#yes were all busy and adults here i an slow as balls i mean this over an extended period of time

[dvilsdesire]

// just a heads up, if I send you multiple things and you don't end up responding to any, I pretty much take that as you have no interest in interacting.

Maybe I'm just feeling a little insecure today but I do take that as a general sign so I likely won't send things in if it becomes a pattern 😬

[banditywrites]

This is for the 1000 follower prompt! Lance does something bad on a planet, like stealing, to help someone else. The guilt eats him alive, and consequences ensue later on. This prompt might be weird so it’s up to you if you want to do it!! :)

Hello! Thank you for this ask!

So... this ficlet did not go where you probably meant for it to go. And I attempted to force a complete story into 1k words. It's ~1,600 words. Please excuse mistakes, I have not been feeling well. I hope you enjoy. When you said stealing... you probably did not mean this.

On another note: I am working my way through prompts. It will be a process. But I think there will be some nice little ficlets and scenes by the end of it. Follower Event Information HERE. I have one spot left.

Sleeping Lions

They had been staying on the planet Ravabos for several days now. The negotiations for a new alliance were going fine. Just slow. Thankfully, the King was content to speak with only Shiro and Allura, while the rest of the team found ways to pass the time around the large castle’s courtyard. Boredom is what started the games. Lance could only be serious and stoic for so long, especially when there were curious kids peering around corners at him. They had only been there for a day and a half when a ball was sent his way, and Lance joined in the kid’s play. Hunk and Pidge joined as well, but neither were as excited as the Blue Paladin.

The King had at least 8 children who had decided Lance was their newest playmate. He taught them Earth games and even got Keith to do a round of duck, duck goose. When the King found them in the midst of it, Shiro had been quick to try and defend his young team members’ antics. But the King was good natured and he smiled at Shiro.

“I would guess some of your paladins are still rather young?” He had asked with a raised brow. Shiro scratched the back of his head.

“Yes, they are,” he answered simply. The King had patted Shiro on the back and let out a laugh.

“Let them play then. In time, war makes adults of all.”

The King had turned and left with Shiro at his side, not looking back. Lance was too caught up in his game of freeze tag to notice the conversation about him.

Lance liked entertaining the kids. It reminded him of back home. While these kids were alien, stocky with bristly hair on their heads and turned up little noses, they were still children.

It was during his time with them that he noticed the little alien that stood to the side. Small with a thin build and pale blue skin, he wasn’t like the others. He tried to coax the nervous child into a game, but the oldest prince interrupted his attempt.

“Braxton is my servant. He can’t play.”

Lance had done his best not to react to that, but if a stray ball went the small kid’s way every once in a while… well, Braxton had to throw it back to them at least. And if Lance made him laugh a few times with funny faces, there was no harm in that.

But Lance hadn’t understood what being a servant of the oldest prince really meant.

It was on the fourth night, when Lance could not sleep and he was looking out his window at the courtyard below, that he heard a commotion. He stared down in the darkness to see the oldest prince being scolded by his caretaker for going outside so late at night and without his boots on.

“Twenty lashes,” his caretaker had hissed. Lance had shifted, not sure what he should do. If he should do anything. He hadn’t seen the kids be punished for anything and he felt stuck, watching something unfold that was probably none of his business in the first place. To Lance’s surprise, the caretaker marched away, leaving the prince in the middle of the courtyard and returned, dragging Braxton with him.

Lance had heard of whipping boys before, but he had never witnessed such a thing. Lance could only stare, horrified as Braxton’s shirt was yanked up and he was struck with a switch, hard and fast.

The prince and caretaker went back inside, while Braxton lay still on the ground.

The sound of crying drifted up to Lance’s window and he was up and out of his room before he could think about it.

Lance wouldn’t think through a lot of things that night.

--0-0-0—

Coran had stayed behind on the castle of lions while the rest of the team stayed on the planet. And, since he hadn’t appeared yet to ask what Lance was doing, the blue paladin figured the Altean was sleeping soundly. The castle was in orbit of Ravabos and Lance had to be very sneaky to get back to his lion, back to the lion’s hangar and then into the castle’s infirmary. All while carrying an eight-year-old.

A hurt, crying eight-year-old.

With layers of marks across his back that hadn’t stopped bleeding yet.

Lance had spoken to him quietly in the courtyard. He had at first only meant to reassure him, to provide some comfort. But when he picked up the child from the ground, Lance needed to do more.

So Lance talked to him. Asked him where his family was, was there anywhere Lance could take him?

The disjointed story revealed through fits of sobs was that the child was from a different planet altogether and that he had been taken not time ago in a raid by slave traders.

Thrastreon was the name of the child’s home planet. Lance had him repeat is more than once, until he had an idea how it might be spelled out.

Lance slipped the boy gently into a pod and, while the kid healed, he used the castle computer to look up the planet. Coran had been showing him how to navigate the star maps. Lance had been learning how to look up the different worlds, sounding out the names and using the Altean alphabet cheat sheet that Coran had created for him.

While Braxton was healing, Lance found his home.

With Blue going as fast as she could, it would probably still take them over day…

Lance looked over at the resting boy in the pod, his brow still furrowed in sorrow and hurt.

He didn’t think about what it would do to the alliance. In the moment, the kid was the only thing that mattered.

Everything that happened after that became a blur.

A few hours later, Lance took the boy from the pod and carried him to Blue.

Together, they flew out into deeper space.

The guilt of what he had done did not hit him until after the child, whose actual name was something longer that Lance could not pronounce, was back in his family's arms.

On Thrastreon, a planet covered in dark, thick trees, Lance watched the boy's mother cry as she held him, her fingers ghosting over the scarring that extended from underneath the boy’s shirt and onto his shoulders. 

She sobbed and she clutched him tightly, as other family members appeared and all gathered close, weeping at his return. 

The boy's father threw himself at Lance’s feet, wetting his boots with his tears. 

Lance knelt on the ground and begged him to stand up. 

He felt like something was choking him, but he held onto it until he was back in his lion and flying away. 

Guilt and relief all mixed together. He had returned the boy to his family. It was the right thing to do…

But.

He hadn't told the others what he was doing. They would eventually gather intel from the castleship's surveillance, there was no hiding what had happened.

They had needed that alliance. 

He had turned his comms off for the trip and now that he was alone. He did not want to turn them back on. A blinking light let him know he had received at least one transmission. 

Lance’s stomach turned. He couldn't face it just yet. 

Blue moved slowly in space, not in any hurry to get back. 

Okay. Lance took a deep breath, fighting down that awful squirming feeling. What are my choices here?

He could not go back. He could just run from his problems. Definitely what he felt like doing in the moment, but they would track him down (they probably were right now). So… pointless.

He could message them first, try to explain himself. Before they kicked him out of Voltron and he would have to do what? Go back home? Stay on the castleship and be ignored?

He could go back to the castleship and claim he was… drugged? Sick? Hallucinating? 

He hadn't slept at all in a night and a day and exhaustion was pulling at him. That was surely why he felt tears stinging his eyes. He hadn’t thought this through. How many times had Shiro lectured the team about thinking through things before they acted?

Through his blurred vision he again caught sight of the blinking light that said he had a message waiting. 

Before he could stop himself, he pressed the button and held his breath. 

"Lance! What is going on?" Hunk sounding frantic. Lance skipped it and was immediately met with more messages. Pidge, Shiro, Allura… all of them had tried to contact him. And he skipped them all when he heard sharp questioning and the disappointment in Shiro’s voice. 

Didn't sound like the alliance would be going through at all. 

The next message was only static at first, and Lance hesitated, waiting for the anger and disappointment. 

There was the sound of an inhale and then a quiet voice. 

"Lad," was all he said at first. Coran. Sounding calm, but worried? "My boy, I was awake when you arrived at the castle with the child. I watched you on the surveillance. I looked at the medical scans, I know what you were protecting him from."

Lance blinked. Coran had known?

"The others did not understand what had happened. And I wanted to be sure that you had enough time to get away with the boy, so I could not tell them. I apologize for their response. There was a lot of confusion."

Coran had covered for him. Lance let out a harsh exhale. The man had purposefully kept the team in the dark for his sake. 

"Kind boy," Coran continued, his voice nearly a whisper. "Please come back. I will speak to them with you. It will be alright."

Lance nodded, as though the Altean could see him. 

Wiping away the tears that had begun to fall, Lance took in deep, purposeful breaths. After a long moment, he reached forward with only slightly trembling fingers and opened a transmission to the castle. 

"I'm on my way."

[skellebonez]

You asked for more Macaque and Mei, and I shall request more! Possibly from my Parents and Kiddos au with 7 and 36? And you get to decide if this is before or after Macaque decide that this kid is his kid

Yeah so... remember how I told you to remember a very specific piece of art for this au you drew? It gave me a bit of an idea that probably does not fit in the timeline of how Mac took Mei in, but this is my personal take on how he could have decided he couldn't just leave her because he cared too much now.

Warning: short scene of a young child being reminded of a traumatic event unintentionally and by accident, it is very vague while the child is in no danger and quickly helped, but it should be warned for.

Stop acting like a child!/Did you honestly think that was going to impress me?

"Oh... Please, small human, for 3 more minutes stop acting like a child!" The person sitting across from Macaque at the table muttered out, pulled out of trying to focus on their conversation by the small human in the room jumping on the bed. Macaque had half a mind to kick them out then and there, had he not needed the payment they were discussing to afford the room for another night.

"I am a child!" Mei responded quickly, tone terse and tight and more frustrated than a child her age should have to sound like. But Macaque couldn't blame her, stuck in the hotel room and having to listen to two adults (who she did not realize were demons discussing... business in vague terms) with little to no entertainment thanks to the TV being off for this meeting. "Maybe if you did more of your magic tricks I'd be less bored!"

"A-ah... right... my apologies," The person said quickly, sighing as they realized their mistake. While they sat with the appearance of a slightly elder woman in a black and white suit with brilliant red eyeliner to Mei, Macaque could see them for their true appearance through the glamor if he tried. Her disguise would have been a futile effort had Mei not believe the wind based magic she used earlier in their meeting to be a human magic trick and the woman a magician. The crane demon turned back to Macaque, a seemingly genuine apologetic smile on her face as she lowered her voice as much as possible. "I forget small humans are always still children."

"As long as everything is cleared," Macaque replied, watching from the corner of his eye with a smile as Mei curled into a ball and bounced one last time with a laugh before grabbing a book he had... "purchased" for her and sprawling out on the bed to read it. He hated to admit it, but the kid had grown on him. Just a bit.

"Oh yes!" The demon woman said with wide smile, pulling a card from her suit coat pocket. "Here, all the money has been loaded onto here. My brother insisted on a more substantial sum, given the job, so there are more yuan on there than you expect." Generosity for what he did was not exactly commonplace, so more than likely it was a bribe. "Keep your trap shut, Macaque" or "please don't come back and kill us" most likely. Not that he would go out of his way to do the later. Not now. The demon cleared her throat, holding out her hand. "The... you know?"

Macaque did know, pulling out a tiny scroll from a nearby bag to hand to her. It was simple, some kind of spell that could be used against her family specifically, and he watched as she looked at it with disgust.

"You have no idea the trouble you have saved my family, Six-Eared Macaque," she said, pulling out and adhering a sticker of some kind to the scroll. He'd never seen something like it before, but he wished he had taken a second to ask what she had been doing when the scroll immediately burst into flames that were held in place by her wind magic.

The effect was instantaneous. The scroll was engulfed in flame, disappearing and out in seconda. Macaque shot up to his feet. And despite his hopes she had actually been paying attention to her book enough to be distracted, Mei screamed.

He had to rush quickly to stop her running into the table to get to him, tears streaming down the young girl's face as she wrapped her arms and legs around his neck and torso immediately. She screamed and wailed into his neck, muttering "no"s into the fur that had sprouted up as his glamor fell away. She was too afraid to notice.

"Wh-what!?" The crane demon shot to her feet, worry and confusion on her face as she went to take a step forward only to be met with a deep grown and bared teeth from the monkey demon. "I-I just wanted to show you what I had designed! Is she-?"

"Come anywhere near her and I'll gouge your eyes out!" Macaque hissed in fury, raising a clawed hand to the back of Mei's head in the hopes to comfort her. He'd seen this happen before and he knew that she was not listening to him. "Did you honestly think that was going to impress me? Get out. I don't want to see your face anywhere near here for the next few days. If I do you'll have a worse fate than that scroll."

The crane demon stood up straight, face falling into a grimmace. "Y-yes, Six-Eared Macaque..." she turned, making her way to the door before pausing and looking at Mei with a frown. "For what it's worth... I'm sorry. Had I known that would frighten the child I would have waited."

He simply growled at her, ears flared and teeth bared at her until she left and he heard the clicking of the door locking behind her. He waited, listening to her footsteps rushing down the hotel hallway before he sighed shakily and backed up to sit on the bed with Mei still curled around him.

He made a mental note then and there to not only find out what those stickers were (which meant talking to the crane demon again, he did not look forward to that), but to also never allow Mei to be in the room during negotiations with demons again. Even telling them not to use fire around her was too much of a risk. Too much...

As Mei's crying softened against his neck, Macaque sighed and gently rubbed her back and muttered to her that it would be alright. There was no flame. The fire was gone. She was safe. He purred softly, the rumbles hopefully doing something to ease her fear.

It had been an inevitably that Mei would have an aversion to fire, Macaque had known this in the back of his mind the moment he saved her. Regardless of how much or little of the house fire that had taken her parents from her, the one he had rescued her from, she remembered or actually saw. Perhaps, in time, she would be less afraid. Maybe not afraid at all, given the right help in the future. But for now all flames larger than a lighter or kitchen stove horrified the young girl, making her scream and try to escape as quickly as possible. Escape to him so he could save her again.

"Are you going to leave me behind again?" Mei asked quietly as her tears slowed after a long while of crying her heart out, hiccuping softly. Macaque quickly put his glamor back up and ceased the now almost imperceptible demon purrs, not wanting her to learn of his demon form as she finally pulled back from the koala tight grip she had on him. "Please don't leave me behind this time..."

Macaque felt like a knife had been driven into his chest. When he had first saved Mei from the fire he was certain that he would just find someone to shove her at and be done with his good deed. But Mei kept coming back, not wanting to leave his side. He supposed at the time it was understandable, given what had happened, and after a time he had stopped trying to leave her behind the way he had been. He hadn't quite taken her in proper but he let her stay by his side, for the moment. And over time she'd grown on him. Now...

"I'm not going to do that," he said softly, ruffling her hair with a frown as he pulled her into another hug. "Not like that."

"What?" The young girl looked up at him as if she hadn't expected him to agree. "You mean... you're really gonna stay?"

"Yeah," he said with a nod, looking away as more tears continued to fall from her eyes. He wasn't used to this, had never actually wanted kids... at least... he thought he had never wanted kids. "I'll stay with you, happy now?"

He made his tone light, joking almost though his words were truthful. He'd learned over his short time taking care of Mei that she was smart and could pick up on sarcasm and jokes quickly. And she seemed to pick up on the light tone of his voice quickly.

"Really?" She asked in a hopeful tone.

"Yeah yeah, but you gotta stop the water works kid," he said with a smile, turning back to wipe away the tears from the corners of her eyes with his shirt sleeve. "Or you're gonna run out of tears and shrivel up like a raisin."

"No I won't," Mei countered with all the assurance of a doctor telling a patient they would live, a chuckle escaping her as she wrapped her arms around his neck in another hug. "... thank you..."

Macaque almost told her not to thank him for doing what he should have probably done a long time ago. But instead he held her close, tucking her head under his chin as he tried to hold back the comforting purrs that threatened to raise up again and reveal himself.

He made another set of mental notes as she quickly fell asleep against him and he tucked her into bed before sitting up beside her with a book of his own (thankful he could see well enough in the dark) to distract his racing mind. He needed to find somewhere for them to stay, really stay and not just cheap hotel rooms to hop from. He needed to find someone who could help her with what had happened, no more beating around the bush she needed more help than he could give. He needed to take precautions to make sure she would be safe, just in case given who he was.

Everything else... well. He was never too old to learn how to do new things for his... daughter. Yeah. His daughter sounded right he supposed. He'd be able to play it by ear.

He had 6 of them after all.

[thosewickedlovelies]

An Ode To Marcus Moreno’s Arms

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x GN!Reader

Rating: Mature

Summary: You’re a training specialist in swordsmanship at Heroics Headquarters, so you see a lot of Marcus Moreno.

Tags: Reader has a vivid (sexual) imagination, but there’s only a few brief sections.

Word Count: 2,272

A/N: This started out as an ode to his arms, but his arms are connected to the rest of him, so. Alternative title: In Appreciation of Marcus Moreno

My assumption/headcanon of his powers are telekinesis, plus general exceptional physical prowess and weapons skills? Idk, we weren’t given much, but those feel like solid abilities for someone implied to be the super among super heroes. Idk what this is but I regret nothing.

More content/worldbuilding set in this universe 💗

--

Marcus Moreno’s arms were capable of many things.

You knew this because you saw them on an almost-daily basis. You were one of the training specialists at Heroics Headquarters, one of a large, ever-expanding staff of instructors who were experts in their respective fields of combat or weapons. Your job, essentially, was to be a superhero minus the powers- and use your abilities to keep the Heroics in top form.

Your expertise was swordsmanship, which meant you spent more time with Marcus than any of the other heroes. All of the physical trainers and specialists sparred with the Heroics in mock villain showdowns, but you also helped them hone specific skills. You were here because your skillset and abilities matched Marcus’s.

So you’ve had plenty of opportunity to behold his arms at work.

One would think that they’d be most enticing mid-action, but it was a cosmically ironic fact that there was never really a wrong moment to ogle. How that man could make merely unsheathing his swords so erotic was beyond you.

But by now you’d seen it from every angle. You were as familiar with Marcus’s technique as you were with your own, and knew well the cycle of muscle contractions which rippled up his whole body. It started with his legs: setting his stance, primed and poised on the balls of his feet. Then every muscle in his torso, his clinging t-shirts sliding over taut flesh as they rode up with the lifting of his arms- his arms. Biceps suddenly incredibly present and visibly straining past barely-existent sleeves, tendons flexing rigid and obvious, a tangle of pathways you wanted to map with your tongue.

This show was best when he had started his day with tactical theory sessions, because then his expressive face got involved. Oh yes, it wasn’t enough for him just to be built the way he was, his face had to go and be attractive as well.

Tedious strategy debates with Miracle Guy during these sessions never failed to get under his skin- you could always tell how much steam Marcus had to let off based on the clench of his jaw. Or the way he’d drag his bottom lip over his teeth, nostrils flaring in an almost-snarl. When that happened you knew he gripped the hilts of his swords a little tighter, because you’d see the ridges in his wrist dip and pull like piano strings perpendicular to the line of his gloves. The blades would sing little sharper on those days, his arms freeing them in a jerk rather than their usual smooth, deliberate slide.

It was amazing you ever made it beyond unsheathing your weapons.

But oh, were you glad you did, because watching Marcus Moreno fight was truly a treat. The control he had over his body was remarkable; even when his limbs flung and stretched, they were to ready to contract again at a second’s notice. “Fight” was really too limited of a term for it- Marcus manipulated his body in an incredible harmony of mind and muscle, using his weapons- including his telekinesis- as extensions of himself.

You wondered sometimes how fine his control over his telekinesis was- if he could use it on himself. If he did use it somehow to give his blows that devastating extra speed and strength.

It was easy to understand, after witnessing him, why battle is often described as a dance.

On particularly ruthless training days, his tan skin would gleam with sweat. It would bead and trickle along the pulsing veins in his arms, drawing your attention even more, and salacious scenes would flash behind your eyelids: those same glistening forearms visible in your peripherals as they box you against a wall, that same intent glitter in his dark eyes as they come closer and closer, breathless, his chest heaving into yours-

You never let on to any of this though. You were a master of the blade, and had trained too thoroughly to let the appearance of an opponent get to you. Besides that fact, you would never do anything to risk your place with the Heroics. Although you were an authority figure, they were still superheroes, and thus unlike anyone else you’d worked with- it made for a challenging, stimulating dynamic in which you were constantly both instructor and student.

Even outside of the training arena, Marcus’s arms were a sight.

Holding data pads or writing utensils as he led the Heroics in discussions of group tactics, deftly manipulating characters onscreen or scribbling things on a whiteboard. Sometimes he would go to these sessions straight from physical training, and the cooling sweat on his skin would raise goosebumps all along the smooth flesh.

You observed how gently his arms could move in yet other circumstances.

Training specialists often joined in when the Heroics were given new gadgets to play with. And although these days tended to be slower, they still made you sweat. Watching the caution with which Marcus handled the gear at first, the slow care he reserved for things with which he was still becoming familiar. The precision and that control he always kept- even when his frustration slipped out in the form of snarky remarks, he was always conscious of his movements. As he gained confidence, the surety would return to his motions, his shoulders squaring in quiet triumph- his broad, broad shoulders, which you had imagined far too many times propping up your thighs while his hands and mouth were otherwise engaged between them.

You wondered if Marcus would treat your body like something new he had to master. If his hands would probe and caress with the same thoroughness. If the same wicked delight would steal over his features as he learned how best to coax you toward his desired goals; if his fascinated smirk would change after the thousandth time he had taken you apart.

It didn’t help that these sessions highlighted that he was a kind, competent teacher. His teammates exasperated him sometimes, but Marcus was the first to step in when one of them was struggling. A light touch to rearrange their stance, an encouraging word or smile. If you hadn’t personally felt the power thrumming under his skin, you would have never guessed that such a soft man was capable of his immense abilities.

Occasionally you had to remind yourself not to get all dopey-eyed when he was instructing the kids. If you thought he was patient with the adult Heroics, it was nothing compared to how he interacted with their younger counterparts. Equally firm and joking in turn, he taught them every trick he knew while desperately hoping they would never have to use the knowledge.

Some days were easier for him than others- the times they practiced with weapons could have unexpectedly diverting consequences. Marcus let Guppy hold his katanas, once- she was fully capable with her shark strength, but the vision of the diminutive girl brandishing swords that were taller than she was, her face aglow with a ferocious grin, had all the others in fits.

You swore he was suppressing laughter himself as he carefully took them away from her. His hands, already distracting enough, looked comically vast compared to hers as he delicately maneuvered them to pluck the swords from her grasp. Something about the sight of his thick fingers, resettling themselves around the hilts with reflexive ease, made your mouth dry.

His fingers squeezed other things, too, and it made flames leap low in your belly every time.

Lime wedges, on the rare occasions he indulged in drinks stronger than wine at the Headquarters bar. His friends’s shoulders, in affection and farewell, after relaxing with them at said bar following hard days. You longed to be one of those who Marcus slung an arm around in jest, a laugh shaking his shoulders and sparkling in his eyes. Would his skin be as warm as it was while swinging a weapon? What would his body feel like softened in mirth, instead of vibrating with focus?

You didn’t blame him for his more formal attitude during work hours. His days were busy, and you rarely saw him off the training mats. You had shared a few evenings with him on nights when the bar was quieter, though. He was perfectly friendly, treating you just like anyone else he was getting to know.

Tonight was one of those quieter nights, but you didn’t do more than cast a quick glance at the small group sitting in the corner before slumping to the bar. You were worn out today, and just wanted something strong and solitary before going home.

You sighed into the numbing wash of your drink, your eyes drifting shut. Nobody would bother you this evening; it wasn’t that kind of atmosphere.

Except- the barstool next to yours scraped against the floor.

You inhaled deeply, preparing to politely rip into whatever idiot was assuming you needed company- only to have the words struck off your lips by the apprehensive brown eyes of Marcus Moreno.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry to bother you. You can tell me to march right back to my table if you like, but uh, I just wanted to see if you were all right. After today.”

You could see that he genuinely meant it- he was perched only partially on the barstool, ready to take off again if you said the word. But his gaze was curious, concerned.

You brow furrowed. “After today?” you echoed, too caught off-guard to think of anything else. What could he mean? Nothing special had happened today. He’d disarmed you, sure, but it wasn’t the first time that had occurred in the eight months you’d been working with him.

Marcus shifted uncertainly. “You just seemed...tired. Reflexes slower than usual,” he noted wryly. “And, well. We have matching bags.” He pointed to his face, where dark shadows were visible beneath his eyes. He offered a self-deprecating, tentative smile, conscious that he was treading in new territory.

It takes you a minute to process. In all the time you’ve spent observing his fighting techniques to perfection, you’d never considered that he could have been using those same opportunities to observe you. It provokes a funny feeling in your chest, twisting your breath up in your lungs like tangled ribbon.

“Oh,” you murmur, surprised but unoffended by his mention of the bags under your eyes. “Well...I am tired today, I guess.” You took a sip of your drink, gauging his interest, hesitating before continuing. “My sister broke her hip, so she just moved in with me for while she heals. It’s been...a stressful transition,” you admitted.

He angles himself toward you, attention fully committed and eyes widening in sympathy. “Oh gosh, that’s terrible. Do you need some time off? I can clear it with the boss for you, work with Santino for however long you need.” He seemed to straighten up, as if ready to spring away and take care of it the moment you answered.

“No, please,” you chuckled in appreciation of his earnestness. “I might need a few shorter days, but neither of us need me fussing over her 24/7.” Both you and your sister were strongly independent. It meant that you had often been at odds when you were younger, but you were all each other had now, and had made efforts to improve your relationship.

Marcus nodded in understanding, settling again. He seemed at a loss for if he should leave or say something else, so you made the choice for him.

“Tired of getting your ass kicked in my lessons, Moreno? You know Santino doesn’t work you as hard.” Your fellow swordsmanship instructor was slightly younger, a newer hire who was still a little bit in awe of the Heroics.

You didn’t usually speak so flippantly to him, but his eyebrows arced high at the challenge, a smile tugging on his lips. “Sounds like somebody needs a reminder of who kicked whose ass today, ma’am.” Rolling right along with your apparent newfound playfulness.

You pinpointed, suddenly, what was different about him tonight, why this interaction felt different compared to your others. There’d always been an air of deference about him before, as if even outside of the arena he considered you a superior. But tonight he was just treating you like a peer, a regular person. Maybe it had taken your excessively dragging day for him to come to terms with the fact that you were a regular person, but the ice finally felt like it had broken between you and you just...talked, after that. For longer than both of you probably intended.

“Shoot, I have to go get Missy,” Marcus realized, catching sight of his watch. “But you- you’ll be here again? I mean, I see you here a lot.” He stumbled over his words.

Did he? It was true that you were often at the bar at the same time, but for him to acknowledge that meant that he actually noticed you. Remembered your presence.

“Yeah, I’m here pretty regularly,” you confirmed, cautiously hopeful.

“Good. I mean, I’ll see you, then- next time.” His voice rasped low, but there was a nervousness in his expression. He twisted his jacket between his large hands.

He wanted to see you again. “Yes.” You smiled at him, surprise and pleasure shining through. “I’ll see you next time,” you said with conviction.

His eyes crinkled in answer, and your breath caught. Your ordered yourself not to watch him leave the room.

You drove home with a quiet grin on your face.

[lavendersuh]

jaemin x reader | 70′s roller rink au | fluff | 2.8k words 

part of @nct-writers neo’clock event! 

warnings: none

summary: its the era of disco balls and groovy tunes, and you love working at your local roller skating rink. if only na jaemin wasn’t there to annoy you all the time.

note: hi friends!! i recently started roller skating this summer and it’s been so fun!! i finally was able to go to a roller rink (i masked up i promise!) but i wrote this beforehand while i was yearning to go haha. it was so fun and skating makes me so happy. i don’t think i’ve seen many roller skating aus so i hope you all enjoy!!

“Hey! Will you stop going the wrong way? I have kids learning to skate and you’re getting in their way!” 

You huff out a heavy breath from your exercise. It’s always tiring to teach young kids to roller skate, but you enjoy the smiles it brought to their faces. One day soon they would be able to easily join the adults that waltzed across the shiny wooden floors. 

Your job at the local roller rink is perfect. You love the smoky atmosphere and the big disco ball. You love hearing the latest groovy songs play over the speakers. You love being able to zoom around in your favorite bell bottom jeans and best pair of skates. 

What you don’t enjoy is annoying boys that obnoxiously skate around the rink. 

You look back at the boy in question. It isNa Jaemin, of course. The boy has been the bane of your existence since he came to the rink for the first time a little over two weeks ago. 

Na Jaemin, with his blonde hair and constant grin, always so cocksure about everything. You had to admit, he’s an incredible skater, but you could never admit that to him. 

Especially when he is doing everything in his power to annoy you at the present moment.

“Are you even qualified to teach people how to skate?” he asks, with narrow eyes, “Can you even go backwards?”

You know he’s just teasing, just trying to get a rise out of you, and you fall so easily into his trap every time.

“Of course I can go backwards Jaemin! That’s not what I’m teaching right now though!” you reply. 

“Well then, I can do a demonstration!” 

“Jaemin, no.”

“Jaemin, yes.”

You let out a sigh as you watch him show off in front of the kids. They were a nice little bunch, but they were easily distracted, especially when the distraction was putting on such a show. 

Once again, you knew, it would be a long night.

Not even a week later, you encounter the nuisance again. Tonight, someone that usually works the food counter called off, meaning you’re stuck making hot dogs and grabbing bottles of cola for a bunch of little kids and teenagers. It wasn’t the worst job, but it certainly wasn’t your favorite. 

Especially since you can’t just skate away when Jaemin comes around to annoy you.

You spot him skating around the rink with a few of his buddies, doing laps around the younger kids. You can’t help but roll your eyes. 

The last you recalled, Jaemin never ordered much from the food counter when he was at the rink, so you assume he won’t bother you tonight. You couldn’t be more wrong.

You were back behind the pretzel machine when someone came up to the counter, ringing the bell to get your attention.

“I’ll be right there!” you call out, “What can I get for you?”

“A second of your time perhaps?”

You whip your head around to see Jaemin standing at the counter, a cheesy smile across his face. His hair is ruffled and wild, and he seems to be breathing a bit heavy from the exercise he was just doing.

You huff as you walk over to him, “Jaem, if you’re just going to annoy me, go away. Do you actually want any food?” 

He doesn’t miss the small nickname that crosses your lips, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it. As always, he is on a mission. 

“I wanted to show you my new skates!” he says, moving backwards a bit to show you the new boots, “Nice wheels, right?”

You can’t help the snort of amusement that comes out. The skates are bright yellow, with orange wheels and laces. They certainly will stand out under the glow of the neon lights and the disco ball over the wooden rink.

He starts moonwalking around in front of you, and you can’t help but marvel with a smile of your own at the skates and the silly boy in front of you. He must catch you staring, because he breaks you out of your trance by coming closer.

He says , “I wonder how fast I’ll be able to go in them.”

He bounds off towards the rink, zipping around the people on his new wheels. He looks back over to see if you are watching, causing a triumphant grin to grace his face when he realizes he still has your attention. 

The only problem is, with his eyes on you instead of where he’s going, he nearly runs into an older lady, and quickly diverts his course to keep from crashing into her. His new skates take him directly towards the wall, sending him on a collision course with concrete. 

His fall is anything but graceful, as his friends laugh at him. You also let out a chuckle of your own at the silly boy who will do anything for even an ounce of attention.

It is once again the end of a long day, and the quiet of the rink surrounds you. The music is turned off, and you’re the last one here, finishing up some cleaning before you finally go home. 

You always loved being the last one at the rink. The roller rink was constantly alive with lots of people, lots of sounds, lots of activity. It was calming to be the only one, skating around the rink with a broom to wipe down the surface. 

As you are making your way around the outside of the rink one last time, you hear a loud noise near the entrance to the building. You can’t help but grip the broom a little tighter, before you see Jaemin come through the door.

He glides over to the opening of the rink, his boombox in his hand. You do nothing but stare as he sets it up on the ground, pressing play before starting to skate. Finally he acknowledges your presence with a casual wave, like he isn’t here after hours or anything.

“What do you think you are doing?” you ask. “The rink closed ten minutes ago, and aren’t you tired? You were here all night.”

You couldn’t ignore the slip up you made, realizing you let it slip that you were aware of his presence all night. You didn’t need him thinking you were looking at him a lot, because you weren’t. Ever. 

“I like skating to my own tunes.” he says, as nonchalant as ever. 

He apparently doesn’t see a problem with the way things are unfolding, and you let out a huff. 

“Oh my god, I’m trying to clean the floor! Can’t you just come back tomorrow?”

“Aw, so eager to see me again?” he smiles as he makes his way to you, “Anyways, I can help!”

He takes your broom, skating around while casually sweeping. You might not have brand new skates like him, but you easily catch up to him, snatching it back.

Why was he even here? Just like you had pointed out, he had been here all night. What was keeping him from going home like the rest of the crowd?

“Go, Jaemin!” you exclaim out of annoyance, “And take your annoying boombox with you!”

His face morphs into a pout at this, “You turned off the music, what was I supposed to do?” 

“Go home?”

You glide over to the portable machine producing the loud disco music, turning off the switch. You manage to pick it up, shoving the boombox towards Jaemin.

“Jaemin, I’m begging you, go home! I can’t clean if you are still here, and I want to go home, too.”

He must see the exhausted look in your eye behind all of your annoyance, because he rolls over to you.

Jaemin grabs his boombox again, “Am I too much of a distraction if I sit on the bench?”

He gestures to the bench just outside of the rink, where little kids often tied their laces. For some reason, he just doesn’t want to leave, so you nod your head. 

He sits down, and turns on his boombox again while doing so. He turns the volume down lower, and looks out at you, jokingly saluting you in a promise to not be bothersome. 

You roll your eyes, finally resuming your cleaning. 

As you clean, Jaemin talks aimlessly. He talks about his classes at the local university next fall, and about how he just can’t figure out how to land a specific jump on his skates. 

While you were reluctant to let him stay, his presence ends up being really nice. His voice is soft as it fills the empty building, and as you both walk out to your cars after locking up, you are grateful to have someone by your side. 

It feels a little weird that you are having nice thoughts about the boy who is constantly a pain in your side, but you ignore the slight upbeat in your heart rate when he bids you goodnight.

You throw him a smile as you get into your car, “Goodnight, Jaem.”

It is once again a slow Tuesday night, and you are almost about ready to fall asleep at the admissions counter. Every so often you are assigned a shift in the ticket lobby, which you don’t mind typically. On a weekend day, you would be busy taking care of admissions for people as they came and went.

The rink is not busy today. 

And you’re about to doze off. 

You sigh. The one day you don’t have a book or a newspaper or any homework to do. 

You find yourself brushing off invisible dust from your new vest and turtleneck outfit when you hear the door chime, signaling a new customer. You look up from your seat.

Of course, it is Na Jaemin.

“Hey, are you stuck out here today?” he asks, his skate laces tied together to rest over his left shoulder.

“Yeah, it's so boring tonight, kinda empty too, but at least that means you won’t plow into a sixth grader again.” you smile.

“That was one time!” he says, also grinning at the memory.

He pulls out some money for admission and you hand him the paper wristband to show he paid and brought his own skates. Just as he is about to walk through the door to get to the rink, he pauses.

“Hey, uh, what’s your favorite song to skate to?” 

“Huh?”

“Yeah,” he scratches the back of his neck. He tries to explain his reasoning, “Maybe if I play it on my boombox, you won’t make me turn it off.”

You let out a chuckle, “I’ll still probably make you turn it off.”

“Y/N, can you please just answer the question?” Jaemin seems serious now.

And while you are taken aback by the change from his normally aloof demeanor, you clear your throat, “Okay, umm, I really love that new movie Grease, right now. Have you seen it? There’s this one song that’s kinda slow, ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You,’ and it’s really pretty and fun to just skate around the rink to.”

You flush out of embarrassment for the cheesy song choice, but Jaemin nods with a smile. You ignore your traitorous heart reminding you that you had definitely played your Grease soundtrack cassette tape a few too many times since meeting Jaemin. There was definitely no correlation. 

“That song is nice.” he says, before turning away and heading into the rink, leaving you alone at the ticket counter once again. 

A few days later you once again are stuck at the ticket counter. And finally, your shift is over. The ticket counter was nice every once in a while, but you feel tired of standing there, especially more than once in a week. You much preferred the satisfying exhaustion that came from being on wheels for your entire shift. 

The staff has mostly gone home, even your boss who just needed to lock up the cash office. You had offered to lock up the building after he left, since you felt like skating for a bit before going home. 

There is something about skating on the wooden floor when no one else is around. It is entirely quiet, with the music turned off, just the sound of your wheels spinning., And peaceful, with the air clear of cigarette smoke and loud screams of children playing. It was calming.

Your calm is interrupted by soft music coming from near the entrance. It’s only when you see Jaemin’s face and his stupidly large boombox that you realize what song it is. 

Your favorite song.

You can’t help the goofy smile that spreads across your face as he skates over, leaving the boombox on the ledge of the rink wall, coming over to you as ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You,’ echoes throughout the building.

He’s mouthing the lyrics as he skates to you, his eyes bright with mischief and something else that you can’t quite place. 

“Hey,” he says once he’s finally in front of you, “Can I join? It seemed a little quiet in here.”

For some reason, this flusters you, as you look at his ruffled hair and jean jacket. “Uh, yeah sure.”

With your approval, he begins skating, beckoning you to follow him. The song ends, but starts up again, and you give Jaemin a questioning look.

“I made a mixtape of this song on loop a couple of times,” he says, running a hand through his hair leisurely, like that’s the most normal thing in the world for someone to do. “It’s nice right?”

It makes you smile regardless. The two of you skate around for a bit, simply going around the rink as you would if lots of people were there. It’s comfortable, you realize, with just the two of you all alone. 

Finally on the third loop of the song, Jaemin comes a little closer, and grabs your hand quickly, as if unsure that he is able to do that. You squeeze his hand in reassurance.

It’s strange, wherever this night is going, but you can’t remember a time that you seemed happier to be at the rink. 

“I recall you mentioning you can skate backwards, yes?” Jaemin asks, after a few moments.

“Yes, of course—” you begin, but stop talking when he spins you to skate backwards in front of him, causing you to let out a slight squeal at the change.

It’s almost like dancing in a way, as he pushes the two of you forward around the rink and you impulsively grip his shoulders to make sure you can keep your balance. 

Eventually, the two of you slow down, and he leads a few spins, which sends laughter through the air and chills down your spine. It's hard to believe just a few weeks ago this boy was the most annoying pain in your side. 

The boombox finally goes quiet after its few repeats of the song, and the building is plunged into silence again, as you stand in front of Jaemin with a small smile and a sweaty complexion. 

The neon lights glow around you and Jaemin’s face turns serious. He readjusts his grip on your waist, sliding ever so slightly closer to you. 

“I’m sorry I was an asshole at the beginning.” he says, just above a whisper to be heard by only you, “I didn’t know how else to get your attention. Finally I changed the plan to this, and I think it’s working out better.”

“The plan?” you ask, your brain cloudy from his proximity.

He has the nerve to look bashful, making his face even more cuter, “I’ve, uh, kinda liked you for a while, and I needed a plan to tell you and see if you felt the same.” 

You smile, moving your left hand from his shoulder to his jawline, stroking his cheeky tenderly. Every piece of him that you touch leaves a burning feeling within your heart, and you finally are thinking you know how to fix it.

With a bold move like when he picked up your hand, you touch your lips to his, letting them sit there for a moment. It’s a chaste kiss, leaving Jaemin to decide what to do next.

He deepens the kiss, smiling as he fully wraps his arms around you and keeps you from sliding away by using his toe stops. 

The disco ball overhead isn’t turning anymore, and the music that typically fills the roller rink isn’t playing, but you’ve never found the rink more spectacular in your life. It’s not the atmosphere of the rink that you love, but the people within.

And right now, the person in front of you is your favorite.

[winterscaptain]

emergency.

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

a/n: credit for this awesome idea goes to snow (@agenthotchner original post linked here)! 

warnings: there’s some description of a decent-sized cut across the palm of the hand and the treatment of said cut in an emergency room, as well as some swearing rating/word count: t / 2096

AO3 | Masterlist | Requests Open!

+++

“Really, I’m alright,” you assured your (very well-meaning) neighbor. She was dead-set on getting you checked in at the emergency room, even though you insisted you could stitch yourself up at home. You brought your medical packet with you – including all the intake forms, copies of your credentials, and your emergency contact information. Your go bag was at your side, packed and ready with three days’ worth of clothes.

Your neighbor stayed with you until she was sure you wouldn’t bolt, leaving you as soon as someone called you to the back.

Another Tuesday night, another kitchen accident. You’d sliced your hand open while cutting an avocado for a late-night snack. Fortunately, it was your non-dominant hand. Unfortunately, your neighbor caught you as you scuttled to your car for your first aid kit.

So here you were, sitting on the edge of a bed in one of the private emergency rooms while a nurse flushed the wound and prepared it for stitches.

+++

“Hotchner.” Aaron sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Am I speaking to Aaron Hotchner?”

“Yes. May I ask who’s calling?”

As he listened to the emergency room admin tell him about your incident, he threw on a pair of jeans and a black v-neck from the drawer. He called Jessica as soon as the nurse finished relaying the address to the ER closest to your home. Jess was in the neighborhood, coming from a girl’s night with friends, thank God.

With a kiss to his sister-in-law’s cheek and an earnest “Thank you,” he was in the car and on the way.

+++

There was some kind of commotion right outside your door, but you were busy watching the nurse as she applied local anesthetic to your hand and wrist. The bleeding had slowed enough for the nurse to maintain it with a few swipes every minute or so, and you could see the extent of the damage.

You’re a fucking moron, you know that?

You rolled your eyes at yourself and was only a little startled when the door flew open.

“Hotch?”

He checked in with the nurse, who smiled and nodded at him over your hand. Suddenly, he was sitting right next to you, looking over your intake paperwork. “They called me. I got here as fast as I could.”

Shit. “God, I’m so sorry. I forget you’re the first on my emergency contact list.” You bit your lip. “I really should make it Emily or Penelope or someone who doesn’t have kids.” You said it more to yourself than him.

To your surprise, he laughed. “No, it’s okay. Jess was in town, and Jack is still sleeping. I’m glad I can be here for you.”

+++

When they pulled out the suturing material, you paled and blindly reached for Hotch’s hand. Instead of just taking it, he tucked your head into his chest, holding you there with one hand while he rubbed soothing circles on the back of your free hand with his thumb.

You probably looked silly, tucked into your friend’s chest while your arm was fully extended to your side, under a blindingly bright light. You couldn’t feel the stitches, but it still squicked you out.

Hotch’s voice rumbled through you as he spoke close to your ear. “You’re okay. Breathe with me.”

“Hotch...” It came out as a bit of a panicked whine as you heard the doctor shuffle some tools around.

“Aaron.” He squeezed your hand. “Aaron’s just fine. It’ll be over soon. Just a little while longer.”

You took a few shaky breaths in time with his, but your hand was still a vice grip around his. He smelled really good. You knew that already, having sat next to him on the plane more than once, but it was different without the professional boundaries.

And without the suit.

“You’re doing great. Squeeze as hard as you can and keep breathing with me.” His voice was gentle and constant. It was sufficiently distracting.

Oh, right. He’s coached someone through literal childbirth before.

God, you’re such a baby.

“I’m sorry I’m such a baby.”

He laughed, taking care not to jostle you. “We’re all babies over something.”

“You’re not a baby over anything.” It came out as a grouchy gripe, your humor not strong enough to get past the tightness of your jaw.

After a moment, he shrugged around you. “Spiders. I hate them.”

You lifted your head, keeping your arm steady. The hand holding you to him dropped to your waist, where his protective grip kept you centered. “Really?”

Brown eyes smiled down at you. “Really. Jack takes after his mother and thinks it’s hilarious. ”

A shaky smile crossed your face, and you heard the telltale rasp of ripping gauze.

“All done,” the nurse said. “You’re good to go. Change the dressings daily and take care not to rip the stitches. They will dissolve on their own in about a week.”

+++

“Hotch, I can really manage on my own.”

“You have your go bag, and I know for a fact you’ll rip the stitches in your haste to grab something on your way out the door tomorrow morning.”

You couldn’t argue with him there. He pulled into his driveway and helped you out of the car.

When you were safely inside with Jessica headed home, you took your pain meds while Aaron locked his gun away.

“Oh shit,” you said, checking your bag. “I don’t have my gun. It’s in my safe at home.”

“You can use my second. I know you prefer the Glock 26, but my 17 is about the same weight in the trigger.” He handed you a mug of tea and plopped down on the couch. “I can have Anderson grab yours during the day tomorrow if we get called out on a case.”

“Thanks.” The gesture didn’t go unnoticed – offering his second gun was like offering his right arm. You settled down beside him, tucking your feet under you. “I can make up the couch, so you can head to bed. I’ve kept you up long enough.”

“You know where the linens are?” He asked, one eyebrow aloft.

“I have built many a fort with Jack, and I pay enough attention to get around.” At his dubious glance, you continued. “Second hall closet, third shelf. Blankets, sheets, and an extra pillow.” You smiled at him over your mug.

“You know...” he swallowed and seemed to struggle with his words. “You don’t have to make up the couch if you’d be more comfortable in my room.”

“Trying to get me in bed, Hotchner?”

He floundered for a moment, and you laughed softly.

“I’m kidding.” You set your mug on the coffee table and brushed his hair back with your good hand. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on it.”

“I definitely don’t mind.” He leaned into your touch like a cat.

He’s adorable.

“Thank you for staying with me tonight.” Your hand fell to his jaw, where your thumb brushed back and forth on his cheekbone.

Careful, don’t want to cut your other hand on that.

His eyes closed as you took more of his weight into your hand. “Of course.” He turned his head and kissed your palm.

Your heart jumped into your throat. He gently picked up your injured hand in his and pressed a kiss to your gauze covered knuckles. That particular act didn’t do anything to lower your heart rate. He released your hands, soft and gentle, and led the way down the hallway toward his room.

Jack’s door was open, and you saw his little sleeping form by the glow of his nightlight, curled in a ball. You wondered if the Hotchner boys slept the same way.

You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?

Jesus.

“You can borrow one of my shirts,” Hotch said, closing the door quietly behind you, “since yours is...” He gestured to your t-shirt, and you note the blood down the front of it.

“Damn. I liked this one.”

Hotch smiled with one side of his mouth. “I’ll soak it overnight. We’ll probably be able to save it.” He turned and shuffled through his drawer, pulling out what looked to be a worn-in FBI Academy shirt and some flannel pajama pants. “These should cinch enough for you.”

You took them from him with your good hand. “Thanks, Aaron.”

His hands lingered over yours under the soft fabric. “Bathroom’s through that door – take your time. There are extra toothbrushes in the cabinet to the left of the sink. Make yourself at home.”

You settled into the en suite bathroom as he padded down the hall. You changed quickly, brushed your teeth (twice), and draped your bloodied shirt and pants on the edge of the sink.

Hotch was pulling back the covers and checking his email when you walked back out. He looked up and smiled at you.

When he brushed past you to soak your clothes in the sink, your heart caught in your throat again.

You slipped into bed, your back to the bathroom door. You closed your eyes and tried in vain to fall asleep before he returned.

You failed.

The lights in the room went out, leaving the blue cast of moonlight in front of your eyelids. You felt the bed dip as Hotch tucked in beside you.

“You’re terrible at pretending to sleep,” he whispered.

You could tell he was close to you, but when you opened your eyes you saw how close. His face was peaceful in the dark, his mouth and brow relaxed (for once).

“I wasn’t pretending.”

“Mhmm. Sure.”

You rolled your eyes and shut them again, insistent this time. “I’m ignoring you, Hotch.”

“Oh, so it’s Hotch now?”

“It is when it's nearly two in the morning and we have to leave for work in six hours,” you grumbled.

He chuckled, and his minty breath fanned over your face. You could feel him sober, and you opened your eyes. His face was pensive, and you were caught off guard by how open and expressive he was at home. You could read everything on his face as if it was printed out and handed to you.

“I don’t-“ he stopped, and his mouth pressed into a thin line for a moment. “I know we’re both adults who can share a bed without anything going on.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, doing your best to hide your amusement.

“What I mean is, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable or –“

You pressed a finger to his lips. “Aaron, shh.” You let your smile shine through for a moment. “I’m here because I want to be, and I’m next to you because I want to be, okay?”

He nodded, still watching you carefully. You removed your finger from his mouth, ignoring the thrill it sent through you.

Adults. Adults who can share a bed without anything going on.

You rolled over and got comfortable, smooshing the pillow underneath your head. With your good hand, you reached behind you and searched until you found Aaron’s shirt.

“C’mere.”

He huffed a laugh and curled up behind you, snug from shoulders to calves. His arm hovered over your waist for a moment. You squished it to you, lacing your fingers with his over your belly.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

He hummed and tucked his face into your shoulder. “Anytime.”

“If you want...” you trailed off, your bravery evaporating when you actually processed what was about to come out of your mouth.

“If I want...” he echoed. You could hear the smile.

“You could – You could kiss me if you wanted to.”

Well, there it was.

You felt lips press to the soft fabric over your shoulder, trailing up to the sensitive skin near the collar.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said, and you suddenly felt fully and pleasantly warm.

When you turned your head, he was waiting for you. Yes, the angle was awkward and it was dark, but maybe laughing into each other’s mouths wasn’t as embarrassing as it seemed.

He kissed you once, twice, three times. There was a sweetness, a chasteness about it. You’d both waited a long time, and it wasn’t like you didn’t want to jump his bones, but now was decidedly not the time.

You turned back around and pressed back against him as to not miss out on a single millimeter of contact.

Your sleep took you quickly, and you nearly forgot about the nine stitches in your palm.

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @happyhotchner @hurricanejjareau @fics-ilike @octothorpetopus @ange-must-die @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts

[yeetusdabussy]

hello! 🤗could I get headcannons (or a small scenario, whichever works best for you :3) for modern (non-massacre, like in college or working adults or something😅 ) au obito, roommates turned lovers sfw and nsfw (but mostly nsfw 😏)? thank you and have a nice day 💖P.S. would you consider adding shisui to your character list? 🥺

୨˚̣̣̣͙୧༚￮✧Yes love! I can do that for you my beautfiul Potato Anon And i'll add Shisui to the list honey keep ya unpdated ✧￮༚୨˚̣̣̣͙୧

╭══• ೋஜ•✧๑🌸๑✧•ஜೋ •══╮

Minors Nono!

╰══• ೋஜ•✧๑🌸๑✧•ஜೋ •══╯

── ･ ｡☆*Warning☆ﾟ.──

Smut,nsfw, cussing, and more.

Office workers to lovers.

You've been working at a office job for a good two years now, it's not the best job in the world but it helps you pay bills and you're still able to travel for business purposes. You're an assistant worker for Mr.Madara Uchiha. He was a calm boss, and not the worst. I mean sure he was strict but not mean and rude, he treated everyone equally. Well not really, he had a grandson named Obito. He was also a sweet bubbly young man, he was always on time for work, always obeying his grandfather's orders, and treated everyone respectfully and nicely. And he was quite the handsome lad in your opinion. He was always willing to do thing for you and even buy you gifts, which he never did for anybody else surprisingly. You thought that maybe he did that because you were his grandfather's assistant. Or because you guys literally live next door to each other, but one night you were working overtime due to stock pricing and trading going up. You were tired and sore from sitting in the same spot for hours.

"Jeez, my back is killing me, I should take a small break in the break room for a nap at least or a coffee." You got up from your chair and begin to walk down the dark walkway of many cubed office areas. You rubbed the back of your neck and closed your eyes as you look down at the floor for a bit. As you made your way to the end of the office are and into the hallway, you made your way into the break room where you spot Obito hunched over the counter. You were a bit surprised to see him there, was he working late too? "Obito? What are you doing here?"

Obito jumped and didn't dare to look at you, he grazed actually and begins to fumble his words. "Y/n? I-is that you? Sorry I was um resting my head, I fell asleep in here and I realized its night time already." He sounded distressed, which worried you so you begin to wall closer to him. "Obito, Are you okay? You're worrying me." It didn't take long for him to start shaking his head "i'm okay! Don't worry about it!" He yelled at you, but he soon felt bad about it, especially when he heard your soft sad "okay.." He apologized quickly to you. "I'm sorry y/n please don't be sad..its just..I'm..I'm stuck in an embarrassing situation right now." He still didn't look at you, you were now confused, what did he mean? Did something happen? You begin to wonder what could he possibly mean until you fully paid attention to his body's position, he was hunched over, arm against the upper cabinet. One of his hands were hidden away in front of his body, but there were low where his crotch should be. You slowly connected the dots and your eyes widen, your breath was caught in your throat.

"Was he masturbating?" You thought to yourself. You felt something pulse between your legs, you were now biting your lip, you've liked Obito for a while but didn't have the guts to tell him that, but oddly enough you didn't even know if he even liked you back considering the way he's always happy to see you, or get worried when you were sick and had to stay home.

"Obito, I know what you are doing. Turn around, let me help you." You could hear obtio sharp inhale to your words. "..dammit..fine y/n." He sighed deeply and turns around, his cheeks were a bright red. You could see his hard cock out in the open, for you, So thick and big is all you could repeat in your head. While you were there stuck in your own little thoughts, Obito was somehow now standing in front of you with one arm wrapped around your waist and his hand reaches up and grabs your jaw a bit roughly, forcing your lips to slightly part. He took advantage of this opportunity and kisses you deeply with a lustful passion, his tongue enters your mouth, his pink muscle tangled with yours. You were a mess already, especially the way his large hands run up your shirt, caressing your smooth S/C (skin color). You let out soft sighing moans into his mouth, hearing you sound like made him snap. He had you on the couch pinned, you were glade the break room had a couch for those who got tired because it would've been a bit uncomfortable to be doing this on the floor. Your hands were above your head, and his lips just inches from yours.

"O-Obito." Is all you could get out before he gripped the back of your knee, he would lift one leg up, he soon settles himself between your legs and begin to lick up your neck slowly, his warm breathe tickling your skin, his weight against your smaller/taller frame. He would kiss your earlobe before biting it playfully and pressing his hard cock against your sweet spot. Causing you to bite your lip and whine, Obito begins to lift your shirt up with one hand, he was slow and gentle. His hand caressing across your s/s (stomach size) with such admiration and love it made your body shiver under his touch.

"Fuck y/n, you're always making me feel like this every time I see you. It feels like you've put me under a love spell. I can't help but want to devour you, and now I have the chance to do so." His voice was so husky and deep in your ear, you wanted to tighten your thighs but he was between them and one of your legs were propped up on his broad shoulder's. He didn't waste time pulling off your shirt and begin to kiss down your neck with small butterfly kisses, he would reach your collarbone and playfully nip the skin teasingly. He locked eyes with you while doing it, causing your breath to be caught in your throat, he would soon kiss the middle of your chest/breasts and begin to suck and nibble on the soft skin. Leaving a mark there, it was large and quite dark, you knew that wasn't gonna leave for weeks. But you didn't care at the moment anyways.

"M'obito more~." You moaned out softly, which earned a growl from him, making a shiver run down your spine. He didn't waste time taking off your pants and kissing down your stomach, he would kiss your belly button and soon kiss lower to your most sensitive areas. He would kiss and nip your inner thigh, teasingly avoiding your precious area. It made your whine in protest, this made him chuckle between your thighs before he flattens his tongue against your pussy/cock. Swirling his tongue around your sensitive bits, purposely drooling all over it. Letting it mix with your arousal/precum and letting it run down to your sweet hole. His large fingers begin to run around the rim of your hole, as he begins to suck on your clit/tip as his tongue slowly glides across the sensitive nerves. His eyes never left your face, seeing you moaning and gripping his hair was such a hot scene to witness and he was the only person who got to see it. He slowly pushed a finger inside you, you gasped at the feeling and mewled. He groans against your sensitive bits, causing you to feel the vibrations. You arched your back and gripped his hair tighter, he soon slides a second finger in and twists his hand. His fingers curl up and presses against your g-sppt/prostate, you covered your mouth with your free hand and concentrate on the pleasure you were receiving. He soon begins to suck on your clit/cock as his hand twists once more, he uncurls his finger and begins to thrust it into you as a faster pace. You could hear the lewd sounds coming from your hole.

"Obito! M'please, I want your cock. I want it." How could he deny your sweet little cries? He sat up and soon for off the couch. He made your body sit up on the couch as he grabs the back of your knees and puts your legs on his shoulders. He leans forward and places his hand beside your had, gripping the rim of the couch as his other hand aligns his cock to your entrance. He slowly begins to slip inside you, slowly giving you that pleasurable stretch you've been begging for. Your arms wrap around his neck and you felt him start to runt inside you, not even letting you fully adjust to his eyes. But you were so wet, it slipped in so easily, the way your warmth engulfed his hard cock, the way you cried out for him and saying his name like a prayer. He wasn't talkative because he was too lost into pleasing you, but he groans and grunts into your neck. His heavy balls slapping against the skin, the way his thighs slapped against yours, and especially the way your nails dug into this poor baby's back, causing him to whine and grip the couch and the back of your knee tighter.

You felt a knot building up in your stomach, your sweaty S/C pressed against his now crinkled uniform. Just when you were about to cum, he stopped. You whine in protest, "Obito, why did you stop? Please keep going." You begged. Obito leans up and looks down at you, he was so cute, the way his cheeks were red, his lip slightly quivered and his eyebrows furrowed. He would flip you over, causing you to yelp. He forces you head down into the couch pillows before pulling half of your body off the couch where he let's your legs down so your feet touched the ground. He spreads your legs just a bit before slamming back into you, his cock was much deeper than before, he pulled on your H/C (hair color) H/T (hair textured) hair. His cock hitting every sensitive spot you didn't even know you had, having you see stars as you moaned and babbled random words. You couldn't even form a simple sentence, especially when he leans in and kisses up your back and gets to your ear, he nips the bridge of your ear and whispers. "Cum on my/the cock/coach, cum, I can't hold it no more." He whined and groaned softly.

Your eyes rolled back, because he leaned in closer causing him to go even deeper. You soon felt your mind go blank for you begin to squirt/cum on his cock/coach. You begin to pant and feel your legs go weak, but obito held you up. Lifting you off the floor and into the air. You gasped and grips his arms as he continues to runt in you, you could tell he was close the way he was panting hard against your neck. Soon enough he moans and begins to fill up your cute little hole, it took all his strength not to fall or drop you. He soon turns around and plops down onto the couch panting and hugging your waist.

"F-Fuck, I'm sorry y/n please don't hate me, I really like you, I really do. I just, i-" you would tell him to "shh" and begin to adjust yourself in his lap, he was still inside you, as you wrap your arms around his neck and nuzzle him. "Obito, baby its fine, don't worry. I like you too, you goof ball." You weakly smiled and giggled. Now you were tired and worried about the papers you still needed to finish. "Dammit those papers.." You said as you sighed. "Ah, don't worry y/n! I'll do them, you just sleep okay?"

You looked up at him, wanting to say something but he kissed you instead. "I already known what you're gonna say y/n." He chuckled, you rolled your eyes and smiled. "Oh whatever."

[yourlocalauthor]

What Comes Around Goes Around

Chapter Three: Suprise!

Pairing: Topper x OC (eventually?)

Warnings for this chapter: Just some good old fashion cussing, and a slightly scary scene with an older male so take that with a grain of salt.

Word count: 2k

A/N: so excited to be back to writing! get ready for the next chapter it’s going to be exciting <3

Jo drove back home, pissed she didn’t have her lemonade, pissed that her feet and sandals were all sticky, pissed Topper was such a fucking idiot, just pissed at the entire world. Worst of all Jess and Elle went for a day trip on the mainland, and Jo had no one to complain to. She pulled into her driveway, aggressively, just wanting to go lie on her bed and scream. Her mind came to halt as she slammed on her breaks, her face looking like she had just seen a ghost. She had barely put her car into park, before rushing out of it with the engine still running.

“JJ?” She yelled running to the blonde boy who had stood from his position on her front steps. She engulfed him in a hug, tears swelling in her eyes. JJ winced a bit at the hug, but soon his arms wrapped around her, returning the hug, a little tighter than he meant to. The two stood there for a minute just silent. Soon enough the hug came to an end, once Jo realized she was also angry at him. She quickly let go, shoving him.

“Where the fuck have you been? And what the hell happened to your face.” She said now noticing some fresh cuts and bruising. She took his face in her hands examining it, as he started to speak.

“I went out of town for a few weeks, couch surfed with some people on the mainland, and-” He hissed in pain when Jo touched his cheekbone pulling his face away from her. “Jesus Jo!”

“Sorry! Get inside I’ll clean you up and then you’re telling me everything.”

“Yes ma’am” He said, giving her a salute before opening her door. Jo flipped him, before walking back to her car and turning it off.

-

-

-

“So, I was staying at this shady dudes place, and I think he was watching me sleep so I came back here and slept on some boats, until I accidentally overslept this morning and the cops came and took me to my dad. He was wasted when I got home, so wasted I guess he thought I was a intruder or something cause uh…” He made some punching motions, laughing awkwardly. Jo frowned as she closed up the medical box, and tossed the bloody cotton balls.

“That’s not funny,”

“It is a little,”

She shook her head, starting to bandage him up.

“Where are you staying now?”

“Not sure, probably couch surf some more and then figure it out from there.”

Jo frowned looking at him, she carefully held his face, examining his bruises.

“Absolutely not, you’re staying here. At least until we figure a more permanent solution. My mom wont mind, you just can’t fuck anyone on the couch.”

JJ looked at her trying to keep a straight face, but barely lasting a few seconds before smirking.

“You are a pain in my ass Jackson”

“Oh you love me” She said, rolling her eyes and shoving him again. He winced, reaching for his side. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I’ll get ya some ice.”

“Thanks.”

She walked over to her kitchen grabbing some ice and filling it in a baggie. “So, is there anything you need? Besides this.” She tossed it at him, before sitting down next to him.

“Actually, there is one thing. I left my backpack at my dads.”

“Oh that's fine let's go grab it right now,” Already popping up, and giving him a hand.

“Just one problem… I left it inside by the front door…”

-

-

-

“No it’s fine, I’ll grab it fast in and out”

“I cannot believe you are doing this for me, I owe you big”

The two sat in Jo’s truck, parked right outside the Maybank house watching. With a deep sigh placing a hand on JJ shoulder.

“If I die, make sure my mom doesn’t find my weed.” And with that she let go and exited the car.

The Maybank house wasn’t much different from when she last saw it. Maybe a few more dead plants but that was it. She didn’t come here often, this only being her seventh or eighth time visiting. Jo took a deep breath, as she stood in front of the screen door. Carefully placing a hand on the handle she pulled it as quietly as possible before stepping onto the porch. She stepped forward, being as quiet as possible when she went to open the front door. Creak The door made a loud creaking noise, as it opened causing the brunette to flinch. ‘Shit.’ She paused, holding her breath as she waited for something to happen. Thankfully nothing did.

She opened the door further peering inside. Her eyes instantly landed on her target, as she stepped inside the old home. She snagged the bag, and almost made it out of the house when. ChackChack.

“Don’t move.”

‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck, titty fucking shit mother fucker why the fuck did she even volunteer to do this.’

“I want you to turn around carefully, no sudden movements or I’ll shoot you dead. Ya hear me?”

Jo stayed silent not moving a muscle, fear polluting her body.

“I said did ya hear me?” He cocked his gun again, this time taking a step forward.

“Yes sir.” She said, turning around, now facing him.

“Ain't you that pretty girl JJ hangs with, what business do you have in this house?”

“Sir, your son just asked me to grab his bag, that's all.”

Luke let out a hearty chuckle, the sound filling the house with a haunting echo. “Is that so? Where is the fucker anyway? He too pussy to come in, he had to send in his bitch?”

Jo stood there, not sure what to do or say. This had to be the worst outcome possible from this situation, and it was just her luck she had to actually deal with it.

“Hey! Didn’t your mother teach you any fucking manners? When an adult asks you a question you answer, now where is he?”

“Sir I”

ChackChack

“I’d choose your next words very carefully missy.”

Ptooey

Before she even fully understood what she was doing, Jo spat right at his face and sprinted out the door. She heard him yelling after her, and gunshots firing at her feet, but she just kept running. She swung the car door open, throwing the bag at JJ who huffed in pain. She reversed out of the driveway as possible, and sped down the street. It was only when they were a few miles away did she pull off to the side to take a breather.

“Holy fucking shit.” JJ said, excitement filling his voice. “I have never seen you run that fast before, you came outta there like a cheetah or some shit. Woosh!” He said laughing, before opening his bag.

“Yeah, I know I was there.” She said, rolling her eyes, before relaxing in her seat. “I think my heart is about to explode.”

“The fuck you even do to piss him off?”

“Oh you mean besides breaking and entering into his house? I spat at him?”

“No fucking way,”

“Yes fucking way,”

“You are officially my new hero, we have to throw you a party.”

“What? JJ babes I really don’t need that.”

“Nope! Party in your honor, tonight!” He said nodding, with a determined smile.

“No way you can throw a part in under three hours.”

“Watch me Josephine,”

“Don’t call me that,”

“Josephine, Josephine, Josephi-”

“Do you want to walk home?”

“No ma’am,”

“The shut the fuck up,”

Jo, turned around starting her car up again, heading back home.

“I still don’t believe you’ll be able to do it.”

“Fuck you,”

“Love you,”

Soon the car went quiet, until JJ spoke up.

“So, uh have you heard anything from the Camerons?”

Jo shook her head, tapping her steering wheel.

“I heard they threw a funeral for Sarah, and I did see Rafe at a party a few days ago.”

“Wait what?”

“Jess and Elle managed to drag me to some Kook party and we ran into him, he was def tweaked out. But Topper managed to get us out in one piece.”

“Wait hold up, Topper?”

“Yeah he even offered to drive us home-”

“Well did he?”

“Did he what?”

“Drive you home!” The blonde said in an obvious tone.

“Yeah we were all too wasted-”

“I don’t bye it,”

“Ask Jess,”

“I plan on it.”

-

-

-

-

Okay genuinely Jo thought JJ was joking around about the party. There hadn’t been one at the boneyard in weeks, everyone on the cut mourning the loss of John B. But now it was 7:23 and Jess was helping her pick something out.

“I swear to god Jo, you are not leaving this house in a bikini top”

“Jess it’s just a boneyard party-”

“That you’ll be the guest of honor at!”

“Jess babes it’s really not that big of a deal, I just won’t have to pay for my booze.”

Jess rolled her eyes, muttering something incoherently, as she sifted through the closet.

“Aha! Found it, here wear this.”

She tossed the brunette, some white really frilly shirt, causing Jo to frown.

“Absolutely not, here I’ll wear this.”

She pulled out a neon pink bikini, with a pair of black shorts. Jess shook her head, starting to put away the stuff on the bed.

“You are impossible Jo,”

“I know,” She said, smiling before walking over to the bathroom to go change.

“Are we meeting Elle there?” Jess yelled, changing into a pair of denim shorts and a white button up.

“Yeah, she has to wait until her mom gets home though.” Jo said walking back into the room.

“I’ll have to admit, you do look good.”

“Course I do.”

-

-

-

-

The drive to the boneyard was weird, for some reason it just seemed like time was going as slow as possible. Not that Jo really cared, her expectations for the part were low. She wasn’t expecting many people to show up, let alone be in a cheery mood. She was actually shocked today, by how lively JJ was. She remembered how devastated he was before disappearing, barely able to crack a smile, and never laughed. But as she pulled up to the boneyard, all her expectations were blown away.

The beach was jam packed, she hadn’t seen this many people here in what felt forever. There was a huge bonfire going, and multiple lines by the kegs, and at the heart of it all, was JJ.

“Holy shit! Did JJ do all of this by himself?” Jess asked, clearly blown away.

“I guess so,” Jo replied, almost at a loss for words.

JJ spotted her truck, and came running. The two exited the car, just as he made his way over a huge grin on his face.

“Jo you made it!”

Before she could respond, Jess butt in, still mesmerized by the situation. “JJ babes, did you really organize this all by yourself?”

“Well mostly, I did have a little help.”

Out of nowhere, Kiara and Pope appeared with two smiles on their faces.

“Surprise,” They both said in unison, still smiling.

Jo ran over to them, engulfing them in a hug. “You guys this is amazing,”

“Well, y’know this party is for you Jo, but we’re also sending a message. We’re letting those figure eight assholes know we're back, and never leaving. Again,” Pope said with a surprising amount of anger in his voice. Jo was a little confused, but didn’t want to question it.

“Well, I guess we’re back bitches!”

The group cheered, before walking over to the beach all catching up, and for the first time in weeks, Jo had forgotten everything that happened. At that moment, she was just there with her friends like it was any regular summer party. Little did she know, that night was about to unravel a series of events she never would’ve seen coming.

[thatshiscigar]

Future Business Partners

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Request: Can I request a rafe x reader where the reader’s dad is business partners with Ward and they want to show their oldest kids (rafe and reader) what they do and they meet through a meeting at the club while golfing and maybe the reader isn’t great at golf so rafe helps her and it’s fluff!’

Warnings: mention of drinking, usual rafe/ward dynamic

Word Count: 1.9k

Masterlist

Let me know if you would like to be added to my OBX taglist!

Your family had known the Cameron’s for some time now, seeing as Ward and your father were long time business partners, but somehow you never really got to meet them. They were like this entity that never left your life. You knew Ward and your father were very close, and the Ward also had a son, who was around your age. Your dad told you little things about the business when you were younger, but nothing important enough to hold onto for your teen years. But, your father decided it was time for you to seriously learn about the business. You were his oldest, and he was confident you would be a great leader to honor his name.

You spent a majority of your life hearing about the Camerons, and the young man that was supposedly going to be running the business one day. You of course had seen pictures of the Cameron boy, and you can’t lie, he was easy on the eyes. You sure as hell wouldn’t mind working with him in the future. But first, you had to meet him. Your father and Ward has organized a day where they would showcase the next faces of their businesses. You, your father, Ward, and Rafe were set to meet at a country club for a day filled with drinks, “adult talk”, and stupid club games. You can’t say you were excited, but you sure weren’t dreading it.

You and your father arrived at the country club in a black Range Rover. Employees rushed to your passenger side door to open it for you, and you stepped out, glad to be breathing in some fresh air. You and your dad walked to the gate of the club, meeting the two Cameron men there. You all shared hellos, and handshakes, greeting each other and making good first impressions. When you got to Rafe, your actions faltered. You stuttered your hello, taking in his beautiful appearance. Rafe was certainly taller and more handsome than the family photos on Facebook led you to believe. He took your hand in his.

“Pleasure to finally meet you!” You said cheerfully, hoping to make him forget about your previous awkward introduction. Rafe brought your hand up to his lips, lightly kissing it.

“The pleasures mine, Ms. (Y/L/N).” He flashed you one of his signature smirks, making your insides melt.

Rafe knew he was going to make you his. He liked a woman in charge, and if you were going to be the next head-woman of your dad’s company, he didn’t know how he would be able to handle you being his business partner. The way your sundress hugged your hips gave him way too many ideas.

“Alright, well let’s get this show on the road! Mr. (Y/L/N) and I will be at the bar, and you two will be playing golf. Rafe, go show (Y/N) to the golf clubs.” Ward made authoritative eye contact with Rafe. It almost made Rafe flinch, like he was scared of him. It was definitely a contrast from the cocky and cool Rafe you had just seen.

“Yes sir,” Rafe said lowly, as if he didn’t want to anger his father. You knew that there was something wrong with their dynamic, but, this was your first time meeting them, what did you know?

Rafe led you to the golf clubs. There were so many to pick from, you didn’t know where to even start. Rafe picked up on your cluelessness after he selected his pick.

“Need some help?” His original, flirtatious tone was back. The question pulled you out of your thoughts, causing you to whip your head around to his direction. He was leaning on his clubs, the sun hitting his face just right.

“Oh, um, yeah,” you started.

“I just don’t really know how to pick out the right ones.” Admitting you needed help was not an easy task for you, but something about Rafe made you feel safe, like you could be yourself around him, and he wouldn’t judge you for it.

“Have you ever been golfing before?” He questioned. You shook your head no

“What?” He sounded astonished.

“You’ve lived in Figure Eight all your life, and you’ve never gone golfing?”

“Nope, not once,” you agreed.

“Well then, it looks like you’re going to need a teacher.” He shot you that smirk again. Your stomach fluttered at the idea of Rafe teaching you. Excitement and nerves blended themselves together, leaving you clueless as to what you felt. Rafe helped you pick what clubs you needed. He asked you what your dominant hand was and how tall you were, and that seemed to be all the criteria he needed to get clubs that fit perfectly in your hands. You slung the golf bag over your shoulder, Rafe following suit, and went to the golf carts. You guys hopped in, and started the cart. You were both sitting very close to each other, and whenever your thigh bumped against Rafe’s, you saw his grip tighten on the wheel, almost turning his knuckles white. You smiled to yourself, enjoying the effect you had on the boy.

“So,” Rafe said, cutting the silence.

“If your dads anything like mine, all he does is work, like, all the time.” He looked to you for a moment before looking back to where he was going. You thought for a moment before responding.

“Yeah! I mean, it’s all for the family’s well being though, I don’t mind it, I guess.” You lowered your voice at the last part.

“Right,” Rafe replied, same tone as you.

You were lying. Of course you wished you dad wasn’t so occupied with work. You missed him, and all he did was work. He let it swallow him whole. Even fun little outings like this were related to work. You didn’t want your future to look like this. You were sick of it, but you kept your mouth shut. Your father was so proud of his work and he couldn’t wait to pass it on to his pride and joy, you. Rafe knew your emotions, without you having to voice them. He understood your thoughts and struggles that came with having a life like this. You guys arrived at the course and Rafe parked the cart.

“Alright,” Rafe started as you guys reached the starting point.

“Your first lesson starts now.” A cheesy smile crawled onto his lips. He moved to show you how to correctly hold the club.

“Ok, this hand goes here, and this one here, like this.” He placed his hands on top of yours, his arms wrapping around your torso.

“Like this?” You turned your head to him, and you could’ve sworn you saw Rafe’s eyes flick down to your lips. He smiled.

“Yeah, like that,” he said over a breath. He cleared his throat, and stepped away from you, regaining his composure.

“Now just,” he mimicked your stance.

“Swing.” Rafe fake-swung.

You focused on the ball, raising your arms in the air. You followed his actions, and you swung.

“Attagirl,” Rafe said sharply.

The ball went flying, the both of you intently watching it go. The ball landed close to your target, and you bust out into cheers.

“That was good, right?” You half-cheered, half-questioned.

“Yeah! That was great (Y/N)!” He reached out for a high five, which you delivered. It was a short touch, it was basically over as it started, but Rafe wanted more. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to someone who understood what he was going through. Someone who could listen to his problems and relate. He needed to be with you.

The rest of the afternoon consisted of stolen glances, lingering touches, and many, many, flirts. He couldn’t get enough of your smile whenever he cheered you on, or when you got the ball in the hole, or when your hands grazed over each others as you walked together. He never wanted your smile to leave your face.

The day was winding down, the sun was setting at the crickets started singing their nightly song. You didn’t want the day to end, you had finally met someone who didn’t wave off your problems as “rich girl problems”. You found someone who understood.

As you and Rafe drove back to the club on the golf cart, he rested his hand on your thigh. Your eyes darted towards his hand, then you looked up at him.

“Y’know, I had fun today.” He gave a light squeeze to your skin, sending shocks all over your body.

“I did too,” you smiled at him. He quickly looked at you, and shot you a smile back. His thumb started to draw irregular figures on your thigh. You got used to his presence there, and your nerves cooled. In a quick burst of confidence, you grabbed his hand from its spot. You interlocked your fingers with his.

Rafe was always sleeping around, and had felt the embrace and touch of many girls, but none quite felt like this. Just a little hand-hold had him weak. He had only known you for a day, but you felt like home to him, and he never wanted to leave. Rafe slowed the speed of the cart, just to prolong the time you two had together before you got back to the club.

The moment Rafe had dreaded was here. He pulled into the club, and parked the cart. You were still holding hands, neither of you wanting to move. You stroked your thumb along his knuckles before you started speaking.

“When am I going to see you again?” Your voice was low. You didn’t want to ruin the moment.

“Any time you want, princess,” Rafe brought your hand up to his lips, just as he had done earlier that day.

A tension had arose from the simple action, and it was just a matter of time til one of you acted on in. Rafe couldn’t take it anymore, he needed to kiss you. He cupped your cheek, and when you didn’t move away from him, he knew it was okay. He eagerly leaned in, not saying to waste another moment. You gladly welcomed it, kissing him back with the same passion and need. Your arms moved to drape over his shoulders, while his hands found your waist, bringing you closer to him. You broke apart for air, resting your forehead against his. You let out a giggle at this whole situation. You just met this dude today, but here you were, making out with him in a golf cart. But you didn’t care. You liked him, a lot. He made your insides turn to mush and he made your knees weak.

Rafe had been waiting for someone like you for a long time. Dealing with his fathers harsh and manipulative teaching was getting too much for him to handle, then you happened to pop into his life. He didn’t plan on letting you know, but you helped him out that day a lot more than you know.

Rafe had found his one, and if you were going to be his business partner in the future, he definitely wanted to take over Cameron Construction.

Taglist: @supremestarkey @lovelymaybankk @blueeyedbesson @whormotional @classywaves @sexytholland @danaerekat @em753 @babyhoneystvles @angelic-boca

[lovelylogans]

debutante

previous chapter | chapter two | next chapter

part of the wyliwf verse.

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

pairings: logince, moxiety

words: 21,995

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

⁂

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

virgil squeezes a little tighter.

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

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

virgil leans over to kiss patton on the cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he feels patton smile against his collarbone.

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

⁂

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

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

this was not the case in a bridal boutique.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what do you think?” the attendant asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“back to the dressing room, then!”

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

“you like the bow?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it is, of course, roman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“he’s going to complain the whole time he gets all dressed up,” logan points out.

“i know,” roman says brightly, and tugs logan again. “c’mon, let’s go drop this in the car so we can go get fro-yo. i hope they’ve got gummy worms, i wanna make the super-fruity bowl this time.”

“so it falls to me to make some chocolatey flavor, i suppose,” logan says; for the pair of them frozen yogurt, unlike lucy’s, is prone to sharing, and as to avoid unfortunate flavor combinations, such as pineapple tart and whoppers, each of them make a bowl for each flavor—one for fruity flavors, and one for chocolatey flavors. “do you think i should combine coffee and fudge brownie?”

roman kisses him on the cheek, even as he’s pushing the door of the dress store open. “you’re a genius, my darling love.”

logan realizes in the middle of a bowl of coffee-chocolate frozen yogurt that roman’s managed to get him to leave behind his textbooks in the car, along with the dress.

he can’t bring himself to mind all that much.

⁂

this plan straight out of the plot of an early 2000s movie, if early 2000s movies had meaningful and visible trans characters, is somehow working.

dee still can’t believe it, somehow, even after a weekend of getting texts from known-but-aren’t-supposed-to-be-known members of secret societies like the porcellians (the porks, to those in the know, and dee is most decisively in the know) and the clairs and the skull and dagger and the sphinx club and the order of the gorgon’s head—truly the secret society names at this school were something else. 

he’s consulting his list on his way to meet up with logan to give him a morning update (could use some more involvement from the knights of the lamp and the old crows, and if he’s truly dreaming big he’ll try to crack all twelve of the twelve peers) when he glances up to see logan at his locker, looking truly startled as he’s being accosted by a freshman, who is waving a piece of paper at him with a fierce look on her face, her voice loud, but dee can’t quite make it out over the chatter and clatter of the morning crowd getting their books for the morning, and catching up over the latest weekend gossip.

as he gets closer, he realizes who it is. poppy mcmaster, whose legal full name is so genuinely atrocious that he could only feel pity for her when he’d scanned all the freshman’s files early in the year. who in their right minds named a child coppelia parthenope mcmaster and expected them not to get brutally bullied? unless, of course, they somehow preternaturally knew that poppy would turn out with the kind of aggressive, single-minded ambition whose brashness made her preschool teacher cry.

he mostly knows her because their families move in similar social circles, as ten generations of mcmaster have attended harvard. she stands at all of 5’2”, quite a bit shorter than logan, and yet she seems to be threatening him.

dee sidles closer to get a better look at her—dirty blonde hair pulled half-up, intense dark brown eyes, chilton uniform in perfect regulation—and approaches right as she’s saying, “some discretion, for the love of god—”

“dee,” logan says, spotting him. “um, this is—” and he glances at her, eyebrows furrowing. “you didn’t say your name.”

“coppelia mcmaster,” dee says, partially to show off but also because, coppelia. “or are you going by parthenope again? or something short for parthenope, anyway.”

poppy scowls at him, fierce, and snarls out, “poppy.”

“of course, of course,” dee says placidly. “poppy. how long has it been? i don’t think we’ve spoken since your bat mitzvah. mazel tov, once again.”

“todah,” poppy says, with the kind of tone one usually reserves for saying thanks for a present they resoundingly dislike. “you’re involved in this whole debutante plot, aren’t you?”

“well, yes,” dee says. “logan’s brainchild, of course, but one could say we’re co-parenting.”

poppy then proceeds to shove a familiar piece of paper into his hands, and she says, “mr. gardiner nearly saw and grabbed this if i hadn’t pretended it was a participation sheet from the student council.”

dee sucks in a breath, turning over the sign-up sheet—oh, wonderful, they have gotten another member of the twelve peers—but his eyes also land on the Contact Logan Sanders for details.

“thank you,” dee says at last, and turns his eyes to logan. “how many of these are up around the school?”

“three,” logan says. “that one included.”

“well, we’ll have to take them down,” dee says decisively. 

“what?” logan says.

“you’ll get in trouble,” poppy says. “detention, suspension, maybe.”

“we are planning to disrupt a large social event for the daughters of the american revolution,” dee says, and glances at logan. “as you can likely imagine, social protest is not exactly the kind of press attention chilton would like to receive.”

logan scowls, and says, “tinker versus des moines—”

“—was a public school,” poppy says impatiently. “i know you came from the backends, sanders, but this is a private school. different rules apply to us.”

“plus, we’re recruiting for protest,” dee says. “i’m not sure how well the tinker test will hold up for us, and i’d rather not find out. the word’s been spread enough, we can further recruit over private text message and dms.”

logan concedes this point with a nod, and he says to dee, “i’ll defer to your judgement.” then, to poppy, “thank you for interfering. that would have complicated matters unnecessarily.”

poppy shrugs, and says matter-of-factly, “it’s common knowledge that either of you will likely be editor when i enter the franklin junior year, i may as well attempt to establish myself as one of your proteges this early on to improve my chances for being assigned the better pieces junior year, and to provide an even clearer path to editor senior year.”

logan looks startled at that, and dee turns admiring eyes to poppy—he’d known her ambitions, of course, but planning this far in advance was preparation that dee could appreciate.

she says to logan, “do you have an escort yet?”

“um,” logan says. “no. no, i don’t.”

“all right then,” poppy says, and fishes out a reporter’s notepad from the side pocket of her backpack, removing a pen from her breast pocket, scrawling, and then ripping out the paper and handing it to him. “consider the slot filled. i’ll do it.”

logan looks at the paper—her phone number—and then back at her. “you’re joining?”

“obviously,” poppy says. “the clairs are involved. my cousin was a clair, her mother was a clair. the connections you make with clairs last the rest of your life. if this helps me get closer to joining with them, i’ll do it, just so i won’t have to spend all year killing myself to get in. plus my mother has been insistent i attend a debutante ball for ages now, she’ll be crushed i’m doing it in a tux, and crushed that i’m not going for the puff route like her, but these are the sacrifices we must make.”

she doesn’t sound particularly sorry about crushing her own mother, but logan acknowledges this with a nod, digging around in his own backpack for a flyer before handing it to her.

“everyone is going to attend a sort of crash-course in debutante ball culture,” he says. “the dance, the bow, the curtsy, so on. here is the address and any supplies you should bring. do you already have a tux, or should i send you some information for rentals?”

“rentals,” poppy says, and exchanges a look with dee—dee knows logan wasn’t raised in all this, but seriously, a rental?

“i take that as a no,” logan says, undeterred, before he zips up his backpack again. 

“fantastic,” poppy says. “i was wondering about the strategy for establishing a working relationship with you, i’ve known him,” she flicks a dismissive gesture toward dee, “for years. it just so happens that this route will also help take care of my social life and allow me to enact some form of teenage rebellion, because it’s been scientifically proven that teenagers who rebel constructively form a robust sense of self and are more likely to a have a clear sense of direction, beliefs, or relational commitment, and those who don’t may find it hard to settle or focus on building a meaningful and satisfying life. this is excellent multi-tasking.”

poppy looks delighted. logan looks like he might be developing a headache. dee has found this a typical reaction to people within proximity of poppy.

⁂

virgil looks up as the bell rings and immediately steps out from behind the counter.

brick is struggling cheerfully with a stack of tupperware in their arms, and virgil takes the top few so that brick can see.

“i got it,” brick complains.

“i don’t want you tripping over chairs, i’m sure you can handle the weight,” virgil says. “i was thinking you could set up over at this table here—right by the door, but out-of-the-way enough so that you don’t have to deal with anyone bumping into you. that cool?”

“yeah, that’s cool,” brick says. “thanks, virgil!” and immediately sets down the tupperware on the table in question. virgil follows suit, setting down his own load, and arches his eyebrows, impressed.

“you guys could put fran and lucy out of business with all these baked goods,” he says.

because that’s what brick is here for—the first shift of kids manning a table for a bake sale, to raise funds to make sure the sideshire kids can afford their slots in the debutante ball. 

brick stares at him for a few seconds.

“sarcasm,” he elaborates, because brick doesn’t really pick up on that too well, most of the time.

“got it,” brick says. “um, i’m gonna go help ellie—they brought a few other things, so save up that comment for them, i’m sure they’d get it.”

“need any help?” he says, knowing full well that brick will say—

“nah, i got it!” brick says, and darts out of the diner again. virgil waits by the door, just in case they need someone to open it for them—which they do, brick with another load of tupperware, and elliott with a poster tucked under their arm, a register in hand, and a plastic jar under their other arm.

“hi, elliott,” virgil says.

“hi, virgil,” elliott says.

“right over here,” virgil says, gesturing to the table, “do you need any help?”

“um, do you have tape?” elliott asks, frowning. “i just realized i don’t have any.”

“tape, got it,” virgil says, and ducks into the back to see if he’s got any in his office.

by the time he’s come back out, brick and elliott are already seated behind the table, arranging the last of the opened tupperware, with the plastic jar having a sign taped over it saying DONATIONS FOR THE BALL, and virgil pauses to dig a ten out of his pocket, dropping it in the jar before he hands over the scotch tape.

“thanks, virgil!” brick cheers, as elliott quietly thanks virgil for the tape and goes about taping the poster to the front of the table. it’s definitely homemade—there’s glitter, and marker, and there’s a little flyer taped beside it that explains what exactly they’re trying to do at the debutante ball.

“you want drinks?” virgil asks, tucking his thumbs into his front pockets. “on the house.”

“ooh, cocoa, please!” brick says. “the—the minty one. do you still do the minty one?”

“i still do the minty one,” virgil says. “peppermint should be a year-round flavor. ellie, you want anything?”

“cocoa/coffee,” elliott says.

“that stunts your growth,” brick points out.

“i’m taller than you,” elliott tells brick, who bristles and immediately opens their mouth, and virgil ducks out to get their drinks.

by the time he brings back the two steaming mugs, brick is finishing off their tirade with “—i’ll end up built like korra, and then you will see.”

“drinks!” virgil says, and sets the mugs down in front of them. “uh, just so you know, we hit one of those weird lulls, so we’ve probably got half an hour or so before things start picking up for dinner rush.”

both of them make noises of acknowledgement.

“so,” virgil says, settling in a chair near them. “elliott, i know you were thinking about what you were gonna wear slash do, did you decide that?”

“i, um,” elliott says, fingers tracing the rim of the mug. “i thought i’d wear, like, a half-dress half-tux thing. i dunno if i’m gonna debut or escort yet, though, that kinda depends.”

“that sounds cool,” virgil says encouragingly. “do you have a picture?”

elliott does, but since it’s only partly designed—their sister liked messing around with fabrics like that—it turns out all the sideshire kids who are planning on going to the ball are in a groupchat, so after elliott’s phone pings with a message from there, there’s a brief tangent that ensues because elliott sends out virgil says hi to everyone and a picture of the bake sale, so virgil gets to hear about everyone’s plans which is also cool. and he also records a video with brick that brick pinky-promises to just send in the chat, so he ends up learning one of the latest memes that the kids are watching these days. god, he’s old.

“the debutante thing’s really awesome,” virgil says. “i kind of wish i’d gotten the chance to do it back in the day.”

elliott looks up at him, and says, “you do?”

“yeah,” virgil says. “i mean, i’m not roman or anything, but i still wear makeup a lot of the time, i’ve got a few makeup palettes, i wore some skirts back in the day—”

brick’s head snaps up at that, and they say, “you did?”

virgil blinks—he’s not sure why this is surprising, but.

“yeah, i did,” virgil says. “i bet i’ve probably still got them buried in my closet somewhere. my heels, too.”

this also gets elliott’s attention.

“you do?” elliott says.

“i mean, maybe,” virgil says. “i might have donated them, i dunno, but—”

“why don’t you wear skirts or heels anymore?” brick says.

“well, right now?” virgil says, and gestures to the outside. “it’s cold. but, uh—i don’t really know.” 

and it hits him—he doesn’t really know. he just kind of kept going for jeans.

“just a habit, i guess,” he continues to the kids, because i don’t know is a bit of a weak answer. “it’s easier to match things with jeans. plus, it looks kinda weird to wear a nice flowing skirt and then just, like, a hoodie and a pair of sneakers i wear all day because i stand all the time. and wearing heels while i stand all day is just asking for a sprained ankle.”

“yeah, that makes sense,” elliott says. “sneakers kinda clash too.”

“but you wear boots too,” brick says, and points. “you’re wearing boots today.”

virgil glances down at his combat boots, the ones that he’s also got the gel foot insoles in. “well, yeah. i guess i am.”

“and leggings or tights would probably help with cold,” elliott says.

virgil looks between them, and says, “you two want me to wear a skirt, don’t you?”

“yes,” they both chorus, unapologetic.

virgil pauses, considering this. well. he definitely has at least one skirt, maybe more, they’re probably just tucked away where he doesn’t see them everyday. and he is fully down for these kids running in there and shaking up the patriarchy. and he does support men, or anyone on the gender spectrum who doesn’t fit soundly in the box of “woman,” wearing more traditionally feminine clothing, as long as they’re comfortable with it. and the surprised looks on these kids faces when he’d mentioned he used to wear skirts more often, and then the studies he’s read of how much representation means to kids...

he turns and calls out, “jean?”

“yeah?” jean calls from the back.

“i’m gonna run upstairs for a second, would you mind keeping an eye on things out here?”

jean calls back an affirmative, and brick and elliott exchange a look, before turning back to virgil.

“are you—?”

“maybe,” virgil says, standing, feeling a strange sort of excitement just from their excitement, but also, it’s been a really long time since he’s worn a skirt, and he’d liked wearing skirts. “again, i can’t remember if i’ve donated ‘em, but—”

“awesome,” elliott says, while brick is nodding along with them, wide-eyed.

“all right,” virgil says, and then, “uh, cool” and makes his awkward exit, heading upstairs for his apartment.

it takes a bit of digging, but he does manage to find where he’s stashed his skirts over the years. he’d even managed to fold them neatly before he put them away, so they’re not even that wrinkled or anything. and then he remembers the various struggles of matching an outfit with a skirt, because in his mind, a skirt outfit has to be at least a little fancy, and so after he examines and discards nearly every shirt in his wardrobe he ends up pairing a plum, long-sleeved button-down with a black pleated skirt that falls down to his ankles, even after he tries to make the skirt a bit high-waisted.

and then he gets a little more carried away, and smokes out his dark eyeshadow and pops some purple glitter in the crease and the inner corner and does a little cat-eye for the eyeliner and puts on plum lipstick, before something in his brain says back away from the makeup products, you are in danger of re-enacting your teenage emo phase, and so he does, not without a bit of a longing look at the black eyeshadow, because this is fun. why hasn’t he done something like this in so long?

he has to pick up his skirt one hand as he walks his way down the stairs, before he tugs aside the curtain that covers up the stairs that lead up to his apartment, and steps out from behind the counter.

brick and elliott swivel to look at him in almost-hilarious unison. and then they just. stare.

oh, the staring. the whole staring thing is why he hasn’t done something like this in so long.

virgil clears his throat, running a hand through his hair to make sure it isn’t too messy. “is it that bad?” he tries to joke.

“i,” brick says, voice strangled, “am gay.”

“uh,” virgil says, unsure of what to really say to someone less than half his age declaring that, then, “i’m with patton, happily so, and also, i am way too old for you, you are a kid.”

elliott rolls their eyes, and says, “they mean you look, um. good. you look really good,” and then they elbow brick in the ribs. brick shakes themself.

“yeah!” brick says. “you look. good. you look good!”

the bell above the door jangles, then, which means brick and elliott are distracted by attempting to sell baked goods, and virgil escapes to behind the counter, ready to start up for the dinner rush.

(he does take a few seconds to remind brick and elliott that anyone over eighteen is too old for them, at the moment, and the dangers of grooming, and also he is here if they need to talk about being concerned for anyone or if they need someone to talk to, in general, before brick says, “ugh, fine, jeez, you sound like the guidance counselor” so that takes care of that particular situation, virgil guesses.)

virgil does get a few compliments on his appearance, throughout the dinner rush, and also a few questions about why he’s dressing up nice, which means he can direct their attention to the baked goods table (brick and elliott leave after a couple hours, and so a couple more sideshire high students start their shift) and the cause that they’re raising money for, so. things are going well.

he ducks back in the kitchen, for a minute, when the staring gets to be a bit Much and he needs to take a second to breathe. he’s not super anxious, necessarily, it’s just—well, he frequently has the thought people are looking at me, which tends to make him anxious, and that’s true tonight, so. he needs to take a bit of a breather. and so he cooks.

cooking’s been a good outlet for his anxiety, ever since he was a kid and didn’t really get what anxiety was, ever since he was an asshole teenager who had recently been wrangled into his first therapy session by his parents following a doctor’s diagnosis. it’s almost always the same—if you follow the same directions, you’ll get the same result, almost always. and, sure, it could be an outlet for creativity, too, if he so chose, but right now he’s grilling burgers and assembling salads and making pasta. it’s an adventure in multitasking he does almost every day. he knows what to do, and so he does it.

he feels calmer by the time they’re in the midst of the dinner rush, partially because of the time spent in here, but also because the increased business is something that’s also familiar and somewhat comforting. so he chances poking his head out of the kitchen door, evaluating if he’s ready to enter back into the fray and start helping out with the waiters. 

he pokes his head out just in time to see roman, logan, and patton sliding into a booth, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief—those are people he can definitely go over to and not start to feel nervous just because they’re looking at him.

he’s about to fully step out and make his way over unnoticed by everyone else, except—

roman looks up, and makes eye contact with him, and declares “virgil! i came as soon as i heard!” loud enough that virgil can hear it over the background music and the dull roar of the dinner rush conversations.

virgil winces a little, before he sheepishly walks over to the table. he probably should have expected this, given roman’s vocal and often repeated desires to give virgil a makeover.

all three of them come into view—roman, eager at last that virgil is stepping outside of his typical fashion comfort zone; logan, mostly neutral if a bit curious; and patton, who is staring at him, eyes wide behind his glasses, and visibly swallowing. a flare of heat burns to life in virgil’s stomach at that, and so he turns his attention to roman, so that he doesn’t start blushing and his thoughts don’t become immediately obvious.

roman looks him up and down, surveying him, before he says, “you look like a goth femboy version of a librarian fantasy.”

virgil runs a hand down the skirt, a little self-conscious. “oh.”

“but,” roman says, pulling a face at him, seemingly detecting virgil’s mood change, “at least you’re showing some sense of style. this is an improvement over your daily wear, believe me. one would even say substantial.”

“oh,” virgil says, more sarcastic this time, with an eye-roll to boot. 

“however,” roman says, “can i request that you at least extend your color palette to something that would not look at home as a poster for an emo pre-teen? and your foundation, virgil, you do not have warm undertones, you have neutral undertones, if you’re going to start wearing makeup more you need to have a summer and winter foundation—”

virgil reaches over to flick roman’s ear, and roman complains “heyyy” before logan glances up at him.

“why wear a skirt today in particular?” logan says.

“oh,” virgil says, and jabs a thumb in the direction of the bake sale table. “y’know, i figured i’d support you kids. people ask me why i’m all dressed up and so i get to point ‘em there, and then, you know, solidarity,” he says, taking his skirt in hand and swishing it a little. “win win.”

“all right,” logan says and looks across the table at roman, cocking his head.

“roman,” he says. “what is a ‘femboy.’”

roman folds his lip under his teeth.

“um,” roman says. “well, y’see—”

“i’ll get you some waters!” virgil says, before he has to bear witness to roman explaining that concept to his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s dad. he knows that a femboy is just people who are male or non-binary presenting themselves in a feminine way, the word kind of started around his teenage years, but he also knows that particular expression on roman’s face means that virgil has probably missed some segment of Youth Internet Culture that might provide the backstory behind the newfound popularity of the word a bit… complex.

by the time virgil comes back, logan is jotting something down on one of the notecards he carries around with him all the time, and roman looks normal, so the conversation must not have been too awkward, but patton—

well. patton looks at him, once again looks like he’s swallowing his own tongue, and turns his face back down to the table, but not before virgil can spot the pinkness in his cheeks.

oh. interesting.

virgil has to swallow himself, before he readies the notepad.

“what do you want for dinner?” he says, in a tone that is perhaps a bit gruffer than normal, and patton immediately and not-very-subtly puts a hand over the back of his neck to hide that that’s going pink too.

very interesting.

virgil doesn’t get much of a chance to observe this interesting phenomenon—it is dinner rush, after all, and he’s got other customers—but when he does observe it, it brightens that low flame in his stomach, like someone slowly turning the knob on a gas stove, and patton grows gradually more bold. 

looking at patton’s general personality, one would probably assume that he’s a generally shy boyfriend—hand-holding and kisses aplenty, to be sure, but fairly unassuming when it comes to public displays of attention.

looking at patton’s general personality, one would probably not assume that patton is a flirt.

but he is—he is absolutely a flirt, and a startlingly adept one at that, so when virgil swings by the table perhaps a bit more frequently than he usually would, patton stares at him with a little smirk on his face and with zero shame as his eyes roam over virgil’s face, his arms, his mouth. 

patton looks up at him from under his eyelashes, biting his lip just so, and virgil nearly drops patton’s plate—and notices, distractedly, that patton has managed to use virgil’s distraction to finesse his way into a helping of fries instead of the vegetables or salad that virgil would usually suggest.

and when virgil brings over the bill, handing it to patton, patton takes the bill and then takes virgil’s hand and kisses his knuckles with a cheerful “thanks, honey!” and virgil has certainly forgotten any anxiety that might stem from someone staring, because it’s patton who’s staring at him.

patton, who had gotten so flustered at the sight of virgil in a skirt that his eyes nearly popped out of his head; and now, patton, resting his lips against his knuckles for just a moment, lingering, and virgil feels like an elizabethan maiden about to make her way to the fainting couch because of it.

virgil excuses himself to settle the bill, and also maybe rest a cool hand against his own cheek. honestly. it was a kiss on his hand.

he’s about to go back the table and hand back patton’s card, but he glances up as the bell jangles, roman and logan already leaving, and patton stepping close to the register, his hands behind his back, rocking up onto his toes and back onto his heels.

“hey,” virgil says, and shakes himself, before he offers patton’s card. “um. here.”

“thanks,” patton says, tucking the card into his pocket, before he bites his lip. “um. could we go up to your apartment and get the book i asked to borrow?”

what book, virgil wonders, before patton hastily adds, “if you have time, i mean, i don’t wanna—take you away too long,” and oh, he wants to go—okay. okay.

“i have time,” virgil answers, maybe a little too quickly. “um—sarah,” he calls, “me ‘n patton are going upstairs for a little bit, so—”

“we’ve got things down here,” sarah says, “go, go” and so they go, patton reaching out to grab virgil’s hand and squeeze, running a thumb over his knuckles. and so they ascend the stairs.

virgil shuts the door behind them, and turns to face patton.

“i was, um,” patton clarifies. “i was asking to come up here to see if you wanted to kiss for a little bit.”

“i know,” virgil says, then adds, because consent is important, “i do.”

“oh thank god,” patton breathes out, and before virgil can get out a response, patton surges up against him, rocking up onto his tiptoes and pressing virgil back into the wall, and virgil barely has the time to wrap his arms around him before patton’s kissing him with searing heat.

patton is a remarkable kisser, genuinely the best that virgil thinks he’s ever been fortunate enough to kiss, and patton knows the precise angle to tilt his head and the precise way to possessively splay a hand at the back of virgil’s neck to make the kiss deep and heady and excellent, a kiss so downright lascivious that virgil’s thoughts about retiring to a damn fainting couch doesn’t seem near dramatic enough.

virgil is distantly aware that patton must be rocked up onto his tiptoes, and he splays his hand at patton’s waist, squeezing him gently, giving himself the excuse that it might help patton keep his balance a bit better, and also because his hand fits so beautifully at patton’s waist it could make virgil cry, the warmth of him even through his sweater and the way he can feel patton breathing in unsteady breaths, so maybe virgil isn’t the only one who is losing it here a little.

simultaneously, like they’ve choreographed it, they stumble back together until patton’s knees hit the arm of the couch and virgil practically falls on top of him, virgil barely breaking the kiss to make sure he hasn’t crushed him before patton’s twining his fingers into virgil’s hair and dragging him back into the kiss, wriggling a little so that his thigh is pushed between virgil’s, and virgil groans into his mouth, patton greedily swallowing the sound.

time goes a bit fuzzy, then, everything narrowed down to patton’s breathy gasps and the slick slide of his lips and the warmth and pressure of a thigh between his own and patton’s wandering, unabashed hands in his hair, on his back, wandering down to give him a cheeky squeeze, gripping at his thigh, like patton’s using the touches to punctuate a sentence that virgil has no hope of reading but it sure sounds nice anyway. 

and then there’s a loud sound—someone’s dropped dishes downstairs—and they break apart, the pair of them looking toward the apartment door, startled, and as soon as it sinks in what it is that’s happened, they look back at each other.

patton’s smiling up at him, plum lipstick smeared all around his mouth, coy and unashamed, but with a little quirk at the corners that tells him that make out time is probably over. it is an image that immediately sears itself into virgil’s brain that will probably pop up at incredibly inconvenient moments, but he cannot really feel bothered about that right now, because christ is that unexpectedly hot.

virgil clears his throat, because there’s never exactly a non-awkward way to end something like this, that is until patton’s brow creases and he reaches forward to touch virgil’s lips.

“oh, no,” patton says, a little distressed, “i messed it up!”

“i can redo it,” virgil promises immediately, barely even thinking of the words before they’re out of his mouth in attempt to make that coy little smile come back, and he clears his throat to try and make his voice go back up to its usual octave, not the gruff and low near-growl that came out of his mouth. “um—you kind of have—”

patton’s brow creases even more, before he wiggles a hand free from under virgil and smears a finger beneath his bottom lip, holding it up to see for himself, and he giggles.

“i guess i do,” he says, and beams up at virgil. “be a dear, would you? i don’t wanna walk out there and make it too obvious that we’ve been mackin’ on each other this whole time.”

virgil nods, and, regretfully, rolls off of patton to go to the bathroom, attempting to steady his breath the whole way. 

he bends to get the makeup remover from under the sink, and straightens, at last looking at himself in the mirror.

he looks thoroughly kissed.

his plum lipstick is smeared all around his mouth, down his chin, which shows off how his lips have reddened and gone a little swollen; his black hair is ruffled, especially sticking up in the back; and the generally gobsmacked, slightly stupid look on his face is a dead giveaway that he’s been spending time kissing patton.

there’s the soft padding of footsteps, arms wrapped around his waist, a face pressed between his shoulderblades, before patton pokes his head around him to see himself in the mirror, too.

he bursts into more giggles at the sight of them—matching messy lipstick, matching messy hair, matching slightly stunned look, except on patton it doesn’t look stupid at all, it looks like he’s thrilled with himself, a smirk playing around the corner of his mouths, like a particularly flirtatious cat who’s caught particularly prettily painted canary.

virgil can’t help but grin, too, and patton arches up to press a deliberate kiss to tendon of virgil’s neck, and virgil’s grin turns into a groan, more out of frustration than anything.

“what?” patton says, smiling playfully at him in the mirror. 

“if you keep doing that,” virgil says, and then he’s at a loss for words, but patton seems to get it, slipping out from behind virgil but still leaving an arm wrapped around his waist.

“i don’t particularly want to stop, either,” patton agrees, before he reaches up to turn virgil’s attention away from the mirror, and so that he’s looking directly into patton’s eyes instead. patton continues, voice lush and full of promise, “i’d keep you up here all night, if you wanted, but, well.” 

“we’re taking it slow,” virgil says ruefully.

“we’re taking it slow,” patton agrees. “plus, you’ve got a diner to close, and i’ve got a kid at home who’ll probably stay up too late reading if i don’t bug him about bedtime.”

“yeah,” virgil says, but he can’t help but sigh a little—they’ve both agreed that moving slowly is the responsible thing to do, they’ve talked about it a lot, first to agree to slow then later to refine their mutual definitions of slow, which turned out to be pretty damn different at first, but. well. 

“i know,” patton agrees fervently. and he really does—he’s literally the only other person right know who understands exactly how virgil’s feeling, and that sets him at ease more than anything.

“all right,” virgil says, and peels back the top of the makeup removal wipes package, removing one. “lemme see your face.”

patton obligingly tips up his chin at virgil, smiling.

virgil cups the underside of his jaw and works to clean off patton’s face, gently rubbing away the plum smears around patton’s mouth with a purposefully soft hand. 

it takes a few wipes for virgil’s lips to twitch up into a smile, too.

“stop it,” virgil scolds, without any heat.

“stop what?” patton says, still smiling.

“you’re smiling at me,” virgil says. 

“what, i can’t be a little happy that i spent some quality time with my fella?” patton asks. 

virgil ducks his head, because that’s one of his top two love languages, and patton knows it. instead, he says, “‘course you can, i am, too. but you’re gloating.”

patton’s grin widens, and virgil sighs, lowering his hand—he won’t be able to help patton at all with patton grinning up at him like that.

“i have,” patton says, “the prettiest fella. i’m allowed to feel at least a little smug that you’re the belle of the ball tonight, darling.”

“stop,” virgil grumbles, looking away.

“what?” patton says. “it’s true! you’re gorgeous, honey.”

virgil mutters under his breath and rubs at the back of his neck—he isn’t the best with accepting compliments, he never has been, especially when it comes to things like this.

but, well—

“so,” virgil says, staring at the makeup wipe in his hand. “you… liked it?”

“liked it?” patton says.

“y’know,” virgil mumbles, and gestures vaguely up and down his body—the skirt, the makeup. “it.”

patton grins up at him, and tugs him down a little so that they’re eye-to-eye.

“i,” patton purrs, “love the skirt.”

it takes a little bit longer to get polished back up after that. and if, perhaps, virgil walks around the diner a bit more at ease than before, with a bit of a stupid smile on his face even after patton blows him a kiss on his way out of the door, well. that’s virgil’s business.

⁂

christopher calls when logan’s studying at the diner. his dad’s already headed home, most of his dinner conversation having been rhapsodizing his deeply-held desire to put on his pajamas. virgil’s busy behind the counter settling everyone’s bills now that the bulk of dinner rush is over.

it’s still unusual enough to logan that christopher brings himself to call semi-regularly now—even stranger that it’s weekly, and on a set schedule. wednesday nights at seven. he even remembers to call precisely on schedule, most of the time. but still—every time his cellphone buzzes and lights up with a photo of him and christopher and dad at a sanders-hosted thanksgiving a few years back, he’s surprised.

it takes quite a bit of work to unlearn sixteen years that consisted mostly of irregular, unscheduled visits and not showing up when the visits are actually scheduled, logan supposes.

“hey, kiddo!” christopher says brightly.

“hi, dad,” logan says, digging around for a bookmark, before giving up and placing a clean knife in his science textbook to mark the page and closing it. 

a moment later, logan curses his mental preoccupation with studying and the upcoming phone conversation he’ll have to have—the napkins are right there.

“so, what’re you up to?”

“studying.”

“you’re always studying,” christopher says, and there’s something in the tone that sets logan’s teeth on edge; he knows that christopher isn’t exactly academically inclined, and in fact would likely be better described as an academic anarchist, seeming to disdain upon the opportunities and privileges he was given with no strings attached that logan would almost certainly kill to have, not to mention many other people who would put it to better use, but. it’s not the time to pick a fight, logan supposes.

“yes, well,” logan says. “i have science test this week.”

“you’ve always got tests.”

“chilton is an academically rigorous school,” logan says, in a tone that implies he’s explained this a hundred times, because he has. “and i would like to maintain my position as a competitor for the top of my class. how are… things?”

this allows him a brief reprieve—since the official collapse of christopher’s business, not too long after he’d visited last fall, he’s been picking up a variety of odd jobs and temporary work, whatever catches his interest—christopher spends about five minutes explaining that he’s found some temporary work at a bar, now, to make some spare cash as he looks for something more permanent during the day. 

“—but yeah, that’s about all that’s going on with me right now.” a pause. then, christopher prompts, “how about you?”

logan shrugs, even though christopher can’t see it. “not very much. the test. i think i did well on a pop quiz on monday—”

he explains his various schoolwork and extracurricular activities—christopher hums in all sorts of places—before he adds, “oh, and roman and i went on a date on saturday.”

“hey, finally, something fun!” christopher says. before logan can even say something like but the debate team’s mock trial was fun, he says, “what’d you do on your date?”

“we had frozen yogurt,” logan says, “and roman wanted to go to a thrift store to get some things, and we both got a couple books, and roman got something for the ball, so that’s good—”

“whoa,” christopher says, “hang on, rewind. the ball?! what ball?”

logan winces.

because, well. it’s complex to navigate building a relationship that he initially blackmailed his father into, rather than have him propose to his dad. it’s even more complex to figure out how to handle a dad who had, for sixteen years, mostly showed up in irregular, unscheduled visits and not showing up when the visits are actually scheduled. 

he has a dad. for the vast majority of his life, patton has been the only biologically-related adult on whom he could rely. if there was ever anything a parent needed to be involved in, whether it be a parent/teacher conference, or parent’s night, or a parent volunteer for his classroom—he’s always penned down patton sanders without a second thought. virgil, occasionally, if he’d known that his dad had a scheduling conflict, but—always, patton first. that’s just the way it is. christopher had never even stepped foot in sideshire before last fall.

but now, well. now, he has to navigate should i have asked him to come back for this? because the rules say he needs his dad to escort him. 

and for so long, he has been so used to only having one of those. (well. two, but one biological dad. the other one kind of adopted him on sight and now he fusses after logan getting proper vegetable and protein intake.)

having both parents be involved in your life is even more unnecessarily complicated than i could have anticipated, logan thinks, before he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“um, yes. a ball. the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball, to be more specific.”

“you’re kidding,” christopher breathes out. “jeez, what kind of dirt does emily have on you that you had to recruit your boyfriend to escort some girls, too?”

logan blinks. “i have no idea why a handful of soil would motivate me to do that?”

“no, like—” christopher begins, and, perhaps, logan was overemphasizing his usual ignorance for use of slang just to give himself a break.

“well, that isn’t the case, regardless,” logan says, before he decides to just get it over with. “he was getting a dress. we both have one. we’re going to be the debutantes, not the escorts.”

there’s a pause.

“is this a gay thing?”

logan cringes, ever so slightly—christopher sounds more bemused than anything, so logan doesn’t think it’s a necessarily passive-aggressive comment, rather a more genuinely ignorant one.

“no, it’s not—” logan says, and pinches the bridge of his nose a little harder. “it’s not, um. a gay thing. we’re recruiting a lot of chilton students and sideshire kids to join in, it’s more of a public statement than anything.”

“oh,” christopher says, still with that tone of bemusement. then, “a public statement of what?”

“we’re making a statement about how sexist it is that society still deems it appropriate to trot young women around like that,” logan says. “we—the boys, i mean—are wearing dresses as a gesture of support and solidarity with them.”

“oh,” christopher repeats.

there’s an even longer pause.

“how many people did you say you got to join in?”

“we’re almost at forty, the last time i checked,” logan says, and christopher whistles lowly.

“your grandma’s gonna throw a fit.”

“we told her, actually,” logan says. “i wanted to see if she still had the dress she was going to make dad wear.”

“and how’d she take that?”

“she’s making me wear heels,” logan grouses, and christopher laughs.

“well, can’t say i expected her to be especially nice about anything,” christopher says. “so, tell me all about this massive prank you’re cooking up, then, i knew that some of my teenage troublemaking had to rub off on you somehow.”

though logan wants to say it’s not a prank, he supposes that it doesn’t exactly harm the movement if christopher thinks that; it’s not like he’s about to tell christopher the real reason, after all.

but logan tells him, all about the chilton kids, and the sideshire kids, and the upcoming Culture Day that his dad and isadora were organizing, and the bake sale that the sideshire kids were doing to raise money to actually enter into the ball in the first place, and the way logan’s had to hide sign-up sheets from teachers, and it seems to go okay. 

that is, until christopher says, “hey, i guess if you’re going as a debutante, you need your dad to escort you, right?”

“oh,” logan says, and coughs. “um, actually, dad’s already doing that.”

there’s another long pause.

“oh.”

“i mean,” logan says, and shrugs, even though christopher can’t see it. “you’re saving up for other things, you hardly need to come out from california just to do this.” 

“i would’ve,” christopher says, defensively. “if you’d asked.”

“right,” logan says, and the sarcasm slips through before he can even really attempt to modulate it into something resembling politeness.

“i would’ve,” he repeats, more insistently. “i know i haven’t been the best—”

“look, i have to get back to studying,” logan says, cutting off whatever platitude about i know i wasn’t present for you throughout your childhood, when you most would have needed the stability of your other parent, but i am trying now after you had to blackmail me into not upsetting your life, “next week, we’ll talk?”

another pause. a defeated sigh.

“sure, kid,” he says. “yeah. i’ll talk to you next week. same time. love you.”

logan flounders, for a moment, before he says, “next week, then, bye,” and hangs up before christopher can return the farewell salutation.

logan takes a moment to lift his glasses so he can press the base of his palms into his eyes, before he resettles them on his nose and opens his science textbook again.

the conversations with christopher are… something. they tend to go cordially most of the time, even, it’s just—

well. like he’d thought earlier. he’s so used to having one parent, and christopher only ever making contact irregularly. no guarantee for birthdays, no guarantee for christmases, no guarantee for thanksgivings. no guarantee for if logan really wanted to lean on someone, if he’d be there, solid and steady, or if logan would be sent sprawling to the ground. metaphorically.

it’s a bit like that cartoon that logan recalls, as a child—lucy, holding the football, insisting that she wouldn’t yank it away at the last second, leaving charlie brown tumbling head-over-heels.

christopher has insisted that he wouldn’t yank the ball quite literally since logan was born. forgive logan if sixteen years of ending up flat on his back hadn’t exactly endeared him to exactly trust that christopher would hold the ball steady, even if christopher had ended up being much more punctual and consistent with phone calls than expected.

it’s just—difficult. to adjust. to really believe that christopher might stick around, this time.

he suddenly feels his (already immense) sense of respect for patton rise all the more, because he trusts people like this all the time, no matter how many times he’d ended up flat on his face; logan’s thought it naivete for so long, that now that he’s attempting to practice it, he finds himself… well, if he’s to continue the metaphor, he’s found himself unwilling to even attempt the run-up to the ball.

logan attempts to shake himself, as if the thought is something that he can dislodge, like water in his ears. he refocuses on his textbook and readies his pen for any notes that he needs to take. which he does, for a while, his pen scratching a familiar rhythm under the quiet rush of other people’s conversation, and the soft, inoffensive music the diner plays, that is, until the plastic of the pen cracks under the force of his grip. logan scowls, and tosses the pen aside.

“here.”

logan looks up, startled; virgil’s standing over him, holding a small plate. he’s wearing another skirt today—purple, and it falls just below his tights-clad knees.

“what’s that?”

virgil sets down the plate, careful to avoid any notebooks, pens, or textbooks. there’s a slice of loganberry pie on it, which is actually logan’s favorite, despite the downside of the many puns his dad has made about logan liking loganberry pie.

“you look like you need pie.”

“i do?” logan says cluelessly.

“pen tossing usually signals the need for pie,” he says.

“you,” logan says. “brought me pie.”

virgil arches his eyebrows. “i could take it back.”

“thank you,” logan says quickly, sliding the plate toward himself, as if virgil would snatch it away, and virgil snorts, reaching out to ruffle logan’s hair before he retreats back to the counter, and—

and it really is just the sugar that has logan’s shoulders relaxing as he stares at his science notes, he tells himself.

⁂

the science test is predictably grueling. logan sits at his lunch table, his brain still tracking over various formulas and small facts he’d memorized, as if in a half-stunned stupor.

there’s the sound of a tray clacking on the table. logan looks up, startled.

dee, in his usual cape and hat, looks over at him, and arches his eyebrows as if daring him to say something. after logan blinks at him owlishly, dee resumes settling himself, as if he has sat at logan’s lunch table a great many times and not at all as if this isn’t the first time he’s done this.

come to think of it, logan’s uncertain if he’s ever even seen dee during their lunch period before. he sets aside the question of then where does he eat??? and instead reaches into his lunchbox, grabbing something at random to start eating.

a clementine. okay.

logan starts peeling the clementine as dee gets his lunch tray in order, and dee says, very casually, “would you like to come over so we can discuss arrangements?”

logan’s fingernail catches; he resists the urge to curse as he punctures the fruit, and instead reaches for a napkin to wipe his hand dry of juice.

“arrangements…?”

dee looks at him. “for the project.”

logan’s test-addled brain then proceeds to panic and mentally trace over every single one of his shared classes with dee, attempting to pinpoint how on earth he possibly could have overlooked an upcoming project, before—

oh.

“i—yes,” logan says, and resumes peeling the clementine. “yes, that works out fine, i think. um—do you live near a bus stop?”

dee flaps a gloved hand at him dismissively. “i’ll have one of the drivers take you back home.”

one of the drivers??? then, he has even one driver???? what on earth necessitates plural drivers???

“i… sure,” logan says, rather than comment on that, “i’ll text my dad and tell him i’ll be home late.”

dee nods, and so logan eats his clementine in sections as dee’s lunch tray depletes with a rate of speed that would already be impressive if not compounded by the fact that logan doesn’t even really see him eat, before he pulls out his phone and texts his dad, I’m going over to Dee’s after school, I’ll let you know how long I’ll be there when I have a better idea of the time frame.

he’s walking to his next class when his phone buzzes, and he glances at his phone. 

Dad: okay!!! say hi to the adults and be on your best behavior! love you, have fun!!!

he is uncertain how much ‘fun’ will weigh into the activities for any event at dee slange’s house.

⁂

dee’s pretending to be on his phone almost the entire time a chauffeur drives them back (he could have driven, but he hadn’t felt like it this morning, so therefore he didn’t have his car in the afternoon) but really he’s looking out of the corner of his eyes at logan.

logan is sitting stiffly, and he has been since he’d gotten into the car; it’s as if he’s nervous he might scuff up the leather if he moves. he’s holding his backpack in his lap, and his eyes keep darting to the driver, suit-clad and silent, and out the window, before glancing at dee, and then back out the window. 

as they creep up to the gate, and the chauffeur inputs the code that’ll open the gate so they can drive up the maple-lined driveway, to the house, dee has abandoned the ruse entirely, because logan looks the most confused dee’s ever seen him look.

the look only grows more obvious once they break past the trees, and logan actually gets a good look at the house; dee knows the townhome was designed to be magnificent, especially on first glance, but he’s been so accustomed to it that seeing logan’s eyes dart from the fountain in the middle of the driveway to the sprawl of primroses and lavender and hydrangeas and all the rest of the landscaping, and the towering height of it all, the brick crowded with overgrown ivy and climbing roses. the historic townhome may not have multiple wings, and it might not really hold a candle to the ultra-modern mansion where his parents live, but it still, certainly, is impressive.

“you live here?” logan says, stunned.

“obviously?” dee says.

he’s tempted to say something like if you ever saw my parents’ house, maybe pull up that old e-edition of a magazine that had covered it once, just to see logan’s eyes pop out of his head, but the chauffeur puts the car in park and logan’s saying “thank you, sir,” and scrambling out of the car as quick as he can.

dee arches a brow, and the chauffeur moves to open the door for him, because he was raised with manners, jesus, wasn’t this emily and richard sanders’ grandson? one would think he’d know something about how to comport himself.

his brain provides several mental images, though: the little yellow clapboard house logan lived in, the absurdly picturesque tiny town full of brick buildings and repurposed barns and colonial charm, logan’s voice saying, my dad and i were effectively homeless until i turned six, and feels a strange clenching in his chest. 

dee shoves it down and arranges his face into his typical boredom by the time he’s walking up to the front door, logan quickly falling into step behind him.

he opens the door—the chauffeur’s going around to the servant’s entrance—and by the time he’s stepping through the door, nanny has materialized at his side, and looks only slightly surprised that there is another teenage boy with him.

logan is too busy looking around at the entry hall—the rugs, the paintings, the furniture, the post-its stuck up on the front door—to really notice any of that, for which dee can’t help but breathe a little sigh of relief.

“hello, we have a guest,” nanny says. 

“i told granmè,” dee says, and his stomach sinks as nanny gives him a sideways look, as if to say you know better than to let that serve as a notification system anymore, before she refocuses on logan.

“your name, young sir?”

“um, logan,” he says, looking boggled that he’s being called sir, and adds, “sanders. logan sanders.”

“emily and richard’s boy?”

“their grandson, yes,” logan says, looking to dee for some kind of help; dee would shrug at him, if he wasn’t kind of enjoying watching the usually unflappable logan flounder a little bit.

nanny nods, and says, “welcome to the lavandelands,” which is technically the townhome’s name, but they only ever use it to introduce the house to new visitors, so dee forgets the townhome has a name at all until it comes up again—it’s the same with the manor, which is technically the hearthfields. logan doesn’t seem to notice, nodding at her like he can’t think of anything else to do.

nanny turns to dee, instead, and asks, “would you care for any refreshments?”

“just the usual tea should suffice,” dee says. nanny looks at logan.

“um,” he says again—dee is a little delighted, because he has never heard logan get so knocked off-center before, and after all this attempted antagonizing about his grades all it took was bringing him to his house—“just—just water’s fine. thank you.”

nanny nods, says, “i’ll be with your grandmother in the greenhouse. mr. sanders, it was a pleasure to meet you, please have mr. slange ring for us if you require anything,” and sweeps off.

“you have a greenhouse?” logan says blankly.

“we have a greenhouse,” dee confirms. “you can see it later, if you’d like. shall we go study?”

logan nods, and falls into step behind dee; dee considers going to the dining room, the way logan did when they were making posters at his house, but he wants nanny, bertie, ingrid, and martha to have plausible deniability in case his parents demand to know if they’d heard anything about this, and so he leads logan up the staircase and into his room.

it’s been cleaned today recently, he can tell; it smells like the lemon candles he likes, the ones martha lights whenever she airs out his room, so the room is in its tidiest iteration; vacuumed rugs, swept and mopped hardwoods, dust-free surfaces, with a made bed and no mess anywhere anywhere.

it practically seems like a hotel room, if not for the legal pad on his desk with his handwriting on it.

and of course, logan crosses almost immediately to the desk; dee only catches on a minute later, when he bends slightly to get a better look inside the vivarium.

“luke, leia, and han, right?” logan says, glancing at dee for confirmation before scanning the plants and rocks; dee crosses over, too, and gestures toward the rock in the back corner—mostly hidden by plants, but the sun lamp shines directly upon it.

“they like to nap here,” dee says, and he’s right—luke and han are curled up, sunning themselves, and logan makes an ahh noise when he spots them too.

“they’re larger than i expected,” logan says, staring at them, eyes lit up with curiosity.

“mm,” dee says vaguely. “females tend to be longer and bulkier than males. leia’s biggest, she’s a little over two feet.”

“where is she?” logan says. “you said she was the checkered one.”

dee tries his hardest not to seem surprised, but—logan remembers his snake’s markings. from a a throwaway comment he made nearly a month ago. 

“probably hiding,” dee says. “she likes to stick near the water, so she’s probably curled up under the lip—”

logan kneels down, all the better to see, and he says, “i see her!”

“asleep?”

“i think so,” logan says, and frowns. “i’m not as familiar with snakes as i am with other reptiles, though.”

dee blinks. “which reptiles are you familiar with?”

“frogs, mostly,” logan admits. “lots of frogs and toads would be around the pool, when we lived at the inn, and they’re very common in the pond there. salamanders and lizards, sometimes, during summers. i had a brief phase of hunting for reptiles and bugs, i thought i would be a reptile research journalist, or something—i kept bringing them home and dad had to pretend he wasn’t scared of any creepy-crawly bugs or scaly things, he’d call over virgil so that there was someone i could show all the bugs to who wouldn’t get freaked out.”

dee has a mental image, then, of logan—shorter, and baby-faced, holding up a salamander and babbling to this mysterious virgil about its various properties, who would nod and ask questions and generally care what a child thought, his dad shoving down his fear long enough to listen to logan, because it’s something that interested him, something that logan cared about.

and then a memory of himself, hip-deep in snake research books, trying to tell his new adopted parents all about why snakes were so interesting and cool, and receiving three snakes for his first birthday state-side and overhearing maybe she’ll shut up about the stupid snakes now, his mother saying at least we won’t have to see them, they’ll be in her room, maybe she’ll stay there more and children should be seen and not heard as nanny and martha tidied up the wrapping paper from his birthday party—

he squashes the not-jealousy with extreme prejudice. 

“oh, and the occasional turtle,” logan adds, breaking dee’s train of thought. “not many snakes, though; not many of the inn’s employees were keen on letting the five-year-old try to find out if one was venomous or not, so i’d be stuck watching if they ever found one.”

“...right,” dee says, unsure of what to really say to that. also, he’s a bit busy listening to the purposefully-heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

“so i’ve never seen snakes up close like this,” logan finishes, and dee just. nods.

fortunately, a knock on the door breaks any lingering awkwardness; dee calls out “come in!” and nanny comes in with a tray of a typical afternoon tea.

“just leave that on the storage bench, thank you, nanny,” dee says briskly, and so nanny sets the tray of snacks on the bench at the base of dee’s bed, before she presents a water bottle to logan, and says, “there’s a chilled glass for you on the tray.”

“oh,” logan says, and takes it. “um. thank you.”

almost as if he’s unable to help it, his fingernails tap-tap-tap against the water bottle as he looks at the design, whatever sense of culture shock that might have faded after looking at the snakes rearing right back.

“thank you, nanny, that will do,” dee says, and nanny nods to him, before she departs and closes the door on the way out.

“this water bottle is made of glass,” logan says, as if it’s a question.

dee arches an eyebrow at him. “do you not like water served in glass? do you only like plastic containers for your water? shall i call for nanny to get you a plastic cup?”

“no,” logan says, “no, it’s just—” and he squints at the label, before he looks up at dee and says, “this bottle of water is from a glacier.”

“you can keep the bottle, if you like,” dee says, “we have plenty more.”

“the source is only accessible from the ocean.”

“yes, i heard you,” dee says. “it’s not like i would already know this, since i have lived in this house and had that water for years, but do go on.”

“our goal was to create the world’s first luxury premium glacier water product with unmatched quality—purity—elegance. created from an award-winning source, from the hat mountain glacier in beautiful british columbia, canada, we have captured the hearts of water connoisseurs worldwide,” logan reads from the label, and looks up at him. “dee.”

“i don’t understand what your issue is with the water,” dee says, even though he’s very aware that logan’s issue is primarily you even have fancy WATER?! but it’s fun to see how absolutely bemused he is over it. “if it’s good enough for water connoisseurs worldwide, it should certainly be good enough for you.”

logan hesitates, before he sits on the bench at the end of dee’s bed, and picks up the chilled glass. oh, nanny set out to impress, that’s one of the nice crystal glasses that granmè only ever really brings out for parties.

it also has the added benefit of logan’s eyes becoming even rounder behind his glasses, and looking between the water bottle and the glass, as if weighing if he’s blue-blooded enough to consume it, or if he’s so much of a commoner that taking a sip of it will cause him death, like the false grail in indiana jones.

evidently, the combined hayden-sanders genes must win out, because he carefully pours himself a glass, and then looks even more hopelessly confused when he turns his attention to the tea tray.

really, dee at the start of the school year would be clapping his hands in absolute glee at how much he’s managed to catch logan off-guard.

“are these cucumber sandwiches?” logan asks faintly.

“ooh, yes,” dee says, plucking one for himself and promptly shoving it into his mouth, fast, so that sanders won’t notice while his attention is captured by their snack. “plus pear and stilton, here, and ham-brie-apple, and pesto chicken, and those ones are prosciutto-fig, i think. of course there’s scones and clotted cream, battenburg, crumpets...”

“you,” logan says, looking hopelessly lost, “you just asked for tea?”

dee looks at him, amused, even as he’s pouring himself a cup of tea. “my grandfather was english, sanders. it’s afternoon tea.”

logan blinks, before he says, “i didn’t know that. that your grandfather’s english, i mean.”

“and my grandmother’s french,” dee says. “my particular branch of slanges relocated to the americas much later than your branch of sanders did.”

“you know that?” logan says, startled.

“of course,” dee says. “sanders’ came over on the mayflower, daughters of the american revolution, et cetera et cetera. our grandmothers have been friends for years, did you really think i wouldn’t know?”

he waits a beat, before he adds, “and, well. know your enemy.”

“i suppose you took that much more seriously than i did,” logan says at last, before he reaches for a safe option—a blueberry scone—and cracks it open, spreading it with jam.

“yes,” dee says pridefully, “yes, i did.”

logan rolls his eyes, even as he plops a generous helping of clotted cream on top—

“oh, cornish method, interesting,” dee says, just to see that confused look come rearing back, and is immediately satisfied—

before logan shakes himself, and says, “why did your grandparents relocate here, anyway?”

dee tries his very best not to brighten too obviously, it’s just—it’s been so long since someone so blatantly handed him an excuse to spin stories on a platter.

“well, that’s a very interesting story,” dee says, leaning back, “and really, it all starts with my great-grandfather. or, rather, my great-grandfather’s very distant cousins. you see, my family had a lordship—”

logan looks at him, surprised.

“—a very minor lordship,” dee says, “technically barons, not dukes or anything. you probably wouldn’t have heard of them, it’s not like they were major members of the house of lords or anything. anyway, my great-grandfather didn’t know that, because again, he was a very distant cousin, and the main line of the family had three daughters. no women could inherit.”

logan frowns. “sexist.”

“mm, quite,” dee says. “anyways, they were counting on a closer cousin to inherit—a second cousin, i believe—but he tragically died in a boating accident, and so the family came calling to my cousin—who was a solicitor at the time—and brought him to the estate, which was called,” dee quickly casts about for an alike-enough name, “...upton priory.”

and so dee goes on cribbing details from the first three seasons of downton abbey, changing names and having a merry old time. logan gets close to realizing—he says “that sounds rather familiar, actually,” when dee reiterates the whole plotline of his supposed great-grandfather’s valet getting arrested for supposedly murdering his wife, to which dee says, “it was quite a scandal, perhaps you’re remembering the details from your grandmother, goodness knows she’d find it fascinating,” which buys him even more time until he kills off his great-grandfather, the matthew stand-in, after the birth of their second child.

logan frowns, and says, “well, that’s rather sad, but—i thought you said your grandfather was eldest? why would he give up a lordship?”

“why else, sanders?” dee says, and gestures expansively. “love.”

logan arches his eyebrows, and takes another sandwich—he seems quite partial to the pesto chicken and ham-apple-brie—and says, “go on, then.”

and so dee goes on stealing details and weaving a story, this time from the king’s speech, explaining how his grandmother was a divorcée (she is not) and his grandfather wanted to marry her anyway, as they’d met and she’d become his mistress during an outing to new york (possibly true, but in the same way that the moon landing being faked is possibly true) but as she was a divorcée (again, untrue) and he was a prominent member of the church of england (as far as he knows his grandfather was a catholic) to have a lord marry a divorcée had caused quite the drama between the family, and then dee cribs even more details from downton abbey to describe the fight, mounting and dramatic and full of high passions, going on for another fifteen minutes, until his grandfather finally decided—

“to abdicate the throne?” logan finishes dryly; they’ve picked the tea tray mostly clean of snacks, by now, and logan’s long since finished his water and has stolen a cup of tea. “i didn’t realize you were a descendant of edward the eighth. should i have been calling you your majesty this whole time?”

dee tries his very hardest not to pout, but he does cross his arms. “how long have you suspected?”

“around the time you said he gave a lordship ‘for love,’” logan says, “but i knew for sure when you started talking about how your grandmother became a mistress in new york. she’s french.”

“damn!” dee says, not really angry at all, but still, he had to keep up appearances. “i managed to fool brad with that whole backstory until he saw the king’s speech five years later.”

and then dee waits; he waits for logan to get mad, or to snap at him for wasting time, something that dee will attempt to brush off and maybe even laugh at. he waits for logan—journalism-obsessed, fact-checking, scientifically-minded logan—to react to what was dee, essentially, lying straight to his face for about half an hour.

but then:

“well, that’s brad,” logan says, “it doesn’t take much to fool him, i’d imagine.”

dee smiles, pleased. “no, it doesn’t.”

“so where was the other stuff from?” logan says. “upton priory, i mean. i’m assuming that doesn’t exist. i know the story from somewhere.”

he’s… curious.

he’s curious??? dee repeats to himself—this is logan, who is, as stated, journalism-obsessed, fact-checking, scientifically-minded—he doesn’t seem mad. he just seems… intrigued.

this bears much more investigation that dee would have thought prior to inviting him over.

“downton abbey,” dee allows. “i can’t believe you caught onto the historical significance of edward the eighth meeting his mistress in new york, and yet i throw three season’s worth of downton abbey at you and not even a little bit of recognition.”

logan shrugs. “i’m not very good with pop culture. that’s more—” and very suddenly he looks like he wants to slap a hand to his forehead, if logan was at all prone to dramatic, cliché gestures like that. “roman. he was going on for days about matthew dying in the same season they killed off sybil, that’s where i heard all of it before, it’s from roman.”

“the boyfriend,” dee says. 

“yes, the boyfriend,” logan says, “who is very excited for the excuse to wear a pretty ballgown, by the way.”

dee accepts this for the subject change it is, and digs out his notebook and a pen.

“right, then,” he says. “as previously discussed, i’m handling chilton participants, and i’m pleased to announce that with the addition of ana salazar, the entirety of the clairosophic society are involved.”

“oh, excellent,” logan says, and so dee goes on listing chilton students they’ve enlisted—he’d been right, recruiting the puffs and the skull and dagger had caused a wave of wannabes to join in too—and they discuss setting up a form for people to ensure that they’ve paid their way in, dee eventually digging out his laptop and making a couple drafts of one. 

as he does that, logan talks about the sideshire students (behind on payments, but they’re doing an ongoing bake sale at virgil’s, which, dee doesn’t know how small town things work, but he supposes he should trust that logan knows what he’s talking about) and logan taps his own notebook with his pen, going over all of the entrants and discussing anything that needs finer-tuning—not very much on their end, it turns out, but they’ll definitely need to have another meeting after what logan’s dad is apparently calling get cultured day, where he and logan’s boyfriend’s mother will teach everyone the dance they’ll need to know and the proper way to curtsy and so on.

logan scans over his notes, nodding in satisfaction, before he says, “we were a bit oversaturated on debutantes, the clairosophic society should help balance things out with escorts.”

“ana wants to go with janey,” dee corrects. “so she and janey are already taken, but otherwise—”

he blinks. “ana and janey are dating?”

dee looks at him, amused. “you know nothing about the social stratosphere at chilton, do you?”

“i don’t have much tolerance for gossip,” logan says. 

“really?” dee says. “i’d think that as a journalist you’d keep an eye out for these kinds of things.”

“i don’t report on gossip,” logan says. “what do i look like, francie jarvis? anyone else who lives and breathes that rag?”

“what, the jefferson?” dee says. “are you kidding? that’s the most useful thing that chilton’s ever provided me, and i’m including the education, here.”

“useful?” logan repeats, looking as offended as dee had expected him to look when logan would catch on to dee lying his ass off for half an hour straight. interesting. 

“well, admittedly, they can be rather behind when it comes to certain things,” dee says thoughtfully, “but the chaos that happens on the day it comes out? masterful.”

logan frowns. “i thought you wanted to work on the franklin.” 

“oh, i do,” dee says. “like i said, they’re not exactly cutting edge, i can do better with a well-coordinated social media check than they can do with an entire staff full of rumormongers. the whole,” and he flaps a hand, “truth and investigation thing, for the franklin, that’s interesting. besides, the franklin has more effect when it targets adults; with the jefferson, they just want to confirm that the algebra and the calculus teachers are having an affair, which they are—”

logan looks perplexed. “how do you—”

“—don’t ask,” dee says. “believe me, i wish i didn’t know.”

his eyes narrow, as if to say why should i believe you? which, good. he’s learning.

“but in the franklin, one can publish a deep-dive anonymous investigation and get shady male teachers tossed out of the schools on their ear for their too-frequent uniform checks and saying that uniform skirts are distracting. the franklin has more real-world power.”

“not that an investigation of an adult potentially preying upon teenage girls isn’t important,” logan says, “because it certainly is, but journalism isn’t about acquiring power. it’s about holding those in power accountable.”

“isn’t that the same thing?” dee points out. 

“no,” logan says. 

“but it is,” dee says. “because the concept of holding power is so multi-faceted. everyone’s idea of power is different. the upper class has power, the president has power, the people protesting have power. people like francie jarvis and tristan have power, but then, so do you and i. but all of those kinds of power are different.”

“well, that i agree with,” logan says cautiously, and then he frowns. “how do i have power?”

dee looks at him. he looks at him harder.

“what?”

“you’re kidding,” dee says. “you’re a sanders and a hayden.”

“the haydens are not particularly pleased that i am a hayden,” logan says. “the haydens would adore nothing more than to tidily remove me from the family tree.”

interesting.

“but they can’t tidily remove you being a hayden from everyone’s memory,” dee points out. “and, well. power can be privilege.”

“well, i certainly have privilege,” logan says. “i’m white, i’m a cis male, i’m attached to an affluent family.” he frowns, and amends, “families, i suppose.”

“oh, good,” dee says. “you’re a sane person who recognizes white privilege, i won’t have to kick you out.” 

also—attached to an affluent family, not part of an affluent family. more intrigue.

“anyways. you have plenty of power—take chilton, for example. say you wrote that piece on a pedophilic teacher that i was talking about. it would be due to your actions, your hard work and diligence, that removed him from his post. that doesn’t seem like power, to you?”

logan shakes his head, and repeats, “that’s what journalism’s about. just because there are effect from the story i write, to hold said teacher accountable, that doesn’t mean that is personally driven from me. that would be a response—from parents, from students, from headmaster charleston, eventually. there are responsibilities that journalists have, important ones, and we serve a purpose for society. perhaps the story has a powerful impact, or the story is emotionally powerful. that doesn’t mean that i am powerful. i didn’t direct people to fire him, i didn’t influence anyone. i would have presented the facts and exposed his wrongdoings, that’s all.”

“well, i suppose it does depend on your definition of powerful, that’s accurate enough,” dee says thoughtfully. “but the more philosophical idea of what is power? isn’t what i’m trying to address, at the moment, i’m addressing you. another example, then—academically, you’re powerful. tristan dugray would pay a tidy sum for any one of your study guides.”

logan frowns. “i wouldn’t cheat.”

“yes, yes, you’re very moral and ethical, good for you, you’ve passed the after-school special test,” dee says dismissively, “but specifically, for this definition of power, it’s a certain level of strength. but that’s a different kind of power, than, say—”

“tristan dugray never getting in trouble for his foolish pranks because of who his father is,” logan says.

“right,” dee says, “although you’re wrong on that front, he’s a prank on a bad day away from being sent to military school, but—yes, you’re seeing my point. power varies, power changes.”

“well, i never disagreed with that,” he says. “but those aiming for power—their main idea is almost never let’s be a journalist! unless they’re decisively within the yellow journalism era, or if they are fictional character charles foster kane. and even then, he was a media magnate, his attempts at journalism were just to manipulate public opinion and make a lot of money.”

dee sighs longingly and says, “if i were white, that would be my ideal era to work in.”

“what,” logan says, and suddenly they’re talking about yellow journalism—logan is very boring and against it, because he likes things like accuracy and facts—and then logan looks like he’s about to blow steam out of his ears when dee tells him that his ultimate career goal is to write for and maybe run something like the national enquirer, which leads to even more discussions on journalism, things like what qualifies someone to be a journalist and who decides what journalism is, and they’re on a little side-tangent about journalism as portrayed in films when there’s a knock on his door.

“mister slange, mister sanders, dinner is ready,” nanny says, and dee tries his best not to startle, because—logan’s been here for three hours. and he has not once gotten annoyed at dee for reasons outside of journalistic, ethical, or moral debate, and even then, logan seems to set all of that aside relatively easily.

and dee, apart from making up his entire ancestral backstory, has barely even lied.

“coming!” dee says, and then to logan, “i hope you like snail caviar.”

an expression of panic pops up on logan’s face, and dee laughs at him.

“kidding,” he says reassuringly. “it’s french onion soup and croque monsieurs.”

logan looks relieved, and he even laughs, and then proceeds to bump into dee, the way that friends on tv shows jostle each other when one tells a particularly biting joke, and then logan pauses, looking at dee.

very suddenly, dee thinks, oh.

does he think he’s my friend?

they’ve been debating for the better part of two hours, and dee lied to him for half an hour, and dee has been purposefully throwing as many rich-people things into conversation as possible to get logan looking baffled, and logan thinks that they are friends.

is that what friends do?

dee clears his throat, before he grabs logan’s bicep in a way he hopes is normal and does not at all give away that he has not had a friend since he immigrated to the united states, and says, “come on, then, i’ll let you stick your head in the library on the way.”

“you have a library?!” logan asks eagerly, following along as dee tugs him down the hall, and dee tries his very best not to smile too openly.

⁂

dee’s house is…a lot. it’s a lot.

(dee had pulled up a picture of his parents’ house to show off how it could be his own personal xanadu, when they’d been talking about citizen kane, and logan has mentally tabulated the publication he was talking about to fact-check that, because that—that was just absurd, even more so than this one.)

but the smell of french onion soup and croque monsieurs—essentially french ham-and-cheese, either sandwiches or baked lasagna style—is a little more comforting. logan knows these smells, baking bread and ham and melting cheese and onions—granted, virgil’s diner does a french onion soup, but he’s sure it’s not as fancy as what he’s about to eat with dee.

and, as they cross into the dining room, his grandmother, seated at the head of the table.

logan’s technically had lunch with mrs. slange before; it had been at the country club, and he’d been more preoccupied with glowering at dee, but he has met her and spoken with her. she’d been nice; she’d spoken to his grandmother quite a lot about landscaping, and flowers. azaleas in particular, he’s fairly certain.

she’s a rather diminutive woman, her already short stature shrunk down even more from age; her hair is thin and pure white, fluffing up in a way that makes logan think of dandelion fuzz. her face is wrinkled, especially with smile lines around her eyes, her mouth. she’s wearing a cardigan over a button-down, much like his grandmother wears on particularly casual days, but whereas his grandmother prefers solid colors, mrs. slange’s cardigan is white with embroidered pink and purple flowers; it matches her pastel pink button-down. 

by all accounts, she should register in logan’s mind as a fragile old woman; a nice one, one that seems to have more concern about her flowers than anything else. but there’s something glinting in her eyes—flinty, icy blue—that reminds him very much of dee, despite the fact that they are not biologically related.

it’s cunning, logan thinks, or intelligence—she must have both in spades, to help raise someone like dee.

she smiles at dee, and says something in french—logan can manage a basic spanish conversation due to his proximity to the princes, and he’s taking latin classes, but he’s absolutely hopeless with french unless he lucks out and they say something with a latin root word—and dee responds in kind. logan notes that their accents are different. logan puts together, barely a second after he notices, that one of haiti’s two official languages is french.

logan spares a second to wonder if dee can speak the other, haitian creole, before his grandmother turns to him directly and says—something in french. he has no clue what.

“il ne peut pas parler français, granmè, utiliser l'anglais,” dee says, looking almost a little amused at logan’s expense—well, logan can put together he can’t speak french, use english, just based off of context clues.

she starts a sentence in french, pauses, furrows her brow, as if unpuzzling it, and then continues in lightly accented english, “welcome to our home.”

“thank you very much for having me,” logan says, his dad’s be on your best behavior! text at the forefront of his mind, with his dad saying evelyn, right? i always liked her shortly behind. “your home is beautiful; the landscaping’s lovely.”

her wrinkled face settles into its worn lines she smiles.

“mer—” she begins, shakes her head, takes a breath, and then continues, “thank you very much. the roses are finicky little things, this time of year, i’m quite pleased with how they’ve turned out. i think they’ve thrown their last primadonna fit until fall rolls around again.”

and from there, it’s easy to prod her into conversation as they eat the soup course—logan mentally apologizes to virgil, but if he’d taste it, he’d probably agree that this french onion soup is better than his, too—just by asking about the various plants she tends to favor, the particular conditions that each seems to like. the conversation seems perfectly fine, if not for dee staring at the pair of them out of the corners of his eyes, as if monitoring their conversation to make sure neither of them says anything unseemly. 

which is a little unsettling—logan doesn’t think he’s said anything horribly rude to an old person lately, unless one counted his paternal grandparents last fall—but the conversation seems to be fine. logan admits that most of his knowledge of plants is theoretical, scientific, which prods her into asking about their shared science course, and dee takes over that conversation.

it’s fine. the whole dinner is fine, and it seems to be going well, even, and he keeps on thinking so and thinking so as he digs into the main course of croque monsieurs, and she says—

“how do you find the meal, christopher?”

it takes logan a second to register what’s wrong with that statement, and, as soon as it does, unwittingly, his eyes flash to dee.

dee has frozen, fork halfway to his mouth. it’s like he has to buffer for a moment before he visibly stiffens, setting the fork down. logan is about to excuse it as a slip of the tongue—she had known both his parents, surely, perhaps it was just a misstatement. most people in his grandparents’ sphere exalted his resemblance to christopher, even though he was quite clearly a carbon copy of patton excepting his sharper bone structure, straighter hair, and thinner frame, until—

“logan, granmè,” dee says, in a very gentle tone that does not at all match his fists curling up on the table. “this is logan, christopher’s son. do you remember? we had lunch with him and emily.”

her brow furrows, and she says, “right. of course. logan.”

she quite sounds like she thinks that dee is pulling one over her head, and she’s going along with it, the way one did when a small child was pulling an incredibly obvious joke on them.

she maintains that tone and slips a couple more times—christopher, how are straub and francine? as logan’s halving his croque monsieur; christopher, didn’t you say you were going out to california? when the maid, as tight-faced as dee, is setting dessert on the table. 

and it dawns on him, slowly: why dee had to prompt her to use english, when she was born speaking french, and why it had taken her a few seconds to clearly switch over in her head when dee went from french to english at the drop of a hat; why there were so many post-its near the front door; why the household staff had seemed surprised at a visitor, despite the fact that dee had told his grandmother he was bringing home a guest; why his grandmother had said she’s coming out less and less lately, it’s been a while since we’ve had a good, long chat; dee keeping a keen eye out, as if he’s monitoring what they’ll say; not for him, logan realizes, for her. 

she has a disease. she’s aware enough that her gardens are in splendid shape, she’s aware enough that she clearly knows who dee is, but. but she can’t remember who logan is.

it is an exceedingly awkward dessert.

he can’t deny the chocolate-raspberry souffle is absolutely delicious, though.

⁂

the dinner is over. nanny is taking granmè to the library. logan and dee are left alone at the dinner table.

dee has been mentally preparing for this since his grandmother’s first slip—comebacks, things to say, particularly acerbic and witty things he could summon up if logan is rude about it. he’s ready. 

that is, until logan just says, “can i see the greenhouse?”

dee blinks at him. “what?”

“the greenhouse,” logan repeats. “you said i could see it after dinner. can i?”

okay, dee thinks. changing the setting of the argument. he isn’t sure what logan’s play is here, but—

“sure,” dee agrees, and stands, purposefully languid and unhurried. “follow me.”

and so he leads logan through the narrow hallways of the house, mostly ignoring logan as they go (“is that a velázquez?” he demands of a painting, which dee doesn’t really deign answer to—of course it’s a velázquez, does his family seem like the type to settle for a framed imitation) and at last comes to the door of the greenhouse, which he opens without ceremony.

logan walks in. dee expects him to maybe go to sit down, and ask dee why his elderly grandmother thought he was his estranged father, but no—logan beelines straight for the hostas.

well. okay. dee trails after him, meandering vaguely around the greenhouse. logan’s route seems to make sense to him, and only him, but he pokes his nose close to each plant, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he crouches to examine the soil, the roots; if dee was walking into this situation with no prior context, he’d think perhaps that logan was an enterprising botanist who had just gained entry to a highly regarded greenhouse.

but logan is just in the greenhouse of an old lady with memory problems, who he did not know was an old lady with memory problems until she repeatedly referred to him by his father’s name. 

and so dee follows as logan examines fauna, and flora, and the goddamn soil. everytime logan hums with interest, dee thinks it’s a precursor to the beginning of this conversation, but no, he’s just humming at the plants. the plants. they’re plants, his grandmother’s plants, so he’s used to his grandmother being very fond of them and rambling about them even if he’s mostly indifferent about them, most of his emotion toward plants being if it makes granmè happy. the key word in that sentence is granmè. he does not particularly care if these plants make logan happy. he cares what logan will say about his grandmother.

they’ve looped three-quarters of the way around the greenhouse by the time dee’s patience runs out.

“well?!” and it tears out of him in a kind of snarl. logan, from where he’s crouched beside the lilies, blinks at him, his fingers resting on the arm of his glasses, as if he’s about to adjust them again.

“what?”

“what,” dee repeats, then, “what?!” and before he can even think about it, he has his bowler hat in one hand, thwacking logan over the head with it.

“ow!” logan says, clearly more out of the surprise of being thwacked when he wasn’t expecting it. that, or logan is a big baby, dee didn’t even swing that hard.

“what,” dee repeats, jamming his hat over his head again before logan can see any semblance of hat hair, “what, are you kidding me, sanders, of all the times to go quiet when you clearly have questions, you choose now?! say something!”

logan blinks at him, before he says, very slowly, “about…”

“my grandmother,” dee snaps. 

“ah,” logan says, then, almost like he’s reciting something for his latin class, “i am… sorry that she is ill, and i respect your privacy during this time?”

dee actually leans forward because of the force of the Look he is giving logan.

“you know i’m bad at this kind of thing,” he says defensively. “what do you expect me to say?”

“i don’t—!” dee says, and nearly throws up his hands, but he is not allowing himself to get that carried away. “i expect you to say something! not just wander around the greenhouse and let me wait and see if you say something stupid!”

logan looks at him, and says, “was that insensitive of me?”

dee’s eyes must look close to popping out of his head, because logan’s hands are already rising to protect the crown of his head, like he expects dee to hit him with his hat again.

“do you,” he says, and gives dee a strange look, “do you want to talk about it?”

“not particularly!”

“that’s what i thought!” logan says. “i assumed the prior agreement of you wanting to speak to me about anything that particularly affects you would take precedence—”

agreement, dee mouths, and mentally backtracks, until—

“my parents wanting to out me and you coming up with this whole debutante plot and my grandmother having dementia are two different categories!”

“i didn’t think that a statement like ‘if you want to talk about it, i am here’ needed categorization!”

“the previously agreed upon ‘it’ was specifically about my parents’ plot to out me by way of american daughters of the revolution!” dee says, near-hysterical.

“okay!” logan says, “okay, fine, i put forward the terms of that particular definition of ‘it’ being broadened to anything particularly troublesome in your life and wait on your acceptance, or your proposal on how exactly to renegotiate ‘it’, does that help?”

dee stares at him, jaw hanging open, and says, “there is no way that you are an actual person, are you serious?!”

“i don’t know what you want from me,” logan says, near-mournful, and the absolute absurdity of the situation sinks in enough that dee starts laughing.

his parents want to very publicly out him without his consent, his grandmother has dementia that will only get worse and worse and it will only be a matter of time before his parents realize what is happening and send her into a nursing home and force him to move back in with them, the household staff who are the closest people he had previously considered friends have no choice but increase their focuses on spying on him for his parents in order to distract them from noticing anything wrong with granmè, or else risk unemployment, and logan is here talking about renegotiations like they’re on a legal team, and talking sure as shit isn’t an option, so dee can’t do anything but laugh.

“christ,” he says, and half-crumples, half-slides to the ground beside logan, who looks very bemused. “putain de merde, sanders.”

“i’m assuming that’s impolite,” logan says primly, and dee snorts.

“yeah,” dee says, in the same tone would say duh. “yeah, impolite, let’s go with that, shall we?” 

logan pauses, for a few seconds, as if allowing dee to get his bearings, before he says "dementia?" with a tone of curiosity that has dee swiveling his head to glower at him.

"sorry," logan says, not sounding particularly sorry.

"journalist habit," dee mutters, beating logan to the punch for his own excuse.

"yes."

they sit in silence for a little longer.

"i didn't know she knows that particular side of the family," logan says. "the haydens, i mean."

"oh, yes," dee says absently. "we probably lunch with them about twice a year, sometimes more—less now, though, now that they've moved away."

"huh," logan says, then, "what are they like?"

"what, you don't know?" dee says, glancing at him.

"not particularly," logan says. "i've only met them three times, and considering i was still in the hospital post-birth for one of them and was learning how to crawl for the other—"

"huh," dee echoes.

how weird it must be for logan, to hear that dee's had more regular interactions with his grandparents. both sets, probably; he would have remembered if logan had gotten dragged into various family gatherings the way he has.

"they," logan says, purses his lips, and says, "the haydens were particularly transphobic."

"yeah, well," dee says. "that doesn't surprise me."

"homophobic too," logan says, and he glances at his hands before he looks sideways at dee. "deviant was the exact word used in my presence. i'm assuming there was more, but dad kicked me out of the room before i could hear anything else."

dee rolls around various replies in his mouth. he could offer sympathy, or something equally socially accepted and something dee would have no problem letting roll off his tongue like a well-rehearsed monologue.

but.

he would tell all of those monologues to people who don't know that he's trans, that have never been to either of his houses, that have never listened to him spin a lie for half an hour and not be mad about it. he would tell all of these monologues to someone who didn't know that his grandmother has alzheimer's.

so dee doesn't offer a monologue. he offers something that he assumes logan might appreciate, something he'd recognize in a fellow colleague: curiosity.

"which dad?" dee asks. "patton or—"

"patton," logan says, cutting him off. "christopher walked me out, though, to make sure i actually stayed out."

another pause. it seems like curiosity hasn't been the outright wrong move, so dee strives for more questions.

"are you close?" dee says. "with christopher. i've only met him a couple times."

logan's mouth twists downward at the edges.

"i don't suppose you'd be willing to offer definitive parameters for close, would you?"

"no, not really," dee says. "closeness is subjective."

logan shrugs a shoulder. he looks almost uncomfortable.

"what?" dee says, interest now piqued—because if he didn't know any better, he'd say logan looked guilty.

"i," logan says carefully, "might have blackmailed him."

"you what," dee says, turning to face logan head-on, not even bothering to hide his shock. or his delight. he doesn't bother hiding that either.

"after the visit last fall, he," and the corners of his mouth twist down even further. "well, that doesn't matter anymore. anyway, i dug up as much of his public financial and legal records that i possibly could and made him a deal that i'd extend equal efforts in getting to know him as he would getting to know me. we have a standing weekly phone call now."

"you blackmailed him?" dee says gleefully.

"with public information," logan says huffily. "it's not like i hired a private investigator or anything—"

"nuh-uh, nope, you used the word blackmail," dee says merrily. "you don't even have to justify it with saying where you got the information, you still used information you dug up on him to coerce him into a deal. that is the textbook definition of blackmail."

"i don't know if it's the textbook definition—"

"nope!" dee says. "nope, i'm not listening to your semantics. you blackmailed someone."

"you don't need to sound so thrilled about it," logan grumbles.

"are you kidding?" dee demands. "this is by far one of the most interesting things i've ever heard about you. please tell me there's more misbehavior like this in your past—no, no, wait! i'll figure it out myself!"

"good luck with that," logan says. and then, almost randomly, "everyone says i look like him."

dee stays quiet—give the interviewee time to consider their answer, if it's short, mel had lectured once. always leave a couple of seconds for them to think about if they want to add on to their answer before you move to an entirely different question.

"i mean," logan says, and runs a hand through his hair. "other than this, i don't particularly understand why. i pretty clearly favor my dad—ugh, patton, i favor patton, this is the problem with two dads—but everyone says i look like christopher. my grandparents—both sides—their friends, a couple teachers. it's usually rather frustrating, and though i can't prove it, i have a feeling it's somewhat rooted in transphobia, for most of those friends."

he pauses a beat, as if understanding where he's going with this particular line of conversation. dee suddenly feels a lot less excited about the potential for uncovering any more of logan's past misconduct.  

"but," logan says. "it, ah. it makes more sense, if your grandmother has more recently had contact with that particular side of my family—"

"don't," dee says, and the exhaustion in his voice almost stuns him.

"don't what?"

"don't," dee says, and flaps a hand. "don't make excuses for her. she has alzheimer's, she's not stupid. everyone's patronizing her now and i hate it, even though i find myself doing it sometimes, it's like everyone's scared that they'll somehow catch the alzheimer's if they don't talk to her like she's a toddler."

and now logan's the one who's quiet, just for a little bit, like he's strategizing how to carry out the rest of the interview. 

except, dee thinks, this isn't an interview. this is a conversation. this is that talking thing that logan offered so readily, back when dee had come out, back before logan came up with this whole absurd debutante plan. 

it's just—difficult. to consider turning this strategizing, conniving part of his brain off. he isn't sure if he ever has, ever since he was first notified it was there in the first place. why would he turn this piece of himself off when it protected him, when it kept him aloof and above it all and safe to conduct himself in the way that felt most true to him? if it took lying and manipulating along the way, so be it. he has no patience for attempts at moralizing the way he lives his life. immanuel kant was a fucking moron who would have gotten himself and his friend killed because he decided his perfect duty was to always tell the truth. what was the point of something like truth if it hurt you? if it put you in danger?

it's not even a choice. 

or, at least. it has never been a choice. because logan is no murderer at the door, or machiavelli-wannabe gossip, or high-society rich person who held so much more power than one could even think of through backdoor deals and secret donations, who had adopted a poor orphan from haiti because it might look good as an accessory, and people would think them charitable, and they would barely even thinking about that poor orphan from haiti growing into their own person with pesky, inconvenient things like wants and needs and opinions.

telling the truth would logan would be... telling the truth to logan. logan, who lived in a tiny, pleasantville knockoff town with things like dance marathons and punnily-named cat-themed stores. logan, who had once blackmailed his own father in order to obtain a standing weekly phone call. logan, who had a trans dad, and who had a boyfriend that he had brought to the school dance, and danced with him, and kissed him, and it didn't even occur to him to care who might see, who might disapprove.

logan, who was once homeless and penniless, and who had extended various sources of information that dee had in his hands, ready to drop into the public eye at any given moment.

logan, who had just sat and talked about citizen kane with him and didn't catch onto three seasons worth of downton abbey but immediately clocked a reference to wallis simpson. logan, who had looked helplessly confused at the sight of fancy water and finger sandwiches and afternoon tea. 

logan, who might think that they are friends.

it might become more of a choice then, dee thinks. 

so when logan asks, very quietly, "how long have you known that she's sick?" it only takes dee swallowing down the saliva rising in his throat to be able to answer.

"she was diagnosed about three and a half months ago," he says. "but i've known something's wrong for a lot longer than that."

logan swallows, too, and dips his head in a brief nod, as if to show he's absorbed the information.

"i'm sorry," he says.

dee could say any number of things: she could live as long as twenty years after her diagnosis, but it's more commonly four to eight years. or one day she's going to forget who i am and i am absolutely terrified. or when my parents catch on they're going to send her away to a nursing home, and i won't be able to live here anymore, and i'll go crazy if i have to stay in that house for too long, their screaming and shouting will drive me crazy. or you don't even know the half of it, the household staff that you probably think are so nice and who practically raised me have no choice but to spy on every little thing i do because otherwise they'll get fired.

but for as much as dee can briefly turn off that part of his mind, he cannot turn it off all at once. there is no way he's opening the floodgates of information like that. they might be friends, but dee isn't in hysterics. he can control himself. he can control this. 

"yeah," dee says, and tips back his head to look up at the ceiling; half of it is glass, leading up to where it joins the rest of the house. the sky is bleak and black tonight, with no moon or stars in sight. "yeah, me too."

⁂

the chauffeur closes the door behind logan, and logan has to fight the urge to jump, even though the chauffeur was also holding the door open for logan to get into the car in the first place.

he has to shake himself before he turns to look at the front door of the lavandelands; dee is standing outside, letting the light spill out of the house and backlight him enough that logan can see him leaning against one of the columns, one arm casually wrapped around his stomach. his bowler hat overcasts his eyes.

"your address, sir?" the chauffeur says, and logan has to fight the urge not to jump again. he tells the chauffeur the address to virgil's, anyways, and turns his head to look at dee again.

haltingly, he lifts his hand and waves, just a little bit awkward. dee's shadowed form doesn't move.

there's a brief moment where logan's left with his hand raised in the air, and he cringes to himself ever so slightly before he starts to lower it.

but then, dee lifts a gloved hand, and tosses logan a lazy, three-fingered salute off his bowling cap, and logan tries to smile a little bit. he can't quite manage it, but he's pretty sure the chauffeur isn't judging him for not looking pleasant enough, as the chauffeur’s a bit busy pulling the car into a neat, three-pointed turn, before beginning to drive away.

logan glances over his shoulder, just enough to see dee, shoulders slightly slumped, re-enter the house. logan lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and redirects his attention to his phone, which he's mostly been neglecting this entire bizarre sojourn at dee's.

he takes enough time to text his dad and virgil that he'll be dropped off at virgil's, so he can pick up a study snack before he heads back to their house, and reassures his dad that he doesn't have to wait up for him or anything. 

he reads a text from roman—a brief complaint about a girl in his dance class, not one of the ones he teaches but the class he actually takes, and logan sends a response that he hopes sounds like the proper, thoughtful response to a mostly inconsequential venting message from his boyfriend.

and then he sits and stares at his homescreen, still that selfie of roman, his dad, and virgil that they took last fall, when he was staying at his grandparents, before everything with thanksgiving and patton's pneumonia had rather tidily messed that week up.

because he has his dad, and his other dad, and virgil, who consists as a dad figure, and he has ms. prince, in her way, and he has roman, a wonderful supportive boyfriend who he has always been able to talk to throughout most of his life. he has rudy, even if he has never particularly leaned on rudy as a means of support. he has maria, and meredith and mark, and his host of cousins from the danes side of the family. he has his grandparents in their own strange ways, even if their relationship prior to this school year would best be described as stilted. he has friends from sideshire high and his teachers and mentors that he left there.

dee has practically no one.

it seems so obvious, looking back at the start of the school year, how dee had seemed so desperate to cling to his academic superiority over everyone in the grade, because that's what he has. he has an ill grandmother, and exceptional grades, and three snakes. he has a former nanny and the rest of a household staff who seem more preoccupied with his grandmother's care. he has his secretive stance in the chilton social ladder, but he didn't have friends. 

logan worries his lip between his teeth. he is incredibly ill-equipped to handle this kind of situation. honestly, he's probably fortunate he only escaped with dee hitting him with his bowler hat; anyone who attempted to have an emotion-centric conversation with logan knew that he wasn't exactly the ideal person to talk to. that's never been his forte.

it has always been his dad's. his dad, who dee had seemed fascinated with, who certainly had a certain level of similarity in their life experiences. and though logan, of course, would never betray confidences...

he could, perhaps, offer some of his vast support system for dee to partake in. leave the choice to him, of course, but. but at least logan would have tried.

and so logan takes a breath, and sends out a text.

Logan Sanders: Dad, would it be all right if I asked Dee sleep over the night of the Culture Day you're planning with Ms. Prince?

[chemist-ana]

The Toast- Sams POV

Book: The Nanny Affair

Characters: Sam, Ana Schuyler (MC), Robin, Sofia

Pairing: Sam Dalton (male) x Ana Schuyler (MC)

Rating: 18+

Content Warning: NSFW, Sexual Language, Adult Language, Sexual Situations

A/N This is a brand new series that I was inspired to write. I am going to go chapter by chapter in Sam Daltons POV. This story is completely inspired by Choices The Nanny Affair. I have used most of the dialogue from the actual story, anything written in BOLD was taken directly from the book and therefore is not my writing- credit to our good friends over at Pixelberry! All characters are credit to Pixelberry except for my OCs

Summary: Tempers flare as the engagement party rages on, but who will be the one that gets burned?

Word Count: 3614

Tag List: @txemrn @secretaryunpaid @lifeaskim @aussieez @pixie88 @thefrenchiemama @sfb123 @mainstreetreader @shewillreadyou @khoicesbyk @choicesficwriterscreations

Once again, I find myself cursing Robin. As I watch him sweep Ana to the other side of the ball room, I can barely contain my rage. She glances back at me with a regretful look on her face. I clench my jaw, and bite the inside of my cheek. I watch Robin react to the anger that is clearly written on my face with a cocky smile. I watch Ana’s frown as they talk. I wonder what this is all about. Suddenly he takes her by the hand and spins her around, alighting her beautiful face with a smile. I’m fighting the urge to make a scene, the warring of emotions in my head is nearly making me twitch.

Suddenly I feel a hand wrap around my forearm, startling me back into reality. I tear my gaze away from Ana and Robin, to see Sofia has resumed her position by my side. I clear my throat and take a breath.

“Is everything alright?” I ask, scanning her face.

“Oh yes, just dealing with the board. Nothing to worry about.” She pats her hand on my arm before looking up into my eyes. “I am sorry I missed our dance. Would you indulge me with one now?”

I grab her hand and bring her body to mine. I glance over her shoulder to see Ana and Robin still engaged in conversation. I press a soft kiss to the top of Sofia’s head. Damn it Dalton, duty and responsibility. Fortunately she missed your little tryst with Ana. When the song is over, Sofia excuses herself to get prepared for our toasts. Damn our toasts.

What seems like an eternity of watching Robin and Ana laughing together, I notice Sofia walk up to the front of the room with a glass of champagne. As everyone gathers around, I find Ana in the crowd, standing next to… Robin. I look over at Sofia as she begins her speech. Focus on your fiancée… you know? Duty and responsibility… damn maybe Ana should have left.

“Thanks for coming to our fabulous party. This night is a dream come true for me. Sam is a dream come true for me.” Sofia begins addressing the crowd with her usual grace.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes and scoff as she raises her champagne glass to me, flashing her a smile that I know doesn’t reach my eyes. My eyes flick over to Ana and I watch her lean in and whisper in Robins ear, anguish etched across her fine features. I tear my eyes away from her and watch as Sofia checks her notecards as she continues her speech. This is so absurd, she doesn’t even remember how long we have been ‘together’.

I hear whispers in the crowd and my gaze lands on Robin and Ana… again. This time, Ana appears to be fighting back the urge to laugh, her lips curled up in a smile. I know that smile. I look at Robin and I can tell that he is on a roll with her. I have officially tuned Sofia out, biting the inside of my cheek as I watch the two of them interact. I can feel Sofia’s eyes on me so I turn my attention back to her.

“Sam, would you like to say a few words?” She follows my gaze back to Ana and Robin then trains her eyes back on me with an unreadable look. I can feel Ana’s watch me as I make my way up to Sofia. I press a soft kiss to Sofia’s cheek and she hums in response.

“Thank you, Sofia. And thanks so much to all of you for joining as we celebrate our engagement.” My eyes sweep across the crowd as I give my practiced speech. “As you all know, I lost my first wife about five years ago… and for a long time, I didn’t think I would ever meet someone else who made me feel the way she did.” I swallow the lump in my throat as I think of Eva; her long red hair shining in the sun, her laugh lighting up the room, and the way she made me feel, and I am reminded of Ana. Beautiful Ana.

“But now… I feel as if I’ve gotten a second change at happiness. I finally met someone who gets me. Someone I can’t stop thinking about. Someone who lights up the whole room with her passion…” My eyes lock with hers as I pour out my heart, hoping that she knows that this speech is for her, my beautiful Ana…

“Oh, I love you too!” Sofia wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek to my heart. Ana’s lips turn down in dismay as she watches us, her eyes trailing along Sofia’s figure, my arms wrapped around her waist, and pausing on the Harry Winston diamond on her finger. What am I doing? I see the color rising on her delicate neck and her frown deepens. She narrows her eyes at me and turns to Robin. I tear my eyes away to look around the crowd, all of whom are smiling and totally unaware of the turmoil in my head.

“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, boo-bear!” Sofia chimes before stepping away from me, I stop myself from flinching at her words and give her a soft smile. I really need to discuss that pet name with her…

“As I know Sofia has already mentioned, we met many many years ago. Our families have always been close, and I know my parents wish they could be here today… but I am sure many of you know my father, he likes to word too hard.” That earns a small laugh from the crowd. My gaze grows heated as I see Robin wrap his arm around Ana’s waist and pull her tight against him. She leans into him… she wants him… I loose my train of thought, drowning in my anger. Sofia places a hand on my arm.

“As I was saying, Sofia is an incredible woman… she is one of the smartest women I have ever met, ruthless in the board room and demanding of respect.” My eyes are fixed on Ana and Robin, who are exchanging whispers and smiles like school children. What the fuck are they saying to each other? Robin turns Ana so I can no longer see her face and he looks over her shoulder at me. He gives me a smug grin when he sees me watching him. It takes all of my effort to stay on topic, reciting the words I worked so hard to memorize. “…Sofia always makes the time fly by, like the most pleasant dream.” What a weird thing to say Dalton. I steal a quick glance at Sofia who is basking in my words, oh well at least she likes it.

Then there is a giggle. That fucking giggle. You bastard. My eyes snap to Ana and she bats at Robins shoulder. Keep talking Dalton…

“But, uh, what I like most about Sofia is… ugh, move you big oaf.” Fuck did I just say that out loud?

“What?” Sofia turns to me, a warning look in her eyes. Yes you definitely just said that out loud, you idiot.

“I said… you’re ‘smooth as merlot’? Because you’ve always had such sophisticated taste in everything… Except men I suppose.” Good save… Did she buy it? Well everyones laughing so, maybe? “I know I’m a lucky man, for someone like Sofia to pick me… she is beautiful and the epitome of grace.” I narrow my eyes at Robin as he and Ana continue to speak right through my speech. Enough is enough.

“A-hem. I know some of you are busy smooth-talking your ‘flavor of the week’, but all eyes need to be up here, thanks.” I give a small tap on the mic. Boy Dalton that was a petty. Robin raises his hand in apology and moves Ana to his side. Her lips curved up in a satisfied smile as she places her emerald eyes back on me. The crowd shifts uncomfortably and I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts.

“… She has the best sense of style I have ever seen, I mean look at this beautiful party.” I gesture at the ball room and glance at Sofia who is beaming. My eyes return to Ana. Robin is leaned over and whispering in her ear, his lips so close… damn it Robin. She grabs the drink out of his hand with a coy smile. My speech has been forgotten and I don’t care that everyone is watching.

Ana glances at me only to move her eyes back to Robin. Damn it what are they talking about…Then my worst case scenario actually happens, right in front of my eyes. It’s almost in slow motion as Robin grabs Ana’s hips and pulls her chest to his. He presses his lips to hers in an impassioned kiss that makes Ana blush that delicious color. What. In. The. Fuck.

“Robin, can you please focus for one moment? Is that too much to ask?” I try to control the anger in my tone, but its glaringly obvious.

“I was focused!” He steps away from Ana, leaving his hands on her waist.

“Not on the right thing. Just try to behave yourself, alright?” Goddamn it Robin I told you to stay away from her.

I watch him reluctantly move his hands from her curves and he turns to look at me. His face says it all, he’s pissed. Good.

“Sorry.” He spits, his eyes drilling into mine.

Our audience is murmuring and shifting uncomfortably. Get your breathing under control Dalton, stop making a scene.

“Um… sorry, everybody. We’ll be good. Don’t mind us.” Ana says with a smirk. Oh god… she enjoyed I, what about our dance?

“Can we please get back to the toast Boo-bear, you were talking about all the things you love about me?” Sofia gives me a warning look before she flicks her eyes to the crowd. I clear my throat and take a deep breath looking back out to the crowd. I can feel Ana’s burning eyes on mine, and out of the corner of my eye, her expression has turned to apprehension.

“Right. Sofia has always been a friend.” Oops, correct correct. “I mean, a woman, of utmost grace, and I only hope this night lives up to her high standards. To you, Sofia.” I give Sofia a smile and raise my champagne glass to her before turning and finding Ana in the crowd. Our eyes meet for a moment before she turns away and slips out of the ballroom. Fuck, that was a total disaster.

Sofia subtly digs her manicured fingers into my forearm before I have a chance to follow her, casting me a warning look. She leans into me bringing her lips to my ear.

“I’ll go find her, Sam.” She whispers. She places a lingering kiss on my cheek and walks away, following Ana and not sparing a glance back. This is definitely not a good idea…

***

I watch Sofia laughing with some friends of hers on the other side of the ballroom. I look over to the stairwell, well you have looked everywhere else, might as well. I duck out of the ballroom and slowly ascend the stairs, wondering what I can even say to her when I do find her. I open the heavy door and stop dead in my tracks. Suddenly I am seeing red.

“Seriously, Robin? What did I tell you about spending time with Ana? She’s not one of your dates. I won’t let you take advantage of her just because she’s upset.”

I watch Ana quickly step out of Robins embrace and look at the ground. Robin wheels on me, his face twisted with anger.

Ana looks up at me with resentment. “Who said he’s taking advantage of me?”

“Yeah, calm down, Mr. Big Shot. I was cleaning up your mess.” Robin retorts taking a step towards me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My eyes widen at his statement. Surely he doesn’t know… did she tell him?

“Don’t play dumb. It’s not a good look on you.” He points his finger at me before taking another step towards me.

“You okay if I leave you two to talk? Or do you want me to kick his ass before I go?” He turns back to Ana, his voice softening. You forget who is bigger than you ass hole. I clench my jaw as she cracks a smile.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Robin.”

“Anytime, beautiful.” He responds before turning back towards me. I ball my hands at my side, reining in my temper before I do something stupid. Like punch your face in. I hear the heavy door shut behind me, my eyes never leaving Ana. Finally she turns her emerald eyes to mine.

Her smile has turned into a frown. She searches my face. Finally I break the silence.

“Are you okay?” I ask softly.

“I’m fine. It’s not your job to protect me. It’s a party, and I’m a young, single woman. I could be up here with anyone, doing anything, and it wouldn’t be any of your business!” Her words are dripping with contempt and the color is rising on her cheeks.

“I know that.” I respond, surprised by her tone. She takes a few graceful steps until she is right in front of me.

“You hired me to be your nanny, not your girlfriend. That’s Sofia’s job.”

“I… I know that too.” Her words hit me hard.

“One minute, you pull me onto the dance floor, then the next, I’m watching your engagement speech.” She jams a finger into my chest. God that dance, it’s all I can think about. You are all I can think about.

“And I can’t stop thinking about that dance…” Don’t you see, Ana? You are the one I want.

“You said we needed to talk then, yeah? Well, here’s your big chance! Let me have it! Tell me about how sorry you are and how wrong this is.” She jabs her finger into my chest again. You couldn’t be more wrong… “Why did you even ask me to stay tonight? Did you want me to see her all over you?”

She moves to jab me again but I grab her finger.

“No! Of course not, I just… I just wanted you to stay. For once in my life, I wasn’t thinking ahead…” I should have been thinking ahead. But against my better judgement I always want to be near you.

“Yeah, well… maybe I should make it easy for you and quit.”

No. “Don’t do that.” Her words send a shockwave through my chest and I take a step back.

“Face the facts. It’d be a lot easier for both of us if we don’t have to see each other every day.” Her face is etched with pain.

I don’t want to hurt you… but I am a selfish man. You are one of my favorite parts of my day and I refuse to give that up.

“I’m trying, Ana.” So hard… please believe me… I trail my fingers gently down her arms, noticing the shiver it sends through her body. Her body visibly relaxes and her emerald eyes lighten. “Every day, I’m fighting not to let myself get carried away. I’m fighting not to touch you. I’m fighting not to do this…”

And I lose control. I bring my hands to the back of her neck, coaxing her head back. Her eyes flutter shut as her luscious lips part, the smell of champagne and Ana swirling between us, a heady combination.

“Sam…” she moans into my mouth, a soft sound of pleasure and surrender. I took her cue and I crashed my lips into hers, wrapping my strong arms around her delicate body. I pull her against my chest, relishing in the feel of her curves pressed against me. God it feels like home. My fingers traveled up into her soft hair, pulling softly. A soft whimper escapes her lips, making my cock twitch.

She pulls back and brings her hands to my chest, pushing my jacket off of my shoulders and unbuttoning my dress shirt with shaking fingers.

“I need you…” She says breathlessly. Not here baby.

“We shouldn’t do this here… Anyone could walk up and see…” I whisper in her ear pulling her body back flush to mine. My heart is hammering in my chest. I grab her thigh and hitch it up onto my hip, just like on the dance floor, beautiful. “This was all I could think about doing on that dance floor…”

I drop my lips to her neck, breathing in her smell. I can feel her pulse racing and I press soft kisses along the pulsing point. I drag my teeth across her exposed collar bone which makes her breath catch. I pull her hips tightly against mine so she can feel my growing desire.

“Tell me what you want, Ana. I’ll give you anything.” I ghost against her skin.

“Kiss me hard and fast.”

I crash my lips to hers without hesitation, parting her lips with my tongue so I can taste her. Sweet Ana. Her hands are on my back, gripping at me to bring me closer.

“Sam…” She moans.

Her head lulls back, and I relish her exposed flesh, letting my lips travel across her neck and her chest. My hands roam her body, exploring every dip and curve. The heat radiating off of her body causes a fine bead of sweat to form on my brow.

“Oh god, yes…” Her words barely escape her lips. Just like that baby. Let me make you feel good. I bring my fingers underneath her dress and to the apex of her thighs, feeling the wetness between her legs. God she is so wet for me…

“Ana…” I whisper as I breathe in her scent, her body writhing at my touch. Suddenly I feel her body tense and she begins to pull away, not yet my beautiful, I am not ready to let you go. I grab her hips and pull them against mine and she throws her head back and moans out my name.

“Sam…yes!”

“God, I could listen to that all day…” I tell her, my lips brushing the hollow of her throat.

She picks her head back up, her lips swollen from our kisses and her skin flushed. She leans in and brushes her lips against mine while sliding her hands down my chest, finding my cock hard with desire. I see her eyes widen, yes baby girl, it’s the perfect size to fill you up. She grabs the band of my briefs and snaps them against my skin while her other hand strokes my hard desire over my pants. I close my eyes as my body tenses at the sensation, and I almost go over the edge.

“You’re killing me, Ana…” I groan in her ear, my lips brushing against the soft skin.

She continues her assault on my cock and I can feel myself nearing the edge. Fuck don’t let her make you come in your pants, you need to take back control of this situation.

“But what a way to go, right?” She says with a coy smile.

I reach down and grab her hand halting her movements.

“Sam?” She asks alarmed.

I hold her hand, my forehead pressed against hers as I try to regain control.

“I want to, it’s just…” I manage to get out, before clearing my throat and pulling back from her. “We have to stop. I have no idea how long we’ve even been up here.” I regret the words as soon as they escape my lips. I see her guard go up as she reflexively wraps her arms around her chest

“I know you’re right. I wish you weren’t.” She mumbles quietly.

“People will start to look for us soon, if they aren’t already.” The words make my chest ache. I just want you.

I take a deep breath and button my shirt back up with shaking fingers. I run my hand through my hair, praying that the disheveled look that Ana has on her face is not matched on mine.

“Sam… just one more kiss?” I look over at her emerald eyes and they are burning into mine. “That’s all I ask. And then… I’ll leave you alone.”

I take a step towards her, running my finger along her cheek and finally across her lower lip.

“Don’t say that.” Baby girl that is the last thing I want. I lean over and brush my lips softly across hers, parting her lips with my tongue so I can taste her one last time tonight. She wraps her arms back around me, pulling our bodies flush.

“Sam! Where’d you go, boo-bear?” I hear Sofia calling for me. Fuck.

Ana pulls away with a frown, looking down at the ground, wrapping her arms around herself again. I attempt to fix my clothes, shifting my hard cock in my pants to hide it.

“Ana…” Look at me. I reach over to touch her cheek one last time but she takes a step away from me.

“You’d better leave.” She says softly without looking at me. I see her swallow.

“…Right. See you at home.” Shit you are a royal fuck up Dalton. I clench my jaw as I watch her for a moment longer before retreating back down to Sofia. Well that didn’t go as expected. Fuck, what are you going to do now?

[rohad93]

Moonlit Masquerade: Shades of Autumn

Luz is early today. She’d been getting to school earlier and earlier as the weeks have worn on.

She always has been an early riser, just not an early to do anything after she got up, person. More content to lay in bed, enjoying the quiet of the morning till her alarm actually went off and she was forced to get up.

But Amity gets to school early, so Luz does too, of course.

Any extra time spent with her paramour Is enough to get her moving, even at the crack of dawn.

The air is cool and crisp with the onset of fall. The trees have begun to change color, though to her it’s strange to see because the foliage in the Isles is already such varying shades aside from the green she’s used to, the only way she can really tell is because the ones she sees every day outside the owl house or on the way to school have begun to change hue and flake off the branches. Greens are turning red and brown while the reds wilt into bright yellows. The woods are a rainbow of hues; she likes it.

Even if it is a constant reminder.

She takes a deep breath of the cool air and grins as she jogs towards the school, some fallen leaves crunching under her steps.

As she runs up the path to Hexside she quickly spots her girlfriend’s head of mint green hair near the steps, she grins and makes a beeline straight for her.

She’s talking to Gus and Willow who are apparently also early today.

“Hey, guys!” She smiles brightly as she comes to a skidding halt in front of them.

Hey, Luz.“ Gus and Willow grin and wave.

“Buenos dìas, mi amor.” She nudges Amity with her hip, who pinks a little but smiles at her tenderly. She’s spent enough time with Luz over the last month and a half to have started picking up some Spanish and it’s only when Luz starts her rapid, spitfire rambling in the language that she gets hopelessly lost, but she’s trying. She wants to learn, for Luz and for herself. She’d like to be able to say whatever she wants to her without fear of people overhearing things they shouldn’t.

It’s slow work, but Luz is all too happy to help her learn, even when she giggles at the stilted, choppy way Amity says things. Rolling her ‘R’s is another thing she’s having difficulty with.

She may have also managed to get a hold of a handy little Spanish to English dictionary, courtesy of Eda, from her pile of human trash. She’s been studying it in her spare time, hoping to surprise her girlfriend with things she hasn’t yet taught her.

“Morning…” She hesitates, hoping she’s not going to butcher this, “querida.”

Luz chokes on her own spit as her face turns red and Amity feels rather proud of herself, having brought her chatty girlfriend to stupefied silence.

“What’s going on?” Gus whispers to Willow who just smiles.

They’ve become pretty accustomed to Luz and Amity’s somewhat new dynamic since they started dating and all the strange, sometimes hard to follow conversations the two have. Though without any context Willow thinks she knows what’s going on.

She’s also picked up a little of Luz’s other language, and while she doesn’t know ‘amor’ or ‘querida’ the faces the two make tells her all she needs to know about the nature of these words and she rolls her eyes at the couple.

“They’re just being sappy, don’t worry about it.

“Oh…” Gus nods.

“Where did you learn that?” Luz finally sputters, still red-faced, and Amity grins, and maybe it’s a Blight sibling thing, but she winks and Luz feels like she might just melt into a puddle of human goo. She only thought she got flustered whenever one of the twins winked at her, this was a whole nother level entirely.

“If you two are done…,“ Willow started, drawing the couples embarrassed gazes. “I heard the Autumn festival is going to be in town this weekend, we should all go.”

“Yeah!” Luz quickly agreed before stopping. “What’s The Autumn festival?” she asks and Willow laughs while Amity can only roll her eyes fondly.

“It’s like a carnival but with autumn-themed food and games and all kinds of fun stuff,” Gus explains, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet and Luz joins him in excited fidgeting.

“Count me in!” Luz pumps a fist before turning to look at her girlfriend imploringly. Amity’s lips twitch at the large, pleading eyes now turned on her. Luz is the only one with this kind of power over her. Not that she would have turned down the opportunity to spend an afternoon with her and their friends.

“Sounds like fun,” she agreed.

Luz and Gus cheer, high-fiving while Amity and Willow share a look.

They talked a little while longer before the bell rang and they all had to make their way to class.

It was Thursday, and Luz had Bard and Oracle track classes today, so she bid farewell to her friends as she and Amity walked down another hall. Abominations were only one hall down from the bard hall.

When they stopped in front of the entrance to the bard’s hall Amity grabbed her arm.

“I won’t be able to meet you today, my mom wants me to come straight home after school.” She frowned and Luz resisted the urge to pout, she knew Amity didn’t like it anymore then she did so she simply nodded.

“It’s okay, I’ll see you tomorrow and I’ll message you tonight.” She smiled and Amity’s frown vanished in the face of it. She wanted very badly to close the short distance between them and lay a quick kiss on her mouth but there were students all around them, though none close enough to hear them.

“I’ll be waiting for it, querida.” she grinned as she walked away from her again short-circuiting girlfriend.

~ ~ ~

Luz was worried

She’d waited until sometime after dinner before sending Amity a message on her scroll as she laid in bed. Usually, Amity replied within a few minutes.

She’d waited a few hours, checking her scroll periodically, eventually feeling antsy and moving about the house.

Eda and Lilith seemed to pick up on her behavior pretty quickly as she wandered around the kitchen and living room, frowning.

“Is something the matter, Luz?” Lilith was the first to ask.

“Hmm, Amity hasn’t messaged me back yet and it’s been four hours…,” she mumbled, plopping down on the floor, opposite the couch where the sisters were sitting.’

“That’s it? Your girlfriend hasn’t messaged you back yet?” Eda cocked a brow. “You were wandering around here looking like someone was being murdered.” She crossed her arms.

“You don’t understand, Eda!” She threw up her hands. “She’s never not responded to me before… and her mom wanted her to come home right after school today… I’m worried.” She glanced down at her still silent scroll.

The women shared a look before turning back to Luz.

“I’m sure it’s gonna be okay, kid. If her mom wanted her home it must have been for something, she’s just busy.” Eda tried to comfort her apprentice.

“Surely if something were wrong she would have messaged you first,” Lilith followed up.

“Yeah, kids head over heels for you. If she needed you, she’d let you know.”

“Hmm, I guess…,” Luz grumbled.

Eda frowned at the glum look on her kid’s face and stood.

“Come on Luz, let’s go get ice screams,” she said, ruffling the girl’s head as she walked over to the door.

A tiny smile pulled at her lips at what she knew Eda was trying to do. They were probably right, Amity had a tighter schedule than most adults she knew, she was probably just busy.

“Okay” She hopped up to join Eda at the door.

“King, let’s go, we’re getting Ice screams!” she yelled, and upstairs a loud squeal of excitement echoed back. “You too, Lilly.” Eda jerked her head.

“Very well.”

~ ~ ~

Luz was very worried now as she walked quickly to school.

Amity had never returned her message and according to the little text next to it, she had never even read it.

That was not like her and it made Luz’s stomach tight with worry.

She shot right out of the house as soon as she had gotten dressed when she’d checked her scroll to still see no sign of Amity.

Students were milling about the front of the building. If she wanted to avoid people Amity would get to school just before the bell rang so she could use it as an excuse. She’s done it a couple of times since they started dating, though never to Luz.

Just as she predicted, she could see her girlfriends bright green head as she walked toward Hexside’s main steps.

“Amity!”

She froze stiff at the call, but she didn’t look like she was going to try and run.

“Hey! I was worried about you, you never messaged me back last night.” She stopped at Amity’s side so their conversation was hushed as kids walked by them.

“Sorry, Luz… I got busy last night, I didn’t mean to worry you…” She turned to look at her with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Luz noticed it immediately.

Amity’s hair was a bright new shade of mint and the auburn roots Luz adored were gone, now the same shade as the rest of her hair.

“Your hair…,” Luz mumbled and Amity clutched her books tighter to her chest. She knew Luz would notice right away. She didn’t know why she thought she could avoid this.

Luz pursed her lips as she looked at the uniform color and remembered what Amity had told her about it. She’d held her tongue before about the subject, but this clearly caused her girlfriend distress if the way her hunched shoulders and the way she couldn’t meet Luz’s eyes meant anything.

“Did your mom make you re-dye your hair last night?” She knew she hit the nail on the head because as soon as the sentence left her mouth Amity flinched, hunkering in even further.

“Yes,” she answered after a long moment, just as the bell rang. “I gotta go.” She tried to walk away but Luz grabbed her shoulder.

“Amity, wait…”

“I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Luz.” She pulled away and ran inside leaving Luz to watch her go from the bottom of the steps with a frown.

Her stomach was churning with worry for Amity and anger at her girlfriend’s mother. She’d never met Mrs. Blight, but she knew already without a doubt, she didn’t like her.

~ ~ ~

Amity could hardly pay attention to her classes. She was mad at herself.

She knew eventually her roots were going to reach a point where her mother was going to ‘suggest’ that she fix it. She knew by the length that the time was approaching and she should have told Luz about it, knowing that she would notice right away and that she knew her and her mother’s… secret agreement, if that was what she wanted to call it. Amity sniffed at that.

Even Ed and Em didn’t know why she colored her hair, they’d teased her mercilessly about it after the first time, saying that if she wanted to be like them she’d have to try harder then that.

Hell, she wasn’t sure her father even knew. Having inherited her warm auburn hair from him, he’d seemed a little disappointed after the first time her mother had ‘asked’ her to color it, in that cloying sweet way that meant she wasn’t really asking.

She sighed to herself, she hadn’t meant to ignore Luz last night, but having her hair recolored had put her in a very bad mood and she didn’t think she’d have been good company.

Then this morning… she groaned quietly.

Of course, Luz would be able to put two and two together and see that she was upset. She always was the first couple of days after having her hair fixed. She really shouldn’t have blown her off though. She would send her a message later, apologizing.

There wasn’t much she could do about her hair. She wished she could just let it be the color it was; It frustrated her.

When class mercifully ended she took her time gathering her things. She knew in the back of her mind it was just to avoid Luz, even though she really wanted to see her.

After last night she just wanted to let her girlfriend hold her. She was always happiest and at peace whenever the human wrapped her arms around her and let her just bury her face into her neck.

But Luz also asked too many questions and felt righteous, indignant anger for others much too strong to simply ignore this, it was one of the things Amity loved about her. She cared so much, but this was something beyond her, and Amity needed to find a way to explain it to her so she would let it go.  

Luz thought the emperor was tough? She’d never met Odalia Blight and if Amity had her way, she never would.

She was walking down the quiet empty halls tiredly when a classroom door swung open and someone grabbed her pulling her inside. She didn’t even have time to cry out as the door shut and she was standing in the middle of an empty classroom.

“It’s just me!” Luz quickly soothed her panic.

“Luz!” Amity hissed. “What are you doing?” She held a hand to her chest over her rapidly beating heart.

“Sorry, I was waiting for you.”

“You could have just waited outside for me…,” Amity grumbled.

“So you could take off running the second you saw me?” Luz frowned, not glaring but it was a very stern look that made Amity frown guiltily.

“I’m sorry…,” she mumbled.

“Don’t be sorry, just talk to me, Amity” Luz pleaded. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, amor”

“You can’t help with this, Luz.” she shook her head, looking at the floor. “This is just… something I have to do… I know you want to help but you can’t. So please, can you just forget about it?”

“No!” Luz flings out her arms. “How can I just ignore it when it makes you like this?!” Luz can’t understand why Amity just can’t talk to her about this.

Maybe she can’t do anything, but she’s there for Amity to lean on even when she needs her, when she’s hurting, even when they can’t do anything about it.

She doesn’t have to shove it all down and pretend she’s not bothered when she clearly is.

Frustration is bubbling up in Amity’s stomach like a boiling cauldron. Why can’t Luz understand that this is just something she has to do?

“It’s just hair, Luz!” She’s not shouting but it’s much louder than it needs to be.

“If it was just about hair then you wouldn’t be so upset and miserable about it!” Luz’s tone also raises. “You wouldn’t be hiding from me!”

“It doesn’t matter, I have to do this, you don’t know what my mother is like!” she is yelling now.

"I would if you would just explain it to me!” She shouts back, just as loud.

Amity turns away from her, shaking. She hates this, hates how angry she is, hates her mother, and that Luz can’t just let this go. Just this once, she wished she didn’t care so much.  

Luz frowns. This wasn’t at all how she had wanted this to go. She takes a breath, calming herself.

“Hey, it’s okay… maybe I don’t get it…” Luz starts quietly and reaches out a hand towards Amity’s shaking shoulder. “But my mom…”

Amity is just so frustrated by everything she spins around to face her surprised girlfriend and snaps:

“Stop, your right, you don’t get it and your mom isn’t here!“

Brown eyes go wide and the hurt couldn’t be clearer.

Just like that, all her frustration drains out of her and she wants nothing more than to take the words back, pull them back and swallow the vile things before they leave her mouth, but she can’t. They’re out there now and she has to live with that.

Live with the deafening silence that fills the empty classroom as she and Luz stare back at each other with wide eyes, gold filled with horror and brown with shock and hurt

Her stomach drops into her feet as Luz’s lips begin to tremble and her eyes turn glassy.

She wants to say something, anything, but for the life of her, she can’t get her mouth to form the words.

Luz bursts, choking on a sob before she turns and runs, wrenching the door open. It slams against the wall, the bang echoing through the room as she flees down the hall.

"Luz!” Amity calls finally able to make her body respond and she runs after her, but Luz is fast, much faster then Amity realized as she bursts out of the schools front doors in time to see the other girl vanishing into the woods at the edge of the school grounds, she stops at the bottom of the steps, helplessly watching her girlfriend disappear from sight amid the trees.

“Amity!?” She looks to see Gus and Willow, standing at the edge of the steps looking at her with concerned faces. No doubt they had seen Luz run by sobbing.

“What happened!?” Willow asks.

“What did you do!?” Gus accuses, pointing a finger at her and glaring.

‘I…” she stammers, then bites her lip and after a long minute trying to form coherent thoughts, she slowly explains what happened. The two friends’ faces change from shock to outrage and alarm by the time she’s done.

“Why would you say that?!” Willow is all but shouting at her as Gus crosses his arms and glares as if she didn’t already feel bad about what she’d said to Luz.

“I don’t know!” she wails. “It was stupid and cruel and I don’t know! I didn’t mean to, I was just frustrated, she wouldn’t drop it and it just came out…” She buried her face in her hands miserably.

Willow is pinching the bridge of her nose beneath her glasses. She knows what she’s about to say is going to make Amity feel so much worse, but it needs to be said.

“You don’t know how cruel…,” she starts and Amity is looking at her with worried eyes at the miserable tone of her voice. “Summer is over Amity, Luz was supposed to go home almost two weeks ago…,” she trails off and Amity’s mind shifts gears, spinning into overdrive as she takes in the meaning of those words, understanding slapping her in the face.

“Oh… oh, Titan, no!” She covers her mouth with her hands but the horror In her eyes is clear. In the midst of the cloudy haze of their blossoming relationship, Amity had lost track of the days.

Somewhere in the human world, a mother is desperately searching for her missing daughter and Luz knows this, Amity, Willow, and Gus know this, and Amity had only, no matter how unintentionally, dug the knife in deeper.

Her knees are on the verge of giving out and she drops on the bottom step before they can buckle of their own accord.

“Why am I so terrible!” Amity shouts, reaching up to pull at her hair, shame is the only thing she can feel and it makes bile threaten to rise up her throat; she thinks she’s about to be sick as water pools in the corners of her eyes.

Willow sighs and kneels down on the ground in front of her, thinking about what to say.

“You’re not terrible, Amity,” she said slowly. “I know you didn’t mean it and I’m sure Luz knows it to…”

“I hurt her…” Amity whimpers, and she’s never been so disappointed in herself as she is at this moment, knowing that she’s hurt the one person she cares about more than anything.

Willow and Gus share a look before turning back to the girl cracking too pieces in front of them.

“You can still fix this, Amity.” Willow reaches up and lays a comforting hand on the trembling girl’s shoulder. “You need to talk to her, now.” Willow impresses the urgency upon her.

She nods, wiping away the tears that are threatening to fall and she stands.

“I gotta go…” she takes off toward the owl house without another word.

When she’s finally standing in front of the house she’s panting, having run all the way.

She takes a moment to get her breath back before walking up to knock on the door. Hooty is strangely quiet as he looks at her from his place in the door.

After a moment it opens and the owl lady is standing there looking at her with a frown.

“Is Luz here? she asks, trying not to cower as Eda looks down at her.

Eda simply regards her for another few seconds before saying anything.

“Yeah, ran through here crying. Your doing, I take it?” It’s not really a question.

“Can I talk to her…, please?” She’ll beg if she has to. She has to make this right.

Eda continues to stare at her for the longest few seconds of Amity’s life before she steps aside and Amity shoots through the door and up the stairs, not even acknowledging King or Lilith sitting on the couch.

Luz’s door is closed but she can hear her quiet muffled crying through the door and it tears at her heart. She lifts her hand to knock but hesitates, and swallows, but her mouth is dry.

Finally, she taps on the door and the cries quiet.

“Not now, Eda…” her voice is quiet and it cracks. Amity takes hold of the handle, gripping it tightly before pushing it open.

It’s dim in the room, stray beams of light are streaming through the drawn curtains, just enough that she can see.

Luz is curled up on her bed, facing away from her.

She must have heard the door open.

“I just wanna be alone, Eda,” she choked quietly.

Amity licks her dry lips.

“Luz”

The girl goes still before her cries pick up again, though she’s trying to muffle them.

Amity’s feet are heavy as she walks across the room, but hesitates at the bedside, not sure what to do with herself.

Finally, she settles for kneeling on the floor, so her face is level with Luz, hands holding onto the edge of the mattress. The old, worn wood bites into her knees but she ignores it.

“Luz…, I am so sorry,” she finally says. “I didn’t mean to say that… or to yell at you… I was just frustrated and I know that’s no excuse for it, I just…” she chokes back her own tears. “I’m sorry, I’m just so sorry.” It’s all she can say as she stares at her girlfriend’s quaking back, tears dripping down her cheeks. Her head drops and she clenches her eyes shut as more tears fall, dripping off her chin to the floor, leaving little wet circles in the dry wood.

She stays right there for several long minutes before the bed shifts and she looks up.

Luz has rolled over to face her, staring back at her with wet, red-rimmed eyes.

She’s still crying as she holds up an arm and Amity stares back at her with wide eyes.

“C'mere,” she croaks and Amity scrambles into the bed, wedging one of her arms between Luz and the mattress to squeeze her close, burying her face into her chest.

Luz’s grip on her is just as tight as she nuzzles her face into bright green hair.

They just lay there for a while as their tears slow, eyes closed

They don’t hear the Clawthorne sisters outside the door.

“Edalyn!” Lilith hisses as she follows her sister down the hall to Luz’s room. “Do you honestly think they’re in there making out again?!” She asks with quiet outrage.

“After last week I’m just checking!” she hisses back. “They know the rules, door open!” she says quietly.

Lilith rolls her eyes, scowling. “Luz was in tears!”

“I know. Do you know how many crying people I’ve 'comforted’?” The younger finger quotes and Lilith’s scowl only intensifies; for multiple reasons.

“Do you really think so lowly of Amity?” she growls.

“No, of course not, but I need to check on my kid!” Eda growls, looking at Lilith over her shoulder. The elder only frowns but says nothing else.

She’s silent when she turns the door handle and opens it just a couple of inches to peek inside. the first thing she sees of course is the two teenagers curled up together on the bed, and she’s just about to throw the door open when she hears it.

Crying.

Both of them are huddled together on the bed crying.

She closes the door as silently as she opened it and backs away.

“Well?” Lilith asks lowly and Eda just shakes her head.

“Leave 'em be,” she says as they walk back down the hall.

When the crying has stopped the two are just laying there quietly, absorbing each other’s warmth, still sniffling on occasion as Luz runs her fingers through Amity’s hair while the other clenches and unclenches her hands in the fabric of Luz’s shirt.

Finally, Amity finds the will to speak.

“I lost track of the days…,” she starts quietly. “I completely forgot when you were supposed to go back…”

Luz hums.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Amity finally finds the courage to ask.

Luz just shrugs, frowning into Amity’s hair.

“I didn’t want anyone to worry about me. I especially didn’t want you to worry about me. Worrying about it isn’t going to fix it…,” she trails off.

Amity makes a frustrated sound in her throat and pulls back just enough so they can look at each other. Both their eyes are red and puffy.

“That’s not how this works, Luz! I’m going to worry about you whether you want me to or not, that’s how love works!” She’s more than aware of the hypocrisy of her words as they come out of her mouth, but more so as those deep brown eyes lock with hers, but she goes on. “I want to be there for you, even if I can’t do anything, I want you to be able to lean on me.”

“Then why won’t you let me be there for you?” she shoots back and Amity flinches. The words hold no anger, just sad confusion.

“I…,” Amity sighs. She’s been thinking about this too and has finally come to the answer. “I don’t know how…” her voice is so soft Luz barely hears it. “I’m a Blight… I’m not supposed to need anyone. I should be strong enough on my own.” She closes her eyes, unable to stare into Luz’s any longer, she can’t bear whatever she might find there.

“That’s stupid.”

Her eyes shoot open to look at Luz, who is frowning. She looks angry but Amity realizes it’s not directed at her as she presses her forehead against hers.

“Everyone needs help sometimes, no matter what their name is, and… we’re supposed to be there to help each other, no matter what, that’s what this is.” Her grip on Amity tightens. “Like you said, that’s what love is. Us against the world, but you have to let me, Amity.” Her voice is thick with raw emotion.

Luz is getting blurry as tears fill Amity’s eyes again and her fingers dig into Luz’s shirt in a death grip. Luz is smiling at her sadly as they begin to drip down her cheeks to the bed. She nods shakily.

“I know…,” she hiccups.

“You said I don’t understand. So explain it to me,” she breathes, and Amity sniffles. “Please, mi amor. Tell me.” Luz whispers.

So she does.

They lay there a long time, so long, the sunlight in the room disappears, casting the room in darkness as Amity explains exactly what it’s like growing up in Blight Manor, with parents that are too busy most of the time to even remember they have children unless it’s convenient to them. With a distant father who is usually too busy to spend time with his family or know what is going on and a mother who when she has the time, uses it to try and sculpt all her children into perfectly painted figurines for her to display to their friends and acquaintances at parties.

Nevermind that the paint just hides the many chips and cracks beneath.

Luz only holds her all the tighter the longer they lay there and her heart aches the more Amity speaks as she realizes that Willow and green hair dye are only the tip of an iceberg lodged in her girlfriend’s heart.

“Oh, Amity,” Luz breathes, holding her as tight as she can without crushing her. “I’m sorry,” she finally says when Amity is finished. “I should have left it alone…”

Amity shakes her head

“No…, I should have talked to you about this instead of just trying to ignore it,” she sighs “I know you, Luz. I know how much you care and want to help… I love that about you… I guess part of me just didn’t want you to know what a mess I am,” she mumbles, gold eyes sliding to look anywhere but Luz. She squeaks as Luz’s grip on her becomes crushing.

“You’re not!” she growls, anger burns in her belly like she’s swallowed fire. She’s never felt such intense hatred before as she feels at Amity’s mom right now. “You’re amazing and I love you so much.” She squeezes harder still. “And what your parents do isn’t your fault,” she asserts.

“Luz, too tight…,” Amity squeaks.

“Sorry, sorry!” Luz smiles sheepishly and relaxes her death grip on Amity, who can finally take a full breath. “Really, though. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed. When you tell me to leave something alone I need to listen…,” she says with a frown, which makes Amity frown.

She draws her hands back from around Luz’s back and wedges them between them to wrap her fingers around her neck, thumbs brushing her cheeks.

“And I need to learn that I can rely on you, no matter what,” she says and Luz smiles, making her own lips pull up.

“Always, mi amor.” she affirms, leaning into Amity’s touch.

Amity closes the incrementally small distance between the two to press a soft kiss to her girlfriend’s smiling mouth.

When she releases her she sighs happily but exhausted.

“We’ve been here a long time… you probably need to get home.” Luz frowns, not at all happy about having to send Amity home now that she knows exactly what that home is like.

The twins can only help so much, they too are just teenagers in the same boat as their sister, even though it seems to Luz that shielding Amity from as much as they can is their priority; for which she could never be more grateful.

Thankfully Amity just shakes her head.

“They left for the weekend this morning… it’s just Ed and Em at home,” she says.

“Then stay,” Luz says without even having to think about it.

Amity jerks up to look at her, eyes blown wide and cheeks pinking.

“I… don’t think Eda will be okay with that after what happened last week” the pink turns red.

“She will if I explain It to her…,” she says. Amity looks unsure of that. “We need adults in our corner, even if they’re both wanted criminals.” She grins and Amity can’t help but giggle at her. Even when it’s dark, Luz has a way of lighting up her world.

“Okay” she moves to sit up but Luz pushes her back down with a hand on her shoulder.

“You stay here, I can do it, amor,” Luz assures her. Amity wants to argue, but she feels drained after explaining it all to Luz, so she just nods.

Luz pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth and crawls off the bed, moving to the door.

Amity bites her lip before calling out.

“Hurry back, querida.”

Luz freezes and Amity grins, knowing even without being able to see her face as it’s turned away and dark that Luz is blushing.

After a second she just looks over her shoulder and smiles.

“Siempre volveré a ti, mi amor.” She says before opening the door and disappearing down the hall, leaving Amity confused but flustered.

She pulls out her scroll and calls her sister who picks up on the second ring.

“Mittens, are you okay, where are you?” She sounds worried and Amity feels a little guilty about that.

“I’m fine, Em. I’m at Luz's…”

“Oooh, and what are you two up to I wonder…?” she says with a knowing lilt, but she does not have the energy to be angry at her older sisters teasing.

“Emira…” the tired and almost sad way she says her sister’s name makes the sound on the other end go quiet for a moment.

“What’s wrong?” Emira sounds serious now, and with a weary sigh she explains the last few hours to the twins after Emira has put her scroll on speaker, which includes finally telling the twins why she’s been dying her hair green for years; they don’t like it. Not one bit.

After about twenty minutes Luz peeks her head in the bedroom door and seeing her on her scroll, gives her a thumbs-up as she walks quietly into the room to sit on the end of the bed.

“Titan, Amity…” she hears her brother say quietly.

“I’m going to stay with Luz tonight, I’ll be back in the morning and we can talk about it later,” she says before he or Emira can say anything else.

There’s a long moment of silence and Amity can just see the two of them, looking at each other having one of the silent conversations they’re famous for.

“Alright, we’ll see you tomorrow. We love you!” The two chorus at the end and Amity rolls here eyes, but smiles.

“I love you too.” The scroll beeps as the call ends and Luz reaches out to grab her hand and squeezes reassuringly.

“Eda said we’re good to go for tonight and that dinner is ready.”

It isn’t until she says this that Amity realizes how absolutely starving she is.

“That sounds nice.” She nods.

Luz grins and leads her downstairs, hand still threaded through hers.

Eda looks up as they walk into the kitchen.

“Have a seat, kids.” She motions to the table where Lilith and King are already sitting, waiting.

They do, and they all smile, and for once Amity is glad that Lilith is here.

Maybe she hasn’t forgiven her yet, but she’s trying, and after all this talk about her mother, she’s glad for anyone else.

She gives Lilith a small smile and the woman seems surprised, but it’s quickly replaced with a reassuring look.

When dinner finished and everything is cleaned up, Amity insists on helping, the two head for the stairs only to be stopped by Eda, poking her head out of the kitchen to look at the two as they start up the stairs.

“Luz” her mentor calls, and they both turn back to look at her.

“You two can sleep up there, but that door stays open, no funny business, or this is the last time anyone stays here; got it?” They both turn bright red but Luz nods.

“No funny business,” she squeaks. she’s not going to even attempt to argue that nothing is going to happen, she just agrees; not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Good. Night, kids.” Eda grins and the two hurry up the stairs, mumbling to each other and faces red.

[appalachianwiine]

Swim Chapter 9 - A Friend

Chapter 9

And if it feels like it's already over

Lean in closer, rest your bones

You've got a friend when times get mean

Yeah, in the meantime I'm on your team

“In the Meantime” - Randall Kent

The day passed in an odd sense of time for Carol, while the kids and her classes kept her busy enough the moments between periods and over lunch seemed to stretch on forever. The opening and closing of the heavy classroom doors shoved and yanked by teenagers all too ready to leave class brought back clear memories of heavy hospital doors being swung open and the room filling with people. Every time a phone would chime or the office would call she’d be dragged back to memories of the nurses calling in codes and shouting for doctors.

3 o’clock came and went and instead of staying after to grade papers or work on paperwork she started cleaning up the classroom to leave. To get to the hospital by 430 she needed to be out of here by 4. She moved robotically through the motions of wiping down the desks and straightening the textbooks. Her mind was with Lydia and Daryl now.

She knew all too well the feeling of being in one of those rooms, time lost to the hospital. Morning, noon, and night change to first shift, second shift, third shift. Hours turning to IV drip times and vitals checks. It could crush a person alone like that and Daryl seemed to think he was very alone. She got the sense he had been for a long time and it worried her. It reminded her of Leah and Matthew really, they’d come from a small farm in northern Georgia and despite all of Carol’s pushing and offering and turning up Leah had never been friendly. Even Ezekiel hadn’t managed to get more then a few words at a time from the woman and he could get just about anybody to talk. She didn’t want to see Daryl and Lydia facing the same sort of isolation.

Carol stopped to pick up coffee for her and Daryl on the way to the hospital. It wasn’t a lot but sometimes a warm drink that wasn’t crappy hospital coffee could make a difference. Pulling into the hospital parking lot she spots a familiar face. The dark haired woman and little boy who’d come to see Lydia and Daryl a few days ago.

“Excuse me!” Carol calls, hurrying to catch up. The woman turns around. “Sorry sorry are you going to see Daryl and Lydia?”

“Yes.” The woman nods. “You must be Carol, from the group. I’m Dr. Grimes.”

“Yeah, Carol.” Carol nods. “Dr. Grimes, it’s nice to met you. Have you known Daryl for long?”

“Seven years almost. Carl was just a baby when my husband and Daryl started working together.” Dr. Grimes says. “I’ve been Lydia’s pediatrician since Daryl adopted her four years ago.”

“Oh.” Carol frowns, “Then you -”

“Caught the cancer?” Dr. Grimes nods. “Yeah, something was wrong, I pushed the lab to expedite the sample, and I’m glad I did it but I have to say that wasn’t ever a call I expected to make in my career. Especially not to someone I know so personally like Daryl. It’s the worst phone call I’ve ever made.”

“I can imagine.” Carol nods. “But I’m glad he has friends behind him, he needs them.”

“Well maybe you could tell him to call every now and then.” Dr. Grimes mutters, pressing the elevator door button. “He nearly gave us a heart attack the first time he called. It was nearly a full 24 hours after he came to the hospital.”

“It’s overwhelming.” Carol frowns. “Learning your kid is that sick, I’m sure he didn’t mean to worry you. He’s a nice guy.”

“He’s too nice.” Dr. Grimes sighs. “Carl step away from the doors or they won’t close.” She pulls the little boy back a step or two by his shirt. “Every time i call it’s vague answers and I know he doesn’t want to worry us but still…”

“He doesn’t want to be a burden.” Carol nods. “It’s - it’s pretty common in this world. Most people pull away when they learn you or your child has cancer. And the ones that don’t - we don’t want to burden the people who stay.”

“He’s always been like that.” Dr. Grimes sighs. “I just wish I knew how to help so he didn’t have to ask.”

“I can help with that.” Carol offers. “If you want.”

“Really?” Dr. Grimes says, ushering Carl out of the elevator. “What can we do.”

“Well - right now… everything is kind of managed for them, the doctors and nurses tell him how to clean, when to eat and sleep, what medications to take when.” Carol explains as they begin the walk down the hall. “When they get home, it’s - it’s going to be a lot scarier. Because then everything is on Daryl. If you’d like my help I’d like to help prepare the house for when he and Lydia get back. Pill organizers, cleaning supplies, wound care, that sort of thing.”

“Okay.” Dr. Grimes says. “Yeah, of course we’ll help.”

“Moooommmmm” Carl whines. “You’re being slow.”

“Alright, alright.” Dr. Grimes rolls her eyes good naturedly. “Sorry about him, this is the most he and Lydia have been apart in a long time. They were in the same class at school, and they were supposed to go to camp together this summer.”

“It’s fine.” Carol chuckles, picking up the pace slightly.

Lydia’s room has a white board attached to the door reading;

LYDIA DIXON - 8 YRS

IV VINCRISTINE

“Mom what’s vin - vin -” Carl frowns. “That?”

“It’s medicine baby.” Dr. Grimes says. “To help Lydia get better, but it might make her feel sick so we need to be quiet and calm when we go in okay?”

“Okay.” Carl nodded solemnly, reaching for his moms hand.

Carol leans forward and knocks on the door.

“Come in.” A tired, gruff voice says.

Carol pushes the door open and holds it for Dr. Grimes and Carl to go in first. Lydia is curled up in a ball on Daryl’s lap, pale as a ghost and wrapped in a blanket.

“Carl!” Lydia mutters, moving off Daryls lap and holding her arms out. Carl looks up at his mom and she nudges him forward. That’s all it takes for him to rush over and embrace Lydia.

“Hey Daryl.” Carol smiles. “I brought you decent coffee.”

“Thank.” He mutters, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “T’ be hones I think I’m too tired t’ tell the decent stuff from the shit stuff.”

“Long night?” Carol asks.

“Yeah.” Daryl mutters. “Thanks fer comin’.”

“Of course.” She offers a supportive smile.

“How’s Carl an’ Judith?” Daryl asks turning to Dr. Grimes.

“Judith started walking, much to Shane’s horror. I sometimes forget this is the first baby he’s responsible for.” Dr. Grimes chuckles.

“Hey that’s a hell of a shock.” Daryl says. “Imagine getting a four year old and having no parenting experience.”

“You’re doing great.” Dr. Grimes says.

“Thanks Lori.” Daryl mutters. “So uh, you met Carol?”

“Yeah we ran into each other in the parking lot.” Carol nods. “So, how you holding up?”

“Um.” He glances at Lydia and Carl, who are now both wrapped in Lydia’s blanket on the end of the bed and whispering to each other. “It’s uh - it’s been a rough day. Henry and Ezekiel came by earlier, tha’ was nice. But It’s just kinda...”

“Numb?” Carol asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Daryl nods. “Numb. I was uh lookin’ at this binder and it’s - it’s like… it’s insane. I mean, three months in the hospital getting intensive chemotherapy. How do - how I even prepare for that?”

“You ask for help.” Lori whispers. “And you take it when it’s offered.”

“She’s right Daryl.” Carol says. “Those stays are impossibly hard when you’re on your own, so you let us help.”

Daryl didn’t look so sure about that, and next to her, Lori folded her arms. “Daryl Dixon. You’re not on your own anymore and trying to do it all on your own isn’t going to let you focus on Lydia. So you’re going to let us help. Got it?”

“Alright, alright.” Daryl runs a hand over his face.

“And right now you’re going to let us help by going down to the cafeteria with Carol and getting some real food.” Lori continues, looking over at Carol and raising an eyebrow. “Because if theres one thing you look like you could use right now it’s a good meal and an adult conversation.”

“I shouldn’t leave Lydia.” Daryl argues.

“She’s fine.” Lori insists. “She knows me, and she and Carl can watch a movie.”

“Lyd?” Daryl asks quietly. The little brunette turns back to look at her dad. “You okay if I go get some food with Ms. Carol?”

Lydia cocks her head and looks between the two of them. “I… I guess. You’ll come back?”

“Soon as I’m done.” Daryl nods, leaning over and kissing her hair.

“Okay.” Lydia nods.

“You two want to watch a movie?” Lori asks, motioning them out of the room.

Daryl lingers and Carol reaches out and touches his arm lightly. “Come on, they’ll be fine.”

Daryl doesn’t say a word until they’re out of the room. “Sorry about Lori she’s just -”

“She’s looking out for you.” Carol cuts him off. “I know it feels awful leaving her right now, but you have to take a minute to recharge too. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.”

“You don’t have -”

“I’m doing it.” Carol insists. “We can go over that if you want.” She nods at the binder still in his hands. “I uh, I know pretty well whats in there. I’m sure you have questions.”

“Oh.” He frowns at the folder. “Do uh - do we have to?”

“No.” Carol says, stepping into the elevator. “We can just chat if you want. Try to get your mind off of everything in there.”

Fifteen minutes later she and Daryl are sat with a soda and sandwich each at the back of the cafeteria. Daryl seems to realize he’s hungry and inhales half the sandwich without a word, he pauses abruptly, mayonnaise on his face and turns red.

“Sorry.” He mutters, reaching for a napkin. “I uh -”

“No need.” Carol smiles. “I’ve been there, any food you have eaten has been eaten in between what little sleep you’re getting.”

“Not gettin’ much ‘f either at the momen’.” Daryl mutters. “Lydia was up most of the nigh’ sick again. Probably will be again t’night. The only time she settles is when I hold her.”

“Yeah Sophia was like that.” Carol nods, taking a bite of her own sandwich.”

“I’m usually pretty strict ‘bout everyone sleepin’ in their own bed but I can’t bring myself t’ say no right now.”

“Sophia only slept with me when she was sick too.” Carol nods. “I was always bad at saying ‘no’ while she was sick, but they do need some semblance of structure and routine.”

“Yeah.” Daryl nods taking a swig of his coke. “Tha’s gonna be hard, I know when we get home an’ she’s safe an’ secure again she’s gonna lash out an’ stuff, but I’m gonna have a damn hard time keeping boundaries.”

“I did too.” Carol nods. “Sophia was processing a lot at her diagnosis - our living situation had changed, I left her dad, it was a nightmare.” Silence hangs between them. “Have they said when you’re going home?”

“Hopefully sometime next week.” Daryl mutters.

“Okay.” Carol nods. “Lori and I are going to get the house ready for you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Carol sighs. “You’ll need some things, medical supplies, pill organizers, hand sanitizer, bedding. Something I like to do for the families here is help get their house ready to be home again.”

“You don’-” He stops, seeming to take what they’d said earlier in. “Thanks Carol.”

“It’s why I’m here.” She says, taking a bite of her own sandwich. “No one was for Sophia and I and I’m not gonna let that happen to anyone.”

“Her dad a dick?” The blunt way he says it makes her raise her eyebrows. “Sorry.” He mutters sheepishly. “I uh - I shouldn’ ha-“

“It’s fine.” She says quickly. “He uh - he was yeah. I left because I thought he hurt our little girl.” The words tumble out before she can stop them and she blinks, stunned at herself. She never spoke of Ed. She never spoke of why she was single. She left it at messy divorce and that was that.

“Shit.” Daryl mutters.

“Yeah.” Carol nods.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “It ain’. Ain’ nothing I can say gonna make it okay neither.”

There’s that blunt honesty again. Harsh, but welcome. No ‘I’m so sorry that happened’ or ‘you’re so strong’ just ‘ain’ nothing I can say gonna make it okay neither.’

“You’re special victims yeah?” Carol asks.

“Yeah.” Daryl nods.

“So I guess you’ve seen some of that.” She nods.

“Yeah.”

Silence hangs between them again.

“Thanks.” He says. “Fer all yer doin’ fer Lydia an’ I.”

“You don’t need to thank me, I’ve walked this path before. A little closer then I’d like, so if you need anything or just want some adult conversation just call.” Carol says.

“I- yeah, I will.” Daryl nods. “I uh, didn’ mean t’ scare ya this mornin’ if I did. I jus’ - you’re the only person I could think of to call.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” She smiles, reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. “You’re a good dad Daryl, and you’re gonna get through this.” Her attempt at a reassuring smile falls a little flat, because this time she’s not telling the entire truth. He will get through it, but Lydia? She was a different story all together, one with possibilities no parent wants to face.

[freddiesaysalright]

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes - Chapter 5

Gwilym!Prince Charming x Reader

Summary: After losing your parents, your step-family makes your life impossible. That is, until Prince Gwilym holds a ball. It’s your one chance for everything to change.

Word Count: 4.1k

Tag List: @psychosupernatural, @someone-get-a-medic, @bensrhapsody, @deakyclicks, @crazylittlethingcalledobsession, @minigranger, @crazyweirdocalledfriday, @the-moving-finger-writes, @assembledherethevolunteers, @rose-writes-prose, @queenlover05, @26-7-49, @drowsebaby, @im-an-adult-ish, @queen-paladin, @rogerina-owns-me, @mirkwoodshewolf, @namelesslosers, @headl0ng, @captvianswaan, @folietracksix​, @baltimoresweethearts​, @killer-queen-87​, @haileymoreolikestupid, @itsametaphorgwil​, @misslolasworld​, @whitequeen-ofwillowgreen​

A/N: It’s the grand finale! Thank you again for all the lovely responses to this fic! I can’t believe I’m almost done with the Disney AUs already! also i barely proofread this because i was so excited to post it so if you see a typo no you didnt

Warning(s): brief descriptions of abuse

Moodboard

Prologue  Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4

Chapter 5 here we go!!!

Frank and his daughters came home about an hour after you did. You were already back in your servant clothes and waiting by the door. You took their cloaks and bags, and began hanging them on the rack in the main hall. 

“How was your night?” you asked politely. 

“It was a splendid evening, Y/N,” Frank answered. “More than you could ever hope for.”

“I’m sure it was,” you returned, holding back a smirk. If only he knew. 

“I’m relieved to see you have not stolen anything else from my wife’s closet,” he sneered.

You shook your head. “No, sir. I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve been thoroughly educated.”

“Very good,” he said, seeming displeased that he couldn’t goad you. 

But nothing could spoil this night. It was perfect. 

“Is there anything you need before going to bed?” you asked. 

“I’m fine, but you’ll of course help the girls get changed,” he said. 

You nodded again. “Absolutely.”

He watched you suspiciously as you followed your step sisters up the stairs. You were calm. Too calm. And you were humming, which you didn’t normally do. Plus the tune was something he had heard somewhere - but no event would have had you in attendance. His frown deepened. Something was up.

***

Gwilym returned to the palace two hours later, empty handed and broken-hearted. Rami and Ben were waiting on the steps for him, but as he walked up, he only shook his head. They sighed, disappointed for their friend. Thankfully, the remaining guests had all gone home. 

“Sorry, mate,” Ben said. 

“There was no sign of her?” Rami asked. 

“No,” Gwilym said. “Even the carriage tracks just seemed to disappear. It was like she just vanished.”

“So, all we’ve got to go on is the shoe?” Ben wondered, holding it up. 

Gwilym had only entrusted his best friends with it, and they had kept it from his father. 

“It’s made of glass,” Gwilym said. “Which means it only fits her.”

“So what are we gonna do?” Rami asked. “Try the shoe on every woman in the kingdom?”

“Only the single women,” Gwilym said, as if it were obvious.

Rami and Ben shared a surprised look. 

“I hope you’re joking,” Ben said. 

“Far from it,” Gwilym replied. “I’m going to find that girl, and I’m going to marry her.”

Rami sighed. “Very well, then. But let’s start in the morning.”

“Thank you both,” Gwilym said, relieved. They had every reason to leave now. Both had duties at home, and had done what was socially expected. With the ball over, there was no obligation to stay. “Really.”

“Of course we’re gonna help you,” Ben said. “But I’m with Rami. Starting tomorrow.”

“You guys go on up, I’ll be right behind you,” Gwilym insisted. 

His friends shrugged, but did as he requested and went inside. Gwilym remained, holding that glass piece of you carefully in the crook of his arm. He looked out into the night sky, hoping somehow you could feel his desperation. 

“I am coming for you, my darling,” he said quietly. 

***

You yawned as the sun peered into your room through your curtains. You were feeling unusually light this morning. Like you were still floating just above the ballroom floor. With a contented sigh, you stretched and forced yourself out of bed. Frank and the girls would be needing their breakfast soon, but you knew you had a little extra time today. They’d certainly have a bit of a lie in after the late night. 

You threw your dress and apron on. You did a spin around your room, giggling as you imagined Gwilym there with you. Then you had to slow to a stop. It was a fantasy, nothing more. One glorious night. But now it was time to return to reality and your true life. Still, you could cling to the dream for one morning.

Humming to yourself, you put the pot on to boil and began prepping plates for breakfast. You set a pan atop the stove to start some sausages when you heard the jingle of a bell. You looked at the wall. It was coming from Eleanor’s room, so you guessed she was up. You asked Elsie to start the food and went back upstairs to get your step sister dressed. When you reached the landing, you saw Frank emerging from his room, already dressed. 

“Good morning,” you said kindly. 

“Y/N, what did you get up to last night?” he asked. 

“Why, nothing, sir,” you said. “I cleaned up, as you instructed, changed clothes, and got a head start on some other chores. When those were done, I occupied myself by reading.”

He seemed skeptical. “I see. I hope you weren’t reading anything too fanciful. You mustn’t fill your mind with...unrealistic dreams and fantasies.”

Your brow furrowed with confusion. What was he implying?

“No, sir,” you said. “I try to keep everything practical.”

“Good,” he said. “Now get to work.”

You nodded, a bit perplexed, but continued into Eleanor’s room.

***

In the morning, Gwilym was the first up. He hardly slept at all. He wrote a decree for his father to send out, that he and Ben and Rami would be making the rounds through town and the countryside to find the owner of the missing shoe. They would begin today, and search until the prince had found his lost love.

To his shock, the king agreed to this. He read over it at the breakfast table, nodding at each point. The ladies were to try on the shoe and if it fit, it must be the girl who Gwilym met at the ball.

“Very well,” he said. “You’ll begin today?”

“Yes,” Gwilym said. “I want to find her as soon as possible.”

“Alright, son,” the king replied. He looked at the prince and offered a sincere smile. “And best of luck.”

Gwilym beamed. “Thank you, Father!”

And so, they began their search within the palace, where the out of town noble guests were staying. Gwilym had his doubts about those girls because he met them before you even came through the door. But he knew everyone deserved a fair chance. When the shoe fit none of those women, they made their way into town, with a few guards along for protection. 

***

Frank received a letter from the palace early in the morning. He looked it over and you saw a flash of...something cross his face. You couldn’t place the emotion though. It seemed almost like a glimmer of hope. His eyes glanced over at you before quickly turning to his daughters. 

“Girls, get yourselves looking nice,” he said. “We’ll be having visitors from the palace this afternoon.”

“The palace?” you questioned, without meaning to, but you could hardly help yourself. 

“Yes, but that isn’t any of your business, Y/N,” he snapped. “Get my daughters ready and then proceed with your chores as usual. You are not to make your presence known while the visitors are here.”

You nodded apologetically. As you made your way back to the kitchen, you wondered if the visitors Frank referred to could be Gwilym and his father. Was he looking for you? Something in your heart told you he was, but you hardly even dared to hope. Such a thing was the stuff of dreams. And yet, the ball seemed like a dream too, but it was as real as the tea kettle you carried. You began devising a plan. 

As the day wore on, you completed your chores quickly. You wanted to prepare yourself as well. Your gut was telling you Gwilym was on his way to take you away from here. And you had all the proof you needed in that slipper that was hidden beneath your bed. So when you finished sweeping the entrance hall, you ran up to your room to get it. Only, when you opened your door, you came to an abrupt stop. Frank was sitting on your bed, holding the slipper by the heel. One wrong move of his fingers and it would fall, risking a break. 

“Well, well, well,” he said darkly. “I had a feeling you had made your way to the ball. You’ve been far too dreamy to have had as dull a night as you claim.”

Your heart rate quickened. 

“That’s mine,” you said, feeling childish as the words left your mouth. “It was given to me.”

Frank laughed humorlessly. “Oh, likely story. I suppose this is another one of my wife’s things you stole.”

“You cannot stop me from this,” you said, ignoring the accusation. “The prince loves me.”

“Against his better judgement, I believe that’s true,” he admitted.

You blinked, surprised at your step father’s nonchalance about this. Did that mean he would accept it? No. There had to be something else he was getting at. 

“As it is, though,” he said. “You’re spoken for.”

You frowned as your stomach dropped. 

“What are you talking about?” you asked. 

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he said, getting to his feet and straightening his jacket with his free hand. “And mine alone.”

A chill ran down your spine. Was he really saying what you thought he was saying?

“I’m not a slave, Frank,” you said. “I am free to do this.”

“I do not intend to make you my slave,” he said. “I intend to make you my wife.”

Your body went rigid as the blood ran out of your face. The very idea made your stomach churn. The thought of being his wife, sharing his bed, bearing his children...you nearly heaved right there in front of him.

“No,” you said firmly. “I won’t.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” he said. 

“It’s sick!” you cried. “I’m your daughter!”

“Step daughter,” he said. “I will have this estate, Y/N. You will do for me what your mother could not. My son will be the true and rightful heir, and start a new line.”

“Are you not happy with the children you have?” you wondered, completely rocked to your core. “Why do you insist on a son?”

“Sons are the only useful offspring,” he scoffed. “Daughters are just mouths to feed until you can marry them off, and even then, what’s theirs will never belong to their family. It belongs to their husbands. Well, I am not going to lose everything because my previous wives were too weak to give me what I want.”

“I will not,” you refused again. “I’ll run away.”

“And leave behind your home?” he taunted. “The one your father built so lovingly with your mother?”

“It will no longer be a home to me if I am trapped in such a marriage,” you said. 

“I’m not giving you a choice, Y/N,” he sighed. “I’ll keep eyes on you everywhere, I’ll lock you in your room, whatever it takes. Or, you can submit to me now and become mistress of this house as you were born to be.”

“I’ll die before I marry you,” you spat. “I’ll die before I bear any child of yours. I’ll -”

“No need to go on,” he said. He was being alarmingly calm about this. “I know the rest. But you will marry me, Y/N. You will have my son, and you’ll do it all without complaint. Just as you have with everything I have ever given you.”

You blinked again. So everything he’d put you through was a test? A way to manipulate you into obeying his every command? He was...grooming you? Your stomach gave another lurch.

“But first,” he said. “We will need to squash your dreams of Prince Gwilym.”

“What do you -”

He cut off your question by hurling your slipper into the wall. It shattered with a crash, which drowned out your anguished cry. You sank to your knees, hopeless. 

“There now,” he said. “I’m only teaching you the harsh lesson of reality.” 

Tears fell freely down your cheeks. You heard loud knocking at the front door, but barely registered it. 

“That’ll be him,” Frank said. 

You snapped to your senses and started to rise for one last desperate escape attempt, but Frank was faster. You felt the blow of his palm against your cheek before you even saw it coming. You fell to the ground, face throbbing. You wanted to scream, or cry, or swing back at him, but you were completely numb from the shock. You couldn’t feel anything but the sting on your skin.

“Do not resist me again, Y/N,” Frank warned. 

With that, he walked out of your room, and you heard him turn the lock. You were trapped. You curled into a ball on your floor and wept quietly. 

***

Gwilym was relieved when the door finally opened. This was the last house of the day. He saw a man there, whose smile was...unconvincing to say the least. He bowed. 

“We are happy to see you, Prince Gwilym,” he said. “I am Frank Tarleton, and I believe one of my daughters is the girl you’re searching for.”

Gwilym raised a brow. “But you don’t know which?”

Frank blinked, taken aback, and then laughed an empty sort of laugh. “Good one, your highness. Please, come in.”

Gwilym looked at Ben and Rami who both shrugged. They followed Frank inside and into the drawing room, where two young women sat on the couch, looking nervous. Ben explained everything, with Frank nodding eagerly along. Something about the man struck Gwilym as slimy. He was too polite, too eager to please, and it seemed even his own daughters were made uncomfortable by him. Gwilym sighed. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled. 

He was beginning to lose hope. Who was left, if not these girls? And yet, neither of them struck him as the one he was looking for.

***

You listened carefully at your door, not daring to make any more noise. If Frank returned, he might do worse than strike you. But you could listen to what was happening downstairs. 

It was a bit maddening to hear, though. To be so close to Gwilym now, and yet so far. To be a prisoner now in your own home was worse than being a servant. And the worst part was seeing the proof of your identity lying in pieces beside you. You felt like the slipper. Broken. Completely in pieces. Like your dreams too. 

You heard the front door open and close again. You went to your window and watched Gwilym mount his horse, his friends on either side of him, and trot away toward town. Was that truly the last time you would see your love?

It couldn’t be. Now, you could hear Frank’s familiar footsteps coming back up the stairs. You knew you had to make a break for it as soon as he opened the door. You braced yourself. You had no time to pack anything, no time to grab money or valuables. You would have to break away with nothing but the clothes on your back and a prayer. 

You watched the doorknob turn, feeling as if everything was in slow motion. It creaked slowly open and Frank’s body appeared in the door frame. He reached for you, but you ducked under his arm, darted down the hall, flew down the stairs, and straight out the front door. 

You ran. As fast as your legs could carry you, not even daring to look back to see if Frank was in pursuit. You just hurtled toward town, hoping that anyone could help you. You would give up your home, and everything you knew - you would even give up your life - before marrying Frank. You had to escape, even if it meant becoming a beggar. 

You burst through the back door of the tavern, tears streaming down your cheeks, and chest heaving. Flying through the kitchen, you threw open the doors to the dining area and found Zelda behind the bar. She looked up at the commotion you were making, took in the sight of you, and her brow furrowed. 

“Zelda, please!” you cried, frantic. “I need help!”

You went to her, and she took you in her arms. 

“Y/N, what’s -”

She didn’t get to finish her question before Frank came barreling through. He must not have been far behind. You let out a scream. Zelda pushed you behind her and you cowered at her back. She put her arms out to shield you further. 

“Zelda, remove yourself if you know what’s good for you,” Frank threatened. 

“Don’t, Zelda, please!” you begged. “Don’t let him take me! He’s going to force me to marry him! Please!”

She stiffened in front of you. “Oh, no you don’t, Frank. I will not stand by and let you do this.”

“Stand back or you’re fired,” he warned. 

“I don’t care,” she shot back. “I won’t let you have her!”

“I’m afraid it’s not up to you,” he returned harshly. 

He grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to move her, but Zelda was a stout woman with considerable strength. She resisted him, taking hold of his biceps and forcing him back several steps. Her advantage was clearly gained by the element of surprise. 

“Run, Y/N!” she cried. “Get out of here!” 

Panicked, you leapt over the counter and wrenched the door open. You threw yourself out of it, trying to ignore the sounds of the struggle behind you. You darted into the street and sprinted as fast as you could away from the tavern. You had no idea where you would go from here - but you could not stay and be forced into a lifetime of Frank. 

You glanced back. To your horror, you saw that Frank was emerging from the tavern and had spotted you right away. With a gasp, you turned back around and sped up. Only, as you turned, you didn’t realize what was in front of you. You ran right smack into a man’s back. The force of the collision put you on your rear in the dirt. 

Wincing, you looked up. Your jaw dropped. It was Gwilym!

He met your gaze and froze as well. For a moment, you were both back at the ball, when he’d come up to you on the stairs and asked you to dance. He recognized you instantly. 

“It’s you,” he whispered. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but a sudden stinging on your scalp caused you to cry out instead. Frank had fisted his hand around your hair and dragged you to your feet. 

“Your highness!” he gasped, noticing Gwilym. “I do apologize. My servant here has forgotten her manners.” He looked at you and continued through gritted teeth. “And her place.”

He yanked your hair on the last word for extra emphasis. Gwilym’s chest tightened as he watched Frank manhandle you. He briefly imagined himself drawing his sword and plunging it right into Frank’s chest, but he refrained. 

“Release her,” he ordered. 

Frank looked at the prince, bewildered. 

“I’m sorry?” he questioned.

Gwilym’s expression darkened. “I told you to release her.”

Frank hesitated. 

“Now!” Gwilym shouted. 

You relaxed when Frank finally let go. Your scalp still itched with soreness. You desperately wanted to throw yourself into Gwilym’s arms but you were still afraid of what Frank might do. You did take a cautious step back. 

“Your highness, I’m dealing with an unruly servant girl,” Frank said. “But she is mine and I may do with her as I please.”

Your lip trembled and you shook your head. 

“That’s not true,” you sobbed. “You know it’s not, I’m your step daughter and you’re forcing me to -”

“SILENCE!” Frank roared, and raised his hand.

You shrieked and covered your face with your arms. But the blow didn’t come. You peeked out, lowering your shield just barely. Gwilym had taken hold of Frank’s wrist. Rami and Ben, who you just noticed being present, both had their hands on their swords. Now was your chance. 

“Don’t let him take me back,” you begged again. “Please, your highness, don’t let him.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Zelda trotting up the street. She halted when she took in the scene before her. 

“Sir Tarleton,” Gwilym said, releasing Frank’s arm. “We were at your home and I asked you if you had any more women residing there besides your daughters. You lied.”

“It wasn’t a lie, really,” Frank argued. “Just an omission. You see, there’s no way this girl was at the ball when I forbid her from going.”

“If that’s true, then you are still in trouble,” Gwilym said. “All eligible maidens were to attend.”

“She’s only a servant -”

“I know you’re lying, Tarleton,” Gwilym interrupted. “Now stand down.”

Frank stepped away from the prince, shooting glances between him and you. Gwilym turned to Ben.

“The slipper please, Ben,” he said. 

“No!” Frank protested, starting toward you, but Rami stopped him.

Ben handed Gwilym the slipped you’d left behind on the staircase. You wiped your cheeks, clearing away the dirt and tears, and held your prince’s gaze. You smiled at him.

“I knew you were the girl from the tavern,” he said gently. “I knew I recognized you.”

“And the cemetery,” you reminded him.

“Yes,” he chuckled. “I remember.”

“How did someone like you even notice someone like me?” you wondered, amazed. 

“Because you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever met,” he told you simply. “Inside and out. And from that moment in the cemetery I saw what you truly are - a princess.”

You flushed, looking bashfully at the ground. 

“I’m not really a -”

“Maybe not by birth,” he said. “But in heart.”

You met his eyes again. Those eyes that from the first time you saw them, told you the kindness of this man’s soul. 

He knelt down onto one knee, holding out the slipper. It made you ache for the lost one Frank smashed, but you were relieved that you had left one behind at the palace. You toed off your boot and raised your leg. Ben stepped closer to help you balance and you shot him a grateful look. Then, you slid your delicate foot into the glass slipper. It fit perfectly. 

Gwilym’s face lit up like a firework. Ben let go of your hand as Gwilym laughed, took you up in his arms and spun you around. You giggled with joy as well. He lowered you gently to the ground.

“Now, will you please tell me your name?” he asked. 

You chuckled. “It’s Y/N.” 

“Y/N,” he repeated, and cupped your cheek in his palm. “How beautiful.”

“No!” Frank shouted again, and this time Rami had to grab him to stop him. “No! You cannot take her from me!”

“The girl does not belong to you,” Gwilym said sternly. He turned and faced Frank. “I see very clearly now that you have been mistreating her. She is free to choose whatever she likes.”

“I’m her father!” Frank insisted. 

“Step father,” you said. Then you looked up at Gwilym. “I choose you, my love.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replied. “Sir Tarleton, you’ll be taken into custody.”

Frank’s eyes went wide as the guards moved to take him from Rami. They clapped iron rings around his wrists. He seemed too shocked to struggle. 

“Take him to the dungeon to await trial for his crimes,” Gwilym instructed. He faced you again. “And you, my darling, may come with me to the palace.”

“For how long?” you wondered. 

“Forever, if you wish it,” he assured you. 

“I could hardly wish for more,” you said happily. 

He took your hand and helped you onto his horse. Together, you headed for safety, and building a life together. In true love.

***

You and Gwilym married as soon as possible. The whole kingdom was thrilled at the wedding. Frank was tried and convicted for his abuse, but would not serve a life sentence, so instead of prison, he was banished from the kingdom. Even so, early in your marriage to Gwilym, you frequently had nightmares where your stepfather returned. 

Gwilym was as loving and patient a partner as you could hope for. He let you talk through your trauma, and he made sure to never do anything that caused you fear. His support helped you to truly heal. 

Your step sisters had to move from the estate, which was now yours entirely. Eleanor and Miranda were surprisingly happy to take over their father’s first business, the tavern, which they ran successfully with Zelda. They both eventually found merchant husbands and lived peacefully, and you were genuinely happy for them.  

But the greatest joy Gwilym ever gave you was your children. You had two boys and two girls, and they were the light of the whole kingdom’s eye - but especially the king, who lived a long and healthy life with his grandchildren. You had no other description for your life besides happily ever after.

[egelantier]

Yuletide Recs

Having had two days of more or less nothing but reading fics, I come bearing recs!

First of all, my amazing gifts:

The Goblin Emperor

For Thy Principles

The nohecharei of Edrehasivar VII were unparalleled in their defense of his person, but there were limits to even their prowess. When Maia first developed the fever, Cala quickly determined that it was not the end result of a magically-based assassination attempt – and from there it had to be left to the court physicians.

Maia falls ill, and Csethiro protects him as best she can.

Beautifully gentle Maia sickfic, with Csethiro holding him together. For me all for meeee.

Benjamin January Mysteries

Dry as a Bone

“Oh. Well, I’ve been better, maestro, been a hell of a lot better to tell truth.” Shaw stared at him for a long moment, and he was stunned to see honest to God grief in his eyes. Even when Shaw had just lost his brother he had been so much more himself than this lost man currently standing before him. “Not that I mean to put anything extra on your shoulders, I’m sure you’ve got enough of your own shit going on at present moment, but it seems like I’ve just lost my job.”

Shaw loses his job, and finally confronts Ben about trust (and lack thereof) between them. It’s GREAT.

The Tarot Sequence - K.D. Edwards

A Distraction Worth Losing

They may never be together, but the gods would have to move heaven and earth to split Rune and Brand apart.

Brand, Rune and The Kiss incident. (Poor messed up babies, somebody save them.)

And fics of the collection:

17776, Astreiant, Raksura, Frederica, The Gentlemen, The Goblin Emperor, Hades, Innkeeper Chronicles, Jeeves, Kate Daniels, King Arthur the movie, My Next Life as a Villainess, Nirvana in Fire, No. 6, Psmith, The Secret Garden, The Sleuth of Ming Dynasty, Swordspoint, The Tarot Sequence, Teixcalaan Series, The Temple of the White Rat verse

17776: What Football Will Look Like in the Future

so far, so fast

When Manny gets a craving for some fancy meal he had once, over ten thousand years ago, Nick decides he’s gonna fulfill that craving, no matter how hard it is. Because real romance is about making the impossible happen for his husband.

Goddamn transcendental.

Go Get It

Sometimes you start out just planning to get some groceries with your husband, and next thing you know, you’re committing to join the most hopeless team in college football.

Nick and Manny decide to play. It’s perfect.

Afterlife

A young man dies six months before the end of human death; his loss saves five lives, which end up much longer than anyone expects. (A series of worldbuilding vignettes about original characters in the 17776 setting.)

Made me cry, in a very cathartic way.

Astreiant Series - Melissa Scott & Lisa A. Barnett

April dressed in all his trim

A quiet evening in spring.

Sweet little slice-of-life with lovely sensory details.

Books of the Raksura

The Second Consort

“When Glow arrives, be friendly and welcoming,” Ember said. “Not scary.”

“Why does everyone think I’m going to scare him?”

Chime said, “They can see your face when you look at him.” He paused, glancing over at Moon. “That face, that’s the one.”

Ember sighed. “I remember being in his position. It’s pretty nerve-wracking coming to a new court and not knowing what’s going to happen to you there - whether they’re going to welcome you or shun you, whether you’ll make new friends, whether a queen is going to claim you…” He came and put a sympathetic hand on Moon’s shoulder. “Glow is probably worried about all of those things, and missing his home and clutchmates, and it’s our job to try and help him relax.” For a moment Moon thought he was just being soft-hearted, until Ember added, “He won’t open up and tell us what’s really going on unless he’s relaxed.”

Jade takes in a new consort, on Moon’s permission, and everybody is delightfully adult about it.

Frederica

Lady Alverstoke

Frederica commences her first Season as a married woman by planning a ball, promising most straitly that her husband will have nothing whatsoever to do …

Sweet and funny slice-of-life post-happy-ending for canon.

**The Gentlemen (2019) **

Even

The week after he intercepts Fletcher, that squirrelly little cunt, outside the London Miramax office, Raymond reluctantly ventures down to Brixton.

Under normal circumstances, Raymond tends to give this part of Brixton a wide berth, but he has unfinished business that needs attending to. Of course, that doesn’t mean he has to like being accosted by the overwhelming smell of greasy fish and chips when he pushes the car door open, doesn’t mean he has to be pleased about stepping into a piece of chewed-up gum the moment he sets a foot on the kerb.

But then, he can always take a shower after an errand in Brixton. The deep-seated discomfort of unfinished business doesn’t wash off that easily.

Raymond tries to pay Coach back for saving his life, and it doesn’t quite go as planned :D

The Goblin Emperor

The Archduke’s Discovery

Prince Nemolis goes on a journey, and learns a bit more than he wanted to know.

Really great point of canon divergence, and true and precise character voices.

Hades

all the spaces between us

For a place full of the dead, crammed with ghostly shades and nothing but the endless lull of eternity unchanging, gossip sure travelled fast in the Underworld.

Or, Zagreus mulls over his relationship with Thanatos while the rest of the Underworld get overly invested.

Slow, slow, slowest of burns.

Innkeeper Chronicles - Ilona Andrews

A Quick Trip

“It’ll be a quick trip,” Maud said, more to herself than to Arland. “No one will even notice we’re gone.”

Pirates are plaguing an ally, just outside of vampire space. Maud and Arland don some aesthetically beat-up armor and try to get more information from the pirates themselves. Of course, plans only last until you meet your enemy. Or your enemy’s giant alien attack boar.

Excellent canon voice, action/adventure sprinkled with badassery and hilarity.

Jeeves & Wooster

August Thirteenth

Discovering that this is not the first August thirteenth that he’s lived through, that certainly was a head scratcher. Luckily Bertie has the stalwart presence of his man’s man, Jeeves.

Very, very great and satisfying use of the time loop.

Kate Daniels - Ilona Andrews

lookin’ like a snack (cake)

It took Barabas a while to figure it out, because he wasn’t used to not being taken seriously.

Barabas considered several ways to phrase it, and finally settled upon, “Do you have a thing for twinks?” Christopher knocked his head back against the headrest: once, then again. “Is that a yes?”

King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)

When Goosefat Bill finds himself in a difficult situation, the last thing he wants is the King to show up and “help”, in his own unique and unexpected way.

Goosefat Bill does not need to be rescued by his King. But he might just enjoy it a little.

My Next Life as a Villainess (Anime)

All I Have To Bring Today

Catarina and Sophia had been discussing the latest in the Devilish Count series, and Sophia had mentioned how romantic the surprise picnic the count had planned for his lover was and how she wished for someone to surprise her like that.

“What about you, Catarina? Have you ever wished for someone to sweep you off your feet?” Sophia had asked.

Catarina makes a choice! As sweet and as hilarious as the canon.

Nirvana in Fire

Adverse Event

What a pitiful man must he have become, if the only thing he could provoke in bed was a monologue on his character flaws.

: or, the famous strategist mei changsu plays xanatos speed chess against truth serum: the fic.

Mei Changsu gets hit with an accidental truth serum; it doesn’t stop him from lying to himself, but it does buy Jingyan a clue.

Records of the Land of Xiang

There was something of Xiao Jingyan there, in the firmness of his jaw, the unforgiving slash of his brows, and most clearly in the eyes that neither saw nor conveyed deception. But Long Zhan was not Jingyan, could never be, no matter how much Changsu might wish otherwise, because Jingyan was dead.

In service to a very-much-alive Prince Qi, Jingyan dons a Jianghu-typical disguise and infiltrates the Jiangzuo Alliance to suss out this Mei Changsu fellow and see if he might be useful in helping them re-open the Chiyan conspiracy case. Basically, a slightly ridiculous premise where everyone is running around the Jianghu with masks, multiple identities, and secret agendas.

Fascinating and fun AU scenario that delves, among other things, into Mei Changsu the jianghu chef, not Sir Su the court schemer.

suffering as I suffer you

The first time Jingyan stays the night at Su Manor, he discovers an uncomfortable truth about Mei Changsu.

Excellent extrapolation of Mei Changsu’s illness into his nightly routine - with Jingyan watching…

Here, In Our Arms

With the world put to rights, however briefly, Xiao Jingyan and Mu Nihuang take the opportunity to make a fuss over their beloved Lin Shu, and will not take no for an answer.

Sweet moment of comfort.

Find the Coals Amid the Ashes

Despite Changsu’s assertions, Lin Chen is a well brought up person. He would never violate his host’s privacy during a social call. It would be inexcusable, for example, to break into a marquis’s private alchemy lab in the middle of said marquis’s birthday party, in order to search said alchemy lab for certain hard to find medicinal herbs, which one has reason to believe can be found therein. These would be the actions of a man without honour, of a man who has only desperation to his name.

Lin Chen crashes a party and makes a new friend.

The best team up ever :D

Dead Letters

Mei Changsu isn’t the only schemer in Da Liang.

Fei Liu fixes things, in the most Fei Liu way imaginable, and it’s great.

No. 6

All Good Things

In the midst of a crisis for No. 6, Nezumi returns to Shion’s side.

A reunion! And cuddling.

Psmith

The Psky Is The Limit

“As this ship’s Orator, my mission is still as it was in the beginning and shall ever be, world without end. It is to hail any message sent by comrades from outer space and pass it on to you verbatim. Well! The hour, I say, has come. The Word has come into being. Here comes Psmith, bearing news of great mirth: the intercom has spoken.”

(A Mike and Psmith Space AU)

Psmith in space! Hysterically funny Psmith in Pspace, at that.

Psmith Pops In

Psmith reached over and solicitously loosened Mike’s scarf, his fingers brushing the skin of Mike’s neck, and that young man, to his horror, felt heat creeping up from where gloved fingers brushed his bare skin. Really, this blushing nonsense was getting out of hand. Ever since Psmith had tried to take the blame in the case of the painted dog, Mike had developed an inexplicable habit of turning hot and cold around him, and these odd responses had become more and more frequent.

Very funny! And then very tragique! And then jussssst right.

The Secret Garden

The Space Garden

When Meri La Nix was sent from the Mars colony to live with her aunt at Missiles Wait Manor, nobody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. But some of them thought it.

Beautifully inventive space retelling - with gardens, still.

The Sleuth of Ming Dynasty

The sky spinning above him

In which there’s a jewellery thief on the loose, Tang Fan plays dress up, gets a mild concussion and also a boyfriend.

Frothy, sweet, well-grounded and hot. Also hilarious (check the end note!)

truth in fiction

Three days after Wang Zhi leaves the capital, bits and pieces of his extensive library begin arriving at Sui Zhou’s house.

Sui Zhou is really committed to research and accuracy in Tang Fan’s porn. It’s delightful.

Time don’t fool me no more

“The electrician is a Tang dynasty spy,” he says, dumping some of his eggs in Tang Fan’s bowl.

Tang Fan nods, shovels more food in his mouth, and starts talking again.

Past or future, Tang Fan has Priorities. And Sui Zhou is weak.

Meeting at the End

Sui Zhou knew he never should have let Tang Fan go alone. He knew he should have gone with him.

Really, really great and desperate whump. Super satisfying.

clever boy

Tang Fan never spares a smile for any of the girls at Wang Zhi’s establishment, he’s noticed. That’s alright, though. It means Wang Zhi gets his attention for himself.

Wang Zhi falling, falling hard; it’s delightful.

a bold and brilliant sun

“You’re sure you didn’t do something to it? They don’t usually stall out,” Sui Zhou says. He looks away from Tang Fan, out the windshield at the endless rust-red of the planet.

Tang Fan pouts at this, and slumps down on the edge of the console, feet propped up at an absurd angle against the pilot’s seat. “You think I’d fake a mechanical issue just so that they’d send a sexy Fleet crewman out here to rescue me?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he giggles. “Okay, I would do that, but I promise that this time the problem is real.”

Space AU! Most excellent space AU condensing all there is to love about the canon in one perfect package.

Blind Taste Test

Wang Zhi invites Tang Fan to evaluate Joyous Brothel’s chefs — but it’s Tang Fan and Sui Zhou who are really being tested.

Wang Zhi, ever helpful :)

Authorial Intent

Sui Zhou and Tang Fan end up in hot water yet again. Kinky sex ensues.

Hilarious, kinky, heartfelt, and in character.

Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner

Chrysopoeia

It struck Alec that this would have been much easier if their positions were reversed. Richard would have known what to do if he’d been dragged back here with a hole in his gut. He was quite simply not supposed to be the one on this end of the equation. In fact, it was possible he had done something very bad to deserve this.

Richard is wounded, and Alex is coping. Excellent h/c and excellent bloodplay and sharp, painful slice of Alex’ POV, excellently rendered.

At first — this was just like him — he thought he was hearing god. But it was only the man in the bed, whose face had turned toward him on the ragged pillow.

The Tarot Sequence - K.D. Edwards

Third’s a Charm

Addam asks a favor of Brand.

Addam asks Brand for help, which ends up being exactly what Brand and Rune need.

Pretty good

Five times Brand crawls into Rune’s bed and one time Rune crawls into Brand’s.

Brand and Rune, through the years.

Teixcalaan Series - Arkady Martine

Also in the Act of Reaching

When Three Seagrass arrived at Lsel Station, she was, officially at least, traveling as a private personage. She had missed Mahit and the possibilities they’d both chosen to turn away from. She also had– would always have– a gaping hole in her life where Petal had once stood.

It was simply that, left on her own, Three Seagrass wouldn’t have let either absence drag her to the ass-end of beyond.

Reunion, metaphors and realigment. Subtle and clever and just right.

The (concept of the) World Was Wide Enough

Yskandr Aghavn comes to the world like a drowning man comes to shore, but he is living on borrowed time. Teixcalaan has so many wonderful things to choke on.

Teixcalaan has had his heart for all of his life, has elevated him, corrupted him, and discarded him.

It is Lsel that he thinks of as he dies.

Temple of the White Rat Universe - T. Kingfisher

If Grace Is Too Much

Zale is given a case by Bishop Beartongue which turns out to be more complicated and personal than a holy advocate-priest would prefer.

Clever and sweet and carefully shocking, but in a very right way.

Outreach

“We don’t generally assess the… cursédness… of objects, trees or otherwise,” Beartongue said.

Utterly delightful.

[phantomechospics]

Twist of Fate

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: Detective Conan, Magic Kaito

Relationship: Kudou Shinichi X Kuroba Kaito

Tags: Soulmate AU, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, No Smut, Black Org Takedown, Slow Burn, Happy Ending

Language: English

Word Count: 7348

Extra Notes: For my 100th follower @altumvidetur. This has also been posted on AO3, in case of formatting errors.

“Oi, KID. I found you.”

Kaito stiffened at the call of his moniker. He tried to act as natural as possible when he turned to the steely-eyed child glaring up at him. He held onto his police issue hat, as if to check his disguise was still in place, even though he knew it was. “I’m sorry little one, but I’m not sure who you’re talking to? There are no other children here and, as you can see, I am clearly an adult.”

“Yeah, yeah. And I’m the Queen of England.” The boy, Tantei-kun, gave him a very unimpressed look. “Now, either I can go tell Nakamori-keibu that one of his officers has been replaced with a wolf in sheep’s skin—or, you can hand it over.”

Kaito grimaced at the kid’s ultimatum.

Because it wasn’t a gem or stolen good the kid was asking for. It wasn’t even candy or a cup of coffee, which might also be reasonable. No, it was a small two-ounce container of KID’s special concealer mix. He used it for everything from hiding bruises and marks to blending a fake face with his natural skin tone.

And Tantei-kun had taken to accosting him every few months for a new container. If Kaito didn’t prepare the stuff by hand, he would have been out a fortune in make-up costs.

What use did the little detective have for make-up anyway? He was six, for crying out loud! How did KID end up as his black-market make-up dealer?

Kaito sighed at the thought.

No, he knew how this had happened. Or at least when it had happened.

It was the second heist with little Tantei-kun in the ring. The Suzuki Company had put out a challenge to steal the lady of the company’s jewel. KID, of course, answered the call and took the disguise of Mouri Ran in order to remain close enough to pull off the heist and still get away cleanly.

Not as cleanly as he had hoped, since the boy he now knew as Edogawa Conan, Tantei-kun, managed to corner him before he could make his escape. Instead of calling the inspector on him, though, Tantei-kun had asked him a question.

“What’s that stuff on your wrist?” the boy had asked, a field ball caught beneath his foot.

At the question, Kaito had blinked. He had been surprised the boy had even noticed the thin, dry coating that covered his Mark. After having worn it for years, Kaito had managed to blend the paste seamlessly with his skin. Like there was never a Mark to begin with.

“It’s a special concoction that can conceal any mark. It goes on like make-up and dries to the texture and flexibility of skin. It’s water-resistant and lasts for days, so long as you don’t treat it too roughly.” Kaito had held up his arm, ignoring the panicked rush that came with displaying his Marked wrist so easily.

It didn’t matter that it was concealed. It didn’t matter that it couldn’t be traced back to his civilian self. It didn’t matter that his civilian self had been ‘Markless’ for years by this point. The knowledge of what lay underneath the thin veneer of lies still caused his heart to quicken.

He dutifully kept his face blank of those fears, choosing a taunting smile instead. “I’m surprised you noticed it at all.”

“I’m observant like that,” the boy had said, gaze dark. “Where do you buy it?”

“I don’t.” KID had laughed at the unimpressed look the boy shot him. “Klepto-urges aside, I didn’t buy this. I made it. None of that commercial stuff could compare.”

The boy had given a contemplative hum, obviously deep in thought. Just as KID had secreted a flash grenade into his hand and plucked his emergency sunglasses from their hiding place, the boy had spoken. “I want some.”

KID had paused in his escape attempt. “… Heh?”

“I want some,” the boy had repeated. “Give me some, or I’ll turn you over to the Inspector.”

“… What if I don’t have any on me?” KID had asked, curious beyond measure.

“Nakamori-Keibu it is,” the kid had said and thrown back his head to call to the searching officers.

“Ah, ah, ah! Wait! Okay, okay!” KID had frantically waved his hands and pulled out a small bottle that he always kept on him. It was supposed to be for emergencies, but bargaining with a six-year-old wasn’t too far out of that territory. Plus, it meant he didn’t have to waste a light grenade. The materials to make those cost far more than the little bottle of concealer did.

The boy had looked all too pleased with the trade-off and let KID go without a complaint. Kaito had thought that would be the end of it, but oh how wrong he’d been.

Every few months since then, the boy would track him down and demand another bottle in return for letting KID escape. Now, it wasn’t to say that KID didn’t like Tantei-kun coming to his heists. He loved showing off to his little critic and making those blue eyes widen in awe at a trick the other had never seen before. It quite honestly made Kaito’s whole month, just to get the boy to smile.

But there were times, like now, where the boy was a bit too serious, saw through KID’s disguises a bit too quickly, that made KID wonder just what the boy needed the concealer for.

Though he would never get a straight answer, it never hurt to ask. “What does a kid like you even need concealer for?”

“Reasons that you don’t need to worry about.” Tantei-kun raised an eyebrow at him. “I can always go find Nakamori-keibu if you refuse.”

“I wasn’t refusing,” Kaito grumbled. “Just stalling.”

“Stalling? Really? And you’re supposed to be good at lying.” Tantei-kun scowled at him. “Now, hand it over. Ran will be looking for me soon.”

“Hold up! You didn’t answer my question.” Kaito crossed his arms with a huff. “What does a kid like you need with professional-grade concealer?”

“It’s none of your business—!”

“It is my business if you go through four bottles in a year.” Kaito frowned at him. “You know those are supposed to last twice the time, right?”

Tantei-kun glared at him. “If you don’t hand it over right now, I’ll-!”

“What? Go tell Nakamori on me?” Kaito let a grin play at his lips despite the stab of fear he felt. “Then who would you get your black-market make-up from? Your Onee-chan certainly won’t get you any, not without the same questions I’m asking.”

By the look on the kid’s face, KID knew he’d caught him. Tantei-kun tried to hold a brave mask, but seconds later, it crumbled. “Please. I need it.”

“Why?” KID repeated. “The only use you have for it is to cover up marks: ink, markers, scars, bruises…”

KID paused at that, his mind suddenly snapping to… horrible repercussions. Kaito often used the concealer to cover injuries left over from KID heists, where Taskforce officers had gotten just a little too close. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Tantei-kun…

“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong,” Tantei-kun hissed, immediately defensive. Which, again, could be indicative of…

“So you’re telling me that you aren’t being abused at home?” KID asked, voice suddenly toneless. “I know Mouri is a ‘great detective’, but that doesn’t mean he’s a good man. And you aren’t related to either him or your precious Onee-chan, that much I’ve gathered. It would be all too easy to—?”

“Mouri may be a drunk, but he’s a useless one.” Tantei-kun rolled his eyes, but his body was relaxed. There was no defense in his posture. He wasn’t even tense. “The worst he’s done was box my ears for running around a crime scene. Then again, he’s the only adult that seems to think a child shouldn’t be around a crime scene, so… I think that evens out.”

KID wasn’t thrilled with the answer, but he was sure Tantei-kun was smart enough to go to the authorities if someone was abusing or neglecting him. Or, at least, KID hoped so. (He made a mental note to check in, just in case.) “Then why?”

“I… can’t tell you,” Tantei-kun said through his teeth, like the answer had to be dragged from his throat.

“Then I can’t give you more,” Kaito said simply.

“KID-!”

“I’m sorry, Tantei-kun, but I’ve been an enabler for too long.” Kaito held up his hands in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “If you want more concealer, you’re going to have to tell me what you want it for.”

Tantei-kun pursed his lips, eyes tracing Kaito’s face in a calculating manner. When it became apparent there was no way around it, he hissed a sigh through his teeth, dragged a hand through his hair, then threw his arms open wide. “Okay! I’ll tell you!”

Kaito straightened, eager to finally get an answer to the questions that had plagued him for months now.

“But not here.” Tantei-kun gave the empty hallways a look. “Too risky. You know where Agasa’s house is?”

“The scientist you and your friends hang out with?” KID thought for a moment. “Yeah, I know of him.”

“Meet me at his house. Tonight,” Tantei-kun ordered. “I’ll tell you there.”

“Got it.” KID nodded. Then he blinked when Tantei-kun held out a hand. “Ha?”

“I promised to tell you, so hand it over,” Tantei-kun clarified.

“Oh-ho no.” KID shook his head. “No way, Tantei-kun. I’m holding it ransom.”

“You think I won’t keep my promise?” Oh, the boy looked pissed at that.

“Promise? Yes.” KID poked the kid’s cheek. “Not call Nakamori-keibu in an ambush since you already got what you want? No.”

The kid clicked his tongue. “You’re sharper than I give you credit for.”

“I should be insulted by that,” KID said. “But now, I’m just disappointed in you. To think, my favorite critic would try to ambush me!”

“Just for that, I’m telling Nakamori to check all of his officers.”

Tantei-kun didn’t. But he did warn Nakamori that KID was waiting for rain in order to pull off his heist. In spite of the extra information, KID still managed to pull of his heist with more fanfare than usual, given it was a ‘reverse’ heist.

And that Tantei-kun thanked him afterwards, well, that was just icing on the cake.

*             *             *             *             *

Kaito found himself standing outside a large house, staring down at a little girl and floundering for words. “Uh… is… Conan-kun here?”

The girl stared for a long moment before looking over her shoulder. “Edogawa-kun! Your thief is here!”

Wha— how rude! Kaito had gone through the painstaking effort to disguise himself as Mouri Ran again. She could at least have the decency to treat him like the woman he was!

On second thought, how had she known…?

“I told her you were coming by,” Tantei-kun said, face pinched in a scowl. “Can you not dress like Ran when we talk? This is already hard enough as it is.”

“Hmm…” Kaito dropped a few smoke bombs and flash-changed his outfit. Hakuba Saguru posed on the doorstep, self-righteous smirk in place. “This better?”

Tantei-kun gave him an unimpressed look. “… I’ll take it. Come in.”

He and the little girl stepped to the side to allow Kaito in. Tantei-kun continued further in as the girl closed the door behind him.

“Concealer,” the girl ordered, hand out.

“…I’m sorry?” Kaito stared down at her.

“Haibara is working on recreating the formula for the concealer you have,” Tantei-kun clarified from the couch in the spacious living room. “That way I don’t have to rely on you to get more.”

“Aw, but then how else will I convince you to let me go?” KID whined. Still, he dug out the small bottle and dropped it into waiting hands.

“Something tells me you can get by without me blackmailing you.” Tantei-kun wrinkled his nose. “Or the other way around.”

“Hmm… that’s fair.” Kaito seated himself on the other couch, facing his little critic like the opponents they were. “Now, why do you need the concealer? And so much of it, at that.”

“For starters, both Haibara and I need it. Your comment of how it should last twice as long as it has been? Doesn’t pan out when you have two people using it. As for why I need it…” Tantei-kun inhaled stiffly and straightened his shoulders. “I need to hide my Mark. My Soulmark.”

Kaito blinked. Then laughed. “Hah! Right. A six-year-old with a Soulmark? Really, Tantei-kun, I thought we were being honest here.”

“We are. I am,” Tantei-kun said, voice agitated. “I’m not actually six. I’m sixteen. My Mark appeared on my tenth birthday, like all other Mark Soulmates. When I got turned into a child, it didn’t go away.”

“Right… and how, exactly did you get turned into a child?” Kaito couldn’t help the disbelief in his voice. Yes, Tantei-kun was quite smart for a child, but all physical evidence pointed to him being some sort of prodigy, not a sixteen-year-old turned six.

“I was investigating some shady dealings by men in black suits. They got the jump on me and forced me to down some experimental medicine. All their previous research said it was supposed to kill people, but a microscopic percentage…” Tantei-kun looked down at his hands. “Get turned into this.”

“So you’re saying that a magic drug de-aged you… and you expect me to believe this?” Kaito’s eyebrows rose at the absurdity.

“Edogawa-kun is not the only person it happened to,” the little girl, Haibara, said as she came to sit beside Tantei-kun. She had a rag in hand and was wiping at her own skin. Flakes of concealer came off on the rag until a black script could be seen. Mitsuhiko Tsuburaya was printed as plain as day. “I took the pill of my own accord, but it had similar results. Since then, I’ve found myself here, living as someone else.”

The words… looked real, but Kaito knew just how easily they could be fabricated. With a wave of his hand, he pulled out a handkerchief and a small bottle of his home-made solvent and dabbed a bit on the cloth. He reached forward, then paused. “May I?”

Haibara looked uneasy, but offered her arm.

“What is that?” Tantei-kun demanded as he watched on with scrutinizing eyes.

“An all-around solvent,” Kaito explained as he took a gentle hold of her wrist. “Works on most household stains: markers, pen, makeup, grease, et cetera. Strong enough to pull them off, but still gentle enough to not irritate skin.”

As he spoke, he worked at the black words, as if they were a difficult smudge. But after working diligently for several seconds, he pulled away the cloth to reveal the black lines, still as clear as day. They were no impermanent markings. So either someone had the insane notion to allow their six-year-old to get a name tattooed on their wrist, or… “It’s real.”

“Like I said.” Tantei-kun huffed.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” KID said as he threw the handkerchief up. It disappeared in mid-air as he secreted away the bottle of his solvent. “It is not every day, my favorite critic turns out to be a de-aged… how old did you say you were?”

“Sixteen,” Tantei-kun replied.

Kaito blinked. That was the same age as him.

“And I was eighteen before I was shrunk,” Haibara added, running her fingers over her wrist. “And I do say ‘shrunk’. If we were de-aged, then our Marks should have left too. As they have not…”

“Then time wasn’t re-wound.” Kaito got the gist of what she meant. “So you’re using the concealer to cover your Marks, so that people don’t know that you’ve shrunk.”

“That and to evade the organization that is behind the toxin that shrunk us.” Haibara looked down at her lap. “I was with them for many years before I managed to get away. They know me. They know what I look like. They know what Mark I have. If they were to ever find me, they would put a bullet through my skull before I ever had a chance to run.”

Kaito swallowed thickly and tried not to think about the snipers that sometimes took shots at his heists. He tried not to think of the men who had killed his father, or the impossible chase they were competing against him in. There was no way Tantei-kun’s organization and his could be related.

No way… right?

“As for me,” Tantei-kun said loudly and without caution. “I just don’t believe in Marks.”

That brought Kaito up short.

“Are you surprised?” Tantei-kun asked. Kaito wondered what had given him away. “You shouldn’t be. You of all people should know that some people don’t believe in the Marks.”

“I have my own reasons for keeping mine covered. Not the least of which being how easy it would be to track me down as a civilian if the Inspector was able to see my Mark,” Kaito explained. It was an excuse in every sense of the word. Even if the Inspector saw, it wouldn’t help. Kuroba Kaito didn’t have a Mark. He never had.

“Is that so?” Tantei-kun made a discerning noise before giving a shrug. “I just don’t want to subscribe to the idea of Nominative Determinism.”

KID frowned. He hadn’t heard of that before. “Noma… what now?”

“The idea that I’ll fall in love with someone just because their name is on my wrist.” Tantei-kun paused, then rolled his eyes. “Or, technically, it has to do with certain people being named certain things and then going on to follow a certain career path. Like a person named Hiro becoming a policeman or a person with the last name Bowser going on to lead Nintendo. But I think it applies to this situation too.”

“Please.” Haibara sighed heavily, like this was an argument they had multiple times before. “You just don’t want to believe in fate.”

“Some meta-physical entity that guides all people to a certain end despite the free-will people exert over their own lives is just a bunch of hog-wash.” Tantei-kun huffed.

“And the fact that meta-physical entity also knew that you preferred men over women just happens to be a coincidence.” Haibara pointed out.

Tantei-kun just scowled at her.

“So you aren’t planning to look for your Marked?” KID asked. “I have to say, this is the first time I’ve met someone who didn’t want to find their Soulmate.”

“I want to, I just don’t want it to be because of some ink on my skin!” Tantei-kun waved a hand around as if it would get his point across. “The names don’t even mean anything!”

“Oh?” KID cocked his head to the side. “How so?”

“Look at it this way. Say that the name on my wrist is something like… Okino Yoko,” Tantei-kun decided at random. “Who’s the first person to pop into your mind?”

“The famous celebrity,” KID answered without hesitation.

“Exactly!” Tantei-kun pointed to him. “But Okino Yoko isn’t the only one to have that name. There could be another Okino Yoko in Kyoto that lived her entire life as a shopkeeper or maybe one in Hokaido that is the CEO of a business. Either one of them could be my ‘Soulmate’ but because I recognized the celebrity first, I would become fixated on her, whether she has my name or someone else’s or no name at all. And that’s just one example!”

He threw his hands up in emphasis. “Think of how many people have the first name Hiro! Or over in America, the last name Smith! There are only so many last names and so many first names that people use. It is not entirely outside the realm of possibility that the name on your wrist could be shared by dozens of people around the world. That’s not even taking into account the people who legally change their names over the years.”

“And so, instead of trying to find the right one, you decide not to try at all?” KID couldn’t help a raised brow. “That doesn’t sound like you, Tantei-kun.”

“I’m not giving up.” Tantei-kun scowled. “I’m just not letting myself worry over it. If I like a person, I’ll ask them out. If I don’t like someone, I’m not obligated to go on a date just because they have the right name. I may have a name on my wrist, but I’m not going to let it rule my life.”

That was… a unique way of looking at things. A brave way of looking at things. Kaito… he wished his reason was just as good. In the end, though, he was just a coward.

“Which is why Haibara needs more samples of your concealer, so I can keep using it even when I put you behind bars,” Tantei-kun said decisively.

Kaito couldn’t help a laugh at that. “Well, you keep at it, Tantei-kun. I’m sure you’ll get me one of these days.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already?” Tantei-kun asked. Kaito froze. “Haibara, how long does it take for emergency services to respond to a phone call?”

“About eight minutes,” Haibara said calmly.

It had been seven minutes since Kaito walked in. Seven minutes since Tantei-kun had come to the door. Seven minutes since Kaito had handed off the newest sample of his concealer.

Alarms sounded in the distance.

*             *             *             *             *

That was a dirty trick Tantei-kun pulled, but Kaito really couldn’t blame him. Their little game of cat and mouse wouldn’t be nearly as fun without a little surprise every now and then.

Oh, he’d managed to get away, of course, but it told KID that he had to be careful not to let his guard down around the little detective, no matter how adorable the boy was.

(Should he really be thinking that? Tantei-kun was a child after all. Or technically, he was sixteen? But then, Kaito didn’t think his sixteen-year-old self would be categorized as ‘adorable’. ‘Dangerous’ maybe, or ‘sexy’ if Kaito was feeling generous. He didn’t actually know what Tantei-kun looked like grown up, but for as active as the boy was, he had to be a looker.)

Despite the latest failure, the boy didn’t let up. He still hounded KID for another bottle of concealer every few months—which KID handed over easily now that he knew the boy’s reasons. Tantei-kun still tried to turn him in every chance he got, despite the fact that Haibara had yet to recreate the formula that KID used to make the concealer. KID wondered, idly, if Haibara had stopped making progress on purpose.

A certified child genius, already holding a PhD in chemistry and biology? No way it took her more than a month or two to figure it out.

But she didn’t, so Tantei-kun kept coming back to him and the cycle repeated itself over and over again.

Until one day, there was a change.

On the Mystery Train heist, Tantei-kun tracked KID down again, but instead of demanding a bottle of concealer, he nearly begged KID for his help in saving Haibara’s life. Kaito ended up in a train car full of explosives for his troubles and had to ditch a fast-moving vehicle to hang-glide his way to safety, but he liked to think he and Tantei-kun came to and understanding.

That, and he got Tantei-kun’s phone number, so he could antagonize him all he wanted from a safe distance away.

Annoying text messages turned into random memes, then into angry phone calls and quiet murmurings in the middle of the night.

Kaito learned that the organization Tantei-kun was after had eerily similar goals to his own. They both sought immortality. They both worked under codenames and a strict set of ‘no-second-chance’ rules. They both worked for one, unknown individual that seemed to be pulling all the strings.

The similarities were too close to ignore.

“We might be after the same thing here,” Tantei-kun said, voicing the one subject neither had broached since the beginning of their strange alliance. “These organizations, they’re too similar.”

“Similar doesn’t always mean the same, Tantei-kun,” Kaito replied easily, though he couldn’t find any doubt to back it up. “Correlation doesn’t always equal causation. You, of all people, should know that.”

“Even so,” Tantei-kun’s tone shifted lower, as if suddenly worried someone would overhear. “I think we should keep each other posted. Something I find might benefit you and something you find might give me another lead.”

“So you want to, what? Work together?” Kaito couldn’t help the grin playing at his lips. “A thief and a detective?”

“We’re pooling our resources,” Tantei-kun said but without his usual bite. “Just… keep me updated, okay? I’ll keep you in the loop too.”

“Roger, Meitantei.” Kaito gave a little mock-salute, even though he knew Tantei-kun wouldn’t be able to see. “How about we make it a little competition, ne? See who can take down their organization first?”

Tantei-kun just scoffed in answer.

So they began to exchange information. Tantei-kun shared bits and pieces of his daily life as he tried to track down the people who had shrunk him. Kaito very carefully divulged the pieces he thought couldn’t be traced back to himself. Their talks moved from information to checking in to relaying silly tales about the day.

It was smooth. It was subtle. The way that Tantei-kun moved into his life. Kaito didn’t realize just how much it meant to have the other boy, the other teen, as an ally, (as a friend) until one question had him stopping cold in his tracks.

“Where did you even come up with the recipe for this concealer?” Tantei-kun wondered aloud. “Haibara swears there’s nothing like it on the market. It’s super practical—it barely comes off when I wear my watch over it! You must have gone through a lot of trial and error to get it to work right.”

And Kaito… couldn’t help the painfully true answer that slipped through his teeth. “I didn’t.”

“What?”

“I didn’t come up with it,” he repeated stiffly, mouth working on its own. “I… got the recipe from someone else.”

There was a long pause before Tantei-kun spoke. “The first Kaitou KID.”

Kaito gasped, eyes going wide. “How… How did you…?”

“It doesn’t take a genius to see that the KID from before the seven year gap was far more cautious than you. He didn’t flaunt his skills. He didn’t play to the crowd. Sure, he was a performer, but he was calm, cautious, had everything laid out to the point where he could literally walk through the police officers, pluck the gem from the display, and disappear,” Tantei-kun listed off. “You aren’t like that.”

“What?” Kaito let out a bitter laugh. “Are you saying I’m not good enough? Are you saying the first KID was better?”

It wouldn’t be a lie. And Kaito knew that all too well.

“Not at all. The first KID was talented, but he was there with a goal. He wanted the items he stole. He didn’t want to play up the crowd more than he had to,” Tantei-kun said quietly. “You… you take risks. Big risks. Scaling-the-side-of-a-building risks. But they always pay off. Your fans always come back for more and draw a larger and larger crowd. He would appear in the spotlight, but you… you live in it. There’s not really a way to compare the two of you, other than the First KID and the Second.”

Despite himself, Kaito’s eyes started to burn. His nose got a little clogged and his throat got a painful lump in it. Because Tantei-kun had just complimented him, had seen Kaito’s plights and acknowledged him and set him equal to the first KID—to his father, Kuroba Toichi.

And Tantei-kun would never lie about this.

“He was my father,” Kaito croaked before he could stop himself. “The first KID. He was my father.”

Tantei-kun didn’t say anything. The silence was an answer in and of itself.

“He was after Pandora too. Just like I am. He’s the reason I’m searching for it.” Kaito paused to take a steadying breath and blink back the tears. This pain was years old. He should be over it by now. It still hurt, especially since… “The organization… they killed him for it. They found out his identity, and killed him in front a crowd of people… in front of me. They made it look like an accident, and I believed that for years, and then—!”

“And then you found out the truth,” Tantei-kun finished when it got too hard to speak. “And decided make them pay.”

Kaito managed to make some noise of confirmation.

“While I don’t like the way you went about it, I can understand your reasoning.” Tantei-kun let out a tired sigh. “Looks like we’ve both dug our own holes, huh?”

Kaito let out a wet laugh.

“Your father… were he and your mother…?”

“Soulmates,” Kaito confirmed. “When he… when he was gone… it shattered her. It took weeks for her to get out of bed. Months to even start to get her life back in order. Even now, she can’t stay in the house for long because it’s where he lived. I could only do so much.”

“I’m sorry that happened,” Tantei-kun said. “I’m sorry you had to recover from that. I’m sorry you had to help her recover from that.”

“Sometimes… Sometimes I think…” he started, non-sequitur. He clutched the phone tighter to himself, spoke more softly as if it would keep the truth from escaping. “I think… that it would be better off if they hadn’t met. If they hadn’t fallen in love. If they hadn’t been Soulmates, because then… then she wouldn’t have been so hurt.”

Tantei-kun took a long moment to think before answering. “I think she would disagree. I think she would say that, even though there was pain, she had some of her happiest moments with him. Most every Soulmate says that. And besides, if they hadn’t fallen in love… they wouldn’t have had you.”

���And I’m someone special?” Kaito either laughed or hiccupped, he wasn’t sure. “I’m just a thief.”

“A thief who has done more daring stunts than anyone alive. A thief who has consistently remained out of law enforcement hands through sheer will and luck alone. A thief who is taking on an entire underground criminal syndicate in order to avenge his father who had left this world too early,” Tantei-kun said heatedly. “Calling you ‘just a thief’, is like calling me ‘just a detective’.”

“I guess you would know, Meitantei.” And this time, Kaito knew it was a laugh.

“I would indeed,” Tantei-kun said, matter-of-factly. Then his voice softened again. “Is that… why you hide your Mark? Is that why you don’t believe in Soulmates?”

“… I believe in them,” Kaito said quietly. He sniffled, trying to keep the nasally tone out of his voice. “I just… don’t know if I’m strong enough to be with one. Or if they are strong enough to handle having me as one. If I went out the same way as my father…”

The thought of someone else going through what his mother had… it was painful. For it to be someone he loved? Someone he wanted to be happy? Someone he only wished to see a smile from?

The thought was agonizing.

“… I won’t try to tell you how to act or how to think. If you want to avoid them, I won’t try to convince you otherwise,” Tantei-kun said. “But for what it’s worth? I think anyone would be grateful to have you. For however much time you gave them.”

And in spite of himself, Tantei-kun’s words really did make Kaito feel better.

*             *             *             *             *

After their talk, they grew closer in a way Kaito could not verbalize. They didn’t meet up more often. They didn’t call any more than they had (though it was a lot to start with). The subject of their calls did change from time to time, but not with any consistency.

It was as if they had fallen into some kind of routine that Kaito never wanted to end. A sort of comfort he never thought he’d have with another person—not after covering his Mark and promising to forget about the name he’d seen.

Kaito found he didn’t want to let that go.

“Would you ever tell them?” He found himself asking one day.

It was during one of their rare physical meet-ups, where he gave Tantei-kun some more concealer, even though Haibara had definitely solved the formula long before then. He knew it was an excuse to see the other, knew Tantei-kun saw it the same, but neither of them said a word. Neither wanted the charade to end.

“Tell who what?” Tantei-kun asked, confused by the off-topic question.

“Your…” What did people call their significant others if not Soulmates? “Lover. If you end up marrying someone who doesn’t have the same name as the one on your wrist. Will you ever tell them?”

Tantei-kun looked thoughtful as he paused to ruminate. “I think… I would give them the option. I don’t want to lie to them. A relationship built on a lie isn’t a relationship at all. But I know that… some people handle the truth worse than a lie. If they don’t want to know, then I’ll keep it hidden for as long as I can.”

“As long as you can?”

“I’m not perfect and I won’t claim to be. Accidents happen.” Tantei-kun shrugged. “Despite my best efforts, they will likely find out either way.”

Yeah… Kaito had often thought the same. He opened his mouth to agree, but what came out instead was, “I want to date you.”

Tantei-kun stared at him, wide-eyed. His gaze went from Kaito, down to his tiny hands, then back to Kaito. “Um…”

Kaito flushed red. “Not now! Not when we’ve got… everything else going on! I meant when you change back.”

“If I change back,” Tantei-kun corrected bitterly.

“When you change back,” Kaito repeated with determination. “I want to meet up and… I don’t know. Go to the movies? Hit an amusement park? Walk around the zoo? Whatever normal teens our age do when they go on dates.”

Tantei-kun snorted. “Because we’re normal teens.”

“By then, we will be,” Kaito said softly. “You’ll be back to your own age, I’ll hang up the mantle of KID for good and we’ll just be… two guys, hanging out. Not six-feet away ‘cause we are gay.”

“Bi,” Tantei-kun corrected, but he had his thinking face on. He looked tentative. “And you won’t be mad that… we aren’t Soulmates?”

Honestly, the thought kind of hurt Kaito a little, but he knew he would always end up in a situation like this. Ever since he decided to ignore the ink on his skin and search for other people’s happiness instead of his own. The fact that Tantei-kun wasn’t entirely focused on their Marks matching actually helped. Instead of telling the long-winded truth, Kaito just smiled and said, “Not at all.”

Tantei-kun’s soft, grateful grin was answer enough.

*             *             *             *             *

It wasn’t a happily ever after, after that conversation.

The organization got word of Tantei-kun. They started tailing him, even as KID tried to act as the distraction. He managed to pull some attention away, but it seemed like the roaches were crawling out of the woodwork.

Tantei-kun’s parents came in to stay, and with them a few members of the American Secret Services. A few insiders in the organization managed to maintain their cover and leak information as they could, but it was obvious they could only do so much.

The game had been set. The clock was ticking forward, carrying them on toward the finally fight as the momentum picked up.

It came to a head in a fiery show-down of chaos and death.

Both sides lost people. Gin and Snake and a number of other agents were gunned down or chose to turn their guns on themselves. Very few were taken into custody. Vermouth was lost to the carnage, unable to free herself of the shadows that had claimed her.

The leader of the ring, Karasuma Renya, was caught, but whether the police would be able to press charges remained to be seen. He had been skillful at keeping his hands clean as his henchmen killed hundreds of people in their wake.

Kaito made it out with multiple sprains and contusions and one (very painful) gunshot wound. But his luck had held up and he managed to survive to see another day. With a full pardon, something he hadn’t been expecting until a piece of paper was shoved into his hands by a very stoic Nakamori.

(He was grateful he had the foresight to give himself a long-term disguise and for Tantei-kun admitting him to the hospital under the name Kaitou KID. He didn’t want to see Nakamori’s face when he realized Kaito had been behind the monocle. Hopefully, he never would.)

As for Tantei-kun… well, he had never left the safety of their home-base.

Oh, he had whined and carried on and bargained with every person that went through the door, but none had let him step foot out of the safe house until the fighting was over. For good reason, too. Though he may be sixteen in mind, taking a six-year-old into battle was just asking for bad things to happen.

He did make one hell of a Chess Master though, as he kept in touch over the headsets everyone was obligated to wear. As he called shots left and right in a deadly calm voice, Kaito was reminded, once again, just how spectacular his favorite critic was.

So Tantei-kun was safe, Kaito was recovering and Haibara was reverse-engineering the toxin that had set off the chain of events that led them to where they were today. Now, it was only a matter of resting and healing from the Day of Reckoning.

That, and meeting Tantei-kun for real, face-to-face.

Kaito still remembered Tantei-kun’s promise back before the worst was over. After having survived what could only be described as the single most idiotic decision of his life, Kaito wanted to cash in on that promise.

When he was finally released from the hospital, he decided he would do just that.

Standing on the curb just outside the front doors, Kaito fidgeted as he waited for his ride. Tantei-kun was supposed to pick him up, but the area was clear, not another car in sight. That didn’t spell good things for his nerves.

Not wanting to lose his confidence, Kaito dialed a well-known number and held his phone up to his ear. It rang twice before an unfamiliar voice answered. “To your left.”

Startled, Kaito looked to his left, only to see…

The most beautiful man he had ever met in his life. Or maybe handsome was a better word? He was impeccably dressed, white button-up ironed straight and navy blue suit jacket just reaching his wrists. His blue eyes sparkled right above a wide, familiar smile as he lowered the phone and hung it up.

He was so different and yet so familiar. It could only be—!

“Tantei-kun?” Kaito whispered, scared he was wrong.

“Technically, my name is Kudou Shinichi, but yes, I am—was the little detective that followed you around.” Tantei-kun rolled his eyes and offered a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, for real this time.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Kaito said, grasping the other’s hand firmly. He didn’t want to let go.

Then the rest of the words caught up with him.

Kaito blinked, taken aback. “Wait, what did you say your name was?”

“Kudou Shinichi?” Tantei—Kudou Shinichi frowned at him, concerned. “Why?”

Kaito hurriedly dropped their hands so he could drag his sleeve up. It took his three tries as his hands shook and he didn’t want to take his eyes off of Shinichi in order to pay attention to what he was doing.

Shinichi watched him with trepidation as Kaito rubbed off the concealer he’d covered his skin with for the last seven years. It had been days since he’d last applied it, so it rubbed off as easily as the temporary glue he used to hold on his masks.

When most of it had been scrubbed off, he held his wrist out to a now wide-eyed Kudou Shinichi who stared down at it with something akin to horror.

“No. No way.” Shinichi shook his head, then reached forward. He turned his gaze this way and that, like it would change the words if he looked at it the right way. But no, Kudou Shinichi remained scrawled across Kaito’s skin in the deepest of blacks. “That’s not—! That’s not possible! You couldn’t have known!”

“I didn’t,” Kaito said, a little slack-jawed. “I didn’t know who you were until today.”

“But that can’t—!” Shinichi abruptly cut himself off. His sharp gaze came up, trapping Kaito in its magnetic hold. “What’s your name?”

“Kuroba Kaito,” he answered, a little breathless. Because it couldn’t be. It couldn’t just work like that. Fate couldn’t be that spot-on… right?

“But that’s—! But I—!” Shinichi dropped his arm to turn around and yell at the sky. “No!” then he turned to Kaito. “No!”

Kaito wilted at the vehemence with which the word was spat. “No?”

“No, I mean, not ‘no’ to you!” Shinichi hurriedly tried to correct himself. “’Yes’ to you, but ‘no’ to Fate because that can’t—! This cannot be happening! This is bullshit!”

Kaito frowned and reached out to grab Shinichi’s flailing hands. His action was surprising enough to give the detective pause, a hesitation Kaito took advantage of as he checked his right wrist, then his left. It was when Kaito let go one and started to take off Shinichi’s watch that the detective realized what he was doing. “No, Kaito, wait—!”

Kuroba Kaito stared back at him, a little dusty from the remains of the concealer the watch had rubbed away.

“We’re Soulmates,” Kaito breathed as Shinichi yanked his hand free. He looked up, still reeling from the shock. “We’ve known each other for at least a year and we were Soulmates!”

“Things cannot work out this well!” Shinichi continued on with his rant. “The probability of having matching Marks in a world full of ‘Kuroba Kaito’s and ‘Kudou Shinichi’s is so infinitesimally small that—!”

“You didn’t know my name until two minutes ago,” Kaito said as he caught the other by the waist. Shinichi leaned away from him with obvious disapproval, but didn’t try to escape his hold. Kaito just rested his chin on the other’s shoulder. “You can’t claim Nominative Determinism when you didn’t even know who I was.”

“I knew who you were,” Shinichi grumbled, but slid his arms under Kaito’s and hooked his fingers into the back of his jacket. “I knew you were annoying and over-dramatic and… kind and smart and selfless to a fault...”

“Careful! I’ll think you’re complimenting me.” Kaito laughed.

“And egotistical,” Shinichi finished, just to be contrary. “I knew you. I just didn’t have the name to go with it.”

Kaito hummed in agreement. “Best name ever, huh?”

Shinichi let out a sigh, but answered. “Wouldn’t change it for the world.”

And for once, Kaito agreed.

“… I still don’t believe in Fate.”

“Shinichi, by this point, I don’t think you can argue against it.”

“No! Fate isn’t real! Just like Luck and Magic! It’s just a bunch of made up things to make people feel better about themselves!”

“A certain girl in my class would have something to say against you.”

“What was that?”

“I was asking if you wanted to go to the zoo? After all, you did promise me a date, didn’t you?”

A content sigh. “Yeah, I suppose I did.”

It was the best date in history, in Kaito's humble opinion. As well as every date after that.