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prophecy-of-the-black-sun · 5 months

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Alright, so is I FINNALY finished chapter Inez so here it is with some updated character art 👍🫂

Chapter 1:

A New Life

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David rushed down the hall. As he ran through the school hallways, he pulled on the backs of his shoes and fixed his hair, hoping he wouldn’t get written up by teachers nearby. He knew he was late but hoped only to be a few minutes behind. He ran to the door at the end of the hall and pushed it open.

"You're late... again." Mrs. Lemmings checked his name off her attendance list.

"Sorry, my alarm’s broken," David explained, sitting down quietly.

"Still?" She side-eyed him but continued taking names. David looked up at the ceiling, sighing. His last week of senior year. He had dreamed about this day since

"Your alarm again?" Aldric joked, nudging David’s arm.

“Oh jeez, not you too." David rolled his eyes. His best friend since 2nd grade, Aldric, per usual, sat beside him.

“I think that's a new record—only five minutes late this time,” Aldric remarked as David shook his head. Looking away from his friend, Aldric ran his fingers through his thick black hair.

“Will you ever cut that? You're gonna look like a girl!” David joked. Aldric felt his hair again, guiltily. It was decently long, but not to the point where it was girlish.

“you quiet! I’ve had it like this since freshman year; you’re the one who even suggested I grow it out anyways!” he reminded, smirking.

“I’m aware…” David replied, a bit annoyed. They both laughed, soon to be silenced by the teacher. Not a thing could separate them—not a thing in the world.

Before they knew it, the school day was almost over, but for the last time. The next day, they’d say goodbye and be on their merry way. They'd seem like boys who had no idea what to do with the rest of their lives, but people would be wrong to think that. Little did the rest of the world know that they had found property in Alaska, not a hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle, completely secluded from the rest of society. It was cheap—only about $5,000—and inhabited by a small yet sturdy cabin, so it was relatively worthless. But not to these boys. Where others saw bare land surrounded by mountains, they saw an opportunity and a new life for the two of them. These boys had always had the unusual dream of living in the cold, uncharted wilderness. So, at only nineteen years old, these boys had their whole lives nearly figured out.

Graduation came and went. About a day later, Aldric packed up his belongings and waved goodbye to his mother and sister.

“This isn't going to work out, and I know it! Know what? When this dream of yours goes south, don't come crying to me, OK!?” His mother scolded him, holding his little sister's shaking hand.

“You don't know that,” Aldric told her calmly, reaching out his hand. His mother, instead of shaking his hand, slapped him across the face with the back of her palm.

“Save it!” she sneered, pulling his 6-year-old sister inside as she retreated back to the house. His sister waved a frightened goodbye as she was forced back inside, wiping the corners of her eyes and glancing back at him apologetically. Aldric looked back at his mother through the window as he climbed into his car, shaking his head almost in disbelief. As he drove off, his mother screamed out of the open window,

“Don’t come back! You see? This is why-" she continued to scream, but Aldric rolled up his window to drown her out.

“Every time…” He sighed, his eyes squinting in disappointment. He let out a short, shaky breath, holding back tears. His face stung from where she had hit him, and he couldn’t bear to think of what she would have said next.

As he arrived at his friend's house, David also waved goodbye to his parents. However, they waved back instead. His mother wept but smiled and cheered a loving farewell alongside his father. David climbed in, smiling wildly.

“Goodbye, honey! We love you!” His mother called, still waving with tears in her eyes. David smiled, waving back.

"Are you ready?“ he asked, laughing a bit. Aldric stared sadly off into nothingness momentarily, suddenly snapping back to reality to face his friend.

“Oh, yeah!“ he smiled, trying his best to forget his mother's hurtful comment. David looked over at him, confused but still noticing something wrong.

"Was it your mom again? You know what? Don't answer that; I know it was. Well, at least you don't have to see her again. Well, not for a long while at that.“ David reassured him. Aldric looked over to his friend, smiling.

"Thanks," he nodded. He put his hands on the wheel and put his car in drive.

They stopped at a gas station, using some extra money to buy snacks, drinks, a cooler, and ice. After that, they began their long drive from Nevada to Alaska. They took turns driving, a couple hours apart, so the other could sleep, relax, eat, or whatever else. Aldric enjoyed crocheting and got to work on some new socks for the two of them. David, on the other hand, liked to listen to audiobooks. He wasn’t a great reader, so he could sit back and relax without struggling to do the work himself. After about 15 hours of driving, they stopped at a rest area. Moonlight swept the pavement as the car came to a halt.

"oh jeez… We're almost out of gas."Aldric sighed as he put a hand to his forehead. David leaned over to look at the fuel level.

"Oooh," he groaned. “We need to fill up then, huh?“ he replied. David got out of the car and walked over to the rest stop building.

"What are you doing?" Aldric looked over, yawning.

"What do you think I’m doing, mister?” He asked sarcastically, turning back to him, smiling, and shaking his head as he walked in.

About 5 minutes later, Aldric had fueled up his car.

"What in the world is he doing in there?” he asked himself. Just as he said this, David appeared from the building. He appeared to be holding something small in his arms.

"oooh no… What've you got now?” Aldric asked, tilting his head to one side. David giggled, holding up a kitten. The small cat had a white coat littered with striped orange spots.

"c'mon! He’s really healthy!” David exclaimed, a hint of sympathy for the abandoned cat in his tone.

"Oh, come on, David! It probably has fleas; put it down!” Aldric groaned.

"Well, so do you!“ David yelled, trying to convince him. Aldric gasped, taken aback by his friend's statement.

"I do not have fleas!” he yelled back, his face turning a bit red with embarrassment. “That's incredibly rude, you know!?"

"That was the point!” David explained, getting annoyed. He held the kitten close to his chest. “Plus, we can’t leave him completely alone! He might get run over, starve, or—" he stopped himself, getting overwhelmed. Aldric sighed, putting a hand to his temple.

'' Ok…fine,” he admitted. “Don't make me regret this, though!“

" YES! Did you hear that little guy? You’re staying with us!” David smiled, holding the kitten to face him. He jumped up and down in excitement. Aldric let out a sigh. The moon began to retreat to the horizon, and the sun blazed in the distance.

"OK, ok… We better get going." Aldric announced. "I guess I'll drive.”

After driving for a bit, Aldric drove into the pet store parking lot. He looked over at David, handing him a hundred-dollar bill. David's eyes lit up as he grabbed it.

"Really?Thanks, man!" he smiled, laughing a bit. He twisted his hoodie around, putting the kitten in the now-backward hood. He stepped out of the car but stopped as he shut the door. "By the way,” he cleared his throat and gestured to the kitten. "His name is Jasper. You know, because of his orange spots?” He laughed as he finally shut the door.

After about an hour, David emerged from the store with a cart filled with goodies for their new friend. This included a bed, food, bowls, litter, toys, a collar, a leash, treats, and some little sweaters.

"I think I got enough for him. Oh! And I got him tested by one of their professionals. By testing, I mean checking for disease. He’s all clear! Not a single flea, worm, or nothing!” he smiled as he held the cat to Aldric’s sleepy face.

“I take it; I should drive?” he asked, still laughing. Aldric nodded, yawning. They swapped places, with Aldric grabbing a blanket and neck pillow as he climbed into the passenger seat. Jasper stumbled over the center console and into Aldric's lap. The two lay there, both sleeping. David smiled, looking over at them.

"This is a wonderful start. Three boys against the world, huh?" He chuckled as he began the second long day of their drive to Alaska. Finally, these boys could escape from the harsh world that never accepted them. For David, this meant getting away from people. However, for Aldric, it meant spending his life somewhere away from his family. Each was going to spend life with their favorite person on earth. One another.

At about noon, they came to a stop. David shook Aldric's shoulder.

"Hey, wake up,” he whispered, trying not to scare him. Aldric opened his eyes slowly, blinking tiredly.

"Hmmm…?" Aldric looked around, confused. "Oh, yeah, what’s up?” he asked, yawning.

"I found this park; I think we can get some lunch here,” David explained. Jasper stretched, rubbing against Aldric.

"Oh yeah, I saw an ad for this place once," Aldric responded, nodding as he unbuckled. They got out and made their way over to the building nearby. Inside, they found a small cafe.

They sat down at an open booth, picking up the menus on the table.

“I’m getting a sandwich, are you?" David asked, setting down his menu for a moment.

"I think I’m going to get a salad,” Aldric told him, folding up his menu and looking around to see if the waiter was coming. A nice-looking lady wearing a black apron walked around the corner, looking around to see who needed assistance. She spotted the two and quickly made her way over to them.

"Hello, my name is June, and I’ll be your server today. How can I start you guys off?" She asked, pulling out a small notepad and pen.

" oh! Um… I’ll have the Caesar salad,” Aldric told her, smiling politely. June nodded, writing something down.

"And what about you, dear?” She asked, turning to David. David’s face lit up a bit, turning pink.

"I'll have a sandwich." He pulled up his menu, stuttering as he looked at it again. "Ham is fine!” he said, looking back at her. She smiled, giggling a bit as she walked off. As soon as she was out of earshot, Aldric burst out laughing.

" ‘Ooh, I'll have a ham sandwich, my lady~’ “ He teased in a girlish tone, smiling and laughing uncontrollably. David looked at him, his face bright red as he frowned.

"I do not sound like that!” he whispered loudly. Aldric continued to laugh, a broad smile on his face.

"Oh, sure, you sound nothing like that. Whatever, either way, you were totally gushing over her!” Aldric pointed a finger at him, still laughing. David still sat there but covered his face in his palms, attempting to hide his embarrassment. He kicked Aldric from under the table.

"OW!“ he gasped. “dude, ok! Jeez…” He rubbed his leg, biting his lip. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean it. Aldric reasoned, trying to sound genuine. David nodded.

"You better be!“ he scoffed, turning his head. Aldric sighed and looked around for the waitress. Finally, she came around the corner again, holding two plates.

"Cezar salad and ham sandwich,” she said as she approached their table. Aldric quickly grabbed his food, trying to finish. David sat there for a moment, just looking at him.

"Dude, I'm sorry... I wasn't trying to be that mean. Can you forgive me?“ David pleaded. Aldric nodded, trying his best to smile again.

When they had finished, the waitress came back with the check. David snatched it before Aldic could. He looked down and saw a series of numbers at the bottom. He quickly cupped his hand in his mouth.

"What? What is it? Is it really expensive?“ Aldric asked, looking concerned and straining over the table to look at the bill. David shook his head, showing him the phone number she left for him. Aldric gasped, beginning to laugh and stare at David.

"oh gosh… I mean, you’re not going to call her, though... are you?“ He asked, looking a bit worried.

"What? No… I could never! It wouldn't work; we won’t even have cell service where we're going,” David shook his head. Aldric let out a little sigh, nodding. David looked over at him, raising an eyebrow.

"what?Jealous?“ He asked, taunting his friend.

"WHAT!?NO-“ He began turning red. “I mean, of course not! That's silly, David."Aldric told him, trying to act like he didn't care about the situation.

"suuuuuuuure…" David looked Aldric up and down, clearly not convinced. He shook his head, trying to think nothing of it. Aldric looked away from David, not entirely wanting to face him. He sat up, grabbed his phone, and looked back at David, waiting for his friend to follow. David noticed this, got out of the booth, and walked outside. On the bill, David left a note. June picked up the check, smiling. But quickly, her grin vanished as she saw what was written.

" ‘On my way to Alaska. Sorry, it wouldn’t work out,’ " She read aloud, her face contorted with confusion. She crumpled up the paper and threw it in the trash.

When they got back into the car, David fell asleep almost immediately. Aldric continued to drive down the highway, watching the cars speed past him on the other side. A song came on the radio, one he was quite familiar with. Aldric turned up the volume, nodding his head and drumming his hands on the steering wheel. He hummed along, trying to forget what happened between him and David. He sighed, his smile fading slowly.

"Meeeeow!"Jasper mewed to Aldric as he stumbled over to the seat and into his lap.

"Oh, hey little guy..." he smiled as the small cat snuggled up to him. He scratched Jasper with one hand and steered with the other. Jasper leaned into Aldric's hand, his soft orange spots glowing in the sun. Aldric let out a sigh of relief, feeling a bit better with the kitten lying on his lap.

After about a day and a half, they were halfway to their destination. Arriving in Canada's Nemaiah Valley, they decided to take a break for a walk.

“Seriously, I couldn't pass this up! Look at all this, Aldric!” David remarked, cupping his hand above his eyes so he could see through the blinding sunlight as his eyes swept over the valley.

Aldric seemed a bit preoccupied with his phone but nodded dismissively in reply. He squinted at the screen, seeming confused and annoyed.

“What's up?" David asked, tilting his head to one side.

"Uugh. Nothing, nothing." Aldric waved his hand at his friend, shooing him off. “It's my mom... I’m trying to figure out how to get her to quit messaging me.” He scratched his head, sighing in frustration. Giving up, he threw his phone back in the car through the open window. David laughed, shaking his head. He picked up a backpack, emptied it, and began to line it with blankets on the bottom, making a small cushion.

"Now, what’s that for?" Aldric asked, looking extremely confused.

“This!” David replied as he hoisted Jasper off the seat and into the backpack, leaving the top open for him to breathe and look around. He looked back at Aldric with a cheeky smile.

“Dude, that's stupid! C’mon, he’s going to jump out and lose him," he said sarcastically, giving David a sympathetic look. David shook his head.

"No, he won't! And so what if he does? I’ll just go find him.” He explained, returning an insightful look.

They began their hike through the valley, witnessing nature's beauty like never before. As they walked, they sang songs as the sun beamed onto the open grass. Happily, Jasper mewed along, although he was singing as well. Just as David reassured Aldric, the little cat didn't, in fact, try to escape and settled in nicely. As the sun approached noon, they decided to head back to their car. However, just as they began to walk back, dark clouds began to emerge overhead. Thunder rolled in the distance, and lighting flickered behind them, illuminating the sky with an unwelcoming glow.

"I don't think we’re making it back in time." Aldric hastily remarked as the storm drew near.

"It's fine. We’ll be ok, Aldric,” David reassured, walking a bit faster now. They could almost hear the rain; all the while, booms of thunder and flashes of lightning drew closer. Jasper let out a cautious mew, tucking himself away in the bag. Suddenly, a large strike of lightning hit the ground behind them. It was far away from where they stood, still making an impact on its touchdown. The earth beneath them shook, and a loud crack rang out through the valley. The three exchanged complex glances of fear and realization. Aldric bolted forward, trying to get as far as he could away from the area and back to the safety of their car. On the other hand, David looked behind him to see the damage done by the massive lighting strike. His eyes widened in horror upon seeing a large, flaming tree hit the ground. He also ran much faster than Aldric, in a state of panic. Aldric looked confused, turning back as well. As soon as he saw the damage, he shared the same adrenaline and followed. As the two ran, David tripped on a rock in his panic, falling to the ground and slamming his ribs into the ground's rocky surface. David let out a stifled scream. Aldric looked back, hearing a cry of pain. Seeing that it was his friend, he rushed over to help him. David was on his hands and knees, clutching his ribs with one arm.

"David!" Aldric gasped, kneeling down at his side with wide eyes. David's bleeding nose streamed down his front and a look of intense pain registered on his bruised face.

"These rocks, I swear," he remarked, his lips pressed tightly. He grasped his ribcage, the left side looking damaged. Aldric felt the spot, and David winced as he did so. Jasper, still in the bag on David's back, jumped out, panicking. He launched himself up Aldric's leg and onto his neck, shaking in fear. Aldric helped David up, holding Jasper in one hand.

When they finally returned to their car, they were drenched and dripping from rain. David collapsed into the backseat, hyperventilating. His head swung back, and his eyes were tightly shut to keep tears from forming. His hand stayed on his side, and his shirt was stained red from the wound.

Aldric grabbed his first-aid kit from the trunk, rushing to his friend.

"It's ok… It’s all ok, dude,” he reassured David, looking panicked.

"You look more worried than me." David joked, wincing in pain. Aldric shot him an attempted serious look, opening up the tin box full of medical supplies. He pulled out antibiotic ointment, gauze, disinfectant wipes, and pain relief medications. He shook a couple pills from the bottle into his shaking hand, holding them out to David.

"Here, take these,” he ordered, rummaging through the box all the while. David nodded, swallowing them without hesitation. Aldric wiped down David’s nose, not knowing what to do otherwise. He ripped open the package of gauze, sighing.

“I’m honestly scared to see this," he said, lifting David's shirt slightly. He looked at the bruise, a large cut amongst the sea of black and blue. He wrapped David’s chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding and possibly displaced ribs.

"Well, wasn't that just the greatest hike ever?” David chuckled sarcastically, wincing again in pain. Aldric gave a quick, forced smile, his hands still fumbling with the first aid box.

They both sighed, sitting tiredly in the back of the car. Jasper darted out of the front seat, his fur soaked. The kitten sat between the two, giving a welcoming meow. David smiled at the cat, looking and feeling much better. He looked out the window to see the rain. Somehow, from here, it managed to look beautiful. As the sun set and the moon rose into the sky, they both decided to just rest for the night after the day they had instead of driving through the night as they had previously done. As they both sat there, Aldric placed a blanket over David. As he looked around for another, he sighed in frustration.

"You know what? I think I left the other blankets in the back. He rubbed a hand over his face, clearly too tired to care. He reached behind him, grabbed hold of an old blanket, and settled against the side door. Jasper leaped onto David's lap, purring as he kneaded his paws into the blanket. The two boys gave the kitten a tired laugh as they drifted off to sleep.

Sunlight drifted through the car windows, falling onto Aldric's dark hair. He yawned, sitting up with a stretch. Blinking his eyes open, he looked around. He stepped outside the car, ruffling his still-damp hair. He sighed, climbing back into the front seat and starting the car. Shaken awake by the rumbling engine, Jasper opened a curious eye. Aldric started the second half of their long drive, adjusting the mirror to see David. A soft smile crept up his face, happy to see his friend.

After an hour, Aldric checked the time on his watch.

“Yo, David. It’s 10:00; get up." He announced, reaching one hand back to shake David’s shoulder.

“Huh…?” David yawned, opening his eyes hesitantly. He looked at Aldric, grabbing his hand as he shut his eyes again. Aldric looked at David, confused.

“Five more minutes,” David finally said, shaking Aldric's hand tiredly. Aldric let out a sigh, the questioning look leaving his face.

“No! Get up, sleepy head!” He laughed, shaking David again.

“Aaaaghhh…” David groaned as he pulled himself up, rubbing his eyes. He looks at Jasper, petting him softly. He pulled a can of food from the back, opened it, and set it on the floor for him. The fluffy cat jumped off David’s lap, purring as he munched his breakfast.

“I’ll pull over so you can sit in the front." Aldric started, cutting himself off as David climbed over the center console and into the passenger seat.

“No need,” David smirked, buckling himself in. “So, while he eats, what are we going to have?“ He asked, pulling his phone off the charger. Aldric shrugged.

“Good question," he replied, looking around. “There’s not much around here," Aldric replied. David sighed, reaching under his seat and grabbing their bag of snacks. He handed Aldric a protein bar, grabbing a muffin for himself.

“Here,” he directs, already opening his muffin. The two followed the beaten road for hours, becoming bored quickly.

“How long till we get to Beaver again?" David asked, looking at the car roof for the millionth time.

“We still have 14 hours until we stop again," Aldric explained, sighing with annoyance. He pulled over at a gas station and stepped out.

“I'm getting us lunch. Do you want anything specific?" specific?" He asked, looking over his shoulder at David. David shook his head.

“Nah, I'm good with anything." He answered, laying his head on the car door. David opened the bag by his feet, finding it’s full of clothes. He shivered, pulling out a faded red hoodie.

“I don’t remember having this hoodie…” David remarked as he pulled it over his head. As Aldric returned to the car, opening the door with a squeak, he looked shocked at David.

“Is that my hoodie…?” He asks, squinting. David’s eyes went wide, his face flush with embarrassment.

“This is yours!?” he jumps, cupping his hands over his mouth. Aldric chuckled, handing David a bag from the gas station.

“Mmmhm… I don't mind though, it’s fine,” He reassured his friend, sighing.

“Can you drive? I need to take a nap, I’m not exactly planning on falling asleep at the wheel.” Aldric asked, tilting his head. David nodded, looking confused.

“Of course! How could I refuse,” He smiled, climbing out and stretching his legs. As he sat down in the driver's seat, he looked outside.

“I think we’re almost there, it’s so much colder here than I’m used to…” David remarked, rubbing his arms.

“Yeah, we’ve got about another day…” Aldric said, checking how much longer they had on his phone.

“Yep, 20 hours!” He smiled, showing David.

“Then let’s finish strong!” David urged, putting the car back in drive.

After about five hours, David had become quite bored with the plain, flat scenery surrounding them. All that seemed of interest was the occasional snow-covered dead tree, the gleam of the full moon shining down on them, and the snowy road they drove on. reaching over, he turned on the ratio, but only static rang out, to his discomfort.

“C’mon!” he slammed a hand on the dashboard, accidentally opening the glove box. As it flew open, a small piece of paper slipped out onto the floor. David tilted his head, confused. He slowed the car, reaching by Aldric’s feet to grab it.

“What on earth-” He started, opening the paper. His face fell as he looked down at it, and disappointment filled his eyes. Slamming on the breaks, he turned to Aldric.

“Wha-” Aldric jumped up, still half asleep as he woke up. He blinked slowly, looking around the dark car.

“What’s going on…?” He asked, looking at his friend. He saw the paper, his eyes going wide.

“What’s this!?” David asked, a timid look flooding his face. He forced the billing paper into Aldric's hands, his tone bitter.

“Your mother was making you pay bills? You didn't think you should have told me!? She has plenty of money!” He sneered, taking in a shaky breath. Aldric glared at the paper in his hands, looking away from David.

“I didn’t want you to see this…” He explained, trying to explain himself.

“It’s c-”

“COMPLICATED!? You could have told me!” David slammed his hand on the seat. As he did so, Aldric flinched.

“I'm sorry….” Aldric apologized, his voice hushed. David, realizing what he was saying, stopped.

“Oh my god… what am I saying..?” He hugged Aldric, stifling a sigh. The two sat there, both extremely confused and ashamed.

“I don't know why I'm getting upset, I just think that your mom is… idiotic…” David explained.

As the car was put back in motion, they both tried to loosen back up. Aldric finally turned to his friend, his eyes apologetic.

“You’re right. I should have told you, I just didn’t know how,” He sighed, shoving the paper back into the glove box.

“That was old. She stopped making me pay for things when she finally got that raise.” He smiled, trying to seem genuine.

“I know…I know. You don’t need to apologize, Aldric.” David nodded, brushing his umber hair out of his eyes. His heterochromatic eyes stayed on the road, moonlight shining onto his face.

“How do you look so nice…?” Aldric asked, tilting his head in awe as he looked at David. David looked at Aldric, surprised.

“Who, me?” He asked, laughing to himself.

“Yeah…” Aldric nodded, squinting at his friend. David smirked, glancing at Aldric.

“You flatter me,” He thanked, his tone joking. Aldric, realizing what he had said, looks embarrassed at his words.

“No! I- what I meant was- I-” He threw his hands up, trying to explain.

“Dude, I’m kidding. You're fine,” David laughed, smiling at Aldric. As they continued driving, David rolled down the windows and let the cool night air in. As the two enjoyed the breeze briefly, the car hit a bump. The two jolted up in their seats, caught off guard by the bump in the old road. Aldric laughed nervously, trying to regain his composure. David shook his head, chuckling at the sudden interruption.

They drove in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, enjoying each other's company. The night air was cool against their faces again, and the stars twinkled in the sky above. Finally, David spoke up.

"You know, Aldric, I've been thinking about what you said earlier. About your mom and the bills." Aldric tensed up, unsure of where his friend was going with his words.

"But I want you to know that if you ever need help with anything, you can always talk to me… I'm here for you, man." David looked over at Aldric, sincerity shining in his eyes. Aldric felt reassurance wash over him

"Thanks, man. I really appreciate it." He nodded, a smile creeping onto his face.

They drove on, finally seeing lights up ahead. As they approached the small town of Beaver Alsaka, David slowed the car and stopped in the middle of the road. Having the same idea, they both jumped out of the car in front of a sign that read,’ WELCOME TO BEAVER ’. They jumped up and down, hugging each other.

“AH!” David yelled in excitement, smiling wildly. Aldric chuckled, weakly hugging his friend back.

The two finally got back into the car, speeding down the road and past the small town to their destination. David pulled out his phone.

“It says we at 1109… do you see anything?” He asked, looking in front of them.

“Um…. oh!” Aldric points to a beaten path off the side of the road, surrounded by trees, “there?” He suggested, raising an eyebrow. David shrugged.

“Worth a shot,” He smiled, pulling into the nearly unused path. As they did, they saw a beautifully built, sturdy cabin. They both turned to each other, eyes wide. David pulled the car to a halt, jumping out.

“OH MY GOSH! ALDRIC, YOU SEE THIS!? THIS IS INCREDIBLE!” David shrieked in joy. Aldric calmly stepped out, smiling up at their new home.

“Yes, I do. It’s wonderful…” He laughed, admiring David’s enthusiasm. They stepped inside, breathing in the crisp wooden air that filled the room.

“I can certainly live with this,” Aldric remarked, looking around with joyful eyes at the relatively empty space. He grabbed the oil lamp left on a small table, illuminating the dark room using it.

“This is it, David, my friend. This is our new life…”

#books #novel #fantasy #writers on tumblr #writing

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writer-ish · 3 years

Note

I love your fics so much! The Mason ones are utterly amazing 🤩

As for my ask: the touching prompts and Mason can you do 37+50?

prompt: putting their head on the other’s chest / putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up pairing: mason x detective (grace bennett) word count: 1.5k | rating: T (language) author note: you are so sweet. ☺️ thank you sm and thanks for the prompt love! hope you enjoy.

☾☾ touching prompts

It wasn't that the meetings were boring, per se.

Consolidation after a patrol was a necessity in Grace's eyes. It wasn’t like they all walked through the same streets and alleys together, arms linked, the five of them patrolling in tandem. Nate usually went one way, Adam another. Felix would decide who he wanted to join or if he felt like taking his own route.

And that would leave her and Mason.

She tried, once, to tell him that she didn't need him to patrol with her. They'd cover more ground separately, of course. That much seemed obvious. And before Unit Bravo had arrived, she had been made detective of their small town's police force, which had to count for something—had to speak to some level of ability; of skill.

But the absolutely withering look he gave her upon that suggestion shut down any further discussion on the matter.

Plus, and here was the real problem, the crux of the issue—the truth was, if she were being honest with herself... she liked having him on patrol with her.

It felt like a betrayal of her sex to admit that she felt—safer with him around. But for all her capabilities (admittedly most of which were intellectual and not so much physical or combat-oriented), the idea of having someone to patrol with, a protector, was—

Well, it was nice.

Of course she would never, ever admit that out loud. She could barely admit it in the sanctity of her thoughts.

But ever since life had changed for her in Wayhaven, and supernatural occurrences had become the norm, and her life had been put in danger (more than once), it seemed, at the very least, prudent of her to have the extra support wherever available.

And anyway, they were partners. If not in anything else, they were partners for the Agency. And the patrol - they did that together.

Which brought Grace back to the present moment.

The meeting.

Every time the unit patrolled, they would meet together briefly afterwards to discuss anything unusual they had seen, offer up any suggestions for future patrols, or coordinate routes or sites that may be more fruitful or beneficial in the future. There was always a plan, an ultimate goal, and each member of Unit Bravo, including their human liaison, wanted to ensure that their patrols were as efficient as possible.

Which was all well and good, fantastic really, except for one small thing.

Grace was fucking exhausted.

Months of working for the Agency, of patrolling with UB and then waking up a few hours later and doing her other job, her “real” job, for a seemingly endless amount of time, only to come home and cat nap and then do it all over again—it was taking its toll.

The vampires were fine, because of course they were; they were fucking vampires. Sleep was a suggestion. A novelty. A lark.

But Grace was tired.

At this particular post-patrol gathering, she had tried exceptionally hard to focus. Adam said they were going to keep it short, but it had already been twenty minutes and he was still going over a detour in his route that he felt would be beneficial.

Mason sat beside her on the arm of the chair she was sitting in, a high-backed, extra plush thing, that was somehow incredibly conducive to sleep and also horribly uncomfortable.

He was flicking his lighter open and closed as he listened and she lightly tapped his thigh with the back of her hand to get him to stop, feeling her eyelids grow heavier with each passing second.

He looked down at her and took a second to absorb her expression, before looking over sharply at Adam and barking:

“Hey, how about we wrap this shit up—?”

His words were unceremoniously cut off by Grace’s hand over his mouth.

She felt the sharp intake of breath he took as he glanced at her in surprise, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring.

Sheepishly she took her hand off his mouth and said softly, “No, I’m fine.” She then turned to Adam, who looked puzzled, and glanced briefly at Nate who seemed concerned and Felix, who was clearly amused. “It’s fine, Adam, continue please.”

Adam looked at her assessingly, before giving a brief nod and continuing. “As I was saying, if we veer northwest here and go around the park...”

Grace settled back in the chair and looked up to catch Mason still staring at her, narrow and intent.

What? she mouthed.

He pointed at her and then closed his eyes and lolled his head to the side, an exaggerated tableau of sleep.

She bit her lip to keep from giggling and shook her head, re-focusing on Adam.

Within seconds, her focus was cut short once more as she felt Mason drop down from the arm of the chair and wriggle in the seat beside her. They barely fit side by side, so she had to make room for his leg under hers as he squirmed his way closer to her.

Felix was watching them now, giddy with his amusement. Nate kept glancing over and looking away quickly. Adam was tracing a line on the map of Wayhaven in their common room and hadn’t seen the mute commotion just yet.

Soon, Grace was situated, essentially on Mason’s lap much to her chagrin, her head tucked into the admittedly very comfortable nook where his pectorals met his deltoids. He brought his hand up to toy with her hair lightly and he was so warm, so comfortable—just an unbearably pleasant extension of that safety and familiarity she felt with him when they were patrolling together.

She could feel his heart beat, a steady gentle thud under her ear. Could smell him, his unscented laundry detergent, and something else—something masculine and sweet, earthy and smoky and just intrinsically him—that scent that had already infiltrated her pillow and her top sheet and her favourite jacket—

That feeling, imbued with his scent, and with the gentle pressure of his hand that had moved from her hair down to her thigh, was like a sedative for her soul.

Of their own volition, drawn by a power she could no more easily control than she could the setting of the sun or the moon rising, her eyelids drooped down, down, down until her eyelashes brushed her cheeks.

Within seconds, her breathing evened out and soft snores filled the room.

Adam paused and turned away from the map to take in the new and unusual noise.

Mason watched with hooded eyes, daring him to make a comment. To say a word about their position or - he felt his canines tingle, a rumble deep in his throat - to try and wake her.

Instead, Adam looked resigned. Regretful, almost.

“She is tired,” he said simply as he regarded her.

Felix and Nate looked over as well, various iterations of affection and sympathy over their faces.

“We forget, sometimes,” he continued, crossing his muscular arms over his broad chest, “that she is a human among us. She does not have the stamina we do.”

“She works hard,” Mason couldn’t help but say, deliberately keeping his voice soft. “She works herself to the bone for this town. These ingrates,” he ended on a semi-snarl. “And then does it all again at night for the Agency.”

“She enjoys her work,” Nate responded pragmatically. “Though she could probably benefit from more rest time.”

“There is too much going on right now for rest.” Adam stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Though, I suppose, it’s alright if she rests for the moment.”

“Plus, I wouldn’t move her from Mason’s lap right now unless you want your head torn from your body,” Felix cackled, leaning back gleefully in his chair.

Mason shot him a stare that could wither a cactus and Felix bit his lip, still hiding a smile.

“Do you want to continue, Adam?” Nate asked. “Or should we call it a night?”

Adam looked thoughtful. “As long as she is comfortable, let’s finish up. Mason can fill her in later.”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to fill her—shh, shh shut up!” he cut his own vulgarity off with a hiss as Nate loudly groaned and Felix’s cackles unleashed themselves further. He glared at everyone. “I’ll tell her what you said,” he muttered finally, nodding towards Adam. “Let’s just get this over with.”

As Adam droned on, Mason couldn’t help but look down at the detective, her soft snores and steady heartbeat a familiar litany to his ears these days. He felt the soft firmness of her thigh under his splayed fingers. Felt the rush of air on his chest as she breathed in and out. Watched her rosy lips pout in sleep, the crescent of her dark eyelashes on a lightly freckled cheek, a light brown strand of hair flopping over one closed eye.

Her hand had come up to rest under her chin, fingers loosely curled. Absently, he brushed the hair back from her forehead and then, again without giving much thought to it, he brought his pointer finger up to stroke the soft inside of her palm gently. Her fingers jerked reflexively and closed, holding him there securely.

He felt a tug come from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of her holding his finger like that. It felt so trusting, so innocent, this simple unconscious gesture. As though, even in sleep she wanted to keep him close.

Shaking his head abruptly to rid himself of the intrusive and unexpected thought, he renewed his focus on Adam—no, Nate, who was now talking.

He left his hand in hers, though.

tags: @utterlyinevitable , @ethansramsey , @otherworldlypresents , @aworldoffandoms , @raleighcarrera , @ejunkiet , @starrystarrytrouble , @terrm9 , @openheartthot , @octobereighth , @campsearchlight , @coldshrugs , @kelseaaa , @homeformyheart , @intothestrawberryjar , @magebastard , @kodysteach , @newfangledsoul , @silma-words , @lalizah , @detective-sweetheart , @lem-20 (if you don’t want to be tagged for twc, mason x detective, and/or prompts, please let me know!)

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc fanfic #mason x detective #mason x grace #twc mason #agent m #specialist agent m #writing prompts #twc prompts

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curious-menace · 3 years

Note

Can you do headcanons of any Riddler getting cared for and gentle kisses from reader after getting beat up? He needs some loves.

SO I MAY HAVE SUGGESTED THAT MY ULTIMATE FANTASY IS TO GIVE RIDDLER A HUG WITH BACKRUBS AS HE TELLS ME ABOUT HIS DAY AND I STAND BY THAT WHOLE-HEARTEDLY .

i freaking love this stuff so im going to do all of them mwahahah

post asswoop riddlers getting loves

Arkham riddler

He’s VERY quiet, which knowing him and his inability to stop talking, is bad news.

I paint arkham riddler as a cry baby and i stand by that. this is the hill i will die on. He’ll have dragged his sorry ass into your apartment or house , dripping blood on your floors but he wont bother calling for you. he’ll just sit at the table with his head in his hands having a lil pity party until you find him.

when you do finally get home, he’ll be looking like a kicked puppy. he’s gotten stuck in his own head, mentally beating himself up even more. he got a fright when you came in because he was so caught up he didn't even hear you at the door.

He’s literally sits there like a child with his arms up for you to come scoop him up. he’s not even sure why his first thought after getting beat up was to come here, he’s probably lead the cops here or something and that was so stupid and- you should probably give him a lil soft smooch on the head to stop him before he goes into a spiral.

he needs more emotional and mental care than physical. Talk to him while you're patching him up. any topic, it doesn't matter just keep him focused on your voice and not the one in his head calling him dumb.

he wont admit he wants to be held and coddled after something like this. get your softest blankie and 2 mugs of coco with marshmallows and just ramble at him. tell him about your day or ask him to explain something boring and complicated so he’s focusing on that rather than how upset he is. let him sit on your lap or between your legs on the sofa and watch how its made or mythbusters or something until he falls asleep. he should be ok again in the morning, he doesnt stay down for long.

Blacklight Riddler

He’s used to getting his ass kicked, either by batman, the other rogues or once he’s a PI, by unhappy clients and the people he put away. He might be tiny but he’s pretty tough.

even if he’s really hurting, his probably trying to crack jokes and tell blood and bruise related riddles. He doesn't like to see you worry so even if he’s in a lot of pain or a bit upset about things, he’s trying to make you smile.

he likes kisses on his bruises. even if he just banged his hand on the table he’ll come to you because he wants you to kiss it better.

He’s a decent fighter, unlike a lot of riddlers who couldnt fight their way out of a paper bag. He can throw punches but he lacks in defence and with his bad knee, dodging can be a little hard. even if he wins the fight he’s still likely to need you to patch him up.

He likes kids plasters. like hello kitty and spongebob. no im not joking, he ALWAYS wanted them when he was little and his parents always said no. now he’s an adult he’s going to use them whenever he damn well pleases.

if it was a particularly bad one, he’ll be ok in the moment even if he has to go to hospital. But he’s going to drop the facade at some point and let you see how upset he is. winding up in hospital after being beat was a common occurrence in childhood. even after doing it time and time again as an adult it doesn't make it any easier on him. he’ll want to stay in your bed, be close to you for few days until either he starts to heal or something snaps him out of his funk.

BTAS Riddler

he really prefers other people to do the fighting for him. well physically anyway. he can handle his own arguments...most of the time. He’s going to need you to nurse a bruised ego more than anything. he probably got dunked on my batman or crane and now he’s huffing.

i don't know if this counts as care and kisses but he clearly needs you around to keep his sorry ass alive. he hurt his side in a fight once and said he wasn't hurt. believable... until he started to act a little confused, a little dizzy. needless to say it worried you enough to take him to emergency care.

He was obviously in agony by now but he was still fighting with you the entire drive there, insulting you and insisting he was fine. its a good job you took him when he did, turns out he’d ruptured his spleen and would probably be dead if you weren’t around to act like his common sense.

he still hasnt apologised for that. or any of the other times you insisted on medical care to stop him from pushing up daisies. he just pretends like you know he’s grateful so he doenst have to admit he’s bullheaded, stubborn and worst of all, wrong.

if he has been seriously hurt, he acts more indignant about it than anything. he wants to be waited on and pampered while resting in bed. he can be a genuine pain to deal with, talking about how lucky you are to see him in such a vulnerable state and how you should be grateful he’s letting you do this for him.

He doesn't want to admit how much he actually needs you. his goons wont put up with him when he’s like this and he’s freaking paying them to do it. you do it for free and no matter how annoying he is you havent left him yet. he doesn't tell you but youve noticed he starts getting you more gifts about a week after he’s recovered. like its taken him a day or two to work out he should probably thank you for all you do.

Original Riddler

this riddler is just weird. like he gets a freaking hang nail and he pretends like he’s dying. but he could nearly lose a limb and he’ll say “tis but a scratch” and still try to hobble about like nothing is wrong.

actually he’s more like olaf “oh look i've been impaled.”. he probably tries to laugh off life threatening injuries like its nothing, taking maybe 3 steps before he collapses on his face in a blood puddle and lets out a tiny “help”

good luck moving his tall lanky ass around. better get a gurney and maybe those vets at the zoo who deal with giraffes. seriously if you want to take care of him you are going to need help or some sort of action plan and a go bag because with his limp butt this will not be easy.

he’s kinda like BTAS riddler in that he needs you to tell him the injury is serious. hes not dumb he just has a high pain threshold and genuinely doesn't realise that injuries are as bad as they are.

he can be a bit of a baby while being patched up. he doesn't like a lot of blood or gore, it makes him feel a little sicky. better give him your phone to play with like a kid at the doctors or put the tv on for him to watch while you bandage him. word of warning, he will pass out or throw up if you try to give him stitches.

i think you should focus your love and attention on him AFTER medical care. just focus on the job, be silent and as fast as possible to get it over with quickly. you should probably bring him something sweet too. no not just you, although you are sweet for looking after him. give him something sugary because he’s going to be light headed after seeing any blood. maybe you could give him a lolly for being a good patient.

Telltale riddler

this riddler is essentially a metahuman. he can REALLY take a beating and bounce back fairly quickly. just look how many times batman punched him in the face and it barely stunned him! he doesnt usually need patched up after a fight. maybe just a lil smooch and some hugs

he did really need your help after the whole pact thing. having his friends abandon him hurt like hell, more than any physical injury ever could.

after that, he clings to you. almost obsessively so; we know he’s got some serious mental illnesses but he usually has the worst of it under control, even without meds. now? it seems like he’s experiencing ptsd and is afraid to go anywhere without you, like you might up and disappear if you arent in his line of sight at all times.

i think this riddler might need the most intense care from you. hugs and gentle reassurance wont be enough. you’re going to be responsible for taking him to therapy, keeping him taking his meds and grounding him to reality. this is the kind of responsibility you took on when you got involved with him but i doubt you realised how hard it would be. i cant promise it will all be worth it but i can promise he wont ever forget your kindness.

the kind of care he needs after such a hard knocking down is just stability. im not one for romance or any mushy gushy stuff but please just pour your love into the cracks in this poor mans soul.

its hard going, but he has his moments. his gallows sense of humor is still there and hey, after him being in and out and gone for so long, it might be nice to have him around more.

Zero year riddler

INSUFFERABLE LITTLE SHIT THIS ONE. he could LITERALLY be bleeding out in your arms and he’d STILL be backseat driving on your medical skills. the temptation to just leave him there to bleed is INCREDIBLE.

he’ll drop the act eventually. he’ll ask and maybe even beg for your help. man has no shame and all the self preservation instincts of a lemming. dont get me wrong, he can be a total coward some times, only looking out for himself . but when he’s actually hurt ? not a fuckin clue. does this head wound need an ice pack or heat pack? is this spurring blood wound worthy of medical care? no idea. he was a very sheltered child who never got so much as a bruise so he has no idea what to do when he’s hurt.

he gets the everloving shit kicked out of him on a clockwork basis. like you could hear knocking on your door at 3 am and already be at the table with a first aid kit like oh its tuesday riddler must have broken his nose.

he takes entirely too much joy in making you patch him up. youre starting to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose just to see you in your little apron and latex gloves . he’s getting off on this and you know it but god help you, you just cant resist his dumb face asking for your help and would you also wear this pink nurses outfit while youre at it?

one time he lost a LOT of blood. he would be fine but he was pretty damn loopy from lightheadedness. while you were trying to get him into bed to rest he started flirting with you. can you believe the audacity? he’s lost 3 pints of blood and he’s still more focus on his libido?

he’s actually going to be both humble and grateful for your help when he finally comes round. dont get me wrong, he’s still a bit of a prick but at least he says thank you for saving him before he demands you kiss all his booboos and ouchies.

nonnie i am having a stroke. i was trying SO hard to just pick one but i COULDNT because i am WEAK for hurt and comfort.

theres a reason i have a tag that literally says “i have naughty hands and no self control”

someone needs to stage an intervention

got something you wana talk about? send me an ask or a dm! im always game to talk about our favorite curious menace 💚💜

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lovelylogans · 4 years

Note

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

debutante

part of the wyliwf verse.

chapter one | next chapter

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

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

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

⁂

“i need a dress.”

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

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

“i’m coming out,” logan continues.

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

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

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

the double-meaning clicks in his head.

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

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

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

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

“you remember dee.”

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

“who came over to our house once.”

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

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

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

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

a cold feeling crawls uncomfortably in his stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“so you’re okay with it?”

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

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

that cold feeling is back. “ah.”

logan blinks. “what?”

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

“what about—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⁂

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

“hello, mister slange.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“where is she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hello, granmè,” he says in french.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

dee hides his smirk in his tea.

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

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

she might not know. she might not even remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s just not very… well. lived-in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the exit door opens.

shit. shit.

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

“are you skipping class?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“were you… crying?” logan says uncertainly.

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

“may i sit?”

“will you listen if i say no?”

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

“—i wasn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

“try again.”

“what?” dee says. “i could.”

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

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

“please,” logan scoffs.

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

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

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

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

except logan clears his throat, and dee braces himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

must be nice.

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

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

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

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

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

logan stiffens, ever so slightly, in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“why do you ask?” logan says.

“you know why.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“dee,” he begins, haltingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what if i stopped it?”

dee scoffs.

“what?” logan says.

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

“we can get you out of it.”

“the bill’s already paid,” dee says.

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

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

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

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

“what?” dee says.

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

“what,” dee snaps.

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

“might,” dee repeats.

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

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

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

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

“dee?”

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

“if you want to talk about it—”

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

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

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

“okay.”

“but i probably won’t.”

“that’s fine.”

dee hesitates. “but if i do—”

“i’m around,” logan says simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⁂

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“uh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it clicks. “alterations.”

“got it in one,” patton says cheerfully.

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

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

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

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

virgil thought too soon.

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

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

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

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

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

“oh,” virgil says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

virgil’s jaw drops. just a little.

“oh,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what? no,” virgil scoffs.

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

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

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

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

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

“wait, what, no way—“

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

“the tux is bad enough!”

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

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

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

a tux. tails. white gloves.

a cumberbun.

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

⁂

it’s been a shitty day so far.

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

and it isn’t even eight yet.

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

dee rolls his eyes. typical.

except—

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

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

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

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

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

“excuse me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

except that isn’t even the only time.

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

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

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

dee pauses.

fight the patriarchy, tristan had said. trouble making.

“what if i stopped it?”

and then he moves immediately toward the locker.

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

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

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

presumably.

“what,” dee says, “was that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FIGHT THE PATRIARCHY!

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

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

i won’t be outed.

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

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

“old crows?” logan says uncertainly.

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

“the…?”

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

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

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

“only ten?!”

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

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

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

dee stares at him for a long few seconds.

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

a grin breaks out on logan’s face.

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

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

but he isn’t. obviously.

⁂

logan has his game face on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“liesl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

patton nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“quite,” logan says.

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

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

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

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

patton holds his breath. here we go.

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

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

emily lowers her fork.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she’s calculating.

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

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

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

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

his mother!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“dad?” logan calls.

“yeah, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

he still would have hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s a soft hmph.

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

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

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

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

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

he looks good.

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

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

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

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

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

“heels,” she says.

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

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

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

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

“that’s ridiculous,” logan huffs.

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

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

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

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

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

logan looks like he’s sincerely regretting it.

⁂

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i thought you were working?” patton says.

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

“it is,” logan says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“uh-huh,” patton says.

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

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

“oh, absolutely agreed,” patton says.

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

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

logan glances up, frowning. “lessons?”

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

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

“…what,” virgil says. because. what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

patton blinks. “putting them on already?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“they hurt,” logan says, frowning.

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

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

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

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

“amen, brother,” virgil says dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it reminds virgil of logan learning how to walk.

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

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

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

logan’s far too big for that now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#anonymous #ask #my post #text #my fic #my fanfic #the sideshire files

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nobody-knose--archive · 3 years

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i’ve been aching to commentate spirit phone’s commentary for ages. glad i finally got around to it, this was an ejoyable experience. liveblog below the cut

-i'm like half certain i've heard this commentary before. maybe not the whole way through & it was probably actual years ago

-nice hearing stuff like this. in-depth personal view of the album-making process. makes it seem like more of a real thing i could do myself someday

-neil cicierega real person momence

-i could probably go real in depth about neil cicierega/tally hall parallels specifically concerning like. the arc of their musical careers. but i won't, here

-wild how i legitimately don't care much about micheal jackson

-didnt we get a bunch of spirit phone stems from the needlejuice release/his patreon? we could probably hear the funny track he speaks of here in that

-i love hearing musical artists, especially neil cicierega, talking about the meanings of their songs. like, not only has this song been claimed to hell & back by the tumblr gays, but with later ones i just can't see where he gets these ideas from. also, claiming there's any one meaning or plot to a song just seems silly to me

-shoutout to neil reusing a midi from like, 1998, that he made at 12 years old, whose entire melody was reused for the main verses of everybody loves raymond. loved finding that out on my own 2 years ago. now it's common trivia in this fandom. not bad times

-it'd be neat if neil did individual trans tracks here like he did with view monstel, those things are half of why i consider it my favorite album

-it's a lot easier to ignore the creator's intended meaning behind a song when he can't even remember it. thanks neil

-seesaw effect

-and there's my joke all but 1 of my followers wont get. moving on

-what kinds of movie theater lobbies has neil been to where there are arcade machines. i mean im not one to talk but that does sound rather strange

-why do songs' titles even need to be taken from the lyrics. ive never seen that as any sort of requisite. it's like titling any form of prose you can just give it whatever name ya like

-"this part sounds pretty cool right"

-is neil's vocal range only mildly better than mine? with training i could change that

-oh i haven't processed any of the last 25 seconds hold on

-god. a shit ton of vocal modification in this song. it's like neil returned to his roots but with quality this time

-i, as an ace/aro, have never related more to an allohet guy in my life. what is the point of eyes!

-professional humming/whistling takes skill. it's different from the recreational or casual stuff. i'd know

-there's a name for the way sound (especially music) gets distorted when moving past you and i can't remember it but it's probably what neil's referring to here in the way he recorded the intro

(- update: it's the doppler effect no need to tell me cas already did)

-as someone who hasnt seen the rugrats or take me there by blackstreet i'll just say it sounded like a bouncy music box melody. nice to hear a song that messes with the typical scales though. lydian & diatonic.

-that's a rather specific thing to be glad about, but given what he talked about in his last full audio commentary about the jew harp i suppose i'm not surprised

-i know that tmbg song now. listened to it & saw the music video too. yep they're different alright

-where the hell does neil get all these instrumence from anyway

-huh. hadnt heard this part of the commentary before making my oc concerning this song but i like to hear neil's approval concerning part of my interpretation

-i love how ive heard a billion different tellings of this mellified man story from lem dem fans talking about this song and neil's is by far the wildest

-good god that does only make it worse neil

-i love making liveblogs of lemon demon albums. with the fullerenes or tally hall i cant name a specific dude to take out my woes on generally but with lemon demon i can just say neil all the time. i like being on a casual first name basis with this dude ive never interacted with once ever

-is sweet bod the one other than cabinet man with a demo in the bonus tracks? i forget

-holy shit the boston molasses disaster someone call up soapy if it doesnt already know, it'd love this

-two thousand nine. god i miss the fiddle solo. the ver with it is truly the best one

-he pronounces it jeff? i've always read it as gef with a hard g. that's what i get for knowing words that are never spoken aloud

-that's a fun meta interpretation of this ghost story that's over a century old. i like that

-i've noticed neil generally does the same synths across a whole album. it's especially more clear in the earlier ones, and does mean i occasionally mix up songs between clown circus & live from the haunted candle shop

-ah! ancient aliens! my least favorite track on this album. i cant even claim to have the least interest in a popular one i've just generally not liked this one much from the beginning. so im curious to see what neil's got to say, i think ive been in ~new commentary zone for a while now

-anyway. newest update on the loolin not realizing a song's funky time signature front: i think this one's in 6/4. or at least switches a lot between time signatures. granted i dont listen to it very often for the reasons stated above

-see the way neil describes it. eldritch horror upon being visited by the unknown at a time when humanity'd hadn't even yet had a chance to imagine such a thing occurring. should be right up my alley. but the sound itself & many of the lyrics simply turn me away.

-must i specify i don't dislike it? spirit phone is neil's best album it not being my favorite doesn't mean i think it's bad yadda yadda nobody should be surprised by this it's not like anyone in these fandoms reads my liveblogs <3

-granted i think this is. the first bit of spirit phone content i've made on my blog ever. so who knows things can change <3

-the transitions in spirit phone are much less view-monster transition tracks & more extended outros. view-monster's were a bit more intro than outro sure but they also seemed directed upon making a 2-way rather than 1-way bridge between tracks. or something like that

-.............soft fuzzy man is an incredible nickname for a cat. i'd steal that if i werent afraid of introducing my relatives to lemon demon

-jirls

-an underlying metaphor is good enough. the literal side of the lyrics are fun. nothing but agreement here neil my good man

-the transition into as your father i expressly forbid it from soft fuzzy man is the best one in this album

-buddy you ask if a musical idea has been used before odds are the answer is yes in this day & age the question is has it been used in the way you're using it. like sure this soul jazz record from the 60s that was sold out in kansas stores for a week used this bassline that youve found yourself copying. but seeing as youre using it in some angsty garage rock ballad type tune does anybody actually care

-doesn't everybody like to say things in an unhinged manner from time to time

-imagine having a guitar dad, i say, with my dad being a folk accordion/fiddle dad, which is infinitely worse in every way

-i think he was in an actual folk band at some point. idk the 90s were weird

-iron my life?

-m-more intimate? there are a lot of ways i'd describe this song but intimate isn't one of them. granted as your father is negatively intimate so from there i guess you've got nowhere to go but up

-...still glad to see his interpretation kinda supports my oc at least

-the way he says characters in songs shouldn't worry about death really strongly makes me think this is some sort of. thematic continuation of stuck from dinosaurchestra, even if there's no real death in there. interesting. would also mean that the dad from these past 2 songs is named carlos betty (no last name)

-i literally never assumed this was a flute solo. piccolo at best. it's pretty clearly a recorder

-my mom plays the recorder. i wonder if she can play recorder better than neil cicierega

-we can throw a party in honor of the crushing weight of responsibility! i simply won't be the one throwing it because i have enough on my plate already <3

-what the hell does "a sense of intent" mean

-i've never heard rush before however i disagree with neil's understanding of 6/4. 6/4 is meant to have emphasis (onbeat or another term i can't remember) on the 1st & 4th beat of every measure, which is greatly different from a measure of 4/4 then a measure of 2/4. it's why his 5/4 always sounds weird, because while it's recognizable in sequences of 10/4, it's more 2 measures of 4/4 with one of 2/4 tacked on the end. that's also how it's different from 3/4. i don't know much music theory but what i do understand i will fight to the death about

-"canonized" that's. a very interesting term to use when referring to a former president

-from now on i will interpret every love song directed at some unseen "you" to be inviting me to marry them for tax purposes. thanks neil for being an aromantic icon

-ah hell yes hell yes man-made object is my favorite goddam song on this album

-short & sweet & good damn vibes. neil's thoughts on it all are only making it better

-wild how he uses very few vocal effects for a song that he clearly is straining his vocal range for. go off neil

-the qualifier of man-made is a wonderful thing. oldest or biggest thing? oldest or biggest man-made thing? what a incredibly important specification. a world of possibilities lie between the two. oh i love it

-just gets me thinking yknow! what we consider weird/impressive in another species, in our own species- what kind of equivalent to that would there be from an outsider looking in? are there alien versions of the significances we place upon things, that we could never imagine? the limits of the human imagination mean we could never conceive of something else in the world that isn't, in some way great or small, just like us- and are we wrong for thinking that? such a juicy topic i wish there were a name for it because it's kinda hard to explain concisely

-spiral of ants. my second favorite song from this album, in fact. a good one to experience

-the vocals are just another instrument. they really truly are. i wasn't going into this commentary expecting to feel solidarity for neil cicierega in this chili's tonight on more than one occasion but here i am.

-like, his whole stance on interpreting songs is something i agree with almost entirely. you can take it at face value, you can dig to their very depths, you can listen to songs without caring what the lyrics mean whatsoever, and those are all fun. & yeah while any of these people can be annoying as one of the types who enjoys gliding on the surface more than anything i find those who dedicate themselves to figuring out the whole meaning of a song over anything else to be both slightly scary & slightly annoying <3 keep up the good work

-i want to make songs for my siblings the way neil makes songs for his sibling(s)

-spinch

-neil really shouldn't be allowed to be this funny like this whole album youre thinking golly! he's just a normal man this neil cicierega! and then he starts listing the cat hacks jokes & you remember he's had ridiculously consistent viral success with all his humorous endeavors and holy shit it's neil cicierega in action talking about his music. god bless you neil

-you're welcome, no problem, my pleasure. good eveternoon, radio audience!

#lemon demon #spirit phone #pretty sure this is my first bit of spirit phone content on my blog. hi greater lem dem fandom nice to see y'all. go listen to deporitaz #loolin liveblogs #i enjoyed this less for the content the commentary contained & more for the way i handled it. more pleasant than some times ive had #tis i #i havent listened to spirit phone in general in ages. i know why. so this was nice #to the world and back again

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adiabolikpastel · 3 years

Text

Title: Lunar Eclipse Masquerade

Karlheinz pt. 2

Rating: PG

Word Count: 3,045

Pairing: Karlheinz x Skye (m/m)

ღ To honor the phenomenon of the first Lunar Eclipse in two years, Karlheinz decides to throw a Masquerade. ღ

Mun Yu: We made it to the second wave of LEM. I hope you all enjoyed the set up, and are ready for the main event. Our Lunar Eclipse is in full swing as the masquerade beings. These chapters will be longer.

☆+ ﾟ .+ .ﾟ.ﾟ｡ﾟ｡. +ﾟ｡ﾟ.ﾟ｡☆*｡｡ . ｡ o .｡ﾟ｡.o｡* ｡ .｡

Despite what most people think, demonic beings are very social creatures. The elites hold countless balls and parties, celebrating their immortality together, and entertaining one another with stories. Typically, they are done in celebration for something – though this is not always the case. All types of beings from across the Demon Realm will come if the host is of high enough prestige.

There would be no such host if it was not for Karlheinz. Seated as the head of the Bat Clan (vampires), Karl’s reach spans far. Being the widow for the former Demon King’s daughter, and having children of the first blood, an invitation from the Vampire King is not one to refuse. Though why would you? In his immaculate castle within the Demon Realm, Eden Castle, it is always quite the spectacle. While the celebrations held in his Human World mansion are nice, nothing compares to a true night of pleasure within the true home of the King.

On this night, there was to be a Masquerade in honor of the first Lunar Eclipsed Moon in over two years. While this night may serve each species differently, the idea to celebrate its return was simply too tempting. For this reason, Karlheinz took it upon himself – or rather – his house, to host the event. This extended to his offspring as well, regardless of their personal agenda. Members of every social elite race accepted the offer, and gathered for a truly unforgettable evening

This would be a first for Skye. While he had done many things for Karlheinz over the years, he had never organized a formal event. There was much more to it than one would think, or at least, what Skye thought he would be doing. Karl’s instructions were quite specific; and per instructed, he was to follow them to the letter. So with that in mind, Skye decided to deal with everything in groups. Doing all of the calling, designing, shopping, and decorating in groups – that way he wouldn’t be overwhelmed.

First there were the invitations. Of course the bat brat sons were to be delivered in person – which was easy enough – since he passed the task along to Reiji. Karl stressed that his sons attend, but Skye was not about to waste time trying to get each one of them to. So it was much easier simply leaving that to Reiji- he’d done his father’s bidding his whole life so- a second hand order from him would work.

Other than his sons, Karl wanted all of the social elite of the Demon Realm in attendance. Skye had learned years ago that there were two different ways to communicate in this realm – and it was annoying because some lords would relocate to the human realm. So not only did you need to send the proper written invitation, but also type one to send via e-mail. An over complicated way to contact over complicated people. Regardless, Sky spent two days making sure all of the letters and e-mails were delivered.

Next would be decorations and outfits! Skye favorite part. He knew that Karl would want to wear something that stood out. Something to re-demonstrate his power – not only from the excess that imitated form him, but to the very clothes that he wore. Skye spent a good long while designing not only Karl’s, but his own outfit. Something bold, but not too much that it over stepped. Karl was wanting him to be with him the entire night, so it also had to be comfortable. Then there were the clothes for his son’s, per Karl’s instruction of course.

There was a designer in the human world that ‘Tougo Sakamaki’ had connections with in the human world. The two of them would exchange e-mails for the event, last minute as it may be. The outfits had to get done. Skye was able to persuade the human with … incentive. It was easy to do with a little bit of extra money, and being one of the top politicians in Japan. The clothes wouldn’t be ready until the night of, but Skye could handle that. Those boys would have time to ruin them if they came any sooner.

Just as things were going smoothly Karl suddenly texted Skye – so close to the deadline. His ‘little angle’ would be coming to Eden Castle early. Something about Laito kicking him out – Skye didn’t read the details. Karl simply stressed that he be well taken care of, that he be given his own room, and that a dress be prepared for him for the Masquerade. Great. Something else to deal with on top of all this. The younger male arrived one night, and despite Skye’s words, he barely spoke.

That worked out fine, Skye could focus on getting the Castle ready, and only check in on him – kind of like a little pet. The boy was cute – though he didn’t know why Karl was so keen on keeping the little one. He felt a little bad for him, for whatever role he was playing in the master plan that Karl had in his head. Though, that had nothing to do with Skye. The last two days were devoted to making the castle party ready. Which, in all honesty, he had been instructing the familiars to deal with most of the week. The look on Reiji’s face was priceless when he saw Skye taking charge of the Castle. The second eldest son always rubbed Skye the wrong way – probably because he wasn’t comfortable with how Skye dressed – though that mattered little to him. He was thankful for Reiji’s sudden appearance though, because he still needed to get ready and check on the human.

When Skye brought in the dress, which by the way, took more money to convince the designer to take on another one, the little brat tried to reject the invitation. He simply mopped and stressed that he wasn’t a girl – well no shit dummy neither was Skye. Having no time for his whining, Skye imposed his influence on the simply boy. It wasn’t hard. Sirens were naturally gifted with the power to enchant humans, this one seemed no different. With a good ‘pep’ talk, the boy was convinced and Skye could return to his duties.

Finally it was time for him to dress for the evening. His dress was perfect, dark, mysterious, alluring, everything he would need to be seen beside someone like Karlheinz. With matching hair and makeup, adding the mask and heels - utter bliss. Skye couldn’t help but admire himself for as long as possible. He was gorgeous! Karl was so lucky to have a knock out like him – and tonight – he knew that would be the word on everyone’s lips.

“Ah, my lovely Siren, do not tell me all this effort was for my sake.” Karl’s voice chimed from Skye’s door. The Vampire Lord stood in his own outfit for the evening. Stunning white in color, with gold and fur. His every long hair was pulled together with a ribbon, and his face hidden behind a matching mask. Skye was sure to pat himself on the back for the design.

“My King~! Don’t you look handsome?” Skye walks over to his escort, lacing his arm with Karl’s. “I did hope that this dress would be to your liking. After all, the greatest power in the Makai must have someone of worth on their arm, no~?”

Karl laughed lightly, as the two began to walk towards the grand ballroom. “This night, my siren, I will have you by my side. I will need your beauty to… persuade some powerful men. Will you be up for it?”

“You talk as if I have a choice, my King. I am your tool after all.” Skye walked along side Karl as the two entered into the Grand Ballroom. A familiar announced their presence, though they simply said, ‘the host of the evening, King of the Vampire Karlheinz.’ – but that was fine.

The two of them turned heads for sure. Which was strange, because from what Skye knew, Karl had wives before – not to say that he was trying to pose as a wife, but everyone seemed shocked that there was someone with the Karlheinz. Normally Skye would start gossip, but it seemed he wouldn’t need to tonight, the entire ballroom was a buzz about him.

It was thrilling, and nerve wracking, all at the same time. Karl took the lead wherever they walked, which Skye didn’t mind. He had nowhere to be, and the entire reason he was there was to be Karl’s arm candy. Even when the women came over to then, Karl refused to allow them to whisk Skye away, something that was quite common amongst the royals – something about them not loving their wives? “Forgive me ladies, I cannot bare to part with her tonight, you understand.”

Skye thought that perhaps it was because Skye wasn’t really a woman, but then again, no one could tell – no one important anyway. He’d been doing this long enough, he knew. As the two walked around the room, Skye could see the slow appearances of Karl’s sons. They all seemed to be in attendance, which was good, he wasn’t really in the mood to hear the complaining from Reiji.

“Ah, my Siren, there is someone I would like you to meet.” Karl’s voice brought Skye back to reality. “This is Burai, leader of the Snake clan.” Skye looked before him to see – what honestly looked like- a dark haired, older version of Alrick. Spooky.

“This is different Karlheinz. You have never once paraded around with anyone, she must be special?” Burai looked Skye over, though Skye could tell he wasn’t doing it to admire him. There was a dull, logical, emptiness about his gaze.

“You could say, my dear works mostly as an assistant of sorts.”

“Oh… Yes, I do believe I have heard of her then.” Burai’s face changed to one of judgement after that statement. He must know about Skye and Alrick’s … relationship. Bet it pisses him off. Prude.

“I am honored to meet you, Lord Burai. I have done business with your son many times. He does such hard work for your clan, you must be proud.” Skye smirked to himself, but presented to the demon lord with a genuine smile.

Just as he began to respond, a loud crashing noise echoed through the room. Skye was going to turn to find it, but Karl’s arm around his waist deterred him. Almost to say ignore it. “Well, we must catch up later my friend. Excuse us.” Karl moves Skye along from the Snake Lord. Mentally, Skye turned to stick his tongue out at the jerk.

“That was quite a nasty face. I do believe he is not a fan of yours.” Karl teases as the two of them move over to the refreshment area. “Must be the lack of work ethic, seems to be displeased with the job you have done.”

Skye laughs softly, “Yes that is it. Not the sleeping with his son regularly.” He was not ashamed of it, Alrick was… special. Karl knew the moment they started seeing one another – and made it very clear to Skye that he did not care, but he came first. Skye had honored that, after all, he was Karl’s property.

“Burai was not the reason for your presence tonight, I am afraid. I have… a bigger bird for you.” He explains pouring him a drink. “Our friend Ajax has kept me waiting long enough on the proposal idea. Tonight, you will give him that extra… push.” Skye took the drink sipping it lightly – make up wasn’t cheap. “He did bring his youngest daughter here tonight, so I plan to have her and Shu meet, and the marriage be set. Your… influence will help me greatly.”

Skye nods, “I am not sure how much I can do to a Lord… but with some assistance I should do fine.” He holds out the cup for Karl, who already knew what to do. With a quick prick of his finger, the Vampire King let a few drops of his blood fall into the cup. Skye drank it. Feeling the power of the true King of the Makai flowed into him.

“He will not part from his wife, so we shall see them together.” Skye took Karl’s arm once more, and they walked through the crowd to find the Head of the Eagle clan. He was hard to miss. Standing taller than most, with the personality and voice to match his stature – Ajax was the embodiment of imposing.

They came to find the large man, gushing to a group of lesser demons about his children. That was something no one could ever escape from, when he started talking about the many offspring he and his wife had produced. “My boy Helios just started to practice with a sword! He’s a natural! I couldn’t be more proud! The twins will spend hours watching him swing! They will be ready in no time – not to mention the baby! He will be strong too, just like his father!”

Skye couldn’t help but mentally roll his eyes. What kind of Demon was this guy anyway? No one was this into their kids. There must be something about Eagles. “Ajax, my friend, are you boring everyone with these stories?” Karl asked in a light hearted voice.

The demon turned to look down at the new additions to his social circle. “Ha! Karlheinz. It is no shame to be proud of my children. They each make me proud.” He dismisses the others, leaving him and his wife for an audience alone with Karl.

“I am glad you accepted my invitation. It was my hope to convince you of the matter we spoke of, time is of the essence after all.”

Ajax looked distressed. Beside him was a smaller woman, who wore a poker face, one that Skye could not quite read. This idea of marriage should be a good thing, honestly. Karl was offering his eldest son to their youngest daughter. Who wouldn’t want that?

“Lord Ajax, if I may?” Skye spoke, looking up at him. “Would it not be beneficial for your kingdom to secure yourself with the future of the bat clan? A marriage with my King's son would-”

“Just who do you think you are, harlot?!” The woman beside him spoke in a shrill voice. “How dare you address my husband in such a familiar way?!” Her eyes narrowed towards Skye, and the pure murderous intent was overwhelming.

“My goodness. Please do control your wife Ajax. There is no need to cause a scene.” Karl’s tone was pleasant, but the weight of his words forced out any aura the female attempted to create. On that order, Ajax stepped away with his wife. “I was worried that might happen, you must be more careful, my siren.”

Skye took a moment to cool himself off. He knew that forcing his will on someone so powerful would be difficult, but he didn’t think he would get caught doing it. These demons were on a completely different level. “My King… I am not sure that I can do this. Even with your blood… that was…”

Karl moves close to Skye, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Now now …” His lips brush against Skye’s ear. “You know I have no use for a broken tool. Are you broken, my Siren?” Skye’s eyes widened at his words. Karl released Skye and moved towards Ajax, leaving Skye behind.

How. Dare. That. Dick! He was the one who asked HIM to even be here! How could he say that shit!? Has he not done EVERYTHING he’d ever asked? Just because he wasn’t fucking strong enough to persuade a DEMON LORD! Why was that his job anyway!? Karl had more than enough power to simply TAKE the girl if he wanted to! Yet here he was, asking Skye to do his dirty work.

Skye scoffed and stormed over to Karl, standing at his side while he spoke with Ajax alone. “I can see no downside to this union. Ririe will be a fine husband for your daughter. Of this I am sure.” Karl says to the still disgruntled demon.

“... She is my last daughter, my friend. You ask far too much of me.” Ajax starts firmly. “Even if I were to be blessed with another, I cannot simply give away one of my children. I never have, and I never will.”

“Perhaps if she were able to maintain communications with you, Lord Ajax.” Skye says softly. “Surely you would be all right with that. I even believe that Ririe has taken residence here in the Makai. Is it not safer for her here, than anywhere else?”

“It is safest for her with her family.”

“If you continue to shelter as such, she will never find a husband. The poor girl is already so old. Who is going to want her if you wait any longer? You have the perfect candidate waiting. Honesty, you should be honored that the great Karlheinz even considered the union.” Skye blurts out in annoyance. At this point, there was a part of him that wanted this plan to fail – teach Karl a lesson.

Ajax stood in disbelief for a moment. The rather harsh, yet reality of Skye’s words seem to resonate with him. Which meant- “You daughter is in the safest hands. Who other than the bat clan could honestly keep her safe?” Skye attempted once more to force his influence on the large demon. It didn’t seem to be working but his face softened.

“I suppose you are right. I couldn’t ask for a better match for my sweet Callista.” He say firmly, “I shall go find her. Your son is here as well correct? We must have them meet!” The enthusiasm returned to his voice. “I look forward to the future of our families, Karlheinz!” With a strong pat on the Vampire’s back, Ajax took his leave, off to find his daughter and wife in the crowd.

Skye let out a small sigh of relief as he and Karl were left alone. “There are you happy now? Sheesh, making me do all your dirty work.” He pouts, looking outward towards where Ajax disappeared. “Now we’ll just need to find that lazy son of yours…”

Karlheinz only smirked, seemed he knew something Skye did not. However, he was far from interested. He was ready for this night to end. Wondering if Alrick had come to the party, perhaps he could sneak off with him. “Are we finished, my King?” As Skye asked, Karl grabbed him once again by the waist.

“I did say all night correct? I have yet to indulge myself with you, my Siren. That will have to wait until after we finish with Shu. You are not to leave me, or even think of leaving, for this night.” His words held so much weight, it was suffocating. Perhaps Karl had caught on that he was wanting to leave with Alrick. “Once all that is taken care of… we will take our leave.”

Skye blushed slightly, for how ever cold Karl was, he was so commanding – it was hard not to get arouse when he spoke like this. With a nod, Skye allowed Karl to lead him to meet up with Ajax and this daughter of his. Shu somehow managed to find them – which Skye was sure Karl had something to do with that. He wasn’t too happy with the news of the engagement – but – he should know there was no speaking against the King. His words were law. For all of them.

☆+ ﾟ .+ .ﾟ.ﾟ｡ﾟ｡. +ﾟ｡ﾟ.ﾟ｡ TO BE CONTINUED ☆*｡｡ . ｡ o .｡ﾟ｡.o｡* ｡ .｡

#writing #Lunar Eclipse Masquerade #LEM

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gottlem · 3 years

Note

‘let me go’ but like angsty lemyanka maybe if lemon is moving back to nyc from toronto 💔

here u go ! the most angsty thing i have ever written and will probably ever write. i havent proofread it bc its late, im tired and i got a bit carried away and ended up writing 1.7k words so.... yeah. hope u like it ! <3

“let me go”

Lemon and Priyanka were clearly in love. Everyone knew it, everyone could see. Deep down, they both knew that they were, but no matter how many times they ended up in eachothers beds, it just never came up. Because if it did, well, Lemon’s not too sure what would happen. But it would be a lot, maybe too much. So she decided to stick with friends with benefits, nothing more, and it worked. For a while. Until she didn’t know what counted as overstepping anymore and calling Priyanka her friend just felt like a lie, even though it wasn’t, not really. But the ‘not really’ part is what fucked her up.

Lemon could only deal with so much. She had her walls, they were strong and tall and Priyanka was the only one who could get through, but they just didn’t feel like they were protecting her anymore. One day, she feared they would become a little too high, a little too unstable, and crush her. And she didn’t want Priyanka to have to deal with that.

She had already made the decision to move back to New York before she even admitted it to herself. She tended to listen to her brain over her heart - you’re less likely to get hurt that way. Somehow, this time round she couldn't quite tell which part she was listening to, but before she knew it, she was on the phone to her friend Jan asking for a place to stay.

Jan was more than happy, albeit a little concerned, for Lemon to live with her for a bit, claiming she could use the company and the help with rent. It was a win-win situation. Though, was Lemon winning? She wasn’t so sure, she was however very stubborn and once she had made her mind up, there was no going back. It would be nice to see her New York friends again, they hadn’t fallen out of touch but things are always harder when you’re so far apart. Besides, she needed a change of scenery, she missed walking the streets of the city that never sleeps.

The real reason behind her decision was Priyanka. She didn’t tell anyone about it but Jan, knowing she would need at least some form of support once the train arrived. She just couldn’t bear to keep up with whatever their current situation was, but also she wasn’t sure she had the courage to talk about her real feelings, so the only option she could see was to just run away. They could keep in contact, a couple of texts and maybe a bi-weekly phone call, and Lemon could find some other girl to fall in love with and then she would be over her.

She didn’t know how to be in love, and even if Priyanka could show her, she didn’t know if she was ready, if she was prepared. Because love was scary. Commitment, too. It’s not that Lemon was scared they would end up breaking up, she was scared that they would never break up. She was still young, and while some people long to find the love of their life early on, Lemon found herself staring at hers right in the face and it just felt too overwhelming.

She had started hinting to Priyanka that she missed her New York friends about a month before she planned to be leaving. Priyanka would suggest a week’s visit, and Lemon would just shrug it off. She just didn’t want it to come out of the blue when she finally told her that she'd be moving. And yet, all her hints didn’t stop Priyanka from being surprised.

It was dark out, and the pair lay not so comfortably in Lemon’s bed. It was too hot but neither had the energy to do anything about it, so they stayed there in silence, Lemon slowly building up the courage to speak.

“Hey, Pri?” She barely recognised her own voice, hating the crack that came out when she started speaking. Priyanka hummed in response, turning her head to face Lemon’s, eyes trained on the side of Lemon’s head as the yellow haired girl stared blankly at the ceiling. Eye contact would be too much, she didn’t want to see Priyanka’s face when she told her.

“I’m moving back to New York.”

Silence.

More silence.

Then, the shuffling of covers and creaks of floorboards as Priyanka grabbed her stuff and left. Somehow Lemon didn’t register any of it until the door had shut behind her. She closed her eyes and went to sleep.

The next day, Priyanka showed up at her door again, not too long after the sun rose. She looked tired, but Lemon said nothing because she probably looked the same.

“Sorry for just, leaving. I, uh, I was pissed off? I think?” Lemon’s jaw dropped.

“I’m sorry, you were pissed? At me? Priyanka, I get that I could have told you sooner but don’t pretend like telling you would have made me change my mind.”

“Wouldn’t it? Why are you moving anyway? When are you moving?”

“I miss my friends. I miss New York. I need a change, a get-away. I leave in two weeks”

“Jesus Christ,” Priyanka almost stomped past Lemon, sitting on the couch with an angry thud. “You’re telling me, you move to New York in two weeks, because you miss your friends, and I am only just finding out now? That is bullshit, Lemon”

Of all of the reactions Lemon anticipated, this was not one of them. They never argued. They always poked fun, never too serious, always having a good time. But this was new. Lemon didn’t even know how to argue with Priyanka. She didn’t even know how she was supposed to react to hearing her full name, and the way she said it too. Lemon couldn’t quite place a finger on how Priyanka was feeling, not used to not being able to read her like an open book, and she fucking hated it. But if Pri wanted to argue, then they were going to argue. Lemon didn’t make this decision on whim, she needed to do this, she needed to move, she didn’t have a choice.

“God, Priyanka, do I need to tell you everything? It’s not like I’m your fucking girlfriend!” She regretted saying it the second it came out of her mouth, no matter how true it was. They avoided the word ‘girlfriend’ like the plague, but apparently this was the line that needed to be crossed to have this discussion.

“No, you don’t need to tell me everything, but if you’re moving to New York? Yeah, maybe tell me. Maybe mention it before you have to leave in two weeks, for fucks sake, Lem”

She had stopped shouting, her voice sounding a bit more tired and defeated that angry. Things were complicated. Lemon thought running away would be the easiest option. And maybe she was right. Maybe the easiest option was still hard, but it was too late to change her mind now. The damage had been done, and now Priyanka knew that she would be getting on the train in two weeks time, and they didn’t know when they’d see eachother again after that.

They spent all day talking. Avoiding direct eye contact, getting goosebumps every time their hands accidentally touched. Unsaid ‘I love you’s floated around them, taunting them every time Lemon went over her excuse for moving. They hid behind sad smiles and even sadder eyes, but never managed to actually surface, not like they ever did anyways.

They pretended like nothing happened the next day. Instead, they opted to make the most of the last week and a bit left they had together, refusing to mention the fact that time was slipping, or how much they would be lost without each other. Lemon spent her nights on the phone to Jan, planning logistics, but mostly trying not to cry about how she was leaving the woman who was quite possibly her soulmate in another country for however long without telling her how she feels.

Her final day in Toronto came round after what felt like a short eternity. She was only slightly ready. Her yellow suitcase rolled next to her and she drowned out the noise of the train station with her earphones on full volume. A coffee warmed her shaking hands as she waited for the train she was obnoxiously early for. Not long past before she felt someone sit down next to her and place a hand on her shoulder, startling her from the daze she had managed to force herself into.

Of fucking course it was Priyanka. And of course she was looking at Lemon with tears threatening to shed. Lemon placed her hand in Priyanka’s after taking out her earphones, and gave it a small squeeze.

“I don’t want you to go” Lemon wished she could kiss her and say she didn’t want to go either. But she couldn't because she would be lying. She wanted to go. She loved Priyanka, and Priyanka loved her. They both knew it, without it being said. But Lemon just wasn’t ready.

“I know. I’ll miss you” Priyanka shook her head and tears began to fall down her cheeks, one by one then all at once.

“God, Lem, what went wrong? Do I have to fucking beg you to stay or something? I don’t understand why you have to move all the way to New York, I don’t know what I’m even supposed to do without you here”

Lemon refused to cry. She absolutely refused. When she felt the back of her eyes stinging with tears, she simply shook her head and pushed them back. Not now. Not in front of Pri.

She took her other hand, and looked Priyanka in the eyes, inching in closer and closer.

“Pri, I’m going, and it’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna be fine, and you’re gonna be fine, okay love? It’s time to just… let me go.”

Lemon released her hands and stood up, the action followed by Priyanka, who gave her a bone crushing hug, still crying. When she finally let go, she gave her a small kiss on the top of her head, and Lemon had to hold back her tears for the millionth time within the past five minutes. They looked at each other for just a moment, once again opting to not say anything, despite it being their final chance. Lemon gave a small nod, as if in response to the silence, before turning away and walking to her platform. She didn’t look behind her. And if she stopped holding back her waterfall of tears the second she faced the other way, she could hide that from Priyanka too.

#lemyanka #anon #lemon🍋#lemongivesyoulife #priyanka love #im sorry its unresolved #normally i kinda hate angst bc im too messed up already for that shit #but i think now i have learned to love it #however if anyone maybe wants a pt2 #i will be happy to write #bc this is practically an entire fic #i got pretty carried away

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star-killer-md · 4 years

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Dream a Little Dream of Me Pt. 5

oh MY GOD. I swear this update bent me backwards and fucked me harder than Kylo Ren ever could. Like dear sweet jesus I don’t know why it was so hard for me to get this shit out of my brain and onto my google doc but she really just wasn’t having it. Anyway, here it is. Not entirely certain if I’m all the way happy with it, but it what it is and hopefully the weird symbolism and imagery came across well. I’m an english major so I can’t like not input that shit into my writing even if its a Kylo Ren smut fic. I hope you all enjoy this mess of an update. You’ve all been incredibly sweet and supportive and like you’re just great people. My lovely coworker beta’d this for me and more than one old woman definitely overheard us talking about Kylo’s dick while at work.

As a side note, I am new to the game of writing smut for the most part (and like long form fic) and I want to branch out Into writing more kinks and such, so if there is anything you want to see from me, please send a message! I need the practice 😂

AO3 Mirror

Part 4

Warnings: nsfw, violence against the reader, violence against Kylo, they may or may not have a physical altercation in this, minor blood mentions (like very minor), dirty talking, inappropriate use of the Force, lots of angst, like oh god so much, cockwarming if you squint, some amount of softness cause the author is a little bitch

Ship: Kylo Ren x Negotiator!Reader

Word Count: 7.6K (buckle up babes)

He wasn’t looking at you.

He hadn’t looked at you all morning.

You were looking though, couldn’t stop looking. Ever since you’d woken to find your bed empty and the Commander sat on the couch across from you, scrolling mindlessly through his datapad. There was a plate with crumbs left scattered on its surface and cup on the nightstand beside him.

You thought it might have been coffee. It was odd to think of him eating or drinking, for some reason you’d assumed before he didn’t need too. That seemed foolish now that you knew just how real he was.

How did he take it, you wondered. With cream? Sugar to ease the bitterness? Or did he like the way it burned and tingled without anything to numb its acidic sting.

On the small table in the corner, a silver room service tray sat abandoned. The fresh fruit was growing warm, filling the room with a sickly sweet scent that couldn’t even begin to cover the stench of avoidance that hung in the air.

He hadn’t spoken to you all morning either.

You both had yet to speak.

You might have asked about the coffee, but then you noticed the very clear indent of a head on the pillow beside you. A few black hairs stood out starkly against the cream colored sheets.

And then you remembered.

Someone’s breath washing warm over your face, the glimpse of him bare from the waist up, your favorite mole, the shower water pounding over pink skin, his name in your mouth—

And it became clear why he wasn’t saying anything.

Because he knew what you’d done.

And you knew he knew.

And he knew that you knew he knew.

It felt horribly awkward breaking the stillness of the room, so you didn’t move from the bed. Just sat up, letting the covers pool in your lap as the fruit slowly rotted and neither of you spoke a word. Once you thought he might have glanced at you from the corner of your eye, but when you turned, he quickly looked back down at the glowing screen in his lap.

Eventually, you’d had enough. Throwing the sheets off your bare legs, you climbed out of bed and padded quietly into the refresher. You shut the door with a click and heard the immediate shuffling of fabric from outside. Soft footsteps and the sound of pouring liquid filtered in from the main room, but the extra clink of a spoon stirring or the dripping of cream was decidedly absent.

He drank it black, then.

The thought settled heavily in you.

Your reflection in the mirror was pitiable, puffy, tired eyes staring back at you blankly. You ran the water, splashing some on your face and tried not to think about what you’d ‘seen’ the Commander do in the shower behind you last night.

But one look at the slate gray tiles had images of his hand curling against them, the other wrapped around—

You buried your face in one of the hand towels and groaned into it. Was he staring at your empty bed and thinking the same thing? Were scenes of you writhing on the sheets playing themselves on loop in the Commander’s head? Could he feel the lingering want for him in the air around you?

Outside the door, you heard something that sounded suspiciously like Ren choking on his coffee.

Staring down into the basin, you felt a terrible realization cresting over the horizon. He knew about last night—that was a given. You had heard him, seen him, felt him in some ethereal way you could not explain. He’d been in you too, a presence in your head, an audience to all that you thought of him.

But was that really the first time?

Because—now that you thought about it, really stopped and breathed it all in—the empty, lonely, half-filled and never completed feeling that sat deeply in your bones was only ever gone when he touched you—only ever relieved when he visited you in your sleep.

And you had been blessedly free of it last night, when you lay breathless and trembling with a pleasure that did not belong to you.

In fact, you did not feel it even now.

You thought of his face. Too identical, every mole and freckle right down to your favorite of them in the same place. The same eyes, same angle of his teeth, same ears just a bit too big and hair that fell in his face. The same baby curls by the crown of his head.

It was simply impossible for your mind alone to have crafted such a perfect replica.

There was no denying it.

And it was only now dawning on you—that, in fact, it had always been him.

The Commander Ren who drank black coffee and did everything in his power to enrage you at a moment's notice was one and the same with the Kylo who had plagued your mind for months. Whom you had not so secretly craved like he was ambrosia and you, a starving mortal at his feet.

Your breath shook as it filled your lungs and clawed its way back out like the secret of it was trying to burst free from its prison in your ribcage.

Outside, the Commander was moving again, and you listened, feeling the pull in each step—like he was walking through honey.

The soft swish of his pants was the only sound apart from your shallow breathing. There was something alive in the air and it was waiting.

The shadow of his feet came to a halt outside the door and you heard the soft thump of his hand resting against it. You were compelled by a force—the Force maybe—some unknowable tugging in your veins. Your feet found their way to stand toe to toe, palm to palm with Kylo Ren, nothing but the thin wood of the door between you.

There was a stillness settling in the room, and when you closed your eyes, you could see it.

He was there, clear as the void of space and twice as lovely—standing, staring through the barrier between your bodies. And you felt him see you too. Felt yourself full to the brim and fantastically whole.

You wanted to touch him.

Needed to touch him.

And you knew he would let you.

Because he always had before and you couldn’t stop your hand from pushing against the wood, prying it away to reveal Kylo, your Kylo, your Commander to you and then—

Then it all shattered.

The door between you was flung nearly off its tracks as someone rapped twice loudly from the hall. You barely had time to register the awful sinking sensation, like a knife carving you in two as the Commander met your eyes for the first time that morning and you felt nothing.

The knocking came again and you gazed at him frantically.

“Get in,” you hissed under your breath.

He stared at you with his pretty brown eyes, frowning like he always did. The man before you was simply your uncooperative Commander who could do nothing but cause unnecessary inconvenience. There was no more glimmer in his gaze to tell you the last few minutes hadn’t been just another dream.

Your eye twitched as you stepped out past him and gestured towards the empty space left behind.

“I’m sorry, would you like to be found out?”

The tapping on the door repeated itself and you pointed harshly at the bathroom until he finally slipped inside, knocking his shoulder into you as he went. You shut the door a little harder than strictly necessary.

A familiar voice called to you from outside.

“Miss Negotiator?”

When you’d opened the door, Lem Alba was standing in the hall just outside. In his hand he held a small package.

You apologized politely, “I was just about to get in the shower.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “I won’t keep you too long then, just came to deliver this and to let you know that Representative Gahl has invited you to travel with his personal security team tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, right,” you tried not to sound disappointed that he hadn’t forgotten your conversation, and took the parcel from his hand.

It wasn’t that the gesture was entirely unusual, but Gahl didn’t exactly strike you as someone important enough to warrant a whole team of guards. You thought anxiously of Atreus.

An example.

“Why with his personal team, may I ask?”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this” Lem looked up and down the hall before leaning in conspiratorially, “but one of the staff was found dead a few hours ago, so we’re increasing protection to some of the more high ranking individuals.”

The shock on your face was mostly genuine, “Shit, that’s horrible.”

Lem nodded and sighed, leaning up against the door frame, “Yes, well that’s what we’ve been dealing with all morning.”

You chuckled, “Don’t you just love doing jobs that aren’t yours?”

That’s why I’m here, you almost said but thought better of it. Something told you your audience wouldn’t appreciate the comment. The hard, invisible pinch on your thigh confirmed your suspicions.

“You got that right,” he mumbled and stood up straight. “And I should get back to it.”

“Of course,” you gave him a thin smile and moved to close the door but Lem’s hand caught it at the last second.

“Let me know,” he cleared his throat, “if that’s not the right fit. I can have another sent up.”

Glancing down at the package in your hand, you felt your face grow hot, “I will.”

You meant to shut the door quietly, Lem still smiling at you from the other side, but the knob was ripped from your hand and it slammed closed with a bang. After a few seconds you heard the bathroom door slide open revealing Kylo Ren, taking up the entire archway.

His size might have intimidated you if you hadn’t been so angry.

“Care to explain yourself, sir?” you’d asked, all mercy and craving for him dying away as he stared at you blankly, jaw set on edge. It really was so amazing how this man could flip your moods like a switch. Night and day. Your hatred of him was forever inevitable.

“I should ask you the same, officer.”

Outwardly he looked unfazed, eyes flicking to the package in your hand, but you’d seen him like this back on the Finalizer. The eerie calm before he snapped like a bowstring and left destruction in his wake. Before the bodies of officers who wronged him littered the floor and you were left to clean up the rubble.

You were walking on thin ice and it was cracking.

You took another step.

“If you’re insinuating that I’m the one jeopardizing our position here, then you are sorely mistaken,” your voice came out in a harsh whisper and grated your throat.

The coffee cup on the nightstand rattled.

“Remind me,” he took a menacing step towards you, “who here was it that agreed to leave the district with a group plotting against the Order?”

You met him head on, “I’m sorry you’re so woefully ignorant of diplomatic proceedings, but it wasn't exactly as if I had a choice.”

Cracks skittered up the porcelain as Kylo’s hands flexed, curling into fists at his sides. A rush of slick warmth flooded you at the sight. You tried to beat down the rising wave of sick arousal, but truly you couldn’t help it. Not when he looked at you with those pretty eyes blown wide and black with some dangerous suggestions. Not when his fingers were biting into his palms and you were imagining the marks they could leave on you.

“Watch your mouth,” he gritted out each word, perfect teeth flashing behind his pink lips.

You didn’t.

“At least I know not to leave a body for them to find!”

The slight twitch of his eye was the only warning you got before the cup across the room splintered. Shards sharp as knives exploded out in an arch catching on your clothes and littering the rug. In the same split second Kylo Ren pounced like a predator on the hunt. His fist connected with the wall next to your head, dusting the side of your face with paint chips as it crumpled under his hand.

You stared, gaze flicking between his shaking arm sticking out of the newly formed hole in your wall and his wild eyes—feral, lovely.

For a minute, neither of you moved, just stood breathing each other's breaths and waiting. Again, he was only inches from you and you wished that you’d gotten to glimpse him before. That you could have slid the barrier between you aside and seen him soft and melting instead of untamed and steel hardened.

But it seemed neither of you could let go of this savage security blanket of rage for each other.

And if this was the closest to him you could get, that would have to be enough.

You felt yourself draining, deflating, shrinking and cast your eyes down in surrender. Kylo pushed off the wall a second later, turning his back to you and burying his hands in his hair. He folded onto the sofa, legs spread and elbows on his knees.

You’d seen him like this in a dream once, held his face in your hands and begged for him to take you.

His eyes flicked to you still standing against the wall.

“You’ve done this before,” he mumbled into his palms.

You gaped.

“Um, could be more specific, sir?”

The look that comment elicited nearly turned you to stone.

“Oh, if you’re talking about the strategic murder of political elites,” you let out an uneasy laugh and moved to perch on the edge of the bed, “then yes, I’ve arranged them.”

You weren’t exactly proud of that, but it came with the job description. Par for the course as they say.

It was a dirty thing to do in the world of politics, and you felt much more satisfied when you had properly manipulated your opponent into submission rather than just killing them off. Your throat began to grow tight at the thought of yourself, shot in the back walking away from the mediation table. Just like the man who had this job before you.

Everything in the First Order came stained with blood and you were being called to pay the piper.

What goes around comes around...as they say.

“And?” his short tone brought you out of your stupor.

You furrowed your brow, “Commander, are you asking me how I’d plot my own kidnapping and murder?”

He waved his hand for you to continue as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be asking. You supposed, in this world it was.

“Alright then,” you sighed and flopped back on the mattress. “I would do it somewhere big, somewhere with an audience so the message gets across. Instill fear and go out with a bang.”

Kylo’s head shot up, “They're planning on broadcasting the campaign announcement and the Order’s endorsement.”

“What?” you lifted your head off the pillows. “Did the dead body tell you that?”

“He wasn’t dead at the time,” Ren clapped back and pushed himself up in one smooth motion.

He reached for his helmet sitting by the arm of the couch and slipped it over his head without a word. You watched him replace his layers, clipping the large belt in place and tugging on his boots.

“Well, if I was going to kill me that’s when I’d do it,” you said, rolling on your side to watch him tighten the laces.

Kylo didn’t say anything to that. Just stood and marched his way past the hole in the wall and stopped by the door.

“Don’t—”

“Leave this room,” you interrupted. “I know.”

The Commander huffed once, nothing more than an exhale of static and let the door click shut behind him.

***

That was almost two days ago, and you hadn’t seen him since.

Well, he’d certainly been there—the warm spot on your bed told you as much—but he was gone by morning and you’d left with the Representative and his team not long after.

Currently, you were lounging in one of the large, soft chairs on your private balcony watching the waves and enjoying your first moments alone since arriving at the villa. Most of the day had been filled with hours upon hours of dull discussions where no one really wanted to hear what you had to say, but expected you to say something anyway. Finally, you’d been able to slip out while the rest of the staff sat down for drinks in the drawing room.

The sound of the sea drifted up from the shore and settled around you, blanketing the small deck in a layer of artificial calm. The sun had begun its descent, and the water glimmered golden in it’s dying light.

Now, there was just you and the ocean and your thoughts.

Which, if you were honest with yourself, wasn’t that much of an improvement.

Because you were thinking of him.

Because that’s all you ever did anymore.

Thinking of how you wished he was here and how you never wanted to face him again. Thinking of how you wished everything was simpler.

And how you didn’t wish that at all.

It was true, at first Kylo Ren had been nothing to you. His existence was more of a myth, a legend that you heard whispered, but was easy to disbelieve. How could a man like that exist, you’d thought. People didn’t live off of blood and waves of rotting bodies, they didn’t feed on power or bend the very fabric of the universe to their will.

But they did drink coffee, and brush their teeth, and sleep beside you when they thought you wouldn’t remember. Real people tied their shoes and put holes in your wall when you talked out of turn.

You thought of your first dreams of him, when Kylo was still soft and kind and not wholly himself—warm and gentle and lacking. You thought of him filling out around the edges, becoming clearer and sharper in words and reality. You thought of him cursing you, of holding his touch hostage and making you come apart cruelly empty of his skin. It was as if you were summoning something old and dark, drawing him more completely to you with each ritual. Everytime you came with his name in your mouth, another hook sunk and dragged him in.

As if whatever had placed him there had taken its time, pulling pieces of him into your head until even when you were conscious, it was impossible to keep him from slipping into the forefront of your mind.

And now that you’d been given a taste of it—of relief from the awful pit that drained you dry and was never satisfied—you were shaking again, ravenous like a starved animal with the loss.

You got the distinct feeling there would always be something standing in between you and the Commander. Always something, always something, always something keeping you just a hair's breadth apart—making sure your palms never quite touched.

It wasn’t enough to just hate him anymore, to feel your bones shake with the need to make him feel the same pain he inflicted on you.

In your desperate attempt to craft something to fill the void in your small existence, Kylo Ren had become the tendons and threads which knitted you together into one, cohesive whole.

You needed all of him, unencumbered, uninterrupted, raw and real with his teeth sunk into you.

And really, how wrong was that?

Well, you knew the answer was most likely very wrong. But there was a reason you were good at your job and it wasn’t because you were in possession of a perfectly functioning code of ethics.

You breathed in the salt spray off the sea and let it coat your lungs. The crashing of the waves rumbled in your chest like a drum beat, steady, sure, and comforting. No matter what, there would always be other worlds, other oceans, other lives that kept going even when yours did not.

You were falling asleep, eyelids heavy and dropping every few seconds.

And soon, you would dream.

***

He was standing at the end of a dark hallway, just barely silhouetted by the strips of moonlight filtering through the windows. His back was to you, so you called his name softly. When he turned, his face was blessedly bare and pale and shocked.

“What are you doing here?” Kylo hissed.

You stared in confusion as he moved swiftly down the hall, grabbing your arm and tugging until you stumbled behind him into a side passage.

The second he stopped you wrenched your hand from his grasp.

“What are you talking about?” you snapped and he whirled on you, massive, gloved hand clamping down over your mouth.

“Keep your voice down,” he said, caging you against the wall.

The tip of his nose brushed against yours as he spoke. Your cries of protest were muffled by the soft leather, its smoke stained taste invading your tongue when you tried to speak. Shaking your head in his grasp, you manueved one of his fingers between your lips and bit down, hard. The fabric caught on your teeth as he ripped his hand away and cursed.

“Fuck, you—!” a small trickle of blood dripped from the hole in his glove where your teeth had torn at the flesh. His eyes were venomous, “I told you not to leave your room.”

“I didn’t—” you were cut off abruptly as voices began to echo down the abandoned corridor.

You both stared wide eyed at each other as the sound of footsteps approaching grew louder. Quickly, he stepped forward, pressing both your bodies flat against the wall. You didn’t dare breathe as two figures passed by your hiding spot in the shadows and entered the door at the end of the hall.

Kylo was so close you could see his throat move as he swallowed, his chest right up against your face, the scent of him washing over you. Something hard was pressing into your thigh. You convinced yourself it was just his saber, despite the warm pulsing you felt every time you twitched against him.

He was looking down at you, lips parted as though he might speak, but the voices filtering out from under the door drowned anything he might have said.

“Representative, we can’t be too hasty.”

Each word dripped down your spine leaving a viscous and greasy trail. You knew that voice.

An example.

But why would you be dreaming about Gahl and his so-called advisor?

“You aren’t dreaming,” Kylo whispered, exasperation clear as he spoke. His eyes bored into you, leaving behind painful trails wherever they darted across your skin. “Now shut your mouth before you get us caught.”

His hand found your mouth again, his fingers prying it open and pressing hard down on your tongue. You gagged around them, the iron of his blood coating your teeth as he pulled harshly down on your jaw. It ached and popped but no sound escaped.

You’d read somewhere before that you can’t feel pain in your dreams, but you certainly felt that.

He was right. Not a dream then.

You swallowed around Kylo’s fingers, hints of metal and smokey leather dripping down your throat. His eyes were fixed on your lips as they stretched around him. The warm, hard presence at your thigh ground into you by an almost imperceptible inch.

“You said if we took the girl, he’d come.”

It was Gahl this time, his voice rougher around the edges with age. You found yourself letting your hips curiously rock up just a hair while you listened for the slight hitch in the Commander’s breath you knew so well.

Your heart nearly stopped at the sound—not his saber.

“Ren will come sir,” Atreus purred. “I’m sure of it.”

“How can you be so sure?” Gahl sounded unconvinced.

You sucked lightly, letting your tongue trace a slow line in the gap between Kylo’s fingers. He growled low into your ear, “Behave.”

Yeah, you thought, it’s really gonna be me who gives us away.

“I saw it sir, when he was here before, the girl was in his head.”

That gave you pause, and you narrowed your eyes searching his face for any reaction. He remained blank but for the slight crease in his brow, and the shaking of his breath. Your mind raced at the implication. You’d certainly been aware that the Commander was constantly in your head, but you were almost entirely sure Kylo Ren hadn’t given you a second thought until very recently.

“I still don’t understand what is so remarkable about that woman,” Gahl grumbled from behind the door.

Well you certainly weren’t going to argue with him on that, although it felt a little unnecessary to keep bringing up just how expendable you were.

“I can’t explain it either sir, but he’ll come for her. And if he doesn’t, her death will prove to be more than motivating enough to draw him in.”

You felt like gagging at every word leaving that man's mouth. Kylo’s fingers in your mouth turned sour the longer you listened.

“You had better not be wrong, Atreus,” Gahl warned, his tone darker and sharper than you’d ever heard from the old man. “I want that masked idiot dead and the First Order at my feet by the end of this election cycle.”

Every muscle in your body was tensed, clenched and pulled taught like a coil, your jaw clicked as you worked against the intrusion in your mouth. Suddenly the scent of him was too much—the air hanging heavy in your lungs and never quite exhaling fully.

Gods, Kylo Ren really was the source of all your turmoil.

Your tongue and teeth and lips pushed and bit against his fingers until he finally pulled them from your mouth.

You were going to die here—you were going to die here and it wouldn’t mean anything. They were right, you were unimportant and your death would be nothing more than a blip in the First Order’s radar. And somehow Kylo Ren had managed to put you right in the middle of the crossfire.

You needed to get away, couldn’t bear to hear whatever came next.

“Get off me,” you hissed, wrestling against his hands trying to keep you in place.

“Stay still—” His voice was sandpaper on your skin and you needed to leave, had to leave, had to get as far away as possible—

“I said,” you managed to position your hands squarely on his chest and shoved with a surprising amount of force, “get off me!”

Kylo Ren stumbled, actually stumbled back and stared at you with an awful, bitter cocktail of shock and anger and something else you didn’t have the time or patience to place. Father down the hall, a door was opening and voices approached from the hall.

Everything faded to black far before you ever heard what they said.

***

You were on your feet before you could even open your eyes.

The sea was calling and you were going to listen, the small stones of the shoreline sinking between your toes as you rushed down the small path from your room. Waves were crashing in pairs when you finally made it to the water's edge, stripping your evening clothes off piece by piece like shedding skin, needing to be free.

Free of nothing.

Free of everything.

The salt spray churned and rolled over your ankles and calves as you waded out into the sea. Something was pulling you, stronger than the currents, tugging you out into deeper water and you let it until your head sank below the surface and the sound of muted thunder waves roiling was a cacophony in your head.

You were drifting, mind and body being tossed about.

Confused—reality doesn’t have a clear border anymore and you couldn’t be sure what had happened and what hadn't, what should have happened but didn’t.

Scared—you didn’t want to die, it wasn’t something you’d thought of before despite the nature of your employment, but you realized now that it was never your strength or wit keeping you alive, just luck.

Angry—boiling inside at the thought of your unshakeable insignificance.

Angry—unwilling to die over the wounded pride of men who constantly underestimated you.

Angry—at yourself for inexplicably wanting one of them anyway.

You let out your breath and screamed. Let the bubbles leave your mouth in a rush of air and pent up frustrations. The rumbling shock of diluted sound waves reverberated in your chest. You shrieked until your ears popped and your lungs were empty and water rushed to fill the vacuum left behind.

And for a few moments, when nothing remained inside you and the world was in a strange, unbalanced limbo, you felt it. Inside that crater within your soul that wept and lamented its lacking, there was a spark. Something bright and firecracker red like a lost ember which had forgotten the fire of its youth.

And you knew what you needed to do to feed it, to let it burn, to fill yourself to the brim and overflow with totality.

Your head broke the surface like an eggshell, water streaming into your eyes as you gasped in lungfuls of wind off the sea. Someone was shouting for you. Far on the shoreline, a massive black silhouette stood bathed in starshine and the moon.

It took a moment for you to realize he was yelling at you.

“What are you doing?!”

His voice barely carried over the rushing water and the sound of your arms splashing to keep you afloat.

“None of your business,” you called, turning to swim farther out into the depths.

You could hear his frustrated shout as the waves kicked up over his boots.

“Get back here,” he snarled.

You weren’t able to make out his face, but you were sure his lips were pulled back, bearing crooked teeth ready to rip your throat out.

He might do just that with a little coaxing. That was fine with you. Your anger was one meant to be shared.

“Make me.”

You could feel him snapping even as you drifted deeper out to sea. He was fraying, about to break and you wanted it. Wanted him drowning in the same turmoil as you.

“You want me to make you?” he was raging now, hands tearing at his clothes, “You want me to fucking make you?”

You watched as he was revealed to you and tumbled into the surf, incoherent fury sapping all the grace from his steps—demise personified parting the waters.

The moon glinted off Kylo’s skin and he practically glowed with it. In spite of yourself, you thought he looked every bit a prince, so painfully handsome in his own, strange way–inimitable and all the more lovely for it. Inky black water swirled and the breakers crashed against the bare expanse of his chest, like the sea itself was desperate to steal a taste of him.

Something within you–scarlet and glimmering–stirred.

Something that ached.

Something that yearned.

Something hungry.

You watched him wade towards where you were floating, felt the current shift and draw you to him like a sinking ship. In his eyes you saw that same spark, red and crackling and alive. There was a beast in his bones and it smiled.

And you knew, you would let it take you.

But not without a fight.

You kicked and struggled against the Force pulling you to him, not certain if he was the one controlling it or if it had its own mind and movement. But it was a futile effort either way. He was on you in seconds, fingers like claws grasping your ankle and ripping you through the water to him.

He growled and grabbed a fistful of your hair, dragging your head underwater without warning. But you flailed and felt your foot connect with the hard plane of his stomach and his grip on you slipped.

“This is your fault,” you screeched when you came up again.

He was heavier than you, larger and sunk faster in the deep water. You maneuvered your hands into his hair as well while he tried to stay above the surface and yanked him down—shouts turned to bubbles—until he raked his nails across your bare chest and the sharp pain made you let go.

Kylo’s head connected with your jaw as he came spluttering to the surface and your mouth flooded with the metallic taste of blood. It dripped from your lips in a stream and you spat out a mess of red stained sea water, watching it splattered over his handsome face in rivulets.

“You brought this on yourself, you arrogant little slut,” he roared, shaking your shoulders in his hands until the back of your hand cracked across his face.

“I’m the slut?!” you shrieked. “You can’t even be in the same room with me without your dick getting hard!”

He was right now too, you could feel the prominent, warm pressure of his cock slotted against your stomach. And whether or not there was a heat building between your thighs at the thought of it was neither here nor there.

Blood still dripped down your chin as you both ripped at each other's hair, slippery with sea salt and plastered to your skulls.

“You think I can’t hear you begging for me,” his face is so close you can see all the hairline scars that ran through it, connecting the dots between his freckles.

Your nose brushed against his, “I’m not the one avoiding the subject!”

His knee slipped hard into the space between your legs and you yelped.

“You have no idea what’s at stake here,” he gritted through his teeth.

“My life, asshole,” you bristled. “I’m gonna die here trying to fix the mess you started!”

Neither of you spoke after the words died on your lips, just floating and gasping with the exertion of staying afloat. In the following silence, with the adrenaline pounding behind your ears, Kylo’s eyes were locked onto yours—black pools like the dark water.

Seconds passed and you let whatever dying flame was inside your chest grow until its heat under your skin was blistering and driving you forward into the only thing that would offer any relief.

Kylo’s lips were plump and soft under yours as they crashed together, your teeth clacking with the impact. It didn’t matter, not when his tongue licking into your mouth was the most soothing sensation you’d ever felt.

His hands were frantic, grabbing fistfuls of your flesh and pulling you as close to him as possible, leaving no inch of skin untouched. Your legs wound around his hips, locking ankles just above the lovely curve of his ass. He groaned into your lips and you felt it in your bones.

Tell me, he spoke in your head, and it felt as though he had always belonged there.

Your ribs were cracking open to let him spill in, to fill in all the holes that riddled you.

Tell me, he repeated again and it sounded like praying.

His teeth caught your lip, sucking blood into his mouth so you could be inside him too. And he was so hot against you, all pale naked and sinful. You’d never realized someone could feel so solid, so painfully real and not just a trick of the light in your mind. Arms of pure, corded muscle locked around your back and crushed you to him as his feet found purchase on the soft sand.

The sea was spitting you back onto the shoreline, waves crashing over your entangled limbs. It was no longer clear where you ended and Kylo began.

It was not close enough.

Kylo, you whimpered hoping the connection went both ways and he would hear you too.

I’m here, you felt the pebbles of the beach kick up as he stood out of the surf and walked you up the beach. I’m here, tell me.

His mouth never ceased to move against yours, biting, sucking, drinking you down to soothe the burn of the salt. Between your bodies, his cock was twitching. And now that you were blessedly free of the water, you could feel yourself dripping with need for him.

You’d been this close once before, but it hadn’t felt anything like this.

Kylo walked you up the beach, kneeling down in front of his pile of discarded clothes and landing in a heap on top of you. He ground his hips down, the tip of his length catching on your clit. The sound you made was inhuman, pure desire.

The rocks of the beach bit into your back through his cloak, but you hardly noticed when his lips wandered down your neck. He growled and sunk his teeth into the flesh between your shoulder and neck, sucking a mark into your skin you would never be able to hide.

You reared up, ready to paint more bruises on his skin when a hand closed around your throat and slammed you back into the earth.

Tell me or you can’t touch, he groaned.

You huffed and whined when he pinned your wrists in one hand above your head. No matter how hard you pulled, you couldn’t break his grip and you knew before he must have been letting you hit and kick and scratch at him. Must have liked it.

You squirmed at the thought.

His lips ghosted over your collarbone, other hand skimming up to palm at your breasts. Kylo’s mouth closed over a nipple, rolling it on his tongue and nipping when you bucked your hips into him.

You watched him lap at your skin, loving the wet streaks he left behind.

I hate you, you shot back.

He smirked against your chest and moved on to torment your other breast, all the while grinding his cock between your soaked lips, coating himself in you.

Lying won’t get you anywhere, he punctuated the statement with a particularly hard thrust over your clit.

The slide of it was delicious and maddening and you needed more.

I’m not lying, you said, although the string of moans leaving your mouth when he circled the tip of his dick over your entrance was not at all convincing.He pushed in just barely, never hard enough to actually grant you any relief.

I know a lie when I hear one, his voice was velvet and it was driving you off the edge.

But you would fight till the very end. It was one of your few redeeming qualities.

Fuck you.

That’s a bit more accurate, yes.

He chuckled darkly resting his head on your sternum so he could watch as you helplessly rolled your hips while his cock remained frustratingly not in your pussy.

Fine, you signed and he flicked his eyes back to your face.

Kylo’s movements stilled and he pulled his hands back, leaning down to rest on his elbows above you. Some of his pretty sea-curled hair tickled your nose.

“II wantwant youyou,” you whispered feeling it echo through whatever presence was allowing you to transfer your thoughts without really speaking.

His breath hitched in that beautiful way that you loved.

And then you were screaming—really truly screaming—his hand clamping down on your mouth to stifle the noise.

But the wave of otherworldly pleasure and searing pain that washed over you when he thrust his hips, cock sinking into your cunt to the hilt in one swift motion was entirely too much bare.

Though, Kylo was not faring much better. His face fell into the crook of your neck and he groaned into the skin. He didn’t move for a few moments, and you felt your walls tighten around him. He was massive, you’d known that, but never had you expected to feel so full.

You cared very little then, about whether or not you were going to die on this godforsaken planet, not if he could fuck you like this. Not if you got to feel Kylo Ren in every conceivable part of your body.

He let out a shaky breath into your neck and pulled himself up.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he gasped, drawing his cock out of you until only the tip remained sheathed in your warmth. “Ruin this pretty little pussy for anyone else.”

Kylo slammed back into you, making your tits bounce as his hips slapped against your ass. You knew he was right. There would be no coming back from this—for him or you.

“No one will ever feel like I do,” you retorted, clenching harder around him as he worked up a steady rhythm.

You watched the muscles in his abdomen twitch as you tightened yourself and he reared back on his knees, grabbing your waist with his massive hands and hoisting your lower body off the ground.

The new angle stretched you even more and every thrust caught that elusive spot inside you that had your thighs trying to snap shut against his hips.

“Fuck, Kylo!” you cried, as shameless as always.

“What?” he grunted. “You want it harder? Want me deeper?”

“Yesyesyesyesyes,” you babbled, needing anything he would give you.

Kylo delivered on your request. You felt him in your stomach, each thrust was quick and sharp and angled just right and you had never felt anything like you did now.

He was in your head still, his presence was warm and glowed a dim, sultry red that made your mind hazy—illuminated parts of yourself you’d thought were forgotten. Passion, that’s what he felt like, deep and forbidden. Delicious truth.

“You keep saying you aren’t a whore, but look how well you’re taking my cock,” Kylo mused.

You knew you were in his head too, could feel yourself leaking in through the cracks. He was thinking about how magnificent your pussy felt swallowing his length, how badly he wanted to cum in you, claim you and make you keep his release inside.

There was fear there too.

Longing and something darker.

You wanted to take it away.

“Only for you,” you muttered between thrusts, crying out when the Force loosed it tendrils over your skin. A shapeless finger rolled and teased your clit while two others kneaded at your chest.

“You’re a whore just for me?” he was coming unhinged, you could sense it in the way his cock was pulsing in you.

You nodded, bringing a hand to rest over his on your waist.

“Good girl.”

He threw his head back, and you admired the lovely angle of his throat against the night sky. The Force on your clit was unrelenting and you wouldn’t last much longer, the tight coil of pleasure was building in your gut and spreading through your veins like quicksilver.

“Kylo, I’m gonna—” you were cut off by his hand grabbing you by the hair and crushing you up into his chest.

He sat your ass on his knees and lifted you up, dragging you back down onto his cock. You were like a rag doll in his hands as he wrapped his arms around your back and slammed you down. There was no space left between your bodies, nothing but the slide of your sweat slicked skin and his breath on your face.

Even surrounded by the scent of sex and the sea you could still smell fresh mint lingering on his tongue.

That might have been what finally sent you toppling over the edge. Or maybe it was the look on his face—brows furrowed and lips parted in a pleasure only you could bring him. Or maybe it was just the finality of it all.

That Kylo Ren was unequivocally and irreparably linked to you now in some way. Be it through the blood in your mouths or his cock painting your insides with cum as you sobbed and clenched around him, circling in a feedback loop of each other’s orgasm. He was panting in your ear, spewing curses you couldn’t comprehend and fucking you through your release and his.

This was something bigger than it seemed, you knew it when you heard him grunt your name while his mouth latched back on to the mark on your neck. Knew it when the glowing red presence in your head didn’t fade and the empty feeling you’d called friend all these years didn’t return.

Knew it when he let you stay wrapped in his arms for a few precious seconds, his softening length still filling you with its pleasant, stinging warmth.

Knew it when you felt the softest press of his lips to your neck when he lifted his head and pressed yours to his chest with a massive hand.

His heart beat steadily under all the bone and sinew.

It wasn’t until then that you became consciously aware he had one.

“You aren’t going to die,” he whispered.

And you wished you could believe him. Almost said so, but the words never came out, got lost somewhere in between your lips and how his skin was so much softer than you ever imagined it would be. Then he was pressing two fingers to your temple, a wave of unwilling sleep falling over you in a lovely, red blanket.

And this time, you didn’t dream.

----------------------------------------------------

Taglist lovelies:

@thewilddingleberries @contesa-lui-alucard @obsessionprofessional @kit-jpg @findyourdarkness

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagines #kylo ren x female reader #not canon compliant #star wars #reader insert #star wars sequel fic #kylo smut #kylo ren smut #dr. b writes

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depressedstressedlemonzest · 1 year

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Ten Tag Thursday

Rules:Post 10 facts about yourself and pass it along to a few favorites!

I am pretty close with my brother, he's three years younger than me and he lives 5 minutes away. We'll talk about anything and everything with one another. I thought most siblings were like this but my husband's aren't. The defining moment of difference when I was getting wheeled away for surgery and my brother licked my face. My husband was like WTF, and I was like we've always done that. Our reason being our mom saying "if you really love someone you'll lick them anywhere" demonstrating by licking my stepdad's armpit at the time. Granted we're adults now, but every once in awhile we'll face lick.

2. I have a bump on my forehead from when I was younger and fell off a wobbly kitchen chair and hit the VHS cabinet corner and got a nice slice. I was like... 8 and trying to get my paints from the back room when my mom was napping.

3. I have a weird memory, I can't remember most of childhood before like 10, but I can still remember lines from movies and tv shows I haven't seen in years.

4. I want to have kids, like so badly. But I'm terrified that I have something wrong with me to where I can't. If I can't I wouldn't mind adopting, hell I would want to adopt anyway, not as a last resort, I just want some kids. But husband and I have those types of appointments this month to make sure we aren't damaged.

5. I'm one of two granddaughters on my dad's side, the other one is almost 20 years older than me so basically I'm the only one in the last batch of babies.

6. I'm scared of birds and mice. Birds if there are more than two together can swarm and attack, they can poop on you, they can flap in your face. And the mice fear I blame on my mother.

picture it 1997, six year old Lem, with a sprained ankle, hobbling down the hall to the bathroom, mom helping me walk because I was hurting. She opens the bathroom door and turns on the light only to see a mouse. She shoves my ass in the bathroom, shuts off the lights, slams the door and runs screaming for my dad.

7. I've written three books, wrote them in like middle school and they are HORRIBLY cringe now, especially when I remember asking my english teacher to proof read them AND SHE DID. One was an old victorian romance with the main male lead living in a treehouse, one about a werewolf romance, and one with a vampire romance.

8. I'm afraid that I'm not a good person, that I'm only pretending to be one.

9. I've always been a fucking smartass, and have always had incidents of malicious compliance. My mom shares a story about when I was in softball at age.... 10? 11? When I was pitching and the coach kept getting on my ass about "Presenting the ball" and I just straight up Vanna Whited the ball to the players and the stands, hand flourishing and all.

When I worked at a Walgreens one night the manager wanted me to put together a display of russell stover chocolates for easter, and as I was working a coworker was the only cashier and he was busy so I went to help a lot. Then at the end of the shift I had to stay late because I wasn't done with the display and it pissed my manager off. The next day the managers were wanting us to write down what we do during our shift and the time frames we do it on index cards to help with our time management.

I used up about 5 index cards for my 8 hour shift.

5:00 clock in 5:01 walk to locker and put things away 5:02 walk to photo booth

alll up until my shift was over. Every minute accounted for and the managers never bitched at me for time management again.

10. I don't know how to ride a bike. I know the logistics, but once the training wheels came off for me that was it.

@witchboywitchboywitchboy @xninetiestrendx @vintagelacerosette @trans-alpha-male @suzy-queued @ian-galagher

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badger-writes · 3 years

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Star Wars OC Ship Week 2021 - “for light and love”

Day 5 - Meeting the Family

Kelto stared up at the Temple ziggurat from the ground of Processional Way. From bas-relief faces chiseled into massive monoliths, the Four Masters stared back.

It was humbling, to be standing in the shadow of history like this, in the very gaze of the Jedi. Humbling, and more than a little intimidating. He wouldn’t mind it so much, if he could simply follow the stairs back into the temple, but Sskeer had asked him to be here - to wait for him, out in the middle of the boulevard. Here, when all of Coruscant sprawled around them, gleaming marble and aurodium.

Couldn’t we have just met somewhere else?, he wondered to himself, shifting on feet that were rapidly becoming sore. Somewhere nicer? I hear Monument Plaza is lovely this time of day - or there’s this one diner in CoCo Town we could have stopped at, Master Jora says they make the best galma fruit cobbler--

There he is, he thought, spying Sskeer coming down the Temple steps. He set off at a trot to meet him at their base, robes flapping in the breeze behind him. At about the halfway point between them he realized Sskeer was being trailed by another humanoid. This didn’t strike him as particularly odd - sure, Sskeer was a bit of a sourpuss and a loner, but he’d put up with him for this long, hadn’t he? - but it made him wonder, just for a moment.

“Sskeer!”, he called, slowing to a stop at the foot of the stairs. “Good morning.”

Sskeer returned him with a curt nod as he finished descending. “Healer Lem. I see you received my transmission.”

“Yes,” Kelto replied, panting only a little. “What took you so long? I thought you wanted to meet at mid-morning - it’s almost noon by now.”

“I had to collect someone.” By now, the humanoid - an actual human - following in Sskeer’s wake had reached the foot of Processional Way as well; he gestured between her and Kelto. “Keeve Trennis, may I present Kelto Lem, Jedi Knight and healer.”

The youngling - Keeve - stood at attention, hands clasped behind her back, bowing at the hip. She couldn’t have been more than the older side of teenaged, Kelto guessed, and she was seemingly built for action - compact, lean, and wiry. Her dark skin glowed under the light of the sun, and the curtain of thick, dark curls from her half-shave spilled off to frame the right side of her face. The long hilt of a double-bladed lightsaber hung from where she’d clipped it to her hip.

She smiled at him. Politely, Kelto smiled back.

“And Kelto Lem,” Ssker continued, gesturing again, “may I present Padawan Trennis.”

“Hello,” he said, bowing.

“Hello, Mast-- wait.” Keeve froze mid-bow and gawked up at Sskeer. “‘Padawan’?”

The Trandoshan looked down at her expectantly. “Did I misspeak, apprentice?”

As Keeve all but combusted with joy and gratitude, Kelto grinned at Sskeer. In doing so, he noticed something in his eye, something in the way he set his face - the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, and the corner of his mouth tugged to one side just so. The warmth they carried.

“Well, look at you now, ‘Master’ Sskeer,” he chortled, crossing his arms. “The big, cranky lizard finally mellows out and takes a student! Jora and I must finally have gotten through to you,” he added, and leaned over to nudge him with an elbow.

“If my social manners have appeared to improve, Healer,” Sskeer rejoined coolly, “it is no doubt because I have spent time becoming accustomed to smaller, more annoying lifeforms.”

“You wound me, sir. I’ll tell Jora you said that about us. ‘Small and annoying’ - the truth finally comes out.”

Before them, Padawan Trennis had finally reached the end of a furious stream of thank-yous, and now stood with a flush on her face and a stray curl dangling in front of her forehead, beaming. It was no secret why Sskeer had chosen her, Kelto thought. The way she carried herself, the glint in her eye - she was spunky. More than that, she was ready.

“So,” he said grandly. “The big lizard finally deigns we should meet. I’m glad to finally meet you, Padawan.”

“Likewise, Master Lem,” she said, bowing again. “Only--”

“Bah! I’m no master, not yet. Just call me Kelto. Or ‘Kolto’. Either’s fine.”

“Er- Yes, Master Kelto.”

“Close enough. What were you going to say?”

“Oh, just - I’ve heard about you before, from Master Malli.”

The Rodian shot the Trandoshan a faux-scandalized look. “You really introduced her to Jora before me?”

For once, Sskeer looked like he was caught on the backfoot. “I really didn’t think it would matter,” he shrugged.

“Typical. I’m always the last to know anything.”

Keeve giggled into a hand. Sskeer shot Kelto a look that said, you’re making me look foolish in front of my new apprentice. Kelto flashed him a grin that said, try and stop me.

“So anyway, Keeve,” he said breezily before Sskeer could get a word in edgewise, “what’s Master Malli been saying about me? Nothing but good things, I hope.”

“Yes, sir. Only…” And here Keeve’s eyes screwed up towards the sky, feigning the impression of innocence, like a child trial-ballooning a potentially revealing question to their parents. “I don’t really know if it’s okay to say this, but she did mention once or twice that you were kind of… more than just friends? Sort of? That you were figuring it out?”

The reptilians blinked, then glanced at each other. Then they looked back at Keeve.

“I don’t know,” she continued, shrugging. “It’s just, I’ve heard that that stuff’s technically not allowed under the Code, but Master Jora said it was okay if you thought about it like this and not like that, but it’s all a little… you know, confusing.”

Sskeer rumbled thoughtfully. “And what do you think about such matters, Padawan?”

“I dunno, Master,” she said, shrugging again. “I’m still just a learner, I’m not sure it’s any of my business. Orrr - anybody else’s, really. But if she’s right and it ends up working out, or whatever - I guess I’m happy for you two?”

“So you’re not gonna snitch?” Kelto asked suddenly.

“What? Pfft, kriff no.”

Sskeer’s scaly brows shot up his forehead. “Padawan,” he hissed, as Kelto cackled.

“Sorry!”, she yelped, blushing furiously. “Sorry, master!”

Kelto sighed, and wiped a tear from his eye. “Ohhh, I like her,” he decided, and reached up to pat Sskeer on his broad shoulder. “You’re really going to have your hands full with this one, Master.”

Sskeer hmmphed. “Regardless - Padawan Trennis, your first duty as apprentice shall be to accompany me on a patrol of Level 5053, so I can appraise your performance in the field. I will signal a speeder - you wait here with Healer Lem.” He gave the Rodian a sidelong glance as he fished out a comlink.

“Try not to rub off on her,” he grumbled as he turned away.

“No promises,” Kelto whispered back.

As the Trandoshan spoke into the comm unit a few paces away, Keeve and Kelto were left standing next to each other.

“So what do you think of your new Master and his little healer friend, Padawan?”, he asked her.

“No offense,” Keeve began slowly, “But… you two don’t really act like what I thought Jedi Masters would act like.”

“Clearly you haven’t met many Jedi Masters,” he replied. “We’re pretty much all like this. The ‘wise and venerable’ thing is just an act the old timers put on. It’s mostly sass and bickering.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were just a Knight?”

“Well - you know,” he said, scratching his head so the pom of his topknot bobbled, “Not yet. But I’m getting there!”

Keeve grinned, shooting a puff of air out through her nostrils. This was a thing humanoids with noses did when they were amused, Kelto had observed - or irritated. With Sskeer, it was mostly irritation. She turned to look at him, still talking into his comm.

After a moment she said, “I like him. He’s kind of rough around the edges, but… he’s good to people. A protector, I guess. I have a good feeling about him.”

Kelto nodded in agreement. He turned to look at Sskeer, silhouetted against the sky beyond the far edge of the boulevard. “So do I.”

If Keeve noticed the pride in his voice or in his smile, he didn’t care. He’d seen that pride in Sskeer’s eyes already, looking at her. And it made him proud, too.

It was an honor to know this man, and to love him. And the Code, whatever it had to say about it, could clam up.

“I think you’re the fun one,” Keeve decided.

Kelto shook himself out of reverie. “Hm?”

“I think you’re the one who’s going to tell me how to push all his buttons if I ask nicely,” she said, grinning.

“Hah - I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, a little bashfully. “I sure didn’t start out as the ‘fun’ one, I’ll tell you that much.”

“So was I wrong?”

“Well, we can give each other grief, but he’s your master now. And you ought to treat him with a certain amount of respect at all times. No matter how much grief I, or Jora, or any other masters might be giving him.”

“Oh, so it’s different with you,” she observed. “Because you’re friends, or because you’re… ‘friends’?”

He tilted his shoulders to one side, then the other, then again in a little sort-of dance, humming thoughtfully. “I prefer to think of it as because we’re family,” he said finally. “One great big Jedi family.”

She frowned dubiously at him. Which was fair - it was a total cop-out.

“And now so are you,” Kelto finished. He squeezed her shoulder with a smile, and at that, she seemed to perk up. “So make sure you listen to him out there, okay? And trust him. He’ll be good to you, Keeve Trennis. So you make sure to be good in turn.”

“I will, Master Kelto.” Keeve set her jaw and nodded. “I promise.”

“Good.” He glanced to the side; Sskeer was still stuck on the comm line. “Now, do you want to hear a secret?”

“Uhhh… sure?”

He leaned in close, talking behind the back of his hand. “He might look really grumpy,” he told her in a stage whisper, “but deep down, Sskeer loves giving puffer-piggyback rides.”

“I’m… not so sure about that,” Keeve replied doubtfully.

“Hey, you wanted to know how to push his buttons, didn’t you? So you better do it while you’re still small enough for him to carry around.”

Her eyebrows raised mischievously. He gave her a wink.

“Padawan!”, called Sskeer. “Our speeder will arrive at the foot of the temple. We should be off.”

“Coming, Master!” She started, stopped, bowed to Kelto one last time, then resumed jogging over to her teacher.

Kelto waited patiently. He watched Keeve catch up to Sskeer’s retreating form and then, with just a touch of the Force, jump straight up and latch onto his shoulders. He cried out in alarm, and staggered a step - but he caught her, and didn’t fall over.

The Trandoshan half-turned on his heel to give Kelto an impotent glare; he wiggled his fingers in an innocent wave back at him. He was going to get a stern talking-to later tonight for that little stunt, he was sure - and probably a little more besides - but the toothy grin Sskeer probably thought Kelto wouldn’t see him crack was worth whatever reprisal he had in store.

Those two would go far together. Kelto just knew it.

#StarWarsOCShipWeek2021 #star wars #high republic #sskeer #keeve trennis #original character #oc x canon #fanfic

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drakewalkerfantasy · 4 years

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Don't fall in love (Eleventh Doctor x Clara Oswald)

A Doctor Who fanfiction for #WhouffleWeek2020

Day 1: Jealousy / “How does that feel?”

Pairing: Eleventh Doctor x Clara Oswald

Tagging: @choices-bound @jamespotterthefirst @the-soot-sprite @annekebbphotography

Summary: After winning a battle against the Daleks, Clara witness something what made her angry, jealous and sad. Something what she never expected to see, not when it concerned her Doctor. And the truth that she was afraid to admit even to herself, finally comes out. The silence realisation comes to both that they finally broke the only rule they were strict about: Don't fall in love.

Words: 1305

A/N: I'm not sure who want to be tagged, so tagging some people hope you don't mind. If you do mind please let me know :)

**Warnings: slightly angsty**

When the battle against the Daleks was finally won and Clara’s gaze searched for the Doctor, with sparkles of glee in them, she saw what she never expected to see. The Doctor... her Doctor locked in a passionate kiss with Tasha Lem. She could feel how her heart sunk breaking in a thousand pieces. The powerful pain she never felt before burning through her soul. Her eyes watered and her lower lip trembled, but she still kept calm gulping this new founded feelings away and turning around quietly disappearing into the TARDIS.

Inside she leaned against the console panel. Her palms spread flat against it trying to calm down, pushing away the pain that the sight of the Doctor kissing another woman caused her. She didn’t even realise that she wasn’t alone anymore when the cheerful voice of the man who occupied her thoughts broke through bringing her to reality. Bringing back the anger and pang of jealousy she suddenly felt.

“Where now?” exclaimed Doctor swirling around on the spot before pressing some buttons with ease, sliding to the next set of levers to pull on them.

“I don’t know,” replied Clara. Her usual excitement replaced by indifference and apathy that made Doctor’s brows furrow at a loss of what happened. His brains processing everything what just happened not getting a single clue what could possibly upset Clara. And he could sense that she was in fact upset by him somehow. But why? What did he do to upset his Clara... his impossible girl. His brows furrowed even more in concentration and he pouted slightly still having not a single clue what was wrong.

“Are you okay?” he asked placing his hand on top of hers trying to catch her gaze, feeling how her hand slipped under his and she took a step away. The fact that she even didn’t look at him instead focusing her gaze on the buttons and levers in front of her made him worry even more. “Clara...,” he said. His gaze completely at loss and he stopped moving focusing instead on her, trying to figure out what was wrong. His hand reached for hers but she pulled it out of his reach and turned her back on him. And her next words she uttered in a barely audible whisper breaking slightly at the end made his hearts skip a bit and his eyes widened.

“Take me home,” she said, walking away from him toward the stairs that lead to the corridor filled with lots of rooms, hopping to find some corner away from him and let her emotions out.

“Ok...kay,” he said. His voice breaking slightly feeling somehow responsible for the way how distant she seemed to be. Subconsciously feeling that in some way this was his fault and he somehow hurt Clara without meaning to. But he didn’t question it at least not now... watching her walk away, pulling and pushing buttons to bring her home.

When TARDIS finally landed, Doctor watched Clara to move across the console platform in silence, throwing him a single glance before moving down the stairs toward the exit. He could feel that something was wrong, but no matter how hard he thought about that he still couldn’t understand what... what could have possibly happen in these two-three God forsaken minutes after they won and him finally joining her in the TARDIS.

“See you next Wednesday,” hopefully asked Doctor, feeling somehow nervous while waiting for her reply.

“Uhuh...,” she replied, making a first step down the stair, when Doctor couldn’t take any more of that and ran toward her catching her by her elbow and turning Clara to face him. His face a perfect picture of confusion that occupied his every feature while he searched her eyes as if trying to decipher her bad mood.

“Clara, what did I do? Did... did I do something to upset you?” asked Doctor frowning in confusion. His eyes wide and hopeful, waiting for the instruction of how he can fix this and make her feel better.

“Doctor, I told you it’s nothing. So just leave it. Anyway, you probably want to be back with your friend... to celebrate the victory. So I will not delay you,” she said tiredly, feeling how tears brimmed her eyes. She knew that this wasn’t fair and by the look in his eyes he probably didn’t mean to hurt her or even didn’t realise he even did it, but it still hurt and she... she was jealous. There was no denying it. She was insanely jealous by the way his lips moved along Tasha’s while she herself was standing right here beside him... while she wanted to be kissed like that by him even though it wasn’t fair to him as he didn't promise her anything but she was jealous and angry and hurt... Quickly she moved toward the exit trying to get away from here as fast as she could, trying not to reveal to him her weakness.

She knew that not falling in love with him was a trick as he was brilliant, and funny, and mad... and he needed her. And she really thought that she could perform this trick successfully, sometimes even twice per day until his lips connected with Tasha's. The jealousy coursing through her, like the Daleks' blast of electricity as painful and as fast. It was at this moment when she realised that the trick of not falling in love with the Doctor has failed at last... and it seemed the same realisation caught up with him, when he looked at her back in confusion before strolling after her and wrapping his fingers around her arm to stop her from running.

“Oh... OH,” exclaimed Doctor. His eyes widened, when he caught Clara by her elbow and turned her to face him. “Clara,” he whispered. Her elbow still in his hand, holding it tenderly, while another brushed the stray tear that rolled from the corner of her eye, tracing the wet path along her cheek. “My Clara... my impossible... my perfect girl,” he murmured, while his hand cupped the side of her face in his, and he looked at her with so much adoration and awe in his gaze that it took Clara's breath away. He pressed a chastised kiss to her forehead, before pressing his forehead to hers, feeling her hands wrapping around his midsection so tightly as if not wanting to let him go... never wanting to let him go. Never... he thought, the pain shooting through him knowing that he shouldn't have this feelings for her. Knowing that no matter whether she returned them or not, he shouldn't have encourage them. Because never is a long time, and even he didn't have that. And though he came close to immortality, she would age and die... and he would be left alone with a broken heart once again.

“I know,” whispered Clara as if knowing what he was thinking. Isn't she always? he thought. Isn't she always... Gently she disentangled herself, looking up at him with a soft sad smile, making him immediately loose her warmth and closeness, missing instantly her scent of the old days and of his home. Something so distant and so close... Something she helped him to save. “See you Wednesday,” Clara murmured, standing on tiptoe and placing a fleeting kiss to the corner of his lips that lingered for a moment longer, while her hand brushed the side of his face, making him lean into her touch.

“See you next Wednesday,” he echoed her, watching her move away from him and toward the exit of the TARDIS.

“Next Wednesday, any Wednesday,” she laughed lightly, knowing that they both broke the one rule they were strict about: not fall In love. Knowing that even the time machine couldn't change that.

#whouffleweek2020 #whouffle #whouffle week 2020 #eleventh doctor #doctor who #clara oswald #eleventh x clara

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heli0s-writes · 5 years

Text

VI. In for Life*

Summary: The final installment of his enormous dumpster fire :’) Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes A/N: NSFW! It has arrived along with a short epilogue at the end. Thanks everyone for all your love for these three bastards (and Buckeye, too!)

Foot in Mouth Syndrome Masterpost

It’s hot.

It’s so damn hot and your back is slick with sweat.

Your eyes fly open to the stifling humidity of the dark room. A heavy hand is on your hip, lazily draped over and brushing against the soft skin of your tummy. A back is pressed against your chest, heavy breaths drawing in and out, slightly wheezing. Even atop of your feet, there is a weight.

Jesus (Steve), Mary (Bucky), and Joseph (Buckeye).

You are completely smothered by all of them. When any of you fell asleep—and when Buckeye found it appropriate to flop himself on top of it all is bewildering.

There’s not even a sheet or comforter on top anymore, both things piled on the floor like a lumpy mountain. Buckeye stirs the same time you do, opening his mouth in a squelching yawn and tipping his head back. You glare at him in the dark and uselessly wiggle your toes. “Get off!”

“Buck!” You hiss. He lolls his head sideways and flops his tongue out at you before nuzzling back down onto your ankles, setting his chin on what is probably Bucky. His butt wiggles around, trying to find a new comfortable position, legs kicking yours.

“Your fucking goblin nails! Ouch, Buck!”

Steve stirs with a moan, turning over and throwing his heavy arm over your shoulder, pressing his face into your chest with a contented sigh. It could be sexy, you think, but you’re sure that your boob-sweat is being inhaled right now straight into his lungs.

Bucky grumbles into your back, shuffling until he’s squeezing you too tightly between him and Steve.

“Are you guys awake?” You whisper, “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You release a long-suffering groan when all that responds is another one of Buckeye’s squealing yawns. You slowly pick up Steve’s arm to move it back, but it’s heavy as hell and he keeps grunting into your chest. Somnambulist pervert.

Bucky’s arm moves down, fingers slowly coming to rest on your hip and then slowly—oh hell.

“Dude.” You mutter. His fingers dig into your ass as his shoulders begin to shake behind you. This motherfucker had been awake this whole time, just watching you suffer in-between two human and one canine heater. You swat him away, but he shoves his face deeper into your neck until his breath begins to tickle. Your hands slap harder and faster, “Fuck! Stop! I’m gonna scream!”

“What time is it?” Bucky asks, pulling away with a pant, blowing his hair from his face.

“Way past when we were supposed to wake up. Steve is out, Buck.”

“Yeah he doesn’t really have a middle ground. He’s either awake or he’s dead.”

A silence passes before Bucky’s hand finds the waistband of your romper again.

“You wanna fuck?”

You slap him away with what a shriek might be if someone could do it with their mouth closed. He’s awfully bold and unfiltered now that you’ve shown him your hand and you think he’s probably not bluffing. Bucky laughs again behind you, pulling on the back of your outfit, tugging it a few times and letting it flap. You realize, with a little bit of fondness, that he’s trying to cool you off.

“C’mon.” He slips his legs out from under Buckeye, who whines in betrayal, but watches him with interest anyway. Bucky tugs you out of bed, moving Steve’s arm and pushing his face away from your chest. “Kid’s always been a tits guy.”

“Yeah. Yours are like a B-cup, huh?”

Bucky ignores you, “I like ass. You’re a pain in my ass sometimes… but I bet one of these days, I’ll be a pain in yours. Literally.”

You turn red as a beet, sputter a few times, and then just shut up for your own damn good.

“Just kidding.” Bucky continues, leading you out of the room, “It’ll be mostly pleasure. We’ll find a good balance, sweetheart.”

He traipses into the kitchen, entirely content to strut around as you close your eyes and count to a million because Bucky Barnes has just one-upped your comment so hard you have absolutely nothing else to fire back at him. You think you might swoon; you’re both proud and devastated.

It’s the middle of the night and Bucky is preparing to brew a pot of coffee. You tap him on the shoulder to suggest that it would be a bad idea, but he bites your pointer and snarls like a wild dog.

“God. Once you crack the surface, there’s so much of…this…” You gesture vaguely up and down, “Wha—wait a minute.” Your eyes narrow, “Did you just snarl at me? You don’t snarl at me; I snarl at you!”

He spends another few minutes repeating the same noise, just to get on your nerves because he knows there’s not much you can do but give him lip. Frankly, the tables have turned, and Bucky is giving you quite a run for your money when it comes to sass.

It’s kind of hot.

You watch the way his arm flexes when he reaches forward to turn the knob on the stove top. The other one rests loosely on his hip where the band of his sweatpants hang, string untied. His shirt is crumpled unevenly, one hem lower than the other as his metal fingers play with the edge absentmindedly. It’s a bit of a shock for you to realize that Bucky Barnes putting the kettle on is what gets you going.

You’ll take it, though.

You grab a glass of water and down it in three seconds flat before you do anything stupid, but when you turn around you catch him staring at your ass. So, you stare blatantly back at his tush, eyes comically wide.

“Those your bedroom eyes?” He asks, grinding the coffee beans and dumping them into the press. When the kettle begins to screech, he takes it off and fills up the carafe, tapping out five minutes on the microwave timer.

“Buck,” you call seriously, hopping up to sit on the counter, “It’s almost three—neither of us should be drinking coffee.”

“No.” He corrects, “You shouldn’t be drinking coffee. It doesn’t affect me. I just like the taste.”

“I’m gonna drink some if you drink some.”

“What are you, a lemming?”

“Yes. If you jump, I jump. If you sip the chocolate bean juice, I sip the chocolate bean juice.”

He laughs, and you do too, finding the sound of it more charming each time you hear it. God, he’s so stupidly handsome. You kick your foot out, poking his side with your toe until he shifts and slyly nestles himself in between your legs. “Stevie’s gonna get jealous.”

You seriously doubt there is any merit to that statement. If anything, you think, Steve is probably creeping around in the shadows with your dog, cheering Bucky on silently. He’s a motherfucker like that, orchestrating all of this like a horny puppeteer.

But no, really, he’s very sweet. They both are.

Leaning in, you tug Bucky forward by the collar of his shirt, wrapping your legs around his torso and pulling him in for a kiss. He smiles against your lips, and you’re half tempted to pull away just to get another look at it on his face; it’s something you’ll never get enough of.

His cold hand runs up the length of your spine while the other slips beneath the opening of your romper, tugging playfully on the fabric of your underwear. “You---mmmf—pervy old fuck.” He keeps on, slipping his tongue into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip when you try to pull away for air. He could smother you, and you’d let him. He’s acting like it’s his intention, anyway.

A part of you feels alleviated, as if the new intimacy has stripped everything else away. You move naturally with Bucky, running your hand through his hair, trailing your fingers over his shoulder and arm—something you were previously concerned about even bringing up. Another part of you is a bit more grounded, too.

The questions you have for them keep getting brushed off. Some things aren’t as easy as they make them seem. Certainly, this relationship won’t be?

“Don’t start this again.” Bucky murmurs, as if reading your thoughts.

“I can’t help it!” You whine. “I’ve never done this before! Nor will it ever happen again—the two of you aren’t exactly regular people, you know?”

“It better never happen again.” Bucky places both his hands on your waist, “Once you’re in, you’re in for life, kid.”

Your eyes widen when you look at him, jaw set firmly, eyes searing into yours. “We’re serious about you. So, what’s it gonna be?”

The timer beeps and he turns around to carefully push the plunger into the press, leaving you staring at the dark tresses of his head. Your heart beats in your chest like a collapsing drum, crashing down and falling apart at Bucky’s bare feet.

He pours two mugs and empties the rest into a thermos for later.

Behind the thin cover of the steam, you avert your eyes. “Y-yeah.” You mutter.

“Yeah?” Bucky takes a sip. You’re not made of super soldier, so you wait for the coffee to cool.

“Yeah. Yes.”

Bucky licks his lips and tilts his chin at you, smiling, “Drink your coffee, sweetheart. Let’s go fuck.”

It’s … you can’t even. That’s what being with Bucky is like.

In the cool chamber of the guest room you’ve been sleeping in, he lays you down on the mattress and taps his fingers up and down your arms until your skin crawls with goosebumps. His touches are feather-light, deliberately gentle, teasing and tugging on every last one of your stretched nerves.

No, you would have never guessed upon meeting him that he could be capable of this kind of tenderness. He was joking when he said fuck, because you are certain no part of what he will do to you is as indelicate as that word. Fuck can be reserved for another time— but this, this feels remarkably close to love.

He’s stripped down and sitting up, letting you see him as he is under the soft lamplight glow. Bucky tucks his hair behind his left ear and waits for you.

“Yeah?” He asks quietly, timid smile forming on his lips.

You sit up too, face him, and pull the straps of your outfit down until it pools around your waist. Then you lift yourself up out of it and crawl into his lap, pressing your body flush onto his.

“Yeah.” You sigh, “Yes, Bucky.” And then you can’t help but laugh just a little as you bury your face into his neck. It’s silly. “God—who would have thought?” You ask, “Us? Right now?”

He grins too, kissing your shoulder, “Thought I was going to murder you that night.”

“Yeah. I would have been fine with it as long as you took care of my dog.”

He bites the same place he just kissed. “Don’t ever. Again. Never.” The finality of his statement shuts you right up with a quick yelp with his teeth clamped down on you.

“Okay, sorry.”

“Shit sucks, but now you got us.”

“Okay.”

He nips at your neck, hand rearranging your legs until they lock in behind him. He is warm and hard, your own hands travel over the plane of his chest and around to trace the muscles of his back.

The door squeaks open slightly. Both of you turn to see Steve entering with a lazy smile, flushed pink and shirtless.

“You sleep good?” Bucky asks before he returns to your collarbone, making a trail down to your sternum.

“Mhm. See you got started without me.”

“Sorry.” Bucky responds, not sounding like it at all, “Couldn’t get ya to wake up.”

He rocks his hips up, pushing against your underwear, and you let out what sounds like a balloon on its last squeak of deflation. Steve chuckles and finds a seat behind you, flattening his palm on your lower back, urging you forward.

You should probably be nervous, but for some reason you aren’t. Steve’s hand anchors you, holds you against Bucky carefully. The three of you balance on this tightrope wire, looking over the edge down into shadows.

But there’s a net there. And when you all fall together the love will catch you.

It’s all love.

Steve kisses your back and scoots forward until his chest is pressing into your spine. His other hand pulls your panties to the side and Bucky takes the opportunity to slowly press in.

You arch forward into him, your breasts to his mouth. They’re one and the same, guiding each other, murmuring in low tones and whispers. Slowly, as they move and touch and consume you, you become the same, too, until all three of you melt into the darkness.

Morning arrives and pulls you awake in a jarring grip. Your back is sweaty again, completely drenched and slippery as you wiggle your way out from two naked bodies.

Steve stirs slightly, nuzzling his nose into your cheek. “Mm-uh. Stay.” He tries to convince you by pressing his torso to your side, rubbing himself against your thigh. “We can do it right here.”

Your face burns hot as Bucky groans on the other side.

“I gotta get up and do some work, Steve.” You run your hand through his hair, feeling the warmth of his scalp, “I’ll be back to wake you two. We gotta go to King’s Island today.”

He kisses the top of your head sweetly, but you have to get up or else the work will be so piled on you’ll never resurface from it.

You slip from them, leaving Steve’s grumbling behind.

Furious clicking finds Bucky and Steve when they rise an hour later. You sit in the living room with your tablet balanced in your lap, the thermos from last night empty. They watch proudly as you flip through an enormous journal full of notes and then turn to another binder full of print-outs.

“Hey.” You say distractedly, “Pancakes and sausages’re in the oven keeping warm, I got three more exams and then we can get started.”

Buckeye is faithfully by your knee, tail tapping against the cushion at the two men in the hallway.

When they don’t move, you turn and look at them, “What’s up?”

Steve’s arms are crossed as he leans against Bucky. They share silly smiles because you’re crosslegged again and surrounded by paper and books and your fingers are moving even too fast for super soldiers to keep up with.

“Lookit her, Stevie.” Bucky grins, “Smart girl.”

You make another charming ppppffftptbbblblbppttt and roll your eyes. You know he means it but the compliment is so strange escaping his lips. It’s still new, his affection. Steve’s too, you suppose. Your cheeks flare anyway as they pad into the kitchen for breakfast.

You were sure to make precisely a bajillion blueberry pancakes this morning and a tray full of sausage links, saving just a few of each for yourself. Between reading a book and taking notes, cooking on a giant griddle and sticking sausages in an oven made the tasks relatively simple. You’ll also read and grade on the way to the park.

In the corner of your eye, Steve pokes at a fluffy stack with his fork. Bucky bites into a sausage and waggles his eyebrows. They both snort and start flicking each other off. You have to focus, but damn if they don’t make it hard to stay on track.

Spending the last two months in their presence has made little changes to your routine that you’re now thankful for. Before them, it was nothing but school and Buckeye. Hardly any time to cook or to enjoy yourself. There was nothing but monotony and the proclamation of your dog being the only tether to this world.

Your poor therapist, worrying her lip each time you came by in a rush between your classes, words tumbling so fast she had to make you stop and literally breathe each time.

Now, there’s so much laughter. So much silliness.

Your cheeks continue to burn.

There is so much love.

Steve plants a syrupy kiss to your lips. Bucky presses a berry onto your tongue soon afterwards.

The tablet is pulled away, books too. Even Buckeye is picked up and placed onto another chair. Your disagreeing voice is smothered by two mouths, taking turns overwhelming yours.

“I gotta--”

“Nope,” Bucky hushes.

“Not right now.” Steve confirms. “Gonna do you on the couch.”

“It’s a nice couch,” Bucky states plainly, “Real nice. Soft leather.”

“Your parents’ couch.” Steve adds.

Bucky laughs in your ear, pressing your chest down until your back hits the soft cushion, “That’s direct action, baby.”

“Oh no. Oh no. Oh no oh no-ohnonononono…” And then finally, “FUCK NO!”

The shriek flings itself back behind your shoulder as the rollercoaster drops down and takes your stomach right out of your throat along with your words.

Bucky is cackling madly to your left, Steve on the other side of him whooping. He’s yelling something that is making Bucky laugh harder, but you can’t hear it for the whips of wind tearing through your ears.

“Technically!” You yell, “King’s Island is an expansion of Coney— but no one really remembers—- Ah FUCK!”

The loop slams your head into the cushioned rest, and you bite down on your cheek. You’re going to vomit. You scream again when the next drop throws your stomach up into your diaphragm.

As the ride slows, you blink the tears away and sniffle.

“Aw, baby. It wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s the wind you jerk! I’m not actually crying!”

“Are you gonna throw up?” Steve wonders, thinking on the memory of the Cyclone.

“No! Don’t get your hopes up, Rogers. You’re the only one here who’s a bitch.”

Bucky laughs and tugs you against his side. The three of you trek onward to the next destination, caps pulled low on your heads so that neither of them are recognized. Luckily, it’s overcast again so Bucky wearing a long sleeve isn’t so strange.

The only strange thing is that three of you are full grown adults at the park without any children. Either way, there are occasional stares.

A frozen banana is shared and devoured in three bites from three different mouths. Five more rides are taken and when you take them into the line for Flight of Fear, Steve peers around curiously at the very X-Files décor. Real Roswell, you share, pretending to be that guy from the History Channel, Aliens!

At the loading station, Steve bristles and you’re not sure why until you see the cryotube props. Bucky pats him on the shoulder, “Don’t get offended for my sake.” He climbs into the seat behind you and Steve and plays with your hair when the shuttle clatters forward into the dark.

“I didn’t realize.” You whisper in Steve’s ear.

“I can hear you.” Bucky replies.

When the rain hits as you’re buying your second frozen banana, Steve is ready to go home. He’s not spending another day sopping wet on an outdoor excursion. The white of his shirt turns peach like his skin.

You take them to a bar, instead, even though you promised that you were just showing them the scenic route before heading home. In the car, Bucky grew suspicious when you began to drive in the opposite direction, but you distracted Steve with more threats of Skyline, and he was quick to reel Bucky to his side.

It’s still somewhat early, only around eight or so, and the bar is barely half-full, mostly couples who are at the end of their day-drinking and want to relax with video games.

“Knock yourself out. All arcade games are free.” You grin happily, “This place is awesome. And the drinks are--” You kiss your fingertips and blow it into the air, “Be back in a sec.”

They watch you prance over to the bar and wait in line, bouncing on your feet. Steve shrugs and begins to wander while Bucky lingers by the table, eyes fixed on you. When you arrive at the bar, you smile cheerily at the bartender and show him your ID.

You’re much nicer to strangers than you are to… Bucky scoffs inwardly, superheroes, apparently. The more Bucky watches, the bigger his smile grows. You’re leaned forward, listening intently as the guy points to each item on the menu. It’s cute how your nose scrunches up at something you don’t like, or the way you nod enthusiastically when something catches your fancy.

Then, suddenly, Bucky begins to grow apprehensive because why are you spending so long at the bar? And why are you leaning forward so far and smiling so much? You have never smiled for that prolonged of a time at anything other than your dog.

You catch his eye a few seconds later and wink at his scowl. Upon returning with three drinks in your hands and a wrapper of something in your mouth, he understands now.

“That dude gave me free drinks and a popsy.”

You slide one glass to him and keep the others. Then, you tear open the plain package and reveal a bomb pop—red white and blue. “Popsicle!” Then you stick it in your mouth and swirl the ice around until it turns a muted purple, staining your tongue.

Distractedly, you look around for Steve who is standing at a pinball machine, tapping furiously on the paddles.

Bucky sends you a withering look.

“Don’t be a wet blanket. I got the drink for you. It only cost me five minutes and a smile.” Then you dunk the popsicle in his cocktail and give him a cold kiss on the cheek. He shakes his head, glares back at the bar where the guy is looking over and stands up so that he’s blocking the view to your back.

Next to Steve, Bucky tattles.

“Oh, be quiet!” You cry, hand coming up to cover his face, “Mom and Daaaaad!” You whine nasally, “Can I go out to plaaaaaay?”

“You were flirting for a free drink!” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Excuse me, there are three?” You steal the popsicle back and crunch through it.

Steve huffs, crosses his arms, and lets his pinball fall straight in-between the immobile paddles. The machine warbles sadly before honking out game over sirens. Lights flash around the rectangle of its frame.

“Well—” Steve pauses, “Well, good for you, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.” You smile. Two girls to your side giggle at the conversation and you turn and curtsy to them. “Jonathan with the eyes is a sucker, ladies.”

Bucky grumbles and throws his drink down, snaps the wooden stick in half with his teeth. Everyone has fucking eyes, he thinks.

An hour later and all arcade games exhausted, Bucky drives home in silence, fuming. He’s still not over the fact that you saddled up next to some guy, but he just has to get over it. It’s really not a big deal. Steve winks at you from the front seat, catching your eye in the mirror.

“Funny movie?” You ask, kicking your feet onto the top of the coffee table, remote in hand and clicking mindlessly.

“Rom-com.” Steve requests, pointing to a title above two generic white actors giving each other enamored glances. Lame.

“Zombies.” Bucky deadpans.

They both turn to look at each other, shaking their heads in disappointment at what’s been thrown out. You sigh, trying to find something that fits all three.

“Tucker and Dale, it is.”

When another college kid gets impaled, Steve pauses the movie.

He is not a fan. “I don’t get it!” He keeps saying, “Just call the cops!”

You throw your head back, “It’s bumfuck nowhere!”

He picks the next one.

“I hate this.” You stab the red button on the remote and shut off another mistletoe kiss. How does he even find Christmas Lifetime movies in the middle of the summer?

Bucky snatches it from the couch and clicks the screen back on.

“Zombies.” He proclaims again.

“It’s just not logical!” Steve cries, “They’re dead!” His voice rises until you think it could crack the chandelier in the living room, “What—why would they even be eating anything? They’re dead!”

“Zombies!” Bucky shouts.

“No!” You scream in reply, stomping your foot. In the background, Steve continues his rant—something about Banner finding a cure, something else about the sun, another thing about regardless of how the world is terribly messed up, God will not blight the Earth with zombies, of all creatures.

“Zom-bies.” Bucky hisses, glaring at you, as if you are the point of origin for his ire.

Buckeye hops off the couch and plods over under the coffee table. He snorts and shuffles around and scratches the rug before lying down and staring at the three of you like you all share one single braincell.

When Bucky hollers ZOMBIES for the final time, you lock eyes with your dog, who whines pathetically and turns away, as if he is embarrassed by the humans.

Cillian Murphy is twenty-something and gorgeous. You are obviously drooling over those enormous blue eyes and pouty, swollen lips, even if he is wind-chafed and underweight, running around in a flapping hospital gown.

Steve gets an idea when you lick your lips distractedly, reaching over the back of Bucky’s neck to twist a lock of your hair in his finger. Bucky shrugs him off, but he continues. 28 Days Later or not, Steve’s on a mission; fuck the zombies.

Obviously, you have a type.

But if he voices it, Bucky might go slash Jonathan’s tires and find Cillian Murphy somewhere in Ireland and do the same thing to him, too. New love, Steve muses, such a delicate thing.

He gets up and sits on your other side, pulling until you are resting on his chest. “Is it scary?” He asks.

“Ooooh, so scary,” you squeal, and then suddenly jump when one of the undead shrieks and tears down the road, “Fuck! These are runners!?”

“Eat him.” Bucky goads, “Eat him, goddamn it.”

Steve pulls your chin away from pointing at the screen and kisses you slowly, tugging you back each time you continue to turn, fixed on the scene. “Mmm, baby.” He sighs, “C’mere.”

“Dude, Steve, I— he’s mmmhm.. okay, wait…would you—- mm!” His tongue slides into your mouth as one hand grips your head. Okay, this fucker knows what he’s doing. “Buck,” you gasp, “fill me in on the deets because—”

“Because you have a crush on this guy, too?” Bucky glares, crossing his arms. You pull away from Steve and weave each attempt he makes at devouring your face.

“Are you serious?” You ask, “You are sipping hella dumbass juice right now.”

“Jealous juice.” Steve corrects, and you smirk at him because the two of you combined are a lethal dose of one-hundred-percent pure bastard straight into the bloodstream. Leaning over, still strapped in on Steve, you clasp your hand over Bucky’s jaw, pinching his cheeks together with a glare.

“You said in for life, you brat.” You mutter, “I’m in a relationship—not dead. Not ungrateful or unfaithful, either. Handle the fact that I’m a person, or get out.”

His eyes widen the same time Steve’s does because you’ve never been this serious with them before. Your tone is grave and your stare is fiery. In the middle of four-hundred solid pounds of serum-injected mass, you are a stark contrast, but somehow holding all the cards.

Something prods your inner thigh and you narrow your eyes, turning to Steve. “Really, Stevie? This is what does it for you?”

He only grins back, licking the corner of his mouth, “Can you blame me? Guess I’ve got a type too. Bossy. Mouthy.”

Bucky groans and smacks the back of his head into the cushion. “I guess I do too. Fuck.”

It’s as close to an apology as you’ll get, and you love that stupid, stubborn boy so you’ll take it. Steve smiles at him and then at you before pulling you closer by your hip bones, letting the heat of him burn past the layers of your clothes.

Bucky is content to watch, waiting for your permission.

Linking your fingers through his, you place both entwined hands on his thigh and kiss Steve, letting your tongue touch his in a slow, teasing lick. He chuckles into your mouth, grips the back of your head in a blistering passion and pushes his chest into yours until it feels like he’s crushing your rib cage. If this is how you die, flattened between two searing-hot (literally and otherwise) men who—Christ, love you for whatever reason—it’d be a death you look forward to.

Steve pulls away suddenly, eyes twinkling with some secret knowledge.

“What?”

“You called me Stevie.”

“Did I?”

Bucky grins, “Ooooh, Stevie…” he doesn’t know how to squeal so he says it in a low, husky tone instead and you swear Steve moans a little before he breaks out into a wide smile, so bright you have to squint. Jesus, Captain America should be on T.V.--- wait, he already is. You are so completely lost in that look he’s got on, like you’ve presented him with a puppy or something that you hardly notice Bucky to your side, humming a low throaty tune.

“So…” he sings, gesturing to the space where you have leaned away from Steve and then down to the tent in Steve’s jeans, “You guys fuckin’ or what?”

____________

The end of summer break nears and you’re ready for two years of writing your dissertation before you can fuck off out of the program with a diploma and a J-O-B. It’s both exciting and terrifying at the same time, but if you’re good at anything, it’s putting on a front. This semester you are working as a TA for one of your favorite professors and juggling an off-campus job at the local coffee shop.

Three more days left until the start of the semester and you’ve already met early with your professor and created your email list.

Buckeye is well, drooling all over the place, flopping down and staring out the window. Same as ever. Manhattan assholes still glare at him when you walk him down the street but it sure helps when Steve or Bucky are by your side and glare right back.

It’s cute.

Two boyfriends.

Who the heckin’ would have thought that the night your life flashed before your eyes twice (unnamed goon and Bucky Barnes’ fist nearly in your face) that you’d come out of it with two semi-retired Avengers attached to your hip?

Three days left and you’ve convinced them to jet off on a tiny mini-cation. You wrestled the wheel from Bucky and drove an hour east from the DFW airport with Steve singing along to Sad n’ Sexy Santa while Bucky kicks his seat repeatedly. It makes your heart swell because damn, how’d you get so lucky?

The interstate reaches cropped green plains as the metroplex skyscrapers sink further away into the horizon behind you. From the backseat, Bucky sits up, leaning on Steve’s chair as he stares out the front windshield at a cartoonish yellow sign.

“What… is… it?”

You smirk. “It’s why we’re here. That, and brisket.”

“It’s a gas station?” Steve is confused, too. You’ve been tight-lipped about the entire thing. But his eyes widen before fearfully glancing back and forth across the colossal parking lot and the stretch of what looks like fifty gas-pumps. “Or is it an airport…?”

You lead them in and it’s like their whole world has turned upside down. Steve and Bucky stare at the expanse of seemingly never-ending aisles. People rush about, enormous bags of popcorn under their arms. Chips, candy, kolaches, bear claws, stuffed animals, clothing, Texas-shaped cutting boards, and blinged out purses. There is even an aisle dedicated to pebbles. What does it mean?

“It’s a Buc-ees.” You state, waving your hand in a wide circle, palm flat. “Whatdya think, Bucky?”

The pun is not lost on him and he grumbles.

“You dragged me all the way out here for this?”

“And brisket.”

“There’s brisket in Manhattan, baby.” Steve suggests, but you whip around and hiss at him, “Don’t you dare. Heathen. Ain’t no beef like Texas beef. Grade A, one-hundred-percent beef.” Then you pause and with an exaggerated raise of your eyebrow, pinch his bottom. “And you too, I guess.”

Steve yelps with a slight jump, turning redder than Buc-ee Beaver’s cap as the eyes of strangers find him.

Your Bucky doesn’t notice, only staring on mesmerized by the bustle of foot traffic and the smells of jerky, candy, and the fresh, burning scent of Pine-Sol cleaner. Ahhhh… a perfect combination.

“What is this.” Bucky mutters, “It looks like hell.”

With a clap on his arm and a proud puffing of your chest, you pick up a nearby orange shirt with the slogan You can go to hell. I’m going to Texas.

“Welcome to Texas, baby. Everything’s bigger.” With a perverted leering at his groin, you wink. "You’ll fit right in.”

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