did you cause a power outage in front of your roommate?” Michael asked Max.

“How would he have done that?” Isobel asked. Michael offered and filthy grin and moved his hand in an obscene gesture, his tongue poking in his cheek. She looked slightly horrified at the mental image and slapped his arm, instantly making him laugh. Max just sunk into the seat behind them with an embarrassed groan.

“Guess not,” Michael snorted. 

“Well, what about you and Alex Manes? How’d that go? No fights? No gay awakening?” Isobel prodded. Michael rolled his eyes, his mood tampering at just how dull the night had been.

“Sorry to disappoint. I took a shower as soon as we got back from dinner and he took one after and I was asleep by the time he got out, so nothing special,” Michael said with a shrug. He was admittedly disappointed. What was the point of putting two troublemakers in the same room if they didn’t raise a little hell? Instead, he ate too much and fell asleep like an old man.

“Okay, well, do something because it’s only been one night and I’m already over Carly’s long discussion over Kyle Vlaneti’s cheekbones. Like, I get it, he’s hot, but there are much more important things to talk about,” she scoffed. Michael huffed a laugh.

“Sorry, I’ll do my best to do something more interesting.”

He wasn’t quite sure what that interesting thing would be, but he could definitely try.

-

That interesting thing happened when he and Alex were walking back after their routine check-in.

“This is so fucking lame,” Michael said, gesturing the canyon that failed to impress him no matter how many signs he read, “It’s a big hole in the ground.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s kind of nice,” Alex responded. Michael raised an eyebrow at him and they both came to a stop.

“Nice?” Michael repeated, “What’s nice about it?”

“Look, come see,” Alex ushered, grabbing his arm freely and pulling him to an area that was pretty empty. They were far away from the rest of the group by the time Alex let go of him and he honestly got a little worried as Alex stepped so close to the edge that his toes were hanging off. 

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Don’t you feel small?” he asked. Michael watched as he closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The sun seemed to find him and he was glowing. “Like nothing matters. Years of horrible things that built this country never stopped the natural flow of things enough to take this. No matter who we are, what we do, there’s always something… else.”

Michael licked his lips. Like what, he thought, aliens?

Alex breathed in deep.

“I could do anything. I could jump or I could kill someone or I could commit every atrocity, and the world would keep turning,” Alex whispered, “And some people do that. Because it doesn’t matter so they don’t care. But if we’re all horrible, every last one, who will notice the small things? Like… this. Us. I am nothing, but doesn’t that make us everything?”

“You lost me.”

Alex laughed softly and opened his eyes, turning towards Michael. Then he gestured for him to come closer. And, like all idiots with superiority complexes, Michael obeyed and let his toes hang off the edge without a thought.

“The only kind thing left is Mother Nature.”

“Mother Nature kills,” Michael pointed out. Alex rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be cynical, think about it. There’s nothing selfish in nature, not really. You take what you need.”

“Some species would disagree.”

“Just humans,” Alex sighed, “Fuck humans.”

Michael huffed a laugh and couldn’t help but admire him and agree. For a guy who wore all black and had punched a few jocks hard enough to raise talk of expulsion, he was apparently a lot more positive and logical than everyone else. 

“Fuck humans,” Michael agreed, turning his face towards the canyon. He thought it looked a little better now. “Fuck humans!”

“Yes,” Alex laughed cupping his hands around his mouth to amiplify his voice, “Fuck humans!”

“Fuck humans!” 

“Alright, boys,” Mr. Rowe sighed from somewhere behind them. Alex jumped at the sudden new voice and, on instinct, Michael grabbed his shirt and pulled him away from the edge just as he lost his footing. 

They ended up a few steps away from the edge, Michael still holding onto him while he caught his breath from the short moment of fear. But through it all, Alex was smiling at him. Not just the normal, irritated smile, but a big one that rivaled the sun that shined just for him. And that smile was targeted at Michael specifically. Wasn’t that breathtaking? 

“Alex, are you alright?” Mr. Rowe said, voice actually concerned as he jogged closer, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Um, yeah,” Alex said, slowly taking a step out of Michael’s hold and that cold demeanor started to slip back up as he remembered they weren’t alone, “I’m good. Just made me jump.”

Mr. Rowe looked between them and nodded. “Right. Just be careful, we don’t need you falling off the side no matter how angsty you feel.”

Michael laughed, “Sure thing, we’ll be careful.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Rowe said, looking between them a couple more times, “And you two are good with sharing a room together?”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Michael said, looking over to Alex. His smile was fully gone now, the hardened face back in place, and he shrugged.

“Haven’t killed him yet.”

“Comforting, Mr. Manes, thank you,” Mr. Rowe sighed. He gave Michael a pat on the shoulder before turning and walking back to the group. 

“Yet?” Michael asked once their teacher was out of ear shot. A secretive little smile slipped back onto his face.

“Never say never.”

-

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting with my class trip buddy.”

Michael grinned shameless as he got settled in the bus seat beside Alex in the far front. They were heading back to the hotel and Michael, still high on the moment he’d had with Alex on the cliff’s edge, wanted to be close to him again.

“Okay,” Alex agreed, eyeing him skeptically. Michael just gave that smile that he knew was charming. It was his specialty. Alex rolled his eyes and sat back into his seat, but the tiny smile tugging at his lips didn’t go unnoticed.

“So, whatcha listening to?” Michael prodded, leaning into his personal space to see what was on his phone. Alex elbowed him away gently, but he picked up the spare earbud to hand to Michael. He accepted it. “What is this?”

“Ska punk.”

“Huh?”

“Ska,” Alex said, grinning at Michael’s lack of understanding, “Like, No Doubt? Sublime?”

“You’re just trying to confuse me today, aren’t you?” he said. Alex rolled his eyes but turned up the music.

“It’s a mix between classic alt and ska which is basically, like, reggae influence,” Alex explained, “In my superior opinion, it’s the best genre.”

“Why?” Michael wondered. Alex raised an eyebrow and turned up the music a little more as if that would explain it. 

“Because it’s a perfect mix between chill and ‘fuck the man’ music. Like, when I take over the world, I’m gonna do it with ska punk blaring all the time,” Alex explained. Michael sputtered a laugh, unable to find him uninteresting in the slightest. 

“You plan to take over the world, huh?”

“So, here’s the plan, right,” Alex said, turning in his seat. He looked around as if someone might actually overhear and leaned a bit closer. Michael followed his lead, listening with pure interest. “I’m gonna write a musical, right, and it’s gonna take the world by storm. People are gonna love me and I’ll get the unbridled support by the world of theatre when I run for president at 30.”

“Oh, we’re jumping straight to president?”

“Hell yeah, I don’t waste time,” Alex said, waving a hand and looking deadly serious the entire time, “Anyway, I’ll be technically too young, but the overwhelming support will get me my win. Then, then, I’ll spend about two years in office learning all the government secrets and then I’m gonna whistleblow all of it before I go into hiding.”

Michael nodded, on board with every word.

“Liz and Maria are gonna stay in America to lead the true revolution while I go hide from American officials in Russia for a few years,” he explained.

“How are you gonna hide in Russia?”

“I figure I’ll seduce someone in power,” Alex said like it was easy. And, honestly, Michael believed him. “Anyway, then I’ll go to the Vatican‒wash, rinse, repeat, whistleblow that bitch. Then the Pope will probably try to have me assassinated on live TV, but it’s fine because I’ll survive.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael laughed. Alex eyed him, judging him until he feigned seriousness to match Alex’s. Still, he found it ungodly amusing that the guy who had just been saying how small and meaningless everyone was also had a plan to overthrow the government.

“Yeah, I’ll come back to America and I’ll be the face of the revolution. Enter ska punk to the masses. The chill vibes will give them no choice by to agree with my political ideology and feats,” Alex said, shrugging a shoulder and raising an eyebrow, “Easy.”

“Easy,” Michael agreed, not even caring that they were incredibly close at this point.

“Save the good people, destroy the bad. Eat the rich,” Alex said simply. Michael agreed without hesitation.

Sadly, before he could enjoy anymore of Alex’s existence, the bus came to a stop and Alex took his music back.

“See, I got you on board with just a little bit of No Doubt,” Alex said, sliding past Michael without a second thought and being the first one off the bus.

Michael knew for a fact that Alex was better than everyone.

-

The day was long and Michael could still feel a layer of sweat on his skin as he sat on the floor beside the hotel bed. Alex was taking a shower and he was recounting the day’s events. Screaming into a canyon with Alex, walking through a national park with Alex a few feet in front of him, deciding to sit beside Alex on the bus ride back and sharing his music, and rolling his eyes at all the questions Isobel was sending him to ask why he sat with Alex. 

Michael: I’m making friends fuck off

Isobel: well are you abandoning me at dinner too???

Michael: no i’ll sit with you and max 

Michael: maybe alex liz and maria can sit with us too

Isobel: two trios don’t make a happy family, Michael

Michael: fuuuuuck off

Isobel: 😘

Michael dropped his phone and tilted his head back, grinning to himself as he thought about how good it felt to scream with Alex. Maybe, if anyone was on par with his species, it was him. That would make sense, right? Alex seemed to get it. 

The bathroom door opened and Alex Manes walked out in a cloud of steam and Michael’s brain stopped working. Things slowed down and Alex walked out in slow motion, shirtless with a pair of sweats low on his hips. He was pulling on a shirt as he did so and the glory of his bare chest was gone too soon, but it didn’t stop Michael from staring slack-jawed and stupid.

“What?” Alex asked, snapping him out of his haze. He was eyeing him like he was being really fucking weird. Which, he was being really fucking weird. But he couldn’t help it. Alex was... was...

“Sorry,” Michael said, scrambling out of bed so he could take his own shower. Alex nodded slowly, heading over to his side of the room. Michael couldn’t help but watch him as he put his dirty clothes in the duffel bag and then stretched. His skin was red-tinted from the hot water and Michael wanted to touch and see if he could feel the heat.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

It wasn’t until he was in his own shower, this one much colder than the one Alex apparently took, and seeking the scent of the other boy’s body wash that it dawned on him what might be wrong. He froze for a solid five minutes, staring blankly at the wall as he thought about things and Alex and the fact that he was seconds away from doing exactly what he’d mocked Max for. 

Michael took a steadying breath and licked his lips. Out of morbid curiosity, he closed his eyes and took himself in his hand, picturing Alex Manes and the millisecond long glimpse of his bare chest and the way the sun hit his face and the way he smiled and the way he screamed and the way he lit up when he described his plans for world domination and the way his long fingers looked curled around his phone. He ended up biting down on his lip so hard that he drew blood, out of breath and more confused than ever.

Maybe that was a fluke or Alex was a weird exception. He was undeniably pretty and relatively feminine and clearly more interesting than the rest of the human race, so maybe that had something to do with it. Or maybe it was his own unconfirmed but also not denied sexuality that had Michael’s curiosity sparked. It was normal for teenagers to get a little confused, right? He’d always assumed his species was above that, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just confused. He knew he liked women, that was undeniable and he knew he wasn’t faking it.

But the more he thought that he was just a little confused by Alex in particular, the more he realized that maybe it wasn’t normal to let his eyes linger in the locker room. Maybe it wasn’t normal to work so hard at keeping his eyes straight in juvie. Maybe it wasn’t normal to not be grossed out when he found himself focusing on the guy in porn.

Or maybe it was normal. Maybe it was okay.

He left the shower feeling ungodly drained and overwhelmed by his own thoughts. He’d expected a lot of things from this trip, but jacking off to his class trip roommate wasn’t exactly on the syllabus. The biggest discovery this weekend was supposed to be the visual of the Grand Canyon. 

He swallowed hard as he tried to remember how to act normal, but Alex looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t help but feel the urge to test his budding theory on his own sexuality. Would Alex welcome it if he tried? Would that fight everyone seemed to expect happen?

“Dude, what did you do to your face?” Alex scoffed, sitting up and taking a step too close. Every hair on Michael’s body stood up at his close proximity, stupid teenage hormones not knowing when enough was enough. “That’s gonna scab.”

“Sorry,” Michael said. Alex furrowed his eyebrows and then huffed a laugh.

“Why are you apologizing to me? It’s your mouth,” Alex said. But his eyes lingered on Michael’s cracked and swelling bottom lip and that seemed to confirm all of Michael’s brand new theories all on it’s own.

They stared for a moment, too close and too aware. Michael could see confusion sift through Alex’s eyes like he was trying to gauge if he was reading things correctly. Perhaps his own face betrayed that he absolutely was. 

“We should probably go down for dinner,” Alex said softly, mechanically. Michael nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” he said. 

Twenty-four hours in and he was already questioning his entire self.

-

“Anything interesting yet?”

Michael snorted, eyes flicking over to Alex and the way he elongated his body in his chair. He was smiling fondly at Liz and Maria as they laughed about something over dinner. It was easy to see that he loved them and Michael’s stomach twisted with something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He supposed it had to do with the only people who ever gave him any semblance of love were Isobel and Max. Maybe he was jealous Alex could give it so freely to his friends who weren’t his intergalactic buddies.

“Yeah, actually,” Max said, clearing his throat. Isobel and Michael both raised intrigued eyebrows, giving him their attention as they leaned forward. “I think I’m gonna ask out Liz.”

Isobel and Michael both groaned and fell back into their chairs. Max just laughed.

“I’m serious this time! I’m gonna do it!” Max insisted.

“C’mon, man, what’s the point? We’ve got a couple months left of the school year and then the summer and then she’s going off to get a fancy degree or seven,” Michael said. Isobel shoved his shoulder, but he didn’t waver. Max shook his head.

“Nah, you don’t get it. We,” he paused, sighing happily, “We had a moment.”

“A moment?” Isobel asked.

“Yeah, like… one of those moments that are totally worth risking it all for, you know what I mean?” Max clarified.

Unwillingly, Michael’s eyes drifted over to where Alex was already looking his way. He could feel the tips of his ears turning red as Alex didn’t look away like most people did when they got caught staring. Instead, Alex raised his hand to his face and ran his thumb over his bottom lip. Michael involuntarily copied and discovered he was bleeding again. Alex gave a cool smile and mouthed ‘fuck humans’ before turning back to Liz and Maria.

Chills covered his skin as he looked back to his own dinner companions.

“Yeah,” Michael agreed, “I know those moments.”

-

Night two alone with Alex Manes proved much more difficult than night one.

Tonight, Michael was aware of a deep seeded desire to touch him and listen to him speak. Tonight, he struggled to keep his eyes to himself as Alex traded his jeans for sweats in the middle of the room instead of going into the bathroom like the night before. Tonight, had to sit on his hands to keep from requesting permission to do something he shouldn’t‒like seeing if he was as good at getting another guy off as he was at getting himself off. It felt like the question for the ages. And to think he’d bothered questioning his alien origins when he could’ve been questioning what Alex’s mouth could do. How foolish of him to ignore that.

More importantly, how had he ever ignored Alex? He was smart and funny and gorgeous. How had he missed the attraction before? Maybe it had to do with Alex being smart and gorgeous. He was going to get out of here and do good shit. Michael still, even with that scholarship waiting for him, taunted him and reminded him he wasn’t going to do much. 

“Are you okay? Did you get sun poisoned? You’ve been zoning out since we were on the bus,” Alex asked, “Got worse after your shower.”

Michael looked up at him from where he was seated on his bed and Alex was standing between the two. He was so fucking hot. Without thinking, Michael patted the bed beside him. Alex furrowed his eyebrows and didn’t move for a few seconds but slowly, slowly came to sit beside him.

“Jokes aside,” Michael started, mind still thinking of Max’s lack of hesitation when it came to Liz’s plans, “What do you actually want to do in the future?”

“Um,” Alex said, shifting slightly, “Getting the fuck out of Roswell is my only real goal. I hate it there.”

“Same,” Michael agreed.

“Yeah…” Alex said, “Guess that makes sense. We’re the two people with the most amount of fights in Roswell High history.”

Michael snorted, “You’re lucky. Your dad definitely used that fancy little title he’s got to keep you from being sent to juvie after you shattered Mason Glenn’s face.”

“Lucky,” Alex repeated, shaking his head, “I’m not lucky. Not with my dad.”

“Well, if it helps, I’m not lucky either,” Michael sighed, thinking about his shitty track record, “That fight I got into last year, almost deafened the guy in his left ear. Got me a couple months in juvie. Which, you know, maybe I am lucky. Most kids like me don’t get out that easy.”

“So the rumors are true then?” Alex asked. Michael huffed a laugh.

“Why are you so set on the rumors?” he wondered, turning to face him, “‘Cause it depends on which ones you’re talking about. I’m not sleeping with Iz if that’s the one you’re asking about.”

Despite his attempt at lightening the mood, Alex didn’t let him. His intense gaze wandered over Michael’s features and Michael clutched the sheets in his hand.

“The one where you live in your truck,” Alex stated bluntly.

“Okay, then is the one about you true?” Michael shot back, tilting his head, “Are you gay? Is that why you think about taking over the world? Is that why you like feeling small?”

Alex didn’t react in any type of physical way, but Michael wouldn’t have been surprised if Alex had started a fight then. Most of Alex’s fights started with someone calling him gay. Granted, it was usually yelling slurs at him to do so and not asking, but still.

“Is that why you wanna get out of Roswell?” Alex asked, ignoring his accusation, “Because here everyone turns a blind eye to a homeless teenager? Because it’s easier to say you live in a truck than to say you’re homeless?”

“Is that why you want to get out of Roswell? Because here everyone turns a blind eye to bullying? Because it’s easier to say you’re just other than to admit they’re in the wrong?”

Alex stared at him and Michael stared right back, both of them unwavering and serious. It was totally different from on the bus or on the cliff or standing close after a shower. This felt real. This felt… more. If those were moments, what was this? Because whatever it was, it was suffocating.

Then Alex was leaning forward.

Despite Michael’s prior thoughts and interest and despite how badly he wanted to, he jumped off the bed before Alex could do anything. It didn’t make that intense gaze feel any less all encompassing.

“I-I’m gonna go brush my teeth,” Michael said, heading to the bathroom and locking the door behind him. He stared at himself in the mirror, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. He was going to be kissed and he fled. That was definitely a first.

Then again, he’d never been faced with a boy trying to kiss him. Not just a boy, but a hot boy who seemed just as aware of the fucked up reality as he was. Which, again, made no goddamn sense. How the hell was Alex so aware and still able to smile and make jokes? For Michael, he knew there was more. He knew he was better. But Alex… Alex didn’t know that. He just thought humans were as good as it got. And he was still calling Michael out, still trying to force him to say something. He wasn’t turning a blind eye.

Michael gulped and stared at his reflection. He really would’ve liked to go back to the fun revelations.

By the time he exited the bathroom, the light was out and Alex was curled up in bed with his back towards Michael.

-

“Uh oh.”

“What?” Michael asked. Isobel was eyeing him with that knowing gaze as he sat beside her at breakfast. Alex had already been in the bathroom when Michael woke up and, when he came out, he made no mention of the night before. He’d given his good morning and then left the room. He didn’t seem angry. So why did Michael feel so guilty?

“I know that face,” she said, “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Michael sighed, “I just think I pissed Alex off.”

“Why? What’d you do?” she wondered. Michael sighed, looking to where Alex was notably not looking at him. He couldn’t tell her Alex went in to kiss him and he chickened out.

“Nothing, we just… talked, I guess, I don’t know,” Michael said, shrugging his shoulders. Isobel looked at him oddly.

“You’re 17, Michael, why are you acting like an old man?” she asked. He scoffed, ready to argue, but even he couldn’t deny that it was particularly weird that they had a conversation like that. But, then again, it just brought him back to the conclusion that there was something about him. He wasn’t like the rest of the human race and he wasn’t like the limited knowledge he had of his own species. He was… other. In a good way.

His eyes drifted back to Alex for a moment. Could he be a teenager with him? Was he worthy of sloppy kisses and self-discovery with him? Could they be kids and not have every conversation be laced with the underlying truths of their reality?  

“You ever wanna take over the world and bring all the alien-destroys-New-York movies to life?” Michael asked her instead. Isobel sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Anyway,” Isobel said, leaning closer, “Apparently, Kyle Valenti stole a few bottles of alcohol from the kitchen. We’re gonna have a party tonight in his room after curfew since it’s the last night away from home. You should come, everyone else is.”

“Wasn’t one of the rules no parties?” Michael asked, “And no drinking?”

“Again, old man, when did you become against breaking rules?”

Michael licked his lips and looked over at Alex again. True. Since when did he have shit holding him back from doing what he wanted?

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll break rules.”

-

Just like the day before, it was hard to find anything interesting in where they were.

In theory, he could appreciate a national park and a museum, but Michael didn’t really give a shit. He would’ve been much more interested if they went to the Houston Space Station like was originally debated. But that was too expensive and going to national parks just wasn’t. 

Unlike the day before, though, everyone was buzzing when they got on the bus to go back to the hotel. Everyone was texting and whispering about this party they were planning. Michael was considering going if things went badly with Alex, but that’s it. Only if things went bad with Alex.

This was the last night they were here, this was his last real shot at getting him alone. He wanted to try. 

Besides, if Max made a move on Liz before he made a move on Alex, well, then they were all fucked.

He watched him throughout dinner, trying to think of what exactly he wanted to say. Maybe he could just tell him he thought he was hot, keep it simple. Or he could explain that, thinking about it, he’d actually liked him for a lot longer than he realized because it suddenly made a lot of sense why he’d been watching him for two years. Maybe Alex would take his confusion about his sexuality as a good enough answer and they could make out to help solidify that this wasn’t a weird boy crush. Not that he thought it was. He was confused about what this meant, but there was no confusion about the way Alex made him feel like his skin was being lit on fucking fire and like his mind was melting.

When they got back to the room, Michael quickly went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and make sure he didn’t smell. Everyone was getting ready for Valenti’s party. Time to prepare for his own.

“Hey, Alex, can we talk?” Michael asked as he stepped out of the bathroom. Alex looked up from where his phone and eyed him, nodding slightly.

Michael stepped closer, trying to find at least one of the starters to the plethora of conversations he’d had in his mind. He should say he liked him. He should say he didn’t mean to pull away. He should say that he accidentally had a second sexual awakening to seeing him shirtless. He should say so, so many things.

And instead he said none. Instead, he lunged forward and kissed him.

It was a short, chaste kiss, but it was enough for pieces to fall into place. That was definitely how that was supposed to feel. It probably had to do with Alex being superior. Where was a pedestal when you needed one?

“Um,” Alex said, taking a shaky breath as the kiss ended. Michael blinked a few times and pulled away a little more. Had he misread something? Alex licked his lips, looking at him like he didn’t get it. “Are-are… Is this a set up?”

“Huh?” Michael asked, furrowing his eyebrows. How the hell did he come to that conclusion?

“Is this one of those things where you kiss me and then ask me out and then I agree and then you stand me up and make fun of me with your friends?” he asked, hesitant rather than angry. Michael’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“What? No, oh my god, who did that?” Michael asked, voice soft. Alex shook his head dismissively, still eying him like he didn’t get it.

“You just kissed me.”

“Yeah,” Michael agreed, “I really wanna keep doing it too if you do.”

“There’s a party.”

“I’d rather we have our own.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

“So you know I’m into guys and you’re questioning?”

“No,” Michael said, shrugging his shoulders, “I know you’re smart and beautiful and funny.”

Alex looked him up and down and that hesitance in his eyes slowly but surely bled into something else. His eyes darkened just a little and Michael’s stomach twisted. Alex slowly stepped back into his space, idle fingertips touching his elbows and slowly sliding up his arms and over his shoulders and over his neck and into his hair. He hadn’t even gotten another kiss and Michael felt like his brain had melted.

Alex cradled his head as he pulled him in for another kiss, this one packing much more of a purpose. He parted his lips and welcomed Alex’s tongue against his own. His hands reached for Alex’s hips, pulling him closer as he tilted his head to kiss him a little deeper. His tongue deliberately slid over his sore bottom lip, letting him know he was being careful not to kiss him too hard. Which would’ve been fine, but he didn’t actually care.

Michael pressed in harder and Alex smiled, tugging on his hair gently. Add that to the list of things to make his mind run wild.

They kissed for a while just standing there, both of them too hesitant to move in case they pushed a button that wasn’t willing to be pressed. But the kisses got more sloppy and the touches got more desperate, both of them swaying as they tried so hard to push in closer. Michael couldn’t remember a time he’d been so desperate to touch someone. Suddenly, there was no confusion at all about anything. It was just this, just them.

As Alex’s hands slid beneath his shirt, it reminded Michael of his little Grand Canyon speech. You take what you need, he’d said. Did this count? It felt like it counted. The more he kissed him, the more he realized he’d wanted to do this for a long time. He just… hadn’t let himself think that.

Michael pulled away to remove his shirt, diving back in for another kiss. Alex breathed a hot breath against his mouth as his hands raked over his bare chest, taking in every inch. No one had ever touched him like that. He wanted more.

“Wait,” Michael breathed. Alex snatched his hands away quickly, still breathing heavy as he pulled away to see what was wrong. Michael gave a reassuring smile. “Do you, uh, like, do you… know how to… like…”

Alex smiled at him in a way that could’ve been condescending, but distinctly wasn’t because it was him. He placed his hands on Michael’s chest again.

“Yeah,” he said, “Do you?”

Michael licked his lips and looked down between them. Alex was still fully clothed, but he really, really didn’t want him to be.

“Not, uh, not with a guy,” he admitted, swallowing as he met Alex’s eyes again. There was no judgement. “Kinda lost on how exactly that works.”

“Well, I can explain it to you,” Alex said, “If you want.”

Michael involuntarily moved forward, kissing him hotly. “I want.”

“Okay,” Alex breathed, smiling as he moved his hands up to fiddle with his hair. Michael felt like putty in his hands and he enjoyed every second of it. “But we don’t even have to go, like, that far. I don’t really have any… Like, I didn’t bring lube or anything, didn’t really anticipate this, so maybe we should just stick to the basics.”

“Basics?” Michael repeated. Alex nodded and gave him another kiss.

“If you want to,” Alex told him, “With me.”

“God, Alex,” Michael laughed, shaking his head, “I literally have never wanted anything more than you in my entire life. I feel like my heart is going to explode in my chest. I have never liked someone as much as I like you and it’s really made this weekend impossible to enjoy anything that wasn’t you.”

Alex stared at him for a moment before he softly nodded and pulled him back into a kiss, but this one was a little different. This one was slow and held every goddamn secret in the universe. Yes, they were small, but yes, they were everything.

“C’mon,” Alex said, grabbing his hands and tugging him towards the bed.

Michael followed him with a lifetime of anticipation.

-

A knock sounded on the door to signify that they should be awake.

Michael groaned and went to reach for his phone, but paused when he realized he had the weight of another body on his back. Every moment of the night before all rushed into his mind and he smiled to himself, both excited that he’d been bold enough and disappointed that they probably wouldn’t get the chance to do anything like that again any time soon.

But, then again, he had a truck waiting for him.

“Alex,” Michael said, carefully turning so as not to crush him or throw him off, “We gotta get up. Bus loads in like an hour.”

Alex sighed and lifted his head, looking up at him. Even in his sleep-hazed state, he grinned.

“You’ve got sex hair,” he said. Michael snorted and ran in hands through Alex’s hair.

“Haha, I wonder why.”

“Yeah, me too,” Alex teased, pushing himself up to kiss him again. That one led to another and another and they only broke when more persistent knocking came.

“Michael!” Isobel said, “Open up! I need you or I’m gonna die!”

Michael sighed at her dramatics and looked to Alex with a pout.

“Get dressed, we’ll pretend nothing happened,” Alex said and Michael nodded easily. They both got up and Michael had to brace himself against the wall, feeling a little off-kilter. Alex gave him a filthy grin. “Sore?” he asked innocently, waving two fingers at him. Michael huffed and held up his middle finger.

Eventually, they pulled themselves together and answered Isobel who didn’t seem to notice anything as she headed straight for Michael’s bed.

“She’s the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” Isobel groaned, “I can’t wait to get home.”

Michael spared a glance at Alex who went into the bathroom to pack all of his shit.

“I don’t know, I think I could entertain this trip for another night or two.”

“Yeah, well your roommate isn’t annoying,” Isobel scoffed. Michael grinned to himself.

“Yeah, you got that right.”

The ride back to Roswell was more than agonizing. Alex sat at the front and Michael sat with Isobel, the only contact they had being over text. It wasn’t enough. They still hadn’t really talked about what happens next. God, he wanted to know. He wanted everything.

He could imagine it easily: the two biggest troublemakers at Roswell High hooking up. They’d be an unstoppable team. The idea made him grin.

When they got back to the school after the multiple hours of trip they endured, Michael went to his truck and waited. Everyone else had their parents pick them up or drove their own cars back home. Things would just go back to normal. It was just a normal class trip. 

Except Alex Manes didn’t have anyone pick him up and he didn’t have a ride. Instead, he just walked up to Michael's truck once most everyone was gone and took a deep breath.

“We should talk,” he said. Michael licked his lips and nodded towards his truck.

“Wanna go for a ride?” he asked. Alex grinned easily.

“Hell yeah I do.”

They definitely did a little more than talking.

Who knew the Grand Canyon could be so great?

#malex #malex fic #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #my fic

[animatedminds]

Pixar’s Soul: Review and Reaction

The first sentence I’ve always used to describe Pete Docter and Pixar’s Soul since watching it has nothing to do with the plot. It’s instead is a starstruck comment about the music: the movie begins with a cover of a Duke Ellington classic - Mercer Ellington’s “Things Ain’t What they Used to Be.” It ends with a jazz rendition of a classic from several decades later - but still quite a bit in our past - Curtis Mayfield’s soul classic “It’s Alright.” On a personal level, this would say way more about Soul that most other descriptions of it might to get me to watch it - were I not the kind of person who was absolutely intent on watching the movie day one regardless. Though I am myself a few generations after either of those artists were around, their music has been a part of my life since I was a kid and are essential on any playlist in my opinion. Curtis Mayfield’s music, especially, deserves all the love in the world, and hearing by surprise someone cover his work in a Disney movie made my entire day - and it would have, even if the film weren’t the meaningful ride it is.

But before we get into all that, lets also look at those songs. “Things Aren’t What They Used To Be” is played a la a teacher and a higher school band class: the students are learning and a bit difficult to listen to, while the music-loving teacher cringes at the front. But the choice of song tells us a lot. It’s a jazz standard: which means when it comes to jazz, it’s one of the essentials - a tune every band learns to play, and every jazz fan has heard before. The teacher is a jazzman - you can probably guess who - and the whole time he’s listening to the song you can hear him wanting to sit down and make it sound as perfectly as he hears it in his head. Remember that analogy. Heck, when you watch or rewatch the movie, remember the mindset Joe - because that’s who that teacher is, Joe Gardner, is in for that whole teaching scene in the first place: and remember how important the desire to make things perfect is to the greater story the movie is trying to tell.

“Things Aren’t The Way They Used To Be,” indeed. By the end, you have to wonder: isn’t that the point? Now the second song. “It’s All Right” is a smooth number for dancing to - not frenetic and wild dancing, but more a slow jam sort of vibe. BUt it’s the lyrics that are the most befitting the themes of the movie. Like several of Curtis Mayfield’s tunes “It’s All Right” is an ear worm of an R&B number that’s actually about being a peace with yourself. “You’ve got soul” - ha, I get it - “and everybody knows, that it’s all right.” Or, to quote instead my favorite verse of the song (I did say Mayfield was one of my favorites): “when you wake up early in the morning feeling sad like so many of us do, hum a little soul, make life your goal, and surely something’s gonna come to you.” This is before the spoilery part of the review, but they could not have picked a better song for the movie’s themes if they wrote it themselves.

Soul, after all, is ultimately a movie about how the things we do, the things we love, even the things that define us and should make us feel good in and of themselves, can become a shackle that prevents us from feeling the things that we adopt them to feel. Dreams - especially dreams deferred - can consume us rather than uplift us, and sometimes in pursuing them we may forget to live, and forget that others are living in this world and dreaming alongside us.

This, as you might be able to tell from the way I’ve described it, is a movie with a very strong, and most importantly very well related message that - as we’ve come to expect from Pixar’s output at this point - touches us in our jaded adult hearts. As a creative person with lofty dreams who has almost literally been where the protagonist is in this film - and as many in my generation also have gone through - it definitely feels like a film that was directed straight at the generation that first watched Toy Story as kids decades ago, and now feel somewhat unfulfilled as adults going into the world. Same as Inside Out (a movie specifically designed to make adults cry, in my opinion), the SparkShorts and arguably Onward (I definitely related to Bailey, some). So much like my review of Jingle Jangle, you have something of an idea where this review is going to go before the jump, but that’s okay. This movie did have ups and downs, but its just the kind of up Pixar is good at: they know they’re audience, and especially did for this gem. By the end, it can definitely make you feel as though you too can make it through, as long as you have a little Soul. However, it is not just the message, but the nuances and skill in which they relate that message (and they do come close to making decisions that could have ruined it, at times), which means it’s very difficult for me to put why this movie works into a review without SPOILERS. If you want to avoid SPOILERS, don’t hop over the pic and instead treat the above as your non-SPOILER review.

Soul is the story of one Joe Gardner, played by Jamie Foxx a brilliant early middle-aged pianist with lifelong dreams of becoming a jazz musician, who we first meet teaching part time band at a local high school. The inciting incident is an interesting choice: Joe gets a major offer - he can come on as a full time teacher, making his occupation a career! But Joe believes very much in the adage that “those who cannot do, teach” - in the sense that he wants to do. He cannot accept the position - over the advice of his mother - because that would mean giving up on his dream of being out there playing music for a living: a dream that has consumed him his entire life but which has given him nothing in return. Until now. While agonizing over the decision to take the position, Joe's life then gets a big twist: a former student of his, remembering him fondly years after they knew each other, has a hook for him to join the band of a famous jazz singer and saxophonist - played by Angela Basset (side note, here: jazz has long had a reputation for being something of a boys club, especially for certain instruments, and the choice to have the lead saxophonist and famous idol whose band Joe wants to join be a woman is a great choice that my entire jazz-loving and living family took note of). Joe is instantly elated - he rushes over and naturally aces the audition for the part in the band, and so is on cloud nine...

Until he dies. That’s when the plot really starts. Joe falls down a manhole like an astronomer in an aesop fable, and is now stuck on the slow escalator to The Great Beyond. Naturally, he’s not for that and tries to escape - pursued by overeager spiritual soul-accountant Terry - ending up in the Great Before instead, and leaving his body in a still-living coma (the implications that coma patients in general are people who are choosing not to die when they’re “supposed” to is something I’m sure the writers didn’t intend, so I’ll let it slide). There, Joe is pressganged into mentoring a pre-prepared soul for birth, helping them find their Spark for life - which Joe interprets as the one true purpose and dream they are meant to fulfill. Once he gets them their Spark, he will be able to steal a badge his mentee earns as fully fledged souls and . Luckily for his intended very morally suspect intent on spiritual larceny, he ends up with Soul #22 - and that’s #22 out of hundreds of billions - a soul who has simply never found a Spark despite having been in the Great Before for thousands of years. #22 doesn’t want to live, so she agrees to give him her patch when they’re done. But no mentor before has been able to inspire her (well, technically #22 is genderless, as she demonstrates in the story at Joe’s request, but she is voiced by Tina Fey), so how can Joe? When that proves to be too hard indeed, #22 instead decides to help Joe get back - mostly because she’s intrigued at why anyone would want to cling to life so badly - with the help of some mystics who astral project while in the Zone: where everyone goes when they’re fully immersed in what they do. This almost works, but at the last second everything goes awry: #22 gets mixed up with Joe when he returns, and so he doesn’t quite get back the way he wants to...

That’s enough plot summary for now. That’s all just the set-up anyway, for the choices in writing and concept that I’m about to talk about. As you might have been able to tell from that ominous last note, the middle chunk of Soul - almost right up until the climax, in fact - is actually a body-swap movie, a la Freaky Friday. #22 ends up in Joe’s body, so he has to get her to do the things he needs to get ready for his gig and get through the day while they wait for the mystic to bring a way to set everything right. And did I mention he’s in the body of a cat? Having been following the movie, this wasn’t entirely a surprise, but it was still not something I was entirely ready for coming in. I tend to shy away from that kind of story on a personal level, as body-swap narratives are nearly predominantly based on cringe moments and awkward misconceptions - and that sort of thing usually tends to make me want to leave the scene in question and get a cup of water until after the awkwardness passes. However, this isn’t really part of the review in the sense that I perceive that the movie being in that genre is a flaw - because ultimately that’s just an aspect of my personal taste. Rather, I use it to show just how strong a movie Soul was and how well its narrative choices resonated with its themes that ultimately while it did indeed partake in your typical body-swap narrative cringe moments - “look, the [redacted] in Joe’s body just ran into his boss / mom!” / “look, the [redacted] is having a bizarre conversation with Joe’s friends!” / etc - those moments actually add to the narrative rather than take you out of it. Joe as “friends,” as exemplified by the barber he goes to to get his hair ready for the gig when it inevitably gets ruined in a bout of hijinks (the barber being that extremely well-designed bearded character the internet went wild over). He goes to that barber all the time, talks with him constantly, and believes he knows him well. But it turns out that Joe’s so wrapped up in his wants and desires that he’s never even asked him about his life - he just assumed that the barber was like him, born to do that one thing he was good at. It takes #22′s innocent, slightly off-kilter and occasional philosophical questions about what the heck all this “life” stuff is about for Joe to learn that this person in his life didn’t even want to be where he ended up initially, he ended up there because that’s the way his life turned, but he loves it because it’s life and he appreciates the world he’s come to create around himself. Likewise, he runs into his mom, but while Joe has come to expect his mother to be dismissive of him and his dreams, it takes an accident with #22 for him to realize that he’s been so caught up in his desires and her in her preconceptions that neither of them have ever had a real talk about their relationship, nor given a chance to grow in each other’s eyes. You might notice a trend. One of Joe’s students - a brilliant trombonist - comes to tell him she’s quitting band, but she doesn’t really. She’s just insecure because the other students make fun of her. Joe knows this already - it’s become commonplace to him - so the doesn’t feel the need to do anything about it and instead focuses on his own needs. But #22 decides to talk to her on a whim, and this push and pull of insecurity but joy in what one is good at fascinates her, while it bores Joe. While - like any other New Yorker - public transit is a chore to Joe, the melting pot of people and music draws #22 in: best evidenced by the moment where Joe and #22 meet another great musician playing for tips in the subway. Joe, despite being capable of relating as a musician, just walks past him after appreciating the sound for a sec, while #22, entranced by the things people do, leaves something for him. The world is drab and lacking in vibrancy from Joe’s point of view, as evidenced by the very accurate grimy look of the high school he work at - but from #22′s seemingly jaded eyes seeing it for the first time, it’s full of wonder.

This actually creates an interesting character contrast on top of the one we already know: Joe is the idealist, and #22 is the cynic... right? Well, it turns out Joe doesn’t have much of an appreciation for the world around him - not intentionally, but still to a very strong degree - whereas #22 simply hasn’t had the chance to experience life yet and thus never knew what it was that made people want to be part of it. Life itself becomes her Spark, though neither of them realize it at the time. Lets just get the aesop out of the way now. Your dream is not your life: that’s what Soul wants to say. Things that compel you as a person may consume you, even embitter you, and prevent you from seeing the world around you for what it is. But that doesn’t make dreams a bad thing: people everywhere find that Spark from the dreams to keep moving forward - it’s just that it shouldn’t preclude living, nor should living preclude your dreams. Life is a delicate balance, and man is this movie serving up some complicated life lessons here. I immediately took this as a far more mature take on the message The Princess and the Frog stumbled somewhat through years ago (man, I’m turning out to be pretty hard on that movie in this blog). My biggest issue with PATF is that it tells us that Tiana should be less intent on her dream and find love instead, but doesn’t show us. It’s just characters chiding her for not settling down until the plot ultimately pushes a man in front of her and she realizes she should’ve been finding one all along. That’s a very harsh way of putting it, but it condenses what I’m trying to say: ultimately PATF pushes Tiana to realizations she doesn’t seem to need, whereas Soul has a similar message about life and does so by focusing on character development, about how the protagonist doesn’t have as firm a handle on his life as he thought, and thus brings us a take on the lesson that’s far less cut and dry.

If you’re a fan of The Incredibles, the comparison to Mr. Incredible is fairly easy. Joe, though well meaning and decent overall, is a very self-centered person who happens to be so for very sympathetic and relatable reasons. He just wants to do the thing he feels he was born to. He'll do anything to get back to life and do that thing, even for a single night. He’s consumed by this desire so much that he's oblivious to the people around him, unable to connect to the people he loves, and unable to find joy in anything but his dream. And man, as a young writer who knows in their heart of hearts they can do great things and feels pain at the idea of not doing so, that hits different let me tell you.

The lessons Joe learns from #22 even stick. It turns out that part of what caused Joe’s dream to fail all those time was because of that lack of connection with life. He never presented himself in a way that got people to take notice of him, he never pushed for that position he wanted even though people said no, he never made himself and his life so vibrant that he glowed in the eyes of others (and again, that hits different). That’s maybe the most simplistic message of the bunch, but as a person in the creative field it’s true that sometimes being the smartest person in the room isn’t enough: it’s making himself shine that ultimately clinches Joe the gig even after he almost lost it thanks to the day’s shenanigans.

But in the end, it doesn’t feel like he thought he would.

Remember when I said there are parts where the movie comes perilously close to kiboshing its message? That moment is one, it’s the one. Not that that moment is bad - far from it, it’s the best moment in the entire movie (and you can fight me on that if you want to). It’s because it’s the crossroads, the pin, the core of the entire film: depending on the choice they made after that point, that moment could have either been the best moment in the entire movie, or the moment that toppled everything.

The realization of Joe’s dream doesn’t feel like the explosion of confetti and catharsis that he expected. It was just another moment of his life, a great one, but it’s still just part of his life. So what does Joe do? Does he panic? Does he keep going until it feels good? Does he - as he would in a lesser movie trying to give a cookie cutter aesop - immediately quit and realize he should’ve been teaching all along? No, he does none of those things. He absorbs the moment. He realizes that at the end of the dream you’re still just living life, and that you have to appreciate that. Joe isn’t wrong for pursuit of his dream. He’s not wrong for believing that hopes and dreams make life so much more worthwhile. He’s wrong in thinking that those dreams are all that define us, and that their realization is all that makes people themselves worthwhile at all.

And in the end - though I may be getting a bit too referential for this - the unexamined life is just so much less fulfilling than the alternative.

And all that a message and a half! It hits different. It’s mature as all heck. It’s something people my age (especially in my generation), twice my age, half my age never learn. It’s a callsign that sometimes Pixar is still make movies for the people who were kids way back when Toy Story was released, and are now insecure adults wondering why the world isn’t as wonderful as they saw on the screen. It’s brilliant. I said before that Joe interprets the “Spark” to be one’s purpose in life. The one thing that makes them who they are, that they are on the planet to do. He is wrong, absolutely and utterly. And in that misconception, when #22 finally does get their Spark just from being on Earth and seeing what its life, he accuses them of leeching self-actualization over his own personal ambitions, fully believing that they didn’t find a “purpose" on her own, but just copied his. But the Spark, as it turns out, is just the joy of living, the thing that makes people want to live. It can come from a dream, or just from watching the beauty of the sun set over a leaf drifting in the wind. Only in understanding this can Joe finally understand what he’s been missing in life, only then can he reconcile with #22 and help her finally be born, only then can he walk into the world and know how he’s going to live it.

We never find out what Joe decides, whether he goes back to teaching, or continues with the band. The choice is open to him, but we never find out which one he takes - another choice that keeps the aesop from falling apart. The point of all of that wasn’t that Joe has to do one thing or another to be happy, it was that Joe needs to be happy and secure in himself before he chooses what his life should be. Either of those could make him happy. Neither of those could. But now he’s in a much better place to see it, and do what he can.

We also never find out what #22 is like when she (or he, etc) is born. The two of them never meet past the point where #22 goes to Earth. Their time together has passed, and #22′s life is now their own. And that’s a great choice either. I’ve seen the occasional person feel that the choice made in this paragraph or noted in the previous one made the story confusing, but they’re ultimately what make the story what it is. The answer isn’t the necessity of resolution, its the reaffirmation of the journey. It reminds me somewhat of Wreck-It Ralph (an example of the main Disney Studio delivering a complex aesop, rather Pixar delivering them all), where being a villain wasn’t Ralph’s problem - it was that he wasn’t happy doing the thing he loved. You have to live, from living you will learn, and from learning you will do. The sheer incredible execution of this message (as you may have guessed, it’s a fairly difficult one to relay adequately in a film narrative, and the movie goes non-traditional in conclusion to maintain it) would have made this film a recommend for me even if it wasn't also beautifully animated, very well acted, funny (there’s a Knicks joke that floored me), heartwarming and relatable. But it’s also all of those things, so I have to recommend it twice as much. It is, regrettably, another movie with a black lead where the lead spends most of it transfigured into a form that’s not a black person (a soul, and then a cat), and I’ve already seen some grumbling that instead for much of it a character explicitly coded as a white woman is in his body instead, but I perceive that as an issue that’s endemic to the industry than a fault in this movie specifically. Everyone does that, but this is the only movie I’ve seen where doing that is an essential part of how the narrative develops the characters (Joe has to not be himself in order to understand his life from an outside perspective, a la Scrooge as a ghost watching his own history), and so I don’t scorn the movie for it. I, however, would very much like Hollywood to start doing that less, and - hey - as a prospective writer that’s one of those things I plan to do my part to combat. This movie, however, gets a pass in my book in ways that the general usage of this concept does not. In short, you should see it. If you get the chance to see it right now, you should take it to feel good at the end of this incredibly insane year. If you don’t want to have to sign up for Disney+ to see it now, I get you and understand, but if you get a chance to see it later do not pass it up. It’s one of the few movies I’ve watched that are an instant buy when it becomes available on digital - and the last time a movie did that for me was BlacKKKlansman. Whatever you choose to do, do it well. Keep the spirit alive, always keep searching for the real you - because it’s not always easy to find, but it’s worth looking for - and always remember that you could always have a little soul.

#Soul #film review #Disney Pixar #Pixar #Pete Docter #Jamie Foxx #Tina Fey #the afterlife #self actualization #jazz #curtis mayfield #duke ellington #animated film #animation review #animated minds for animated times #Joe Gardner #22 #recommended

[ragnarachael]

Hi! Are you still taking requests for Peter? Your Parker!Reader verse is ssooooo Good!! Can I request one where before Morgan is born, Tony sees Reader taking care of Peter who's Idk sick or something? And he finds it really cute and fluffy cause you're cuddling cause Peter is a cuddle bear and then Tony's like lEt's hAvE kIdS. You don't have to tbh 💙💙

CHIQUITITA, TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG

Pairing: Peter Parker x Sister!Reader, Tony Stark x Parker!Reader

Word Count: 1,508

Summary: Peter's sick and barely singing along to Mamma Mia. You take it upon yourself as Peter's sister to try and make him feel better. Tony helps the best he can before he’s off to a meeting. Later in the day, he accidentally brings up a topic you've yet to discuss in your relationship.

Author’s Ramblings: i went a little wild with this so... whoops. i really should put this series in order, but i’m far too lazy to even think about that at the moment. after this i’m posting the last 3 wip guessing game asks and then going back to work on THE fic! (also i’m trying out this new formatting for when i write whole oneshots instead of drabbles, don’t mind me)

Peter was sick. Peter Benjamin Parker, who proclaimed that he never got sick—which was frankly a lie, due to your family’s history of shitty immune systems—was sick and whining as he lounged around on the couch of the Avenger’s Compound.

He was leaning on Thor’s shoulder while he kept two separate tissues up both sides of his nose, Mamma Mia blaring on the flat screen in front of them. Thor seemed to be enjoying himself, his head moving along with the rhythm of the song that had been playing. You observed them both as you sipped on your coffee. Peter was quietly mumbling the lyrics to the song that was currently playing, sounding like he was in some weird state of delirium.

That’s what worried you. When you watch Mamma Mia with your brother, he’s electric. Usually, he’s up on his feet, doing most of the choreography, singing the male vocals almost perfectly; he’s never not sitting and barely bopping to the music.

“Hey Pete,” you said gently from where you stood near the kitchen island, moving a bit to let Tony get by you to grab a mug, “you okay?”

All Peter did in response was hold a thumbs up over the edge of the couch.

You sighed, placing your coffee mug down on the countertop before slipping past Tony and dodging Steve as you headed to where Peter and Thor were sitting.

There was no hesitation in your laughter when you saw how Peter solved his nose dripping problem. It’s exactly what you do and you completely get what May meant when she said the two of you were almost the same person.

“Peter,” you started, squatting down to meet his eyes, “did you take some medicine?”

“Yeah,” he huffed out, feeling around to his left to grab his bottle of water he had with him. “I took some.”

“How long ago?” You asked, reaching a hand up to press it against his forehead. You clicked your tongue. He had a fever for sure and with his luck, it’s probably rising.

Peter shrugged as he kept watching the TV screen, resting his chin on the top of his bottle.

You glanced over at Thor with a questioning look. Thor returned it just as the music to the scene that was playing stopped.

“What?”

“Were you awake with him when he took the medicine, Thor?”

“No. Loki and I returned from Asgard just over an hour ago.”

You nodded and gave him a smile, turning your gaze back to your baby brother. Emphasis on the baby.

“How’s about I take you to your room and I’ll make some soup for you? That sound good, bubba?”

Peter didn’t even have to say yes or no because you were gently pulling him up from the couch with little struggle, slinging his arm around your shoulders so you could guide him back to his room. 

He was groaning quietly the whole way, mumbling stuff about Mamma Mia and Thor being comfortable. Just before you could get into the hallway with Peter, you nudged your head into the hall in Tony’s direction to get his help.

You continued trying to hold all of Peter’s weight yourself before Tony was coming to your rescue, throwing the other arm over his shoulders.

“Don’t worry champ, we’ve got ya,” he said reassuringly, a hand splayed in between his shoulders.

Eventually, you got Peter in bed and instructed Tony to get all of his things he brought out to the couch while you got on making the soup you mentioned earlier.

Part of you wished May was back in town so you didn’t have to care for Peter like this, since you couldn’t always handle how whiny your brother gets when he’s sick, but another part of you didn’t care that much. You weirdly enjoyed doing this as of late, and you couldn’t place it.

Once the soup was done, you got a bowl and spoon together for Peter and carefully navigated your way back to Peter’s room, telling whoever you passed that there’s soup, if they wanted any.

Tony was lounging in Peter’s bed, staring at one of the walls that seemed to have Star Wars projecting on it.

Your heart skipped a beat when you saw how soft Tony looked with Peter in this moment. Even though Tony was still dressed up for a meeting he had within the next hour, he looked so cozy.

“Hey,” you said, kicking the door open wider with your foot, “I got the soup. You’re free to go.”

Tony’s eyes were still on the projection of the movie as he replied with a grunt.

You couldn’t hide your chuckle as you placed the bowl of soup down and gently tug his rolled up sleeve. “Mr. Stark, you’re needed elsewhere.”

Tony immediately looked at you thanks to that title and gave you a pout.

“It’s the best part!”

“It’s literally the opening credits. You’ve got a meeting,” you replied sternly, trying not to let the way Peter looked when you started to gently peel him from Tony’s chest pull on your heart strings.

“Fine, fine! I won’t have Pepper call it off,” Tony relented as you kept trying to get him to leave as he dramatically resisted to get Peter to laugh. You could hear your brother laughing the same time as you when you finally got Tony to the doorway.

“Behave, Tony.”

“What’s in it for me if I do?” He asked, raising a brow as he lowered his vocal register. You knew what he was doing, and you weren’t going to let it work.

“Go, Tony.” You pressed your lips to his and pulled away before he could grab you and pull you closer. “Or I’m going to break some of your tech again.”

“Can you take this away from me?” Peter asked loudly, with a bit of energy. You turned to look at him, raising a brow.

“You’re supposed to be sick, y’know.”

“I am,” Peter heaved, starting to reach for the soup you left on the nightstand, “doesn’t mean I can’t talk. Now can I please have someone watch Star Wars with me?”

You sighed and rubbed a hand over your face, giving Tony one last look for him to get lost before turning back around and quickly passing Peter the bowl of soup he’s still reaching for. 

Tony stayed in the doorway for a moment, watching you walk away before letting a dramatic sigh out, starting to slink down the hall back to the main living space.

Peter actually ate all of the soup, to your surprise. Although he did sip at the broth during the first Star Wars movie before actually eating the noodles and extra things you put in that you knew he’d eat. But he still ate it, and that’s all that mattered.

When Tony came back to check on the two of you after his meeting, he caught the both of you dozed off as the third movie started to play. Peter’s head was resting on your shoulder, his face smushed into your collarbone while your head was resting against the pillows. Your arms were wrapped around him protectively while it looked like Peter was trying to make his body morph into yours.

He had his legs tangled with yours, almost like you were playing twister. It was then Tony remembered that Peter liked sleeping in weird positions like that.

The kid was weird, but he loved him anyway.

Tony couldn’t place why his mind was going haywire over the fact of you cuddling with your brother, it might just be because it was so cute. Both of you were adorable in your own rights, and it was tugging some thought from the crevices of his mind.

“Tony?” You questioned with your sleep filled tone, sitting up slightly, only stopping when Peter shifted his face on your shoulder.

Tony didn’t hold back the smile he had for you and carefully walked farther into the room, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hey, dear.”

“How’d the meeting go?”

“It went,” Tony replied, not at all thinking before speaking, “you’re great with kids.”

You tilted your head in confusion, pulling one of your arms from Peter to rub at your eye. “Kids?”

Tony shook his head instantly, not wanting to get on that topic right now. With Peter in the room? It’s a dangerous shot to take.

“Forget I said anything, you’re dreaming, this is a dream,” Tony recovered quickly, which caused you to let out a quiet laugh.

“We’re talking about that later, Stark.”

“What? Talking about kids? What’re kids?”

“Babe—”

Tony cut you off again, continuing to pretend you weren’t asking questions about what he said, gently moving to sit on the emptiest edge of the bed possible as you tried to smother your laughter.

Finally, you decided to play along, just so he could join you and Peter in bed for a nap. However, you’re definitely pressing on the whole “kids” topic later.

#tony stark x parker!reader #tony stark x reader #tony stark imagine #tony stark drabble #tony stark fanfiction #marvel writer #peter parker x sister!reader #peter parker sickfic #marvel imagine #marvel drabble #rachael writes #pttshah

[janiedean]

Okay, so, I dunno if people have asked, so Heart Soulmates, JB part 5? Also, feel free to ignore this, but, err, Davos and Marya get half of the same heart and it belongs to Stannis...?

they haven’t so sure thing! (also if you want the team stannis ot3 just send another ask I just so that I don’t end up crosstagging stuff for two wholly different ships XD)

okay hmmmm let’s see what part five can be, previous parts for this verse are under this tag!

– 

“I could leave the Kingsguard,” Jaime says in the darkness of her room, a long time later, after they talked for so long his throat hurts. “If - if that’s something you would want.”

He can feel Brienne go tense next to him for a moment. “If it’s something I would want? It should be something you want,” she says. “I mean, you don’t look happy in it. And since we’re obviously - what we are, well. Having seen the king, I don’t think he’d deny that request, as… unusual as it is. But why wouldn’t I want it?”

“Why would you?” He shrugs, suddenly feeling like he’s too tired for wisecracks and for pretending he’s fine - having his heart back has been marvelous, and he hadn’t known how much he had missed it, but he feels exhausted now, feeling too much at once and not hating it when until now he’s felt utterly miserable at best worst and exactly nothing at best. “You want knighthood. I’m - no one would take you seriously if you accompanied yourself with me. I’m not as young as I used to be, I’ve wasted most of my life and my best years for Aerys and - never mind. You know.” He did tell her about Cersei. Not point in hiding it. “I’m not such a great prize, at the end of it. You did see how it was.”

“Your heart, you mean?” Brienne asks, moving closer, and he can feel her shaking her head. Gods, how it is that he met her not even a day ago and now it feels like he’ll die if they’re parted again?

… well. She had his damned heart for more than half of her life. She’d know, he supposes.

“What else?” He shrugs minutely. “For what is worth, maybe the thrice-damned gods should have given you a heart belonging to someone who’s not reviled by the entire damned kingdom. That’s what you’d deserve.”

“I’m not the entire damned kingdom, which for your consideration, pretty much reviles me too. Or will revile me, at some point.” She takes a breath, and then her hand tentatively touches his. “Also, the only reproachful thing you did was to save innocent people, which is a knightly vow last I checked, which means that I will not account for that when it comes to your shortcomings.”

Her fingers wrap around his. He immediately holds them back, as shameful as it feels, relishing the feeling - seven hells, he had thought he would never have this with anyone else by now, and instead it’s happening and it feels too good to be true. Shit, he had thought she was magnificent when she was fighting and that was why he said that, and then she had - she had treated him like she didn’t care for his bad fame, and the moment he had his heart back and looked at her he knew she was right, but - but she’s also good, in a way he can’t ever be, and -

“I should probably tell you,” she starts again, “that it’s not just that I didn’t think I’d ever - be in the position to have someone’s heart. Like that. But people did tell me for years that it made sense that if I had to have one then it would be broken or damaged or belonging to someone just as unfortunate as me, and you know what I always told them? Or what I thought, when I couldn’t tell them.”

“To go to the seven hells straight?”

“No,” she says. “No, I told them that I could feel it was a good heart underneath that red, that I saw how hard it was holding on to it, and that whoever it belonged to deserved a chance to get better. And then not only I find out it belongs to one the few people who could have given me a good fight during that melee, but also to someone who didn’t think twice before putting their real knightly vows before everything else and who somehow doesn’t find me too horrible to look at? I don’t think it was a mistake. And all things considered, I’d rather have had yours. I want to think I would deserve someone who’d take me seriously and understand me before anything else, not someone with just a good name. Most of the lords in that tourney had one. Most of the knights who bet on my maidenhead -”

“What?” He asks, suddenly feeling enraged at the bare thought that someone could have done it to someone so - so nice as she is, for -

“It never came to pass because I wouldn’t have bedded anyone that wasn’t… you, in retrospective.” He sees her smiling in the moonlight. It’s a prettier smile than anyone who might bet on her damned maidenhead would think. “Anyway, most of those knights had better fame than you. Somehow, that doesn’t seem much of a bargain right now. If leaving the Kingsguard is what you want, good. But don’t assume that I would want you with me out of obligation. I really don’t think I can conceive it.”

She blushes a little at that, her cheeks turning darker under all those freckles, and suddenly he feels like grinning back at her, for the first time in years -

“Oh, you cannot conceive it? How so?”

“You feel right,” she says at once. “I - I knew the moment I realized. And you felt that too, didn’t you?”

He nods, knowing it would be nonsensical to deny it.

“So,” he says, “if I do leave the Kingsguard, I will most likely still be disgraced, and as much as my father would want to, I doubt I could keep my title. You know that, right?”

“I care naught for titles,” Brienne replies, her free hand tentatively going to the back of his head. “I have one and I have an entire island coming with it, and my father wouldn’t protest knowing that I found you for good. I don’t need another castle or gold. And I’m already half as disgraced as you according to them anyway, am I not? I doubt people would take any more seriously someone who won a damned melee for one position and didn’t get it.”

He thinks about it. He would leave and never see this blasted castle again, good riddance to it. He wouldn’t have to endure his sister’s stares or her nails clawing at his skin. He would - probably travel the continent and slay bandits the way he dreamed of when Ser Arthur knighted him. He would be with someone who feels right the way no one else ever did and somehow seems to want him with her, someone that he’s wanted to kiss senseless since they stopped kissing, someone who held his damned heart for years and never saw anything wrong with it, and he would - oh gods, he would get to kiss her in front of everyone without having to hide, and she’s not looking at him like she’d ever send him away for anything -

“All right,” he whispers, “then I will leave it somehow. I heard honest hedge knights are a rare commodity these days.”

She moves closer, smiling against his mouth. “I guess Westeros could do with two more then, couldn’t it?”

He seals it pressing their lips together again.

It could. It definitely could.

Same as now that he thinks about it, he could have done with his own knight.

Good thing she found him on her own.

–

(fyi: I’m taking prompts for scenes in this verse for the next day or so!)

#jaime x brienne #the heart fic thing #aaaand here we go #my fic #Anonymous #ask post

[psychobhyun]

S I N N E R  O R  S A I N T

Foreword: Father Kyungsoo’s heart flutters with happiness whenever he sees you. He loves how your breath gets shaky and your voice quivers when you confess and the way your innocent voice says, “Forgive me, Father, I am weak.”

Warnings: priest!au, blasphemy, blowjob, creampie, loss of virginity, mentions of masturbation, dirty talk

Genre: smut

When your family moved to a smaller town hundreds of miles away from your city, you were excited. You hated the kids in the city. All they ever talked about were sex, drugs, and alcohol. The top three things you hated. Even thinking about it counts as a sin to you. 

You knew the new town you’d live in would be more conservative. Your parents told you about the tightness of the Catholic community in the town since there was only one church. Everyone gathered a lot after church. There’s a lot of charity work too, which you were interested in participating. 

Being raised as a Catholic since birth made you know the Bible well. You can recite popular verses, you can sing the songs, and you often served the Lord by singing in the masses. You can feel it in your heart. God is happy He has you as a server. 

The first week you arrived, your family invited all the town to celebrate their new neighbors. You had a very big house, able to fit in all of the town. It was a small town anyway. Everyone came to the party, including the pastor of the church you will be attending every Sunday. 

He looked young. It probably only has been a few years since he graduated seminary school. He had plush lips shaped like a heart and dark, thick eyebrows. Wait. Are you allowed to make mental notes about your attractive pastor? Surely not. 

You slap your cheeks light to help you snap out of it. You’ve never focused on dating and guys. To you, it was something that would come on its own. When God allows you to. So for now, you’re just going to shake the pastor’s hand and try not to focus on your pastor’s doe eyes. 

“I am Father Kyungsoo,” he introduces himself. He notices your nervous stance. The sundress you wore had a low cut, but the hot weather gave it context. He could see a little bit of cleavage, but this shouldn’t tempt him. He had vowed to stay holy like God. These kinds of thoughts shouldn’t be inside his head. 

You reply with him politely with a smile. You bat your eyelashes at him and excused yourself to go to the bathroom. You lock it twice and lean against the door, trying to regulate your breathing. Father Kyungsoo’s hand was so big compared to yours. It was making you sin. The thing you despise of the most!

As the party reaches its end, Father Kyungsoo approaches you before he enters his car. “I heard from your parents you liked to participate in charity activities?” You only nod as a response. Father Kyungsoo flashes a smile and pats your head affectionately. “Good girl,” he says before stepping down your front porch. 

“I’m excited to see you at church this Sunday.” 

You looked at yourself one more time. The yellow sundress covered you up nicely. You decided to bring a black cardigan to cover yourself up more but ditched the idea immediately as you stepped out of the car. Before the service starts, your parents greeted the people around them while you sat nervously.

This was your first sermon in a new church. You fidgeted in your seat and your mom held your hand to help you calm down. You smiled at her sheepishly. Why are you like this? Your clouded thoughts are interrupted when Father Kyungsoo came in to greet everyone. 

The rest of the service passed by normally. Your anxiety completely left you. Maybe Father Kyungsoo’s smile eased your heart. The way he spoke was also calming. You wondered how his voice would sound when it’s whispering naughty things in your ear-

Oh no, you thought. You just committed a sin. Your heart starts accelerating uncomfortably in your chest. A light tap on your shoulder causes you to turn your head back. The person you’re dreading to see the most. Father Kyungsoo. “What’s wrong?” he asks with a concerned look on his face. 

“Father Kyungsoo,” you started, almost choking on the sudden inhale of breathe you took. Should you tell the truth? You should. You definitely should. But for some reason, the response you gave was, “I was just looking for my parents, Father.” Father Kyungsoo cocks an eyebrow. As if he noticed you lied to him. 

“Your parents are at the backyard, talking with a few people. Why are you here all alone, little one?” You gulped at the pet name he gave you. But you doubt it meant anything more than what it is supposed to be. “Everyone is old there, Father. I have no one to talk to,” you explained. 

Father Kyungsoo laughs lightly. “You can talk to me while you wait, little one. I’ll accompany you.” Father Kyungsoo ushers you around the church. Since this town had a rich Catholic history, there were lots of stories he could tell you about the church itself and the Catholic community in it. 

After your heart stops racing, you started to talk a bit more casually with Father Kyungsoo, but still with respect. You asked him why he wanted to be a priest and he told you it was a secret. “You are innocent, little one. You’ll know when it is the right time for you.” 

You pouted and Father Kyungsoo clicks his tongue in disapproval. “You look more beautiful when you smile. So smile for me, little one.” Your lips curl into a tiny grin and for Father Kyungsoo, it was enough. You gathered up the courage to Father Kyungsoo and told him that you wanted to confess your sins. 

“You can request for me personally next time. If it makes you comfortable, little one.” You nodded as a response and said your goodbyes to Father Kyungsoo after you picked up a call from your mom telling you to come to the backyard so you could go home. Father Kyungsoo sighs as you disappeared behind the door. 

Turns out the town you innocent town you thought you lived in was the exact opposite. The school may be a Catholic one, but your classmates fooled around a lot. One night, when you were having a supposedly girls only sleepover, a few guys came over to play truth or dare with you and your friends. 

You got dared to touch someone’s... genitals and it made you panic. You wanted to fit in, but it was wrong to touch someone else out of marriage. The next day, after school, you ran to the church and asked for someone to call Father Kyungsoo to listen to you in the confessional.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you said with a slight quiver in your voice. Father Kyungsoo notices the difference in your tone. It was not as relaxed as he remembered. “I was having a sleepover with my friends. She lied to me and said it was all going to be girls, but then some boys came over and we played truth or dare. My friend dared me to touch a boy, Father.”

Father Kyungsoo’s blood boiled. You? Doing inappropriate things? He could never imagine. When he thought you were done with your confessions, you continued. “I have also played with myself, Father. I am tainted.” You rubbed your thighs as you imagined Father Kyungsoo at the other side of the fence separating you and him.

Your breath hitches as you started crying. Unfortunately, Father Kyungsoo could do nothing about it. “Do you regret it, little one?” His voice echoed in the tight space of the box. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. But you answered him anyway. “I do, Father. But it felt so good. I don’t know why God would prevent us from orgasming, Father.”

Father Kyungsoo licks his lips and gets out of the booth. He opens the door you used to come in and pulls you outside. “Forgive me, Father, I am weak,” you murmur incoherently with a shaky voice. You kneel right in front of Father Kyungsoo and look up at him, hands tied together in prayer. 

Father Kyungsoo sits on the bench closest to him and tells you to take a seat beside him. “Lift up your skirt, little one,” he instructs. Your eyes widen, but you didn’t disobey him. You do as he says and bite your bottom lip when you notice the wet patch forming on your white cotton panties. 

He presses his middle finger on top of your clit and rubs it slowly, enjoying the little gasps you’re spilling from your lips. “You’re getting so wet, little one. God is ashamed,” Father Kyungsoo says as he puls your panties to the side, revealing your freshly shaven pussy to him. 

Father Kyungsoo inserts one of his fingers. He feels how tight you are. You’re definitely a virgin. “Let me cleanse you, little one.” You blink your eyes a couple of times in his direction, not knowing how he will cleanse you. But you trust him with all of your heart. Father Kyungsoo unzips his entire attire and lay on the floor. 

“Spit on your fingers and rub it all over your pussy, little one.” You do exactly as he says and spread your saliva all over your bottom lips. You moan when it’s starting to feel good. “This is going to hurt, okay?” Father Kyungsoo warns. You nod and wait for his next instruction. 

“I want you to say ‘Forgive me, Father, I am weak’ every time you sink down on my cock. Got it?” You spread your legs wider and Father Kyungsoo hums at the sight. Your clit is throbbing and your legs are twitching in excitement. When you push the first inch of his length into you, you throw your head back in pleasure. 

“Forgive me, Father, I am weak,” you say as you take the last few inches of his member inside your pussy. You lift yourself up and force yourself down, not forgetting to say the magic words. Father Kyungsoo places his hands on the sides of your hips and guides you up and down. 

Your wetness was enough to lubricate yourself. Even though you were a virgin, your hole accommodated his length well, sucking in greedily inside of you. “Forgive me, Father, I am weak,” you mutter for the nth time that afternoon. 

“God, you feel so warm and tight, little one,” Father Kyungsoo compliments as he watches your boobs bounce from this angle. He sits up straight and takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and biting on it. You run your hands through his hair as you gazed in each other’s eyes. 

Then you feel Father Kyungsoo moving his hips, making his cock get deeper inside you. It only intensified your pleasure, so you’re more than happy to let him take the lead. As his pace gets faster, your legs started to give out. You let him do all the moving as you continued to moan. 

“Forgive me, Father, I am weak,” you say for the last time before Father Kyungsoo comes inside of you. As he pulls out, he can see his own come tricking down your thigh. “Great job, little one. This should cleanse you well.” You flash him a satisfied smile. He leans in to kiss you tenderly and you intertwine your tongue with his in a heated french kiss session.

“Every time you sin, little one, I want you to come to me. So I can purify you again with my holy come. Promise?” Father Kyungsoo sticks out his pinky finger and you wrap yours around his. “I promise, Father Kyungsoo.” He pecks your forehead affectionately before he helps your dress up presentable enough to walk out again. 

You couldn’t stop thinking about Father Kyungsoo. He never left your mind once after the two of you had sex. You also started to explore more and experiment with your girlfriends. You’d rub your pussies together and play with sex toys. 

You also signed up for a charity event your church was doing. It was for a good cause, which is why you did it in the first place. And maybe because you could spend more time with Father Kyungsoo and steal a few kisses from him. 

As everyone started to lift the boxes up for donation, Father Kyungsoo startles you and drags you out of the room into a confessional box. Specifically, the one you first used to confess to him. “So tell me, little one. What sin did you commit this week?”

You started by saying that you’ve been fooling around with girls, trying a cigarette, and touching yourself. “I played with my pussy as I thought of you, Father. Your cock messing up my insides as you come inside me with your holy come.”

Father Kyungsoo grunts low in his throat and undresses enough to reveal his cock to you. He pushes you on your knees and instructs you to open your mouth to take him inside it. “Choke on my cock. Yeah, that’s right.” He encourages. 

As much as you wanted to focus on pleasuring him, you stopped immediately when you heard your parents calling out your name. You detached yourself from his cock and clamp your mouth shut. But Father Kyungsoo had other plans. He lifts up your skirt and rubs the tip of his cock on your clothed sex. 

Your parents kept shouting your name as he whispers to you quietly to take off your panties. After you did, Father Kyungsoo inserts himself slowly into your cunt. He thrusts, slowly at first, but it became relentless when your whimpers started to become a bit messier and inaudible. 

“You like that, little one? Getting fucked by a priest in the confessional? Almost caught by your parents? Tell Father,” he groans into your ear. You throw your head back and lean against his shoulder. “Rub your clit for me. Do it fast.” You follow his instructions and start using two of your fingers to rub figure eights on your clit. 

Your orgasm was nearing every single time Father Kyungsoo thrusts. When he does, you couldn’t prevent a loud scream from escaping your lips. You could only hope it wasn’t loud enough for anyone to hear. “Once again I have purified you, little one.” You kneeled once more in front of him to taste his come that was dripping down the sides of his cock. 

“Clean it up for me, little one. That’s a good girl.”

#d.o #d.o smut #d.o drabble #d.o imagine #d.o scenario #kyungsoo #kyungsoo smut #kyungsoo scenario #kyungsoo imagine #kyungsoo drabble #do kyungsoo #exo #exo smut #exo scenario #exo drabble #exo imagine

[fialleril]

replies to the DAV Mara snippet

Instead of reblogging that post endlessly, thought I’d collect my replies here.

@bookwyrmie said: I remember the ask about including Mara in the DAV AU, looks like that turned into yet another thing that was not going to be written and then happened anyway.

Is there anyone that Anakin hasn’t adopted yet? There is the Free Droid Network with Kaydee and friends, the nicer imperial officers and the OBV-Squad, Leia once she becomes a senator, and he is probably keeping an eye on Pooja as well. Now here is a young force-sensitive child, who desperately needs someone to help her learn how to be a person without alerting the Inquisitors. Guess it’s about time he adopted an actual child as well.

Ha ha yeah, I was just waiting for someone to comment about that lol. It’s true I once said I wasn’t going to write Mara in DAV, but three things happened to change that:

1. I promised @astudyinimagination a pick-me-up fic and I knew Sky really wanted a fic about Mara. So I was damn well gonna write one! (The moral here is that you should always make friends with your writers, because then we will happily write you things by request!)

2. I’d been thinking for a while that I needed to somehow address the question of what happened to a Force sensitive kid who was picked up by the Inquisitors before Anakin became a double agent.

3. I’ve said a couple of times that I’ve always liked the concept of Mara, but I’ve always hesitated to write her because I dislike and discard the vast majority of Expanded Universe material and I didn’t particularly want to deal with the inevitable hate I’d get if I wrote my own version of Mara, since she’d essentially be an OC. But eventually I just decided that I get enough hate for not using EU canon anyway, so I might as well just fully embrace my multiverse theory of Star Wars canon and do what I want.

So there you have it! :)

@aeneasoftroy said:# DAV Anakin is a mix of mysterious old wizard and troll dad humor  # and it suits him so well

This is one of my favorite things about writing OT Anakin. Not that he can’t be a troll in PT AUs, too, but just...there’s a kind of settledness to his character in the OT, partly a result of everything he’s lived through but also partly just because of the fact that he’s older now. Though there’s also a bit of tragedy to the fact that he can and absolutely does carry off the Mysterious Old Wizard trope in a fic in which he is (although Mara doesn’t know it) only 32 years old.

@hyratel said: #I am Nobody is CLASSIC   #and delivered perfectly

It is indeed classical. ;)

@elf-kid2 said: This is beautiful and excellent and fantastic, and I love it. Thank You for writing this. 

Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it.

@katharkness said: I like this very much, and would love to see it added to the Double Agent Vader series. I also wouldn’t worry too much about your Mara not fitting with the Legends Mara, because everything the rebooted EU has added, the Inquisitors and such, doesn’t really fit with the original Legends Mara. I suppose this is more like a rebooted Mara.

Thanks! I’m not so much worried about Legends canon, though, since I never am lol. I’m more worried about people who do like and care about Legends being unhappy with the ways I’m...basically beating up the EU in a back alley and rifling through its pockets for loose change. But you make a good point about this take actually kind of working as a rebooted Mara!

I mean, tbqh I actually don’t think the Inquisitors fit in with film canon at all. But I’m working on the multiverse theory here, and they do work really well with the story I’m telling in DAV, so I’ve basically borrowed them from Filoni ‘verse and created my own canon. So I suppose borrowing Mara isn’t a step much further.

@shadaras said: I always forget how much I love Mara as a character  she's the best EU character and so much of that is because her arc is just   'I was brainwashed and then Luke's refusal to believe I wasn't a person made me able to be a person and I chose good once I could'  this AU version is delightful because it stays true to all the essential aspects of her character   it just places them in some new-EU elements (because yes that's what the shows are tbh)  and also within a great AU context that is already all about what Mara's arc always was  it just changes the Skywalker who saves her from the Emperor's brainwashing   and that isn't a big change at all really  anyway the intro implies there will be more of this eventually and that delights me  because that last line is FANTASTIC and so true to the kind of story this is  excellent job perfect story   

Yeah, that bare bones essential aspect of her character arc is why I’ve always really liked the idea of Mara Jade - she basically hits all of my trope buttons. And the themes of her story when distilled like that are a perfect fit with the themes of DAV.

Also I’m delighted that you recognize Filoni ‘verse as EU because it absolutely is!

@figmentera said: I love this fiercely and cannot wait to see the rest! Mara is such a cool character and I love any permutation of her relationship with Vader. I feel like it's barely ever explored but it's such fertile ground. Plus there's some great glimpses at the rest of this universe, I always love that! 

Thank you! I’m having fun exploring their relationship, though because it’s me and this story seems to keep growing, it may be a while before I have it finished. I’m kind of envisioning it as a side story to the main DAV storyline. It’s going to span pretty much the entire timeline, almost from the beginning of Anakin’s double agent career all the way to the death of the Emperor, but Mara’s story line is really running in parallel with the rest, rather than intertwining.

@frostbit-sky said: I still have to catch up, or really I should start again and binge read DAV, but I love 💗  the inclusion of Mara and encourage you to add this to actual fic. 

At this point I’m pretty sure I’ve talked myself into including it, so you will likely get your wish. :)

@clockworktea said: people who care Very Much except they have no idea how to express this even to themselves! finding allies and immediately adopting them as Family! kadee the ex-torture droid turned fiercely overprotective aunt gives me LIFE and ''yes master' she whispered' just OUCH mates the levels of mindscrew (is he her slaveowner or is she his padawan or apprentice) (haha jokes on anakin the answer is up to you as long as it's painful) anyway yes good fia is back MORE ANGSTY GENFIC FOR ME MORE PLATONIC DEEPLY MEANINGFUL RELATIONSHIPS TO ENJOY MORE CHARACTERS WHO ARE TRYING THEIR BEST TO GET HEARTBROKEN OVER ...... hang on a second this was all a trap wasn't it 

*Megamind goattee stroking face* You’ve fallen right into my trap!

In all seriousness, though, I’m delighted to see people getting excited about genfic! I still remember the days in fandom when writing genfic was like releasing words into the void.

Damaged people trapped in horrible circumstances and being insistently human to one another in spite of that is kind of my brand at this point, so I’m glad that’s holding up I guess.

I think basically everything Palpatine does in relation to Vader is a mindscrew on at least one level, but calling him the “Master of the Inquisitors” is definitely a master stroke on his part (if you’ll pardon the pun).

#replies #bookwyrmie #aeneasoftroy #hyratel #elf-kid2 #katharkness #shadaras #figmentera #frostbit-sky #clockworktea #nice things people say to me #double agent anakin #mara skywalker #anakin skywalker #star wars #references to #brainwashing #harm to children #long post

[pkmntrashcan]

lona + 13 for the drabble list?

Rules and Regulations

complete ☀︎ | AO3

requests from this list closed  | 13. “Who did this?”

(listen the Knightly verse (aka royalty AU) will be written eventually. This would happen before they started to secretly date and would probably take place maybe a month into Gladion’s return)

--

If there was something Gladion had learned in his time around Moon was that her requests were never lavish. 

No jewels, no fine cuisine. Nothing ever monetary, but something always incredibly forbidden.

At least, forbidden for a princess.

When he was 5, Moon wanted to play past her bedtime with him and Lillie.

When he was 6, Moon wanted him to teach her to ride a Ponyta. 

When he was 7, Moon wanted to go to training with him.

He missed everything between 8 and 21, although Lillie recounted Moon’s requests growing more and more rebellious by other’s staff standards. The word rebellious, however, was used loosely.

“You know very well what other royals would be doing. Eloping. Engaging in indecent activities. The Princess would ask for extra dessert or ask to learn how to defend herself with a bow and arrow.”

“Did anyone ever give her what she wanted?”

Lillie just shakes her head, throwing Gladion a knowing look. “No one in this castle is you, big brother.”

And no one truly was.

Because as he walked the halls and overheard conversation, he learned that the older Moon the more she tried to push the boundaries of the limitations placed on her. Rules and regulations she never had a say in.

When they’re walking in silence one faithful evening her imposed question came to no surprise to him.

“Take me into town,” it was a mere whisper and in his peripherals he could see it. Her brows furrowed, hands balled into fists gripping at her dress. Her teeth chewing on her bottom lip, resisting the temptation to have the dreaded “please” that was missing stumble out. The word that would make her sentence seem less like a demand and more like a plea. Manners so etched into her own personality that when Gladion doesn’t even utter a hum she finds herself saying it quietly anyways.

“Please, Gladion?”

And Gladion knew better. He was trained to know better. He was assigned this job because he was expected to know better.

He told her no.

But she kept asking, and asking, and asking until eventually her final words cut in.

“How am I supposed to take over a kingdom that I can’t even step in?”

--

And suddenly it was like he was 6 again looking down at a bouncy 5 year old Moon. His fingers nimbly tying a black cloak around her borrowed plain clothes.  Excitement evident in her eyes as they reflected the moon. Her smile ever so present as she looked up at his narrowed gaze.

“There’s still defectors in the city, Princess, you know this right?”

His voice low as they stood outside the stables. And he finds the serene look on her face as she nods, a small reassurance that nothing should go awry. So Gladion pulls the hood over her; hiding the richness in her silver eyes, the luxuriousness of her unblemished skin.

“Don’t touch anything, don’t talk to anyone, and for Arceus’ sakes stay by my side Princess.”

There’s no lilt in his words. Complete seriousness in not only his role, but in the fact that he needed to protect her. Needed to keep her safe. Need to do everything in his power to make sure no harm came to her. 

But leave it to Moon to laugh quietly in response. His stomach twisting at the sound. It’s soft, restrained, but loud enough to bless his ears and of the Rapidash behind them. Her hand patting his cheek with two succinct motions as her eyes just look softly at him. “You act as if I want to leave your side, Gladion.”

He tries to ignore the implications in her tone, just like he did all those years ago too. 

 --

When they ride into the city he couldn’t help hearing Moon’s quiet gasp. Strung lanterns lighting the cobble path, merchants busy selling their wares, the smells of the hodgepodge of the land’s cuisines all coming together. He feels her hands loosen around him as her body aches to explore. Her head turning, her eyes wandering, he doesn’t even need to hear her question before he clicks his tongue to stop Rapidash in its place. Gladion quick to hop off, to extend his hand towards her, to disregard the warmth she radiated as she held on as he helped her to the ground. 

But stay by his side she did, as he worked on tying up the Pokemon. His voice low when muttering “let’s go,” and her arm sliding around his elbow. Cheeky grin hidden within the shadows of their matching garbs. 

It wasn’t often he went into town. Mostly on lowly errands during his page years, even rarer during squiredom. Now as a knight he found himself only dragged out when Hau or Sun wanted a quick drink; he was their source of reason, the one who would get them home safely. But now a few hours had passed, and after exploring every last corner with Moon wrapped around his arm made him realize just how lively the kingdom really was. 

And whilst most of the land was content, there were those still bitter about the outcome of the war all those years ago. Those who believed another monarch had claim to this land.

And like clockwork a scream is then heard, Gladion’s hand quick to hover the hilt of his sword. A malicious “your precious King has been gone far too long to defend you--now give us the money,” soon followed. It was a phrase, a sentiment harbored by individuals forgiven by the Queen, but who have yet to let the battle go. Many of whom resorted to lowly thievery. And while Gladion took a deep intake of breath, believing it better to avoid trouble than to stir in it, Moon’s head snaps towards the gruff voices. Before he knows it her arm is quick to retract from his sturdy one. His voice drowned out by the crowd now masking her figure. Frantic, panicked emotions filling him as he pushes towards the direction he swear Moon must’ve followed. 

Then he hears an audible thump and yelp he never wanted to hear again.

He ran faster. His breath shortening. His throat tightening. Heart about to burst when he passes a narrow alleyway and sees a merchant bolt out from the shadows, screaming for help, that the girl who saved her was in trouble.

And it didn’t take him long to reach the end to see Moon’s exposed face. She was kneeling as one hand laid on the wall behind her. Steadily keeping herself up. “Our King died for our good graces, and targeting someone so defenseless is cowardly,” she says angrily.

“Listen you insolent little--”

But even if her voice gave nothing away, Gladion noticed it even in the dark. A sliced sleeve, a steady trail of red liquid staining her porcelain skin. Then she spits, “amnesty can be taken just as fast as it was granted,” with cold, frigid eyes and Gladion swore only he could be more upset than she was in the moment.

“Who did this?” Gladion growls darkly, his sword drawn, his voice low and threatening as the thieves change their focus from Moon to him. And he’s quick to leave a gash on the leg of the one who lunged towards him, and even quicker to get his sword on the crevice of the other’s neck as he came between him and Moon. Long gone was the patience he showed the royal family, and there was no more chivalry or resolve in his voice. Only cold blooded revenge, and hot blooded temper exuding from his frame as he presses the edge into the criminal’s shoulder, their own knife clanging to the floor, but Gladion not daring to do anything fatal in front of the Princess.

And he could hear it, the trotting of the authorities coming by. The one thing he asked the merchant to get coming through as he pushes the one who hurt to the ground. The sword is returned. Moon’s hood is lifted up, and he silently picks her up and pushes through the authorities. 

--

Moon winces when Gladion returns to her chambers with medication in tow; an act almost as indecent as him sneaking her out. Her arm now exposed, the wound disinfected with gentle dabs as he tries to disregard the soft sounds that escape her.

Luckily, it wasn’t deep. Luckily, it wasn’t her life.

“Gladion...I’m sor--”

Luckily, he knew when to take the blame. 

“It’s my fault you got hurt, Princess,” a steady, slow exhale escaping him as he puts down the stained cloth in the bowl of water. The sound of Moon’s bed shifting with her weight as she turns to face him only has him looking away.

“My only duty is to protect you, and I failed. I shall renounce my position first thing in the morning.”

And luckily, Moon was just as stubborn as him. 

Collapsing to her knees on the floor, her arms wrapping around him, her head shaking insistently and he swears he could feel her body shivering.

“You can’t leave me, again. Not after today,” her head burrowing into his chest, her words near incomprehensible.

Something along the lines of “best day” and “saving her life,” escape her as her arms hold on tighter. A wetness soaking his own clothes where her face lied. Quiet pleas that she’ll never ask for anything again as long as he stays.

Her face pulls away after a long enough moment. Puffy eyes, red hue, tear-stained cheeks. A much more clear hiccup from her that she’s safe with him. 

Gladion reaching forward to wipe away the residue of her tears, his own heart breaking, remembering his own vow to never see her cry like this again. Realization dawning on them that if anyone was going to follow the task of protecting her like he did today, it was going to be him.

Only him. 

So he stays.

And swears that next time she wants to go out, he’ll make sure she comes back unharmed.

#lonashipping #gladion x moon #pokemon fanfic #pokemon fanfiction #myfics #knightly #sad-goomy

[darling-clemmy]

Here Comes the Sun (do do do do) (ClemxLouis Fanfic)

Summary: Nobody likes the rain, especially Clementine and AJ, so Louis decides to do what he does best to cheer them up.

Genre: fluff, comfort, angst

Word Count: 1,691 words

A/N: has this idea been written before? i really don’t know. anyway, it’s 3 am when i’m finishing this so i hope you guys enjoy!

Cold water rushed through the gutters of Ericson’s Academy for Troubled Youth after pit-patting against the damaged roof. It pooled out into the courtyard, creating murky oceans dividing the picnic benches, perfect for stomping a old, worn boot into. After all, that was practically all one could do outside after days of downpour, especially a five year old boy who got bored and lonesome quickly.

AJ always woke up earlier than Clem, even on nice days, even on days which were perfect. It was different on rainy days, though, like the past few ones. AJ would wait and wait and wait and it seemed like she was never getting up. He could draw dozens of pictures using Tenn’s old art supplies, take multiple laps around the school, and practice his reading and vocabulary all in the hours before Clem woke up. Even when others woke up, all he wanted was for her to. Still, he tried to brush it off as an effect of her being a teenager or her amputation.

He sat on a windowsill in the music room, wedged between a bookcase and Louis’ piano, swinging his legs to kick the wall. His cheek was leant against the cool pane, which seemingly blocked out everything but the sounds of water hitting it. Which, for the boy, sucked, as he hated the sound of rain. It wasn’t calming, nor exciting, as all it truly did was remind him of him and Clem’s time on the road before Ericson. It reminded him of hunger, of cold, of fear.

“Hey, little dude.”

Louis’ voice snaps AJ’s lulling eyes open and over to the doorway where he stood. Surprisingly, he wasn’t wearing his signature coat, meaning he probably just woke up. AJ grinned once he saw the older boy. Even if he wanted Clem awake, Louis was fun, too.

“Hi, Louis!” He exclaimed, straightening his posture against the glass. “Is Clem awake?”

Louis walked over and sat down at the wooden piano bench, staying silent for a few moments. “Not yet, buddy. She, uh, she isn’t feeling too good right now.”

AJ’s face immediately fell into a mixture of confusion and worriedness. “What? Is she sick?”

“No, AJ, she’s okay,” Louis chuckled before saying, “She’s just been feeling a little sad lately. I’m not really sure why, but maybe a visit from you would help her.”

“But what if she’d rather just sleep?”

“Instead of hanging out with you? You’re, like, the coolest guy I know. Of course she’d rather hang with you!” Louis comforted, playing a random array of notes after which sent the child into a fit of giggles.

“Okay, okay! I’ll go wake her up,” AJ gave in. “Later, can you show me some more card tricks? Ruby was asking when I was gonna’ learn more.”

“Of course, little dude. Come find me when you and Clem are done.”

AJ nodded eagerly, a newfound smile plastered on his face, before sprinting off into the hallway. Louis watched the boy leave, making sure he was out of sight. Then, he stood up to start the search for what he came in the music room to find in the first place. A ukulele.

What Louis had told AJ was true—Clem had been feeling sad lately, but Louis knew he couldn’t tell the child why. The previous night, Clem, after much convincing, had finally spoken out about the millions of thoughts running through her mind.

“I’m not a good person, Lou,” Clem had whimpered, meeting his dark eyes. “I know you don’t think so, but you haven’t known me that long.”

“Clem, what’re you even talking about?” He asked, dumbfoundedly, taking a seat close to her on the bed.

“I’ve made so many mistakes, gotten so many people I love killed. I just don’t know how I keep moving on.” Clementine explained. “I’m just tired.”

Louis looked down at the hunched over girl wrapped up in a thin blanket, totally confused at how she could think so low of herself. In his mind, she was perfect, a mix between serious and fun, strong-minded and forgiving, confident and humble. All that and being out-of-this-world gorgeous? He was lucky to even be in her presence, much less be her boyfriend.

He wrapped an arm around the front of her torso, bringing her close to his chest, and placing his spare hand on her back. His lips were pressed between her ear and jaw, making her shiver slightly.

“You aren’t broken, Clem. Or a bad person or evil or-or undeserving of love.” Louis told her gently into her curls. “I love you. And I cannot imagine how my life—how any of our lives—would be without you in it.”

All she does in response is nod her head before lifting up her chin and nuzzling into his neck, peppering small kisses along it.

If Louis didn’t know he was in love with that girl already, then the feeling of her heartbeats next to his would’ve definitely convinced him. And Louis knew that nobody he loved, especially Clementine, should feel worthless.

He still felt that the next morning, when something Clem had told him weeks ago came back to his mind, sparking an idea to make her feel better. She told him that when she was little, her father would always play Here Comes the Sun on the ukulele when she was sad. Sometimes, even if she wasn’t upset, she’d still request him to play it, and of course he did. Louis couldn’t resist the plan to mimic her father’s actions.

After some rummaging around stacks of books and inside drawers, he finally found the ukulele, not even the length of his arm.Of course, it wasn’t the prettiest ukulele out there. It was severely out of tune, but he was surprised the nylon strings had stayed in-tact through all those years. The wood was scratched and peeling, revealing the base underneath, but as long as it played, that was good enough.

Quickly, the boy got to work plucking and tuning, plucking and tuning, until it seemed correct based off of his meek memories of what the little guitar was supposed to sound like. Soon after, he started strumming, attempting to match his vocals to the chords. It was hard enough to play by ear, but to play by just remembering the song was a whole different experience.

Finally, after probably over an hour of just figuring out the notes and repeating them, Louis thought he was ready to perform for Clem, and probably AJ, too. He swiftly stood up and started heading down towards their room, listing through the lyrics in his head. Once he reached the door, he took a deep breath and knocked.

It swung open, revealing the little boy, who looked happier than he had the past few days combined.

“Louis!” He beamed. “Sorry, I forgot to come find you.”

“That’s alright. I had some important business to take care of.” Louis hinted, turning the ukulele in his palm for the boy to see.

Fascination twisted in his face. “What’s that?”

“Well, how ‘bout I show you?” He answered, not waiting for a reply before walking into the room, seeing his favorite girl sitting on the bed, surrounded by paper.

She was already staring at him, sporting a smile which didn’t quite seem wide enough. “Hey, I wondered where you went this morning.”

He strutted over to the bed, sitting down on it so far his back was touching the wall. He explained, “I was planning a surprise. For you.”

Clem’s dark eyebrows furrowed together at his words while her eyes darted from his face to the familiar instrument in his lap. “What is it?”

AJ joined them, sitting down at the open space next to Clementine, still confused as ever.

Louis smirked and prepared his fingers on the fretboard, getting ready to pluck the first melody.

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun, and I say

It’s alright

As he grew more comfortable in what he was doing, he glanced up at her to observe her reaction. Recognizing the song, she grinned.

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces

Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun, and I say

It's all right

Louis briefly winked at her after this verse, realizing the coincidence of this song also referring to her as “darling.” He noticed her light blushing.

Strumming along the now simple chords, he neared the end of the song.

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun, and I say

It's all right

It's all right

He belted out the last chorus, especially exaggerating the last line, needing Clementine to know that everything was going to be okay.

As soon as his finger pad left the strings and the noise faded out, he glanced up to meet her eyes. They appeared to be more golden than ever, until he realized it was because she was close to crying.

Clementine didn’t waste anymore time, pushing the instrument out of the way to tightly embrace the boy she loved. His hands quickly met her spine, his fingers tracing up and down. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, his nerves finally cooling.

She pulled back, wiping away at her tear-ridden eye bags. Her hand moved up to his jaw with her thumb locked under his chin. “That was beautiful, Lou. Thank you.”

She smiled as she leant forward and shyly kissed his lips. If AJ wasn’t right next to them, she would have been a lot more passionate with it. She felt him grin wider against her mouth.

“Anything for you, darling,” he whispered once she pulled away, faces still only inches apart.

Suddenly, yellow rays shined in between the thick planks of wood nailed to the window. The family of three all looked over, more than happy to be met with the sun for the first time in what had felt like a century. The beams gathered on the hardwood floor and heated up the room, as if burning away every pain from the past.

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.

#twdg #the walking dead game #clementine #louis #aj #clem #clouis #louisentine #clemlouis #the final season #fanfiction #fluff