#the one and only answer is yes: they are very dapper

[askblueandviolet]

Are you guys dapper buddys :D

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[voxofthevoid]

Will you post early for my birthday tommorow? 🎉🎉🎉

I won't update early because that's a whole process™, but you can have a little treat. Happy birthday 😘

(And yes, I answered this early because if I go in the order in which the asks came, you'd get this a week after your birthday.)

“The tree,” Yuuji gasps, fisting a hand in Gojou’s hair to tear his mouth away from the sensitive shell of his ear. “Against the tree.”

“Excellent choice,” Gojou purrs.

Then he’s shooting to his feet and yanking Yuuji up with him, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder and another on his hip before peeling away to stride over to the same tree Yuuji was pressed up against only minutes ago.

Gojou braces both palms on the trunk and…sticks his ass out.

“Like this?” he asks, throwing Yuuji a shit-eating grin over his shoulder.

“How are you making that look sexy?” Yuuji asks, genuinely baffled. “I can’t even see your ass.”

Gojou bursts into laughter, half collapsing against the thick tree while his body shakes. All Yuuji can see is the cape trembling. It covers Gojou’s whole back, nearly reaching the ankles. Yuuji wasn’t kidding about not being able to see his ass.

He sighs and walks over, absently noting that his bits flopping around under the skirt is still more comfortable than trying to squeeze them into that slim stretch of crotch fabric.

Gojou has stopped laughing by the time Yuuji reaches him and is just leaning against the tree, his ass still thrust back. Yuuji steps up close, their bodies meeting. A pleasant shiver runs through him.

He grips Gojou’s hips. “A little lower, sensei.”

Gojou gamely adjusts his stance, his torso becoming almost parallel to the ground while his ass comes to a snug rest against Yuuji’s crotch. There’s still a lot of clothing in between them—Yuuji’s skirt as well as Gojou’s cape and pants and even whatever underwear he’s wearing. But Yuuji’s not in any real hurry.

He squeezes Gojou’s hips before sliding his hand to the front of his pants, fingering his belt and the button underneath. He leans in, draping himself over Gojou’s back so he can kiss on him while undoing his pants. It puts most of his weight on Gojou, but he can take it. And Yuuji has to do some clumsy maneuvering with his chin to get at Gojou’s nape past the high collar of his cape—should’ve taken that off first—but he manages, dragging his mouth softly over the very soft skin right under Gojou’s undercut.

Gooseflesh kisses him back.

Yuuji abandons the pants with the belt loosened and the button popped, instead working on the cape fastenings. It’s tricker than he thought it’d be—a pair of tiny buckles on straps of soft rubber that make Yuuji worry if he’ll ruin the whole thing by pulling too roughly.

“You could help,” he grumbles against Gojou’s throat.

A hand helpfully pats his fumbling ones before returning to the tree. “You’re doing fine.”

Yuuji sighs, concentrating on the buckles. One by one, they pop free, and the cape loosens around Gojou’s shoulders. Yuuji leans back just enough to let it pool to the ground and then delicately snags it with one foot so he can toss it to the side. It’s still going to get dirty, but at least he won’t step on it.

Without the cape, Gojou’s just a guy in a dapper suit. Yuuji takes a moment to just stand there and admire the view.

Gojou wiggles his ass. “Missed it?”

Yuuji lets out a snort that hurts the insides of his nose. “I saw it this morning, sensei.”

Gojou sighs theatrically. “He’s already tired of me.”

“I’m never gonna get tired of you,” Yuuji says, completely honest.

“No need to romance me,” Gojou says, still facing the tree. “I’ve already put out.”

“You’re being really ridiculous.” Yuuji can’t help how fond it comes out. He presses himself flush to Gojou again, palming his ass for a long, lingering moment, his guts drawing up tight at how the flesh fills his palm, before sliding his hands back to the front to work on his pants. “Hey, sensei?”

Gojou hums, an acknowledgement that doubles as an invitation to continue, but Yuuji doesn’t speak immediately, a little distracted by the gentle pressure against his cock. The skirt and the pants are still separating their bodies, but there’s a promise there that sinks into his flesh, heating it with warm, pulsing waves. He’s still mostly soft, but that won’t be a problem for long.

Yuuji’s found out over and over and over that he can go all day if Gojou just breathes on him right. Gojou likes to tell him it’s his age, but Yuuji’s not so sure. He can’t imagine ever not burning like a pyre for this man. He won’t get to really test it out. Yuuji’s not meant to live long, right? He lost that luxury when he swallowed that first finger. He probably won’t make it to Gojou’s age, not even close.

But for as long as he’s here, he wants this man.

He kisses Gojou’s nape, his nose brushing the velvet-soft undercut. A hand flies to his hair, fisting tightly but not trying to move him, and so Yuuji just stays like that for a little while, rutting lazily against Gojou’s clothed ass while his cock chubs back up under the skirt. Gojou’s fly is undone, but Yuuji holds them up, just enjoying this easy, lazy moment.

He can feel Gojou’s need though, radiating heat even through his thick pants. Yuuji’s been neglecting him.

“Sensei,” he asks again, “can I eat you out?”

Gojou’s fingers clench roughly in Yuuji’s hair. His voice is a harsh, guttural rasp: “Yes.”

Yuuji drops the pants, drops to his knees.

Gojou’s wearing a thong—because of course he is. Everything about this man is an assault on Yuuji’s sanity and self-control. For a moment, Yuuji just looks, his mouth watering at the sight of that thin, dark strip of fabric pulled taut across the valley between two perfect curves of pale flesh. Gojou was right there when Yuuji loudly proclaimed his love for tall women with big butts, and he’s very much not a woman, but god, he’s got one hell of an ass—and Gojou never lets Yuuji live it down whenever he gets a little too into touching him there.

“Are you just going to watch?” Gojou asks from above, the weight of his eyes bearing down on Yuuji.

Yuuji swallows wetly. “Just making sure you know I’m not tired of you, sensei.”

Gojou chuckles, with a shocking lack of sharp edges. “Very smooth. Consider me convinced. Go on then. Take too long and they’ll eat all the food, you know.”

“That’s fine,” Yuuji says faintly, his trembling thumb hooked into the fabric covering Gojou’s hole. “I’ll eat well anyway.”

Gojou howls with laughter—and chokes on it, as if his throat has clenched around the sound as violently as his rim is clamping down on Yuuji’s tongue. He still works it in deeper, pushing boldly past the shuddering resistance. It’d have been easy enough to sweeten it up for a smoother, slicker entry, but Yuuji kinda likes how shocked Gojou’s flesh feels when he just punches in like this, burying his tongue all the way inside till the hot, ripe taste there soaks into it.

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

i keep thinking about bad's vacation outfit. mostly, i keep thinking about him not wearing armour.

bad is, fundamentally, not okay rn. his son got kidnapped. the code attacks are starting again. people keep going missing left and right and skeppy isn't here but he's been missing him from the start. he lost the election by a single islander vote. there's been a lot of pressure on him for a long time, and he's finally starting to crack.

the thing about bad is that he does NOTT talk about his emotions. he's silly about it. he plays games about it. he will never answer a straightforward question with a yes or a no, not unless he's lying. when forever asked him he was okay, he said yes.

i think... there's really something about him, repeatedly, saying he's on vacation. sure, yeah, take a break, but he keeps throwing himself into danger anyway, he's still taking care of the eggs. he's silly with it, but i don't think his "vacation" explicitly means "i'm taking a break." I think it means "i'm not someone you can rely on right now." what? not being at the top of the island/egg defence squad because he's falling apart at the seams? :D nahhh he's just on that vacation grind! look at him! he's so silly! he's building skeppies and he's being so silly !

and. god. the way he's absolutely clinging to skeppy right now. i get the sense that he takes a lot of comfort from skeppy, just from the existence of him. can you imagine being alive has long as bad has? losing and losing and losing and losing, and then you finally find someone you can't lose? skeppy is bad's emotional support diamond and he is Not There to emotionally support him. bad keeps throwing tantrums when people ignore him, and he keeps building skeppies.

he's never going to say he needs help. he's never going to say he's not okay. he's going to say "i'm not crazy" and "i don't have an obsession" and "yes i'm fine" and "i'm on vacation" and not wear his most protective armour. the ARMOUR. bad boy halo the most paranoid parent on the island keeps running around with several eggs at his heels when he's wearing only enchanted sunglasses and boots. WHEN THERE ARE ACTUAL CODE ATTACKS. WHEN THE CODE HAS THE ! SWORD. if "i'm on vacation" means "i can't help" then the lack of armour is a physical, visible reminder. it's the closest he can get to saying "no, i'm not okay."

and man.manm an man. the whole thing with dapper right now. dapper is the only one who really knows the extent of bad Being Weird right now. pomme has a good idea of it, but when she asked about bad "is he going insane again?" dapper's response was "he never stopped." i've seen lots of talk about bad needing dapper more than dapper needs him (and its TRUE. god. it's so true.) but dapper is also! not doing okay! kiddo was very recently kidnapped! he takes after his dad and doesn't overtly express his distress, but the way he was scared of getting too close to elquackity at the talent show... the way he and pomme huddled together when bad left them alone for an hour... he's watching his dad fall apart in front of him, and there's nothing he can do about it.

from a roleplaying perspective too i LOVEE how bad is slowly, slowly ramping up the skeppy obsession. he's clinging to sanity so he can be a good dad to his kids, but his kids are so mortal. so fragile. bad isn't; bad isn't wearing all of his armour. and skeppy isn't; bad is placing more skeppies around the island. i adore this man's roleplay i hope he gets WORSE

[comradeboyhalo]

What makes Bad and Foolish's relationship so fun to analyze is the fact that its built on familiarity. They know how to read each other, and that in turn allows them to choose when and how to trust each other.

Bad's trust in Foolish is not entirely rational, and he's aware of this. Bad is deeply distrustful of anything connected to the Federation, and Foolish has openly sided with them multiple times. And yet Bad constantly shares information with Foolish, entrusts him with Dapper, and makes no effort to intervene with Foolish's arrests. He's like this because he understands how Foolish's loyalties truly lie--how he enjoys playing both sides, how he likes to have fun. This even puts Bad above the Federation, who appears to take Foolish at face value. Bad can't predict if Foolish will betray him, but he has a good guess on how deeply Foolish will betray him, and shares information accordingly.

The reason Bad was upset at Foolish's first arrest of Mike and Pac was not because it was wrong (in his own words: "That's all you did? Why is everyone mad at you?"), but because Foolish had kept a secret from him. His read on Foolish was incorrect, since he had hoped Foolish would've kept him in the loop despite it all. Bad had never wanted to kick Foolish out of Ordo Theoritas, and anytime Foolish was threatened by another islander, Bad would play along but as a complete joke. This was one of their rare misunderstandings: Foolish didn't understand that Bad never truly wanted Foolish to suffer real consequences for his actions, and Bad failed to realize that Foolish wasn't as open to sharing personal information as he'd thought. This was why Foolish turned to Jaiden (someone who was clearly on his side) and why Bad turned to violence to get info (and did he ever do anything with that info? no, which is exactly my point. he just wants it).

On Foolish's end, he's very guarded around Bad. But while Bad is more open to showing his cards, Foolish is more outwardly caring. He folds to Bad whenever Bad's at his lowest, allowing him to live temporarily in his home and investigating his color changes stricter than anyone else. Foolish is also much more cognizant of his moral code than Bad is. He has a self-awareness that his morals are much more lax than others, and tries to compensate in return, like asking beforehand to arrest people. Bad, on the other hand, generally lacks a self-awareness. To be fair, he's better at masking than Foolish, but he usually needs to be talked down from his more violent urges, and he is routinely disappointed by those around him that they don't share his amoral compass. Foolish clashes with the other islanders because he finds it was just for fun a valid justification. Bad clashes with the other islanders because his scale goes so far darker.

What makes Foolish understand Bad, then, is the knowledge that he can do anything to Bad, and know that their relationship will bounce back. Bad says he doesn't want to get arrested? Well, tough luck, Foolish thinks it's fun and Bad will have to deal. He can bypass this moral clash he has with other islanders because he knows Bad understands what its like to just have fun with chaos. Foolish is a much more passive player compared to Bad; he loves chaos but it's rare for him to be destructive or violent. Foolish's desire to see Bad burn the world down (and cheer him on) is not because Foolish thinks Bad's reasons are good, or that Bad is the safest to side with. Foolish just wants a front row seat to insanity, and no one else seems to be serving! Foolish knows Bad has it in him to push the line, and he doesn't want anyone to get in the way of peak entertainment.

"Does your family trump all other families?" / "You're my family. And to answer your question, yes it does." / "Then I say go for it."

The one thing holding Foolish back from desiring chaos is his and Leo's safety. But this statement from Bad has assured him that not only is he and Leo safe, but he and Leo are safe above the world. That was the final piece in the puzzle to get Foolish's backing. Now Foolish can understand Bad's motives, and support him without fear of shooting himself in the foot. And he does this all while denying Bad the same assurance. But in Bad's case, he doesn't need or want Foolish's assurance. If Foolish betrays him, well, that'd suck, but Bad is hyper-paranoid and is aware that anyone can betray him. He doesn't care about mutual trust, he just needs someone who can look at his torture room, and get why he built it.

And finally: They've both been on this island for Too Damn Long. Metawise, Foolish and Bad have the most QSMP streamed days out of everyone, as og islanders who daily stream. They've tried to reel it in. They've tried to have cute, covert investigations. They're bored. They're impatient. They're upset. They miss their kids. Someone has to cross the line, and it might as well be them.

[kteezy997]

A Love Story for Christmas-Part Two(the end)// t.c.

This is not edited, I just wanted to get this out before the end of the year lol enjoy!

“So, you mean the bookstore is going to be closing for good?!”

Timmy shrugged, “Yeah, I mean people have been coming in for years saying that they can get books for cheaper online. And then there’s all the people that don’t care about physical books, so they just read off of their kindles or apps on their phones. Makes it hard to pay bills when people won’t buy our books.”

“Yeah, technology really has ruined the book-reading experience. It’s a shame, really. This place is so charming and sweet, it’s been a reading nook for generations in this town. I would hate to see it close down.”

“Yeah, I actually had an idea to go into business with the local coffee shop, like have the bookstore co-op with the coffee place to be one shop.”

“Oh, that’s an awesome idea!”

“Well, thanks.” he blushed, “but the city didn’t like the idea and the owner of the coffee shop said said no, so…”

An idea popped into your head, you opened your mouth to speak, “Timmy, my-"

“So, um-" he began, both of you spoke at the same time and you laughed in unison.

Wanting to know what he was going to say, you insisted, “You go first.”

“Okay.” he chuckled, “I was just wondering if you were going to the Festival of Christmas Lights on the Square tonight?”

“The Festival of Christmas Lights on the Square? I didn’t know anything about it. What is that?”

“Oh, I’m surprised you haven’t seen the flyers around town; it’s just a little event on the square, there’s displays of Christmas lights and all the local shops and cafes are open. You can walk around, eat, drink, shop and look at all the lights. It’s actually really neat, every year we spend two weeks putting up lights.”

“That’s awesome! Maybe I’ll check it out.” you smiled.

“Well, would you like to go with me?”

“Yes.” you answered, blushing.

“Cool, um, let me get your number and I’ll pick you up around five.”

……….

You were on cloud nine. Not only did you meet a cute new guy, but you got his phone and a first date. Well, you hoped it qualified as a date. And to see Christmas lights and sip hot cocoa, so perfect and cozy.

You had to dress warm, but still wanted to look cute for the date. So, you put on some thermal black leggings and a red sweater dress with your long wool coat over it.

You felt like you were back in high school, waiting for your crush to pick you up for a date.

Timmy pulled up at 5 o’clock sharp.

“Wow, you look pretty.” he announced as you approached him, he had opened the passenger side door for you.

“Aw, thank you. You look nice too.” you replied with a smile. “Thank you for opening the door for me.” you said as you got into his car. He looked very dapper in his black coat with a touch of whimsy from his cozy orange scarf.

“You’re very welcome.” he chirped, shutting the car door after you.

After he got into the driver’s seat and took off, you said, “Thank you for taking me to the light festival.”

“Oh, no, thank you for coming with me. I’m glad to not have to go alone.”

“Can I ask you something without being too invasive?”

“Sure, ask me anything.”

“How is a guy like you single? I mean, I am assuming you’re single?”

“Yeah, no, I am. I just got out of a relationship a few months ago. I just haven’t really gotten back out there, and just been busy trying to save the bookstore.”

“Oh? What have you been doing that’s kept you away from the dating scene?”

“Trying out fundraisers, talking with other businesses to try and collaborate, spending my own money on advertising, shopping around to find cheaper books for wholesale, but nothing is really working. It’s really hard to see my family’s business failing, especially since it’s been a staple in the community for so long.”

“I know, it makes me so sad. Maybe-"

“Hey, we’re here!” he chimed, pulling into a little parking lot.

You looked ahead, seeing the square all lit up and a decent amount of people making their way up there.

“Were you saying something?” Timmy asked, finding a spot and parking the car, turning the engine off.

“No, no. Let’s go!” you exclaimed.

…….

The atmosphere of the busy square was magical. No surface was left undecorated for the holiday season. Multicolored lights were strung, Christmas characters stood on every corner, greenery, holly, snow, everything was a winter wonderland come to life.

Every store and restaurant was open and alive with guests flooding in and out. The smell of coffee and gingerbread covered the exhaust fumes of the cars that would drive by along the square.

The street was packed with smiling faces and rosy cheeks. Timmy held your hand so you wouldn’t be separated. You were bundled up enough so you weren't cold, but tiny little snow flurries started coming down.

After browsing a couple of stores, Timmy took you to the coffee shop for a hot drink. "Hot chocolate?" he asked when it was your turn at the register.

"Sounds perfect." you answered. He ordered two cups.

The hot chocolate was the perfect temperature for drinking. It warmed your whole body even more.

You exited the coffee shop hand in hand, Timmy took a sip from his cup, then said, "So, y/n, I feel like you already know a lot about me, but I've neglected to ask about you."

"Well, what would you like to know?" you giggled as the two of you continued your stroll along the street.

"What do you do for work up in the big city?"

"It's funny you should ask, because I've tried to tell you a couple of different times today, it just didn't come out."

Timmy stopped walking, looking at you, "Oh no, it's my fault isn't it? Did I interrupt you? I talk too much, I know I do, especially if I like someone." He looked down at his feet, shamefully. He looked so cute and pitiful, holding your hand in one of his while the other held his cup of hot chocolate while holding his head down.

"No, no! It's not your fault. I don't think you talk too much. I think you're great, Timothee."

He looked back up at you, smiling softly, "Thank you. I think you're great too, now tell me about your work." he chuckled.

"I actually work in the marketing department for my father's coffee company." you said.

"Really? So, you're in the coffee business?"

"Yes, it's actually one of the biggest coffee chains in the world, I don't know if you've heard of it, Smith's Brew Company?"

"Wait," you could practically see the wheels turning in his head, "so you're y/n Smith, your dad is Ronald Smith of Smith's Brew?"

You nodded, giggling, "Yep that's us."

"Wow, that's incredible. He's like one of my business idols. I can't believe I met you, and that you're from the same place as me." he strengthened his grip softly on your hand.

"I'm glad I met you." you agreed, "And Timmy, I think we could help your bookstore. Remember the bookstore coffee shop combo idea you had? We could talk to my father about starting it. He is a sucker for helping small businesses, there's no way he would say no to helping his hometown save one of its longest running stores!"

"Oh, y/n," he shook his head, "that's a wonderful idea, but I couldn't ask you to do that."

"You didn't ask, I'm offering. You just say the word, and I'll set up a meeting with my dad in the city. He will be happy to meet you and hear your story."

He sighed, then looked at you with a grin, "That would be great, thank you so much." He leaned in and you nearly fell over as his warm lips met your cold cheek.

You weren't expecting the kiss, but you gladly welcomed it. You smiled at him. His sweet eyes made you melt in the snowy air. You stepped closer, your bodies touched, and you rested your head on his chest, never wanting this night to end.

Timmy placed his chin on your head, "So, how long are you in town for? I want to take you on a date before you have to leave."

You moved your head to look up at him, "Is this not a date?"

"Well, I'd like to take you on a second date." he smirked.

"Mom, look they're under the mistletoe!" you heard a child shout from a few feet away.

You and Timmy both looked up, seeing the small greenery with small white flowers and red holly, tied up in a tree with a festive bow.

Smiling at each other, you both knew what had to be done. You closed your eyes, letting him give you the most romantic, body tingling kiss of your life.

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @lixzey @bitchyunknownuser @ducktapebar @aoi-targaryen @yukideadinside @elloise0 @thatoneweirdgirl17 @mel-vaz @sammy-halpert @iwishchalamet @that-one-fangirl69 @jindongdongie @briefkittenearthquake @imnotoverlyobsessive

[lionheartedmusings]

i was rewatching the beginning of bad's vod (yes, i have a problem, leave me alone) and it got me thinking again about bad and baghera's relationship, and how in terms of narrative importance for q!bad q!baghera holds a place that is only rivalled by dapper and pomme. this isn't to put down the rest of q!bad's relationships, i think q!foolish is another one i want to make a post about, but man… q!bad and q!baghera (i'll drop the q! from now on bc i'm lazy but this is about the characters).

their friendship is so important to me? how baghera is so immune to bad's pranks but always plays along, even from very early on when he stole her chair (or table) and tried to bullshit her to her face. she knew he'd been the one to steal it, and let him dig his hole while telling him explicitly that she didn't care about the furniture — she cares about a friend lying. in the end, bad comes clean, and she teases him and then makes him a bunch of furniture.

we also talk a lot about how bad's instinct is to leave dapper with foolish in case something goes wrong, but the fact that baghera was his second option there is… wild. the fact bad went away for a week and trusted her with dapper speaks volumes, absolute libraries even — he's known foolish for so long, and yet this new person is someone he holds in high regard enough to entrust his child to her. in fact, when we talk about his reluctance to dapper's adoption it was never about baghera. it was about his own fears and insecurities when it came to his relationship with dapper — at no point has bad ever expressed that he didn't think baghera would be an amazing mother to dapper… because he knew she would be.

bad avoids expressing emotion outwardly to anyone other than the eggs, but you can tell that baghera's genuine concern for him hits home and that he recognises it for what it is, especially during his """vacation""" arc. he knows that she knows he's sinking, and he knows that his denial is a confirmation in her eyes. but he doesn't mind, and carries on, and knows if he needs her she'll be there.

today's trip to the nether, though, was very symbolic to me in a fun way. when baghera is downed and he realises she fell in the lava, there's no hesitation — he paused enough to gapple up and threw himself in to get to her. when she's safe, baghera just blatantly said "i love you badboy" and he answers "no problem".

he says "i love you too" though, not through words but by the fact that the second they made it out and he realised she wasn't in the overworld, he threw himself back into the nether with 30 seconds on the clock to get to her. he ran, and screamed, and got her through that damn portal because he'd never leave her behind — if he'd gotten stuck, well, they would've been together. but he wouldn't leave her.

and i think there's something even more poignant in the fact that for a moment, subconsciously, bad prioritised baghera over both pomme and dapper — he could've stayed back and hoped she'd make it out, but he went in there to save his friend and his children's mother with no hesitation.

there's a lot about their friendship that is meaningful in all the small moments, but this nether trip? man, it really shows how much they absolutely love each other in detriment of themselves if need be.

bad would risk it all for baghera, and i'll never stop thinking about that.

[miscellaneoussmp]

I mean... I guess he could be? Okay that's funny so totodile *is* an option in game for the player character (who Fit is replacing), but its worked out via personality quiz. The personality of a male totodile? Jolly. But then my read of the quiz if I do it that way makes him a turtwig, and I don't think he'd make a very good torterra, you know?

And yes! Madagio skitty!!! I did consider a more serious looking cat, but decided the derpy worked. A little Madoka Magica. The character they replace is a Grovyle in canon, but skitty so much better.

And yeah BBH is just vibing. Its unfortunately not uncommon for people to bring abandoned or orphaned eggs back from dungeons (I'm replacing the fact sometimes you're given eggs as rewards for missions with death rate of people travelling dungeons is higher). He looks after the eggs and as well as daycare for people's kids while they work, also basically an orphanage. Every kid that comes through the daycare in whatever way is his in his heart. Loves the little ones so much. Chats to the eggies in the evenings after Dapper is asleep, making sure they're all safe and warm. Sometimes Pomme too, but the French travel a lot and so she only stays with Bad every now and again.

Oh and I forgot - golduck Baghera.

(You may have seen this one with Des, but my favourite factoid about the au is Pac purposefully gets himself lost in dungeons to make Fit come get him, and vice versa. Usually if their team gets stuck Felps uses teleport to bail them about [Felps, Pac, Mike, and Cellbit are a team], but Pac runs off to hide. Not if its super serious, but his definition of serious is a bit... dicey. One of the others hurt? Pac will leave with them. He's hurt? Hide-and-seek in the murder dungeon which knocks you out and leaves you unconscious in a pool of your own blood if you stay too long. [Felps is buddies with the thing that does that so his team gets longer, but it'll still get annoyed *eventually*])

... I should probably ramble on my own blog but that feels like comitting and I've got so much in my other aus to do.

That makes sense! I was sorta aware of the personality quiz, but I didn't know the answers for it! I don't think Fit really fits Torterra, honestly! I think Cranidos is a better fit ngl.

Madagio as a Skitty is just so funny. I adore the juxtaposition so so much.

Golduck Baghera, I love her so much.

Of course, Pac and Fit would do everything to get the other to rescue them <3

Felps being friends with an eldritch entity is so in character for him.

I love hearing about this au, even though I don't understand everything!

[ravendarkwood]

My Theory about the painting lady I guess? Or two other alternatives

So I watch the clip of the painting lady, and I'll be real for a second I don't think we have enough to figure out who it is. The painting is of a generic spooky lady, so it could be a lot of different people and I had my own theories so I figured I'd throw my hat into the ring.

Hekate

So Hekate is the one that I see people talking about the most, and I can't really figure out why? So Hekate is the Greek goddess of witchcraft, crossroads, ghosts along with other stuff like night and the moon which more falls under other goddesses but she is associated with. Could this be Hekate? Yes, it could be literally anyone, but couldn't see anything that would specifically lead one to think Hekate other than Dapper has mentioned her a couple of times. The only iconography that could link back to Hekate is that she's associated with two torches, and there were some torches and candles in twos beside the painting, but that could also be lighting. She also isn't someone I could see climbing out of a painting and stabbing a bitch. Her most notable role in Greek mythology is cursing people and helping a mother find her daughter, so it doesn't seem in line to me?

Miss Trixtin, Death

So, you guys probably know her better as Kristin or Mumza, but I will be talking about her as Miss Trixtin because that's how I separated the character from the person and I'm not calling someone in their thirties mum when I'm twenty six. Now, despite what some people think Miss Trixtin is canon to QSMP, and I don't just mean in the way that the other goddess wives are. Philza started collecting wither roses early on and started leaving them places, saying that they were proof that Miss Trixtin's presence, and when asked questions by Cucurucho he's answered talking about her. She just straight up is canon. Her symbolism usually centers around the wither rose, and to a lesser extent crying obsidian. The only things that I could see that could match her symbols is the lantern, and maybe the background of the painting. Bad stops running to focus on a lantern for a few seconds, and there is some purple on it, so it does look a bit like crying obsidian? Also, she's just associated with black and purple in general, so the back round of the painting also matches her vibes.

I will also say that Miss Trixtin's hair and skin tone match the painting a bit? I'm only mention this because Bad focuses so much on the hair at the very end, but she does have black hair and tanner skin. Would she jump out of a painting to stab a bitch? I don't know honestly, maybe if she thought it was funny? It depends, we haven't seen a lot of her other than her brief appearance on DSMP where she spookily whispered to Philza, making him think he was crazy, testy because he made the nether portal into a table, but also saved him and Niki from the nuke.

Another interesting thing is that Phil often talks about her like she's a cyclical goddess, like yes she's goddess of death but death leads to new life sort of thing, so she could also be associated with nature. It makes sense with her being a minecraft goddess so like respawning.

So my two additions to this theory:

Nyx

If it's going to be a Greek goddess, honestly I think it being Nyx would be more likely then Hekate? Nyx is the greek goddess of night, and Bad was given the darkness effect when he was stabbed.

Famine

Okay so, Bad has been going pretty hard on the Christian stuff for Bad's backstory, and he is probably either Death the horsemen or associated with it, so this dark figure could be Famine. Famine is the black horseman, so it would make sense for them to be linked with black. Their weapon is scales, not a wand of darkness though so the weapons don't match up, but it does link back to a lot of the sources that Bad seems to be using for his character's backstory

[lovelylogans]

debutante

previous half / current half of chapter 5

⁂

“dress? shoes? crinoline? gloves?”

“yes, yes, yes,” logan says dutifully, peeking in to check his bag even though patton is 100% sure that logan’s already made a list and checked it thrice, that’s how thorough he is.

“okay. dee? any last minute things we need to make an outing for?”

“dress, shoes, gloves,” dee says, not even bothering to look into his own puffy garment bag. “no crinoline—there’s far too much tulle in the skirt already.”

“good, good,” patton says with a clap of his hands; he doesn’t even need to ask the third member of the impromptu carpool that patton’s managed to organize.

well. logan organized, and patton volunteered for the effort.

“poppy, i don’t think i need to ask you, but i will for thoroughness.”

“yes, i have everything,” poppy says. she’s sitting perched on the edge of her chair on the kitchen, hands politely folded, legs crossed like a proper young lady, examining her reflection in the vanity mirror that patton had dug up for the occasion.

“great!” patton says with another clap. “okay, i’ve got my suit and everything right here—logan, would you mind checking if any stragglers need a ride? i think we’ve got a spare spot in the car.”

“on it,” logan says, digging out his phone.

“great,” patton says, and he allows his eyes to roam the room for something to do in this awkward gap of time between meeting up and getting going.

his eyes land, once again, at his kitchen table.

poppy’s already in her suit, even though patton knows for a fact that there’s dressing rooms there for the kids to use; logan and janus are both not wearing their dresses for that exact reason. but poppy is already in her tails—the only thing she’ll need to do when they get there is put on her gloves. her hands are currently uncovered, and currently flicking her hair back and forth, as if trying to decide how exactly it should rest on her shoulders, frowning at herself in the mirror.

“you look very dapper,” patton offers to her.

“huh?” poppy says, tearing her gaze away from herself, before her sharp gaze focuses on patton. she always looks so sharp, that poppy, patton’s never seen her at anything less than laser-focused on whatever’s in front of him. it’s a little intimidating, if he tells the truth, even though she’s less than half his age. 

“you look very dapper,” patton repeats. “the suit really suits you,” and then he laughs at his own pun.

poppy rolls her eyes, but she adjusts the coat regardless, looking down at herself with a little smile.

“thank you,” she says, then she glances at herself again in the mirror, and the little smile goes away, in a familiar way that makes patton’s stomach ache. “my mom straightened my hair. she says it looks better down.”

patton chews at his lip, because—

well. he’d heard it enough, back when he was a kid. such pretty hair, people would coo, such pretty curls! and people reaching out and touching it without asking him, people telling him how much better his hair had looked down, how pretty he was when he smiled and his parents were so lucky to have such a cheerful little child, except they’d said the gender-specific form of child. 

for years and years he had toyed with the idea of chopping it all off, even before he’d realized he was trans. he did, once, when he was a toddler—he distantly remembers it, the safety scissors in his hand, the brown curls in uneven chunks at his feet, his mother’s shriek when she’d found him, too late to stop him from cutting off one last curl as she watched.

it had been one of his very first rebellions. the later one with his hair, the more permanent, had felt just as freeing at fifteen as it had at four.

“do you like it down?” patton asks poppy.

poppy hesitates. it’s enough of an answer for him.

“‘cause, i mean,” patton says and shrugs. “we’ve still got time. i can help you change it, if you want.”

“really?” she says eagerly, turning away at last from the mirror, and patton smiles at her.

“of course!” he says. “i’m okay at doing hair, but we might need to call in virgil, he’s better at working with his hands than me, plus he’s got two older sisters and a ton of nieces—”

as an answer, poppy plops herself on the couch in front of him. patton goes to get a handheld mirror from one of the many nooks and crannies around his living room, along with the little bag poppy’s mother had sent along with her full of all sorts of tools for her hair, and he hands the mirror to her so she’ll be able to see herself.

“what d’you want to do with it?” he asks. 

she considers herself, before she says, “can we put it up?”

he carefully gathers some of her long, dirty-blonde hair in his hands, twisting it cautiously into a bun. her hair is very soft, and clearly well cared for, but then, patton’s had been too—he wonders if, like him, her haircare is mostly because her mother insisted it be so.

his fingers remember how to do hair, which isn’t a surprise to him—he’s helped girls at isadora prince’s dance studio get their hair ready for recitals for years past. but there’s more freedom for poppy’s hair, here, and he wants her to decide what to do with it.

“how ‘bout like this?” he offers, holding her hair in place, before he plucks free a couple strands to frame her face. the effect is a little messy, but messy in a way that’s acceptable to wear to fancy functions. 

poppy hesitates.

“we can do it another way, if you want,” patton says, before she says anything. “it’s your hair, after all.”

poppy hesitates, before she says quietly, “i like the bun, but can you braid it a little?”

patton hums, and runs his fingers along a section of her hair near the front of her face, pulling back some of the messiness, making it look a bit neater. “this bit, do you think? and then we can pull it back into the bun?”

“yeah,” poppy says, sounding relieved. “yeah, exactly. i think—um. i think that’d be nice.”

“i think that’d be nice, too,” patton agrees, before releasing his hold of her hair and reaching for that section. “can you hand me a brush, please?”

poppy digs around in the little bag, before she hands him a travel-sized brush.

“are you tender-headed?” he asks, gathering the section to be braided in his hand. 

“a little,” she admits.

“all right,” patton says. “let me know if it hurts—because i am, and when i had long hair, i hated sitting down and having all my knots brushed out.”

the knots had gathered themselves at his neck, when he was a kid—he hadn’t been able to help it, his hair was just thick and curly and more prone to knotting than other kids’ hair. he’d have to sit on the chair in front of his mother’s vanity for ages, wrinkling his nose at the scent of detangler and trying not to let tears spring to his eyes as the brush was yanked through all the knots. 

he thinks it’s half the reason he started thinking about chopping it all off in the first place.

but the brush moves smoothly through poppy’s hair, which makes sense—it has been styled already, after all, straightened to perfection.

he splits the section of her hair into three, and his fingers weave a familiar pattern.

“do you miss it?” poppy asks. “having long hair, i mean.”

“gosh no,” patton says immediately, laughing a little at the thought. missing long hair. “i thought i might, before i, y’know. hacked it all off. but no. i like it much more short than i ever did long, even if my hair looks a little messier now than it did then. it’s way easier to manage now. hey, d’you have any bobby pins?”

poppy passes back the whole bag in answer, and patton lets out a little “aha!” as he finds them organized in a little bottle, immediately shaking out a few and setting them within easy reach, along with a couple hair ties, before resuming the braid.

“yeah, but,” patton says. “i’d wanted to cut my hair off for a long time before i actually did it, so my answer’s probably a little different than what it might be for other people.”

“and when you did it?” she prompts, and patton huffs softly, almost immediately a little more fond of her, the way he always gets when a kid gets curious like logan does. there’s a journalist instinct in this girl, just like logan. and so he continues to do her hair as he thinks about how to tell this story.

“well,” patton says at last. “i wasn’t out, yet, y’see—i’m trans.”

“i remember,” she says. 

“right,” patton says. “so i was about… fifteen? around your age, i guess. i knew i was trans, but i hadn’t really told very many people yet. so i snuck out of the house, and i went to the nearest barbershop, and i walked right in and i said, ‘i’m donating all of my hair for cancer patients—’ which wasn’t a lie, i did donate all my hair—so i told the fella at the front desk, ‘i want to have someone cut my hair short who knows how to cut hair short and make it look nice on anyone.’”

he remembers the day very well as he’s tying off the end of poppy’s braid. he was wearing his binder under his sweater, that day, and when the guy at the front desk looked at him over his glasses he remembers immediately regretting it, as if they would immediately be able to know upon looking at him who he was, what he was, what his goal really was. 

but the man had just looked at him, narrowed his eyes, and helped him book a walk-in appointment without a word. patton had been shaking with some mixture of fear and apprehension and relief by the time he’d walked into the back to sit in the barber’s chair.

he gathers more of poppy’s hair in his hands, to twist and pluck and tie back, and he continues.

“and so i tied my hair back into a ponytail, ‘cause when you donate, you have to tie it off at the top and the bottom and put it in a plastic bag to send it to the people, and the barber looked at me and asked me if i was sure, and i said ‘yes, i’m sure, i’m really really sure, i can grow it back if i want to,’ and the barber nodded at me, and then he got his scissors ready, and i could feel him cutting at my hair, and finally he chopped off the ponytail, and i—”

when patton goes quiet a little, poppy urges, “and you what?”

the width of the grin that springs onto patton’s face just then surprises him, even though he knows the memory is a happy one.

“god,” he says. “i just burst out laughing.”

he remembers it clear as day—the sudden vice grip at his throat when he’d felt the scissors slowly chopping through his thick, curly hair, the fear of what if it turns out terrible or what if he does this and suddenly i realize i’m not actually trans or god, what is mom going to do when she sees this???

and then, when the weight lifted—because he hadn’t realized until it was gone, how heavy his curls were, how weighed down he’d been—and the barber had lifted the ponytail to show him in the mirror, and patton had just cackled with glee. he’d laughed and laughed and laughed, feeling the relief of his hair off his shoulders, of finally, finally going through with it, of doing something on his own, of feeling—

like a boy. he’d felt like a boy. unquestionably, then, when his hair was gone, it had felt so right, and he knew he’d been right all along, that he was trans. he’d looked at himself in the mirror with his short hair and his flat chest and he’d looked like a boy and he’d felt like a boy and he’d nearly cried he was so happy.

he hadn’t been able to stop smiling the whole rest of the haircut. he’d beamed as he dumped the envelope with his hair into the mailbox, to be sent off to make a wig for a cancer patient who would surely appreciate his hair more than he ever had. he’d run his hands through his hair the entire time on his way home, almost giggling each time it was freed so much quicker than it had been when he’d finger-combed his hair before.

he shakes himself, a little, and returns to the present, to his task of doing poppy’s hair, clearing his throat, smiling still.

“i was really, really happy,” he said. “i didn’t realize until i’d done it, how much i’d wanted to do it all along, how heavy my hair was, how free i felt when it was gone.”

poppy is staring at him through the mirror, contemplative. patton shakes himself.

“oh, but enough about me and those old bygone days,” he says, busying himself with pinning her hair. “tell me about you! i saw the stuff you did on the franklin’s most recent addition—really cool stuff. are you an artist?”

“oh,” poppy says, looking startled. “no—artistic hobbies are proven to improve job performance, ease stress, and can improve memory and cognitive function. also, if i manage to secure an in with logan, i’m more likely to get the design editor position my junior year, which would put even more of an impressive resume forward to secure editor in chief my senior year.”

“...that’s great!” patton says, starting to piece together why his grandfather had struggled to come up with a word to describe her.

“i want to research cancer,” she says.

“that is great,” he says genuinely, rummaging for another pin. “so—what would that look like? biology major, or chemistry—then med school?”

“all the advanced sciences chilton has on offer, pre-med at harvard, harvard again for med school,” she confirms.

patton whistles low, beginning to tie off her hair. 

“i know,” she says. she doesn’t look overwhelmed or sheepish about this. her phone buzzes.

“ope! here, let me—”

“ugh,” poppy says, looking at it, disinterested. “no. leave it.” 

“okay,” patton says. he gathers up some more of her hair, to twist into a bun and put the final touches in the details. 

“actually—”

she reaches for her phone, decisively turns it on do not disturb, and purposefully sets it far, far aside. patton spies the names summer and francie and seline popping up.

“were you ever in a secret society at chilton?” she asks.

“oh—no,” patton says, awkward. “um—by the time recruitment in sophomore year rolled around, i’d kind of…”

wrecked my reputation.

“...made it clear i wouldn’t fit,” he finishes instead. there are some troublemaking societies at chilton—the skull and dagger society came to mind—but none of them had particularly wanted a trans student in their number.

poppy huffs angrily. patton begins to work his bun-style magic—thank you, isadora, he thinks, because otherwise he probably wouldn’t be able to put together anything near so neat and pretty.

“just because i talk to someone else, now they decide i’m interesting,” she grumbles, then, elaborating to a question patton didn’t ask, “puffs or clairs.”

“both fine establishments, from what i remember.”

“my family’s had both. i asked a clair some questions, and i guess that means the puffs are in DEFCON ONE mode.”

“ah,” he says.

“it’s—whatever,” she says. “if they wanted me that much, they should have initiated earlier. they’ve been ignoring me all year.”

“that’s a real shame,” patton says sincerely. “a girl of your talent, with your brain, with such a bright future ahead of you? you’re, like, hall-of-fame for a picture perfect chilton student. they should be battling it out over who gets you.”

poppy looks startled. “really?”

“really.”

“oh,” she says quietly. then: “...thanks, mr. sanders.”

“you can call me patton, if you’d like.”

“thanks… patton.”

“you’re very welcome,” he says, smiling at her as he places one last bobby pin.

“i think that’ll do it—could you pass the hairspray?” patton says, then, “wait, actually, i want you to look at it first before we spray it. take this mirror to the bathroom so you can see the back of your head.”

“already?” she asks, then, “okay” as she hops up from the chair.

dee pokes his head around the corner.

“cute,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

poppy picks up the pace.

“oh,” she says, sounding a little surprised. “it is cute!”

“did you think i lied?” dee calls.

“do you want me to answer that?” poppy fires back without much heat, tilting her head this way and that.

“you like it?” patton checks.

“i really do!” poppy says.

“okay—here, i’ll go in there. shield your eyes, hold your breath. ready?”

“ready,” poppy says, assuming position.

“three, two, one—”

patton lets loose on the hairspray, trying his very best to land on “actually holds” and “not turning poppy’s hair crunchy.”

“done!” he declares, stepping back.

“thank you,” poppy says shyly.

“of course!” patton says. “happy to help. you let me know if you need a touch-up at any point in the night, okay?”

“okay!”

“dad, you have your boutonniere, right?” logan calls.

“oh—thank you! in the fridge, i’ll grab it.” 

patton also isn’t quite dressed yet; he knows there’s a staging area for the dads, too, but he’s got on the pants, his undershirt, and button-down, so all that’s left are the fancy details. he picks up the little plastic carton and carts it over to the garment bag holding his suit coat and cummerbund. 

“did anyone need a ride?” patton asks. 

“nope—all set.”

“okay, then,” patton says, checking his watch. “well—i think it’s about time to load up and hit the road. it won’t hurt to have a bit of padding time to get there early. anyone need a hand?”

poppy quickly scoops her hair supplies into her bag, the boys pick up their dresses and other supplies, and patton grabs his own.

“ready?”

“ready,” he hears three teenaged voices say.

“all right—in the car! anyone have a fun playlist for the occasion?”

“shotgun,” dee says as soon as his foot crosses the threshold to the porch.

“wh—not fair!” logan says, baffled. 

“is so,” dee says.

“is not!”

“boys,” poppy sighs, already making to pack everything into the trunk, then, “patton, are you particularly attached to where everything is in your trunk? there’s a more efficient way than this, you know.”

“i’ve told him that,” logan tells poppy, then, “i’m his son, it’s default that i get the front seat of the car—”

yes, patton reflects, logan’s certainly found some peers that can complement and challenge him during his time at chilton.

(maybe, patton reflects as dee attempts to invoke common laws of the land and poppy protests that doesn’t even make sense as she’s rearranging the entirety of his trunk, more challenging at this exact moment than complementary.)

⁂

“dress? shoes? crinoline? gloves?”

“yes, yes, yes,” logan says dutifully, peeking in to check his bag even though patton is 100% sure that logan’s already made a list and checked it thrice, that’s how thorough he is.

“okay. dee? any last minute things we need to make an outing for?”

“dress, shoes, gloves,” dee says, not even bothering to look into his own puffy garment bag. “no crinoline—there’s far too much tulle in the skirt already.”

“good, good,” patton says with a clap of his hands; he doesn’t even need to ask the third member of the impromptu carpool that patton’s managed to organize.

well. logan organized, and patton volunteered for the effort.

“poppy, i don’t think i need to ask you, but i will for thoroughness.”

“yes, i have everything,” poppy says. she’s sitting perched on the edge of her chair on the kitchen, hands politely folded, legs crossed like a proper young lady, examining her reflection in the vanity mirror that patton had dug up for the occasion.

“great!” patton says with another clap. “okay, i’ve got my suit and everything right here—logan, would you mind checking if any stragglers need a ride? i think we’ve got a spare spot in the car.”

“on it,” logan says, digging out his phone.

“great,” patton says, and he allows his eyes to roam the room for something to do in this awkward gap of time between meeting up and getting going.

his eyes land, once again, at his kitchen table.

poppy’s already in her suit, even though patton knows for a fact that there’s dressing rooms there for the kids to use; logan and janus are both not wearing their dresses for that exact reason. but poppy is already in her tails—the only thing she’ll need to do when they get there is put on her gloves. her hands are currently uncovered, and currently flicking her hair back and forth, as if trying to decide how exactly it should rest on her shoulders, frowning at herself in the mirror.

“you look very dapper,” patton offers to her.

“huh?” poppy says, tearing her gaze away from herself, before her sharp gaze focuses on patton. she always looks so sharp, that poppy, patton’s never seen her at anything less than laser-focused on whatever’s in front of him. it’s a little intimidating, if he tells the truth, even though she’s less than half his age. 

“you look very dapper,” patton repeats. “the suit really suits you,” and then he laughs at his own pun.

poppy rolls her eyes, but she adjusts the coat regardless, looking down at herself with a little smile.

“thank you,” she says, then she glances at herself again in the mirror, and the little smile goes away, in a familiar way that makes patton’s stomach ache. “my mom straightened my hair. she says it looks better down.”

patton chews at his lip, because—

well. he’d heard it enough, back when he was a kid. such pretty hair, people would coo, such pretty curls! and people reaching out and touching it without asking him, people telling him how much better his hair had looked down, how pretty he was when he smiled and his parents were so lucky to have such a cheerful little child, except they’d said the gender-specific form of child. 

for years and years he had toyed with the idea of chopping it all off, even before he’d realized he was trans. he did, once, when he was a toddler—he distantly remembers it, the safety scissors in his hand, the brown curls in uneven chunks at his feet, his mother’s shriek when she’d found him, too late to stop him from cutting off one last curl as she watched.

it had been one of his very first rebellions. the later one with his hair, the more permanent, had felt just as freeing at fifteen as it had at four.

“do you like it down?” patton asks poppy.

poppy hesitates. it’s enough of an answer for him.

“‘cause, i mean,” patton says and shrugs. “we’ve still got time. i can help you change it, if you want.”

“really?” she says eagerly, turning away at last from the mirror, and patton smiles at her.

“of course!” he says. “i’m okay at doing hair, but we might need to call in virgil, he’s better at working with his hands than me, plus he’s got two older sisters and a ton of nieces—”

as an answer, poppy plops herself on the couch in front of him. patton goes to get a handheld mirror from one of the many nooks and crannies around his living room, along with the little bag poppy’s mother had sent along with her full of all sorts of tools for her hair, and he hands the mirror to her so she’ll be able to see herself.

“what d’you want to do with it?” he asks. 

she considers herself, before she says, “can we put it up?”

he carefully gathers some of her long, dirty-blonde hair in his hands, twisting it cautiously into a bun. her hair is very soft, and clearly well cared for, but then, patton’s had been too—he wonders if, like him, her haircare is mostly because her mother insisted it be so.

his fingers remember how to do hair, which isn’t a surprise to him—he’s helped girls at isadora prince’s dance studio get their hair ready for recitals for years past. but there’s more freedom for poppy’s hair, here, and he wants her to decide what to do with it.

“how ‘bout like this?” he offers, holding her hair in place, before he plucks free a couple strands to frame her face. the effect is a little messy, but messy in a way that’s acceptable to wear to fancy functions. 

poppy hesitates.

“we can do it another way, if you want,” patton says, before she says anything. “it’s your hair, after all.”

poppy hesitates, before she says quietly, “i like the bun, but can you braid it a little?”

patton hums, and runs his fingers along a section of her hair near the front of her face, pulling back some of the messiness, making it look a bit neater. “this bit, do you think? and then we can pull it back into the bun?”

“yeah,” poppy says, sounding relieved. “yeah, exactly. i think—um. i think that’d be nice.”

“i think that’d be nice, too,” patton agrees, before releasing his hold of her hair and reaching for that section. “can you hand me a brush, please?”

poppy digs around in the little bag, before she hands him a travel-sized brush.

“are you tender-headed?” he asks, gathering the section to be braided in his hand. 

“a little,” she admits.

“all right,” patton says. “let me know if it hurts—because i am, and when i had long hair, i hated sitting down and having all my knots brushed out.”

the knots had gathered themselves at his neck, when he was a kid—he hadn’t been able to help it, his hair was just thick and curly and more prone to knotting than other kids’ hair. he’d have to sit on the chair in front of his mother’s vanity for ages, wrinkling his nose at the scent of detangler and trying not to let tears spring to his eyes as the brush was yanked through all the knots. 

he thinks it’s half the reason he started thinking about chopping it all off in the first place.

but the brush moves smoothly through poppy’s hair, which makes sense—it has been styled already, after all, straightened to perfection.

he splits the section of her hair into three, and his fingers weave a familiar pattern.

“do you miss it?” poppy asks. “having long hair, i mean.”

“gosh no,” patton says immediately, laughing a little at the thought. missing long hair. “i thought i might, before i, y’know. hacked it all off. but no. i like it much more short than i ever did long, even if my hair looks a little messier now than it did then. it’s way easier to manage now. hey, d’you have any bobby pins?”

poppy passes back the whole bag in answer, and patton lets out a little “aha!” as he finds them organized in a little bottle, immediately shaking out a few and setting them within easy reach, along with a couple hair ties, before resuming the braid.

“yeah, but,” patton says. “i’d wanted to cut my hair off for a long time before i actually did it, so my answer’s probably a little different than what it might be for other people.”

“and when you did it?” she prompts, and patton huffs softly, almost immediately a little more fond of her, the way he always gets when a kid gets curious like logan does. there’s a journalist instinct in this girl, just like logan. and so he continues to do her hair as he thinks about how to tell this story.

“well,” patton says at last. “i wasn’t out, yet, y’see—i’m trans.”

“i remember,” she says. 

“right,” patton says. “so i was about… fifteen? around your age, i guess. i knew i was trans, but i hadn’t really told very many people yet. so i snuck out of the house, and i went to the nearest barbershop, and i walked right in and i said, ‘i’m donating all of my hair for cancer patients—’ which wasn’t a lie, i did donate all my hair—so i told the fella at the front desk, ‘i want to have someone cut my hair short who knows how to cut hair short and make it look nice on anyone.’”

he remembers the day very well as he’s tying off the end of poppy’s braid. he was wearing his binder under his sweater, that day, and when the guy at the front desk looked at him over his glasses he remembers immediately regretting it, as if they would immediately be able to know upon looking at him who he was, what he was, what his goal really was. 

but the man had just looked at him, narrowed his eyes, and helped him book a walk-in appointment without a word. patton had been shaking with some mixture of fear and apprehension and relief by the time he’d walked into the back to sit in the barber’s chair.

he gathers more of poppy’s hair in his hands, to twist and pluck and tie back, and he continues.

“and so i tied my hair back into a ponytail, ‘cause when you donate, you have to tie it off at the top and the bottom and put it in a plastic bag to send it to the people, and the barber looked at me and asked me if i was sure, and i said ‘yes, i’m sure, i’m really really sure, i can grow it back if i want to,’ and the barber nodded at me, and then he got his scissors ready, and i could feel him cutting at my hair, and finally he chopped off the ponytail, and i—”

when patton goes quiet a little, poppy urges, “and you what?”

the width of the grin that springs onto patton’s face just then surprises him, even though he knows the memory is a happy one.

“god,” he says. “i just burst out laughing.”

he remembers it clear as day—the sudden vice grip at his throat when he’d felt the scissors slowly chopping through his thick, curly hair, the fear of what if it turns out terrible or what if he does this and suddenly i realize i’m not actually trans or god, what is mom going to do when she sees this???

and then, when the weight lifted—because he hadn’t realized until it was gone, how heavy his curls were, how weighed down he’d been—and the barber had lifted the ponytail to show him in the mirror, and patton had just cackled with glee. he’d laughed and laughed and laughed, feeling the relief of his hair off his shoulders, of finally, finally going through with it, of doing something on his own, of feeling—

like a boy. he’d felt like a boy. unquestionably, then, when his hair was gone, it had felt so right, and he knew he’d been right all along, that he was trans. he’d looked at himself in the mirror with his short hair and his flat chest and he’d looked like a boy and he’d felt like a boy and he’d nearly cried he was so happy.

he hadn’t been able to stop smiling the whole rest of the haircut. he’d beamed as he dumped the envelope with his hair into the mailbox, to be sent off to make a wig for a cancer patient who would surely appreciate his hair more than he ever had. he’d run his hands through his hair the entire time on his way home, almost giggling each time it was freed so much quicker than it had been when he’d finger-combed his hair before.

he shakes himself, a little, and returns to the present, to his task of doing poppy’s hair, clearing his throat, smiling still.

“i was really, really happy,” he said. “i didn’t realize until i’d done it, how much i’d wanted to do it all along, how heavy my hair was, how free i felt when it was gone.”

poppy is staring at him through the mirror, contemplative. patton shakes himself.

“oh, but enough about me and those old bygone days,” he says, busying himself with pinning her hair. “tell me about you! i saw the stuff you did on the franklin’s most recent addition—really cool stuff. are you an artist?”

“oh,” poppy says, looking startled. “no—artistic hobbies are proven to improve job performance, ease stress, and can improve memory and cognitive function. also, if i manage to secure an in with logan, i’m more likely to get the design editor position my junior year, which would put even more of an impressive resume forward to secure editor in chief my senior year.”

“...that’s great!” patton says, starting to piece together why his grandfather had struggled to come up with a word to describe her.

“i want to research cancer,” she says.

“that is great,” he says genuinely, rummaging for another pin. “so—what would that look like? biology major, or chemistry—then med school?”

“all the advanced sciences chilton has on offer, pre-med at harvard, harvard again for med school,” she confirms.

patton whistles low, beginning to tie off her hair. 

“i know,” she says. she doesn’t look overwhelmed or sheepish about this. her phone buzzes.

“ope! here, let me—”

“ugh,” poppy says, looking at it, disinterested. “no. leave it.” 

“okay,” patton says. he gathers up some more of her hair, to twist into a bun and put the final touches in the details. 

“actually—”

she reaches for her phone, decisively turns it on do not disturb, and purposefully sets it far, far aside. patton spies the names summer and francie and seline popping up.

“were you ever in a secret society at chilton?” she asks.

“oh—no,” patton says, awkward. “um—by the time recruitment in sophomore year rolled around, i’d kind of…”

wrecked my reputation.

“...made it clear i wouldn’t fit,” he finishes instead. there are some troublemaking societies at chilton—the skull and dagger society came to mind—but none of them had particularly wanted a trans student in their number.

poppy huffs angrily. patton begins to work his bun-style magic—thank you, isadora, he thinks, because otherwise he probably wouldn’t be able to put together anything near so neat and pretty.

“just because i talk to someone else, now they decide i’m interesting,” she grumbles, then, elaborating to a question patton didn’t ask, “puffs or clairs.”

“both fine establishments, from what i remember.”

“my family’s had both. i asked a clair some questions, and i guess that means the puffs are in DEFCON ONE mode.”

“ah,” he says.

“it’s—whatever,” she says. “if they wanted me that much, they should have initiated earlier. they’ve been ignoring me all year.”

“that’s a real shame,” patton says sincerely. “a girl of your talent, with your brain, with such a bright future ahead of you? you’re, like, hall-of-fame for a picture perfect chilton student. they should be battling it out over who gets you.”

poppy looks startled. “really?”

“really.”

“oh,” she says quietly. then: “...thanks, mr. sanders.”

“you can call me patton, if you’d like.”

“thanks… patton.”

“you’re very welcome,” he says, smiling at her as he places one last bobby pin.

“i think that’ll do it—could you pass the hairspray?” patton says, then, “wait, actually, i want you to look at it first before we spray it. take this mirror to the bathroom so you can see the back of your head.”

“already?” she asks, then, “okay” as she hops up from the chair.

dee pokes his head around the corner.

“cute,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

poppy picks up the pace.

“oh,” she says, sounding a little surprised. “it is cute!”

“did you think i lied?” dee calls.

“do you want me to answer that?” poppy fires back without much heat, tilting her head this way and that.

“you like it?” patton checks.

“i really do!” poppy says.

“okay—here, i’ll go in there. shield your eyes, hold your breath. ready?”

“ready,” poppy says, assuming position.

“three, two, one—”

patton lets loose on the hairspray, trying his very best to land on “actually holds” and “not turning poppy’s hair crunchy.”

“done!” he declares, stepping back.

“thank you,” poppy says shyly.

“of course!” patton says. “happy to help. you let me know if you need a touch-up at any point in the night, okay?”

“okay!”

“dad, you have your boutonniere, right?” logan calls.

“oh—thank you! in the fridge, i’ll grab it.” 

patton also isn’t quite dressed yet; he knows there’s a staging area for the dads, too, but he’s got on the pants, his undershirt, and button-down, so all that’s left are the fancy details. he picks up the little plastic carton and carts it over to the garment bag holding his suit coat and cummerbund. 

“did anyone need a ride?” patton asks. 

“nope—all set.”

“okay, then,” patton says, checking his watch. “well—i think it’s about time to load up and hit the road. it won’t hurt to have a bit of padding time to get there early. anyone need a hand?”

poppy quickly scoops her hair supplies into her bag, the boys pick up their dresses and other supplies, and patton grabs his own.

“ready?”

“ready,” he hears three teenaged voices say.

“all right—in the car! anyone have a fun playlist for the occasion?”

“shotgun,” dee says as soon as his foot crosses the threshold to the porch.

“wh—not fair!” logan says, baffled. 

“is so,” dee says.

“is not!”

“boys,” poppy sighs, already making to pack everything into the trunk, then, “patton, are you particularly attached to where everything is in your trunk? there’s a more efficient way than this, you know.”

“i’ve told him that,” logan tells poppy, then, “i’m his son, it’s default that i get the front seat of the car—”

yes, patton reflects, logan’s certainly found some peers that can complement and challenge him during his time at chilton.

(maybe, patton reflects as dee attempts to invoke common laws of the land and poppy protests that doesn’t even make sense as she’s rearranging the entirety of his trunk, more challenging at this exact moment than complementary.)

⁂

“this place is huge,” roman hears one of his classmates at sideshire high whisper as they file into the establishment.

roman can’t disagree. it is huge. they’re in a literal, actual ballroom, the place dotted with tables draped in colorful tablecloths—baby pink and baby blue, as if this place couldn’t get any more gendered—each already set for the dinner portion, with the occasional worker checking on the tapered candles, the cakes that are just… sitting out for anyone to grab, and the floral arrangements, which seem to favor pink tiger lilies and baby’s breath.

“oh—” sasha squeals in his ears, “and those are the stairs!!”

yes. the stairs. they’re also wreathed with floral arrangements, the railing twisted around with white ribbon (tripping hazard, roman notes absently) complete with  grand red carpet.

the stairs that each debutante would walk down, be presented to society, and declared a fully-grown woman, open for business, businessmen with trust funds only may apply. or, at least, that’s the original plan.

a woman in a fancy, beaded white blouse that puts roman vaguely in the mind of art deco design swans up to them, clutching a clipboard.

“large group!” she chirps, then, turning to the first in line. “you are…”

“um,” they say, then, clearing their throat, ”elliott pennybacker?”

“very good, young man,” she says.

“person,” elliott says very quietly.

“hm,” she offers vaguely, ticking something off the list, then, “and you are…?”

“sasha kokkino.”

on and on the list she goes; eventually, she just starts waving them into incredibly gendered halves, which is very funny, because at several points she’s so wrong that it would boggle the mind (seriously, roman thinks, has she never heard of a lesbian with a pixie cut before?) and at a certain point people just start ignoring her and go to mingle amongst their friends; brick in particular loops their arms through their debutante and the closest escort that they’re friendly with. 

yet on the waving goes. and, at last:

“you are…?”

“roman prince,” he offers. she ticks him off.

“is that the last of you?”

“for now,” roman says.

“oh,” she says, seeing the size of the garment bag. “very nice of you to carry that for your young lady, sir, but you’re about to be escorted to your dressing rooms—”

“no, this is mine,” roman says, sunny as a summer day. “thanks, though.”

she blinks. she examines the size of the bag.

“surely not,” she says, aghast. “what tuxedo is that size?”

“oh!” roman says. “i see your confusion. it’s not a tux, it’s a dress. my dress.”

she stares at him. she opens her mouth. closes it. lowers his clipboard to her side.

and roman can see the exact moment that she sees that roman is not the only young man carrying a garment bag of that size; and that the girls are carrying garment bags, some of them helpfully displaying names like MEN’S WAREHOUSE or THE BLACK TUX.

“surely not,” she gasps, her hand going to her throat.

“surely so!” roman says brightly. “i’m here to make my formal entrance into society as a full-fledged young woman.”

roman stares at her. she stares at him, waiting for—something. roman isn’t entirely sure what.

and then she starts to laugh.

“oh,” she chuckles. “i see. very funny, young people. joke’s done now. you can all swap bags back again.”

none of them move.

“go on,” she says, gesturing. “get your proper clothes.”

“these are my proper clothes,” roman says.

“yeah,” elliott says, forcing their voice a little louder. “i had this outfit tailored special.”

“tux rentals aren’t cheap, you know,” sasha tsks.

“as if her suit would fit me—i’m too buff for that,” brick brags.

the lady looks between them all. 

“this is ridiculous,” she says. “you’re not seriously suggesting all of you will swap places?!”

“and more of us,” brick says. “i think we’re just the first group here.”

the woman goes deathly pale. “you’re not—i will not have the lot of you flouncing around like—like a batch of fools!”

probably the really polite rich-person way to put it, roman thinks. he’ll have to ask for the bitchier translation—what she clearly wanted to say—from logan later.

“no,” roman clarifies politely. “flouncing around like a batch of fools, as you put it, is what we paid for.”

a chorus of “yeah!” goes up from the crowd behind him.

“we fundraised for this fair and square,” elliott says firmly. “all of our entries are paid, look.”

the woman looks at the clipboard, then back at them.

“no,” she says. “no! i will not allow this! i simply won’t!”

“okay, then,” sasha says. “give us our refunds.”

she goes impossibly paler. “what?”

“our refunds,” sasha says, in a tone that clearly intimates that this woman doesn’t strike her as particularly bright or clever. “if you’re not letting us in, fine. then give us a refund.”

“that’s going to be about forty entrants,” roman says to her helpfully.

“forty!” she gasps.

“re-funds!” sasha says, clearly starting up a chant. “re-funds! re-funds!”

the sideshire minutemen cheerleaders, loyal to a fault if prone to infighting, join in. the theater kids are ever eager to join in any kind of demonstration; the sports teams are not far behind; the stragglers pick up the slack so quickly that roman thinks only minutemen would have noticed.

“stop!” the woman cries. “stop, stop, stop!”

“what’s the matter?” sasha calls over the roar of the crowd, raising a finely shaped eyebrow. her voice pierces like an arrow. “are you guys not good for it or something?”

roman doesn’t think he imagines the gasps. he knows he doesn’t imagine the eyes of all the old biddies who are suddenly honed on the scent of monetary gossip.

“young lady,” she hisses. “these are the daughters of the american revolution.”

“okay, and?” sasha demands.

“oh—roman, darling!”

unexpected voice. roman breaks slightly through to confirm his eyes will match his ears.

they do. striding forward from a group of aforementioned gossiping old biddies, perfectly coiffed, is—

“mrs. sanders!” he exclaims, opening his arms. “how wonderful to see you—i didn’t know you’d be here early!”

there’s a break of whispers through the chilton crowd—sanders? like logan?—as roman crosses the room to meet her halfway.

they exchange demure kisses on the cheek. emily links their arms; her hand is cold where it touches his, but she’s surprisingly firm as they walk back to the crowd of sideshire kids, obviously not needing to grasp him for balance the way some other older women do.

(or maybe people just do that to feel the muscles of a young man. or to squeeze his arm to impart affection. who knows.)

“nan, dear,” emily purrs, in a tone that implies nan, you’re dead meat. “i see you’ve met my future grandson-in-law—handsome, isn’t he? look at these wonderful cheekbones. and the talent on this boy! there will never be a viennese waltzer so graceful on this floor again.” 

roman grins. “emily, you’re making me blush. it’s not every day i get such compliments from a beautiful young woman.”

“oh! young man,” she beams, waggling a finger at him playfully. “too charming by half, isn’t he, nan?”

nan is clearly attempting to formulate a response to this.

“i couldn’t help but notice all the kerfuffle,” emily says: unspoken, because you’ve made such a mess of it. “surely you’ve been able to check all these fine young people in?”

nan splutters, but again emily cuts her off before she can start.

“of course you have—not much mental acuity needed to check off names on a clipboard, unless you’ve lost a pen? no? then i see no reason why they shouldn’t run along upstairs. so much primping to do before the debut. you remember, though i’m sure you wouldn’t like me to mention how many years ago.”

oh my god. is mrs. sanders actually awesome?

(no—probably not, roman figures, just from the teen runaway thing. but that knowledge wars with oh my god, the look on nan’ face, is she actually awesome?!)

“it’s—that’s not—emily,” she hisses. “this boy is insisting he’s going to wear a dress.”

“yes,” emily says. “he is. as will several promising young scions of some of hartford’s finest families. including my grandson.”

nan trembles at the frosty change in her tone.

“hello.”

she doesn’t have raise her voice or change her tone: the sideshire kids immediately break apart to allow his mother through the crowd. 

“i hear we’re having a problem,” his mother says mildly as she steps forward. “i’m the primary sideshire chaperone.”

she does not offer nan a handshake.

“ah! ms. prince, wonderful to see you so involved in this exceptional moment in young roman’s life,” emily says, then, turning, “nan, won’t you step aside for a little chat?”

nan might let out a little moan of misery as emily releases his arm, striding forward to wrap an arm around nan’s shoulders. his mother falls in on nan’s other side, flanking her quite soundly.

they frogmarch her into a corner. no avenue for escape for poor nan, roman can’t help but notice; emily’s pleasant smile and dagger eyes on one side, his mother’s complete and utter impartiality on the other.

“they’ve got this,” roman murmurs to sasha, pleased.

“yeah,” brick says. “it’s ms. prince, guys, it’s totally about to work this out for us.”

“poor old nan,” elliott frets quietly, reaching to pick at their nail polish, then remembering why they’d painted their nails and forcefully putting their hands in their pockets.

“yeah,” roman says, examining the sweaty pallor that’s come over nan’s face. “i can’t say i feel too bad, though.”

roman watches, trying to read lips, because not a word reaches him. at a certain point, nan bows her head. emily points her to the nearest bar. nan, glumly, shuffles away.

his mother walks over to the group, cool as a cucumber, cool as ever.

god, roman has the best mom.

“it’s handled,” his mother says curtly. she raises her voice slightly. “go on, go upstairs. there’s guides to escort you to the dressing rooms.

the sideshire occupants exchange looks, then they all begin to shuffle up the grand staircase.

“honestly,” his mother sighs. “why did i stay to help park the car in the first place?”

“handled quite wonderfully,” emily comments.

“and to you too,” his mother says politely.

“thank you, mrs. sanders,” roman says.

his mother says nothing, just making a very specific non-face in his general direction, and roman grins. 

“and of course thank you, mami.” he swoops in to kiss her on the cheek.

“go get ready,” she says, tilting her head and accepting it. “nab a good mirror. that wig will take you forever to pin in place well enough for the dancing.”

“love you!” he says happily and rushes up the stairs after the rest of his classmates as emily asks his mother “what wig?”

⁂

“mom, you’re here!”

“of course i’m here,” his mother huffs. “where else would i be?”

“you look very nice, mom,” patton says. “i like your dress.”

he does: she’s paired a tea-length brown dress with subtle floral details with a jacket in an identical shade, the jacket threaded through with sparkling copper details, curling like vines and flowers up to her shoulders. it offsets her auburn hair wonderfully. to complete the ensemble, she has amber earrings and an amber-and-diamond necklace to match.

“come here—your tie’s undone.”

“oh, right—there’s a staging area for the dads, i put on my coat and stuff in there. didn't want to risk wrinkling anything so close to the ceremony—i guess i missed the bowtie when i got caught up in making sure the kids were all checked in.”

emily sniffs, her fingers working the same magic they worked with patton’s father every morning. “i hope nan wasn’t having as much trouble as she was earlier today.”

“no, no—wait, that was you?” patton says, distracted as he tilts up his chin, all the better for her to do her work.

“was what me.”

“the little cowering mouse look when i mentioned we were the sanders party,” patton elaborates, reaching to touch his bowtie when she drops her hands.

his mother smiles. it isn’t a very nice smile.

“okay, question answered,” patton says, resisting the urge to loosen his tie already. “hey, where’s dad?”

she nods to the bar, where richard is gathering up a tumbler full of what must be some fine whiskey and a martini for emily; patton smiles, squeezing her arm.

“i don’t know what you did with nan, but thank you.”

“well,” she sniffs.

“and thanks for the bowtie.”

“your father’s always hopeless with them as he’s getting caught up in the details to be ready, too,” then, “is that—goodness me!”

“what?” patton says, distracted, craning his neck. was there some unexpected social rival that his mother would have to do battle with? some debutante making a break for it down the drain pipe, dress and all? or—

“i didn’t even recognize him!” she lifts a hand to wave.

and then patton sees it. 

sees him.

the rest of the ballroom falls away, like out of a movie, like the crowds are parting just for him, like he’s had blinders put on, like someone’s put their hands over their ears to muffle any of the noise.

in walks virgil. he’s beautiful.

patton’s known, of course; he’s known that for years. but he’s never quite seen virgil in this style of beautiful. virgil a vision in black and white and pops of purple as he strides toward them.

 his suit is tailored to him perfectly. his hair is styled in perfect just-messy-enough. he’s clean-shaven, his skin glowing with the gentle application, patton’s sure, of some kind of makeup; his eyes are rimmed in careful black, his lids painted mesmerizingly, glitteringly purple. his lips are in a vampire-esque purple-red, a perfect contrast against his bright white teeth as he smiles at them—at patton, he thinks incredulously.

this perfect man is smiling at patton.

patton’s pretty sure his jaw is on the floor.

“hi,” patton says breathlessly.

“hi,” virgil says, also out of breath.

“you look—wow.”

virgil’s mouth opens, closes. “so do you.”

“hello!” emily breaks in.

patton tries his hardest not to physically shake himself out of it.

“right,” virgil says. “of course—hello, emily.”

“you clean up very nicely,” she admits. “you look perfect in a well-tailored suit’s silhouette, you know. it flatters you immensely.”

virgil offers her a half-smile. patton tries so very hard not to swoon. “don’t get used to it.”

she sighs. “of course not.”

“virgil!” richard says. “my goodness—great to see you, my boy! you’ve polished up wonderfully!””

“richard,” virgil says, accepting his handshake. 

“i like the,” richard gestures vaguely towards his eyes. “...kajal?”

virgil blinks. “uh—eyeliner, actually. i do use kajal on my waterline sometimes—it’s softer—how did you know that?”

“i’ve done some business in delhi,” richard says. “nothing that panned out, unfortunately, but it was a very educational handful of trips.” 

“ah.”

“logan will be happy you’re both here,” virgil says.

“wouldn’t miss it for the world,” richard says briskly. “i must say, this is much more grandparent-friendly than my past with clothes-based protest.”

“how—?” virgil begins, but patton cuts him off.

“don’t ask.”

“okay, i won’t,” virgil says, taking his hand. “would you two excuse us? my cummerbund’s giving me a hard time.”

“oh—of course!” patton says. “see you after the presentation of logan to society?”

“we’re looking forward to it,” richard says gleefully.

patton takes virgil’s arm and begins to steer him toward the staging area.

“that was totally an excuse,” virgil admits in a whisper.

“i’d guessed,” patton says. they round a corner, and patton promptly peeks around to make sure they’re semi-secluded before he threads his arms around virgil. “you look unreal.”

“unreal good?” 

“unreal incredible,” patton says.

virgil smiles, bashful, before he tucks one of patton’s curls back into place.

“you’re looking very handsome yourself. it’s like a prince has walked off the storybook page.”

patton beams up at him. “how easily does that lipstick smudge?” 

virgil sighs in a longing sort of way. “very easily, i’m afraid.”

“i want to kiss you so bad,” patton admits, strained.

“the feeling,” virgil says, “is so incredibly mutual.”

⁂

roman’s in the zone.

he’d managed to nab a full-length mirror in the escort room—the right call, sasha informs him, as the debutante room is chock full of everyone at the moment—he’s sitting on the ground, legs crossed. he’s got his earbuds in, blasting a get ready placelist at full blast as he brushes and sponges and powders and generally coats his face in nearly every product he owns.

it returns him to the memory of many recitals past. roman’s deeply accustomed to most of the ballerinas snagging proper, light-up mirrors with the luxury of actual seats. roman, being the gentleman he is, has long since known to cede those seats to the ladies, hunker down in the nearest corner, and do his makeup with the help of the travel mirror he’s packed along. 

as a matter of fact, that’s his predominant memory of learning how to do makeup: on the floor in the clearest spot of floor he can imagine, a brush or sponge in one hand, his travel mirror in the other.

while his vanity at home is certainly nice, there’s something so meditative about sitting and doing his makeup on the floor.

he is—with the application of falsies halfway done—nearly ready to go. the campy eighties look has turned out even better than expected, all overpowering blue eyeshadow that makes his brown eyes pop and luscious red lips. 

he does, however, have his hair swept back into a hairnet, since he still needs to wrangle on his truly absurd, ridiculous, somehow both permed-and-poufy and overdoing both, incredible bottle blonde wig.

so that’s where he is—waving a set of false eyelashes in the air to make the glue go slightly tackier, eyeing the wig where it sits in his bag and thinking of all the drag tutorials he’d watched on youtube.

with beyoncé bumping. obviously.

sasha catches his eye in the mirror, and gives him a huge grin and thumbs up.

“looking good!” she mouths. she’s in her suit already—powder-blue and ridiculous to match his vibe, her hair carefully gelled to mimic the mullets of the era. she’s totally rocking the prime john stamos look.

roman grins at her before he leans forward, focusing on his reflection in the mirror.

right. time to put these falsies on and pray they don’t come out wonky.

and then. then he tackles the wig.

oh, roman thinks gleefully, this is going to be beautiful.

⁂

logan’s managed to wedge himself into a corner. janus had, frankly, ditched him as soon as he spotted a free lit-up mirror; logan’s fairly certain that it’s just because other people—primarily the girls who hadn’t been involved in this plot whatsoever—had wanted it.

this is unfortunate for one specific reason.

“which one should i wear?” frets the nervous chatterer libby dotie, his mirror neighbor. “i've thought about it all month, and i cannot decide.”

“i don’t know much about makeup,” he tells her.

“this is a red-red,” she continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “and this is orange-red. the wrong one and i end up looking like a hooker!”

“i’m pretty sure that’s not the case,” logan says awkwardly. he checks his watch as subtly as he can. only forty-five minutes to go.

“or a teacher.”

“i’m fairly certain those aren’t equivalent,” logan says. “sex work is work and teachers are greatly undervalued—look, i don’t know much about makeup, why don’t you ask—”

he casts desperate eyes around the room. 

he manages to catch janus’ eye.

help, he tries to impart.

janus pulls a smug face in his general direction before he stands with a great deal of ugh, fine.

thank you! logan mouths.

“ow!” libby snaps at whoever is doing her hair—her mother, perhaps?—“there’s a head under there, you know!”

unfortunately, she returns to her monologue. 

“they say four out of five debs marry their escorts.”

“that seems very anecdotal,” logan says. “do you have a source on that?”

“i’ve had five this year,” libby says. “i figure—five coming out balls, five escorts, one of them has to stick, right?”

“i don’t think that’s the case,” logan says, giving up.

“those two minutes you are standing on those stairs tonight will determine the social status for the rest of your life.” libby continues.

she has, generally, not seemed to clock that this particular ball will veer wildly outside the norm, or she does not seem to care.

“what if you trip?”

this is the first thing he’s managed to say that actually captures libby’s full attention. this is unfortunate, as she turns to him with a general expression of despair, horror, dread, etc.

“not that you would,” he says awkwardly. he thinks he prefers it when she’s ignoring him and prattling about nothing in general.

“libby.”

oh, thank god.

she sniffs. “dee. i should have known you’d be here.”

janus shrugs, and—this is the first time logan is actually looking at him in his white dress.

the white offsets his brown skin in a way that’s actually quite flattering, but it’s a bit jarring, in complete honesty. logan is so used to janus dressed in blacks, chilton blue, with the occasional pop of yellow or brown. 

this is coupled by the fact that the dress does not feel like a janus selection at all. the bodice is completely covered with floral details, the skirts painstakingly embroidered with more subtle, floral details. the skirts are as floaty as any ballgown. 

this is also, logan thinks, maybe the first time he’s seen janus without a hat. 

libby evaluates janus. then, with a shrug—

“midori sour?”

where did she even hide a flask?

“no thanks,” janus says.

should logan be offended he wasn’t offered this first? does libby not view him as cool?

wait. why does logan care?

“more for me!” libby says happily.

“is that wise?” janus asks delicately. “you don’t want a repeat of eileen o’connor, do you?”

“who’s eileen o’connor?” logan asks.

“i shared with her last time,” libby confides, keeping a sharp eye out for any chaperone that would stop her and lecture her about the dangers of underage drinking. “she couldn’t handle her booze. neon green puke all over her white dress.”

logan grimaces.

“i actually came over to ask something else,” janus says. “you see—this is my friend, logan, and he’s completely hopeless at this kind of thing. he wears khakis as casual wear.”

“what’s wrong with khakis?” he asks, a little offended even as libby twists her lips in distaste.

“i know—you’d think a gay teen would have a better fashion sense.”

“you’re gay?” libby demands, turning to face logan.

“well—yes,” logan says. “i have a boyfriend. i’m fairly certain i mentioned—”

“is he cute?”

logan blinks. “yes—very cute, but—”

“is he the one?”

“what?”

“the one you’re gonna marry?!” libby asks, clasping the flask close to her heart.

“oh—i mean, i’d like to—”

“where are you guys planning to live when you get married?”

“hold on a second,” janus says, “there’s a point to this. you see how he’s coming into this completely bare-faced?”

“i did notice that.” libby says.

“would you mind terribly giving him some glitz?” janus says. “nothing too crazy. as a matter of fact, if i could just borrow your highlighter—”

“no! no,” libby says, shooing janus off. “i have this perfect vision—yes, exactly, just a bit of highlighter, maybe some gloss—oh, shoo,” she tells her hairdresser, then, “sit down, morgan.” 

“—logan—”

“—oh my god, i can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were gay! now i can ask you all about boys!!!”

“wait—”

but too late—logan is being manhandled into a chair in front of the much-coveted lighted mirror as janus makes a quick escape.

“traitor!!!” logan hisses in his general direction.

“you’ll thank me when you get the pictures back!” janus calls over his shoulder.

⁂

good god, virgil’s never been so anxious about tripping over some poor teenager.

he spies a lot of familiar faces: every sideshire kid is dressed to the nines in a way virgil usually only sees when the kids crash the diner after homecoming or prom. he compliments each one he sees—brick gives him a quick, impromptu hug, squealing about how awesome their dress is, not itchy at all!—but really, he’s keeping his eye out for one specific sideshire kid.

there’s a rush of white dresses, each as frilly and ridiculous as the last—looking for dress alone would not be helpful here. thankfully, they at least do the mercy of lining up by alphabetical order, but even then, virgil walks up and down their stretch of hall twice with no sign of him.

l… m… n… o… p…

he should be around here somewhere, virgil thinks anxiously, pivoting to try and spot roman’s familiar dark hair, his dancer’s posture. 

“virgil!”

“hey, kid, where are you!” virgil calls.

“virgil—over here!”

virgil’s eyes roam over the collection of kids. tall girl with carefully tended curls, short boy who’s squirming in his dress, some poor, bottle-blonde girl who’s been forced into the hairdo that was once iconic in her mother’s youth with a dress to match, girl with short blonde bob, hang the fuck on.

“virgil!” the bottle-blonde says again, waving their closed fan.

“holy shit,” virgil blurts out before he claps his hand before his mouth.

the effect is genuinely transformative. roman’s carved his cheekbones high, his brown eyes bright under the aggressive pop of blue eyeshadow, his lips painted a glossy, lurid red.

and the dress—the dress.

the debutante laughs. roman—because it is roman—drawls, “don’t you know better than to use that kind of language in front of a proper young lady?”

“roman, you look—whoa,” virgil says. “how long did this take you?!”

“i’ve been here for—hours?” roman says, “so that long. i was adding still adding gloss before they rushed us all out here.”

“that’s—oh my god,” virgil says. “is this your first drag look?!”

“first full-out,” roman says, grinning and smoothing his hands down the big poofy cake-like tiers of his dress. 

“how’s it feel?”

roman considers it.

“honestly?” he says. “really fucking good.”

“hell yeah,” virgil laughs. “and you talk such a game about being a proper young lady!”

“did you think up a drag name?”

“nothing perfect yet,” roman says. “i’m ripping a name that feels appropriate for the occasion.”

“all right, let’s hear it,” virgil says.

“introducing,” roman says, and he snaps open his fan with a great dramatic THWACK!, angling it so he flutters it coquettishly in front of his mouth.

“in her society debut: the one, the only, the lauded, the incomparable, grace chastity!”

virgil stifles a snort against his shoulder, then: “that is appropriate for the occasion.”

“i thought so,” roman says smugly.

“well, regardless,” virgil says, gently taking roman’s arm and settling his gloved hand atop roman’s, the way he’d been taught. “i’m very proud to introduce grace chastity and roman prince to fine society.”

virgil can’t quite tell under all the makeup, but he thinks he sees a blush rise to the surface.

“yeah, well,” roman says. “even though you’re not my dad—i’m glad you’re standing in. just this once.”

“me too—thank god,” virgil agrees solemnly, as a woman with a clipboard calls, “all right, sections l through r, come forward! l through r!”

“that’s our cue,” virgil says.

“let’s make it memorable,” roman says.

virgil laughs again. “i think you’ve managed that single handedly.”

⁂

patton spots him first.

he’s at an advantage to some of the other fathers—especially some of the other chilton dads who were perhaps misled a bit about the nature of this gathering—in that he’s seen logan’s dress firsthand.

he spies his son from the back; logan’s reaching to adjust the appliqué strap so it sits correctly upon his bared shoulders. he’s a couple inches taller than normal, but patton knows that silhouette by heart.

“hey, kiddo!” he says, pitching it just right so it can be heard above the roar of the crowd; he advances forward just as logan turns. his cheekbones catch the light; his cheeks are flush with youth; any sign, no matter how small, of teenaged acne or under-eye bags has been artfully smudged away.

patton slows to a stop.

it’s subtle, he realizes, but patton’s certain: someone’s put makeup on his boy. 

or, at the very least, logan had gotten hit by some deeply flattering crossfire of setting spray in the dressing room that somehow imparted the use of blush, concealer, highlighter, and just a touch of lip gloss.

“wow,” he says.

“does it look odd?” logan says, then, lowering his voice, “the girl who did it for me is on her way to public drunkenness—i can probably scrub it off—”

“no, no,” patton says, squeezing logan’s shoulder reassuringly. “it looks really nice! you look all dewy and fresh-faced.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” patton reassures him. “it’s really minimal. i couldn’t really tell until i got up close. it’s kind of like you just had a great night’s sleep and you’ve just worked out and you’ve reached that mystical level of perfect hydration, that’s all.”

“oh,” logan says, visibly relieved. “good. and i’ve told you before—for adult men, it’s about 15.5 cups of—”

“wait—” patton says, part of logan’s statement catching up to him at last. “public drunkenness?”

“avoid libby dotie at all costs,” logan says gravely.

dotie? dotie, where did patton know that name… all that’s coming up is a boy a number of years older than him, the pair of them occasionally forced to chitchat by their respective parents at any number of sanders’ gatherings. he certainly didn’t leave enough of an impression to imply future progeny that would indulge in public drunkenness.

“...deal,” patton decides. “here—let me look at you with the full number on, okay?”

he takes logan’s gloved hand, and logan twirls when patton gestures for him to.

as if in slow motion, the tulle flairs wide, the skirts lending a fluidity of movement that would make any fifties poodle skirt lover weep with envy. virgil’s kept the length to evoke that era; it shoes off logan’s adorable white heels.

the subtle beading in the bodice catches the light, glistening in the light, and the twirl nearly comes to a very non-pictueresque end as logan staggers slightly. patton quickly catches his other hand.

“whoa!”

the stumble concretes it to patton: yes, this is his boy, as endearingly awkward as ever.

so handsome, patton thinks, choked up, and grown up so fast.

“don’t cry!” logan says, horrified.

“sorry—i’m sorry!” patton says. “i’m getting a hold of myself, really i am, it’s just—wow, l.”

logan smiles slightly. “thanks.��

he reaches for the straps of logan’s dress again, a guise so he can lean in and speak very quietly.

“i’m so proud of you.”

logan’s expression softens. his voice quiets to meet his level, his tone more unguarded: “thanks, dad.”

an announcement over the loudspeaker blares: “ladies and gentlemen, good evening. if everyone could please take their seats, we’re about to get started with the presentation of our young debutantes…”

“oh boy,” patton says. “here we go!” despite the fact that, given their placement in the alphabet, they’ve got a bit of a line to cut through.

“do me a favor?”

“anything.”

“just—don’t let me fall.”

patton smiles, squeezing logan’s arm and leaning in to him, the closest to a hug he can mange in this moment.

“never.”

⁂

janus has been leaning against the wall and feigning boredom for fifteen minutes now. 

it’s frankly annoying, he thinks; here his father had been, so gung-ho to properly introduce janus to society, and now here janus was, the only debutante without their fatherly figure even though frances at the podium has been droning on about this brings back so memories this and the origins of the word debutante that for at least ten minutes, which means the “a” surnames are bare seconds away from actually going down the stairs.

which means—shock of all shocks—his father is late.

maybe he’s chickened out, janus thinks hopefully. maybe janus can escort himself down the stairs, racket up the sympathy points that surely would earn him, and spend the evening in a corner with hattie plotting on how best to spend them.

but no—just as janus is mentally plotting the best way to smuggle away the entirety of one of those three-tier cakes he’d seen, his father is storming down the hallway, eyes focused on him.

“father,” janus says.

“what on earth is going on.”

his father does not yell; that would cost him some prestige amongst his beloved peers, janus thinks scornfully. instead, he hisses it through his teeth in a way that he probably thinks comes across as intimidating. it really just comes across as him needing a nightguard, badly, with the way that he surely must be grinding his teeth at janus’ various inequities all the time.

janus glances up and down the hall. then:

“oh,” janus says, lifting the fan to point at his own face, “you’re asking me?”

“yes i am asking you,” in that same exact hiss.

“oh,” janus says. “well. i’d imagine a great deal of people are here to come out into society—”

“DON’T—” he begins. janus lifts his eyebrows.

his father looks around, sees the eyes turned towards them, rapidly does some calculations, and instead takes a step closer.

“don’t pretend you know nothing about this.”

janus shrugs. he doesn’t even bother to answer. his father steams.

“unbelievable,” he snarls. 

“i’d imagine a great deal of people are here to come out into society,” janus begins again, as if his father hadn’t spoken.

“why. are there boys. in dresses.”

“oh!” janus feigns shock. “goodness me, there are a great deal of boys in dresses, aren’t there?—and here you are, speaking to a boy in a dress.”

a muscle in his father’s jaw jumps.

“isn’t that nice?” janus pushes. “i’ll stick out much less. that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? for me to finally blend in and cease this childhood rebellion. look!”

janus spreads his arms. “everyone else is doing it—surely that counteracts your point. it can’t be a phase if everyone else is doing it, right?”

“i can’t even look at you right now,” he says through clenched teeth.

“sure,” janus says. he keeps his voice low, so low that his father has to lean in and strain to hear.

“but you should be happy. here i am, being less of a loner. i’m being friendly with my peers. i’m blending in. i’m even coming out into society with my proper name, just like you asked.  i’m making you look better by making it seem like you aren’t doing anything that would be viewed as unwise or cruel in this current sociopolitical climate, which would be a shame if that, say, accidentally went viral and got to your job—aren’t they so proud of their dei initiatives? bad look, to make your black son go through a humiliation ritual.” 

“oh, please—” his father scoffs.

“excuse me,” nan calls to their little segment of the alphabet. “if you’ll all step forward—debutantes, hands on your father’s arms, there you go…”

janus coils his arm around his father’s, gripping his wrist like a vice.

“you should be happy!” janus whispers into his ear. “you’re getting exactly what you wanted, with even more witnesses for your folly! i’m just being a good son by following along with what you said.”

“stop,” his father says. “just—stop.”

“fine by me,” janus says, and the two slanges stare stonily ahead, doing their very best to pretend that the other doesn’t exist.

their lives work better that way.

⁂

for all the preparation involved, poppy reflects; all the designing, the suit-renting, the learning of the dance, the espionage as to not be caught by anyone before it was showtime…

the presentation of the debutantes strikes her as slightly anticlimactic. granted, she’s only been watching thus far—maybe she’ll gain an appreciation as she approaches the stage to actually take part.

as it is: dull.

until.

“presenting miss… grace chastity?” the announcer says, with some bafflement. 

a spotlight alights on this mysterious grace chastity. 

and—poppy has no idea who that is. which seems insane: poppy, surely, would have remember blonde hair that bright, teased that tall. she would have remembered someone with a signature lip color that lurid. she would have remembered someone with such a penchant for blue eyeshadow so glittery that it almost takes attention away from the dress.

she would have remembered someone with a fashion sense so abominable that they’d choose that dress.

and then the sideshire kids break out into cheers.

“prince! prince! prince! prince!” they begin to shout, and poppy realizes—

oh. somewhere beneath the kilograms of mascara…

roman prince has made his grand entrance.

“erm—that is to say, roman prince, son—daughter?—of remus duke and isadora prince, who is today represented by…”

poppy watches someone visibly give up on the idea of pronouns entirely.

“...the godfather, virgil danes…”

there’s a confused flutter of applause, broken up by the ongoing much more raucous cheering from the sideshire contingent. roman, smirking, presses a kiss into his bright white kidskin gloves and blows it in their direction. 

virgil bends and, politely, presses a kiss to roman’s knuckles, before he steps aside, as if to present roman to the world. 

roman steps forward and, with the fervor and dramaticism of a thousand million drag stars, proceeds to give the most wrist-twirlingest, shoulder-shimmiest, enormous curtsy that poppy has ever seen.

“—escorted today by miss sasha…”

the rest of her name is drowned out as sasha, too, is greeted by rampant, earsplitting applause. 

sasha, grinning, takes roman’s arm, placing his hand atop her gloved hand—she offers a wink to the sideshire contingent—and leads him off to the dance floor to a stampede of stomping, clapping, and general rabble-rousing.

the debutantes after him make much less of an impression: roman has, effectively, stolen the entire show to the point where poppy nearly misses her cue.

she’s quick to scuttle to her spot at the bottom of the stairs.

“presenting logan sanders,” she says. “son of christopher hayden and patton sanders.”

the spotlight alights; poppy smiles up at her unwitting future mentor.

he looks good. very good. poppy hadn’t really noticed before how nice his bone structure is, but she notices it now as his father pats his hand, as logan descends the staircase with the careful level of gravitas he seems to approach everything with.

logan’s father, beaming and looking alarmingly emotional, bends to kiss his son’s hand before he releases logan.

logan executes a deep, respectable curtsy.

and there’s poppy’s cue.

“escorted today by miss coppelia mcmaster, daughter of gabriel mcmaster and rivka mcmaster.”

poppy steps forward as logan straightens to his full height; they must look like quite the pair, poppy as short as he is, logan teetering in his heels.

poppy takes his hand, places it atop hers, and escorts him politely to the dance floor, where logan takes position, fan held perfectly in place.

poppy blows out a soft sigh of relief as she goes to join the other escorts, intent on hunting down a glass of punch or something.

she’s stopped yet again.

“presenting,” the escort says.

the spotlight alights on dee slange. 

the entire chilton contingent seems to hold their breaths.

“...mister janus d. slange, son of julian slange and margaret slange.”

poppy blinks. janus, the whisper rushes through the chilton crowd like the wind. janus.

a mystery probably ten years in the making, solved just like that.

dee—janus, she supposes—offers a grin over the crowd, looking less like a demure debutante and more like a returning warrior king, victorious.

“huh,” she says very quietly, almost to herself. not what she’d expected.

“escorted today by miss harriet marron, marcel marron and valerie marron.”

hattie, poppy discovers, is just as painfully gorgeous in a suit as she is in a skirt. 

poppy tells herself the feeling roaring to life in her chest is jealousy; she almost completely misses logan’s grandfather bending his head in to speak with mr. slange, only for mr. slange to gesture at him dismissively and storm off in a rage.

almost.

⁂

it doesn’t take long after the official duties—fan dance, viennese waltz, dinner—for a lot of the debutante crowd to disperse.

mostly the hartford crowd, including a stumbling libby dotie, who would almost certainly be facing proper redos of the entire debutante ball affair, now that this one has been so utterly and completely 

instead, some of the kids that logan had pointed out as members of the sideshire gsa have staged a hostile takeover of the stereo system and, as they play their playlist, seem very intent on turning the whol thing into something more like a high school dance.

this has the added bonus of clearing out almost every hartford adult, who are intent on getting home and not hearing the latest stylings from the pop diva of the day.

there was only so much counterculture one could introduce in any given time, janus supposes.

a few adults stay—roman’s mother and logan’s father figures, for three—and, unfortunately…

janus suppresses a sigh as his father comes storming up to him.

“fine,” he snaps. “fine. you’ve had your little tantrum. but so help me, i will have you introduced into society as you are.”

“seems redundant, considering,” janus says dryly. he’s about to continue when his father grabs his gloved wrist. janus swallows on instinct.

“you cannot keep getting away with this kind of thing, do you understand me?!” he demands. “the kindness from margaret’s heart got you here in the first place. you never would have had an opportunity for this tomfoolery back in—”

“haiti,” janus bites out, “i know. your sweet and benign gifts to me 

“i don’t care if it takes ten debutante balls—fifty!—to have you stop causing such a scene. so help me, i will have you—”

there’s the loud snap of a fan. both janus and his father jump, looking to where the sound is.

roman, looking deeply unimpressed, fans his face.

“will have you what?” he says.

his father, belatedly, releases janus’ wrist.

“‘cause it sounded like you were talking more debutante balls,” roman says. “which sounds like a great time to me.”

his father barks out a laugh. “oh, it would. for someone like you.”

he spits the word you as if it’s a slur.

roman just smiles at him.

“it sure would be!” roman says. “as a matter of a fact—ten debutante balls, fifty, sounds like such a blast that i guess i’ll have to keep the party going, huh?”

his father freezes. unable to compute this.

“this is a matter between myself and the child,” he says stiffly. “it’s no business of yours which debutante ball that we’ll—”

“oh, it is, because i’ll be there,” roman says, staring up at him, eyes glinting. “to make a bigger scene every. goddamn. time. do you want that, shaw moore? ‘cause i’ll do it.”

his father opens his mouth. closes it. looks between roman and janus.

“we’ll discuss this when you get home,” he snaps.

“looking forward to it,” janus says, trying his best to keep his bored tone. “ta-ta, father dear.”

and—with no avenue left for him—his father turns and stomps away.

“jeez,” roman says, with no small measure of disgust. “who spat in his cheerios?”

“me, i guess,” janus says faintly.

roman scowls in his general direction. “horrid man. ugh.”

“that’s dear old dad,” janus says.

“jesus,” roman says. “i’m sorry. that’s awful. i’ll definitely tag along to any debutante ball he drags you to, then. just say the word and i’ll sign up under a thousand different drag personas.”

“why would you do all that? i thought you hated me,” janus says, airy tone betrayed by his words.

“i’m not just going to let someone get away with being—if i may be blunt—a homophobic, maybe-abusive jackass to you, even though i do hate you for scheming against my boyfriend,” roman scoffs. “we may not get along, but you don’t deserve to be discriminated against. obviously i was going to say something. that’s, like, solidarity 101.”

“i don’t think it is.” janus waits a beat. “it does, however, sound like upstander 101.”

roman snorts. “okay, nerd, sure. whatever.”

janus grins. “i thought you liked nerds,” and nods to where logan, gloves off, is dancing with virgil, the pair of them equally awkward.

“i have very discerning taste.”

janus allows his eyes to travel up and down roman’s extremely gaudy dress, and he simply lifts a single eyebrow.

roman laughs. “fuck off,” he says with a friendly shove to the shoulder, and janus grins back, shoving him too, a tentative detante begun.

“you first.”

“oh my god, come on,” roman says. “we need to restore the equilibrium—i need to make fun of your dancing.”

“my dancing,” janus says, “my dancing, when you’re dating two left feet over there!”

“he’s cute enough to get away with it,” roman says loftily, then, yelling and jumping, one hand holding his wig to his head, “oh my god, i love this song!!! c’mon!”

janus is promptly pulled onto the dance floor, where he manages to find a spot wedged between an incredibly short, skinny kid that calls themselves brick—janus mishears and calls them brock for about three songs—and sasha kokkino, who has undone her powder blue tie and is dancing so energetically that’s she’s sweating all of the gel out of her hair. 

“hey!” sasha shouts over the music. “dee, right?”

“janus!” he shouts back, grinning. 

janus, he tells the nonbinary kid rocking an incredible half-dress half-suit look; i’m janus, he tells the cheerleader that approaches them about her mother coming to cheer practice on monday that roman quickly shoos away; yeah, janus, that’s me, he says, when logan introduces him to other journalistically-inclined kids who went to sideshire.

he’s janus. he is publicly, openly janus.

patton catches his eye at a certain point, bobbing his head like a chicken.

“all good?” he calls, adding a questioning thumbs up for good measure.

“yeah,” janus calls back. “yeah, i’m good!”

“good!” he says, the thumbs up now much more emphatic. 

“come on,” logan says, “i want to introduce you to some people in the gsa. i think it’ll do you good.”

maybe it will, janus reflects, even as he’s pulled into a dance circle and forced to watch roman peacock all over the place.

maybe it will.

and so that’s how he spends the night: dancing in an enormous crush full of fellow lgbtqia kids and their allies, cross-dressed to hell and back, with janus content in the knowledge that, while he certainly has fights with his father and the world in general ahead of him: this one has ended, happily, with a victory for him, and that’s something that someone like his father could never take away.

no matter what: janus will carry this raucous, over-the-top display of queer joy with him for as long as he possibly can.

⁂

author’s note: roman’s drag name, “grace chastity,” is a reference to starkid’s hatchetfield trilogy and, even more specifically, nerdy prudes must die, because 1. roman would watch and love starkid, but 2. i could not craft a more perfect “stuffy” drag name if i tried. if you have any suggestions for a future drag name for roman or a guest star, i’d love to hear them!

if you would like to see the dresses i had in mind for each of the boys:

logan (rory’s canonical debutante dress)

roman (what would have been lorelai’s canonical debutante dress)

janus (just imagine some white underneath the lacy overlay on the shoulders)

[simpinghour]

Cake and Pears at 2am Hange x fem! reader

Summary: What is meant to be a casual night out to hang with Mikasa and friends leads you to meeting the very dapper, very suave even though they sometimes remind you of a golden retriever, Hange.

This was meant to be a mafia AU and there are light mentions of it but that's not the focus. Here you'll read about a fem!reader who is 14 years younger than a nonbinary Hange but doesnt let that stop her from dating them. 

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Nonbinary Hange, gothkasa, Strap on sex, loss of virginity with strap on, this is smutty as hell and I have no regrets, side Eruri, Side Eremika, Squirting, Oral Sex, Fingering, also side Mikenana, Yelena needs her ass kicked, age gap, but not a creepy age gap I promise, I had to do so much research about strap ons for this damn fic

Ao3 link 

Chapter 1

First you didn’t feel like going out. Then Mikasa wheedled until you gave in, and you asked what you should wear.

“Anything is fine. Wear your regular clothes.”

And that was how you ended up wearing an ankle length black linen dress, feeling completely out of place when turning up at Mikasa’s cousin’s bar.

The plan was to have a quick drink to start off the evening. How you ended up drinking by yourself was a mystery, but you suspected it was likely due to Mikasa getting in a quickie with her boyfriend and losing track of time.

I hope the dick is good because I’m going to kill you and Eren when you get here, you quickly texted Mikasa while trying to ignore the drunken man to your right doing the most to get your attention.

“Either drink this and stop harassing our guests or get the fuck out. Your choice,” you hear someone say.

You look up to find a guy with short dark hair and an undercut who eerily resembles Mikasa pushing a glass of water across the bar top while glaring at the man bothering you. A quick glance at the man shows that he looks as though he’d been scared sober, because he takes the water and scuttles in the other direction without another word.

“Tch. Asshole,” the guy says in disgust before he flicks a dishcloth at a spot of moisture on the bar. “You okay?” he asks.

“I’m good, thanks. I would be great if my friend Mikasa didn’t have me here waiting like an idiot.”

He scoffs again. “So you’re friends with my cousin. No doubt she’s glued to that idiot boyfriend of hers.”

“I’m guessing you don’t care much for Eren,” you reply, biting back a laugh.

“Hmm,” he grunts. “She could do better, but I guess she could also do worse.”

He doesn’t offer further commentary and moves to the other end of the bar. You go back to fiddling with your phone and sipping on your drink.

Ten minutes later you get hit on again, this time by a tall blonde who is admittedly attractive but too damn pushy for your tastes.

“Don’t be like that,” she says, reaching down to wrap long, rough fingers around your wrist.

The last thing you want to do is cause a scene; not only is this a club for members only, but everyone here is at least fifteen years older than you. On top of that, Mikasa vaguely mentioned something about her cousin’s bar being a mafia hang out, but she didn’t answer or give more details when you outright asked if her cousin was in the mafia.

As you think back to the way the guy harassing you earlier looked like he was going to wet himself when the dark-haired guy glared at him, you think the answer is yes.

“Yelena, leave the young lady alone before I have Levi ban your ass,” a raspy voice interrupts in a way that seems light yet has a casually threatening undertone.

The woman named Yelena takes her hand off you and you peer around her to find the owner of the voice.

You were aware that you were likely gawking, but you hadn’t expected to see a lithe brunet dressed in a three-piece suit that clung to them like a second skin. Their hair was sort of long but had been pulled up in a partial ponytail, and a few strands framing square-rimmed glasses and a pair of warm brown eyes were the second things you saw. The unamused expression on their face was the next.

“You and I both know why you’re acting like this,” they continue, staring unblinkingly at Yelena.

You know this person came to your defense, but you can’t help feeling intimidated. Then Yelena sighs dramatically and backs up a few steps.

“No harm done, Hange. It was just a bit of fun.”

“Bit of fun, my ass. You’re only here because we like Onyankopon. Now move along.”

Yelena stares hard while slinking away and the person called Hange leans against the bar to peer down at you.

“Sorry about that,” they apologize while sticking out a hand. “Hange Zoe. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“This is my first time,” you explain after giving your name and shaking their hand. “I’m supposed to be meeting some friends here but they’re extremely late.”

“Oh? Anyone I know?”

“Mikasa and her dumb boyfriend Eren. And I think our friend Armin if he’s not glued to his computer.”

“Ohh, you’re Mikasa’s friend. Levi told us some of you would be stopping by tonight.” Hange turned to look across the room and pointed to a table. “Wanna join us while you wait?”

You peer over to see a man with shaggy blond hair sitting there, engaged in conversation with another man who had neatly styled brighter blond hair as well as a stunning blonde woman with a short haircut that fits her face perfectly. Levi, who you learn is in fact Mikasa’s cousin when pointed out by Hange, is in the middle of sliding into the booth with the two men and a lady. They all seem equal parts classy but intimidating, and it immediately sets you on edge. They’re nothing like anyone you’ve been around before and you’re in fear of making some serious social faux pas.

“I don’t want to intrude,” you protest.

“You aren’t. Besides, it’ll piss off the blonde who just got grabby with you.”

“Okay, only if you don’t mind,” you agree, picking up your glass. “Who was that, an ex of yours?”

A wry look cross Hange’s face as they lead you across the bar.

“You could say that. Say, what is that you’re drinking? It looks tasty.”

“It’s called a Red Devil. Not everyone knows how to make it but this guy with brown hair knew what I was talking about. He made it perfectly too; some people use too much gin and it tastes disgusting like that.”

“If he had on a blue shirt that’s Moblit and yup, he makes the best drinks.”

When you and Hange reach the table they introduce you to everyone. Nanaba is friendly and Miche is polite but doesn’t seem like a big talker, although Erwin and Levi have plenty to say. Hange orders you another drink without you asking and you sit on the outside of the booth, sipping on your second Red Devil while wondering how the hell you ended up at the table of Mikasa’s cousin and his friends.

You guesstimate that the jacket alone to their suits is equal to the price of a month’s rent. And you don’t know much about watches, but you definitely know what a Rolex is and every person at the table except you is wearing one. Correction, Miche and Nanaba have on his and her Patek Philipe watches.

Eventually someone else equally well-dressed joins the table, the tall man with brown hair named Moblit who happens to be the person that made your drink.

“Are you and Hange going to drink one another under the table tonight?” Levi asks, and Hange grins broadly.

“No,” they laugh. “But now that I think about it, I could use a snack. Are there any olives in the back?”

“Yes, for the cocktails,” Levi hisses, looking scandalized as though Hange suggested snacking on earthworms.

“Actually, I bought a large bag of mixed olives because I know you like them,” Erwin interjects, ignoring the way Levi glares at him.

“I thought I was the only one who ate olives on their own,” you murmur, and Hange’s face lights up.

“I guess you’ll share with me, right? Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

“Hange, don’t you break my damn bar!” Levi yells over the booth as Hange hurries in the direction of a closed door. “And bring something to put them in!”

You’re wondering why Hange needs to be told to bring something for the olives, and bite back a laugh at the image of them eating olives right off the tabletop. Soon they return, arms laden with a small stack of bowls and the olives.

Erwin hadn’t been lying; the bag of mixed olives he bought was enormous. It easily rivaled the size of a food container one would find at a food co-op. Hange tries to cut it open with a pocketknife but with speed-lightning deftness, Levi reaches over and snatches it out their grasp.

“I’ve got it, before the whole fucking thing ends up all over the floor,” he grumbles, pulling out his own pocketknife from somewhere and neatly slitting open the bag.

“You are so weird,” Miche says, watching Hange pour a generous portion of olives into two paper bowls. They stab a toothpick into a green olive atop both mounds and push a bowl in your direction.

“See, Miche? I told you I wasn’t the only one who ate olives like this,” Hange tells him, brandishing a toothpick with a black olive on the end before popping it in their mouth.

The entire situation is laughable. The idea that the stunning human in a bespoke suit has the personality of a golden retriever yet can clearly switch to that of a guard dog with a killer bite is unfathomable. Either way, you’re having a good time and don’t think the night can get any stranger. But you’re soon proven wrong.

Miche excuses himself and as he crosses you to get out the booth, he pauses and loudly sniffs your hair. Hange explains that it’s a thing he does and he means no harm, but then he says your hair smells good. Nanaba says she noticed the same thing too, and then everyone else says they also agreed.

Everyone starts throwing out names of expensive parfums that would probably take you a month or more to save for if you wanted a bottle. You tell everyone that it’s not perfume you’re wearing, they’re smelling the hair oil you used on your ends. That prompts a conversation about your tight curls and you’re explaining that your hair tends to get dry and needs extra moisture when Mikasa finally shows up. Eren is behind her, trying to pretend that he isn’t hiding from Levi and failing miserably. Armin is also there and he’s smiling nervously. Mikasa looks confused when she sees you sitting with her cousin and his friends, but her expression barely gives away anything.

“Hey brat, why’d you make your friend wait all this time?” Levi asks her.

“Eren and I lost track of time,” Mikasa offers dismissively, sniffing as she looks away.

“Tch. I bet,” Levi scoffs, narrowing his eyes and the increasingly nervous Eren. Armin also looks anxious, but mostly because he likely feels like a third wheel knowing what his two best friends were doing that caused them to be late.

“I don’t want to keep you from your friends,” Hange tells you with a smile. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

You really don’t want to leave but know it would be rude to not join Mikasa and the others. So you thank Hange and everyone else and reluctantly leave their table.

You’re oddly quiet while sitting with your friends, yet they’re too busy quarrelling over something to notice. When you cast a surreptitious glance over at Hange, they’re laughing loudly at something while slapping Miche’s shoulder. You feel a stab of envy, wishing you were the one to make them laugh when they suddenly turn in your direction and wink at you. Before you can react, they’ve turned back to their friends and you’re left wondering if you imagined everything.

Eren and Armin go to fetch drinks and when they return, Armin hands you another Red Devil and a glass of water. You notice that everyone also has water along with their drink and Eren asks Mikasa why her cousin made him also take water. The answer comes in the form of Mikasa shooting Levi a nasty glare across the bar and he returns her look with an eerily similar one.

“He hates sloppy drunks,” Mikasa explains. “This is his way of telling us to have fun but not too much fun. I watched him make someone mop up their own puke before throwing them out on more than one occasion.”

“Your cousin is scary,” Armin says, warily eyeing his cocktail as though unsure if he should drink it.

You finish your Red Devil a little too fast and become the teeniest bit tipsy—okay, you’re drunk—and decide to wobble outside, in desperate need of fresh air. Just as you take a deep breath and close your eyes, you hear the door open and someone else walks outside.

“Needed a breather?” Hange asks with an unlit cigar held between their teeth. They reach into their pocket to pull out a box of wooden matches and some other metal tubular object on a ring. “It’s a hole punch for cigars,” they explain when they see you staring. “It gives a better flavor as you smoke opposed to completely cutting off the tip.”

“Yeah, I got a little hot in there,” you reply. “So are cigars good? I’ve never tried one.”

“The right cigar is very good,” Hange explains, taking the cigar from their mouth and punching a hole into the end. They put it back into their mouth and strike a match and you’re captivated by their long fingers cupping the flame while bringing it up to their cigar. A few twirls between two fingers ensures that its lit evenly and Hange takes a few pulls and exhales a grey cloud into the cool night air. “Darker cigars—maduro they’re called— have a smoother taste. A lot of people think the lighter ones do but those tend to be harsh on the throat.”

You’re really drunk and wonder if you’ll remember this impromptu lesson on cigars, but mostly you’re enthralled with watching Hange smoke while looking like the picture of ease in their vest, the other hand in their trouser pocket.

“Would you like to try it?” they ask suddenly, and you realize they’re smiling while holding it out to you.

“You don’t mind?”

“Nah,” they reply, nudging their hand again in your direction. “Go on. Don’t suck too hard though, it’ll taste awful if you do.”

You feel awkward as you take the cigar and try to ignore the sensation of Hange’s fingers brushing against yours. Without their jacket on you catch a whiff of their cologne; something sweet yet musky with a hint of wood and vanilla. It mingles perfectly with the cigar smoke and the aroma leaves you light-headed.

Okay, girl, you really need to calm down, you tell yourself, lifting the cigar to your lips.

Normally you’d be disgusted by the idea of putting your mouth on something that was just in the mouth of someone you barely knew, but you aren’t for some reason. The tip of the cigar is damp and you brush way the intrusive thought that this is an indirect kiss, but you take a soft pull as directed and are shocked to find that it indeed tastes good.

“Nice, right?” Hange asks when they see your eyebrows raised in surprise.

“It is, actually,” you admit, handing the cigar back to them. “It’s sort of chocolatey but earthy? Makes me think of a nice latte.”

“Yes! Some people do have cigars with coffee, as well as chocolate and some teas.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is. If you ever want a recommendation, I’d be happy to help.”

Just as you’re about to say yes, the door opens and Mikasa sticks out her head.

“Oh, here you are,” she says. “Sasha just texted me to see if we wanted to meet up with her and Jean at the diner.”

“Did any of you drive here?” Hange asks.

Mikasa shakes her head. “We took an Uber.”

“Me too,” you chime in.

“All right. If you need help getting home let one of us know.”

**

The rest of the night is uneventful and boring compared to how it started. Mikasa had her limit of alcohol and used Eren’s shoulder as a pillow for an impromptu nap. Armin’s face is flushed and he keeps complaining that he’s hot and his hair is annoying him. You dig two satin scrunchies out your purse and put his hair into two tiny pigtails and he is visibly relieved. Armin keeps his pigtails in and when Mikasa finally wakes up, she asks Eren if she’s seeing things while staring at Armin.

“I got hot,” Armin replies without further explanation.

“And on that note, I think it’s time to go,” you tell your friends. “I’m going to say goodnight to Hange and your cousin and his friends,” you add, looking at Mikasa who is laying back on Eren’s shoulder. She nods and remains silent, clearly not giving a shit.

“We’re going to leave now but I wanted to thank you,” you tell Hange, who is sitting in the booth with Moblit. “Did everyone else leave?”

“Nanaba and Miche did, and Erwin and Levi are probably making sure things are tidied up before they close. You said you all came in an Uber, right?”

“Yeah, I’m going to order one in a minute.”

Hange reaches into their vest pocket and pulls out their phone. They tap at the screen a few times and then hand it to you. “Just put in wherever you want to go.”

You see that they’re booking an Uber pool for you in an SUV which you know costs a grip.

“I’ll pay you back,” you tell Hange, and they wave dismissively.

“No need. The only thing you need to do is make sure you all get home safely.”

Hange waits outside with you all and you’re disappointed when the driver arrives faster than you anticipated.

“It was really nice meeting you,” they tell you, taking your hand and stroking the top with their thumb. That small touch leaves you speechless and you want to say more but Mikasa is yelling for you to get in the damn truck.

“You too,” you tell Hange, flashing them a smile before getting in the truck and shutting the door. You watch their retreating figure out the window until you’re out of sight, and then you feel immense regret at not asking for their phone number.

Shit.

“You like Hange, don’t you?” Mikasa asks a week later when you two are having a girl’s night at her place, although her sentence sounds more like a statement.

“What makes you think that?” you ask, wondering how the hell you’ve been caught.

Mikasa shrugs, leaning in close to a mirror and relining her lower lids with a smudgy black eyeliner pencil. “It was obvious that night. Well, obvious to me that is.”

“How the hell could anything be obvious to you? You were two hours late!”

“I only needed ten minutes at most to figure out that you like Hange,” Mikasa continues, now working on the other eye. “You wouldn’t stop looking at them.”

“Well, they’re good-looking. So they are non-binary, right? I didn’t want to be rude and ask since I’d just met them but that’s the impression I got from listening to everyone else speak.”

“Yeah, they are.”

“Cool. There was a woman named Yelena there too. She’s Hange’s ex?”

“She is, that bitch. They broke up a few months ago because Yelena’s a conniving, manipulative asshole. Levi didn’t like her from the start. Although it’s not as if he likes many people from the start.”

“He’s probably good at sniffing out bullshit,” you tell Mikasa, thinking back to her stern-faced cousin.

“He is and it’s annoying at times. He’s rarely wrong though, not that I’d admit it to him. Anyway, should I ask Levi for Hange’s number so you can text them?”

“No! I can’t do that.”

Now Mikasa is lining her lips in black, and you see her eyeing you through the mirror.

“Why not?” she asked, leaning closer to perfect the sharp lines at her cupid’s bow.

“Because I… I don’t know.”

Mikasa sighs and turns around to face you. “Listen, I know you’ve always been too shy to flirt with someone who wasn’t a man, and I get it. Men are simple as shit and think a girl likes them if she blinks in his direction. But Hange isn’t some big bad wolf who’s going to attack you. You two can meet for coffee or something casual.”

You know that Mikasa is right, and there’s a stretch of silence before you speak again.

“Fine. Text your cousin. But if Hange isn’t interested, do me a favor and please don’t tell me.”

“You got it, you dramatic weirdo. Honestly, you’re weird and Hange is weirder. You two should get on like a house on fire.”

“That’s an awful analogy, Mikasa,” you groan, flopping over onto your other side. “Can you do my makeup when you’re done?”

The corner of Mikasa’s lip lifts slightly and you know your tactic to distract her was fruitful. For some reason, Mikasa loves putting eyeliner on all her friends. Eren fussed that it made his eyes itch, but Armin allowed Mikasa to do whatever she wanted. You also didn’t mind; you found that someone else doing your makeup was relaxing, and sometimes you fell asleep and let Mikasa do whatever she wanted.

“You’re actually going to let me do your entire face?”

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do, Yoda.”

“Ugh, like I said—weirdo.”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

“Sure. Now be quiet while I clean your skin.”

You’re lying flat on Mikasa’s bed while she swipes a cotton pad soaked with micellar water across your cheek when you speak again. “So what else do you know about Hange?”

“They’re older than us but you know that already. I think they’re forty? Something like that; I only remember because I know Levi is a few years older.”

“Wow, I figured they were a few years older than us. I didn’t think there was a fourteen-year difference.”

“Yeah. They’re also smart as hell. Two doctorates I think and run a lab. Also an adjunct professor if I remember correctly.”

“Well now I’m a little intimidated,” you admit quietly.

“I don’t know why. This is the same Hange who blew up hard-boiled eggs in the microwave at Levi and Erwin’s house because they forgot that you can’t microwave eggs.”

“Okay, that’s actually funny.”

“It is, but the runt didn’t think so. He cursed out Hange, made them scrub it twice and cursed them out some more when they didn’t clean it to his standards.”

You think back to Levi fussing about Hange spilling olive brine all over his bar and fight back a laugh.

“I had a good time with Hange and their friends until you and Eren came. They’re really funny.”

“Yeah, they’re cool. I’ve known most of them since I was a kid.”

Mikasa is now working on your eyeliner so you stay quiet so she can concentrate.

“Let’s go outside when I’m finished your makeup,” she says, using a short eyeshadow brush to buff out the pencil liner. “I need to smoke and I also got that wine you like.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” you reply with a tiny grin.

Twenty minutes later, you and Mikasa are out on her balcony that’s been decked in orange lights that were meant for Halloween but are year-round decorations for her. Mikasa brought out her phone and speaker and a darkwave mix is playing in the background while you two puff on cloves and sip wine.

“I texted Levi for Hange’s number, by the way,” Mikasa says casually, blowing a puff of smoke out into the night air. “No doubt he’s wrapped around uncle Erwin right now so his phone is probably turned off.”

“Shit, thanks Mikasa. Now I’m going to be a nervous wreck all night.”

“I have something stronger than cloves if you want. There’s edibles and gummies; pick your poison.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

I'd love to hear about what type of pets that each skeleton would own, what the skeletons would name their pets, and if they chose between adopting from a humane society or buying from a pet breeder.

Undertale Sans - A parrot or a cockatiel! He loves birds and will teach them to ruin the life of everyone in the house. If he ever adopts one, it will be from a humane society. He would probably give it a pun name.

Undertale Papyrus - He kinda adopted the annoying dog on the Surface, now walking him in the street and all. Sure, he is embarrassed when the dog simply absorbs a public bench in public, but he is kinda attached now??? His name is just Dog. Not very inventive, but it seems it's the only name the dog answers???

Underswap Sans - He's not a big fan of classic pets. He would much rather have a snake or a spider. He's more a breeder type, as he wants very specific animals. He gives them sweet ridiculous names like Cookie or Cupcake.

Underswap Papyrus - He adopted three labrador dogs on the surface and he is always with them. In the house, there's more chance falling on him hugging his dogs than his S/O lol, and he's one of the most cuddly skeleton. He found them in the streets, it was a litter, and he never gave them back. Their names are Ramon, Dapper and Pomme.

Underfell Sans - He's not the animal type, but if he ever finds a stray cat or dog, he will end up keeping it because he is way more soft than he thinks he is. Like Sans, the poor baby would end with a pun name.

Underfell Papyrus - He has two cats. Doomfanger, who he adopted Underground as a baby, after she fell from the Surface and Stormbringer, a kitten he adopted in a humane society he was working for. Edge is also a foster parent for orphan kitten and very old cats.

Horrortale Sans and Papyrus - They have a farm, so quite a lot of animals, added to random stray cats or dogs Oak brings home and decides they're his. They all have a name, but it's usually common names, like Carrot for a rabbit or Nugget for a chicken...

Horrorswap Sans - He has a service dog, Harper, who helps him in the everyday life with his missing leg.

Horrorswap Papyrus - He has a service and emotionnal service dog as well, he named her Antoinette, that helps him to prevent panic attacks and calm him down when something triggers him so much he loses sense of reality.

Horrorfell Sans - Nah, not the type to have animals. He's fine on his own, he doesn't want anyone to ever depend on him ever again.

Horrorfell Papyrus - He still has his Doomfanger, who is an old lady now. He is fostering feral cats in his garden as well, feeding and neutering them, and assuring their protection.

Swapfell Sans - He is kinda the second family of the neighbour's cat, he named Karen bis. Nox is not supposed to feed it, but man, those eyes... He can't refrain himself, and yes, maybe, he let the cat spend the night in his house one or twice... Or more.

Swapfell Papyrus - He has a goat, Spencer. He won her as a price in a contest, as a baby, and he raised her. He made her a little shed in the garden and he's walking her like a dog.

Fellswap Gold Sans - NOPE. No pets allowed at home.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - He tried to sneak different animals in, but Wine always find them and asks him to give them back :(

Outertale Sans - He has a parrot, King, who sings crude songs and says bad words. His old owner taught him to do that and no one wanted him to the humane society because of that. Moon thinks it's funny.

Outertale Papyrus - He has stick bugs to entertain the kiddos he's keeping at home. It's not moving much, it's silent, best choice possible. They don't really have names though. There are so many and they all look similar.

Dancetale Sans - Nah, he's too busy to take care of an animal properly. Maybe in his old days when he retreats.

Dancetale Papyrus - Same than his brother. He loves to pet the neighbours dogs and sneak them in his garden when they're not here though.

Dancefell Sans - He has a german sheperd, Cerise. That's her baby, he dresses her like a princess all the time. He finds her in the streets.

Dancefell Papyrus - He has a border collie, Socrate, who is part of his dance show. The dog is very receptive to all sorts of tricks so Tango taught him how to dance. They're entering contests every year as well. He bought the dog to a breeder.

Farmtale Sans and Papyrus - Well obviously, they have a lot of farm animals, and three barn dogs who are living with the sheeps. Their names are Stitch, Lilo and Simba. They're mostly Ben's dogs.

Mafiatale Sans - He has coi karps in a huge tank in his basement. He loves to watch them instead of working. They don't have names though.

Mafiatale Papyrus - He has a fox, Bleach, which he found in the forest one day and raised by hands. No one knows he has one and he's not supposed too, but who's going to tell a member of the mafia it's wrong?

Mafiafell Sans - Fang has lots of dogs, staffs and pit bulls who are working dogs mainly, but he's living with them at home and loves them all. They are all girls, and they all have a little name: Princess, Love, Sweetie, Mary, Snow, ... He is a breeder.

Mafiafell Papyrus - He has a persan cat, Hellbringer (which he also nicknames "My sweet little baby princess"), he adopts to a breeder. She is her sweet baby and he would die for her if she asks it. It can be surprising to see the boss of the mafia talking with a stupid voice to the cat.

Ink - Nah, his memory is too bad anyway, he would forget it somewhere.

Error - He has two goldfishes, they don't have names. He found them in an empty universe and kept them for some reason. They're entertaining. Their name are Blank and Space.

Disbelief Papyrus - He has a small pug named Aurora. He saved her from a neighbour who was abusing her. He was not supposed to keep her, but he got too attached.

Dustale Sans - A pack of wolves adopted him in the forest thinking he's a kind of weird looking dog.

Killer Sans - He has two rats, Baghera and Baloo, and he's walking them in his pockets all the time.

[fagtainsparklez]

i was watching back the binary attacks bc i was trying to figure out what badboyhalo meant by “he found out three specific conditions have to be met for codes to spawn” (i have not.) but i DID notice something interesting during dapper’s death.

an important thing to keep in mind here is that, allegedly, the codes just want the players off the island. they don’t want bloodshed, but will kill if necessary. we’ve seen that they get more aggressive when players seemingly turn to the federation (ie cellbit), and their killing of the eggs has been largely interpreted as the players’ connections to the eggs keeping them tied to the island and/or the eggs being planted by the federation, therefore being enemies to the codes. again, their main goal is for the players to leave.

so dapper’s death took place while bad and cellbit were building the satellite, right? the satellite that, as we know, is what allows SOFIA to access information/i believe connects her to the internet? either way, the satellite is a clear tie to SOFIA, who was given to maxo by an agent that claimed to be against the federation, which is what makes this attack interesting to me. because yes, an argument can be made that the code just attacked because dapper was there, but that’s still. weird. sure, dapper’s there, but the players present (bad and cellbit) are building something to get out. they’re not being complacent. they’re doing exactly what the codes want—trying to find a way out. so why would the codes choose that time to attack? a time where the players are aligning with the codes’ ideals to a T. all of the other attacks i looked through were benign moments—roier and bobby were exploring, tallulah and phil were hanging with other players, so on and so forth. none of them were done at a time the players were so obviously attempting to escape. so why was this one different?

unless the codes didn’t know. unlike cellbit’s betrayal, which was loud and in everyone’s faces, SOFIA’s presence is, mostly, kept on the down-low. they don’t refer to SOFIA by name outside of the base if they can, and the projects surrounding SOFIA (the satellite, the antenna) are kept as secret as possible. it’s very likely the codes didn’t know what they were building that for, which leads to two things:

the codes, unlike the census bureau (who’s always watching), are not omnipotent.

either the codes don’t know of SOFIA, or they know exactly what SOFIA is, and her true identity is that of a federation plant (willing or not)

that second point raises another possibility: the codes were fully aware what the satellite was for, and additionally, fully aware what SOFIA’s origins are. this theory erases the first point entirely because that would mean they’re omnipotent, but different theories and all that.

the day maxo is attacked by the codes is day 56. day 56 is also the same day as dapper’s death, and the same day the satellite began construction (i believe. the wiki says this was the day the antenna began construction, but i think it just got things mixed-up). two days before that, on day 54, he’d finished construction of SOFIA, and began to feed it information. maxo’s attack is still a huge mystery to us. he was doing everything right! he was trying to get off the island! he built SOFIA, he was gathering information to give her so they could leave. why would they go after him when he was just doing the very thing they wanted him to?

unless SOFIA wasn’t given to him by an anti-federation spy. unless SOFIA was planted by the federation, and the codes know that. unless they attacked him and dapper to try to stop SOFIA’s construction/continuation. unless the players have been playing into the federation’s hands all along, only under the false pretense that they’re getting answers, when in reality, they’re just being fed the federation’s lies in a different flavor.

[gofancyninjaworld]

OPM Manga Update 229 Review:

No reason for this image, just me enjoying Saitama's meaty thighs. That's all.

Story: Like putting lipstick on a hyena

We open with Tatsumaki taking a phone call. She's dismissive of the idea of shooting a commercial to promote the Hero Association to prospective heroes -- until she remembers Saitama talking about how he'd once been weak and agrees. Let it be noted that Tatsumaki doesn't do anything half-assed: she throws herself into the role of ambassador with such enthusiasm that she ends up trashing the studio.

She is less than impressed with what comes out of the session: a cutesy, saccharine call girl simpering in a commercial, about as true a reflection of Tatsumaki as lipstick and a pink bowtie on a spotted hyena. Fubuki, unfortunately, comes home [1] just as Tatsumaki gets hung up on. Oh, dear, there goes the roof. Looks like they'll be staying in hotels for a bit -- ar at Hero Association HQ -- while the damage is fixed.

More goings on under the cut.

I'd love to blame Amai Mask for producing the AI-edited monstrosity. But the true blame lies with McCoy. He orchestrated the campaign. The public lap it up, it conforming to an image that's palatable to see [I have A LOT to say about this but that's another post.]

Nastier-minded people would have asked, 'which organization', but so it goes when one has the benefit of the doubt

After the HA executives praise McCoy for his adroit management of the HA's image, they (especially a guy I'm calling Walrus 'stache) turn to the recruitment figures to find...

...ah, let me wind back a second. It's true that the Hero Association is always recruiting, but it's taken on additional urgency with Metal Knight having apparently thrown billions of Yen away on infrastructure and weaponry that don't work [2] and Tatsumaki being unmanageable. We return to the story...

...that...

...the ad campaign had made no difference. The Hero Association approval ratings were up, but recruitment was still on its downward slide.

What gave?

The answer comes from two other conversations happening contemporaneously. One is between a Hero Association scout and Axel, the leader of a vigilante group known as The Hunters, the other between another scout and a super-sumo champion named Raiden. In each case, the scout is sent off with a flea in their ear as the prospect in question has another engagement.

Yes, there's another hero organization in the wings, and it's hoovering up as much talent as it can find. It's even reaching out to current heroes.

We cut to a very dapper-looking Genos being asked by a very tired-looking Dr Kuseno what his intentions are, given this information and the former's feelings about the Hero Association. Genos starts to answer, but we'll have to wait for the answer as the scene switches to Saitama doing a spit-take as he sees the commercial.

Meta: Finally, some good fucking food

Everything can be faked (except truth)

Many people have already noted the jab at AI fakery inherent in 'Tatsumaki's ad,' so I won't belabour the point. I shall leave it to another post.

Alas, heroes don't grow on trees

The Hero Association's newfound desperation to find new heroes has been a long time coming. People who make good heroes are rare critters. There is not only the need for exceptional ability (even C-Class heroes are incredible), but there's also a need for willingness to serve as a hero, moral principles, and stability under very trying circumstances. Fooled by the previously buoyant numbers of applicants, leading to 55 Hero Tests being conducted as of the time Saitama and Genos applied, they've applied an 'easy-come, easy-goes' attitude to their recruits. When they should instead have recognised them as rare talent to be nurtured, even the lower-class heroes. Looks like there have been seven more Hero Tests since those two joined, and the news has not been good.

At no point does the HA appear to have had more than 600 heroes on the books: retention seems to have been a big problem. It fits in well with the executive Gobrich's frustration with the situation that support for heroes is too top-down and hasn't listened to their actual needs and concerns. Bushohige (the Bearded Worker) has made similar points -- but no one's listening to him, either!

Sekingar at least appears to have seen the light in this regard and at least appreciates that heroes, whatever their abilities, need to be used *well* rather than be treated as a disappointment for not being S-Class heroes. But he's just one person and has only recently been promoted.

And now... with the advent of actual competition, the spigot of fresh new bodies to take in and use up has largely dried up. What a to do!

Speaking of drying up

Genos is draining the very life out of Kuseno at the moment -- it reminds me of Uu and Reigen. Yes, the doctor made him a cyborg, and so on one level, he can't really complain if he's the it man when it comes to giving him upgrades. But Kuseno is all alone. The stress of worrying about Genos when the latter casually dumps horrors on him and the burden of designing upgrades (how do you God-proof a person, anyway?) is really getting to him. And he has no one to talk to, let well alone share the burden with. [3]

Try not to die of overwork, doctor! At least not before you can find Genos a new situation.

Asides

[1] Looks like Fubuki lives with Tatsumaki in the manga. Either that or she lives close by and has a key. Love to see it.

[2] Truly an eavesdropper hears no good of themselves. The manga change from Metal Knight being scolded in person to overhearing it is brilliant.

[3] In a kinder world, Kuseno would be able to call Bang to at least have a sympathetic ear (heh, and Bang had a personality transplant). Kind and ONE don't mix, at least when it comes to his fictional characters, so too bad.

[nightwishesworld]

Do u think Alcina would get jealous if there partner had a favourite plushie to the point she considers it competition, the only thing stoping her getting rid of it is her partner being upset 

Umm, we are talking about the same vampire, right??? Of course, she would! You guys have the best friggin ideas I swear! This was such a fun write

p/n = plush name

************************

Alcina Dimitrescu is not a jealous woman. 

She is the epitome of beauty and elegance, leaving no room for emotions such as jealousy to squander it. 

Yeah...right. That’s what she tells herself at least. 

To her credit though, Alcina is pretty good at keeping herself in check. Only lashing out, or asserting her dominance, as you call it, when absolutely necessary. The butcher’s son, for instance, got a taste of her rage when she caught him ogling your body like a piece of prime meat. He almost had his tongue cut out right then and there.

Alcina doesn’t do well with competition, and even though you’ve told her several times that there is no competition, she decides to weed them out herself. Can’t get jealous if there are no competitors, right?

Her jealousy doesn’t last long, she claims her spotlight one way or another. There is, however, one creature Alcina is unable to rid herself of. One that resides in her very castle. The closest any little rat has ever come to stealing her beloved y/n.

Even after long grueling days of wasting her time cleaning up Heisenberg’s messes and getting an ear full from Mother Miranda, all Alcina longs for is to crawl into bed and wrap herself in your arms. Tonight it seems the gods are frowning upon her because they have already stolen her place. She rolls her eyes at what should have been a cute display, had it been her, and instead moves to the vanity to start taking her makeup off.

Wiping away the stresses of the day helped lighten Alcina’s mood a bit. It was always such a relief to take her makeup off, knowing the day has finally ended and she can relax.

Making her way to the bed Alcina trips over the small wastebasket and curses herself for making you stir from your sleep.

“Alci, you ok?”

You sit up in bed, grabbing the sheets to cover yourself, but still keep an arm wrapped around your smaller companion. 

“Yes, I’m fine darling I-” Alcina stopped. “You know what? No. I am the Lady of this castle and I say p/n needs to leave our bed.”

“P/n is always allowed in bed!”

Alcina was too tired to start a proper argument and decides to simply give in. She refuses to hold you while that stupid plushy is sandwiched between you, effectively cock-blocking her. Its eyes mock her as it watches her toss and turn tirelessly. Alcina was not accustomed to sleeping “by herself.” The vampire felt uncomfortably bare without your body directly in contact with hers, but not bare enough to reconsider cuddling you and the plushy. Alcina is far too stubborn for that and simply chucking it to its rightful place on the floor would only upset y/n. No matter how much she loathes that plushy, she still does not want to upset you.

A smugness flashed across its cold dead eyes as it stared at her, clearly proud of its victory. Alcina only growled in response, baring her teeth like a territorial animal.

“You win this round, fucker.”

The next day was no different from any other. Alcina was kept busy with her daughters causing mayhem around the castle and paperwork needing to be done for some sort of ceremony. Naturally, when she does give herself a break, she chooses to spend it with you. This is how you ended up sitting here next to the fire, plushy at your side and Alcina by her lonesome across from you. 

“Ooh, do we still have those shortbread cookies from the other day? Or did Cassandra eat them all?”

“I hid some for you above the stove- top shelf inside the teapot.”

Your eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Be right back.”

Alcina nodded and turned her attention back to her book. She felt a pair of eyes on her, but she tried her damnedest to ignore it. A few intense minutes passed before she slammed her book shut. “You think you’re so special, don’t you? Just because you had them first doesn’t mean you’re their favorite.”

The plush stared blankly at her. Its silence only egged her on.

“You better watch yourself, plushy. You just landed yourself a spot on Alcina Dimitrescu’s blacklist, and no one gets off of it alive. You might have them fooled with your dapper little suit and hat but I know who you really are under all that fluff. Punk ass plushy bitch. Y/n is mine, and I do not share.”

More intense silence filled the room as Alcina was about to strike down on the innocent creature until-

“Hey Al, can you come help me? I can’t reach the top shelf.”

She gave the plush a smug grin before taking her leave. “I know someone else who can’t reach either. Coming, my love!”

Alcina sauntered out of the room only to step right back through the doorway to extend the claw on her middle finger at the plushy. Giving it the most dramatic middle finger in all of Romania.

Sometime later

The cookies were gone within minutes of settling back down on the couch. Now you were lounging across the cushions, with p/n pressed tightly against your chest, finishing the final chapter of your book. You moved to get off the couch to return your book to its shelf and pick out another classic. Before setting p/n on the cushions you place a kiss on the top of their head. Alcina pretends not to notice this out of the corner of her eye and continues to glaze over the pages of her own book, waiting for her kiss.

It never came.

You walk past her without offering so much as a smile and Alcina is sent over the edge.

“That’s it, I can’t take it anymore! Y/n it’s me or the plush.”

You look back at her, rather taken back by her sudden outburst. “Um, excuse me?”

“You heard me. It’s either me or the plush. Take your pick.”

You arch a brow and put your hands on your hips. “Well, p/n and I don’t appreciate that tone.”

Alcina rolls her eyes. “P/n isn’t real!”

You gasp and rush over to the couch and cover their ears. “How dare you! That’s a very sophisticated young man/lady you’re talking about.”

“I am sick of always coming in second to that stupid thing. You act like you love it more than you love me! Giving it a kiss and not me, how rude. We both can’t keep living here; one of us has to go.”

That got you to laugh. “This coming from the same woman who, after sending me away to sleep on the couch after an argument, comes down in the middle of the night to sleep on the floor beside the couch because you got lonely.”

Alcina blushed.

“Something tells me you won’t let me go anywhere.”

She stays quiet, only giving a huff as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“If I give you a kiss now will you stop whining?”

Alcina pretends to consider this for a moment before answering. “Will you sit on my lap?”

“Of course, my love,” you smile.

“No p/n.”

You giggle as you make yourself comfortable straddling her things. “No p/n.”

Alcina pulls you flush against her front and kisses you. “Good.” She bites your lower lip, making you gasp. She takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss and relax back into the couch. Out of sheer pettiness, Alcina cracks an eye open to see the plush staring at your display of affection. She smiled into your kiss and gives it the middle finger before focusing all her attention on ravishing you.

[rayslittlekitten]

The Little Sister

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

A/N: Okay, so here is the final part. I’m pretty happy with how this came out and wraps up the story. Thank you all for the comments and reblogs and likes. i’m so grateful for all of them and they really motivated me. I didn’t expect the all the attention it got, but I’m so glad you all enjoyed this and stuck with me on this journey. Anon, hope this turned out good for you too even though I deviated a bit from the original request.

RATING: E (18+ONLY)

Word Count: ~1.5k

Pairing: Raymond Smith x F!reader/OFC

Contains: mention of age gap, unprotected? sex (p in v), kissing, fingering, boss/employee sexual relations roleplaying, light hand on neck (no choking)

Ray has been showing you the ropes and how he runs the pub for the past two weeks. He’s been guiding you the whole way although you’ve been making suggestions on ways to possibly make things more efficient.

“I don’t understand why we can’t do it this way instead. There are too many extra steps!” You tell Ray.

“If the process is not broken—“

“You’re broken, you old man!” You huff.

“Excuse me?” Ray adjusts his glasses as he looks at you in disbelief.

“Look, why don’t we try it my way for a lit’el bit and if it doesn’t work, then we’ll go back to your antiquated ways,” you suggest.

“You really think I’m old?” Ray’s face softens.

“Oh, Ray,” you sigh. “I don’t think you’re old. Yes you’re… quite a bit older than I but I don’t see it as a bad thing.”

You get up from your seat and slide over to his lap.

“It just means you’re more experienced and more knowledgeable. I think that’s incredibly sexy.” You put your hands on his chest and shoulders.

Ray smirks and runs one of hands over your thigh and the other grips your waist.

“Yeah? You really think so?” Ray brushes his lips over yours.

“I know so. I love when you teach me things about my body and what gets me off.” You start nibbling on his lower lip. “I love when you teach me things about the world and—“

The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts your little moment, causing you to jump out of Ray’s lap and back on to your seat.

“Sorry about that, boss,” Ray apologizes as he quickly turns his chair to hide the tent in his trousers.

“Is this going to be a problem, Ray? I don’t need you to be distracted while you’re working.”

“No!” You and Ray both answer.

“I promise! No more distractions!” You tell Mickey. “Although he’s too stubborn to accept my way of doing things is better than his.” You glare at Ray.

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with how I operate the pub!” Ray shoots back.

Mickey walks over and takes a look at some of the notes you had written down. His mouth twists curiously.

“You know, we could give it a shot. It sounds good on paper,” Mickey shrugs.

“You’re not serious, boss.”

“Good job.” Mickey pats your shoulder. “We could use the fresh eyes.”

You flash Ray a smug look.

Later that week, you and Ray go on a date. It is probably the first proper date for the both of you. You’re wearing your favorite dress and heels. It’s a black little number with a low cut neckline and the hem that sits mid-thigh. Ray’s never seen you dressed this way and he is taken away by it.

“You look really beautiful tonight,” Ray compliments you.

“Thank you, Ray. You look very handsome, as per usual.” You smile at him. He’s always dressed so dapper, work or otherwise.

“You, you’re always beautiful too but tonight you look extra beautiful.” Ray stumbles on his words and you laugh.

“I know what you meant, Ray. Thank you,” you giggle.

You find it amusing how this man who was so smooth and confident when you first him has turned into this silly and awkward person. It’s charming.

Ray takes you to a nice restaurant where the two of you discussed where your relationship is going and drawing boundaries between work and personal.

“As your boss, I think-“

“Mickey is my boss really, but sure. We can pretend,” you correct him and take a sip of your wine.

Ray narrows his eyes at you.

“But you’re the only boss of me in the bedroom,” you quickly add.

“Good save. I’ll let that one slide,” Ray smirks. “Anyways, we have to keep it professional when we’re at work, you understand? We can’t afford the distraction. I certainly can’t.” Ray cuts into his steak.

“Rossy’s right. You’re too wound up.” You take a bite of your food.

“I’m not too wound up. I just take my job seriously. Michael relies a lot on me.”

“As long as we’re both doing our jobs, it doesn’t hurt to have a lit’el fun.” You shrug.

“Jobs aren’t supposed to be fun,” Ray says. “And in this line of work, you really need to be on top of things.”

“Okay, fine,” you huff. “I’ll let you be on top of me at work.” You wink at him.

“I’m serious!” Ray says, putting his utensils down.

“Okay, I get it. I’m serious about this job too, okay? I ain’t gonna fuck this for up Mickey,” you tell him.

Ray goes back to his meal.

“You start Monday, 8AM sharp,” Ray tells you and then places the cut piece of steak into his mouth.

“Yes, boss.” You flash a smile at him. You see the corner of Ray’s lips curve up a bit and see the wheels in his head turning.

“Good. There’s one more thing left to do.” Ray wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin and places it on his empty plate. ***************************** “Ray, we could get caught,” you say to him as he’s kissing and licking your jawline as he cradles your neck.

“What did I tell you?” Ray reminds you as thumb lightly teases the front of your throat.

“Someone might walk in on us, boss,” you pant, feeling his other hand under your dress between your legs.

The Princess Victoria is closed, but Ray snuck the both of you in. You’re sitting on his desk and he’s standing between your legs, ravaging you. When you jokingly called him “boss” during dinner, it had awakened something inside him and he wanted to take you in the pub.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Your hands reach for his belt.

“If you want this job, you will do as you’re told.” Ray slips a finger inside of you.

You moan and wrap your legs around his hips. You’re playing the role of the employee getting coerced by her boss.

“How bad do you want this job?” Ray asks, slipping another finger in you.

“Really bad,” you groan, unzipping his trousers.

“Yeah? You’d do anything?” Ray pulls down the front of your dress with his other hand and cups your breast.

“Anything for you, boss.” You reach into his pants and start stroking him.

Ray kisses you and moans into your mouth as you work your hand up and down his shaft. Ray pulls his fingers out of you and hooks them on each side of your panties, then slides them down over your hips and all the way down to your ankles. You kick them off and Ray pushes his trousers and boxers down until his cock springs out, ready for action.

“Scoot down a bit,” Ray tells you.

You move yourself closer to the edge of the desk and he lifts your dress up to your waist, and then aligns himself with you.

“Wait, did you bring a rubber?” you stop him.

“Just the tip?” Ray asks in to your ear before nibbling on your lobe and gently pressing against your opening.

“We both know it would be more than just the tip,” you bite your lip and moan.

“I’ll pull out,” Ray pushes a bit further in.

“Are you ready to deal with Rossy if you knock me up?” you ask him.

Ray growls out of frustration and pulls away, but you pull him back in with your legs.

“I’m on birth control, you nit,” you giggle.

“And when were you going to tell me that?” Ray adjusts his glasses.

“You didn’t ask,” you shrug. “But isn’t it illegal for employers to ask their workers about these sort of things, boss?”

Ray smirks and then smashes his lips against yours before aligning himself with you again and slipping himself inside of you. Your hips buck feeling his rubber-less cock massaging your dripping center. You’ve never had sex without any barrier before and this new sensation is making you dizzy. Ray pumps in and out of you and he’s gliding so easily.

“You feel so good, boss.” You continue to make out with him as he pounds away.

The sounds of your moans, wet slaps and the desk creaking fills the dark empty room. The moonlight and street lamp shines though the large windows, casting a blue glow on the two of you in the corner of the room.

“Fuck me, harder, boss,” you pant into his ear.

The slaps and creaking increase in pace until you both finally come undone onto and into each other. The rhythm breaks and your moans and pants fill the air instead.

“Did I get the job, boss?” you ask with your forehead pressed against Ray’s.

“You sure as hell fucking did.” Ray smiles and kisses you.

[fourseasonsfigs]

Hug a Pig

I remember when I saw this fig for the first time, and I thought, How did someone dream this up??? Now this was a while ago, way before I realized that that was entirely the wrong question to be asking. The right question is, I wonder when this happened?

The answer, my friends, is Zhang Zhehan's (solo) appearance on Happy Camp that aired on June 12, 2021.

His beautiful smile (while holding this piglet) is the inspiration for this fig!

Here's a better view of Zhehan's outfit.

And another so you can see his crocheted pouch. I was about to say this casual look is not my favorite of Zhehan's - I would have preferred just a t-shirt, frankly - but then again he IS holding a pig in this! So maybe he's downright dapper.

Yes, he went right on a fig stand. Those little tiny feet were not able to hold both the weight of that big ol' head. The only way it would have been able to do so if it was actually a full grown pig and not a piglet!

This is also a great view of the pig. I know in the clip you can't see the pig's eyes, and I do appreciate the verisimilitude, I do.

But to no one's surprise, I have a weakness for cute big-eyed chibi-style animals. I'm just saying, it'd be super cute if this was a big-eyed roly-poly little pig that was either smiling all big like Zhehan, or say, looked really surprised.

BUT accuracy is accuracy, so here we are.

The little crochet handbag Zhehan is wearing in the episode is a nice burst of bright blue against the general tan effect of his clothes, and of course matches his crochet blue flower pin.

Zhehan's hair was styled pretty spiky in this Happy Camp episode, so you can see the definition that the fig maker put in it.

It's all all tan outfit here. The strap of the crochet bag is a decently bright orange (but not like neon or anything) in the pictures, whereas in the fig it's a little more muted of a color. It's less of a contrast and more in line with the overall color palette of the clothes.

The modeling is good on the arms - nothing looks disproportional or too long.

A streamlined but still very standard Zhehan silhouette.

I'm so glad the fig maker picked this moment - his big beautiful smile in the show is just so radiant!

The hair is spot on, if you scroll back. The fig maker also got the nice detail of the uh, squiggly? embroidery on his pocket. And of course the blue crochet flower pin. Very cute.

A bottoms-up view / closeup so you can see the details of the shoes, pig, and shirt (mostly). Look at those rosy cheeks!

I'm still impressed by how accurate the fig maker got the hair. She does good work!

It's always fun to have the box art be a peek into what figs are coming up! You've already seen Neufmode Han here, so that only leaves that Baozhushajun there in the middle.

Guess what fig you'll see tomorrow 😉

Material: PVC

Fig Count: 377

Scene Count: 26

Rating: 🐷🐷🐷🐷🐷 5 / 5 pigs agree this is the best fig ever!

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]