#idk what tristan was expecting here honestly

[valaratminaforaldrar]

tristan says things like this to kas and expects him not to enter his 45th villain arc

[cursezoroark]

playing desolation, and by the time I post this I will have Caught up to Desolation! This is my own opinion and review on the game! For the record I've only played Rejuv and now Desolation of the entire series. In terms of pokemon fangames i have played ep 1 of Flux , Gaia, and Unbound. Disclaimer and TLDR: the game is Very good as I expected I had fun :] . The devs worked their ass off and the fact this game is free and has this much shown effort is so awesome. when ep 7 comes out i Will be reviewing once again. It wont be for more than a year though given the recent dev update. either way!

Pros:

I love the spritework sort of thing for the dialogue, when important characters come on. It's very pretty!

the credits system is gen p interesting. motivator for getting exclusive pokemon and items and even the capsules + mints, which imo is much better than the AP system that was in rejuv. its more easier to achieve and more incentive.

also HELL YEAH sidequests! I loved the tidbits of main lore u get from certain ones, and certain choices. Inch resting!

The difficulty still makes me work Hard to think but doesn't kill me with a bajillion reset and planning so that's all fair and good 👍 the only one I had to rlly drive home for was Jarred. Jesus fucking Christ. i had valerie flashbacks from rejuv but its worse cause it was a DOUBLE BATTLE.

the SPARKLES. lifesaver for me who loves the shiny sprite reworks in this game. i have a beautiful shiny greninja, umbreon, hydreigon, and vikavolt. Vikavolt is my favorite shiny i love whoever reworked that. Jade is so so pretty :]

the music is KILLER. Vs Shiv and Vs Nova is Good. Very Good. honestly the ost choices here rock. one of the best ost selections i enjoyed it very much.

interesting story! I can sort of peel bits of it off and it'll probably come back later to haunt me. Act 3 REALLY ramps up stuff so it did sweep a good amount of confusion I’ve had since the beginning. Act 3 was great. I miss Tristan. Nova's character is Great when it reaches a certain plot point.

I love the rangers bases, and the sidequest lore does build up nicely on the side. its starting to interfere with the main story too which hmmmmmmm hm hm hm. i will wonder about that.

Criticisms/ personal nitpicks:

i mentioned this above but i wish the ui for sidequests was a bit more clear. Like location wise, where to go, and all that. Icons above characters would rlly help me distinguish things.also PLEASE add flashing settings and shaking sets automatically to the options board pls pls pls.

I hope there will be more featured fields in the future. I did mention this was the more lax difficulty ive been through involving fields, and i watched playthroughs of reborn and played rejuv myself. (idk if theres more games with the field system but do let me know its literally one of my fav things). Like it went from oh God to oh ok to hmm to Oh God like a cycle. Though I think that’s just on my team balancing rlly

Please..... more TM versatility. While it does allow me to get creative with my team choices, it also limits what I can actually do. My TM pool is so low and i want to get creative so bad :']]]. The TM shop at Sunshell was a huge improvement though. very stingy though at lvl 65-70s though.

i Do Not like the maps for specifically silver forest and blackview. Its either very cluttering and makes me walk in Direct Circles, or leaves me very lost when im searching for a specific area. I do get the "open area" aspect of Silver mountain though, and it was easier once I got all the bridges down but still yk? but i literally couldn't find the move relearner Anywhere in blackview. it took me forever.

I wish i had more time to spend with some of the characters (Scarlett particularly) so i could rlly grow attached. I do understand that these are mostly main plot points blasting off from each other, but i just wish I could have had more interactions with the characters? More funny dialogue, more MC options to talk and affect relationship values, yk? I do anticipate an arc for a particular someone coming up though. so we'll see. the plot did do a rlly good job at the ceilia leaders though I adore All of them.

some of the language i winced at. idk if its just me so ill leave this one in the air. i dont know how to feel because im muddled.

In a way, because the plot blasts off one another, the room for me to acknowledge the changes in characters or their relationship between each other was a bit small. Like Connor and Scarlett, I think I only got like two cutscenes or tidbits of their entire growing friendship, so it didn't rlly hit me when The Scene Happened. Either way I do like themboth thumbs up.

SPOILERS THOUGHTS DO NOT READ IF U HAVENT PLAYED OR DO NOT WANT TO KNOW:

I ADORE Cecilia’s leaders. I’ve seen complaints how we seem to be Stuck There for some time and. Yeah I can sorta agree with that. Despite being Rlly Huge it also makes me Yearn for the Routes yk? either I love them all I Adore them dearly. Garrett is my favorite he got to me. Reeve and Rosetta and Aaron are all so very charming in their dynamics and gym leader squabbles.

Waldenhall is a Great Character in his introduction holy shit what an impact this guy had. also artem's sprite made me laugh so hard because their (idk their gender) portrait is just staring straight at the camera whats up w that.

Conclusion:

Should you play this game? YES. its quality is amazing, the artwork is insane, the gameplay is so good for pokemon fans who enjoy a good challenge, and want to get into some existential crises. In general, this series is So Far the easiest in the reborn deso rejuv trio. but it doesn't by far make it bad, or a cakewalk for players. Have a good ol time with it. My criticisms are my own nitpicks, but i rlly admire how much effort devs put into their fangames, by semblance of story, custom art, custom maps, etc. appreciate them lots and lots more. This game in particular weighs your choices a lot more, so you rlly have to snoop around for a particular result that you want. all in all lots of good fun!

Hope to review this again in Ep 7! and here's a goodbye from my Current Team :]

[feralgodmothers]

Hmmmm. I like Marty. I don’t like how the writing in season seven changed him. Although. I do kinda understand why he pretended to not know Rory. It’s the whole mars/venue double standard thing I hate. So really I’m just miffed that the writing fell back on a tired trope.

Mitchum had a point. And it didn’t really matter if he sugarcoated it or not. Either way. Rory was gonna spiral. Remember the incredible sinking Lorelai’s? She doesn’t like failing. However minor. So yeah. Mitchum had a point. And Rory was gonna go nuts however he said it

I agree about Marty. I liked him, and then s7 made him really weird for no reason. I kinda shipped him with Rory (because he came along when I was still watching the show with hopes that Rory would do what I wanted her to do, rather than just seeing how things played out). I remember thinking that the way they met was really cute, and would be a funny story for their hypothetical future children once they got old enough. Like “You know how we always said ‘we met at college’? Well, here’s what really happened…” 😂 But idk. I liked how chill and straightforward he was, but I guess that’s not Rory’s thing. I think he’s pretty underrated in the fandom. (Like how are there more people who ship Rory with Tristan than with Marty??? If you’re gonna ship her with somebody she’s not into, then the least you could do is ship her with the guy who didn’t bully her, lol)

I kind of agree about Mitchum too. I’ve seen arguments from every side, and I see where they’re all coming from - but my gut says that he was right, and maybe what drew him to that conclusion was wrong. Like - no, I don’t think he needed to sugarcoat it. He wasn’t even that harsh - it was just blunt and seemingly out of nowhere. I don’t know much about the journaling business, so I don’t know how likely it is that someone like Mitchum could discern the “it factor” in interns. Maybe there’s something to it, idk. Maybe it’s true that some interns do put themselves out there and shove their way into places they “don’t belong”, and that that’s a good indicator for success in the field. But I would think that - just like with most fields - there would be naturals, and there would be those who could train themselves to be whatever they needed to be to do the work. So yeah - maybe Rory wasn’t the naturally ruthless go-getter she needed to be for this career, but she had the potential to learn imo (if we ignore AYITL lol). Giving her a head’s up of what was expected might have been nice, but Mitchum’s not a nice guy. And that’s the thing - some people aren’t nice. She had to deal with Paris in school, who (at least in the beginning) actively tried to tear her down, and Rory persevered exceptionally through that. I can only figure that this was the first time Rory had to face someone in authority doubting her abilities, and I can sympathize with her to an extent on that, but… GIRL. Having a full-on crisis over it was insane, and watching her essentially prove him right for a period of time was disappointing. I was very happy to see her return with renewed zeal after she put herself back on track though. That’s what gave me hope that she could eventually become who she needed to be for this line of work. But honestly - the thing that had me doubting Rory’s journaling skills the most, and was never really addressed - was the fact that she would cave every time she was confronted about an article she wrote. Again - I know virtually nothing about being a journalist, so I can’t say whether the pieces Rory did on the ballerina or on trust fund kids were “good” from a journalism perspective, but if I remember right - the kind of journalism Rory wanted to do would have been very controversial, and would have had lots of people become angry with her (including powerful people in authority). So if anything, Rory really needed to develop a crazy-strong backbone, a clear head for what was right to report, and a readiness to stand by the things she wrote. And for me - that’s what she didn’t have, and I’m not so sure she learned it either. I would have liked to see her succeed, but it just… didn’t happen.

[forgottengodfrey]

elizabeth!! i love this!!! ok, so godfrey's got lots going on! on one hand, he's honorable and trustworthy and on the other, he's anything but, and it's really weird bc its the noble part of him that's motivating the bad he does here and lkasjdfkjdf so like???? honestly good luck, ciara lksdajfkjsdf at least he's not ugly and offputting and boring and old, like she expected her future hubby to be???? and omg i love the idea that they've got that chemistry bc of these similarities of character and temperament -- like, im picturing them making each other laugh and like...just having this kind of shorthand they share bc of those shared characteristics yknow???

as for him flirting w others, he'd probs only do so if it serves a greater purpose which...probs doesn't make it any easier, but pragmatism is def a big trait of his and he's got his fingers in all sorts of intrigues i have no doubts whatsoever hahaha bc he's literally doing everything he can to set up edmund to win a varmont civil war he sees in the offing

ok so im thinking maybe they ~were friends before the engagement, just bc she's obv a clever woman, and he would honestly help her so her knowing and trusting in that could be really interesting imo, esp if it then later gets challenged as she sees more and more of the other side of him idk! but also im totally cool if it was a wild and impulsive move that worked out at least first and then??? was that a mistake!!? they both have sm potential!

i feel like godfrey and amira and tristan grew up relying on themselves and e/o, and so godfrey knows firsthand that women are just as capable as men, and while he might not love the idea of his fiancee or anyone he cares about putting themselves in this position, he's also realistic abt her competency and respects her choice to do it, as well, esp when it does give him an extremely valuable tool for what's coming. i mean, a direct pipeline to the astairan resistance when he's staring down a ruinous civil war that he'd do just abt anything to win is invaluable, not to mention the trust that roderick will invest in him for being able to supply information abt them etc, trust which will enhance his position and therefore the chances of his faction at court, etc. and yassss! godfrey has hella problems, don't get me wrong, but i do think he does view her as an equal, and this whole thing as a general positive for their married life bc if they can work together on this, then that seems as promising to him as it does to her.

all this being said, i do think he might ultimately use this info in a way she doesn't necessarily want??? like, he's def got his own intrigues going and if their motives don't align w all of that -- esp as she's questioning everything -- that could lead to some tension etc too bc godfrey sees all as in service of his ultimate goal, and ciara seems to maybe have a more nuanced pov on justice and what's right rather than an ends-justify-the-means kind of outlook like godfrey has? esp if she doesn't even agree w his ends?

speaking of which...what is her take on the three-for-one family situation roderick's got going, and his refusal so far to name an heir? o bv she's still wrestling w astaira vs varmont and all of that, but i wondered if she had a particularly opinion on ~that specifically?

also i love hanthom having been her grandparents/her mom's first home!! i def think roderick would think that extremely tidy and he was probs declared earl when their engagement was announced, im thinking? also, how long do we think they've been engaged, and do we think it was arranged or came together by choice? (I mean, obv either way, since she's a varmont roderick would have to approve it etc but yknow)

ooc | Ciara & Godfrey

honestly so much to unpack here lakjdlajfldjaf

okay, so first thing -- idk how long they have been engaged, but I do think that ciara was relatively happy with the match? godfrey is handsome and charming and fun and young (honestly a lot of traits she didn't think that her future husband would necessarily have???) I'm not sure that she loves him, but she definitely thinks she could love him? I do imagine that they have some good times together, since they are both kind charming/flirtatious/witty and they probably play off of each other nicely? (sidenote though, if he still flirts w/ other girls, it would def make ciara jealous although she'd try to hide that i think it might be obvious haha)

the second thing -- is the whole spy thing ha! I do think that she went to godfrey w/ it, because she trusts him (or at least hopes she can trust him). in hindsight, I think she feels she was probably kinda reckless in going to him w/ something so serious and important if they only know each other on a superficial level (however if they were friends before the engagement, that might change things?)

either way, I think that one of the main reasons she went to him and not her bro/her dad (and certainly NOT Roderick), was because she hoped that he would trust her enough to handle this (even if it was his ambition that ultimately tipped the scales in her favor haha) Because I think that her dad & bro would be like absoulutley not!! it's too dangerous!! And Roderick & co wouldn't trust her to do something so important b/c she's a woman -- but I think she would hope that perhaps Godfrey would. Plus them actually working together as a team on this, is a good pre-marriage exercise in trust/respect/working together ;D (not that this really factored, but I do think she hoped that he would see her more of an equal than he might have otherwise done)

The ironic thing is, if this IS a test, she's honestly the one that is failing hahaha!

(I also have a headcannon that the earldom that godfrey now has here in asteria once belonged to ciara's grandparents (now deceased)/is where her mom grew up??)

[bondsmagii]

so a while back I was talking about extensive blacklists and somebody messaged to see if I wanted screenshots of a very impressive blacklist from an old Discord server they were in. of course, I did. here are the aforementioned screenshots as promised -- naturally the person wishes to remain anonymous, but here’s what they said:

hello, t'was i who was your Long Blacklist anon. here's what i have, or at least what i have scraped from the sides of my massive screenshots folder

to note: in the first image, in the section "TSS specific", the Remus mentioned is one of the characters in the show that the server is about,  whether he's secondary or main is up for debate. like. a WHOLE CHARACTER

some of these are understandable honestly, i don't mind a lot of this, but i had forgotten "y'all" was on here and. i'm sure that was probably said about 500 times in there because. how do you. IT'S Y'ALL

I gotta admit that I was not expecting this to be so wild. I had no idea an entire regional accent would be on here; nor could I have anticipated the fact that the whole of Ohio State University would be a banned topic, but there you go.

full transcription under the cut, for which you owe me, because this is long.

USER SPECIFIC

Recording <@!412026064970186753>’s voice without permission

Pet names directed at @‘beat drop’ A Jumbo Jellyfish

Referring to @rrationality in the feminine, “kiddo” directed at by anyone but Patton

“Tinker bell” or the phrase “I just want you to succeed” directed at @Groundhog badger

Deleting messages from @JEYKSHK without informing first

“Kitten” directed at @jelly 

“Know-it-all” directed at @The Rat God Summons Thee, asking to roleplay, people fighting in earshot, interacting while under the influence of any substances

Patronising and/or directing “cute” nicknames (smol, baby, dear, etc.) at @arson, overly aggressive conpliments (heart spamming, etc.)

“Princess”/“Champ”/“Sweetheart”/“Buddy” directed at @Silverquill (She/Her)

“Sweetie”/“honey”/“babe” and other pet names directed at @let airam see fuck without permission

“Hun”/“love” directed at @Ren 

“you’re acting like ___” and “very nice” directed at @probably activism, venting privately without warning/asking

“Dumb”/“stupid”/“idiot”, etc. directed at @blurryeyesinbewilderment 

“Selfish”/“worthless” directed at @Safira 

Calling attention to/making fun of the typos of @one of the best ppl here tbh

Referring to @It ya boy idk in the feminine, mocking

Referring to @I’m gonna shine like the sun as a hypochondriac

Referring to @Currently Committing Tax Fraud as argumentative

TSS SPECIFIC [translator’s note: this is an abbreviation for The S*nders Sides-- the fandom the server is about. I censor this because I do not care for him and do not wish to type his accursed name.]

Any discussion (including mentions), images, gifs and links involving Remus, and ships where he is included

The phrase “have you ever thought about killing your brother?” [translator’s note: this entire phrase was blacked out behind censor bars.]

Unsympathetic portrayals of the Sides (being villainous, abusive, (passive) aggressive, restrictive, etc.)

Ships involving the Sides and Sleep

Romantic Prinxiety

Intruality

Romantic logicality 

Snitties (tumblr post)

CenThomas (tumblr post)

TOPICS

Tangerines

Depersonalisation and depersonification

Divorce

Being controlled/your actions not being your own (including mind control)

Bullying (in a non-joking context)

Burning buildings and house fires

Belittling serious issues

Zombies

Existential issues (such as questioning reality)

Claustrophobic (small) spaces

Being patronised

Puppets

Bad parental relationships

Narcissistic people

Ohio State University

Annesia/mind-wiping

Bernie Sanders (US Politician)

Hell (discussion of)

Anesthesia

Fasting (for religious reasons or otherwise)

Unhappy endings

Power outages

Directing “stupid” at another person

Southern or Texan accents

Cringe culture

Spiders

Heights

The concept of pure nothingness

POC being stereotypes as promiscuous

Conflating age regression with age play [translator’s note: ‘age play’ was blacked out behind censor bars.]

Condiments (ketchup, mustard, etc.)

Malevolent of morbid supernatural entities

Food dicourse

Roanoke (the historical colony)

Self-depreciation

Heated discussions

Major character death

Hanahaki disease

Ants (the insect)

Eye lip eye (sequence of emojis)

Realistic-looking teeth on non-human things

Teeth in any place but a mouth

Human trafficking

Worms

OTHER MEDIA

The son “Sing me to sleep” by Alan Walker

Creepypasta (all forms)

The song “Hide and seek” by SeeU

Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared (webseries)

The song “Last christmas” by Wham!

Heathers (movie and musical)

The song “Empty” by boyinaband

The song “You should see me in a Crown” by Billie Eilish

The Momo challenge

Stephen King’s It (book and movies)

The song “Bury a friend” by Billie Eilish

Undertale and Delta Rune (video games)

The song “Wish you were gay” by Billie Eilish

The song “Ocean eyes” by Billie Eilish

Sora from Kingdom Hearts (video games)

Scooby Doo on Zombie Island (movie)

Onward (movie)

WORDS/NAMES/PHRASES

The word “senpai”

The name “Cryptid”

“I see the light”/“I’m going into the light”/“Light at the end of the tunnel”

“A beautiful mind”

“Babe” in a romantic context

“Baby” and “sweetiepie” as pet names

The name “Tristan”

The name “Ana”

The name “Jamie”

The name “William/Will”

“Make yourself useful”

“Y’all”

“Agere” (as a shortform of age regression)

SOUNDS AND VISUALS

Fife music (fife and drum corps)

Loud noises

Spiders and insects

Trypophobic images

“Distant shore” and “It’s all over isn’t it” from Steven Universe

Homestuck (all forms)

Crying while laughing

High saturation/bright images/eyes strain

[d-plays-otome-and-vn-games]

I played @undermaintenancegame last night...

And got Theo's route first. 💙

Then I continued tonight, and came to the conclusion that...

I love him. He's so my type irl or at least I want someone like him irl 😭

I kinda feel like, among the three boys, he's the one for me. His route came easy to me. Like I didn't have a hard time choosing the right choices to get to this...

Plus, I looked at the profiles on itch and I'm like, okay, let's try and get Theo's route, then boom! I'm on his route(*)!! 🥳🎉🎉

I LOVE HIM 😍😍😍

💙💙💙

My second route is... *drumroll*

💖

Luca!!!

Oh goodness, I've been through a lot in his route. First, this...

His bad end 😭

I'm so bad at it. I couldn't figure out what to do or say in his route. Lmao 😭

Then, I tried again and guess what?

Normal end. LOL

But third time is a charm, indeed!!!

Tada~

I liked him, too. I mean, I didn't give up just to get to his good end, so that's proof. 💖

I'm not sure if I'll take Tristan's route, tho, because he reminds me of myself somehow and I don't really like myself so idk... 🤷🏼‍♀️😅

Might update once I decided on this.

--

Overall... I frickin' love this game!!! ❤️❤️❤️

The references cracked me up. I love them!! 😂

The art style is 💙💙💙💙😍😍😍😍

I love that naming your character and setting everything up is a part of the game itself (not just in the beginning, before you play the game). This is very clever! 💯 I really love that. 💙

Story-wise, it's also 💯💯💯💙💙💙 (I was moved by Theo's father's speech 🥺 That stuck, aside from Theo's cheesy lines 😂😍😍 love them, too, esp the one about a heavy hand 😉💙)

The romance is... 😍😍😍 My heart is filled. 💙💙💙

I'M SO IN LOVE WITH THEO. Omg!!! 😭🥺💙💙💙���💙💙

--

Some reactions:

WARNING ⚠️ SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

This guy. He's hot and I kinda liked him at first and I would've loved a route but... I mean, I'm attracted to his physical appearance but I realized I'm not that shallow. 😅🤷🏼‍♀️ (And nevermind on the route 😬✌️ I'll end up fighting him and might end up getting his bad end 🤣🤣🤣)

Oh Mark... *sighs*

Anyway...

Eep!!! I literally squealed. Carmela here is kinda better than my Carmela irl (at least at this part, I don't want the real Carmela to hate me because I love her. She's my bff after all lol) And in-game Carmela is on-point!!! I didn't expect for her (this is my pronoun for in-game Carmela) to say this. 🥺😍😍😍 (Love that I got to keep the hoodie. Love it so much!!! 💙💙💙💙)

--

Game, why are you so accurate? Lol (Theo's route, of course 💙)

--

Hmmm...

We have a response to this in Filipino but I'm not sure how to translate it in English, it goes like this: "Kasi mahangin ka." LOL (Sorry not sorry for dissing you, Mark but that's only because you're kinda getting on my nerves. I don't wanna hate you honestly but... Oh, Mark... *sighs*

--

The moment I realized Theo really is my kind of guy 💙😍

I mean, I already love everything about him even before this moment but when he said this... I'm like, "no way, I really love this guy. Why isn't he real? 😭"

Idk how to explain it but I just love what he said. If you could see me when I read it, I'm cheering for him as if it was a basketball game and he shoot the ball at the three-point line and was successful. Hell yeah!!! 😎 That's my man!! Right there!!! 💙💙💙

--

WOW!!!

That was my reaction. 😂😂😂 I so love the employee identifier 😎💙🤣🤣🤣

I love the writer's sense of humor, in general, tbh. Hahaha 😁

--

I feel slightly/subtly called out...

But I'm okay with it. No biggie. I mean, it was the truth. And it was exactly what I was doing when this bubble popped up. Lmao jk 🤣🤣 so accurate (half of it at least 😬) 😭 but at least our MC is gettin' some. (Luca's route) happy for her. 🥰

--

--

If I was drinking when I read this, I would've spat my drink and choked. LOL again, I love the references. 💙💙 The kabedon, too HAHAHAHA

--

Is Heavenly Love somehow Tears of Themis-inspired? I kinda got that vibe when MC was explaining to Luca about childhood friends turn to lovers trope. Plus, there are 4 husbandos hehe 🤔

--

I love the title of the game. It's quite fun. Like if ever the game will actually be under maintenance, it'll be less effort. They just have to flash the key art and we'll know what's up. And maybe some notes under it like the date when the game will be back on. Lmao so cool.

--

Not to mention the trailer!!! LOL I love the trailer. It's so nice. 😂

Aaaaaaannnndddd I think that's the last of it.

TL;DR(ish) - I HAD FUN PLAYING THIS GAME AND I LOVE THEO SO MUCH I MIGHT CRY FOR A BIT BECAUSE HE'S NOT REAL AND IT MAKES ME SAD 😭 THEN PLAY HIS ROUTE AGAIN. 💙😂😭

(*)footnote: I always go for beer when choosing what to drink in games. Because I think it's also what I'd drink if I go to a bar. Hehe luckyyyyyy~

End. 💖💖💖

[itonje]

How did you get into Arthurian legend? I don't know where to start!

hi omg sorry for getting to this late but uh i alwaysss recommend my mutual @/gringolet's post on an intro to arthuriana which covers most of it but hmmm if you're asking me how i went about it i started semi chronologically with uh some early arthurian adjacent docs irt to subroman britain (i dont recommend this. dont do this have fun) and made my way up to historia regum britanniae (i do recommend this one but you can just read the arthurian parts if you dont want to read anything else lol..) also i recommend reading other pseudohistories! layamon's brut and historia gentis scotorum are my favs but wace's roman de brut is good as well..then when you get to romances most famously there are the romances of chretien de troyes. my favorite is lancelot, knight of the cart but it is...a lot. yvain, knight of the lion is also very good i recommend that as well. perceval, or the story of the grail is unfinished so fair warning but there are lots of other grail narratives if thats your thing (my personal favorites are parzival, peredur fab effrawg, and the didot perceval. i really like perceval stories lol) also theres the epigonal romances and like thats an entire thing in itself but my favorite of all of them has to be meraugis de portlesguez it is so entertaining it is more entertaining than a lot of modern stuff ive read honestly.

if you're looking for prose romances, there is...the lancelot grail cycle, or the vulgate, which is really long and has a lot of content it is where most of the most popular arthurian traditions originate. then there's the post vulgate which is a sort of a condensed version of it? ive not read either i dont know how much they differ lol. i know that it features more tristan and iseult stuff which is like, if you like or want to read tristan and iseult stuff this post is really good also by my mutual @/tillman i personally am not really invested in the tristan and iseult stuff but like. that is a personal thing lol. also irt to prose stuff the three romances of the mabinogi + culhwch ac olwen + breuddwyd rhonabwy are the arthurian stories in the book but i just recommend it in general it is so good. it is so good please god read the mabinogion im a big fan of welsh arthuriana in general so if you want to have more recs for that specifically lol...

also yes i will talk about the english stuff now cause thats what people like well layamons brut is in like..extremely archaic english but there's also the prose merlin (highly recommend but it is hard to find a translation online that's in like. contemporary english), there's also lancelot of the laik which is great, the alliterative morte arthure which is probably one of my favs it is excellent but then again i like the iliad so maybe i'm a biased slut for war epics (also yeah its a war epic lol). um also theres sir gawain and the green knight which i know is like the most famous of all of them and theres a movie coming out and whatnot and like its fine. its a good starter because it tells a very contained story on its own it doesnt expect you to understand everything ab arthurs court its very entertaining but imo i would read other romances featuring gawaine before this one (which is basically like. all the verse romances lol hes a popular character. my little meow meow). speaking of gawaine the dutch romances (which feature him. heavily) are good. theyre very good and i recommend them highly they also tell contained, highly entertaining stories um id start with moriaen (which is what i started with) and then skip around from there they're all great tho.

um now everyone's wanting me to say it which is uh. lets talk about le morte darthur! i dont recommend it as a starter text even tho i read it like really early on myself so do what you want however id say get one of those like, condensed versions like howard pyles king arthur, andrew langs book of romance, beatrice clay rodger lancelyn green and henry firth bc they all tell condensions of it and id keep it on you while youre reading the original thing just in case like things dont make sense or whatever lol plotwise. le morte is a very late text, and it is very strange for an arthurian text so like idk why people say to read it first because. if i had to say read any arthurian medieval text last. it would honestly be this one because there is such a beautiful finality to it.

i do recommend it though but fair warning that things presented in le morte are like. not the same across all texts? thats something you should keep in mind in general like a lot of these texts are from diff cultures diff languages with their own shifted traditions of arthurian stuff so just in case theres contradictions or whatever between them even in the texts itself (i am looking at you geoffrey of monmouth and anna's family tree) like, dont sweat it or whatever theyre just weird like that. its like comics or whatnot.

anyways this is all to say you have a lot of places to start and pick around from id recommend shorter stuff first and stuff whose translations are usually pretty accessible and contemporary (this is why i highly recommend de troyes' romances in the beginning) just to get used to it cause the 'plot' structure of these things esp in the verse romances is like a bit different than modern lit so i know that can be offputting for some people. like i said like modern condensions of arthurian stuff are invaluable, so are um indexes? there's a couple i don't know if there are any pdfs floating online but i know they usually carry them at libraries and whatnot...

there's a lot of modern modern stuff i dont know about any of it. i couldnt even tell you about bbc merlin i am quite stupid in regard to it. i do know a fair bit about victorian stuff which is modern tho! i should make a post on that but like tldr victorian arthurian poetry good. most of it. victorian arthurian content tho is really in a whole different world as compared to medieval lit so like. well leave all the generally post medieval stuff off for a min asjkldfskld

so like. yeah have fun i know i didnt leave any links on this post (mostly) but if you want any text i mention here please please ask me i WILL send you a pdf guaranteed except for the vulgate and the post vulgate i have not read those and afaik they are hard to come by. i dont know of any pdfs of arthurian indexes if you want one but i could try to find one..?

anyways yeah if this is confusing im sorry 😭😭😭ive answered a question like this a couple times as well jic ehehe https://itonje.tumblr.com/post/641224624484581376/could-i-ask-how-you-got-started-in-arthurian

https://itonje.tumblr.com/post/651581606366265344/hey-finny-im-so-sorry-to-bother-you-but-a-week

[austennerdita2533]

Hey!

I love Penelope Douglas for sure check her out! She writes some of the best smut tbh. I’m working my way through her devils night series right now-I’m on book 2. It’s good so far, definitely dark though. I’m interested to see how she goes about a redemption arc for the character Damon right now I don’t think he deserves one but I hear such good things about his book, Killswitch, but that’s book 3 so I will see how it goes. I definitely recommend Birthday Girl from her though I loved it and the couple from it are my favorite age gap could I’ve ever read. I find myself still re reading some of their best moments.

I am slightly embarrassed by Credence though so I hope it doesn’t bother you too much if you read it. Just so you know before going into it, it is about her and her step uncle/cousins. To be fair they are not blood related and very distance to the point she didn’t even know about them. But she does call him Uncle Jake during a sex scene, and the two others call her cousin during one too. There’s also a MMF scene with her two cousins. But on top of that there is a sexual assault scene (it does get stopped but the intent is there)-personally I wasn’t a fan of how she inwardly dealt with that scenario it felt like she was blaming herself for it instead of holding the other character accountable. Uncle Jake also does kiss her when she is still 17. So if any of that makes you uncomfortable don’t read it.

I’m so happy you liked the atlas six as much as I did. I can’t believe we have to wait until next year for the sequel to see what happens. It’s too long!! I also liked Callum the least, I still appreciated his character though and what he brings to the story I just wasn’t a fan of his, probably because of his problems with Libby/Parisa. Plus his powers terrify me-as someone who likes to have full control of my emotions the fact that someone could just change everything scares me. I also loved Nico he is my typical character that I love the whole I’m an asshole but soft and caring for the people I love gets me every time. Parisa is my queen though I’m obsessed with her. Like I’m literally in love with her, I wish she was real so she could be with me instead. Not that she would because I’m broke have 0 magic or power to give to her, but still. But I have a thing for power hungry women so I was gone the second I met her. But anyway if she was real she could destroy me or do anything she wanted to me and I would say thank you. Reina I also love and agree she could destroy the whole planet and one day probably will. I just love how she is there and wants all that knowledge but also doesn’t give a fuck about anyone else. Tristan also grew on me I’m still not completely sure how much I like or don’t like him yet he gets annoying sometimes because he is constantly in his mind about his alliances but I also love how loyal and caring he is. Libby is my girl!! I also relate to her as well since I was an outcast and battled inadequacy and all that (you and I must have some stuff in common!) Out of all the characters I relate to her the most and am rooting for her so hard-also because the author made her from Pittsburgh and I’m also from the area so I felt personally attached. But Olivie just did an interview and said Libby is getting a corruption arc and I am so excited about it!!

Okay ships- so I will be honest and I think it’s an unpopular opinion but oh well-I am a nicolibby stan. They have every single dynamic that I love in a ship and they could potentially be my favorite book couple of all time if that is the road they are being taken. Honestly I was obsessed with them from their first interaction so i have it bad for them. Obviously I know they were not romantic in this book but the potential (at least for me) was there especially in some of their quotes in the end. I fully believe they are soulmates though-even the author said they were born on the same day and feel like their other half is missing in an interview once-whether that will be platonic soulmates or romantic soulmates I have no idea and I could see either happening. My heart will break if it is platonic but it’s okay I can just live in my own little head about their potential.

But I get the idea and also like both libbytristan and NicoGideon and could see those happening instead of nicolibby too. I wouldn’t say I would be mad about it either-I do like both just to me the potential of nicolibby works more for me! My only thing about libbytristan though is I’m not sure how much of their tension/feelings are real (like did any of it exist before Parisa put the idea of the other person in their thoughts to lead to all the feelings.)

Weirdly enough since they probably my least favorite characters I also adore Tristan and Callum together. Their dynamic just works for me.

And I love Parisa and Dalton too and I’m so interested in how that relationship pans out because they have some stuff to figure out. But they work well together and honestly they are just so sexy together so I’m down for it. Although I do ship myself with Parisa more than her and Dalton but I’m biased.

Honestly though all the ships are wide open though so I’m curious to see what ends up being endgame. But omg yes the twist I was not expecting it-I’m so excited for the rest of this trilogy!!!

In other news though I finished up the ravenhood series. I know you said you either read it or it was on your tbr. But god I loved it. That series broke me and then put back all the pieces. If you haven’t read it and want to feel both heartbreak and happiness I highly recommend it!

Oh and don’t apologize for babbling as you can tell I also babble!!

-ACOTAR anon

Hiiiii sweets!

I've been sifting through a bunch of summaries of Penelope Doulgas' work on Goodreads and there's a bunch of stuff there I think I'd enjoy. I'm all about good smut. I didn't realize she had that many books. I'm excited! Thanks so much for the rec! I love dark romances/erotica every now and again so I'm also going to have to dive into the Devil's Night series at some point.

Oh, and idk if you know about it/read it but a couple of my friends told me about the Crossfire series by Sylvia Day a while back. It's BDSM, like Fifty Shades, but supposedly loads better. I don't know if you're into that but I figured I'd just throw it out there anyway. The smut is supposed to be steamy. I haven't read it yet but I do have the first four novels on my Kindle (where they've been sitting, unread, for about 2 years now)...so that's something haha.

And please don't be embarrassed about Credence. Seriously, the most wonderful thing about reading is you can go wherever tf you want in your imagination. No one can stop you. There are no rules. No restrictions. You can be whomever or whatever you want to be for a while, morality notwithstanding. One of my favorite things about books is that I can experience the most bonkers, outlandish out-of-this-world stuff that I'd never dream of wanting/liking in real life. It's liberating!

Thank you for the trigger warnings, though. I appreciate that. None of them sound off-putting enough to keep me from reading it. (Tbh, I want to read it more now.) I've read loads of books where characters marry or have sex with their cousins or siblings *waves at ASOIAF, the Secret History* so it doesn't bother me. I've also read most of Lolita and all of My Dark Vanessa by Kate Russell, which both romanticize pedophilia in disturbing degrees, so it takes a lot to put me off. If curiosity could kill then I'd be long dead by now. Hell, sometimes I will purposely read things I know will upset me to my core. What can I say? I'm a weirdo. 🙃

I DON'T WANT TO WAIT A YEAR FOR BOOK 2 OF THE ATLAS SERIES, EITHER. AHHHHH. How am I going to make it that long? It seems so far away!

Callum is the most terrifying of them all right now, imo. I think that's why I disliked him the most. Like you, it shook me to my core to imagine someone like him being able to toy with my emotions. I have a tendency to detach, to keep my emotions pressed close to my chest so that I can't be manipulated or hurt, and the idea that someone could have power over them, over me in that way is...no freaking thank you! I would put as much space between him and me as possible. Most of the Atlas crew had the right idea there. He does bring a lot to the story, though, like you said. I have a feeling he's going to be one of those characters I "love to hate" as the series progress. I might even grow to "hate to love" him, idk. He's just such a shady bastard! And so judgmental/mean to the girls.

I'm with you on Parisa, by the way. She's the kind of conniving, ambitious siren of a woman I can get behind. She has a similar vibe as Katherine Pierce on TVD. I mean, there's nothing in her arsenal she won't use and I love how she weaponizes her beauty. It's delicius. She's unpredictable. Definitely the type of character who inspires "scared and aroused" energy any time she walks into a room. Like, she could choke you and instead of crying you'd just ask her to do it again...harder lol.

Reina has the same kind of "no fucks given" attitude I have because I genuinely don't care what people think of me, either. I'm just here to do my thing. Be nerdy. Learn. Whatever. And Nico is my fave for the same reason as you--the asshole who only has soft edges for those who matter to him. *heart eyes*

Omg, Libby is going to have a corrupted arc? AHHHHH. That's going to be amazing, I cannot stinking wait! I was sort of hoping she'd go dark so now that it's confirmed I'm even more pumped. Also, I think you and I have more in common than either of us realized. I'm from the Pittsburgh area, too! How wild is that? Maybe there's something in the water here and that's why, like Libby, we've both felt inadequate and like outcasts at different points in our lives? Olivie might be onto something here...🤔

The thing that's been so cool for me about this series so far is that there are a bunch of potential pairings I could get behind. And I kind of like that it's not clear cut right now. Most series I know who I want together or who will be together like halfway through book 1. I like that I don't know have firm preferences and am still open. That's novel. Not to mention fun!

I don't blame you for shipping Nicolibby so hard, though. They're definitely one of my top contenders for a romantic pairing. They have that enemies-to-lovers element with witty banter that I always gravitate toward. And you're right about Libby/Tristan. I don't know how much of their connection was manufactured because Parisa intervened, either. That'll be fun to puzzle out moving forward. And Callum/Tristan should NOT be a ship I like but they have a palpable something that I can't put my finger on. I've got my eye on them, for sure.

The Ravenhood series is still on my tbr. I'm so happy to hear you enjoyed it so much, though! It's rare to read something that just ticks all your boxes. The next time I'm the mood to binge a series I'm gonna have to pick that one up. :-D

I've been trying to clear out my backlog of ARCs lately. (Not possible because I'm getting more on the regular - as in constantly haha - but I'm trying.) I just finished Wish You Were Here by Jodi Picoult, which has a Sliding Doors premise that is set during the pandemic where the main character has a parallel life experience (one, where she's in the Galapagos Islands on vacation when the shutdown hits so she's stuck there with strangers, alone, not speaking the language; the other, where she's in Manhattan with her surgeon boyfriend and recovering from COVID). It's intense but so, SO good! Picoult is such a good writer. Anything I've read by her has been moving, with rounded and real characters. I haven't been disappointed yet. I so recommend her.

Oh, and if you're into nonfiction/biographies at all I finished The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson not long ago, which is about Winston Churchill as well as those around him, and it was fantastic! Read more like fiction. I loved it. I am no longer surprised it was on all the BEST lists for 2020.

[lovelylogans]

so idk if requests are still open for wyliwf but i’m a sucker for dee in aus and it seems like he gets a bit of redemption before the most recent oneshot. If you feel up to it, i’d love to read something on that

debutante

part of the wyliwf verse.

chapter one | next chapter

notes: this ask was sent right after odds are! look, i know i’m overlooking several of the rules of the debutante ball, but honestly, so did gilmore girls, so. source material, here.  i hope this can serve as a distraction for some of you today—please go out and vote if you are able and if you haven’t already! also happy birthday logan!!!

A debutante or deb (from French: débutante, “female beginner”) is a young woman of aristocratic or upper-class family background who has reached maturity and, as a new adult, comes out into society at a formal “debut” or possibly debutante ball. Originally, the term meant the woman was old enough to be married, and part of the purpose of her coming out was to display her to eligible bachelors and their families with a view to marriage within a select circle.

or: logan wants to dismantle the cis-heteronormative patriarchy with his bare hands and teeth if necessary, roman delights in dresses, virgil fucking hates tuxedos, patton’s really proud of his son, and dee thinks those sanders’ might not be so terrible after all.

⁂

“i need a dress.”

patton blinks, glancing up from the kitchen table where he’s organizing his notes for midterms for his business degree. bright side, last set of midterms patton would ever have to take! dark side, midterms. “just, like, generally, or…?”

the slight attempt at a joke dies when he catches the look on logan’s face—clenched jaw, eyes flashing—and he sets down his papers.

“i’m coming out,” logan continues.

“kiddo, you did that when you were about eight,” patton points out. “remember? i said i loved you and i was proud of you and i’m so glad that you trusted me enough to share that moment with you and thank you for telling me, and we went and got ice cream at lucy’s, and then you tried to use the whole sentimental thing to get me to ask out virgil because you were supposed to have a positive gay role model in your life, as if us being separately gay wasn’t enough in this town whose main tourist attraction is its rich history, from the times of our founding fathers to the times of pride.”

patton’s quoting the most recent town brochure, here.

“no, dad,” logan says, and arches his eyebrows significantly. “i’m coming out.”

the double-meaning clicks in his head.

“no,” patton says, hushed—he isn’t sure if it’s in awe or horror. “like—like, debutante coming out? or, um, wait, like—like—?”

“the male equivalent is a beautillion, and no, i mean like debutante coming out,” logan says. 

patton pauses, waiting, but logan says nothing, until patton says, “kiddo, either your attempts at trying to push this information into my brain via telepathy aren’t working or my brain’s too fried from midterms to catch the implications of what you’re saying, i’m gonna need more details than that.”

logan drops into the other seat at the kitchen table, huffing out a slow breath. 

“you remember dee.”

“your former rival turned weird allies that are still sometimes rivals, yes,” patton says. 

“who came over to our house once.”

“for the gsa poster-making thing?” patton says.

“right,” logan says, and arches his brows, waiting for patton to catch on.

“when… he mentioned he was also trans?” patton elaborates.

“right,” logan says. “i think dee’s parents are trying to out him, because they informed him of their intentions to sign him up for the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball.”

a cold feeling crawls uncomfortably in his stomach.

presenting him to society. a debutante ball. undeniably, harshly female. one of the main benefits of the timing of patton’s coming out had been so he wouldn’t have been a debutante—the very concept of doing that had given him this exact same cold, crawling feeling.

“dee gave me about five separate explanations as to why, of course, so i don’t particularly know why they’re choosing to out him now,” logan says briskly, “but i have a plan as to how that’s not going to happen.”

“you’re… going to be a debutante,” patton says slowly.

“well,” logan says, and fishes out a piece of paper from his backpack. “hopefully, not just me.”

FIGHT THE PATRIARCHY, the title screams in huge letters, then subtitled with Become a debutante or an escort today! Why should women be the only ones who have to go through this? Be a better feminist and put on a dress, if you’re a boy, or a tux, if you’re a girl, and if you fall outside of the gender binary, the choice of debutante or escort is up to you. Contact Logan Sanders for more details. there’s two copies—one blank, and one with an already modest list of names. which is probably to be expected, debutante balls were a big deal at chilton, except the usual names that would be listed under escorts are listed under debutantes, and vice versa.

“dermot, tristan, brad, henry, roger,” patton reads off, slow, and then he looks up at logan. “and madeline, lem, lisa, summer, and ivy.”

“well, it’s hardly fair that girls have to go through all this primping and glamming up just to be seen as presentable to society,” logan says briskly. “boys should come out into society, too.”

“which is your cover story,” patton says slowly, putting it together. that cold, uncomfortable feeling is turning into a warm glow that’s turning up the corners of his mouth.

“right,” logan says. “if a group of boys will show up in pretty white dresses, all very serious about their intentions of being presented to society, with their escorts of girls in tuxes, then—”

“then everyone will think dee is part of the ploy.”

“exactly,” logan says. “his secret is kept under wraps and no one has to know.”

 patton leans abruptly over the table to wrap logan up in a hug.

“hey,” logan complains, but patton just squeezes a little tighter.

“you are,” he says, choked up, “such an amazing friend, kiddo.”

it sounds like something he and christopher might have done as a prank back in the day—christopher in the dress, patton in the tux—but this—this—

patton lets go of him, grinning hugely. “i am so proud of you.”

“so you’re okay with it?”

“okay with it?!” patton laughs. “you’re protecting your friend from getting outed in a way that would be very embarrassing and schooling high society about how weird it is that they still present their daughters like they’re cattle for purchase! of course i’m okay with it!”

“so, dress?” logan asks, and honestly, patton’s just about ready to grab his wallet and haul logan to the finest dress store he can find, before logan continues, “if grandma still has it, we could probably steal the one she was intending to use for you from the cellar.”

that cold feeling is back. “ah.”

logan blinks. “what?”

patton sits back down. “i forgot about your grandparents.”

“what about—?”

patton chews at his lip. “mom’s a part of the daughters of the american revolution.”

“why does that matter?” logan says, and patton sighs.

“oh, you know by now that things work differently in grandma’s world than ours,” patton says. “just—i definitely support your right to do this, but just… know that if a fight comes out of this, i will not regret it or back down, okay? i’m always on your team.”

“well, i know that,” logan says, like it’s obvious, which, fair, it probably is, or at least patton hopes so, it’s his job as a dad to be on his kid’s side. “i’ll bring it up at dinner on friday, we’ll see how it goes over then. they’re less likely to yell at me.”

“it’ll just be us and grandma, your grandpa’s in… i think copenhagen?” patton says, considering, and waves a hand. “some historical city across an ocean, anyway, and virgil’s working.”

virgil is almost always working on friday nights. it’s only partly because he owns the diner, but it’s also because, well. friday night dinners. patton doesn’t blame him for avoiding them—even with the buffer of a couple months, it’s not exactly an easy relationship between him and patton’s parents.

“well, that’ll be something,” logan says briskly, then stands. “i’m going to go put one of these sheets on sideshire high’s bulletin board.”

“good call, a ton of kids here would want to crush heteronormativity and an excuse to wear a pretty dress slash tux,” patton says. “i’m betting you’re gonna ask roman?”

logan looks like he’s trying not to flush, and he adjusts his chilton jacket. “he’s the one letting me in. he’s still there for cheer practice.”

“ahhh,” patton says, only a little teasing. “well, let me know what your plans for the afternoon are, it’ll probably be virgil’s for dinner tonight, ‘cause,” and he lifts up a sheaf of his papers for emphasis.

“isn’t it always?” logan points out, and, with that, he departs.

“my little baby, off to destroy people!” patton calls teasingly after him, grinning, so proud he feels like he’s about to burst.

“i’m destroying the cis-heteronormative patriarchy!” logan calls, and then there’s the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut.

patton’s going to take him on a trip to bookstore and he’s buying him everything he wants.

⁂

“granmè, i’m home!” dee calls, dropping his backpack at the door and hanging his bowler hat on the coat rack.

“hello, mister slange.”

“nanny,” dee acknowledges. he’d address her by her first name, if he knew it. he admires that about her; it’s something they share.

nanny soledad used to be his nanny, back when he’d needed such things; she’s from the dominican republic, which his parents thought was “close enough” to being haitian that it would be enough to help him adjust. which is accurate enough geographically, but not culturally. honestly, he’s surprised his parents even bothered to look as far as geographically. 

but now he is too old for such things, and his grandmother’s memory problems are growing more and more apparent by the day, so nanny had made the transition from the ancestral slange manor to the slange family townhome, where his grandmother evelyn lives.

the townhome is a bit run-down, in comparison with the manor; no multiple wings, no murals on the ceilings, no precisely selected statues in the alcoves. instead, the townhome is a conglomeration of furniture collected by the family over the years; all of it high-quality, expensive, but almost none of it matching, with persian rugs thrown down over almost every hardwood surface, armchairs cluttering the spare corners, paintings hanging dilapidated with no rhyme or reason to their collection. it feels a bit squashed and claustrophobic, sometimes, with its dark woods and narrow hallways and secluded rooms, in comparison to the aggressively, purposefully airy nature of the manor with its open floor plan and silver accents and crisp, neutral colors.

the townhome is closer to chilton, so dee had reasoned to his parents that there was no reason to keep using too much gas to have him make the commute home every night. his parents, frankly just happy to have him out of their hair, had acquiesced swiftly.

well. they tended to like him out of their lives, until they needed him for something. until he needed to act like a doll. dee pushes those thoughts away; he’s thought about it quite enough today.

so dee and his snakes and his clothes were stationed in one guest bedroom, nanny and martha in the others, and dee would return to the ancestral home on weekends and long breaks. it would stay that way for as long as he and nanny could get away with it.

especially with the latest developments. dee suppresses a shudder at the way he’d handled himself earlier in the day, and instead turns his attention to nanny.

“where is she?”

“your grandmother’s in the greenhouse,” nanny says, then, seeing the look on his face, “not gardening, you know i would be supervising if she were.”

“the azaleas are in bloom,” dee acknowledges. “she does like the azaleas.”

“that she does,” nanny says, and falls into step beside him. “i’ve had martha gather some cuttings sent up to her room. bertie is out running errands, but he should be back in time for supper. ingrid will be in later for dinner and should be sticking to the menu, unless you have other requests. it’s lobster linguine tonight.”

“all fine,” dee says, and winces to himself at how distracted he sounds. he needs to stop thinking about it. he needs to focus on the now. the present. thinking about his parents’ ultimatum looming over his head would do no good right now.

“now, she’s taken her medicine for the afternoon and requested some tea. would you like some as well, perhaps a snack?”

“whatever she’s requested will suffice,” dee says. “thank you, nanny.”

nanny nods, and departs for the kitchen. dee continues through the house, to the backdoor, and into the greenhouse.

greenhouse is a bit of an exaggeration. it’s really more of a solarium that’s been overcrowded with pots and planters, in addition to the gardens outside. there’s floor-to-ceiling windows, and the room is overwhelmed with wicker furniture. it’s calming, in here; to say that there’s a lot of earth tones would be an understatement, and the light filters in gold and tangibly warm. 

it’s the most open-air part of the house, but less like the manor; if the manor was like some renaissance painter’s imagination of heaven, all pearly white clouds and soft pastels, this was an impressionist painting’s portrait of a landscape—plants and woods and life, verdant and vibrant and vivid. 

the greenhouse is also the warmest room in the house, which he’s sure is part of why it’s his grandmother’s favorite. dee’s already moving to shed his capelet and gloves; if he doesn’t, he’ll get disgustingly sweaty.

his grandmother is sitting in her favored rocking chair, seemingly not having heard him open the door. her reading glasses are perched on her nose, about to slip off, and she’s deeply absorbed in her book.

“hello, granmè,” he says in french.

that makes her look up, and she smiles at him, reaching out her hand.

“hello, my sweet,” she says warmly, and he reaches out and squeezes her hand carefully—he has an irrational fear that one day, if he forgets his strength, if he squeezes too hard, he’ll snap the delicate little bones in her frail hand easier than blinking. she switches to french. “did you have fun at school?”

he scowls, settling in the rocking chair beside hers, separate by an end table that’s teeming with books. “it’s school, grand-mère.”

“that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun,” she says. “did you learn anything interesting, at least?”

that logan sanders is just as unsurprisingly terrible at comfort that one would expect?

instead, he says, “we’re supposed to start reading sula for homework today.”

she brightens, as he knew she would—his grandmother adores all things toni morrison—and they begin talking about books, and other works by toni morrison, and their favorite parts of said books, which eats up the better part of the fifteen minutes it takes nanny to deliver the tea tray to the greenhouse.

“thank you, nanny,” evelyn says, still in french. nanny nods—she’s fluent in spanish and portuguese and english, not quite in french, but she knows enough to get by in a conversation—and withdraws from the room without a word.

dee swiftly takes the teapot before his grandmother can attempt to pour it herself—her plus a heavy pot of near-boiling water was a hospital visit waiting to happen—and switches to english, saying, “would you mind plating some of the battenburg for me, granmè?”

“as long as you have a crumpet,” she says. “you’re a growing boy, noodle.”

“yes, yes, fine,” he sighs, pretending to be put-upon at both the pet name and the insistence of somewhat healthy eating. “a crumpet too, then.”

he fixes her cup as she likes it—two sugars, a splash of cream—and trades her teacup and saucer for a plate of snacks before he works on making his own tea and she arranges her own plate. he notices that she has reached for none of the savory options, instead opting entirely for sweets.

dee hides his smirk in his tea. 

they continue chit-chatting about all kinds of things as they work their way slowly through tea, a holdover from his english grandfather. even though grand-mère’s french, she’s too fond of teacakes and snacking in general to really do away with it, even nearly two decades after his passing. they talk about the azaleas (yes, they look exceptional this year) running the household (bertie was going to visit his grandchildren next week, yes he’d make sure bertie would pass on her hellos, yes he’ll manage fine without him, it’s not like nanny and martha and ingrid won’t be here) and his academics (yes, he thinks the semester’s going well.)

they talk about everything except the thing that’s weighing most heavily on his mind. 

she might not know. she might not even remember.

dee pushes that thought away. once they’ve finished their tea, he excuses himself to do his homework, leaving her to her book and her admiration of the lilies, and nanny smoothly institutes herself in his chair, with the guise of a magazine to make it seem like she wasn’t supervising his grandmother.

dee picks up his capelet, gloves, and backpack on his way up to his room. back at the manor, he has a whole wing, but here he just has his room. it suffices.

he sits on the bed, briefly, in sight of the full-length, gilt-edged mirror, to sweep the capelet back around his shoulders and ensure that it’s sitting on him properly; he could probably get away with taking off his binder, as he’s home and they aren’t expecting visitors, except he very much does not want to do that right now. he pulls on his gloves, covering his vitiligo-ridden left hand first; his dermatologist swears his particular case is segmental, which typically doesn’t expand with time, but it feels like it has been.

but then again, it is just his left side affected. so. perhaps the woman who’d been to school for twelve years and was a specialist in his particular condition was right.

dee toes off his loafers, debating crossing the room and entering his walk-in closet to store them properly on the shoe rack, but decides against it—the singular item of clutter makes his room seem a little more lived-in.

it’s not that he doesn’t like his room here; they hired decorators to redo it back when his grandmother moved in and he started spending more time here, years ago, so the walls are a subtle shade of gold, with an accent wall plastered with an art-deco black-and-gold theme was behind his bed. his bed is massive and plush. everywhere he looks, things are black, gold, and white, in that order of frequency.

it’s just not very… well. lived-in.

his room at the manor house is worse, though. just about the only thing he likes there is the aesthetic of the gold. the chandelier and tufted wall and personal tv and absurdist decor that screamed “this is too expensive for you to even look at!” he could do without.

he might have to look at it all the more, soon. he’s dreading it.

“homework,” he reminds himself, “homework.”

he makes a beeline for his desk, where his snakes are settled in their vivarium, all lazily sunning themselves under the heat lamp, tangled together in a loose pile.

“layabouts, the lot of you,” dee informs them. luke, leia, and han do not seem to care.

dee settles at his desk, getting out his agenda, his books, and his notebooks. he gets out his favorite pen and sits, ready to get started on his to-do list for the day.

and that’s where his brain stops focusing on school, and starts focusing on what happened at school.

there are several locations in chilton that seem like they were designed specifically for crying.

the most popular ones are the almost-always abandoned bathrooms near the journalism lab were a good bet for most, with the stress of deadlines; and, considering they tended to share with the chemistry and biology labs, that was tripled, and therefore the most commonly-used choice. it wasn’t uncommon for med-school-aiming seniors to duck out around finals week and return after a carefully scheduled five-minute crying break, red-rimmed around the eyes. most were polite enough not to mention it to their faces.

then there was the kiln room; considering it was mostly empty, all bare walls and concrete, excepting for the periods of time where there were ceramics classes or art club, of course, it went mostly empty, and tended to be the discerning choice for arts-inclined students.

and then there was the option that he had opted for today; steal into the senior’s lounge, near the rear exit of the school, and hunker up into the most hidden corner, giving himself until the bell for the next class bell rings to have his breakdown where no one, not nanny or ingrid or bertie or martha or god forbid granmè would be able to hear him, the urge he’s been holding in since he descended from a lie-in yesterday morning to see his parents both sitting at the table. at granmè’s house. to speak to him.

which, really, was never a good sign in the first place, but even for his parents it was a particularly fucking terrible—

the exit door opens.

shit. shit.

dee hastily uses the ends of his capelet to wipe at his eyes and then rummages in his backpack, yanking out the first book he lays hands on, hoping against hope that he can pass it off as skipping class, he can manage that, his reputation wouldn’t even take a hit for that, whereas if someone like louise fucking grant caught him crying—

“are you skipping class?”

dee makes a show of glancing up, nonchalant, at the person who’s spoken.

“are you?” dee contests. logan sanders shakes his head, his hands braced on his backpack straps.

“no,” he says, then, “the bus popped a tire on the way to school.”

“another count against the bus,” dee murmurs, and he turns his attention back to the book, feigning a loss of interest.

logan has not walked away. in fact, he’s walking closer. dee clears his throat, hoping that he won’t get close enough to see his puffy, red-rimmed eyes. he’d specifically planned this particular crying jag so no one would see his puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

“are you skipping class?” logan repeats. dee stifles a curse. damn journalist.

“so what if i am?” dee says, and he might have pulled off his airy tone, if his voice hadn’t cracked on the last word. dee coughs, to cover it, but now logan is walking closer.

“were you… crying?” logan says uncertainly.

“no,” dee lies. and honestly, getting caught might be worth it for the expressions that wars across logan’s face—pained awkwardness overwhelms it, but there’s concern, and discomfort, and a sense of do i have to, and honestly, if dee wasn’t in such a shitty mood it would be pretty funny.

“may i sit?”

“will you listen if i say no?”

“probably not,” logan admits. “even if you weren’t crying, which i’m pretty sure you were—”

“—i wasn’t—” 

“—your attendance is as good as mine, i’d still want to know why you were skipping class.”

dee makes a show of sighing, but shoves his backpack a little further away and scoots further into the corner. logan nods, settling his backpack beside dee’s, and sits close to dee. not quite side-by-side, but just far enough away that it’s clear he’s offering dee the choice to lean closer. it’s strangely thoughtful. he remembers, distantly, logan at his birthday party; he’d ducked hugs a lot of the time, only accepting it when he couldn’t substitute a handshake. he wonders if logan doesn’t like physical contact, and tucks away the idea of investigating that for potential use later.

logan pauses, before he says, almost kindly, “the book’s giving you away. you’re reading the scarlet letter. we read that last quarter. i highly doubt you’d be rereading it. you made your dislike known enough as we were reading it, not that i blame you for finding it dull and archaic. it is dull and archaic.”

dee bites back a curse as he makes a show of glancing at the book. he knew he should have cleaned out his backpack after midterms, but no, he’d been too busy—

“i like the scarlet letter,” dee lies, and logan looks at him, arching an eyebrow.

“try again.”

“what?” dee says. “i could.”

“you literally overrode class one day to complain, at length, about how stupid the plot is, how overblown and over-long the prose is, and that hawthorne desperately needed an editor. which i agree with, by the way.”

“well,” dee says. “i could still like it.”

“please,” logan scoffs.

he turns the book in his hands and reduces a shudder. god, what a terrible book. he’ll toss it as soon as he gets home.

“well, i like sleep,” dee says lightly, “and one should always have sleep-inducing material on hand. it’s remarkably effective. i like it for that reason, how about that?” 

logan smiles, with a little hum of acknowledgement. a i don’t believe you but i think your excuse is funny enough that i won’t press you on it hum. dee’s heard it many times.

they sit in silence for a couple minutes. long enough that dee thinks that he’s going to get away with it—if they’re quiet until second period, then dee can steal away and have an excuse ready by lunch, if need be.

except logan clears his throat, and dee braces himself.

“if you’d like to… talk,” he says stiffly, and he coughs again. “i am—here. clearly. not just physically, as i am now, but as a means of support. i suppose.”

dee rolls his eyes. “how convincing,” he says, and ignored how clogged-up his voice sounds, all of a sudden.

“yes, well,” logan says. “of the many things my father’s taught me, one thing he apparently hasn’t been able to pass down is being particularly good at navigating these… emotional kinds of conversations is not one of them.”

dee would laugh at the look on logan’s face when he says emotional, if his brain wasn’t stuck on my father. 

“your dad,” dee says, a strange tone in his voice, before he can stop himself.

logan’s dad, who was raised in this environment, in this world, and, somehow, had managed to be openly, proudly trans.

logan’s dad, who had been trans, without his parents attempting to publicly interfere with the way he presented himself.

must be nice.

“yes,” logan says cautiously. “what about my dad?”

dee takes a deep breath, and, immediately, two concepts begin to war in his mind.

don’t tell him, one side screams. the whole reason you’re out here is because you don’t want people to see weakness!

he has access to a unique perspective that, to your knowledge, is only shared by yourself and that other person, he argues with himself. and the largest part of this that would be kept secret, he already knows. and you have blackmail in hand if he were to suddenly confess with this additional quest for information.

dee lets out his breath. he says, “does your dad talk about the way it was for him? back then.”

logan stiffens, ever so slightly, in surprise.

“not often,” he says, the cautiousness still lingering in his tone. “he’s only ever really told me a little; bits and pieces. not details, you understand, but…”

logan pauses, collecting his thoughts. dee almost snaps at him to hurry up; usually, logan’s a decent enough public speaker, but the whole dramatic pause thing he did sometimes was really quite annoying.

“i know that it wasn’t easy, for him,” logan says. “that in part, the reaction helped fuel his desire to run away, in addition to my existence and the further stigma that’s associated with that. there are likely old issues of the jefferson that could provide the nastier details; i’ve given him my word i wouldn’t seek them out. i don’t particularly want to. in addition to the writing skills of the jefferson being terrible, i am not particularly inclined to read transphobia and terrible rumors about anyone, much less my father.”

another pause. then, “he had a bonfire for all his dresses and skirts.”

dee turns to him, startled. logan’s dad? that soft little puffball?

“i know,” logan says, seemingly agreeing with how out-of-character it seemed. “my other father—christopher—helped. he’s been saving stories of his various teenage rebellions, too. he used to be rather…” a brief hesitation. “a rabble-rouser.”

dee snorts. it sounds very snotty and terrible and he immediately wishes he hadn’t.

(also—well, dee had known that logan was technically a hayden, it was just he hadn’t really heard logan outwardly express it, ever. he knows that christopher is located in california, somewhere. he wonders how logan handles that. something to look into.)

“why do you ask?” logan says.

“you know why.” 

“all right, that was poorly phrased,” logan says. “why ask about this now?”

dee hesitates. logan adds, awkwardly, “if you don’t want to answer—”

“it’s… fine,” dee says stiffly. he clears his throat. he looks at his shoes.

logan is one of the smartest people you know, he reminds himself. he wouldn’t tell. he knows you’d immediately move to destroy him if he told.

keeping his eyes on his toes, he says, forcefully light, “my parents have entered me into the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball. apparently, they’ve decided to stop humoring this phase i am going through, as i am now sixteen, it is time to cease such childish rebellion and enter society properly, as a—” dee stops, abruptly.

“as a gender which you are not,” logan finishes for him. his voice is very, very quiet.

dee clears his throat, and redirects his gaze from his shoes to the wall across from them. he’s very conscious of logan’s eyes on him, examining him, staring at his face for any sign of weakness.

“dee,” he begins, haltingly.

“it doesn’t matter,” dee says, except for the fact that it very much does matter. 

“that’s not,” logan begins, then, “i don’t,” and then, a frustrated sigh, before he says, “i’m sorry.”

“don’t,” dee snaps. “i don’t want your pity.”

“the definition of pity is the feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others,” logan snaps back. “as a fellow member of the lgbtq community, of course i feel sorrow and compassion at the information that someone does not have the support of their parents, and that lack of support will cause that someone will be outed publicly without their consent.”

dee doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to stare at the wall. his jaw is clenched so tightly he thinks his teeth might break from the pressure.

“is there anything i can do?” logan says stiffly.

dee keeps his eyes on the wall. “no,” he bites out.

they sit in awkward silence for a few more seconds. it feels like an hour. then:

“what if i stopped it?”

dee scoffs.

“what?” logan says.

“please,” dee says. “it’s the dar debutante ball.”

“we can get you out of it.”

“the bill’s already paid,” dee says. 

“then we’ll stop the ball,” logan says.

“i’m sorry, have you met the ilk of your grandmother and her friends?” dee says pointedly. “you think you’re going to rob them of the chance to trot their precious little darlings around in a circle for all the men to drool over?”

logan’s back straightens. dee, finally, turns to look at him.

it’s like dee can see the lightbulb go off over his head.

“what?” dee says.

“nothing,” logan says, except he’s smiling.

“what,” dee snaps.

“nothing,” logan repeats. “it’s just—i might have an idea.”

“might,” dee repeats.

“might,” logan agrees. he’s clearly about to say more, but the bell rings, and there’s the beginning of shuffling steps that means people will emerge into the hallways. logan scrambles to his feet, swinging his backpack over his shoulder, before, belatedly, offering a hand to dee.

dee considers it. he accepts. logan helps haul him to his feet.

“your idea,” dee says, picking up his own backpack.

“you’ll see,” logan says, and dee huffs at him, before beginning to head off to his next class—

“dee?”

dee turns, and logan offers an awkward little facial expression that might be a smile.

“if you want to talk about it—”

“we aren’t friends,” dee says, cutting off whatever platitude that he’s clearly building up to. an idea. probably a lie to try and make dee feel better.

“i know that,” logan says, firmly. “but if you ever do… want to talk about it.”

“i will,” dee says, and tacks on, “if i want to.”

“okay.”

“but i probably won’t.”

“that’s fine.”

dee hesitates. “but if i do—”

“i’m around,” logan says simply. 

“i doubt i will,” dee says, attempting to resume his haughty expression.

“you know where to find me, if you do,” logan says. 

dee rolls his eyes, as if that conversation was very trying and not something that threatens to create an even bigger lump in his throat, and resumes his route to his science class.

“mister slange, dinner!” nanny calls, and dee startles. he clears his throat and puts down his pen, rising to his feet.

“coming, nanny!” he calls down the stairs.

find him. right. like the idea of talking to logan sanders about anything else in his life is even slightly appealing.

no, he tells himself. the idea of getting to know logan sanders? maybe even becoming something other than rivals? not even a little bit nice.

⁂

as soon as virgil comes out of the kitchen, roman has this Look on his face that makes virgil immediately say “no.”

“you don’t even know what i’m asking yet!” roman protests.

“i can tell you’re plotting something just by the look on your face,” virgil says.

“ah, but technically i’m not the one plotting, logan is,” roman says, and, well. that’s outside the norm. roman tends to be the plotter of the things that give roman That Look on his face, the one that reminds virgil only a little painfully of remus.

“okay, why am i involved in the thing that logan’s plotting?”

“patton’s in on it too,” roman points out. “and, uh, my mom.”

virgil pauses, contemplates, and says, “i don’t know if that’s a warning sign or not.”

“well, logan and i can explain when patton and him get here for dinner,” roman says. “in the meantime—”

“please don’t order something that will make your mom kill me for violating your meal plan too terribly, i don’t think i’ve recovered from last friday,” virgil says wearily.

“ugh, fine,” roman says, and orders something that is at least passably healthy, which he could really teach to his boyfriend and—and virgil’s boyfriend.

virgil’s boyfriend, patton. nope, even after two and a half months, it’s still bizarre in the best possible way.

by the time virgil puts roman’s order in, and carries out about three more, he’s carting a tray across the diner as the bell jangles and two familiar faces walk in.

“hey,” patton says, and leans in to give him a brief, welcoming kiss. habit. routine. thrilling. patton runs a thumb along virgil’s stubble, grinning at him.

“hey yourself,” virgil says, and jerks his head. “roman’s in a booth over there, and apparently i have a plot to be brought in on?”

and then patton… puffs up with pride? literally, puffs up. whenever he’s proud of logan, his posture gets better and he puffs his chest out a little and his chin tilts up, like logan achieving something is an achievement for patton, makes him more confident in himself. virgil guesses a lot of logan’s achievements owe at least a little credit to patton’s parenting, though, so it’s a fair trade. logan doesn’t seem to be complaining.

“that you do,” patton says, a little smug.

“okay then,” virgil says. “brainstorm your pitch and i’ll be right over.”

he drops off dinner orders—mrs. torres and a gaggle of other older ladies who coo and giggle and wave to roman, who blows kisses back, because he’s the default adopted son/grandson for any active older woman in town—before he sidles up to the sanders/prince booth.

“right, okay, orders, then plot,” virgil says, flipping to a new page in his notepad and clicking his pen.

patton and logan put in their orders—virgil successfully convinces them both to trade in something unhealthy for either a salad (patton) or a side of vegetables (logan)—which he notes dutifully, before he slides in beside patton in the booth.

“okay,” virgil says, and he nudges patton. “pitch.”

“my idea, actually,” logan pipes up, and virgil obligingly turns his attention to the younger sanders.

“so,” logan says, folding his hands. “i am coming out.”

“um,” virgil says, dropping his gaze pointedly to where roman’s resting his hand on logan’s wrist. “you did that. like, eight years ago.”

“that’s what i said,” patton says, pleased.

“let me rephrase,” logan says, and his nose wrinkles. “i am coming out in the sense of the viennese waltz, i will be deemed of good breeding and marriageable age, must have dowry, seeking males with a trust fund, fluffy white dresses, et cetera.”

“oh, jesus christ,” virgil says. “what friend roped you into being an escort for this thing? because that is not a friend.”

“keep listening,” patton chides, a laugh in his tone.

“well, that’s the thing,” logan says. “i’m not going to be an escort.”

virgil considers this for a moment. “i’m not following.”

“logan’s creating an army to charge upon the daughters of the american revolution so we can destroy the patriarchy,” roman says, bright and perky.

“i’m recruiting like-minded members of the next generation to make a statement about gender equality,” logan corrects. “in other words: i shall be the one with a dowry, seeking males with a trust fund, in a fluffy white dress.”

“uh.”

“me too,” roman says sunnily. “i’m going to be wearing a fluffy white dress, too. plus a ton of other kids in our grade—the idea’s really caught on. ooh, logan, we can recruit some of the dance girls as escorts!”

virgil tries to picture it: a group of boys in dresses, girls in tuxes, gasping, scandalized rich people. the idea brings a smile to his face.

“oh, good idea, we should send put a sign-up sheet in the studio,” logan says.

“wait, you said i was going to be involved,” virgil says, his brain catching up with him. “where do i fit into all that?”

“well,” patton says. “isadora and i decided to set up a kind of etiquette-and-dance crash-course day for all the kids involved, because despite my best efforts i have not purged the viennese waltz or my numerous etiquette lessons from my mind—”

“you, cultured?” virgil teases, and patton smacks virgil’s arm playfully.

“with no help from you, thank you very much,” patton says. “anyway. since isadora and i are teaching the kids, and there will be an influx of fluffy white dresses and tuxes…”

it clicks. “alterations.”

“got it in one,” patton says cheerfully.

virgil’s a pretty decent tailor, for an amateur—he’s done his fair share of hemming dance costumes, or fixing suits, even some emergency repairs for some wedding dresses, over the years. he’s about to say something along the line of are you sure i should do this, i don’t think i’m qualified for something so fancy but then he catches the hopeful look on logan and roman’s faces, and—

“all right, fine,” virgil says, and he stands. “just let me know when and where, yeah?”

logan grins at him, and roman chirps a thank you, and patton giggles, soft, as virgil makes his way back for the kitchen.

fancy debutante tailor. he guesses he can handle that. it’s not really a step outside of the norm, so it’s not like he’s doing anything super out there, like the kids are.

virgil thought too soon.

by the time he re-emerges from the kitchen, ready to wipe down the counters, patton and logan are at the table finishing up the last of their meals, and roman’s at the counter, shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes snapping to him. 

“hey,” virgil says. “you need a refill of water? because i’m telling you now, if you’re going to try for dessert, you may as well give up now—”

roman rolls his eyes. “no. it’s about the debutante ball.”

“okay,” virgil says, and tosses his towel over his shoulder. “what about it?”

“it, um,” roman says, and clears his throat. “ugh. apparently, your father’s supposed to present you at the ceremony.”

“oh,” virgil says. 

“and, um, since i don’t really have a dad,” roman begins.

“i could alter a tux for your mom?” virgil suggests. “since everyone’s already doing the whole ‘screw gender’ thing anyway.”

“i—no, no, she’s probably going to do backstage stuff to make sure that the sideshire kids aren’t spooked by the rich people,” roman says. “plus, she’d hate wearing a tux.”

“yeah, fair enough,” virgil says. he thinks the only time he’s really seen her dressed up is when she has to, during a recital or performance or something. “okay. i could help with the tux of… i forget his name, what’s that guy who was your one-on-one instructor during the nutcracker? sergio, right? i could drive you to visit sergio—“

“sergio is in portugal,” roman says, looking an odd mixture of helpless, amused, and frustrated. “y’know. where he’s from?”

“oh,” virgil says. “um, there’s always taylor? you know he’d be super into the whole pomp and circumstance thing.”

“taylor,” roman says. “virgil. you of all people. recommend taylor.”

“i know, okay, i know, but i’m kind of coming up blank here,” virgil says. 

“coming up blank?” roman repeats, the frustrated part becoming more clear.

“i’m trying here,” virgil says. “you could—”

“oh, for god’s sake, dumb-utante, i’m trying to ask you to escort me,” roman snaps. 

virgil’s jaw drops. just a little. 

“oh,” he says.

roman flushes a brilliantly bright red, and looks down at his shoes.

“i—just, whatever, okay, you don’t have to,” he mutters, and scuffs the toe of his shoe over the diner floor. he needs new ones—the white, rubbery part of his converse is overrun with mud and sharpie doodles, the aglets frayed, part of the high-top worn from where roman grabs it to shove his foot into it every morning discolored. 

remus used to wear green converse, sometimes, the most casual in his extensive collection of costume-style clothes. he remembers telling roman this, when roman was pretty little and ms. prince had enlisted virgil to take roman out for back-to-school shopping, and virgil had bought roman his first pair. he’d been little, then. six, he thinks. maybe seven. they’d gotten ice cream after. roman had gotten rum raisin, and virgil ended up having to eat the rest of it when roman pronounced it “ucky” and roman had ended up getting his usual chocolate-cherry. virgil had made roman pinky-promise that he would get a small one, so he wouldn’t spoil his dinner.

but roman prefers high-tops, and remus had always gotten classic chucks. roman loves red, and remus loved green. 

they’re different, remus and roman. like night and day. it still makes virgil feel a little strange whenever he thinks about how much longer he’s known roman than he’d known remus—really, it had topped out a few years ago, much longer if virgil was just considering how long he and remus had been friends. so much of his relationship with roman was built on the basis of being the last of remus’ friends still in sideshire, other than ms. prince, and so he was one of the only ones who could tell roman about his dad. do what his dad would have done.

remus probably would have bought roman his first pair of chucks when roman was a baby, those little tiny shoes that can sit comfortably in the palm of virgil’s hand with plenty of space to spare.

but remus is dead, and so buying roman his first pair of signature red shoes had fallen to virgil.

basically everything remus would have loved to do with his son had fallen to virgil, really, if ms. prince hadn’t taken care of it first.

apparently, your father’s supposed to present you at the ceremony.

“no,” virgil says, strangely choked up. “that’s—that’s a good idea. cool. i can, um. i can do that.”

“really?” roman asked, eyes snapping up from his shoes. he smiles like remus when he’s plotting, that much is true, but when he smiles when he’s just happy—all virgil can see is roman.

“yeah, sure,” virgil says, and then he coughs into his elbow to clear whatever’s lodged in his throat. “just, uh. just keep me updated on, y’know. details.”

roman’s grin grows a bit more delighted, a bit more remus-like. “are you crying?”

“what? no,” virgil scoffs.

“because you sound like you’re about to start crying.”

“i was chopping onions,” virgil says lamely. “this has nothing to do with you.”

“oh, i better check my calendar again, i didn’t realize it was opposite day,” roman says gleefully.

“you’re the most obnoxious teenager i’ve ever met,” virgil says, and roman laughs, even as he’s backing away, slowly, toward the door. virgil rolls his eyes, and moves to wipe down the counters.

“and you have to wear a tux!” roman calls, and virgil’s head snaps up.

“wait, what, no way—“

“shave off the five o’clock shadow, too, i won’t be looking scruffy by comparison!” roman calls, opening the door. virgil scowls, rubbing a hand along his face—yes, he goes stubbly sometimes, especially during winters or when he’s busy, but he doesn’t look bad with facial hair, he just looks a bit off today because he woke up late—and the reality hits him. a tux. dressing fancy. being involved in a high society ceremony.

“the tux is bad enough!”

“you’re forgetting the tails, the cumberbun, plus white gloves!“ roman says, ticking it off on his fingers.

“i take it back!” virgil calls. “i’m not doing this anymore!”

“too late, i already signed you up!” roman shouts, and disappears from the diner before virgil can yell at him anymore.

a tux. tails. white gloves.

a cumberbun.

dammit, of course roman would manage to net him into some kind of makeover.

⁂

it’s been a shitty day so far. 

something kept interrupting his sleep last night, so when he finally managed to get to sleep, he slept through his alarm. granmè was already having a bad memory day, repeatedly calling out for her dead husband and not recognizing nanny, which means she probably won’t recognize him, so he had to keep out of their way, and as he was walking out the door he saw bertie holding up something ensconced in a garment bag, lips pursed in disapproval, whose length could only mean the arrival of a fluffy white dress, a nice reminder of the thing that dee was dreading.

and it isn’t even eight yet.

“move,” dee snarls to the particularly amorous couple blocking the path to his locker—really, people, it was seven forty-five in the morning, did they always have to start the day attempting to tie their tongues together?—and they shuffle aside, to a vacant stretch of wall, presumably to resume their excessive pda.

dee rolls his eyes. typical.

except—

“slange,” one of the makeout participants says. dee ignores him, placing the books he’d had to bring home for homework in and pulling out the books he’d need for his morning classes.

“hey, slange, i’m talking to you,” he repeats. 

dee rolls his eyes with all the sarcasm he can muster, and directs his gaze to them; summer, absently wiping some stray lipgloss off with her finger, and tristan, leaning over.

“what,” dee says, in the crispest tone he possibly can.

“didn’t take you for a troublemaker,” tristan says, grinning still; dee notes, sourly, that summer could probably spare some energy to wipe off the sticky lip gloss on tristan’s chin, too. 

“excuse me.”

“oh, right, right,” tristan says, and rolls his eyes. “fighting the patriarchy, excuse me. hey, if that excuse is enough to make it look good on your college resume, you wouldn’t happen to know how to—”

“you already know all the people in our grade who write papers for a fee, dugray,” dee says, already exhausted and snippy and—he hates to even admit it to himself—confused. “take it up with henry, if you must. and wipe off your face before you go to class, you have holographic glossier smeared everywhere. it’ll give you away to julia, she doesn’t wear lipgloss.”

summer gapes at him, and immediately begins to screech something along the lines of “what is that supposed to mean, i knew you didn’t block her like i told you to!” but dee’s already tuning it out, slamming the locker door shut and making his way to homeroom. frankly, summer should have dumped tristan the second he told her that she wasn’t allowed to talk to other boys. the pair of them were toxic together—half the material he had on tristan were things that he wouldn’t want summer to know.

the other half would, if it made its way to the right hands, get him sent off to military school.

dee’s saving most of the rest of that for when he gets really annoyed with tristan.

he might be there in ten minutes if he didn’t get an answer—what did tristan mean, trouble-making? and tristan dugray, fighting the patriarchy. please. tristan’s as emblematic of a toxic, rich, straight white boy that there could be. tristan adores all the trappings of the patriarchy; it better allows him to pursue whatever girl he wanted into being his girl of the week, despite the fact that they weren’t particularly wanting to be his girl of the week, whenever he and summer were on a break (and, most of the time, when they weren’t.)

except that isn’t even the only time.

henry, dermot, lem—even shy little brad, who usually breaks out into cold sweats at the sight of him since the whole theater incident in sixth grade, seem to be attempting to make eye contact with him as he walks down the hall, like they were in with him, or something. like they were suddenly friends.

dee stews, furious, at the very idea they could know something about him that he doesn’t know—until he sees lisa approaching logan sanders, who seems to be loading up his backpack.

dee frowns. logan wouldn’t like lisa—well, obviously, he’s gay, but also, lisa subscribes to her parents’ politics, including the epithets of “fake news,” and he’s pretty sure that alone would spring logan into a furious tirade like little else could.

dee pauses.

fight the patriarchy, tristan had said. trouble making.

“what if i stopped it?”

and then he moves immediately toward the locker.

“—long as you don’t say why, then yes, of course,” logan says.

“duh!” lisa chirps. “hilarious, lo-lo, seriously.”

logan’s face twists up as politely as he can manage at the sound of a cutesy nickname, but he can’t really say anything, since lisa’s already flouncing off to be discriminatory and heartless on her parents’ orders.

presumably.

“what,” dee says, “was that.”

“i know,” logan says, turning back to his locker. “lo-lo. what am i, a puppy?”

“not that,” dee says. “you know she’s—”

“a terrible person who stands against everything i am, yes,” logan says mildly. “but she’s wealthy and has a fair amount of—” a near-sneaky glance at a notecard in his hand— “clout, amongst the puffs.”

“the puffs?” dee repeats, his voice already sounding strange.

“you know, the secret sorority,” he says nonchalantly. “one of them, at least, and certainly the most desired to join—”

“i know who the puffs are,” dee says, in a tone that clearly denotes do you think i’m stupid, i’ve gone to this school for longer than you have.

“ah,” logan says. “right. well, i would have gone through francie jarvis, who is less diametrically opposed to—” he makes a sweeping gesture up and down his body, “but she was absent yesterday, so. lisa was the obvious in.”

“why do you need an in with the puffs?” dee says. 

logan glances up and down the hall—god, way to show off you’re discussing something sensitive—before he pulls a leaflet out of his backpack, handing it to dee.

FIGHT THE PATRIARCHY!

dee skims it, and feels his eyebrows rise higher and higher, even as his throat gets disturbingly closed up.

“i noticed that a lot of the puffs are due for their debutante ball,” logan explains, even as dee stares at the—the excuse, the excuse that logan’s pulling for this elaborate ruse, that, if it works—

i won’t be outed.

dee swallows, hard. he folds the leaflet back up, and clears his throat.

“the puffs are a decent enough start,” he says, voice perhaps a bit thicker than normal. “as they’re the most socially prized secret society at chilton, it was a good place to begin—people will want to emulate them, especially those who are attempting to get puffed. mostly freshmen, but there are a few sophomores who are sixteen that’ll join. but you need to pivot your focus—the old crows and the skull and dagger would probably gain more participants per club capita.”

“old crows?” logan says uncertainly.

“the secret society for a select few seniors,” dee says. “who have likely already had a coming out, but it’s not uncommon to do multiple. skull and dagger would probably love an excuse to cause chaos, but that’s sorted, so long as you bother tristan some more. and if you’re going to come at it from the fight patriarchy angle, you’re going to need to get the clairosophic society involved.”

“the…?”

“another secret sorority,” dee says. “do you only know the puffs?”

logan abruptly looks sheepish, and dee sighs, put-upon.

“well,” he says. “clearly, you need my help pulling this off. of all the secret societies at this school, only ten are worth mentioning—”

“only ten?!”

“—so we can get people through those,” dee says, “and yes, ten, i thought you were a journalist, aren’t you supposed to know how to research these sorts of things?”

“well,” logan says. “i’ve already gotten a group of kids from sideshire, but clearly, i’ll need your help on the social side at chilton.”

a beat, and then, uncertain, “if you’re okay with this.”

dee stares at him for a long few seconds.

“if this works,” dee says carefully, trying to directly telepathically communicate i am okay with you attempting to cover for me like this, please count me in, “you’re going to have a hell of a college essay on your hands.”

a grin breaks out on logan’s face.

“as if i don’t have three drafts written already,” he says, and dee allows himself to grin back at him.

“now,” he says. “the clairs,” and logan readies a notebook, and, if dee were at all prone to clichés, he might say something like, this is the start to a beautiful partnership.

but he isn’t. obviously.

⁂

logan has his game face on.

patton’s seen this face countless times before; before he walks into mayor porter’s office to demand answers beyond pr statements, before they entered charleston’s office his first day at chilton, when coming face-to-face taylor after his latest piece that critiqued the way he handles town government.

he’s seen it while they were driving to the exact same place, too; before holiday parties, before birthday dinners, before the first-ever friday night dinner. but he hasn’t pulled up to the sanders’ mansion looking like that in months.

patton puts the car in park, removes the keys, and wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers for what must be the dozenth time that night.

“i’m on your side,” patton reminds him. 

“i know,” logan says and opens the car door, ready to storm up to the door and… well. tell emily that he was going to join the debutante ball.

which she’d probably be thrilled with, if he was the one escorting a girl in a white dress.

it would almost be a little funny to think about, if he wasn’t so nervous—emily expecting patton to go through a debutante ball in a fluffy dress, only to be derailed by the fact that he wasn’t a girl and, you know, the teen pregnancy; emily then expecting logan to escort a lovely young lady on his arm only to be turned around by logan doing it in a fluffy dress.

patton wipes his hands off on his pants again before he rings the doorbell. 

he has never seen the woman who answers the door before.

which isn’t surprising; new maids crop up at his parents’ house like weeds. he’s really hoping that therapy would help make a dent in that habit of his mother’s, but no dice yet.

“hi,” patton says, as kindly as possible—he always tries to be as kind as possible to the maids, just to make up for whatever future tiny offense that they might get fired for. one time he got grounded for two weeks for helping esperanza polish silver and practice his spanish. poor esperanza, he’d liked her.

plus, ever since the whole “being a homeless housekeeper” thing, his sympathy had really only escalated for them—he feels a level of solidarity, even if he’s not a housekeeper anymore.

“hello,” the maid says; she has an accent, patton thinks probably german. she’s blonde, and patton can see only half her face from the way she’s practically hiding behind the door.

“you’re new?” patton asks, and she nods.

“okay, well, hi,” patton says, offering a hand to shake. “i’m patton—”

she shakes his hand hurriedly, before pulling back further into the house.

“—and that’s my son, logan. what’s your name?”

“liesl.”

“hi, liesl,” he says warmly. “i’m emily and richard’s son, she’s expecting us for dinner?”

“oh! please, come in,” she says, flustered, opening the door further. 

“i, uh,” she says, “can i, um. get you a drink?”

“you know what, that’s okay!” patton says brightly. “we can handle it.”

a pause, before patton says in an undertone, “if you’d like to hide in the kitchen before my mother gets down here, please go for it.”

a look of relief breaks out on her face. “really?”

patton nods.

“thank you,” she exhales, and scuttles off to relative safety.

logan waits until she rounds the corner, before he says, “she won’t last another day.”

patton sighs, moving to hang his coat on the rack. he would tell logan that’s not a very nice thing to say, if he wasn’t right about it. “i know, poor thing.”

as they continued into the living room, patton could hear his mother coming down the stairs; less than a few seconds later, she rounded the corner, landline phone firmly affixed to her ear.

“—don’t forget that the dar meeting’s on tuesday, it’s at three o’clock and all the women are extremely punctual…”

emily makes eye contact with patton to roll her eyes, as if to curse the entire customer service industry; patton shrugs at her, just a little, before he lightly bumps logan’s shoulder and murmurs “soda?”

logan nods, drifting off to investigate the latest influx of tiny figurines that definitely weren’t there last week, and patton goes to the drinks cart to prep their drinks for the evening.

her mother’s talking about heddy cubbington—ah, so she’s talking to a caterer, then—and patton leans into her line of vision just enough to wiggle a bottle of gin at her, mouthing “martini?”

okay, he might try and make it a smidge stronger than usual. honestly, if she’s a bit off her game from more gin than usual, then maybe she won’t freak out as badly as patton is kind of expecting her to!

but regardless, his mother nods, even as she’s telling the caterer about her very precise tasting methods that they’ll have to follow to a t, and patton reacquaints himself with the process of preparing a martini exactly as his mother likes it—there was a stint of about a month or so when the hotel’s bar staff was incredibly short, way back in the day, so he picked up a few cocktail tricks here and there. 

he wonders if he could still manage to do a lidless shaker flip without spilling anything.

before he can try, though—and probably hear his mother’s outcry about trying his absolute hardest to stain her rug—his mother hangs up on the phone with a fervor, rolling her eyes as she did so.

“honestly, sometimes it’s like the only person with any sense,” she huffs. 

patton hums, carefully straining the martini into one of the coupes. he would do a martini glass, but those tend to spill more, the coupes hold more liquid, and she prefers the material of the coupes anyway—less likely to have fingerprint smudges, which also means one less thing to use to potentially snap at poor liesl. “troubles with the dar, mom?”

(okay, so maybe he’s busting out his old tricks to put his mother in a good mood—there’s almost nothing his mother likes more than gossiping and snipping at the members of the dar that aren’t pulling their weight, and once she’s expelled a bit of energy ranting like that, it usually meant less energy could be spent ranting at him.)

she sighs, settling on her usual spot on the couch. “constance betterton is running this event into the ground—” patton presses the martini into her hand, and she looks startled, momentarily, before thanks him briefly and continues on her tirade, including the perils of unsold tables and constance’s absolute inability to plan a function. 

patton hands over logan’s soda and directs him to the couch before he can crack open any books of interest, because logan will probably spend most of the dinner ignoring them if that happens, and since richard is on a business trip again that means it will be just him and his mom, and with how nervous he is over logan’s upcoming proposal he absolutely cannot do that, and then he goes and makes himself a plain club soda because him drinking sounds like a not-great idea right now.

by the time that particular train of conversation runs out of steam, it’s enough to carry them to the dining room. 

“so, logan,” emily says, as liesl attempts to set a land speed record for serving salads in her quest to get back to the kitchen, “is there anything new in your life?”

patton’s pretty sure that it would be impossible to pick up on who’s more nervous, him or liesl.

“there is, actually,” logan says, somehow entirely unfazed. “dee slange—you remember, you took me out to lunch with him and his grandmother evelyn—”

“oh, yes,” emily says, “wonderful woman, incredibly talented gardener. she’s coming out less and less lately, it’s been a while since we’ve had a good, long chat.”

“—we’re arranging a bit of an extracurricular project,” logan continues. 

“oh?” emily says, sounding interested. she picks up her fork and begins to eat her salad. “you two are getting along, then?”

“we’ve come to an understanding,” logan says coolly, and even as nervous as patton is, he can’t but grin a bit at his son. we’ve come to an understanding. really, logan, it wouldn’t hurt to say that you’re friends now.

“wonderful,” emily says briskly. “good that you’ve put that petty rivalry behind you.”

patton bites his tongue rather than start on a rant about the seriousness of physical assault.

“quite,” logan says. 

“so, what’s this project?” she asks, with a slight gesture of her fork. “you two are interested in journalism, from what i hear, is it something like that?”

logan sets his fork down. “actually, grandma, it has to do with you, tangentially. mrs. slange is a member of the daughters of the american revolution. like you.”

“a research project, then?” she says. “richard will probably have some books for—”

“not really,” logan says. “we’re both arranging for greater participation in the debutante ball. i’m coming out.”

patton holds his breath. here we go.

emily chuckles. “the correct term for the young gentlemen is escorting, logan. are you both escorting young ladies, then? anyone i know?”

“oh, i used the correct term,” logan says mildly. “i’m coming up with a partner later, but i was actually going to ask if you ever bought a dress for dad to use before he came out.”

emily lowers her fork.

patton’s pretty sure that even if he was about to breathe, he wouldn’t be able to.

“i’m going to be a debutante,” he says, very slowly, as if explaining something he thought to be obvious.

“you’re not serious,” she says disbelievingly.

“i am,” logan says. “we have approximately twenty-five participants so far, and we’re recruiting more. so. do you have a dress or not?”

“that’s absurd,” emily says. “i mean—my grandson, gallivanting about in a dress, how will that look?!”

“you were going to let dad do it,” logan points out, and before patton can say hey, nice point! emily swivels to face patton, piercing him through with a glare. “did you put him up to this?!”

before patton can squeak out anything, logan putting down his fork with a clang louder than necessary, and she turns to face her grandson.

“i was simply asking if you had a dress,” logan says. his voice is very, very even. the game face has reappeared. “i can ask again, if you’d like. do you have a dress suitable for this occasion, or should i shop for my own?”

emily and logan stare each other down. patton’s eyes dart between them both.

his mother has a variety of nicknames: the cobra, from her antiquing friends, because she’d squeeze and squeeze at you until you complied. wicked witch of the west, by some of her shopping friends, over the levels she’d go to over something as simple as a pair of shoes. 

christopher had joked once that “people considered what patton’s mother would do in a given situation, dialed it back, and they’d have what mussolini would do, then they’d dial it back, and they’d have what stalin would do, and then they’d dial that back and then it starts approaching what a sane person would do.”

she’d once forced an ex-president out of a hotel room because theirs had been bigger than theirs. a president. of the whole united states.

patton’s gearing himself up to provide as much supportive parent backup to logan that he possibly can, and also cursing himself for taking the time to hang up his coat, because if he hadn’t and just kept it with him they could make a quicker escape, and palming the car keys in his pocket. he puts together comebacks for my friends will be at this event and undignified and what will people say?!

and then patton takes a closer look at his mother’s face. it’s not her version of the game face, patton notices.

and then patton puts together what that expression is, with no small amount of surprise.

she’s calculating.

she’s calculating, patton realizes with no small amount of shock, if it’s worth it to go up against logan.

because logan is definitely wearing his game face, coupled with a defiant, angry look that, with another shock, it reminds him of him. it reminds him of him when he was a bit younger than logan is now—and, he realizes, his mother must be recalling those hellion days too.

at last, his mother sighs, wipes her mouth a napkin, and stands. “i might have something suitable.”

patton’s left sitting there, gaping. his mother. his mother backed down. his mother. did not fight with logan when it was clear what he was doing would interfere with her social status. 

his mother!

“well?!” emily snaps. “do you want to see it or not?!”

he and logan exchange a look before they scramble out of their seats, heading after her as quick as they can.

they’re going down to the basement, which holds a conglomeration of things and also patton’s second-most-frequently-used sneak-out route. the wine cellar’s down here, along with his parents’ collections of luggage, and matching white wardrobes filled with all kind of things, and gifts from granny trix that his mother has refused to display over the years, and art and furniture deemed out-of-fashion but were still held fondly enough to be stored in the house—it was, by far, the most disorganized segment of the sanders’ mansion.

of course, there were still clear paths to each segment of the basement, so it wasn’t as disorganized as, say, patton’s garage, but still. disorganized by his parents’ standards.

so patton follows logan who follows emily, past life-sized dog statues, past a stack of steamer trunks and matching carry-on luggage, past framed paintings of some of patton’s old family members, past the rows of old wines stored for an occasion fancy enough for them, past candlesticks and antique tables, past crates and cardboard boxes filled with, patton’s sure, more of the same, until they get back to yet another white wardrobe.

“it’s in here somewhere,” his mother says, already flipping her way through rows and rows of hanging garment bags, before she makes an “aha!” sound and plucks free a garment bag that looks identical to all the rest, before sparing it a fond glance.

“we got it in london,” she says fondly, “never actually worn, of course, but goodness, the plans i had for the seamstresses…” and patton feels a squirming sensation in his stomach that he hasn’t felt in a very long time; the same one he’d get every time he was dragged into a department store, the same one he’d get every time he knew he had to wear whatever was laid out on the bed for whatever party or get-together his mother was having, the same one he’d get when his mother’s friends, over for tea, would croon, my goodness, how pretty you are! 

patton clears his throat before his mother can start reminiscing on the times of dresses and skirts past, and says, “maybe show logan the dress, mom?”

“oh,” she says, seemingly successfully jolted out of whatever fashion-induced daydreaming session she’d fallen into, “yes” and unzips the garment bag, to reveal—

well, patton doesn’t know what he’d expected, really. all he can see is a lot of white, puffy tulle. 

“can i try it on?” logan says. “just to see it.”

emily hesitates, clutching the delicate fabric, before she hands him the garment bag with no small amount of reluctance.

“we’ll be upstairs when you want to give us a little fashion show,” patton says, carefully catching his mother’s elbow before she can rethink any of this. “let us know if you need help zipping it up or anything?”

logan nods, and begins the process of carefully unearthing the dress as patton steers his mother back up the stairs.

“he’ll need help getting into the dress,” emily protests.

“if he needs help, he’ll ask,” patton counters, firmly. “he’s sixteen, he’s helped roman with a lot of elaborate costumes like that before. he’ll manage. let’s give him a bit of privacy.”

patton glances back in enough time to see logan shooting him a grateful look, and patton shoots him a thumbs-up—he’d always hated it whenever his mother barged into a dressing room to “help,” so he’d always tried his best to let logan have his privacy when it came to this kind of thing.

also, okay, maybe the weirdness of having his pre-selected debutante dress he’d never worn or even really known about coming back to haunt him in some way is getting to him, just a little bit. 

“how did this idea get into his head?” she asks suspiciously, as soon as they’ve cleared the last of the steps and relocate to the living room; patton crosses to sit on the couch, and maybe walks a little slower than usual to get an answer straight in his head.

“i don’t… exactly know, why this, i mean,” patton says slowly—which is a little true, he doesn’t know exactly why logan chose this course of action over anything else—and fiddles with his suit jacket. “um, but i know it’s important to him. and dee,” he tacks on unnecessarily. “so, i’m all for it. a thousand percent.”

she surveys him, before she says, “you know more than you’re letting on, though.”

“not my story to tell,” patton says, and it surprises him, how firm his tone is. “but i am really behind logan doing this.”

she sighs, as if he’s a child all over again. “you would be behind logan doing anything. will you keep that attitude if he decided to drop out of school tomorrow?”

“okay, first of all, that sounds more like me,” patton points out. “in fact, that was me. logan is at least channeling any trouble-making tendencies toward something productive.”

“productive,” she says. “the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball—”

“—is an outdated, sexist ‘tradition,’” patton says, using finger quotes, “that will, at worst, turn out to be a college entry essay for logan, and at best be a nice, eye-opening event to some of your friends, who, if i recall, were not particularly enthusiastic about that whole upholding,” time for finger quotes again, “‘the promise of equality for all, and we share an obligation to help our nation fulfill that founding promise.’”

emily’s eyes widen, and oh boy, patton sure said a lot more than he meant to there, so he braces himself for what might be a fight, but luck happens to be on patton’s side tonight.

“dad?” logan calls.

“yeah, kiddo?”

“i need help with the buttons,” logan says, voice distinctly closer than before; like he’s hiding around the corner.

“okay, well,” patton says, about to get to his feet to go and help, but then logan turns the corner.

the dress, patton sees, is… surprisingly simple, for his mother’s taste. there’s delicate, appliqué straps, with a modest scoop neckline. the bodice is delicately embroidered, and the skirt is unadorned tulle. 

the dress is simple, he realizes, a little startled, because even before his mother was shopping for it, he had made his distaste for elaborate dresses and gowns clear. she must have picked this out for him in an attempt to garner his good graces with this dress; this was what she must have thought his tastes would have looked like.

he still would have hated it.

it twists up his stomach a bit more, thinking about what would have been, what his mother probably thinks should have been, but patton plasters a smile on his face, rising to his feet, pushing that out of his mind and trying to focus on how logan looks in the dress, not on the fight that would have happened if patton had seen this dress, if he’d had to wear it, before he’d come out.

it’s a little bit short on logan, but that’s to be expected—patton had been a pretty short teenager, and logan’s taller than patton is even now, after a half-foot testosterone-induced growth spurt. the skirt would have swept along the ground if patton was wearing it, if he’s calculating right; as it is, it hits logan somewhere above the ankles, giving it a “fifties flare skirt” kind of vibe. the bodice isn’t really thought out for someone with as flat a chest as logan’s, either, but at least it follows the path of his torso—no need to try and lengthen that.

“very handsome,” he says, before he rounds to logan’s back to examine—ah, yes, as he expected, the buttons up the back are all delicate and tiny and fiddly, and almost impossible for logan to fasten on his own, because he’d never had practice with things like this before. “yeah, okay, let’s see how you fit into it—gosh, i must have been almost a foot shorter than you are now when mom ordered this dress. we’ll definitely have to alter it—”

“do you have a tailor in mind?” emily says.

“virgil’ll do it,” patton says absently, as he’s a little surprised at how easily his fingers remember to maneuver the little pearly buttons—muscle memory, he guesses—and glances up to see his mother arching her eyebrows disbelievingly.

“i know he sews,” she says, voice clearly tinged with doubt, clearly about to say but.

“uh-huh,” patton says, turning his attention back to the buttons. “he’s really good at it, too. he’s done some emergency fixes on wedding dresses and stuff, so he knows how to work with gowns.”

there’s a soft hmph.

“he’s going to be altering dresses and tuxes for the sideshire kids involved in this,” patton continues, then, “all right, hon, that’s the last one. is it too tight, too loose…?”

“fine, i think,” logan says. “tight, but i think i can manage for now.”

patton flips a strap of the dress that’s gotten all twisted around, before sidestepping the skirt—they’ll need to get a crinoline so that it puffs out properly, patton can tell—and observing the entire look, how it seems now that logan’s fully dressed.

it’s a bit odd, definitely. logan’s only ever really worn dresses when he was roped into it as a kid, mostly while playing dress-up with roman—logan’s always been pretty attached to jeans or slacks to pair with his ties or bowties—so seeing logan in a dress is an unusual enough occurrence that it strikes patton’s brain as something completely new.

the dress, as delicate-looking as it is, combines with logan in a strange contrast that works; he looks nice in white, and all the delicate details seem to change what they emphasize—the scoop neck makes his collarbone look graceful, demure, but the thin straps emphasize the broadness of logan’s shoulders, the muscle there. the dress is all soft, sweet femininity, a look that logan doesn’t rock very often, because all the rest of it is logan—who usually favors a straight-forward, business-like, traditionally masculine look. 

he looks good.

“give us a twirl, kiddo,” patton says, mostly teasing, but logan obliges, lifting himself onto his tiptoes to spin himself around, the skirt flaring and settling. patton applauds.

and then he smiles, because logan is kind of smiling, but also kind of trying to hide that he’s smiling, because it’s probably the first time in about ten years that logan’s spun around in a long skirt, and hey, skirts of any kind might mess with patton’s gender dysphoria, but he also remembers how satisfying it is to spin around in a really long skirt.

logan plucks lightly at the skirt to make sure it’s all hanging straight, before he glances over and says, and patton only knows it’s tinged with slight nervousness because of how well he knows him, “what do you think, grandma?”

patton turns to look at his mother for the first time since he’d started fastening logan’s buttons.

emily’s staring at the pair of them. and staring. and staring. patton’s about to prod logan to maybe ask again, before—

“heels,” she says.

“what?” logan says, glancing up from the skirt.

“that dress will never work if you don’t wear heels,” she says, a glint in her eyes.

logan says, “heels are scientifically proven to cause foot, ankle, knee, and back problems. also, they are a tool of the patriarchy, designed to slow a woman down.”

“oh, it’ll be required,” she says. “as well as elbow-length kidskin gloves, pantyhose, a crinoline—”

“that’s ridiculous,” logan huffs.

“uh-huh,” patton says absently, recalling his own experiences with heels. “that’s a debutante ball, kiddo.”

“and if you’re going to do the thing, you may as well do it properly,” emily says decisively, standing up. “i might have a pair of heels that will fit you, just so we can see the amount of height you’ll need—”

and she’s off, heading straight for her closet. in retrospect, patton thinks, he probably should have expected his mom being more on board when it came to clothes.

“help,” logan says, looking at patton pleadingly.

“hey,” patton says, holding up his hands with half a laugh, “this was your idea.”

logan looks like he’s sincerely regretting it.

⁂

virgil’s putting away the last of the dishes he’d washed (patton would probably get on him, later, for doing chores that patton was going to do later, and how you don’t have to do that, honey!! but he was bored, he did some dishes, sue him, also patton always gives him this smile whenever he does things like this, so it is for slightly selfish reasons) when he hears patton’s car pull into the driveway, and the motor cuts off.

virgil smiles to himself, and makes sure that he’s put everything away properly, before he meanders over to the couch and tries to make it seem like he hasn’t been cleaning patton’s kitchen. he’s obviously going to get found out as soon as patton notices his sink is empty, but.

he can hear logan’s voice floating through the door, “—glad she took it okay, but dad, you had to stop at that store right then—?”

“i probably should have warned you,” patton, a laugh in his voice, “but honestly, well. you are gonna have to wear the gloves and crinoline at least, and since you’ve never—”

the door opens, logan carrying a garment bag, patton carrying a shopping bag, “—walked in a pair before, it’s probably smart that you—virgil, hi, honey!”

virgil rises automatically to his feet as patton’s face brightens, and patton rocks up on his toes to give him a greeting kiss. 

“i thought you were working?” patton says.

virgil shrugs, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “things were slow enough, i figured i could let jean close. hey, l, is that the dress?”

“it is,” logan says.

“so that went okay?” virgil says, and logan scowls, ever so slightly. 

“virgil’ll need to see you in the heels you’re intending to wear to get the hemming right,” patton says. “won’t you, virgil?”

“yeah, i’ll have to use it to see if the skirt needs more length—and heels, huh?” virgil says, glancing at logan.

logan scowls even deeper. “grandma seems to be under the influence that if i’m going to be a debutante, i’m going to have to do it properly. therefore, heels.”

“and elbow length kidskin gloves, and a crinoline,” patton says, ticking them off on his fingers. “i have a list.”

“should probably wait until you get the petticoat to tailor the dress,” virgil says. “could i see it, though? you don’t have to put it on or anything. i brought a—”

“oh!” patton says, catching sigh of the torso-only mannequin sitting in the corner of the room.

“i’ll just keep it here for logan’s dress,” virgil says. “i figured a headless one would be less… creepy.”

“it’s appreciated,” logan says, before he hands over the garment bag, and virgil unzips it, starting to unbunch the skirt and wrestle it onto the mannequin.

“i hate heels,” logan grumbles. “have you seen the studies on what wearing these things on a regular basis will do to your spine?”

“uh-huh,” patton says. 

“not to mention your feet,” logan says, scowling at the shoebox like it’s morally offended him.

“also,” logan continues, “heels are an invention of the patriarchy! they were originally meant to help men secure their feet in stirrups, and then it became a symbol of nobility and class, so they’re inherently classist, too!”

“oh, absolutely agreed,” patton says. 

“i can’t believe grandma insisted on heels,” logan says. “flats would be fine.”

“yeah, i probably should have guessed she wouldn’t let that part go, given the lessons,” patton says.

logan glances up, frowning. “lessons?”

virgil glances away from where he’s fluffing out the skirt of the dress, too, to see patton with a strange look on his face; half nostalgia, half regret. it’s a look he usually gets when he’s talking about growing up in the sanders house.

“oh, yeah,” patton says, reminiscent. “as soon as i was deemed old enough, we had walking practice lessons, me and your grandma.”

“…what,” virgil says. because. what?

patton laughs, just a little. “yeah, every day for half an hour a day, one summer! she’d make sure i had proper posture in heels. i had to balance a book on my head, too, to make it even more cliché.”

logan looks, perhaps, a little cowed. virgil, on the other hand, is just—

sometimes, it knocks him totally off-guard, whenever patton talks about the various absurd things he had to do, pre-transition, as the sole scion of a rich family. etiquette lessons and country clubs and going to the opera and flower arranging and walking lessons. patton remembers a lot of it, clearly—of course he does, for so long it had been deemed that patton would be a house spouse who raised kids for a similarly wealthy scion of an esteemed family—but it always throws virgil off, just a little.

he briefly pictures patton—long-haired, in the admittedly few pictures patton has shown virgil of himself at that age—chin tilted carefully up, but not too far up, one of the too-big grimoires from richard’s library wobbling on his head, eyes fixed on one of the portraits emily has dotting the house, walking loops around the living room as emily critiqued his posture and stance with a hawkish eye, the click-click-click of heels on hardwood the only thing to break up her commentary.

“i mean,” patton says, breaking that particular mental image. “you know. at least you’ve only gotta wear heels for this one thing. women are expected to wear heels all the time. and since you’re selling this to a lot of chilton students as experiencing what women experience for a day…”

“…i will shut up about the heels,” logan mumbles.

patton ruffles his hair, and, seemingly detecting the mood that’s dropped over logan and virgil—thinking about what it would be like, to be raised like that—and says, in a gentle tone, brushing logan’s hair back into place, “heels really aren’t so bad, once you get used to them. it does just take a bit of practice, i promise.”

logan sighs, and looks at the box a smidge less distastefully than before. “i suppose i’ll have to try it to see.”

“that’s the spirit,” patton says brightly, and virgil shakes himself and refocuses on fastening the buttons of the dress, before stepping out from behind it to get the full effect.

“it’s a bit short on you, huh?” virgil comments, already digging around in his breast pocket for the notepad he usually uses to take orders.

“i think it’ll look very audrey hepburn once we get the crinoline,” patton offers. “the flare skirt thing, y’know.”

virgil nods, jotting this down; as he is, he asks, absently, “logan, was it tight, loose, itchy, anything like that?”

“tight,” logan says immediately, “and a bit itchy.”

virgil’s brow furrows thoughtfully as he considers what to do about that—brick davis had already stopped by the diner to tell him their nickname they were going to use while they were considering other names to eventually adopt and show off their dress, and they had some sensory issues and had already told him that they loved the shape of the dress, but they already knew that if they could feel the itchy gemstones it would be enough to make them have sensory overload, so he was already brainstorming fixes for that—but he jots it down all the same, before reaching out to pinch at the skirt and lift it, then let it go, just to get a sense of how it moved.

“i mentioned earlier that it makes sense, since i was probably a foot shorter than he was when mom ordered that dress,” patton says. “but if there’s a way to just loosen it a bit, maybe, and make the flare skirt thing look more intentional?”

“that’ll all be in the,” he gestures, “crinoline, petticoat, whichever you get. a crinoline would probably be the better choice, if you really want the fifties vibe—logan, you’re cool with the fifties vibe?”

“fine by me,” logan’s voice floats from the couch, then, “how is this supposed to work?”

both patton and virgil glanced over in enough time to see logan holding up a high heel—white, of course, and very sensible-looking and, if virgil had to guess, three inches tall, maybe four, at the highest. 

patton blinks. “putting them on already?”

logan shrugs, and says, intentionally casual, “if they take practice, why not start now?”

patton pauses, before he clears his throat and crosses the room, and says, “yeah, okay. do you need help?”

virgil crosses the room, too, if only to get a look at the dress from a full-view angle, and he hears a ka-CLUNK as logan staggers to his feet. he turns in enough time to see logan pinwheeling his arms wildly, and patton reaching out to balance him.

“whoa, easy,” patton says. “let’s not walk yet—”

“not that i didn’t before, but i now, truly, know that i never would have been cut out to do pointe with roman,” logan announces, arms stilling, but still held out for balance.

patton laughs. “there’s a bit of a difference there—he’s been on tip-toe since he was learning to walk, honey.”

“you wouldn’t let patton set you down on wet grass until you were three,” virgil points out, which is true—he and patton had laughed a lot back then as logan had avoided bare feet on grass at all costs, doing some interesting baby gymnastics in his attempts to avoid it.

“i hardly see what that has to do with my balancing capabilities,” logan mutters, a little embarrassed, the way a teenager always is whenever someone brings up baby stories.

“okay, speaking of tip-toe,” patton says, “you’re putting all your weight on your toes, you gotta let the heel touch the ground.”

virgil leans a little to see—and indeed, logan is balancing on his tiptoes, as high as he can, the white heel hovering off the ground. logan, slowly, lowers and lowers until the heel thumps as it hits the ground.

“good,” patton says, hand still on logan’s shoulder. “let’s just get used to how that feels, yeah?”

logan frowns. “the weight distribution is different than i expected. i thought it would all be in the toes, not in the—” he cuts himself off.

“heels?” patton finishes for him. “that’s all okay, just—i’ll let you know how to walk. but you’re kinda getting the feel for it? is it okay if i let you go now?”

logan nods his assent, so patton takes a step back—not far enough that he wouldn’t be able to lunge for logan if logan fell—and logan wobbles, just a little, but he manages to regain his balance quickly enough.

“they hurt,” logan says, frowning.

“toe-pinching like it’s too small, hurt, or—?”

“i think it’s my feet aren’t used to it hurt,” logan admits.

“that’s perfectly normal,” patton says. “your grandma used to tell me to throw on shoes super early so that my feet would get all nice and numb.”

“that’s sick,” logan says. “the patriarchy is evil.”

“amen, brother,” virgil says dryly. 

logan preoccupies himself with shifting his bodyweight this way and that, trying to grow accustomed to it, so virgil goes over to inspect the dress a bit more—this dress, honestly, will probably be the most adjustment-intensive, so it’s probably good that it’s logan’s dress—half-listening to patton and logan discuss how logan should distribute his weight and any adjustments he might need to make to his posture and on and on.

considering patton was incredibly short, back then, it’s honestly probably a miracle that this dress even slightly fits logan well enough—and honestly, the fifties skirt effect would probably save virgil a lot of work, rather than spend any time on figuring out how exactly the lengthen the skirt to brush the floor. it’s not like virgil can really start any work right now, considering he really does need to have logan in the heels and crinoline to really get a feel for how the dress looks, but he can gather a few ideas on supplies he might need, fixes he could use for any potential problems.

it looks like his days are going to be filled with those kinds of questions for a while. brick davis wasn’t the only sideshire high student asking virgil to help with their dress; a large chunk of roman’s class had followed his lead, since, to virgil’s everlasting amusement while comparing him and remus, roman was a popular kid that people wanted to emulate, and roman’s friendship slash tutorship of all the students of isadora prince’s dance studio meant that there would also be an influx of tuxes—which, fortunately, were probably going to be way less labor-intensive than any of the dresses.

virgil’s busy jotting down things he might need to bring over or buy, not just for logan’s dress, but for all the dresses and tuxes of the sideshire kids, when patton says, “all right. walking time, do you think?”

“walking time,” logan agrees, with the grim, matter-of-fact determination of someone about to start to climb everest. 

“okay. now, remember, let’s start with half-steps, slowly, we can work your way up to your usual walk slash pace,” patton says, and virgil glances up in enough time to see logan cautiously put a foot forward.

he wobbles, and patton lunges forward, catching his hands—”i gotcha, i gotcha,” patton says, a bit of a laugh in his voice, as logan sways his way back to a balanced stance. a stray thought tickles the back of virgil’s brain, but he can’t quite identify what it is before patton starts talking again.

“don’t walk heel-toe, i’m sorry, i should have mentioned that—try putting weight on your toes first.”

“okay,” logan says, and renews his grip on patton’s hands, before carefully stepping forward once again. the thought pings at virgil again, and his brow furrows, ever so slightly, trying to identify what it might be.

“that’s it,” patton says, encouragingly. “just like that! you’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

and that’s when the thought clicks into place—it’s déjà vu.

virgil’s brain flashes—logan, all of sixteen, not quite secure on his feet, but nevertheless trying to walk forward, patton moving backward with him, their hands clasped together.

it reminds virgil of logan learning how to walk.

and the mental image blooms into his mind, crystal clear, like it was yesterday; logan, all of ten months old, wearing his tiny overalls and his tiny t-shirt and his tiny little tennis shoes, mouth open and showing off all of his newly-grown baby teeth, tongue sticking out as he’d take one toddling step forward, two, patton kneeling on the black-and-white diner tile and saying in the exact same, near-laughing tone, that’s it, honey, that’s it! papa’s gotcha! c’mon, lo-lo, you got this! the sight of logan walking new enough that it was enough to stop twenty-three year old virgil in his tracks, watching eagle-eyed as patton shuffled backwards on his knees, eyes wide, encouraging and watchful, and so thrilled as logan babbled a stream of nonsense at him, stamping his way forward, hands wrapped around patton’s fingers.

and a laugh breaks through the memory, and suddenly he’s back in the present; virgil, all of thirty-nine, watching a nearly-full-grown logan, in his officious suit jacket and tie, struggling to take a few steps forward in his new high heels, brow furrowed still, but no childish urge to stick out his tongue; patton, taller, healthier, happier, overall, voice deeper but the tone’s still the same—absolutely thrilled at the concept of logan learning how to do anything, another milestone for logan to succeed in, another instance to celebrate. 

virgil remembers, too, logan’s soft, chubby little baby hands, wrapped around virgil’s fingers, staggering toward him, the way virgil’s voice would get softer and how quickly it became second-nature to catch logan if he fell. logan’s shrieking laughs, logan’s babbling in his ear, logan’s cries going quiet when virgil shushed and rocked him.  the sweet, babyish sigh logan would let out whenever he fell asleep against virgil’s chest; his head resting against virgil’s shoulder, his weight and warmth in virgil’s arms. 

logan’s far too big for that now.

virgil’s heart pangs—when did they all get so old?—but especially at the sight of logan, almost an adult, taller than patton, nearly as tall as virgil, and almost as old as patton had been that day he’d crashed into the diner for the first time. 

and now here he was; in high school, and preparing to be presented to society as an adult. granted, as somewhat of a prank. but the idea’s still there; logan is almost an adult. soon, logan would be making his way in the world.

soon, he wouldn’t need them to hold his hands. 

“you got this!” patton cheers, as logan slowly, gradually, walks a lap of half-steps around the room without wobbling too much, without the fear of falling down. “you’re gonna be a heels-walking professional by the time of the debutante ball!”

virgil swallows, and echoes patton, voice perhaps a bit thicker than usual, “yeah, kid, you definitely got this.”

logan glances up from the ground to flash a quick smile in virgil’s direction, and virgil takes a deep breath before he crosses the room to take a look at how logan’s handling it; sure, patton had had walking-in-heels lessons, but virgil had definitely worn heels more recently than patton had.

and logan still needs them to hold his hands, for now. just a little while longer.

[thorsstorms]

Abroad part 10

(Chris Hemsworth x Reader)

Summary: Being the Hemsworth Kids’ Nanny, you were vowed to keep it strictly professional for their sake, but do the stolen glances go unnoticed between you both?

Word count: 6k ish idk 

Warnings: The lot y'all. Fingering, unprotected sex (y'all wrap that shit) 18+! VEGAS BABY.

A/N: if you want to be tagged, PLEASE SEND AS AN ASK. 

Masterlist

“India, I don’t want to say it again.” Her wet swimsuit was still on the floor in the upstairs bathroom, just as it was thirty minutes ago.

“Put the tablet down and do what she says or I swear you will not see that thing for a week.” Chris rounded the kitchen corner to eye her, watch her huff and throw it down on the couch and slowly walk for the stairs.

Today was not her day. She had been defiant since the moment she woke up, crying because she didn’t want to eat breakfast, sad that she doesn’t have the sandals that she likes in California, heart broken that the shirt she wanted was in the washer. It was enough to drive you crazy for the day.

You threw the blanket you were folding on to the back of the couch and sat down next to one of the boys who was making seemingly a million little paper airplanes. His fine motor skills weren’t very sharp, so the edges were very crooked and not creased, but he didnt care. His little fingers did what they could to keep him entertained.

Sasha was your saving grace compared to the other two. He was easy to please, and compliant, the easygoing child, much like you were.

Chris had been seated at the kitchen table for the past hour on his laptop trying to memorize maps and try to plan out what we were going to be doing. He had been watching travel sites for information, trying to track how long the drives were from each stop. It sounded like too much work honestly, you were a road trip veteran. You learned to go with the flow, it is hard to follow a timeline, but you left him to it. He had ever done this across the states, you had.

By some grace of god, Elsa was going to be flying into LA and was going to stay with the kids. Back months ago, you both had this time planned for Paris, the kids were going to fly out of Paris with their mother to Spain and spend two weeks with them while we were all in Europe.

This ment begging Chris for an extra night in Vegas. Originally only staying one night at the Mirage because it seemed the most kid friendly to you. You on the spot asked him to cancel those reservations and book two nights at Paris instead. It was your absolute favorite hotel of them all, and was home to your favorite restaurant that looked over the Bellagio fountains. He had never been, so either way he didn’t care but you were determined to show him the best time possible.

Plus you had a surprise in mind, located in Treasure Island, and maybe another in the Venetian. You were going to have to be sneaky about it, deciding to call Gen later in secret and make sure it would be okay, she would get it setup for sure.

“Go fly one of these at Papa, tell him to get off the computer and come play with you,” you whispered quietly in Sasha’s ear. He turned to you with a mischievous smile, starting to giggle and cover his mouth to stay quiet. He picked a few up off the floor and one from the coffee table and started to tiptoe across the room, moving slowly like he was a spy. Your gaze shifted between Chris and the creeping ninja on his way to attack.

He was sat hunched over the computer with his hand covering his chin, eyes scanning the screen.

“Papa!” Sasha’s high pitched voice broke the silence, pelting all four airplanes like they were baseballs at his head. “Come play with me!” He jumped suddenly at the sound of his voice, watching the paper fall on to the keys.

“Play with you? You want me to come play with you?” He rose from his seat as the boy slowly nodded his head, ready to dart in the opposite direction to get chased. You watched Sasha dart around the room, Chris on his tail, Tristan running to you to take cover.

Later that night he was stuck back at the laptop after the kids were in bed. Sat against the headboard looking for hotels around your hometown regardless of the fact that you had told him there was no way your mother was going to allow that. He was afraid of intruding on her since you insisted it be a surprise. A compromise was reached when you agreed to call her in the morning and tell her that you were coming again, but only her.

Trying to pack the last of the clothing proved to be a bigger job than you had anticipated. Everything was washed and the kids were finished, but you swore he had brought his entire closet with him.

“How the heavens did you fit all of this in here in the first place!?” Trying to opt for a new way to arrange the luggage.

“I told you I would do it, just leave it be!” He pulled his eyes away from the screen, watching you surrounded by clothing on the floor.

“Really? If you packed this, nothing would be folded and there would be no order to anything. Then I would lose sleep over it.” It ended up working by putting all the shoes in a duffle bag, yours included, then putting some of his things in your two bags. Remaining in control of all the little things was what kept you sane. You ignored his continued obsession over the computer screen and resorted to pulling through drawers to make sure everything was out and your weren't leaving anything behind when you both left in the morning.

Inside a drawer of the dresser was two scripts that had been sent to him, some other paperwork, and a manila folder. You grabbed them all out, knowing they would be forgotten if you didn’t, and tossed them all on the top of the closed suitcases, not knowing where to put them at the moment. You watched as the papers slid off the top of the suitcase to a sloppy pile on the ground. You had always had an amazing aim.

The papers were gathered in a pile and you sat down to try and straighten them out and shove them all in the folder when a certain few words caught your eye.

“MARVEL TWO FILM CONTRACT”

The stapled papers got singled out on the carpet in front of you, flipping over the next 10 pages, seeing zero signatures. The contemplation zoomed through your brain, whether you should even be snooping or not. You continued anyway, hyper focused on the documents in hand.

Not a single pen mark was on any of the papers besides the last, signed fresh by Kevin Fiege in black ink, dated almost four weeks ago. You tried to conceal the confusion, silently covering your mouth and glancing back up to him, who was not paying a lick of attention to you.

Why had he not signed it yet? Did he not want to finish this? Its only two films, much smaller than the last.

“Chris,” your voice was quiet and trying to gain the courage to ask, but heard easily over the sound of the fan in the room. You were met with a hum, not looking your way yet. “Are you- do you not want to do this?”

As if he suddenly knew exactly what you were talking about, he shut the computer and sat up, staring at you on the floor with the other papers in a pile. The sudden urge to defend your curiosity took over.

“I-I wasn’t snooping, I promise. I was just, you were going to forget this stuff and, I pulled it out. It-They fell.” Your words were having trouble making it out to make sense, though he didn’t move from his spot to grab anything from you.

He took a deep breath, running a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. He motioned for you to join him on the bed and you followed quickly, bringing the papers with you.

“I didn’t sign them yet.” He said, pulling the paper from your grasp flipping back a few pages. “The filming period is 18 months- maybe longer, due to start in November.” He pointed out a section on the fourth page, stating the filming period and locations. You still didn’t understand. So what? You knew he had done more rigorous work in the past, what was two more movies, and then being done with it?

“Do you not want to do this?” You asked again. Your question remained the same.

“(Y/N) it’s not that I wouldn’t want to do the movies, of course I would want to do them. But it’s a very long filming period. Two big movies back to back again. I filmed Ragnarok, then Infinity war, and Endgame all back to back and was pretty much gone for a straight year and a half. Almost two.” The longing feeling that would take place inside yourself during that period was treading up lightly. He hadn’t been legit filming the entire time you’ve been with them. He had just finished. But it was his job, and he built this character into something far deeper than expected. The obligation to finish the story was far greater than the obligation to be selfish and not do two last movies, at least that is what you were thinking.

“I don’t understand.” The air was starting to hang heavy over your confusion.

“Doing something like that again, being contractually bound to it, it was hard on the kids. Me being away for long periods of time. It was hard on me. It was- It was hard on my marriage.” Finally understanding where this was going. You stayed silent, thinking about it. The timeline matches up, something you had never thought about before. You never pried him for answers, you figured he would tell you if it mattered. This was him telling you. Now, it matters to him. “It is not that I don’t want to do the movies. It’s just the rough draft of the schedule that- that stresses me, I guess.”

“You’re job is not easy.” He put the papers aside on the nightstand. “I can’t tell you what to do. But if I could, I think I would tell you to sign them.” He leaned back on the pillows while you put the laptop on your nightstand and adjusted the blankets. “I think that you can pull this off. It’s just two more years and you can take off as long as you’d like. You have worked like crazy these past couple years. Cranking movies out, one after another. You’ve made your mark Chris.”

You paused to let him speak. To tell you that you don’t know what you are talking about or that he just doesn’t want to do it at all. But he didn’t speak. He laid in contemplation, staring at the ceiling and listening to your words of encouragement.

“Don’t worry about the kids, don’t worry about me. You can be selfish about this, finish what you started.” He laid still in his quiet thought. It became clear to you that he had thought about this for a long time, even still didn’t feel like he knew the correct decision. He thought of you, what kind of future would take place if he signed and if he didn’t. He decided himself he wasn’t willing to put everything on the line with you, but that was where he wasn’t thinking clearly.

The silence swallowed up the room, suddenly making you understand why he was so hesitant.

“I’m not Elsa, Chris.” His eyes snapped quickly to you, daring you to continue. “I don’t-I don’t have a modeling career to run towards. I’m not… taking the backseat for you to do this. I like to think I’m sitting in the front seat, ready to grab the wheel for you.” Your silly analogy lightened his mood, but it was true. It was different.

“You think I should sign them.”

“Do the damn thing.” He still didn’t move. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything but-”

“You are not pressuring me, I’ll do it. You are right.” He stood up grabbing a pen from the bedside table. You started to panic, definitely feeling like you had just guilted him into it.

“Are you sure?” You watched him with bright eyes. He deserved to let himself do this. He would never forgive himself if he didnt.

You felt almost a sense of pride as you watched him sign the last page, ignoring your further questions, standing almost naked with only boxers on, almost 11PM.

“Don’t move! Freeze! I want to take a picture.” Of course he didn’t listen and stood up straight. “Say cheese!” He smiled silly and held up the paper showing his signature.

~

“Woah.” We were coming up on the strip and could see it from the highway. “Which one is Paris?”

“I’m gonna take a guess and say the one with an Eiffel Tower attached to it,” you said, looking at him like he shouldn’t be driving if he couldn’t see it from here. The drive had just reached over four hours. Four hours of you talking about Vegas and stories from the last two times you had come, trying your hardest to leave out the surprise. He’d see it for sure when you got there.

His restlessness was rubbing off on you. Turning onto the south side of the strip, you watched as he admired Luxor and your other favorite, New York New York, through the windshield. Arriving farther down the strip, you eyed the big sign attached to Treasure Island. Granted, it was still another two blocks down the strip but honestly. He seemed oblivious to it, eyes attached to the Bellagio fountains and trying to pull into the valet at Paris.

How the fuck did he not just see that? Surely he knows about it. You decided to not say anything just yet, proceeding to follow directions that Gen had given you both. The luxury of not having to lug your own bags around the hotel entrance and through the casino to find your room had never been presented to you before. Questioning him as he left the keys with Valet without grabbing the bags, waiting for security before going inside. Oh, right.

You walked with two security guys that worked for the hotel, weaving through the hotel to the check-in desks, greeted by a manager. He was promptly handed two room cards, and a hotel brochure.

As soon as you entered the room you went straight for the window to see the view. He gave his thanks to security and shut the door behind him, following you to the window. The giddy smile across your face couldn’t help but spread to his. His arms wrapped around you, resting his head on top of yours. You leaned back against him, relaxing into the enveloping warmth of his embrace.

“Thank you,” you looked out at the view from the room, feeling excited to get out there.

“For what?”

“Just being you, I guess.” You leaned over in his arms and he met you for a kiss. He was gentle and unrushed. You had hoped he would mellow out once you got on the road.

You turned in his arms pushing him across the room till he hit the bed and sat down.

“Just being me, huh?”

“Oh shut it,” wishing he would wipe the smirk off his face. You straddled his lap, throwing your arms around his shoulders, his coming to your hips. He welcomed your kiss, wrapping yourself around him. His smirked disappeared as you both deepened the kiss, his tongue poking around yours. He left gentle kisses across your jaw, pressing hard against your pulse point sending a shiver down your skin.

A knock at the door interrupted your trance, Chris pulling a way and placing a small quick kiss at your lips.

“I love you,” he said quickly going to stand up to open the door. You locked your limbs around him, locking your ankles behind his back while he stood up.

“Oh c’mon, really?” You pouted, clinging to him. He chuckled and unwrapped your feet setting you on the edge of the bed, reluctantly letting go.

You quickly fingered through your hair to make it look somewhat presentable as your bags were piled in the room off a trolly. You immediately went for clothes and a makeup bag. There are so many bags, surely you do not need all of these for two days here.

“Hey woah, don’t we get to finish what we started?” He walked up to you taking the makeup bag out of your hands and setting it on the desk. Before you could answer he had grabbed the bag of your thighs, hoisted to his waist, walking back to the bed, your arms reflexively going around his shoulders. He started to nip at your neck, sitting back down and rigorously trying to go back to what you had started.

“Wait,” you choked out, trying to remember what you were going to say. “I- I made us dinner plans.”

“You did?” he spoke softly, lightening up on his assault.

“Mhmm,” his hands left your hips, pulling under your shirt and running up your exposed skin. His lips found yours for just a moment before you pulled off of him. A groan erupted from his throat as you slipped from his grasp.

“Princess,” His voice carried a coarse, impure ring to it.

“Just have some patience,” your voice was definitely lacking the conviction it needed. The thought of making him wait was almost detrimental to your will, always ready to give in. With only two nights to show him Vegas, you wanted to do something before dinner as well.

You went back for the makeup bag and a black and floral jumpsuit, after all, you can’t wear a dress on a gondola! You hadn’t gotten to do them yet but you were determined to this time around. Through The Venetian they had a gondola river flowing in and out of the casino and hotel, surrounded in an Italian setting and a guide, it looked amazing and romantic and you couldn’t wait to show him.

“Can you wear your blue button down? It shows off your ocean eyes, I like it,” you disappear into the bathroom, whisking away the blush of your confession. Too forward of a request? Hopefully not. The mirror in the bathroom was something to be admired, excited to do your makeup. Getting dolled up sounds so amazing, it was a rare occurrence these days.

“Okay so, we are gonna go to the Venetian. It is down just two blocks. I’m just, so excited!” He eyed up and down the street, admiring the detailed tall buildings, the dancing fountain across the street. So much for the blue shirt he looked so handsome in, you knew he was going to have those obnoxious sunglasses covering his eyes till the sun went down.

“But what are we doing? Just walking?” He fell into step next to you, clasping your hand to keep close through the crowded sidewalks.

“We are going to go on a gondola ride and pretend we are in Italy!” You couldn’t wipe the smile of your face.

“Holy shit,” he said quickly, halting his footsteps in place, almost tugging you backwards. Both of you getting dirty remarks from those behind you. Your heart felt a quick jolt at the thought of people recognizing him and ruining your evening, maybe even the days here. You quickly tugged him forward telling him to keep walking before he draws attention to himself, not bothering to mask the urgency in your tone. You looked up ahead knowing he finally saw it.

“Is that-no way! That’s me!” You shook your head, lugging him along behind you trying to keep up with the pace of everyone else. He kept talking to himself, saying how in the world he didn’t know about it, trying to ask you questions about it. You skipped the part about telling him you had gone a few years ago, though surely it would come up tomorrow.

You answered all he needed to know while you both were in your own little world, floating through the hotel. The detail and styles of the build captured his eyes. The body language he showed was taken back at the extravagance of the hotels, each having a strong thematic presence.

He admired the posters at the entrance of the wax museum, walking to the counter for tickets, thanking heavens there was no line or crowds. He made fun, taking selfies with almost everyone of them. Kissing Dwayne Johnson, laying with Hugh Hefner, standing even taller on his tippy toes with an annoyed look next to Captain America. You indulged yourself, posing with Khloe Kardashian who almost towered over you as Chris did. You got close with Channing Tatum and Bradley Cooper, making him take your photos. Needless to say, you both probably had way to much fun, spending way too much time in each themed room.

An amazing idea popped in your head as you entered the main gala, telling him you were going to play a game of freeze. You positioned him down the couch from Will Smith, on hand on his knee.

“Don’t move!! When the next guests walk through I’m gonna act like I’m taking a picture with you. You can not move! Or it won’t work!” He was on board almost immediately, ready to scare the whoever dared to get close. You moved away from him to check it out, starting to hear chatter coming up the escalator from the outside.

“Oh my goodness don’t move! I’m gonna video!” You whispered to him, running the Brad Pitt, pretending to be interested with him.

You watched from the side, trying your hardest not to reveal him from laughing. If you started laughing, he would to.

The onlookers drifted from each wax figure at the entrance, spotting a perfect seat between Will and Chris.

“Ooo! Take one of me here too!” The woman handed her company an Iphone, skipping to the couch. You watched with wide eyes as he looked like he was about to burst an eyeball from not blinking or breathing. He snuck a small, quick blink, making it difficult not to pee yourself from holding in the laughter. The man slowly lowered the camera, tossing her name into the air to get her attention. He ignored her questioning reply and walked a bit closer, eyeing him.

“What?” She asked him again, ready to pose for the picture, both her arms around their shoulders. As soon as her arm landed she jumped away, Chris screamed at her to scare her and she screamed back profanities, clutching her chest.

The eruption of laughter continued, yours probably obnoxiously ruining the video you were trying to hold steady.

You kept it going as he greeted them both, being the best he could be before you ended it. You approached the couple as they all calmed down, automatically being put in charge of taking photos for them.

You listened as Chris asked them nicely if they could hold off on posting anything for a day or two, asking to enjoy his time here with you, drifting his arm around your back. You blushed from his stare as they nodded in agreement of his explanation.

The four of you ended up snaking through the themed rooms together. You left your separate ways after you airdropped the video to her, reviewing it all together again to catch his blinking.

On the way back towards Paris, you passed through the mall to hit a couple stores, buying too many brushes and a few Jeffree lippies at Morphe. You followed him into Swarovski, refusing to allow him to inform you of the prices of the wrist watches he was admiring.

Dinner was more than what you expected. Gen had come through with the the string pulling. The manager offered you both free wine tasting while you had a stunning table, privately seated along the balcony. The fountains to keep you both entertained for the time being.

“I am genuinely lost for words.” The dessert was sat down on the table, but his eyes were on you. The dark sky and lowlit balcony did the most to hide your rose blush, but you both knew it was there.

“Well I’m glad you like it,” the glass of Sangria seated on the table top had become increasingly attention-grabbing under his stare.

“Come here,” the legs of his chair scratched across the ground as he scooted back from the table. His hands secured around yours, bringing you to sit on his lap, stealing the glass from you and setting it on the table.

You observed his movements with curiosity until he met your lips for a thank you. His hands keeping you from sliding from his grasp. You leaned into his chest, grazing his neck with your fingertips to savour his slow moving taste on your lips. The certain kiss that no words are needed, or exchanged. Striving to accept his appreciation, overjoyed with the romantic atmosphere that was created for the evening. He was quick to create a bliss in you that had you forgetting to breathe, forgetting to act appropriately in public, regardless of the needed privacy.  

“I love you,” his promise was whispered against your lips. The kind of moment where your thoughts flash through your mind erupted in your head. Regardless of any crush, or any love you had thought you felt before this moment, it was fake. It was swept away in the wind. Any charm that was presented to you in the past, it was weak. Any humor you found in someone else, it was paled in comparison to the joy he was always radiating on to you. Any soul crushing want, it was ignored and invisible until your eyes settled on him.

“And I love you.”

After a few minutes, you both decided it could be time to leave. Before you could exit the restaurant, you were met with the same hotel manager that gave you the room cards from earlier. She stood strict with two men from security with her. She spoke about offering security if you chose to remain in the casino for the evening.

You stayed stiff, almost behind him as you glance towards the entrance of the restaurant, where two more guards were trying to escort a few photographers out of the casino.

“We can keep professional photographers out, but guests with cameras are a different story.” She gazed between you both with sympathy. Before he could even turn to look at your reaction, you informed her that you would stay for the rest of the evening. It was only almost 10PM.

He didn’t know, but Gen was smart enough to assign you with security for all day tomorrow. Going to S.T.A.T.I.O.N. was the given reason, but also so you could explore further. You obviously didn’t expect to be walking the streets all day long, so nothing of it was much of a surprise to you, just an inconvenience.

Between walking to the room, you admired him as he stopped and took a few photos with people. They were all polite, waiting patiently as he made his way around the group of about 10. There were not many instincts to go in the opposite direction like the first time you ran into this problem with him. Granted it was still kind of weird, but more admirable.

As soon as you got into the room and started to pull off jewelry, you heard him shutting the door behind you, “So, do we get to finish what we started yet?”

You couldn’t hide the laugh that started, “Hmmm… Shower first?”

He groaned, saying he agrees only if he can shower with you. You were not one to say no, after all. He walked straight in there, stripping clothes as he walked across the room. You of course had to grab all the essentials into a bag first to carry in there. There was no way you were going to use that shampoo, soap, and face wash they provide. Before walking into the already steamy room, you gathered his scattered clothing and threw it in the corner on top of his bag. Messy clothing happened to be one of his downfalls.

You placed all your clothing on the counter top before opening the shower door, greeted with a stupid youthful grin, happy he got his way.

“You really are just a big child, you know that?” You switched him spots so the water trickled over you, wetting your hair and warming your skin. You reached for the face wash first, turning away from him when you washed it away and caught him fixated on you.

His fingers working diligently through your hair with shampoo. You didn’t even have to ask. The friction against your scalp was worthy of a licensed masseuse. You held back a groan when he lifted his touch, turning you with your eyes closed so the water could flush the product away. The silent minutes turned softly intimate as he brushed the warm rain back from your face, reaching for the other bottle.

You felt his lips press firmly against your forehead, a gesture that warmed you apart from the water. You leaned forward into his abdomen so the fall of the water hit lower on your back while he ran conditioned fingers through your hair.

The raw intimacy that encompassed him was overbearing. It was almost as if he could feel his heart swell while you display yourself for him to care for. It wasn’t just a wash in the shower. It was the unspoken, ‘I trust you,’ that captured his attention. He remembered the days that you would shyly bare yourself to him and not accept his need to be near you and touching you.

Your tapping fingertips against his back broke him from his thoughts, silently instructing him to continue playing with your hair.

“Okay lean back,” his soft voice broke the silence. You held onto his arms as his hands worked against the waterfall to drain the conditioner from your hair, eventually letting go to wipe your eyes when he slowed to a stop.

You reached for your own body wash, spreading it across his chest and up to his shoulders. “My turn,” you told him.

He waited patiently, zoned in on your expression and touch while you ran your soapy digits across his skin. The pure contentment and innocence of it was driving him almost wild, running down his sides, down his arms, your fingers dancing slowly across his neck.

He quickly returned the favor, the length of his hands covering your back quickly, drawing down your backside and thighs, causing bumps across the surface of your skin to rise. You leaned into him again as he planted soft kisses across the back of your neck while his hands reached the insides of your thighs, squeezing gently causing you to almost lose your footing.

“Your skin is so soft Princess,” his whispers sent shivers down your spine and straight to your core. One hand left the party and traced up to your chest before wrapping around you there and the other finally ghosting over your clit. You jumped slightly in his hold, gasping at the contact.

His fingers slowly circled the nub, painfully, agonizingly slow while he listened to your labored breathing, a soft whine escaping you. Your brain starting to short circuit while you tried to hold on to every ounce of pleasure he would give you. You kept a steadfast grip on his forearms, trying to grind into his touch, a motion to beg for more that ended up driving against his hardening cock behind you.

You stilled hearing his voice in your ear. Two fingers teased your entrance, circling it and dipping his fingertips in to dance around lightly. The slow torture was enough for you to be letting out a quiet plea for more.

They shoved in, stretching you out on his fingers. Your balance almost gone if it weren’t for his arms holding you up. He quickly started to pulse around, tracing inside your slick heat untill the moans withered out to silent pants and your hands gripped his arms almost to tight.

Your eyes clamped shut as a wash of pleasure rolled through you, your walls squeezing around the intrusion while it dragged on till he slowed.

Hot kisses were placed over your neck and shoulder while your breathing was slowing, trying to gasp through the humid air. He was speaking praises in your ear, how good you were cumming around his fingers, letting him bring you there.

His hold released from you, quickly turning off the tap and grabbing for the white fluffy towel to dry you off and haul you out of the shower.

Before you could get a word out he was pushing you backwards out of the bathroom, straight back into the bed. No words needed to be spoken anyway. It was at the point where he just wanted you to feel what he could give you. Feel his love for you, outside of spoken words but through his actions and intentions.

His love ment pushing you to bliss 3 more times with a slow and deep rhythm that had you clawing from the sheets, pillows, to him arms in attempt to ground you from his onslaught. With tears peddling against your will when he thrust into you so deep and hard when you hit your last high, eyes almost blacking out for your overexertion and voice straining from an uncontrolled vocal response. The light headed dizzy feeling you get when he finally blows a load deep inside you after rutting against you for his high when he knew you could take no more. Proclaiming his promises against your neck while burying himself in you, that you knew deep down were not just from a sex high.

His fatigue ridden body laid tilting across you, trying not to crush but muscles shaking in place, refusing to cooperate enough to move farther away.

When you finally came to, almost clear headed enough to fully form a sentence, meaning your muscles lost the strained twitch and your eyes could open enough to focus on surroundings, you found him with a slower breathing pattern than your own, admiring you as if he hadn’t just done so for the past hour.

He brushed away tear marks and messy hair from your skin while you sported red swollen lips, blown out eyes, and deep red marks across your breasts to compliment your skin, courtesy of his attempt at showing affection and appreciation. The sight was a treat for his own to view, but was nothing compared the to the fucked out leaking mess he left you with on your bottom half.

You watched with lost eyes, not enough energy to stop him as his fingers gently ran up your mess, cleaning, gently pressing his seed filled fingers in. Your pelvis shook at the intrusion even though you were almost numb to his touch. The thought of his actions was enough to kick start your belonging underneath his bearing weight.

He pulled away, sensing your wariness, to treat your new marks across your chest to a soothing aftermath. Your arms gaining strength to redirect his lips again, timidly to your own. A soft press of his kiss was meticulous to avoid any more torments of your skin.

“All mine Princess.” A careful watched teetered over your expression, touch ghosting over your jaw as you nodded and rasped an ‘I love you,’ that was returned before you could even finish speaking the familiar the words.  

“Don’t move baby, I’ll be right back.” He pulled from your weak hold and came back a minute later with boxers, he put use to a washcloth, and gifted you a clean t-shirt of his that you gladly slipped over your shoulders. You immediately nested through the blankets curling into his arm as a pillow.

“Aren’t you gonna play with my hair?” You asked, closing your eyes.

“Whatever you want.”

Taglist: @keithseabrook27 @odinson-barnes@jonsnowisthesexiestbastard@weekendswithnewtmas@innerpaperexpertcloud@toomanyflowerboys @thefashioncomplex@basmaraafat@imaginationintowords@taketimeandappreciate@superheroesaremytea @vampiregirl1797@ynm1505 @danathewitchywoman @aestheticallynon @thorfanficwriter @disaster-rose @cap-just-said-language @xmarveled

[tenebroustm]

n i n e

asks for multis !     /    ✔

9. why were you drawn to each one of your characters?

call out post for tumblr user @acadiian for always going hard asdhagsdujshhhh

sO

                                                      merricat 

   alarmingly , i relate to her a lot! AND honestly that’s super , super rare for me bc although i love a lot of characters i rarely relate to them ?? her magical thinking & disinterest in relationships & her need to forever close herself off in smaller and smaller suffocating spaces rather than interact with the world? big ass mood. i’ve never been all that comfortable playing female roles but i just can’t shake merricat! i love her devotion to her sister bc i live for sibling dynamics but also i love that she’s genuinely … bad. ( HOPEFULLY I DON’T RELATE TO HER THAT MUCH ) 

and fun fact , my mom wanted to name me that bc she also loved the book as a kid and when i read it , i absolutely love this character wow.

                                                    timothy

we stan SMASHMOUTH HOWARD and you know this. okay anyway i love a villain and i LOVE a villain who’s at once ruthless and still weak. he squirms with guilt , he buries what he does and denies it and actually fools himself so well but his conscious is rotting inside him. i love that he has these pleasant qualities , like almost .. sweet. like i genuinely started to believe him myself when he’d had his ‘crucifixion epiphany’ , bc to me he truly was broken in that moment but he still does the WRONG thing , he still sweeps the dirt under the rug and i both hate and love that. it’s easier for him to do the wrong thing then have people see and have himself face his monsters , and timbo takes the easy road , the road of less upheaval and that’s unfortunately so human. the fandom for real does not appreciate him enough and the actor was so damn good and just wOW i love timothy bastardman howard. i really do

                                                    tristan 

the only muse here i’ve played for a longer while , he even had his own blog! i LOVE tristan duffy , holy shit. everything about him reminds me of the quote “i’ve got a very childlike rage and a very childlike lonliness” ( msp will never not be a tristan aesthetique , fite me ) he’s so big and bold and cocky and violent and demanding of attention , i love it !! i love that literally all he wants is love and respect , damn

                                                    edward

no loyalty , like none. this bitch does what he wants! he’s calculated and manipulative and devious and , ya i love a villian and i love witches

                                                       luke

a good , lots of potential , i love the whole rear window vibe of him living right next door to this house where so MUCH happens. like half the neighbors are living dead people , or half dipped their toes into hell !! while he’s so sheltered he can barely even watch tv. he had POTENTIAL dammit

                                                       andy 

i love rosemary’s baby , it’s a fave and although my andy isn’t based on the follow up book ( i haven’t read it , ooof )  i just really can’t shake the urge to play him even tho i haven’t figured him out much at all yet. which is why he’s gotta be a test muse for now 

BUT 

i just love the idea of andy raised by this coven of octogenarians who worship the ground he walks on and rules the bramford apartment like his very own mini hell on earth while he waits on the ushering of the end days , that’s my jam.

                                                      connor

idk how to answer this one without sounding weird so lemme just sound weird and u can all go ahead and live with it. the first introduction to connor was a picture of him with like zerO info and i was intrigued , then we see him as a body laid out on an embalming table while donovan’s hurdy gurdy man plays all spooky in the background and i was like iCOnique .. i just , from the minute he’s introduced I couldn’t get past him , he wormed his way in. it’s wild as shit. i had read the caos comics ( which he isn’t even in lmfao ) and went into the show expecting to come out wanting to play ; harvey , salem , edward , father blackwood … all of these character’s with ACTUAL roles ?? but instead i see the “only relevant for 40 seconds dead guy” and i’m SHOOK.         he’s a nerd who has no friends except his lizard familar and his parents and he’s a witch and i love him ……. yeh.

                                                norman

i love psycho , i love alfred hithc*ck movies , i wanna play so many characters from those movies but ofc norman is where to start. i love everything about him tbh , i’m alarmingly attracted to intensely isolated characters ( but u can’t judge u play misty okay !! ) like timothy he’s capable of such BAD THINGS , but is rattled by them to the point of delusion , i love that song. i luv his personality , also he scared the hell out of me as a kid omg 

[unicyclehippo]

You're fics are so great. Can you write a Rory x Paris slow burn?

honestly i love paris & rory but idk if that’s smth i am capable of writing???? whatever im gonna try

/

the gilmore house - right at the end of the street and surrounded on two sides by wood, one side by the road, and on its final side by babette, morey, and, most importantly, apricot the very cute kitten to replace the still mourned cinnamon - is quiet for a few still moments on monday morning.

and then.

“mom!”

lorelai tugs her bathrobe on one leg at a time just like everyone else in the morn- ah fuck, one arm at a time- just like everyone else in the morning, barely even trips twice.

“MOM.”

“i need a pot of coffee before i can be mom,” lorelai moans. she sighs with relief when a mug is shoved into her hands, finally cracks open an eye. “why do you look like…hold on.” lorelai gulps down two swallows of the terrible coffee. “brain still dead. something frilly. where’s my daughter. rory,” she cries, “are you in there? can you hear me?”

“enough joking!”

“who’s joking? i can’t see anything but frills.” she reaches out, flaps one, yelps when rory slaps her hand away. “alright, alright, geez, what’s got your frills in a fright this morning?”

rory storms back into the kitchen, flops down at the table with a huff that would be impressive but it’s softened by the floaty frills. lorelai flicks one as she passes to the fridge.

“ah!”

“what?”

“it’s not even six!” lorelai turns on her daughter. “what the hell, rory?”

“what the hell is this!” she points to her dress. “this is the costume for juliet. i hadn’t had a chance to try it on yet because homework,”

“seven hours of homework,”

“eight.” rory drops her head forward onto the table. lorelai makes a sympathetic sound and pours her a cup of coffee into the largest novelty mug they have. “thanks.”

“anything for my daughter.” lorelai grimaces when rory looks up at her with wide, pleading eyes. “anything except spend my very limited time fixing that terrible costume.”

“i can’t go out looking like this! and you remember the last time i tried to sew.”

“did kirk ever get his finger stuck back on?”

“no.” rory drops her head back down. her words are a little muffled but just clear enough to make out. “he shows it off on every holiday, remember? it was only a few millimetres, it’s not a big deal.”

“i’ll remind you of that when you lose part of your index finger. it was his index, wasn’t it?”

“pinkie. his index finger was the ballet incident.”

“ah, of course.” lorelai sits next to her daughter, plucks at the sleeve frills. “this means a lot to you?”

rory nods dolefully. “it’s an assignment so it’s already stressful but tristan is romeo and everything with dean,” she bangs her head again. lorelai searches for a shoulder - rory had two, once upon a time, but the frills have engulfed her and neither are visible - and settles for patting her hand sympathetically. “and paris,” she says, and sighs for a whole minute, and lorelai’s eyebrows shoot up.

“let me guess, she’s being paris.”

“yup.”

“and you expected something else?”

“no,” rory admits, “but she wasn’t so bad for a bit and she’s being so weird about tristan and sometimes it feels like if she stopped being so…so paris…we would get along really well and,”

“but then she wouldn’t be paris and you would have no reason to wake me up at six looking like cotton candy.”

“we’d be bereft.”

“we would. so we should thank paris for being so paris.” rory scrunches her nose up at that and lorelai laughs, pushes at her daughter until she sits up. she looks over the dress monstrosity and sighs. “i guess i can look at it in my infrequent and very short breaks i usually like to use for actual rest,”

“thank you! thank you, thank you, thank you!” rory lunges at her, hugs her hard, before running for her room already tearing off the dress. “gotta go, see you tonight, love you!”

lorelai picks the dress up from rory’s floor and grimaces at it.

“moms wedding dress. that’s what it looks like.” she folds it over her arm, pats it. “now i’m looking forward to cutting it up.”

//

“where’s the dress!”

rory doesn’t look up from her book. she turns the page slowly. “hello paris. how are you this afternoon?”

“yes, yes, niceties. now, why aren’t you in costume! we have our dress rehearsal in ten minutes!”

“it’s our first rehearsal,” rory corrects, finally lowering her book, and she leans back a little when she looks up to see paris a lot closer than she’d originally expected.

“we only get five rehearsals in the space, all of them need to be dress rehearsals. i won’t settle for anything less than perfect!”

“i think things are bound to be less than perfect. what’s that really common phrase that sums up how imperfect stage productions can be?”

“the show happens,” madeline contributes.

“the show must go on,” paris snaps, and she glares at rory. “luckily for you,” she continues, “i anticipated that any one of you would disappoint so i brought back up costumes.” she jerks her head toward the door. “march. rehearsal starts in five minutes and i am going to get us an extra,” she checks her watch, “three by staring at wendy until she cries herself right off stage. well? move!”

rehearsal goes about as suspected - paris yells, louise texts, madeline offers to paint rory’s nails, tristan never shows up, paris yells some more, and when lorelai comes by to pick her up, rory falls into the car and stares blankly ahead for half the drive home.

“hi,” she says finally, and lorelai blows out a great gust of a sigh.

“oh thank god! i thought that romeo kid had sucked your soul out or something.”

“tristan never showed up.” rory fumbles for the coffee in the cup holder. “yuck, cold!” she drinks some more.

“that little weasel. who does he think he is?”

“tristan dugray.”

“oh, right.” lorelai nods. “on the bright side, you don’t have to deal with paris again until tomorrow.”

//

“i spoke too soon,” lorelai mutters, opening the door for the girl. “paris, what a surprise.”

“is it? it shouldn’t be. i need to see the progress you’ve made with the costumes, i checked out miss patty’s for an extra rehearsal space, and rory needs to practice her lines.”

she points into the house and lorelai steps aside.

“why don’t you come in? RORY.”

“WHAT.”

“YOU HAVE A GUEST.”

there’s silence, and paris examining the living room, and then rory tiptoes out of her room. she ducks into the front hall to hide behind the half wall, putting it between her and paris.

“what’s she doing here?” rory hisses.

“i don’t know, something about you not knowing your lines.”

“this isn’t my fault, this is about the costumes isn’t it?” she accuses.

lorelai gasps. “it’s not my fault, i only got the dress this morning!”

“i can hear you both, i have exceptional hearing.” paris steps around the couch, fixes them both with an unimpressed stare. “rory, where are you with your background reading on juliet?”

“um.”

“that’s what i thought. lorelai, what kind of coffee do you have?”

“liquid?”

“that’ll do.”

she hides in the kitchen for fifteen minutes - rory escapes twice for “snacks” and “bathroom reasons” to make frightened eyes at lorelai before paris tells her to focus - and when she brings out two mugs and a pot of coffee, the two girls are sitting in something that resembles almost peaceful companionship.

without looking up, they both reach out for coffee and lorelai does some seriously impressive juggling to give it to them without scalding them or herself.

she stands to the side to rescue rory if necessary, but the two of them argue about Shakespeare and their adaption for ten minutes, something lorelai thinks rory wins because paris sulks for a minute before picking a new fight, and lorelai leaves them to it when they’re snapping at one another but rory passes paris the highlighter she’s reaching for. their bickering is a rather soothing background to reading the newspaper lorelai rarely gets time to read.