#who said that splitting your text into verses is a good idea

[who-dat-homeless]

Just learned that Leonard nimoy incorporated Jewish culture and Judaism into Spock and Vulcan culture and now I'm sitting like

"Oh fuck now I need to read Tora from cover to cover to write some silly spirk porn"

[scarletlizzard]

Inked Desires - Part 2

Read Part 1 right here

Summary: After your one night stand with a stranger turns into a regular hookup, feelings begin to develop between you and Natasha. A night out at the bar with your friends has her begging wanting more with you.

Pairing: gp!Natasha x fem!Reader

Tags MINORS DNI: natasha has a dick, buff out this world & covered with tats and piercings, little bit of yearning and pining, mentions of alcohol, smut, blowjob, unprotected sex, breeding, begging, miscommunication

Masterlist

A/N: Part 1 blew up like crazy! I never ever thought I would EVER get that many notes. Especially for, essentially, a smut piece I wasn't used to writing. After being asked a few times, I agreed to make a part 2, buuut I've been in a (bad) writing rut lately. So I wanna shout out the person who gave me so many good ideas and an actual plot to work with. Y'all can thank just her for there actually being a part 2 cause there almost wasn't one 🙏 Thanks for helping, kisses for your big brilliant brain.

Hopefully, she and y'all like it? It's a bit longer. Let me know what you think, please, and thank you thank you so much for reading 💞

That being said, there will be a part 3 😄

"Split? Like down the middle?" Kate asks with a look of shock on her face. You walk in step beside her along the concrete path on campus.

"Right down the middle," you laugh and adjust the bag on your shoulder, thinking back to just a few days ago when Natashas skillful tongue worked its magic on your body. Your cheeks heat up at the memory.

That first night you met, Natasha had given you a kiss goodbye and gave you her number before you took a very drunk Kate Bishop home. Since then you had seen the redhead multiple times over the course of the last few weeks. Neither of you seemed to be able to keep your hands off of each other. Each time you met it was for sex, and even the time she had taken you to dinner it ended with you getting fucked into her mattress again.

You knew the basics about each other, where you lived, eachothers jobs... the more you thought about it the more it upset you. The physical level the two of you were on was heavenly, but really, well, you barely knew her.

Kates voice interrupts your thoughts as you enter the English building, and you stop walking as she does.

"What was that?" You ask, looking to the smirk plastered on her face with curiosity.

"I said, speak of the devil," she chuckles and nods her head in the direction of a very tall Natasha striding your way. "See you in there," Kate says and walks into the classroom, leaving you in the hallway.

You want to drown in the sight of her, wearing dark jeans and a white t-shirt with old, dirty vans on her feet. You smile, trying not to drool at the way you can see the pops of color show from underneath her shirt or the way the sleeves seem too tight against her biceps as she grips the strap of her backpack.

"Hey there..." Natasha greets you with a smile, head pointing down as she stills before you. "Been a few days, haven't heard from you," she adds, her eyes baring into yours. You want to slap yourself for not replying to her text by the almost hurt look in her eyes.

"Well it hasn't even been a week, you miss me already?" You ask her with a little tilt of your head up at her, biting your lip as you see a blush spread across her cheeks. Her hand moves to the side of her neck, scratching at the ink awkwardly.

"No, no. Wait, I mean -" She lets out a sigh and shakes her head as you giggle at her. It was interesting, the difference in her appearance verses this nervous demeanor. "Maybe I did?" Natasha raises an eyebrow, the silver ring lifting higher.

"I might have missed you too," you shrug casually and watch as her face eases back into a smile. "I'm sorry I haven't texted, I've just been so busy with school and work." You point to the classroom next to you that Kate had entered. She follows the direction and nods.

"No worries, you're a busy lady. I actually took Mr. Furys class last year. Maybe I could take you for a coffee and give you some tips? Or maybe just um, talk?" Natasha asks, her tone quiet as she looks down to you.

You smile at the sincerity in her eyes. "I'm free after this class?" You take a step back, towards the room and match the wide smile on her lips.

"Sounds perfect," Natasha nods, and you can't ignore the way your heart speeds up in your chest. Instead of taking another step away you walk forward, leaning up on your tip toes to press a soft kiss to her cheek.

Natasha can feel the burn on her cheeks, the affect you had on her drove her wild. You lean back and smile at her flustered state, leaving her alone in the now empty hallway.

An hour and a half later, you emerge from the classroom, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering around at the sight of Natasha sitting on the floor. She had a book in her hand, closing it the moment she saw you and Kate walking towards her.

"Have you been sitting there this whole time?" You ask and tilt your head, watching the way her muscles flex as she runs a hand through her auburn hair.

"Uh, maybe?" A small blush hints on her cheeks, and she smiles at you and your friend. "I'm Natasha, by the way," she says and holds out her hand in front of Kate.

Kate chuckles at the formality, and you hit her arm, giving her a look. She shakes Natashas hand, "Kate... nice to finally meet you," She smiles back and looks next to her at you. "I'll see you tomorrow night, you should invite your friend."

You roll your eyes at Kates tease but nod and tell her you'll see her later.

"Coffee?" Natasha asks, and the ridiculous grin on her face is enough for you to agree to just about anything.

As you walk side by side, you can't help but admire her gentle personality. This woman, covered in tattoos and piercings with an intimidating gaze, was the complete opposite. She spoke to you about her schedule and that she was in school for sports medicine with a glint in her eyes.

"Like physical therapy?" You ask her curiously. You watched the way her face lit up at your interest, and she beamed down to you.

"Yeah, exactly that. If all else fails, I'll just be a personal trainer," she lets out a small chuckle, and you take the second she holds the door open for you to admire her toned body.

"How do I sign up? I need a good workout partner," you say with a flirtatious tone, brushing against her as you walk inside. You relish the blush on her cheeks and the small smirk on her lips as the smell of fresh coffee hits you.

"Didn't get a good enough workout last week?" Natasha replies.

"Oh, I had a great workout... but if I had a personal trainer, I'm sure I could get a good workout in at least a few times a week. Isn't that recommended?" You look up to her, seeing her neck redden and her eyes darken.

"I would definitely recommend that," Natasha mumbles as the two of you walk up to the counter.

As Natasha orders, you can't help but notice the change in her posture and attitude. Suddenly, she was standing straight, an impassive and series look on her face. Her tone was low as she talked to the woman at the counter. Natasha turns to you and nods for you to order. You do, and as she hands the woman her card, you smile up at her.

"Thank you for getting this for me," you say gratefully, watching her melt under your gaze. The smile was back, and her eyes came to life again. It seemed she had a soft spot for you.

"Of course, it's my treat," she says and walks you to a small table in the corner.

From there, you spend the entire rest of the evening actually talking and getting to know Natasha. As you already knew, she works out religiously, and you told her how lucky you felt that she had skipped her workout today just to sit down with you. She got her first tattoo at 18 and loved it, so she just never stopped getting them. The first piercing she got was on her eyebrow, and the same there, she just kept going.

It felt as if you were sitting in front of a whole new person than the one you met just weeks ago. The one who pile drived you into the mattress at a party and left you weak in the legs and sore the next day. Natasha was kind and sweet, funny, and surprisingly shy. Any time you made an attempt to flirt or give an innuendo, she would chuckle shyly and blush the slightest.

There were a few times you even had to squeeze your thighs as you thought back to that night. Any time her tongue would wet her lower lip or her eyes would travel to your neck. She loved your neck, you noticed. Every time you had hooked up her lips would go straight for the skin there, nipping at the few small freckles that adorned the area.

"That's a long time to be friends with someone," Natasha states as you finish telling her about yours and Kates relationship. Best friends since the fourth grade, completely inseparable.

"It's nice to have someone so close, who knows me so well. Especially since I'm an only child," you reply and watch her brow lift.

"Oh really? I have a sister, Yelena. She bugs the hell out of me, but I love her to death. She goes to the college just a couple of hours from here. Actually," Natasha looks at her phone, checking the time. "I'm supposed to meet her soon... she came home for the weekend."

You nod slowly and look around, realizing everyone had left and the two baristas were cleaning up. As the two of you stand, Natasha suddenly towering over at you, you feel a little disappointment in your chest. You were having more fun with her than you thought, and you found yourself not wanting to part.

"Hey, Kate and I are going to this bar tomorrow night. A few of our friends are getting together. Joes?" You say to her, smiling to yourself as she once again holds the door open for you.

"Yeah, I've been there a few times before," Natasha says with a grin, standing outside the coffee shop with you.

"If you want, maybe you and Yelena can meet us? You don't have to, of course, but..." You trail off.

"I will definitely be there. Text me a time?" She asks, and you nod happily. Natasha leans down, and you think for a second she's going to kiss you, but her lips land on the soft skin of your cheek. You put your hand on her arm as she does, feeling the tattooed skin burn underneath your touch.

****

Joes Bar is crowded, but that's to be expected on a Saturday night near a college campus. A local alternative band plays loudly on the small stage on one side of the room, and you find yourself on the opposite side sitting at the bar. Kate is nearby talking to friends and a few strangers, but you only had one person in mind.

You glance at your phone again, seeing no notifications. With a sigh, you finish your second drink, ordering a third as you contemplated the possibility she wasn't going to show up. This is why you didn't do this type of thing. You don't hook up with hot strangers. You don't get coffee with gorgeous, sweet women. You stayed to yourself, guarded your heart, and let yourself be safe from any type of rejection or heartbreak.

But God Natasha was worth breaking your rules.

You found your way back to reality as the bartender handed you a drink and said thank you before grabbing it and removing yourself from the bar stool. As you turn, you bump into someone, almost spilling your drink on them.

"Oh shit I'm so sorry!" You apologize, shaking the liquor off your hand as you had spilled a little on yourself.

"It's okay, I was just trying to squeeze in next to you," the woman says, and in your tipsy state, you raise an eyebrow. She seemed about your age, dirty blonde hair, and a familiar grin on her lips. You definitely hadn't seen her in here before.

"I was just getting up, actually. You can have my seat. Is that an accent I hear?" You ask curiously, moving out of the way so she could take your place.

"Yeah, I still have a bit of an accent, I was born in Russia. Lived there for a while," she says and nods. She then orders two drinks before turning back to you.

"Wow, you're a long way from there. You go to school here?" You ask her and sip your drink, feeling Kate stand behind you.

"No, but my sister does, though," the blonde smiles and grabs the two bottles of beer from the bartender. She looks at you and extends her arm towards Kate to hand her a bottle. You give her a confused look.

It's only then you realize, as an inked hand reaches over you to take the beer, that it's not Kate standing there, but Natasha. You turn instantly and look up, a habit your neck was quickly getting used to doing.

"Well, well, look who showed up," you say and take your bottom lip between your teeth. Natasha smiles at your words, noticing the way you take in her appearance.

If it was possible, Natasha looked hotter than ever. She wore a black t shirt underneath a leather jacket. Her flaming hair was behind her in a braid with a few loose strands framing her face.

"I see you've met my sister, Yelena," Natasha chuckles and nods in the direction of the blonde woman.

"Nice to meet you, Y/N. Natty here hasn't been able to shut up abou-" Yelena is cut off by Natasha flicking the bottle cap at her face, a stern expression on the older woman's face.

You smile at the siblings' banter, watching Yelena laugh and shrug innocently. Whether it be the alcohol flowing in your bloodstream or the way Natasha looked at you, you slide your hand into hers. She tenses at first, not used to the public display of affection from you, but quickly relaxes as you intertwine your fingers with hers.

"Come on, come meet everyone," you say and tug on her hand in the direction of Kate.

You find them huddled around a pool table, watching as Kate lines up the pool tip to the cue ball with one eye closed. Carol stands leaning against her own stick, shaking her head and putting out the cigarette she smokes into the ashtray on the edge of the table.

"Anyday, Bishop..." Carol groans, earning a laugh from the group.

"Seriously, how long are you going to take?" Peter chimes in.

Kate ignores them and continues to stare intensely at the 8 ball. Her arm begins to pull back to take the shot, but as Yelena comes into focus on the opposite side of the table, Kate is finally distracted by the beautiful blonde. The cue ball misses her target completely, rolling across the table and sinking into the pocket.

"Scratch!" Carol cheers and high fives Monica. Kate looked up at Yelena, her lips parted as if she was going to speak, but no words came out. Carol then steps up to the table and sinks the 8 ball, ending the game with a dramatic bow.

You smile at the group, raising an eyebrow at the silent state of your best friend. "Guys, this is Natasha and her sister Yelena," you say, receiving waves and friendly greetings from everyone. You introduce them to the Romanoffs a little more before they rack up for another game.

"You any good?" Carol nods to Natasha, who gives a humble shrug.

"I'm decent," she replies with a smirk on her face as she brings the bottle to her lips. Carol hands the pool stick over before going to get drinks for the group.

"Hope you're good, Romanoff. We still haven't beat Y/N," Peter says begrudgingly. You only hum in response as Kate hands you her stick, positioning yourself across the table.

"Is that so?" Natasha watches with playful eyes as you skillfully break, the balls rolling in different directions along the table and a few of them sinking into the pockets.

When you lean up, you smile and reach your hand up to pat her cheek. "Good thing you didn't bet anything," you chuckle.

After a few back and forth turns, Carol returns with shots, to which you all cheer and take at the same time. The alcohol was definitely settling its way into your system now, and you were hot to the touch each time Natasha had to lean down to take her shot. Between the focused look on her face and the way the pool stick slid between her fingers, it was enough for you to want her right there.

You step forward next to her, looking at the direction of the shot she was trying to take. "That's a tough one, baby," you say to her, the term of endearment catching Natasha off guard.

Her body visibly tenses as she looks to you with a visceral reaction and swallows hard. You feign an innocent smile, taking a mental note to call her that again just to see her reaction. Natasha misses the shot and curses under her breath.

"That's not fair," she says and shakes her head as she stands tall. The red head removes her jacket, finding that the room was getting hotter.

You shrug and easily pocket two more balls on your turn. When you look to Kate to make a comment about the shot, you realize she's strayed from the group, chatting up Yelena. With your friends being in their own worlds at the moment, you decide to have a little fun with Natasha.

"You're not so bad, you know. The others have a hard time keeping up with me," you smile as she leans down, and your hand rests on her back, rubbing over her shirt.

"Y/n," Natasha mumbles, the blush on her cheeks evident she enjoyed your touch.

"Yes, Nat?" You pur, watching the muscles flex understand the fabric. Knowing you had this type of effect on her gave you a sense of power that only made you hungry for more. Your hand slithers underneath the bottom of her shirt, nails scratching at her back. She misses. You smile.

"You're a cheater, you know that?" Natasha says in a playful tone, her body naturally leaning towards you.

Your hands rest on her stomach, "I don't know what you're talking about." You lean up and plant a soft kiss on her lips, smirking as she leans down and melts against your mouth. "I'm just having fun," you whisper.

At that, you step away from her, crossing over to the opposite side of the table. You lean down more than you need to, and you don't miss the way Natashas eyes dart back and forth from your breasts to your neck. She finishes another bottle, and you can tell you've stressed her out by the way her hand grips the glass.

You continue to do the same thing for the remainder of the game, teasing her with every shot she took and making sure to bend in front of her any chance you could. It came down to the 8 ball, and you had to admit, you were dragging the game on longer than you needed to.

"Last one," you sigh and put your hand on the back of her neck as she leans down. Your fingers squeeze gently as she clears her throat, trying to ignore the shivers that run down her spine every time you touch her. You lean down with her, your lips brushing against her ear. "Good luck, baby," you whisper and kiss her cheek.

Her neck gets red at your words, and her grip on the stick only tightens. You think it'll snap in half with how hard she holds it. Natasha quickly shoots and misses, causing you to raise an eyebrow with just how quick she took the shot. Instead of stepping back, she continues to stand pressed against the table. "All yours," she mumbles and holds her hand out to the table, shifting uncomfortably as she stands.

You line up the shot and sink the black ball easily, looking up at her with a wide smile. She only gives you a small smile back with a nod. "Aren't you going to give me a victory kiss?" You ask as you step back to her.

Natasha hesitates for a moment but finally turns to face you. Your hands move up to wrap around her neck, your body pressing against her front as she leans in. Before your lips can touch your eyes, widen the slightest. You now realize the reason for the sudden uncomfortable physical shift she had taken when you felt her bulge pressing hard against you.

"Oh... was I teasing you too much?" You ask with a smirk on your lips. She rolls her eyes and moves to pull away, but you don't let her. "What was it?" You ask her.

"What was what?" She replies, her hands moving to your waist. You press your body further into her and relish the hiss that leaves her mouth.

You search her eyes, thinking to the moment her demeanor had changed. Suddenly, there was that power-hungry feeling again when you realized the reasoning. The fact that you could get her hot and bothered by a simple word leaving your lips, by your voice alone, and the thought of you driving someone like her mad. Natasha was weak in the knees for you, and she struggled internally with the way you made her feel. She wasn't used to it.

"Why don't you let me help you take care of your little problem... baby, " you whisper to her, feeling her shoulders tense above you. "Come on." You slide back and take her hand in yours, leading her away from the pool table and towards the bathroom.

As soon as both of you are inside and you lock the door, the two of you are on top of each other just like the first night you met her. Natasha kisses you feverishly, like she'd never been kissed before, with your back hard against the door. You welcomed her tongue into your mouth, moaning as the two halves wrap around your own.

With one hand, you hold onto the front of her shirt, gripping tightly, with the other you slide it in between your bodies, letting yourself grope the hard bulge in her jeans. Natasha lets a hint of a whimper leave her lips, one you hadn't heard since the first time with her, and you smirk into the kiss.

"What's the matter, baby? Do you need some help?" You ask innocently, lips ghosting hers. She breathes heavily and nods as your hands move to undo her belt.

"Sweetheart... please," she says, and you decide in that moment that you need her to say that again. Just the idea that this strong, formidable woman could so easily melt in your presence made you thrilled.

Her hands rest on either side above your head, pressed flat against the door as you slide her pants down. You can see the precum dampening a spot on her underwear, and you feel yourself get wet at the sight of it. She needed you, bad.

"Please, what?" You ask, your hand moves to grab her through her boxers, and you stroke her length through the thin fabric.

"Fu-fuck," she barely breathes out, eyes searching yours. Natasha hadn't begged a day in her life, but she would happily beg for you. She was at the point right now that she was willing to get down on her knees and beg for you. You made her desperate.

"Please touch me, please. You feel how hard I am for you? Just -" You squeezing a little harder makes her gasp before continuing. "I need you to touch me. Please, sweetheart... please, " she begs. You smile at her words, enjoying the way her body melts at your touch and the way she begs for you.

At her words you slide down her boxers, and her cock twitches at the feeling of finally being released. She lets out a sigh of relief as your delicate fingers wrap around her. "Is this what you wanted?" You hum, beginning to move your hand up and down. Natasha nods, chest beginning to rise and fall rapidly at your movements.

When you stop, she looks at you with a disoriented look, eyebrows lifting as she watches you drop to your knees. You take her cock in your hand, letting your other rest on her thick, toned thigh. From here you can see her happy trail peaking from underneath her shirt, making your panties wetter. The way she looks down at you with a breathless expression and parted lips makes you want to live your life on your knees for her. Your lips kiss along the side of her length, teasing slowly with your tongue licking up it. Natasha groans with pleasure at the feeling and her hips instinctively buck towards you.

You give in, not wanting to tease her anymore tonight, and take her cock into your mouth. The moan that leaves her mouth is outright sinful, and her fist hits the door with a thud as you begin to bob your head. Your cheeks hollow out when you begin moving faster, taking as much of her as you could. When the tip hits the back of your throat your eyes sting, tears threatening to leave your ducts. Natasha pants heavily above you, savoring the moment of you on your knees for her, sucking her off.

"Look at you, such a pretty girl with my cock in your mouth- fuck," Natasha speaks low to you, her eyes dark as she watches her cock disappear against your lips. Your fingers on her thigh dig in, your nails digging into her skin to leave crescent shaped marks, at her words. "All night you've been teasing me... this is the only way to shut you up, isn't it?" She says and you moan against her, the vibrations sending her close to the edge.

Her breathing gets heavier and you can tell she's about to cum, but before she can you quickly remove your mouth, your saliva coating her as you release with a pop. You stand, not ignoring the frustrated look on her face.

"Baby, I think you're confused," you say, your hands moving to the top of your dress. "You're not in charge right now," You let out a small laugh and pull down on the fabric, letting your breasts spill out. Natashas face reddens in response, and she immediately moves to kiss your chest. You can feel the marks she leaves as her lips trail across your breasts, her skillful tongue pleasuring your sensitive nipples.

Natashas' large hands move to the bottom of your dress as her kisses begin to litter up your neck. You let her move the material above and over your hips, but stop her as she reaches your panties. "I wanna hear you," you mumble out. She lets out a huff and pulls away from your neck.

"Y/n... please." Natasha says. You only continue to look at her with innocent eyes. The fact that she would beg for you - is begging for you, made you feel instant gratification.

"Please, pretty girl? Please let me make you feel good. I want to fuck you, want to make you feel good so bad..." She begs, and you let her slide your panties down your legs. Natasha slides her tip between your closed thighs, her cock now being coated from the wetness that spread between your legs.

She slips in between your folds, waiting for your words. Her fingers dig into your hips. "You drive me so fucking insane," Natasha whispers as her head ducks to your neck again. "I could cum from just looking at you. Just hearing you say my name. You know how much control you have over me?" Her hips continue rocking against you, your thighs squeezing her hard cock. She begins to pant again, her neck red and hot to the touch as you wrap your arms around it, interlocking your fingers behind her head.

"Please," Natasha whimpers, and the sound is enough to make you moan. You needed to feel her inside you immediately, hear more of those moans leave her lips.

"Show me how bad you want me, how insane I make you feel," you finally say and lean forward to bite her lower lip. She wastes no time lifting you up, helping you wrap your legs around her hips. Your back presses against the door again and with one hand she guides her cock inside of your warm velvet walls, easily ,with how wet you were for her.

Natasha begins to thrust up into you, a feeling you had become accustomed to these past few weeks, although you weren't sure you'd ever get used to her size. She groans against your chest, nipping at the skin. The small bathroom fills with the sounds of her pounding into you, both of you moaning practically in sync with every thrust.

"So good, pretty girl, feel so good wrapped around my cock. I love fucking this pretty pussy," she breathes heavy against your skin as she speaks. You hold on tightly to her, only breathless moans escape your lips in response.

Suddenly, from the outside, someone bangs on the door, Natasha doesn't halt her descent on you. "Can you hurry the fuck up in there?" A stranger yells from the other side. Your eyes widen, a little bit of adrenaline rushing into your chest as she continues fucking into you.

Natasha smiles, now at your flustered state. "Occupied," is all she replies before her thrust picks up the pace. "You better keep quiet, sweetheart. You don't want everyone to know how much of a slut you are for me, letting me fuck you in the bathroom."

You squeeze your eyes closed as she fucks herself into you, trying your best to keep quiet. Each thrust was now hitting that special spot inside of you and drawing you closer to an orgasm. The feeling of her muscles flexing around you only intensified that feeling.

"Fuck I-I can't I'm-" Natasha stutters out as she groans into your neck, feeling your hot cunt tighten around her cock.

"Me too, Nat," you moan along with her, and your legs squeeze around her waist. "Let go, baby... wanna feel you fill me up." You watch her face twist in pleasure at your words, and the fact that it was enough to make her cum only added to your ego in the moment. Natasha grunts against your skin as she does just what you say, filling you up completely.

The sensation alone is enough to make you follow right behind her, the burn in your lower stomach blazing as you scream out her name.

"That's it, sweetheart, that's it... such a good girl for me," she coos as you fall apart in her arms, kissing your face as you breathe heavily. Your head falls against her shoulder, face panting in the crook of her neck as she holds you tightly, letting you come down off your high.

After a few moments she pulls out slowly, and you can feel the mixture of both your arousal dripping down your thighs. Natasha carries you to the sink, letting you rest on the hard surface while she pulls her pants back up and you fix the top of your dress.

"Hi," she says with a smile. You giggle, remembering she said the same thing afterward on the first night at her party.

"Hi," is all you reply, grabbing her shirt in your hand and pulling her closer to kiss you again.

****

"They have eight legs and eight eyes. How are they not scary?" Peter drunkenly speaks to Monica, who sits next to him with an amused look.

After your time in the bathroom with Natasha, the two of you had rejoined the group, and over the course of two hours, you had become increasingly wasted with the rest of your friends. As Yelena joined in on the topic of spiders, you feel Natasha rest her head back against your front.

She sat slouched back in one of the chairs that scattered near the table while you stood behind her, hands stroking her neck and massaging her shoulders. You can't help but smile down at her.

"You're so cute," you giggle and watch her brow raise. Your finger traces the dark lines on her neck.

"Anything but cute," Natasha groans, with a playful smirk on her face. "Why do you say that?"

"You're different than you look, you know? Why are you so nervous around me?" Your words slur, and she chuckles at your drunken state with a shrug, looking at the beer bottle she held in her hand.

"Must be the alcohol?" She says. You shake your head and poke her nose.

"You were drinking when I first met you, and you weren't like this," you point out and watch her swallow. You decide to move in front of her, settling yourself between her muscled thighs. As you stand in front of her, she sits up straighter, the two of you now practically the same height.

You take her hand in yours, playing with her fingers. She smiles a little as she looks at your intertwined hands.

"Maybe I was drinking that night to get enough courage to talk to you... and maybe I- maybe I'm drinking tonight to get enough courage to say I want more with you. More than... the hookups," she says and finally looks back up at you. Your heart races in your chest at her words, panic written on your face as you freeze in front of her.

That was exactly what you wanted. More of her, more of this beautiful person who was even more beautiful inside. To get to know what makes her really tick, what makes her happy, how her day was, how she likes her coffee. She wanted more, too, so why were you not speaking out loud?

"What?" Is all that comes out of your mouth.

Natashas face falls completely, misinterpreting your flustered state for a sign of rejection. She had hoped this wouldn't happen. Part of her wondered if this had just been a hook up, but the other part of her desperately hoped it wasn't.

Before the words could leave your parted lips, Kate calls over to you, taking the attention of both you and Natasha.

"Y/N, you ready to go? You can stay if you want, I'm gonna take Pete home, though," she nods to the direction of where he sat drunk rambling to Yelena.

"No, not -"

"Actually, Yelena and I have a lot to do tomorrow. We should head out too," Natasha interrupts you and stands, her hand moving to your lower back as you stare up at her with a pout.

"Are you sure?" You ask her, your hand reaching out to her side. She tenses under your grasp.

"Yeah, I'll text you later," She smiles at you, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes this time.

You nod anyways and smile back, leaning up to kiss her lips softly. "Thank you for tonight.. Hopefully, we can do it again soon?"

And while you were talking about hanging out with her, Natasha assumes you were talking about her fucking you.

"Yeah, soon," she lets out a breath and grabs her jacket, not taking a second look back at you as her and Yelena exit the bar.

***

A smile fills your face as your head hits the pillow, the soft comforter pulled over you as you lie on your warm bed and mull over tonights events. You wondered why Natasha had left in such a hurry before you could say anything, but you decided not to think too hard on it. She probably did have to go. It was early in the morning by the time you left, and besides, you would hear from her later.

Every morning, she texted you a quick and sweet text, telling you to have a good day.

Your chest swelled at the thought of it, how sweet it was that such a small, simple thing could brighten your entire day. What you assumed would happen tomorrow is that the two of you would talk about wanting more and how desperately you agreed with her about it.

But when the late morning came and the sunshine streamed through the windows, no text came with it.

[fezwearingjellybananas]

Get to know the writer 2 13 19 27 75 💞

2. Do you plan each chapter ahead or write as you go?

I try and have a general plan of where things are going, but I don't necessarily plan individual chapters, I just put in breaks sometimes if it feels like a good moment (which is why Sweet Defiance is over 25k all in one chapter, I just kept writing and didn't really stop and think I need a break at any point, and I didn't realise how long it was until it was done. The Night Shift is also over 25k all in one chapter, and that's mostly because I didn't pick a point to break it up while I was writing and partly because I did actually consider splitting it into chapters when I looked at the word count part way through and during editing, probably three chapters, but the chapter titles that made sense from where I probably would have split it for the first two were Overground and Underground and then I couldn't think of a third title because I just kept getting the Wombles stuck in my head instead, so I scraped the chapters).

The exception for planning individual chapters was the Milk and Sugar 'verse, but that's because I used the episodes from canon as a lay-out for the chapters, and I planned all the fics out as I was going, though some still changed at the last minute because I had a different idea that fit what I had already written more.

13. What’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

Use said. It's definitely something I've been trying to add more and more- when I first started writing fic I was still using the way we learnt in school where you only need the dialogue tags at the start and you just alternate paragraphs and you should be able to make it clear who is speaking from that, but throwing in extra saids every so often makes it much clearer, so it's something I have been consciously working on trying to do more for a while.

19. What is the most-used tag on your ao3?

Alternate Universe- Canon Divergent. It's the one I find most fun to play around with, how will changing this part of the story here ripple out to change the rest of it

27. What is your most and least favorite part of writing?

I enjoy writing, that's why I do it, so it's actually hard to pick a favourite and I tend to have a different answer every time I get asked, but when you first get an idea and sit down to write and know this one's going to be fun, that's pretty good.

I guess least favourite, maybe editing when there's a lot of it? I use the read aloud function to edit, because I've found before I've clicked the wrong correction on spell check and not noticed until someone else has told me before, and it's a lot easier to hear when words are wrong than it is to see. And because I like to be able to jump back and forth as I write a little, I will write the whole thing then post it, so my last big fic, Gone in a Flash, is 78k and 29 chapters, which I ended up splitting so I would edit one chapter fully, then post it the following day (reading the whole thing again when I copied it into the AO3 text box), and after posting I would go and listen to and fully edit the next chapter. Which did work as a system, and I don't mind editing, I think it's just I had been working on it for a year, I was excited to finally share it, and there was this part still to do even though it felt finished, and because there was a lot of doing that there were a few parts it felt repetitive.

75. What scene in [Fanfic Name] took the longest to write? What was difficult about it? 

Sticking with Gone in a Flash, it had a few sticky moments, but I think when I got to Chapter 13/14, it felt like I was writing myself into a corner, there was only one option for where the characters could go from here but it wouldn't go their way, so I rewrote a few parts from Chapter 12 onwards a few times and it still kept circling back to this is where the plot wants them to be.

Luckily time travelling is a common thing in any Flash media and it was already part of the fic, so shifting the end of Chapter 14 to have some time travel meant they still ended up at that point, but there was a way to take it forwards from there (by going backwards again)

Thank you!

[Writing Asks]

[djarinsbeskar]

Foul - Boxer!Din AU

Definition - To break one of boxing’s rules (i.e. hitting an opponent below the navel, ear or while they are down), which can ultimately lead to point deductions if they are repeated.

A/N: The results of my Boxer!AU poll told me that the majority were interested in a jealous/protective boxer so I hope I have delivered! As always, relaxed fit = unedited, no beta. We also have a sneaky introduction to Paz in the Boxer verse which is super exciting! His concept art has been completed by the insanely talented @ronnieiswriting when I said I saw a mix of Jason Momoa and Winston Duke as our heavy. PLEASE heed the warnings in this chapter. There is nothing explicit but the topics hinted at might be triggering.

Word Count: 7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: SMUT! (unprotected sex), blood and violence, toxic masculinity and derogatory speech, hints at discussions of non-con, somewhat possessive behavior, spanking, dom!Din and everything that comes with it.

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist

He might as well have been in hell. A colosseum of decaying humanity and dirt floors that erupted in a burst of dust like poisonous ash every time his next opponent fell. The hollow thump of pure muscle meeting the ground of the makeshift ring only drowned by the cheers of spectators. Masked, shadowed—unseen as they dropped hundreds – thousands sometimes – on which gladiator would remain standing in the end.

He felt like a king, a god among men within the confines of his realm of rope and canvas. It was easy to forget—standing under the spotlights that highlighted the sweat and blood and sculpted beauty of primal masculinity that it was a hollow victory any time he fought in the seedy underground rings of Akiva.

Every gladiator was a slave. Even the victor.

Why the fuck did he think it was a good idea to let you come to one of these fights?

“Enough!”

Paz’s unassailable strength banded around Din’s chest, pinning his arms to his side—attempting to contain lightning in a glass jar. Sweat, blood—it all dripped into Din’s eyes as he growled at his opponent, passed out in the middle of the dirt ring—face swollen and puffy from Din’s fists.

Laser focus and animosity spilled from charcoal eyes as he tried to break free of his friends hold with a vicious yank forward of powerful shoulder and an unfaltering purpose. The bastard had it coming. One round a few punches wasn’t enough to slake Din’s anger, the fumes of rage seeping into his skin and clouding his senses until all he could think of was making the asshole on the ground before him pay.

The practiced speed that Din wrapped his hands slowed at the rowdy group on the other side of the room. Dammit, for all the money they brought in, could these cheapskates not provide separate fucking changing rooms so he didn’t have to be subjected to idiots jacking themselves up on testosterone and false hope?

But pissing contests and fragile masculinity weren’t what caught his attention. He could tune that bullshit out like a fine art. What caught Din’s attention was the obvious death wish one of his possible opponents had – if he even managed to get that far up the ranks to Din – when he waved a red flag in front of the boxers’ metaphorical bull.

“See that one in the front row? You know the one I’m talking about.”

Bawdy agreements and asinine gestures raked up Din’s spine, thorny—and prickling nerves of instinct that made him pause the music blaring in his ears. He fucking hated the scum he came across in these fights. Gang members, criminals—the dredges of humanity he sometimes worried he was part of.

“Gonna get her on her knees choking on my cock before the night is out. Sluts like that love titles, champions—why else do they attend? Good excuse to win tonight, eh fellas?”

“Do you wanna completely destroy your career?” Paz yelled over the chortles and raucous cheers for more, for revenge—for everything under the poor fallacy of a sun that strung in dim, bald bulbs along the notoriously infamous Avika fighting ring.

Din thought you would be safe, arrogantly assuming people would avoid even looking at you once they saw who you were with. And you had been—you were safe, but even he couldn’t protect you from the thoughts of others.

The larger man struggled with him, dragging him out of the ring when it was obvious his words were falling on deaf ears. All Din could hear was the little pricks voice in his head from hours before.

Din stood.

Inhaled, exhaled—tried those bullshit breathing exercises that were supposed to focus his mind before a fight. Help to rein in a temper like his from overflowing in devastating tidal waves to destroy all around him. Din didn’t lose his temper often—but when he did, it was lethal.

The breathing exercises didn’t work.

Because the idiot kept talking.

“Did you see the ass on that?”

Leers sounded from his group of friends. Encouraging the vile words that Din always knew came from a man who felt entitled to a woman’s body. He had seen enough of the underbelly of the world to know what that led to time and again. Din might have been shameless in his youth and even until recently when it came to sex, to one night stands, to women—but he fucking respected the girls he fucked or didn’t fuck.

“Traipsing around in a dress like that? She’s looking for the attention,” the asshole defended himself when one of his party voiced an alternative point of view. They were promptly shut down and didn’t speak again.

Din’s blood turned to ice. An image of you running a hand down his arm on your way to your seat when you parted ways for him to get ready, dress sinfully tight but effortlessly classy—a zip front he was dying to pull open with his teeth later that night.

“It’ll look so good with my cock buried in it…”

The ice in his blood turned to fury, white hot and molten as he tied off the tape at his wrists—throwing the roll into the dingy locker he had been given for the evening. The clatter of noise from where it slammed against the metal back was the only warning he was planning on giving them. The lull of conversation was fleeting, his warning going unheeded—when dim-witted morons didn’t read the murder in his gaze.

Looks like they weren’t nearly as intelligent as the pigs he thought them to be.

Grabbing his water bottle and phone, Din stalked towards the chipped door—distracting himself with a text of “don’t go anywhere alone in this place, sweetheart. Ask Paz to go with you” sent to you without a second thought.

The immediate response of “Yes yes I know, for the thousandth time. Don’t worry and focus on yourself” did little to assuage the roar of blood in his ears. There was only one thing he heard over the noise, one thing as his vision became hued in red and fixated on a single target.

“Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her there too—can’t imagine she’s a virgin but her ass will still probably be tighter than her cunt.”

Bald headed and littered in scars and tattoos of a gang known for their viciousness, the other boxer – if he could even be called that – thrust vulgarly into the air, mimicking the hold he would have on the girl. Din’s girl.

The fucker had a death wish.

And Din was only too happy to play the part of the grim reaper.

His friends voice hardly registered over that same ringing in his ears, the roar of protective aggression at the lecherous sneer on the other man’s face who now lay in a heap in the dirt, the filth he spewed about his masseuse, his girl. How beady eyes, cold and villainous dared to drift away from Din before the bell sounded—over his shoulder, to where he knew you were sitting. Knowing your body had been tainted by the gaze of a man who would sooner take what he wanted from you by force than look at you with anything akin to the respect you deserved—it made something snap inside of Din.

And he attacked.

He was lucky he had only been disqualified.

He was damn lucky no one called the cops.

But the perks of underground fighting, was that everyone who attended had something to hide. And no one wanted to be caught in the middle of shady transactions or betting on fighters to beat each other to a pulp. Hell, the savagery Din subjected the other guy to was exactly what half the fuckers who showed up hoped to see.

Din wasn’t just a nameless street fighter though, not anymore. He had something to lose. Any smear on his record for assault and he would be suspended from tournament participation quicker than the asshole’s body dropped after a crushing blow under the jaw by Din’s right uppercut.

Thank fuck Din’s main sponsor was equally as shady. A good man by Din’s logic, but merciless when it came to succeeding. Din being benched was the surest way to make his benefactors patience run out. No, Paz was right—Boba even more so when he clocked Din good in the cheek after Paz wrestled the irate male out of the ring.

“You fucking idiot, bloodlust is an ugly image, boy—”

“I am not a boy—” Din snapped at Boba, teeth bared and bloody from his split lip, neck straining when he spat the words viciously at his long-time coach. He ran his tongue over the metallic tang of blood before spitting it out of his mouth onto the dirt flooring by the chaotic rows of metal seating.

“You almost killed a guy in the ring, you little shit,” Boba snarled with equal venom, matching the anger reflected in Din’s gaze with furious sense Din didn’t want to witness.

“Let me go,” was all Din growled, eyes never leaving his coach’s even when Paz loosened his arms around his chest. Heaving, coal black eyes darkened dangerously and stabbed the former boxer with a dare to try and restrain him again. The other man shook a rope of dreadlock that had come loose from the strip of leather he kept his hair tied in and made to say something when Din interrupted,

“Where is she?”

Paz closed his mouth, heavy brows furrowing over his eyes as recognition dawned in their dark hues,

“Is that what this is about? Dammit, vod—it’s not like she’s your girlfriend, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Don’t fucking try me tonight—” Din snapped aggressively, the threatening hum between the two men charged to dangerous voltage.

“Din?”

Your voice washed over him – aloe on the burns his fury had scorched his skin with – and he was making his way over to you in the next moment, mind battling with instinct as he ignored the calls and curses of his friends.

Mine.

Not yours—

Mine.

He moved with feral grace, parting the sea of people who bleated from the sidelines but cowered in his presence once his attention was facing them and there was no canvas or rope to separate boxer from spectator. They were lucky. He didn’t see them. Would step on them if they were stupid enough to stay in his path. All he could see, was you—watching him with confusion and concern marring those pretty features, absent of fear in the face of an incensed, adrenaline fueled boxer post fight.

He exhaled a growl as he came to stand before you, the sound cavernous and deep in his chest—the hands you had lifted to examine his face intercepted by his own when he grabbed them. His fingers wrapped fully around your wrists, and he was reminded of how fragile you were – even if you worked out whenever you could and had a will of iron that would make you whack him for saying that – and just how easily a man like him, any of the fighters here tonight—could hurt you.

Never.

They wouldn’t dare.

Not with him around.

But how could they know?

How would they know to stay the fuck away from you?

Knuckles stained with dirt and blood; his hand rasped against the softness of your palm as he dragged you in the direction of the unused backstage waiting room fighters had been offered as a changing room. Where this whole fucking thing started.

“Din—Din, what the hell happened up there?”

You jogged behind him to keep up with his pace, long legs taking him farther than your shorter ones could when confined to the heels you had worn for the night out. He stalked through the dimly lit corridors to the flaky, chipped door with a temporary sign on lined paper with “ATHLETES” scrawled along the front of it like some ironic joke.

He almost bent the worn, cheap metal handle in half—nearly pulled it from its socket with how hard he tore the door open and dragged you over the threshold inside.

You whirled on him with a huff, eyes flashing and hands planting on your hips in growing annoyance.

“Din will you just—”

You didn’t get another word out.

His wrapped hands cupped your cheeks between them, his mouth on yours hungrily when he bent over you. Biting, clawing, desperate—the kiss was more a battle of tongue and teeth than anything else. There was nothing soft, nothing slow or affectionate about the way his teeth sank into your bottom lip so hard you gasped. The way the blood seeping from his split lip painted yours in a crimson rouge—smeared and varnishing you in a visceral mark of his claim.

“Mine,” he snarled unknowingly into your mouth, lapping his tongue along the prairies of your tastebuds, plundering the depths of your mouth to brand every inch of you he could reach. Inside and out. His hands had the same idea, forming down over the shape of your curves as he walked you back blindly to the disused vanity pushed against the closest wall. Topped with a row of mirrors undoubtedly used by performers for whatever this place had once been used for, the glass was now aged with discoloration.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t have eyes for anything but you as he hiked your legs up to perch you on the edge, your fingers curled into the taut muscles at his neck and clawing down over the sweat slick muscles of his pecs—catching on flat nipples that made ripples of pleasure heat his body further. Mad him tangle a hand in your hair, yank your head back harshly and meet your eyes with dark desire before dropping to your neck. His newest target.

“Din…” your irritated, questioning tone had morphed to fervent sighs. His tongue mapped a trail from the corner of your mouth – tasting the tang of his own blood – to the rapid tattoo of your pulse, a delicate sheen of perspiration beginning to shimmer on your flushed skin from the arousal. Another layer of flavor for him to get drunk on.

So fucking hot under his hands.

So beautiful.

So his.

“Mine,” he repeated into the curve of your neck, framed by tremulous stretches of muscle either side that he carved with scrapes of his teeth to leave tracks of slow fading pink grazes before he bit into it. Your legs – already open and inviting him to settle between them – crossed at the ankles around his narrow hips to keep him close. It was fucking intoxicating the way he could make you feel, the desperate need he had for you.

Months of sleeping together, of knowing his body so intimately had given you a rare insight to his emotions whether he knew it or not. And you knew he didn’t need to talk right now, he needed to fuck. To work through whatever had affected him so badly in hard kisses and rough hands on your soft flesh. It didn’t stop your stomach from flipping at his possessive words though, deliriously spoken but whispering the unacknowledged desires you had for him beyond his body.

“Yours,” you admitted before you could stop yourself, your hand cupping under his jaw to lift his mouth back to yours. His raspy moan at your agreement turned positively filthy when you carded short nails through his damp hair. Din was weak to having his hair stroked, his staunch dominance buckling in violent shivers of pleasure when you dragged those skilled fingers down the back of his skull and neck.

Traipsing around in a dress like that…

His eyes flew open, and he broke the kiss—ripped his mouth from yours to press his forehead to yours, eyes searching while his free hand ran indulgently up your torso to the neckline of your dress,

“Never let anyone disrespect you, sweetheart—” he rumbled, his fingers already undoing the zip of the dress, the nude pink material tempting to the eye and celebrating those features you were most proud of—that he found irresistible to know you loved. That someone could make you uncomfortable in those clothes… fucker. He snarled and pressed a long kiss to your mouth, large hands spreading the sides of the dress open wide – no underwear, baby? – and shucked the material down your arms to leave you bare before him.

His appreciation for your body – fucking gorgeous – was only tampered by the frustration he had with himself at the noise of confusion you made at his words. Of course, you hadn’t heard anything that asshole had said thankfully—but fuck, he couldn’t get it out of his head. You read his desperation somehow, and nodded slowly with puzzled eyes, teeth sinking into your swollen bottom lip as you leaned back on your hands.

So trusting…

Fuck.

It made alarm and something akin to fear rise swell uncomfortably in his throat.

He tried again.

“Never let anyone take advantage of you,” he whispered against your mouth in earnest, his hands running up your bare thighs to press his thumbs into the seams of your legs and hips, “tell me—”

His mouth dropped to your collarbone, funneling those feelings into lapping down to your heaving breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth with a groan and befuddling your mind to his request until he nipped the swollen peak – say it, baby – and caused your head to fall back against the mirror,

“Yes—yes,” you moaned, “I won’t—”

He snarled internally, dammit. Hearing you say it didn’t help. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you, how he wouldn’t let anyone ever take advantage of you. But he couldn’t. Had to frame it like advice he would give any woman he knew instead of speaking it like the promise he wanted to make.

Din had been fucking you for the last few months now, exclusively after only a few months—but it never went beyond that. He had no reason, no excuse to be worried over your life or safety or what you did when you weren’t in his bed. He wasn’t expected to be involved in your life the way a friend or family member was. Not the way a boyfriend was.

He didn’t do relationships. Never had. Too much trouble and frankly—he liked his privacy, his space—and liked not being accountable to anyone but himself. The consequences of any shitty decisions he made would fall on him and him alone. If he demanded that of the women he slept with and then insisted on inserting himself into their lives in the next breath, he would be a hypocrite. And Din hated hypocrites.

He couldn’t.

But fuck. He never wanted to hear someone speak that way about you, never wanted them to think they had the slightest chance with a woman like you. His blood boiled at the notion of someone else’s hands on you, his tempered flared when he imagined your pleasure or smiles, or laughter give to someone who didn’t deserve you.

Like he did?

Fuck no, he knew he didn’t.

He never said he wasn’t selfish though, and he coveted you with sinful greed.

“Fuck me, baby—please, please—” you mewled into his neck as your hands that had started all of this with that first massage, fit into the sliver of space between your bodies to stroke along his cock over his shorts impatiently. His head fell back, and his mind blissfully emptied for a moment, grunting your name at the frisson of pleasure before those damned memories resurfaced again.

Look at the ass on that.

That.

Her. You weren’t a thing, a possession. You were—

He snarled. Misplaced anger manifesting in aggressive passion as he grabbed your wrist from where you stroked him to pin behind your back on the vanity.

“Always so eager, aren’t you—” he grinned darkly when you nodded, “turn around.”

The command was delivered low and dangerous, more a rumble of noise—deep echoes of jungle predators crackling like the kindling of threat, inspiring awareness that one wrong move would be fatal. But you never made a wrong move—not for as long as he had known you. Whether it was alleviating a pain deep in his muscles that had bothered him for months or pushing yourself slowing off the vanity to your feet as you were now—you always knew what he needed.

Wisps of hair fell into his eyes as he watched you—the decided turn of your naked body to dace the mirror—eyes never leaving his even as they caught them again in the aged glass. Bending forward, your ass pressed into the front of his shorts, and you rested your elbows on the vanity.

Perfect.

He didn’t realize he had whispered the word as he pressed his mouth between your shoulder blades, tongue trailing down the arch of your spine while his hands kneaded plush cheeks—spreading them and exposing your slick cunt to the cool air. The hitches in your breath, small squirms of your hips for relief—they all fed into his desire for you.

And he desired you. Constantly.

“I’m gonna eat your pussy until you can’t stand, baby—and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, massive bulk bowed over your back and shadowed eyes – the duality of warm walnut and lethal obsidian – bore into yours through the glass.

“I want them all to know who you belong to,” he nipped your ear, flicking his tongue along the cartilage—the black ink on his back catching the light as his muscles rippled with movement, a roll of pleasure from your ass grinding back against him with a whimper of his name, “so don’t be quiet this time, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered open molasses slow from where they had dropped closed at his words,

“What—what hap—” you tried to turn your head, the concern mingled with lust in those gorgeous, honest eyes making warning bells blare painfully – too close – and he silenced you with a kiss. Swallowing the worry that hinted at feelings that surpassed those expected from a fuck buddy, he buried it deep inside himself, in the shadows like a coward. To be locked away where he would remain safe from it.

Your tongue grew sloppy with a moan when he ground his crotch into your ass—dragging the solid thickness of his clothed cock between your soaked folds and up against your tight rear entrance.

Wonder if she’ll let me take her there…

Bastard.

He sucked on your tongue with a groan of your name, hand releasing your cheeks to fan up your ribcage and cup your breasts. You jerked in sensitivity when rough hands pinched sore nipples – he fucking loved how sensitive your tits got just before your period. The cry you released was nothing short of musical, tempting him lower as he kissed down your spine—wrapped hands sanding down over your ribs again when he lapped around the rim of your ass, circling it before he traced lower.

You were dripping.

He dropped to his knees behind you, eyes drunken with an ingrained pride that he was the one in this position, looking at the petals of your swollen pussy glistening with arousal he inspired from just a few kisses and rolls of his hips. He kept his eyes on the steady trickle of wetness from your twitching entrance, his teeth grazing distractedly down the back of your thigh as he did so.

A finger ruddy with flecks of dried blood caught a string of your arousal – don’t waste a drop – and he sucked it between his lips with an approving groan, the noise of your whimpers the perfect accompaniment. Blood and lust. The essence of humanity, that was what he tasted when he sucked his finger clean. It tasted like life. And he wanted more.

A sharp crack echoed through the room when his hand came down hard on one cheek, and again... and again—each strike making that dripping wetness gush until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He buried his face in your cunt, nosing at your entrance and tongue spreading puffy lips apart so he could trace in pitter patter swipes through your folds—greedily gathering anything he could get on his tongue before swallowing. Dehydrated on the sands of depravity and sordid company—your cunt was an oasis of relief where he eagerly drank his fill.

You tried to move, your hips slamming up against the edge of the vanity – that’ll bruise – and you keened with a shuddering cry when his mouth simply followed your attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure that was too much too soon.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” you gasped, dropping a hand back to tangle in his hair, dragging him closer despite your protests. Mm, he loved when you got like this—overstimulated from the first touch. No matter how much you whined, no matter how many times he wiped tears that smudged your makeup when he unraveled orgasm after orgasm from the knots inside you—he knew you loved the intensity as much as he did.

He spanked you again – take it – your cheeks red and beautiful when he spread them side for him to spit directly onto your quivering cunt. His saliva dribbled and mixed with your juices to gather over your clit, his mouth forming over the little bud enthusiastically, urged by your slow ruts back against his face to streak his face with your essence.

“More—” you whimpered.

“Greedy—” he growled back.

The sound of your breathless laugh meshed delightfully with the swallow of a moan – guttural and primal – and made his cock twitch in his shorts. His hips snapped up uselessly from where he was kneeling—finding no purchase or warm embrace to bury itself in as his tongue took that pleasure for itself.

It licked and curled with practiced, seemingly illogical strokes along your clit and up to your entrance—sloppily kissing it before his tongue dove into your tight depths, thumb working in quick circles over your clit. He knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

Your first orgasm was sudden—strong and surprising. He hadn’t even fucking fingered you and you were already spasming around nothing. Your muscles tensed as you went on your toes to lean even further on the vanity, trying to escape his tongue that worked you through each wave—drowning you in the pleasure he knew only he could give you. You were his. His his his his h—

You sobbed his name, a raw answer to his internal mantra his mind struggled against and failed to overcome.

Din wanted you.

He wanted your body, your mind, your time—he wanted what Paz had.

Fuck.

The way the older man mooned and gazed with shameless adoration for the little baker he had fallen for in so short a time. Hell, Din teased him over it constantly. And maybe he didn’t want that—but he wanted something. Din wanted something with you. Wanted you to visit him in the gym and stop him mid set just to kiss him and tell him that you would wait for him to finish so you could go home together. He wanted to buy you flowers without having to think of a fucking excuse like last time to distance himself from the sentimentality. He wanted to open his front door and feel our presence as more than just a visitor. That a toothbrush and the stray pieces of clothing you forgot at his place would turn to shoes at the door and your taste in décor mixing with his.

Din wanted you.

But he had no idea how to do anything but fuck you. He didn’t know how to date or be romantic. Was clueless to things like companionship—to the softer emotions he knew you craved. That all people craved. Din had no idea how to do any of it.

You lay with your cheek on the wooden surface of the vanity, eyes half-closed and spacey as you watched him lift his head from your pussy, face shiny from your release and when he licked over his lips, still hungry for more—you mewled.

“Don’t tap out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a whimper and almost childish refusal while your cheek remained plastered to the vanity, all strength having left your body and an adorable pout trying to lie and tell him you couldn’t take any more.

“Mm, yes you can—” he answered you, dragging his mouth back up your slit and along your tight ass where he lapped at the rim again. Later. It took time for him to stretch you to take his size—it was better left for when he had you in his apartment and could take his time.

His hand followed his mouths direction as it continued up to meet your mouth—smirking against your lips at the whimpers you made from the slaps he gave your pussy—the obscene, wet sound filling the area with each slap slap slap until his hand was damn near slipping every time he struck your cunt from how wet it was.

A bang on the door—a harsh slap to your pussy so you would moan just right for him, and he growled out a threatening “occupied” to whoever was outside. You were too high strung to even notice.

“No one else can have you,” he rasped darkly into your temple, his free hand tangling in the strands to pull your head back against his shoulder—the position no doubt edging on uncomfortable with the way your spine and neck were arched back—moUlded into his hard frame. Your eyes fell to half mast even as your lips parted—still smeared with specks of blood you hadn’t yet licked or chewed off—and he bit your jaw in warning.

“No one else—” you parroted, your hot breath fanning over his cheek even as you rocked back against him, a steel confidence entering your fucked out gaze—mercurial in the swirling heat, “just like no one else can have you.”

The boldness of your words, the conviction spoken in that voice of wooden flutes and bubbling creeks made his blood light with fire—yes. As much as he anted you, he yearned for you to crave him in return.

“No one else,” he repeated your words back to you, rutting his hips against you when his cock pulsed with a negligent ache that demanded to be addressed. He kept one hand in your hair when he pushed his shorts down enough to free his leaking cock, the turgid length swollen and angry as he rubbed the tip between your lips.

Maybe he would buy you flowers tomorrow, after all.

Din gave you no time to prepare yourself – that’s my girl – sliding inside you with one brutal thrust that had you pushed up against the mirror and his cock engulfed in fiery bliss. He felt the heat run up his spine, a volcanic metamorphism into marble as his muscles froze in an immediate pause to stop himself from spilling inside you after one damn thrust.

You weren’t doing much better—one hand clawing for purchase on the mirror and the other digging your nails into his hip as you panted his name, an incoherent string of curses and praise as your sensitive walls convulsed around him. The position had him pressed right against that one spot he cock curved up against that could make you see stars and your care for being caught dissipate in cries of ecstasy.

“Baby—fuck please, so—too deep—” you whimpered in inane babbles, tightening in residual spasms from your orgasm and the sudden intrusion of his cock, still a stretch after all these months. Too deep… he snorted, rolling his hips hard to try shove himself deeper still. He could never get deep enough, always wanting more—always seeking to conquer the untouched lands of your body.

“Mm, want me to stop?” he teased, dragging his hips back with a smirk at your immediate rejection of no no no fuck—please, no—hand pathetically trying to drag him closer to you by the hip. Lovely little thing… thinking you were strong enough.

“That’s better…” he purred, relief washing over him when he pulled out—the walls of your cunt stretching around him, refusing his exit, and trying to keep him nestled inside you. The pace he chose was brutal. He fucked you like he fought tonight. Violently, mercilessly—and deaf to the calls to relent. But where he wanted his opponent to suffer, he wanted to devastate you with pleasure, enrapture you with ecstasy and leave you moaning his name where others would curse it.

Wet cock slapping as he pounded into you in short, frantic ruts – need you baby… fuck I need you – there was no time for you to catch a full breath before he was knocking it out of you again. His fingers had to tighten in your hair to keep you up – your body trembling under his as he sank his teeth into the taut muscle at your neck and his cock sank into your welcome body – exposed and waiting for him to litter in his signature.

He would never get enough of the way his marks looked on your skin—the way you decorated him in yours. You were powerless to do much else than accept them right now – likely getting him back later – boneless and weak under the attack of his mouth and the dominance of his body.

He would make sure everyone in this fucking shithole of a place knew who you were with. They would have to be blind not to notice the blotches of poppy bruises snaking down your neck with the elusion to more hidden from unworthy eyes. The smudge of your mascara as tears pearled like crystals in the corner of your eyes when you glanced at him in strung out bliss.

“M-more—” you begged, dropping one of your hands between your legs to rub at your clit—fingers splitting around the girth of his cock as he fucked you to feel the thick length disappear into you over and over, the soaked mess amassed from your frantic desire for each other trickling down your thighs.

“Yeah?” he grinned, breathless and sweating for much more pleasing reasons than he had been in the ring, a languid kiss to your neck as he hiked one of your knees up onto the vanity—spreading you wider for him to sink deeper.

You spasmed, your head falling back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Yes—there, there baby, fuck you feel so good…” you rambled, fingers working feverishly over your clit in wet strokes, grazing his balls every time they slapped against your skin and making him muffle his moan in your neck.

Rolling a nipple between his fingers, his large—bloodied hand completely swallowed your breast, squeezing it and tickling sounds that belonged to him from you and into his mouth when you kissed him. One last kiss before you collapsed back onto the vanity, and he stood to his full height so he could ruin you with his cock.

His name was the only thing you remembered as he split you open with full, hard thrusts—the entire length of his cock stretching your tight walls around it and playing along raw nerves already on the brink of another orgasm.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart—” he strained, desperate for release as he watched himself fuck you in the mirror—him behind your smaller body, squirming under the pleasure while his muscles bunched and relaxed with each snap of his hips—the veins in his forearms prominent and tendons taut as he poured all that training and dedication and determination into you, into pleasing you.

“Inside—inside, Din fuck, please—”

His mind emptied. Nothing else mattered about tonight—not the fight, not the disqualification, not the rage. Your eyes—cloudy with lust and achingly trusting as you looked back at him were all he could think about. Nodding without even realizing, the thought of filling you running in his mind on a loop.

“Fuck—!”

He wanted you to cum before him, he always did—but he was so high strung, so tense that he couldn’t stop himself, burying himself to the hilt with several punched out moans—exhaled rapture with every pump of his seed against your waiting womb. Your eyes rolled closed at the amount, bloating you with his release and as he came, you worked your clit frantically—chasing that addictive edge you gladly hurled yourself over at just the thought of him coming inside you.

Din dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp, your spasming walls too much on his sensitive length but he had to stay inside—the contractions of pleasure, the gush of your release might push his out. He couldn’t have that. So, he gritted his teeth, mumbled husky praise – good girl, that’s it—just like that, soak me – to work you through your orgasm and pressed open mouth kisses to sweaty skin, the salt tickling his tongue as he caught his breath.

His mouth worked over the sweep of your shoulder, up your neck to your jaw when your orgasm subsided, purring your name and nonsensical strings of words he had no idea made sense or not. He finally eased his softening cock out of you slowly when you shifted your hips—testing your strength and finding it lacking when you realized both he and the vanity were what kept your legs up.

“Feel… feel better?”

“Mhm…” he confirmed noncommittally, nuzzling the marks beginning to bloom and darken like a forbidden garden only he was allowed indulge in the scent of. One of his hands ran absently down the back of your thigh, feeling for his release—pleased to feel nothing but your sticky arousal, his own still nestled inside your sore cunt.

“Want one of those crepes you’re always raving about from that twenty-four hour place?” he purred, helping you stand—going so far as to pull the straps of your dress back up so that zipping the metal teeth would be easier. Your eyes brightened despite the lazy, satiated fatigue hiding in their orbs.

“Gino’s?”

“Mm,” he nodded, looking down from his greater height and lips quirking in an annoying desire to smile when one – bright as daylight – broke out on yours.

You nodded quickly, looping your arms around his neck to drag him down to your mouth, kissing him good and proper while his hands fell under the still open sides of your dress to settle on bare hips,

“Are you ever going to tell me what set you off tonight?” you mumbled against his lips cautiously, the ghost of a smile from the promise of dessert still lingering but a hesitant worry entering your gaze, unsure if his mood would sour again.

It didn’t.

He nudged his nose along yours, aquiline curve slotting along yours as he hummed in thought, thumbs rubbing lazily into your hips,

“Maybe later,” he settled on and captured your lips again.

You left the changing room together, his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his free arm wrapped around your shoulder—nose never leaving your temple or nuzzling into your hair with blatant affection as you blushed at how obvious it was to anyone who saw you what you had been doing.

You had both tried to tidy yourselves—cleaning the corners of your makeup and trying to flatten your mused hair was about all you could do. Din didn’t even attempt to cover the freshly fucked look of messy hair and heavy eyes as he pulled an unzipped Mythosaur Gym hoodie on over his muscle shirt.

A group were passing in the corridor as you asked him something—his former opponent with one eye swollen shut from the bruises forming around his eye, jaw, and cheeks. Din answered you easily, an automatic response to whatever you were asking as his eyes met his opponents, cold fury and arrogant pride flashing in their depths.

You remained none the wiser as you passed the group, Din’s body protectively placed between you and them. He probably should have told you; he knew you wouldn’t be swayed by it—comfortable in your body as you were, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could protect you from slander and toxicity at the very least—and he planned to. Even if he had to do so in the shadows for now.

For himself, the swelling and bruising on the idiots’ face weren’t the only thing he had to satisfy himself with. He was the one whose cum was still buried inside you, clinging to your thighs and keeping you slick and wet for him to add more to later when he got you back to his place. And as you glanced up at him with a disarming smile after he dropped his hoodie over your shoulders without a thought once you both were outside in the crisp air of the early morning darkness—he secretly hoped that he would be the only one to have that privilege from then on.

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[nakachuchu]

The Lesson | Tao

SYNOPSIS: He teaches you how to use a phone.

READER: noble!female

WORDS: 734

WRITTEN: 02/09/2021

You were Raizel's sister. Specifically, you were his younger sister, but age didn't matter when the two of you had been alive for hundreds of years.

The two had just gotten your first phones and didn't know how to go about it. Frankenstein attempted to teach you two last night, and while Raizel had gotten a good enough hold on it, you still didn't quite understand.

"So this is what it does?" you questioned, looking at the phone in Tao's hand.

You had asked him to teach about technology, knowing how well-versed he was.

"Can't we do this at home?" Tao questioned, eyes glancing around at the students who were watching you two.

"How come?"

"People may get the wrong idea," he answered.

You stared at him for a moment before tapping the phone. "Teach me now."

He sighed. "All right."

He first tried to teach you about texting. It was tough and took most of the lunch break, but you didn't mind.

You were the type of person who enjoyed learning and you decided you could go one day without lunch.

You knew Frankenstein would make you an after school snack if you requested one so you never worried about the food intake.

"It's time for class," said Tao.

You frowned for a moment, snatching the phone from his hand. "I'm expecting another lesson once we get home."

Before he could respond, you were already walking off to class, joining up with Raizel and his friends.

During class, you were only paying half-attention. You decided you liked Tao in that split moment, but as a comrade, of course.

Both you and Raizel were strangers to love in terms of courting. You knew love for family, but you never experienced love with another man.

By the time you got home, you felt peckish. You didn't need human food to survive, but you liked how it tasted.

"Frankenstein, can you make me a snack?" you requested.

"Of course, Mistress Y/N."

"Can you bring it to Tao's room? I'll be up there," you informed.

"Tao's room?" he repeated.

"That's correct," you said as you turned around and walked to Tao's room.

You knocked and waited for a response before entering his room, noticing how dark it was and that the only light came from screens.

"I've come for another lesson," you said, holding out your phone to him.

He slid a chair out for you to sit on and began his beginner's lesson for texting. The two of you were close together, arms touching.

You thought nothing of it, but Tao's head was spinning. He had never been so close to a girl before.

"Your heart rate has increased," you commented, eyes flickering from the phone to his face.

"O-Oh, really?"

"Mhm, I can hear it," you said. "Is something wrong?"

"N-No, nothing's wrong," he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes, leaning closer to his face. "Are you certain? Your heart rate has increased even more."

"W-Well, that's—That's because you're so close to me," he murmured.

"Oh. I'm sorry," you said, leaning back. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. We can end the lesson if you'd like."

"No, I don't—I don't mind. I like talking about technology, so this is fun."

He wasn't lying. He liked talking about technology, but there was never a person to talk to about it.

Plus, you were pretty and smelled good, so it was a new experience for him overall. He only knew one person of his gender who could talk about technology with him, but never a girl.

"I see. I'm having fun too," you said with a soft smile on your face.

If you kept your smile up any longer, he would fall in love with you. He was certain of that. Oh, but your smile didn't fade the whole he stuttered through his lesson about apps and the internet.

You listened with great intent, finding his voice soothing and his lessons easy to understand. You also admired his hands for a while before snapping yourself out of it.

By the time Frankenstein knocked and entered the room with snacks, Tao was dead-set certain he was in love with you.

Frankenstein could notice something different about the two of you, and he couldn't determine if that was good or bad.

Either way, you seemed enthralled by Tao and Tao seemed to be dizzily in love with you.

[bisluthq]

Could you explain to me why Dress has gay connotations? I just don’t see it, and it’s been years now.

Yes I can, because that was the song that lead me down this path of sin and insanity. The year was 2017. With more marbles and brain cells and far less COVID, I sat down to listen to the album Reputation. Perhaps I poured a glass of wine first. I don’t recall. I was but a more or less normal, very casual fan who had for many years enjoyed mocking Taylor for her messy ass personal life, supposed hyperconfessionalism and regular PR kerfuffles. One of my best friends and then roommate used to, as I’ve told y’all before, blast Blank Space as a chaos anthem every time we went out. Fundamentally, though I was too cool for Taylor Swift. I was listening for like... general pop culture knowledge because my brain is a treasure trove of entertainment tidbits and gossip. I got through almost the whole album and then I heard the song Dress and I said, “what the fuck did I just listen to?” And I replayed it and I went, “Damn Blank Space. That was gay.”

And that was the fateful day I came to believe in 2+ muses, Gaylor and, I guess, Kaylor as well because my (albeit surface level but even if I’d dug) Googling brought me mostly to supermodel Karlie Kloss’s door.

So why is this song so gay? I’m not even gonna give y’all the Kaylor reading today we’re literally gonna time capsule to 2017 before I knew any of this shit and when the only thing I knew was THIS SONG WAS GAY.

Our secret moments

In a crowded room

They got no idea

About me and you

Okay so they’re out and about. What secret moments? Like looks and stuff? I mean bold of her to assume nobody knows it’s pretty easy to convince people hets are fucking especially if they’re giving each other meaningful looks and shit. Idk like people whisper and gossip about hets just looking at one another all the time. This seems like she’s a bit overconfident in their sneakiness.

There is an indentation

In the shape of you

Made your mark on me

A golden tattoo

Right so whatever is happening between the speaker and the subject of the song has had an impact on her. This isn’t a thirst anthem. Like the secret moments aren’t because they’re just... looking at one another respectfully and kinda doing that “your place or mine” telepathic conversation. No, Tay’s body has a mark, an indentation from the shape of her lover’s body and the whole thing is a golden tattoo - temporary and removable, presumably, shiny and glittery, but visible to the naked eye. So shit’s already gone down. Friends with benefits maybe?

All of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation

My hands are shaking from holding back from you (ah, ah, ah)

All of this silence and patience, pining and desperately waiting

My hands are shaking from all this (ha, ha, ha, ha)

Nah, not simply friends with benefits. This is forbidden, right? Taylor can’t touch her lover. All they have are these secret stolen looks in the crowded room that absolutely nobody can tell mean anything. That... sounds like “gal pals” to lil gay me. Like she can’t touch her lover because it’ll be too obvious but as long as they don’t touch it won’t seem sexual at all. It’s not just that they’re friends and nobody knows there’s more going on, because why can’t they be friendly then? Why are they sharing secret moments but they can’t come close to the point where her hands are literally shaking from staying away? Why can’t she do that good old link arms with her good guy friend especially if they’re out and tipsy? And then it ends off with orgasm noises because... it’s this song so of course it does.

Say my name and everything just stops

I don't want you like a best friend

Only bought this dress so you could take it off, take it off (ha, ha, ha)

More nails in the coffin of “friends with benefits” and people just don’t know. This person saying her name makes her world stop. This ties into the forbidden vibe but it’s also so innocuous that it does fuck with the “we’re just friends with benefits but I want more” interpretation that a hetsplanation would require. Like this is clearly a lot more. It’s already a lot more. It’s not that she just wants more, this girlie is gone.

And then we get to my gayest line: “I don’t want you like a best friend.” Now I get saying you don’t want to be “just friends” with a guy. I also do get being best friends with a guy. One of my irl besties is Blank Space Chaos Anthem girlie and the other is a (mostly) straight dude. I also have other straight dude friends like my mate who I was trying to rescue from accidentally having to marry a converting girl a few years back. I’m like a (woke) straight dude whisperer tbh because being friends with me is a big win for their woke credibility and let’s be real I’m 1) irreverent and great fun and 2) give great advice on girls.

Now I can guarantee you my proposition to fucking any of my dude friends from besties to casuals would not be “I don’t want you like a best friend.” They’d be like, “my bitch wut? Are you with Pothead YouTube Ex again? Tell her BE GONE WITCH!” And sure, maybe that’s just me. But if was already fucking a dude I can guarantee you the words “I don’t want you like a best friend” would not exit my mouth. It’s not “I don’t want to be friends” or “I don’t only want to be friends” she says “I don’t want you like a best friend.” The implication is there’s an appropriate way to “want” a friend and the way she wants the person she’s speaking to is not like that. It’s a similie, she’s comparing the subject of the song to a best friend and saying this is not like that. Now, explain to me why that level of clarification is important in a fwb setup? You’re trying to make it more serious, I get it. You don’t want to be “just” friends with benefits (and we know they’re already fucking) I get that too. But why the similie?

Why would a dude you’re fucking ever misunderstand and think you want him like a best friend?

Carve your name into my bedpost

Cause I don't want you like a best friend

Only bought this dress so you could take it off, take it off (ha, ha, ha)

I mean again, if we needed clarity on why this is a sex anthem it’s the first line of this song. And she’s saying “have sex with me because I don’t want you like a best friend” again, they’ve already fucked that was established in the first verse. Why would this be stuff you clarify with a dude? Why would a man who is fucking you get the wrong impression and assume you want to be best friends? Not friends. Best friends. Why would he think that?

And then we get the dress line. Now, I know some people are like “I dress up for my boyfriend!” and sure. But let’s all be honest. 85%+ of the time girls of any sexual orientation wear outfits out - and we established this is an out type situation - it’s for other girls to notice their fashion. Come on, you’re not expecting your dude friend to be like, “nice dress, where’d you buy it?” “Oh, this? Hahaha it’s just Zara, they were having a sale. If you hurry you might get one too!” Like there’s something inherently sapphic/feminine about discussions of buying clothing. And come on, fellow queer ladies, clothes is a great way to get a chat going.

In this song, Taylor draws attention to this feminine article of clothing she bought to wear on the night in question and instead of saying “it’s Zara” she goes “I only bought it so you could take it off” - I’m doing an eyebrow wiggle but you can’t see because I’m just text on your screen. Why would you say that to a guy? Like if you did, if you’re that girl why are you holding back from him? Y’all are fucking and you have a massive thing for him. Surely he should know by now? Why is this dress even featuring in the conversation? Like I say bringing up a dress you bought in a conversation about sex feels pretty fucking gay. It’s either a really bizarre and kinda desperate flex which doesn’t really match the sexiness of the song or... it’s gay.

Inescapable

I'm not even going to try

Girl you’ve fucked why is there a point of trying at this stage? Unless you... can’t do this or it feels in some way wrong?

And if I get burned, at least we were electrified

Why the I/we split? Like why is only one of them burned if they were electrified? Sure maybe it’s a fwb thing and he can turn her down for more than sex and friendship but it sounds more like - given the best friends - this is her female friend and she’s maybe uncertain of the other woman’s feelings. This feels - and again we’re not doing a Tay’s personal life reading here - like one of them can be fully destroyed by this but despite that reality they are both lit up and hurt in the process.

I'm spilling wine in the bathtub

You kiss my face and we're both drunk

I mean this isn’t inherently gay it’s just sexy, get it Tay. This sounds hot.

Everyone thinks that they know us

But they know nothing about

All of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation

What do they know about you? Like again we’re not doing the Tay reading thing but like what’s the sekrit? She’s fucking her friend? Why don’t they know anything about this? Surely they can imagine it’s a possibility? Like however unlikely, why does nobody know anything about this?

The next chorus is the same as the one above and I still have no hetsplanation for it. Like especially in the broader context of this, again, very gay song.

Then we get a very straight bridge. It’s like it’s from a different song or was written much later:

Flashback when you met me

Your buzz cut and my hair bleached

Even in my worst times, you could see the best of me

Flashback to my mistakes

My rebounds, my earthquakes

Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth in me

And I woke up just in time

Now I wake up by your side

My one and only, my lifeline

I woke up just in time

Now I wake up by your side

My hands shake, I can't explain this

Aha, ha, ha, ha

Okay but this is a completely different vibe to the... entire song. The rest of the song was about the other person not being sure and that being the issue. “I don’t want you like a best friend.” So why: “I woke up just in time”? Like “if I get burned at least we were electrified” but then... “I woke up just in time” - is the rest of the song like a weird nightmare? That’s not, to me, enough of an explanation. She spends the whole song in sexy anxiety pining after someone who cares about where and why she bought her dress and then she’s like “you’re everything to me” - it doesn’t make sense.

The rest of the song is the chorus again. As I’ve said, I don’t see a hetsplanation for it.

This is a gay song. The bridge isn’t and the line about the bathtub isn’t inherently. But the rest of this song is gay af.

[lovelylogans]

debutante

previous chapter / chapter three / next chapter

part of the wyliwf verse.

warnings: mentions of transphobia, food mentions, alcohol, kissing, someone makes an approach as if they’re going to start a fistfight but they do not, please let me know if i’ve missed anything else!

pairings: logince, moxiety

words: 15,031

notes: the spanish is from an online translator, so if it’s terribly wrong, please let me know! also, the emails in this are fake, please don’t try to email them, pretty sure they don’t exist lol. also the wine advice is from my general family's ideas about the value of wine, but the pretentious way you're meant to drink wine was taught to me when i was in italy by some other students who went to sommelier class, a few days before i posted the first chapter of wyliwf, so

⁂

patton’s lingering over one last (decaf, darn virgil) mug of cocoa/coffee when the bell over the door jangles. 

patton turns to glance over his shoulder and automatically brightens when he sees that it’s logan.

“hey!” he says eagerly. “i hope everything at the slange’s went okay, and even if it didn’t, i have masterfully wrangled virgil into allowing you to select a sweet treat of your choosing, or we can stop by lucy’s, if you want, and—oh!”

because logan had made a beeline straight for the counter, and has wrapped his arms around patton, burying his face in his shoulder.

“oh,” patton says softly, because—because logan’s not much of a hugger, and if he’s hugging him now... 

patton immediately wraps his arms around logan in kind, rubbing a hand up and down his back as he does so. logan’s taller than him—patton distantly wonders if that will ever not be strange to him—and so he has to duck his chin to place his face into the space between patton’s neck and shoulder. patton squeezes tighter, and logan shivers a little bit.

“oh, hey, buddy, are you okay?”

logan nods, but he doesn’t say anything, lingering with his face pressed into patton’s sweater for a couple seconds, taking a couple deep breaths, shoulders relaxing slowly, oh so painstakingly slowly, before he emerges, looking slightly embarrassed, in a way that feels distinctly teenager-y.

“sorry.”

“you don’t gotta apologize for hugging me, kiddo,” patton says, frowning, reaching out to cup logan’s cheek. “is everything okay?”

“yeah,” he says. “just—” and he awkwardly reaches out to poke patton’s shoulder. “y’know. you’re my dad.”

“well, yeah,” patton says, still a little confused. “super thrilled i’m your dad, lo, have been for sixteen years and—how many days has it been since your birthday?”

logan’s lips twitch up into a little smile, and he settles into the chair next to him.

“d’you wanna talk about it?” patton says.

logan shakes his head, and he says very quietly, “not here.”

patton nods, absorbing this, but before he can say anything else, virgil comes out from the kitchen, rag and spray bottle in hand, ready to wipe down the counter.

“oh, hey, you’re back!” virgil says. “uh, your dad’s been taking decaf most of the night in order to get you a sweet, if you want one, even though nutrition doesn’t work like it’s split across two people—”

“can i get a brownie?” logan asks. “no offense, virgil, i just—kind of want to get home.”

“that’s cool,” virgil says, not at all offended. “one brownie, to go, comin’ right up.”

and so virgil plucks a brownie from the pastry case with a pair of tongs, setting it in a wax paper bag, before sealing that inside of a virgil’s diner to-go bag, passing it across the counter. “see you tomorrow for breakfast?”

“breakfast,” patton confirms, and leans forward, cheerfully demanding “kiss!”

virgil obligingly leans forward the rest of the way, giving patton a quick peck. patton passes over enough money to cover his meal and a tip, before he gently taps logan on the shoulder. 

“let’s go, then, the couch is calling my name,” patton says, like he isn’t even a little worried about what could have prodded logan into hugging him out of the blue.

they step out into the night, the bell jangling in harmony with virgil’s goodbye. patton tucks himself a little more snugly into his jacket—spring may be approaching, but winter wasn’t letting go without a fight, so he was stuck with steel-gray cold mornings and too-early sunsets for a while longer—looking over to logan, who’s backlit by the street lamps and the fairy lights dotting a few of the buildings around town. 

his face doesn’t give anything away. it almost never does, but patton studies his face anyways; stiff and unyielding, eyes sharp and looking out for any oncoming traffic. patton wishes a little bit that logan’s face would at least give him a little hint as to what happened at the slange’s, but logan just looks like he normally does, if a little stressed, and that could be for any number of reasons—school, or tiny bureaucratic roadblocks for the debutante ball, or a fight with dee, or just something to do with dee in general.

either way, patton jerks his head in the usual direction they walk to get home, and logan nods, falling into step beside him, the pair of them mirroring each other’s posture; hands in coat pockets, faces ducked to shield from any stray gusts of wind, their pace the same, the way it only ever is when you’re very used to walking to the same places with the same person.

they walk in silence for a couple minutes before logan takes a deep breath.

“can i ask you a morality question?”

patton smiles, just a little—journalistic morality and ethics questions are always interesting conversations with logan, as patton’s innate moral compass works well with logan’s encyclopedic knowledge of the history of journalism, so they tend to spend almost hours talking about stuff like this, hypothetical situations they can puzzle over together. plus, it’s a nice little insight into something logan’s so passionate about; it’s something they can do together that increases patton’s appreciation for logan’s talent.

“‘course you can!”

logan chews at the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, getting his question in order, before he says, “let’s say i’m interviewing someone. a peer.”

“yes.”

“and, not due to any prodding from said peer, i come into knowledge of something from… that peer’s family.”

ah. okay. so this might not be a hypothetical question.

“yes,” patton says cautiously.

“and if a previously established… editor,” logan says, edging carefully around it. “already knows sensitive information about said peer that was previously, ah. decided against publishing. if the reporter wished to ask advice, should they ask the editor, or keep said knowledge to themselves?”

patton rolls the question around in his head, removing the hypothetical-ness of it all. so, if patton knows sensitive information about dee that he’s already keeping secret, and if logan found out something else, then is it okay for logan to tell patton about it?

if patton knows one thing about dee, it’s that he’s secretive. the fact that dee has secrets isn’t surprising. the part that’s surprising him is that logan feels the need to get his dad’s opinion on the secret. so that probably means it’s a pretty serious secret—logan’s a smart kid, he knows what to do in a lot of situations, so if he feels like he needs patton’s help...

“well,” he says cautiously. “um. i guess it depends on the knowledge itself. is it going to hurt d—um, the peer, if no one knows? is it something that puts them in danger?”

“...no,” logan says. “i—ah, the reporter doesn’t think it will put the peer in physical danger.”

patton frowns. “so it would be more of an emotional distress situation.”

“yes,” logan says, relieved. “yes, exactly. it would put the peer in emotional distress. it causes the peer emotional distress.”

“currently?” patton says, frowning deeper.

“yes.”

“is the peer alone in knowing this? do they have other people to talk to about this in their personal life, not just the reporter and their editor?”

“technically,” logan says and frowns. “the peer and their family… employs people. so, the staff are aware of the situation, but they aren’t—friends.”

“the peer’s family?” patton says, glancing. “is that an option, for them to talk to their family?”

logan’s face deepens into a scowl. “it seems like that is not an option, given the information that the reporter has learned about the peer’s family.”

patton sighs, because, well. he probably should have expected that. dee’s dad was never particularly kind, but. he’d been hoping things like marriage and fatherhood might have changed him.

“um,” logan says, and gives patton a sidelong glance. “i thought a potential solution could be… offering the peer a space to come in and sl—um. interview. in the presence of the editor who already knows things. because the reporter feels out of their depth, but—but maybe the peer will decide to discuss things with the editor, who seems to have more expertise in this… area.”

the sleepover text, patton realizes. logan bringing dee over doesn’t just mean more planning, or an easy place for dee to stay after Get Cultured day; it’ll mean that patton will be there, too, and if they all get to talking, like last time, and dee lets something slip, like last time, or (more preferably to patton) if dee decides that patton seems like an adult he can trust with information, if patton seems like an adult who can give out sound advice...

“that seems like a great choice for the reporter to have made,” patton says, smiling at logan. “not divulging any confidences, but offering a way for the peer to decide if they want further support or not. agreed. that was a good moral exercise.” 

logan nods. “on a completely unrelated note, i texted you earlier—”

“oh, yeah, totally unrelated,” patton agrees, winking. “but—yeah, that sounds good to me! totally down for that, it’s been a while since you’ve had a slumber party. have you already asked dee over?”

“no, not yet,” logan says, and that line of conversation has carried them to the front door of their house, where patton steps ahead of logan to unlock the door and let him in, flicking on the light as logan divests himself of his backpack and his jacket.

“well, you can go ahead and do that, i may as well mention now that you don’t need to get some gloves, i ordered some,” patton says, “so we can cross that off the list. um, your escort—what’s her name again?”

“poppy,” logan says.

“right, poppy,” patton says. “one, do you know if she’s coming to Get Cultured day, and two, does she have a tux?”

“i’ll text her and ask,” logan says. simultaneously, they collapse on the couch. logan makes no move to text her. instead, he frees his brownie from virgil’s, breaks it in half, and hands one half to patton. patton, grinning, accepts it.

“so,” patton says, taking a bite of the brownie. “how was the slange’s house, anyway?”

logan turns wide, beleaguered eyes to patton. “rich people are ridiculous.”

patton snorts and tucks his legs up underneath him, propping his head on his hand. “tell me about it.”

⁂

dee’s eyebrows arch at him as logan opens up his lunchbox. logan’s had his lunchbox for a few years, so it’s not quite as pristine as it was when he first bought it, after a lot of time spent in backpacks with heavy textbooks, and dropped on the ground, and shoved into lockers, but logan still likes the design of it—it’s black, with white sketchings of chemical formulas.

logan glances at his ziplocked jam sandwich and back up at dee. “what?”

“i don’t know how you can eat the same thing every day,” dee says.

“just for lunch,” logan says, removing a clementine. “and the fruits and vegetables change seasonally. dessert depends on what grocery store sales are on. what do you have for lunch, anyway?”

dee, wordlessly, proceeds to remove a gold-foil-wrapped something from his lunchbox, a black yeti-branded one, and logan eyes it.

“that’s excessive,” he tells dee.

dee shrugs. “yellow and gold are my favorite colors. shortly followed by black.”

“what, not brown?” logan says, eyeing his cape. “also, do you have a special understanding to flout uniform rules? ted grayson got pink-slipped because he wasn’t wearing a jacket or a sweater, how do you get away with—” he gestures vaguely to the bowler hat, the cape, the yellow gloves.

dee’s smile flits across his face so fast that logan thinks he might have imagined it, before he pulls out his phone.

“if you ever come to my parents’ house, i’ll show you my pink slip collection,” dee says decisively. he hands over the phone to logan, and logan obligingly looks.

it’s a wall full of filled-out pink slips.

“it’s the most precious art piece i own,” dee says in an officious tone, taking his phone back.

“how have you not been expelled,” logan breathes out disbelievingly.

dee’s smile is much less fleeting, this time, and he says, “anyways, speaking of clothes. you know a tailor, right? i need one for the ball.”

“well, tailor,” logan says with a shrug, beginning to peel his clementine. “it’s just virgil, but i could ask him. he’s doing a lot of dresses for sideshire high kids, is yours very complicated in terms of alterations?”

dee looks at him, before he says in a measured tone, “it fits perfectly fine, i just think the fabric at the shoulders needs reinforcing.”

logan blinks at him. “the shoulders?”

dee stares at him, for a few seconds, before he says in a purposefully casual tone, “yes, i had to look at a binder full of designs and i thought this one would be the best, what with the binder and all, but it turns out it needs a little bit of cover. some of the lace at the shoulder’s torn already, i need to make sure that’s hidden.”

logan promptly feels like an idiot—dee would need alterations to ensure that his secret’s kept, and if he’s wearing a binder and has a lacy shoulder, that would surely show—

“of course,” logan says. “i can ask him later. should i… tell him? about the… shoulder?”

dee chews at his lip for a moment.

“virgil’s my dad’s partner,” logan adds, as a means of explanation as to why he’s the tailor, but also to somehow pass along that virgil is supportive of trans people. “he’s been a bit puzzled by brick’s dress—brick’s nonbinary, they’re a year or so younger than us—but i think virgil’s managed to figure out how to customize the dress to best help brick feel comfortable. that was the biggest alteration, for a while, all the rest of the ones he’s doing are mostly hemming and the like. other than mine. mine used to be my dad’s, and he was quite a bit shorter than me at the time.”

dee chews at his lip a little harder.

“i’d tell only virgil,” logan says, and tacks on hastily, “about the, ah. torn lace at the shoulder. you don’t need to worry about that getting out to anyone else.”

“...i suppose you can,” dee says eventually. “as long as he’s discreet.”

“of course he is,” logan says. “you can let me know if you change your mind, though, i’ll probably tell him after dinner tonight. anyways. if we’re already talking about the debutante ball, shall we go over any of the more recent developments?”

dee nods, and the conversation turns to less fraught topics.

well. perhaps a little bit fraught, because if this blows up in their faces, logan still isn’t entirely sure of what repercussions could face him, but he’s sure there are repercussions.

poppy less casually enters dee and logan’s murmured conversation during lunch about the last touches before Get Cultured Day, and more quite literally shoulders her way in.

“so,” she barks, setting down her lunch tray with a clack, “what are the registration numbers looking like?”

logan looks at dee, and dee shrugs at him, tilting his head ever so slightly so his bowler hat covers his yellow eye, as if to say, you’re her partner, you’re less of a social threat than me, you handle it.

logan turns to poppy, and instead of saying any of that, asks, “aren’t you a freshman? why are you at sophomore lunch?”

she gives him a look, before she says, “so. numbers?”

“it looks like the final number of our participants is at forty-six,” logan says, “barring any last-minute entries, of course.”

poppy looks impressed for a moment, before she says, “i’ve gotten my tux, by the way. what’s your dress like?”

logan pulls up a photograph on his phone—the dress on the mannequin, not on himself—and tells her, “it’s still being altered, but it should be done by the end of the weekend.”

“you have your gloves, your fan, all of it?”

“yes. heels, too.”

poppy nods, and pulls out her planner, ticking talk to logan about dress off her list—logan spots bribery? and namedrop logan to dr. kramschissel and ask opinion on pitch as part of a sub-list underneath it—before she pulls out a manila folder and hands it to him.

“what’re these?” he says.

“design plans, new letterheads, and font families i think we should start using,” she says briskly. “oh, and a few new ways to update the website. that thing hasn’t been updated since before the dot com bubble burst, and we need to stay up-to-date on the latest design trends in the newspaper circle to be able to win a pacemaker, or at the very least continue the all-americans.”

(hey, a definition break from a former staffer here: all-american awards are distributed through the nspa, or the national scholastic press association, and the jea, or journalism education association. an all-american yearbook or newspaper is the highest rating given in critiques; it covers approximately the top five percent of high school and college publications in the entire country. the pacemaker is the highest award a high school publication can receive. these awards are basically high-school versions of pulitzers. and, uh, not to flex, but two-time all-american winner here!)

logan opens the folder, and his eyebrows arch at the infographic example greeting him. it looks incredibly professional, like an image in a magazine, with a color palette pleasing to the eye and simultaneously incredibly simple to read.

“so you’re a designer, then,” logan says; he’s dabbled in adobe photoshop and illustrator, and he knows better than most how long it takes to seem even slightly competent in illustrator, and by the looks of this, poppy is incredibly competent.

“artistic hobbies are proven to improve job performance, ease stress, and can improve memory and cognitive function,” poppy says matter-of-factly. “there’s no front-runner for design editor your senior year, which means there’ll be a gap, and if i prove early now that i know my stuff in design i can get an editor position my junior year. which means i put even more of an impressive resume forward to secure editor in chief my senior year. also, the style guide hasn’t been updated at this school in eight years. i want to write the newest edition.”

“...right,” logan says, and gestures vaguely with the manila folder. “have you shown these to mel?”

“obviously,” she says. “she said i had to wait until i got on staff, but my enthusiasm is apparently very encouraging. anyways, editor-in-chief gets a say in who the other editors are, so i figured i’d submit a portfolio early. also, there are pitches back there. you’ve already had three contribution bylines and i want your opinion on my chances of getting at least one this year.”

she takes the folder from him, flips past a couple pages, before she slides over another infographic, centered with empty boxes for photographs, placeholder text for an article. she’s designed an entire double truck layout. (double trucks are two facing pages in a newspaper; these are usually reserved for photo stories or large events. these are double trucks.)

DEBUTANTE HEADLINE HERE, it screams at the top of the page.

logan’s eyes flick across the table to dee, whose face is entirely blank, even though logan knows that an entire story about the debutante debacle would just draw more attention to what they threw the debutante event to cover.

“you’d have to be interviewed,” poppy says. logan cringes.

“i know, i know, you’re used to being the one who holds the pen,” poppy says. “but—”

“tell you what,” dee cuts in, voice smooth. “i know a way to pitch this to mel that benefits all of us, and won’t require poor logan to have to undergo the interview hell he’s used to submitting others to.”

“hey,” logan says mildly, without any heat.

poppy turns her attention to him, and dee digs out a pen, flipping it smoothly over his fingers.

“may i?” he says, gesturing to the mock-up.

poppy takes it from logan’s hands and passes it to him.

“right,” dee says, and draws a large circle around the infographic, jotting a p beside it, then circling one of the articles (headlined as DRESS SHOPPING PIECE?) and putting l beside it, along with the PARTICIPANT COLUMN, which also gets an l. DEBUTANTE STORY HEADLINE, he circles, and places a d beside it.

“there,” dee says matter-of-factly, capping the pen. “we all get actual bylines, not just contribution ones. logan can write a column and a dress piece, because he knows the person who’s altering sideshire dresses, and i can write the debutante piece, because i’ve been integral to the process, but i’m not as close with the organizers as logan is, which clears him of any bias. he’ll write the column about why the whole thing started. you can get credit for graphics and layout. we’d only need a staffer to take photographs.”

poppy’s eyes dart to him. “you’d think she’d take an entire double-truck by students who aren’t staffers yet?”

dee shrugs, spreading his gloved hands. “the worst she can do is say no. plus—” he slides the paper back, and takes a photograph of it with his phone, tapping a few buttons. “there. now we’ve got proof we came up with it first, and you and i can pitch a fit if they take the idea without involving us.”

“not me?” logan says.

“obviously not,” dee says, “you’re the favorite, which means you’ll be editor-in-chief once you keep that up, and i can benefit from nepotism.”

“i won’t be—”

“okay,” dee says with an eye-roll, “and who else are you going to trust to be your managing editor, louise? please.”

logan hesitates, because, well, he has a point. dee is by far the most capable person in their grade, aside from logan, of course. louise would be best qualified for entertainment editor, or perhaps photo, and then he shakes himself before he starts mentally assigning every proficient journalism student in their grade to editor positions.

“it wouldn’t be nepotism, you’d be qualified,” he says pointlessly.

dee tsks, patting logan’s hand. “of course not. mcmaster, buzz off for a moment, while i finish up this chat with logan, and then i’ll walk you to the journalism lab and help refine your pitch on the way, if you like.”

poppy’s eyes sharpen. “what, pitch it now?”

“no time like the present,” dee says. “and anyways, they’ll probably want a photographer there as we learn all the dances and curtsies this weekend, so—”

“right!” poppy says, “right. i’ll be right back” and she darts off, forgetting her folder, backpack, and lunch entirely.

logan watches her go, and says, resigned, “she really is going to be one of my editors, isn’t she.”

“editor in chief works closest with managing, copy, photo, and design, so she’ll practically be your right hand,” dee says gleefully.

“yours too, if you’re going to be my managing, so don’t look all smug because i will delegate if you make some kind of comment,” logan says, and dee grins at him—an actual, real grin, not a smirk or a smug little smile, a grin, like he’s happy.

and so of course logan has to ruin it by saying, “oh, i’ve been meaning to ask—would you like to come over and spend the night on Get Cultured day?”

the grin vanishes. dee actually looks somewhat alarmed. “what?”

“come over and spend the night,” logan repeats, trying his best to maintain a normal tone even though dee is looking at him as if he’s said come over and we’ll sacrifice you in an attempt to perfectly re-enact aztec ceremonies. “we could make sure everything’s done, then, and you could bring your dress so virgil could alter it and it could go home with in the morning, already done.”

he waits a beat, and when the alarmed look on dee’s face doesn’t abate, he adds, “it could be practice for a work night at the newspaper,” as if that is at all helpful.

“a sleepover?” dee says.

“well, yes,” logan says. 

dee continues to stare.

“you can just say no,” logan says, perhaps a bit snippy, because dee’s acting like logan’s invited him away to get murdered. he is trying to help.

“at your house?”

“yes, at my house,” logan says. 

poppy comes back; she’s managed to pull her hair back into a neat french braid that shows off the sharpness of her cheekbones, the intensity in her eyes. 

“all right, i’m ready for the pitch,” poppy says decisively. “i think we should open with pointing out how this feature wouldn’t exist without you two, but i’m the one who came up with the idea.”

dee ignores her. “are you sure?”

“yes.”

“just you and me,” dee checks, wary.

“well, and my dad, but that’s a given.”

dee absorbs this, still looking rather spooked, before he says decisively, “fine.”

“fine?” logan repeats, arching his eyebrows.

“i mean—yes,” dee says. “yes, i’ll come.”

“all right, then,” logan says. “we can text about details.”

dee clears his throat, and offers his arm for poppy, which she takes with a confused look on her face.

“poppy,” he says, as they’re exiting the cafeteria. “i don’t suppose you’ve been to any slumber parties lately, have you?”

“oh, my mom usually pays me to stay at parties until ten-thirty,” poppy says cheerfully. “she thinks socialization is important and i’m not enough of a people person, so she keeps sending me to parties, so she has to keep paying me, which means i can save up so i apply to the summer science program through mit this summer. mom wants me to stay and do some kind of internship at a beauty company, but how is that going to further my career in cancer research? once i get in she can’t just keep me from going, it’s mit.”

great. his first sleepover, ever, and his only options for in-person advice are the person who invited him to the sleepover and the girl who has her life planned out through her forties likely down to what she’ll eat for lunch every day.

“fantastic,” dee says through gritted teeth.

⁂

From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

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

CC: laurenpatrikis@chilton.edu

Subject: Debutante Spread

I’ll admit, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten quite so ambitious a pitch from three underclassmen, and never one spearheaded by a freshman. I absolutely love the idea, and if you stumble across a spare ticket for an adult to witness this socially conscious display, please feel free to let me know. I’ve CC’d Lauren Patrikis on this email—she’s a staffer on the Franklin who’s free on Saturday, and she’s very talented with a camera. Feel free to exchange numbers and text about other photography opportunities that you think would help benefit the spread.

Poppy: please put your infographics on a flash drive and drop it off in the lab so we have the highest resolution to upload. Thank you very much for coming up with this idea; I’m all the more excited to have you in class.

Dee: I think that about 1000 words should be the goal for the main piece, but we can discuss length when you come by. After school still works for you, correct?

Logan: Please confirm a time to come and see me so we can discuss the more specific story pitches for the two columns you’re doing.

I very much look forward to what you three get up to in your years in the Chilton journalism program. I have a feeling this is just the beginning of all the unique ideas you’ll have, and I eagerly await the opportunity to edit them.

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

 From: logansanders@chilton.edu

To: laurenpatrikis@chilton.edu

CC: dslange@chilton.edu; poppymcmaster@chilton.edu

Subject: Directions for Lessons

Hello,

The directions to the dance studio we’re holding lessons in are attached. Please let me know if you have any further questions about navigating to Sideshire, or about the event in general. I can get you the phone numbers of the teachers, if you’d like them. Would you mind sending me your number, as well?

Regards,

Logan Sanders

 From: logansanders@chilton.edu

To: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

Subject: Pitch meeting

Hello,

I’d be available during sophomore study hall, if that would work for you? If not, I can stop by after school with Dee.

Regards, 

Logan Sanders

 From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

To: logansanders@chilton.edu

Subject: Re: Pitch Meeting

Logan,

I’ve got a feeling that you’re the de facto leader of this little trio, even though the current spread is quite clearly Poppy’s brainchild, and I must say, this is very promising in regards to your future on the paper. I’m sure you’ll do exceptional work with this.

Sophomore study hall works great. You’ll be peeking in on the paper, but I have a feeling you won’t mind that at all. 

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

(P.S.—Me pairing Lauren on this project is entirely out of selfish curiosity. Take from that what you will.)

⁂

patton is not sure if he has ever been more awkward eating a cherry danish in his whole life. he supposes that’s a pretty narrow gap to clear, but really, today has blown it out of the water.

most of the time whenever he’s around isadora, he feels like anything he does is dreadfully awkward, so it isn’t like this is news.

they’re together in isadora’s office, a small room just beside the studio; patton had offered to pick up supplies from remy’s café, so he’d brought her a tea and gotten a coffee for himself, and a little tray of assorted pastries. patton had grabbed the danish primarily because it was closest to him, and because isadora had already laid claim to a cruller that she’s been slowly picking at.

he winces a little as isadora takes a sip of her tea, pinky up, more preoccupied with the list in front of her. seriously. he went through years of etiquette training, he knows every fiddly little rule of silverware, he knows the various subconscious messages you can send while selecting a menu for the evening, and yet attempting to eat (or talk, or walk, or do most things) in the presence of isadora’s effortless, intimidating grace, it, well.

patton’s not the most refined person (anymore) but he knows he’s refined enough that he shouldn’t feel so buffoonish in isadora’s presence. he swallows his bite of danish, chasing it quickly with a sip of coffee.

“have you done the viennese waltz before?” he asks, just to break the silence.

“twice,” she says idly, turning the page. “well enough that i can remember the choreography and teach it to the children.”

“oh, good!” patton says. “good, good—um, not that you wouldn’t be able to pick it up really fast if you’d never done it before, since you’re obviously very good at dance being, um, being a dance teacher. and also a professional ballerina! even though i suppose ballerinas don’t really do waltzes, unless it’s, like, the waltz of the flowers or something, so i guess ballerinas do do waltzes! sometimes! what do i know, you know?” and immediately takes another sip of coffee because oh my god, patton, shut UP, he always gets like this whenever he and ms. prince have a one-on-one conversation, she’s so quiet and patton can’t help but word vomit because sometimes the silence gets agonizing.

isadora politely ignores him. patton takes another bite of his cherry danish and chews with fervor, because this way he won’t start blabbering about whatever comes to mind.

“all right,” isadora says at last, closing the handbook. “so, we’ll need to ensure that they know how to do the st. james bow, the viennese waltz, and the circle dance with the fans. that will all be my jurisdiction to lead, with you helping demonstrate, of course.”

“of course,” patton says, nodding like a bobblehead.

“—which means you shall take lead on the proper walk, proper dinner manners, and general courtesy, comportment, and etiquette.”

patton keeps nodding.

isadora takes another sip of tea and says, “so, we have approximately thirty-five kids coming, is that correct?”

“logan’s checking, but some of the chilton kids are being sent to other prep courses by their parents,” patton says, and frowns. “so—maybe a little less than that number, really. i can text him, if you want? i should text him—”

“that’s acceptable,” she says, waving him off. “he’ll be home from school soon enough, we can ask then.”

patton freezes, phone already in hand, before meekly puts it aside. 

“i think we should begin as one big group,” isadora says, “and demonstrate the bows and curtsies, then we can split off into groups to cover the fans and the walk…”

and so patton mostly just listens and takes notes—he does not want to forget any part of this process—on how isadora thinks the teaching should be done. honestly, it’s a miracle she agreed to do it when roman pitched it to her, because one, she’s a teacher and he has basically no experience in teaching teenagers other than his own very curious kid, two, the studio is basically the only space big enough to hold all of them at once, and three, isadora has come up with a way to do this in such an organized way that’s almost militaristic. he’s very grateful that she’s agreed to this, and he tells her so once she’s finished informing him of the general outline she’s come up with for Get Cultured Day.

she nods in acknowledgement and says, “well, roman’s quite excited about the whole ordeal.”

patton grins at her. “i heard about their date—sounds like his dress is a definite statement piece.”

isadora huffs softly, shaking her head; she hasn’t yet put her hair up in a severe bun for her afternoon lessons, like she almost always does, though she’s in a pair of stretchy leggings and a loose sweatshirt that tumbles down to her mid-thighs. her hair’s in a ponytail, with a few black strands framing her face. it’s one of the only times that patton’s seen her hair out of a bun, though he’s never seen it down. he’d had no idea that her hair was so long—he guesses that it might come down to her ribs, maybe even her waist.

“roman wants everything to be a statement,” she says. “he got his dramatics from his father.”

“ah, but he makes it work, doesn’t he?” patton says. “both did, from what i hear, if a bit differently.”

“more than a bit,” isadora says. 

“he wouldn’t be our roman without it, though, would he?” patton points out.

isadora’s lips twitch with what might be a smile.

“no,” isadora says. “no, he certainly wouldn’t.”

“wouldn’t have him any other way,” patton says. “love that kid, i’m thrilled to see what he’s gonna do—not just with the debutante ball, either.”

she’s certainly smiling now. “that’s the wonderful thing about children, isn’t it? watching them grow. like you’ve done with my boy, and i with yours.”

patton smiles, too, a little bittersweet. “gosh. we’re presenting them as adults to society. seems like yesterday roman was putting logan in a dress for a fashion show for the pair of us.”

“oh, yes,” she says, “and roman nearly dropped logan because he wanted to have a grand finale stunt he’d seen the older dancers do, i remember it well.”

patton snorts a little; after the initial rush of paternal panic when logan had clung to roman’s neck and it looked like they were both going down, it had been kind of funny to see logan, eyeshadow smeared over his eyes and lipstick messy on his mouth squawking in protest at roman even as roman had attempted to do the stunt again, even as isadora was telling him all about the importance of recovering from mistakes smoothly on stage. 

“they’ve come a long way from a fashion show for the pair of us.”

“that they have,” isadora agrees, and offers an expression to patton that is the softest he’s ever seen from her. “i’m very fond of your boy, as well.”

patton can’t help but smile—he always smiles when he hears about people loving logan, because it’s logan, his son, of course he’s happy about logan being well-loved.

“we did a good job with them,” patton says musingly. “the weird parenting pool we’ve made—you, me, virgil. we turned out two amazing boys.”

“that we did,” she agrees. “and it looks like they’ll stick with each other. it’s rare for a young love to last so long, i know, but—”

“but they’ve been stuck on each other since they were five,” patton says, with a nod of agreement, and holds his breath as he reaches over to gently squeeze isadora’s hand, moving slowly enough that she could move away if she wanted to. she does not swat him away, so, success! “should we do the stereotypical thing now and start planning their wedding? i think logan and roman would be lovely spring grooms, personally, but i’m not totally set on season yet.”

isadora’s letting out that soft huff once again when the studio door opens, and patton turns to see who it is.

roman, his red backpack slung over one shoulder, him bracing the strap with one hand to unceremoniously dump it on the nearest bench, and scrolling through his phone with the other.

“¡mamá!” he calls.“¿qué peluca crees que se vería—?”

he pauses in his tracks, blinking, before he grins sheepishly at patton.

“hi, pa—mr. sanders,” he corrects. patton can feel the force of the arched eyebrow that ms. prince was giving him to make him correct himself.

“hi, roman,” patton says; he doesn’t know much spanish, so he isn’t really sure what roman’s asking. “how was school?”

“oh! good, good,” roman says. “the cheer squad finally figured out what uniform we’re gonna wear at the next game, and also they finally decided who’s officially escorting who—sasha’s mine, i’ve got a list i was gonna send to logan—”

“do i know sasha?” isadora asks.

“nah, i don’t think she ever took classes here,” roman says. “she’s one of the kids who comes in from the farm towns nearby, y’know?”

isadora nods, noting this, and roman hesitates, looking between patton and isadora, before—

“do you think you can keep a surprise a secret?” roman asks patton.

patton considers this. “well, i can definitely try my best!”

“oh, good, i want opinions,” roman bursts out and rushes over, showing off two pictures on his phone.

patton blinks at them; they look like two people, from what he can tell, with big hair and a lot of makeup, maybe a bit familiar, and if he could get a closer look ohhhh he knows where he recognizes them now.

“so, looking at wig alone, which one?” roman asks, and patton glances at roman, before he looks back at the pictures, and back at roman.

“you’re doing drag?”

“uh-huh,” roman says brightly. “as soon as i got my dress, i realized, like, i have to go full camp with it, you know? it’s this massive eighties monstrosity, i adore it. it’s definitely something a drag queen would wear, and i’ve been looking at makeup tutorials, and—”

“—and i was a private instructor for a few queens back in the day, so i know enough of the process to help,” isadora says, as if this is an utterly casual thing to say and not the most wild job he could imagine for her.

“you did?!”

“mm,” isadora says, sparing him a slightly bemused look, as if his surprise is completely unnecessary.

“i know, i had the same reaction,” roman says to patton. “my mom, isa-diva prince! anyways. from someone who’s seen a lot of drag queens, and someone who has been to a debutante ball—?”

“oh, yeah, i’ve attended one,” patton says, “i just never actually, y’know, debuted. but, um, lemme see the options again—?”

patton, as one might guess, does not know anything about wigs. he doesn’t have to, either, because isadora tuts at roman for one of his options, which is apparently subpar, and her son is going to make his drag debut fabulous—

roman, grinning, sends the link to isadora so that she can order the wig for him, drops a kiss on her cheek then patton’s, and calls, “i’m gonna go change and warm up to get ready for the baby’s class soon! you gotta remember to put in calls to get me an actual fairy drag mother!” and darts up the stairs, the door closing behind him.

patton turns to her, smiling. “drag?”

“drag,” isadora agrees. “he’s been watching some shows for long enough, i’ve been expecting him to at least express a little interest in attempting it for himself. and now he is absolutely exhilarated by the concept of wearing drag to an event that is so traditionally heteronormative and surprising everyone. well, except for you, now, i suppose.”

“everyone?”

“everyone,” isadora confirms. “he hasn’t told logan, or virgil. he wants to see their reactions.”

patton laughs, a little bit. “that seems… very roman.”

isadora huffs softly and agrees, “remember what we said about dramatics?”

⁂

New Groupchat

Logan Sanders, Dee Slange, Poppy McMaster, 1 Unknown Number

Logan Sanders: I’ve taken the liberty of putting everyone involved in the debutante spread for the newspaper into one group text. This is Logan Sanders.

Unknown Number: Hi, Logan, I’m Lauren! We’ve got a friend in common, you’re in the GSA with my boyfriend Kai. 

Dee Slange: dee slange here

Poppy McMaster: I’m Poppy McMaster. 

Logan Sanders: I was wondering where I’d heard your name before. Yes, Kai’s talked about you.

Groupchat has been titled: Franklin Debutante Spread Team

Lauren Patrikis: Okay, so, I think I should get to the debutante lessons about fifteen or so minutes early, just to get my camera set up with the lighting and to get a general idea of the space. Do either of you have ideas on who you want to focus on in your pieces, so I have an idea of who to photograph?

Dee Slange: i’m going to interview ana and janey definitely, plus logan’s dad and the ballet teacher, but other than that, I haven’t settled on who I’m getting quotes from

Lauren Patrikis: Ana and Janey, got it. Logan?

Logan Sanders: One of my pieces is a column from me to explain where the idea came from, and the other one will be focused on dress shopping, but Kram said she got photos for that already.

Lauren Patrikis: Oh yeah lol I went with a few of the other Clairs to get their dresses, so I got that taken care of. Good thing they wanted me there for Instagram otherwise we’d be depending on student-submitted cellphone shots Lauren Patrikis: Not that those aren’t nice, but. You know. Gives off a certain vibe.

Dee Slange: yeah, really convenient for us that you’ve withdrawn your participation into the ball and turned it into something for our direct gain

Logan Sanders: You’re a Clair?

Dee Slange: don’t be obvious logan Dee Slange: ofc she’s a clair

Lauren Patrikis: Haha yeah I’m a Clair

Poppy McMaster: Really??? Poppy McMaster: Can I text you with a few questions about that Poppy McMaster: And about your plans on going into journalism after high school

Lauren Patrikis: Ofc! Love to help a fellow journalism gal, and that you’re an aspiring Clair makes it all the better, girls gotta stick together, right? Lauren Patrikis: no offense boys

Logan Sanders: None taken. We’re all feminists here.

Lauren Patrikis: Now, with all the planning out of the way, can I ask your guys’ specific interests when it comes to the paper? Lauren Patrikis: I’m planning on applying for an editor position next fall, and fingers crossed I get EIC, but I’d be happy with managing or copy, really, and it’d be cool to get an idea of some of the juniors I’d (hopefully!) be working with

Dee Slange is typing…

Logan Sanders is typing...

⁂

“logan?”

logan glances up from his plate, where he’s been spearing scalloped potatoes without really lifting them to his mouth. virgil and patton are giving him twin looks of what might be parental concern, and logan grimaces without really intending to.

they’re having dinner, all three of them, which logan has been carefully edging around calling family dinner in his head, because if he says it aloud, he’s pretty sure it’ll spook virgil or patton. it’s a good dinner, too; the butcher was having a sale, so virgil got three good cuts of steak and made scalloped potatoes and asparagus and herbed butter, with something brought under a round tin that is now in the fridge. patton’s eyes have been darting to it, then back to virgil, trying to evaluate what dessert fulfills virgil’s stringent ideals for nutrition. 

“sorry,” logan says, and eats the scalloped potato that he’s been butchering.

he is also slightly certain that this is their way of having a date night without leaving logan home alone on a week night. he is also edging carefully around that in his mind. he is very happy that they’re dating. it’s just that if he gives any thought to the implications for what they might do after their date it would be, as he would have declared ten years ago, icky. 

the trouble is, logan reflects, is that it’s much more nerve-wracking to come out on another person’s behalf than his own coming out process was. 

as he’s chewing, he reflects; it’s not like virgil is going to have a negative reaction, given that his boyfriend has been openly trans for sixteen years, and in regards to the dress tailoring, the worst virgil can do is say no.

“no need to be sorry, kiddo,” patton says. “busy thinking about that awesome double-pager—”

“—double truck,” logan corrects—

“—which, again, we're so thrilled for you, or is something on your mind?”

logan sighs to himself. there’s an opening if he’s ever heard one.

“dee still needs a tailor for his dress,” he says, and then he turns his attention to virgil. “i am wondering if you would be willing to offer your services.”

virgil’s face twists up.

“look,” virgil says, sets down his fork, and sighs. “i’m glad that you’ve got—i dunno, an understanding or whatever with this guy. you’ve got two more years at that school and i’m glad you’ve settled into things there. but—”

“but,” logan repeats quietly.

“—but,” virgil agrees, looks at patton, who has a polite listening expression on his face, and then virgil looks back at logan again, “look. you might have heard some things about my teenage days around town, and you’re almost an adult, so i don’t really hold any compunctions with telling you i was an asshole. a lot of teenagers are assholes, and some of them even manage to grow out of it. as a former teenager who was also an asshole, i can tell you that i got into some scrapes here and there. now, did i punch a few people on my own? ‘course i did. i was an asshole, i got into fights. but i can tell you that even in the depths of my stupid teenage actions, i never manipulated someone into punching someone else for me.”

logan absorbs this with a slight dip of his chin, a silent go on.

“these are just my two cents,” virgil adds, firmly, “you can do whatever you want, it’s your life, and you’re the one who’s at that school for hours and hours a day, you have a better idea of how to navigate things there than me. but. to add in my two cents, i don’t think the kind of guy who manipulates someone into doing physical harm on his behalf and has been openly very competitive with you to the point of doing something like that is a—a good buddy to hang around.”

he spreads his hands. “i could definitely be wrong. but—”

“but those are your two cents,” logan murmurs. “right.”

patton’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, now. “well,” patton offers timidly, and then snaps his mouth closed, clearly not wanting to spill the secret.

“i know you believe the best in people, patton, and that’s great,” virgil says, reaching over to squeeze patton’s hand. “i’m the jerk in this relationship, i’m aware of that, i can be an overprotective asshole, so i couldn’t sit by and just not say anything. you have the main call, obviously, logan’s your kid and this is your house.”

logan sighs a little, meeting patton’s eyes.

“he said i could tell him,” logan says, nodding his head in virgil’s direction. “he needs the tailor to be able to alter the dress without his parents’ interference. or so i gathered.”

patton sighs, too, except it’s more in relief, and he reaches over his other hand, to clasp virgil’s hand between both of his.

“dee’s…” patton says quietly, and then he straightens up a little. “he’s like me, honey.”

virgil’s brow furrows, ever so slightly. patton tilts his head. they’re looking each other in the eyes, a silent conversation, and patton arches his eyebrows at virgil, as if to punctuate whatever thought they’re nonverbally passing between them.

and then—

“oh,” virgil says blankly, and then he looks to logan. “he’s trans.”

it’s not a question, but logan nods anyways.

“he kind of accidentally mentioned it when he was over for the gsa posters, a month or so ago,” patton says, still quiet. “we promised we wouldn’t tell.”

“‘course not,” virgil says, still with that blank tone, reaching over to pat his hand. “you wouldn’t out someone, i wouldn’t want you to, not without their consent, but why—?”

“the dress,” logan says. “he needs someone to alter the dress to hide his binder. i don’t think he can go to any tailor his parents would bring up, they wouldn’t want him to wear one.”

virgil’s brow furrows. “why not?”

“his father never quite managed to grow out of it,” patton says primly, avoiding the swear. “apparently he found a wife who didn’t, either.”

and so the whole story behind why they’re really doing the debutante ball comes out slowly, as they’re finishing up their meal. virgil sits and listens, brow still furrowed, as logan explains how he’d come up with the idea, and patton provides a little further insight into dee’s background, and logan tells him as much as he can about dee’s house, without disclosing his grandmother’s illness, and by the time they both finish, a deep line’s marring virgil’s usually smooth, pale forehead.

“so,” virgil says slowly. “let me get this gay. you—” he points to logan, “came up with this whole idea to hide dee’s status, and you hid that behind the idea of doing this for feminism.”

“well, two things can be true,” logan points out, very reasonably, he thinks. “it started as just dee, sure, but i still despise the tradition of it and the sexist absurdity of it all should be pointed out.”

“and you,” he says, lightly bumping patton with his shoulder, “are hosting the Get Cultured day, plus a sleepover with the pair of them?”

“there’s—more,” logan says haltingly. “in dee’s life. i think dad could be a help with. i’m not at liberty to say.”

“christ, of course there is,” virgil mutters, rubbing at his forehead, as if he’s developing a headache. “right. i’m getting the chocolate-dipped strawberries—” patton brightens—“and the prosecco.”

“ooh, prosecco,” patton says. “fancy.”

“can i try?” logan asks, more out of curiosity than anything else.

virgil pops the cork, and then turns his eyes to patton, attentively waiting for an answer. patton considers this.

“pour him a little one,” patton says to virgil, who nods, and then proceeds to pour logan the tiniest flute of prosecco he can, before pouring more substantial servings for himself and patton. 

“this has fruity flavors of green apple, juicy peach and ripe lemon, framed by hints of minerality,” virgil reads aloud, before he sets down the bottle, passes over the glasses, and then fetches the tin.

logan takes a cautious sip. patton is watching him do so closely, his hands under his chin, pinning logan with a curious look.

“this tastes like none of those things,” logan informs him. it mostly tastes like fizz, and, if he holds it in his mouth long enough, eventually just bitter grape juice.

“yeah, the whole flavor profile things tend to be bullshit,” virgil says, setting the tin at the center of the table and uncovering it to show off a collection of chocolate-dipped strawberries, drizzled over with dark or white chocolate, sitting in cupcake wrappers, and patton oohs and aahs. 

“don’t say that around my family, or else you’ll be treated of stories of about thirty different wineries,” patton says dryly. “mom thinks she could have been a sommelier in another life.”

“don’t tell me you did the grape-crushing thing with your feet,” virgil says to patton, amused.

“i can neither confirm or deny,” patton says, taking his own sip of prosecco. “ooh, this is good!”

“thanks,” virgil says, then, to logan, “just as a pro-tip for when you’re twenty-one, go for the highest rated wine you can find at the lowest price.”

“highest rated, lowest price, understood,” logan says, and claims three strawberries for himself before his dad can take all the ones with white chocolate.

“and,” virgil adds, “if you find yourself around pretentious people—god knows you will, with your grandparents—just swirl it and sniff it and say oh, the bouquet is lovely, is this oak? or whatever.”

“oh, i can teach you the pretentious way you’re meant to drink wine!” patton says brightly, and so virgil and logan are treated to an informal lesson of how to best hold wine glasses (at the stem, so your fingers don’t transfer heat to the wine, which seems logical) and to swirl them (“you’re supposed to do this with wider glasses and wines that aren’t bubbly mostly, but it helps oxygenate the wine so you can smell it better,” patton says wisely) and how to aerate it while you’re drinking (“you’re kidding,” logan says, but obligingly attempts to suck in air and not dribble prosecco from his mouth simultaneously) and the three of them try their very best to drink their wine in as ostentatious a fashion as possible.

once logan’s had his fill of strawberries, and finished his tiny helping of prosecco, he helps wash the dishes and graciously bows out of the kitchen as subtly as he can. virgil and patton pour themselves thirds, kissing as they clink glasses when they think logan’s out of sight.

logan thinks he’s managed to be a fairly good third wheel to this date.

⁂

“well, i’ve got mine hanging in the closet,” patton says. “have you gotten yours yet?”

virgil groans; he’s feeling much too pleasant to think about such things. 

patton’s sitting almost in his lap; his thighs are slung over virgil’s, at any rate, and virgil’s got his free hand resting on patton’s thigh, absently kneading at the muscle, savoring the warmth and weight of him. patton’s got his free hand playing with virgil’s hair; they’re both finishing off the last of the prosecco and talking about the debutante ball.

virgil knocks the last of his back, and sets the flute aside.

“i’ll get mine while you and the kids are off for Get Cultured day,” virgil grumbles. “a tux. ugh. no one more than the people who’re absolutely necessary will see me in that.”

patton smiles at him, fondness making his eyes go softer and sweeter than usual; his cheeks are pink, probably from the prosecco. 

“you’re forgetting that we’re all gonna see you wear it at the ball,” patton points out, voice sugary, and virgil groans, tilting his head back, and therefore into patton’s hand; patton bears the weight of it gently, his hand bracing his skull, giggling even as he does.

“and don’t forget your white gloves,” patton points out, and virgil groans louder.

“oh, stop,” patton says, but any scolding attempt is ruined by how tender he sounds, the way he carefully tilts virgil’s head so he’s looking at him; virgil’s eyes trace along his cupid’s bow lips, lush and wet from the prosecco, the curve of his jaw, his eyes, a loving expression in them that makes virgil’s chest ache with devotion, his cheeks, going pinker the longer virgil looks. his eyelashes brush against his cheeks when he looks down for a moment, unable to hold eye contact.

patton seems to rally, shaking himself a little, before he says with great dignity, “you know looking at me like that makes me go to bits.”

virgil tries for a smirk, but it probably comes out soppy and moonstruck. “do i?”

“you know very well,” patton huffs, before he sits up a little and says, “and. you’re all deeply touched that roman asked you, i know you are.”

virgil’s the one to break eye contact, now, looking down at patton’s legs in his lap and mumbling excuses that sound weak even to himself. honestly, it’s a bit of a miracle he manages to get it out around the lump in his throat.

“i was talking to isadora, about our weird little circle of parenting,” patton continues, his tone victorious. “you, me, her. the boys. our boys.”

virgil squeezes patton’s thigh again, just listening.

“logan and roman are credits to you,” patton says. “not just us.”

virgil squirms a little. sentimentality is still not his strong suit. “you—and ms. prince—are the ones who raised them, took care of them day and night. i helped out where i could. and,” he kisses patton’s cheek, “you’re the ones who let me into your lives, so. they’re still majorly credits to you.”

“mm,” patton says, and looks at him with half-lidded, slightly mischievous eyes. “we’ll call it even, how about that?”

virgil snorts again and says, “if you think i’m about to claim credit for an isadora prince production, i hope you’ll plan out my funeral.”

patton swats his shoulder, but conversation veers away from virgil’s role in the kids’ lives.

good. if they go too much into parental feelings after virgil’s had three glasses of prosecco, he’s pretty sure he’ll get all annoyingly teary, and he’s pretty sure patton would think it cute and sweet, but he doesn’t exactly plan on getting all annoyingly teary to conclude this date.

⁂

the excuse that he’s told logan is that dee is coming early to survey the studio and help set things up.

the fact of it all is that he could probably drive his range rover in fifty laps around this town and he could probably still find something new to surprise him, like some kind of small-town culture shock.

for example—his range rover sticks out like a sore thumb. he has already spotted five people gawking at it as he drives around. two people even elbowed their walking companion and pointed. 

they’re in for an influx of bmws and mercedes’ bought with daddy’s money—dee supposes it must be a car enthusiast’s idea of christmas to be able to see all the chilton students’ cars unexpectedly flood this tiny town, whose ideas of automobile finery are probably topping out at a prius.

he spies the punnily-named cat-themed store that he’d been so boggled by the last time he was here, and the community garden, and the town is just as kitschy as it was at night, except now he can see better in the light of day, instead of the light of fairy lights and wrought-iron street lamps. 

now, he can see a local newsstand. he didn’t even know those still existed. on the same level of outdated absurdity, there is something called a mailboxes etc., which he can only hope is this town’s excuse for a post office. there is also a shoe repair store, because apparently these people are right out of the victorian era and have employed cobblers in this town.

there is a store called harry’s house of twinkle lights, which only sells twinkle lights, how on earth is that a sustainable business model? 

incongruously, there is a tattoo shop right beside the famed virgil’s diner he’s heard logan talk about so much. he spends a lot of time parked in the street, staring at that. a tattoo parlor. well, at least something in this town has evolved past the ideals of a fifties housewife.

(there is a black lives matter sign in a place of pride in the window, along with a rainbow flag. there are a lot of pride flags waving brightly in the bleak wind, of all stripes and colors. there are black lives matter signs staked in a lot of front yards, actually.)

(in his neighborhood, there are no black lives matter signs staked on the professionally manicured lawns. he isn’t even allowed to have one in his room. he’s tried. his parents threw it out.)

dee checks the time, clears his throat forcefully, and moves to park as close to the dance studio as he can.

he’d seen it before; he’d watched as logan got all moony-eyed and reverent at his boyfriend dancing in the window, without the boyfriend’s awareness. it isn’t particularly difficult to find—it’s in what passes as the town square, which he supposes makes it as a technicality of being the shape of a square.

it’s also easy to spot because logan is out front, along with another boy their age; he recognizes him from logan’s birthday party last fall.

he hops out of the car, locking it as he does so (the town may look like it’s a fifties housewife’s dream, but he doesn’t know the crime rates of this town off the top of his head, and his sleepover bag is right in the back, looking prime for someone to steal, but the most they’d get is a decent bag, some clothes and toiletries, and his phone charger, so there.) logan glances at him, holding up one half of the sign; the boy (roman, dee remembers) glowers at him behind logan’s back, and dee tries his very hardest not to grin. thank goodness, something fun today.

“i didn’t know you had your license,” logan comments. he’s in jeans, but otherwise he still looks like an accountant (an actual accountant, not the wink-wink nudge-nudge joking kind that’s been popularized over that one song that says the accountant is a cover for really being a sex worker)—he’s wearing a collared shirt and tie, and a jacket on top of that.

“turned sixteen in february,” dee says.

“well,” logan says. “happy belated birthday, i suppose. roman, would you pass me the tape—?”

even dee has to admit roman is very well-dressed. he is wearing a black overcoat that is so nice that dee would not be embarrassed to wear it over a collared shirt, a red-and-black plaid sweater, and a pair of black, pleated, high-waisted pants and a pair of black booties. it’s like he’s stepped off someone’s painstakingly curated ✨ winter fashion ✨ pinterest board.

roman, however, is still glowering at dee even as he ensures his half of the sign will hold and passes logan the tape.

dee tucks his hands into his pockets. the wind is sweeping in their direction, which means his cape is flowing dramatically in the wind. it’s like he choreographed it. he hopes he looks like a norse god sweeping down to enact destruction.

“roman prince, i remember,” dee says smoothly. “we had a conversation at logan’s birthday party. nice to see you again.”

roman’s scowl deepens. “i can’t say that’s mutual, villain,” he declares, and takes a moment to ensure logan’s got a grasp on the sign (he does, he’s taping the last corner to the window) sweeps dramatically off into the studio with his nose in the air. dee can’t help but laugh.

logan simply looks chagrined.

“villain,” dee repeats, delighted. 

logan rolls his eyes at dee and says, “my dad is just about the only one who’s forgiven the louise incident from you, so. be cautious.”

“when you say the only one,” dee begins.

“virgil and roman are the primary grudge-holders in the family,” logan says absently, too busy smearing a hand over the corner to ensure it’ll stick to the window to catch dee blinking at him, caught off-guard—family?—before logan continues, “and i suppose ms. prince, but ms. prince terrifies most she interacts with anyways, so the fact that she’ll hold a grudge should be indecipherable to those who are not practiced in conversing with her.”

“terrifying?” he asks.

logan looks away from the window at last, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. if dee didn’t know any better, he’d think that logan was being mischievous.

“oh, yes,” he says. “i’m uncertain if you’ll fear her or love her. perhaps both in equal measure.”

forget the tattoo parlor, this ms. prince woman is by far the most fascinating thing about this stupidly charming town.

dee looks at the sign. DEBUTANTE BALL TRAINING HERE, in logan’s neat hand, and then underneath it in a scrawling, well-practiced calligrapher’s cursive, GET CULTURED DAY! and a variety of other doodles around it. there are sparkles. he briefly entertains the mental image that logan is actually a sparkle enthusiast behind closed doors, but also, dee has seen his boyfriend, so. he’s got a feeling on who insists on sparkles in that relationship.

“well,” dee says, and nods to the door. “shall we?”

logan opens the door as an answer.

dee steps through, pausing just for a moment to sweep his eyes over the dance studio.

there are what look like old church pews in the hall, which leads back to what looks like a small room and a set of stairs; it is, he knows just by looking, renovated from an old building in town—a barn, maybe, or an old house, but one can hardly tell once they’re inside it.

he steps into the actual studio. the studio itself has two walls lined with mirrors, one with the windows facing out into the street, and a few windows facing out into the hallway. there are three round tables shoved to one half of the room; patton sanders, in one of his sweaters (a muted shade of plum, today) and jeans; a short, brown-skinned woman with her black hair swept back into an impressively tight bun.

they both glance over at the sound of someone entering; patton brightens, the woman frowns.

“dee!” patton says. “happy you made it, kiddo, c’mon in!”

the woman must be ms. prince.

ah. roman prince. this is roman’s mother.

“this is isadora prince, but she’s ms. prince to you,” patton prattles on cheerfully, seemingly ignoring the fact that the woman is sizing him up—predator knows predator, dee supposes, so he does not feel any compunctions about doing the same. 

“she’ll be teaching all the dance stuff, the movement things,” patton says, “and i’ve got how to behave yourselves in a fancy-schmancy setting like this. plus, like, the proper walk. now, it’s been a few years since i’ve taken lessons, so i might be a bit rusty, but—”

dee stops paying attention, then, too busy tilting his head ever so slightly to survey ms. prince. she looks almost clinically disinterested, except for a unyielding, rigid look in her eyes that simply gives away impressions of stubbornness, but nothing of observational value. dee could have guessed she’s stubborn, she’s a single mother, as far as he knows, and a ballet teacher. aspects of both of those things require a certain amount of tenacity.

the closest thing dee can amount her expression to is a no-nonsense substitute teacher waiting for class to calm down, with the eerie sense of preternatural calm that the entire class will be in trouble far beyond their wildest dreams. 

it absolutely does nothing to him. he does not react at all. if, perhaps, there is a chill sent down his spine, it is obviously because the heating system in here is inadequate and the old, shoddy architecture is clearly allowing a draft.

“...think it should be okay!” patton finishes, smiling still, completely unaware of what has come to pass. “‘course, i haven’t been around teenagers in a while that aren’t you, logan, and roman, but i manage the part-timer kids at the inn okay, so fingers crossed it’s the same for the chilton kids.”

ms. prince looks away from him. he does not feel anything that could possibly be likened to someone removing the last piece of rubble that was pinning someone down, and at last they could scramble away.

“you shall manage just fine,” isadora says. it sounds less like a comforting statement and more like the prediction of a military officer before a battle.

patton nods, seemingly bolstered by this. dee does not even try to imagine what would have happened if he wasn’t.

“can we practice?” roman says, doing his very best to pretend that dee isn’t there; dee rolls his eyes, even as patton exclaims “‘course we can!” and logan leans in to murmur, “roman usually assists his mother with dance classes, he’ll do the same for the dances we’ll need to learn.”

isadora moves to turn on music, and patton and roman turn to face each other. patton smiles at him encouragingly, and, as if unable to help it, roman smiles back as the music comes in, with an old-timey blare of horns.

“may i have this dance?” patton offers gallantly.

roman tee-hees and takes on a nasally tone reminiscent of most rich brats as portrayed on television, “i dunno, do you have a trust fund?” before he turns and declares, in a passable teacher’s tone, “always make sure, ladies, we’re mocking the original purpose of the ball! gold-dig away!”

it makes patton laugh and logan smile, but roman takes patton’s hand without waiting for his answer. 

patton promptly assumes form—dee isn’t sure why he’s surprised it’s picture-perfect, but he is anyways—and roman does too, their hands clasped together, roman’s opposite hand on patton’s arm and patton’s hand resting on roman’s shoulder blade. 

patton counts aloud as they sweep across the room, “one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three,” for his own benefit or for roman’s, he isn’t sure. 

if not for that, if not for the surroundings of this dance studio, if not for their relatively casual state of dress, if not for the frank sinatra in the background, dee could easily believe that they were leading the opening dance of the actual debutante ball. 

if roman were in his debutante gown, if patton were in his tuxedo, if the studio surrounding them was replaced by a beautiful, marble ballroom, then they would have been the jealousies of everyone at the ball.

roman, dee observes, is good. patton dances with the practiced air of someone who learned how to do this years ago, and roman’s ability to keep pace is so well-matched that dee passively wonders if they make a habit of dancing together; if perhaps they share a common hobby of attending sock-hops.

he recalls the dance-a-thon poster he’d seen while he was in town. he really cannot discount this theory.

“dee?”

dee looks away from the pair of them twirling around the room, roman’s coat flaring with them the way his skirt eventually will.

logan gestures to the table, and holds up a handful each of forks and knives. “would you help me with these?”

you expect me to do what, he nearly says, before he recalls his excuse to get here early was to help set up, and so he heads over to the table, logan handing him the forks and knives, dee setting the table as if for a proper three-course dinner. 

he watches patton laugh as he dips roman, roman laughing too, their faces lighting up with it; he glances over out of the corner of his eyes, and he sees logan’s eyes gone soft, the way that dee has only ever seen him do once, that night of the poster-making when he had watched roman without being aware. he’s stopped unfolding the cloth napkins to stare at roman, that look on his face, the corners of his mouth lifted up; he has the fond expression of someone wed to their husband for fifteen years, watching them do the thing they love, not watching boyfriend of less than three months. 

huh. logan sanders is a sap. he honestly wouldn’t have guessed it.

he mentally analyzes his memories of seeing logan and roman together; at the chilton dance, logan watching him through the window, and now. all three times, logan had looked at roman like he'd hung the moon and stars.

it bears further observation, for certain.

dee clears his throat loudly, just for the pleasure of seeing logan jump, come back into himself, and hastily resume placing napkins.

dee smirks to himself as he straightens the dessert spoon.

all right. that is also his major motivation to continue the observation—the fun of watching logan get flustered. 

⁂

so maybe patton hasn’t thought about the way that a lot of teenagers are until virgil brought it up over dinner, but honestly, patton doesn’t think it’s his fault he overlooked that.

his track record with teenagers isn’t exactly a stellar one: when he was one, he was something of a wild child, and the other teenagers only ever really liked him at parties, and their opinion declined even more once he came out, and then that opinion crashed straight through rock bottom to start digging for the center of the earth when he got pregnant. 

then he dropped out of school, and moved here, and he didn’t really have much interaction with other teenagers in sideshire, except for the occasional part-timer at the inn, who mostly treated him cordially, if a bit awkwardly. 

then he kept working with those teenage part-timers, who were technically coworkers, and most of them carried that same generally friendly attitude throughout the years; then his boys turned thirteen, but he’d been so used to the pair of them, the only turmoil they’d had to deal with were occasional emotional outbursts and boy drama. 

and now, well. dee, too, he supposes. he isn’t sure how much dee qualifies as a typical teenager, though, what with him dressing like a victorian gentleman on an off day and his apparent secret that logan’s hinted at but not said.

and now an incoming horde of chilton students. the last generation of chilton students he’d dealt with while he was at chilton, and he’s pretty sure those opinions are still slow-cooking in the lava in the core of the earth. he isn’t sure how a new generation of chilton students is going to be. for one, they’re chilton students. for another, they’re teenagers. 

so patton is maybe a little nervous about today!

the boys are milling about the room, checking on everything. roman seems to have settled on the strategy of ignoring dee, which seems to suit dee just fine, even amuse him, a little bit. logan goes back and forth between helping the pair of them—dee with the tables, roman with nametags—and isadora is scrolling through her phone, checking to make sure she has waltz-appropriate music queued up, and patton…

well. patton is nervously pacing around the room, trying to see if he can poke in somewhere in help, but apparently they’ve all got it covered, so. patton’s job is apparently pacing.

unsurprisingly, the sideshire kids filter in first; brick comes bearing what they say is a gift from virgil, handing patton a tray full of heat-preserving cups for the four of them, and patton eagerly removes the top to sniff it only to pout that it’s decaf before he passes out the other three drinks to isadora, roman, and logan.

“hi,” brick says to dee.

“hello,” dee says warily, hovering near the corner of the room.

“wicked cool cape,” brick says. “you’ve got the phantom of the opera thing going on, then?”

dee lifts his eyebrows, looks as if he is about to do something that will be great fun, and says in a tone that is mildly threatening, “was that a joke about my vitiligo?”

“okay!” patton breaks in, as brick starts to look like they’re about to fall all over themselves in apology, “brick, kiddo, this is dee, he goes to logan’s school. how about you go on over with roman and get your nametag, huh?”

brick scampers off with a squeaky “sorry!” and patton turns to dee.

“be nice,” he says, in the same tone he’d use when logan was in kindergarten and demanding to know how on earth the other kids were unaware of what he’d thought to be universal common knowledge, like the heat death of the universe. 

“it’s too easy,” dee complains, gesturing to his face. 

“be,” patton repeats pointedly, “polite. i know that wasn’t the best thing for them to say, it was not a very good comparison, but they were talking about your clothes, not your face.”

with a facial expression much the same as six-year-old logan grumbling about how it isn’t his fault the universe might one day reach thermodynamic equilibrium, dee sighs before he goes over to pick up a nametag off the table.

“don’t worry, brick,” roman says, giving dee a dirty look, “that villain is vile to everyone he meets. it’s such a disaster that’s probably where he got his name. dee-saster.”

patton looks between them. brick, looking very much like they would like to duck out of this conversation now please; roman, victorious in his nicknamery even though patton can admit quietly to himself that it’s not exactly roman’s best work; and dee, who looks entirely unaffected. 

and then he smiles. a placid, calm smile. he looks rather mild-mannered, actually. the room is quiet.

“you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid,” dee returns, and roman looks terribly offended, his hand flying to his chest.

“exCUSE you,” roman says very loudly, “i am very happily and VERY CONTENTEDLY in LOVE with the HANDSOME man whose face you chose to MAR through—through your machiavellian manipulations and jealousy of logan’s many talents like you’re the stepmother in snow white! how dare you! i—ew!” he says, sounding like that one character in the canadian sitcom he’s trying to make logan watch. he’s clearly about to continue, but patton takes that as his cue to cut in.

“boys,” patton says loudly. he waits for them both to be quiet before he continues.

“be polite,” he repeats sternly, putting his hands on his hips. “be nice. we are here today to learn about absurd, sexist traditions that we all plan on going in and upheaving, and any good heist team needs to get along! am i clear?”

roman sighs but grumbles out an affirmative; dee rolls his eyes but does the same.

“good,” patton says, and points. “dee, please go help logan. roman—stay here.”

the boys, at last, split up.

“sorry,” brick repeats to dee.

dee shrugs. “i’ve heard it before.”

“still,” brick says, “i’m really sorry. patton’s right. that was a bad comparison to make, i should’ve said mr. darcy or something,” and then brick proceeds to stand as close to isadora’s general vicinity as they dare, as if her mere presence will protect them from any other catastrophes.

it probably will, honestly.

any awkwardness in the air doesn’t linger very long, though, because some other sideshire kids come in; elliott, for one, so they can go stand with brick, along with a few members of the cheerleading squad, which means that roman is distracted. there’s a girl with a camera he doesn’t recognize, but patton’s guessing she’s probably with the franklin, because she splits straight off to talk to logan and dee, stopping briefly to introduce herself to him and isadora, before she takes up residency in a corner and starts adjusting her camera’s settings.

dee and logan stand in the back, heads tilted toward each other, speaking quietly; he catches something about how brick’s in the theater program at school with roman before patton turns his attention to asking isadora a question about waltzing. at one point, brick accidentally catches dee’s eyes, and rather than scowl at them or anything, dee, instead, nods, as if in acceptance. brick’s shoulders relax, they nod back, and they turn to resume talking to elliott.

huh. that’s something.

he doesn’t really have time to think on it, though, because then the first wave of chilton kids start arriving.

the difference between the sideshire kids and the chilton kids is immediately stark, even though it’s not anything as visible as the quality of their clothes, or the way they look, or like all the chilton kids are wearing their blue-and-navy and the sideshire kids are wearing their red-and-white. 

it’s in the way they’re acting. 

the chilton kids are all in clumps of each other, and patton’s sure that logan and dee could tell him the precise clique each of them are in; a group of girls whisper behind hands and giggle together, and the sideshire cheerleaders look immediately ticked off at the sound of it. a group of chilton boys bump up against each other and ruffle hair in typical teenage rough-housing fashion, scoffing at their surroundings together, and the sideshire boys—if patton’s looking at them right, he thinks that group’s mostly the hockey team—look like they’re ready to go over and join in with the rough-housing with a much less friendly intention.

so. patton might have his work cut out for him. he'd say the same for isadora, but he holds no illusions about the fact that isadora will be able to rule her half of teenagers with a firm hand.

once the time ticks to the new hour, patton looks at isadora, who simply nods at him.

right. patton’s doing this on his own, then.

he steps forward into the front of the room, clapping a few times to get everyone’s attention; their conversations die down, and all of their eyes turn on him.

all of their eyes. they’re all watching him. waiting for what he’s going to say. a group of teenagers. yay. so fun.

why is patton’s mouth suddenly so dry.

patton wipes his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants, trying to pass it off like he’s putting his hands in his pockets.

“hi!” he says, in a bright and cheerful tone that sounds fake to his own ears. “i’m patton sanders, some of you might know me as the manager of the independence inn here and town, others might just know me as logan’s dad.”

logan hunches his shoulders slightly when some chilton kids look back at him, looking so much like virgil for a second that patton’s heart pulses a little stronger than usual.

“—and this is ms. prince,” patton continues, gesturing to isadora, “she owns the ballet studio here in town and has been very gracious to let us use this space and to join in on teaching you kids how to waltz properly. she’s a professional ballerina, so this is a really unique opportunity for everyone!”

isadora crosses her arms over her chest. the kids do not look particularly enthused about this really unique opportunity.

“okay,” patton says. “um—if you haven’t already, go ahead and grab your nametags over there at that table, that’s roman, he’s gonna help us out with the waltzing today. we’re splitting you up into two groups, we’ve already assigned—”

some of the kids groan.

“—you’re probably still going to be with some of your friends!” patton continues. “um, it’s just the two groups, one of them will learn dancing first and the other one will get a review of the proper etiquette to have at these sorts of events, and then we’ll switch, and then we can convene back together as one big group to answer any questions you might have, or practice the dance all together, does that sound good?”

there’s a chorus of teenagers grumbling in agreement.

“okay!” patton says, putting a lot of effort into maintaining his bright tone. “if you’ll take a look at your name tag, red dots are with ms. prince first, blue dots are with me, all right?”

there isn’t even a chorus of teenagers grumbling in agreement this time.

“um,” patton says, then, because it seems like the thing to do, “any questions?”

it is a terrible mistake.

“didn’t you get pregnant when you were sixteen?” one of the chilton girls with a very familiar pair of eyes and a strikingly similar chin (god, if this kid is somehow related to shauna christy, and she probably is, patton’s going to have a terrible time trying to teach her anything) and patton clears his throat.

“i, um—yep. yep, i did—”

“wait, you got pregnant?” another chilton student says.

“i’m trans,” patton says, really hoping this isn’t going where it’s about to go, “so, any questions about the ball—”

the first girl, the one who might be related to shauna christy, makes a loud noise as if she is about to ask another question, but there is something louder that even makes patton jump a little.

the entire room swivels to look at what has caused the noise, only to see dee with his hands hovering casually in the air, as if he’s still holding the massive block that isadora uses as a standing prop.

“christy,” dee says, still with that same calm voice (aha! a tiny voice in patton’s head says, i was right, she IS related to shauna!) “if you continue this line of questioning, everyone in this room will know precisely why the words ‘snyder’s hanover’ are significant to you.” 

christy goes incredibly pale, and she squeaks out, “how the hell could you know about—?”

“well, i didn’t,” dee says, looking remarkably pleased with himself. “not for sure, anyways, but now i do.”

the chilton students turn curious eyes to christy, who goes beet red.

dee surveys them all with the same air patton's mother gets whenever she’s observing the way a new maid cleans to see if it’s to her satisfaction. 

“i know at least five significant things about every chilton student in this room,” he continues imperiously. “if you all don’t shut up and let us get this over with so i can get a unique college essay and not just a story about how i was adopted at a young age that thousands of other students will surely have, i will sow social chaos unlike anything this school has ever seen. those of you who will recall the nettie eckstrand incident will know that is not an idle threat.”

a tall, blond boy snorts and says, “what are you gonna do about it? swim back home to haiti?”

“hey,” patton says sternly, but before he can really lecture this boy, dee holds up a gloved hand.

dee looks at the boy, sweeping his eyes up and down him. the entire room is silent; though the chilton kids are clearly waiting with bated breath, even the sideshire kids seem like they’re interested, a fresh batch of drama and gossip that doesn’t affect their school at all. the boy is all smirking, postured swagger, every inch the stereotypical young, rich white boy who’d known no consequences.

then dee looks him dead in the eyes and says, “pj harvey.”

okay, look, patton doesn’t know why a musical artist who was very popular in the nineties has to do with anything, but before he can say anything the boy surges forward, as if to fight him—

“HEY, HEY!” patton yells— 

—and he’s stopped in his tracks by two of his friends who step in to hold him back, and he huffs, straightening his jacket with a bit more fervor than necessary. he stalks off, which doesn’t have quite the effect it would’ve if he’d stormed out of the room.

dee hadn’t even flinched.

patton looks to isadora for help—he can’t imagine she’s often had brawling ballerinas in her classroom, though—but before either of them say anything, a tiny, dirty-blonde girl bursts out from the corner.

“now that the male posturing is done,” she declares impatiently, “can we get to the part where we subvert patriarchal expectations, please? we all have homework to do after this and some of you really need to at least try to make it seem like school is for more than making out with each other and killing your brain cells with alcohol.”

“okay!” patton blurts out, before anyone else can try to start a fight with her, “blue dots over here, please, blue over here!”

the girl comes over to his side of the room first, as does dee.

great.

patton spies her nametag, too; POPPY MCMASTER.

ah. she’s the escort to logan’s debutante. 

even better.

as logan’s crossing the room to join with the red dots, patton bends his head close to his ear and murmurs, “goodness, aren't your chilton friends…" he wracks his brain for a good word, "so enthusiastic?”

logan scowls, and returns in an equally quiet voice, “first of all, that is not exclusively a chilton thing, you have known roman for over a decade, and secondly, poppy isn't quite a friend, she has more attached herself to me in the hopes that i will be a mentor to her and give her an editor position her junior year.”

patton opens and closes his mouth a few times, before he says, "excellent," what on earth is in the water at that school, before he pushes logan gently in ms. prince’s direction and turns his attention to the group of teenagers.

they are not any less intimidating when halved.

“right,” patton says brightly. “let’s get this Get Cultured day started!”

[seoafin]

Sooo i may or may not have become obsessed with the rip!verse (each of your posts make my day and white lighters what a delightful read, holy shit) and i have so many questions! (Pls ma'am... feed us... we need the high quality content you provide...)

1. What is reader's cursed technique? I remember toji saying she had potential upon (brutally) trying to kill her and her examining yuji to... idk, try to seal sukuna, but you've never explicitly said anyting and i am dying to know more (pls help)

2. We all know poor, poor Megumi suffers from the incessant pining between reader and gojo. But what about Yuji and Nobara? And the second years? Do they try to set them together, crossing out the ideas/plans they've already tried, becoming more and more desperate each time it inevitabely fails in the most improbable way? Or does gojo asks for their help?

3. And how could i not talk about the Shibuya Arc? (also known as "gege please for the love of god stop" arc) Where is reader? Did she manage to follow gojo abd watch the... incident unfold? Did she stay behind with Shoko? Did she go with the students? Did she join the kyoto school? How did she react upon learning that gojo was chillin' in his lil cube while the whole world was going to hell? (And did she see Getwo??? What was her reaction??? I have whole scene in mind and am now itching to write it down although i must sleep?? Why??)

(Yep, the rip!verse leaves rent free in my mind. Not that i complain though. It never ceases to amaze me no matter how many times i read it. Plus it inspires me for my own writing so *bows* thank you so much for creating such a bloody brilliant masterpiece! Have a lovely night/day!)

THIS ASK??? Hxhsbndnd i’m so glad you like the ripverse!!

prepare for an info dump + general information on rip!mc which I probably should have typed out/ elaborated on earlier LOL

1)

honestly i'm still working out the details but it's probably going to be something along the lines of the ability to suspend time for a person/object with certain conditions that must be met. but once they're met you can hold it for as long as you wish. It’s not exactly an offensive cursed technique, but deadly if utilized properly! it also comes in handy when trying to study curses!

rip!mc is a historian/researcher who classifies curses which is a fascination which was born after geto left. weirdly, it helps you feel closer to him. your research takes you around the country, and even abroad some times (which gojo despises), but you’re more than well equipped to defend yourself. you trained maki with the polearm!!

I also like the idea of them occasionally teaching as an adjunct professor at Tokyo University (grad student MC ftw), so they know what it’s like to be a teacher, although it’s not exactly the same! the semesters you do teach—you occasionally stay with gojo

the reason why toji said that is bc rip!mc caught toji's eye a split second before he stabbed gojo. since you’re very very sensitive to cursed energy and by default, other people, the pure absence of cursed energy made you instinctively turn. toji was referring to the fact that if you honed your skill a little more, you maybe would have even sensed him!

also the reason why rip!mc is more sensitive to cursed energy than gojo is because he probably automatically filters out the sheer number different cursed energies (since the sensory overload would be crazy while rip!mc never really learned to do that and as a result became more attuned to cursed energies in general)

Also more about the cursed seals! Rip!mc is exceptionally good at making seals because of how sensitive they are to cursed energy. In harmonious, you had to gauge sukuna’s overall (at the time) power in order feel out whether or not you could make a good enough seal (the higher ups requested it) to contain sukuna.

2)

Everyone is tired of gojo’s pining. And suspicious at how oddly ignorant you are. When gojo makes himself at home on your lap in the middle of a meeting for the umpteenth time, and you’re completely unfazed, everyone’s like?????

It kinda goes back to how rip!mc refuses relationships because she knows she’s going to die (hazards of the job), and she’s afraid of leaving a lover behind more than anything (childhood trauma. involves parents), and in her head, friends and lovers are two distinctly different things (they really aren’t). Getting over a friend's death is different from getting over a lover’s death (once again, not really, who’s going to tell her???)

And gojo, for as much as he lacks boundaries (ie; has none) tries to accommodate it the best he can although you’ve always been his. shoko always tells gojo that (like always when it comes to rip!mc) he’s jumping the gun, but he shoots her with finger guns and says that he has no idea what she’s talking about :)

Maybe the reason why you’re never home is because you doesn’t want to confront your feelings haha

When it comes to the nosy students. Nobara likes you but can’t fathom gojo in a relationship. Yuji automatically assumes you and gojo are dating. Maki thinks that you can do so much better than that idiot. Panda thinks it’s cute. Inumaki: Salmon. Yuta sees the way gojo “looks” at you but thinks he’s overthinking it, and doesn’t want to say anything.

Megumi, on the other hand, tells everyone to leave it since he’s a bit protective over rip!mc.

3

You’re not the only one!! I’ve gotten messages on ao3 asking about the shibuya arc LOL 😭

the reader was called back from Okinawa as backup and reached tokyo as soon as gojo entered the curtain. he texted her saying not to worry (haha). They entered with shoko and yaga to protect her and the patients. And when she hears that gojo’s been sealed, she’s completely bewildered. Gojo can take care of himself wherever he is, she’s more worried about the students than him tbh LOL (gojo is definitely going to whine about that later)

When megumi’s dropped off by yuji (ugh!!!) this is where it could go either way.

1) Shoko sees how worried you are about yuji, whose cursed energy you picked up before he ran away, and tells you to go. You find him but he runs away from you. If this happened I could see a getwo reunion (I’m hurt, did you already forget my face?) where getwo reaches out to touch your hair and gets stopped by surprise, surprise, original geto deep inside. Cue some more body vs soul philosophical talking points before you eventually meet up with the kyoto gang AND utahime!!!

2) Stay with shoko. Eventually get called to the Kyoto group.

Meanwhile inside the prison realm gojo is playing with a ring the size of your ring finger (how he got the measurement nobody knows)

[megashadowdragon]

In the upcoming The Winds of Winter many characters we've come to know and love are going to intersect with each other. Their personalities and backstories are going to collide and the result of the concoction is going to vary from character to character.

In this thread, I'm going to touch on the interactions between two individuals that, weirdly enough, don't seem to get a lot of attention from the fandom in regards to how a potential interaction between the two might go down.

These two being Tyrion Lannister and Victarion Greyjoy.

On examination, there couldn't be two characters more different than each other. In a way, they're almost perfect foils to each other. Before I get into any foreshadowing indicated in the text of the books, I think it be best if I laid down some of these differences to give you guys an idea:

Tyrion has a sharp mind and uses this to great effect in understanding people's motivations and the politics surrounding them. Victarion is described as a "dullard" and "dumb as a stump" by GRRM himself, with not much knowledge or interest in the ways of greater politics.

Tyrion uses his wit to make jokes to entertain himself and those around him. Victarion heavily dislikes humor and it's even indicated in the text that he "mistrusts laughter".

Tyrion is a small, stunted dwarf with not much in the way of physical prowess. Victarion is a tall, muscular man who is a renowned warrior with great strength.

Tyrion regularly dismisses and mocks the idea of gods existing, thinking that all the suffering in the world proves that no gods are looking out for anyone.

If there are gods to listen, they are monstrous gods who torment us for their sport. Who else would make a world like this, so full of bondage, blood, and pain? Who else would shape us as they have? - Tyrion ADWD

Victarion is an extremely devout religious man that believes that the suffering in life is the proof of a god existing.

Life is pain, you fool. There is no joy but in the Drowned God’s watery halls. - The Iron Suitor ADWD

Now, I've listed these differences to give an idea on how these two could easily be connected as foils to each other, but surprisingly there's also some similarities between the two that connects them further:

Both Tyrion and Victarion have murdered former lovers of theirs after they betrayed them by sleeping with a family member. Victarion kills his wife after sleeping with his brother Euron and Tyrion murders Shae after she sleeps with his father Tywin. Both using their own hands to do it. (Tyrion strangling Shae and Victarion beating his wife to death with his fists).

Both were betrayed by their brother and have a desire to seek vengeance against them and destroy them.

Both have met Moqorro at sea and Moqorro has stated prophecies to both of them.

Both have fought and commanded in naval warfare. Both utilising fire in a naval battle (Tyrion with wildfire at the Blackwater and Victarion throwing the first torch onto Tywin's ship at the burning of Lannisport).

Both are seeking out Daenerys to use her for vengeance against their family. Tyrion with his siblings and his father's legacy and Victarion against his brother Euron.

So, now that the differences and similarities between the two characters have been established, I'll move onto what an interaction between these two might entail and what purpose it would serve.

The Monkey Demon

“We have become swollen, bloated, foul. Brother couples with sister in the bed of kings, and the fruit of their incest capers in his palace to the piping of a twisted little monkey demon.” A preacher at King's Landing ACOK.

“The dwarf, the evil counselor, the twisted little monkey demon. I’m all that stands between them and chaos.” - Tyrion ACOK

Tyrion Lannister, the monkey demon. Once tried to save a city and gain the people's love, found none and was promptly punted into a cell. Tried to work in his family interests, even if it meant defending the crown of a worm-lipped tyrant born out of incest, was turned on and blamed for the tyrant's downfall. Tried to find love in the arms of a whore and found out whores don't play fair (or where they go). All attempts, all that effort to seek validation had blown up in his face.

So, what's left?

The game of thrones, of course. You know, the very game that produces complete sociopaths like Varys and Petyr Baelish. With every other avenue denied to him, what else would be left for our favourite pampered lil shit Tyrion Lannister?

A man who's been denied everything and who has now found a re-newed purpose in life through a game of manipulation and deception. An individual with obligations no longer holding him down. No family to support, no love from the masses to be gained, nothing. All that's left is to engage in a game where self-gratification can be bought and the chance to tear down the old ghosts that persistently haunt him.

I won't engage too much into the finer details of Tyrion's character arc, but I highly recommend reading this excellent essay meereeneseblot . wordpress . com/2013/11/22/paying-his-debts-part-i-tyrion-in-kings-landing/ to better understand where Tyrion's arc will be going into TWOW.

So, our favourite dwarf finds himself traveling (waddling) to Meeren, hoping to seek the favour of the beautiful Queen Daenaerys Targaryen. Under siege with dubious allies and dragons you want to use to burn down your family's legacy, but they're too busy swarming the air like horny mosquitos...

But.... what's this? Ironborn swarming ashore? What the fuc-... With a complete donkey-brain of a captain leading them and who's just ready to be manipulated, you say? AND he wants to use Daenarys for his own ends too?

Muy bueno.

Now, to get to the point of the essay.

The Iron Captain

The Drowned God had not shaped Victarion Greyjoy to fight with words at kingsmoots, nor struggle against furtive sneaking foes in endless bogs. This was why he had been put on earth; to stand steel-clad with an axe red and dripping in his hand, dealing death with every blow. - The Reaver AFFC

So, I've showcased that Victarion Greyjoy's character is not one to dabble in higher politics or any other high-minded thinking. He's a man bred for splitting an enemy's skull in two with his axe, not someone trying to worm his way into people's confidences with false charm to achieve their own ends. Unfortunately for him, he's about to come across somebody who is.

A monkey on the mast above howled derision, almost as if it could taste his frustration. Filthy, noisy beast. He could send a man up after it, but the monkeys seemed to like that game and had proved themselves more agile than his crew. The howls rang in his ears, though, and made the throbbing in his hand seem worse. - The Iron Suitor ADWD

The moniker that's been labelled for Tyrion of "Monkey demon" earlier in ACOK has made a comeback by GRRM in Victarion's ADWD chapters to foreshadow their relationship going into TWOW. And what that relationship will entail, I think I can safely say, will not be a positive one. Not for Victarion anyways.

The monkeys, though … the monkeys were a plague. Victarion had forbidden his men to bring any of the demonic creatures aboard ship, yet somehow half his fleet was now infested with them, even his own Iron Victory. He could see some now, swinging from spar to spar and ship to ship. Would that I had a crossbow - The Iron Suitor ADWD

So, we can see that the passage likely connects Tyrion with the "monkey" moniker by way of referencing a "crossbow" as well as the word "demonic". As we all know, a crossbow is what Tyrion used to slay his father in ASOS. The mention of a crossbow in conjunction with monkeys being described as "demonic", I think we can safely say that Tyrion is being referenced by GRRM in Victarion's chapters .

Okay, so let's assume that Tyrion is referenced in these passages. What does it mean?

Here's what I believe: Tyrion, upon encountering Victarion, would have the judge of his character. Tyrion outclasses Victarion in every way when it comes to intelligence, wit, and manipulation. The two are at the same location (Meeren) and both want the favour of Daenarys. It seems inevitable that the two characters will cross paths. Tyrion would realise that this is a man that he can outwit and use for his own ends.

The first passage describes negatives feelings felt by Victarion at the monkey's "howling". This, I believe, is foreshadowing of Tyrion's attempts to manipulate Victarion. The "howling" used in substitute and reference to the lies that Tyrion will use on Victarion and his men.

Victarion's "frustration" is telling. There are two other characters in the series that aren't as versed in dealing with manipulation and the game of thrones in general, like Victarion. Those two being Eddard Stark and Barristan Selmy, and they reacted in similar ways to manipulation used on them.

“Most likely the king did not know,” Littlefinger said. “It would not be the first time. Our good Robert is practiced at closing his eyes to things he would rather not see.” Ned had no reply for that. The face of the butcher’s boy swam up before his eyes, cloven almost in two, and afterward the king had said not a word. His head was pounding. - Eddard AGOT

“Volantis.” Selmy’s sword hand tingled. We made a peace with Yunkai. Not with Volantis. “You are certain?”

“Certain. The Wise Masters know. So do their friends. The Harpy, Reznak, Hizdahr. This king will open the city gates to the Volantenes when they arrive. All those Daenerys freed will be enslaved again. Even some who were never slaves will be fitted for chains. You may end your days in a fighting pit, old man. Khrazz will eat your heart.”

His head was pounding. “Daenerys must be told.” -The Queensguard ADWD

When Ned encounters a lie by Littlefinger when they talk to him, it's described in the text as his "head pounding". The same happens when Barristan talks to the Shavepate in Meereen. It's likely that the Shavepate has his own agendas and when Barristan hears him he has the same reaction as Ned in where his "head pounds". The implication being that they instinctively know it's a lie, but can't grasp the higher details and fully realise it.

Victarion isn't an honourable man like Eddard and Barristan, but he shares the same ineptitude regarding the game of thrones as they do. The reaction isn't the exact same, but it's described in similar negative detail that taxes him. We can also refer to Barristan's passage where his hand "tingles" during the exchange, just as Victarion's hand "throbs" from the monkeys.

So, what is Tyrion's goal and why would he even need to bother with Victarion and his crew? We can refer back to this passage in Tyrion's final POV chapter in ADWD:

“I am dancing as fast as I can.” He wanted to laugh, but that would have ruined the game. Plumm was enjoying this, and Tyrion had no intention of spoiling his fun. Let him go on thinking that he’s bent me over and fucked me up the arse, and I’ll go on buying steel swords with parchment dragons. If ever he went back to Westeros to claim his birthright, he would have all the gold of Casterly Rock to make good on his promises - Tyrion ADWD

Tyrion's ultimate goal from ADWD and going forward is to tear down his father's legacy and to wreck vengeance upon his siblings. In order to achieve this, he has to acquire power. It's my belief that he'll try to persuade Victarion's men to fight for his cause. In the same way he swindled the Second Sons with promises of riches of Casterly Rock, I believe he'll do the same with Victarion's men.

To get a better picture of the character of the Ironborn soldiers I refer to this passage:

His words drew mutters of assent. “Slaver’s Bay is too far,” called out Ralf the Limper. “And too close to Valyria,” shouted Quellon Humble. Fralegg the Strong said, “Highgarden’s close. I say, look for dragons there. The golden kind!” Alvyn Sharp said, “Why sail the world, when the Mander lies before us?” Red Ralf Stonehouse bounded to his feet. “Oldtown is richer, and the Arbor richer still. Redwyne’s fleet is off away. We need only reach out our hand to pluck the ripest fruit in Westeros.”

“Fruit?” The king’s eye looked more black than blue. “Only a craven would steal a fruit when he could take the orchard.”

“It is the Arbor we want,” said Red Ralf, and other men took up the cry. The Crow’s Eye let the shouts wash over him. Then he leapt down from the table, grabbed his slattern by the arm, and pulled her from the hall.

- The Reaver AFFC

Euron Greyjoy, the king of the Ironborn, proposes an ambitious plan of acquiring dragons to rule all of Westeros, but his Ironborn soldiers opt for the easy way out. A way that will require less effort and with the promises of quick riches. Why sail half a world away when the gold is in their backyards?

The ironmen that have sailed with Victarion, will see the imp bearing his promises, and might just decide that he's their ticket to a grander prize. Their Iron Captain is a formidable warrior, aye, but Casterly Rock would have all the riches they need, and who better to offer them than the rightful born heir of Casterly Rock?

We've already seen Victarion's men turn on him before:

Victarion grabbed him by the forearm. “Refuse him!”

Nute looked at him as if he had gone mad. “Refuse him? Lands and lordship? Will you make me a lord?” He wrenched his arm away and stood, basking in the cheers.

And now he steals my men away, Victarion thought. - The Reaver AFFC

As I've highlighted in the first two passages, the monkeys are described as being more "agile" (more cunning) than Victarion's crew and infesting "half of them". It makes sense, since it's not like Tyrion can swindle 100 percent of Victarion's crew, but at least half of them? That doesn't seem like too much of a challenge, given what we know of the Ironborn's character.

Victarion Greyjoy mistrusted laughter. The sound of it always left him with the uneasy feeling that he was the butt of some jape he did not understand. Euron Crow’s Eye had oft made mock of him when they were boys. So had Aeron, before he had become the Damphair. Their mockery oft came disguised as praise, and sometimes Victarion had not even realized he was being mocked. Not until he heard the laughter. Then came the anger, boiling up in the back of his throat until he was like to choke upon the taste. That was how he felt about the monkeys. Their antics never brought so much as a smile to the captain’s face, though his crew would roar and hoot and whistle. - The Iron Suitor ADWD

“You have a gift for making men smile,” Septa Lemore told Tyrion as he was drying off his toes. “You should thank the Father Above. He gives gifts to all his children.”

“He does,” he agreed pleasantly. And when I die, please let them bury with me a crossbow, so I can thank the Father Above for his gifts the same way I thanked the father below. - Tyrion ADWD

For half a year he cartwheeled his merry way about Casterly Rock, bringing smiles to the faces of septons, squires, and servants alike. Even Cersei laughed to see him once or twice. All that ended abruptly the day his father returned from a sojourn in King’s Landing. That night at supper Tyrion surprised his sire by walking the length of the high table on his hands. Lord Tywin was not pleased. “The gods made you a dwarf. Must you be a fool as well? You were born a lion, not a monkey.” - Tyrion ADWD

Tyrion will use his personality to amuse and charm a majority of the Iron Fleet's crew, all so he can win them over and bond them to him, but Victarion won't be amused. We've already seen Tyrion's prowess used to great effect in winning over a crowd during his slave auction and he'll do the same with The Ironborn by playing the part of an amusing fool; "dancing" and making witty jokes to the bemusement of the knuckleheads from the Iron Islands.

He could send a man up after it, but the monkeys seemed to like that game

Victarion had forbidden his men to bring any of the demonic creatures aboard ship, yet somehow half his fleet was now infested with them, even his own Iron Victory.

Their antics never brought so much as a smile to the captain’s face, though his crew would roar and hoot and whistle.

Victarion may have some vague idea that the "monkeys" are nothing but trouble for his crew, but like Eddard and Barristan, he can't quite grasp the finer details of what a game of thrones player like Tyrion is trying to achieve exactly. He doesn't see the capering little monkey as someone trying to swindle his crew right from under him. "and sometimes Victarion had not even realized he was being mocked. Not until he heard the laughter. "

Because ultimately, the joke is on Victarion. The Monkey Demon makes his japes and charms all, while laughing from above at the dumb brute who can only frown his displeasure and not realise what the monkey has in store for him, until it's too late. And Victarion, finally realising the punchline too late, will be the biggest mistake of his life.

The Glory That Awaits

"The Lord of Light has shown me your worth, Lord Captain. Every night in my fires I glimpse the glory that awaits you." - Victarion ADWD

One of the biggest constants in Victarion's arc is that he's basically a born stooge. He's being manipulated by characters superior in intelligence than him, and while these manipulations haven't born fruit so far in AFFC and ADWD, I think they'll finally bloom and bite him in his kraken ass in TWOW.

Moqorro

Euron

Tyrion

It's been heavily implied in the text that all three characters are going to use him just to achieve their ends. The only character that hasn't interacted with him yet is Tyrion, but the first two share something in common that I think will translate over to Tyrion's machinations as well. That something being dragons.

Euron gifts him with a dragonhorn and bonehead extraordinaire Victarion thinks that he'll use it for his own benefit and snag himself a dragon. As if Euron would be stupid enough to allow Victarion to do that.

Euron was a fool to give me this, it is a precious thing, and powerful. With this I’ll win the Seastone Chair, and then the Iron Throne. With this I’ll win the world. - Victarion TWOW

Interesting that the word "fool" is invoked for Euron, a man who is more cunning than Victarion by miles. After all, you don't just secure a kingship like Euron did through sheer luck.

That's what the dancing little monkey will seem like to Victarion as well. Lord Tywin, a man after Victarion's own heart because he never smiled or laughed, wasn't amused by the monkey's antics either:

Lord Tywin’s mouth tightened. “Very droll. Shall I have them sew you a suit of motley, and a little hat with bells on it?” - Tyrion ASOS

He considered Tyrion a motley wearing fool. We all know how that ended for Tywin.

Moqorro then tells him that in order to capture the dragon for himself, he must claim the dragonhorn with his own blood.

“Your brother did not sound the horn himself. Nor must you.” Moqorro pointed to the band of steel. “Here. ‘Blood for fire, fire for blood.’ Who blows the hellhorn matters not. The dragons will come to the horn’s master. You must claim the horn. With blood.” - Victarion ADWD

So, the first two characters are connected via the use of the dragonhorn. Judging what we know from Euron's character, it's extremely likely that he's pulling one over on Victarion for his own ends. Since I've established that Tyrion is also going to do the same through this essay, it's highly likely Moqorro is just using Victarion as well.

Here we see Moqorro relaying a prophecy to Tyrion:

“Dragons old and young, true and false, bright and dark. And you. A small man with a big shadow, snarling in the midst of all.”

“Snarling? An amiable fellow like me?” Tyrion was almost flattered. And no doubt that is just what he intends. Every fool loves to hear that he’s important. “Perhaps it was Penny you saw. We’re almost of a size.”

“No, my friend.”

My friend? When did that happen, I wonder? - Tyrion ADWD

Definition of amiable:

friendly, sociable, and congenial. generally agreeable

Definition of snarling:

Something used by predators before they rip your throat out.

Moqorro's label cuts to the heart of the matter, despite Tyrion's "incredulous" reaction to it.

How can the jovial, charming little dwarf be anything but a good, fun time? "Snarling"? Does it "look" like he wants to burn down all of Westeros just to get some empty satisfaction at the downfall of his family? Does it "look" like he wants to use people less intelligent than him to achieve those ends?

Yes, Tyrion. Yes it does.

So, onto the next point. Since we've established that Tyrion doesn't have Victarion's best interests at heart, there's a question we should ask ourselves here: Why would Moqorro consider Tyrion a friend if he can see that he'll just end up using Victarion? His prophecies seem to be pretty on point in judging future events and how it relates to people, so why look so highly upon the dwarf?

It's because Moqorro is manipulating Victarion for his own ends as well. If he was Victarion's true ally, he wouldn't be so chummy with Tyrion.

Considering Moqorro looks so favorably upon Tyrion, his claims to Victarion that he can claim the dragon for his own are dubious. Moqorro's prophecy for "the glory that awaits him" to Victarion may not be the glorious ending Victarion thinks it'll be. Since Moqorro is a priest of fire, the "glory" he speaks of is something that he himself finds glorious. Fire.

During Victarion's travelogue in ADWD, he starts to incorporate The Lord of Light's beliefs for his own and mixes it with his belief of the Drowned God.

He wondered if this was how his brother Aeron felt when the Drowned God spoke to him. He could almost hear the god’s voice welling up from the depths of the sea. You shall serve me well, my captain, the waves seemed to say. It was for this I made you.

But he would feed the red god too, Moqorro’s fire god. The arm the priest had healed was hideous to look upon, pork crackling from elbow to fingertips. Sometimes when Victarion closed his hand the skin would split and smoke, yet the arm was stronger than it had ever been. “Two gods are with me now,” he told the dusky woman. “No foe can stand before two gods." - Victarion ADWD

In one final, humiliating punchline, the Iron Captain will serve his two gods. But not in the way he intended.

“Might be his robes caught fire, so he jumped overboard to put them out,” suggested Longwater Pyke, to general laughter. Even the monkeys were amused. They chattered overhead, and one flung down a handful of his own shit to spatter on the boards. -The Iron Suitor ADWD

The captain could not abide lies, so he had the Ghiscari captain bound hand and foot and thrown overboard, a sacrifice to the Drowned God. “Your red god will have his due,” he promised Moqorro, “but the seas are ruled by the Drowned God.”- Victarion ADWD

The captain answered with a nod, grim-faced, then called for the seven girls he had claimed to be brought on deck, the loveliest of all those found aboard the Willing Maiden. He kissed them each upon the cheeks and told them of the honor that awaited them, though they did not understand his words. Then he had them put aboard the fishing ketch that they had captured, cut her loose, and had her set afire.

“With this gift of innocence and beauty, we honor both the gods,” he proclaimed, as the warships of the Iron Fleet rowed past the burning ketch. “Let these girls be reborn in light, undefiled by mortal lust, or let them descend to the Drowned God’s watery halls, to feast and dance and laugh until the seas dry up.” - Victarion ADWD

His plan to snatch a dragon and win the world will backfire horribly. Believing he'll become Aegon the Conquerer come again, he uses the dragonhorn to bring a dragon to him. Since the dragonhorn is at least six feet long, it'd be a pain and seem redundant to move it from the deck of The Iron Victory. Thinking the dragon will be binded to him, he'll be happy as a pig in shit when the horn gets tooted like an old lady's fart.

That is, until the dragon swoops down and opens his maw to unleash a nuclear holocaust on his sorry ass.

When he raised his whip, he saw that the lash was burning. His hand as well. All of him, all of him was burning. Oh, he thought. Then he began to scream. - The Dragontamer ADWD

It's not too far-fetched to say the passage connects with Victarion, considering his arm and hand have already been described as split and smoking. It's also isn't the first time his hand is referenced, as I've stated before in the reference to Barristan Selmy. Both references coming from the same book ADWD.

Engulfed in dragonfire, he'll have no choice but to jump overboard into the sea. That'll snuff the flames right ou-

The white roses drew back, as men always did at the sight of Victarion Greyjoy armed and armored, his face hidden behind his kraken helm. They were clutching swords and spears and axes, but nine of every ten wore no armor, and the tenth had only a shirt of sewn scales. These are no ironmen, Victarion thought. They still fear drowning. - The Reaver AFFC

None of his men had seen what became of the knight after he went over the side, however. Most like the man had drowned. “May he feast as he fought, in the Drowned God’s watery halls.” Though the men of the Shield Islands called themselves sailors, they crossed the seas in dread and went lightly clad in battle for fear of drowning. Young Serry had been different. A brave man, thought Victarion. Almost ironborn. - The Reaver AFFC

In a buy two-get-one free deal, the char-coaled Iron Captain will serve his two gods, sinking like a rock to the bottom of the ocean to feast in the watery halls of the Drowned God for eternity. The Monkey Demon laughing and capering all the while.

At least the Drowned God will be impressed with the Kraken armor.

The End

So, in a final analysis, I believe Tyrion will convince at least half, if not most of Victarion's crew to join in his cause, thinking they'll be rich beyond their wildest of dreams, not realising that they're just expendable pawns for Tyrion to fulfil his desire for vengeance.

While the exact logistics of how Tyrion is involved in Victarion's death escape me, I certainly believe he'll have a part in it. As I've stated before, Tyrion will likely be involved with Victarion and his plot for dragons just like Moqorro and Euron.

The white cyvasse dragon ended up at Tyrion’s feet. He scooped it off the carpet and wiped it on his sleeve, but some of the Yunkish blood had collected in the fine grooves of the carving, so the pale wood seemed veined with red. “All hail our beloved queen, Daenerys.” Be she alive or be she dead. He tossed the bloody dragon in the air, caught it, grinned. - Tyrion TWOW

It'd also be guesswork on my part to write what exact manipulations and lies Tyrion will utilise on Victarion and his men through dialogue, but I think my rough sketch is enough to give a general idea for the direction they'll likely take.

Considering that Tyrion is inevitably going to meet with Daenerys, and since it's not like he has any easy passage to any other location, he'll likely be at Meeren for a good while.

And since it seems highly unlikely that Victarion will just be killed off at the Battle of Fire, considering he's been chronicled and built up in the past two books, I think it's safe to assume that the two will have lengthy interactions with each other while they're stuck in Meereen.

Whether or not Victarion will be around long enough to meet the fair-haired queen of his dreams is unknown, but it's possible he'll be dead before then.

After all, wouldn't it be a worthy prize for our beloved imp to come bearing gifts of a naval fleet bonded to him to the lovely Queen Daenerys? All from him, no other person claiming ownership of them.

"The old captain? Eh, he wouldn't have been as generous as me."

Despite all of that, despite all the manipulations and deceit, will Tyrion be truly satisfied at the end result?

That night Tyrion Lannister dreamed of a battle that turned the hills of Westeros as red as blood. He was in the midst of it, dealing death with an axe as big as he was, fighting side by side with Barristan the Bold and Bittersteel as dragons wheeled across the sky above them. In the dream he had two heads, both noseless. His father led the enemy, so he slew him once again. Then he killed his brother, Jaime, hacking at his face until it was a red ruin, laughing every time he struck a blow. Only when the fight was finished did he realize that his second head was weeping. - Tyrion ADWD

[crownjimin]

✰ 099 | no takesies backsies

la vie en rose ━ in which lee aera, a girl who has been crushing on choi soobin for a long, long time, is starting her junior year and her friends decide that its time for her to make her move.

( masterlist | prev | next )

A/N: whoop! one more update + the epilogue and we’re donezo!!

“I can’t believe it’s really red—,” He flipped and shuffled his hands through her hair as he said this.

“So bright, so pretty,” Soobin muttered to himself, going as far as to bend down and push his nose into her scalp, taking a long, dramatic sniff. “Oh, it doesn’t smell like strawberries.”

Aera laughed at this, shoving her not-boyfriend away from her softly. “Of course not. That’s like me saying your hair should smell like chocolates.”

Soobin had recently dyed his hair back to brown--well, dark brown, and as much as it made Aera sad to see the purple gone from his hair, it was well past due. His roots had grown out terribly, meaning that he was either going to have to redo his roots or retreat back to his natural brown. Also, the purple was less purple and more of a faded ash gray, from all the washing Soobin did to his hair.

For a while, he was set on just letting his hair grow out, then cutting it at the brown once the ash gray was to the tips of his hair but Aera told him he would look crazy. They debated about it for a few days, but one day Aera showed up at his house with a kit with brown hair dye and a few hours later his chocolate brown locks were back. 

“Well, if you used strawberry shampoo it would smell like strawberries.”

“I will when you use chocolate shampoo.”

Soobin pouted. “I bet Ariel’s hair smells like strawberries.”

“Go sniff her head then,” the red-head quipped. “And I actually highly doubt that is true. She lives in the ocean, you know. The place where fish pee--that ocean.”

“Is there another ocean that I should be thinking of?”

“Yeah,” There was a teasing lilt in Aera’s voice. “The one I’m going to toss you in if you keep sassing me.”

The two were currently sitting in Soobin’s living room on Saturday morning, Soobin having asked Aera on Friday night if she wanted to spend the next day with him. Of course, without hesitation, Aera agreed, telling him that she would be there by ten, and now they were there.

Soobin had suggested watching YouTube in his living room until his mom got home from the gym, and Aera found no issue with the idea. During the past hour and a half, they had watched way too many Girls’ Generation music videos, and even attempted to learn the choreography to Catch Me If You Can. After forty minutes of them attempting to get past the first verse, they called it quits. Soobin claimed that he was too talented in girl group choreography to continue and further embarrass Aera with her lackluster movements.

But if you asked Aera, Soobin just didn’t want to have a dance battle, because he knew he was going to lose.

At noon, Ruha walked through the front door, her arms loaded with three market bags, filled to the brim with groceries.

“Soobin-ah,” Ruha yelled, a little too loud since she hadn’t realized he was right there in the living room. “Come help me with my bags!”

Both Soobin and Aera rushed to help Ruha, the older woman being slightly startled by Aera being there but she quickly perked up and said, “Oh good, Ae Ae is here. More hands to help!”

Everything felt so natural with Soobin and his family. Aera had spent a lot of time at his house since the picnic, and his parents seemed to love her. Soobin’s dad was obsessed when he saw how small Aera was, often leaning his elbow on her head whenever he stood beside her as a way to ridicule and tease her about her height. Then when she turned up with red hair, he almost had a better reaction than Soobin, dubbing her Strawberry Shortcake and hasn’t stopped calling her that since.

Aera had also gotten Soobin’s parents’ phone numbers, Ruha often texting Aera at random times throughout the day whenever Soobin talked about her.

ruha-ssi

he said you brought him lunch to school today. says that he loves how much you care about him

i’m sure he cares about me way more than i do him

ruha-ssi 

does he show it well?

that he cares for you.

wouldnt ask for him to treat me any better than he already

does ruha-ssi.

Or the time Ruha told her that Soobin was sleep talking and had muttered her name.

ruha-ssi

he’s napping.

[picture attached]

ruha-ssi

he just grumbled your name and had the biggest smile

aw that’s so cute

ruha-ssi

i know :)))

Soobin was aware that Aera had his mother’s number, but he didn’t know that his mother was revealing just how lovestruck he was. Aera didn’t plan on mentioning it to him either, thinking that Ruha is godsent for giving her so much dirt and content to tease Soobin with whenever he decided to get too sassy with her.

Plus, Soobin has had Dongmin’s phone number much longer than Aera has had Ruha’s, and she is one-thousand percent positive that her mother lived to embarrass her, so Soobin for sure had some dirt on her.

 It’s a win-win situation, all is fair in love and war.

“So, Soobin-ah,” Ruha spoke as she walked into the kitchen. “What time do you want to head out?”

Aera was busy placing things where they belonged from the market bags (yes, she knows where their groceries belonged—she’s been over there that much), but she raised an eyebrow at Ruha’s question.

“Head out where?” she asked.

“Soobin wanted to take you to an early dinner today,” Ruha paused, with a nervous expression on her face. “I-I don’t know if it was supposed to be a surprise or not-”

“No, mom, it’s fine,” Soobin waved it off. “It wasn’t really a surprise, I was gonna mention it to you later, Pouts.”

Aera walked out of the pantry, an excited glint in her eyes. “Will there be steak at this dinner?”

“Do you want there to be steak?”

“Yes.”

“Then there will be steak.”

━━━━━━━

The restaurant Soobin had chosen was very dark, Aera noted. The only light that was supplied was from a single candle lit in the center of the table, which left everything as shadows and tinted orange.

It seemed super expensive, and once Aera picked up the menu, her suspicions were confirmed.

“Soobi,” her voice seemed hesitant. “How are you affording any of this?”

She should’ve realized that the meal was going to be an expensive one when Ruha had offered Aera one of her old dresses, seeing as Aera had came over to their house in a pair of ripped jeans and a tattered t-shirt. The dress Ruha lent her was a dark blue, high-necked dress, where the waist tapered in and then flowed out to mid-thigh. Luckily, Aera had worn black flats that day, those being the shoes closest to her front door when she left for Soobin’s house.

Soobin was dressed in a simple button up and black slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and the top button of his shirt was undone—if Aera hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought Soobin was a young adult that worked a nine-to-five office job and not a sixteen year old boy taking his not-girlfriend out for an early dinner.

Everything was fancy, and the two of them were tucked into a corner booth where once they sat down the hostess had wished ‘Mister and Missus Choi’ a nice evening. 

“Months of allowance that I’ve saved up,” Soobin lifted his gaze from the menu and once he saw how worried Aera was, he rushed to reassure her. “Plus, I work a summer job! Don’t worry, Pouts, I promise it’s not too much.”

“You don’t have to spend your allowance on me, Soobi,” she spoke softly. “You should spend it on something you really want-something to make you happy.”

“Seeing you happy makes me happy.”

Aera blushed. “Don’t try to flatter me into running your pockets dry.”

“Ae Ae, seriously,” Soobin put down his menu and reached his hands across the table to touch her hands, which laid on the table. He tugged her index fingers once, attempting to soothe her and get her to not worry. “It’s fine. If it makes you feel better we can just split something, so that way I won’t have to spend much.”

The crease in her eyebrows gradually faded and she nodded in agreement. “Are you okay with splitting a steak?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded. “Just order whatever, I’ll eat anything.”

Aera looked over the menu, her eyes skipping over the more expensive items but honestly the cheapest things were the hor d'oeuvres and even those weren’t cheaper than 74,000 won. 

“How about I choose one, you choose one, then we pick something together?” she suggested. “That way we can both enjoy something.”

By the time the waiter came to the table, they had decided on their personal picks and their combined choice, and once the food came to the table, Aera knew it was more than enough. The steak she had chosen ended up being as big as her face and had the both of them gasping in surprise once it was set on the table. Soobin decided on a rose pasta, in a dish large enough that it could feed a family of five. And their combined choice was a large platter of American-style french fries, but the way the menu phrased it made it seem like they were ordering a fancy potato.

Soobin offered to have the kitchen take it back, but Aera refused to give back french fries--she’d be crazy to ever turn down french fries (plus it came with a gravy boat filled with a white sauce that Aera could literally guzzle down in one go, so she was more than happy to keep it).

The moment the waiter told them to enjoy, Aera was shoving her fork into the steak, which was thankfully pre-cut, and the second she bit into it, juice ran down her chin and she had to squeeze every muscle in her throat to not let out a moan.

Soobin noticed her expression, the way her eyes fell close and she paused mid-bite. “Is it good, Pouts?”

“Tho goof,” she attempted to speak around her bite but she just gave up and nodded enthusiastically. 

“It’s so juicy,” she said once she swallowed. 

When they were ordering, she wanted to get the steak cooked well-done, but Soobin had told her to get it medium preaching something about it being more tender and juicer as if he knew everything and anything about steak. Aera argued and said she didn’t want to cut into her steak and hear it mooing back at her, and Soobin chuckled but promised if it was too raw for her when it came out, they could just send it back and she obliged.

She most definitely was not sending back this beautiful piece of heaven, and shoved another piece into her mouth. The scene from Ratatouille when the rat fused together strawberry and cheese and had color swirling around his head played inside Aera’s head the second she took another bite of the steak. Her eyes were closed, her head lolled from side to side as she swayed euphorically to the warmth of the steak and the flavor on her tongue.

Once she noticed what she was doing, she sat up stark straight and opened her eyes, watching as Soobin recorded her and laughed silently at her actions.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself alot there,” Soobin ended the recording and set his phone on the table.

“Delete that.”

“I won’t. Here,” Soobin held out his fork where some of his pasta was twirled on the end. “Try it.”

Aera opened her mouth, letting him guide the fork inside and once she closed her mouth around the fork, the Ratatouille scene played again. She pulled away from the fork, her hand shooting over her mouth as she chewed and her eyes shot wide.

“Good?” Soobin asked, stabbing his fork in a piece of steak and eating it, much less dramatically than Aera had. 

“Is amayshin,” Aera muttered. “Why ish ev-wee-shing hwere sho amayshin?”

Soobin swallowed and laughed. “It better be with these ridiculous prices.”

“Oh, yeah,” she nodded and swallowed her bite. “It’s so worth it.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I’m glad I like you,” Aera giggled, shoving some fries into her mouth. “You buy me expensive steak.”

“Only because of the steak?”

She nonchalantly shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Soobin faked a scoff, halfway knowing she was joking, but once he watched her pick up another piece of steak, and then kiss it before she ate it, he wasn’t so sure if she was joking anymore.

━━━━━━━━━

Thirty-five minutes and an entire steak later, Aera and Soobin were slouched over, bellies full, with their plates cleared.

“I am going to sleep so well tonight,” Aera grumbled as she rubbed her stomach. “This was so amazing.”

The waiter came to give the receipt and return Soobin’s card, wishing ‘Mister and Missus Choi’ a good night, and left them to their vices. Aera chuckled at being called Missus Choi, because did she look old enough to be married?

Did married people dye their hair red? She didn’t know but did she look married? Did her and Soobin resemble a married couple? Oh god, that just fueled her fantasy of marrying Soobin and she knew that she would never let this go.

“Alright,” Soobin groaned, shoving the receipt and card into his pocket as he stood and rounded the table, reaching his hand out to help Aera up from her chair. “You okay?”

Aera blew out a breath. “I’m stuffed.”

They both stood in place, Aera swaying a bit from standing up too quickly and Soobin attempted to stabilize her by setting a hand on her waist. “Careful.”

“I’m fine,” she tapped his hand on her waist. “I’m okay, just stood up a little too fast. Let’s go.”

They walked out of the restaurant hand-in-hand, Soobin somewhat leading Aera as she momentarily closed her eyes as a way to wheeze out air around her full belly. This was the best meal she has had in entire life, one that she never imagined having unless she was filthy rich and drank gold for breakfast, lunch, and dinner but here Soobin was taking her on a date just because he wanted to see her happy.

When they made it outside, Aera tugged his hand, causing him to stop and turn to her. She eased her arms around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder as she softly hugged him. He returned the gesture immediately, cuddling his head on top of hers and they just existed in the moment, in each other’s arms.

“Thank you for this, Soobin,” Aera squeezed him tightly, nuzzling her head further into his shoulder. “You made me really happy by doing this—you make me happy always.”

“I’m happy to make you happy,” Soobin chuckled, pulling away from the hug. “But the night isn’t over, we have one more stop!”

“Is  it far?”

Soobin nodded. “My mom is going to take us there. She’s on her way here now.”

“Where is it?”

“The beach.”

“The beach?”

Soobin nodded again. “The beach.”

“The beach,” Aera said flatly. “I like the beach.”

“That’s why we’re going.”

“Hm,” Aera sighed happily. “The beach.”

━━━━━━━━━━

Upon their arrival, Aera realized that when Soobin said the beach, he actually meant the boat dock by the beach. Well more like the yacht dock by the beach, because as they made their way to the end of the dock, they passed massive yachts, the type that only rich people could afford. Ones with balconies and two-stories that have some corny name etched onto the side that were either named after an important woman in their life or something like Old Betsy.

“What are we doing on a dock,” Aera giggled, swinging her and Soobin’s hands where they were connected. “I’m almost positive we aren’t supposed to be here.”

Soobin laughed as they came to stop in front of one of the smaller yachts, which wasn’t exactly small (but in comparison to the other yachts it was more compact), where a man was waiting for them.

“Choi Soobin?”

“Yes sir,” Soobin nodded, then gestured behind him. “And this is my mother, Ruha.”

The man extended his hand to Ruha, giving it a firm shake. “Yes, we spoke on the phone. Everything is set, if you guys want to climb on in, we’ll head out in about ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” Ruha said as the man helped her onto the yacht by her hand. 

The man then lent his hand to Aera, but instead of grabbing it, she took a step back, a conflicted look on her face.

“Wait,” Soobin placed his free hand on Aera’s wasit, causing her to look up at him. “You aren’t afraid of water, right? Boats or anything? Because I was just trying to surprise you, that’s why I didn’t as-”

“No, no,” Aera shook her head. “That’s not it, but Soobin how much was this?”

Soobin raised an eyebrow at the question, confused as to why she was asking this. “What?”

“It’s just—” she sighed. “You’re spending a lot of money today, and I don’t want you to think you have to blow a bunch of money just to make me happy. You could’ve just given me a bottle of water and I’d be happy that it came from you, so I don’t get why you are taking me to all these expensive places and things.”

“I just want to spoil you,” he softly replied. “Even if it’s just for a day. I want you to have some of the best experiences with me, so I don’t mind spending a lot of money on you.”

“But, Soob-”

“And plus,” Soobin smiled wide. “My friends chipped in to help, they wanted to make us both happy so they offered to help. You don’t have to pay them back, I don’t have to pay them back, they were just doing it out of the goodness of their hearts. Me as well.”

Aera stood there frozen.

“I just want you to be happy.”

“But I’m already happy with you.”

Soobin leaned down to rest his forehead on Aera’s. “Yes, but you’d be even more happy on the boat, so let’s go!”

Aera laughed as she reached out for the man’s hand, him having stood there and watched that whole sappy ordeal, and he pulled her into the boat. Soobin followed and guided Aera to the very front of the yacht, where Ruha sat with a blanket over her legs.

“Choi Soobin, this will be the last time you spend a shit ton of money on me, do you understand?” Aera scolded, her finger pointed at Soobin but a smile was on her face.

“Yes, ma’am, never again,” Soobin spoke jokingly, totally not meaning a word of what he just said. 

“You’re not going to listen to me are you?”

“Nope.”

The yacht got moving a few moments later, things feeling a bit shaky for a few minutes, but Aera acclimated to it quite fast. She and Soobin had taken to roleplaying the scene from Titanic that nearly everyone does when they are at the frontmost point on a boat.

Soobin held her waist as Aera held her arms out to her side, feeling the wind whip on her face and the smell of salt infiltrate her nose.

“The ocean is kind of stinky,” her nose scrunched up as she said this. “Smells like raw fish and high cholesterol.”

Soobin cackled, tightly wrapping his arms around Aera’s waist as he pulled her into his chest, her back to her front. “You ruined such a good moment.”

She giggled, placing her hands over his arms and squeezed. “I was just telling the truth.”

“Kids!” Ruha called out. “Come sit down for a few minutes, you’re making me nervous by the ledge.”

They obliged, walking to sit across from Ruha and they talked amongst themselves for a few minutes, playing a few rounds of rock paper scissors to pass the time.

“So are we just going to cruise around the ocean for a few hours or what?” Aera asked, peering over the side of the boat to look down into the water. “Because no offense to the ocean or anything, but this is a bit boring.”

Soobin pulled out his phone, checking the time before he answered, “Actually, no. Just seven minutes until what we came here for happens.”

Aera looked intrigued now, “Oh, is it fireworks? Are we looking at fireworks?”

“I don’t think lighting explosives on a yacht would be smart.”

“A yacht,” Aera chuckled. “Never thought I’d see one of these in my entire lifetime.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

“I’m glad my first time was with you,” she softly spoke, her voice almost a whisper.

“Me too,” Soobin smiled. “We’ll have many firsts together, hopefully.”

“Hopefully.”

At the moment, they were sitting side-by-side with their waist turned to face one another, but Soobin pointed behind Aera as he muttered, “Look.”

Aera turned her body around, to face the ocean, a gasp leaving her mouth as she absorbed the breathtaking scene in front of her. She watched as the sun burned a hypnotizing orange and pink hue, reflecting on the ocean’s surface. Slowly, the orb lowered to meet the horizon line, kissing it softly as the glares glittered across the rippling water.

She had seen nothing like this, ever. Mother nature and the Earth’s natural occurrences never appealed to Aera, they were never something she found interesting or attention-catching, but this—this was so worth it.

Her awestruck trance was broken when Soobin rested his chin on her shoulder, whispering, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s-I-” Aera searched for the right words but there were none that could accurately describe exactly what she was witnessing. It made her speechless, her jaw going slack as she once again watched the sun move lower and lower.

They sat in silence, taking in the scenic view before them. Ruha sat opposite of them, snapping pictures of the sunset as she oh’ed and aw’ed at the scene.

“Pouts,” Soobin muttered into her ear, keeping his voice low so as to not ruin the moment. “I, uh-”

“Hm, Soobi?”

“Please, be my girlfriend.”

All of Aera’s breath left her body, all of her blood seemed to run cold. Was she hallucinating? Was she hearing things?

“Huh-” Oh god, she sounded so stupid. Who responds to the boy of their dreams asking them to be their girlfriend with ‘huh’.

“I-” Soobin sat up straighter, Aera being able to feel so behind her. “I really like you-no, love you, and I want to be with you. Officially. For a very long time.”

Aera eased her way around, turning to face Soobin who looked like he was going to pass out any second if she didn’t give him an answer within the next millisecond. So she carefully raised her hands to his cheeks, cupping his face softly.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Choi Soobin,” she breathed. “I’d kind of be an asshole if I said no after all of this, am I right?”

Soobin held onto her wrists. “I hope that isn’t the sole reason you are saying yes.”

“Lucky for you, it is not. It’s probably one of the lower list reasons.”

“There’s a list?”

She giggled. “There has always been a list.”

The sound of her giggle seemed to have him smitten, his eyes zoning in on her lips which caused her heart to skip a beat. She wasn’t dumb, she knew what he was thinking of, what his eyes were asking for, and for some reason, she had no qualms about complying.

Her first kiss was always something Aera fretted about, thinking about how awful it was going to be, how she was going to mess everything up. But for some reason, right here, right now, with Soobin, she knew for a fact it was going to be amazing. This is maybe the first and only decision Aera didn’t hesitate to make, and so she leaned in.

The touch of their lips was soft. Simple. A measly, quick peck.

When they pulled back, both of their cheeks were colored rose, a look of fondness between the two of them and Aera leaned in to kiss the the corner of Soobin’s mouth before pulling away and dropping her hands from his face.

“No takesies backsies, Choi Soobin.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lee Aera.”

[srchng4answrs]

Absolution of sin isn’t easy. Every year in my Catholic high school they would bring in priests to listen to our confessions. We would sit in the auditorium an empty chair in between each person and one by one walk to the back of the auditorium where a man in vestments would sit ready to tell us that we are still God’s children. I never went.

“Before religion” isn’t a concept that exists for me. This is strange for many reasons, the primary being that my family is not religious in the slightest. We went to church out of obligation every Christmas and Easter, and stopped following that tradition when I was in 4th grade. I don't know what my mother thought I would gain from going to a religious school for 10 years.

Catholicism is the particular sect of Christianity that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to reconcile with. The preaching of love and tolerance. The acts of service and the good deeds. Is it still a good deed if you’re doing it for personal gain?

Defender of Mankind. In Ancient Greek that's what the name Alexandria means. That's what My name means. I learned that at church. It’s ironic, the places that tell you you are meant to defend, are the same ones attacking. I wasn’t equipped to defend myself from the teachings of a group that I thought had my best interest at heart.

Eulogies in religious services are often delivered by the clergy member who is officiating the service. A religious eulogy will focus on the role of God and faith in the life of the person who died, rather than any secular accomplishments. I often write eulogies for people in my head. I have never once written something religious.

Father Sean was an odd man. Nothing against him but I wish he would stop sending me friend requests on Facebook.

Gabriel is a Hebrew name meaning “God is my strength”. He told Mary to not be afraid, but he was also the angel sent to destroy Jerusalem. Which one of those is real strength.

Half human, half divine. The manifestation of God in the flesh. How terrible it must’ve been to be crucified for telling the truth. To be needlessly slaughtered for the sake of people that want to see your organs fail as you slowly suffocate and bleed out. Father forgive them they do not know what they are doing.

I often wish I understood. I want to be able to walk into a church and feel god. I want to wear my Kairos cross without feeling like a liar. I don’t think religion was meant for people like me.

Jesus was not white. He didn’t have long flowing hair or a long beard. He was shorter than we think. Is it more disrespectful to put someone on a cross or to purposefully make their physical appearance more palatable for a racist audience.

Kairos may have been the closest I’ve ever been to experiencing god. For three days you sit in small groups and listen to people talk about their most traumatic experiences. Religious retreats are made to break you. To make you flood the earth with your tears. To make you turn to god because there’s no one else to turn to. I wish I could say with any level of certainty that my experience was real.

Love is such a funny idea. God “Loves” you. I still don’t understand the double standard of preaching love and then telling people they love wrong. I think there are bigger sins to worry about.

Matthew was a tax collector. One of the most sinful professions they lied, cheated, and stole from the poor. The Lord will not let the righteous go hungry, but will thwart the cravings of the wicked. I find “sinners” much more real than the righteous. At least sinners don’t go out of their way to tell everyone they sin.

No one in my philosophy of god class chose to walk away from Omelas. I remember it perfectly. You get to stay in a perfect city where everyone is happy, at the misfortune of one child. I spoke last. I would walk away. I still get chills thinking about it. I don't know why I made that choice.

Often my friends and I debate the existence of god. One philosopher said that you might as well because if you believe and god is real you gain everything, and if he isn't you lose nothing. But if you don't and he is real, you lose everything. We all know there's much more to religion than that. Simply believing in the omnipotent power that destroyed cities and flooded the earth has not, and will never be enough.

Prom was one of the most nerve wracking experiences of my life. I was the first person since my schools founding in 1957 to go to prom with someone of the same sex. That year three of my friends did the same. So much easier to just split the bill with a friend. I had to make a case for why I should be able to. Would the outcome have been different if I told them we were dating.

Questioning whether the omnipotent and all knowing being in the heavens that we cannot see, hear, smell, or touch is apparently against the rules. I got quite sick of the Lord’s Prayer.

Raining from the sky was blood. Thicker than water. Did it bring the people together or did it turn them against each other. The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Blood can bring people together, but I’m not sure it can wash you clean.

Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed by sulfur and fire because of their wickedness. The two cities associated with homosexuality were burned to the ground. We have a history with fire. Fire cannot cleanse what isn’t dirty, but the ash will stain your hands for eternity.

Time stands still as I sit in the pews at my cousin's wedding. It seems like the hands on the clock are moving backwards. Instead of looking at them I stare at the sculpture of Jesus, crucified, blood coming out of his wounds, hanging roughly 10 feet above them. It isn’t alive. I’ve seen the same type of sculpture in a hundred different churches. But in this moment I can hear him gasping for breath. It was a beautiful service, I told her.

Uriel is the angel of repentance. In the Christian text the Apocalypse of Peter he is as pitiless as any demon. The devil himself was once an angel. What's the difference between angels and demons other than name.

Vanity was the reason the devil was cast from heaven. Born an angel and a king, free from sin he became proud of his beauty and intelligence and was struck down by God. I’m still unsure why he is considered the villain. Was it not God who leveled cities and murdered millions.

Without religion I’m unsure of what my life would look like. As hard as I try I cannot cleanly separate myself from it. Like a mouse stuck on a trap, when it gets free it either leaves its skin on the trap, or escapes covered in glue. I’m unsure if I can escape without leaving a part of myself behind, or taking something with me I did not ask for.

X appears 1,436 times in the King James version of the bible, but never at the start of the word. It is the only letter in the english alphabet that a verse does not start with.

Younger me used to enjoy church. I’m not sure why. I could never sit still, the sermons were boring, the pews were uncomfortable, and I couldn’t wait to go home. But without fail every Sunday I would wake up and get ready. I wish I could go back and tell myself that I don’t need to force myself into places I know I don't belong in order to be loved.

Zion shall be redeemed with judgment. I wonder if the same applies to me.

[fandomtrash264]

I have some Fred and George promts that I don't want to forget so imma put them here. If you are interested in writting them, by all means go for it, just tag me. I don't think I have a preference over who is in each scenario. I will probably write George and Fred based on what I thought but they should work with either twin. I do think they are different, im just saying that I could see the story going with either boy

• Reader and Fred pull a prank on George that changes his hair color based on mood. (Red - angry, blue - sad, green - disgust, light pink - embarrassed, hot pink - flirty, purple - in love/swooning, dark purple -lust) The 3 are sitting in the great hall eating and George is staring at reader and his hair turns purple. Reader thinks he has just zoned out and starts to bug him asking who he is thinking about. Leads to confession (and I imagine he is embarrassed so his hair is pink)

• Reader is a metamorphmagus and they like to switch between male and female so they change their physical appearance as such. (I see Fred as bi ngl) Fred gets a crush on the reader without knowing they are both people. A little while later, he falls for the other side (if that makes sense) of them and thinks he likes 2 different people. He is super torn and has no idea what to do

•This one is a Soulmate AU. The one where you can hear the music your soulmate is listening to. Reader is listening to ✨🌶 S p i c y 🌶 ✨ music and he knows its reader and he is shocked because they don't seem like they would listen to it and he is pleasantly suprised to find they are super flirty and such (he is twin of your choice lol)

•Yet again, one of our boys gets pranked. They lie about something that makes reader upset so they prank them so that everytime they try to talk, bubbles come out instead and the only way to undo it is to do somthing super embarrassing (I'll leave that to y'alls imagination's) and they refuse because they are petty but they eventually give in with this big social stunt or smth

•i imagine reader is a Ravenclaw (could really be any) who is the child of Bellatrix and *Moldy Voldy* (why ravenclaw you ask? I'll explain) They are in George and Fred's year so they are older than Harry. Reader was rescued a little before Harry was born and got to stay with someone else (probably Remus or smth. I imagine a gryfinndor so that way the Slytherin and the Gryfinndor kinda cancel out so you get Ravenclaw. Slytherin is their blood but they know its wrong so they push for the good values. I know slytherins can be good [believe me, I am very big on the fact that not all Slytherins are evil] but when its Bella and Mr. Tom, they have some bad bones) and they keep it a secret from their friends (the twins, the trio, etc.) Until Remus brings them to an OoTP meeting. He doesn't say who he just says he is bringing He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named 's child and they are terrified of how their friends will react. Kinda angsty but eventually they all understand that reader isn't evil

• Branching off of the previous, same family situation but when they were younger, they weren't seen as a child, they were a weapon. Trixie and Tommy boy would experiment on them so they are lowkey fucked up. They are super powerful and struggle to control it. Reader freaks out because they are terrified that he will be able to control them or see in their mind and good 'ole Gred and Forge help our reader to feel better and reassure them

• Reader and a twin are dating in 7th year (With Umbridge) and instead of breaking up or telling them about the plan to start a shop, they just leave and break off all contact. Years later they see each other and reader confronts them about how he couldn't even break up with them before leaving and he confesses his worries. Inspired by the song Ways to Break a Heart by Maddie Zahm [you can find it on YouTube]

• Can happen to either the reader or George or Fred but somehow by prank or accident in class, they get separated into different parts of themselves [parts like the 7 deadly sins (so they would be split into Pride and Lust) but also other things work (like Fear and Wonder)] and the other 2 have to deal with it until the problem is fixed

• (I have a lot with the boys and pranks, sorry lol) the boys get de-aged and reader has to chase them around because they are H E A T H E N S but then later on they put them to sleep and the Love Interest (twin of choice) snuggles up to them and mentions how much they love them and reader gives it no mind because "he was a baby". They snuggle and when they wake up the boys are of normal age and the Love Interest just snuggles closer and says something like "I meant it y'know. I really do love you/think you're amazing" and just. Fluff

• (I wrote George, yet again, could work with either) Reader is playing with the sleeve/hem/string of George's sweater/hoodie and he quips with a flirty comment like "you want the whole thing? Here, give it back when it smells like you" and the reader brushes it off as a flirty comment and teases "how am I supposed to know what I smell like? I'm noseblind to myself" and he gives them a scent. The scent seems familiar to them but oh well. They wear it because its soft and it smells like him and later on when they are chilling in the common room or whatever (George isn't there) they realize that's what he said he smelt in his Amortentia in potions last week and they lowkey freak out and go to ask him about it and aaaah! Cute things ensue

• [!!!TW: Depression, suicidal thoughts!!!] Can happen to either reader or one of the boys.(If it happens to a boy i see it being George as he seems insecure of being in Fred's shadow and I will write the prompt that way but it works with Fred and reader as well) George has been a little off recently and reader and Fred can't figure out what it is until reader goes to the astronomy tower late one night and finds George on the roof of the atronomy tower, seemingly fighting with himself about whether or not he should jump off. Angst, ends with fluff, reader helps him to feel better. Inspired by the song Achilles Come Down - Gang of Youths

•During their 6th year with the Triwizard Tournament, a durmstrange gent takes a liking to the reader. They start to court the reader and flirt with them, give them lots of compliments, try to show their affection. The Love Interest (again, twin of choice) get REALLY jealous tho and decides to try and out-do the durmstrang boy. This leads to really extravagant methods of flirting (ex. Sending a howler that is actually a shower of compliments or after a big quidditch match, the whole team does a choreographed dance where the suitor sings/performs to reader) all of this leading up to the yule ball. They either go with the durmstrange guy and deal with Love Interest later or they end up going with the Twin, whatever you would like

• Everyone is at the Burrow and they decide to watch a movie. While everyone is in the kitchen, the twin (who is the Love Interest) comes by and says "Oh! Are you guys watching a movie?" Readet replies "Yeah, P.S. I Love you" and he just blushes really hard and sits next to them and says "I love you too". Reader doesn't know how of if they are gonna tell him that "P.S. I Love You" is the name of the movie. Then everyone else comes back in so they have to wait until after the movie to talk about it. The whole time the movie is going all they can focus on are the "I Love You"s that escaped each others mouths. Inspired by a wolfstar text post by @starsandmoonys

• Inspired by the drarry work, Mental by sara_holmes on Ao3 (which you should totally go read like holy shit i love this idea sooooo much) written with George but as usual, can work with either. Reader is in for total shock when a joke gone sour ends with George striking them with a bad Legilimency spell. Due to this spell, they can (and have to) hear each others thoughts and see the pictures in each other's minds. What will happen when they see all that goes on in each others heads? Will they learn to communicate? Will they let one another in? Will they like who they see, or will they be scared away from the thoughts behind closed eyes?

• (TW!!!!: Dreamt character death, War) Fred and reader have been friends-with-benefits for a long time with feelings slowly growing between the 2 of them. They stay in denial until Fred has a nightmare one day where reader dies in the war. The next day he is desperate to hold them and see that they are okay. He confesses his feelings in fear of losing them. Inspired by Woke the Fuck Up - Jon Bellion

• [(TW!!! War) Fred lives] Fred and Reader had a huge fight right before Fred and George left Hogwarts and leave things on a rocky ending. Fred knows just how much he needs Reader and he desperately wants them back. Reader doesn't want to admit it but they miss him.and want him back too. They see each other again after the war and Fred breaks down in their arms and confesses how much he misses them and needs them. How hard it has been without them. Reader reciprocates these feelings and tells him. They start over, slowly building their love up again inspired by Bad Habit - Ben Platt [First verse and Pre-chorus would be Fred's feelings and second verse and Pre-chorus would be Reader. They blend on the 3rd]

• George has been strangely quiet all day. Reader is confused and a little hurt as George seems to avoid them. Leaving rooms when they walk in, not keeping eye contact and staying as physically far as he can. That is until they sit down in the great hall for lunch and Fred tells his friends (including reader) all about having put a truth serum in George's drink and all the funny things he has gotten him to admit. Reader goes to confront George about what he is hiding (because otherwise he would talk to them, right?) And they get an oddly specific but touching confession [ie. "I borrow your chapstick because that is what your lips will taste like" and "I see you in my dreams almost every night" ] inspired by Jenny - Studio Killers

• [Choose whether the person who can dance is reader or Twin of Choice. I will be writting with reader] The yule ball is coming up and reader can't dance to save their life. A certain red-heades friend comes in to help. At first, reader doesn't believe him because "c'mon, why would you know how to ballroom dance?" But they are pleasantly suprised to find they are actually really good at it. Like, REALLY good. "Mum made all of us learn. In case we ever needed it". Reader notices their feelings start to change as they spend more and more sessions together dancing until the yule ball occurs. Take it from there lol

• just a very cliche typical love potion fic. Reader volunteers to be on the receiving end of one of Fred and George's pranks- spike their drink with love potion- on one condition. The person reader will be in love with, knows about it. Reader figures this will allow them some leeway and safety against other pranks. All is going well until they spike the drink for reader to like (twin of your choice) and they realize that nothing has happened except they are a bit more flirty. Everyone is crazy confused because for everyone else they were head over heels swooning and attached at the hip until Hermionie (or somebody else) quips in with "You can't create something that already exists, y'know".

• So this one is less creative and it's also a mix of 2 tropes but bear with me. Reader is a very outgoing flirtatious type of person. They openly flirt with everyone, Fred, Ginny, Neville, Dean, etc. They don't care, its a way they show affection. Then, when they start to get a crush on George (or Fred) they star getting more shy and reserved with him. And he is completely clueless. He's lowkey hurt because "why doesn't Y/n crack jokes like that with me?" And shit like that. He is feeling down when he sees it. No, not 'it', he sees you. You and Fred flirting. He's got you cornered to the wall and your cheeks are flushed and George is big mad. (When really, Fred just cornered them so they couldn't avoid the question and was teasing and asking about their crush on George). George ends up seeing out Y/n, getting them alone and confronting them. Light angst? But ends fluffy as reader explains what actually happened

*im going to keep updating this as I get more ideas so be prepared*

[ehyeh-joshua]

God of Dragons

@greater-than-the-sword - rather than dragging your post further off-topic, I decided to finally get around to writing this up.

If you honestly want to grapple with the Bible, it becomes essential to consider our ancient scaled friend/enemy the dragon. The Scriptures leave no alternative but to declare that man walked with dinosaurs.

The Hebrew word that we translate as “dragon” is Tannin, and like all ancient Hebrew thought, is not a specific species, but a genera – to us, we categorise things by qualities – we use “pencil” and “pen” and “quill” to describe specific classes of objects; to the mindset of Biblical Hebrew, they are all the same; you write with them.

What Tannin refers to is any large, dangerous reptile, whether on land, at sea or in the air, and while it would include them, it doesn't actually mean our modern understanding of dragon, which having being split from it's roots in historical creatures, is now mythical. (although such creatures are mentioned)

In the Septuagint – the Greek translation of the Old Testament that was considered the Old Testament for the Greek-speaking early church – the word Tannin is translated by “Drakkon” which is the root for our word “dragon”.

The word Tannin is used 23 times in Scripture:(note-all the citations are quoted in full at the end, truncated here for brevity)

Singular form:

Nehemiah 2:13; Psalm 91:13; Isaiah 27:1 and 51:9; Jeremiah 51:34; Ezekiel 29:3,  Exodus 7:9, 7:10 and 7:12,  and Genesis 1:21.

Plural form:

Deuteronomy 32:33,  Job 7:12 and Job 30:29, Psalms 44:19, 74:13; and 148:7, Isaiah 13:22 Jeremiah 9:11, 10:22, 14:6, 49:33 and 51:37 and Ezekiel 32:2.

The second word we need to have in mind is Leviatan – this is the creature we think of when we think of dragon. This word is used five times in four verses:  Job 41:1, Psalm 74:14 and 104:26, and twice in Isaiah 27:1. Like Tannin, Leviatan is translated in the Septuagint by “drakkon”.

Leviatan has the longest description, having nearly a whole chapter devoted to describing it at the end of Job – this is the strongest evidence, as this is God Himself describing this creature as an example of His own power.

One of the reasons I like Dragons so much is that God has set them as a testimony to Himself.

Sadly, this is perhaps the most mistranslated word in modern English Bibles; most English Bibles insert jackals into these verses wherever the Scriptures undeniably mean literal creatures, doing so because of the wrong belief that dragons are mythical.

The thing is, Hebrew has a word that actually means jackal; it is the same as that for “fox”, and for good reason, as they are known to be able to interbreed, and are therefore the same baramin. That word is “sha’ul”.

Nehemiah 4:3 for example; 'Tobiah the Ammonite was beside him, and he said, “Yes, what they are building—if a fox goes up on it he will break down their stone wall!”'

He’s trying to say that despite the fact that the fox/jackal is such a small and weak animal, it could crush the walls the Jews were building; he’s insulting them. By contrast, a dragon smashing down a wall is kind of what you would expect to happen, and throughout the Prophets, the threat of dragons overwhelming a city is used to express judgement.

Compiling all these references gives us a huge amount of information about these creatures, some of it (most of it in fact) directly from God describing what we would understand as a water drake.

Firstly, that the purpose of these creatures is to give glory to God.

Secondly, it tells us that these are huge reptiles that are very dangerous; enough that the mere threat of them is enough to put a city of people to fleeing for safety – a quarter of the times Tannin is used, it is referring to this terror.

If a city got overrun with jackals, a single person could chase them out; a decent thickness stick as a club, and they scatter. A host of people working together could do it easily. They are mildly dangerous, but they have absolutely nothing on levyatan, which the Scriptures equate to Tannin. A Dragon however? An armoured, fire breathing dragon?

That is dangerous; one dragon is enough to be a risk to an entire region, they are apex predators, there is absolutely no shortage of stories of the danger dragons possess.

Now, if you had an entire city overrun by dragons? You’re not going to reclaim that. Not on the Bronze/Iron age technology possessed by Ancient Israel. Roman Ballistae might have a chance, and a Macedonian Phalanx could make a melee fight in the open stick, but I wouldn’t want to try that kind of a battle without at least trebuchet, if not cannon. And this is from a guy who knows how to solo a T-Rex; T-Rex has one primary weapon, the bite. The solution is a fuck-off amount of three feet long spikes covering your whole body, that way it can’t bite you without facing it’s own mortal peril. You could probably win with a spear, but I’d rather have the spikes.

Dragons? Fire. The accounts of dragons possessing fire-breathing capability are nearly universal, and it is far more reasonable than you might think; using the Bombardier Beetle as a baseline, to breath fire a dragon needs the reaction of hydrogen peroxide and hydroquinone, catalysed by catalase and peroxidase; the reactants are ejected from separated storage areas into the front of the open mouth, where the reaction begins in conjunction with the rush of oxygen from heavy breathing out, causing both the reaction and the expellation of the reactants. Range could be comfortably over ten metres and still sufficient to cause burns and scalding on the victim.

Coincidentally, but rather obvious when you think about it, dragon stories generally stop after the invention of cannon, and by the 1800s, almost stop completely outside of Native American tribes.

It is therefore plain that reading the text and allowing the text to explain itself leads to the conclusion that Tannin/Levyatan are a race of immense and dangerous monsters, usually serpent-like but again not always, who’s presence is like the judgement of God, and which God Himself uses to say how awesome He is that He made them and controls their fates. Note also the contrast - the Babylonians had their gods being scared of these monsters, but right from the beginning God takes ownership of them.

The Bible tells us how these creatures lived, where they lived, their diet, their habitat, to an extent their way of life; and it exists as part of material from all over the world that shows that man and dinosaur coexisted. And if humans and dinosaurs coexisted, evolutionary beliefs about ages collapse.

----

Nehemiah 2:13;  “I went out by night by the Valley Gate to the Dragon Spring and to the Dung Gate, and I inspected the walls of Jerusalem that were broken down and its gates that had been destroyed by fire.”- presumably, the Dragon spring was a well or spring that was named for a resident/visitor dragon.

Psalm 91:13; “You will tread on lion and viper; you will trample young lion and dragon.” - the point is to talk about the protection of God; the claim about jackals makes no sense, and using serpent instead has already been covered. Further, the Septuagint uses Drakkon here.

Isaiah 27:1; “In that day GOD will punish Leviathan the fleeing serpent with His fierce, great, strong sword, Leviathan the twisted serpent! He will slay the dragon in the sea.” Again, entirely pointless unless it refers to either a real animal, or a mythologised version of a real animal. 

Isaiah 51:9; “Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of GOD, awake, as in days of old, the generations of long ago. Was it not You who cut Rahab in pieces, who pierced the dragon?” Again, a pointless exercise if not referring to an actual event.

Jeremiah 51:34; “Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon has devoured me, crushed me, set me aside like an empty dish, swallowed me up like a dragon, filled his belly with my delicacies, rinsed me away.” Jackals cannot eat even a whole arm, and certainly cannot swallow a whole man as the similie depends on; whereas plenty of large carnivorous dinosaurs could.

Ezekiel 29:3, “Speak and say, thus says the LORD GOD: ‘Behold, I am against you, Pharaoh King of Egypt, the great dragon lying in his rivers, who says: “My Nile is my own—I made it for myself.” The idea is to convey that Egypt believes itself to be extremely powerful, before it is cast down in judgement.

Exodus 7:9, 7:10 and 7:12; “So Moses and Aaron went in to Pharaoh and did as Adonai had commanded. Aaron threw down his staff before Pharaoh and before his servants, and it became a dragon. Then Pharaoh called for the wise men and the sorcerers, and they too, the magicians of Egypt, did the same with their secret arts. For each man threw down his staff, and they became dragons. But Aaron’s staff swallowed up their staffs.” Not much to say here, although the Septuagint again uses drakkon both times, instead of one of the words that means a snake.

Genesis 1:21; “And God created the great dragons and every living soul that moves, which the waters brought forth abundantly after their nature, and every winged fowl after its nature; and God saw that it was good.” This is one of the few times the Septuagint uses keytos (whale) to translate Tannin, however, dragons are traditionally associated with the sea and sky, so it makes sense that they are created on day 5.

Plural form:

Deuteronomy 32:33: “Their wine is the poison of dragons, and the cruel venom of asps.” This also informs us that some dragons were poisonous, a feature noted of certain dinosaurs, and never with jackals.

Job 7:12; “Am I a sea, or a dragon, that you set a watch over me?” Again linking dragons to the sea.

Job 30:29; “I am a brother to the dragons, & a companion to the ostriches.” By this, he is continuing his theme, and he means he is alone, ostracised from the community. Jackals however, operate in packs. 

Psalms 44:19; “Though you have broken us in the place of dragons, and covered us with the shadow of death.” Doesn’t tell us much this one, as it’s relying on the nature of tanninim to convey the situation.

Psalms 74:13; “You split open the sea by your strength; You broke the heads of the dragons in the waters.” Possibly a reference to the Flood.

Psalms 148:7; “Praise the LORD from the earth, you dragons, and all deeps:” An intriguing statement, given extra-Biblical documentation of dragon intelligence, which some sources put as near-Human.

Isaiah 13:21; “But wild animals will lie down there, and their houses will be full of howling creatures; there ostriches will dwell, and there wild goats will dance.” while it doesn’t say dragon, it says howling creatures, Wycliffe was happy to write dragouns as his translation solely from the sound identified, and it has to be inquired why he did so if humans could not have encountered dragons to record the sound.

Isaiah 13:22; " And the wild beasts shall cry in their desolate houses, and dragons in their pleasant palaces: and her time is near to come, and her days shall not be prolonged.” Given the reference is about animals being used as tools for judgement, it’s no surprise that dragons are mentioned.

Jeremiah 9:11; “I will make Jerusalem a heap of ruins, a lair of dragons, and I will make the cities of Judah a desolation, without inhabitant.” Again, a judgement making the city uninhabitable.

Jeremiah 10:22;  “Behold, the noise of the bruit is come, and a great commotion out of the north country, to make the cities of Judah desolate, and a den of dragons.“ again, dragons used as a symbol of judgement.

Jeremiah 14:6; 2and the wild asses stood in the high places, they snuffed up the wind like dragons; their eyes failed because there was no grass.“ This gives us information about how dragons breathed, which is something very difficult to know unless you either witnessed it or heard from someone who had.

Jeremiah 49:33; “And Hazor shall be a dwelling for dragons, and a desolation for ever: there shall no man abide there, nor any son of man dwell in it.“ Again, using dragons as a symbol of judgement.

Jeremiah 51:37; “And Babylon shall become heaps, a dwellingplace for dragons, an astonishment, and a hissing, without an inhabitant.” Jeremiah again uses the presence of dragons as a judgement.

 Ezekiel 32:2 “ “Son of man, raise a lamentation over Pharaoh king of Egypt and say to him: “You consider yourself a lion of the nations, but you are like a dragon in the seas; you burst forth in your rivers, trouble the waters with your feet, and foul their rivers.”Not much to say here.

[nade2308]

For the whump Drabble could you do 26 with Mac? No pressure though! ❤️

Thank you for this ask, anon. Here’s the story. Hope you like this. The drabble kinda... derailed. As it is always with me. More under the cut 

Mac jerked away from the hand that was shaking his shoulder and immediately backed up to the corner of the bed. Someone was talking in a low voice, but Mac was still a bit disoriented and couldn't place the voice. Or the words. 

He tried to clear his mind from the fog he could feel his brain swim through. It was a feeling he was very familiar with, thanks to being prone to accidents and injuries. He was on heavy duty painkillers. 

He closed his eyes and blinked several times until his eyes adjusted and he saw Jack. Jack who was worried and stressed the hell out, Mac could see that much even drugged to the gills. Jack, whose hand was suspended in the air, not knowing if he could touch, but not sure if he could let it rest. 

Mac whimpered and Jack's response was to crawl in the bed and pull Mac in an embrace. 

This time Mac didn't flinch. 

…

When Mac opened his eyes next, Jack wasn't in his bed, but his bed was warm so Mac came to the conclusion Jack was close around. 

And Mac needed to pee. 

Looking at his right hand that was heavily bandaged and with a brace on the wrist, Mac was reminded of what happened yesterday. How close they came to be blown up. All because Mac got the drop on him and was held at gunpoint as he tried to disarm the bomb. The moment his hand was forcefully pulled behind his back and he felt the pain as it was sprained. And then the bastard stepped on it. 

Mac could hear his own screams in his head as his hand cracked underneath the guy's heavy boot. And then it was a blur in Jack getting the goon off of him and grabbing Mac and dragging him outside, with seconds to spare before the warehouse went up in flames. 

Mac sighed. It was his right hand. 

His bladder was persistent and Mac decided he'd go and find Jack after he relieved himself. It was with that thought that he opened the door to the bathroom, pushing the IV stand with him. It was a good thing he had that pole to keep him from toppling over. 

The sight that greeted him was that of Jack hunched over the toilet bowl, breathing heavily, holding the porcelain edge with white-knuckled grip. His head was angled a bit, but Mac was able to see the blood trickling down Jack's lip. 

“Jack?” 

His partner recoiled as if burned and if Mac wasn't holding on to the IV stand, he would have for sure gone to his knees on the tiled floor. His partner looked like someone ran him over. Deep bruises under his eyes, and one that wasn't from exhaustion and lack of sleep on Jack's right cheek. His hair was askew like he spent running his fingers through it. 

“Jack, you okay?” 

“Yeah… something didn't sit well with me.”

As if on cue, Jack's stomach rumbled and Jack pulled himself to his feet. He flushed the toilet and then went up with cleaning himself. Mac had the feeling Jack wasn't tracking so well. 

They made quite the pair. 

Mac watched as Jack moved gingerly back towards the room. 

After Mac was done, he splashed some water on his face. Looking up at his own reflection, he could see he wasn't faring any better than Jack, sans bruise on the cheek and split lip. 

He returned to the room where Jack sat on the bed, too stiff and like he was expecting Mac to banish him from the room. 

Mac couldn't pinpoint what was tickling the back of his mind about punishments and someone screaming, but he pushed back against those thoughts. He needed to talk with Jack because his friend was apparently upset. 

They were interrupted by his father that just barged in without even asking if it was okay to get inside his room. The moment Mac saw Jack flinch, he knew whatever was going on with Jack was his father's doing. 

…

Looked like Mac didn't make the screams up and that they were real. It hurt to listen to Jack tell him about James screaming at them and having to be escorted by security because he was upsetting patients. There was something more to the thing that Jack wasn't telling him. But now that Mac had his father to consider in the equation, he made an estimated guess. 

Jack would joke about Mac developing his own superpowers and reading minds, but it wasn't a superpower really. Mac knew his father well, sadly, and knew what a guilt trip he could send you on. Looked like he privately did that to Jack and after some wrangling, Mac managed to get the story out of Jack. 

(Some nodding and humming here and there as Mac continued guessing). 

“You couldn't have done anything other than what you did Jack. It was a dire situation.” 

Mac looked at his bandaged hand. It was his right one and it hurt. It'd be hell on him to do things on his own with his non-dominant hand. He was well versed in using both hands, but the dominant one was always the one he used by default. 

Oh well, not his first rodeo as Jack would say. 

“I was too focused to clean the bottom floor that it didn't occur to me that there might be someone else out there. You got hurt, Mac.”

“I know. But it wasn't your fault. Got it?” 

“I'm supposed to watch your back, kid.”

“You do. You watch my back even when we are off the clock. And I got yours, too.” 

Mac tried to reassure Jack, and tell him everything with his eyes and the words he couldn't speak up just yet. 

It wasn't Jack that needed the lesson and reassurance. Jack was the best partner Mac could ask for. 

… 

In hindsight Jack should have known. He should have seen it in the way Mac was watching him and the questions he asked and the assumptions he made, and that were the truth. He should have known that Mac would go to James to hash it out. 

And Jack was legitimately scared about what that'd entail for his partner. Jack didn't yell back or quipp at James, he didn't want to lose his job over something like that. The fear ran deep. He didn't know what James would do, how far would he go if Jack was out of the picture. He may claim he made it possible for Jack to be Mac's Overwatch, but Jack made his own decision to stay. And Jack didn't want to jeopardize that. 

He moved gingerly out of Mac's empty room. His partner had detached the IV and Jack looked at it, most of today's meds in the bag, still. 

When Mac told him he had Jack's back, he didn't think Mac would go head to head with Oversight. 

Jack swiped a hand over his tired face. This kid wanted to kill him before his time. 

Jack texted Matty to let her know about Mac before he went straight to James' office. And just as he rounded the corner, he heard voices. They were yelling and Jack had to stop when he heard James scream at Mac. 

About how Jack was incompetent and let him get hurt. How he hoped that Jack would keep him safe, but Jack disappointed him. Then James moved on to the topic of Mac being unable to disarm the bomb and the sheer disappointment and disgust in his voice was enough for Jack to say fuck it, and barged in.

“You really want to be arguing about that? He wasn't able to do it and that should be enough.” 

“Dalton…” 

“What? He was held at gunpoint, and his hand got stomped on, Jim. Unless he had inhuman ability to heal or even recover from the pain quickly, there was no way-”

“You could have stopped it. While you were there. But you didn't. So his failing is directly connected to yours.” 

James looked at him with such a conviction in his voice and he looked so angry and ready for a fight… Jack's fist was itching to connect with James' face and then he looked away. The intensity with which James' eyes were burning with rage was too much. He didn't want to do something that would lead to him getting fired. And punching Mac's old man would be weird to explain because they all just… didn't acknowledge the fact that James was too controlling. Jack didn't want to be the one to get punched so to speak. Mac would come to him if he needed Jack. And James wasn't wrong. If he was careful, Mac wouldn't be in a world of pain and the bomb wouldn't go off. 

“He is not the one that got the bad intel, though.” Mac's voice cut through the fog in Jack's head. 

“What?” 

“The Intel came through you. You said the building was empty. We went there with the information that we were evacuating an office building and not the fact that the building was already evacuated and the bad guys had set camp there.” 

“You are in too much pain, son. Under the influence of strong meds and you have no idea what you talk about.” 

“I am a trained EOD specialist. I know when a bomb is planted there to destroy and when it's there because they were working on it just then. If they wanted to blow up the place, they would have with the people working there. While they were still working. 

“They emptied the building because the homb wasn't for them.”

“It was for us.” the realization slammed into Jack and he had to use the door because suddenly he was feeling lightheaded. 

“Yes, Jack, it was for us. We were set up. No matter what you or I did, they did it to take us out. We were low on chances before we even stepped inside. It's not your fault. Or mine, for that matter.” the kid turned to his father this time. “And the next time you blame Jack for your oversight, pun intended by the way, you'll deal with me.” 

“Angus…” 

“I am not here to play games and take your shit. Neither is Jack. If you want me to stick around this time, you will have to do better. Oh and before you say that, and I know what you are going to say, Jack didn't tell me I figured it out myself. Come on, Jack. We are going.” 

Jack was still stunned, but let Mac lead him out of the office and back to Medical. 

“You shouldn't have done that.” Jack found himself whispering. “I don't want you to get into trouble with him.” 

“Jack, the only one that will get in trouble is him. With Matty. You don't have to worry about it.” 

“But, I-” 

“Not your fault, Jack. Besides, you saved me. My hand will be okay, and I am not blown up. I count that as a blessing.” 

“Of course, kid. Always.” 

“Now let's find a nurse to help me with the IV.” 

“Just how much in pain are you? You asking for an IV…” 

“It hurts. But don't worry about it. We said no worrying.” 

“Once you get your mini-mes running around or you take some under your wing, I'll remind you of this then.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

Jack chuckled and followed Mac to his room. There was pain etched in his features. But he was alive and well. It was all that Jack could ask for.

[theroguesully]

Iida x OC

Song: Girl All The Bad Guys Want by Bowling for Soup This is my first time writing in a very long time so I hope you like it.

8 o'clock, Monday night, and I'm waitin' To finally talk to a girl a little cooler than me.

"I don't even know why I agreed to this. It's a weeknight!" Tenya Iida, hero name Ingenium, exclaimed to Izuku Midoriya and Shoto Todoroki. It had already been a long week, and the loud bar was one of the last places Iida wanted to be. 

Todoroki looked at him out of the corner of his eye, stating simply: "I guess because Uraraka said she was dragging Yamada-Chan out tonight," before taking a sip of his drink. He fought the smirk that threatened to break out as he watched his friend start to sputter, turning red.

"I haven't any idea what you're talking about!" 

His mind wandered to the short, curvy hero with the short, purple hair. Maybe it was true that the American had, in fact, caught his eye when she moved to Japan to live with her uncle, Hizashi Yamada, and joined their class. Maybe what started as a fascination for an interesting quirk and a unique sense of style turned into much more over the last few years getting to know her. Under the ever-changing hair colors, the combat boots, the pointed ears, studded with small piercings, and mostly dark-colored wardrobe laid an incredibly sweet, wildly smart individual, whose academic prowess ended-up rivaling his own. Perhaps her fiery and passionate streak, which insured people knew she wasn't one to be walked all over, drew him in. It's even possible that, in his eyes, the parts of her which should be his polar opposites, actually seemed to compliment his personality. Sure, these are things he thought. Thought, but never once spoken out loud. 

With a sigh, he turned to see both Todoroki and Midoriya watching him, doubt ringing clear on their faces. 

And when she walks, All the wind blows and the angels sing. But she doesn't notice me!

"How long have you known?" 

Rubbing his chin in thought, Midoriya replied with: "I suppose I noticed it two years ago."

Todoroki cocked one eyebrow at this and asked: "Was it not our second year at UA? I know I wasn't as versed in these things as most, but I was pretty sure..."

"Second year?! There's no way I missed this for three whole years! Nope. I would've noticed," Midoriya argued.

"There were signs."

"Like?"

Todoroki sighed, took another sip, and stated: "Iida is normally straight-forward, matter-of-fact, and un-wavering. Around Yamada-chan, he turns into a blushing, babbling mess. Besides, he stares. I've never seen him stare before-"

"I do not stare" Iida cut him off, hastily, hands chopping through the air.

"You stare. I guess the biggest sign, however, was your reaction to Yamada-Chan dating Shinso." 

Midoriya gaped at the man, "Five years? Five years, and you haven't said anything, Iida? Why?"

"Because, Midoriya, while she may be perfect to me, I understand that women like her don't date men like me. She deserves someone who can keep up with her, someone more carefree, less rigid." 

Both men watched him sadly, surprised by his outburst, by his feelings for her and of himself. Midoriya opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted.

"Izu-Kun!" Ochaco Uraraka exclaimed excitedly, seeing her boyfriend and friends, and began hurrying over, arm linked with a shorter woman. Kenzie Yamada, also known as Pro Hero: Shockwave. Iida took this time to look at the differences between the two friends; while Uraraka was the type of person many would assume Iida would fall for, with her tidy brown bob, pink flowy shirt, jeans, and heels, which seemed to match her overly friendly, excitable, and bubbly personality, Iida's eyes couldn't help but fall on Yamada. Her outfit consisted of a purple cropped top under a black fishnet top, ripped jeans, and worn-in black combat boots, topped by a black moto jacket. 

It's like a bad movie She is lookin' through me

Iida missed the slight blush on Yamada's cheeks as they arrived at the table. Todoroki slid over, making room between himself and Iida for her to sit as Uraraka bounced over to Midoriya and kissed him on the cheek before taking a seat next to him.

"So, how's that going, anyways?" Yamada asked, gesturing to Midoriya and Uraraka. They both blushed slightly, and the brunette giggled, "Really well, actually! We-" Iida had already stopped listening, focusing instead on the woman beside him who was listening intently, with a warm smile, to their friends excitedly talking about their latest date. 'She's always so happy when anything good happens to the people important to her,' Iida thought, warmly, 'It's one of the many things I lo-.' His thoughts were interrupted by a light poke to his ribs, coupled with a slight vibrating feeling he recognized as part of her quirk.

"So, Iida-Kun, anything going on in your love life? Or are you just as alone as Todoroki-Kun and I?" She asked, with a wink and a giggle. 'Why does her giggle have to be so cute? Focus, Tenya! She asked a question.'

"N-no," he stammered, adjusting his glasses, "I mean, I've had offers, but no."

"Tch, and why not?" She admonished the man, "You could probably have your pick of anyone. You're a real catch, y'know." 

'Not anyone, though,' the little voice in the back of his mind rang. 

"If only you took your own words to heart, Yama-Chan," Uraraka called to her friend in a singsong tone. "It isn't like I don't know Kirishima has been trying to set you up. You could always take him up on it since you refuse to do anything about the situation you mentioned." 

Midoriya spoke up, "What situation?" 

"It's nothing, don't worry about it," Yamada quickly said, shutting down that part of the situation. "Besides, Bakugo only mentioned that dating me 'wouldn't be the worst thing,' and Eji jumped on it and has been trying to set me up with him ever since. He's looking too much into it, is all."

"For Bakugo, it's basically a love confession," Todoroki deadpanned. She snorted a laugh before taking a sip of her drink. 

Iida had a calm, unbothered facade, but his brain was going into overdrive. 

'Of course Bakugo is interested.' 

'Why wouldn't he be? She can keep up with his aggressive personality.'

'She probably does like him. He's 'cool,' he has a 'bad-boy' persona.'

'He'd probably be able to keep things interesting.' 

As I fail miserably, Tryin' to get the girl all the bad guys want.

A few drinks and a couple hours later, Iida decided it was time to get back home. Yamada stayed close to Iida's side as they tidied up their table and settled their tabs. "I'm really glad you came out with us tonight, Iida-Kun. It seems like it's been so long since we've been able to hang out."

He looked down at the purple-haired woman with a fond smile, "You're right, I'm sorry it's been so long. I've been keeping up with your expl- I mean, everyone's exploits," Iida felt his face heating up. 

She bounced a bit, excited, "Oh! I've been keeping up with yours, too! You truly are a wonderful hero, Ingenium," she chuckled. When it was time for the five of them to split ways, Yamada gave Iida a tight hug. "Promise we'll hang out again soon? Also, would it kill you to call or text more often?" She asked with a laugh.

The man chuckled, taking in her warmth, her scent, and just how she felt in his arms. 

"I promise." 

Walking away, he knew these feelings would never go. For a split second, he considered just confessing to her, but he knew she would never return his feelings. 

'Cause she's the girl all the bad guys want

Bonus:

Walking back home with Uraraka, Yamada was deep in thought, a slight, bittersweet smile on her face. Looking at her friend, Uraraka asked the question that had been on her mind for a while now, "So...are you ever going to tell Iida?"

"Maybe..."

[sorenthestoryteller]

February 2nd, 2021 - In Which Soren Posts What Was an Attempt at Writing a “Normal” Devotional that Would Not Stop Growing and Therefore Ended up Being a Day Late

Serve the Lord with reverent fear,

and rejoice with trembling. -Psalm 2:11

                 So often I have no idea what to do with the Old Testament and of course day two of this exercise presents the first wall to scale of this monthly exercise. Now, I’m not Jewish, I have only the slightest education on their culture and I have no desire to read my 21st century American values backwards into Scripture. This is a piece of literature that was written in a world vastly different from mine.

               That said, please bear in mind I am trying to do my best to convey the meaning I’ve parsed from this and if I am wrong, I would appreciate feedback.

               Remember kids, heresy is never fun.

               This Psalm is attributed to David both by tradition and by the apostles Peter and John in Acts 4:25-26. The Apostles treated the Psalm as containing prophecy about both the coming of Christ and the social unrest that had been occurring during their times due to bad leaders.

               This Psalm is a coronation song celebrating David coming to the throne. Christians feel that some of the verses point ahead to Christ’s ruling as king of his kingdom (the Church as it is now and the future in eternity).

               As I was reading this text it occurred to me that God did not want Israel to become a kingdom with a king. At no point in the Pentateuch are there plans and outlines for a king to rule over all the tribes as a kingdom. After waging war and taking the land they existed as neighboring tribes for several generations. Anytime leadership was required God would call someone and they would take on the title of Judge and right what was wrong.

               However, after Samuel stepped down from being a Judge and deputized his two sons, things deteriorated quickly. 1 Samuel 8 gets into with more detail, but the people came to Samuel and demanded a King so that they could be like all the cool pagan kids surrounding them. Samuel was upset and went to chat with God, and in my brain I imagine things transpired a bit like this:

                 The People: “Samuel! Your sons are terrible judges. So, collectively, we decided we want an even stronger centralized form of government where the genetic lottery will determine how we are ruled, and unlike the current system, will have no form of civil or judicial appeal!”

               Samuel: “…are you serious? I realize my sons are idiots but we could just-

               The People: “NO! We demand justice in the sense of a king who can take and rape our daughter with impunity and send our sons to die in meaningless wars!”

               Samuel: *Sighs and exits stage left to go talk to the Lord* “Lord, your people-“

               Lord: “I know, I know. They are rejecting me, not you. They have been doing this since day one out of Egypt.”

               Samuel: “Be honest, for long term prospects about keeping this land, we’re screwed. Aren’t we?”

               Lord: “Yup. But hey Sammy, me and you are still good. Do not take it personal man. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go put Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumors” album on and sigh.”

               Samuel: “…what is an album?”

                 From what I can gather, God did not want Israel to have a king. In the culture of the time, kings would literally declare themselves gods or at least equal to their gods and either way demand their citizens to worship them. For players keeping score at home, this goes against the very first commandment on The Top Ten.

               God warns them of the consequences and some commentators even think that the Hebrew in 1 Samuel 8:9 and 11 has a play on words where God is saying that the King’s judgement and injustice would be an active punishment from God due to their rebellion in wanting a king.

               Honestly, I think it is simpler than a wrathful God looking to bash some heads. I believe that almost all the misfortune that happens it is the Cause-and-Effect nature God built into reality. Do stupid and stupid happens, do good and hopefully good will happen. It’s oversimplification to blame God when bad things happen. God gives clear warnings that are often ignored and the consequences are almost always the natural result of what was done.

               The reason this verse stuck with me is that even though Israel did another dumb thing, God still held up his end of the bargain to bless them.

               It took less than a full generation for this whole king thing to start to unravel with civil war and fighting. By the end of the second generation the kingdom ended up being split and chaos ensued.

               It’s an immature and undeveloped theology to say that catastrophes happen on a national and global scale simply because of breaking Biblical commandments. We live in a complex and broken world.

               A complex world full of problems means people want instant solutions. The tribes of Israel saw how organized the kingdom attacking them were and assumed that if they could consolidate power within one person then they would be safe. That by having a king to lead their armies then they would be able to fix all of their problems.

               There is so much chaos and pain that it is easy to latch onto a single figure who seems to have their act together. Time and again history has shown humans expecting some king or president to fix things, but there is no overnight fix for the world.

               Sometimes the best we can do is our best. Smile when we can, give encouragement, work hard, and do what we can to support each other. The world will continue spinning for quite a while, no matter how worried we become.

               It seems like we will never be able to love or pray enough.

              But Love in action leading to prayer which leads back to acting in love is at least a cycle that is healthier than a lot of what has been going on.