#and; seriously; here's to many more years. SO many more!!

[illiath-the-fae]

As I'm currently in the process of returning to my original country, given that my adopted home is now full on fascist, here's a few things anyone needs to be aware of. I have done this once before when moving to my current country, so I remember most of my pitfalls.

Make sure you have passports and other ID as appropriate (talked about a bit before, obviously).

In addition to the ID and passport and all that, make sure you have multiple copies, including some stored in your stuff in a waterproof document case. You might not be able to return to get copies in the future, so get them BEFORE you go.

When it comes to your stuff, make sure you triple check what is, and what is not, allowed to go to the other country. Those glasses you want to bring? Might be banned in the other country due to something with the glass. Those wall ornaments? Might be banned due to having wood in them. Medications? Make sure you have prescriptions for them, or replace them when you get to the new country. DO NOT try to send/take something to another country if you can't point to how it is okay by the available documentation the other country provides. This goes for EVERYTHING you intend to take.

Obviously, this one is important, make sure you are actually allowed to move there. There are many countries that just won't allow immigration without a long and complicated process that can't happen while you are in-country. There are also countries that have already said they're extending asylum rules for transpeople and other LGBTIQ+ folks. However asylum rules are STRICT about what you can and can't bring with you.

Pay attention to the rules of the country you are going to, look up the "core laws" as much as you can before going, check anything that has been recently legalized in your originating country, etc. A little over a decade now my partner and I were going to move to another country, but there was questions if they'd accept our marriage as being legal. Even my medications at one time caused concerns with international travel, and what was legal and what wasn't.

You WILL be taking less stuff than you think you will. No matter what you have to take, no matter how little you have, things will get lost/destroyed/confiscated by customs/whatever. So figure out those things you HAVE to have, make sure you have copies (if they're documents), and try to "hand-carry" as much stuff as you can.

You might NOT be able to take your pets. Seriously. Some countries absolutely forbid you from bringing your pet with you, no matter what it is. Some of those have ways to allow it, but be prepared to not have your pet for up to a year if you do that. And you'll need to pay for it not to be with you for that year too.

I can give much more advice, but it's specific to situation/country/etc.

Anybody have advice/resources for emigrating out of a country?

To answer your questions 1) yes, this is a sincere and legitimate request 2) yes, I'm aware this process is long and laborious (unless things escalate to the point we need to go full refugee which God forbid) and 3) it would be two adults (40s, advanced degrees, decent if not ideal health) and two minors.

[mind-intheclouds342]

Do it for them - Co-captain reader x Curly

Previous - Part 12 - Next

"So we just have to wait a little longer... Here you go"

You were finishing explaining the situation to Curly while giving him his medicine, Anya was standing behind you grimacing in pain at the sounds the man made while swallowing.

Anya: "How is it that... Can you tolerate that?"

"What thing? The sounds? The burnt meat? The smell? The blood?"

You were mentioning while slowly and carefully removing the bandages from his body, the man trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to further discomfort the other woman present, but the bandages were almost stuck to his skin.

You were applying water little by little to be able to peel them off better, you had managed to get more drinkable water from the station, grateful for it since they had been without bathing or cleaning themselves to avoid wasting it for weeks now.

Anya: "Everything..."

"Well, I've been to many places, doing different jobs... I've gotten used to it."

When you saw the woman's horrified face, you realized how bad that sounded.

"I worked in morgues and crematoriums! Heavens... I didn't kill anyone."

Anya: "Seriously?"

"My dad owned a morgue and a crematorium, when I turned 18, he made me work, you have no idea how many times I had to clean my own vomit off the floor... or the corpses."

Immediately, she covered her mouth, almost vomiting at the thought of it, but you laughed at her reaction.

"That was exactly my reaction! I grew up with a strong stomach."

Anya: "How did you get here?"

You finished removing the bandages from the man, looking at his skin, you sighed knowing full well that you would have to clean it, pus was already forming in certain areas.

Anya, upon seeing that, had to turn around and hold her stomach, trying to think of something else.

"If you want to get into medical school, you have to watch this, no professor will have pity on you for having a sensitive stomach."

Anya: "I've already seen it without the bandages... But... Today they look extremely bad... I'm sorry..."

Upon saying that, she took a deep breath and turned back again, ready to help you clean her wounds.

"...I was in charge of the morgue in just a few years, and one day, while preparing bodies... I saw him, my father on the table in front of me, ready to be open and empty like any other corpse.. Three shots to the chest, some guys had robbed a store while he was in, he tried to be a hero defending the cashier, and they shot him. The thieves fled with nothing in their hands... I got depressed..."

You looked at Curly, who was watching you attentively while you told that story he already knew.

"I ran away from home... I started with drugs... and all kinds of things to get money... I went to my mother's house just to ask her for money or to eat something, I didn't care how much she begged me to stay... I just... I couldn't feel good again, and I was destroying myself to know that I was still alive."

Anya: "...How did you get out of that?"

"Because of this stubborn one"

You smiled at Curly, who soon looked away as if he weren't paying attention to what you were saying.

"He found me shoplifting in a store, and instead of turning me in, he bought the things I was taking and invited me for a coffee" you laughed, recalling that moment.

Anya: "Seriously?"

"Then he was looking for me all over the city."

Anya: "Did he want to see you again?"

"I stole his wallet."

You paused to laugh at the memory as well, before continuing with the story.

"But he insisted on keep meeting with me, on helping me, and I ended up falling for his kindness... I started living in his house, he was never around because of work, I got a job as a dog walker to have my own money while I was recovering, and he was always making sure I was okay... After years... Finally, I had the strength to see my mother again... And she felt relieved to see me well... Ugh, you have no idea the scene she made when she met Curly, so happy that i found a good man, I wanted the ground to swallow me up."

Anya: "That still doesn't tell me how you ended up as co-captain."

"...Five years ago... Curly recommended me, I did the physical and psychological exams, the training, and since I passed everything flawlessly, well... That's how I ended up here!"

You scratched your neck, smiling somewhat embarrassed that it wasn't a great story of how you became captain on your own; that was the plain truth of how you had ended up there.

You finished putting the upper bandage on Curly, ready to continue with the lower part.

Anya: "We're going to have to be careful with the catheter for this part."

Immediately, they heard Curly's complaints when they were about to remove the bandages from that part.

"Don't be like that, Curly! Anya was the one who has been changing your bandages, washing them, and put the catheter in for you; there's nothing wrong with her seeing you again."

Anya: "I think he doesn't want you to see him..."

She said a little embarrassed, you turned to look at Curly, speechless, not knowing what to say to him.

"Okay, no problem, I'm leaving."

You raised your hands to get up from your seat and leave that room. 

Anya: "You shouldn't feel ashamed, she'ss your wife after all, she'll see you again someday."

Curly shook his head slowly, he preferred that you see him again when he was recovered.

[a-student-out-of-time]

An Important Reminder In Trying Times

Hey everyone, Mod Bubbles here.

I know that I've said over and over that I don't like talking about politics on here, but I really feel the need to say this:

This Is Not The End.

I understand things probably seem really bleak right now. A lot of people are going to be hurt by this, and the sheer amount of fearmongering and worst case scenarios are inescapable. But the country and the world are not going to change overnight. To be honest, it may not change very much at all in the next four years. I'm not a political scientist, so I can't tell you that for sure. There's a lot to be concerned about.

What I can tell you, as a student of history, is this: not only have we survived this once, we have survived this every time.

Think about it this way: every single tyrant, every single right-wing representative, every single emperor and colonial power, every corporate scumbag and power-hungry lunatic. No matter how many of them have ever come to power, held onto power, and tried to make themselves seem invincible, not a single one has ever held back humanity's progress and not a single one has proven to be invincible.

There were countries throughout history, especially in the 20th century, that fell under brutal dictatorships and saw countless lives lost. Did the people just give up and accept it? Fuck no they didn't. They fought back. Many of them lived to see democracy restored to their lands in their lifetimes, or fought to see it restored in their children's.

From Europe to Latin America, while many countries still have their issues, they endured and their people have survived. Their governments were not invincible, just as none ever have been.

Regardless of the outcome of this election, the world will go on. People will not just roll over and accept whatever horrible things happen, the fight will continue and we will do everything in our power to carry on as we always have. We'll carry on to achieve bigger and better things.

Let me also be clear: if you feel the need to cry, please cry. If you're afraid, don't pretend you're not. If you're angry, allow yourself to feel that anger. But if you're seriously contemplating giving up or hurting yourself, please don't.

You may hear all this news and ask yourself, "Bubbles, what's the point? What can I do about all this?" I've felt that way too, I have for a long time. I understand completely. It's scary and overwhelming, but I'll tell you exactly what you can do to fight against that: you can be kind.

Do you want to know where the most tangible change in the world begins? It's never at the top. It begins with people like us on a communal level, where we reach out to help others. Whether that means we help our neighbors, our friends, or any strangers we can.

Going out of your way to start fights, looking for someone to blame based on the flimsiest justifications, and just being cruel because you're angry, those aren't how you change anything. Those just add to the problem.

Here's just some ideas on what you can do instead:

Get away from the news, stop doomscrolling, mute doomers, and turn the TV and news apps off. This will get you out of a negative feedback loop that'll make you feel worse and more powerless, which is what they're designed to do in order to maximize traffic.

Remember to eat, sleep, brush your teeth, take a shower, take your meds, and do everything else you need to do to stay healthy.

If you or someone else really feel like leaving the country for your own safety is best, you can still work do so. But please don't convince yourself that if you can't, it's over.

Give back to people as much as you can. Show the people in your life who support you that you care, and that all that they do for you matters.

Donate to good causes you believe in.

Stand up to bullshit whenever you see it.

Do not give up on your dreams and ambitions. One bad leader does not mean your future automatically ends. Stop worrying about any potential apocalypse in the future, because you can do that even on the best days, and instead work toward a future that you CAN achieve.

There's this pervasive and very inaccurate idea that it's only the president who gets to enforce policies on the country. This ignores governors, the House of Representatives, Congress, mayors, and the countless other leaders involved. And it ignores you.

You do not have to spend the next 3 years and 364 days doing nothing but feeling miserable. In fact, that's the last thing you should do. Fear and despair are the weapons they wield, and they only have as much power as you allow them to have over you.

If your view of politics is that you just have to vote for the "right one" and then everything will be utopian, or that if people vote for the wrong one" then we're headed for a terrible dystopian nightmare, I have to tell you that that is incredibly reductionist and also very dumb. I can also tell you from personal experience that it's not them who make the real changes where it's needed.

A friend sent me a video that really opened my eyes on this situation: Adam Conover, the guy behind Adam Ruins Everything, said he's not worried about all this. Why? Because he and some friends were able, through their own power, to make real positive changes in their community. They were able to bring homelessness down in their district by over 38% through their own efforts.

And he's right that, as a silver lining to all this, it made more Americans than ever take a stand against all the horrible shit they were seeing and get involved with solutions.

Speaking from my own experiences as well, when Hurricane Helene devastated my area, it wasn't the politicians who came and repaired roads and power lines, it wasn't them who brought in food and supplies to everyone, and it wasn't them who worked tirelessly to save people still in need. It was everyone in our local communities.

The people at the top have never really cared about anything more than your money and your vote, but the people around you care more than you may believe they would. Hell, even strangers on the internet care more than you'd believe.

Now, even if you've made it this far, you may be wondering "What about when he starts outlawing and banning things?" To that, I say look at Prohibition and see how well that went. Politicians have only ever operated under the idea that banning something will make it go away, and it always does the exact opposite. And if you're still worried, you can get involved with organizations that fight to support these things being available and regulated.

But by now, you may also be wondering "What if I can't get involved? What if I'm too young or I don't have the money, or my parents won't let me?"

Then just be kind.

Stop looking for enemies to blame. Don't martyr yourself for some nebulous cause or the idea that your suffering increasing means the rest of the suffering in the world will go down. Don't torture yourself by telling yourself that you didn't do enough.

Show compassion, show support, show love and genuine care toward people who need it, including yourself.

"But there's so many shitty people in this country and the world, why should I-" Stop thinking that way. This isn't about them, this is about you and how you can make a difference. There will probably always be shitheads and power-hungry morons, but that does not negate the fact that you can choose to be different. You can choose to be kind.

Kindness is a sword that you have to learn how to wield. Wield it responsibly and use it to help others. No matter how small or insignificant it may be, YOU DO MAKE A DIFFERENCE.

I say all this as a 29-year-old who spent most of his life feeling scared and miserable about so many current events, convincing myself I'm useless and selfish because I was worried about so much and I hated myself for all of it. And I've decide I'm not going to do that anymore.

During the last right-wing era, I managed to help build a whole community out of my love for Danganronpa. I created friendships, relationships, and there are people alive right now because I chose to do so. Because I chose to use that community for kindness. I want to keep building from there by going into streaming and reaching out to more people.

I won't lie to you and say that I'm not scared, because I am. But I'm also not going to let fear change who I am. I want us all to be better to ourselves and others, because that is how you defeat hate. It starts with you.

And if you're still concerned, let me share with you a quote from The Great Dictator, a movie made in 1940, when World War II wasn't even at its height yet:

To those who can hear me, I say - do not despair. The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed - the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress. The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish…

Please take care of yourselves out there, everyone. We'll get through this, just as we always have.

[creature-phases]

In the in universe batfamily fandom there’s a relatively famous (infamous?) subgenre of fic known as the “Billionaire Bats AU” that has the Wayne family as the Bat family.

It spawns from a fic of the same name that first came out shortly after Tim started publicly appearing as Robin and is running to this day (though uploads are far less frequent)

When it first got popular there was a small amount of time where Bruce thought Tim was writing it because it got a little too many things right. Though he is able to rule that out after he finds the actual author who’s just some 14 year old girl.

The fandom gets into a lot of arguments about it:

“Barbara Gordon is a random choice for being the former batgirl I mean seriously? Just cause they both have red hair doesn’t make it make sense”

“Guys RPF is icky knock it off”

“It actually makes more sense if Batman is a time traveling Dick Grayson from a bad future”

“I’m sorry I can’t get past having Tim Drake as Red Robin have you seen the guy?? The wind could knock him over”

“Bruce is really ooc here”

“I don’t like the retcon that Tim Drake was one of the Robins”

One controversial take was when the fic introduced Clark Kent as Superman because the author is a BruClark shipper and was pushing her agenda since “Superbat is basically canon” so them being the same people made it more realistic.

Bruce keeps an eye on it just in case and it has resulted in Tim and Steph having to explain so much slang to him.

“What is an OTP? Why do people keep asking for a ‘Bruce whump’ chapter??”

[icarusredwings]

Getting deep into the x men fandom means seeing ships I don't agree with, so I don't interact, seeing posts that mischaraterizes one of the deepest charaters possible, so I don't interact, Seeing people actively say things that are blatantly wrong, so I don't interact.

Getting a large following is also kind of frustrating (Im not complaining I love you guys!) But I've had to block 2 people already today because they keep leaving rude replies to my comments on OTHER peoples posts or purposly come to my blog to tell me that how I view a charater is wrong. Had someone tell me that the stuff that happens in MY au is dumb because "that would never happen" like yeah bud. The writers at Marvel are too much of cowards for it to happen, hence why i'm here.

So my thing is... if im chosing not to interact with all of this- why is it still on my feed?

I feel like the more I ignore it the more I see and I do not wish to be the type to block someone simply because they make one post about a ship that personally isn't my cup of tea.

Also- I think Im starting to see the different sides of extremes, especially when it comes to one specifc charater.

Logan.

I have seen dozens of lovely stories, lovely rants, lovely head canons about this man-

But something that feels weird (to me at least) is people who are 45+ yelling at people who aren't even 18 that their story/headcanons are trash because they've "been enjoying Logan for 40+ years" as if this gives them any right to tell a 17 year old that they shouldnt write a charater how they see them.

It's also weird to me that there seems to be two sides.

Logan IS an animal and that's perfectly okay.

Or

Logan ISN'T an animal, and everyone who headcanons him as animalistic is fetishizing his mutation and are insulting him.

I get not liking a certain trope, but sir, that person is young enough to be your child. You have to accept that we all grew up with different versions of each charater. I Personally didn't grow up with any and get the luxury of indulging in all sorts of media all at once- therefore getting to see him from multiple sides and pictures.

I completely understand if you grew up with the original series and are upset to see that kids are headcanoning your stone cold angst biker man as wearing bow clips and 'making biscuits' on a pillow while watching gilmore girl with his boyfriend, and wearing pink fluffy hello kitty pants and a tight shirt that says "Milk"

I completely understand if you grew up with the movies and see him as a sexy gruff hot buff man and you love to write lots and lots of steamy x reader about him.

I completely understand if you LIKE logan wearing hello kitty pants and don't agree with the idea of him being a dark edgelord, lone wolf charater.

Do you know what I don't understand? Fighting over a charater when different timelines have been canon since the 80s. The Time Variance Authority (TVA) first appeared in Thor #372 (October 1986) which means ALL of your logans are the correct logan. Just not all the same.

Do I think Wolverine Orgins Logan would wear pink hello kitty pants? Nah.

Do I know that Deadpool and wolverine Logan is a whole different universe then Orgins Logan? Yes.

That's why people tag different logans and different aus. So what is all the fuss about?? What happened to the more the merrier?

Theres so many different versions of comic book logan, too, so don't even go there.

Feel free to ask my personal opinions but as far as I stand I could never be foolish enough to seriously go into someone elses post and genuinely be upset at them for how they perceive a charater. I get second hand embaressment when ever I see ANYONE doing it.

Thanks for coming to my ted talk. I don't care if I lose followers for this. Let the door hit you on the way out. There aint no reason to be harrassing folks.

[minty-thereader]

GOJO x READER

“She’d Rather Die.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Soooo wanna go on a date?” The young 19 year old Gojo Satoru asked sitting opposite you, facing the wrong side of the chair with his chin rested on his hands. You never once looked up from your book, your eye twitched with annoyance, continuing to ignore the popular white haired player.

Gojo looked from your book and back to your face. “How To Get Away With Murder..nice book. I read it like, five times. Who’s your favorite character?” “The murderer.” You grumbled, slamming your book shut as the instructor for the day walked in to give out your assignments.

“Look alive sorcerers! We’ve got plenty of reports today for minor spirits so you’ll be split into threes! And I don’t care if you don’t like your partner, the higher ups arranged your teammates, not me.” The bald teacher said handing out everyone’s slip of paper. You didn’t want to read yours knowing you’d already been paired with Gojo and his best friend Geto Suguru. “Would you look at that doll! You and I are paired up yet again!” Gojo tells you with the biggest smile, the brightest any has ever made him smile!

You wished that this day would just hurry up and end. “Oh yay,” sarcasm laced your tone and you grabbed your belongings, leaving before the two besties could meet up and discuss plans. You did not like Gojo, and if I said it before or not I’m repeating it! Did. Not.

Your dislike stemmed from your first meeting. You were new to the school and you just so happened to bump into the white haired man, when you wanted instructions on where to get to your first class! Gojo, full of energy grabbed your book and signed it with a smirk saying, ‘here baby! An autograph for you too!’ And that’s when you started to resent him. You really didn’t like arrogant men and he was sooo full of it.

Gojo liked that you didn’t want him too, which made him want you more! That’s why he would ask you to go out with him every time you guys got the chance to interact.

Some time passed and the three of you were outside of school on your way to complete your mission. A house was supposedly haunted and there was a child that behaved out of order when these haunting occurred; your jobs were to get rid of that spirit. Geto and Gojo giggled like two school girls as they talked about the most random of stuff behind you, causing your irritation to grow.

Not only was he arrogant but he was also really strong, so him being strong made being stuck with him on a mission feel like it was just child’s play to him. “Can you two take one mission seriously for once?” You asked them without turning back. Geto smirked at Gojo and gave him a shove, encouraging him to talk to you since you opened the gates for interaction. “Uhh-huh! I could definitely take the mission more seriously if you’d let me take you out.”

You scrunch your nose to show clear signs of disgust. “I would rather a giant monster with eight legs bite my head off, than go out with you.” Gojo gasped dramatically. Hey! In his defense this was the first time you’ve ever payed him any real attention!

“Whether you’re being sarcastic or not I would personally never let a thing happen to you y/n.” Gojo says with a kind smile, he tilts his glasses down to show off his striking blue eyes. You looked away quickly just as he did so. That was his signature flirty move, showing off his freaky eyes. So many women were caught with them, and you promised yourself not to be one of them.

“Let’s see if you’ll stick by your word.” You told him with a plain look on your face. While you walked up and away Geto nudged the man. “She likes you, she just doesn’t know it yet,” he encourages. “You think so? I do like it when they play hard to get~.” He sang out loud so you could hear. When you three finally neared the house, there was a strange smell that came out of it.

Everyone held their nose and you took a few steps back from the door, turning to talk to the men. “This place has a very strong evil scent.” The men nodded, agreeing. “Right, let’s get this over with—” Gojo and Geto watched with shocked eyes when a giant gray hand stuck out of the door and grabbed a hold of you, before pulling you in with the same speed. The once broken door repaired because of the curse. The men looked at each other, finding their voice before running after you and yelling your name.

Stuck in the hands of the enemy you freaked out. You had no idea what to do against this curse and you weren’t sure if it was a level 2 curse or a level 3. Scared you started to panic; what if this thing decided that he’d just eat you? You whimper feeling the creature breath against your head. With newfound strength you focused on your cursed energy to flow throughout your body, remembering that you could do that, and your body slowly became a liquid like puddle. The level 2/3 curse stared with awe watching you just lay there as a puddle, your clothes just floating around like that before you went skidding across the wooden floor to escape it!

On the other side of the room you were in, was where the men resided. Gojo placed his ear to the wall listening for anything strange or unusual, looking out for you. The slush like noise of water moving made him step back and summon cursed energy to his finger tips, ready to blast whatever it may be. Your body came seeping through the cracks, and then WAM! Straight into the arms of the player!

Everyone in the room made a small yelping sound except you, who wasn’t aware of what was happening. You look up into Gojo’s eyes, surprised but then relaxed. “It took you fools long enough!” Gojo’s stiff body confused you. “Why are you looking at me like that?” You asked, watching his face turn pink and sweat roll down his face. “Your clothes,” he said, his voice had a little quiver to it, “you’re naked.” You were now reacting just like him. Geto coughed hard, his back turned to the entire situation. Quickly Gojo took his shirt off and gave it to you. “Here!” He says, “I don’t wanna look. I can’t disgrace you like that. Please put my shirt on quickly.”

You grabbed it and did as told, staring off at the wooden floor with multiple thoughts flooding your head. You snap out of it for a second to look back at the men quickly, “Oh! Before anything else the curse is in the next room and I think it’s a level 2!” Geto shrugs, “not a big deal, right Gojo?” Gojo winds his arms, “nope, not a big deal at all!” They both walk over to the wall and Gojo placed his hand on it watching the wall crumble to reveal the curse. You watched in awe as they both attacked the curse at the same time, a bright smile on Gojo’s face while his bestie looked bored. You couldn’t compare to these two! It was embarrassing!

Gojo grabbed the monster by its neck and made it bow to you. “Apologize to the little lady.” The monster growled. Blood trickled down its head and its eyes were missing. “Blah blah! I don’t care if you can’t talk! You can understand me just enough and you know exactly the situation you’re in.” Gojo taunted. “Gojo, it’s alright. It’s just a stupid curse, just kill it.” Gojo shook his head a no at your reaction and his smile got brighter. “I wanna hear it beg a little first. Go on buddy! Beg! Say you’re sorry!” The monster again growled, and when it started shrieking you just outstretched your hand and closed it, using cursed energy to squeeze its body with an invisible force and its body went everywhere.

You and Gojo stared at each other, eyes boring into each other before Geto broke it up by walking out the house. “Gonna thank me for saving you?” Gojo asked with a smile, clearly teasing. “Nope. I’d rather die.” “You almost did.” Gojo pointed back at the house while Geto talked to the owners of it. The curse was dead and the family was no longer gonna be haunted, meaning mission complete! Gojo wrapped his arms around you holding you closer so his shirt was more secure on you. “…thank you.” You muttered when you two made it to a little hospital van that pulled up. Gojo gave you a pat on the head and nodded, “you’re welcome doll! And hey, keep the shirt.”

You smiled at him when he said that but deep down you were annoyed yet again, because you knew he would not let this rescue go.

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 7

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

WARNING: TW/ the topic of suicide.

First - Prev - Next

CH.7

“You really need to tidy this place up, Stanford. I know you live by yourself, but that’s no excuse to have papers and books scattered around like a dust devil came through.”

“It’s organized chaos, Fiddleford. I know where everything is.”

“And this pile of unwashed laundry?”

“I’ll get to it. Washing clothes is a waste of time, and I’m a busy man.”

“Uh huh, and this pile of unopened letters on your counter? What are all of these, Stanford?”

“Several of our colleagues started sending me letters en masse.”

“And you didn’t open or read them?”

“I received so many at once, it must have been an invitation for a convention. I wasn't interested in attending one at the time. I’ll get to them eventually.”

“These are dated over a year-.”

“Eventually.”

“You’re stubborn as a mule. At least wash your dishes. You’ve been categorizing your notes for the past hour - what are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to find the definitive event.”

“For Stan?”

“Yes. You said that something extremely traumatic caused the memory loss; if I can identify what event exactly caused this, maybe I can fix this. The problem is, however…”

“Is that you’ve handled the situation in the most extreme way you could think of?”

“No. That isn’t it- and that isn’t true.”

“Mhmmm.”

“The problem is there’s too much.”

“Too much?”

“Trauma. He’s offhandedly mentioned terrible things- even when I met him in town, he had three stab wounds and acted like it was no big deal. And the more we ask, the more we prod, there’s more. The ones we heard were just the ones he was comfortable enough to mention, there has to be worse things he will not or can not speak of. And that thought… scares me, Fiddleford. I knew he wasn’t doing fantastic, but it wasn’t… It wasn’t supposed to be this bad.”

“That’s not your fault Stanford - didn’t you say he left home? It is sad he was too stubborn to ask you or anyone else in your family for help, but I suppose you two have that in common yeah?”

“...”

“I’ll admit that might have been tactless of me- Stanford? What’s- Hey! Hey now, it’s okay! It’s okay- I’m here for you.”

“...Five.”

“What’re you whimpering into your hands, now?”

“Five times. He wrote me a list of people who have tried to kill him in the past. There were thirty names.”

“That’s terrible, but not entirely surprising from what he’s-.”

“He listed himself five times.”

(...)

“How could you be so selfish?”

“I’m a selfish guy, I dunno what you want me to say.”

“Why do you only ever think of yourself?”

“Can’t afford not to. It’s dog eat dog out there, you know.”

“Will you take this seriously?”

“Will you tell me what you’re upset about this time? I can’t read minds, and I’ve known you for four days! Throw me a bone here, PhD.”

“You tried to- to take your own life?”

“Yeah. A couple times. Never succeeded, but that’s the story of my life.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you try something like-”

“Okay I’ve had enough of your judgemental bullshit. I’ve been playing along with your ‘missing twin’ narrative, the least you could do is not fucking go there. I’m a homeless criminal on the run all the time. You tell me why you think I’d want to die sometimes.

Use that big fucking brain of yours for two seconds and think statistics - homeless people kill themselves more than ‘regular’ people, so do prisoners and convicts. You’re both? Oooh boy you’re in for a time. You have to fight to survive all of the time, and sometimes… sometimes you just get so tired, you want to stop fighting you… you just want a break from it all. You want it to just end.”

“Stanley…”

“...”

“...Talk to me. Please. I’m not trying to judge you, I just want to understand.”

"...Let's say I am this mystery twin-"

"You are."

"I'm being hypothetical here, listen. Let's say I am this mystery twin of yours. Specs was saying he didn't even know you had a twin."

"How did-."

"You pressed the mute button, not deafen; I could still hear you. Anyways, your best friend didn't know you had a twin. So to your own best friend you never mentioned 'me' over what, at least 4 years or however long it took you to get a degree? Or in the years that followed? Not even once?

If I'm your twin, I can't have been that important for you to do all of this. I screwed something up, and you don't want me in your life."

"..."

"I don’t know what you're trying to prove here- if you’re going through some guilt or pity or whatever. I'm just some drifter! I don’t have anything, and I don’t have anyone. You shouldn't be wasting your time like this. I'm not worth any of the time or effort you’ve put into this. Even if I was who you think I am. Because that guy? That guy fucked up so badly you didn't think about him for ten years. And I'm just as big of a fuck up."

"Is that... is that what you think about yourself?"

"Stanford, that's all that I know about myself."

*Ford abruptly opens the barred door and walks through the forcefield into the cell*

"Woah woah, I'm not looking for a fight-."

*Ford hugs him, Stan just stands there*

"I wish you called, reached out to me, I-. I wish I reached out."

“...He probably wishes he reached out, too.”

To be continued...

[jeonscatalyst]

https://www.tumblr.com/jeonscatalyst/766182943535382528/httpswwwtumblrcomjeonscatalyst76183610766937?source=share

And i have always wondered why in the world anyone would undermine jimin's musical success because on sns followers or engagements he might not rank #1 but he's ranking #1 or #2 every single time BTS had released albums and members had their solo songs in it as b-side. Him and jungkook has always been #1 or #2 like they switch those numbers yet people underestimated his success. And how do people see him and think he'd not want to release solo music? I think years ago he was the first member who wanted to do solo songs or like Frist member to mention those things. He's always wanted these things but as you said people by that i mean armys/ jkkrs and other jm biased too misunderstood his intentions and i wonder why. He lives for that stage.

Hi anon,

I agree but I think part of the reason why some people didn’t really see his potential (atleast compared to Tae and Jk) was because this entire fandom had always seen him as the third most popular member and least popular of the maknae line. You need to understand that before the solo era, many unfortunately hadn’t had the opportunity to see how good the members would perform with solo songs and even though we know they had already performed solo songs within the group and Jimin and Jungkook’s always did much better than everyone else’s this whole fandom was still caught up on who gets the most views on fancams, who has the most instagram followers and stuff like that. That was how they measure success and we know that Jimin doesn’t get the most views on fancams and doesn’t have the most followers on instagram and his posts don’t get the most likes so naturally they assumed he only came after Tae and Jk in EVERYTHING including their solo success. They didn’t realize that the boys excel in different aspects.

Another thing is that, Jimin has always spoken so much about how much he loves being in the group and rarely really spoke or looked interested in solo ventures, of course this doesn’t mean he wasn’t interested because we know that even while he was working hard on his solo albums he said nothing about it which led people to believe that he was lazying about and not doing anything like the other members who were doing this or that or flying here and there but we see that he wasn’t lazying about. I think all these things contributed to this entire fandom underestimating him as an artist.

His immerse success in the solo era came as a blow to so many because they could never imagine. When Jimin got a number one on Billboard Hot 100, and then Jk got it too, this entire fandom was 100% positive that Tae would get one too. Why? Because to them, he was always the most popular member because of followers, views and likes and to them, that equaled success in music so that is why they were beyond shocked when he didn’t and that is why some people are still so bitter at Jimin because he was always viewed as the underdog. Everyone knew he would be successful but very few people thought he would be more successful that who they believed was the most popular member and that is why even till this day, they try so hard to discredit his success because they still cannot believe their eyes and ears.

Jimin once said “SILENCE IS GOLD. DON’T WASTE TIME” and he did just that. He let people think what they wanted to think of him. He let people say he was lazy, not ambitious, unmotivated, depressed and all the stuff they said about him when he was working on his albums and only came out when he was ready to show results.

He took “never let people know your next moves” too seriously. lol.

[naniwatig3r]

AT YOUR SIDE (18+)

Knight!Hoshi x Knight!Femreader

Summary: You work hard everyday as a dame, a female knight. Proving your place. Finally you snap when your fellow knights, including your brigade’s leader, Kwon Soonyoung don’t match your discipline.

Warnings: some ranting about misogyny, f oral recieving, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, inaccurate medieval history (did not research)

a/n: Based on those beautiful photos of Hoshi in armor from the spell mv <333 Also fic is unedited and out of my ass 😞 first fic here, please provide feedback

Word count: 4.9k

—————————

The sun glares, making the heavy chain armor and plates hot to touch. Sweat collecting at your brow as as you swing your sword, whishing through the heated air into the straw dummy in front of you. The sword sinks in, the beautiful heavy feeling that you’re so accustomed to for the last few years.

But relishing in the zone of your training doesn’t last long. As you hear boistering laughter, straightening back up with your heavy sword. How the other knights act like fools; laughing and making crude jokes of women, beer, or whatever antics they get up to. But not you. Since you were a squire, you’ve worked so hard to be here. Being a woman, it was not easy. Harder than everyone else, you think, if someone would just lend an ear and listen.

But you made your way. Hardening yourself from the sexist and crude jokes, the hard training, and the hazing of the knight you were a squire for. Until you were finally knighted.

You thought that was it, finally, being with the dedicated knights that worked as hard as you, that could recognize your dutiful determination. The way your muscles ached until you could scream during training. The way you’ve laid down the life of many for the sake of your kingdom. How you’ve dedicated your life to finally stand as a Royal knight.

Oh but you were wrong. So wrong. Even with the acknowledgment of the king, the passive looks, the way no one took you seriously, it was one thing. But when the knights you oh so respected finally revealed their true colors from behind the public perception, it boiled your blood. The drinking, the abuse of power, the lack of training.

And the worse of all, the leader of the royal knights, Kwon Soonyoung. Hoshi, the Kingdom’s Tiger, The Wild Suzerian, the Kingdom’s secret weapon.

He laughs back, his damp hair glistening in the sun from — what you’d consider — minimal training. As he leans back onto a wooden post, surrounded by the other knights as they speak of things you care nothing about.

It wasn’t fair. You thought, as you grip the hilt of your sword tightly. You were boiling in the heavy metal, weighed down by the pounds of chain mail. Something that you were used to, but was somehow more suffocating today from the excessive heat. Soonyoung was just wearing a loose linen shirt, the strings loosely tied.

You strike down on the dummy once more.

Grunting, you feel your hands clam under the gloves. The sweat traveling to all the way to the tips of your fingers. Soonyoung wasn’t suffering like this, you thought. Hands free as he shoves the other knights as he laughs loudly, leaning so casually against the wooden post. His trousers tight like he wasn’t meaning to train at all, just to come to personally spite.

Another slash across the dummy.

How the corner of his lips curve into an irritating smile, does he care at all? Like the kingdom doesn’t rely in him, how people of the kingdom see him as a savior, how the King praises him? The way his eyes squint and sparkle under the sun, like he’s allowed to be this relaxed. Not fair, not fair, not fair.

You let out a loud cry as you swing your sword hard as you can, surprisingly, cutting through the worn out dummy. The straw torso dropping to the rough dirt, as the swing of the sword makes you stumble. Throwing the hilt of it onto the ground, free from it’s weight.

You grab your helmet, throwing it to the ground in anger, freeing your face finally as you can breathe. The small slits and openings of the helmet restricting your breathing too much before. You take a deep breath, as you whip your head towards Soonyoung, the other royal knights, who now stare at you. From your loud outburst, and surprise at the cut dummy in half.

“Are you all insane?” You say loudly, panting as you stare at them angrily. Sweat beading down your forehead, strands of your long hair slick against your skin.

“Royal knights — how laughable,” You scoff, as you flicker your eyes between them all. Barely clad in their respective armor, Their swords hung up on the weapon rack. “Laughing like a bunch of little boys, while the Kingdom is preparing for war.” You hiss, as you point at the weapon rack, “Swords hung, dusty, with cobwebs, the way you all indulge in vices as our people beg for help in rural villages, how our people in the inner city speak on crimes and injustices.” You continue bitterly, unhooking your gloves, throwing them onto the dirt with a huff. (It was fine, your squire will pick it up.)

“The audacity of the lot of you,” You hiss, spitting at the floor before stomping away, back to the knight quarters, to peel the sweaty hot metal off you. Heating from the blistering sun, and the boiling of your blood. Through your anger you’re oblivious to the attention following you as you head for the barracks. The eyes of the Kingdom’s tiger focused steady on the back of your head, as you walk off.

—

You huff frustratingly, as you throw the chain mail onto the wooden bench, finally feeling relief as your bare skin is freed. Hands on your hips, as you kick the nearest chest with anger, grimacing as you withstand the pain of your foot as you continue to beat the poor chest.

“Angry little thing aren’t you?” You hear, the voice soft and amused. Making you still, as you put your foot down. “First the dummy, now that chest. Keep that up and the treasury will cry over the new supplies we’ll need replacing.”

You turn, seeing Soonyoung. Your breath hitching as he leans on the wall, arms crossed, relaxed and inquisitive. His head tilted, his eyes boring into you. An easy smile on his face, like your outburst meant nothing at all. Which didn’t aid in all in your simmering temper.

“Sir Kwon,” You address, keeping formalities despite what happened only a minute ago. “I apologize,” You grit, glancing your eyes away. “The heat has gotten to me, I could not turn a blind eye to the lack of training.” You say, gripping your bare fist tight, running over the calloused skin of your knuckles.

All you can hear is a snicker, in the quiet barracks, as he uncrosses his arms and stalks over. Making you sieze up slightly, not used to his presence like this. Sure, you were on the same brigade, following under his leadership, but he never paid attention to you. There was nothing to scold, the way you train so consistently, how you run laps around the other royal knights despite your recent accolade. So his eyes, so carefully trained on you, made your skin crawl.

“No need to,” He starts lightly, “It was fun. Seeing you finally under that dutiful attitude of yours.” He grins, “Tell me, was it really the sun that made you break?” He asks, tilting his head, like a taunt.

This made you tense, readjusting the tightness of your fists. This was nothing, you thought. Many have belittled you, made fun of you, hazed you. So why was it that just a simple knowing smile made you want to scream? To choke out the famous Kingdom’s Tiger?

“It was the sun, sir,” You say quietly and shortly. Looking into his eyes, your gaze determined and strong, how it always was.

He hums, nodding his head, “Right, I see. Must be because of all that armor.” He muses, smiling, as he glances at the mess of the layers of your knight armor scattered on the bench and floor in a frenzy. “It’s not required you know,” He says, “To be in full attire during training all the time. Especially in this heat.” He continues.

You shake my head, “It’s duty and how I was taught. I must always be ready and comfortable in the attire. In training, at war, at duty.” You recite, your words firm. It also had to do with your status as a woman. You never showed up in anything less than your required armor. It made you feel like you belonged, that the curves of your body were shielded. That your combat and dedication combined with hiding under all of those layers, you were seen on the same level as all the other royal knights.

He sighs, “Sad,” He begins, “A lady ought to know that she was born with weapons of her own.” He says, trailing his eyes. “You know theres more ways to fight than holding a sword, don’t you, dame y/n?” He says, his tone light, condescending in your ears.

You scowl, as you look down and realize the extent of your exposure. Your chest wrapped in bandages for security, breasts straining against them. Your loose linen trousers thin enough that the curves of your hips press against the fabric. You bite your tongue, “Of course, as a man you see that.” You start lowly, “But as you said, I am a dame, a knight. The only thing that matters is my duty to the king and the sword in my hand, just like you.”

Soonyoung grins, amused at your response. His eyes still trained on you, like predator to prey. For a moment you see how he earned the title of the Kingdom’s tiger, the way his eyes dance around you like you’re his next target. “Admirable,” He says, “Frustrating, but admirable.” He admits, crossing his arms as he steps even closer. The smell of him was strangely intoxicating, of pine and a layer of musk that was actually nice. Nothing like the gagging smell of sweat and men you were accustomed to.

“You’re tightly wound, dame y/n.” He states. His expression hardening slightly, “You’re dedicated, skilled. But your lack of flexibility is worrying. Misery should not be your only state.” He says, his eyes glowering into you. Making you tense with anger.

You? Unflexible? Living in misery? “What would you know, sir?” You grit, “You don’t know how hard it was to be knighted in my position.” you say, eyes narrowing, eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t choose, that is just how it is. While you all monkey around, I must uphold. No one will ever see the extent of my hardwork and dedication, but God will. And so will the king.” you spit, glowering as your knuckles turn white from your hard fists.

Soonyoung raises his brows, but doesn’t back down. Its infuriating, the way he doesn’t flinch. How he looks down at you from his height, already feeling like mock without doing anything. The worst of it, how your chest tightens at how his eyes look, curious and listening.

“No one will see?” He repeats, “Thats wrong, dame y/n.” He says flatly, “Who do you think recommended you for the knighting ceremony?” He starts, making your eyes widen at what he’s confessing.

He shakes his head, sighing, “I’m not claiming it was all me.” He starts, “I frequented the squire quarters many times. Looking for talent, as the king prepared for war. I watched you. Your skill definitely aided in the fast track of your knighthood.” He says, his eyes focused on you solely, like the room was fading out. “Training until you passed out, up at 5 everyday, taking orders from your assigned knight with no hesitation.” He lists, stepping closer, making you stumble back, but the more you step back, he continues to close distance.

“The way you swing your sword,” He says lowly, licking his lips, like he’s replaying the many times he’s seen you practice and fight. “How much power in that delicate body of yours, the technique of it. Hell, the way you sliced the training dummy in half like a loaf of bread.” He says, his voice hurriedly, excited the more he lists things he admires about you.

Your back is against the wall now, the cobbled stone rough against your bare skin. Your eyes wide, mouth agape speechless at Soonyoung’s specific praises. He leans forward, placing a hand next to the wall as he traps you in. “No one will see you say?” He says, flickering his eyes as he gazes at you intensely. “Y/n, forget the King, God, or whatever validation you seek for. I’m right here.”

Your eyes widen, breath hitched as you hear his words. The infamous wild sezarian is a fan of yours? Supported you until you finally got what you deserved, and this whole time you stared at him in envy and bitterness. But you couldn’t forgive the blasphemy of his words, “Watch your mouth sir,” You manage to say, “Thats heresy! you could —“

“What? Get in trouble?” He muses, breath fanning over your face. “Tell me, would you report me?” He asks, his free hand moving up to push a strand of hair away from your face, rendering you still. “You might, you’re so dutiful, aren’t you my dame?” He says lightly, like you’re his.

He bounces his gaze around your face, taking it in. This time, no helmet, just your hair framing your face, close as he’s ever seen it. And he can’t help but feel a swell of excitement. “Let me reward you,” He suggests, his voice breathy, “When was the last time you’ve truly been paid attention to?”

You gulp, swallowing hard under his burning gaze. Your skin heating once more, despite how the cold cobblestone wall is pressed against your back, only clad in thin linen and bandages. You feel your heart beat hard against your chest, so loud, Soonyoung must be able to hear it. It was a unrecognizable feeling, the way your knees weaken, a fluttering feeling starting to take root in your lower abdomen.

“Being a knight and doing my duty is rewarding enough.” You manage to choke out, a little proud that your words were steady coming out of your mouth.

Soonyoung rolls his eyes, “I’m sure thats true,” He says sarcastically, “But a human being, even as admirable as you deserves a break, don’t you think?” He points out, as he leans closer to that your noses could brush, making you take a sharp inhale. A chill down your spine that travels straight to your core.

“Dame y/n, is it that horrible to remember that you are a woman under that armor?” He whispers into your ear, his breath tickling your skin. “It is no curse on you. It what makes you so deliciously different and refreshing from the spoiled brats that think Knighthood is their right.” He says, firmly, “You should not mold yourself into such a miserable life where you forget who you are inherently. You deserve to have the same audacity of ones who can’t hold a candle to your hardwork.”

His hand travels from beside your ear, down to trail your jawline, to your neck, in a slow agonizing pace. Making you flutter your eyes in response, never having felt such a gentle touch in all years you’ve lived. “If they can indulge in vices, then you very well can too,” he whispers, moving his other hand that was trapping you in to caress your cheek. Leaning down to give you an open mouthed kiss on the side of your neck, making you gasp in response. “Let me give you what you deserve, y/n,” He says lowly, his breath ghosting your skin as he peppers gentle kisses.

“Sir!” You gasp, as grabs you by the waist tightly, right under your bandages. at the rough pads of his fingers feeling like they always belonged there. Your cheeks burn, flustered from his advances, your hands shooting up to grip his arms. Oh, how toned they are under the thin linen, hard against your hands as your resolve weakens.

“Sir, this is inappropriate, I’m a knight under —“

“Under me,” He murmurs, “Quite figuratively and literally, yes?” He says like it’s normal. Taking a deep breath as he kisses down to the swell of your breasts, the taste of your skin intoxicating. The smell and taste of your sweat from training mingled by the rose tonic you use when you bathe. He lets out a soft breath, running his hands down your binded chest until he lowers himself down to his knees. A sight you’ve never even dreamed of seeing in your lifetime.

He looks up at you, a look of arousal and focus, his fingers teasing the waistband of your linen trousers. Licking his lips in anticipation, his pupils dilated. Something you’ve only really seen right before the surge of battle. “Inappropriate, sure, but you haven’t pushed me away, have you, my dame?” He points out, knowing full well if you wanted to, he’d be flat on the ground for trying to advance on you.

He was right. You don’t know whats happening, but the need building in your abdomen, the way you push your thighs tightly together as you take a sharp breath, you wanted it. You wanted it bad.

The second the look in your eyes softens, a wild grin finds Soonyoung’s face, his eyes in the dimness of the room twinkling with a newfound vigor. Like a tiger really was in front of you. He claws at your lower abs, before pulling down the linen pants, revealing your cunt. Glistening, shamelessly showing how affected you were this whole time despite your attempts at being professional. You take a sharp breath, cheeks burning, sensitivity heightened under his gaze.

He leans in, taking a deep breath through his nose, as he licks a strip up your pussy in an agonizingly slow pace. The warmth of his tongue against your slickness making you involuntarily moan out, your hands immediately finding anchor on the cobblestone behind you.

“Beautiful,” He breathes, grabbing the hold of the back of your thigh, slinging one of your legs over his shoulder. The further access, making him kiss your clit with a gentleness that makes your stomach flutter, and a whimper escape your mouth. His eyes flickering to your face, as he smiles. “This cunt of yours,” He says shamelessly, making your cheeks flush further. “It’s been neglected too long.”

Immediately his mouth is back on you once more, tongue swirling a circle around your clit, sucking slightly as you buck your hips into his face. His hand holding your thigh on his shoulder in place, as you throw your head back against the stone wall. Lapping up your juices with a satisfied groan, your taste everything Soonyoung imagined and more. The soft whimpers from your mouth going straight to his cock, as it strains against his pants. Its heavenly, for both you and Soonyoung, as your eyes roll back unevenly from his ministrations.

He licks another stripe up your folds, this time settling his tongue into your opening, prodding it open as he hardens his tongue to intrude into you. The action making you cry out, pulling him closer with your leg around his shoulder. The way your pussy clenches excites him, feeling how you tense as he continues to tongue fuck you. Moaning as he does it, savoring your taste, the heat and scent of your cunt wholeheartedly. He moans, kissing your entrance as he mutters, “You taste so good,” He whines, “Divine, better than any bottle of wine.” He praises, flickering his eyes up to see your face contorted in pleasure.

Your eyebrows furrowed, eyes shut as you lose yourself in the feeling of Soonyoung’s mouth. The sight only making him more determined to pleasure you, as he keeps his steady eyes on you, he latches his mouth back around your clit, alternating from sucking and flicking with his tongue. You buck your hips, grinding against his mouth instinctively, gasping as you grab at the stone behind you.

He uses his free hand to finally stick one finger into you, the stretch warm, and easy, but tight as your walls clench around his finger. Soonyoung moans, his own eyes rolling back from just the tightness of your walls. Already getting off of the idea of you around his cock, as he ruts into you. His impatience showing as he doubles his efforts, sucking your swollen clit with fervor as he pumps another finger into you, curling his slender fingers until he feels your spongy flesh. Knowing he’s found the right spot as you basically double over, find your hands in his hair, gripping tightly.

Its mindnumbing, the combination of Soonyoung’s smart mouth and nimble fingers, as you feel the tight knot in your stomach build. You cry out, whimpers and whines escaping your throat as you tense, the feeling of pleasure starting to get overwhelming. “Sir, sir, I’m going to —“ You try and warn, before your voice cuts out as you gasp loudly. Hands tightly pulling on Soonyoungs’s hair as he grunts from your hands. Your body shuddering as you whine, riding out your high on Soonyoung’s face, his hand a tight grip on your ass. Seemingly determined to drown in your juices.

You pry his face off your cunt, as he seemed a bit lost in you. The over sensitivity making you push him away, as he pants, looking up at you with awe. He licks his lips, your slick allover his nose, mouth and chin. The filthy sight making you let out a sharp exhale of arousal, already feeling yourself start up again once more.

He stands up, pushing you back up against the wall, “Now taste,” He murmurs, closing in and molding his lips with yours. Warm and soft, as he pushes his tongue against yours. You moan, tasting your own juices on his tongue, as he kisses you with a slow pace. Pulling back, a trail of saliva and your arousal between your mouths. Licking his lips, as you stare back heavy lidded. “Tasted yourself, haven’t you?” He says breathlessly, “Can you see how ruined I am now that I have you?” He moans, as he grabs the bandages around your chest, using his strength to roughly rip them off with ease. His hands immediately coming up to massage your freed breasts, rubbing his thumbs on your nipples as you whimper in pleasure, pinching and massaging them.

“Wicked thing aren’t you?” he continues, murmuring it into your skin, his mouth against your ear as he squeezes your breasts. “Blessing me with the prettiest, divine pussy I’ve ever seen, better than any woman, whore, or lady I’ve aquainted,” He growls, “My dame, how have you walked around this kingdom without me buried into you at all times?” He says, like you’ve committed the greatest crime. His words going straight to your core, dripping, as you clench around nothing, needing more.

“I apologize sir,” you breathe, need evident in your voice. Biting down on your lip, fluttering your eyes as he kneads your breasts, making you squirm under his hands. You look like a sight, the way Soonyoung reacts as his angry expression turns focused. Cheeks flushed, your pretty lashes against your cheeks as tears of pleasure dance at the corners of your eyes. Ridiculous, he thinks, that you’ve been here all the time. And it’s taken him this long to take you.

He huffs, “No need. We remedy it now,” He says firmly, his leader like voice coming out. He lets go of your breasts reluctantly, unbuttoning his trousers, his dick springing against his chest. Angry like he is, pink and pretty, slick with pre cum. The sight of him already making your legs weak, just imagining him inside you.

He steps back, sitting on the wooden bench, pushing my haphazardly thrown armor out the way for space. A hand to his dick, pumping it slowly a few times as his eyebrows furrow, a moan coming out of his lips. You take a deep breath, stepping up to him.

“Sir, let me,” You say, straddling on top of him, the closeness between his cock and your pussy making you throb with need. You let out a sigh as you wrap your rough hands around Soonyoung’s dick, stroking him slowly, exploratory. Making him gasp and take a sharp inhale.

“Fuck,” He groans, his noises music to your ears. Squeezing slightly, as you press your thumb over the slit of his dick, slick with his precum. The action making him moan out, “Enough, no more teasing,” He breathes, putting his hands over yours. “Let me give you what you deserve, Dame y/n.” He says, making eye contact with you, his eyes soft but still determined with arousal and anticipation.

He holds you up, until you’re hovering over him, kissing you momentarily just from missing the way your lips tasted a moment ago. He adjusts, as you both moan out as the tip of his cock swipes against your folds.

You start sinking down, gasping, your breath caught in your throat. Inch by inch, Soonyoung’s cock stretching you out deliciously, the pain and pleasure knocking the wind out of you as he watches intently at the filthy sight of his cock disappearing into you, until he bottoms out. You breathe, adjusting, holding Soonyoung’s shoulders tightly. Fuck, was it beautiful. If you could, you would write epics of how he felt in you, have the bards at those stupid pubs sing about how magical he felt, how perfect he was.

And it starts, as he starts rolling his hips, grabbing your ass with his hands tightly, roughly groping them as he starts a slow but deep pace. “Heavenly,” He breathes, his eyes furrowed in pleasure. “I’d win millions of battles just to have this pussy again.” He moans, as you squeeze around him so well. “Name it, kingdom, country, anything,” He rambles, drunk on the feeling of your pussy, how you drip and suck him in. The way your tits bounce in his face, how your hair falls so effortlessly around you. Especially the fact that no one would know how beautiful you were like this, taking him in so well like it was your knightly duty.

The praises only fuel you, as you wrap your arms tighter around Soonyoung’s neck, rolling your hips to meet his. Bottom lip under your teeth as you bounce on top of him, the knot in your chest building up again, as you chase that high eagerly.

Sweat, the painful pleasure of both of you clawing each other, the lack of caution as you both go at it roughly. One of your breasts trapped in his mouth as he sucks harshly, his hips snapping up with force that shakes the measly wooden bench under you both. You match him, the way your core burns at how hard and fast you roll your hips, fingers clawing deep into his back muscles. A chorus of moans and heavy breathing between you both, as it’s now just a matter of reaching the top of ecstacy.

“Come,” He grits, letting your tit go with a pop of his mouth, as he kisses up your neck, licking the sweet sweat of your skin. “You deserve it, my dame. Reward me with your release.” He commands, holding your waist down with both arms, fastening his pace as he holds you up like a ragdoll.

And with that you do, gasping as you choke out a loud cry, eyes shut as you shake and shudder, eyesight spotty as every part of your lower half spasms with utmost pleasure. Squeezing Soonyoung’s shoulders hard, making him wince at your strength as you ride your orgasm to completion, panting heavily.

Soonyoung pulls you off despite his body screaming him not to, as he clumsily grabs his dick, stroking it hard until spurts of his release come out, as he moans, tapping his dick against your stomach as he recovers, coating your chest with his warm cum.

Its quiet for a moment, as you pant, catchin your breath, sitting on top of him as he holds you close, breathing in your sweat as he rests his chin in the nook of your neck. His touches light, once more, as he rubs circles into your back. “God,” He sighs, continuing a string of curses, before lifting his head to look into your eyes. Despite the exertion, his eyes are wide, a film of sweat over his handsome face. A look of a man who discovered excalibur on his face as he looks at you.

For once, you look relaxed. Your shoulders down, eyebrows no longer furrowed, the normal guarded look on your face gone. For once you look like a woman, one thats utterly you, strong and beautiful. Looking how you should, satisfied and cared for. Only making Soonyoung’s resolve tighten, thoughts filling his brain of taking care of you, making sure you feel the appreciation you deserve.

“My dame,” He starts quietly, “I never want you to have an outburst like that again,” He starts, referring to your angry insults thrown at the other royal knights, “If you need an outlet, let me be one for you.” He promises, gripping your hands tightly in his. “Let me fight your battles strongly beside you,” He says, kissing you briefly, “Never be alone. I am here.”

You nod, feeling an undescribable feeling in your chest rise. Odd, how your hands are with one of the most respected knights in the kingdom, the same man you despised and felt envy for. Odd that you let this same man ravish you and make you remember that there was more to life than just your royal duties. And very odd, that now you have the Kingdom’s Tiger by your side.

[lovelylogans]

debutante

previous chapter / chapter five

part of the wyliwf verse.

warnings: mentions of transphobia, food mentions, alcohol, kissing, mentions of child abuse, but nothing actually happens (virgil suspects something and dee mentions parenting attitudes that aren’t healthy) also a mention of harassing women, but it’s more of an abstract than any actual harassment. please let me know if i’ve missed anything else!

pairings: logince, moxiety

words: 21,961

notes: fifth verse, same as the first: i hope this can serve as a distraction for some of you today���please go out and vote if you are in the united states!! i'm actually posting this as i'm in line for my ballot so i can vote before work! there are so many important issues on your local ballot (several states have potentially life-saving but certainly life-altering provisions on ballot this year for a lot of folks!) in addition to national-level stuff! and, in regards to why this took so long to get here,

⁂

janus looks at the jar skeptically, his arms folded across his chest.

“this. this is your favorite food?”

logan tries not to take the slight too personally, but he offers the spoonful of loganberry jam to him again.

“yes, it is,” logan says. “i said nothing when you said your favorite food.”

“because my favorite food is normal,” janus grumbles, but he takes the spoonful anyways. “but seriously. just straight up jam?”

“crofter’s loganberry jam,” logan corrects. “followed by the rest of the jams that crofter’s offers.”

janus sighs, but ingests the jam, presumably in the name of getting to know each other better.

with the introduction of a name, logan had thought to propose getting to know each other better; so now logan knows janus’ favorite color (yellow) his favorite book (the art of war) and his favorite food (he’d said mille feuille, then admitted it was really pretzel m&m’s, which perhaps was a more conventional choice than a specific type of jam.)

logan watches him, hawk-eyed.

“so?” he says when janus swallows.

“i mean,” janus says. “it’s a good jam, i guess?”

logan sighs, but accepts that janus’ education when it comes to jam is a work in progress. that’s fine. in the meantime, logan will prepare a jam sandwich as a midnight snack. he dearly anticipates the day when he is no longer a teenager and therefore no longer so hungry all the time.

⁂

janus waits a long time to change into his pajamas.

logan gets up, presumably to go to the bathroom, and comes downstairs with an overly large hoodie without preamble, or even mentioning it at all, really.

janus refuses to smile, but he does change into the pajama set his parents bought him, with a big hoodie advertising a sideshire save-the-bridge fundraiser.

⁂

“why are you making me watch this,” logan groans.

“because it’s a cultural touchstone, hush,” janus says dismissively, staring at the screen but really staring at logan out of the corner of his eyes, trying his very hardest not to start cackling.

“this sex scene has been going on for three minutes!”

“cultural. touchstone.”

“you’re doing this to make me suffer,” logan accuses.

“obviously,” janus says. “that’s the whole point of making someone watch the room for the first time.”

“i should have just lied when you asked if i understood that reference,” logan mumbles under his breath, pointedly avoiding looking at the screen.

janus, in deciding to go full obnoxious, croons, “yooou are my rose, you are my rose, you are my rooo-ooooo-ooooose—”

logan pulls a pillow over his face and declares, muffled, “i hate you.”

“save it,” janus says dismissively. “we haven’t even gotten to the flower shop scene yet.”

“the what?” logan says, peeking tentatively from behind the pillow.

or the other terrible subplots, janus thinks gleefully. he’s not a huge fan of the room, himself, it’s not like he’s proudly in the cult following for it, but being able to show it to logan for the first time is something he absolutely cannot miss out on.

⁂

“but it makes no sense,” logan practically howls at the screen as the credits roll, janus laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

⁂

“christ, isn’t your boyfriend a dancer?” janus complains, shuffling his feet out of the way.

“my boyfriend is the dancer,” logan says, scowling. “my boyfriend.”

“either way, he needs to bring you in for extra waltzing lessons,” janus says. “poppy is going to kill you if you step on her toes even once.”

logan goes a little pale at that.

⁂

“why this,” janus groans, tempted to do what logan did and put a pillow over his face.

“you picked a movie, now i get to pick a movie,” logan says smugly, and janus considers throwing the pillow at the screen. the only reason he doesn’t is because he somewhat respects ken burns, even if logan picked his most boring documentary ever.

⁂

“this is ridiculous,” logan says.

“it’s meant to be a traditional sleepover activity,” janus says dismissively, counting each curl of the spiral, tapping the paper with his pen. “the internet says so.”

“yes, famously lauded for accuracy, the internet,” logan says. janus ignores him and starts crossing off options, counting under his breath as he goes.

“okay,” janus says, straightening the paper with a great deal of fanfare. “you’ll graduate from princeton—”

“surprising.”

“—i know, quite, i’d had you pinned as an east coast man—after majoring in chemistry, that’s a bit of a departure, isn’t it? but after you graduate, you’ll marry bowman—”

“bowman?!” logan says, aghast. “bowman wasn’t one of the options!”

“i editorialized,” janus says dismissively, “and you’ll have a hundred and two beautiful children—”

“where did you get that number?!”

janus ignores him. “—but you’ll settle in los angeles and live in a cozy little shack—”

“well, i’ve done that before,” logan says fairly, and janus tries his hardest to hide his wince as he continues.

“—and, funnily enough, you’ll be an astronomer. the end.”

“this game is ridiculous,” logan says, snatching back the notepad, before he hesitates and looks at janus.

“all right, fine,” he sighs, and readies the pen. “mansion, house, apartment, shack, those are listed. marriage options?”

“jeff bezos, bill gates, and elon musk,” janus says briskly.

“those are all terrible options,” logan says, disgusted. 

“those are all terribly rich options,” janus corrects. “if this is going to be my imaginary m.a.s.h. life, i will live lavishly due to the money my husband will provide. i don’t have morals, i’d gladly be a sugar baby.”

“you don’t get to pick all your spouses,” logan says. “you married me off to bowman.”

“i’d argue elon musk is worse than bowman,” janus points out. 

“narrowly,” logan says under his breath.

⁂

tristan, janus reflects, has to go, of course. 

if not for his being racist toward janus—which is, admittedly, a more self-preservational factor that has put janus into plotting more actively than he has in the aftermath of almost everything else tristan has done. this includes that tristan cheats poorly, lies without even being clever about it, peacocks about with absolutely no sense of swagger or charm, is generally obnoxious, and somehow manages to both virgin-shame and slut-shame girls at their school without imploding from the hypocrisy of it all—

wait. he’s getting distracted.

if not simply for everything else tristan has ever done, then certainly for the note that’s been smuggled into his pocket.

the question, of course, was which plot to pick: to go out with a bang, or to pick a piece of blackmail so heinous that he’d shipped off to military school, with absolutely no time to lose…

⁂

“—and that’s how you say where can i find a newspaper in french, creole, and portuguese,” janus says. “i mean, your next problem would be if you could read it or not, but.”

“i wish i knew another language,” logan says thoughtfully. “the closest i have is latin, and that’s not exactly something i can use to converse with people.”

they’re both lying on their backs, staring up at the artificial ceiling of the pillow fort. 

“i mean,” logan amends. “i know some conversational spanish, but. certainly not fluent.”

“spanish?” janus asks sleepily.

“roman,” logan explains, and janus makes an ah noise. then, “portuguese?”

“childhood nanny,” janus says. “she’s from the dominican republic, not haiti, but. she did teach me some things about haitian culture.”

“i met her, didn’t i?” logan says. “at your grandmother’s.”

“yes, you did,” janus says.

“creole from haiti,” logan guesses, and janus mm-hms.

“and you mentioned your grandmother was french,” logan completes.

“yeah,” janus says, and even logan can pick up the edge in his voice. logan props himself up on an elbow, furrowing his eyebrows.

janus looks at him, arching his own eyebrows, and repeats, “haitian.”

logan flushes, a little bit, remembering the (very little) amount of haitian history they’d covered in their mutual world history class, and the (slightly more, but still not exactly a wealth of information) studying he’d done in his free time.

“right,” logan says quietly. 

“i’ve got ideas,” janus says darkly, staring up at the blanket ceiling. “my adopted ancestors’ vast fortune? it’s going to go straight into a trans, black haitian’s pockets. they’re probably rolling in their graves.”

logan is quiet, for a couple moments, before he says, ��good.”

janus’s grin unfurls as he stares up at the blanket, daydreaming about how best to squander that fortune.

⁂

they’re lying in the pillow fort, mostly quiet, logan on the edge of sleep. but then, tinny and muffled, as if from a phone speaker:

your touch, pullin' fire out of me your touch, like the wind crashing on the sea...

“i am going to kill you,” logan declares, even if he does start laughing when janus does.

⁂

patton staggers down the stairs, stifling a yawn with his hand, and he has to stifle a smile at the sight of a blanket fort in his living room, just big enough for two teenage boys.

he edges around it carefully, heading directly for his first stop every morning: the coffee maker.

by the time the coffee maker starts making those slightly alarming sputtering noises that always makes patton think he should probably get it looked at, the boys emerge from the fort, bleary-eyed and honed in on the scent of fresh coffee.

“mugs in there,” patton mumbles to dee, who grabs three at random and pushes them toward patton so patton can pour, the coffee steaming and diffusing its delectable scent all throughout patton’s tiny kitchen.

there’s a stretch of silence only broken by the sound of sugar shaken into coffee, the pouring of milk, the clattering of a spoon against ceramic, and sipping.

by the time patton’s three-quarters of the way through his mug, he feels much more like a human.

“hope you boys slept well,” patton says, his voice not quite at its usual level of perkiness—he’ll need another mug of coffee for that. “do you have any preferences for breakfast? dee, you’re the guest, you can pick—we could go to virgil’s, that’s got diner breakfast—”

a strange expression flashes over dee’s face. patton takes note of it but doesn’t mention it.

“—remy, he runs the café in town, he does some good breakfast sandwiches… or fran’s, she’s got danishes and little pies and things. she runs the bakery near town center, you might have seen it.”

“fran’s,” dee says decisively.

patton nods, drains his mug, and reaches for a travel thermos. “i’ll go ahead and get going for fran’s, then, it can get a bit busy on weekend mornings. logan, could you fish out a menu and show it to dee? either of you can text me with your orders.”

both boys make sounds of affirmation, mostly preoccupied with consuming as much coffee as possible.

patton can’t really talk; he’s busy trying starting to drink the coffee from his thermos while simultaneously hunting for his house keys.

⁂

is the taste of cinnamon rolls in these small-town bakeries the entire appeal of living in a small town with an entire store for christmas lights? janus can now slightly better understand the appeal of living in a small town, if so.

squidgy without being mushy, just enough cinnamon to keep it from being sickly sweet, just enough icing to keep the whole thing moist, paired with the unexpectedly spectacular coffee from remy’s café…

janus eats three in addition to the rest of the pastry selection patton had generously gotten for them, and is only slightly regretful when a food coma signals its impending arrival.

but, as all things do, his visit to bizzare-o-town comes to an end—he’s put on his clothes and returned the hoodie logan had lent him, he’s tucked patton’s phone number into a small, almost-hidden pocket in his duffel bag, and he stands on the sanders’ surprisingly roomy front porch with logan, patton waving them both out with his ever-cheerful air.

“where are you going again?”

“newsroom,” logan says, shouldering his own backpack. “at this point, i think rudy’s just coming up with new typos to make sure i come around at least once a week. it’s ridiculous. look at this.”

janus obligingly looks at a newspaper, grimacing at the blatant inconsistencies of the use or lack of an oxford comma scattered across the page.

“we use ap style,” logan says mournfully. “he knows about proper comma placement. i know he knows about proper comma placement.”

“well,” janus says, striving for something polite to say, only ending up with, “best of luck with that.”

logan sighs, tucking away the newspaper. “i will require it.”

he holds out his hand. janus shakes it. (he notices only during the drive home his absolute absence of any hesitation.)

“i’ll see you at school.”

“see you at school,” janus echoes.

it’s probably the absolute lack of tension that is serving to make janus feel strange. since the beginning of the school year, they’d been picking at each other over grades, and he’d been needling logan for so long, it feels odd to leave without some kind of academic repartee. 

and, well. who is he to break from tradition, after all.

the entire reason for this gathering being to forcibly break tradition aside.

so he adds, “i bet my score on our science exam is higher than yours.”

“it will not,” logan says, looking affronted. 

janus snorts, shaking his head and starting down the stairs, heading for his car. “whatever you say.”

“it won’t!”

“four point margin.”

“absolutely not! your score will be less than mine by two at most!”

“i’ll make it mine is six points above yours!” janus calls, sliding into the driver’s seat, and sees logan shaking his head and probably muttering to himself.

janus rolls his eyes, but his lip turns up at the corner a bit more than usual as he drives down a rinky-dink little residential street and is that an old couple walking a cat in a stroller?! who put drugs in this town’s water supply?!

⁂

“hey, over here!”

the jolly bell fixed to the top of the door of this (admittedly quite cool) coffeeshop has barely rung before poppy’s attention is called to a corner lit by a big, dramatic brass lamp, where two fat, squashy buttery leather armchairs are framed on either side by bookshelves containing a boggling number of books in seemingly every genre and cool little bits of artsy decor.

poppy waves to lauren, before she points to the bar in a wordless offer. lauren, in answer, holds up her own to-go cup, waving her on to order.

poppy loves coffee.

poppy isn’t allowed to drink coffee. 

well. decaf is fine. but the reason she isn’t allowed to drink caffeine “should be self-evident,” according to her mother. so this cuts down a bit on her café offerings.

the barista—who has the largest cup on offer in one hand, and his phone in the other—barely glances away from his phone to look at her over the frames of his sunglasses.

“what do you want?”

okay, blunt. poppy can appreciate blunt. 

“the honey lavender latte. decaf,” she tacks on.

“size?”

“large.”

“hot or iced?”

“iced.”

“anything else?”

poppy shakes her head, nods when he recites the order back to her, taps her card when asked, and shuffles off to the pickup area to get her coffee, taking a moment to look around.

all of the machinery is sleek, decorated in white and black, down to the framed wall art beneath the menu. the barista is talking on his phone, now, gesticulating grandly with his truly enormous cup of iced—tea, she’s pretty sure?—behind the espresso machine, even as he’s pulling a shot for her drink. it’s frankly an impressive display of multitasking. 

she looks around the room. there are other chilton people here, but not many, and most of them upperclassmen lingering in sideshire before they have to retreat back to the horrors of the workload of their junior and senior years. 

there are a few of sideshire townsfolk, too, most of them chattering in polite undertones, lounging on the couches are the same buttery brown leather of the armchairs. there are also a couple of modern black rocking chairs cushioned in white, also under a couple of those big, brass lamps, all so similar in style; it all looks right out of a period film’s library mashed together with a sleek, black-and-white modernist look. poppy’s burgeoning designer brain can appreciate the adherence to an aesthetic, and this place has it in spades.

the entire place is very… cool.

poppy isn’t very well-versed in how to handle cool. her peers have made this very clear to her.

she scoops up her order when called with a quick “thanks,” and scoots her way over to the other armchair.

“hey!” lauren says, immediately shifting her laptop so poppy can see. “i’m just getting the most likely stuff features onto a flashdrive—what d’you think on this one?”

poppy examines it. it’s a good shot, ana and janey talking, heads leaned in close, fan angled just so to shield what they’re saying from their seat neighbor, but not enough to obscure their faces. ana smirking in perfect profile, janey’s laugh covered in dramatic shadow. 

“that’s good,” poppy says, then, with much more honesty, “well, with a bit of color grading…”

lauren laughs ruefully. “yeah, i know. it’s juuuust cloudy enough to mess with my exposure settings with all the windows in there, let me tell you. i’ll chuck it into the folder of likely contenders and meet up with mel to whittle all the options down on monday. do you wanna help? if you don’t, i can just do it later. i’m procrastinating on an essay for mr. medina.”

mr. medina teaches sophomore and senior honors and ap english. poppy isn’t sure how she’ll handle it next year; he’s a fine enough teacher, sure, but he also doesn’t seem to be the sort to do things when poppy tells him to, like some other teachers at chilton. one compliment to mrs. caldicott, for example, and she’d probably eat out of the palm of poppy’s hand.

“sure, i can help sort photos,” poppy says, wondering if this is some kind of test. she doesn’t know lauren very well—should she just agree with everything she says? will lauren be the sort to get ruffled up if disagreed with, or would she think poppy a suck-up if she didn’t?

and photos, too! so prone to artistic disagreement. so prone to subjectivity! at least design tended to have some very classic rules. poppy knows less with photography; rule of thirds, and that was about it.

“cool, thanks—i don’t have many left, i don’t think, let me get it set up here…”

poppy takes a nervous sip of her beverage as lauren plugs her laptop in to charge, then angles the screen so they can both see it without too much glare. 

the drink is good. very good. just sweet enough with the honey, just floral enough with the lavender, but the drink isn’t too sweet nor too floral nor too bitter from the coffee; all the flavors work in perfect concert with each other. it’s the sort of good that makes poppy very happy she’s taken a risk and gotten a large, and she’s already mentally plotting an excuse to come see logan just so she can swing by this coffeeshop again. 

“okay!” lauren says brightly, enlarges the photo, and poppy can’t help but snort, then wince.

but—it’s, objectively, a bad photo. it’s an insanely blurry shot; it looks like lauren accidentally snapped a photo on its way into her camera bag, focused mostly on the ballet studio’s wooden floors.

“okay, yeah, immediate no,” lauren says, also laughing, which makes poppy’s shoulders relax, just a bit.

she also files the information away; lauren is, at least superficially, okay with laughing at herself. that’s useful intel.

there are very few other immediate nos in there; one where kai, lauren’s boyfriend (poppy thinks? she’s not up on the gossip. she has better ways to spend her time) has stolen lauren’s camera and attempted to take a selfie with it, missing most of his face and instead capturing a surprisingly steady photo of their own shoulder. there’s one where tristan dugray is obviously in the middle of sneezing. (her mother says that poppy ought to have a crush on a boy like tristan, who is objectively handsome, poppy can yield that, but he’s just… such a jackass.) 

a few others pass in that nature; people who turned at the last second, awkward blinking, action stills that aren’t very photogenic, but the one five photos after that are, that kind of thing.

but the rest of them are remarkably well-composed, featuring a mixture of chilton students, not just those who are popular. there’s a mix of dynamics, of expressions, of poses; even as poppy tries to peruse them with a critical eye, as she gathers that lauren does actually want to know her opinion, it’s obvious that lauren has a talent. 

she says as much as they wind down on the end of the photos, lauren detaching the memory card reader from her laptop and packing it away into a teeny tiny little case.

“aw, shucks,” lauren says, grinning, starting to dissemble her camera with swift, practiced motions, detaching the lens and reaching for a microfiber cloth. “i mean, i’ve been taking photos since i was a little kid, i’d hope some sort of talent would have rub off on me by now.”

“so you’ve always wanted to be a photographer?” poppy asks, immediately intrigued. 

lauren hesitates, pausing from polishing the lens.

“...um,” lauren says, and laughs a little bit, awkward, and poppy immediately know she’s overstepped. she doesn’t know how—this is a frequent occurrence—she just knows that she has.

“sorry,” poppy says hastily, knowing that this is typically the smoothest path to resolution.

“no, no, it’s fine,” lauren says, waving her hand. poppy watches the cloth flutter like a flag in the wind. “um—i dunno, it always just gets a bit… you know how chilton is.”

“they do tend to prioritize STEM careers,” poppy agrees hastily. this is a boon for her, considering she intends on going into medicinal research, but she can see how this might be a bit of a struggle for someone more artistically inclined.

“yeah,” lauren says. “um. it’s more… i don’t know what i want to do. actually.”

poppy freezes.

the idea is such anathema to her that it’s boggling her mind. poppy knows her life and who she’s going to grow up to be ever since she had a concept of herself. high school at chilton, college at harvard, then staying at harvard for med school, then making a career in cancer research. that’s it. path plotted.

“like,” lauren says, “at all. i mean, i like photography a lot! i really enjoy mel’s class. but do i like it enough to stake my entire college experience on it? to make a career in that? i really like to bake, too, but i don’t want to be a baker. same with chemistry. same with—everything. i don’t even know which colleges i’ll apply for yet.”

that’s insane. objectively, poppy thinks.

(it’s not.)

even if lauren wasn’t also a chilton student—who famously set their students rigorous exercises and standards for the collegiate application experience—she doesn’t even know where she wants to go?!

“like,” poppy echoes, lost for words. “...at all?”

“like at all,” lauren agrees miserably. “i’m seventeen, anyways! who the hell has their life figured out at seventeen?!”

she does not give poppy an opportunity to answer—probably good, because poppy would have said something like well, i’ve had it figured out since i was four—before she says “no one! no one does! why is society set up like this?!”

“...historical precedent,” poppy decides to say, because that feels safer than offering any emotional input.

“historical precedent is stupid,” lauren grumbles. “all i know i want to do is keep spending time with my boyfriend, take pictures, bake things to bring into class, and probably be editor in chief next year, because i really like the idea of spending more time with mel and molding the paper into the best it can be, not because i know for a fact that i want to be editor in chief someday and i want to put it on my resume.”

wow. poppy and lauren really are different.

“is that too much to ask?!”

“no,” poppy says because, objective wildness of not planning your future since you’ve had a concept of time aside, it isn’t  a lot to ask.

“thank you,” lauren sighs, flopping back into her armchair, then meets poppy’s eyes for the first time since she’s started this little tirade.

“oh, god, i’m sorry,” lauren says. “sorry. it’s just—my parents were getting on me about it right before we got here, they want me to buckle down, like, four years ago, and it’s… sorry. i shouldn’t have put all that on you.”

“no, it’s okay,” poppy says, once again relying on that old faithful of Societal Norms. 

“here i am, freaking out, and here you are, with—” lauren gestures vaguely. “a painstakingly organized agenda and a straightforward trajectory and a—a purpose. a future, a plan. i mean, cancer research, wow!”

it is pretty wow, but poppy thinks it’d be pretty insensitive to bring that up at the moment, as lauren is currently burying her face in her hands.

“i’m all—mess, and you’ve got everything figured out,” lauren finishes. 

“not everything,” flies out of poppy’s mouth before she can even consider a response.

lauren peeks through her fingers, arching an eyebrow.

“i know it sounds—silly,” poppy says, haltingly. “but—you’ve got things figured out that i definitely don’t. i mean—my mom would kill for me to have a boyfriend and do social things like you do.”

“your mom has her priorities a bit skewed.”

“i know that,” poppy tries not to snap, “but that’s—what it is. people like you, you get involved in things, and i can’t even figure out which stupid secret society to join because, even though i have all the family connections, neither of them really like me enough to invite me before now.”

welp. there it is.

poppy knows she’s an acquired taste; the trouble is, she’s never met anyone particularly patient enough to actually acquire it. dee has come close, she guesses, but he’s so hard to read that it’s genuinely difficult to tell, and even then, it’s because they’re “of a like mind,” according to him.

which—considering dee’s reputation within the chilton social stratosphere—is not particularly comforting.

“oh, poppy, that’s not—”

“i’m going to have to suck up to francie jarvis all year if i want to get into the puffs, she all but told me that outright,” poppy snaps. “help her with her homework, secure her a prime spot in the parking lot, organize her locker, scrunch up the plastic strands on her pom-poms to make them fluffy. i’d have to do everything except give her a manicure, if I had any talent with an orange stick.”

“but there’s the—”

“—clairs, i know, but no one’s even approached me about the clairs, even though i have cousins who graduated from both sororities! my family's name and reputation, not to mention my entire future, all depend on me getting into that group—”

“okay, first of all,” lauren says, “the entirety of your family’s name, reputation, and your incredibly bright future do not all depend on which clique you’re in in high school.”

“—my mother was a proud puff,” poppy continues as if she hasn’t spoken, because really, what a ridiculous notion that the world was not pinned on the minutiae of decisions you make in high school, “and my cousin maddie. the connections maddie made with the puffs got her an internship with the supreme court. but my father’s sister was a clair, and so was my cousin ruth. the connections ruth made with the clairs got her an incredible job managing celebrity pr, which sounds like hell to me but she’s thrilled as anything—”

“poppy—poppy!” lauren’s holding up her hands in supplication, and poppy promptly shuts her mouth.

did that guy behind the barista bar screw up and give her full caffeine?! she surreptitiously looks at the sharpie markings on her cup—no, marked off as decaf. hmph.

“okay,” lauren says, speaking in a soft, quiet tone, the way one might talk to an easily startled bunny or something of that nature. which is ridiculous, even if poppy’s shoulder’s relax a little at the sound of it. “first of all: i don’t know about the puffs, but clairs don’t recruit until the last month of your freshman year.”

poppy blinks.

“which wouldn’t be for a minute, for you,” she adds helpfully. “second, you could probably report francie for hazing—”

“it was mostly implied,” poppy mumbles.

“—still,” lauren says. “francie’s…”

poppy waits for lauren to finish that sentence, taking a sip of her drink.

“...francie,” lauren finishes delicately, as if unable to come up with any singular term that would do the work to encapsulate francie. “look. you’re smart, and driven, and you’d succeed in either sorority you wanted, or no sorority, even—”

poppy’s already shaking her head at that notion. 

“—but, hey, part of why i asked you to coffee is to tell you about the clairs,” lauren says, settling back in her armchair. 

“that would be great, thank you,” poppy says politely, trying to pack away their mutual spinouts into the distant past of thirty seconds ago, never to be thought of again. “maddie tells me all about the puffs, but ruth’s pretty quiet about the clairs. what are meetings like?”

“i mean, it’s kind of secret,” lauren says, warmly enough that it’s not entirely discounting the question, “but, i mean—you know how chilton tends to try to keep everything about the secret societies hush-hush and fails at it completely?”

poppy nods. there are ten secret societies worth cracking at chilton, and the puffs have been commonly regarded as number one for the last fifty years. a supreme court justice was once a puff. the ship to keeping secret societies hush-hush had sailed long ago for that reason alone.

“i can tell you the stuff i knew was in the public eye before i got initiated,” lauren says, “which—you probably know, but it’ll probably be good to clear up rumor-rumors from rumors based a little more in fact.”

also accurate. the jefferson has famously implied that the clairosophic society are the closest a modern girl could get to going into the woods and slaughtering chickens and drinking each other’s blood to enact witchcraft, like fabled salem witches of old.

the jefferson has also implied certain things about the puffs and their… well, poppy thinks its not too far of a stretch to mention the comparison to a cultish honeybee hive, complete absolute obeisance to their designated queen—highly likely to be francie for the next few years.

“this is different for every society—and for fraternities and sororities in college—but i can generally tell you that it’s not too different from a lot of club meetings. we have an agenda, we have questions and discussion, we do an occasional activity, we make a plan for what we’ll do between this meeting and the next one.”

vague, but poppy can appreciate mentions of agendas and plans. valuable intel. poppy is notoriously good with agendas and plans—she might be able to finagle this into a boon, regardless of which sorority she joins—

“usually, we talk about things going on at chilton, philanthropy events, any tweaks to the bylaws, social events that we’re all planning, voting for some of the more niche aspects of running a sorority… formal meetings are a lot of bureaucracy.”

poppy can do bureaucracy! poppy is great at bureaucracy!

wait.

“and… informal meetings?” poppy says.

“also a bit secret,” lauren says sheepishly. “more like… friend hangouts. don’t stress about it.”

hilarious. as if poppy has experience with informal hangouts. poppy will absolutely be stressing about it.

“you mentioned philanthropy?” poppy prompts, and lauren brightens.

“yes! we vote on a cause each year, and this year—for the past couple years, actually—we’re focusing our efforts on a children’s research hospital.”

poppy must visibly perk up at this, because lauren grins.

“i thought that might be up your alley.”

“what kind of things do you do?” poppy says, practically vibrating. depending on the puffs’ philanthropic efforts, this could absolutely tilt the scales—establishing connections at a hospital this early! poppy had previously planned on beginning to do volunteer work as soon as she was legally old enough to do some work of import at the hospital, but this was huge, this could advance her plans by years—

“a lot of fundraising—i need to pin down what i’m going to bake for a bake sale in two weeks, actually—helping out with their phone bank, some occasional office administration stuff, supporting their fundraising events. some girls—ana does it, i can give her your number if you have questions—help out in the playroom. ana’s there basically every weekend, she’s there probably the most of anyone. some of the girls on the cross-country and track teams are finagling the rest of them to join in the national 5k.”

poppy nods, absorbing this.

“we partner with a lot of their official events, mostly volunteering to do some of the grunt work. actually, wait, let me find a pamphlet for you from the hospital, i know i’ve got it here somewhere…”

lauren begins rummaging around in her backpack, and poppy takes a moment to drink her coffee and absorb this; a man in a cardigan opens a door that poppy had thought for staff only. the barista looks up, smiling for the first time that she’s seen, and passes the man a prepped to-go cup. the man in the cardigan beams, takes it, and uses his other hand to pull the barista in for a quick kiss.

poppy finds herself staring as the barista leans against the counter; they speak in quiet undertones, cautious not to let any of their words float to the rest of the café—poppy thinks she might be the only one watching, though. the locals don’t seem to care, as if this is a common enough occurrence, and the lingering chilton students are either deep in conversation with each other or scrolling on their phones or laptops with their airpods in.

what a town, where these people can kiss and no one even thinks to comment upon it.

poppy wonders if that’s what life is like outside of the mcmaster household. to be free of a world where every little thing is commented upon.

“here you go,” lauren says cheerfully, passing it over. “even if you don’t join the clairs, i hope you look into this. it’s a really great cause.”

“sure,” poppy says automatically, taking it and tucking it carefully into her bag, then, “do you really not care if i join the clairs or not?”

lauren blinks. “how do you mean?”

“like,” poppy says, gesturing vaguely. “this. this wasn’t some recruitment tactic?”

“oh!” lauren says. “i mean—not formally. i just invited you because…”

“because?” poppy prompts, eyes narrowing.

“because i really do think that we need to stick together,” lauren says. “both in terms of being journalism girls, sure, but also because i think women in general should stick together. i do want you in the clairs, but not because of the fact that you’re a mcmaster or i think you’re going to be really successful some day—which you will—but because i like you.”

poppy blinks. “you like me?”

“sure, i like you!” lauren says. “i think you’re really good at journalism and design. i like that you decided you wanted a feature and went after it. i like that you’re teaming up with logan and dee, even though dee’s kind of out there, because you recognize everyone’s talent, instead of only yours, which i think is way too common in a place like chilton. and i think you’re funny.”

poppy absorbs this for a moment. funny is not a word typically used to describe her. like is not a word typically used to describe her. she sets this aside—the words sure i like you! echoing in her mind nonetheless—and progresses.

“do you think i’d be a good clair?”

“i think you’d be a great member of any sorority,” lauren says. “but, yes—i think you’d be a great clair. you’re driven, you’re smart, you’re so focused on your own goals that i don’t think you’d care that any other clairs’ life path is a little unorthodox.”

“is that common?” poppy says, setting aside the errant thought that unorthodox might have been an invitation to pun. poppy does not pun, but enough people at her synagogue do that it feels near-instinctual to recognize the opportunity and let it float away. “unorthodox life paths, i mean.”

“very,” lauren says honestly. “i mean—my indecision aside. i know that a lot of us don’t fit the chilton mold. girls who are religious outside of christianity, girls who aren’t religious at all, girls who don’t want what society sets out for the path of a “good”—” here she uses air quotes, “chilton girl. like—liv is already setting up to be a professional bridesmaid starting in college, and that’s all she’s ever professed a desire to do, professionally speaking. bella’s thinking about going off the grid entirely and living off the land. soph leads ghost tours on the weekends with the intent of landing a rich eccentric to spouse up with. scarlet doesn’t want to go to college at all, she thinks chilton is scamming her parents.“

yes. those are certainly all off the path of approved post-chilton career paths, which mostly seem to split between “corporate,” “lawyer,” “doctor,” “professor,” or “otherwise professionally or academically outstanding so that we may brag upon our alumni.”

“yeah, you’d be a good clair.”

“oh,” poppy says. “that’s… good. but. i mean. do you think i’d… fit in, as a clair?”

“i think that’s the beauty of the clairs,” lauren says thoughtfully. “none of us fit in. but we manage to fit in with each other. if that makes any sense?”

it does, poppy thinks, stirring her drink with her straw, thinking of hattie, thinking of the barista, thinking of a future where she won’t have to bow to someone’s every whim, but one where she is instead offered mentorship and volunteer opportunities to further her future, without ulterior motive. 

“it really does.”

⁂

seline: ALERT.

francie: You know how much I hate it when you start a text message with a vague message instead of getting right to the point.

seline: right, sorry. 

francie: And learn punctuation.

seline: anyway i stuck around in the middle of nowhere right after the gathering to get some coffee, and i saw mcmaster coming into the café 

francie: Poppy McMaster? 

seline: she’s that really intense freshman right

francie: WAY too intense.

seline: and loud. and also i think she might be a robot, she never just. STOPS. ykwim

francie: She comes from a long line of us, though. 

seline: ugh. i hate nepotism.

francie: Rich of you to say. It makes the world go ‘round.

francie: Anway, I should care about this, beyond McMaster being insanely intense and coming from a long line of Puffs because…?

seline: right! so i stuck around in the middle of nowhere right after the gathering to get some coffee, and i saw mcmaster coming into the café 

francie: Get to a point, please.

seline: and she sat with lauren whatever her name is. seline: …and asking her a lot about the clairosophic society.

francie: What?! francie: But her family’s fully puffed!!!

seline: except her cousin.

francie: Who cares about her freaky cousin? A voluntary defector!!! There hasn’t been one in at least ten years, and even then, that was forgiven when she got suspended for troublemaking!!!

seline: maybe i heard her wrong, bc i was listening to that stupid video mr. gardiner keeps saying i should listen to to “improve my understanding of calculus,” but that’s what i think i heard her say.

francie: We absolutely cannot have this. 

⁂

“if katy fincher’s mom tries to butt in on coaching the cheer squad one more time, i’m going to scream,” sasha says, her face buried in her arms where they rest on the desk of their mutual english class. 

they currently have quiet time to work on their papers, which means everyone is talking in quiet voices and absolutely not working on their papers. most are instead online shopping on their laptops or texting other people on the sly.

“mood, retweet, same,” roman says, sticking a post-it in the latest poetry compendium he’s reading. he thinks logan will like this one, even if it is a bit more avant-garde that logan’s usual tastes.

“like, we get it, you were a cheerleader here fifty years ago or whatever, that doesn’t mean you get to just steamroller over our actual coach,” sasha continues, scowling. “it’s enough that she has somehow managed to nepotize katy into a flyer position, now she wants to choreograph routines to bring them back to how they were? no, thank you.”

“she wants to do what,” roman says, looking up from his poetry book. “since when?”

“i don’t even know, but joanna posner texted me that mrs. fincher has some suggestions for practice tomorrow, apparently.”

“the routines are great the way they are! we’re nearly done with the basketball season already, what’s the point of doing it now? is coach actually going to hear her out?”

sasha looks up just enough to shrug and give roman a look at her excellent cut-crease eyeshadow look today—all silvery sparkles and stark, dramatic gunmetal gray—before dropping her forehead back onto her arms. 

“this means she’s probably going to put herkies in it,” sasha whines. “i hate herkies.”

“i also hate herkies,” roman says. it’s true, it’s probably his least-favorite cheer-specific jump, which is something, because he usually loves leaps and jumps. it’s like someone ferociously messed up an attitude leap and decided to just rename it instead of facing up to the fact that they did it wrong.

“if any parent should come in to choreograph a new routine, it’s your mom,” sasha says, rolling so her cheek is resting on her arms now, not her forehead. “your mom rules at teaching routines.”

roman smiles. it’s true. his mom does rule at teaching and also at everything else.

“it was really cool to see her teach and stuff last weekend,” sasha continues. “it makes me wish i actually went to a studio to do ballet instead of trying to teach myself from barbie movies.”

“barbie’s nutcracker and twelve dancing princesses are an integral part of my ballet dancer lore,” roman says, “but yeah, she’s the best. and you did, in fact, miss out on the best dance teacher of all time.”

“not that you’re biased.”

“of course not,” roman agrees, amused. “i’m the least biased in the world.”

the bell rings; there’s a great scraping of chairs and desks as everyone gets up to go to lunch, their teacher calling out reminders on the deadline for the paper maybe two of them were actually working on.

roman tucks his book into his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, and asks, “sit with me?”

“sure,” sasha says, and so they set off for the cafeteria, briefly interrupted by a conversation with brick davis about if either of them know anything about arranging carpool arrangements—they don’t, but roman gives brick logan’s phone number because he probably will know—before they find a decent table away from the herd of people who probably sprinted here to get to the microwaves first.

elliott finds them all not long after that, sitting down beside sasha.

“hi,” they say, before peeking curiously at the contents of sasha’s lunchbox. “that looks really good.”

“thanks!” sasha says brightly, already drizzling tzatziki over the innards of her wrap. “i’d heat it up if the lines weren’t so bad today, but souvlaki’s okay cold. even if might be blasphemous to my ancestors, whatever, they never had to deal with microwave lines.”

elliott sighs a little, glumly removing a ziplock bag with what looks like a very sad sandwich inside. they examine it for a minute.

“erm,” roman says, briefly glancing up from his chicken caesar salad. “what is that?”

“i… am not really sure,” elliott says. they open it, sniff a little, and hastily reseal it, but not before the scent of heavy mayonnaise reaches roman. “and i am not entirely sure i trust that this is vegetarian, so. what’s on the hot lunch menu today?”

“umm, i think it’s spaghetti? but don’t quote me on that.” sasha adds hastily.

“sold,” elliott says immediately, scooping up their sad, mayo-infused sandwich to dump in the nearest trash can. “be right back.”

sasha, likely reveling in the fact that one of her dad’s favorite hobbies is remaking and gently tweaking family recipes until they match his elusive childhood memories of summers spent in katerini, looks on sympathetically as elliott shuffles their way in line.

“i’d bring them a spare lunch if they ever asked,” she says with a shake of her head. “i think this is the third time in two weeks that elliott’s had to buy a hot lunch because they weren’t sure if their mom remembered to pack something vegetarian.”

“ditto,” roman says, unsuccessfully attempting to spear a crouton. “my mom’s pretty good about meal prep, and even then, i live, like, right next door to virgil. he’d pack them a lunch without a doubt.”

“it’s like they don’t know they’ve got prime food access just by virtue of us,” sasha says.

“we should hint that to them. delicately.”

“for sure,” sasha agrees. “if it’s not mayo, it’s ham. if it’s not ham, it’s, like, really sad pb&js that are half-smushed inside a ziploc bag.”

“you’d think it would get better once chad graduated,” he says, then, “right, right, you’re new. chad is elliott’s older brother.”

“mm,” sasha says, nose wrinkling. “is he, like, a nice chad, or—”

“no. quintessential chad. whatever you’re picturing, you’ve probably got it.”

sasha’s nose wrinkles further, and she and roman distract themselves with eating as much of their lunches as they can until elliott comes back. 

lunch breaks aren’t exactly leisurely at sideshire high. ergo, the sprint to form lines at the microwave; the faster it’s warm, the faster you can eat, the faster you can get to talking to your friends, or visiting your favorite teacher, or stopping by your locker, or what have you.

roman’s pretty sure they aren’t leisurely at chilton, either, but roman bets the students there are a bit less social and a bit more studious with their spare time during lunch breaks.

after a few minutes, elliott drops down at their table and they, too, promptly begin inhaling their spaghetti with marinara sauce and garlic bread on the side.

“we ran into brick earlier, do you know anything about carpooling to the debutante ball?” sasha asks elliott.

they shake their head and make noise of denial. 

“that’s a good idea, though,” they mumble.

“yeah, someone should get on that,” sasha says, then, “wait, duh, i know a quick way to get an answer on this.”

she pulls out her phone and sends a text; roman sees his phone screen light up from where he has it stashed in a backpack pocket, in the sideshire debutantes group chat.

“oh, obviously,” roman says. “why didn’t i think of that?”

“just say your brain’s fried from whatever amount of planning happened this weekend, we’d forgive you,” sasha advises. “it was a really big production, does your mom do that kind of thing a lot?”

“well, she hosts a lot of town meetings,” roman muses. “and, i mean, we teach a lot of classes, but—nothing like that.”

“no, this is a pretty unique situation,” elliott says between bites. “your mom’s still really scary, by the way, it did not get better just because i took a class with her like you said it would.”

“i know, isn’t she the best?” roman beams.

elliott makes a nervous mmmmm sound as sasha says “yes absolutely she is.”

“like, hey, look,” roman says, displaying his salad. “i said i was craving caesar, and look! caesar. with plenty to spare, if anyone ever asked me to bring any spare food to anywhere for any reason, plus, like, really close access to the best restaurant in town.”

“subtle,” sasha mouths at him, and roman just shrugs. 

hey, he can be a lot of things—dramatic, ostentatious, confident—and none of those are exactly synonyms for subtle.

“yeah, speaking of virgil,” elliott says, digging out their phone. “look at my suit! dress? suit-dress?”

“swess,” sasha says, leaning over to peer at elliott’s phone screen.

“druit,” roman says, doing the same.

it looks, frankly, really cool; half perfect tux, half old-fashioned, regency-esque white dress. 

“elliott, that’s gonna look so good,” sasha gushes happily. 

roman says, delighted, “wow, elliott, it turned out great, i can’t wait to see it in person!”

“thanks,” elliott says, ducking their head. “i’m, um, i’m really happy with it, actually. i was really nervous.”

“what are you gonna do with shoes and stuff?” sasha says curiously. “oh, i could totally help you do a half-and-half look, just say the word!”

“would you really?” elliott says, looking surprised. “thanks, sasha, that would be really—really great, actually. i mostly just,” and gestures to their dark eyeshadow. “y’know. not exactly intricate stuff.”

sasha squeals happily, clapping her hands.

“i love having models to do makeup on!” she says. “my sisters are getting so tired of me bursting into their rooms when they’re trying to do homework, let me tell you. ooh, ellie, this is gonna be great! we should probably carpool then, right, if i’m your makeup artist?”

“sure!” elliott says. “we can text other people to see if there’s room in the car, or if you’ve got yours, or—” 

“totally,” sasha says. “sorry, can i just take a picture of your face, real quick? i want to make sure i have a reference for foundation matching.”

“um, sure?” elliott says, and they try their best to offer a neutral expression to the camera.

quickly afterward, not even leaning over to peek at the picture sasha got, elliott turns to roman. “how about you? i don’t think i’ve seen your dress.”

roman grins. “it’s a surprise, darlings.”

“aw, not even one hint?” sasha teases.

roman, faux-thoughtfully, taps his finger against his chin.

“well,” he says with a smile at elliott, “you won’t be the only one doing an avant-garde makeup look, how about that?”

“oh, nice,” elliott says. “i mean—not that you won’t do a great job, sasha, it’s just also nice to know i won’t be the only one.”

“i don’t think you were ever going to be the only one,” sasha says cheerfully. “it’s a ton of people smashing gender norms, interesting fashion and makeup kind of goes hand-in-hand with all of that.”

“interesting fashion seems like a theme with those chilton kids for sure,” elliott says. “i mean, wasn’t that friend of logan’s wearing a cape?”

roman scowls, more out of instinct than anything.

“uh-oh,” sasha says. “we don’t like logan’s friend? what’s their name?”

“dee,” roman grumbles, “and no, we do not like him. he’s competing with logan too hard for valedictorian, which should be logan’s in any sane world, he lied to me for the sake of his own amusement, he pokes his nose in everyone’s business, he—”

“okay, we don’t like him,” sasha says, cutting him off. “got it.”

elliott makes another mm noise.

“what?” roman says, lowering his fork.

elliott jerks their shoulders up and down in a shrug.

“no, really, what?” 

“wellll,” elliott says, drawing out the word, dragging their fork through the pasta. “does he… really suck?”

“yes, he sucks,” roman says fervently. “he, for sure, really, absolutely sucks.”

“do i detect jealousy?” sasha says, a hint of intrigue on her voice.

“you absolutely do not,” roman says fervently. “no. no way. i am not jealous of that—that jason vorhees wannabe!”

elliott’s head tilts, and their mouth pulls to one side.

“what was that face?” roman says. “i’m not!”

“weeeeellllll,” elliott says in a high-pitched voice.

“oh, go on, elliott, you know i’m new,” sasha urges. “you know all this history, i’m at a disadvantage.”

elliott shrugs, lifting a noodle on their fork, letting it drop back down into the tray. “i mean, you and logan have practically been together since kindergarten.”

“not true,” roman mutters petulantly. “if we had been together that long, i could have saved myself a lot of longing staring and yearning angst throughout the years.” 

“not necessarily romantically,” elliott adds to sasha, as if roman isn’t even there. “just, like. it was always roman-and-logan, logan-and-roman, you know?”

they say it very quickly, like they’re used to saying their names as all one word; romanandlogan, loganandroman. roman fights the urge to be sappy about that.

“if one was there, the other wasn’t far behind. they’ve always been,” elliott says, and twines their fingers together, using the gesture to finish their sentence. 

“ohhh,” sasha says, in a great gusting sigh of realization. “i see. logan moved, met this guy, and now this is a whole another person might be becoming important to the person who’s important to me thing.”

“it is not that thing, okay, first of all,” roman says, “he’s evil.”

“evil?!” sasha says, on the edge of a laugh. “he’s a prep wearing a cape, roman, i don’t know if it’s that serious.”

“it is that serious,” roman says vehemently, “he manipulated someone into punching logan, so—!”

“wait, what?” elliott says, and so roman has to catch them all up on the dastardy of dee slange.

this takes the rest of lunch break; they split off for their respective lockers and afternoon classes, roman slightly vindicated by the looks on their faces as they realize that dee slange is heinous.

“but if he did all that—” sasha begins, then breaks it off, her brow furrowing.

“what?” roman says, distracted by the sound of their class bell, putting his phone back into the perfectly sized pocket of his backpack.

elliott and sasha exchange another look.

“well,” sasha says. “i guess i don’t know him as well as either of you do, but… logan seems like a really smart guy. if dee really did all of that—then why is logan bothering to hang out with him?”

roman sets his jaw, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“that’s what i can’t figure out, either,” roman says, and he goes on his way to his next class before either of them can start brainstorming and come up answers that make dee even more abominable than he already is..

or, even worse—

answers that will make roman start to consider dee as logan’s misunderstood confidante.

⁂

“uh-huh. well, that’s good, at least.”

patton makes eye contact with virgil and nods as virgil speaks into the landline; virgil nods back with a little distracted smile on his face as he continues listening intently on the phone. patton contents himself with attempting to guess who’s on the phone based on the half of the conversation he’s walked into the middle of. 

“yeah, it’s all going pretty well, we had a big get-together with a lot of the kids so they all know how it’s gonna go down… probably, yeah, i’m up to my armpits in tulle, but i think i’ve gotten all the last of the last-minute folks in, so i can at least narrow it down…”

okay, someone who is interested in how the debutante ball is going, which means not someone with a strict business relationship based mostly on virgil ordering ingredients and supplies.

“...bit longer, but shouldn’t be much. you know how things get with the seasons, i’ve got a bit more downtime here and there…”

hm. virgil’s tone makes it almost like he’s talking to his mom, which would fit, except virgil’s probably talked to meredith recently enough that she’d know about the timeline, and someone else who knows about how restaurant levels vary. which leaves…

“okay. yeah, see you soon… i will, i will, he’d probably like that… thanks. bye.”

virgil hangs up the landline; if there’s one thing about landlines patton misses, it’s probably that sense of concrete finality that comes from hanging up a phone. smartphones just mean pressing a screen. no theatricality of clicking buttons, no twirling the line around a finger.

lot more convenient to carry, though. and little smartphone games! patton loves little smartphone games.

“bud or maisie?” patton asks, as virgil, smiling, leans forward, elbows on the counter. “i’m guessing maisie.”

“maisie.”

“ha! i got it!” patton crows, before leaning forward; virgil, who he is maybe in the midst of accidentally pavlov’ing, leans the rest of the way to give patton a little greeting kiss.

“maisie wants me to bring my handsome young man back over pretty soon,” virgil says. 

patton grins. he likes bud and maisie quite a bit; he’s pretty pleased that they like him back.

“she and bud say hello.”

“well, i say hello back,” patton declares, despite the fact that virgil would probably have to call them back to pass on this news. it’s in the spirit of the thing. 

“how was work?”

“oh, same old, same old,” patton says vaguely, “except i think one of the kid guests is trying to smuggle one of our squirrels into the hotel so they can smuggle it back home in their luggage.”

virgil considers this. “i don’t know what to do with that.”

“yeah, me either,” patton agrees. “logan never really got into the let’s adopt this animal phase beyond, like, frogs.” 

“ah, i remember reptile phase,” virgil says. “made it a lot easier that you lived by their natural habitat, though. i don’t think this girl can do that unless she convinces her parents to move here.”

“i don’t blame her, though. we’ve got a pretty good squirrel population. very fuzzy, very fat, very prone to posing for pictures.” 

“true,” virgil says. “we have very handsome squirrels here. good representatives to stick on a wildlife brochure. i don’t know how taylor is behind this, but i think taylor is behind this.”

“you and logan think taylor’s behind everything.”

“he is, but continue.”

“well—i don’t think tipping off the parents that their child is planning to abduct the local wildlife is really in my job description, considering she’s been pretty vocal about our squirrels, but i told the landscapers to keep an eye out for it.”

“probably for the best,” virgil agrees. 

“speaking of photogenic,” patton says, and he waggles his eyebrows. “do you have your fancy black tail outfit all sorted out?”

virgil groans—half joke, half real disdain for the stuffy uncomfortableness of it all—and rests his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “do i have to?”

“probably not,” patton says, practical, “considering all the kids are flouting dress codes anyway.”

virgil freezes.

patton grins. “did i just now bring that to your attention?” this strikes patton as particularly ironic, considering virgil’s outfit today; a dark, silky purple button-down tucked into a breezy black maxi skirt, his eyes rimmed with black and his lips painted with burgundy to match.

virgil drops his forehead onto his arms, whining “i could have just not bought a fancy suit?!” into the counter.

“aw, poor virgil,” patton says, running his fingers through his impressively silky hair, then, “...how fancy?”

“very!” virgil grumbles, not moving. “i bought a tailored coat with and without tails because i couldn’t remember which i needed, patton! i have two fancy suit coats i don’t need now!”

“how many fancy suit coats did you have before?” patton says, curious; he thinks he’s only ever seen virgil in suits at weddings, exclusively. photographs of virgil’s siblings’ weddings—patton only ever attended one of the three, though wyatt’s triad is rapidly approaching common law marriage length of relationship had their home state allowed such—and weddings of the general townsfolk, who frequently invite him to fancy events like that since virgil’s the face and name of a town staple and all.

“one!” virgil wails. “i’ve tripled my fancy suit coat collection! how often am i going to be wearing fancy suits?!”

“well—”

“the dry cleaning is a nightmare, patton. i never remember to drop things off at dry cleaning, and then i never remember to pick them up.”

“that i know,” patton says, amused, carding his fingers this way and that through virgil’s hair. “i’m surprised you only had one suit.”

“you have to do business-y things more than me,” virgil says.

“that’s true,” patton says. in addition to weddings—the inn being a popular venue, and patton also being part of a town staple—patton also has much more frequent meetings, bank conferences, the occasional conference for inn owners that maria usually enthuses about, and general tasks that he has to do for his business degree (so close to finishing! patton really does not enjoy studying macro or microeconomics!)

virgil, on the other hand, usually only has bank meetings on the roster. suits in a diner kitchen kind of seemed like a nightmare waiting to happen.

“besides, you’ve got some fancy events coming up other than this, it’ll be nice to have spares,” patton points out—the boys’ graduation within the next couple of years, a fancy dinner or party that patton’s certain his parents will take them both to at one point or another, not to mention the Big Deal Life Events of virgil’s many nieces and nephews. 

just off the top of his head, patton’s pretty sure both wes and mikey are approaching graduation from middle school, and little baby red has had murmurs of a formal christening (primarily moira’s side of the family; silas has never struck patton as particularly religious).

patton mentions this, and virgil only sighs.

“are we done sulking?” patton says, a little amused. “can i see that handsome face, partner of mine?”

“dunno,” virgil mumbles into his arms. “the scratching feels really nice. i could stay here all day.”

patton laughs, scratches a little firmer for emphasis, and says, “we could at least take this to a couch so that you can nod off while i’m doing this, i know you’ve been staying up late with dress alterations lately.”

virgil lets out a sigh of longing, which makes patton giggle, but virgil stands upright.

“there he is,” patton coos, and virgil ducks his head—not quite blushing, but certainly smiling in that shy, bashful way patton loves.

“do you have a suit?”

“oh, my mom referred me to a tailor way back when we first got the dress,” patton says with a little laugh. “i just have to pick it up.”

“probably should have guessed that,” virgil says. “of course your mom would have a tailor on speed dial.”

a tailor. with the way that his mother has her exacting specifications for anything and everything, but especially shopping and appearances in general, coupled with her tendency to immediately fire anyone who displeases her? virgil’s adorable.

“at least i only had to get the cummerbund and coat,” patton reasons, and virgil lets out a great big gust of air.

“can we revisit that whole i lay down on the couch while you scratch through my hair idea?” virgil says. “i’ll bring dinner and the hair. you’ve got couch and the hands.”

“well, how could anyone refuse that offer? it’s a date.” patton beams, and virgil leans over, pressing an imprint of burgundy lipstick into patton’s lips.

patton refuses to wipe it off.

⁂

From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

To: poppymcmaster@chilton.edu

Subject: Design edits for debutante spread

I appreciate your very prompt response in getting your designs on the flashdrive and down to the journalism lab! I’ve have a few minor edits notated on the PDF attached—mostly to switch from HEX to RGB color codes and adjustments to the margin width to best fit printing standards. 

Very well done on the infographic design work—especially for a freshman! I think you may be able to progress to a more advanced course under my tutelage in your sophomore year, considering I anticipate you won’t need much help figuring out Adobe programs. I might need to ask you for pointers!

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

  From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

To: dslange@chilton.edu

Subject: Story edits for debutante spread

I’ve attached the story edits from myself and James for your convenience after our meeting earlier today. Very compelling throughline—I would like the transcripts of your interviews as soon as you can get them to me, so that we can work on ensuring it’s fact- and quality-checked before it goes to print. I appreciate your work—I’m unsure if your future goals involve journalism, but I think you have a very bright future in storycraft regardless, no matter which form it takes.

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

  From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

To: logansanders@chilton.edu

Subject: Column edits for debutante spread

From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

I’ve attached the column edits from myself and James for your convenience after our meeting earlier today. They’re mostly line edits, though I wonder if you can fit in a graph about your or Dee’s personal connections to this project, to give the story a personalized “human” element. I appreciate the citation section of the report—very thorough!—and, barring the transcript, can tell you that your work’s fact- and quality-checking is about finished. Is this how things are done at the Courant? I must commend whichever editor has instilled this habit within you, as it’s saved a great deal of time. 

Lauren’s told me some about the things she’s seen as she’s been photographer of the project, and her review of the way yourself and Dee work together has been glowing. I’ll admit I was a little hesitant about the prospect of the pair of you teaming up, given the debacle last semester, but I’m pleased to see such talented minds find common ground. 

I hope to see more works that you accomplish together, in whatever capacity (though I certainly would appreciate if they were for the Franklin!)

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

  From: laurenpatrikis@chilton.edu

To: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu; logansanders@chilton.edu; dslange@chilton.edu; poppymcmaster@chilton.edu

Subject: Re: Debutante Spread

Hi all! 

Attached is a rough draft of Poppy’s design layout with the pictures Kram and I picked included. Comments and notes appreciated. I wanted to thank you three again for having me tag along—really fun photography opportunity AND a really interesting story for the paper! Definitely sign me up if you’ve got any more ideas.

—Lauren

  To: logansanders@chilton.edu; dslange@chilton.edu; poppymcmaster@chilton.edu; laurenpatrikis@chilton.edu

Subject: Potential meeting for spread tweaks

I think all the individual aspects of what the spread is so far are very promising. Would the four of you be free to meet before or after school in the coming week so that we can coordinate on reviewing final edits and the plan to cover the event itself?

Please let me know what works best on timing. Color me impressed by what you all have put together so far! The Franklin has a very bright future ahead of it with all of you taking turns manning the helm.

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

⁂

the day starts off simply enough: wake up, brush his teeth and comb his hair, get dressed, go to the diner with dad and virgil, get ahead on some of his daily readings on the bus, walk to his locker to swap out some of his heavy textbooks to the other, then swing by mel’s desk to see if there’s anything else needed for their spread.

at least, he intends to swing by mel’s desk.

instead, logan enters the lab hallway to chaos.

it does not seem to be an exaggeration to state such a thing. francie, of puff fame, nearly knocks him off the stairs at the speed at which she’s storming past him; as he’s rounding the corner on the landing, someone is hastily shoving a copy of the jefferson into his chest then continuing their run to the nearest person with an empty hand; as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, hattie has an arm around summer, also of puff fame, murmuring to her in soft, comforting tones as she cries loudly into hattie’s shoulder.

in the midst of the lab hallway that logan was originally intending to traverse to swing by mel’s desk. there is a crowd the likes of which logan only sees at pep rallies or mandatory assemblies, many of them clutching matching copies of the jefferson, many of them elbowing each other and craning their necks to try and get a look at what lies within the great crush of people.

logan, despite his better judgment, cannot resist his own curiosity; he does not keep walking and ignoring it all. instead, he lingers, because he’s fairly certain nothing will get done in the journalism lab; the crowd’s chatter is slightly subdued, but that is because, logan thinks, in the middle of it all, there is a great deal of yelling.

“—oh, now he’s a CAVEMAN! What were you planning to do, knock me on the back of a head with a club then drag me back to your porsche—?!”

“—BROKEN UP, do you hear me—?!”

“NEVER—in all my years as headmaster—!”

logan blinks, startled, then shuffles vaguely, integrating himself into the great cloud of his navy-plaid-and-gray clad peers, so he can get some impression of what’s going on, then—

“shame,” janus says in a casual, flat tone, appearing suddenly at logan’s side as though summoned by logan’s sheer confusion. logan refuses to jump or startle.

“what is—?”

but then, as the trio shuffles forward, a parting in the crowd, and—

there’s a car.

there’s a car. blue. a honda accord, if he isn’t mistaken. sensible. reliable.

one he’s usually accustomed to seeing in the parking lot, not in the middle of the lab hallway.

in the basement of the school. granted, logan doesn’t know much about cars, but he is 100% certain that the doorways are not wide enough to allow this, let alone the presence of stairs. 

logan turns to janus. “how—?”

“why do you assume i know?” janus scoffs, adjusting his cape. logan still isn’t certain how he isn’t getting daily uniform infringements; logan finds himself touching the knot of his own tie, just to ensure he’s in dress code.

“you’ve been here longer than i have, i just got here,” logan points out. “wait—doesn’t the jefferson usually publish on mondays…?”

“both true,” janus says, then, “shh, charleston might go full thermobaric. he’s been due to blow his top for ages.”

logan barely even has time to mentally recall the meaning of thermobaric—containing a charge of fuel designed to ignite and combine with oxygen present in the atmosphere to produce a prolonged explosion—before charleston resumes his rant.

“—that is IT, that’s IT! I’VE HAD IT! RIGHT TO MY OFFICE, YOU THREE, AND YOU’D BETTER PRAY THAT YOUR PARENTS ARRIVE WITH SUFFICIENT EXPLANATIONS TO KEEP YOU FROM BEING EXPELLED!”

a gasp doesn’t quite suffuse its way through the crowd, but certainly a few of the more excitable members of the student population do, and—

“OUT OF MY WAY!”

a column of students shuffles awkwardly to part the navy sea, lest they get bowled over by the headmaster (and likely given a detention for it, given the foul mood he’s in), and logan beholds

ah. unsurprising.

of course it’s tristan, duncan, and bowman at the scene of the crime.

“and that’s military school for dugray,” janus murmurs into his ear. not quietly enough; tristan’s eyes dart right to janus, glaring, clearly about to say something before charleston’s “MOVE!” gets him into motion.

“military school?” logan repeats. 

“oh, sure,” janus says. “ever since the three of them got caught breaking into a locked safe of bowman senior’s, mr. dugray’s been dying for any excuse. i guess he wanted to go out with a bang.”

janus’ comment is caught by the crowd, but not by many. logan isn’t unique, it seems, for turning to the nearest familiar face to discuss the whole affair. logan hears words like cheater and plagiarism and the jefferson said flying around like a murmuration of starlings, the allegations shifting and shape-changing as easily as any flock.

logan is almost certain that, with the proliferation of gossip, the involvement of the jefferson, and the sheer number of witnesses that the number of new rumors that will crop up over the course of the school week will be dizzying in both number and any lack of logic.

mel clears her throat, loudly, from where she’s located at the end of the hallway.

“all right, everyone, show’s over!” she declares. “get to your first period, the bell’s going to ring in five minutes.”

the crowd, very slowly, begins to disperse, breaking off into duos and trios, all of them with their heads bent together, all of them talking very intently. 

well-timed, logan supposes, for this meltdown to happen on the same day that the national honors society meets before school; well-timed for charleston to catch word right as the flood of early birds (most of the chilton population) were sure to hear the fallout and come along to see the fuss themselves; well-timed that this all imploded the day that tristan and his posse decided to do something stupid.

yes, logan thinks, his eyes drifting to where janus is standing, staring, at the crying girl and the one comforting her. hattie glances up from where she’s smoothing back summer’s hair, as if feeling janus’ stare.

it’s all very well-timed indeed.

hattie and janus lock eyes. 

for a moment, just a moment, but logan can’t help but think—

perhaps, there’s something more than a last-minute debutante escort assignment there.

and then hattie is earnestly making a case to mel, asking for a late pass so she can escort summer to the nurse—”she can’t pay attention to class in this condition, doctor kramschissel, look at her—” and the moment almost fades.

almost.

even as he awkwardly tells mel that he’ll come back at study hall, rushes to his locker, stuffing his copy of the jefferson inside for later perusal, and makes it to his desk just in the nick of time, logan can’t quite shake the feeling that there was a bit more happening than an extremely ostentatious prank carried out with no thought to consequences.

(deep into the witching hour, janus drums his fingers idly against his desk, eyes roving over the password-protected folder hidden in the depths of his laptop, scrolling through a list of transgressions with a deeply bored expression on his face, drag-and-dropping attachments. he examines the note again, written in hattie’s elegant, sloping script.)

(“way past time i did this,” janus mutters, and resumes narrowing down his list of infractions to the most infuriating offenders, dropping each into folders labeled for summer, beth, jessica, kate, claire, kathy, mary, mr. dugray, mr. charleston, mrs. fischer, olivia who is “rumored” to be the current editor of the jefferson, and, just for the hell of it, tristan’s grandfather’s business email, scheduling them all to send should his plan a fail.)

(it does not fail. it’s embarrassingly easy to plant plots into bowman and duncan’s thick skulls.)

(janus sends a number of them from various burner accounts anyway, aided by a world-class vpn and a lack of presence in the hallways at school as he slips forgeries into their lockers, knowing that either bowman or duncan would be eager to claim credit for chaos.)

⁂

hattie: Splashy.

Dee: i’m sure i don’t know what you mean.

hattie: I guess I don’t either. hattie: It’s good that Summer found out in cold, hard proof. hattie: Even if she maybe hasn’t been iron-clad in monogamy either.

dee: scandal!

hattie: Maybe. hattie: Old news now, anyway. hattie: You might tell your new freshie friend that she’s about to have a redhead hot on her tail.

dee: oh?

hattie: Tradition. You know how it gets.

dee: that i do.

hattie: Do you have a ride to the ball? Mother’s insisting I get there early to stake out the best spot in the dressing room.

dee: yes, that’s handled. do they know?

hattie: My parents? They know some. I already had a formal debut last year, I think they’re just pleased I’m not pulling a Libby Dotie.

dee: debut number five this year, isn’t it?

hattie: Poor thing went right after Pukey last time. Shame that Eileen couldn’t hold her booze.

dee: a real shame indeed. midori sour is a real choice for her first blackout.

hattie: Her chances of living that down are absolutely nonexistent.

dee: you can say that again

hattie: Any chance you’ll send me some of that interesting info that didn’t make the cut for some fun reading right before the escorting…? Since we’re talking about nonexistent.

dee: i’m sure i don’t know what you’re implying about nonexistence dee: how IS dear “beau” anyway?

hattie: See you thereeee

⁂

“oh, wow!”

“i guess they paid a mechanic to do it,” logan says, “which makes a great deal of sense—none of them strike me as the sort to gain any sort of practical knowledge.”

“yeah, i’d bet,” patton says, then, shaking his head, “wow. never in all my days at chilton did someone pull a prank that elaborate. so—did it ever come out what the punishment is?!”

“tristan’s dad pulled him out of school and put him into military school, effective immediately.”

“wow.”

“—i think duncan and bowman got away with suspension, which makes sense. they’re not exactly mastermind sorts. if you passed by charleston’s office at any point that morning, though, you could definitely hear a lot of parental yelling, so i’m sure that it’ll be an extended punishment. maybe another entry for military school—apparently the three of them already broke into a safe of mr. bowman’s, so he was very loudly angry.”

“gosh, i couldn’t imagine,” patton tsks, shaking his head. he glances to make sure no one is waiting on them at this stop sign—they aren’t—and reaches over to squeeze logan’s arm. “have i told you how lucky i am to have you as a kid lately?”

“yes,” logan mutters. 

“well, i am,” patton says, pressing on the gas pedal and trundling along. “never has the thought of military school ever had to cross my mind. at least i know that whenever you get up to trouble, it’s good trouble that i can be proud of, like this deal with helping out dee—”

“dad,” logan complains, looking quietly, shyly pleased nonetheless.

“oh, wait!” patton realizes, half-turning to look at him. “all three of them were in the debutante deal, are they—?”

“all kicked out,” logan says firmly. “if not by the society, then probably by their parents, and definitely by dee and i. we’re hunting for last-minute debutantes for some of the escorts—we’re going to have to see how that goes, or maybe just scrap their involvement.”

“it’s a shame that three of the girls won’t be able to join in because their classmates were knuckleheads,” patton says, then, quickly, “don’t tell anyone i called them that.”

“knuckleheads?” logan says, arching an eyebrow. “i think we’re safe from any scandal there. there are several demonstrably worse things you could have said—they’d know, they probably got a lot of them screamed at them from a combination of parents, teachers, and girls tristan has apparently wronged.”

“still,” patton says, as he pulls into the driveway of the elder sanders’ manor. “gosh. poor mr. mccaffey.”

“he’s taken next week for vacation, dee says.”

“he deserves to—his car just got stolen, practically!—grandma might ask you about it, she’s bridge buddies with bitty charleston.”

“i’m sure it was the cause of a great deal of conversation,” logan agrees, unbuckling his seatbelt. “it certainly has been for the student body.”

“a car,” patton repeats. “how long did it take them to, y’know—?”

patton mimes unscrewing a bolt in the air.

“parts of it are still there.”

patton stifles his laughter as they approach the front door and knock. 

the first words out of his mother’s mouth are “you simply must tell me this business about the car, logan!”

“told you,” patton says in an undertone, then, “hi, mom, it’s great to see you too!”

“oh, hush,” emily says dismissively, stepping aside and waving them in. “you’ve had three days to hear all the sordid details secondhand.”

“firsthand,” logan says quietly.

“what was that?” emily says, already leading them to the drink cart.

“firsthand,” logan says, slightly louder. “i missed the beginning of it, but i was there.”

“oh, excellent,” emily says gleefully, then, “richard, put down the paper, logan’s here and he saw the car!”

“what car?” richard says mildly, folding down a corner of the paper, then, “ah, logan, patton! wonderful to see you, won’t you sit?”

“hi, dad,” patton says, settling onto his usual spot on the couch. “how was frankfurt? any sightseeing?”

“i stayed in a conference room a mile from the airport the whole time,” richard says ruefully. “i could have been in new york or shanghai, and i wouldn't have known the difference.”

“wine, soda,” emily says, pushing a glass into patton’s hands (“oh!”) and then logan’s with a sort of fervor typically reserved for new collections from her favorite fashion designers, rushing to sit at her typical place and eagerly smoothing her skirt over her knees. 

she leans forward, eyes bright with gossip she could use to lord over fellow chilton grandmothers. “now, logan, tell me everything, bitty was being quite coy with the details.”

“what details?” richard says, and emily scoffs.

“oh, richard, i told you this earlier! the situation with bertram’s boy—?”

“oh—a transfer to military school in north carolina, wasn’t it?” richard says with a general air of puzzlement.

“men,” emily tuts. “none of you remember the most pressing details. that trait’s certainly skipped a couple generations for our resident journalist—from the beginning now, logan, if you please.”

logan’s straightened up slightly at the mention of our resident journalist, and he clears his throat.

“i missed the beginning, of course,” he says, “though i’d imagine everyone except for bowman, duncan, tristan, and the mechanic they’d hired did too, considering they did most of it under the cover of night…”

even if patton didn’t have the general sense of this logan’s entire life since he’d learn to read and write, he reflects, it’s always wonderful to receive a reminder that logan was, first and foremost, a gifted storyteller, and two, that he was wholeheartedly chasing after a career that he loved—and three, that those things overlapped.

patton had gotten the general rundown over the past couple days, it was true, but it was one thing to hear the ebb and flow of various reports (procured primarily from dee, who had quite an ear for that kind of thing, it seemed) and another to hear it as one smooth, cohesive narrative with a rapt audience. 

though patton and his parents have, obviously, had some difficulties, he can never find fault with how much they adore and treasure logan. this is all the more apparent in how they handle listening to logan’s tale: they gasp in all the right places; they come in with “no!”s and “well, i never!” at all the points that call for it; richard even digs for a pen and paper so he can jot down questions he has as logan talks, ticking them off as logan continues the story.

it carries them all the way through the salad course, logan seeming to enjoy his enthralled audience, painstakingly accurate, citing sources where he can, and even dipping into what is, perhaps, a real-life journalistic no-no but something patton has seen in countless tv shows and movies: “now, this is off the record, of course, and unconfirmed at that, but dee heard…”

this also means that some of the details that logan had either glazed over or patton must have missed take place in a new sort of limelight; the car, the breakups, the expulsion, all of it painted in lurid, scandalous detail (much to the delight of his mother who will, patton knows, be gossiping about this with her bridge group next week.)

and—though patton’s pretty sure most chilton parents aren’t supposed to know about its existence unless they, like him, are alums—logan doesn’t mention the coincidental social explosion ignited by the special edition of the jefferson’s publication to his grandparents, but he had mentioned it to patton.

coincidentally, all of this on the same day.

“wow,” patton says, casual, as he stabs at the endives with a fork. “seems like a pretty big blowout to happen all on coincidence, huh?”

logan glances up at him. patton twists his mouth to one side: you don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you? he tries to impart. 

“no one knows for sure,” logan says, noncommittal in tone, but meeting patton’s eyes. 

“seems like those boys weren’t very careful with not getting caught,” patton says, a lift of the shoulder, an even more significant look: unless someone tipped the scales against them?

“it seems like it, but. no one knows for sure,” logan repeats, with a slight twitch of his eyebrow that reads, to patton, as but i sure have my suspicions.

“huh,” patton says lightly, arching his eyebrows at logan in a way that he hopes imparts i certainly have some guesses too.

“regardless,” logan says swiftly, “rest assured, grandma, that if the dar doesn’t have them taken out of the debutante ball for their behavior, the rest of us will.”

“as you should,” his grandmother says with a firm nod in logan’s direction. “no room for hooliganism in the dar.”

patton hides a laugh as a cough into his napkin. 

“the dar?” richard says mildly. “logan, what’s all this about the debutante ball? are you escorting a young lady?”

patton swivels to look at emily. 

“oh, goodness, i did forget to tell you in all the excitement,” emily says. “richard, logan and dee slange have taken it upon themselves to do a demonstration at the debutante ball this year.”

“a young lady is escorting me,” logan clarifies, then, glancing between his grandparents, “i don’t suppose you know the mcmasters? their daughter poppy is my escort.”

“poppy, poppy…” richard says, frowning.

“coppelia,” logan elaborates. 

“is it really?” emily says, blinking. “that’s… unique.”

“you see why she goes by poppy,” logan says. “she’s a freshman this year.”

“oh, yes,” emily says. “we certainly know the mcmasters. richard, you remember…”

“oh?” he says, then eyes widening, “oh. yes, i remember the mcmasters. their daughter is… ah…”

he looks to emily for help.

“poppy is very driven,” logan says diplomatically. “she’s already gunning for an editorial position at the paper. we’re all doing a feature spread in the franklin together for the event, as a matter of fact—myself, dee, and poppy, i mean, along with the help of a junior.”

“are you really!” emily says. 

“dr. kramschissel said the franklin has a very bright future ahead of it with the three of them manning the helm,” patton says proudly, then, leaning forward, “you know, she’s implied that logan’s first in line for editor in chief senior year.”

“dad,” logan complains, a little smile on the face nonetheless.

“well, of course he is!” emily declares. “a very fine show of initiative. she’d be a fool not to pick you, given your long history. you probably have the most experience in a newsroom of anyone your age who’s gone through the chilton journalism system.”

“you’ll make sure we get a copy or two of that edition,” richard says firmly.

“of course,” logan says, smiling. “we put in final edits just today—i’ll bring it next week.”

“a demonstration, you said?” richard says.

“oh, sure,” logan says, in a very casual tone. “grandma’s very generously given me what was to be dad’s debutante dress. a great deal of us boys are going to be debuted into society.”

richard puts his fork down. patton waits with bated breath.

“debuted?”

“yes,” logan says.

“how many of you?” richard says.

“current count—well, it was 46 before the car debacle, but it might be 43 now. or 40, depending.”

“40 young men in fluffy white dresses are to descend on the dar?”

“well,” logan says, frankly, “about twenty young men. there are some nonbinary people too. and roughly the other half of them are girls in suits.”

richard stares. and stares.

logan tilts up his chin.

and then richard breaks into chuckles.

“a hostile takeover of the debutante!” he hoots. “oh, i wondered if a crop of mischief would pop up in you, young man! some of my fondest memories of my time at yale are banding together with my friends to cause some trouble. well, that and performing with the whiffenpoofs, of course. these things make your high school and collegiate experience, you know.”

“they do?” logan says blankly.

“you’re young and full of energy!” richard exclaims. “this is your time—it certainly was for me. every day was at yale an adventure, no challenge was too great. we wanted to change the world. i have some experience with clothes-based protest too, you know.”

patton’s never heard about this. “you have?”

“certainly,” richard says. “i, and a group of like-minded young men decided to protest the new dress code—oh, it was my sophomore year at yale. we wore silk ties and nothing else.”

patton squeaks, trying not to cover his ears with his hands like a child.

“we were written up by the dean of admissions and threatened with expulsion. we were also suddenly very popular with the ladies.”

patton has the sudden and horrifying realization that one of those ladies might have been either his almost-mother, pennilyn lott, or had an equal chance of being his actual mother.

“ah, yes.” emily huffs. “this is exactly the kind of conversation I had hoped we would have with our son and grandson. what a pleasant family dinner conversation!”

“i was naked for an entire month,” richard says to logan. “a night full of men in dresses does not come near as close, of course, but i’d argue the amount of red tape you had to cut and the number of participants might push you over the top of that particular stunt!”

“wow,” logan says, blinking.

patton understands how he feels. his business-loving father, whose grand excitements seemed to be traveling for work, reading the newspaper, and undertaking new deals, a prankster. would wonders never cease.

(there is a small part of him that wonders if maybe—just maybe—if he had been born a boy, if richard would have been much more forgiving for patton’s own wild teenaged transgressions.)

“this roommate of mine in sophomore year at yale—we absolutely hated him,” richard says, leaning back in his chair, clearly lost in memory. “he was a complete nincompoop. so one night, we tied him between two mattresses and threw him out the window.”

“dad!” patton says, horrified.

“oh, he was fine,” richard says dismissively. “he went to sleep, woke up in the morning, and picked up right where he left off.”

patton puts his face in his hands.

“we wound up throwing him out the window every night for a month, and then he transferred.”

“well, do you think you guys tossing him out the window on a regular basis had something to do with that decision?” patton says, incredulous.

“well, it crossed our minds, yes.”

“so you guys have tickets for entry to the event, yes?” logan intercedes, looking to emily.

“it’s one way to see my descendants debut,” emily says.

patton shrugs, not rising to any bait. “it’ll be nice to escort him.”

“not christopher?” emily asks, but she’s cut off as richard says “ah! you’re in on it?” at the same time.

“a lot of the parents are,” patton says, “then, well, a lot of the sideshire parents are. i’m not quite as close with the chilton parents, of course.”

“we wouldn’t miss it for the world,” richard declares, then, with a big, goofy smile, ��my grandson, the mastermind!”

“co-mastermind, really,” logan says. “dee slange was involved too.”

richard blinks, this time setting down his fork. “julian is in on this?”

“well,” logan hedges, higher-pitched. “define ‘in on this.’”

“he fully knows what’s going on, and he agreed?” richard says.

“oh,” logan says. “erm—no.”

“definitely not as much as me, at the very least,” patton says.

“gutsy,” richard comments.

“maybe you could help talk him over,” patton says delicately. “from what i remember of julian, he wasn’t exactly… jokey.”

“no.”

“certainly not,” emily says, almost overlapping her husband.

“maybe you could intercede?” patton says. “point out all the good a bit of trouble does for a boy their age. uh—after the event, of course. don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“yes,” richard says thoughtfully. “yes, perhaps i will. it’s about time julian cut loose.”

that’s one way to put it, patton thinks.

“i can’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces,” richard says, perhaps the most excited that patton’s ever seen him for an event put on by the daughters of the american revolution.

well, patton thinks. this is probably the best way that richard could have taken it.

even if it does mean that logan, patton, and emily spend the rest of dinner hearing richard monologue about The Good Old Days back at yale, and patton learns a bit more about his father’s particular brand of young-adult mischief that he, perhaps, shouldn’t have ever heard in the first place.

⁂

roman’s elbow-deep into rearranging his travel makeup bag. it is, generally speaking, where he keeps a lot of his makeup storage, so it’s kind of a mess after spending a lot of time simply dumping the products back in there because he’s running late, only sparing time to remove and wash his brushes and sponges.

it is very much a mess.

he hears a gentle tap against the door.

he glances up; though it’s barely past eight, his mother is already dressed for bed. her hair is damp, still drying from the post-lessons shower she’d taken, free from its typical bun. she’s in an old, too-big t-shirt advertising the ballets russes (from dimitri, probably) and a pair of sweatpants cut into shorts. she completes the ensemble with a pair of fuzzy socks and her feet in a pair of orthopedic-friendly slippers (his mother is, understandably, very conscious of foot health). 

his mother is deeply devoted to her rituals and routines; he knows what she’ll ask even before she says it.

“tea?”

“yes, please,” roman decides, setting aside two different bottles of foundation to be decided later, picking up a few press-on nails, his own pair of fuzzy socks, and a tub of aquaphor, and plods after his mother, heading for the kitchen.

his mother goes about filling up the kettle (an old-style bright red one, the kind you set on a stove, not like the sleek black electric one that virgil has) and turning the stove on as roman pulls out two mugs. he decides on a large, maroon stoneware mug for her, speckled with white, and an equally gigantic ceramic red mug for himself.

“which would you like?” his mother asks, accepting the mug that he hands to her. she’s already pulled out her favored loose leaf herbal chamomile, beginning to scoop it into a infuser; roman notes that it’s the one he got her for mother’s day a couple years ago. he scoots around her to peruse his options. 

his mother’s tea supply surpasses remy’s café in terms of selection and variety; roman thinks tea might be the only thing he’s ever seen his mother spontaneously shop for in the same way roman shops for clothes, or makeup, or jewelry, or little treats, or—

“this one,” he decides, pulling out a blend that promotes good sleep—spearmint, lemongrass, chamomile.

roman hops onto one of the barstools, opening up his tub of aquaphor and doing as his mother almost certainly has: absolutely slathering his feet in healing ointment. he’s aggressively earned these dancer’s calluses, but dang it, he can lessen some of the effects; therefore, absorbing aquaphor overnight, with the aid of fuzzy socks. 

“how are your hamstrings?” she asks. “less tight?”

“definitely,” roman says, shifting his barstool so he’s able to more easily multitask between keeping eye contact with his mother and caring for his feet. “typical cure—”

“stretch and hydrate,” they say simultaneously.

“very good,” his mother continues. “hot and cold therapy?” 

“i used the heated blanket a little bit,” roman says. roman and his mother love those things; roman simply plugs it in and becomes the warmest burrito of his dreams. bigger than a traditional heating pad and more flexible, which means he can just wrap it around whatever body part that needs heat. roman’s pretty sure they have six between them. he could probably just mummify himself on a day where he was really achy.

“be sure to rest this weekend after the ball,” his mother says. “i don’t want you straining anything.”

“i will,” roman promises, pulling on one sock and setting about massaging ointment into the other foot. he should probably start making a dent in that english essay anyway; even though he’d definitely prefer to spend the rest of his weekend reading something that he’s interested in, not something assigned to him.

his mother nods.

“a lot of your classmates are going too,” she notes.

roman smiles a bit, despite himself. on the whole, his gaggle of classmates at the prince family studio were what he imagined it to be like to have a flock of sisters: chatty, hogging the bathroom, annoying and endearing in equal measure, occasionally awkward, but fierce and funny and beautiful, all of them clever in their own ways, all of them deeply capable dancers.

not that he’d know what it was like to have a sister, of course. roman had contented himself with being an only child long ago.

“it’ll be fun,” roman says. “at the very least, we know who’ll be hogging the dance floor all night.”

they share a smile. his mother had chaperoned the sideshire homecoming in the fall, and she’d spent a 33% of the night fielding hi, ms. prince!s from her students, 33% watching in vague bemusement as they danced to trends she’d lost track of long ago, 33% feeling proud as all of them had monopolized the innermost circle of the dance floor with the confidence she strove to teach them, and 1% fighting the urge to go over and correct their form. 

roman gestures with his chin toward the three packs of press-on nails: a classic french manicure, white nails with a red floral design, and a bright blue chrome.

“help me pick? i’ve been driving myself nuts over it. all of them would work, but i just need to decide and go for it.”

his mother hums, examining them. “remind me of the makeup you settled on?”

“classic eighties, to match the dress,” he says. “bright blue eyeshadow, red lip, generally very sparkly and,” he makes a pow! i’m here! hand gesture.

“well, french manicures are very classic,” his mother says thoughtfully, “but—” the kettle begins to whistle. roman, hastily, pulls on his other sock and goes to wash the excess aquaphor off of his hands before he does anything else.

they are waylaid by the pouring of boiling, steaming water, the distribution of milk and/or honey, the procurement of snacks (his mother favors savory foods more often than not, so she puts together a plate of crackers, cheese, and deli meats; roman slices a couple apples with a ramekin of peanut butter for himself, with the intent to steal a bite or two from her plate) and relocating to the living room.

roman sits himself on the ground, setting his snacks on the coffee table; his mother does the same, folding her legs to butterfly position, pressing her hands down onto her knees to stretch.

he considers his options before he just decides to mimic his mother, feeling the familiar stretch through his hips. he settles his elbows on his knees, bending slightly forward and blowing on his tea.

his mother examines the nails again. “can you match these?” she asks, touching the blue chrome.

roman tilts his head, mentally calling up the exact shades of blue in his several eyeshadow palettes. “if not exactly, then close enough to look intentional.”

“i know red is your signature,” she says. roman looks at his fuzzy socks—cherry red—and hers—wine red. in the prince family, red is a neutral that goes with everything.

“but,” she continues, “they fit a certain level of garishness that matches your dress.”

roman nods, setting them aside; he’ll glue them on in the morning. honestly, he’s a bit pleased he can keep the floral red for another occasion. a fancy date with logan, maybe? 

“is that the last detail handled?” his mother says.

“it should be,” he says. “well—i was sorting through my makeup bag, but it’s more of an organization thing than anything else.”

“dress packed?” his mother checks. “shoes, accessories, wig and hair supplies?”

“yes, yes, yes,” roman says dutifully.

“then—that’s your last of prep for tomorrow?” 

“just about,” roman says. 

“good,” she says. “i suppose many of the last-minute details shall be left to logan and dee.”

roman’s lip curls reflexively. the thought of logan and dee, working together, agreeing on things, brainstorming together and coordinating any last minute hiccups. as if they were a team.

“what was that face,” his mother says. her voice is flat, with no edge of scolding or reproach. just genuine curiosity.

roman’s lips twist as he removes the infuser out of his tea, deeming it well-enough steeped. he stirs his cup absently.

“i just…” roman gesticulates vaguely. “what did you think of dee?”

if his mother thinks that’s an odd response, she doesn’t let on. she stacks her makeshift charcuterie—club cracker, slice of cheddar, sliced chicken from the deli—and sets it aside before she goes about formulating other sandwiches. club cracker, mozzarella, turkey breast.

“i didn’t have much opportunity to speak to him,” she says. cracker, cheddar, turkey.

“yeah, but you guys had a look,” roman says. “i saw it.”

“i suppose he seemed… a touch stand-offish,” his mother says. cracker, mozzarella, chicken.

“yes,” roman says, his and??? going unspoken.

“and, perhaps,” his mother says, then, frowning, “well, i didn’t know. that’s the troubling part.”

“dee’s very good at that,” roman mutters resentfully. “presenting himself one way, when he’s really actually the other. the thing is, logan has seen that he’s really actually the other, and yet—here they are!”

“that’s very unlike him,” his mother says, frowning. “logan has a very sound sense of judgment.”

“he does.”

“but if logan’s deemed him appropriate to plan alongside—”

roman drops his forehead to the floor, groaning.

“oh,” his mother says, awkward. roman hears crunching.

“i don’t know why!” bursts out of him. 

“why… what?”

“why logan’s teaming up with him!” roman says. he looks up in time to see his mother washing down her snack with a swallow of tea.

“...roman,” she begins. “it’s entirely understandable to… feel a certain way if your boyfriend is spending time with another—”

“oh my god, i’m not jealous!” roman snaps. “why does everyone think that?!”

his mother doesn’t lecture him about volume, which is nice. 

“well,” his mother says, “what is it, then?”

this is also nice—his mother, ever straightforward, ever blunt. 

roman rubs his hand wearily across his forehead. “did i tell you, last fall, about logan getting punched in the face?”

“yes,” his mother says, her expression darkening; some of that remnant of anger of someone laying hands on his boyfriend roars to life in his chest again.

“i know,” roman says.

“was it that boy?”

his mother isn’t a particularly expressive person, but even any given passerby would categorize that look on her face as thunderous. his mother is very fond of logan—she’d actually told logan so—and roman knows that, over the years, logan’s courtesy and good grades and general support of roman had endeared him to her time and time and time again.

which—obviously. roman’s of the opinion that his boyfriend is one of the best people in the world. of course everyone should recognize that—feel that same protective fire pop up in their chests at any sign of anything going wrong for him, because logan deserves the world.

roman scowls, looking away. “not—technically. but!” he says hastily, “but, he’s the one who started it all. he got a detention for it and everything! louise probably never would have hit logan if he hadn’t been there urging her on!”

“why on earth…?” his mother says, sounding baffled.

“i don’t know!” roman wails. “that’s what’s getting me—i don’t get it! one second, logan’s telling me all about this terrible boy at school, and then his grandmother invites him and his grandma to lunch and apparently that’s super awkward, and then there’s the punching, and then he’s at the stuffed up birthday party logan’s grandparents threw for him, and then logan’s confronting dee and making sure he doesn’t rain on our parade at the winter dance, the next, they’re teaming up together to say ‘screw you’ to the patriarchy! i don’t know why on earth!”

his mother considers this, then pushes the plate of apples toward him, then piles the empty space on the plate with three of the charcuterie sandwiches she’s concocted. roman, grumpily, dips an apple slice in peanut butter and crunches a bit more loudly than he would in any other circumstance.

mother—much like virgil—believed very heartily in proper nutrients fueling every activity. outbursts took energy, which meant that roman should eat carbs, fats, and proteins to replenish that energy, with bonus points for foods that were particularly vitamin- or fiber-rich. roman has been told this for most of his life, only with things like dance lessons or exams or being a pain, this does not mean you’re getting a second soda, pick something substantial swapped in for outbursts as applicable.

“that makes very little sense.”

“exactly!” roman says, gesticulating at her. “thank you!”

“chew your food with your mouth closed,” she says, some automatic motherly impulse, then, “well, what’s changed?”

before roman can answer, she says, “i know you don’t know. but something must have. logan’s a very intelligent young man, and he isn’t fickle—not him, not any of his parental figures that could have persuaded him.” 

patton, virgil, and probably her, roman figures. he doesn’t know much about christopher, but his reasoning definitely wouldn’t override those three.

“do you think it could be on a needs-must basis?”

roman’s mouth twists as he swallows. “maybe,” he hedges.

“but you don’t think so.”

“no,” roman says. “if it was just unavoidable, some sort of grudging alliance, he would have complained about it.” to me, he thinks.

and logan hasn’t.

“could there have been some kind of change?”

roman narrows his eyes, setting aside his honey-sweet tea. “i’m not following.”

“logan’s always struck me as very pragmatic,” she says. “ergo, there could have been some kind of event that would put more weight in dee’s favor.”

“it would have to be a pretty big change,” roman says, mind churning. as it is, that’s the likeliest of answers outside of forced partnership.

“you could ask him.”

roman sighs. “i think the fact that he hasn’t mentioned it to me already…”

“could mean nothing,” his mother says, with a shrug of a shoulder.

“big change,” he reminds her. “big.”

they both consider this, sipping their tea and eating, silent in rumination.

“have you ever dealt with something like this?” roman says, despairing. “like—some dancing partner of yours teaming up with a rival? or—?”

dad, he almost says, but he discards it as soon as the idea comes to mind. no. all he’s heard of his father is that he could be prone to his own flights of whimsy, true, but he’d always been achingly steadfast in partnership with his mother and, to a slightly lesser extent, with virgil.

she seems to see the thought flash across his face, though. her eyes flit—almost unconsciously—to an old photo of the pair of them on the wall behind him. 

roman knows the one without having to look: his mother, stunning and sharp in tutu and pointe-shoed glory, clearly in the middle of telling him off about something; his father, muddy for some reason and in ripped clothes, arm thrown around her shoulder, grinning and giving a thumbs up to the camera, a slight wince on his face the only sign of whatever lecture she’d given.

but, roman thinks. but. people hadn’t necessarily liked his father. even virgil had cautioned him at how strange his father had been, that he’d done things full of mischief and occasional rebellious wrong-doing, that he’d been acquired taste. a bit like…

no. roman shakes the thought without finishing it. no way.

his mother detects it anyway.

“how have you been sleeping?” she asks delicately.

“fine,” roman mutters. he knows what she’s about to ask without her asking it, too.

whatever mental illness his father had had, the only sign of odd or strange thoughts that has ever remotely recurred in roman have been odd, vivid dreams, veering into the occasional night terror.

he has been sleeping fine, though. fitful, sure, and maybe a bit less than his mother would like, but he’s been sleeping fine. no dreams at all to speak of. 

“all right,” she says placatingly. 

roman stirs his tea a bit more vigorously than necessary, the spoon clanking against his mug. his mother smiles a bit.

“you didn’t answer,” roman says. “have you had a situation like this?”

“you know i haven’t,” his mother says. 

“well—i know, not exactly like this,” roman says. he’s known his mother’s aromantic and asexual since he was old enough to learn the words and absorb that that’s what those little flag barrettes she wore during pride meant. no significant romantic partner of his mother’s has ever caused her strife, because she’s never had a significant romantic partner. “but—dimitri teaming up with someone and he didn’t tell you why. or something.”

his mother pauses to think. then:

“no.”

roman sighs, perhaps a bit more loudly than necessary, and dips another apple slice.

“virgil might’ve,” she says thoughtfully.

roman pauses from where he’s trying to scoop extra peanut butter onto his apple.

“yeah?”

“yes,” his mother says. “you remember silas.”

ugh.

“don’t make that face,” she scolds gently. “but—as it happens, i wouldn’t be surprised if either of them didn’t have a moment exactly like this. virgil with some friends of his, silas with your father.”

“how did that go?” roman asks.

his mother smiles. “i believe they talked about it.”

“traitor,” roman grumbles, half-joking. “i can’t believe either of you invented mind-reading technology for me to use in this specific moment.”

“you could just ask.”

“you’ve said that already.” roman says. “does no one in this apartment appreciate the fine-tuning of the delicate art that is teenaged angst and overthinking?”

“you live here,” his mother points out. “you have sufficient appreciation for the both of us.”

roman huffs. his mother tilts his head.

roman scratches his thumb against the mug.

“dee’s very charming,” he mumbles. “i mean—he managed to charm me at logan’s fancy birthday party before i knew who he was. if he’d just started off with that, instead of leading straight into villainy then pulling a 180, then i guess i’d get it a bit more. but as it is—why him? why that guy? logan likes rule-following. he likes that kind of thing. is it a ‘keep your enemies close’ thing? no,” he answers himself, “logan wouldn’t do that, he has no patience for duplicity. which makes it even more confusing, because dee seems to love duplicity, exhibit a, him being charming at emily and richard’s party—erm, mr. and mrs. sanders’ party, i mean.”

his mother hums.

“and—i don’t know. he’s off at chilton, doing great, and i’m happy he’s making friends, i seriously am, i’m not jealous, but it just. suddenly, both of us in different schools means we spend less time together, and that’s making me think about college, and, unless miracle of miracles happens and i find the perfect ivy league that has a combo of the perfect dance program and the perfect journalism program that will accept both of us that’s close to new york, we’re going to spend even less time together, and that sucks.”

his mother nods sagely, placing her right foot against her left knee, stretching to grasp her own socked foot.

“and it’s, like. why that guy? if you’re going to hang out with someone outside of school out of preference and not obligation, why the one i’ve heard the most negative things about? why the one who’s in direct competition with you? why the one that would probably have sabotaged him, given the chance? why?”

his mother remains quiet.

“say something,” roman requests desperately. “i’m asking questions here, they’re not hypotheticals.”

his mother blinks. “you were doing a good job of talking it out to yourself.”

“well, sure, but,” he gestures between them, “input. it’s mother-son time.”

there’s a pause.

“this isn’t like you,” she decides.

“what?”

“this,” she gestures at him. “indecision about what to do. it’s unlike you.”

“it’s unlike logan to consort with ne’er-do-wells,” roman sniffs.

his mother simply arches an eyebrow. roman sighs, picking up his mug, savoring the warmth it seeps against his palms.

“i don’t know,” roman says quietly. “it just—it is different for logan, to… consort with someone like this. there’s some big reason why, and i don’t know what it is, and it’s just… it’s driving me a little crazy.”

his mother politely does not say anything along the lines of i can see that or obviously.

instead, she says, “does the concept of talking to logan about this make you nervous or anxious?”

“what? no.” roman scoffs.

“it’s all right if it does,” his mother says. “i won’t think less of you or logan. it’s very normal to be a bit worried about having a big conversation in any relationship, much less one that’s been weighing heavily on your mind.”

“i’m not—”

his mother arches her eyebrows at him, and yeah, okay, roman can see how saying i’m not worried when he’s dominated the conversation obsessing over why that guy would probably come off… not great.

roman sighs, slumping his shoulders.

“fine,” he mutters. “yeah, i’m worried.”

“perfectly natural,” she says. she switches positions, placing her left foot against right knee, stretching.

“i know,” he grumbles. “i just—i don’t want to come off as that kind of boyfriend, you know what i mean?”

“no.”

fair.

“like,” roman says, drawing himself up. “why are you hanging out with that guy? hang out with this person instead, not that guy. you’re not allowed to see him. you know? like—jealous. possessive. whatever. i mean—logan was so understanding with jess. so understanding! they didn’t have a ton in common, but logan was still polite and everything.

“and i don’t want to turn right around and be like, hey, i don’t like that guy, what’s up with that? or insult his intelligence—’cause he’s way book-smarter than me—by being like, i think that guy might be manipulating his way into your life. thoughts?”

“do you think—?”

“what other explanation is there?!” roman whines, drawing there into, like, five syllables.

“and we’re back to square one,” his mother says. “all right. i see.”

roman goes about polishing off the last of the snacks.

“i still think you should talk to him,” she says. “i know you’re worried—that’s understandable. but logan isn’t going to go into this thinking the worst of you. he ought to know that you only have his best interests at heart.”

roman sighs after swallowing a mouthful of charcuterie. “i guess.”

his mother smiles slightly.

“you’re so very much our son,” she says, and roman ducks his head, trying not to flush.

“remus got any sense of propriety or caution surgically removed, to hear some tell it. and i probably wouldn’t have figured out such a careful way to put it: i probably wouldn’t have said anything at all until it got pressing. it’s difficult, i know, but i’m proud of the middle ground that you walk.”

“yeah, yeah,” roman mumbles, still pleased. our son. he felt so divided, sometimes: the face of his father, the skill of his mother, the rest of anything else him, from nowhere at all. 

“you don’t have to go into it unplanned, of course,” his mother says. “text him your thoughts if that’s easier. put a pen to paper to figure out what to say and how to say it.”

“true,” roman admits.

his mother drains the last of her tea and stands.

“well,” she says. “it’s probably best for you to talk to him tonight. or early tomorrow morning, if you care to sleep on it. may as well clear the air before the ball. i’ll leave you to your thoughts?”

“sure,” he says, slowly drinks the rest of his tea, thinking. then, quietly, “thanks, mom.”

he hears his mother placing the dishes in the dishwasher, shutting off the lights in the kitchen, ensuring everything is in its proper place, before she journeys back to the main room and shuts off all the lights except for the one closest to his room—he’ll turn that off when he goes to bed.

he watches her achieve the rest of the good night routine: she plugs her phone in to charge, she nudges her shoes so they’re in line with his at the door, and then…

she detours. she walks back to him, where he still sits on their rug.

she leans over to smooth her hand over his hair.

“goodnight, mijo. dulces sueños.”

“dulces sueños, mami,” he says.

and then she just… goes to her room.

she’s left the front door unlocked. she’d simply nodded to him, went to her room, and closed the door, almost like…

wait.

does she…?

no. there’s no way.

his curfew-issuing, sleep-adoring, routine-oriented-to-a-fault mother? roman would have gotten grounded, like, ten years ago for ten years if she actually knew how often he snuck out to the gazebo to talk to logan.

yeah. no way she knows that he sneaks out.

⁂

“hey.”

“hey! sorry if i responded late—we were squaring away escorts for the ladies. turns out some sideshire kids decided to join last-minute, so we should be all even. no idea what they’re doing for dresses, but it’s in their hands now, i suppose.”

“no, that’s all good—c’mere, it’s still a bit chilly out.”

“of course.”

…

“so, what did you want to talk about?”

“oh, right. um—may as well just come out and say it, i guess.”

“...sure?”

“what’s up with teaming up with dee?”

“...ah.”

“i mean—i guess i just don’t really get it? i’ve been trying to figure it out, and i can’t. like—one second, he’s getting someone to punch you in the face, the next, you guys are architecting this plot to go after the daughters of the american revolution.”

“no, i—i understand. it must seem jarring from the outside.”

“...so?”

“...”

“um. admittedly, i find your renewed and increased friendship with dee very confusing. the things i’ve heard about him have, generally, been pretty bad—for example, the punching incident, your birthday party at your grandparents’, and the winter formal. ”

“...are those notes…?”

“shh. you’ve never particularly struck me as the kind of person to simply be friends with someone for the sake of making life easier: my mom says you’ve always struck her as very pragmatic, and i agree. it makes me think that something in your relationship with dee has changed, because otherwise, i find myself… well, deeply confused and honestly a little worried that dee might be up to something again.”

“you talked about this with your mom?”

“well—i didn’t, like, set out to do that, but yeah. she suggested that i just talk to you about it, since you’d know that i have your best interests at heart, and that you have your reasons ‘cause you’re so smart, and also maybe write down what i wanted to say so i didn’t come off like a huge controlling jackass.”

“she said that?”

“not that last bit—i’m editorializing.”

“that’s—huh. okay… um. how do i phrase this.”

“…”

“i’m sorry, i’m walking an awkward line of secrecy here.”

“how secret? secret, like, jo posner’s first kiss, or secret, like, secret-secret.”

“secret-secret.”

“...oh.”

“but i still want to—communicate.”

“right. um… is there a little loophole you can thread here?”

“like what?”

“like… i dunno. i know they aren’t your strong suit, but a metaphor? or a comparison to something else that’s happened in our general lives?”

“like what?”

“well, i don’t know, logan. that’s kind of why we’re here.”

“right. yes. um… let me think.”

“sure. take your time. if it’s secret-secret, i promise i’ll keep it, but even then, i get not wanting to say anything. like—”

“oh! oh, i remember!”

“...remember…?”

“back in eighth grade, when you had elliott over to that sleepover, and elliott told you about how they were feeling regarding their identity, but to keep it secret double-pinky-promise even from me?”

“yeah, of course.”

“and they didn’t come out until the middle of last year?”

“right.”

“...i find a lot of parallels to then.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“oh—okay. i see.”

“it’s not one-to-one. as a matter of fact, there’s more to it. this is the part i feel most comfortable disclosing, since that part is generally a jo posner’s first kiss level of open secret at chilton.”

“sure.”

“but—”

“i get it. there’s more. okay. that… huh. okay.”

“right.”

“i guess i can see it. the cape should have tipped me off. have you told… anyone else? about the things outside the parallels?”

“no—no one. not even dad.”

“really?”

“really. well—he might know part of it, so maybe that doesn’t count, or dee might have told him more, but. really. not even dad.”

“...you said…. even more?”

“i’m very glad no one in our lives has parallelism to this that i can apply here.”

“...me too, i guess?”

“trust me—you are.”

“okay. i will. i do trust you. you know that, right?”

“of course i do. i trust you too.”

“okay. good. good. i didn’t want it to come off like i didn’t trust your judgment or something. you were so understanding with jess, i wanted to extend the same thing—”

“—we’re not—”

“—i know it’s not a one-to-one. trust me, we’d have a lot more to talk about if it was any kind of romantic scenario. there’d be yelling. i know it’s not. i’m just saying: you and jess didn’t have a lot in common, but you were still decent to him because you knew i wanted to… associate with him. i want to do the same for you.”

“right. of course. i—well, frankly, i hadn’t really considered your point of view. i can see how it would be strange from the outside perspective. i’m sorry i didn’t think of it.”

“you’ve had a lot going on.”

“sure, but still. i should have looped you in as much as i could.”

“well, i appreciate that. thank you.”

“and thank you for bringing it up.”

“this is very mature of us.”

“i know.”

“for teenagers, and all.”

“and for my first romantic relationship.”

“i’m more used to bickering. this is weird.”

“definitely.”

“...wanna make out?”

“say no more.”

find the next half of this chapter here!

[singsweetmelodies]

hello everyone ❤️🥰👋 so, apologies in advance for what's about to be a very long post, but today is a sentimental day for me, because it is - guess what - exactly one year since i posted my first-ever f1 rpf fic and in so doing officially joined this incredible, insane, "i've never felt this way about a pairing before" fandom.

that's right. one year ago today, on the 2nd of June 2022, i, katie singsweetmelodies, posted my fic ils se connaissent par coeur - which is, of course, about piarles, and incidentally also about monaco 2022 (which, as it happens, was the first f1 race i properly followed/watch live on f1tv.) needless to say, this was a bit of a defining moment for me, fandom-wise. i mean, if you had told me one year ago that i would proceed to write over two hundred thousand words for f1 rpf, i would have laughed in your face. but here i am today, with 225184 words currently posted to AO3 on this account - and still counting!

i know everyone always says "this fandom is special" and whatnot - but in this case, for me, it really is. i mean, for fuck's sake, i wrote SMUT, if nothing else. i've certainly never done that before (or, at least, i've never published it before. but now i've got probably 50k of it available in full explicit detail on AO3... needless to say, this fandom has bewitched me mind, body and soul.)

it hasn't always been a fun ride - i mean, how could it be, i chose to be a fucking FERRARI fan - but at this point i would like to do the biggest, most whole-hearted shoutout to all the amazing, incredible people i've met along the way. yes, i've had good fandom friends before. but the ones in this fandom feel special in a way i can't quite put into words, but you just are, and i want to thank each and every one of you so, so much for it. you guys have brightened my days and my dashboard, made me laugh and made me groan out loud, made me ship things i never would have considered otherwise, and been some of the most wonderfully supportive souls i've ever had the pleasure of meeting. it has been an honour and a pleasure getting to be in this fandom with you all, and at this point all i can say is: here's to many, many more years!! ❤️❤️❤️

now, to end this all off with a hopefully full-circle moment: i started this all in monaco, so before the end of tonight, i am going to post the monaco chapter of my latest WIP (all that remains is editing those bits i wrote at 2am, lmao, and then my full circle 2 June moment will be complete.)

and all there's left to say, once again, is thank you. thank you all, for everything. i love and appreciate you all more than words can possibly say ❤️💙

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

years later someone buys the plot, turns on the lights and is suddenly worshipped as a sun god by a bunch of puppets falling apart at the seams

pov you break into the spooky abandoned Playfellow Studios building for shits and giggles

[whatsaudreythinkingabout]

spto coming out has been such a surreal experience bc before it came out i was like. the one roxie kinnie (at least as far as i was aware, i’m not doubting that there were more out there) & now she has like a million stans and half of me is like “FINALLY other people who understand her the way i do” and the other half is like “i liked her before it was cool. my blorbo. mine.”

[intotheelliwoods]

Gonna ask this to a few people that inspire me, but how do you take inspiration from things without feeling like whatever you make is just bad in comparison? Or like a downgraded version of the thing(s) that inspired you?

(If this is too negative feel free to delete/ignore, I'm sorry)

Oh gosh this is such an interesting question since, I dont think I really have feelings of thinking my version is bad? Or that I am just a copy?

I am honestly just grateful my work became as popular as it is in the first place haha- low expectations going in to begin with. That and, I am very aware my art style isnt as defined and polished as other peoples styles, but I have come to terms with this! And hey the improvement in my own artwork over the past year is a massive trip if you go back through some of my older stuff- I am improving, slowly.

I mean, 2AL started by complete accident, and was "inspired" from me wishing the Leos from OMO or MNMC would hug it out already- but if you were to compare 2AL to one of those, they are very different. Hell even comparing OMO and MNMC, same starting point, but still very different.

I think my only advice to other people trying to make an AU is to try and find some core theme/idea and work around that, rather than gather a bunch of little things from other sources you like into a big pile. Find some key message to start up a base with.

[neil-neil-orange-peel]

I love reading your asks, so I wanted to ask you if you had any favorite female characters from Rik and Ade projects?

Helloooo! Thank you, that's so sweet. ❤️ Let's see... I'm going to single out some TYO characters specifically and then talk more generally. This post is absolutely going to become a big, incoherent mess. 😂

Sue from Sociology is my favourite minor TYO character. Don't get me wrong, I love Helen the Murderess too, but there's something that draws me to Sue. To be fair, I'm just seriously weak for Jennifer Saunders in general, and she's basically done up as a female Rick here, if Rick was actually cool. I like inserting her into fanfic sometimes (okay, once... but I have plans). She's very much a background character for the majority of Interesting, but Interesting itself is one of the first (and only, possibly the only?) time there are lots of women in a TYO scene at once, even if they're not getting to do much. Shout out to Dawn's Christian who gets crushed by the gigantic sandwich too, of course! (As an aside, I find it funny that both Jennifer and Dawn got to strangle/smother Mike on the sofa on different occasions.)

Vyvyan's mum. Pauline Melville pops up a couple of other times in TYO as well, and she's just very good whenever she does. I believe she gave French & Saunders a bit of guidance when they were all on the standup circuit. Vyv's mum is a great character because she's just SO awful. Let female characters be awful! She's so spiky and sharp in every way, and she's probably the only semi-developed female character who appears on the show. I think letting the audience meet her gives Vyvyan a bit of texture and depth - sure, we could imagine any family background for any of them, but we're being told THIS HERE is Vyvyan's. Poor Vyv. Pauline Melville herself, of course, is a prize-winning writer now! The dream.

The devil and her condemned soul is one of my favourite TYO cutaway segments. The condemned soul is Helen Atkinson-Wood, who is most well-known for playing Mrs Miggins in Blackadder the Third. She also has a small role in the Comic Strip episode Consuela (and possibly others, but I looked up the cast list to that one yonks ago because it's my favourite). I wonder if Lise wrote this sketch, considering the subject matter. Either way, Dawn and Helen's delivery is great, especially the faux discrete way Dawn says "period pains". I hope it put stuffy men's heckles up.

Aside from TYO, Jen and Dawn were often the only female presence in the Comic Strip episodes, particularly the earlier ones. Of the first two series, Dawn wrote Summer School and Jen wrote Slags - neither were standout episodes of their series, the kind often recalled today, but with Slags especially, the female characters within them were given more agency and stake in the plot than usual. Jen played five different characters in Happy Families in 1985 - a little gem written by Ben and also starring Ade.

I'd like to give a little shout out to Helen Lederer, who popped up a lot in Rik and Ade's - and French & Saunders' - comic output, while never really being given her own opportunity to shine on TV. Oh, and I'd also like to give a shout out to Marsha Fitzalan, who played Sarah B'Stard in The New Statesman - she did such a good job of playing an intensely flawed, funny female character. There are countless male characters who are basically terrible people - I mean, Alan B'Stard for one - and it's vital women are also allowed to be that awful in comedy.

Comedy has always been a pretty male sphere. Even these days, there are definitely still men Ricky Gervais who believe women can't be funny. Misogyny is still massively prevalent in society. Male comics attract female attention; female comics attract male abuse. That's a simplification and generalisation, of course, but it's broadly true. And I don't see younger generations of men getting better with this, to be honest. Actually, I see them getting worse (thanks, Andrew Tate). Sorry to be all doom and gloom!

When Rik and Ade started out in comedy, women getting to play characters other than wives or the like - that is, straight characters and caricatures there largely for the male characters to bounce off of for their laughs - was still uncommon. Despite the existence of successful female comics across the pond like Lucille Ball, and beloved 1970s sitcom The Good Life having a main cast split evenly gender-wise (I know Richard Briers technically had first credit, but Penelope Keith as Margo Leadbetter was absolutely the funniest of the four of them), there was a genuine belief that women couldn't (and maybe shouldn't) be doing comedy.

Women like Victoria Wood were pushing boundaries in important ways around the time of the alternative comedy boom by writing specifically about women (and, quite often, northern women - which I personally think is important, since Last of the Summer Wine had such a chokehold on portraying almost all of its female characters as ostensibly the same). Her sitcom dinnerladies was both melancholic and hilarious. Her sketch shows and other comic output, quite often featuring Julie Walters (her friend and muse), Celia Imrie, and many others, were all written entirely by her. She was also a gifted pianist and wrote several comic songs.

All of this is to say, Victoria Wood definitely helped pave the way for French & Saunders. She even referred to herself as an alternative comedian in her material. But honestly, I don't think it was until much later that women stopped being regularly restricted to straight roles in comedies created by men (which, of course, most comedies were). This was part of why Absolutely Fabulous, written by Jen, was such a breath of fresh air in the 1990s. For once, every single major character was a woman - men were the scarcity! And Jen has mentioned before that producers would constantly pressure her to write more roles for men. Meanwhile, we can observe that Girls on Top (dubbed the female TYO, which is... sort of true and sort of not), which Dawn and Jen starred in with Ruby Wax and Tracey Ullman in the 1980s, isn't very well-known today. I'm not 100% sure how well it was received at the time, but clearly it wasn't as popular as TYO had been before it. Ruby Wax and Tracey Ullman have both also had successful careers in comedy, but I'd argue that's mainly thanks (particularly in Tracy's case) to opportunities in America.

So I'm not saying women never got to be the funny (also I'm just talking about the UK), but the fact is: if your comedy has a completely/majority male cast, with women only popping up in supporting roles or in guest appearances, it's obvious which characters are going to be better developed, more beloved, and just funnier. I mean, even the Vicar of Dibley, which was obviously written for Dawn and showcases her comic prowess, features a supporting cast of funny men (there was also Emma Chambers as Alice and Liz Smith as Leticia - before she was killed off - but the women were outnumbered by the men). I get that this perhaps fits with the idea of a tiny, slightly backwards village in Oxfordshire - and the fact Geraldine was a female vicar shocking these men was very important to the premise - but still.

We know certain men just REALLY struggle at writing women, too, so they've either done a really bad job or just avoided trying altogether. I do have an example for this, but I don't want to name them since I do love the show they created - it's just, y'know, writing women is definitely not their strong suit! And I'm really not trying to poo poo any shows here by pointing this out. I'm just making observations. All of these comedies I'm referencing here are very old now.

So! To get back to where I started with this!

I love that Lise Mayer was one of the writers of The Young Ones. In some ways, the fact one of the writers was a woman feels pretty incredible for 1982. At the same time, though, it's not surprising that she's often the forgotten one when people talk about who wrote TYO.

Rik and Ade were/are feminists, and it obviously wasn't their fault as individuals that comedy was so male - comedy was also restrictive in other ways before them. In terms of social class and political attitudes, they were definitely something refreshing and new. That said, it wouldn't be until later, with people like Caroline Aherne (who really changed the fundamentals of the sitcom genre with The Royle Family), that working class voices who weren't fucking Bernard Manning actually got some notice in comedy. And I've not even mentioned race in this ramble. If comedy was male, it was even more pale. There were comedies starring black and Asian comics in the 1980s and 1990s that started to break through - The Lenny Henry Show, Chef!, Desmond's, The Real McCoy, Goodness Gracious Me - but there's no denying BAME people, BAME women especially, have had to struggle a lot for a voice in comedy. Comedy is more diverse today than it was 40 years ago. There has been progress. But it's absolutely still male dominated, and still very white, at the top.

Rik was pegged as the golden boy of the alternative comedy movement, and he was and is undoubtedly remembered for so many different comedies. But in terms of pure success and fame? Actually, I think Dawn and Jen have been the standouts of their cohort. I don't think anyone would've predicted this 40 odd years ago - I mean, Christ, Rik had to speak up just to ensure they got equal pay at The Comic Strip. The boys were given their chance to shine first, there's no doubt about that. But it was Dawn and Jen who were the subjects of a BBC documentary last Christmas.

...Maybe there is hope for funny women, after all.

[james-spooky]

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