#gosh it's been ages since I made a comic this long!

[sidsinning]

OMG SIDSINNING?!?! POOKIE THAT REALLY YOU?? OMG. YOU JUST APPEARED ON MY DASHBOARD WHA- YOU CARRIED OUT MY WHOLE MIRACULOUS HYPERFIXATION OMG!!! Dude this is soooo cool!! I'm obsessing over hazbin hotel and your art just appeared and I was like "OMG IT'S MY FAVORITE MIRACULOUS ARTIST" Dude I just wanna thank you!! You have just played a major role in my past obsession with miraculous ladybug and I wanted to thank you for all the memories you gave me. You art really made an inpact on me about three years back and are one of the reasons I started to draw fanart. And since I began drawing fanart due to consuming so many miraculous comics I actually ended up learning how to draw!! So thanks for being one of the reasons I got into drawing in the first place!! Oh my gosh I have liked your art for ages and just never knew you had a tumblr! This is like the best day ever. Your art has inspired me so much. It has inspired me over and over to get better in the past just to reach a certian level. So I just wanna thank you for having been my inspiration for a long time. I stopped watching Miraculous about almost a year or a couple of months now. (when season five started airing) But I will never ever forget the impact you left on my artist journey and how much your art meant to me when I was still a teensy bit cringe and was obsessing over the kids show. Thank you so so so so much. Your awesome. Like never stop drawing. -Michael/Mod mike (or as on my blogs ADHD!!)

HELLO!!!! THIS MIGHT BE THE SWEETEST MESSAGE I'VE EVER GOTTEN HERE LIKE EVER!!!

Thank you so much for enjoying my posts and art all this time, truly I have never thought I'd have a deeply personal effect on anyone with my silly doodles and comics here! So it makes me really happy to hear I had such a positive affect on you!!! In such a profound way!!!

I really don't know what to say other than I am super flattered and overwhelmed by how candy sweet this message is (IN A GOOD WAY OFC)!!! And it got me emotional reading this!!!

So thank you again!!!!

[fizzingwizard]

my curse: "Gee I wonder what my old buddy Nightcrawler's up to in 2024? hmm let's check around and see -"

"... why did i look why did i look why"

Seriously why does Marvel do this? I won't deny that Nightcrawler fans like to joke about the tail thing. For the kinkier ones, it's maybe not as much of a joke too. (But - it still is. Y'all know that right. Real people don't have tails. Anyway, you're welcome to make fun of this, as long as I eventually see some dudebro extra show up and ICly ask Colossus about his giant metal wang.)

Women hitting on Nightcrawler and being overtly sexual towards him in a way that would be pretty creepy IRL isn't a new thing in the comics. It's weird, but even though it reads as creepy, it's intended to show that despite looking like a gargoyle, Nightcrawler is hot and can attract girls and is totally an authentic superhero. It's complimentary creepiness 9_9 I don't take issue with that because that is superhero comics, everyone is horny all the time, and attraction is inexplicable. Basically it boils down to "I've got lips/ And I've got lips/ Let's get together and use those lips"

However. In the Draco, we got Jubilee, who was like 18 at the time, complimenting a naked and extremely distressed Nightcrawler on his, uh, junk. His reaction amounted to "..." Then a couple years ago, we got a... demonically possessed?? Illyana - whose age is a fucking mystery, she's not a teen anymore, probably Kitty's age, but anyway she's young - hitting on Nightcrawler as well. Once again he's brilliantly "..." about it. And now we've got this girl. I don't know how old she's meant to be, but she's written to sound like a young chatterbox - while being blonde and buxom and dressed like a Hooters waitress. "OH EM GEE" she spells out vocally??? Then exoticizes him, then asks him sexual questions???

There's definitely a way to comment on the invasiveness of fans who feel entitled to any detail no matter how personal about someone famous. But must it be through teenage girls you purposely drew to be hot and stupid? And I'm being generous by even suggesting that's what the intent here is. I think it's way more likely this is just another version of the "complimentary creepiness" shtick, only made more awful by the like twenty year age gap (I guess Crawler was aged down with everyone else but come on do any of us feel that's real in any sense). You get to lust after this girl while hating her simultaneously for being everything wrong with young women. Who is this for? They can't imagine it's for Nightcrawler's female fans. They can't be that obtuse. It's obviously for the boys.

So then the question is, what is there for the female fans? Because having female fans is kind of something Nightcrawler's known for. And any time something happens to a character - or a story - that the bros don't like, they blame the change on pandering to female fans. On feminism. On reverse sexism. But please someone sit down and explain to me how it's pandering to us female fans to write our favorite character like a tongue-tied himbo ("uh... um... uh..." wow crawler you smooth criminal! it's really obvious you've been a grown ass man since the 70s) while simultaneously insulting our entire gender as vapid nymphos?? Several times???

gosh. next time please just let crawler react by saying "sister you've got boundary issues and should be hitting on someone your own age goodbye." honestly this shit wasn't even cute when Claremont did it and he gets a pass on everything

[hellmandraws]

This was done as an art trade with @pirably. :) This does not take place in the same universe as my regular comics, obviously, since I’ve already established Ford as aroace. However, it does take place in the same dimension as this one!

[llitchilitchi]

HELLO BESTIE

I said I was going to spam you questions about the vampire menace au and here I am :))))))))))

gosh i dont know where to start i want to know everything.

How do they meet? Did Dream know they where vampires right away? How did they figure out their uhhh (snack? supernatural??) dynamic? What's day to day life like for them?

You said this was a mostly soft au (:eyes: for now possibly, oh?), do you already have some ideas for those moments? Do you plan on writing anything for it or just art?

I am just :hearteyes: I love them so much your honour. They look so cute in your art style as well. I'm really out here giggling and twirling my hair.

- Uzumakifanfics

(I'll leave it at this for now........................ but I'll be back..........)

oh gosh hi!! hello!

thank you for all the questions :D I would love to answer all of them with full proper comics explaining some of the things, but there is only so many hours in the day

gonna give a little warning for some innuendos in the text :)

to start it all of, sapnap and george met dream in a nightclub. this is entirely for the purpose of the pun of sapnap asking dream if he could "suck him in the back".

in the universe of this au, supernatural beings kinda just live normally among regular humans, though there is not too many of them (to the point that some people doubt the existence of the supernatural), so sapnap and george came clear pretty early on. they took it slow, made extra sure that dream knows what he is getting into before properly going ahead and having a taste. and since the three of them got along quite well, it soon became a "friendship with benefits", so to speak. or as the vampire boys would say, "fresh blood tastes better than the packaged stuff they can get at the hospital."

by the current point in the au, their arrangement has been going on for quite a while, and sapnap and george offered that dream move in with them. george is pushing 200 years of age and sapnap is only about 20-30 years younger than him, and the two have been living together since around the 1890s, making them Practically Married. in short, they had a lot to offer to Dream, who definitely appreciates a proper house over a dorm room that doesn't have working heating half of the time.

Dream has certain obligations in the usual waking hours for humans and he has to be awake through the day, like classes and work, while sapnap and george tend to sleep. (they can still run errands. sunscreens and long sleeves, along with sunglasses and hats, do wonders for the vampires.) they like to participate in some ordinary human activities, especially when dream drags them along. the only thing they get mildly annoyed about is dream refusing to let them feed before he heads off to school or to work. but they are quite accomodating! and they enjoy the day to day life of the 21st century.

there is not too much of a routune to speak of, outside of dream's mortal life. I am still debating what to make of George and Sapnap, though I think twitch streamer Sapnap, a vampire born in the 19th century who now screams at Minecraft challenges, is too good to pass up.

I don't really have plans to write for this au and most of it will be limited to one off sketches and short comics of little snippets of their life (vast majority of which consists of Dream being far too easy to fluster and the vampire boys taking advantage of that). there might be further progress with a story once I introduce other characters, like Quackity, Karl and the rest of dtqk+, or Bad and Velvetfrost. for now though it will really just be them being cutesy together, unless a comment or asks gives me ideas to actually work on a plot.

[five-rivers]

Danger First

Chapter 7

@pocketramblr

.

"Hey, Midoriya?" asked Uraraka, after Aizawa passed out a costume revision assignment and feigned passing out.

"Yes?" said Midoriya, knowing that his eyes were preturnaturally wide and fine tremors were running through his body. He was a wreck.

"Are you okay? Why did you come to class with Mr. Aizawa?"

"And what's that you're holding onto?" asked Kaminari.

"Um," said Izuku. "I was sort of... abducted by the support department? But in a nice way... And they gave me this grappling hook."

"Wow, cool! I didn't know we could get stuff like that from the support department."

"You should really read the student handbook, Kaminari," said Iida, pushing up his glasses.

"But it's so long!"

Iida tsked and adjusted his glasses more vigorously. "You're a student! You should at least be familiar with what is expected of you! Speaking of which, Midoriya, do you know how to use that?"

As much as he could learn from a ten-minute crash-course. "... yes," said Izuku, but it was clear from Iida's face that he had hesitated too long.

"Midoriya! You shouldn't have something like that in the classroom without knowing how to use it!" Iida half stood up, and Izuku clutched the grappling hook closer to his chest.

"No! Mine!" Maybe he was too attached to something he'd only had for a little over an hour, but the support department hadn't been able to give him any smoke bombs or flash grenades due to 'new school regulations regarding explosives' and he'd gone through a lot this morning.

Distress washed over Iida's face, and Izuku wondered if he'd accidentally smacked into some old trauma.

"I wasn't going to take it!" he said, earnestly waving his hands. "I just wanted to make sure you knew where the safety-"

The door to the classroom slammed open. "Is that my little brother I hear?" asked a beaming man in a track suit. Without waiting for an answer, he bounded over to where Iida was sitting and clapped him on the back. "I have come to embarrass you horribly!"

From the expression on Iida's face, this venture was doomed to failure. "I thought you were joking when you said you'd see me today!" exclaimed Iida, beaming.

"Why... why would I joke about that?"

"You joke about a lot of things. Like knowing vigila-"

"Okay! Yes, haha, funny jokester, that's me! Now why don't you introduce me to your classmates?"

"Of course! I have been remiss in my duties as vice president." He stood and executed a ninety-degree bow. "Forgive me! This is my brother, Iida Tensei! Also known as the pro hero Ingenium!"

Izuku could almost see his classmates start to put together the puzzle pieces of Chibiida and extremely tall older brother. He was more concerned about whether or not it would be rude to ask Ingenium for his autograph... and to check his analysis page on Ingenium...

"That's me! And I'll be your special guest TA today! Now, where's Aizawa? You're supposed to have him for homeroom, right?"

As one, the class pointed to the giant yellow caterpillar in the corner of the room.

"Oh my gosh, Shouta, I thought you were joking-"

.

Ingenium was, to put it in a single word, cool. To put it in two words, he was unbelievably cool. So cool Izuku was almost able to forget the impending field-trip-related DOOM they were all facing.

But not quite.

So Izuku slogged through his classes, still thrilled to be there and waning to do his best, but unable to truly focus past the crushing weight of what might happen. His classmates and maybe-friends hovered at the periphery of his suffering, clearly wanting to help, but just as clearly unsure how, or what lines they could or couldn't cross, leading them to resort to painfully awkward normal small talk.

Until they sat down for lunch, that is, by which time Monoma and Iida had gotten into a conversational spiral about how amazing UA was, how awesome Ingenium was, and how UA was truly superior for being able to have pro-heroes like Ingenium come in as TAs on such short notice.

"Midoriya," said Uraraka, startling him out of his fourth or fifth 'Kacchan sweep.'

(It was still possible that his bad feeling was related to Kacchan hunting him down and blowing him up. He'd be mortified about making such a big deal over it if that was the case, but it would be preferable to, say, a terrorist attack.)

(Why did he keep coming back to terrorist attacks?)

"Are you... okay? You've just seemed really down today, and-"

"Invisible hug!" shouted Hagakure before grabbing Izuku and lifting him over her head.

There was a beat of whispering near-silence. Then Uraraka stood up, slamming both hands on the table and inadvertently making it float. "You have got to tell me your work out routine!"

Izuku agreed.

("Strawberry," someone whispered.)

.

"I generally say what's on my mind," said Asui as the Iidas had radically different reactions to the bus seating arrangement.

"Aha," said Izuku. The swaying of the bus plus the strain of probably-Danger-Sense was making him nauseous. "What is it, Asui?'

"Call me Tsuyu."

The first time a person his age let him call them by name since kindergarten, and he couldn't properly appreciate it. Figured.

"I was watching the videos of the battle trials I missed last night," Tsuyu continued, "and I realized, I don't think any of us know what your quirk is."

Izuku's first impulse was to lie or redirect the conversation. Years of quirklessness had left their mark. But on second consideration... was there really a reason to lie? He wasn't going to talk about One for All, obviously, but the rest of it was harmless and bound to come out eventually anyway.

"Well," said Izuku, adjusting the fit of his air filter self-consciously. "That's a good question, actually."

"If you're keeping it a secret, I won't press."

"No, no, that isn't it!" Yes, it was. "It's just that, um, it's really subtle? As in, so subtle I thought I was quirkless until recently. Haha."

"Oh, wow," said Kirishima, "that must have been hard. I mean, I got teased for having a boring quirk, I can't even imagine-"

"Your quirk isn't boring! It's more than enough to be a pro!"

"But what is your quirk?" asked Monoma.

"Um," said Izuku, "well, we're not entirely sure, but... We think it lets me sense things that are dangerous? But I've also got anxiety, so..."

Monoma was frowning, but before he could speak, one of Hagakure's gloves waved frantically in front of his face.

"Is that how you knew I was there?" she asked. "In the battle trial and the entrance exam?"

"Maybe? I think so?"

"You were kind of anxious this morning," said Uraraka, concerned. "Did something bad happen to you?"

"Not- not yet," said Izuku, weakly. "It- We still don't really know how it works, so it could just be the anxiety..." He trailed off. Everyone was kind of staring at him. He pressed back against his seat, wishing there was somewhere to hide.

"Well!" said Uraraka, suddenly pumped up. "We'll just have to keep an eye out! We're hero students, aren't we?"

There was a general cheer of consensus and Izuku managed a shaky smile. So, this was what it was like to have friends.

Eventually, Mr. Aizawa told them to calm down, but there was no heat in the scolding. Maybe, Izuku thought, past the ever-increasing buzzing in his head, today would be okay after all.

.

"Yeah," said Hikage, "there's really no chance of that."

.

The Unforeseen Simulation Joint was an incredible space!

Space Hero Thirteen was about a thousand times cooler in person than on TV!

All Might, in his golden age rescue-specialized costume, looked like he'd just stepped off the pages of a comic book!

But just like Tsuyu's name, Izuku didn't have the ability to appreciate it.

As the other students marveled over the USJ, Izuku watched the adults quietly talk to one another. It seemed to be something serious.

.

"Did you find anything else with the safety checks?" asked Shouta.

"A few of the areas had the difficulty set too high- apparently some of the third-years decided to get some practice in and their supervisor didn't reset everything. Other than that? Nothing." Thirteen shook their head. "No signs of structural failure, no security gaps. Everything seems, well, normal."

"Well," said All Might, "whatever happens, we're prepared!"

Aizawa seriously doubted they were prepared for anything, but the most obvious, most likely things? Yeah.

"What do you think, Ingenium?" he asked.

"Everything looks fine to me," said Tensei, shrugging. "But if it was something obvious, then it wouldn't be so much of a threat, right?"

"We're still not sure how Midoriya's quirk really works," said Shouta. "It could be a threat just to him." He sighed heavily.

Tensei smiled in a way that just about guaranteed Shouta would be teased about this later.

"Well, I'm going to start my speech now!" said Thirteen giving the others a thumbs up. "Wish me luck!"

.

As soon as Thirteen finished their (surprisingly moving) speech, all of Izuku's attention zeroed in on the air next to the fountain. A swirl of dark mist appeared next to it.

Izuku felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Mr. Aizawa-!" But he was already looking in that direction, already watching the man made covered in emerge from the dark hole, followed by a veritable horde of villains.

And Izuku didn't use the term villain idly here. Several of the people he saw were on wanted lists.

Ironically, now that he was faced with real danger, the panicked siren in his head eased off slightly. Evidently, at least some of the strain had been fear of the unknown, and now the threat was very, very known in the worst way, that particular stressor was gone.

"There he is!" cried the man covered in hands. "All Might! The one we've all come for! Nomu! Get him!"

A large villain with an exposed brain who practically sang with danger charged All Might, who grabbed him by the wrist and flung him away, towards the landslide zone. "Ha! That's not much of a challenge! You'll have to do better than that, villains!"

"Maybe," said a villain made of the same mist as the portal that had brought the others. The large villain came charging out of the landslide zone, none the worse for wear. "Maybe not."

"You might be an elite player, but can you fight the boss and protect the noobs you're powerleveling?"

The other villains surged forwards.

This is when Mr. Aizawa and Ingenium jumped into the fray, and everything immediately got more chaotic. Izuku rapidly lost track of the multiple battles occurring around him - except, wow, Mr. Aizawa was really mowing through villains, wasn't he - that Nomu guy had to have a regeneration quirk, there was just no way - he'd have to write down that villain's monolog as soon as they got out, it might have clues - Izuku had no idea that Ingenium could fly and wow that gave him some ideas for Iida-

Speaking of Iida-

"This is no time for analysis! Hurry up and evacuate!"

Right.

"I won't allow that."

Yeah the misty villain definitely had some kind of teleportation quirk, which made this whole thing even more gutsy. Quirks like that were always monitored by the government. These guys must not care about their identities.

"Greetings," he said, a metal colar slipping into place around his neck. "We are the League of Villains. Forgive our audacity, but... today we've come to-"

A gust of air from All Might's fight pushed the mist villain back. But the move had left him partially unguarded, and Izuku watched helplessly as Nomu pounded a fist into his exposed side-

Nomu knew about All Might's injury.

Oh, no.

Izuku didn't have time to process that, however, as Kirishima and Monoma jumped forward, attacking the mist villain.

The feeling of danger spiked, and Izuku barely registered Monoma's bewildered expression.

"Only students... but the best of the best... yes he was right to say you'd be a threat." Darkness spread like an ink stain from the villain's body. Darkness... and portals.

Izuku slammed into Tsuyu and Kaminari, pushing them out of the way of forming portals. He wasn't able to do the same for himself.

"Begone," intoned the mist villain, his voice echoing all around Izuku. "Writhe in torment until you breathe your last."

The next thing Izuku knew, he was in clear light and falling. From at least two stories up, over the flood zone.

And then he stopped.

.

The ghosts whipped their heads around to stare at Nana. She was sitting on a stool, hiding her face in her hands, though whether it was out of embarrassment or fear for Izuku was unclear.

"Nana..." said Yoichi, softly.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry I saw him falling and pani-"

"What did you do that for!" exclaimed Banjo. "He was only fifteen, twenty meters up! Into water!"

"That's twice as high as Olympic divers go! And they screw up their bodies all the time if they hit wrong!" shot back Nana, other emotions abandoned in favor of rage.

"Uh, guys...?" said Yoichi, weakly.

"Who still watches the Olympics?" muttered En.

"If we had to give him a new quirk, it should have been a combat one!"

"You're just jealous that he has Float and not Blackwhip!"

"So what if I am?" demanded Banjo. "If he had Blackwhip, he wouldn't need that stupid grappling hook gun!"

"So, you admit Blackwhip is just a glorified grappling hook?"

"Better than a glorified- glorified-" He puffed out his cheeks. "I'm going to give him Blackwhip right now!"

"NO!" shouted the other ghosts.

"Banjo," said En, "what do you remember about people who All for One gave three quirks to?"

Banjo went pale.

"Oh, hell," said Banjo. "I'm sorry, I got carried away."

"You can say that again," grumbled Nana.

"But," continued Banjo, "doesn't this mean we can't give him the stockpile?"

They turned to Yoichi, who was far and away the expert on the stockpile quirk. He held up his hands and offered a sick, shaky smile. "We've already started the process of giving him stockpile access. There's... there's really no way to stop it."

Nana started swearing, and even Second and Third looked tense.

"But that's borrowing trouble! Maybe he'll be compatable?"

"With three quirks?"

"It's possible!" protested Yoichi. "I mean, he's- um, he's got One for All? Maybe it's more like All for One than we thought?"

"Disgusting."

"No."

"Absolutely not."

"Never say that again."

"But, again, that's a future problem, unlike the villain attack, which is a now problem."

"I see what you're saying," said En, "but we can't do anything about the villain attack, but we could theoretically do something about quirk troubles. Unless you'd rather watch helplessly while our latest-possibly-last holder is murdered?"

Yoichi sighed. "Okay, yeah, let's take a look."

.

Izuku's first thought was that Uraraka must have tagged him, but he had been way too far away from her for her to do that. Unless she had run at him when he dove for Tsuyu? Tsuyu had maybe sort of been between them...

But, no, this didn't feel like Uraraka's quirk. He'd only experienced it a couple of times, but it felt like falling. This felt more like floating on the surface of a pool.

This was, he realized as he drifted helplessly upwards and slightly sideways, Shimura Nana's quirk.

It would be really, really cool if the circumstances were different or if he had any control over the quirk whatsoever. As it was, he didn't appreciate the way he was getting progressively higher. Hitting the water at his previous height would have sucked, but he probably would have survived. Now? Not so much. So, if the quirk decided to stop as suddenly as it had started, he was doomed.

Beyond doomed.

He'd be dead.

Wait! The grappling hook!

He pulled it carefully out of its holster, making sure to wrap the loop around his wrist. He could get back to the ground with the grappling hook, anchor himself at a decent height and make use of this, or even attack, but if he dropped it...

Well. Doom and all that.

His best bet was the top of the downpour zone. It was the closest structure by far. He lined up his sights, fired, and watched as the hook fell several meters short.

That was less than ideal.

He rolled over and looked up. He wasn't that far from the ceiling-

Danger Sense screamed at him, and he was falling, just in time to miss getting hit by a jet of water from below. Izuku, naturally, started screaming as well and fired the grappling hook blindly. He rejoiced as a metallic thunk told him it had hit something and immediately hit the stop button, almost wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets. However, his joy quickly turned to horror as he realized he was now headed toward the hard, unforgiving side of the downpour zone at a dangerously high speed. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Float turned back on.

Izuku let out a somewhat pathetic whine in relief, and hit the retract button on the grappling hook gun, letting it pull him up to the roof.

From here, he had an acceptable view of the rest of the USJ. He shaded his eyes to look back at the main plaza and entrance. He could see Eraserhead and Ingenium fighting back to back in the central plaza. All Might and Nomu were tearing up trees in one of the forested areas, and near the entrance he could see Thirteen, Iida, Uraraka, Shouji, Sato, Sero, and Ashido facing down the mist villain. Hopefully, with those numbers, they'd be able to get past him.

Looking elsewhere, Izuku had to assume Todoroki was in the landslide zone, with the spiky ring of ice in the middle of it. He must be holding back. He could make out a fight happening in the mountain zone, but couldn't tell who was involved.

That was more than half the class unaccounted for, including Tsuyu and Kaminari, who he'd thought he'd pushed away from portals. They were probably in the other zones, but...

He took a deep breath. Focus. Where would he do the most good? Danger Sense couldn't tell him that right now, with all these bright threats all around him. He had to decide on his own.

The fight in the mountain area wasn't going well. The number of visible villains was only increasing.

Could Izuku get there? He bit his lip as he contemplated the distance, then jogged back to the opposite side of the downpour zone roof.

Then he ran.

Then he-

-jumped-

-off the roof.

Float activated at the top of the arc of his jump, and his momentum sent him tumbling forward towards the mountain zone. As he approached and began to slow (air resistance still being a thing, apparently), he was able to see Yaoyorozu and Jiro fighting for their lives. Yaoyorozu did not look good.

This wasn't a great way to be proven right about her quirk having drawbacks.

He aimed the grappling hook at one of the larger, closer villains, not really caring about how much damage it would do, and fired.

.

"Wow," said En. "Kid definitely has a bit of a ruthless streak."

"Imagine how much better he'd do with Blackwhip."

"He wouldn't have been able to get there in the first place without Float."

"Honestly," continued En, "I don't get why Second and Third don't like him. They never shut up about Nana and Eighth being too soft, after all."

"What? They said that stuff about me, too?"

"Yeah, I think they're just unsatsifiable at this point. It's annoying."

"I was much more violent and ruthless than Toshi, though."

"I know."

"Yoichi," said Hikage. "I'm not seeing any sign of additional stress on Ninth's body."

"That's because Izuku is the best."

"Or," said En, "it's because he's only had Nana's quirk for, like, five, ten minutes, tops."

"Or because he's the best. Just look at how he's helped his friends defeat all those villains!"

"Compelling argument," said Hikage.

.

"What- what now?" asked Yaoyorozu, holding herself up with one of her staffs. The mountain zone was littered with various weapons and shrapnel from Yaoyorozu's quirk use. This included a canon. Which was really cool, but seemed a bit over the top... and maybe not the most efficient thing to make, considering Yaoyorozu's limitations.

"I don't know," admitted Izuku. He'd been flung around the field as a makeshift flail/bola by the girls a few times, and was a little dizzy.

He looked back out at the battles still taking place in the plaza. "I think... Maybe we should go down, and make our way around the edge to the entrance. We could pick up Todoroki and see if there's anyone in the ruins zone who needs help-"

Then he saw the hand villain step forward, facing down Eraserhead as Ingenium was lured away in defense of Tsuyu and Kaminari, who had just run out of the wooded area, trailing villains. Danger flared in his mind's eye, and, for the second time in his life, his body moved by itself.

[thattimdrakeguy]

Gosh, I loved this issue so much. Like absolute gobs.

I think this is the first time since Young Justice (2019) #1 that I’ve felt like I was reading actual Tim, since after that it started to feel less like Tim quite a bit, and more and more generic.

But even if it’s just coincidence given what they have Tim do in this or not, Tim’s written really well. Which could be because Jurgens has actually written Tim pretty well in the past.

(This also kind of confirms to me that the Robin in “Teen Titans: The Burning Rage” (the Wal-Mart series they turned into a mini) was supposed to be Dick, given they’re written so dang differently.)

Seeing Tim talk to Batman, even if it’s literally only that passing panel, just makes me happy. It barely even means anything to the story besides exposition, but it’s just satisfying. There’s no Tynion “Tim is the best. Praise him” melodrama writing. It’s just the boy that said Batman needs a Robin, and it made it his goal to help him and keep him grounded.

He loves Dick tons in this too it feels like. Which he should, because that’s how their relationship is supposed to be, and that hasn’t been truly acknowledged in a long time. Tim looks as Dick as his big brother, and Dick looks at Tim as his little brother. That was their dynamic pure and simple. They cared tons for each other. Dick put himself near a potential life-ending explosion just to save Tim’s life because he was “the closest thing to a brother I’ll ever have”. It’s so nice to feel like they actually legitimately care again.

Although, for this issue we had to deal with him beating up Tim because of that stupid brainwashing bit--

Even if, it just comes off like that to fill the need to mention family, because DC Comics seems to only really acknowledge them as a family primarily for pandering at this point. It feels so genuine comic from Tim as a character in this specific situation, because that is something he would say and do.

The boyish, dorky way that Tim speaks, but still making it through with his smarts. The anxiety he generally has. That also feels so much like Tim, because that’s who Tim is. Tim has anxiety.

This was one of Tim’s earliest appearances mind you, but his behavior and narration continues to implicate that he does become easily anxious.

Like people have this idea, that when Tim started wearing the black and red suit, that he was instantly this dark and edgy figure, but that was honestly mostly just from the Teen Titans series at the time, that was playing up melodrama. In Tim’s own Robin series he was still like this, he was learning to cope with his grief, and he’s clearly got darker, but that’s just fitting considering that’s his situation. He still possessed this same personality.

The personality they wrote here, even if by pure coincidence. Which works extra well, considering this is a Tim that never experienced any of that grief personally, besides Batman, which I think is only a maybe because of the vagueness around it. That whole part of Tim’s life of losing people was from a different timeline he only remembers because of magic, he didn’t really experience it himself properly anymore.

A lot of this is pulled together by the art, I think they did a real good job at representing Tim. He has his short height and babyface that makes him look younger than his age, which he is noted as having more than once.

His movements are more boyish, and awkward compares to the others. Which works alongside how part of Tim’s character is that he wasn’t an immediate natural with some things, yet he’s still capable. That weird little worried face even feels like Tim, because he’s had some really funny looking expressions over the years.

Rather by coincidence or not, this is some of the best Tim writing in a long while even if it’s so short, and ultimately not very eventful.

I’ll take Tim being Tim, rather than the generic super genius trope they kept trying to apply to him for a year. Tim isn’t a genius besides when writers wanna push it. He’s just a very clever boy, just as they write here.

[freakie-deakie]

Lucas // How To: Kill an Idea

i have been really struggling with feeling numb lately and i super projected that onto this character. i really do apologize if it doesn’t make for the most interesting read. i may or may not end up rewriting this when i’m feeling better.

Warnings: emotional numbness and detachment

Masterlist

THIS IS PART 2!!! Read part one here: How To: Hurt My Feelings

Lucas x Reader (angst // 7.3k words); ft. stepbrother!Johnny

The way the lights reflected off the water brought only distant memories of the Han flowing through the city of Seoul and mirroring the life around it. The bustle of the city, the calm of the river banks. The things that you neighbored so long ago.

You could become so lost in the remnants of the past - that you would forget to lose yourself in the readiness of the moment.

You owed the Garonne. After tirelessly looking over you for months on end, you owed her your presence at the very least. How dare you look at her in all of her beauty and only think of another.

She smiled at you nonetheless. The Garonne sat with you one last night and told you how much she would miss you - how much all of Bordeaux would miss you. She told you that the stone buildings, the ones in the alleyway that you cut through every night as you return to your dorm, didn't know what they were going to do without you. She told you that the little birds that had nested outside of your window had practiced a sadder song to sing after you left. She swore that the lights in the city shone brighter than they ever had before when you landed and that they would fade upon your departure.

She made you promise that you would come back to see all of them: the buildings, the birds, and the lights. On your own accord, you promised you would come back to see her.

The Garonne waved you off that night, sending you to bed and wishing you a restful slumber and a safe flight in the morning.

Tired and stiff, you limp out of the terminal with your laptop clutched to your chest and a yawn escaping your lips. You mindlessly followed the crowd of other travelers to baggage claim and patiently waited for your suitcase to be sorted onto the conveyor belt.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle," a familiar voice reached your ears, "I believe a poor boy has been waiting far too long to see you here."

You spun on your heel, a bright smile suddenly overtaking your features. "Lucas," you call quietly as you envelop him in a tight hug. You had barely moved for sixteen hours straight, but once in his arms, every desire for motion ceased. It seemed that he agreed, as he latched onto you and refused to let go.

"I missed you," he admitted before placing a kiss on the top of your head and moving to grab your bag off the belt.

"I missed you more," you answered softly.

He took your hand and kissed it before leading you through the airport and down to the parking garage where your brother was waiting, leaned up against his car, and dusting the cigarette ashes off of his sleeve.

"Hey there, Miss France," he says as he moves to envelop you in a hug of his own. "How was your flight?"

"It was fine," you answer simply. "Long, but fine."

"Well, you have an hour-long car trip to give us the highlights of France, if you're not too tired. We could stop by a late-night diner too if you're hungry."

You nodded along as you climbed into the car, enjoying the banter after your long trip. But as you rode in the passenger seat home (funny, you thought, that you still called it home), you took in things about the city that you never really appreciated.

The locals that ignored the do-not-cross signs, the billboards that were so shrouded in smog that you could barely read them, the stray cats that freely wandered the city like it was their own personal playground. All the things that you used to neighbor.

And when you got to the bridge that you'd longed to see since you left, the Han welcomed you home with as much love for you as it had six months ago. You made it a point to tell him about the Garonne sometime. You think he would enjoy hearing about her.

"The pastries," you say simply. "It was France; of course the pastries were the best."

Johnny dropped you back at your apartment and your boyfriend opted to stay the night, helping you settle back into the space that you could once again call your own.

Another tenant had contracted your apartment for the time you were away - there were a few more cuts and bruises than you remember leaving, but it was nothing you couldn't patch up. The bed wasn't where you had it, the shower knobs had been replaced, and an empty curtain rod rest stretched along your window seal.

"The stuff you left with us, it's still back at the frat," he chuckles awkwardly.

"That's okay." You offer him a small smile and plop down on one of the only four pieces of stand-alone furniture left in the space, the old black sofa in the same spot it's always been. "At least they didn't take my couch."

"Y/N, darling, I don't know if I would lay on that if I were you."

His words took a moment to register, but when they did your eyes shot open and you were out of your seat comically fast. "Oh God, ew..."

He laughed again and pressed a small kiss to your temple. "Let's take a shower and then we'll figure things out, okay? And you know, you don't have to sleep here tonight. There are no sheets on the bed or anything, so you can-"

You cut him off with a quick kiss and lead him to the bathroom, ready for a warm shower to take away all of your travel pains.

"Not really," you answered honestly, rolling your head to the side to look at your boyfriend. You'd been looking at his ceiling for a while, head resting on his thigh while he played with your hair. It felt nice, you thought, to get a chance to live in your memories - specifically the memories you had left with him here in his room, the ones that always waited for you while you were away. "All of my days in France were spent doing something or another. By myself, with the people that I met. So no, it never really got mundane. I didn't think that kind of life existed for anyone over the age of nine." You let out a small but heavy breath. "I guess I had to experience it for myself to understand."

Lucas doesn't say anything for a moment. Instead, he focuses on gently detangling a knot that his fingers had caught on. Your hair was longer now than it was.

"I'm happy for you," he reassures you. He doesn't quite know what he's reassuring, but he reassures you nonetheless.

"Lucas?" you ask softly.

"Hmm?" he responds, his gruff voice sounding tired.

"What would you have done if I didn't come back?" His finger stop working in your mess of locks and all of his attention is focused on dissecting what you just asked him.

"I don't know what answer you want me to give you," he says smally, glancing down at you before retraining his gaze on the ceiling, its texture nearly lost in the dark.

"There isn't a certain answer I want. I'm just curious."

"I don't understand the question," he almost interrupts, suddenly a bit tenser than he was only moments ago.

"I don't mean anything by it, Lucas. It's not a loaded question." Your soft voice is enough to lul his hand back to its comforting motions. "Would you have gone after me or would you have let me go?"

"I would have gone after you without a second thought. Definitely, I would have."

"I thought about staying you know."

There's a pause, a small silence of thought on both ends.

"Why didn't you," he asks with genuine curiosity.

"It wasn't home. You weren't there."

A wolf whistle follows you into the kitchen the next morning and you feel the need to suppress your groan.

"If I knew you were staying the night, I would have held a cup against the door."

"Oh, gross, Jaehyun," you sneer, turning to jab your elbow into the older boy's side.

"What? Not everyone gets to tour France." You can't help but dramatically roll your eyes and threaten him with a punch.

"Do you want a cup of coffee? I was about to put on a pot."

"Sure," he smiles gratefully. "And you can tell me about Bordeaux while we wait."

"Oh, it was beautiful," you think back as you prepare the grounds. "As the sun was setting, the sky would turn golden. If there were any clouds that evening, they would turn all different shades of pink. The lights over the water - words wouldn't do it justice."

Jaehyun chuckles before yawning out, "Well, that's a first."

"Jung Jaehyun, if you are trying to say that I talk too much-"

"That's not what I'm saying," he defends. "I mean you always have a way with words. It's your thing, ya' know. Words."

You hum, turning back to your task. "I guess I hadn't thought about it that way - at least not for a while."

The door to the kitchen swings open and another boy ungracefully stumbles into the kitchen. Haechan is clad in a plain T-shirt and dark shorts (if you could call them that). His hair is no longer silver; it's now a dusty brown, curling up into the picture of a sandstorm blowing about his head. He looked healthier, or maybe just more mature since you last saw him. He'd filled out a bit, and grown into those long limbs of his.

"Man, what's will all the commotion in here? It's Saturday and- Y/N?" The boy immediately perks up upon seeing you. "Oh my gosh, Y/N! You're back!" He hugs you and sits down at the island beside his older friend, suddenly as energetic as a child on Christmas morning. "Great, because I made a list of pranks we're gonna pull together. Jaehyun, since you're here, I guess you can help us too. Okay, first of all, we're gonna shove a bag of chocolate powder mix down the shower drain. I'd like to make sure that one gets Mark because he blamed me for breaking Johnny's lamp."

There were things you would have to readjust to in Korea. Things that you didn't think would catch you off guard, yet still managed to turn you around every now and again. The wet bath was one of them; you were going to miss your tub. You also suddenly found bowing a bit more strange than you originally had, as well as keeping personal space when you greeted someone altogether. Most prominently, the language barrier that you weren't so sure you'd ever really overcome in your first life in Korea.

Words were suddenly weird to you again. Ideas that could manifest themselves in one language but not another. At times, there were no proper parallels, nor were there ways in which to express everything going on inside your head.

Though you tried your hardest, what little French you learned simply wouldn't translate properly to English, or the English wouldn't translate to Korean, or the Korean to French, or the French to Korean, or the Korean to the English. The words just never came out the way you wanted them to, and in a way, it was like a piece of you fell away from the rest, lost somewhere between all of your different lives.

Lucas noticed how much quieter you seemed since you'd returned.

You made it a point to generally avoid contact with everyone while you were away. You occasionally checked in with them to let them know that you were alive, but other than that had kept your space. You became more dedicated to learning about yourself and how to care for your well-being. You began making decisions of your own, from what you would eat every night and how early you would wake up every morning to what debacles were worth your time and energy. You decided that most of them weren't. You decided that pondering your life was taking years off of it, and that you didn't like to eat snails. You decided that you weren't so bad after all, and for that matter, no one else was either. You decided to live.

"Hey, can I see something on your Instagram real quick?" you asked softly, setting your bowl of fancy ramen on the coffee table in front of you. "I think one of my friends just had a baby and I wanted to see if she's posted any pictures yet."

Without giving it much thought, Lucas hands you his phone and turns back to his meal. "What happened to your Instagram?" he questioned.

"Deleted it," you quip, pulling up your friend's account. He hears you coo before you shove the device back into his hands, urging him to look at the baby. He thought the child, redfaced and wet, looked like an alien, though he'd never tell you that.

"Why'd you delete it?" he pursues.

You simply shrug and cover more of your legs with the blanket that rested on the both of you. "Didn't need it." He gives you an unsatisfied groan, but you can't think of a better answer. It was simple - while you took plenty of photos to document your life, you no longer found it necessary to post them.

"Okay," he tries, "what about your Kakao Story?"

"Deleted."

"So you no longer use Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Skype, Instagram, or Kakao Story? What if someone needs to contact you?"

"I still have Kakao and Discord."

"Okay, what about my posts? Or your other friends'?"

"If they have something to tell me, they will," you sip your hot tea and lean into his side.

"It’s like she doesn't want to talk to me. She doesn't want to talk to anyone," groans Lucas as he sprawls out on Mark's bed. "She doesn't talk nearly as much as she used to."

Mark's hand didn't stop relaying notes to his journal as he talked with Lucas, translating as many of his lyrical ideas onto paper as he could keep up with.

"She's not the same person she used to be, Lucas."

Lucas had trouble making sense of it, why Mark sounded so sure about that. It almost hurt his pride that one of his roommates was telling him something about you, his girlfriend.

"Who is?" Lucas rubs his eyes. "We've all grown up since then."

Mark's hand halts. "Since then?"

"Since-" he sighs. "Ya' know, since... Since we..."

"Don't hurt yourself," Mark chuckles. "Maybe," he offers, "this chapter of your life is written in a different style. Did you even notice? That your life hasn't been going the same since she got back?"

"Of course it's not the same," the elder defends. "It's infinitely better."

"Spare me. Look, I'm just saying, the less she talks, the more dialog you're putting in your own book. And I think it's better this way. I mean, I can't tell you how to write your life, but I can honestly say I think you're doing better now than you were before. You started using your words instead of acting on impulse. That's not easy, man. Words are hard."

Words: your staple, your foundation, your life. They were your nothing anymore.

And Lucas didn't know how to understand.

He tried not to take it personally, but soon you fell into almost complete silence both with him and his friends. When you joined them for a Smash Bros competition, you didn't exclaim your victories nor mourn your defeats. When you dressed, you didn't ask for his opinions on the color of your lipstick nor the type of heel you should wear. When you laid in bed with him and watched his fan turn above your heads, you refused to humor his desire to hear your voice. And he took the fault upon himself.

He felt guilty asking anything of you anymore because you never opened your mouth to ask for favors in return.

"Y/N, will you come cuddle with me?" he calls with as much endearment as he can shove into his tone.

This was for your own good, he reminded himself.

You hadn't watched the news in months, and he knew that. You, ever the stickler for meaningful conversation, had devoted large portions of your time to staying up to date before. As of late, however, you preferred "to watch the world crash and burn around you from a first-person point-of-view rather than a third-person point-of-view."

He hoped that sitting you down to watch the news for a while would spark a fire in your opinionated soul. So imagine his reaction when you crawled into his arms and fell asleep, paying absolutely no mind to the colors or words on the screen.

His next plan was to plant your favorite novel in the hands of your favorite philosopher.

This was for your own good, he reminded himself.

He shoved the book into Doyoung's hands with a stern "fix her." Needless to say, Doyoung had the book read within a couple of days and Lucas invited you over as soon as his friend flipped through the pages for the final time.

"A piece of modern art," he suggests. "A sorrow lost to the sands of time and a meaning forgotten by society."

Lucas watches in amazement as you sit and nod along to everything that Doyoung says. You didn't interject your ideas even once. You just listened.

He was running out of ideas. So his last plot was his last hope that there may be a bit of yourself left inside of you. He would take you on a date - the best date you've ever been on - and thrust so much happiness and gratefulness onto you that you wouldn't be able to contain it so silently. He knew it was a dirty trick, but how else was he to make sure that you were okay if you would no longer tell him anything about yourself.

This was for your own good, he reminded himself.

Really, he should have asked you out first, before he came barging into your apartment (tidier than he'd ever seen it before and reeking of cleaner) with a bundle of flowers and demanding your attention for the evening.

Surprise.

He was about to push open the door to your bedroom when he heard a soft sniffle from inside. His eyes widened and his shoulders fell. His heart broke when he heard a small sob fall from your lips.

He peeked inside. It was dark, mind the laptop that sat on your desk and illuminating your shaking form. You laid your head on one arm and used your other hand to rake through your stringy hair. Your glasses had been tossed to the shadowy void and your cheeks were wet and sticky.

The header of your philosophy paper stared you down as you unraveled before it. The rest of the blank page was absolutely daunting. Your acceptance of the world around you had drained away your ability to have a coherent cognitive thought about it, forget about writing one.

To some extent, you missed the days when you were confident in your ability to build empires out of words. Now, you couldn't even build a ten-page paper, especially not by 11:59 pm that night.

To a greater extreme, you couldn't understand why you would want to return to your opinionated ways or your charismatic skills that abused fact until it bent to your will. What purpose did fact or, more importantly, idea have anymore, other than to aid your ability to charm others to abide by your purpose?

It felt wrong to write a definitive philosophical thesis, especially when you couldn't bring yourself to definitively believe in anything particular.

"Y/N," you jumped at the sound of your own name and quickly wiped your cheeks with the back of your sleeves, sitting up straighter and making yourself more presentable before you turned around to face him. Lucas saw it all. He watched you put your mask back on right before his eyes, and he realized that you were hurting in ways that he couldn't see until now.

"Lucas," you cursed your shaky voice. "What's up? Why are you here?"

He takes a few quiet steps until he's standing before you and kneels to look into your eyes. There are things that he wants to say, 'you're scaring me' being the most prominent, but he knows he should choose his words more carefully.

"I want to know what's going on. I want to help." He slips his hands into your own and rests them on your knees.

"I just don't think you can," you answer simply.

"Can you tell me what's the matter?"

You shake your head and the tears come rushing back to your eyes. "I don't know what's the matter." It's honest. You don't know why your head can't wrap around your assignments, or your conversations, or your own thoughts as of late.

All that time spent with yourself taught you how to understand yourself and your own needs. You feel that you have exchanged your understanding of the world around you for a simpler version of life. Did that make you selfish? You didn't know.

All Lucas could do was watch you as you fell back into your frustrations. It didn't take long before your brows were knitted back together, your nose was running, and your eyes had glazed over as you retreated back inside of yourself.

"Y/N," he softly called. Your eyes only met his for a second before they were cast somewhere else and your attention ran away from you once again.

"I think," you started, unsure of every word that slipped past your lips. "I think you should go."

You didn't know how to explain to him that you were afraid of what he might think of you at that moment, or that you didn't want to hurt his feelings any more than you guessed you already had.

"I don't want to go. I'm tired of leaving you alone." He stood, gently pulling you to stand with him, and led you to the edge of your bed with a delicate touch. "You don't have to sleep. You don't have to talk. Just lay here with me for a little while and let me be close to you."

"You know," Lucas started as he tossed the noodles in the pan. He'd tucked you into the couch earlier that evening and told you to forget the paper you'd been stressing over. You happily complied. "I don't know how to say this any better." You listened keenly as you pulled a throw pillow into your lap and wrapped yourself around it. "I know that this is probably the last thing you want to talk about, but I did something very wrong to you. I'm still sorry, and I hope you know that. But..." He cast you a quick glance over his shoulder before reaching for the seasoning in your pantry. "I don't think I ever gave you the chance to yell at me. Or like, to be mad at me - ya' know?"

You thought for a moment, front teeth chewing on your thumbnail before you shook your head softly and answered, "I don't want to yell at you. I don't want to be mad at you."

You heard a repressed sound of discouragement before looking to see him dishing your dinner plates. "I wish you would. I wish you would yell at me and tell me what I did was wrong. I wish you would be angry with me for a little while. I wish you would just tell me something about how you feel about it."

He handed you your plate and watched as you ran back inside of your own head. He watched your eyes glaze over as you replayed his words, and yet you made sense of almost none of them. You didn't understand what he was asking of you.

You toyed with your food as you tried to process his request. You didn't even notice when he took his seat beside you, nor did you notice the burning gaze he watched you with.

"Y/N," he called, shaking you out of your trance. "I want you to yell at me." You looked at him like a deer caught in headlights - big black eyes staring down a deadly light. "How did you feel when it happened? Shout something horrific at me about what was going through your head at the time."

You took a small bite and swallowed, training your eyes on the coffee table before you. "I don't remember."

You looked so small, so helpless, and so distant. You were there, right next to him, and yet you were so far away. He was having trouble finding you.

"Yell. Break something. For fuck's sake, please."

The more pressure he applied, the further you seemed to slip away. Before he knew it, you were gone.

"That's not her anymore." He found himself on Mark's bed once again, tucked into the younger boy's covers and pouring out his heart. "She's not all there. She just looks so empty now."

"Dude, I don't know why you come to me for this sort of thing. It's not like I'm just great with girls," the younger quips from his desk chair. "And Johnny would know more about her than I would-"

"No. He absolutely cannot know that I broke his sister."

Mark hummed in thought for a moment before he laid his pen down in his textbook and turned his full body to his friend. "Lucas, be honest with me about something." Lucas nodded. "Did you see anyone else while she was in France?"

Lucas shook his head as he took in his friend's words carefully. He had no right to be mad at the accusation, so he kept his temper in check until a particularly vile thought trotted across his mind. He sat up immediately. "Oh God, do you think that she did? Do you think she considered it a break and she slept with someone else?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying- hey- Lucas, stop." Lucas was already to his feet and out the door before he could finish. "So not my fault," he grumbled to himself.

Finally, it all made sense to him. You couldn't be mad at him if you were also guilty. You couldn't yell at him for committing a sin you'd also committed. He was going to redress the scale. He was going to make you the word again. He was going to be the action.

The solid thuds against your wooden door made you jump up from your floor. Adrenaline spread through your fingertips and you took a step back towards your bedroom.

"We need to talk."

Lucas sounded angry. You pushed and pulled with your memory, but found no trace of experiencing this feeling before: fear of him. You moved against your gut to let him in. You barely opened the door before he pushed his way inside, rattling off accusation after accusation.

"Did you think we were on a break? Because we weren't on a break."

You just listened.

"Did you just forget about me while you were there? Did you just ignore the fact that I was waiting for you? I was stuck here, waiting for you every day while you were in France."

You didn't speak.

"So you just got to do whatever you wanted while I had to sulk here? You just couldn't control yourself, huh? Do you know how hard it was to keep control of myself while you were gone?"

'It was hard?' you thought.

"How about we take another break then? How about this time, I get to sleep with whoever I want? Well? Aren't you even going to open your mouth to defend yourself?"

You didn't.

"Am I wrong?" He prompted. "I didn't think so. Now we're on a break. Now you can fuck around with whoever you want."

Shocked couldn't begin to describe the state he left you in. You stood there, clambering for answers as to what could have sent him on a warpath to your apartment in the first place. His seemingly unprompted fit of jealous rage couldn't really have been sparked without a cause, you figured.

Maybe he'd seen pictures of you with your male friends in France. Maybe a rumor had been spread about you. Maybe he was just tired of you and feeding himself a rotten narrative as an excuse to break up with you.

You didn't want to know. You opted to rather accept his decision, and all of your own emotions that came flooding back with it.

"Hey man, have you talked to Y/N lately? She took one of my classes last year, and I wanted to see if I could get her notes before semester tests." Haechan asks his elder who lay sprawled on the couch.

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p.'

"What?" Haechan asked, looking up from his phone. "What do you mean you haven't talked to her?"

Lucas lazily yawned and reached for his soda can beside him. "It's not like she's my girlfriend or something. I'm not her keeper."

"Shit, Lucas, you didn't," Mark groaned, rubbing his temple.

"No, you were right. She was sleeping with other guys while she was in France. She didn't even try to deny it."

"Hang on, I never said that. You conjured that one up all on your own, buddy."

Haechan frowned as his frat members debated. He was focused on a much bigger issue at large.

"When did you break up with her?" he asks cautiously.

"Hey, we're just on a break. Don't go getting any ideas-"

"Jesus fuck, can your ego get any bigger?" Lucas crossed his arms and refocused his attention on the television, jaw clenched tightly. "You're so annoying," Haechan mumbled under his breath, already moving towards the door and shooting your brother a message telling him to meet in front of your apartment.

"Damn, you got called annoying by Haechan. How does that feel?"

"Can it, Lee."

You could feel it all, the swarm of emotions swirling and twirling around inside your chest, and yet you couldn't begin to name any of them. All you knew was that it hurt and you wanted it to stop.

You laid in your bed and watched your ceiling fondly. You liked how it didn't move. You didn't struggle to keep up with it. And it was dependable; it would always be there.

You didn't move when the knock at your front door finally registered in your ears; you were tired of playing doorman in your own residence.

You were just tired actually.

"Y/N," Johnny called, lightly pushing open the door to your bedroom. A strong sense of deja vu winded you. You knew this scene, you'd lived it before. "It's me and Haechan. I'm sorry we didn't call first." You didn't know how they managed to get inside, nor did you care. You just wanted to sleep.

Johnny took a seat next to you on the side of your bed. He brushed a strand of hair out of your eyes in an attempt to capture your attention. That's when the smell hit you. The heavy stench of cigarettes washed over all of your senses causing you to retract from his touch. He looked shaken at first, scared that he might have hurt you.

"You didn’t smoke before," you recalled. It was almost a feat in and of itself to remember the bitter past, but the small victory was stifled by the thick, wet air of the bitter present.

His eyes softened before he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack he'd bought just a few days before. "I started a few months ago while you were away. I knew you wouldn't be happy about it."

"I don't care," you answered promptly before slowly pulling yourself to sit up against your headboard.

Haechan watched from the doorway. He wondered if he'd ever seen someone in this state before, or if he ever would again. He looked at you and almost failed to see the human being in front of him. He watched you move like a frightened animal, stiff and weary. He watched your untrained gaze flicker between your brother and your brother's outstretched hand. 

This couldn't have just been the work of Lucas, he concluded. There were more deeply rooted implications here. There was an unresolved issue before your idiot boyfriend played to his own role.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"I don't know," you answered honestly.

Johnny looked to Haechan for support, but the younger could offer only his presence in this situation.

"That's okay," your brother soothed. "Haechan," he turned to your mutual friend, "can you call Ten and Yuta and see if they've, uh, noticed anything weird lately about..." He gestured to you. Haechan excused himself to place the calls. "Food? Food always helps, right?" he tried with a dry chuckle. You paid absolutely no mind to him.

"I can't take this," Ten muttered to himself, excusing himself from your bedroom. Five boys had soon found themselves huddled in your doorway, watching your every move intently as you resisted every attempt your brother made to move you.

You felt like a lab rat, being looked at from all angles as Johnny poked and prodded to see what would make you tick. It felt humiliating.

"Let's just go for a drive," he tried again, gently pulling your arms away from your chest and trying to guide you out of bed.

"No," you answered again, pulling yourself away from him and settling further back into your bed.

"Maybe we should just let her be for tonight," Jaehyun suggested, moving to stand beside your brother whose head was fallen in defeat.

"I can't just leave her like this, Jae. I still don't understand what's going on."

"Just give her some space," Jaehyun tried again. "This clearly isn't very effective."

Johnny sighed but ended up in compliance as everyone except for Jungwoo moved to your living room. They quietly deliberated as Jungwoo read allowed one of your favorite novels from the end of your bed, hoping against all hope that it would in some way bring you back from the void in which your mind seemed to currently reside.

"Honestly, we had planned to just come and cheer her up," Haechan had said. "We didn't know we'd find her like this. But I can't say it really surprised me, she's been off for months now."

"I thought something seemed weird. She hasn't said much to me in a while."

"Me either."

"Yeah, same."

Everyone generally agreed with Ten's statement.

"Do you guys think something happened in France?" Jaehyun suggests.

"Or maybe things haven't been going so well between her and Lucas for a while?" Yuta offers.

"Everything just feels like it's spinning," you said, cutting off Jungwoo's reading of Mary Shelley's finest work. He was just happy to have heard you say anything at all. "Everything is going so fast around me. I just wanna take a nap, sleep for a while." As you relayed your simple disposition, you found yourself moving to lay on your side, plenty warm but unwilling to relinquish your comforter. "I don't feel like I belong here, so I'm going to sleep instead."

Jungwoo set the book to the side and laid himself down at the end of your bed. "I don't feel like I belong here sometimes either," he relates.

"But you do," you say, looking over his features and seeing every sharp and jagged curve for the first time.

"You do too," he promises.

Hours of hushed worries bled into the night, and you awoke alone in your apartment in the morning. You had no initial intention of getting out of bed. It was the hardcover copy of Frankenstein standing upright on your bedside table that stirred your aching joints into motion.

Then you remembered.

How could you ever even forget?

The Han River smiled when you arrived, taking a seat on his bank. He asked you why you'd been such an unfamiliar face as of late, to which you had no reply. He thanked you for coming to visit him nonetheless and told you about how much Seoul had missed you while you were away. He told you about the alley cats and how they missed the treats you would occasionally leave for them on your way to classes. He told you about how much the sky cried about you spending spring away. He told you that the city lights drowned out the stars while you were gone, but let them peak back into the city when you returned.

You had no beating heart to pour out into his water, so instead, you gave him your soul. The Han understood and sat with you until you bore no more faults on which to complain. He told you he missed you. You told him that you missed him too. You told him about the Garonne and how much you thought he would like her. Then he sent you off into the afternoon bustle of the city with a watchful eye.

You wondered the streets for a while. Not a penny in your pocket, and still you found so many little joys in all the cracks and crevices of Seoul. You pet the stray cats; they'd always been particularly fond of you. You walked around an antique shop making wild guesses about the past lives of every item in sight. You climbed a tree in the park without a damn to spare the onlookers. By sunset, your feet had taken you back to your campus and directly to the front door of your apartment.

"How about some tea?" you ask yourself as you push the door open, not half expecting to be ambushed by a group of concerned young men demanding to know where you were.

"Would you all like some tea too?"

It was still a struggle to hear your voice most of the time, but visible relief settled over those who'd seen you cowering from your brother in your bedroom only days prior. They all continued to check in on you frequently, as they still had difficulties coaxing you away from your apartment.

"Lucas," Johnny had finally caught him lurking in the kitchen around midnight. He was beginning to grow irritable with how troublesome he had become to locate.

Lucas froze, cup ramen clasped in one hand with chopsticks in the other. Busted like a child with their hand in the cookie jar.

"Look, I'm sorry about your sister," he started without really knowing where he was going. "I know that I kinda jumped the gun-"

"I don't want to fight with you again," the elder said. He had kept his calm since the situation had arisen. The last time you and your boyfriend had a falling out, all hell broke loose in their dorms. He had landed a good solid punch on the more-than-deserving idiot and held the belief that he probably deserved a few more. However, he'd rather not have everyone in a frenzy once more, turning against one another. "I just need you to tell me what was going on before you left."

Lucas's shoulders slump and he sets his late-night meal on the countertop. "I was just so frustrated. She always let me into her head before - but when she came back, she just stopped talking to me. She shut me out," he relayed. "I tried everything I could think of. I tried to make her really happy, I tried to make her really mad. She wouldn't talk to me."

"She won't talk to me either," Johnny said, resting a reassuring hand on Lucas's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he responds, taking some measure of the blame upon himself. He felt that maybe if he'd had more patience with you, he could have helped you to get better. Now you were detaching yourself from not only him but your other friends and family as well. "Do you think she would want to see me?"

Your brother shrugged but a small smirk played on his lips. "I dunno. Maybe you should go find out tomorrow."

Needless to say, Lucas felt displaced and burdened by heavy guilt as he stood in your doorway, looking down on your fragile body. The last time he came knocking on your door in the most awful hours of the morning, he begged and cried on his knees for you not to leave him. He felt himself resist the urge to fall to the ground and repeat his mantra of pleas.

You didn't ask him why he was there so early in the morning, nor did you ask him if he wanted to come in. Your stare made his skin feel cold. He cleared his throat to dispel some of the awkward tension that he felt clawing at his airways.

"Can I come in?" Without a word, you moved to the side. "Thank you. Were you asleep?"

"No," you say simply, trailing behind him as he steps into your kitchen.

He lets out a low chuckle as he glances around the room. It looked so surprisingly unhomely and clean. Not a single dish in the sink, nor a potted plant out of place. "I keep messing up pretty badly, don't I?"

He hated the empty way you looked at him. It was as if you didn't know him. It was as if you had just let a complete stranger into your apartment.

"I don't understand, and I'm really trying to. I know that you know that things have changed since you got back. I don't know what that means yet, but I do know that I still love you. And that I'm stupid. I know that too."

You hummed along, a thoughtful expression overtaking your blank features.

"And I know that I’m sorry. I let a stupid idea get into my head and I let it hurt my own feelings. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. Please don't leave me."

You didn't offer an answer, instead opening your arms and inviting him back into your embrace. He placed a small kiss on your lips, something he felt like he hadn't done in ages, and wrapped himself around you in an effort to keep you by his side forever.

"Are you happy here in Seoul?" your boyfriend asked, picking at the grass in front of his crossed legs. He looked at you as you looked down at the water. "I mean, I know you don't want to go back to (country), and I have a feeling that you don't exactly want to go live with my family in China. But like, would you rather be in Bordeaux? Or would you rather stay here?"

"I don't know." He hummed and waited for you to elaborate, but you made no real effort to.

"I know that we're still young and we don't have to make any decisions about where we want to live yet," he cooed, looking up to watch the sun set behind the large city towers, "but would you stay here in Seoul with me for a little while?"

You nodded, reaching over to take his hand in your own before pulling him to lay in the grass with you.

"You know, you're not the same person that you were before you left. I've realized that," he said with a sad smile as he looked over at you and placed a small kiss on your chin, pulling a small giggle from your lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I can't wait to get to know you again."

[anika-ann]

Attached: Words We Don’t Mean

(...and Those We Do)

Type: series, modern-college-professor Steve AU… aka the wrong attachment AU ;)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 7950 👀

Summary: Your parents decide to visit for Thanksgiving, which alone is a trial. 

The fact that they haven’t met Steve yet and they have no clue who he is… yeah, you better brace yourself for a storm.

A/N: Attached: Words We Don’t Mean (and Those We Do) is a one-shot to the Attached series. Technically, you can read it as a standalone.

A/N: In the Stockings fic, I mentioned that no one in their household talked about (last) Thanksgiving. Here’s why. Also: I named the parents Paul and Jane, it’s enough of a mess to work around with nameless reader; if that offends you, sorry, feel free to move on from this fic.

Warnings: angst, parents-daughter fight, mention of sexual relationhips and of using one’s body to earn money (negative view), mild flashback, emotional H/C, swearing, sprinkles of fluff and Disney

Story masterlist

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“Sweetheart, please, sit down for just a second,” Steve requested gently; however, there was no mistaking the drop of amusement in his voice.

You hummed in acknowledgement of his words and continued scrubbing the bathtub clean.

Everything had to be perfect. Had to be. You bought the tinniest of the giant turkeys yesterday ��� just so you wouldn’t have to eat leftovers for a month –, ingredients for the stuffing, potatoes and cranberry sauce. Your mum had promised to stop by somewhere to get four slices of a pumpkin pie. But cooking was on your list later today; first you needed to make sure that the apartment would shine with cleanness.

Not that you considered yourself a neat freak, thank you very much… maybe occasionally. And Steve? Yeah, he was more of a neat freak than you were and now he was telling you to rest and take it easy? Uh-huh, nope.

Nope, because… your parents -- gosh, your parents.

“Honey-“

Your head snapped to him as he bounced off of the doorframe, soft steps leading him right to you.

“Did you just call me honey?” you asked incredulously.

Not that you didn’t like it, it was just-- you were Steve’s sweetheart, his babygirl, his good girl… now honey? That was new and frankly, it might have freaked you out a bit.

Also, your heart skipped a frantic beat upon looking at him.

Damn, you forgot again about what he had done yesterday and it always startled you to see him like that. Too unusual – not bad-looking by any means, just… unusual.

Steve chuckled as he crouched to you, dropping a kiss to the top of your head and cupping your mildly sweaty cheek. He grimaced a bit at your surprised tone.

“Not a fan?”

“I mean, yeah, sure, hun, it’s just that… it’s a bit ominous, the change.”

One corner of his lips rose at your choice of a petname. “That’s because you’re freaking out and I need you to calm down a bit, sweetheart.”

Your eyebrows shot up and you scoffed, rather offended. Mostly because he was right – but also because he was being a damn hypocrite.

“Oh, am I? Me? Did I spend about an hour in front of the mirror yesterday, trying and almost failing to solve the dilemma whether I should or shouldn’t shave off my beard?”

Steve’s face turned entirely sour at your snarky remark.

“Don’t be mean, it’s a valid concern to-- I don’t want them to hate me,” he murmured and dropped his gaze in shame along with his hand, seemingly shrinking into himself, his insecurity returning.

You sighed and mentally cursed yourself for bringing it up again.

You dropped the brush to the tub with a thud and lost one of your gloves, wiping the ew feeling onto your old sweats before you tried to smoothen the worried wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“They’re gonna love you, Steve,” you assured him again, letting you fingers travel over his clean-shaved jaw, lightly pulling at his cheek to make him smile again. “I miss the beard, not gonna lie, but you do have an extremely sweet boy-next-door look now, you are my handsome, funny, smart as hell guy, who’s somehow all grown up and has life stuff figured out and you’re making me happy. You’re the epitome of the guy a girl wants to bring home to meet her parents.”

Despite slightly panting from exertion, you took care to sound as convincing as possible, pushing away your own worries for a bit.

Steve was your perfect guy, perfection incarnated; you weren’t worried about him not making an impression… except for the fact that Steve did have a few years on you and worked at the uni and—well.

Yet, you couldn’t but dread the moment your parents realized that you were everything but perfect since they let you loose on the world. You had never been the daughter to show off like the epitome of everything good and wholesome, but you always tried your best to please them…. Now though? Darting your professor? Even if he wasn’t exactly your professor?

Yeah, you didn’t think that a spotless apartment could make up for that, but it helped to ease your anxiety when you kept lying to yourself that it just might.

Steve grasped your palm in his, planting a tiny kiss there – a gesture to warm your heart, always – his lips once again curled up a fraction as his gaze met yours, his mesmerizing blues kind and hopeful.

“You really think so?”

“Of course.”

And with the way he was looking at you – you finally figured it out. Just a fleeting thought and an answer to an unspoken question you had been failing to grasp at since yesterday; it escaped your lips before you could stop yourself.

“Gosh, you look like a Disney prince!”

Steve’s eyes went comically wide, laughter erupting from his throat and he pulled you to him in one swift motion, falling on his ass with you in his arms in the process and nearly getting crushed by you. Clearly, he did not care one bit as he shook with laughter, kissing your nose, your cheeks and finally your lips despite your protests that you were gross.

“That’s golden! Oh babygirl, you’re the-”

“Tell me I’m Cinderella, I dare you,” you grumbled, but Steve just shook his head and kissed you breathless, fingers of one hand curled around your nape to guide you closer, to breathe you in, while his other hand stayed wrapped around your waist.

You tried your best not to touch him with your gloved hand, having it ridiculously stretched out to nowhere in order not to spot his clothes, but your free hand clutched at his t-shirt with enthusiasm.

His lips left yours only when the world started spinning and your mind turned blank besides the thought of Steve’s mouth being on yours and how much you loved it when he stole all the breath from your lungs – and how much you always missed him when he withdrew.

You stared at him, dumbstruck, as he watched you like you were the eighth wonder of the world, your messy self in baggy clothes, your heart growing three times its size, your insides positively tingly from the heated make-out session.

Steve was smiling again too at last, brushing your nose with his and planting one last soft kiss on your lips.

“Okay, babygirl, now hand over the brush.”

You had to blink several times, your oh so lazy brain taking its time to realize what he said. Huh? Also, did he just said it as if he was asking you were a robber holding a hostage on gunpoint and he was asking you to lay down your weapon?

The thought made you internally snort.

“Why?” you demanded, suspicious.

“Because I’m taking over.”

You instantly shook your head. “No-“

“Yes. I promise I’ll make sure it’s spotless-“

Okay, yeah, that was one of our arguments against him doing the clean-up. However, there was one more. “But you still have papers to grade and lessons to prepare!”

“And you want to cook too and then we’ll have to clean up the kitchen. And you’ll want to take a shower and and and. Papers can wait. Gimme the brush.”

“You make it sound like it’s a weapon of mass destruction… or I am,” you muttered, but you kissed his cheek – such a strange feeling, you truly missed the sensation of his beard scraping your lips – and climbed out of his lap with a meek and cautious thank you. He cackled at your antics, but quickly fished out a new pair of gloves from the bathroom drawer and started working.

You swallowed your smart remark about him being the Cinderella now. Mostly because his gesture was one of the sweetest things and really – seeing Steve scrubbing the bathtub might not be the sexiest thing in the world… but it kinda was.

It pulled at your heartstrings as you imagined that this might be how it would always be; you and Steve, settling together, taking care of the household, then cuddling on the couch—the domesticity you hadn’t always been sure you craved.

Now you were certain of it; but to get to that, you had to survive your parents’ visit first.  

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You had somewhat stayed in touch with your parents, mostly with your mum; you two had been calling on a so-so regular basis, sometimes with video, and both her and your father were obviously aware that you had a boyfriend (gee, that sounded kinda trivial, a boyfriend). In fact, Steve played a huge role in them deciding to purchase their plane tickets… besides wanting to see New York City… and you.

The thing was… you had managed to keep Steve’s identity secret so far; you never used a videocall when he was around, so your mum only had heard his voice, sweet and polite in the most Steve fashion possible, you sort-of danced around his age and his job. Yeah, you found it strange as well that you kept it up so long, a divine intervention even; or maybe your mum simply had a good idea of your dirty secret all along and purposely didn’t probe.

Now, with your parents in the apartment, your dad’s eyes more on Steve than on you (your mum’s eyes wandered too, you noticed, but she had enough decency to show you she missed you first), you felt dread fill every cell in your body. Your heart was pounding in your chest with too much ferocity, your temples pulsing, your palms uncharacteristically sweaty and if it wasn’t for Steve’s warm hand on your lower back, its weight oh so comforting, you might spontaneously combust because of your nerves.

You were suddenly entirely grateful that Steve had shaved off his beard, was giving less of a an incredibly hot (and still very young, thank you very much) professor vibe and looked--- well, kinda like he could be your classmate.

But of course, of course the subject came up. Inevitably, after the small talk about your parents’ flight, about how their job was going and if they picked up a new hobby (…or heard some gossip), you and Steve became the centre of attention.

First, things went smoothly enough; you talked a bit about school, about Penny and some of your classmates and professors, about your part-time job. Steve had been subtly drawing small comforting circles on your thigh whenever he wasn’t eating and he in fact succeeded in lowering your heartbeat so much that you might appear even calm.

And then it oh so predictably went to shit.

Because apparently, your materialistic father had to ask Steve what he was studying and what his plan for his future career was.

“I actually finished my studies,” Steve admitted in an admirably dispassionate manner.

Meanwhile, your own heart started racing again, sending you to the verge of a cardiac arrest; your father’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a hint of a smile played in the corners of his lips in effort to remain polite… for now.

“Oh? Was that recently?”

You deflected that question by bringing up the pie and snatching Steve with you to bring it to the table since you two were the hosts.

The question forgotten, your mum – god bless her, she had caught up enough to know you did not want to discuss Steve’s age, even if it wasn’t that bad – asked about Steve’s field of study.

“History, minoring in pedagogics.”

“Oh? So you are a history teacher?” your dad chimed in and you swallowed as Steve confirmed that claim, walking straight into a death trap. You had seen it coming, you had, but you still winced when your father’s icy tone cut the almost festive atmosphere. “And it wouldn’t be that you’re more of a university professor, would it?”

His hand balled into a fist on the table, your mother’s lightly covering it as she whispered his name; the gesture of comfort, a silent plea for him to stay calm, didn’t quite work.

Steve, to his benefit, looked only a bit sheepish, meeting your dad’s eye with bravery worth of the Disney prince you had called him earlier that day. Also, with the same honesty… why hadn’t you agreed on lying to them again?

“It would, sir.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose then that it is a coincidence that you two met in school?” your dad continued and you sighed, your breathing progressively turning into a more and more of a difficult task with the anticipation of a storm.

“It is not, sir,” Steve replied calmly and you honestly didn’t know whether you should kiss him or punch him, unsure if his attitude made your father madder or not. “However-“

Your father’s gaze snapped to you, sharp and enraged; you felt yourself sink into your chair involuntarily, your mind travelling years back to the moments when he wasn’t pleased with you at all, yelled and sputtered words tasting of venom.

“Do you have any explanation for this inappropriate joke?” you father hissed, not caring he interrupted whatever Steve was about to say to your defence.

Your chest grew heavy, edges of your vision blurring subtly; your eyes burned and suddenly, you weren’t only remembering. You were reliving a memory, feeling like your child-self, like your teenage-self, being scolded for every imperfection; and there had been generous amount of those as you had been growing up.

Steve’s hand somehow slid under the table again, squeezing yours, a gentle wave of attempted comfort washing over you.

But it took one glance at him and you understood that silent support was not the only goal of his when he sought your touch.

His jaw was set tight, his grip a little too strong; he was trying to maintain composure, while not at all impressed with the tone your father was speaking with you.

Yet, Steve’s gesture did provide you with something you hadn’t had whenever you faced your father before; strength and true support, the essential reminder that you had done nothing wrong.

“Dad, this is not a joke,” you said, your voice shaking only slightly as you squeezed Steve’s hand back, “Steve and I are dating. Yes, he is teaching at the same college I study, but-“

A fist hit the table, causing the remaining tableware clank with the force behind the blow and you winced in fright, all muscles tensing in an instant.

“There is no ‘but’ applicable in this case!” your father spitted out, the anger in his voice making your guts twist, the sting in your eyes intensifying. “We help you to pay for school so you could study, not sleep around!”

Several things happened at once; your mother admonished your father, a level-headed whisper of his name. Your voice, too quiet as always when your father reprimanded you, tried to protest, to defend yourself.  And Steve’s patience ran out, his outrage at your father’s demeanour showing.

“Paul-“

“That’s not what’s-“

“Don’t talk to her like that!“

“You keep your mouth shut now,” you father snapped at Steve, pointing a finger at him accusingly before turning his rage towards you again, the deep disappointment in his eyes somehow more hurtful than the anger. “Is it that bad with your grades that you have to—to--- Jesus Christ.“

The world stopped for several frantic beats of your heart, everything else in standstill. Multiple sharp breaths were drawn in, but you didn’t think either of them was yours.

Your father’s unfinished sentence echoed in your ears as if from a terrible distance and just like that—just like that, you were thrown several months back to the days before your graduation.

Rogers’ whore

Bet she’ll get the highest score

The icy feeling that froze your bones and crystalized the blood in your veins made for a stark contrast to the few hot tears you were distantly aware of that were running down your cheeks.

Many had thought of you that you were a set of holes to fill for the professor in exchange for passing an exam or two, which was disgusting, deeply insulting and obviously wrong. But those people didn’t know you- they weren’t your blood.

Your own father was now seconds from calling you a whore. The dinner turned into a stone in your stomach as the verbal punch knocked all air from your lungs.

“Paul!” you heard a swift reproach, quickly followed by Steve’s voice, dangerously low in a threat. “I’m sorry, what did you just imply about her?”

“You zip it-“

“Paul!”

It felt like a fucking elephant stomped on your chest, the spiral of pity and despair, mocking voices swirling wildly, tossing you around with a quickening speed as the circles got smaller and smaller, as if you were circling down the drain, your breaths coming shorter and shorter too-

And yet your father still continued, ignorant to all warnings and your inner turmoil.

“That’s over, my dear. I refuse to support such disgusting thing. And you, I don’t see how it’s possible that you still have your job-“

“DAD!” a loud cry cut off the monologue and it took you a moment to realize that it was you who just snapped and yelled, despite the unmistakable addressing.

Your father stared at you in mute shock as you dared to interrupt him; and frankly, with the world spinning, your stomach twisted and your chest constricted with anxiety, you were shocked by your actions too.

It was the fact that he doubted Steve’s position at the uni, flashed through your mind, the way he insulted the man you loved and who deserved all the good things. Or maybe it was his fucking attitude towards Steve and you in general and you just finally reached your limit. You weren’t sure; but shit, this ended now.

The silence that fell on the room granted you a few moments to breathe and calm your frantic mind.

“He is not using me like some f-“ -fuckdoll- “-fling or whatever. And he’s not even my professor, he’s-“

“Like it matters!” you father snapped from his trance, spitting the words, a vein on his temple visibly popping up as he rose to his feet swiftly, nearly sending the chair flying to the ground.

You stared up at him, the coil of despair and rage in your gut burning hot as he literally looked down on you.

You hadn’t been ready for this. You hadn’t been ready for your father to despise you for being in a relationship with a great man, to judge you so harshly without being able to listen for a damn second.

“It DOES. But even if he was-“ you tried to explain again, losing patience and the ground under your feet too as Steve’s hand started practically crushing the bones of yours.

You could physically feel Steve trying to hold back and slowly succumb to his not so nice emotions no doubt swirling in him just like in you.

“How can you not see that’s he’s only looking to get his---” your father gestured wildly towards Steve and rather low and you could hear Steve’s teeth grinding at the implication. Your blood reached the boiling point. How dared he to- “-that he’s only seeking a physical thing-“

“That’s not what this is. I love your daughter-“ Steve emphasized, expression fiery, voice surprisingly measured for a man who you believed was one moment from punching your father.

“Sure you do, son, until something with long legs and tall heels walks by-“

Steve’s chair scrapped against the floor and you quickly laid a palm over his chest to stop him from jumping to his feet and succumb to his righteous anger.

“Steve-“ you whispered soothingly, seeing the light tremble to his hands, tendons dancing under his shirt with the effort to hold back.

“Paul, that’s enough,” your mother interjected, grabbing her husband’s wrist to keep him back as well.

“I do love your daughter, I respect her and I fully intend-“

Steve closed his eyes as he inhaled shakily to compose himself. In the very back of your mind, you spared a single thought to what he was going to say before he shook his head and looked your father dead in the eye again.

“-I am serious about her and I want to and will be with her as long as she’ll have me.”

You had two full seconds to sink into the gentle sentiment behind his words, to cherish how much he did respect your choices and strangely, how he still doubted he could be enough for you, before your father scoffed dismissively.

“Well, I hope you are serious, because if she comes crawling back in few weeks, the door and the account will be closed.” He shot you one disdainful look that made your heart stop before twisting his arm from your mother’s hold and stepping away from the table. “We’re leaving.”

Your eyes slipped shut, a fresh wave of hot tears painting your cheeks, all strength leaving your body, darkness enveloping your mind.

He was cutting you off. He was going to disown you no doubt; that much of a disappointment you were to him.

Your own father hated you.

Dull ringing filled your ears, muffling your mother’s low voice.

“I’m so sorry for his behaviour.” She sounded truly regretful, her voice quivering a bit, you thought. “I’ll talk to him about what he said. Thank you for the dinner, baby. It was nice to meet you, Steve, truly.”

“You too, ma’am,” Steve responded firmly, his voice the only solid thing in the room. “I’ll—I’ll walk you out.”

“That’s not necessary, Steve. But thank you. I’ll call you, sweetheart.”

A low whisper about a promise fell from her lips next as she brushed your shoulder, but you couldn’t hope to understand what she was saying, the buzz of blood in your ears growing louder.

And then you knew she was gone along with your father. You knew because a warm hand touched yours, another gently wiping way the endless waterfall of your tears and then you were pulled to your feet and practically dragged to the couch in Steve’s protective embrace.

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You wouldn’t be able to tell how long you were drenching Steve’s shirt in tears, sobbing into his chest as he held you firmly and yet tenderly, whispering sweet nothings, words of comfort empty and yet so meaningful.

You couldn’t tell how long it took for the tremble subdue, for the sobs to turn into sniffles and then die out entirely.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so so sorry,” Steve whispered to your hair, caressing your scalp, your back the next, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“I know,” you creaked back, gripping the fabric of his shirt for one last time before you gathered your breath and courage to face him; you had to. You might be a mess, but it was vital that he heard you say this: “It’s not your fault.”

You withdrew slightly, meeting his eyes, so big and regretful, a bit watery as if he was the one crying. The corners of his lips, apparently having been turned down the whole time, twitched, his whole face twisting in a grimace; little sad, little defiant, but he didn’t protest even though you were certain that he wanted to.

Perhaps it was a testimony of how well you two fit, how your thoughts worked on the same wavelengths; you understood what he must have been thinking. If you were dating literally anybody else, this wouldn’t have happened.

So you had to assure him that you didn’t blame him; even if he did so himself. You didn’t have the energy to be angry with him for such thing. Mostly because that in a way, there was a tiny bit of truth in him thinking so.

“Don’t do that to yourself. I chose you. Yes, this relationship is on both of us… but we knew the risks and went for it anyway. And—it’s worth it, it’s just… fuck, this is so fucked up. I’m in such a mess now,” you whispered, your voice breaking as fresh tears burned in your eyes.

Steve’s fingers were quick to dry your cheeks, gently stroking, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“We are, babygirl. We’re in this together. What’s mine is yours,” Steve said, determined. You couldn’t find yourself sharing his optimism, but his eyes locked onto yours, serious as his words. “We’ll figure it out. Find ways of saving more. Hell, if it comes to that, I’ll try to find a job that pays better-”

Your palms landed on his chest, pushing away, putting some distance between you; his hand dropped from your face.

Say WHAT?

“Absolutely not!” you protested instantly, sobering from your despair and letting indignation take over, ignoring entirely the voice in your head sweetly nudging you with the idea of what Steve was willing to give up for you. “I’ll drop off college before I let you give up being a professor, Steve-- you are made-“

“Not an option, sweetheart,” he shot back instantly, expression turning strict. “You leaving college is off the table.”

Mentally, you threw your hands up in the air, growing confused and frustrated by the minute.

“Why? How is that different from you finding a new job, giving up something you worked for so hard?”

“The difference is,” Steve raised his voice slightly, speaking slowly as if he wanted you to remember every word, “-that the chances are that I could come back at some point, that I might only lose a few years. You dropping off, on the other hand, would affect your whole future.”

The same exasperation you felt burned in his eyes now and you gulped, realization hitting you that… yeah, okay, that was a good point. But you hated it anyway.

“…okay, that’s a fair point. But I rather work three jobs and didn’t sleep at all than seeing you leave the university.”

“And work yourself to the ground? I don’t think so, babygirl,” Steve shook his head, just a smidge of patronizing which stung more than you would expect.

Obviously, he was presenting you with more of a feasible option, but you had a feeling that the primal instinct to be the provider played a role in his attitude too – and at any given moment besides this one you would like that; you were completely fine with him wanting to ensure you were secured, taking the larger portion of the burden on his shoulders.

Except now it reminded you of your father in the worst possible way despite knowing that the sentiment was nothing but sweet, no malice in his intentions. It chased tears into your eyes.

Steve’s expression instantly melted, panic flashing in his eyes as he must have figured out that this was not the right thing to say… or not the right way.

His hands were quick to frame you face, tender but unwavering, forcing you to look him straight in the eye.

“Hey, hey, no. It’s just… we’ll work it out, somehow, okay? We can even move out and share an apartment with someone else if we need to. Though you’re forgetting I used to pay this rent and bills on my own.”

Your lower lip quivered, your heart fluttering in fondness for this incredible man, your chest constricted at the idea of taking anything away from him, even if it was comfort. God, the distance he was willing to walk…

“You were living on school cafeteria food and ramen,” you mumbled, corners of your lips twitching upwards for the shortest moment.

Steve’s smile, on the other hand, was almost blinding, tight-lipped but honest, thumbs sweeping at the tears that appeared yet again.

“See, another possibility to save money. Don’t cry, my pretty girl…” he pleaded lowly, kissing your nose before shaking his head lightly. “Or cry if you need to. I’m here, sweetheart, okay? Whatever you need.”

Shit, your heart couldn’t hope to contain this amount of love-

How could anyone ever doubt Steve was the right man for you? The best man? The most wonderful loving human being? How did your father think he was just looking for a mindless fuck?

“I love you,” you whispered hoarsely, smiling through your tears. “Fuck my father. He can’t bully me into being his perfect daughter by cutting me off, can’t make me behave. There’s nothing wrong with me loving you.”

“Or me loving you.”

There was no questioning his honesty; it was written all over his features, his irises bright with emotion. And yet, you worried your teeth over your lower lip, insecurity, your old friend, crawling into your head.

“You do, really? Even with my asshole of a dad?”

You didn’t mean it. Entirely. Though momentarily, your dad was being an asshole, not for the first time.

“Yeah, sweetheart. You’re my everything,” Steve promised, releasing your face in order to tuck messy loose strands of your hair behind your ears.

“That’s the sweetest thing to say, but you can’t exactly sell me to put food to your mouth-“ Oh. Even though… maybe that would be an option? “Well, technically-“

All the gentle warmth radiating from Steve’s expression turned ice cold, smile dropping so fast it startled you.

“Don’t you even-“

“Hey, why not, I mean how much do you think-“

“Stop that right now!” Steve’s voice cut you off, razor sharp voice as if cutting into your skin.

You flinched at the mental blow on instinct, air stuck in your throat, muscles in your back straightening enough to inflict a sharp pounding in your head.

Steve closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling painstakingly slow, as if he got punched in his gut too. His fists on your sides clenched and unclenched, Adam’s apple bobbing. When he looked at you again, it was obvious he realized he had scared you – and that he regretted not keeping his anger in check.

“I’m sorry, babygirl, I didn’t mean for it to come out this harsh.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, focusing on nothing but your breathing and keeping yourself from sobbing again as you were reminded of your father’s yelling. With each long second, you could see Steve’s face twisting and his body sinking into the couch in shame.

Well. As much as you hated him snapping at you, you had to give it to him – it sobered you up. Frankly, you didn’t blame him for being so harsh.

But you were also aware that Steve was a painfully kind and gentle soul and he never wanted to be rough with you… well, except under certain very consensual special circumstances.

“I know,” you forced an unconvincing smile, laying your palm on his cheek, affection Steve was quick to lean into with a sigh – probably both relieved and content. “I’m sorry for talking stupid.”

He covered your hand with his, carefully manipulating it so he could brush his lips over your palm.

“You’re not, not really. Our heads are a mess, rightfully so. I know people still do that, some purely by choice, but—I don’t want that for you, ever. That’s the same level on a will-never-happen scale like you not continuing your masters. Not an option for me. You’re my girl and if someone’s gonna change their habits, it’s gonna be me first.”

The surge of affection at his words filled your stomach with butterflies, wrapping around you like the softest and warmest comforter.

Great, now you wanted to cry for a whole different reason.

“I don’t deserve you,” spilled from your lips before you could think twice. Steve’s sweet smile made its return.

“Other way around, babygirl. Other way around…. Now how does a bath and a bed sound?”

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Steve hadn’t planned on you and him having a bath when making the suggestion. He found a bath-bomb even and few candles so the light wouldn’t have to be on and hurt your previously teary eyes.

But then you looked at him with wide eyes, pleading and so vulnerable, a single look so heartfelt that it would make the devil’s black heart break and the angels weep – and he was done for, sinking into the bath with you even if the bathtub was not meant for more than one person, especially when one of them was of Steve’s built.

He couldn’t tell you no. Less so after the shitstorm the dinner had turned into.

Yes, Steve’s own emotions were running high, anger, disappointment and self-hatred he knew he couldn’t confess to, certainly not at the moment, but you. You were the priority here because he had a feeling that no matter how overwhelmed he felt, he had nothing on you.

The ceramics of the tub was hard against his back and against his knees at the side, but you fit into his arms and between his legs so perfectly and contentedly that he wouldn’t dare to complain. Head in the crook of his neck, your back to his chest, you melted into him, eyes closed, fingers absently and yet affectionately running over his forearms above water, sometimes along his calves.

You didn’t talk much, mostly repeating that it wasn’t his fault, that you loved him – something he found himself echoing every time – and it slipped through your lips too that while you would never change the fact that you picked him… you were sorry for being a disappointment to your father.

At that, something in Steve’s chest cracked and he swore to himself – that he would never ever be the cause of you feeling like a disappointment. And why would he – you were his perfect girl, his best girl. As much as he regretted that he indirectly did have a hand in making you feel like this now, he wouldn’t change who you were to each other and who you were had he had the chance. Never.

What he could do was to hold you tighter after your admission and whisper more sweet nonsense that made perfect sense to him to your ear.

By the time the water got cold, you were practically asleep, completely groggy, pliant. Somehow, you both climbed from the tub without sustaining any injury. He might have been holding you upright a bit as you both brushed your teeth and pulled on a pyjama.

You fell asleep almost instantly, face hidden in Steve’s chest, few stray tears dampening his sleepshirt as you mumbled one more love confession into the fabric.

“I love you, Steve... I’m sorry… you have to put up with such bullshit…” Your words slurred but Steve didn’t need to hear them to understand what you were saying.

He dropped a kiss to the top of your head, pulling you closer to his side, ignoring the sting of guilt in his gut.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he whispered, earning a hum that might have been a sign of contentment… or you being entirely drained. “Let’s go to sleep now. Clearer head in the morning.”

Another hum and then nothing but your deep slow breathing, the last remnants of tension leaving your body.

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Steve didn’t think he would follow you to the dreamland anytime soon, too agitated, thoughts swirling wildly in his head, but he caught himself snapping back to consciousness at some point, unsure when he fell asleep – and what woke him up.

An intrusive buzzing on your nightstand provided him with the answer, your phone lit up.

Steve spared you one glance as you stirred only to nuzzle deeper into his frame, sighing.

As carefully as he could so he wouldn’t wake you, he stretched over you and checked who was calling.

Blood crystalized in his veins, heart sent into frenzy as he read a simple short word.

Mom.

He squeezed the side button, silencing the vibration as he pondered what to do; and yet, even as his heart jumped to his throat – as if he was a teenager about to face his girlfriend’s parents after he took her virginity – he had already made a decision, accepting the call as you sank into the cushions without him as a pillow.

He slipped from the room as silently and quickly as possible, announcing himself before you mother could say something not meant for his ears.

“Oh. Hello, Steve,” your mother greeted him, clearly surprised – but much to Steve’s relief, not angry.

He could do this, he could talk to your mother even with the lump in his throat; could have been much worse. Could have been your father and Steve wasn’t so sure if he would manage him. For one, he would hate to be reminded, once again, of what the numerous hate letters had told him about being a total perv; for two, Steve feared he might exchange words with your father that couldn’t have been taken back and would seal the damage done to the relationship with your parents .

“I’m sorry, ma’am. She fell asleep and—I can wake her, of course, but-“ He stumbled over his words and was immensely grateful when your mother saved him from his misery; more se when she said what she did.

“-but she had a rough night. We all did. I’m okay to talk to you, Steve.”

“Alright… how can I help, ma’am?”

“Tell me how bad she is, Steve? She stopped crying before she falling asleep?” the woman on the other side asked softly, causing Steve’s heart to squeeze in a painful memory of his own kind mother, God bless her soul.

And perhaps it was that very memory that encouraged him to speak openly, the genuine worry of a mother who cared deeply for her child, her heart full of love.

How such woman could end up with such an asshole and stay with him was beyond Steve’s understanding, but he certainly wasn’t in position to judge the choices of the women in your family – after all, he was your choice and there was a long line of people who looked at the two with disdain.

“For a while,” Steve admitted with a sigh, his gaze automatically flickering towards the bedroom. “She’s—she feels like she disappointed you in a way, she’s scared of the what’s next, but she’s angry too, because she doesn’t think she did anything wrong by being with me.”

And Steve thought the same… to a point. Didn’t matter that sometimes he would find himself in a dark place where he simply awaited the moment you’d change your mind and left him; for someone your age, with better looks, someone smarted, someone funnier, someone who didn’t have to shave off his beard just so your parents made it through the front door without yelling.

Such gloomy images always left him more desperate than he was comfortable admitting and with searing jealousy in his gut.

He needed you. Yes, he’d survive if you left – but he was certain that you’d take his heart with him, leaving him unable to fall in love ever again… or to feel whole, for that matter.

“She wouldn’t leave you to get her financial support back, Steve,” sounded gently on the other end of the line and Steve’s heart skipped a beat in alarm, brief wonder if he had said any of his latest thoughts out loud.

He supposed he didn’t – your mother was just too intuitive, just like his used to be. He gulped against his dry throat, suddenly guilty for – in a way – forcing you to leave them.

“…I suppose not… I’m sorry if-- it was never my intention to steal your daughter from you, but I’m- I’m not gonna pretend I mind that she would rather be with me than had her money.”

“This is not your doing, Steve, don’t you think I don’t know that,” she continued, a subtle smile in her voice, Steve thought. “And it’s good that she’s willing to make this choice. We wouldn’t want the bride to get cold feet, after all.”

Steve’s heart stopped altogether, he was sure of it. Colour him mortified.

How the hell—but- she couldn’t--- he hadn’t proposed yet and he- what?

His stomach twisted in a tight knot. He couldn’t but ask, voice barely above whisper.

“…how did you know?”

“You stopped yourself mid-sentence, Steve. And as cliché as it sounds, you had fire in your eyes, defending my daughter. It is clear to me that you are serious about her, that you love her, and from the little I heard about you, you are the kind of man who would put a ring on it to seal the deal.”

You mother was definitely smiling now and Steve found himself doing the same, even if the lift of his lips turned sour.

“I would have asked for parents’ blessings, but…”

“I give it,” she was quick to assure him and Steve’s breath hitched, his chest puffing with pride, filling with endless relief and joy. Your mother approved of him. Even knowing who he was, how old he was, how—she was willing to give him her blessing! “You seem like a good man, Steve.”

Steve was both embarrassed and ridiculously proud when he realized he was blinking against tears gathering in his eyes, enormous weight falling from his shoulders.

“That, uhm—that means a lot, truly,” he choked out, swiftly clearing his throat, the embarrassment definitely winning now. He had to get it together before he gave out how weak he could be in front of your mother… she had given her blessing; she could easily take it back.

“I like you, Steve. You’re a good blend of an old-fashioned and modern man. Don’t mess it up and keep my daughter happy.”

“I will try my best, ma’am,” he declared in an instant, meaning every word.

A sigh sounded from the speaker. “That’s all I ask for… now the less happy reason to call. I talked to Paul, but he… I’m sorry, Steve, as for now, he still isn’t fond of you.” That didn’t surprise Steve, but it hurt nonetheless. Then again, he was grateful that your mother tried to put in a good word for him; that meant a lot too. “He only agreed to pay for three more months.”

Steve’s free hand balled into fist, the other clutching the phone considerably tighter as hot surge of anger flooded his veins.

Three more payments. As if the relationship with your family was a damn job contract and this was the notice period.

Steve was sure he was going to be sick.

“Thank you. That’s… we appreciate it,” he managed to grit through his teeth, trying his damnest to remember that he wasn’t mad at the sweet woman – only at her husband.

“You really are a good man, Steve. You’re good for her. I’m glad she found you.”

Steve would once again be entirely joyful at being at least your mother’s favour, but he heard you call out his name from the bedroom, low, hoarse and utterly confused and all he could focus on was the idea of you, red-rimmed eyes and messy hair and still adorable, looking for him in the dark room with a pout to your lips.

“Steve?” your mother called out unsurely and Steve snapped from his reverie.

“Sorry, uhm, she’s awake-- do you want me to hand you over or-“ he blurted out swiftly, hoping the answer would be no as he couldn’t wait to crawl back to bed with you.

“No, just tell her I called. I believe you two have things to talk about. Take care of my daughter, Steve. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Jane, Steve,” she offered kindly just as Steve heard the soft patting on your fluffy socks on the floor.

“Yes, Jane,” he corrected himself then, unable to contain the satisfaction as he tested the name on his tongue. “Thank you, really. Goodnight.”

He ended the call as you emerged from the bedroom, squinting to the low light, your eyes instantly finding him – he automatically smiled for you, unsubtly splaying his arms wide. You didn’t hesitate, aiming straight into his embrace even if it was at snail pace.

It was funny and strange and wonderful how Steve still loved simply holding you, his heart calmer the moment he found you melting into his frame. Christ, he loved you… and clearly, your mother noticed; he was so obvious, that-

“You were gone,” you muttered into his chest discontentedly, nuzzling into him and Steve automatically cradled you to him tighter.

“Sorry, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” you admitted bluntly, propping your chin on his torso to look up at him, eyes growing wide and surprisingly soft with emotion. “More so because I was talking stupid and crying into your shirt instead of comforting you after my dad accused you of the things that--- those things that aren’t right.”

Steve felt the painful nudge to his consciousness, because he knew there always would be some truth to ‘those’ words; but you were here to dilute the pain and make it all better. Your care for his well-being served like a shield for the sticks and stones for now at least, when you were the priority. You had it worse at the moment, no matter what his former colleague had accused him of in those hate letters – and now your father.

“Hey, no. Don’t worry about me now.”

You gazed into his eyes, pushing on your tiptoes to peck his lips and the small gesture of affection was like a balm to his soul, much like your words.

“But I do. Always. I love you, Steve… I’m sorry we can’t catch a break… but we’ll… somehow, we’ll push through, right?” you whispered, hopeful and wistfully determined and Steve could only nod, feeling the corners of his lips rising.

“Absolutely, sweetheart. You’re my girl.”

“And you’re my guy. My prince charming,” you hummed, cradling his unusually smooth cheek, irises full of wonder, the sensation was as foreign to you as it was to him. But it was your babble that made him chuckle, the nickname that seemed to catch on; you were too cute for words. “Guess I am Cinderella after all and somehow you accidentally fell in love with me.”

“Damn right I did,” he confirmed, brushing your forehead with his lips before tugging you back to the bedroom. “Not all that glitters is gold.”

“True. Though you might have some glitter from the bathbomb on you.”

“Cheeky girl.”

He didn’t bother pretending to be offended or grumpy; he was simply too happy to see some of your snarky teasing side making its return, that was always a good sign.

“I try… but really, are you okay?”

Steve didn’t respond at first, climbing to the bed, manoeuvring you to his arms where you belonged and fit so naturally. Only when the lights were out and you were both comfortable, he replied, truthfully.

“I will be. I have you. Plus, your mum seems to be okay with me.”

More than okay, apparently.

Steve’s heart fluttered with a bit of nerves as his mind wandered to the ring he kept in the very room you fell asleep every night.

“As she should,” you hummed, sounding very pleased. “She has a nose for good people. And you’re the best.”

“After you at least.”

“Best man, then,” you argued playfully and Steve was perfectly content to have you think that. It would play in his favour when he would finally find the courage to sink to one knee in front of you.

“Well, I’m certainly a lucky one… I have the best woman.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you do. Love you,” you whispered, kissing his chest over the fabric of his sleepshirt and sighing blissfully. “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you too.”

If you only knew how much…

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S.R.masterlist

Attached masterlist

Stockings (next in timeline)

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Wink wink. I once again stretched this quite a bit, but hopefully you reached this very end without skipping something ;)

Thank you for reading and extra thanks if you happen to like, reblog and/or comment. Stay safe and happy!

(Also, to American friends: I hope you'll have better Thanksgiving than this ;) )

[wrapped-up]

ELLO FRIEND! 🌙🌙

it's been ages! how have you been? hope everything's good and well for you! things have been hectic but in getting my life back on track i am properly caught up and just jumped with joy at the email for the new chapter. and now I have thoughts™.

first of all is marlene is genuinely hilarious. oh my GOD she's so fucking funny, her povs are such joy and it's so fun to see how you develop her (and lily for that matter) with her own voice (since of course before you've only done remus sirius povs) I love it!! the content is brilliant! there's something so hilariously authentic in her interactions with people and the conversations - like the one with alan digby and his wife sandra who went up everest and didn't come back down?? literally where else are you going to find that shit it's priceless

second. DORCAS! so happy to finally meet her! the way you described her (and how marlene fancies her) had my heart ready to explode, she's wonderful and im very excited to see how that relationship progresses as the funeral/churchy stuff is all over now. my best bet is that marlene in her cotton wool brain is going to end up going back to the church just to see her and like.. have to pretend she's interested in religion when really she's just gay and pining. but honestly who knows. i can never predict your narratives and it makes them so much more fun

thirdly. remus and sirius. HELLO. remus is such a mess it's almost comical, when he banged himself into the pew because he caught sight of sirius in the silk shirt... oh you MESS. they're so enamoured with each other it's crazy you can FEEL it. and it's so inevitable that remus is going to end up going back to him considering how easily he cracks (example, the dancing scene with himself letting him look. my gosh.) they're like fucking magnets. also i am horribly attached to this little garden that sirius loves so much and i cant wait to see how it progresses and what lawyer-y stuff remus does to try and help save it. if sirius isn't already in love he is going to fall HARD

okay. this is getting too long i'm sorry but i need to talk about lily. she's wonderful. i know i said earlier all of your characters are so authentic and real but lily has to be the best of the bunch. she's just the perfect example of what it is to be a woman. her insecurities and her thought processes sometimes get me RIGHT in the chest, her endometriosis is so important and amazing to see represented so brazenly because reproductive issues with uterus owners are talked about so little! taboos on this stuff sucks! taboos on womanhood in general sucks! i personally want to give lily a little cuddle and tell her how wonderful she's doing but i cannot so i'm gonna need her and james to sort their stuff out so he can (your JP is so so wonderful by the way i'm halfway in love with him and i love what you've done with the J/L dynamic! they're feeling like right person wrong time, and I love that it's lily who kind of has to figure herself out before they come back together. it's so real; i've literally had a relationship like that. you always make me re-fall in love with jily so quickly and i love it <3)

okay there's many more things i could say but this is way too long so i'll stop here. thank you for your writing! the update made my day and your characters are near and dear to my heart. have a good one 🌙🌙🌙🤍🤍🤍

Hello dearest! 🌙 I hope you're doing well, and I'm very glad to hear that things are looking up! I'm really good thanks, just sort of mulling around writing the odd paragraph, eating blueberries and occasionally doing a bit of 'real' work.

Can I just say that when I saw this in my inbox, I gave a little squeal of joy?! You spoil me with such thorough and enthusiastic feedback and I'm ever grateful.

I'm so so pleased you're enjoying Marlene! I have also become very fond of her as I've been writing and I just love trying on her thoughts when it comes to her chapters. I'm also enjoying the Alan love because he's destined for great things!

Ooh, Dorcas. I can't tell you the patience I have had to exercise waiting to introduce her. I feel like in other fics I've written, she's never been quite fully formed in my head. This time, I've got a better idea of where I want her to go.

Sirius and Remus = tragic. Come on boys, just have a little cuddle.

Thank you for saying that about Lily. I read so much stuff where she's just this perfect, virginal figure and I just... can't see it. She's surely going to be just as messy as the rest of them!

Anyway, thank you again. I'm so thrilled you're having fun and wish you all the best for the coming weeks!

[fanmoose12]

Partners

Characters: Petra Ral, Levi, Hanji Zoe x Levi Genre: Action / Mystery / Romance Rating: T

Detective!au

Summary: when Petra was promoted to a detective and partnered up with legendary Levi Ackerman, she felt like the happiest person in the world. 

But, as she soon found out, detective Ackerman she used to admire so much was actually a far cry from the ideal policeman Petra thought he was. He was rude, harsh and easily annoyed. And, in addition, he still hadn’t moved on from the death of his previous partner - detective Hange Zoe.

Chapter 1. 

                                                                      “You two make a good team.”                                                   “Thank you. His last partner cast a long shadow.”

                                                                                            Daredevil, vol. 4

Petra had been a police technician for long five years. She didn’t hate her job per se, and helping other people was always one of the biggest passions in her life, but… She always strived for something better, something bigger.

However, she hadn’t been promoted for so long that she had lost all hope of rising up in ranks. So when, one day, Captain Erwin called her into his office, she'd feared that he decided to transfer her to another division, or, maybe, he noticed some kind of inconsistencies in one of her reports. Her legs were wobbly, while she was walking through the station’s corridors. And as she opened the door to the Captain's office, her hands were shaking and sweaty.

But as it turned out, there was nothing to be worried about. She wasn't transferred, there was no mistakes in her reports. No, instead, she was promoted. To a detective. And her new partner was none other than detective Levi Ackerman himself.

Even outside of their department, Detective Ackerman was a living legend. In the ten years he had served in the homicide department, he and his partner Hange Zoe solved every single case appointed to them. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with, their unusual investigation tactics bewildered and sometimes shocked civilians, but nevertheless, they were a pride of their department. And there was no one, who was more proud of them than their superior officer, Captain Erwin. Those three trusted each other unconditionally, and were not only close colleagues, but dear friends as well.

Although, all of it had come to an abrupt end two years ago, when Hange Zoe mysteriously disappeared during one of the cases. It was quite unclear, if she had really died, her body was never recovered, and both Levi and Erwin refused to give a statement, regarding that accident. The only thing general public knew that detectives Zoe and Ackerman ventured on a mission to capture a dangerous criminal, Zeke Yeager, but only Levi walked out of that building alive.

And ever since that accident, detective Ackerman became secluded and aloof. His success rate dropped significantly and he refused to accept another partner.

Petra became a policeman, when detectives Zoe and Ackerman were in their prime and the talk of the whole city. Petra saw them a lot, as they hurried in and out of the station. They were a weird pair, and if she didn't know better, wasn't aware of just how successful their partnership was, she would never guess that those two genuinely liked each other. They were so different - Hange's lips were seemingly permanently curled into an excited smile, while Levi's face was always set in scowling expression.  They constantly teased and made fun of each other, but there was always an undeniable affection in their words, no matter how biting they were, and in their eyes, as they gazed at each other. And the fact that Levi was taking her death so hard, only further proved that those two were extremely close comrades.

And, of course, from the first time she had laid her eyes on detective Ackerman, Petra couldn’t help, but admire him. He was sharp, collected, hard-working and righteous. He embodied everything a good policeman should be.

And now, she was going to be his partner. Petra couldn't wait to start their new case! As she walked away from Captain Erwin’s office, she kept imagining what her first day of working with legendary Levi Ackerman would be like.

"Good day, I'm detective Petra Ral and this is my partner Levi Ackerman."

Gosh! Just the thought of it made her feel dizzy.

She was so happy! She was ready to do everything to prove herself to Levi. To be an even better partner to him than his previous one.

 ***

The next day, as soon as Petra woke up, she could barely conceive her excitement. She came to work earlier than usual, and she couldn't keep a smile off her face, as she gathered all of her belongings into a box, so she could bring them to her new workplace. She would be sharing an office with detective Ackerman himself! She didn't dare to even dream about that, but now it was actually happening! Truly, she was the luckiest person in the world.

"What got you in such a good mood?" Oluo, her past co-worker asked. "Have they finally fired you?"

"I'm being promoted, dummy," she couldn't resist the smug grin that appeared on her face. "So show some respect. You're talking to a Detective Petra Ral."

"Detective?" Oluo whistled, sitting back in his chair. "And who is that miserable fool who will become your partner?"

"I don't think you've heard of him," Petra put hands on her hips, looking down at Oluo, a sense of pride nearly overwhelming her. "Does the name Levi Ackerman say something to you?"

"No way," Oluo's eyes widened almost comically. "You're fucking with me."

"I'm not."

"Holy shit, you're detective Ackerman's partner? He refused one for years!"

Petra shrugged, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Maybe, he saw something special in me."

"Or, maybe, Captain Erwin pressured him into this."

Petra huffed. "You're just jealous because you'll be stuck here, doing patrol work till your pension."

"Oh, shut up and leave already," Oluo turned to his computer. "I was getting sick of seeing your face anyway."

Petra's gaze lingered on Oluo's back for a moment. Maybe, she was too harsh with him? True, he was oftentimes lazy and enjoyed slacking off, dumping all of his work on Petra, but he was a good man. An honest one, Petra respected him. She liked him, too, even though sometimes that arrogant smirk of his drove her absolutely mad.

Well, she could always apologize to him later. Knowing Oluo, he probably didn't even care about her words. Certainly a cup of coffee would make him forget about any offence.

Besides, she had to forget about him for the time being. Today was important day. She couldn't let herself lose her focus.

 ***

When Petra came to her new office, Levi was already there.

"G-good morning!" she squealed. "I'm your new partner, Petra—"

"I know," Levi harshly cut her off. "I'm sure you know my name as well, so let's skip the pleasantries. Just put your shit somewhere and get to work."

"Oh... alright."

Trying to hide her disappointment, Petra looked around the office. There were four desks there. She decided to take the one that was across from Levi's.

"No!" instantly, Levi covered the desk with his hands. He looked up, glaring at Petra so fiercely, as though she had done some horrible dead. His voice was quiet and yet so cold, it made shivers run down Petra's spine. "That desk is already taken."

Petra gave it a second look. Now that she stood so close to it, she could see that the table was covered in stacks of papers and empty coffee cups. However, despite its messiness, the desk was pristinely clean. 

Petra checked the date on the report that was lying on the top. The report was written almost two years ago. By detective Hange Zoe.

Oh.

So Levi didn't really move on, did he?

"Can I sit here?" Petra pointed to the desk near the window.

Levi looked at her for barely a second.

"That desk is empty," he said, returning to his work.

An uneasy silence fell over the room. At least, it was uneasy for Petra. Levi didn't seem to care in the slightest.

"So..." she tentatively began after a few of excruciatingly long minutes. “What is our first case?"

"Oh, yes," Levi threw a case file on her desk. "A middle-aged man was killed this morning. A rich snob, he was most definitely killed by his wife, because he refused to share his money. I've already run through the possible theory with forensics, all you need to do is to question his wife to see if my theory is legit or not. I'm sure it is, though."

"Ah... okay."

So there won't be any teamwork, huh? Maybe, it was for the best. Levi's attitude left much to be desired.

Still, Petra wasn't going to give up so easily.

So when she returned from detention center, where the wife of the deceased was held (she did kill her husband, Levi was right), Petra brought him a cup of tea.

"I didn't know how you take it," she said sheepishly, putting the cup in front of him. "Tell me what you think."

Levi looked up at her, regarding her carefully. His eyes were sharp, but that was about everything Petra could say about them. They were a beautiful shade of grey, but she could see nothing in them, but boredom and indifference.

Their eye contact didn't last for a second too long. Levi turned to the cup on his desk. He lifted it slowly, staring at the swirling liquid inside. Glancing back at Petra again, be put it to his lips and took a sip.

"It's very good," he said after a moment. "Exactly how I like it."

Petra's heart swelled. Her lips almost curled into a happy smile. But then Levi threw the contents of the cup into the trash can.

"Her tea always tasted like shit," he muttered under his nose, but loud enough for Petra to hear.

She could feel tears gathering in the corner of her eyes.

"I appreciate the effort," his voice didn't sound like he truly did. "But don't bring me tea, or some other kind of food, ever again. You shouldn't waste your time with such useless shit."

And then he turned back to his computer, not sparing another glance in her direction.

Petra felt like the biggest idiot, like a naive little girl, who was scolded by her teacher.

Why did she even bother?

 ***

"Petra, right?" Levi asked after a while.

"Yeah?"

"You can go home earlier, Petra."

"But I didn't finish my report—"

"I'll do it for you. Go and rest."

Petra narrowed her eyes. It sounded like Levi was trying to make her leave.

"Were you working on the case the whole day?"

Levi had been glued to his computer screen ever since Petra came. He didn't even go on a break.

"...Yes, of course. What else would I be working on?"

He hesitated, for less than a second, but he did. Why? What was he doing? What was so important to her new partner? Oh, how Petra wanted to know! But she knew she couldn't, there was no way that Levi would be willing to tell her about it.

However, she could always find out in some other way.

Not today, though.

"Alright, thank you," she smiled sweetly. That smile always made everyone smile back. However, it seemed to have no effect on Levi. "I'll be going then. Have a nice evening."

"Sure," Levi answered absentmindedly, his attention already back on his screen.

Before walking out of the office, Petra gave him another critical look.

She'd be damned, but she'll find out his secret. She'll prove to him just how good she was as a detective.

Not worse than his dead partner.

[lovelylogans]

debutante

previous chapter | chapter two | next chapter

part of the wyliwf verse.

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

pairings: logince, moxiety

words: 21,995

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

⁂

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

patton snorts, and then tries to pretend he hadn’t—but, really, kirk becomes way less aggravating when you take him as comic relief. virgil knows, it’s the way he’s managed to stand all of kirk’s eccentricities over the years.

“anyway, yeah, that’s about it,” virgil says. “how'd the dinner go—i mean, i know emily at least gave you the dress, so that went okay, right?”

patton shrugs a shoulder and says, “i guess. i mean, i have a feeling this isn’t over, but… gosh, you should have seen her and logan stare each other down.”

“intense, huh?” he prompts, when patton goes quiet. he squeezes his thigh again, because physical touch is one of patton’s top two love languages. he knows, they took the test together.

patton chews his lip, before he says, “he looked like me. back then, i mean. the look on his face. my mom must’ve seen it a million times when i was his age.”

virgil squeezes a little tighter.

he knows that patton’s teenage years were rough. again, patton doesn’t really like to talk about them—virgil doesn’t blame him—but virgil did see patton struggle through the later end of his teens, and he was there for him when he’d broken down in tears. now, with as old as he is, as removed as they are from it, having seen logan and roman grow up and realizing how truly young patton was when they first met, the thought of teenage patton—struggling so fiercely in a house full of people who hadn’t understood him just made him, how hard patton had had to work to get a better life for himself and his son, the years of therapy patton had gone through—just made him want to grab patton in a hug and never let go.

“so,” patton says, pauses, and lets out a sigh. “i don’t—i don’t know. it went okay. but seeing logan copy me like that, i just…”

virgil leans over to kiss patton on the cheek.

“the difference between you as a teenager and logan as a teenager is massive,” he says lowly. “because logan’s got you, and me, and roman, and ms. prince, and rudy. he’s got this whole bizarre town. you had you, and christopher, i guess, but he didn’t understand. you’ve learned coping mechanisms that you passed onto logan, so he knows other ways to redirect his feelings. if he’s being rebellious to help protest something he thinks is sexist or unjust, i think that’s a pretty good reason to rebel. you did a great job with him. he’s a great kid. yeah?”

“yeah,” patton says very quietly. “yeah, he is.”

“you’ve come really far,” he says, and leans to see patton better, and gently pokes at patton’s cheek, just to make him smile, and he adds, “plus, i’d think if teenage-rebel you came to the future to see that your son’s protesting the gender stuff you’d been struggling with, i think that would’ve made you pretty happy, huh?”

and, yes, patton does smile at that, and something in virgil relaxes at the sight.

“yeah,” patton says. “yeah, i think it really would’ve.”

“well, good,” virgil says, and kisses his cheek, before he decides to just kinda go for it and lean in to wrap his arms around patton, initiating the cuddling early. “so, other than that déjà vu—”

“it went okay,” patton says, wiggling into virgil’s arms. “i mean—still weird to look at the dress that my mom bought for me. but other than that, it was okay.”

virgil hums sympathetically, and presses a kiss to patton’s head.

“well,” he says. “i’m gonna adjust it so that it’s logan’s dress, and his dress only. does that help?”

he feels patton smile against his collarbone.

“you know,” he says musingly. “i think it really does.”

⁂

logan has never walked into a store afraid to touch something before.

granted, most stores he walks into are grocery stores or convenience stores; clothing stores, sometimes, mostly before the school year or whenever roman decides he simply must check out the latest collection of things that the outlet mall in woodbridge had to offer. most of the time, the stores logan knew were quiet, maybe with some inoffensive music piped in, with products he knew how to use, or how they looked.

this was not the case in a bridal boutique.

which is where logan and roman are; though logan had the dress once intended for his father, roman still needed to get his own, and had so enticed logan to come along with him to help him choose.

it’s a saturday afternoon, and they’re technically on a date. there’s a bookstore just across the street, and a frozen yogurt parlor near there, and a thrift store they could dive into so logan could see the second-hand books and roman could hunt for some kind of retro statement piece.

logan inspects his hands again. there’s a stray inky blue smear across his hand that must have gotten there when he was taking his notes earlier today. he eyes the pearly-white tulle suspiciously, and takes a step closer to the center of the room, away from any of the merchandise.

objectively, he knows that touching these delicate, temperamental fabrics and testing the sensation of them by running his hand along the skirts won’t harm them, but. logan has laid eyes upon the price tags in this room. he is not going to even slightly risk ruining these dresses, somehow. 

roman’s spinning some kind of tale for the bemused, yet seemingly enthusiastic dress attendant—something something debutante ball, something something drag family induction, something something the most experimental stuff you’ve got!—and logan considers a dress a shade of blush pink so light it’s practically white, with a delicate, lacy flower overlay, the whiteness of the flowers being the only thing to really give away the pinkness of the dress itself. he wants to reach out and rub the material between his fingers.

he also knows that, with the location in the store and the quality of the material, the dress likely costs upwards of five thousand dollars. possibly more. maybe even double.

“logan!” and logan looks away, to where roman’s waving him back toward the dressing room section. thank god, somewhere to sit and not worry about accidentally tripping over a dress and leave an irreversible mud print from his shoe, or something.

the attendant burbles something along the lines of “so supportive!” that logan doesn’t really listen to, and doesn’t really have to respond to, because she’s pointing roman in the direction of a dressing room and logan gets to sit down in a chair and finally not worry about catching a ragged edge of his fingernail in a veil and accidentally ripping it in two.

logan waits until the attendant leaves, and says, “you’re really getting a dress from here?”

“it’s not all high-end,” roman says. “they have some old samples that they’re desperate to get rid of—that’s the kind of thing i want.”

logan nods, absorbing this, and his shoulders start to relax. obviously, roman’s monetary discretions are not up to him, at all. considering it comes from either his mother or working at his mother’s studio, therefore it should primarily be roman’s concern or ms. prince’s concern, but it is reassuring to know that roman isn’t about to ransack his college fund to get a pretty dress he’ll wear once as a prank.

the attendant comes back with armfuls of tulle, which roman claps his hands at with excitement, and steps into the dressing room with her. the door closes behind them, and logan can just barely hear their muted conversation beyond the door.

logan digs around in his backpack and pulls out his history textbook, his history notebook, and a pen; he may as well study while roman’s getting primped.

he gets through about a third of the chapter on enlightenment ideals by the time the door opens again.

he puts down his pen and glances up in enough time to carefully fold his lip under his teeth in an attempt not to laugh.

roman makes sure the attendant is occupied with adjusting the train before he pulls a blech! face at logan, one he’s accustomed to seeing whenever someone attempts to serve roman anything with cauliflower.

blech, logan thinks, is right. the fabric looks like it’s made of aluminum foil. it’s all bunched up in the front, like the dress is made of paper that’s been crumpled up by a giant hand, but there’s a long train in the back, and the whole thing is bedecked with big, chunky gems, like plastic rhinestones.

of the pair of them, roman’s always been the more fashionably-minded one, but even logan can tell this dress is not good.

“what do you think?” the attendant asks.

“it’s…. unique,” roman says diplomatically, smoothing his hands along the fabric; the bodice is strange, and clearly not fitted to suit roman’s chest. “definitely on the right track toward campy. but, um—”

“you tend to favor golds over silvers,” logan offers, which is true; one of roman’s signature colors was gold for a reason. “the crumpled look isn’t the best, either. you could certainly pull off a, um—”

he makes a hand gesture, and roman offers, “high-low skirt.”

“—right, high-low skirt, but the bodice isn’t the best, either,” logan continues. “something more theatrical would suit your personality, certainly, but i think that’s more in terms of, you know. a very outdated dress, or maybe something ostentatious, but not—”

“not this kind of ostentatious, yeah,” roman finishes for him, and the attendant looks between them, seemingly starting to question why she took in two teenage boys to try on dresses. the look falters, though, and she pastes a smile onto her face—professionalism must prevail, logan supposes.

“back to the dressing room, then!”

she trots roman out in a few other options—an a-line dress with a lacy bodice and a tulle skirt, a trumpet dress with chantilly lace and a sheer back, a relatively simple a-line dress that roman keeps twisting around in to gleefully poke at the massive bow perched at the small of his back—and logan offers commentary when asked. as she sees roman adjust the bow again, the attendant smiles.

“you like the bow?”

“i like the bow,” roman agrees, grinning. “i look like a birthday present.”

“all right,” she says. “i’ll bring out something a bit more experimental again—”

at the looks on their faces, she adds, “not quite as avant-garde as the first dress. actually, it’s fairly old-fashioned, but i think it might have that theatrical aspect you’re looking for. i’ll go back and change you out of this one and bring it back for you so you can take a look, does that sound good?”

roman agrees, and accepts her hand down off the stand, with a wink at logan, before they go off into the dressing room together. logan turns again to his history textbook; he’s nearly done with the chapter, which means one less thing to stress about when he should be focusing on a date with roman.

he can hear roman laugh from inside the dressing room and, unbidden, the corners of his mouth lift, too. either this dress is hilariously terrible, or roman’s thrilled at the idea of wearing this dress which he thinks is perfect for him.

when roman hops up onto the stand, logan honestly can’t tell which it is.

it’s like some fashion designer decided to stick every terrible fashion trend from the eighties onto one dress. there are big, puffy balloon sleeves made of tulle, secured with rosettes, in addition to typical spaghetti straps with smaller rosettes all over them; there’s a panel of beading down the bodice; there’s an overlay of rows and rows of ruffly tulle over a skirt of satin.

and, of course, there is a big, fluffy bow, perched right at the small of roman’s back.

it is extra. it is absurd. it is dramatic.

“i love it,” roman says gleefully. “oh, my goodness, it’s so much!”

it is, of course, roman.

“you look beautiful,” logan offers, and roman flashes a radiant smile in his direction, before he turns to offer his exuberant thanks to the attendant, who seems relieved (”we’ve had that sample longer than i’ve worked here, i’m sure they’ll be thrilled we’re rid of it!”) and takes roman into the dressing room, to help him out of the dress and go ring him up.

logan packs up his history book with some satisfaction; he has succeeded in taking notes for this chapter, which meant that frees up some time tomorrow, which meant he could probably work to get ahead in his latin class.

or, more likely, his dad would insist he go out and do something fun, despite the fact that he’s clearly doing something fun now. and yes, fine, he’s brought his textbooks, but clearly there was time to study here, so logan will provide this chapter of notes as an example as to why studying in the midst of a date was necessary.

logan slings his backpack over his shoulder just as roman emerges from the dressing room, in the same outfit he’d been in before he’d enlisted on a dress-shopping extravaganza; despite the fact that he’s wearing a red linen button-down tucked into a pair of high-waisted, dark-washed jeans, along with a dark overcoat to fight any of the last of the spring chill, a look that still seems very put-together—it seems almost like he’s a little underdressed, after all of the wedding dresses.

he doesn’t voice this—underdressed or not, roman constantly looks lovely—and instead he offers his arm, saying, “shall we go pay?”

“we shall,” roman says in an officious british accent, probably making fun of logan, just a little, but he laces his arm through logan’s anyway, and tugs him out of the dressing room area, to the front, where he chitchats cheerfully with the attendant and takes the truly massive garment bag, hoisting it above his head to avoid letting it drag on the ground.

“virgil’s going to have a hell of a time with this dress,” roman says gleefully. “should we go and grab a cummerbund for him? you know, just to make things easier for him.”

“he’s going to complain the whole time he gets all dressed up,” logan points out.

“i know,” roman says brightly, and tugs logan again. “c’mon, let’s go drop this in the car so we can go get fro-yo. i hope they’ve got gummy worms, i wanna make the super-fruity bowl this time.”

“so it falls to me to make some chocolatey flavor, i suppose,” logan says; for the pair of them frozen yogurt, unlike lucy’s, is prone to sharing, and as to avoid unfortunate flavor combinations, such as pineapple tart and whoppers, each of them make a bowl for each flavor—one for fruity flavors, and one for chocolatey flavors. “do you think i should combine coffee and fudge brownie?”

roman kisses him on the cheek, even as he’s pushing the door of the dress store open. “you’re a genius, my darling love.”

logan realizes in the middle of a bowl of coffee-chocolate frozen yogurt that roman’s managed to get him to leave behind his textbooks in the car, along with the dress.

he can’t bring himself to mind all that much.

⁂

this plan straight out of the plot of an early 2000s movie, if early 2000s movies had meaningful and visible trans characters, is somehow working.

dee still can’t believe it, somehow, even after a weekend of getting texts from known-but-aren’t-supposed-to-be-known members of secret societies like the porcellians (the porks, to those in the know, and dee is most decisively in the know) and the clairs and the skull and dagger and the sphinx club and the order of the gorgon’s head—truly the secret society names at this school were something else. 

he’s consulting his list on his way to meet up with logan to give him a morning update (could use some more involvement from the knights of the lamp and the old crows, and if he’s truly dreaming big he’ll try to crack all twelve of the twelve peers) when he glances up to see logan at his locker, looking truly startled as he’s being accosted by a freshman, who is waving a piece of paper at him with a fierce look on her face, her voice loud, but dee can’t quite make it out over the chatter and clatter of the morning crowd getting their books for the morning, and catching up over the latest weekend gossip.

as he gets closer, he realizes who it is. poppy mcmaster, whose legal full name is so genuinely atrocious that he could only feel pity for her when he’d scanned all the freshman’s files early in the year. who in their right minds named a child coppelia parthenope mcmaster and expected them not to get brutally bullied? unless, of course, they somehow preternaturally knew that poppy would turn out with the kind of aggressive, single-minded ambition whose brashness made her preschool teacher cry.

he mostly knows her because their families move in similar social circles, as ten generations of mcmaster have attended harvard. she stands at all of 5’2”, quite a bit shorter than logan, and yet she seems to be threatening him.

dee sidles closer to get a better look at her—dirty blonde hair pulled half-up, intense dark brown eyes, chilton uniform in perfect regulation—and approaches right as she’s saying, “some discretion, for the love of god—”

“dee,” logan says, spotting him. “um, this is—” and he glances at her, eyebrows furrowing. “you didn’t say your name.”

“coppelia mcmaster,” dee says, partially to show off but also because, coppelia. “or are you going by parthenope again? or something short for parthenope, anyway.”

poppy scowls at him, fierce, and snarls out, “poppy.”

“of course, of course,” dee says placidly. “poppy. how long has it been? i don’t think we’ve spoken since your bat mitzvah. mazel tov, once again.”

“todah,” poppy says, with the kind of tone one usually reserves for saying thanks for a present they resoundingly dislike. “you’re involved in this whole debutante plot, aren’t you?”

“well, yes,” dee says. “logan’s brainchild, of course, but one could say we’re co-parenting.”

poppy then proceeds to shove a familiar piece of paper into his hands, and she says, “mr. gardiner nearly saw and grabbed this if i hadn’t pretended it was a participation sheet from the student council.”

dee sucks in a breath, turning over the sign-up sheet—oh, wonderful, they have gotten another member of the twelve peers—but his eyes also land on the Contact Logan Sanders for details.

“thank you,” dee says at last, and turns his eyes to logan. “how many of these are up around the school?”

“three,” logan says. “that one included.”

“well, we’ll have to take them down,” dee says decisively. 

“what?” logan says.

“you’ll get in trouble,” poppy says. “detention, suspension, maybe.”

“we are planning to disrupt a large social event for the daughters of the american revolution,” dee says, and glances at logan. “as you can likely imagine, social protest is not exactly the kind of press attention chilton would like to receive.”

logan scowls, and says, “tinker versus des moines—”

“—was a public school,” poppy says impatiently. “i know you came from the backends, sanders, but this is a private school. different rules apply to us.”

“plus, we’re recruiting for protest,” dee says. “i’m not sure how well the tinker test will hold up for us, and i’d rather not find out. the word’s been spread enough, we can further recruit over private text message and dms.”

logan concedes this point with a nod, and he says to dee, “i’ll defer to your judgement.” then, to poppy, “thank you for interfering. that would have complicated matters unnecessarily.”

poppy shrugs, and says matter-of-factly, “it’s common knowledge that either of you will likely be editor when i enter the franklin junior year, i may as well attempt to establish myself as one of your proteges this early on to improve my chances for being assigned the better pieces junior year, and to provide an even clearer path to editor senior year.”

logan looks startled at that, and dee turns admiring eyes to poppy—he’d known her ambitions, of course, but planning this far in advance was preparation that dee could appreciate.

she says to logan, “do you have an escort yet?”

“um,” logan says. “no. no, i don’t.”

“all right then,” poppy says, and fishes out a reporter’s notepad from the side pocket of her backpack, removing a pen from her breast pocket, scrawling, and then ripping out the paper and handing it to him. “consider the slot filled. i’ll do it.”

logan looks at the paper—her phone number—and then back at her. “you’re joining?”

“obviously,” poppy says. “the clairs are involved. my cousin was a clair, her mother was a clair. the connections you make with clairs last the rest of your life. if this helps me get closer to joining with them, i’ll do it, just so i won’t have to spend all year killing myself to get in. plus my mother has been insistent i attend a debutante ball for ages now, she’ll be crushed i’m doing it in a tux, and crushed that i’m not going for the puff route like her, but these are the sacrifices we must make.”

she doesn’t sound particularly sorry about crushing her own mother, but logan acknowledges this with a nod, digging around in his own backpack for a flyer before handing it to her.

“everyone is going to attend a sort of crash-course in debutante ball culture,” he says. “the dance, the bow, the curtsy, so on. here is the address and any supplies you should bring. do you already have a tux, or should i send you some information for rentals?”

“rentals,” poppy says, and exchanges a look with dee—dee knows logan wasn’t raised in all this, but seriously, a rental?

“i take that as a no,” logan says, undeterred, before he zips up his backpack again. 

“fantastic,” poppy says. “i was wondering about the strategy for establishing a working relationship with you, i’ve known him,” she flicks a dismissive gesture toward dee, “for years. it just so happens that this route will also help take care of my social life and allow me to enact some form of teenage rebellion, because it’s been scientifically proven that teenagers who rebel constructively form a robust sense of self and are more likely to a have a clear sense of direction, beliefs, or relational commitment, and those who don’t may find it hard to settle or focus on building a meaningful and satisfying life. this is excellent multi-tasking.”

poppy looks delighted. logan looks like he might be developing a headache. dee has found this a typical reaction to people within proximity of poppy.

⁂

virgil looks up as the bell rings and immediately steps out from behind the counter.

brick is struggling cheerfully with a stack of tupperware in their arms, and virgil takes the top few so that brick can see.

“i got it,” brick complains.

“i don’t want you tripping over chairs, i’m sure you can handle the weight,” virgil says. “i was thinking you could set up over at this table here—right by the door, but out-of-the-way enough so that you don’t have to deal with anyone bumping into you. that cool?”

“yeah, that’s cool,” brick says. “thanks, virgil!” and immediately sets down the tupperware on the table in question. virgil follows suit, setting down his own load, and arches his eyebrows, impressed.

“you guys could put fran and lucy out of business with all these baked goods,” he says.

because that’s what brick is here for—the first shift of kids manning a table for a bake sale, to raise funds to make sure the sideshire kids can afford their slots in the debutante ball. 

brick stares at him for a few seconds.

“sarcasm,” he elaborates, because brick doesn’t really pick up on that too well, most of the time.

“got it,” brick says. “um, i’m gonna go help ellie—they brought a few other things, so save up that comment for them, i’m sure they’d get it.”

“need any help?” he says, knowing full well that brick will say—

“nah, i got it!” brick says, and darts out of the diner again. virgil waits by the door, just in case they need someone to open it for them—which they do, brick with another load of tupperware, and elliott with a poster tucked under their arm, a register in hand, and a plastic jar under their other arm.

“hi, elliott,” virgil says.

“hi, virgil,” elliott says.

“right over here,” virgil says, gesturing to the table, “do you need any help?”

“um, do you have tape?” elliott asks, frowning. “i just realized i don’t have any.”

“tape, got it,” virgil says, and ducks into the back to see if he’s got any in his office.

by the time he’s come back out, brick and elliott are already seated behind the table, arranging the last of the opened tupperware, with the plastic jar having a sign taped over it saying DONATIONS FOR THE BALL, and virgil pauses to dig a ten out of his pocket, dropping it in the jar before he hands over the scotch tape.

“thanks, virgil!” brick cheers, as elliott quietly thanks virgil for the tape and goes about taping the poster to the front of the table. it’s definitely homemade—there’s glitter, and marker, and there’s a little flyer taped beside it that explains what exactly they’re trying to do at the debutante ball.

“you want drinks?” virgil asks, tucking his thumbs into his front pockets. “on the house.”

“ooh, cocoa, please!” brick says. “the—the minty one. do you still do the minty one?”

“i still do the minty one,” virgil says. “peppermint should be a year-round flavor. ellie, you want anything?”

“cocoa/coffee,” elliott says.

“that stunts your growth,” brick points out.

“i’m taller than you,” elliott tells brick, who bristles and immediately opens their mouth, and virgil ducks out to get their drinks.

by the time he brings back the two steaming mugs, brick is finishing off their tirade with “—i’ll end up built like korra, and then you will see.”

“drinks!” virgil says, and sets the mugs down in front of them. “uh, just so you know, we hit one of those weird lulls, so we’ve probably got half an hour or so before things start picking up for dinner rush.”

both of them make noises of acknowledgement.

“so,” virgil says, settling in a chair near them. “elliott, i know you were thinking about what you were gonna wear slash do, did you decide that?”

“i, um,” elliott says, fingers tracing the rim of the mug. “i thought i’d wear, like, a half-dress half-tux thing. i dunno if i’m gonna debut or escort yet, though, that kinda depends.”

“that sounds cool,” virgil says encouragingly. “do you have a picture?”

elliott does, but since it’s only partly designed—their sister liked messing around with fabrics like that—it turns out all the sideshire kids who are planning on going to the ball are in a groupchat, so after elliott’s phone pings with a message from there, there’s a brief tangent that ensues because elliott sends out virgil says hi to everyone and a picture of the bake sale, so virgil gets to hear about everyone’s plans which is also cool. and he also records a video with brick that brick pinky-promises to just send in the chat, so he ends up learning one of the latest memes that the kids are watching these days. god, he’s old.

“the debutante thing’s really awesome,” virgil says. “i kind of wish i’d gotten the chance to do it back in the day.”

elliott looks up at him, and says, “you do?”

“yeah,” virgil says. “i mean, i’m not roman or anything, but i still wear makeup a lot of the time, i’ve got a few makeup palettes, i wore some skirts back in the day—”

brick’s head snaps up at that, and they say, “you did?”

virgil blinks—he’s not sure why this is surprising, but.

“yeah, i did,” virgil says. “i bet i’ve probably still got them buried in my closet somewhere. my heels, too.”

this also gets elliott’s attention.

“you do?” elliott says.

“i mean, maybe,” virgil says. “i might have donated them, i dunno, but—”

“why don’t you wear skirts or heels anymore?” brick says.

“well, right now?” virgil says, and gestures to the outside. “it’s cold. but, uh—i don’t really know.” 

and it hits him—he doesn’t really know. he just kind of kept going for jeans.

“just a habit, i guess,” he continues to the kids, because i don’t know is a bit of a weak answer. “it’s easier to match things with jeans. plus, it looks kinda weird to wear a nice flowing skirt and then just, like, a hoodie and a pair of sneakers i wear all day because i stand all the time. and wearing heels while i stand all day is just asking for a sprained ankle.”

“yeah, that makes sense,” elliott says. “sneakers kinda clash too.”

“but you wear boots too,” brick says, and points. “you’re wearing boots today.”

virgil glances down at his combat boots, the ones that he’s also got the gel foot insoles in. “well, yeah. i guess i am.”

“and leggings or tights would probably help with cold,” elliott says.

virgil looks between them, and says, “you two want me to wear a skirt, don’t you?”

“yes,” they both chorus, unapologetic.

virgil pauses, considering this. well. he definitely has at least one skirt, maybe more, they’re probably just tucked away where he doesn’t see them everyday. and he is fully down for these kids running in there and shaking up the patriarchy. and he does support men, or anyone on the gender spectrum who doesn’t fit soundly in the box of “woman,” wearing more traditionally feminine clothing, as long as they’re comfortable with it. and the surprised looks on these kids faces when he’d mentioned he used to wear skirts more often, and then the studies he’s read of how much representation means to kids...

he turns and calls out, “jean?”

“yeah?” jean calls from the back.

“i’m gonna run upstairs for a second, would you mind keeping an eye on things out here?”

jean calls back an affirmative, and brick and elliott exchange a look, before turning back to virgil.

“are you—?”

“maybe,” virgil says, standing, feeling a strange sort of excitement just from their excitement, but also, it’s been a really long time since he’s worn a skirt, and he’d liked wearing skirts. “again, i can’t remember if i’ve donated ‘em, but—”

“awesome,” elliott says, while brick is nodding along with them, wide-eyed.

“all right,” virgil says, and then, “uh, cool” and makes his awkward exit, heading upstairs for his apartment.

it takes a bit of digging, but he does manage to find where he’s stashed his skirts over the years. he’d even managed to fold them neatly before he put them away, so they’re not even that wrinkled or anything. and then he remembers the various struggles of matching an outfit with a skirt, because in his mind, a skirt outfit has to be at least a little fancy, and so after he examines and discards nearly every shirt in his wardrobe he ends up pairing a plum, long-sleeved button-down with a black pleated skirt that falls down to his ankles, even after he tries to make the skirt a bit high-waisted.

and then he gets a little more carried away, and smokes out his dark eyeshadow and pops some purple glitter in the crease and the inner corner and does a little cat-eye for the eyeliner and puts on plum lipstick, before something in his brain says back away from the makeup products, you are in danger of re-enacting your teenage emo phase, and so he does, not without a bit of a longing look at the black eyeshadow, because this is fun. why hasn’t he done something like this in so long?

he has to pick up his skirt one hand as he walks his way down the stairs, before he tugs aside the curtain that covers up the stairs that lead up to his apartment, and steps out from behind the counter.

brick and elliott swivel to look at him in almost-hilarious unison. and then they just. stare.

oh, the staring. the whole staring thing is why he hasn’t done something like this in so long.

virgil clears his throat, running a hand through his hair to make sure it isn’t too messy. “is it that bad?” he tries to joke.

“i,” brick says, voice strangled, “am gay.”

“uh,” virgil says, unsure of what to really say to someone less than half his age declaring that, then, “i’m with patton, happily so, and also, i am way too old for you, you are a kid.”

elliott rolls their eyes, and says, “they mean you look, um. good. you look really good,” and then they elbow brick in the ribs. brick shakes themself.

“yeah!” brick says. “you look. good. you look good!”

the bell above the door jangles, then, which means brick and elliott are distracted by attempting to sell baked goods, and virgil escapes to behind the counter, ready to start up for the dinner rush.

(he does take a few seconds to remind brick and elliott that anyone over eighteen is too old for them, at the moment, and the dangers of grooming, and also he is here if they need to talk about being concerned for anyone or if they need someone to talk to, in general, before brick says, “ugh, fine, jeez, you sound like the guidance counselor” so that takes care of that particular situation, virgil guesses.)

virgil does get a few compliments on his appearance, throughout the dinner rush, and also a few questions about why he’s dressing up nice, which means he can direct their attention to the baked goods table (brick and elliott leave after a couple hours, and so a couple more sideshire high students start their shift) and the cause that they’re raising money for, so. things are going well.

he ducks back in the kitchen, for a minute, when the staring gets to be a bit Much and he needs to take a second to breathe. he’s not super anxious, necessarily, it’s just—well, he frequently has the thought people are looking at me, which tends to make him anxious, and that’s true tonight, so. he needs to take a bit of a breather. and so he cooks.

cooking’s been a good outlet for his anxiety, ever since he was a kid and didn’t really get what anxiety was, ever since he was an asshole teenager who had recently been wrangled into his first therapy session by his parents following a doctor’s diagnosis. it’s almost always the same—if you follow the same directions, you’ll get the same result, almost always. and, sure, it could be an outlet for creativity, too, if he so chose, but right now he’s grilling burgers and assembling salads and making pasta. it’s an adventure in multitasking he does almost every day. he knows what to do, and so he does it.

he feels calmer by the time they’re in the midst of the dinner rush, partially because of the time spent in here, but also because the increased business is something that’s also familiar and somewhat comforting. so he chances poking his head out of the kitchen door, evaluating if he’s ready to enter back into the fray and start helping out with the waiters. 

he pokes his head out just in time to see roman, logan, and patton sliding into a booth, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief—those are people he can definitely go over to and not start to feel nervous just because they’re looking at him.

he’s about to fully step out and make his way over unnoticed by everyone else, except—

roman looks up, and makes eye contact with him, and declares “virgil! i came as soon as i heard!” loud enough that virgil can hear it over the background music and the dull roar of the dinner rush conversations.

virgil winces a little, before he sheepishly walks over to the table. he probably should have expected this, given roman’s vocal and often repeated desires to give virgil a makeover.

all three of them come into view—roman, eager at last that virgil is stepping outside of his typical fashion comfort zone; logan, mostly neutral if a bit curious; and patton, who is staring at him, eyes wide behind his glasses, and visibly swallowing. a flare of heat burns to life in virgil’s stomach at that, and so he turns his attention to roman, so that he doesn’t start blushing and his thoughts don’t become immediately obvious.

roman looks him up and down, surveying him, before he says, “you look like a goth femboy version of a librarian fantasy.”

virgil runs a hand down the skirt, a little self-conscious. “oh.”

“but,” roman says, pulling a face at him, seemingly detecting virgil’s mood change, “at least you’re showing some sense of style. this is an improvement over your daily wear, believe me. one would even say substantial.”

“oh,” virgil says, more sarcastic this time, with an eye-roll to boot. 

“however,” roman says, “can i request that you at least extend your color palette to something that would not look at home as a poster for an emo pre-teen? and your foundation, virgil, you do not have warm undertones, you have neutral undertones, if you’re going to start wearing makeup more you need to have a summer and winter foundation—”

virgil reaches over to flick roman’s ear, and roman complains “heyyy” before logan glances up at him.

“why wear a skirt today in particular?” logan says.

“oh,” virgil says, and jabs a thumb in the direction of the bake sale table. “y’know, i figured i’d support you kids. people ask me why i’m all dressed up and so i get to point ‘em there, and then, you know, solidarity,” he says, taking his skirt in hand and swishing it a little. “win win.”

“all right,” logan says and looks across the table at roman, cocking his head.

“roman,” he says. “what is a ‘femboy.’”

roman folds his lip under his teeth.

“um,” roman says. “well, y’see—”

“i’ll get you some waters!” virgil says, before he has to bear witness to roman explaining that concept to his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s dad. he knows that a femboy is just people who are male or non-binary presenting themselves in a feminine way, the word kind of started around his teenage years, but he also knows that particular expression on roman’s face means that virgil has probably missed some segment of Youth Internet Culture that might provide the backstory behind the newfound popularity of the word a bit… complex.

by the time virgil comes back, logan is jotting something down on one of the notecards he carries around with him all the time, and roman looks normal, so the conversation must not have been too awkward, but patton—

well. patton looks at him, once again looks like he’s swallowing his own tongue, and turns his face back down to the table, but not before virgil can spot the pinkness in his cheeks.

oh. interesting.

virgil has to swallow himself, before he readies the notepad.

“what do you want for dinner?” he says, in a tone that is perhaps a bit gruffer than normal, and patton immediately and not-very-subtly puts a hand over the back of his neck to hide that that’s going pink too.

very interesting.

virgil doesn’t get much of a chance to observe this interesting phenomenon—it is dinner rush, after all, and he’s got other customers—but when he does observe it, it brightens that low flame in his stomach, like someone slowly turning the knob on a gas stove, and patton grows gradually more bold. 

looking at patton’s general personality, one would probably assume that he’s a generally shy boyfriend—hand-holding and kisses aplenty, to be sure, but fairly unassuming when it comes to public displays of attention.

looking at patton’s general personality, one would probably not assume that patton is a flirt.

but he is—he is absolutely a flirt, and a startlingly adept one at that, so when virgil swings by the table perhaps a bit more frequently than he usually would, patton stares at him with a little smirk on his face and with zero shame as his eyes roam over virgil’s face, his arms, his mouth. 

patton looks up at him from under his eyelashes, biting his lip just so, and virgil nearly drops patton’s plate—and notices, distractedly, that patton has managed to use virgil’s distraction to finesse his way into a helping of fries instead of the vegetables or salad that virgil would usually suggest.

and when virgil brings over the bill, handing it to patton, patton takes the bill and then takes virgil’s hand and kisses his knuckles with a cheerful “thanks, honey!” and virgil has certainly forgotten any anxiety that might stem from someone staring, because it’s patton who’s staring at him.

patton, who had gotten so flustered at the sight of virgil in a skirt that his eyes nearly popped out of his head; and now, patton, resting his lips against his knuckles for just a moment, lingering, and virgil feels like an elizabethan maiden about to make her way to the fainting couch because of it.

virgil excuses himself to settle the bill, and also maybe rest a cool hand against his own cheek. honestly. it was a kiss on his hand.

he’s about to go back the table and hand back patton’s card, but he glances up as the bell jangles, roman and logan already leaving, and patton stepping close to the register, his hands behind his back, rocking up onto his toes and back onto his heels.

“hey,” virgil says, and shakes himself, before he offers patton’s card. “um. here.”

“thanks,” patton says, tucking the card into his pocket, before he bites his lip. “um. could we go up to your apartment and get the book i asked to borrow?”

what book, virgil wonders, before patton hastily adds, “if you have time, i mean, i don’t wanna—take you away too long,” and oh, he wants to go—okay. okay.

“i have time,” virgil answers, maybe a little too quickly. “um—sarah,” he calls, “me ‘n patton are going upstairs for a little bit, so—”

“we’ve got things down here,” sarah says, “go, go” and so they go, patton reaching out to grab virgil’s hand and squeeze, running a thumb over his knuckles. and so they ascend the stairs.

virgil shuts the door behind them, and turns to face patton.

“i was, um,” patton clarifies. “i was asking to come up here to see if you wanted to kiss for a little bit.”

“i know,” virgil says, then adds, because consent is important, “i do.”

“oh thank god,” patton breathes out, and before virgil can get out a response, patton surges up against him, rocking up onto his tiptoes and pressing virgil back into the wall, and virgil barely has the time to wrap his arms around him before patton’s kissing him with searing heat.

patton is a remarkable kisser, genuinely the best that virgil thinks he’s ever been fortunate enough to kiss, and patton knows the precise angle to tilt his head and the precise way to possessively splay a hand at the back of virgil’s neck to make the kiss deep and heady and excellent, a kiss so downright lascivious that virgil’s thoughts about retiring to a damn fainting couch doesn’t seem near dramatic enough.

virgil is distantly aware that patton must be rocked up onto his tiptoes, and he splays his hand at patton’s waist, squeezing him gently, giving himself the excuse that it might help patton keep his balance a bit better, and also because his hand fits so beautifully at patton’s waist it could make virgil cry, the warmth of him even through his sweater and the way he can feel patton breathing in unsteady breaths, so maybe virgil isn’t the only one who is losing it here a little.

simultaneously, like they’ve choreographed it, they stumble back together until patton’s knees hit the arm of the couch and virgil practically falls on top of him, virgil barely breaking the kiss to make sure he hasn’t crushed him before patton’s twining his fingers into virgil’s hair and dragging him back into the kiss, wriggling a little so that his thigh is pushed between virgil’s, and virgil groans into his mouth, patton greedily swallowing the sound.

time goes a bit fuzzy, then, everything narrowed down to patton’s breathy gasps and the slick slide of his lips and the warmth and pressure of a thigh between his own and patton’s wandering, unabashed hands in his hair, on his back, wandering down to give him a cheeky squeeze, gripping at his thigh, like patton’s using the touches to punctuate a sentence that virgil has no hope of reading but it sure sounds nice anyway. 

and then there’s a loud sound—someone’s dropped dishes downstairs—and they break apart, the pair of them looking toward the apartment door, startled, and as soon as it sinks in what it is that’s happened, they look back at each other.

patton’s smiling up at him, plum lipstick smeared all around his mouth, coy and unashamed, but with a little quirk at the corners that tells him that make out time is probably over. it is an image that immediately sears itself into virgil’s brain that will probably pop up at incredibly inconvenient moments, but he cannot really feel bothered about that right now, because christ is that unexpectedly hot.

virgil clears his throat, because there’s never exactly a non-awkward way to end something like this, that is until patton’s brow creases and he reaches forward to touch virgil’s lips.

“oh, no,” patton says, a little distressed, “i messed it up!”

“i can redo it,” virgil promises immediately, barely even thinking of the words before they’re out of his mouth in attempt to make that coy little smile come back, and he clears his throat to try and make his voice go back up to its usual octave, not the gruff and low near-growl that came out of his mouth. “um—you kind of have—”

patton’s brow creases even more, before he wiggles a hand free from under virgil and smears a finger beneath his bottom lip, holding it up to see for himself, and he giggles.

“i guess i do,” he says, and beams up at virgil. “be a dear, would you? i don’t wanna walk out there and make it too obvious that we’ve been mackin’ on each other this whole time.”

virgil nods, and, regretfully, rolls off of patton to go to the bathroom, attempting to steady his breath the whole way. 

he bends to get the makeup remover from under the sink, and straightens, at last looking at himself in the mirror.

he looks thoroughly kissed.

his plum lipstick is smeared all around his mouth, down his chin, which shows off how his lips have reddened and gone a little swollen; his black hair is ruffled, especially sticking up in the back; and the generally gobsmacked, slightly stupid look on his face is a dead giveaway that he’s been spending time kissing patton.

there’s the soft padding of footsteps, arms wrapped around his waist, a face pressed between his shoulderblades, before patton pokes his head around him to see himself in the mirror, too.

he bursts into more giggles at the sight of them—matching messy lipstick, matching messy hair, matching slightly stunned look, except on patton it doesn’t look stupid at all, it looks like he’s thrilled with himself, a smirk playing around the corner of his mouths, like a particularly flirtatious cat who’s caught particularly prettily painted canary.

virgil can’t help but grin, too, and patton arches up to press a deliberate kiss to tendon of virgil’s neck, and virgil’s grin turns into a groan, more out of frustration than anything.

“what?” patton says, smiling playfully at him in the mirror. 

“if you keep doing that,” virgil says, and then he’s at a loss for words, but patton seems to get it, slipping out from behind virgil but still leaving an arm wrapped around his waist.

“i don’t particularly want to stop, either,” patton agrees, before he reaches up to turn virgil’s attention away from the mirror, and so that he’s looking directly into patton’s eyes instead. patton continues, voice lush and full of promise, “i’d keep you up here all night, if you wanted, but, well.” 

“we’re taking it slow,” virgil says ruefully.

“we’re taking it slow,” patton agrees. “plus, you’ve got a diner to close, and i’ve got a kid at home who’ll probably stay up too late reading if i don’t bug him about bedtime.”

“yeah,” virgil says, but he can’t help but sigh a little—they’ve both agreed that moving slowly is the responsible thing to do, they’ve talked about it a lot, first to agree to slow then later to refine their mutual definitions of slow, which turned out to be pretty damn different at first, but. well. 

“i know,” patton agrees fervently. and he really does—he’s literally the only other person right know who understands exactly how virgil’s feeling, and that sets him at ease more than anything.

“all right,” virgil says, and peels back the top of the makeup removal wipes package, removing one. “lemme see your face.”

patton obligingly tips up his chin at virgil, smiling.

virgil cups the underside of his jaw and works to clean off patton’s face, gently rubbing away the plum smears around patton’s mouth with a purposefully soft hand. 

it takes a few wipes for virgil’s lips to twitch up into a smile, too.

“stop it,” virgil scolds, without any heat.

“stop what?” patton says, still smiling.

“you’re smiling at me,” virgil says. 

“what, i can’t be a little happy that i spent some quality time with my fella?” patton asks. 

virgil ducks his head, because that’s one of his top two love languages, and patton knows it. instead, he says, “‘course you can, i am, too. but you’re gloating.”

patton’s grin widens, and virgil sighs, lowering his hand—he won’t be able to help patton at all with patton grinning up at him like that.

“i have,” patton says, “the prettiest fella. i’m allowed to feel at least a little smug that you’re the belle of the ball tonight, darling.”

“stop,” virgil grumbles, looking away.

“what?” patton says. “it’s true! you’re gorgeous, honey.”

virgil mutters under his breath and rubs at the back of his neck—he isn’t the best with accepting compliments, he never has been, especially when it comes to things like this.

but, well—

“so,” virgil says, staring at the makeup wipe in his hand. “you… liked it?”

“liked it?” patton says.

“y’know,” virgil mumbles, and gestures vaguely up and down his body—the skirt, the makeup. “it.”

patton grins up at him, and tugs him down a little so that they’re eye-to-eye.

“i,” patton purrs, “love the skirt.”

it takes a little bit longer to get polished back up after that. and if, perhaps, virgil walks around the diner a bit more at ease than before, with a bit of a stupid smile on his face even after patton blows him a kiss on his way out of the door, well. that’s virgil’s business.

⁂

christopher calls when logan’s studying at the diner. his dad’s already headed home, most of his dinner conversation having been rhapsodizing his deeply-held desire to put on his pajamas. virgil’s busy behind the counter settling everyone’s bills now that the bulk of dinner rush is over.

it’s still unusual enough to logan that christopher brings himself to call semi-regularly now—even stranger that it’s weekly, and on a set schedule. wednesday nights at seven. he even remembers to call precisely on schedule, most of the time. but still—every time his cellphone buzzes and lights up with a photo of him and christopher and dad at a sanders-hosted thanksgiving a few years back, he’s surprised.

it takes quite a bit of work to unlearn sixteen years that consisted mostly of irregular, unscheduled visits and not showing up when the visits are actually scheduled, logan supposes.

“hey, kiddo!” christopher says brightly.

“hi, dad,” logan says, digging around for a bookmark, before giving up and placing a clean knife in his science textbook to mark the page and closing it. 

a moment later, logan curses his mental preoccupation with studying and the upcoming phone conversation he’ll have to have—the napkins are right there.

“so, what’re you up to?”

“studying.”

“you’re always studying,” christopher says, and there’s something in the tone that sets logan’s teeth on edge; he knows that christopher isn’t exactly academically inclined, and in fact would likely be better described as an academic anarchist, seeming to disdain upon the opportunities and privileges he was given with no strings attached that logan would almost certainly kill to have, not to mention many other people who would put it to better use, but. it’s not the time to pick a fight, logan supposes.

“yes, well,” logan says. “i have science test this week.”

“you’ve always got tests.”

“chilton is an academically rigorous school,” logan says, in a tone that implies he’s explained this a hundred times, because he has. “and i would like to maintain my position as a competitor for the top of my class. how are… things?”

this allows him a brief reprieve—since the official collapse of christopher’s business, not too long after he’d visited last fall, he’s been picking up a variety of odd jobs and temporary work, whatever catches his interest—christopher spends about five minutes explaining that he’s found some temporary work at a bar, now, to make some spare cash as he looks for something more permanent during the day. 

“—but yeah, that’s about all that’s going on with me right now.” a pause. then, christopher prompts, “how about you?”

logan shrugs, even though christopher can’t see it. “not very much. the test. i think i did well on a pop quiz on monday—”

he explains his various schoolwork and extracurricular activities—christopher hums in all sorts of places—before he adds, “oh, and roman and i went on a date on saturday.”

“hey, finally, something fun!” christopher says. before logan can even say something like but the debate team’s mock trial was fun, he says, “what’d you do on your date?”

“we had frozen yogurt,” logan says, “and roman wanted to go to a thrift store to get some things, and we both got a couple books, and roman got something for the ball, so that’s good—”

“whoa,” christopher says, “hang on, rewind. the ball?! what ball?”

logan winces.

because, well. it’s complex to navigate building a relationship that he initially blackmailed his father into, rather than have him propose to his dad. it’s even more complex to figure out how to handle a dad who had, for sixteen years, mostly showed up in irregular, unscheduled visits and not showing up when the visits are actually scheduled. 

he has a dad. for the vast majority of his life, patton has been the only biologically-related adult on whom he could rely. if there was ever anything a parent needed to be involved in, whether it be a parent/teacher conference, or parent’s night, or a parent volunteer for his classroom—he’s always penned down patton sanders without a second thought. virgil, occasionally, if he’d known that his dad had a scheduling conflict, but—always, patton first. that’s just the way it is. christopher had never even stepped foot in sideshire before last fall.

but now, well. now, he has to navigate should i have asked him to come back for this? because the rules say he needs his dad to escort him. 

and for so long, he has been so used to only having one of those. (well. two, but one biological dad. the other one kind of adopted him on sight and now he fusses after logan getting proper vegetable and protein intake.)

having both parents be involved in your life is even more unnecessarily complicated than i could have anticipated, logan thinks, before he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“um, yes. a ball. the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball, to be more specific.”

“you’re kidding,” christopher breathes out. “jeez, what kind of dirt does emily have on you that you had to recruit your boyfriend to escort some girls, too?”

logan blinks. “i have no idea why a handful of soil would motivate me to do that?”

“no, like—” christopher begins, and, perhaps, logan was overemphasizing his usual ignorance for use of slang just to give himself a break.

“well, that isn’t the case, regardless,” logan says, before he decides to just get it over with. “he was getting a dress. we both have one. we’re going to be the debutantes, not the escorts.”

there’s a pause.

“is this a gay thing?”

logan cringes, ever so slightly—christopher sounds more bemused than anything, so logan doesn’t think it’s a necessarily passive-aggressive comment, rather a more genuinely ignorant one.

“no, it’s not—” logan says, and pinches the bridge of his nose a little harder. “it’s not, um. a gay thing. we’re recruiting a lot of chilton students and sideshire kids to join in, it’s more of a public statement than anything.”

“oh,” christopher says, still with that tone of bemusement. then, “a public statement of what?”

“we’re making a statement about how sexist it is that society still deems it appropriate to trot young women around like that,” logan says. “we—the boys, i mean—are wearing dresses as a gesture of support and solidarity with them.”

“oh,” christopher repeats.

there’s an even longer pause.

“how many people did you say you got to join in?”

“we’re almost at forty, the last time i checked,” logan says, and christopher whistles lowly.

“your grandma’s gonna throw a fit.”

“we told her, actually,” logan says. “i wanted to see if she still had the dress she was going to make dad wear.”

“and how’d she take that?”

“she’s making me wear heels,” logan grouses, and christopher laughs.

“well, can’t say i expected her to be especially nice about anything,” christopher says. “so, tell me all about this massive prank you’re cooking up, then, i knew that some of my teenage troublemaking had to rub off on you somehow.”

though logan wants to say it’s not a prank, he supposes that it doesn’t exactly harm the movement if christopher thinks that; it’s not like he’s about to tell christopher the real reason, after all.

but logan tells him, all about the chilton kids, and the sideshire kids, and the upcoming Culture Day that his dad and isadora were organizing, and the bake sale that the sideshire kids were doing to raise money to actually enter into the ball in the first place, and the way logan’s had to hide sign-up sheets from teachers, and it seems to go okay. 

that is, until christopher says, “hey, i guess if you’re going as a debutante, you need your dad to escort you, right?”

“oh,” logan says, and coughs. “um, actually, dad’s already doing that.”

there’s another long pause.

“oh.”

“i mean,” logan says, and shrugs, even though christopher can’t see it. “you’re saving up for other things, you hardly need to come out from california just to do this.” 

“i would’ve,” christopher says, defensively. “if you’d asked.”

“right,” logan says, and the sarcasm slips through before he can even really attempt to modulate it into something resembling politeness.

“i would’ve,” he repeats, more insistently. “i know i haven’t been the best—”

“look, i have to get back to studying,” logan says, cutting off whatever platitude about i know i wasn’t present for you throughout your childhood, when you most would have needed the stability of your other parent, but i am trying now after you had to blackmail me into not upsetting your life, “next week, we’ll talk?”

another pause. a defeated sigh.

“sure, kid,” he says. “yeah. i’ll talk to you next week. same time. love you.”

logan flounders, for a moment, before he says, “next week, then, bye,” and hangs up before christopher can return the farewell salutation.

logan takes a moment to lift his glasses so he can press the base of his palms into his eyes, before he resettles them on his nose and opens his science textbook again.

the conversations with christopher are… something. they tend to go cordially most of the time, even, it’s just—

well. like he’d thought earlier. he’s so used to having one parent, and christopher only ever making contact irregularly. no guarantee for birthdays, no guarantee for christmases, no guarantee for thanksgivings. no guarantee for if logan really wanted to lean on someone, if he’d be there, solid and steady, or if logan would be sent sprawling to the ground. metaphorically.

it’s a bit like that cartoon that logan recalls, as a child—lucy, holding the football, insisting that she wouldn’t yank it away at the last second, leaving charlie brown tumbling head-over-heels.

christopher has insisted that he wouldn’t yank the ball quite literally since logan was born. forgive logan if sixteen years of ending up flat on his back hadn’t exactly endeared him to exactly trust that christopher would hold the ball steady, even if christopher had ended up being much more punctual and consistent with phone calls than expected.

it’s just—difficult. to adjust. to really believe that christopher might stick around, this time.

he suddenly feels his (already immense) sense of respect for patton rise all the more, because he trusts people like this all the time, no matter how many times he’d ended up flat on his face; logan’s thought it naivete for so long, that now that he’s attempting to practice it, he finds himself… well, if he’s to continue the metaphor, he’s found himself unwilling to even attempt the run-up to the ball.

logan attempts to shake himself, as if the thought is something that he can dislodge, like water in his ears. he refocuses on his textbook and readies his pen for any notes that he needs to take. which he does, for a while, his pen scratching a familiar rhythm under the quiet rush of other people’s conversation, and the soft, inoffensive music the diner plays, that is, until the plastic of the pen cracks under the force of his grip. logan scowls, and tosses the pen aside.

“here.”

logan looks up, startled; virgil’s standing over him, holding a small plate. he’s wearing another skirt today—purple, and it falls just below his tights-clad knees.

“what’s that?”

virgil sets down the plate, careful to avoid any notebooks, pens, or textbooks. there’s a slice of loganberry pie on it, which is actually logan’s favorite, despite the downside of the many puns his dad has made about logan liking loganberry pie.

“you look like you need pie.”

“i do?” logan says cluelessly.

“pen tossing usually signals the need for pie,” he says.

“you,” logan says. “brought me pie.”

virgil arches his eyebrows. “i could take it back.”

“thank you,” logan says quickly, sliding the plate toward himself, as if virgil would snatch it away, and virgil snorts, reaching out to ruffle logan’s hair before he retreats back to the counter, and—

and it really is just the sugar that has logan’s shoulders relaxing as he stares at his science notes, he tells himself.

⁂

the science test is predictably grueling. logan sits at his lunch table, his brain still tracking over various formulas and small facts he’d memorized, as if in a half-stunned stupor.

there’s the sound of a tray clacking on the table. logan looks up, startled.

dee, in his usual cape and hat, looks over at him, and arches his eyebrows as if daring him to say something. after logan blinks at him owlishly, dee resumes settling himself, as if he has sat at logan’s lunch table a great many times and not at all as if this isn’t the first time he’s done this.

come to think of it, logan’s uncertain if he’s ever even seen dee during their lunch period before. he sets aside the question of then where does he eat??? and instead reaches into his lunchbox, grabbing something at random to start eating.

a clementine. okay.

logan starts peeling the clementine as dee gets his lunch tray in order, and dee says, very casually, “would you like to come over so we can discuss arrangements?”

logan’s fingernail catches; he resists the urge to curse as he punctures the fruit, and instead reaches for a napkin to wipe his hand dry of juice.

“arrangements…?”

dee looks at him. “for the project.”

logan’s test-addled brain then proceeds to panic and mentally trace over every single one of his shared classes with dee, attempting to pinpoint how on earth he possibly could have overlooked an upcoming project, before—

oh.

“i—yes,” logan says, and resumes peeling the clementine. “yes, that works out fine, i think. um—do you live near a bus stop?”

dee flaps a gloved hand at him dismissively. “i’ll have one of the drivers take you back home.”

one of the drivers??? then, he has even one driver???? what on earth necessitates plural drivers???

“i… sure,” logan says, rather than comment on that, “i’ll text my dad and tell him i’ll be home late.”

dee nods, and so logan eats his clementine in sections as dee’s lunch tray depletes with a rate of speed that would already be impressive if not compounded by the fact that logan doesn’t even really see him eat, before he pulls out his phone and texts his dad, I’m going over to Dee’s after school, I’ll let you know how long I’ll be there when I have a better idea of the time frame.

he’s walking to his next class when his phone buzzes, and he glances at his phone. 

Dad: okay!!! say hi to the adults and be on your best behavior! love you, have fun!!!

he is uncertain how much ‘fun’ will weigh into the activities for any event at dee slange’s house.

⁂

dee’s pretending to be on his phone almost the entire time a chauffeur drives them back (he could have driven, but he hadn’t felt like it this morning, so therefore he didn’t have his car in the afternoon) but really he’s looking out of the corner of his eyes at logan.

logan is sitting stiffly, and he has been since he’d gotten into the car; it’s as if he’s nervous he might scuff up the leather if he moves. he’s holding his backpack in his lap, and his eyes keep darting to the driver, suit-clad and silent, and out the window, before glancing at dee, and then back out the window. 

as they creep up to the gate, and the chauffeur inputs the code that’ll open the gate so they can drive up the maple-lined driveway, to the house, dee has abandoned the ruse entirely, because logan looks the most confused dee’s ever seen him look.

the look only grows more obvious once they break past the trees, and logan actually gets a good look at the house; dee knows the townhome was designed to be magnificent, especially on first glance, but he’s been so accustomed to it that seeing logan’s eyes dart from the fountain in the middle of the driveway to the sprawl of primroses and lavender and hydrangeas and all the rest of the landscaping, and the towering height of it all, the brick crowded with overgrown ivy and climbing roses. the historic townhome may not have multiple wings, and it might not really hold a candle to the ultra-modern mansion where his parents live, but it still, certainly, is impressive.

“you live here?” logan says, stunned.

“obviously?” dee says.

he’s tempted to say something like if you ever saw my parents’ house, maybe pull up that old e-edition of a magazine that had covered it once, just to see logan’s eyes pop out of his head, but the chauffeur puts the car in park and logan’s saying “thank you, sir,” and scrambling out of the car as quick as he can.

dee arches a brow, and the chauffeur moves to open the door for him, because he was raised with manners, jesus, wasn’t this emily and richard sanders’ grandson? one would think he’d know something about how to comport himself.

his brain provides several mental images, though: the little yellow clapboard house logan lived in, the absurdly picturesque tiny town full of brick buildings and repurposed barns and colonial charm, logan’s voice saying, my dad and i were effectively homeless until i turned six, and feels a strange clenching in his chest. 

dee shoves it down and arranges his face into his typical boredom by the time he’s walking up to the front door, logan quickly falling into step behind him.

he opens the door—the chauffeur’s going around to the servant’s entrance—and by the time he’s stepping through the door, nanny has materialized at his side, and looks only slightly surprised that there is another teenage boy with him.

logan is too busy looking around at the entry hall—the rugs, the paintings, the furniture, the post-its stuck up on the front door—to really notice any of that, for which dee can’t help but breathe a little sigh of relief.

“hello, we have a guest,” nanny says. 

“i told granmè,” dee says, and his stomach sinks as nanny gives him a sideways look, as if to say you know better than to let that serve as a notification system anymore, before she refocuses on logan.

“your name, young sir?”

“um, logan,” he says, looking boggled that he’s being called sir, and adds, “sanders. logan sanders.”

“emily and richard’s boy?”

“their grandson, yes,” logan says, looking to dee for some kind of help; dee would shrug at him, if he wasn’t kind of enjoying watching the usually unflappable logan flounder a little bit.

nanny nods, and says, “welcome to the lavandelands,” which is technically the townhome’s name, but they only ever use it to introduce the house to new visitors, so dee forgets the townhome has a name at all until it comes up again—it’s the same with the manor, which is technically the hearthfields. logan doesn’t seem to notice, nodding at her like he can’t think of anything else to do.

nanny turns to dee, instead, and asks, “would you care for any refreshments?”

“just the usual tea should suffice,” dee says. nanny looks at logan.

“um,” he says again—dee is a little delighted, because he has never heard logan get so knocked off-center before, and after all this attempted antagonizing about his grades all it took was bringing him to his house—“just—just water’s fine. thank you.”

nanny nods, says, “i’ll be with your grandmother in the greenhouse. mr. sanders, it was a pleasure to meet you, please have mr. slange ring for us if you require anything,” and sweeps off.

“you have a greenhouse?” logan says blankly.

“we have a greenhouse,” dee confirms. “you can see it later, if you’d like. shall we go study?”

logan nods, and falls into step behind dee; dee considers going to the dining room, the way logan did when they were making posters at his house, but he wants nanny, bertie, ingrid, and martha to have plausible deniability in case his parents demand to know if they’d heard anything about this, and so he leads logan up the staircase and into his room.

it’s been cleaned today recently, he can tell; it smells like the lemon candles he likes, the ones martha lights whenever she airs out his room, so the room is in its tidiest iteration; vacuumed rugs, swept and mopped hardwoods, dust-free surfaces, with a made bed and no mess anywhere anywhere.

it practically seems like a hotel room, if not for the legal pad on his desk with his handwriting on it.

and of course, logan crosses almost immediately to the desk; dee only catches on a minute later, when he bends slightly to get a better look inside the vivarium.

“luke, leia, and han, right?” logan says, glancing at dee for confirmation before scanning the plants and rocks; dee crosses over, too, and gestures toward the rock in the back corner—mostly hidden by plants, but the sun lamp shines directly upon it.

“they like to nap here,” dee says, and he’s right—luke and han are curled up, sunning themselves, and logan makes an ahh noise when he spots them too.

“they’re larger than i expected,” logan says, staring at them, eyes lit up with curiosity.

“mm,” dee says vaguely. “females tend to be longer and bulkier than males. leia’s biggest, she’s a little over two feet.”

“where is she?” logan says. “you said she was the checkered one.”

dee tries his hardest not to seem surprised, but—logan remembers his snake’s markings. from a a throwaway comment he made nearly a month ago. 

“probably hiding,” dee says. “she likes to stick near the water, so she’s probably curled up under the lip—”

logan kneels down, all the better to see, and he says, “i see her!”

“asleep?”

“i think so,” logan says, and frowns. “i’m not as familiar with snakes as i am with other reptiles, though.”

dee blinks. “which reptiles are you familiar with?”

“frogs, mostly,” logan admits. “lots of frogs and toads would be around the pool, when we lived at the inn, and they’re very common in the pond there. salamanders and lizards, sometimes, during summers. i had a brief phase of hunting for reptiles and bugs, i thought i would be a reptile research journalist, or something—i kept bringing them home and dad had to pretend he wasn’t scared of any creepy-crawly bugs or scaly things, he’d call over virgil so that there was someone i could show all the bugs to who wouldn’t get freaked out.”

dee has a mental image, then, of logan—shorter, and baby-faced, holding up a salamander and babbling to this mysterious virgil about its various properties, who would nod and ask questions and generally care what a child thought, his dad shoving down his fear long enough to listen to logan, because it’s something that interested him, something that logan cared about.

and then a memory of himself, hip-deep in snake research books, trying to tell his new adopted parents all about why snakes were so interesting and cool, and receiving three snakes for his first birthday state-side and overhearing maybe she’ll shut up about the stupid snakes now, his mother saying at least we won’t have to see them, they’ll be in her room, maybe she’ll stay there more and children should be seen and not heard as nanny and martha tidied up the wrapping paper from his birthday party—

he squashes the not-jealousy with extreme prejudice. 

“oh, and the occasional turtle,” logan adds, breaking dee’s train of thought. “not many snakes, though; not many of the inn’s employees were keen on letting the five-year-old try to find out if one was venomous or not, so i’d be stuck watching if they ever found one.”

“...right,” dee says, unsure of what to really say to that. also, he’s a bit busy listening to the purposefully-heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

“so i’ve never seen snakes up close like this,” logan finishes, and dee just. nods.

fortunately, a knock on the door breaks any lingering awkwardness; dee calls out “come in!” and nanny comes in with a tray of a typical afternoon tea.

“just leave that on the storage bench, thank you, nanny,” dee says briskly, and so nanny sets the tray of snacks on the bench at the base of dee’s bed, before she presents a water bottle to logan, and says, “there’s a chilled glass for you on the tray.”

“oh,” logan says, and takes it. “um. thank you.”

almost as if he’s unable to help it, his fingernails tap-tap-tap against the water bottle as he looks at the design, whatever sense of culture shock that might have faded after looking at the snakes rearing right back.

“thank you, nanny, that will do,” dee says, and nanny nods to him, before she departs and closes the door on the way out.

“this water bottle is made of glass,” logan says, as if it’s a question.

dee arches an eyebrow at him. “do you not like water served in glass? do you only like plastic containers for your water? shall i call for nanny to get you a plastic cup?”

“no,” logan says, “no, it’s just—” and he squints at the label, before he looks up at dee and says, “this bottle of water is from a glacier.”

“you can keep the bottle, if you like,” dee says, “we have plenty more.”

“the source is only accessible from the ocean.”

“yes, i heard you,” dee says. “it’s not like i would already know this, since i have lived in this house and had that water for years, but do go on.”

“our goal was to create the world’s first luxury premium glacier water product with unmatched quality—purity—elegance. created from an award-winning source, from the hat mountain glacier in beautiful british columbia, canada, we have captured the hearts of water connoisseurs worldwide,” logan reads from the label, and looks up at him. “dee.”

“i don’t understand what your issue is with the water,” dee says, even though he’s very aware that logan’s issue is primarily you even have fancy WATER?! but it’s fun to see how absolutely bemused he is over it. “if it’s good enough for water connoisseurs worldwide, it should certainly be good enough for you.”

logan hesitates, before he sits on the bench at the end of dee’s bed, and picks up the chilled glass. oh, nanny set out to impress, that’s one of the nice crystal glasses that granmè only ever really brings out for parties.

it also has the added benefit of logan’s eyes becoming even rounder behind his glasses, and looking between the water bottle and the glass, as if weighing if he’s blue-blooded enough to consume it, or if he’s so much of a commoner that taking a sip of it will cause him death, like the false grail in indiana jones.

evidently, the combined hayden-sanders genes must win out, because he carefully pours himself a glass, and then looks even more hopelessly confused when he turns his attention to the tea tray.

really, dee at the start of the school year would be clapping his hands in absolute glee at how much he’s managed to catch logan off-guard.

“are these cucumber sandwiches?” logan asks faintly.

“ooh, yes,” dee says, plucking one for himself and promptly shoving it into his mouth, fast, so that sanders won’t notice while his attention is captured by their snack. “plus pear and stilton, here, and ham-brie-apple, and pesto chicken, and those ones are prosciutto-fig, i think. of course there’s scones and clotted cream, battenburg, crumpets...”

“you,” logan says, looking hopelessly lost, “you just asked for tea?”

dee looks at him, amused, even as he’s pouring himself a cup of tea. “my grandfather was english, sanders. it’s afternoon tea.”

logan blinks, before he says, “i didn’t know that. that your grandfather’s english, i mean.”

“and my grandmother’s french,” dee says. “my particular branch of slanges relocated to the americas much later than your branch of sanders did.”

“you know that?” logan says, startled.

“of course,” dee says. “sanders’ came over on the mayflower, daughters of the american revolution, et cetera et cetera. our grandmothers have been friends for years, did you really think i wouldn’t know?”

he waits a beat, before he adds, “and, well. know your enemy.”

“i suppose you took that much more seriously than i did,” logan says at last, before he reaches for a safe option—a blueberry scone—and cracks it open, spreading it with jam.

“yes,” dee says pridefully, “yes, i did.”

logan rolls his eyes, even as he plops a generous helping of clotted cream on top—

“oh, cornish method, interesting,” dee says, just to see that confused look come rearing back, and is immediately satisfied—

before logan shakes himself, and says, “why did your grandparents relocate here, anyway?”

dee tries his very best not to brighten too obviously, it’s just—it’s been so long since someone so blatantly handed him an excuse to spin stories on a platter.

“well, that’s a very interesting story,” dee says, leaning back, “and really, it all starts with my great-grandfather. or, rather, my great-grandfather’s very distant cousins. you see, my family had a lordship—”

logan looks at him, surprised.

“—a very minor lordship,” dee says, “technically barons, not dukes or anything. you probably wouldn’t have heard of them, it’s not like they were major members of the house of lords or anything. anyway, my great-grandfather didn’t know that, because again, he was a very distant cousin, and the main line of the family had three daughters. no women could inherit.”

logan frowns. “sexist.”

“mm, quite,” dee says. “anyways, they were counting on a closer cousin to inherit—a second cousin, i believe—but he tragically died in a boating accident, and so the family came calling to my cousin—who was a solicitor at the time—and brought him to the estate, which was called,” dee quickly casts about for an alike-enough name, “...upton priory.”

and so dee goes on cribbing details from the first three seasons of downton abbey, changing names and having a merry old time. logan gets close to realizing—he says “that sounds rather familiar, actually,” when dee reiterates the whole plotline of his supposed great-grandfather’s valet getting arrested for supposedly murdering his wife, to which dee says, “it was quite a scandal, perhaps you’re remembering the details from your grandmother, goodness knows she’d find it fascinating,” which buys him even more time until he kills off his great-grandfather, the matthew stand-in, after the birth of their second child.

logan frowns, and says, “well, that’s rather sad, but—i thought you said your grandfather was eldest? why would he give up a lordship?”

“why else, sanders?” dee says, and gestures expansively. “love.”

logan arches his eyebrows, and takes another sandwich—he seems quite partial to the pesto chicken and ham-apple-brie—and says, “go on, then.”

and so dee goes on stealing details and weaving a story, this time from the king’s speech, explaining how his grandmother was a divorcée (she is not) and his grandfather wanted to marry her anyway, as they’d met and she’d become his mistress during an outing to new york (possibly true, but in the same way that the moon landing being faked is possibly true) but as she was a divorcée (again, untrue) and he was a prominent member of the church of england (as far as he knows his grandfather was a catholic) to have a lord marry a divorcée had caused quite the drama between the family, and then dee cribs even more details from downton abbey to describe the fight, mounting and dramatic and full of high passions, going on for another fifteen minutes, until his grandfather finally decided—

“to abdicate the throne?” logan finishes dryly; they’ve picked the tea tray mostly clean of snacks, by now, and logan’s long since finished his water and has stolen a cup of tea. “i didn’t realize you were a descendant of edward the eighth. should i have been calling you your majesty this whole time?”

dee tries his very hardest not to pout, but he does cross his arms. “how long have you suspected?”

“around the time you said he gave a lordship ‘for love,’” logan says, “but i knew for sure when you started talking about how your grandmother became a mistress in new york. she’s french.”

“damn!” dee says, not really angry at all, but still, he had to keep up appearances. “i managed to fool brad with that whole backstory until he saw the king’s speech five years later.”

and then dee waits; he waits for logan to get mad, or to snap at him for wasting time, something that dee will attempt to brush off and maybe even laugh at. he waits for logan—journalism-obsessed, fact-checking, scientifically-minded logan—to react to what was dee, essentially, lying straight to his face for about half an hour.

but then:

“well, that’s brad,” logan says, “it doesn’t take much to fool him, i’d imagine.”

dee smiles, pleased. “no, it doesn’t.”

“so where was the other stuff from?” logan says. “upton priory, i mean. i’m assuming that doesn’t exist. i know the story from somewhere.”

he’s… curious.

he’s curious??? dee repeats to himself—this is logan, who is, as stated, journalism-obsessed, fact-checking, scientifically-minded—he doesn’t seem mad. he just seems… intrigued.

this bears much more investigation that dee would have thought prior to inviting him over.

“downton abbey,” dee allows. “i can’t believe you caught onto the historical significance of edward the eighth meeting his mistress in new york, and yet i throw three season’s worth of downton abbey at you and not even a little bit of recognition.”

logan shrugs. “i’m not very good with pop culture. that’s more—” and very suddenly he looks like he wants to slap a hand to his forehead, if logan was at all prone to dramatic, cliché gestures like that. “roman. he was going on for days about matthew dying in the same season they killed off sybil, that’s where i heard all of it before, it’s from roman.”

“the boyfriend,” dee says. 

“yes, the boyfriend,” logan says, “who is very excited for the excuse to wear a pretty ballgown, by the way.”

dee accepts this for the subject change it is, and digs out his notebook and a pen.

“right, then,” he says. “as previously discussed, i’m handling chilton participants, and i’m pleased to announce that with the addition of ana salazar, the entirety of the clairosophic society are involved.”

“oh, excellent,” logan says, and so dee goes on listing chilton students they’ve enlisted—he’d been right, recruiting the puffs and the skull and dagger had caused a wave of wannabes to join in too—and they discuss setting up a form for people to ensure that they’ve paid their way in, dee eventually digging out his laptop and making a couple drafts of one. 

as he does that, logan talks about the sideshire students (behind on payments, but they’re doing an ongoing bake sale at virgil’s, which, dee doesn’t know how small town things work, but he supposes he should trust that logan knows what he’s talking about) and logan taps his own notebook with his pen, going over all of the entrants and discussing anything that needs finer-tuning—not very much on their end, it turns out, but they’ll definitely need to have another meeting after what logan’s dad is apparently calling get cultured day, where he and logan’s boyfriend’s mother will teach everyone the dance they’ll need to know and the proper way to curtsy and so on.

logan scans over his notes, nodding in satisfaction, before he says, “we were a bit oversaturated on debutantes, the clairosophic society should help balance things out with escorts.”

“ana wants to go with janey,” dee corrects. “so she and janey are already taken, but otherwise—”

he blinks. “ana and janey are dating?”

dee looks at him, amused. “you know nothing about the social stratosphere at chilton, do you?”

“i don’t have much tolerance for gossip,” logan says. 

“really?” dee says. “i’d think that as a journalist you’d keep an eye out for these kinds of things.”

“i don’t report on gossip,” logan says. “what do i look like, francie jarvis? anyone else who lives and breathes that rag?”

“what, the jefferson?” dee says. “are you kidding? that’s the most useful thing that chilton’s ever provided me, and i’m including the education, here.”

“useful?” logan repeats, looking as offended as dee had expected him to look when logan would catch on to dee lying his ass off for half an hour straight. interesting. 

“well, admittedly, they can be rather behind when it comes to certain things,” dee says thoughtfully, “but the chaos that happens on the day it comes out? masterful.”

logan frowns. “i thought you wanted to work on the franklin.” 

“oh, i do,” dee says. “like i said, they’re not exactly cutting edge, i can do better with a well-coordinated social media check than they can do with an entire staff full of rumormongers. the whole,” and he flaps a hand, “truth and investigation thing, for the franklin, that’s interesting. besides, the franklin has more effect when it targets adults; with the jefferson, they just want to confirm that the algebra and the calculus teachers are having an affair, which they are—”

logan looks perplexed. “how do you—”

“—don’t ask,” dee says. “believe me, i wish i didn’t know.”

his eyes narrow, as if to say why should i believe you? which, good. he’s learning.

“but in the franklin, one can publish a deep-dive anonymous investigation and get shady male teachers tossed out of the schools on their ear for their too-frequent uniform checks and saying that uniform skirts are distracting. the franklin has more real-world power.”

“not that an investigation of an adult potentially preying upon teenage girls isn’t important,” logan says, “because it certainly is, but journalism isn’t about acquiring power. it’s about holding those in power accountable.”

“isn’t that the same thing?” dee points out. 

“no,” logan says. 

“but it is,” dee says. “because the concept of holding power is so multi-faceted. everyone’s idea of power is different. the upper class has power, the president has power, the people protesting have power. people like francie jarvis and tristan have power, but then, so do you and i. but all of those kinds of power are different.”

“well, that i agree with,” logan says cautiously, and then he frowns. “how do i have power?”

dee looks at him. he looks at him harder.

“what?”

“you’re kidding,” dee says. “you’re a sanders and a hayden.”

“the haydens are not particularly pleased that i am a hayden,” logan says. “the haydens would adore nothing more than to tidily remove me from the family tree.”

interesting.

“but they can’t tidily remove you being a hayden from everyone’s memory,” dee points out. “and, well. power can be privilege.”

“well, i certainly have privilege,” logan says. “i’m white, i’m a cis male, i’m attached to an affluent family.” he frowns, and amends, “families, i suppose.”

“oh, good,” dee says. “you’re a sane person who recognizes white privilege, i won’t have to kick you out.” 

also—attached to an affluent family, not part of an affluent family. more intrigue.

“anyways. you have plenty of power—take chilton, for example. say you wrote that piece on a pedophilic teacher that i was talking about. it would be due to your actions, your hard work and diligence, that removed him from his post. that doesn’t seem like power, to you?”

logan shakes his head, and repeats, “that’s what journalism’s about. just because there are effect from the story i write, to hold said teacher accountable, that doesn’t mean that is personally driven from me. that would be a response—from parents, from students, from headmaster charleston, eventually. there are responsibilities that journalists have, important ones, and we serve a purpose for society. perhaps the story has a powerful impact, or the story is emotionally powerful. that doesn’t mean that i am powerful. i didn’t direct people to fire him, i didn’t influence anyone. i would have presented the facts and exposed his wrongdoings, that’s all.”

“well, i suppose it does depend on your definition of powerful, that’s accurate enough,” dee says thoughtfully. “but the more philosophical idea of what is power? isn’t what i’m trying to address, at the moment, i’m addressing you. another example, then—academically, you’re powerful. tristan dugray would pay a tidy sum for any one of your study guides.”

logan frowns. “i wouldn’t cheat.”

“yes, yes, you’re very moral and ethical, good for you, you’ve passed the after-school special test,” dee says dismissively, “but specifically, for this definition of power, it’s a certain level of strength. but that’s a different kind of power, than, say—”

“tristan dugray never getting in trouble for his foolish pranks because of who his father is,” logan says.

“right,” dee says, “although you’re wrong on that front, he’s a prank on a bad day away from being sent to military school, but—yes, you’re seeing my point. power varies, power changes.”

“well, i never disagreed with that,” he says. “but those aiming for power—their main idea is almost never let’s be a journalist! unless they’re decisively within the yellow journalism era, or if they are fictional character charles foster kane. and even then, he was a media magnate, his attempts at journalism were just to manipulate public opinion and make a lot of money.”

dee sighs longingly and says, “if i were white, that would be my ideal era to work in.”

“what,” logan says, and suddenly they’re talking about yellow journalism—logan is very boring and against it, because he likes things like accuracy and facts—and then logan looks like he’s about to blow steam out of his ears when dee tells him that his ultimate career goal is to write for and maybe run something like the national enquirer, which leads to even more discussions on journalism, things like what qualifies someone to be a journalist and who decides what journalism is, and they’re on a little side-tangent about journalism as portrayed in films when there’s a knock on his door.

“mister slange, mister sanders, dinner is ready,” nanny says, and dee tries his best not to startle, because—logan’s been here for three hours. and he has not once gotten annoyed at dee for reasons outside of journalistic, ethical, or moral debate, and even then, logan seems to set all of that aside relatively easily.

and dee, apart from making up his entire ancestral backstory, has barely even lied.

“coming!” dee says, and then to logan, “i hope you like snail caviar.”

an expression of panic pops up on logan’s face, and dee laughs at him.

“kidding,” he says reassuringly. “it’s french onion soup and croque monsieurs.”

logan looks relieved, and he even laughs, and then proceeds to bump into dee, the way that friends on tv shows jostle each other when one tells a particularly biting joke, and then logan pauses, looking at dee.

very suddenly, dee thinks, oh.

does he think he’s my friend?

they’ve been debating for the better part of two hours, and dee lied to him for half an hour, and dee has been purposefully throwing as many rich-people things into conversation as possible to get logan looking baffled, and logan thinks that they are friends.

is that what friends do?

dee clears his throat, before he grabs logan’s bicep in a way he hopes is normal and does not at all give away that he has not had a friend since he immigrated to the united states, and says, “come on, then, i’ll let you stick your head in the library on the way.”

“you have a library?!” logan asks eagerly, following along as dee tugs him down the hall, and dee tries his very best not to smile too openly.

⁂

dee’s house is…a lot. it’s a lot.

(dee had pulled up a picture of his parents’ house to show off how it could be his own personal xanadu, when they’d been talking about citizen kane, and logan has mentally tabulated the publication he was talking about to fact-check that, because that—that was just absurd, even more so than this one.)

but the smell of french onion soup and croque monsieurs—essentially french ham-and-cheese, either sandwiches or baked lasagna style—is a little more comforting. logan knows these smells, baking bread and ham and melting cheese and onions—granted, virgil’s diner does a french onion soup, but he’s sure it’s not as fancy as what he’s about to eat with dee.

and, as they cross into the dining room, his grandmother, seated at the head of the table.

logan’s technically had lunch with mrs. slange before; it had been at the country club, and he’d been more preoccupied with glowering at dee, but he has met her and spoken with her. she’d been nice; she’d spoken to his grandmother quite a lot about landscaping, and flowers. azaleas in particular, he’s fairly certain.

she’s a rather diminutive woman, her already short stature shrunk down even more from age; her hair is thin and pure white, fluffing up in a way that makes logan think of dandelion fuzz. her face is wrinkled, especially with smile lines around her eyes, her mouth. she’s wearing a cardigan over a button-down, much like his grandmother wears on particularly casual days, but whereas his grandmother prefers solid colors, mrs. slange’s cardigan is white with embroidered pink and purple flowers; it matches her pastel pink button-down. 

by all accounts, she should register in logan’s mind as a fragile old woman; a nice one, one that seems to have more concern about her flowers than anything else. but there’s something glinting in her eyes—flinty, icy blue—that reminds him very much of dee, despite the fact that they are not biologically related.

it’s cunning, logan thinks, or intelligence—she must have both in spades, to help raise someone like dee.

she smiles at dee, and says something in french—logan can manage a basic spanish conversation due to his proximity to the princes, and he’s taking latin classes, but he’s absolutely hopeless with french unless he lucks out and they say something with a latin root word—and dee responds in kind. logan notes that their accents are different. logan puts together, barely a second after he notices, that one of haiti’s two official languages is french.

logan spares a second to wonder if dee can speak the other, haitian creole, before his grandmother turns to him directly and says—something in french. he has no clue what.

“il ne peut pas parler français, granmè, utiliser l'anglais,” dee says, looking almost a little amused at logan’s expense—well, logan can put together he can’t speak french, use english, just based off of context clues.

she starts a sentence in french, pauses, furrows her brow, as if unpuzzling it, and then continues in lightly accented english, “welcome to our home.”

“thank you very much for having me,” logan says, his dad’s be on your best behavior! text at the forefront of his mind, with his dad saying evelyn, right? i always liked her shortly behind. “your home is beautiful; the landscaping’s lovely.”

her wrinkled face settles into its worn lines she smiles.

“mer—” she begins, shakes her head, takes a breath, and then continues, “thank you very much. the roses are finicky little things, this time of year, i’m quite pleased with how they’ve turned out. i think they’ve thrown their last primadonna fit until fall rolls around again.”

and from there, it’s easy to prod her into conversation as they eat the soup course—logan mentally apologizes to virgil, but if he’d taste it, he’d probably agree that this french onion soup is better than his, too—just by asking about the various plants she tends to favor, the particular conditions that each seems to like. the conversation seems perfectly fine, if not for dee staring at the pair of them out of the corners of his eyes, as if monitoring their conversation to make sure neither of them says anything unseemly. 

which is a little unsettling—logan doesn’t think he’s said anything horribly rude to an old person lately, unless one counted his paternal grandparents last fall—but the conversation seems to be fine. logan admits that most of his knowledge of plants is theoretical, scientific, which prods her into asking about their shared science course, and dee takes over that conversation.

it’s fine. the whole dinner is fine, and it seems to be going well, even, and he keeps on thinking so and thinking so as he digs into the main course of croque monsieurs, and she says—

“how do you find the meal, christopher?”

it takes logan a second to register what’s wrong with that statement, and, as soon as it does, unwittingly, his eyes flash to dee.

dee has frozen, fork halfway to his mouth. it’s like he has to buffer for a moment before he visibly stiffens, setting the fork down. logan is about to excuse it as a slip of the tongue—she had known both his parents, surely, perhaps it was just a misstatement. most people in his grandparents’ sphere exalted his resemblance to christopher, even though he was quite clearly a carbon copy of patton excepting his sharper bone structure, straighter hair, and thinner frame, until—

“logan, granmè,” dee says, in a very gentle tone that does not at all match his fists curling up on the table. “this is logan, christopher’s son. do you remember? we had lunch with him and emily.”

her brow furrows, and she says, “right. of course. logan.”

she quite sounds like she thinks that dee is pulling one over her head, and she’s going along with it, the way one did when a small child was pulling an incredibly obvious joke on them.

she maintains that tone and slips a couple more times—christopher, how are straub and francine? as logan’s halving his croque monsieur; christopher, didn’t you say you were going out to california? when the maid, as tight-faced as dee, is setting dessert on the table. 

and it dawns on him, slowly: why dee had to prompt her to use english, when she was born speaking french, and why it had taken her a few seconds to clearly switch over in her head when dee went from french to english at the drop of a hat; why there were so many post-its near the front door; why the household staff had seemed surprised at a visitor, despite the fact that dee had told his grandmother he was bringing home a guest; why his grandmother had said she’s coming out less and less lately, it’s been a while since we’ve had a good, long chat; dee keeping a keen eye out, as if he’s monitoring what they’ll say; not for him, logan realizes, for her. 

she has a disease. she’s aware enough that her gardens are in splendid shape, she’s aware enough that she clearly knows who dee is, but. but she can’t remember who logan is.

it is an exceedingly awkward dessert.

he can’t deny the chocolate-raspberry souffle is absolutely delicious, though.

⁂

the dinner is over. nanny is taking granmè to the library. logan and dee are left alone at the dinner table.

dee has been mentally preparing for this since his grandmother’s first slip—comebacks, things to say, particularly acerbic and witty things he could summon up if logan is rude about it. he’s ready. 

that is, until logan just says, “can i see the greenhouse?”

dee blinks at him. “what?”

“the greenhouse,” logan repeats. “you said i could see it after dinner. can i?”

okay, dee thinks. changing the setting of the argument. he isn’t sure what logan’s play is here, but—

“sure,” dee agrees, and stands, purposefully languid and unhurried. “follow me.”

and so he leads logan through the narrow hallways of the house, mostly ignoring logan as they go (“is that a velázquez?” he demands of a painting, which dee doesn’t really deign answer to—of course it’s a velázquez, does his family seem like the type to settle for a framed imitation) and at last comes to the door of the greenhouse, which he opens without ceremony.

logan walks in. dee expects him to maybe go to sit down, and ask dee why his elderly grandmother thought he was his estranged father, but no—logan beelines straight for the hostas.

well. okay. dee trails after him, meandering vaguely around the greenhouse. logan’s route seems to make sense to him, and only him, but he pokes his nose close to each plant, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he crouches to examine the soil, the roots; if dee was walking into this situation with no prior context, he’d think perhaps that logan was an enterprising botanist who had just gained entry to a highly regarded greenhouse.

but logan is just in the greenhouse of an old lady with memory problems, who he did not know was an old lady with memory problems until she repeatedly referred to him by his father’s name. 

and so dee follows as logan examines fauna, and flora, and the goddamn soil. everytime logan hums with interest, dee thinks it’s a precursor to the beginning of this conversation, but no, he’s just humming at the plants. the plants. they’re plants, his grandmother’s plants, so he’s used to his grandmother being very fond of them and rambling about them even if he’s mostly indifferent about them, most of his emotion toward plants being if it makes granmè happy. the key word in that sentence is granmè. he does not particularly care if these plants make logan happy. he cares what logan will say about his grandmother.

they’ve looped three-quarters of the way around the greenhouse by the time dee’s patience runs out.

“well?!” and it tears out of him in a kind of snarl. logan, from where he’s crouched beside the lilies, blinks at him, his fingers resting on the arm of his glasses, as if he’s about to adjust them again.

“what?”

“what,” dee repeats, then, “what?!” and before he can even think about it, he has his bowler hat in one hand, thwacking logan over the head with it.

“ow!” logan says, clearly more out of the surprise of being thwacked when he wasn’t expecting it. that, or logan is a big baby, dee didn’t even swing that hard.

“what,” dee repeats, jamming his hat over his head again before logan can see any semblance of hat hair, “what, are you kidding me, sanders, of all the times to go quiet when you clearly have questions, you choose now?! say something!”

logan blinks at him, before he says, very slowly, “about…”

“my grandmother,” dee snaps. 

“ah,” logan says, then, almost like he’s reciting something for his latin class, “i am… sorry that she is ill, and i respect your privacy during this time?”

dee actually leans forward because of the force of the Look he is giving logan.

“you know i’m bad at this kind of thing,” he says defensively. “what do you expect me to say?”

“i don’t—!” dee says, and nearly throws up his hands, but he is not allowing himself to get that carried away. “i expect you to say something! not just wander around the greenhouse and let me wait and see if you say something stupid!”

logan looks at him, and says, “was that insensitive of me?”

dee’s eyes must look close to popping out of his head, because logan’s hands are already rising to protect the crown of his head, like he expects dee to hit him with his hat again.

“do you,” he says, and gives dee a strange look, “do you want to talk about it?”

“not particularly!”

“that’s what i thought!” logan says. “i assumed the prior agreement of you wanting to speak to me about anything that particularly affects you would take precedence—”

agreement, dee mouths, and mentally backtracks, until—

“my parents wanting to out me and you coming up with this whole debutante plot and my grandmother having dementia are two different categories!”

“i didn’t think that a statement like ‘if you want to talk about it, i am here’ needed categorization!”

“the previously agreed upon ‘it’ was specifically about my parents’ plot to out me by way of american daughters of the revolution!” dee says, near-hysterical.

“okay!” logan says, “okay, fine, i put forward the terms of that particular definition of ‘it’ being broadened to anything particularly troublesome in your life and wait on your acceptance, or your proposal on how exactly to renegotiate ‘it’, does that help?”

dee stares at him, jaw hanging open, and says, “there is no way that you are an actual person, are you serious?!”

“i don’t know what you want from me,” logan says, near-mournful, and the absolute absurdity of the situation sinks in enough that dee starts laughing.

his parents want to very publicly out him without his consent, his grandmother has dementia that will only get worse and worse and it will only be a matter of time before his parents realize what is happening and send her into a nursing home and force him to move back in with them, the household staff who are the closest people he had previously considered friends have no choice but increase their focuses on spying on him for his parents in order to distract them from noticing anything wrong with granmè, or else risk unemployment, and logan is here talking about renegotiations like they’re on a legal team, and talking sure as shit isn’t an option, so dee can’t do anything but laugh.

“christ,” he says, and half-crumples, half-slides to the ground beside logan, who looks very bemused. “putain de merde, sanders.”

“i’m assuming that’s impolite,” logan says primly, and dee snorts.

“yeah,” dee says, in the same tone would say duh. “yeah, impolite, let’s go with that, shall we?” 

logan pauses, for a few seconds, as if allowing dee to get his bearings, before he says "dementia?" with a tone of curiosity that has dee swiveling his head to glower at him.

"sorry," logan says, not sounding particularly sorry.

"journalist habit," dee mutters, beating logan to the punch for his own excuse.

"yes."

they sit in silence for a little longer.

"i didn't know she knows that particular side of the family," logan says. "the haydens, i mean."

"oh, yes," dee says absently. "we probably lunch with them about twice a year, sometimes more—less now, though, now that they've moved away."

"huh," logan says, then, "what are they like?"

"what, you don't know?" dee says, glancing at him.

"not particularly," logan says. "i've only met them three times, and considering i was still in the hospital post-birth for one of them and was learning how to crawl for the other—"

"huh," dee echoes.

how weird it must be for logan, to hear that dee's had more regular interactions with his grandparents. both sets, probably; he would have remembered if logan had gotten dragged into various family gatherings the way he has.

"they," logan says, purses his lips, and says, "the haydens were particularly transphobic."

"yeah, well," dee says. "that doesn't surprise me."

"homophobic too," logan says, and he glances at his hands before he looks sideways at dee. "deviant was the exact word used in my presence. i'm assuming there was more, but dad kicked me out of the room before i could hear anything else."

dee rolls around various replies in his mouth. he could offer sympathy, or something equally socially accepted and something dee would have no problem letting roll off his tongue like a well-rehearsed monologue.

but.

he would tell all of those monologues to people who don't know that he's trans, that have never been to either of his houses, that have never listened to him spin a lie for half an hour and not be mad about it. he would tell all of these monologues to someone who didn't know that his grandmother has alzheimer's.

so dee doesn't offer a monologue. he offers something that he assumes logan might appreciate, something he'd recognize in a fellow colleague: curiosity.

"which dad?" dee asks. "patton or—"

"patton," logan says, cutting him off. "christopher walked me out, though, to make sure i actually stayed out."

another pause. it seems like curiosity hasn't been the outright wrong move, so dee strives for more questions.

"are you close?" dee says. "with christopher. i've only met him a couple times."

logan's mouth twists downward at the edges.

"i don't suppose you'd be willing to offer definitive parameters for close, would you?"

"no, not really," dee says. "closeness is subjective."

logan shrugs a shoulder. he looks almost uncomfortable.

"what?" dee says, interest now piqued—because if he didn't know any better, he'd say logan looked guilty.

"i," logan says carefully, "might have blackmailed him."

"you what," dee says, turning to face logan head-on, not even bothering to hide his shock. or his delight. he doesn't bother hiding that either.

"after the visit last fall, he," and the corners of his mouth twist down even further. "well, that doesn't matter anymore. anyway, i dug up as much of his public financial and legal records that i possibly could and made him a deal that i'd extend equal efforts in getting to know him as he would getting to know me. we have a standing weekly phone call now."

"you blackmailed him?" dee says gleefully.

"with public information," logan says huffily. "it's not like i hired a private investigator or anything—"

"nuh-uh, nope, you used the word blackmail," dee says merrily. "you don't even have to justify it with saying where you got the information, you still used information you dug up on him to coerce him into a deal. that is the textbook definition of blackmail."

"i don't know if it's the textbook definition—"

"nope!" dee says. "nope, i'm not listening to your semantics. you blackmailed someone."

"you don't need to sound so thrilled about it," logan grumbles.

"are you kidding?" dee demands. "this is by far one of the most interesting things i've ever heard about you. please tell me there's more misbehavior like this in your past—no, no, wait! i'll figure it out myself!"

"good luck with that," logan says. and then, almost randomly, "everyone says i look like him."

dee stays quiet—give the interviewee time to consider their answer, if it's short, mel had lectured once. always leave a couple of seconds for them to think about if they want to add on to their answer before you move to an entirely different question.

"i mean," logan says, and runs a hand through his hair. "other than this, i don't particularly understand why. i pretty clearly favor my dad—ugh, patton, i favor patton, this is the problem with two dads—but everyone says i look like christopher. my grandparents—both sides—their friends, a couple teachers. it's usually rather frustrating, and though i can't prove it, i have a feeling it's somewhat rooted in transphobia, for most of those friends."

he pauses a beat, as if understanding where he's going with this particular line of conversation. dee suddenly feels a lot less excited about the potential for uncovering any more of logan's past misconduct.  

"but," logan says. "it, ah. it makes more sense, if your grandmother has more recently had contact with that particular side of my family—"

"don't," dee says, and the exhaustion in his voice almost stuns him.

"don't what?"

"don't," dee says, and flaps a hand. "don't make excuses for her. she has alzheimer's, she's not stupid. everyone's patronizing her now and i hate it, even though i find myself doing it sometimes, it's like everyone's scared that they'll somehow catch the alzheimer's if they don't talk to her like she's a toddler."

and now logan's the one who's quiet, just for a little bit, like he's strategizing how to carry out the rest of the interview. 

except, dee thinks, this isn't an interview. this is a conversation. this is that talking thing that logan offered so readily, back when dee had come out, back before logan came up with this whole absurd debutante plan. 

it's just—difficult. to consider turning this strategizing, conniving part of his brain off. he isn't sure if he ever has, ever since he was first notified it was there in the first place. why would he turn this piece of himself off when it protected him, when it kept him aloof and above it all and safe to conduct himself in the way that felt most true to him? if it took lying and manipulating along the way, so be it. he has no patience for attempts at moralizing the way he lives his life. immanuel kant was a fucking moron who would have gotten himself and his friend killed because he decided his perfect duty was to always tell the truth. what was the point of something like truth if it hurt you? if it put you in danger?

it's not even a choice. 

or, at least. it has never been a choice. because logan is no murderer at the door, or machiavelli-wannabe gossip, or high-society rich person who held so much more power than one could even think of through backdoor deals and secret donations, who had adopted a poor orphan from haiti because it might look good as an accessory, and people would think them charitable, and they would barely even thinking about that poor orphan from haiti growing into their own person with pesky, inconvenient things like wants and needs and opinions.

telling the truth would logan would be... telling the truth to logan. logan, who lived in a tiny, pleasantville knockoff town with things like dance marathons and punnily-named cat-themed stores. logan, who had once blackmailed his own father in order to obtain a standing weekly phone call. logan, who had a trans dad, and who had a boyfriend that he had brought to the school dance, and danced with him, and kissed him, and it didn't even occur to him to care who might see, who might disapprove.

logan, who was once homeless and penniless, and who had extended various sources of information that dee had in his hands, ready to drop into the public eye at any given moment.

logan, who had just sat and talked about citizen kane with him and didn't catch onto three seasons worth of downton abbey but immediately clocked a reference to wallis simpson. logan, who had looked helplessly confused at the sight of fancy water and finger sandwiches and afternoon tea. 

logan, who might think that they are friends.

it might become more of a choice then, dee thinks. 

so when logan asks, very quietly, "how long have you known that she's sick?" it only takes dee swallowing down the saliva rising in his throat to be able to answer.

"she was diagnosed about three and a half months ago," he says. "but i've known something's wrong for a lot longer than that."

logan swallows, too, and dips his head in a brief nod, as if to show he's absorbed the information.

"i'm sorry," he says.

dee could say any number of things: she could live as long as twenty years after her diagnosis, but it's more commonly four to eight years. or one day she's going to forget who i am and i am absolutely terrified. or when my parents catch on they're going to send her away to a nursing home, and i won't be able to live here anymore, and i'll go crazy if i have to stay in that house for too long, their screaming and shouting will drive me crazy. or you don't even know the half of it, the household staff that you probably think are so nice and who practically raised me have no choice but to spy on every little thing i do because otherwise they'll get fired.

but for as much as dee can briefly turn off that part of his mind, he cannot turn it off all at once. there is no way he's opening the floodgates of information like that. they might be friends, but dee isn't in hysterics. he can control himself. he can control this. 

"yeah," dee says, and tips back his head to look up at the ceiling; half of it is glass, leading up to where it joins the rest of the house. the sky is bleak and black tonight, with no moon or stars in sight. "yeah, me too."

⁂

the chauffeur closes the door behind logan, and logan has to fight the urge to jump, even though the chauffeur was also holding the door open for logan to get into the car in the first place.

he has to shake himself before he turns to look at the front door of the lavandelands; dee is standing outside, letting the light spill out of the house and backlight him enough that logan can see him leaning against one of the columns, one arm casually wrapped around his stomach. his bowler hat overcasts his eyes.

"your address, sir?" the chauffeur says, and logan has to fight the urge not to jump again. he tells the chauffeur the address to virgil's, anyways, and turns his head to look at dee again.

haltingly, he lifts his hand and waves, just a little bit awkward. dee's shadowed form doesn't move.

there's a brief moment where logan's left with his hand raised in the air, and he cringes to himself ever so slightly before he starts to lower it.

but then, dee lifts a gloved hand, and tosses logan a lazy, three-fingered salute off his bowling cap, and logan tries to smile a little bit. he can't quite manage it, but he's pretty sure the chauffeur isn't judging him for not looking pleasant enough, as the chauffeur’s a bit busy pulling the car into a neat, three-pointed turn, before beginning to drive away.

logan glances over his shoulder, just enough to see dee, shoulders slightly slumped, re-enter the house. logan lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and redirects his attention to his phone, which he's mostly been neglecting this entire bizarre sojourn at dee's.

he takes enough time to text his dad and virgil that he'll be dropped off at virgil's, so he can pick up a study snack before he heads back to their house, and reassures his dad that he doesn't have to wait up for him or anything. 

he reads a text from roman—a brief complaint about a girl in his dance class, not one of the ones he teaches but the class he actually takes, and logan sends a response that he hopes sounds like the proper, thoughtful response to a mostly inconsequential venting message from his boyfriend.

and then he sits and stares at his homescreen, still that selfie of roman, his dad, and virgil that they took last fall, when he was staying at his grandparents, before everything with thanksgiving and patton's pneumonia had rather tidily messed that week up.

because he has his dad, and his other dad, and virgil, who consists as a dad figure, and he has ms. prince, in her way, and he has roman, a wonderful supportive boyfriend who he has always been able to talk to throughout most of his life. he has rudy, even if he has never particularly leaned on rudy as a means of support. he has maria, and meredith and mark, and his host of cousins from the danes side of the family. he has his grandparents in their own strange ways, even if their relationship prior to this school year would best be described as stilted. he has friends from sideshire high and his teachers and mentors that he left there.

dee has practically no one.

it seems so obvious, looking back at the start of the school year, how dee had seemed so desperate to cling to his academic superiority over everyone in the grade, because that's what he has. he has an ill grandmother, and exceptional grades, and three snakes. he has a former nanny and the rest of a household staff who seem more preoccupied with his grandmother's care. he has his secretive stance in the chilton social ladder, but he didn't have friends. 

logan worries his lip between his teeth. he is incredibly ill-equipped to handle this kind of situation. honestly, he's probably fortunate he only escaped with dee hitting him with his bowler hat; anyone who attempted to have an emotion-centric conversation with logan knew that he wasn't exactly the ideal person to talk to. that's never been his forte.

it has always been his dad's. his dad, who dee had seemed fascinated with, who certainly had a certain level of similarity in their life experiences. and though logan, of course, would never betray confidences...

he could, perhaps, offer some of his vast support system for dee to partake in. leave the choice to him, of course, but. but at least logan would have tried.

and so logan takes a breath, and sends out a text.

Logan Sanders: Dad, would it be all right if I asked Dee sleep over the night of the Culture Day you're planning with Ms. Prince?

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - The Girls and Their Ghosts

For @evaroze, a sweet gal who inspired me with her super kawaii art. I hope you enjoyed it! And a special shout out goes to @stephreynaart and her comic, who never fails to make me laugh and I couldn’t help but include it in this piece. (There may or may not be a part 2...)

(slight name change to better fit a cute headcanon)

~~~~~~~~~~

“MOVE! MOVE! OUTTA THE WAY!”

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

“Oh, dear me!”

“SHADDUP! MOVE!”

“Stanley, calm down.”

“PICK UP THE PACE, SIXER, I AIN’T MISSING THIS!”

Ford rolled his eyes with a smile on his worn face, weather-beaten and tired, but he continually ran after his twin. Despite the fact that their bodies would hate them for this later, they ran through the hospital as fast as they could. They weren’t this late when Soos had his son. Luck just hadn’t been by their side this time.

After battling a fierce storm to reach the coastline, finding the Stanmobile and having to explain why they were picking it up earlier than scheduled, racing to the center of the state, and parking in an emergency handicap spot, the old sailors in their mid-eighties used all of their strength to reach the Gravity Falls Hospital in time. While Ford was beyond jubilant, Stan was the most frantic and spirited, but that didn’t mean Ford didn’t punch three jerks in the face when confronted at the docks and that he would have no issue using a recovered memory gun to wipe some cops’ memories of a speeding Diablo.

Stan jammed the button for the elevator a few times, decided it was too slow, and bolted to the stairs. Ford followed, pulling out his magnet gun, and called, “Stanley, grab hold of me!”

Inside the stair-covered hallway, Stan grabbed his brother tightly and Ford shot upward, zapping them up a few floors and they landed like cats at the door to the sixth floor. They ran down the hall and Stan counted the doors. “Four… five… six… damn it, where’s eighteen?!”

“Grunkle Stan?”

Stan would recognize that voice anywhere. He ran faster (Ford didn’t think that was even possible) and around the corner Mabel, Gideon, Soos, and Dipper and Mabel’s parents were in a small waiting lobby. Mabel skipped to the old men happily, letting her orange-haired fiancee stay behind at a safe distance, and she hugged them tightly. Ford and Stan squeezed her tightly, haven’t seen her since the summer, the old tradition of a long reunion still going strong, and they soon let her go to have a look at the beautiful young lady with long brown hair, eyes that matched their own, and black lips with pink eyeshadow.

“Well?” Ford huffed, low on oxygen.

“She’s fine, everything’s okay.” Mabel giggled and patted their shoulders. “Any minute now.”

“We did miss it?” Stan checked hopefully.

“Nope!” Mabel said cheerfully. “They wanted to be alone for this, but when the baby’s born we can all go in.”

Stan held his pounding chest and collapsed into a chair. Soos was there to pat his shoulder and welcome him home, to which he immediately asked where his grandson was and if he was too cool for him now, but Soos just laughed and said that Melody would bring him once everything had calmed down.

An hour or so passed before nurses and the doctor started to leave the room. A few more minutes passed with everyone watching the door carefully and soon a very tired-looking Dipper emerged, pinching the bridge of his nose with a bandaged hand. It was amazing how much he resembled the men before him, sturdy and strong like his Grunkle Stan, but still fluffy and favored layers of clothing, like his Grunkle Ford. Like most men in the family, he required glasses, which he happily sported, alongside a small golden band on his left hand and a brown fur coat an old friend had given to him as a wedding present. Dipper had a little bit of stubble, promising a short old dutch beard and possibly a mustache (Stan prayed not a stupid mustache), and despite the bags under his eyes and the tiniest bit of redness that circles his soft brown spears, the windows to his soul sparkled with pure joy and his smile was radiant.

In an instant, his twin sister ran to him and he engulfed her in a huge hug, one that swept her off her feet and spun her around and made her giggle like the child she was at heart. Mabel eventually let him go to ruffle his hair and then asked, “So…”

Dipper grinned, his eyes sweeping the area to see who had arrived in time, and he croaked, his throat thick with emotion, “It’s a girl.”

Mabel squealed and bounced like there were springs at the bottom of her heels. Their parents high-fived and the new grandmother looked close to tears. Soos punched Gideon’s shoulder with a smile. Stan sneakily handed Ford a ten dollar bill, both grinning widely at the arrival of their first great-grandniece. God, that made them sound ancient.

“Congratulations, Dipper!” Ford cheered and clapped a six-fingered hand on his shoulder.

“So when can we see the little princess?” Stan asked with a huge smile.

“Right now,” Dipper said and opened the door for the small crowd.

Stan slipped his beanie off and held it with hands that trembled with excitement. Every time he was allowed in a delivery room had been special. Dipper and Mabel being born had been both painful and joyful, being the first new family members that didn’t hate him or pity him. Jacob Stanley Ramirez’s birth had been honorable with tears and hugs and no hint of pain, though Stan never became a father like he had once dreamed, he was now a grandfather. Now, his own little niblings had a baby to call their own. Stan had been terrified that he might not live to see this day, so he was grateful that not only he got to be here, but that Ford was here with him.

In the bed, freshly cleaned, tired, and glowing with pride and love, Pacifica held a pink bundle in her arms. Dipper was by her side soon enough, rubbing her shoulders and kissing her forehead in thanks. Her smirk immediately went to the old men, but it was too distracted by a trembling, squealing woman her age.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! Paz, she’s perfect!”

“You haven’t even seen her yet, Mabel.”

“Don’t care, she’s my niece, therefore she’s perfect!”

“Well, come here and meet your goddaughter.” Dipper chuckled.

Mabel was suddenly deadly still, the still-est she had been all day. With the color drained from her face and making her look like a vampire thanks to her mixture of pink and black outfit, she whispered, “I’m… I’m…”

The new parents nodded with supportive smiles. “No one’s better for the job, hon.” Pacifica said earnestly.

Mabel could only bite her lip as she stood by her twin and peered down at the bundle.

Stan and Ford stood by her side, now at the foot of the bed, and awed at the sight. A teeny tiny head was swaddled in the midst of the soft blanket. It was like when Stan saw those newborn twins all over again. A blank canvas with small resemblances to their parents. Stan swore this gal had that Pines’ baby button nose and she somehow already had that perfect Northwest skin complexion. His opinion may be biased, but who cares? This baby was the most beautiful Stan had ever seen (right next to his other kids, duh).

“Wow…” Stan choked. “She’s p-p-pretty.”

“Stanley, are you crying?” Ford chuckled.

“Shaddup.” He said weakly and wiped his wet eyes with his arm.

Pacifica smiled warmly and offered, “Wanna hold her, you old fart?”

With a quick cough and a clearing of his throat, Stan nodded and sat in the offered chair by Pacifica’s side. At this point the old man was an expert on accepting babies and how to hold them properly. He had been practicing since he was seventeen and got to hold Shermie’s son, who today became a grandfather and looked ready to fight Stan for a chance to hold the baby.

However, this time was different. Stan couldn’t be selfish with his time with her. She had tons of other people to love her and make sure she was happy. She didn’t need him. So much unlike Stan, who fought Shermie for five more minutes to hold the twins, and who held Jacob for hours as he cried silently, he let Ford hold the newborn after a few minutes and was content in watching. The rapid trip had tired him out.

“What’s her name?” Ford asked his grandnephew.

“Angelina Susan.” Dipper said proudly.

Everyone was merciful enough to ignore how wet Pacifica’s eyes were.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ford had been having a conversation with Dipper over mugs of coffee while Stan entertained Angel when the conversation accidentally morphed into a monologue of Dipper explaining the progress of his ghost-hunting show to his old idol. Ford was listening. Or, half-listening.

As it was customary, Stan found a new snuggle buddy by letting Dipper’s daughter sleep on his chest, a hand over Angel protectively. The baby was almost a year old now and slept with her thumb in her mouth with dirty-blonde hair that she inherited from both parents. Ford smiled at the bright child. While Stan had always been amazing with children, there was something special about Angel that Ford couldn’t quite shake. Seeing her so happy and at peace made him feel the same way.

Later that night, Ford was in the kitchen for something to drink when he heard the start of a baby’s cries. He and Stan were staying with Dipper and Pacifica for the holidays this year while the Mystery Shack was undertaking repairs, and so the old sailor had no issue assisting with the baby if he could to repay the parents for their hospitality by letting them sleep. In his cozy blue flannel pajamas, Ford quietly entered Angel’s nursery and peeked inside, his ears cursed with the stressed cries and he was determined to solve whatever problem the baby had and to put her at ease.

Angel’s cries morphed into whimpers at the sight of the old man above her crib. Her lip trembled and she held her little arms up for him. Ford chuckled and gently scooped her up. “Oh, it’s alright, my dear. It’s alright. I’m here.” He cooed softly and rubbed her back, letting Angel rest her tiny head on his shoulder. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Ford ran through his big head for a diagnosis of Angel’s distress. No bad smells, no sign of pain or injury. She might be hungry, Ford thought, but just as he was about to leave with her for the kitchen to try to find some milk to give her, the aged scientist noticed something. Angel was holding him very tight. Though she was no longer wailing, she was still crying, even trembling a little, but she did not feel cold. Ford re-positioned Angel to feel her forehead, but she did not feel warm. He then saw her beautiful baby blue eyes and knew what was wrong. Angel had been terrified by something.

Ford smiled softly and held her by his shoulder again to rub her back and he swayed slightly where he stood. “It’s alright, it’s alright, my lovely. It was only a nightmare. They all go away eventually, trust me.”

He and Angel slowly settled into the rocker for restless babies and Ford gently pushed back and forward. Angel was no longer crying now, still clinging onto her uncle’s pajamas tightly, like he was a lifeline, but she was starting to calm down and understand that she was safe. “That’s it, my little angel, that’s it.” Ford praised her quietly.

A quick glance outside told him that it had started to snow in the middle of the night. He smiled at the idea of playing with Angel in the morning, wrapped up like Eskimos and enjoying the gift nature had provided. An old song came to mind and so Ford hummed it quietly to the baby. Perhaps Ma had sung it a fair few times, or maybe it was a brand new tune Ford had made up. Who knows? Regardless, soon Angel was fast asleep and the old man had no strength to get up, so Dipper would simply have to find them in the morning and sneak a picture for jokes and memories.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three years passed. Angel was a bubbly, curious child with a pair of baby twin sisters, Stella and Estelle. It was nice to know Dipper and Mabel wouldn’t be the only set of twins in the family. Mabel and Gideon had their own family, Jacob had even grown up and graduated high-school just a few weeks ago. Stan was beyond proud, and the last four years on land with Dipper and his family to help around the house and practically work at the Mystery Shack had brought its own joys as did sailing around the world. But he was tired.

Ford held his hand when he didn’t have the strength one morning to get out of bed. They had been silent, simply enjoying each other’s presence, for they had already said everything that needed to be said. Not only said it, but said it a million times in the years they had spent sailing around the world and retiring in Gravity Falls together. But Ford wanted to assure his brother of one thing, detecting how hard he was fighting to stay.

He cleared his throat, squeezed his twin’s hand, and croaked, “You can let go, Stanley.”

Stan chuckled weakly. “Nah, I ain’t ready to go. Believe it or not, there’s still something I wanna stick around for.”

Ford smiled at that. He had feared that after so many years of neglect and only staying alive because he had something to do, that when there was nothing to do, he wouldn’t have the will to stay. He was beyond relieved to discover he was wrong. “What is that?”

Stan gave his brother a cocky look, despite being so tired and weak. “My family, Sixer. I’m not leaving them anytime soon.”

Ford found that he completely understood, and privately agreed. “Neither am I.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Not many people thought Ford would last long after Stan died, but the eldest twin managed to stick around for five years before he died of a peaceful heart attack in his sleep. The Pines family were saddened, but they were also happy that the brothers were reunited and that they had both lived full and happy lives. And they knew them well enough to know they would not have been pleased if everyone was sad and made their names taboo.

Angel remembered her grunkles vividly. She was eight when Grunkle Ford died and she took it hard, being very close to him and admiring him like her father before her had, but her family helped her get through it and Dipper assured her daughter that he was happy. That was all Angel cared about.

There were times she enjoyed being a big sister, and times she didn’t. Stella and Estelle caused so much trouble and were the biggest handful anyone had ever seen. Ford once said before he died that the girls gave him and Stan a run for their money. It was like the girls had unknowingly accepted a challenge, and now were pure trouble-making terrors that kept Gravity Falls interesting thanks to their father’s curiosity and their mother’s attitude.

One night, when Angel was ten, she left her room for a glass of water or milk, something to satisfy her thirst, and she tiptoed across the dark house with a smile, the glow of the moon creating squares on the floor through the windows, perfect for quiet hopscotch. Angel stopped at the fireplace that showcased so many old photos. There was the picture of Mommy and Grandma Susan in the diner, waitresses together, and pictures of weddings, fishing trips, holidays, and just hanging out with Aunt Mabel and Uncle Gideon and Uncle Soos and Jacob. One picture Angel carefully picked up and smiled at.

She was only a baby in this picture, maybe a few weeks old, and Grunkle Ford was holding her as he sat in an armchair (she had seen that same chair at the Mystery Shack), with Grunkle Stan leaning against the seat, ruffling his brother’s hair and smiling at the baby. Angel became a little sad; she didn’t remember Grunkle Stan as well as she remembered Grunkle Ford, but she loved them both and missed them. She took the framed photograph with her into the kitchen and looked at it as she drank her water at the table, remembering all she could.

Angel could remember the sound of Grunkle Ford’s voice. It was low and heavy, but soft and comforting, like a weighted blanket. He used that voice to read her stories, using a different voice or accent for each character and even doing the sound effects, whether Angel asked him to or not. She could also remember him and Aunt Mabel knitting and showing Angel how to do it. She didn’t have the patience to learn, but she liked watching the yarn magically turn into clothing and listening to the two swap stories.

Angel can remember Grunkle Ford’s shadow puppets. He was the best at it, and sometimes he would shine a light against a wall, build a mini pillow fort for Angel to rest on, and make pictures on the wall with his special hands. Susie had a vague memory of once saying she wishes she had six fingers so she was more like Grunkle Ford. And he may or may not have started to cry, though Angel to this day had no idea why.

As for Grunkle Stan she mostly only remembered him through Grunkle Ford; Angel was only three when Grunkle Stan died, and all she could remember independently was a very distinct laugh and his smile, but she could remember everything Grunkle Ford said about him and the stories he told. Everyone always said how great Grunkle Stan was, despite being a conman. Angel grinned at the idea of having such amazing relatives, both old men cunning and crafty and willing to do anything for their families. She really missed them.

Angel sighed and left her empty glass alone to put the picture back on the fireplace. As she passed the TV, a video tape fell out of a box below the screen, though she could have sworn she had never touched it. Angel grinned at that; she had a feeling something funny had happened before, but she told herself grief was imagining something that wasn’t there.

She picked up the tape and grinned to find a familiar cursive handwriting on some tape on the top of the black box. Angel quickly slid it into the very old machine and turned on the TV quietly, then sat on the carpeted floor before the glowing screen. What she saw made her jubilant and she had to bite her lip to keep from squealing.

Thirty minutes later she hurried to her sisters’ bedroom and shook them away, climbing on the ladder of the bunk-bed to reach Estelle and kicking Stella awake. “Girls! Get up!”

“What?” Estelle snorted, rubbing her eyes.

“Why?” Stella groaned, burying her head under her pillow.

“There’s something you gotta see, now c’mon!” Angel urged and eventually pulled the twins by their wrists out of bed and practically dragged them out of the room.

Stella and Estelle were a bit less pissed when they saw the TV was on and all Angel wanted was for them to watch something, so they settled on the couch with their sister and Angel re-winded it to a certain point. The twins gasped to find an uncle they didn’t remember on screen.

“My name’s Stanley Pines.” He said seriously, in his beanie, boxers, slippers, and stained undershirt, sitting in his famous armchair. “I was sixty-seven when I made this tape, but now… I’m dead.” He said in a low voice with a strained face and wide eyes, then wiggled his fingers and asked with laughter in his throat, “Trapped in a box underground! Pretty spooky, huh? Haha!”

There it was! That laugh Angel could so distinctly remember. She grinned at hearing that laugh again and glanced down at her sisters, both wide-eyed with wonder.

A sharp voice that was slightly more recognizable interrupted Grunkle Stan’s laugh. “Stanley!” Grunkle Ford scolded behind the camera, while Grunkle Stan rolled his eyes. “Stan, this is for future Pines generations, the children Dipper and Mabel will have that we might not get to meet, their grandchildren! Surely you have a message you want to leave them.”

“Alright alright, I do.” Grunkle Stan said and smiled at the camera as he pointed at his audience. “Remember to work hard and that family always comes first. Also,” Now Grunkle Stan grew slightly more serious again. “I have several pounds of gold and millions in unmarked bills in a safe buried under the Shack, next to the…” His face suddenly dropped, and then their grunkle went on to over-exaggerate, putting a hand to his chest to fake a heart attack, then proceeded to limp over his chair with his tongue sticking out, making dying noises.

As the twins were laughing loudly and probably waking up their parents and Angel tried to shush them but was giggling nonetheless, the camera spun around and Grunkle Ford appeared on screen. “I’m sorry, kids, but this is what I have to work with.” Then he raised an eyebrow annoyingly as Grunkle Stan continued to make dying noises.

Angel paused the TV as the girls tried to silence their laughter, but despite Stella biting her shirt and Estelle holding her breath until she was blue, all three couldn’t help but laugh, not only from the comedic scene recorded for them, but the overwhelming joy they had from seeing their grunkles. Not only seeing their grunkles, but via a message they had created just for them.

Stella wiped a teary eye and asked, “Is that it?”

Angel shook her head. “No, there’s thirty minutes of Grunkle Ford just talking to us and showing us their favorite things, even the Stan O’ War. That was just my favorite part.”

“Forget sleep!” Stella said and ran off for the kitchen. “Start the movie over! I’ll make popcorn!”

“I’ll get the drinks!” Estelle volunteered and followed her twin to the kitchen.

Angel smiled, loving the idea of seeing her family again, and alone in the room, she could feel a presence she couldn’t quite explain, but she looked at the old men in the photograph above the fireplace and whispered, “Thanks, guys. I miss you.”

Meanwhile, invisible to the Earth they dwelled on, Stan stood by his niece with his brother by his side. Proudly grinning, he clamped a hand over Ford’s shoulder and said, “They love us!”

Ford smiled and chuckled, his eyes still on his little angel, who looked at the picture hungrily. With any luck, she won’t miss them for much longer.

[niksixx]

Plus One

Welcome to part 5 of Plus One. We are approaching the end of this mini fic, but do not worry my loves. We still have a few parts left. I hope you enjoy part 5, and please remember to leave comments, reblog, and add tags. It motivates me to continue writing for you all. 💜

Note: Just a reminder, though this fic may seem fast, it takes place over the course of a few months!! 

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

*Pia’s POV*

Eight bright, colorful beanbags are scattered around the floor in a private room at the back end of the library. It’s quiet, far away from small children who squeal excitedly when they spot their favorite comic book and a good distance away from the college students who gather at the old wooden tables to recite chemistry flashcards in one big study group.

Black coffee and burnt wood is the signature smell of the book club room. Only a few windows are open, allowing just a bit of sunshine and breeze to fill the room. The aura is comforting.

“Okay, everyone,” I say, setting the book in my lap. I believe The Catcher in the Rye is a classic, but various opinions, both positive and negative, have been directed toward the book over the years. Romance is the genre I’ve always been drawn to, fiction or nonfiction, but I can certainly appreciate a coming-of-age novel. “How did we feel about the story?”

Margaret, an elderly woman with curly gray hair and silver glasses, raises her hand timidly. It’s the first time she has volunteered to speak since the start of our club. I give her an encouraging smile, nodding. “I enjoyed it very much, though it was slow at times.”

A small contribution, but a contribution nonetheless. “Thank you Margaret. Would anyone else like to share?”

Shayne, a third-year college student, wiggles his fingers and clears his throat. “I would.” He snaps the book shut with one hand. “The book itself is enjoyable. There’s a lot of important themes that are entwined in the storyline. But Holden, and let me be clear, I feel terrible for saying this about a sixteen-year-old, was insufferable.”

“I thought I was the only one who thought so!” Stacy chirps from her beanbag. The thirty-year old mother of two crosses her ankles, drumming her fingers on the spine of her novel. “I was under the impression that Holden believed he was better than everyone else. His personality alone was enough to make me despise the book and it’s a shame. I wanted to love it.”

“That’s an interesting point, Stacy.” Setting my book on the ground, I adjust my legs deeper into the beanbag while the rest of the book club eagerly sits forward, awaiting my response. “And this is why I love reading so much. Whether the story is true or not, we know Holden Caulfield is not a real person, though there have been assumptions that J.D. Salinger modeled Holden after himself. Stacy, you said that Holden’s personality gave you enough reason to not enjoy the book. We certainly have to appreciate Salinger’s talent as an author. He was able to create a character that made you feel such strong emotions.” The club nods in agreement before I continue. “Now Shayne, you mentioned themes. Explain a bit more for me.”

“Gladly,” he answers eagerly. “Innocence. It’s the main theme. Holden, for lack of a better term, is obsessed with the preservation of childhood innocence. I do think that’s admirable, and while he was intolerable in my opinion, I can understand his desire to conserve one’s purity.”

“I assume there’s going to be a but in your next statement,” Charlie pipes up with a chuckle. The forty-seven year old retired firefighter wears a kind smile on his face.

“But,” Shayne smirks and holds up a finger. “Holden is one big contradiction, and here’s why. We know how much Holden hated the adult world and it’s “phoniness”. It’s the whole reason he wanted to preserve innocence wherever he could. Holden himself was a phony, a fake. He condemns adulthood but is seemingly unaware of his own phoniness. I now hate this word, by the way.”

A collective chuckle sounds in the room. I shake my head but can’t help the growing smile. The book club has been the highlight of my week so far.

“Anyway,” Shayne continues. “He’s deceptive and a compulsive liar. Holden is the epitome of what he hates.”

“That is a fantastic observation, Shayne, and thank you for sharing.” He bows dramatically before slinking back deeper into the beanbag. “Before we conclude our meeting and I introduce our new book, I have a question. Does anyone know why Holden’s name is symbolic to the story?”

I can see the wheels turning in their brains, and for a moment I think I’ve stumped them. Charlie looks like he wants to answer, but nothing comes out of his mouth. I take the chance to speak up. “First, does anyone know what a caul is?”

Stacy’s hand shoots up in the air. “I think I learned about this in one of my birthing classes but forgive me if I’m wrong. But isn’t the caul a part of the amnion that protects an unborn baby? Near the head, right?”

I snap my finger and point to Stacy excitedly. “Yes! And what does the name Holden sound like?”

“Holden...hold...en...hold...hold on?” Charlie asks skeptically.

“Exactly right,” I grin proudly. “Put it all together.”

“Oh my gosh,” Margaret says softly. Everyone turns toward the older woman. “In the book there was mention of Holden imagining children frolicking in a rye field. I just realized it now. He’s the catcher in the rye field, protecting the children. Holden Caulfield. Hold on to childhood innocence.”

I grin wildly, clapping along with the rest of the book club members. “Incredible, Margaret. You’re exactly right.”

“So, what’s our next book?” Shayne asks, hands tapping his thighs. “I’m feeling a mystery book.”

“Or Sci-Fi,” Charlie answers.

“Oooo, Sci-Fi,” Shayne murmurs excitedly.

“Neither,” I say, giggling at their frowns. From my purse, I pull out a purple paperback book and show it to the group. “Historical fiction mixed with romance. Our next book is The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie. I’ve never heard of it, so I’m sure you haven’t either. It’s about the same length as The Catcher in the Rye, maybe only a few pages more. Let’s all try to read the first five chapters and we’ll meet again next week.”

Stacy, Charlie, and Margaret bid farewell. Shayne stays back with me, shooting me a smirk as I gather my belongings. “Another romance novel, huh? Something you’d like to share with the class? Maybe his name?”

A slow smile spreads across my lips. I sling my purse over my shoulder, clamping a hand down on Shayne’s. “He’s a dream, Shayne. I’ve known him forever, but it’s finally official,” Two months ago, I used to cringe on the word official when it wasn’t. It still isn’t, but something between us feels different, feels real. The more I’m with him, the more I don’t want to pretend.

Shayne slings an arm around my shoulder, leading me out of the room. He’s had his fair share of relationship issues as well, but at twenty-one, he’s still young. “I’m glad one of us isn’t having boy trouble. Philip called me the other day, said he wants to get back together.”

“Are you going to?”

Shayne makes a face, opening the front door of the library. He scoots aside, letting me walk first. “Hell no, Sweets. He was a terrible boyfriend,” Shayne considers for a moment. “At least the sex was good. You think he’d settle for friends with benefits?”

I laugh heartily, pushing Shayne’s shoulder. “That’s a recipe for disaster, my friend. You want my advice? Spend some time on yourself. Find out what you really want in life.”

I head off to my car, Shayne walking the opposite way to his. Before I can slide into the seat, Shayne calls out to me. “Is he the one?”

I don’t have to think about it. It comes out naturally. “Without a doubt.”

~~~

Janielle has outdone herself, but I never expected anything less. Desserts are on every counter in her kitchen, from cupcakes to brownies and pastries. Outside on the back deck, a long white table is filled from end to end with finger foods and appetizers. With a beer in his hand, Dominic flips burgers expertly at the grill, shooting his wife a goofy grin when she utters a stern ‘be careful’. The rest of the adults gather on the patio, laughing and drinking, while the kids swim excitedly in the pool.

It’s the hottest day in August so far, and I can’t tell if my cheeks are red from the heat or from my constant ogling of Nikki’s shirtless chest. I watch from the deck as Nikki, Vince, and Amanda clink their bottles together and down their drinks. Nikki wins, throwing his hands up in the air dramatically, before turning his head to shoot me a wink. I laugh and shake my head, holding up my glass of wine that is still half full.

“So, you and Sixx,” My laughter is cut off by Dom, whose eyes twinkle with the same amusement present in his voice. “How about that?”

My stomach flips just at the mention of Nikki. “Going on almost four months,” I answer proudly, swirling the wine in my glass. “We’ve got nothing on you and Janielle, though.”

Dom smirks, carefully plating more burgers. I take the plate from him, and he nods in thanks. “Hey, not everyone knows who they’re going to marry at sixteen years old.”

This time, my heart beats faster just at the brief mention of marriage. I try not to let myself think of a long-term commitment with Nikki just yet. To everyone else, we’ve been official for a few months. But to myself and Nikki, we’re just two best friends playing a role.

“It’s too early to talk about marriage just yet,” I reply with a soft grin.

“But it’s a possibility in the future, yes?” Dom asks, stacking the last few burgers on the plate.

All I can answer with is a subtle nod just before I feel an arm snake around my waist. I crane my neck to glance up at Nikki just as his lips press a kiss to my jaw. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dom’s lazy smile and it puts me at ease knowing that Nikki and I have done our job at convincing everyone that what’s between us is true.

“Hi gorgeous,” Nikki greets breathily. “You doing okay?”

“Never better,” I answer truthfully, leaning back into his chest. I hand off the plate of burgers to Dom before directing my attention back to Nikki. “Are you?”

Nikki nods, arm tightening around my waist. “I’m perfect.” He holds up three empty beer bottles. “Come with me?”

I nod and take his hand, letting him lead me into the kitchen. While Nikki rummages through Janielle’s fridge for more beer, I steal a cannoli from the dessert tray, biting into the sweet cream.

“I’m having so much fun with you,” I blurt out honestly, licking the cream from my lips.

For a brief second, something flashes across Nikki’s face, almost as if my statement mimicked a bitter taste in his mouth. It’s gone just as fast as it came, replaced by an easy smile. “I am too, P.”

I bite my lip as Nikki opens the three bottles, eyes lingering on his tattooed arms. He catches me, smirking. “Pretty girl, you’re not exactly trying to hide it, you know.”

I blush, looking away like I always do when a compliment from Nikki is directed my way. And because I look away, I miss Nikki freeze in alarm, eyes wide, studying me.

When I turn back around, I notice his lips are in a thin line, jaw clenched ever so slightly. “P, I think we need to talk about something.”

His voice is serious, more serious than it’s ever been, and momentarily I fear the worst. Nikki’s fingers fidget nervously, and I can tell whatever is on his mind has been there for quite some time. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” It’s not a convincing answer, but I don’t say anything as he continues. “It’s more of a question, actually.” His hands fall at his side as he steps forward, exhaling a strangled breath. “Are we...what we’re doing…” His voice goes low. “We’re still pretending, right?”

There’s a lump forming in my throat, and I try my best to speak around it without giving off the impression that I’m either extremely hopeful he wants to make this real, or going to start crying because he wants to call everything off. “Yeah. Unless…unless you don’t want to pretend--.”

“No, no,” He says all too quickly, hands skimming my arms. “I like pretending. Pretending is good, safe. I just...wanted to make sure we’re still on the same page.” He grabs my hands, pressing a gentle kiss to each, before grabbing the bottles from the counter.

And as he leaves Janielle’s kitchen with a smile, I’m left standing alone and more confused than I’ve ever been.

[noffy96]

I posted 308 times in 2021

9 posts created (3%)

299 posts reblogged (97%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 33.2 posts.

I added 87 tags in 2021

#undertale - 20 posts

#underswap - 11 posts

#reblog - 10 posts

#acaf - 10 posts

#comic dub - 9 posts

#undertale sans - 7 posts

#underswap sans - 5 posts

#underfell sans - 5 posts

#drawing - 5 posts

#underswap chara - 5 posts

Longest Tag: 64 characters

#and it also had a different background for ehoever eas loggrd in

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

I just watched the 1st Hetalia Musical

I dunno what possed me to search for it, but i wanted to find the Hetalia musicals, and I managed to find the 1st one with english subtitels

It was a lot better then i thought, It is very silly and over the top, yes

But i am ever so glad i watched it. It made me love the more silly side of Hetalia that some people seem to forget about love even more. It was what drew me in, in the first place.

Yet it could be quite dramatic and serious as well. I hope i managed to see the 2nd Musical someday as well, As well as the Osoka stage show i keep seeing clips from.

If you are a Hetalia fan, please look it up, if you haven't and give it a chance at the very least.

To me, at the very least this first one, and the little bid i could find of the second of youtube seem to be made by people that love Hetalia.

7 notes • Posted 2021-06-28 21:48:42 GMT

#4

Its funny, I've travelled across 13+ different accounts in the past and somehow I always wind up running into you somewhere and somehow, whether you pop up on my dash or you like a post of mine, or something, and I don't even follow the same people each time I make a new one so I have no idea how we keep crossing paths(though you wouldn't have noticed). It's weird how seeing you pop up has just started to become a form of nostalgia for me after all this time. I'm pretty sure I first found you when I was like 14?? I think??- I'm like 22 now. Coming back to tumblr without seeing the username 'MMD-Ask-Italy' pop up atleast once while I'm here would be so foreign now.

Oh my gosh this is like, one of the sweetest things ever? And that is really funny that you keep comming across me on so many accounts.

Maybe because i kinda gave up on, keeping this blog only foccused on one thing? So yeah if you are in the same fandoms i have been, you can just see me liking stuff everywhere,

And i do reblog some stuff, tho my personal post have gone down a lot.

I saw the age, and i had to check it, becasue i was like.. 8 years? Have i really ha this blog that long? doesn't feel like it

But yeah, had this blog since october 2014 , tho i have only 4 post in my archive for like...almost a year after that...and i was like why???

and i was like 'oooh yeah, i made this blog inicily because I was on DeviantArt, and more people where migrating over, but i never really did, but the name stuck XD.

Send me on a whole trip down memory lane, so that was fun!

I am glad you are able to have nostalgic feelings towards my blog, and i hope you continue to have them! ^-^

I'll continue posting/rebloging/liking whatever i'll enjoy next, so untill the next time, one of my blogs hits your dash.

8 notes • Posted 2021-07-02 21:33:21 GMT

#3

Okay, okay, for my fellow dutchies.

I was just at the tryouts for Arjen Lubach show.

And i sat in the front tow and got singled out.

At the end of the show. He got a bouget of flowers from the venue and then he came forward and gave them to me!!!

This is such a good day!!

9 notes • Posted 2021-09-05 22:32:46 GMT

#2

The Floor is Lava! ha ha *dad climbs up the kitchen counter*

it has been a ages since i made gifs, but i had to, for this ask, come on, a bit later then i wanted to, but still fun, Hope they turned out okay! 

13 notes • Posted 2021-01-03 16:58:59 GMT

#1

Ask Chara And Friends. Episode 1: The social experiment starts

IT’s DONE! Here is the first episode of Ask Chara and Friends the DUB done by me Noffy/mmd-ask-italy (with a little bit of help @itsonlylucifair)

Follow the original comic!  -> @askcharaandfriends

Begin here

done by @miamouse-va

this comic is Underswap Au from this other comic

Ask Frisk and Company 

found here -> @askfriskandcompany

Begin here

I hope you all enjoy. This is the first time i have ever done anything like this. Hope you all enjoy what I made

35 notes • Posted 2021-01-12 22:28:53 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[buggaberry]

ML Blog Appreciation Day!!

ohuuhuhoho i heard it was that day,,, and imma comin’ to appreciATE AHAHAHAHAA

@seasonofthegeek oh my heckin’ goodness she was like,,, one of my first favorite writers in the fandom and then I eventually joined a discord server with her and she’s the sweetest darn bean my gosh she’s talented and like draws too and gAH--

@secretagentspydetectiveninja waHAHAHA im loVE you ur so amazing and sweet and fun 2 talk with, aish’s writing is also mMM yes 10/10 and the amount of iconic things they’ve made is kfkjhkajshdf

@nolongervoid the sweetest beaN!!!!! Also the thing’s she’s written are aaaaaaaahhhh, real good (and u never let me let go of the daping thing >:|) love u~~~

@jattendschaton iM LITERALLY--- they’re like the sweetest human being on the planet I literally, I caNNot. They have done the most adorable cosplays of Ladybug, Marinette, and Adrien, I always loved them so so much. Their writing is also amazing, they’re so sweet and delightful to read (and they always have the absolute sweetest tags on all their reblogs my goodness).

@adrienaline-rushed-art I’ve known u since I was like,,,, 14??? 15?? My goSH, but regardless, you’ve grown so much as an artist and as a writer and I absolutely adore everything you create, I feel like I don’t express that enough. An amazing bean.

@lesslinette hhhhhh she could steal my soul and I’d say thank you omygod her art is-- aaaAAAA and she an absolute sweetheart.

@marinoodles aaaa ur so goofy and fun and just like adsfjhdh sO nice, quality meme-age also im lvoe u

@megatraven veR sweet im love they made quite a few really cute drawings and stuff and aaaa i met chu long ago but u are amazinnng

@mikauzoran iM CAN’T MY GOD I COULD SCREAM ABOUT YOU FOR HOURS I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. Literally sO talented, knows how to get you in the feeLS, beautiFUL writing, and just ajdsfljads such a sweetheart, I would go back and read her works hundreds of times.

@mireilletan yOU, anoTher talented and amazing writer but also amazing artist gaAAAhhh I love the way you akjdflakjd WORDS. Yes. And you’re super duper nice and aaaaaaa I loaf yuo qAq

@ominousunflower i love u and our hamster so much aaaaa, but for real he just writes,,,, so good. You can stab me in the heart a thousand times and make me cry or feel super duper soft and hnnggg when I teLL you these people are literal writing goALS--- so preTTY

@galahadwilder Very sweet! Also writes so good I love, my goodness the talent

@thewritewolf if u wanna read some fluff he is like tHe place to go, I don’t generally read a lot of fluff but aa a a a aaggh I love it a lot

@overworkedunderwhelmed I’ve read quite a few of ur things and they’re so a a a a!!!! They’ve been here for a long time and honestly they make some mmmm yes quality stuffs i yes love

@tides-miraculous aaAAA gotta stan the nino content and all the muslimah miraculous wielders, they’re and incredible artist, I was always in awe of their works

@thelastpilot moAR NINO-- I love their writing very very much, as well as their art qAq 

@botherkupo agaiN YES writing is vER gUUD and I lovE theM they are so sweet

@chatalyst they post so many iconic things oh my goD, she also writes verY good and is mucho skillzzz

@chataclysmes ahHAHAA rarepair heaveN?? Also very nice!!! And!!! Amazing artist!!! Whom I love!!!! Very much!!!!!! Yes!!!!!

@discoveringmiraculousartist OH MY GOD THEY’RE SO SWEET they’re doing the work of like ajdsfadlskjfhmy godsh. If you wanna find new ml artists you go thERE, they honestly do so much, they do so much work, and they’re so kind and my goodness gracious me oh my

@landturtlealyce wAAAAHHH VERY GOOD ARTIST VERY SWEET BEAN all the heartus

@fizzyarts i cry at the skill, like,,,,, their art good g od

@siderealscribblings a verY good writer, they’re so good at like interpreting characterization and emotions it’s like jfhadskjffj oh my guacamole 

@masilvi the living heck moar talent artist the ladrien is VERY GOOD in this house i love u

@chatnoirinette ur so sweet oml, and also verY good art, you’ve improved so much and I love ur writing too qAq

@zeknoir the l u kadrien my dude also u have nice writing and u are nice aaaa X3

@marikittynoir huAHAAHA more cute art!!!!! also a sweet!!!!! i lub

@emsylcatac wAHhahasdkjadsfh I love u so much ur so talented kjafndsjfn

@bugaboo-n-bananoir u ver skill!!! ver nice!!! i lubu

@janaikam she has some neatO writing and I like a lot and she’s honestly a really amazing person too I-- aaaaaa <3

@bugabisous VERY AMAZE TALENT GIF makeR and sweet bean

(o goodness gracious this is getting long and im loosing braincells but there’s so many >:O I’m gonna cut here but if ur under the cut I don’t lobu u less or anything I just don’t wanna abuse the people who see me on their dash)

@honeychats THEY HONESTLY HAVE DRAWN SOME PRETTY DARN CUTE THINGS and they are ver nice!!!!!!

@yeet-noir gAAAAHHHH i love yo so much I kid u not ur iconic

@amimons aaahhahahaa talented artist and so kind!!!!!!!!

@lllluka WAHHHHHHHHHH I LOVE THEIR ART SERIOUSLY

@terrible-miraculous-ladybug-aus thamk yuo so much for all the times you made me wheeze so hard my lungs came out

@leviaana your art!!!! is so good I love the way you color SO MUCH it’s so pretty and soft!!!!!

@sweetsweetsweetie hnnnngggg ur ability to make backgrounds god I wish it was contagious and ur comics are so good!!!!!

@wintertundra-art hmhnmnmgf they do vberry good art and aaa their trans!au is the best

@ladybeug i just o my gosh i love them so much their art and just-- can i die 4 u

@ladyblargh they’ve done so many iconic things i--

@buggachat if ur not following her already i--- aMAZING art, quALITY content YES.

@yunyin WAAAAHH MORE SUPER DUPER AMAZING ART I LOVE YOU SO MUCH YOUR SO SWEET AND HHDSNFND AAHHHH

@therealscribblingmama I have so many of their things bookmarked, they are a reaLLy good writer

@miracu-less such CuTE art im in lots of love

aaAAAAA alas im getting tired but there’s probably like a bAJILLION more i really am sorry if i didn’t get you or anything like that because I do genuinely lob yuo. if u ever made lukadrien content or smth 10/10 all the screams for you u might not see like ur account but I definitely saw what u made and cried over it bc i like live in that tag 50% of the time

@megs-ils you seem to be very nice and you make so much art I’m honestly baffled and it’s also really good, like,,,,, much skill

@amyahue AAHAHAHAAHAH so cuteeee their art is so cuteeee and it makes my heart go kaboom

@tizzymcwizzy ohmygod I love the way they draw chat its so cute and like the winGS and the DHAHDBAKFSM yEs

[longitudinalwaveme]

Len Snart’s Creepy/Pathetic Proposals, Part 3

For this post, we will be looking at Flash #140, “The Heat is On--For Captain Cold. It was published in November 1963, and was written by John Broome and drawn by the inimitable Carmine Infantino.

In addition to being another story where Captain Cold creeps on pretty women, this story also features the first appearance of his fellow Rogue Heat Wave, alias Mick Rory. 

The comic opens with Barry and Iris at the latter’s apartment, watching TV. Iris, being Silver Age Iris, suddenly turns off the television. “I didn’t like the way you were staring at that girl, Barry Allen!” (The program he was watching featured a celebrity named Dream Girl). 

Barry proceeds to lodge his foot firmly in his mouth. “I wasn’t staring! I was just waiting for Dream Girl to turn around!” He then has to quickly explain that the Flash “told” him that the Willens and Kohl Law Firm asked the Flash if he could find the heir of Mr. Varner, a wealthy mining magnate whose only child was believed lost in a shipwreck. 

The child in question had a diamond-shaped birthmark on the back of her neck. If she can be found, she gets a two million dollar trust fund (roughly $16 million in today’s money) and an additional $10,000,000 (roughly $80 million) will go to charity. If she can’t be found before the end of the next day, all the money will go to a couple of “ne’er-do-well” relatives of Mr. Varner’s. Why he didn’t just arrange for all the money to go to charity if she wasn’t found is anyone’s guess. But regardless, that’s why Barry wanted to see Dream Girl’s back. 

Iris, surprisingly, immediately accepts this explanation like a reasonable person and even turns on the TV again...but instead of Dream Girl’s program, they see an important news broadcast that reveals that Cold has broken out of prison (again). This time, he escaped by using “one of his fantastic cold guns, which he manufactured out of spare freezer parts in the prison workshop!” WHY WAS NO ONE SUPERVISING HIM TO MAKE SURE THIS DIDN’T HAPPEN? 

Barry leaves Iris and promptly changes into the Flash to go on the hunt for Captain Cold. 

We then cut to Captain Cold’s hideout in a cave. It’s decorated by a humongous picture of Dream Girl’s head and neck (seriously, it’s like as large as he is.) 

“There! It’s the largest picture of Dream Girl I could find! Of course, she’s everybody’s dream girl now, but soon things will be different...and she will be mine alone! I admit that at various times in the past I’ve--ah--thought myself attracted to other girls! But the feeling I had for them pales into insignificance compared to what I feel for Dream Girl!” 

Len Snart reads women’s magazines in prison. Make of this what you will. He also broke out of prison solely to woo her away from the Flash, who is currently her dream man. So, how is he going to do this? He’s going to commit crimes and fight the Flash, that’s how! 

“Why, I’ll make a sap out of the Flash! I’ll pull off crimes right under his nose! I’ll show him up for the stumblebum he is--compared to Captain Cold! And by doing that, I’ll prove to Dream Girl that I’m really the man she thought Flash was! I’ll become her dream man--and nobody else!” Len, that’s insane. 

Cold decides to get her attention by robbing the exiled government of Guanador (one of DC’s many fake countries), who are “arriving here in Central City with all the bank notes they could steal-I mean all they could carry away with them-from the Gauanadorian Treasury!” 

The next day at 8 AM, Cold strikes. “No criminal in his right mind would dare try anything here today--against all these forces of law and order. But as it so happens--I’m not in my right mind--I’m in love! Ha ha!” Unfortunately for him, the Flash pops up. “At last! My long night’s vigil has paid off! I’ve come across Captain Cold!” In other words, Barry ran across the city all night for almost no reason. Cold didn’t do anything until 8 AM the next day!

Before Flash can defeat his rival, however, he is shot in the back with a blast of intense heat. Heat Wave is on the scene!

“How about that hot reception, Flash? Allow me to introduce myself, the one enemy you will never conquer! Heat Wave--at your service!” Mick is perhaps a bit overconfident here. 

For some reason, instead of jumping into action, Flash stands around long enough for Heat Wave to blast him again, knocking him unconscious. (“That sizzling blast! Hitting me with the force of a pile-driver--uh!”) Cold and Heat Wave then team up and escape the scene of the crime. 

The two go to Captain Cold’s cave hideout, where Heat Wave explains that he used to be a fire-eater in the circus, but that he “lost his taste for the work”. 

“I created my own uniform--and my weapon--a heat gun!” Yes, this is all the explanation the comic is going to give you for this. Note that his gun isn’t technically a flamethrower at this point, either, so you can’t really handwave it away that way. 

And then the never-ending puns begin. “It sure is hot stuff, Heat Wave! You know, we should make a good team...and since you have no hideout of your own yet, you’re welcome to share mine!” The Flash Rogues have always been oddly chummy in this way; I’d believe that basically any of them would have made the same offer. 

Of course, things basically fall apart immediately thereafter when Heat Wave reveals that he’s also in love with Dream Girl. “She’s the reason I gave up fire-eating! I was determined to win her love! And I knew the only way to do it was to show up Flash--her dream man!” Heat Wave and Captain Cold are so similar they even share the same nonsensical logic...but man, at least Cold was already a crook. Heat Wave gave up an established career for this insanity!

The two shoot at each other (to basically no effect, since their blasts cancel each other out).

Cold: You!? You’re just a big nothin’! Dream Girl will be mine--and nobody else’s!” 

Heat Wave:  And you-you’re just a cold-hearted Romeo!

I think Cold won this round of insult-slinging, Heat Wave. Your insult didn’t even make sense.

However, instead of continuing to fight, the two instead decide that whoever commits the most spectacular crimes will win the girl. “As far as I’m concerned, Heat Wave, that bet is ice-cold!” The puns….the puns! Make them stop! 

Flash runs around looking for the pair of criminals, who have apparently been causing enormous damage to the city because of their confrontation. Note that the art completely fails to convey this. 

When the Flash shows up, the two crooks promptly call off their rivalry in the face of a bigger threat, planning to take it up again as soon as Flash is defeated. Each hits Flash from one side, creating the awesome-looking image from the cover. 

However, Flash isn’t down long, as he uses his control over all his molecules to conduct the cold to the side of his body being blasted by the heat gun and vice-versa. Sure, that makes sense. SCIENCE! 

Flash then creates a suction vacuum that knocks the two crooks together. Flash takes them back to prison, where both men explain their insane motivations for the crime spree that did a bunch of damage that we didn’t see. 

Flash then goes to meet with Dream Girl, who...shock! Surprise!...is actually Mr. Varner’s long-lost daughter. She has a picture of herself with the birthmark and had it removed only recently. Dream Girl also grew up in an orphanage and has a fear of water, which could be explained by the boat crash she survived. Dream Girl-real name Priscilla Varner-inherits the trust fund, charity gets a lot of money, and the day is saved. 

The issue ends with Barry and Iris on a moonlight drive, where Mean Silver Age Iris tears down her boyfriend. “Tell me, Barry, don’t you feel ashamed sometimes to be so slow-moving and lazy when the Flash--” Barry cuts her off here: “Gosh, Iris! We can’t all be the Flash!” WHY. ARE. THESE TWO. DATING?

Stay tuned for part 4!