#i think deb's face in the background really makes it

[blondehimbogirl]

[areyougonnabe]

could you explain marie nelson to me... i know that he's tragic and also a misogynist and that's kind of all

well you've got the basics but let's get into the details [cracks knuckles]

edward william nelson was the shore party's biologist, counterpart of lillie who stayed on the ship. like lillie he had been educated at cambridge, however unlike lillie who barely scraped a degree in the end, nelson dropped out lol. he went to work at the plymouth marine biological association, which is where he was when he was hired by wilson (presumably via cambridge connections) for the expedition.

he wasn't as rich as cherry or oates but he came from a landed gentry background, his maternal grandfather was a major landowner in the shetlands in scotland and was, if you believe this random page on the internet, descended directly from King James V of scotland... and his dad was a big deal microscope guy.

anyway by the time nelson was on the expedition his initial nickname was "The Immaculate One" because he was (at first) always wearing a clean collar, and then at some point he became almost universally known as "Marie," short for "Marie Ducas" or "du Car" which nobody ever bothers to explain.

sometimes he was also known as "Antonio" or "Brontë" (that last being a reference to Lord Nelson) and griff often called him "Marie du Car Bronte Antonio Nelson" or another combination of multiple names.

silas wrote in his diary that he "had a taste for gin and bridge" and lots of people remarked on how he wouldn't get out of bed in a timely fashion and was always late to breakfast.

he was kind of seen as dissolute in general or a bit of a slacker. kathleen scott remarked at one point that he "spends all his time on shore being a man about town, which makes him look exceedingly tired" but really i think that was just how his face naturally looked.....

his job at Cape Evans was overseeing his Biological Hole (that's what he's doing in the pic up top) and identifying new antarctic species, taking temperatures, and measuring currents. he had a telephone wire run out to the little igloo he built on the sea ice, and often had company in the form of griff or cherry or whoever wanted to help him keep the ice open and unfrozen at the hole.

he did plenty of science, but that kind of fades into the background in the diaries because most people if they're talking about him at all are mainly giving a running commentary on how much he liked to argue.

his main axe to grind was women's rights... griff seemed to take great joy in calling him a "miserable, cynical reactionary" and goading him into arguments which sometimes descended into pitched physical battle.

from griff's diary, may 30 1911:

Marie Deb & I had a frightful cag in our boudoir about Women’s Suffrage. He is engaged & declares if his wife wanted to exercise her vote (even if she gets one) he will lock her up!

november 3 1911:

We have great cags at meals now. Simpson Deb & I are progressives & Liberals. Nelson is a thorough Reactionary Conservative especially re women & vote & education. However as he said he wished he were a woman (with £500 a year income) we guessed he was abnormal!

nelson probably did the least sledging out of anyone during the first year, not going on a single long-haul trip (even simpson went out on a short spring journey). he mostly just hung out at his igloo i guess? and got really into calculating navigation for fun. also apparently he was the best at chess in the whole hut.

he stayed on for the second year, and did go out sledging on the Search Journey:

there is some great stuff about his midnight poetry and weird moon obsession during the second winter in @worstjourney's very good post here.

i'll also add that it was pretty harsh on everyone else to have Maximum Marie Exposure with no tempering force of griff to allay it.

nelson did contribute heavily to the much-reduced and mildly pathetic Volume IV of the South Polar Times, which featured griff's offcuts from the prior year, deb's illustrations, and poems from nelson including a parody of walt whitman about billiards:

This is the song of billiards:- The tight stretched cloth of green, the serried arches, The cue - faking the cue, the protests from the players, The pyramid, the British Pluck, the Chinese fluke, The click of striking balls, the rattle in the ditch, the grin of joy.

most of the expedition scientists went home on steamers from NZ, but both nelson and lillie stayed on the terra nova as she took the long way round cape horn, in order to do more trawls and marine science.

nelson also took a job as second mate—it was definitely unusual for a scientists with zero navy/sailing experience (except the voyage down) to suddenly become an officer of the watch, but pennell trusted him, and seemingly that trust was not misplaced, as pennell wrote in his diary about how well he took to the job, and to atkinson about how he was by "far & away the most brainy person in the ship."

he got married to the woman he had been engaged to, violet thomas, after returning from the expedition. their only child, a daughter, was born in 1915, but by then he was serving in the royal naval division at gallipoli and then france. his war story is straight up wild and i recommend reading from ice floes to battlefields by anne strathie if you want aaalll the deets. but basically he saw a lot of action, served alongside rupert brooke (among other notables) and came out the other side relatively unharmed... physically.........

after the war he went back to the plymouth marine lab, and was supposed to be working on expedition results, but didn't do much of that.

in 1921 he left his family in plymouth to take a job in scotland working in a lab for the fishing industry, and in 1923 his wife successfully sued for "restitution of conjugal rights" which basically means the court ordered him to return to her....

but that did not end the way she wanted 🙃

shit was sad... he was found with poison injected directly into his leg.

i think there must have been a specific legal reason why the death was declared an accident—maybe something to do with receipt of military pension for the widow? but it obviously was very much on purpose. for whatever reason the thought of having to live with his wife again was so intolerable to him that death was preferable.

so thus ends the Ballad Of Marie Nelson.... here is what deb had to say about him and lillie in 1927, writing to JJ Kinsey:

You heard of Marie Nelson's tragic end no doubt, but I'm inclined to think it was as well. Poor old Lillie is in less happy circumstances, the last I heard of him was that he was never likely to get out of Bedlam, a rather ghastly end up to poor old "Ooze's" brilliant promise.

but much like lillie, nelson's end can't be blamed on his experience in the antarctic as it seems he was relatively content there. occam's razor dictates that A) he clearly had Problems before and B) wartime trauma made those problems worse.

the tragic sequel to this tragic story is the fact that his daughter, barbara, was 93 when she went on a cruise to antarctica to visit Cape Evans and see her father's laboratory... but she died of a fall while on the ship during a storm before they had even gotten there :(

[iantimony]

tuesday afternoon

yayyyy tuesday

listening: haken concert was SO good. incredibly fun. i brought two friends with me and one of them said that he wasn't expecting a metal/rock prog band to be so "sploinky barbershop quartet" re: songs like cockroach king, lol. orchestra concert was sunday and it was good! face did hurt a lot after because this is a youth orchestra that i volunteer with so naturally we need a 90 min rehearsal before the actual concert. pain. but the kids did good. they did a mozart oboe concerto and the soloist was incredible. but also on my own i've been listening to borodin symphony no 1 and 2.

reading: finished volume 2 of mdzs! xue yang is such a loser nightmare failboy. we've entered jin guangyao zone which fucks severely.

watching: dunmesh and klk, again. i love the way dunmeshi is doing backgrounds, they're so detail and delightful to look at. i've also started watching comrade detective with a friend and it's VERY funny. goofy communist buddy cop parody bullshit. channing tatum is in the intro for some reason that i cannot ascertain but makes me laugh anyways.

playing: ran and played dnd! mtg! i've decided i want to put together a mono green deck so if anyone has commander recommendations lmk.

making: yippee making!

trimmed those little teacup experiments, i don't think the shrinkage will be too bad but we'll see. they all have mismatched feet now oops

started a seder plate for passover! i think at this rate it will be done before the holiday which is exciting. i'm going to do it red with a pomegranate motif. this is the bottom for now, the top is blank and boring so no pic for now.

pre-bisque work needs to be done on these, the big one is a flower pot for my mom that i'm covering in purple slip and then carving a tree into i think

finished the sgraffito on this guy, my roommate accidentally knocked a divot in the edge of it at the end of last year so i mirrored it on the other side of the bowl and incorporated it into a design!

some kiln stuff came out too!

cat yarn bowl!

this bowl was supposed to be a deep, dark green on the outside but i forgot that this kiln is cone 5, not 6! so surprise color but i still like it

and finally, someone abandoned this little guy so i slapped some glaze on him and took him home. i have a matching cat one that's still kilning. look how precious. i want to put air plants in him. taking name suggestions

eating: spicy butternut squash pasta with spinach. we made so much of this. i think we finally finished the last of the leftovers today. too many steps for me to do on a tuesday and i have a Moment about it but she took over and it is very good. we used cavatappi which is objectively one of the best pasta shapes out there.

harissa chicken thighs with shallots. yum! all i really gotta say about it. used gochujang because we don't have harissa and it still slammed.

deb smittenkitchen soy glazed chicken. 10/10. goes with Everything. i had it with brussel sprouts over rice, then the next day with that pasta leftovers, and then again yesterday with mac n cheese. took like 10 minutes and slams.

(if anyone wants the nyt recipes lmk and i will post screenshots!)

misc: busy but in the swing of things! gym time has REALLY fallen by the wayside which is not great for my mental health so i'm working on trying to incorporate that back in where i can. but otherwise i am doin pretty good!

[darling-i-read-it]

Curiousity

Dexter Morgan fem!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: murder, mentions of assault, dexter just being amazed that she isn’t fucked up but is fucked up

Author’s Note: I do not condone what i just wrote. I think Dexter would. But I do not. I hope you enjoy!

Requested: by anon, I saw that you wrote for Dexter so I wanted to quickly request something before they fill. After reading your last Dexter fix and loving your writing style, I just had to request more of Dex!

Could I possibly have a reader who has no trauma yet is still a serial killer? They aren’t a psycho/sociopath or anything, just a regular human being. I’m interested to see what you come up with!

Summary: the request!

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

You brushed your hair out of your face, leaning over the table so that you could help the gentleman you were speaking to with his order. You nodded, smiling gently, your lips turned into an innocent look. You stood up straight and scribbled on your notepad, the man returning your helpful gaze with an even kinder, more appreciative look.

Dexter had to be wrong. This was not the person he was looking for. Yet, he looked down at his phone and backed up at you. Same person as the one on the scratchy security cam. Except then you had blood on your hands. You had killed, from his information and the stuff Deb unknowingly gave him, 6 people. There wasn’t really any rhyme or reason to your kills that he could find which annoyed him even more.

Usually people were so easy to read once he found the bodies. It was always they killed because of the ex girlfriend, the mother, people who looked a lot like someone who had wronged them. Easy enough. But you just got more confusing.

You had to be masking like he was. You were just…much better than him.

You walked over to Dexter’s table and he fidgeted, looking up at you politely.

“Hey, my names Y/N can I take your order?” You had a chirpy voice. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he never would have known it was you who killed those people. It was like you hadn’t even swatted a fly before.

“Just a cup of coffee,” he said and handed you the menu. You nodded once and didn’t bother writing it down.

“Okay coming right up.” “Actually,” he started and you turned around to face him. “What do you recommend?”

“Oh I usually get the pancakes. They’re the best here, I can’t make them at home anymore because they’re just not as good,” you admitted, holding your notepad to your chest.

“I’ll get a pancake then! Thanks.” You nodded once and turned around, walking away from him. He dialed Debs' number and she picked up on the second ring.

“Yello.”

“Hey Deb, can you run someone for me?” “Sure thing, what’s the name?” “Y/N Y/L/N. Just check for anything, deaths in the family, abuse at home, mental illnesses. Anything that comes up.” Deb hummed. He could hear the clicking of the computer keyboard on her end.

“K I’ll text you. What for? Running a background check for a date?” she teased, in that voice where she wanted it to be true.

“Depends on what comes up on the search!” “Then I will make it my top priority, damn the murder I’m investigating.” She hung up the phone. He couldn't tell if she had been joking or not.

By the time his pancakes had arrived, Deborah sent the text message with what she found.

Fat load of nothing. Sounds like perfect dating material! :)

Nothing. He looked up at you, bringing him a second cup of coffee, and was astounded.

“Thank you,” he breathed. You nodded once.

“Anytime.”

===

He had to follow you, just to be sure. If he didn’t and he got you on the kill table that uncertainness would hang over his head for months. It took only a day and a half before he could see you turning a corner, driving suspiciously slow. You pulled over, talking out the window with that sweet smile and the man got into your car.

Just like that.

No force, no threats.

Dexter followed your car from a distance for about ten minutes and parked down the street from the apartment building you stopped at. He got out and watched the man lead you inside.

Twenty minutes later you were coming back outside, your face flushed, in a rush to get back to the car. Yep. Murderer.

“Hey!” Dexter froze. You were facing him. He was so lost in his future planning that he hadn’t even noticed you take a few steps closer. “You’re the guy from the dinner. Are you following me?” You hugged your jacket closer to yourself.

“What? No, I’m waiting for a friend.” He gestured to the building. Your eyes went wide and you nervously walked closer.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just a little jumpy.” He didn’t have any ketamine on him but this would be a perfect time to snatch you. It was nearly midnight, this place was so rundown there were no cameras. Just you and him in a parking lot. Would it be worth it just to hit you over the head?

Curiosity was eating at him though.

“Yeah no, my friend’s just taking forever.” “They shouldn’t leave you out here in the cold,” you muttered.

“Why are you out here?” “I’m just heading home. I’m sorry about the mixup, I’m just tired.” He shook his hands, keeping that soft smile on his face to mimic yours.

“Don’t worry about it.” You nodded once. You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets and backed up.

“Well then I’ll see you around.” You turned around. Why did you kill someone? What happened to you that made you grow up like this? Was it just inside you? If it was inside you, could it just have been inside him? Nature versus nurture was an age old debate.

“Do you maybe wanna go get coffee? Together I mean.” You turned around, still backing up. He couldn’t tell if your smile was insidious. Would he end up on your table before you ended up on his? The idea was alluring.

“Sure. What was your name again?”

“Dexter Morgan.”

“I’m working a shift tomorrow Dexter. You should stop on by at say, noon?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

And ironically, he was too.

[hatchetfieldtheories]

Return to Hatchetfield-Town – The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals Part 1

Alright settle down kiddos. Get comfy, find a warm blanket and hug your favourite fwendy-wend as we start our Return to Hatchetfield-Town series.

I’ll be rewatching all the Hatchetfield scripted content (i.e. not livestreams or interviews) and jotting down what happens, explaining some concepts and delving into some of the key theories in the series (and using the word “implications” that often it will cease to have meaning).

Even though I’ll be doing the rewatch by show in order they came out, there will be spoilers for all Hatchetfield content that is available as of the rewatch.  

I’ve also linked to a number of other blog’s theories here because they are amazing, but if you aren’t happy with your theory being included I will be more than happy to remove it!  Just let me know.

[Part 2]

The Guy Who Really Hated Brigadoon

TGWDLM starts off with the greatest song ever to feature dancing zombies… at least I can’t think of any other notable ones.

In the title song, the cast of singing and dancing zombies explain to us that all great stories have to have a hero, someone who knows right and wrong and that the best way to do this is through singing and dancing in musicals.  This with the later line of “they evoke the philosophical” make me think that Pokey took a class in Campbell’s Hero Myth in College and became that guy.

Hatchetfield Challenge: try not to shrug your shoulders along with the music at the chorus. Its impossible. No wonder the Hive spread so quickly.  Literally killer dance moves.

So then they introduce us to an awful Grinch named Paul and we hit the first point in the show where I laugh out loud every single time I watch.

I know TGWDLM was not originally intended to be the first Hatchetfield show but starting this series with a song which sets up the story so well is truly spectacular.   And is there anything more Starkid than introducing your main character by having other characters sing about how awful they are?

One thing I have noticed while writing, reading and collating Hatchetfield theories is that while most Black Friday and Nightmare Time theories are usually about the overall Hatchetfield lore, most TGWDLM theories are usually quite self-contained and focused on this one show.  TGWDLM – while so fully within the Hatchetfield extended universe, is definitely the show that can best stand-alone without the others.

It’s the end of the world, Paul

If you don’t sing

This is the bridge, Paul

Where we globalize everything

And the words will come to you

We swear we will teach you

What it means to love

What it means to obey, Paul!

On a first watch this is very funny.  On your 10th watch this is terrifying.

CCRP Technical: No-one here knows how to use their printer

Following the absolute bop of a title song we find ourselves in CCRP Technical and all feels very… normal. It’s very weird following all the revelations in subsequent Hatchetfield media, to be watching a show where there was genuinely nothing obviously fishy about CCRP.  We’ll obviously discuss CCRP more when we get to Nightmare Time, but for now all we know is that Paul works in the technical department of CCRP – an unknown corporation, with some key characters, Charlotte, Bill and Ted.

We also find out more about Grinch Paul’s personality and honestly, Paul is me pre-pandemic just outright avoiding social interactions and suddenly going for coffee in the middle of the work day. (I have become a changed woman in lockdown – someone please invite me somewhere… anywhere!)

For all the dark humour and death in the Hatchetfield series, Starkid do know how to bring the joy – I love how excited the town of Hatchetfield are for a touring production of Mamma Mia.  

Fake Fact: TGWDLM is actually an allegory for Europe in the 1970s, when we all became mind-controlled by Abba’s Waterloo.  (Find me a better explanation for Eurovision, I dare you!  The sequins were just too shiny!)

“The idea of sitting there… trapped in a musical.  That is my own personal hell.”

Two words: Emma Perkins – need I explain any more?  

Ah Hot Chocolate Boy.  I really look forward to finding out more about him.  Where does he come from?  He just appears out of the ether. What’s his story?  How old is he? How many hot chocolates does he have per day? I know we have since had some confirmation on who he is, but they raise more questions than answers. For now I will just point you to a gorgeous Mood Board by @hatchetfieldmoodboards which features a bit of a spoiler. 

For real though – is it just me who would love a full version of “I’ve been brewing up your coffee”?

Hatchetfield Challenge: Try not to sing “Shut the f*ck up” along with Emma.

“Watching people sing and dance makes me very uncomfortable”- oh boy Paul… you’re not going to enjoy the next hour and 40 minutes.  Also, Paul, you’re making me uncomfortable watching you throw your brand new coffee around as if you’ve just been given an empty cup.  There’s imaginary coffee everywhere.  Hopefully, HCB won’t slip on it before it’s cleaned up… he’s already having a bad day.

“Thunder and Lightning… very very frightening.  But a big rock hurtling through the clouds is no biggie.” – all the residents of Hatchetfield apparently.

The next sequence happens so fast and we get introduced to a lot of characters.  Notably Greenpeace Girl, Alice and Deb, Sam, and Hidgens (though we don’t find out his name until much later). This scene impresses me because they do such a great job of very quickly bringing out so many characters who nonetheless are memorable when they return later in the show.

Peanuts the Hatchetfield Pocket Squirrel is an Eldritch Being. I won’t go into Peanuts theories here as that could be a whole post in itself – and many a person more brilliant than I have written some fantastic theories on this. You can learn all about how a Squirrel took over the fandom in the following posts:

@dahlialupine : x

@frombothofmyhearts​: x

@abiimaryy​: x

And finally mine which is definitely a serious theory: x

It’s… A… Musical!

Now to remember we are actually watching a musical.  La Dee Da Da Day is such a happy joyful song performed spectacularly by a throng of the undead.

The song is about the Hive singing about how much of a great time they are having now they are tap-dancing zombies, and trying to find ways to convince Paul he should join them too. So the grins on all their faces are not at all terrifying.

 It’s worth noting also that according to the laws of the TGWDLM world, only those infected by the Hive can hear the music in the background.  This becomes important later when it becomes clear some characters have started being infected before they are fully turned into zombies, but for now it just paints quite a funny picture of what Paul must be witnessing. I definitely think for him, this whole scene just sounds like this clip of Greased Lightning without the music: x

The important thing here however, besides Mariah’s singing, is that the Hive leave Paul alone.  They don’t actually attempt to turn him at this point.  I have a theory on the implications of this, but note this has big spoilers for the end of the show and Black Friday.  It was written before we knew that the Hive (Pokey) was related to Wiggly but the content still stands: x

Charlotte, Honey, you don’t need that much sugar – you’re sweet enough

For reference:

@melchron​  noted that the lyrics for La Dee Dah sound very similar to the incantation for soul transferal read out in Jane’s a Car, which leads me to two possible implications.

The Freaky Furbies have a language other than English that they use for their incantations so this is why they sound similar.

There is soul transference happening to the souls of the bodies the Hive take over.

Or it’s just Starkid using similar sounding words for their content…. Three! There are three possible implications…

Paul – just print off another copy of the report

From this point on the musical numbers really do come thick and fast.  We move on to the first instance of Jeff Blim encouraging Paul to talk about his feelings, which I am sure is not important and isn’t worth discussing.  Paul goes through a musical rendition of a promotion interview, which is actually the Hive attempting to find out if he will be the “hero” of their story.  They picked out Paul for the role from the start. That he was chosen was inevitable.

What do you see for this company? I'm looking for someone with strong ambition Someone to sell their specific vision Someone to share with precise precision their thoughts 'Cause I want you to want…To want

So it turns out these will be looooong, so I will end here and see you in part 2!  I’m not sure yet what the upload frequency will be.  It takes quite a while to go through the show like this but it is a lot of fun!

Hatchetfield High Homework:

Where do you stand on the Peanuts the Hatchetfield Pocket Squirrel debate?

Why do you think that the Soul Transference Spell and La Dee Dah sound so similar?

Go follow all the lovely people mentioned in this post!

Bonus points if you know the reference in the post title.

[Part 2]

[lovelylogans]

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

debutante

part of the wyliwf verse.

chapter one | next chapter

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

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

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

⁂

“i need a dress.”

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

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

“i’m coming out,” logan continues.

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

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

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

the double-meaning clicks in his head.

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

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

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

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

“you remember dee.”

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

“who came over to our house once.”

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

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

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

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

a cold feeling crawls uncomfortably in his stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“so you’re okay with it?”

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

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

that cold feeling is back. “ah.”

logan blinks. “what?”

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

“what about—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⁂

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

“hello, mister slange.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“where is she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hello, granmè,” he says in french.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

dee hides his smirk in his tea. 

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

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

she might not know. she might not even remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s just not very… well. lived-in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the exit door opens.

shit. shit.

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

“are you skipping class?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“were you… crying?” logan says uncertainly.

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

“may i sit?”

“will you listen if i say no?”

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

“—i wasn’t—” 

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

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

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

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

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

“try again.”

“what?” dee says. “i could.”

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

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

“please,” logan scoffs.

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

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

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

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

except logan clears his throat, and dee braces himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

must be nice.

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

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

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

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

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

logan stiffens, ever so slightly, in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“why do you ask?” logan says.

“you know why.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“dee,” he begins, haltingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what if i stopped it?”

dee scoffs.

“what?” logan says.

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

“we can get you out of it.”

“the bill’s already paid,” dee says. 

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

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

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

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

“what?” dee says.

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

“what,” dee snaps.

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

“might,” dee repeats.

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

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

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

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

“dee?”

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

“if you want to talk about it—”

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

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

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

“okay.”

“but i probably won’t.”

“that’s fine.”

dee hesitates. “but if i do—”

“i’m around,” logan says simply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⁂

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“uh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it clicks. “alterations.”

“got it in one,” patton says cheerfully.

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

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

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

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

virgil thought too soon.

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

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

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

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

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

“oh,” virgil says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

virgil’s jaw drops. just a little. 

“oh,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what? no,” virgil scoffs.

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

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

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

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

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

“wait, what, no way—“

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

“the tux is bad enough!”

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

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

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

a tux. tails. white gloves.

a cumberbun.

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

⁂

it’s been a shitty day so far. 

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

and it isn’t even eight yet.

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

dee rolls his eyes. typical.

except—

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

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

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

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

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

“excuse me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

except that isn’t even the only time.

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

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

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

dee pauses.

fight the patriarchy, tristan had said. trouble making.

“what if i stopped it?”

and then he moves immediately toward the locker.

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

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

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

presumably.

“what,” dee says, “was that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FIGHT THE PATRIARCHY!

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

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

i won’t be outed.

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

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

“old crows?” logan says uncertainly.

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

“the…?”

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

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

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

“only ten?!”

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

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

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

dee stares at him for a long few seconds.

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

a grin breaks out on logan’s face.

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

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

but he isn’t. obviously.

⁂

logan has his game face on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“liesl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

patton nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“quite,” logan says. 

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

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

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

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

patton holds his breath. here we go.

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

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

emily lowers her fork.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she’s calculating.

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

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

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

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

his mother!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“dad?” logan calls.

“yeah, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

he still would have hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s a soft hmph.

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

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

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

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

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

he looks good.

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

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

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

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

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

“heels,” she says.

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

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

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

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

“that’s ridiculous,” logan huffs.

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

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

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

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

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

logan looks like he’s sincerely regretting it.

⁂

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i thought you were working?” patton says.

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

“it is,” logan says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“uh-huh,” patton says. 

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

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

“oh, absolutely agreed,” patton says. 

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

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

logan glances up, frowning. “lessons?”

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

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

“…what,” virgil says. because. what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

patton blinks. “putting them on already?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“they hurt,” logan says, frowning.

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

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

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

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

“amen, brother,” virgil says dryly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it reminds virgil of logan learning how to walk.

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

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

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

logan’s far too big for that now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jiskblr]

Blauprinz and his crew

My blood parents I never knew. Berliners, probably, but they left me in an anarchist-affiliated charity orphanage in Potsdam before I was six months old, so all I know for sure is that they named me Artur. I was adopted fairly late as these things go, about five, by the people who I consider my parents: Jurgen and Verena Carolingt. They could have had blood children, but chose to adopt, and frequently. When I was twelve I had five foster-sibs, but they slowed down after that; I only have two more sibs from the next decade, and they were adopted as the eldest four of us moved out. That's not counting Leo, who was their second fosterling; he was a real hellraiser and chafed at the academic's morality they tried to enforce, so he ran away to join a street gang. I got back in touch with him years later; for all that he left, he was as angry as me about - but that's getting ahead of myself.

My parents were academics, professors at Viadrina Universitat in Frankfurt-Oder, but in their more subtle way raised hell just as much as Leo. They grew up during the first partition, Da in East Germany and Ma in West Berlin, and they both hated the idea of hiding what they believed to cater to the powerful. They didn't budge in their convictions that everyone deserved a chance or that their conclusions deserved to be followed to their end. They believed in equality and metahuman rights, even when that was fairly unpopular, and they lived it. I'm a norm as were they, but my sibs are an even split of norms and orks plus one dwarf. They didn't adopt elves, who got snapped up more easily by more prejudiced parents, nor trolls, who posed logistical hurdles they didn't think they could deal with. (They felt bad about leaving out trolls, though, and donated generously to several charities for them. I do too, now, in their memory.) They budged just as little in their research, not even to stay quiet about it. When their research topics - applied sociology and economics of magic, for Da and Ma, respectively - developed from postulates to specific, inconvenient predictions and prescriptions for the practical world which got the corps to lean on their deans to quiet them down or kick them out, even so they stuck to their guns.

That pressure started to build around when I turned 18, and got worse as I went through my degree. When it all went to hell, I was a post-doc in applied modern theology - university-speak for 'shaman-ology' - and Zanne was a thesis candidate in high-energy experimental thaumics - studying when magic goes 'boom'. Gabi had given academia a serious try but it wasn't for her, so she'd become a net security wageslave in Potsdam - though honestly she'd be happier as a SINless decker. Fritz and Deb were undergrads at Viadrina, and Jost, Lotte, and Sascha were still young and at home. I don't understand what exactly was enraging the powers that be about their research; I think Mother had published something demonstrating that the publicly-known processes for producing refined orichalcite should produce a far lower market price, indicating that there was a covert cartel, and Father had models indicating that parts of the Eurowars didn't fit naturally with the known social dynamics pre-bellum, indicating deliberate provocation by some powerful force. True or not, either might have been the provocation. There had been escalating threats, but I wasn't living there, so I didn't hear about that; later, when I researched the background, I learned there’d been a fire started in the garage, broken windows, a chemical warfare agent left hissing in Dad's office after hours. But the first I heard of it was when I was back home, a week in late April, for Easter and Mother's birthday.

When some fucking Johnson carpet-firebombed the entire fucking house.

I don't know if they knew we'd be there. They had to know there were innocent children, there; Jost and Sascha weren't even ten yet. My parents died in the first few seconds, their corpses vaporized. Lotte was hugging Mother, so she was, too, and Fritz was just far enough away to leave dental records. Jost was less lucky; he roasted, but not quickly, and survived three hours before he died in agony. Deb lost a leg and an eye and as far as I know the pain's never stopped. Sascha was in the other room and got out, with severe scarring but none disabling. Zanne as well. Gabi wasn't there; the bosses wouldn't give her time off, and I'm not sure if that was a mercy or a curse. I was next to Father, and as far as the records know, I flash-fried like Lotte. But I'm a shaman of the Dragonslayer, and the fire washed over me. I tried to shield Dad with my body, but my totem isn't a protector; it preserved me, and much better than it would most of its shamans, but that didn't extend to him. I tried to help Jost when I realized he'd lived, but he told me to run and get revenge. I didn't realized Zanne or Sascha made it until much later; Zanne had hit her head and went unconscious quickly, and Sascha's response to pain always was to freeze up. But I kept it together enough to get to the basement, and there was ductwork Zanne had discovered years earlier and shown me, which connected it to three doors down. She'd also shown me the nearest part of the Berlin Underground - we snuck out through that ductwork - which had an ork gang she'd run with sometimes, so I thanked her memory about a hundred times that night. The gang leader by then, Ratbite, turned out to be one of the toughs she'd run with, and recognized me. I wasn't shy about using her memory to get a favor, and traded my shamanic skills - and some medical assistance - to get help going completely dark, wiping me from the databases so I could go truly SINless. He was pretty pissed when he found out she wasn't dead, but by then the favor was spent, and when she went dark as well she did him a couple favors and he mostly forgave me and accepted my excuse that I'd thought I was telling him the truth.

The official story was that the firebombs were thrown by a human-supremacist policlub, Nationale Aktion I believe, who objected to our outspokenly mixed-race family. This was bullshit, but plausible enough bullshit that the department heads and local politicians could easily pretend to believe it and be seen to Do Something in response, without that Something doing anything to harm corporate interests. Sascha I think believes that story, or prefers to act like he does. Deb, Gabi, and Zanne, though, didn't. And Zanne was good at causing explosions, but terrible at keeping her temper in check. She retaliated, with prejudice. Headline-making prejudice, which is how I and my temporary friend Ratbite learned she was alive. She had a big bounty for a couple years, but some anarchists gave her shelter before the corps reacted, and from there she became a runner as well. She didn't know I'd survived, though she did suspect, so I found her first, and joined the crew she ran with at the time. After that one came apart, the two of us have assembled all our future crews together. Well, mostly me, I'm the Face, but she still has better ties in anarchist and goblinoid circles; there's a lot of orks and trolls who won't trust a smoothskin, even one like me with an established rep.

Our vengeance is still a work in progress. The men who carried out the hit were deniable contractors, corp security from a minor place. They went down in an op our second year running, and the company got enough blowback from that job that it folded a year later. Finding out who gave the order is not quite done, but we've narrowed the field. I've got a solid network, and, well, my surviving siblings aren't any happier about it than me. Sascha pushed back when Zanne tried to contact him; I think he wants to put it behind him. Deb's a professor herself now, but she hasn't given up on justice, and Gabi-. She works for the corps, and counter to the ork stereotype is a very cold person in most ways; rationally, I know that gave me reasonable cause to doubt her. But after we finally made contact, we found her heart was cold, but a cold-burning hatred. A grudge aged like wine, but still so raw and deep that it feels unthinkable she could have made any other choice. Even the idea that she might have sided with her bosses over her family feels completely embarrassing to have considered. And Leo, like I said earlier, was almost as mad; he left home, but he still loved them for giving him a home to run from. (I hadn't realized, but he sent them gifts every Christmas, mostly hand-made, from the first year he'd left right through their deaths - he didn't learn about their deaths until he tried to deliver their gifts that year.) He's a complete ork stereotype, though, his anger is intense and searing. He'll let it go for months and then find something that reminds him again and smash up some corp's office, mostly at random. I try to give him more productive outlets when I can, but he refuses to go professional runner so he's probably going to end up landing in an early grave with his gang despite my best efforts. Not that we're really close, but I've lost too much family to let my crazy ex-brother join them.

[marvelfansince08love]

The pleasure is all mine

Word count:  2067

Pairing: Lou Miller x Fem!Reader, Background Platonic friendship Debbie Ocean x Lou Miller

Setting: Set just after the main part of the heist has finished and just before Lou gets changed into that emerald green jumpsuit to meet Deb and our other lovely ladies.

P.S: I apologise for any gramma/spelling mistakes, this was written at 1am after a long ass shift. Please leave your thoughts/comments on whether I should turn this into a short story.

P.S II: I hope you are all keeping safe and washing your hands.

Stay inside kids x

@ravenforce thank you for inspiring me🖤

I do not own the gif below!🖤

"User busy, please try again" the robotic voice from my iPhone says. I groan in frustration as I look at my phone showing a harsh red line inside my battery symbol, screaming at me to charge it.

I rummage through my clutch bag looking for my power bank as I stumble slightly on the sidewalk. I squint slightly under the light of the lamppost, hoping to give me some helpful light through the dark hole of which is my bag.

SNAP!

I hiss out in pain as I stumble on the uneven path. I looked down to see my favourite Louis Vuitton heel snapped in half.

As if this night couldn't get any worse!

I look up to the heavens and take a deep breath; given up all hope on finding my charger for my now dead phone. I proceed to limp aimlessly down the quite road of New York in hopes of finding a friendly face and if I'm lucky a cab.

Maybe drinking wasn't such a great idea after all.

As I turn the corner I spot a horribly looking white food truck across the street with a light on, with a bit of hope restored I slowly limp my way towards the truck.

I see a person inside dressed with a little white hat, sat perfect on a tilt on top of their head and a chef's tunic with their back facing towards me. I tap lightly on the window as to not startle the person.

The person turns around quickly with an irritated expression on their face before they look up and lock eyes onto mine.

Holy shit!

Crystal blue eyes stare back into mine curiously, she moves closer to the window to open it and leans lazily against the makeshift counter.

"Sorry we're closed" the husky voice says. Is that a slight Australian accent.

She sounds just as a beautiful as she looks. I open my mouth to speak and take a step forward but whimper as I remember my poor ankle and broken heel. The woman's face grows concerned as she quickly moves to the side of the truck and over towards me.

"Hey, are you okay?" She crotches down so she's eye level with me as her warm hand wraps gently around my ankle. She whistles sympathetically as she gets a good look at it.

"That's pretty swollen, how long have you been walking around with it like that" she says concerned. She stands back up and wraps an arm around my waist and grabs my other hand to wrap around her shoulder for support.

"Only for about 2 blocks, I was out with some friends and decided to walk home as it was a nice night. I guess this is just karma biting me on the ass" I say grunted slightly at the pain and discomfort as she leads us into the back of the truck. I tense slightly, realising that I'm letting a complete stranger carry me into the back of a food truck.

Even if they are a hot Australian blonde. I can already hear my mother’s disapproving tone in my head:

Never talk to strangers and most certainly never get into a truck with someone you don't know.

The blonde woman senses my discomfort and side eyes me with those beautiful blue eyes and smirks slightly.

"Don’t worry I'm just going to sit you down and elevate your ankle. I promise I don’t make it a habit of picking up random damsels in the night" she teases as she slowly lowers me onto a seat in the back of the tiny makeshift kitchen. She removes her arm from around me and moves to a nearby freezer and grabs a cold soda. She crouches down with one knee slightly bent and gently takes hold of my bruised ankle and places it on her thigh, she places the cold soda on top of my swollen ankle.

I flinch slightly at the cold before sighing in relief. This seems to make her grin slightly.

Fuck that smirk could make gods kneel.

"I'm Y/N by the way" I say softly while looking at my knight in shining armour.

"Y/N... nice name. So Y/N what is a pretty girl like you limping around the streets of New York at the dead of night...alone?" She asks teasingly with a lot of emphasis on the "alone" part. I can see slight concern in her eyes but still keeps her signature smirk.

"Well, I recently just moved from Y/H/T and got a job offer at the hospital as a Pediatric Nurse. I've just finished my first week and decided to celebrate with a few work friends. I haven't had much time to explore the city so the slightly drunk part of me decided tonight was the night to do that" I say slightly embarrassed by my naivety as my sober subconscious slowly makes an appearance.

"And I thought graduates were supposed to be smart" she teases back before removing the now humid soda from my ankle.

"Says the woman who's let said graduate into her truck without knowing her. I could be a serial killer ya know" I tease with a small mischievous grin. She chuckles and shakes her head slightly before taking my ankle off her thigh and gently placing it onto the floor. She stands and goes in search for a first aid box.

"Well if being murdered by a hot nurse is the way I'm going; I'm certainly not complaining" she flirts with that deep Australian accent. She proceeds to wrap the bandage around my ankle with perfect precision.

"I see you've done this before"

"Oh yeah! I'm constantly wrapping up sprained ankles for all the women of New York" I laugh heartily at this constant back and forth flirtation. She smirks and locks her eyes with mine, I lick my suddenly dry lips and open my mouth to make another witty remark but is interrupted by her phone lighting up and vibrating angrily on the counter. That seems to break the spell as she shakes her head slightly; as if shaking off the effect of our little bubble, before reaching for her phone. She takes one quick glance over her shoulder towards me and mouths "sorry" before stepping outside the truck.

I wait five more minutes before wondering whether I should head back home. As I start to stand my saviour comes back inside the truck with such confidence I would be envious if I wasn't so attracted to her.

"So I forgot that I was supposed to be meeting some friends for some after-party drinks and I'm running a bit late. I can drop you off if you like. Do you live far?" She asks with slight disappointment and looking a bit flustered. My heart flutters at the thought of her being disappointed about our meeting potential drawing an end.

"Umm no actually I live about 3 blocks away from here so I can walk it. I don't want to make you any later than you already are" I say awkwardly looking at my bandaged ankle, it’s going to hurt like a bitch walking home.

She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows in disbelief as she also eyes my ankle; seeming to think the same thing.

"Yeah no not happening, I'll drive you to your apartment and make sure you get in safe. I would hate myself if something were to happen to you" she confesses with confliction in her eyes.

I smile softly; touched by her concern

"Okay"

Her mouth twitches slightly upwards as if holding back a smile.

"Okay"

We both move from the back of the truck to the front seats with some assistance. We drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The blue-eyed beauty turns to look at me with her signature grin.

"So Y/N how old are you? Don’t take this the wrong way, you just seem young to have graduated already. How long have you been working as a nurse?" She asks with interest.

I chuckle slightly before replying:

"It's okay no offense taken, I'm 25 actually if you must know. I've been qualified for about 3 years. How old are you?" I ask with the same curiosity. I scan over her beautiful face taking in the deep cheekbones, the sharp jaw line and those luscious pale lips. The corner of her mouth twitches slightly and she quickly glances towards me before moving her eyes to the road.

"28"

I stare at her in slight disbelief, she's gorgeous and looks younger than her real age but she is not twenty-eight. She glances over and gauges my reaction before chuckling quietly and rolling her eyes.

"Okay so I'm not 28... I'm 32" she says trying to keep her serious mask in place but I can sense some discomfort in her answer.

Okay so she really doesn't want to tell me how old she is.

"Okay fine keep your secrets" I tease trying to hide my disappointment.

She shakes her head as if to get rid of the negative thought that is swarming inside her head. She turns onto my lowly light road.

"I'm just on the left there by that lamppost" I indicate to her, feeling slightly awkward. The conversation seems to reach a halt and she seems to be lost in thought before pulling over and turning towards me. She stares at me for a moment her eyes moving across my face before returning back to my eyes with a slight smile.

"Let me get the door for you and help you up those stairs" she says softly before climbing out of the truck and coming to my side of the vehicle. She reaches out her hand indicating for me to take hold, I felt warm from the touch and a slight shiver runs through my body as I lock my eyes with hers I see they've gone slightly darker.

She feels it too.

We walk up to my apartment building and after a small search for my key we step inside. She places her arm around my waist tightly as she helps me up the flight of stairs. We reach the number of my apartment door where the blonde-haired goddess reluctantly removes her arm from around my waist. We stand awkwardly for a moment before I speak.

"Thank you by the way… for helping me. Not many people would do that"

"It’s not a problem, thank you for not being a serial killer and murdering me in my own food truck" she teases with a mischievous smile and just like that the awkward tension is lifted.

Back to safe territory again.

I laugh quietly as to not disturb my neighbour's. Before placing my key into its rightful place and opening the front door. I turn back towards my saviour and smile shyly. She leans lazily with a spark of confidence against my door frame and smiles back.

"Thank you again, I really do appreciate it" before placing my hand around the top of her bicep and squeezing lightly in gratitude. She turns slightly to look at my hand and back towards my face before smiling wide at me. She takes my placed hand and slowly brings it to her lips before placing a gentle kiss on my knuckles and gently letting go of my hand.

"The pleasure was all my mine Y/N from Y/H/T. Make sure you rest that ankle, you got precious lives to save so we can't have you out of action" she whispers with some teasing undertone to her voice. I grin slightly before nodding my head and reassuring her that I will rest up and take it easy. She seems satisfied with my answer and pushes away from the door frame and takes a step back before sending me that signature smirk.

"See you around" before turning and walking confidently towards the stairs.

I smile dazed before quickly shaking my head as realisation dawn's on me. I quickly limp out of my apartment and head towards the staircase, leaning over the staircase I look at this beauty and ask:

"What's your name?"

She turns slightly towards me and looks up through hooded eyes and grins.

"Lou"

She turns back around and heads for the front door and with one last glance in my direction she disappears into the cold night.

"Lou" I whisper quietly into the air with a smile.

[temperancejones]

Some Kind of Curse- Chapter Six

Kris barely slept that night. Something was plaguing her mind, but she wasn't sure what it was. At 0530, she gave up trying to sleep, and decided to go on a run while Steve caught his last few hours of sleep. Throughout her five mile long run along the beach, Kris' mind couldn't help but to imagine what her new life would be like back home in Hawaii. When she was fifteen, she imagined herself in a completely different life. Dreams of being on the US Olympic volleyball team and touring the world playing the sport she loved while making lots of money seemed like a lifetime ago to her now at 33. Being forced to grow up at sixteen when her mother died and her father, consumed by grief and anger, sent her and Steve away to boarding school on the mainland while Mary got to stay with their aunt in Los Angeles. Kris was thankful for her life now though, she held no real resentment towards her father for everything that he did to her and her siblings- her and Steve got an amazing education at the Navy academy, and Mary got to truly live a free life in Los Angeles, just like she always dreamed of. Even at a young age, Mary told everyone that she was going to be a famous Actress in Los Angeles, where she could have everything she had ever wanted. The dream lasted a little while for Mary, until she nearly died from an overdose at age 25, which then lead to a bit of a downward spiral for her. Aunt Deb always took good care of Mary though, and helped her get back on her feet. Unfortunately, Steve and Kris could not be there to support her during this time, as their location for nearly ten years was on a strictly need-to know basis, thanks to them being in Naval intelligence and the SEALs. A lot of their adult lives were confidential, which lead to a big rift between them and Mary and Deb in LA. Mary blew them off in return, which Kris now understood that it was completely their fault, but Deb always made sure to check in on them whenever she could, and whenever they were able to.

Deb McGarrett had a heart of gold, and always saw the best in everyone. She never gave up on believing in Steve and Kris, and she knew that they were just as devoted to their jobs as her brother, their father once was. Deb secretly hoped that they would have a different and better life than John, but deep down, she knew that they would most likely have the exact same life as he once did, which was working until he died. Even when John was retired, he still worked every single day, up until his death. Deb hoped to god that Steve and Kris wouldn't end up like him, but she figured it was inevitable at this point. Thanks to John sending them away to boarding school, he practically sealed their fates. Deb hadn't talked to them in a few years now and was fearful for their futures. She hoped that they didn't become obsessed with his death as he did with their mother's death seventeen years ago.

--------- When Kris returns from her run, Steve is awake and fully dressed, after having gone on a (shorter) run of his own. He was ready for the day, and apparently had a full itinerary planned for the both of them. Kris quickly showered and got dressed, then listened to what Steve had planned out for the both of them. While Kris was out running, Steve asked the governor if they could borrow a car for the next few days until they could get the taskforce going, to which she agreed- there was a government Issue black SUV waiting outside for them as they spoke. Steve was going to go and recruit Detective Williams and get them to work with them on the case. Steve was impressed with his background, and after a quick little rundown on him, Kris was too. The next person that they had decided to ask to join their team was Chin-Ho Kelly. Even though Chin had been fired from HPD, Steve and Kris knew that he was still a good man and a cop. Chin was essentially an older brother to them when they were teenagers- he was always around their house, learning everything he could with their father, who was his training officer. Their father had trusted Chin with his life, and if John McGarrett could do that, then Steve and Kris could as well.

A coffee was quickly downed by each of the twins, then they head out for their day of recruiting. Steve had gotten Detective Williams' address from Duke, so that was their first stop. Steve pulled into the parking lot outside of the detective's shabby looking apartment complex, and hopped out, wishing his sister good luck.

Kris quickly hopped over to the driver's seat once Steve left, and drove over to Pearl Harbour, in hopes to find Chin-Ho working there. When she parks the car, she quickly goes over what she is going to say to him, then hops out of the car. Thankfully, it has stopped raining now, and it is a sunny and beautiful September day on the harbour. Kris tucks her phone in her pocket and makes sure that she has her wallet on her, then walks over to the gift shop, which is opening for the day. Thankfully, Chin-Ho is there, and he smiles when he sees her approaching.

"Hey, back so soon?" Chin asks, smiling as he begins to make his way over to Kris, who is now smiling back at him. They shake hands when they get close enough, then Kris asks if there is somewhere a little more private that they can talk. Chin quickly directs them inside the gift shop, which is still empty for the time being. Chin and Kris make a little bit of small talk, mostly about how happy Kris must be to be back home on the island after all these years. To be honest with herself and Chin, Kris is very glad to be back home and feel a little bit of normalcy in her life for the first time in a while. Deep down, she really hopes that the taskforce will work out well for them, and that they can hopefully settle down back home.

Once Kris and Chin are seated, Kris gets right to the point. "I'm just going to jump right in. Yesterday, the Governor gave Steve and I command of the new state taskforce to take down Hesse and his accomplices. By the looks of it, we will be special forces in a way, and Steve and I want you. We need someone we know we can trust, and I know that our old man trusted you. We also need someone who knows this island like the back of their hand. We need your help." Kris offers to Chin calmly. Chin sighs and looks down at the table. "I'm the last person that HPD wants to see with a badge again. We did not end on good terms." He replies, looking a little upset. He looks up at Kris, defeated. Kris nods, understanding his perspective. "I understand that. But this is not HPD. We will be working under the governor's command. No backing, no red tape. Just us, doing our own thing. Sure, we will butt heads with HPD occasionally, but you are going to have to face them one day. We are willing and ready to help you when you do so." She explains to him. Chin furrows his brows and looks a little skeptic towards the offer. Something like this must be too good to be true. "HPD thinks that I stole money from their evidence locker, what is going to stop you guys from thinking the same?" Chin challenges, hoping to call out Kris' bluff. He assumes that she must be bluffing at this point, because nobody gave second chances like this. Never. "My father trusted you with his life back in the day. You were a part of our family for a while Chin. If he can trust you, then so can we." Kris explains, now looking Chin in the eye, making sure that she can get a good read on him for the next thing she is going to ask. "I will only ask you this once, then it will never be brought up again by me or Steve. Did you take the money?" Kris asks sternly. Chin takes a deep breath and looks her in the eye before saying a firm "No.". Kris can't help but smile. "Good. Well, the offer still stands. This is your ticket back in the game, Chin." Kris tells him, and then stands up and pushes her chair in, waiting for his response. "You're sure you want me?" Chin asks once more. Kris nods. "alright. I'm in." He grins and stands up himself. He and Kris shake hands once more and smile at each other. "Welcome to the taskforce, Chin-Ho Kelly. Now please, raise your right hand." Kris says to him, and then swears him. Chin chuckles in disbelief once he is sworn in, then quickly heads to the staff area to grab his things. Kris heads outside to wait for him.

While waiting on the pier, she pulls out her phone and calls Steve, who fills her in on his little outing with Detective Williams, who was investigating the possible involvement of Fred Doran, a local arms dealer who may have set Hesse and his crew up with their weapons. Doran himself was a dead end, but his house revealed a big break- Doran was involved in human trafficking. Kris wasn't surprised to hear those words, as Victor and Anton Hesse were highly involved in many human trafficking rings around the world, so it was easy to assume that Hesse contacted a trafficker to get onto Hawaii. Kris quickly fills Steve in on her meeting with Chin, telling him that he agreed to join, and has been sworn in by Kris on a temporary basis until he can get sworn in by the governor. Steve tells her that the Detective is in as well, but Kris already knew that he was going to be, as Steve wasn't going to give him an option- he wanted him on the team no matter what. And if Kris was being completely honest with herself, she wanted him on the team too. His track record was great, and he was nice to look at too.

Chin meets up with Kris a few moments later, and she congratulates him again, then offers to give him a ride back to the palace, where they will be meeting up with Steve and Detective Williams. Chin declines, saying that he brought his bike to work today, so he would meet her there. Kris nods, and they go their separate ways.

Twenty minutes later, Kris parks the car at the Palace and waits for Chin to pull in beside her. They quickly make their way into the building and up the stairs to the new office. Kris gives Chin a little tour and lets him have first dibs on the three remaining offices. Chin chooses one and puts his bag down in there, and then heads out to meet Kris in the main room, where she fills him in on the case so far while they wait for Steve and the Detective to arrive. Within a few minutes, Steve and the Detective arrive, looking awfully grumpy and generally unhappy to be around each other- Danny wont even look Steve in the eye right now, due to his anger towards him and how bad the raid at Doran's house went. Danny had managed not to get shot in his six months on the island. But within one day of knowing the McGarretts, he managed to get shot. He was thoroughly unimpressed. He really hoped that this wasn't going to be a normal occurrence for him but based on the fact that Kris was already nursing an injured arm, he had a feeling it would be. Introductions are made, and the Detective insists on being called Danny, which Kris and Chin note. Danny seems to be favouring his left arm a little bit when Kris looks at him and quickly analyzes him. When Chin asks him about it, Danny grumbles something about a woman biting him, which confuses Kris a little bit, but she doesn't question it any further. The moral of the story is his arm is injured. Kris makes a mental note to ask Steve about it later.

The new team then gathers around the table and discusses Steve and Danny's new findings. Thankfully, Chin pipes up and says that he may know someone who can help with the trafficking lead, which is a relief to Steve, Danny and Kris, who had no idea how to pursue that lead. Steve and Kris had hoped that having a local as well known and liked as Chin would help them out. And they were right. "My guy may have the information, but he probably won't give it to you. He's not the biggest fan of haoles." Chin explains to the three outlanders who definitely would not pass as locals. "but he'll talk to you, right?" Steve asks. "if the price is right, yeah. His name is Kamekona Tupuola. He used to be a big-time gambler and arms dealer, 'till he got handed a five-year sentence in Halawa. He got out a few years back and since then, he has been running a legit shrimp and shaved ice truck. He still has connections to the black market though, so he may be able to help us out." Chin explains to everyone, who is listening intently. "and he can be trusted?" Danny asks the question that was in everyone else's mind. Chin nods. "He is a well-known CI with most of HPD. You may not have heard of him in homicide, but he was well known in organized crime and robbery. He's good. He helped me a lot in HPD." Chin replies, reassuring Danny, Steve and Kris all at once. Kris slaps the table. "alright, let's get a move on then." She says to her team, grinning. She digs her SUV keys out of her pocket and tosses them to Steve so he can drive. She technically isn't supposed to be driving with her arm in a sling, so it's better if Steve does the driving until her arm is feeling a little bit better.

They all then file out of the office and back downstairs and to their cars. Kris ends up hopping in Danny's car, while Steve and chin take the SUV. Kris really wants to get a proper first impression on the detective, and she wants to make sure that he is a good fit for the team. Steve seems to think so based off of their meeting in the garage of their house, but Kris, being the control freak and leader she is, wants to be sure. She learned quickly in the Navy that she needs to be able to trust her co-workers and team members in order for their ops to go well, so she needs to make sure that Danny will fit in well. She already knows Chin will.

The first few minutes of the drive are silent while Danny and Kris try to feel each other out and figure out what is going on in each other's heads. Danny is still angry about Steve's impulsive actions back at Doran's house, which could have easily gotten them both killed, but that was not what was bothering him. What was truly bothering him was Steve's complete lack of empathy and common sense. Steve did not have a way with words, and so far, had come off pretty rude and offensive towards Danny, which just made him feel miserable. Danny was already dealing with enough misery in his life- he hated Hawaii with all of his being- but now, he had no choice to deal with a complete and utter moron who had no people skills and would most likely end up getting him killed before he can see his sweet Grace graduate elementary school. Danny secretly hoped that Kris had the brains between the twins and was a lot better with her people skills than her neanderthal of a brother, but he definitely wasn't getting his hopes up. Kris on the other hand, was trying to figure out what made Detective Williams- Danny- tick. She didn't get to go in his apartment with Steve to get a real feel for him, and she only looked over his work file quickly, which really does not give her the full picture. He drives a Silver Camaro that is in impeccable shape, meaning that he is not a slob and that he is a good driver. So far, he hasn't done anything too reckless yet, meaning that he is quite careful too. Kris glances over to his visor and sees a picture of a little girl and a post card of New Jersey. She quickly thinks back to his file and recalls that he has a daughter, and that he transferred from Newark PD six months ago. Kris hasn't noticed a wedding band or anything on his person, meaning that he must be separated or divorced; he probably transferred out to Hawaii to be closer to his daughter by the looks of it. Kris makes a mental note to ask either Danny or Steve about it when it is appropriate. And finally, Kris takes a closer look at how Detective Williams presents himself. His blonde hair is always perfectly styled back, and he always makes sure to wear a tie with his dress shirts, meaning that he definitely cares about his appearance, and still is clinging onto the mainland, where detectives wear suits and ties. Here on Hawaii, the dress code is a lot more informal; it's hot year-round, and the only time suits are worn are weddings and funerals. Most detectives wear polos or Hawaiian shirts, which would be completely inappropriate on the mainland. Based on Danny's resentment towards Steve so far, He probably isn't impressed with Steve's lack of communication or people skills, so Kris makes sure to not tease him about anything for the time being. Good first impressions matter, especially when you are supposed to be working together and having each other's backs in dangerous situations. Based on all of this, Kris has a good idea about how to approach him now.

"So," She begins, "Steve wooed you with his great communication skills, right?" Kris chuckles, now looking over at Danny when they stop at a light. Danny scoffs. "What gave you that idea?" Kris smiles cheekily. "I've spent thirty years with the man. I think I know how dreadful he can be when talking human beings." She tells him. Danny raises his eyebrows and exhales loudly through his nose, half laughing. "so, what-" He says, and now looks over at Kris. "he's the brawn and you're the brains?" he asks, then looks back at the road and continues to drive, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. Kris shrugs. "more or less. It's more like... we're both the brawns and brains, but him more so the brawns and me more so the brains. People skills are not his strong suit." "yeah, I learned that real quick." Danny mutters, now thinking about his throbbing arm. "He'll grow on you. He always does. He's kind of like a parasite in that way." Kris jokes, hoping to break the tension building between her and Danny now. Danny just nods, obviously not too impressed. "I just don't wanna end up six feet in the ground, okay? I got a kid, I wanna see her grow up- and with him being all impulsive and shit, I'm gonna get killed! I'm not a Navy SEAL like you two. I do things by the book, and I do things to stay alive- I do not have a death wish like you two." Danny says with a little bit of urgency- to kris, he sounds quite angry and upset about this. Kris nods, now understanding his perspective. "okay. Okay. I can work with that. So can Steve, but we just need a little bit of time to adjust, you do need to understand that we have been in the navy since we were eighteen. Old habits do die hard, unfortunately." Kris explains to him, which causes him to loosen up a little bit. He sighs. "I- I didn't think about that. You're right. Sorry- Steve really got me goin'." Danny chuckles. Kris can't help but to smile at the detective. "I know. He's good at that. I just tune him out if he gets like that with me." She confesses, making Danny laugh again. When Danny stops at the next light, he turns and looks at Kris again. They half smile at each other. "And Danny," Kris begins in a softer voice, "We will do everything in our power to get you home safely to your daughter, okay? You have my word. And Steve's. He may not act like it, but he means it." she smiles sadly at him, feeling her heart pang in her chest. Kris tries not to think about the day that her mother didn't come home from work, but at times like these, she can't stop it. She still remembers seeing her father collapse in shock and devastation at the door- the gut-wrenching sobs that escaped her father's lips that day have been permanently trapped in her mind for nearly two decades now.

"thank you," Danny says softly, as he pulls up to the parking lot of the shrimp truck next to the SUV that Chin and Steve drove in. Danny and Kris hop out of the car and greet Steve and Chin, who are already out of the SUV and waiting. Kris nods at Chin, and he leads the way to the window of the shrimp truck.

[lazynewruc]

Charity & Vanessa Fic

I had this idea in my head after hearing upcoming storylines and also imagining hypothetical ones! This is VERY angsty. Set in a timeline where Vanessa is sick and then set in the future. It’s just a one shot not gonna continue so its all here.

Couple:Vanity (Charity and Vanessa) Show: Emmerdale Words:2667

Remember angsty and romantic. I hope you enjoy!

Our Boy

As Vanessa was wheeled backwards down the hallway drenched in artificial white light, her eyes remained locked with Charity’s. The terror and fear in her wife’s expression was evident, the worry lines and lip trying so desperately not to quiver preventing her supportive mask slipping in a deluge of emotion. Even after everything they had been through, Vanessa never really doubted Charity’s love and devotion. Really, really, stupidly and completely.

The thud as the gurney pushed into the swinging hospital doors broke the couple from their trance, though much of it went unspoken they had been reassuring each other through unbreaking eye contact throughout the journey to the OR. This was where they had to separate. Potentially forever. Vanessa tried not to let any negative thoughts enter her mind, but it was impossible. Her hand slowly slipped from Charity’s grip, their fingers sliding over each other till the last possible moment.

“I’ll be right here waiting when you get out, okay babe?” Charity smiled trying to hide the tears balancing so carefully on her eyelids, threatening to fall at any moment. Vanessa didn’t have time to respond before the doors swung back; Charity’s figure faded away into the bustling hospital background, she was alone now

Before they had even administered any anaesthetic Vanessa began to feel heavy, darkness seemed to envelop the room apart from the blinding overhead light focused in on her. As the surgeon began speaking, she started to drift back to thoughts of Charity, of Johnny, of their whole crazy family. Vanessa had never imagined she wouldn’t see her son grow up, wouldn’t get to raise him and protect him till he was old enough not to need her – well not to think he needed her anyway. Now there was a chance he’d have to face the world without her, it was as if she was abandoning him.

All she could do was remember what he still had, her crazy and at times overbearing mother would no doubt be around more. Johnny’s adoring Aunty Tracy would be there to sneak him a drink at a family party or spoil him rotten on his birthday. Then there was Charity. She may not be his Mum, she may not even be blood, but she loved him as much as she loved Vanessa. Many people might think she was crazy to want Charity Dingle to care for her son if she passed, but was there anyone who would protect him and teach him how tough life can be better than she could? Vanessa didn’t think so.

Not long before the surgery date had been settled and they had been married, Charity and Vanessa had both agreed to legally adopt each other’s kids (of course Vanessa could only adopt Noah, but the sentiment was there with all of them). They had become a real family now.

“Ten, nine, eight, seve…” As she drifted away and closed her eyes on the world an enormous sense of relief washed over Vanessa, Johnny would be fine, Charity would make sure of that.

 ***

“MOSES! You made a right mess when you got in last night, did you do some kind of elaborate gymnastics routine to get upstairs?” Charity screeched, though not with any real malice at her son as he slumped over the counter head in hands. The alcohol fumes emanated towards her and her eyes grew wide then grimaced as she took it in.

“Pwoar, I’ve got spill mats at the pub that don’t stink as bad as you. Oi, I’m speaking to you!” She gave him a light clip on the back of his mop of blonde hair which was met with a grunt.

“Leave it out Mum, me heads poundin.” Moses’ mind drifted back to all the times he’d laughed when Noah received the trademark ‘back-of-the-head slap’ and felt a slight pang of guilt.

“Fine, just help me pack the last of your brother’s stuff into the car will yer?” Charity gestured to a pile of boxes neatly arranged by the door, and though nursing a hangover her son obliged.

 As Charity and Moses loaded the boot of the car with boxes, a duvet and a large suitcase a car pulled up behind them. Almost immediately two tiny children emerged from each back door and clung to Charity’s legs, both of them sporting bleach blonde curls and pale faces with rosy cheeks.

“Granny Charity, Granny Charity!” They exclaimed.

“Ugh, no matter how many grankids I have, that will never feel normal,” she uttered as she bent slightly to try and hug them both.

“How about Great Granny Charity?” A deep voice quipped as a tall, slightly tired looking man closed the car door behind him.

“Oi you, Sarah isn’t due for 2 months yet, so we’ll have less of that.” A smile rose on one side as she kissed her son’s cheek and gave him a slap on the arm in jest for the ‘Great Gran’ comment.

“Great, now Noah’s here can a go lie down?” Moses asked in a sigh already turning to return to the house.

“Fine. But take your niece and nephew with you!” Charity’s eyes grew wide and she mouthed the word Useless at Noah. “Oh, and tell your brother to hurry up I wanna try and beat the traffic!” Noah helped her finish loading the car and the two caught up outside.

***

When Charity and Noah opened the door to Jacob’s Fold they found a barely conscious Moses lying on the sofa, clutching a pillow over his head in desperation as a four and five year climbed all over him, screaming and giggling in unison.

A smiled grew wide on Noah’s face. “That’s funny, I’m getting déjà vu witnessing this. I guess its karma ay, Mo?” He poked his little brother teasingly but got no response.

“Where is he?” Charity queried a slightly worried tone in her voice. Moses shed no light on the situation, and she stormed over to the bottom of the stairs. “Oi Brainiac! A world of knowledge awaits you, and the roads are gonna be chocka so get a shift on, yeah!” Her message was met with a slightly distracted “Coming!” in response.

“Right, I’ll get these lot outside ready to send him off. Debs should be here soon and we’re gonna facetime Ryan.” Noah said with some authority, he’d always been great with his brothers and he’d become an excellent father. He scooped up the kids and tugged at Moses’ sleeve dragging him to the door sensing his Mum might want a moment without the rest of the clan watching. Charity gave him a knowing and thankful smile.

Just as the door clicked shut legs began hurtling down the stairs, he was slightly shorter than Moses and Noah, something they teased him for, he got his height from his Mum. “Sorry, sorry, just wanted to make sure I had everything.” Johnny pleaded, locking eyes with Charity and delivering a perfect heartwarming, butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, another thing he got from his Mum Charity thought.

“It’s fine, I suppose you only start Uni once. Or at least I hope you do!” She joked and put her hand gently on his shoulder. “Right, you ready? The whole mad house is outside ready to see you off as if we were sending you to the trenches.”

Johnny nodded slowly looking slightly nervous as he gripped his backpack with one hand and slowly rested the other on top of Charity’s. “Thanks Mum.” He smiled slightly and looked down. The first time he had called Charity ‘Mum’ had come as a shock to both of them, it felt both right and wrong at the same time, the older he got the more it felt right. He never stopped thinking of Vanessa as his Mum, he considered the fact he’d never actually called her Mum, she was ‘Mummy’ when she was alive.

Swinging his bag onto his shoulder Johnny was about to head out. “Wait, Johnny boy.” A nickname she’d never tired of using to his chagrin. “I just wanna say how proud of you I am… And how proud your Mum would have been, and is somewhere. You were her whole world and you’ve never let her down. And look at you now, off to become a super vet! It’s a pretty big lab coat to fill but I know you’re gonna smash it kid.” At that moment Charity’s voice cracked and she felt the warmth of tears as they began to roll down her cheeks.

Johnny was a typical young lad in the sense he fought not to cry in public, but whenever someone mentioned his Mum, he couldn’t hold it back. He had his own memories of her of course, they were the memories of a small child though, he would often sit with Charity or Tracy and hear stories about her. That’s when he allowed himself to crumble, and this was no exception hearing that she would have been proud of him meant the world. When he had heard stories about her as a vet from Rhona and Paddy, he knew it was all he wanted to do with his life, the thing she loved.

They held each other for a moment, both feeling the occasional movement as the other sobbed. Charity inhaled deeply, mustering all the strength she could find she pulled back. Looking at the young man she had raised her heart ached, every time she’d looked into his eyes, she saw the woman she loved, but it was a reminder she would do anything for Johnny – he was her son.

“She’d be proud of you too y’know? Surprised you managed to keep me alive all these years, but proud. Proud of the family you made even without her.” Johnny smiled, picked up his bag again and walked outside. Charity didn’t follow but she heard the roar from the family as he appeared outside.

 ***

Hearing the commotion outside Charity knew she needed to go and join everyone as they said their goodbyes. She had to take one second, looking around Jacob’s Fold in a rare quiet moment. Many people encouraged her to move, it would help with the grieving process and to attain closure they said. For Charity it was the only place her and Vanessa had ever managed to build a home, they had been a dysfunctional family there, however brief, she couldn’t let go of that.

Raising the boys had been tough, especially at the start but she had so much support, eventually things settled and she found strength in her pain, knowing Vanessa would want her to carry on and to do what was best for the family. Every moment she felt she might break apart, she remembered her wife, remembered the promises she had made to protect Johnny and the boys and to be happy without her. It was hard but she’d done it, found a way to be happy found a way to make sure her family was happy.

Before she walked out to join the bon voyage party, she turned to the picture of her and Vanessa that hung proudly near the door. Everyday before leaving Charity would look at it and say bye to her wife, sometimes in her head, sometimes out loud, but always “Bye babe,” without fail. When she felt low occasionally, she’d sit and speak to her for hours. Even with no response it somehow helped support her, Vanessa was always so good at that.

“Well babe, I did it. Managed to turn him into a pretty spectacular young man. Though I think he might have your genes to thank for the spectacular bit,” tears began falling but she continued “I never thought I’d be able to get out bed without you let alone this. But I always felt like you were there y’know, rolling your eyes calling me a moody cow, but telling me to carry on cause you love me and believe in me. Listen, I know you’ll have to watch over Johnny-bobs now in Manchester, keep him out of trouble, believe in him when he needs you. But please don’t stop dropping in on me from time to time, cause I still need you, you know that. Always will, my Tiny Blonde Rocket Woman!” Charity wiped her tears away and blew a kiss to the picture on the wall, then headed out to join the rest.

***

The light was blinding as it crept in through weary eyes, she couldn’t make out anything at first, each blink revealed more of her surroundings.

“Hey, hey babe.”

That voice was delightfully familiar, she felt the gentle pressure of two lips on her forehead as a kiss was lovingly planted there. Charity. There was no mistaking her wife’s touch, even post-surgery Charity’s presence made her feel warm and safe.

“She’s awake guys.” Charity announced which ushered in a team of rather sleepy looking loved ones.

Tracy came to her bedside holding Johnny and Vanessa grasped his tiny hand so tight, as though she never wanted to let go. At the other side Noah approached with Moses in his arms, who presented her with a big card he had apparently decorated himself, a large red heart stuck on the front had ‘Get wel sun’ brandished on it, Vanessa thought it was perfect and blew him a kiss. Noah and her shared a smile and a look which seemed to tell her how relieved he was she was okay.

As well wishers came and went, offering gifts and careful hugs Charity looked on, allowing everyone to make a fuss of her wife but not wanting to leave her side like a protective lioness guarding what she cherished most. The bags under her eyes betrayed her earlier declaration of having slept that night. When everyone had left and Tracy took the kids home Vanessa turned her attention to her wife, still sat attentively in the corner.

“Right well you need to get some sleep, okay. I’ll be back in the morning.” Charity said almost dismissively as though she were scared to be alone with Vanessa who was noticeably exhausted but wasn’t ready to say goodnight just yet.

“Wait a sec. I’ve barely had a moment with you today. Just come and sit with me for a while.” Charity looked at her softly and of course obliged, pulling the chair as close to the bed as possible she grasped Vanessa’s hand and kissed the back of it barely touching it to her lips.

“Charity, I just… I want you to know. I love you, so much. And I know if anything had happened to me-” Charity tried to interrupt but Vanessa held out a hand in protest. “I had this dream while I was under, I swear it felt so real, even now it’s almost like a memory. I saw you, in the future, still gorgeous as ever. You had raised the boys and they were perfect and, and I just, I know if anything happens you’ll look after my boy. Our boy. So, thank you for being so amazing.” Vanessa lifted Charity’s hand to her lips and kissed it furiously, as if trying to prove how much she meant what she had said.

“Ness… Course I would, you and our little family mean everything to me. I know I act like a muppet and screw up, but I swear I’d never let anything bad happen to him. But lucky for him and the rest of our kids you’re gonna be okay. So you’ve gotta put up with me till I’m old and grey. Though still gorg apparently!” Both women laughed and settled into a smile falling in love more with each second. “I love you Ness, always will. My Tiny Blonde Rocket Woman.”

Despite assuring Vanessa she’d go home and sleep, when Vanessa drifted off Charity didn’t want to leave her side, she fell asleep next to her wife that night as she would every night for years to come.

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 87

Chapter Summary -  Danielle shows Tom her father's old practice, causing them to bump into Danielle's past who isn't long telling Tom their opinion of him, making Tom feel a tad jealous and worried.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously

Sceal is the Irish for story.

TB is short for Tuberculosis, nasty disease that cattle are tested for quite often.

debs, the debutante occasion, just a dinner and party with expensive clothes and a chance to get crunk that happened after you graduate Secondary school.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @damalseer​ @hiddlesbitch1​ @winterisakiller​ @fairlightswiftly​ @salempoe​​ @wolfsmom1​​

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

"So, this is it." Danielle stood in front of the business premises.

"It still has his name." Tom pointed to the older sign on the window, the words Mattie Hughes in the background.

"Yeah, I think John was hoping that having that there would keep some of dad's clients."

"Has it?"

Danielle shrugged, "No idea. He did a few years with dad before he went off doing some work elsewhere, but when I was talking to him at dad's funeral, he made a comment about missing this part of the woods, so when I decided to have it sold, I called him and offered him it for a good price, he took it, obviously."

"Can I help you?" A woman in her mid-thirties walked around from the side of the premises.

"Is John around by any chance?" Danielle asked.

"No, he's on a call at the moment, is it urgent?"

"Fair enough, no it's fine, just passing through and wanting to see if he was here."

"Will I tell him you called?"

"Yeah, I…" Danielle stopped talking as a jeep beeped at them and pulled in, the window down. "Well, John."

"Danielle." He turned off the jeep and got out. "How are you?" He embraced her tightly before pulling back. "Jesus, sorry about the smell, I did a testing job out in McGrath's."

"As long as you don't give me TB we're good, how are things?"

"Great, sure, and yourself? Are you finally back from your stint over the water?"

"No, I am just home for a few days, sorting a few things, said I'd call by and see how the place is doing."

"Ticking away sure."

"Good stuff." Danielle smiled, noting how her father's old workmate looked curiously at Tom. "John, this is Tom, the poor bollix stuck putting up with me, Tom, this is John, the new owner of my dad's practice."

"Hello." Tom extended his hand politely.

John displayed his own slightly grubby one before extending it in forewarning to Tom. "Well, my condolences, she's a pure pain most of the time this one." John joked causing Tom to frown.

"Gee, thanks." Danielle scoffed. "You gave her a bit of a going over."

"I did yeah, got some new equipment in too, but overall, things are the same. I mean, your Mam, God rest her, had a great way of doing things, so we kept that, and your Dad thankfully was singing my praises after I left so I kept everyone, well not everyone, but the big ones, so it is brilliant really."

"I am delighted to hear that. No sceal with you?"

"Devil a bit, yourself?"

"Working hard yet hardly working."

"So no chance of you returning home to us?"

"Not really, no."

"To be honest, I never thought you'd stay over there, I mean, you never left home before, and when you were growing up, you seemed fairly happy here at the house."

"I am happy, I like it more in Britain, more opportunities there for someone like me."

"Yeah," John nodded, his face slightly disheartened, "You said you were never going to be the housewife of a vet like your Mam, I suppose."

"No, she loved it, but not for me." Danielle shrugged. "Listen, John, I couldn't use the bathroom, could I?"

"Off with you, the door should be open, you know where it is." John chuckled, leaving Tom and John outside alone. "So, you know Danielle long?"

"Since she moved over, she moved in next to my mum, so we met her when she arrived."

The other man laughed. "Of all the sorts of lads I thought Danielle would land, a proper English one was so far down on the list." Tom frowned slightly. "I mean, her dad, Mattie, a great man, he thought she'd do as he and her mother did, he left her all of this to try and see if she would keep it all, try and get herself some rural lad."

"A vet, someone like him?" Tom assumed.

"Well, yeah. It's normal, isn't it, parents wanting their kids to follow their paths?"

"I assume so, I think I broke my father's heart, he was a pharmaceuticals man, I am anything but."

"Let me guess, teacher?"

"Me?" John nodded. "No, actor."

Again, John laughed, though there was something of a scoff to it. "Actor? Jesus, it was a far cry from actors that Danielle Hughes was reared. I'd have paid money to see Mattie's face if she'd have brought you back."

"Why, may I ask?"

"Well, I mean, with all due respect, you are not what is the norm for a vet's daughter in the west of Ireland, you are so oddly matched."

"And a vet would be better suited, correct?" Tom growled.

"Well, she was reared in such a life."

Tom was about to answer when Danielle came out, she was smiling until she came close to Tom, then realised his darkened mood. "Where next love?" he smiled.

"I suppose we better get to that cottage I told you about, it will be closing in an hour," she stated unsurely. "It was great seeing you John, and great to see you have the place running well."

"Thank you, Danielle, please, whenever you're home, you should say hi." The vet smiled brightly again, giving Danielle a tight hug again. "We miss you around here."

"Get yourself a girlfriend and stop being so lonely then," Danielle suggested with a smile. "Many a rural girl will want a vet with his own practise and house, you should be beating them off with a length of Waven pipe."

John looked sadly at Danielle, "I suppose."

Danielle just waved at him. "Take care John," She smiled, Tom beside her giving only a small nod of his head to the other man, before turning towards the car too.

"I'll drive," Tom insisted. Danielle handed him the key, smiling up at him as she did so. "You navigate."

"I always do."

"There's no need for you navigate us to mums, I have been driving there longer than you have a licence."

"I still manage to get us there quicker, don't I?" She laughed getting into the car on the passenger side. Tom drove off briskly. "Tom?"

"So where are we going?"

"Tom, are you okay?"

Tom reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it while keeping his eyes on the road. "Yes, I am."

Danielle did not believe him. "You know John lived with us for a small while." Tom glanced over at her. "When he first came to Connemara, sure there are so few places to rent and we had a big house, so dad made it part of him working with him. Mam used to cook and clean, and Dad and John would do the animal work. He's your age actually." Tom said nothing. "I remember, for my debs, which I was less than impressed at having to go to, Dad suggested he go with me, thought him a good match for me." Tom's jaw clenched slightly, causing Danielle to have to hide her grin.

"I thought you said your father didn't want you to marry a vet."

"He did, but I think it wasn't an issue of a vet, but one in particular." Tom's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Tom?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you, by any chance getting a little…?"

"I am not jealous."

"I was going to say worried, but hey, you're the one going aggressive with the steering wheel." Danielle laughed. "I never liked John like that, I sort of didn't really like him much at all, he was an arrogant ass and thought I would just fall at his feet because he was five years older than me and had a job."

"Really?"

"Yes, I only offered him the practise because Dad's clients knew him, he mentioned he was thinking of coming back to Connemara and I wanted to sell it." Danielle dismissed. "What did he say to you to upset you like this?"

"Nothing, it doesn't matter."

"Tom?" He did not respond. "Pull over."

"What?"

"I said pull over, please." Tom did as he was asked, looking at her worriedly as he did so. "Whatever John said, ignore it, my parents would have loved you, I know that better than anyone else in the world, he was always an ass and clearly never changed, also know that I love you." She stated firmly, "I want you."

Tom gave her a faint smile. "Would you ever have considered him?"

"No. I do not find him the least bit appealing, he's got a face like a slapped arse and a personality like it to boot, remember, I lived in the same house as him, I have seen him at his best and at his worst, and there is fuck all difference between them." She commented. "Now, for the record, this is supposed to be the other way around," Tom's brows furrowed. "I am supposed to be the insecure one, worrying about you and other girls, you are supposed to try and tell me random girls are not who you want, not this way around," she smiled, "Come on now, get it right."

Tom chuckled. "I am sorry. I just want you to be happy."

"You're human Tom, don't be sorry, but remember, I love you, no matter how flawed your sexy ass is."

[masonsfm]

better late than never , am i right folks ! 

。· . ˙ ☀ ⌈ madelyn cline + cis female + she / her + the maverick ⌋ yo , have you meet that POGUE , mason sterling , yet ? — no ? well , to give you a little heads up before you do , they’re a TWENTY-TWO year old , FREELANCE PHOTOGRAPHER / BARTENDER , and have been living in coston for TWENTY-TWO YEARS . since i’ve known them , they’ve reminded me of GRAINY PHOTOGRAPHS DEVELOPED ON FILM, LIGHTENING BUGS MAKING THEIR FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE SUMMER, NOTES SCRIBBLED IN THE MARGINS, WHITE COTTON SHEETS ON A CLOTHESLINE, AND A MIDDAY NAP UNDER THE SUMMER SUN . usually they’re quite INTUITIVE & EMPATHETIC but just make sure you keep an eye out for them around town because i heard can be quite RESERVED & UNFORGIVING as well so here’s hoping they aren’t the ones to undo this whole peace pact they have going on this summer . but just between you & me , i kinda hope it all falls apart . the rivalry keeps this whole boring town interesting 

hi kids! i’m b and this is my sweet mason who is a lil too curious . . . a lil too stubborn . . . and prob shouldn’t be climbing trees anymore . i’ll tell you why in a minute .

BACKGROUND.

near the muddy waters of the cut, surrounded by tangled woodland, there was a two-bedroom house with a leaky roof and an old dog named arlo constantly snoozing on the front step. the sterling residence was nothing to look twice at, but it was home for the first eleven years of mason’s life. she lived there with her dad, matthew, and her mother, charlotte, and things were never quite easy.

mason was a save the marriage baby, a last ditch effort to rekindle love that was slowly fading to nothing... and it worked, for a little while. but as she got older and the novelty of a shiny new baby wore off, things between her parents got rocky again. they were constantly fighting over, well, everything, but money was the root of a lot of it. her dad worked two jobs and still didn’t make much, especially when her mom had a habit of blowing it on things that were far from necessary.

everyone in the cut knew it, too, the way the sterlings were falling apart.. mason knew it was bad when her friends parents’ started bringing it up to her, just checking in to see if she was okay. and she was, for the most part, until the other shoe drop and her mom moved out, revealing she’d been having a long term affair with someone on the other side of the island.

charlotte (mason’s mom) moved out and went full kook in no time. she remarried in a lavish summer ceremony, taking on two picture-perfect step children who were just a little older than mason, and beginning her picture-perfect life in an old plantation house turned mansion. back in the cut, matthew (mason’s dad) still struggled with two jobs and was rarely home, but if you asked, mase would’ve told you she was perfectly happy with that.

a judge presiding over the custody battle for mason, however, was not, and due to her father’s work schedule and lack of supervision in the cut, her mother was granted nearly whole custody of their daughter and at twelve, she moved to the figure 8 and, for five days out of the week, wasn’t allowed back on the rougher side of the tracks.

they called her macy and insisted she always wear shoes when leaving the house. she had a new room, a new wardrobe, and come fall, a new school. her mom signed her up for piano lessons and shoved her back into ballet classes, to keep her occupied, and without any subtlety at all began molding mason into the kind of kook princess that her older step sister was. one day she’d have a coming out party. she’d wear a white dress and take a knee on the stage as a debutant. high school would come and she’d be a cheerleader, a prom queen. her mother had what’s best for her planned out to the very last detail.

her only saving grace was weekends with her dad. she got to head back to the cut for two or three days most weekends, and there she could be whatever she wanted with her father’s full support. unfortunately, though, a lot of her friends noticed the prim and proper new clothes and the perfectly manicured nails. those who didn’t know better saw mason going full kook as well.

with the friends she grew up with slipping away, and the first year of a new middle school being an absolute nightmare, mason decided to give in... mostly because her father, whose heart is too big for his body, asked her to. she was macy, kook princess in training, taking after her older step sister and quietly doing as her mother said. she kept to herself, for the most part, ran through the motions with only so much as an occasional eye roll, but as time passed, it became more difficult.

she missed the cut. she missed friends that liked her for her. she missed having weightless shoulders. it seemed that everyday she was trying to live up to expectations her mother had that she could never meet, that she would never meet because they just weren’t her. so if she couldn’t be prim and proper, she could at least be pretty, right?

tw eating disorder, anorexia

early on, around the age of 14, she started to become hyper-critical of how she looked . . . and how it wasn’t reflective of this older stepsister her mom was in awe of. over time she developed anorexia nervosa, which took form in habits of rarely eating, at first but then progressed into compulsively exercising. it took a toll on her physically and mentally, and eventually she was just kind of the shell of who she used to be.

her father was the first to notice, and thus began a fight that would last two years between her parents. custody was called into question again, all while mason was in therapy and on a prescribed diet to get back to normal weight.

by 15, her father had accepted a newer higher paying job as a director the wildlife center, and he’d stepped back into the dating game. mason spent every other week with him, and her mental health seemed to only increase when she was back home in the cut.

by 16, a final decision was made, granting matthew full custody of mason after a judge took her health and wants into consideration. this was the same time that they moved in with the bauers , and none other than miss finley bauer became, after a little bit of a rocky start, the sister she’d always wanted.

things were good for a long while, and they’ve stayed that way for the most part. heading back to school with the pogues had its hitches, and there are still people who think she might’ve gotten a little too close with the kook side of things, but for the most part, mason moving back was a homecoming. she saw her mother every other weekend and on some holidays, and though she wasn’t made to be a deb, she still had to participate in a few things like midsummers and what not. this time with a little more of a mason spin on it, quietly causing a little trouble where she could. 

she did exceptionally well in school, and by the time she graduated high school, she’d saved up enough and snagged enough s

cholarship money to attend columbia university in new york where she studied journalism. she loved the schoolwork but sorted hated the culture of the city and struggled to find her place. sophomore year she had an ED relapse, but got through it with the insistence of her family.

she recently graduated from columbia with honors, and now she’s back in pogue territory with no idea what the fuck comes next. she doesn’t know where she wants to live, or even if she’s ready for the real world. with grad school and a big girl job on her mind, she’s preoccupied and lost in her thoughts a lot of the time, but she’s happy to be home and happy to be taking a year off to figure it out in coston.

PERSONALITY. 

mason’s got a quiet sort’a nature about her. she’s never the center of attention or the star of the show, and she doesn’t really care to be. part of that quiet nature comes from the unacknowledged lack of self confidence that still lingers under the surface, but most of it just stems from the fact that she was an only child or a misfit child for a long time, so she’s used to keeping to herself. quiet gives her the ability to observe.

that said,.. she’s a bit of a nancy drew type. definitely intuitive, definitely curious, definitely a little too nosy for her own good. it’s what makes her so good on the journalism front, her need for answers and her ability to act on a hunch. if mason’s gut is telling her something, it’s generally right.

she’s an introvert for sure but that doesn’t mean she’s... not friendly. she might not be the first to strike up a conversation, but she’ll hold it for sure. with a bit of a dry sense of humor and a straight faced delivery, she might even shock you. overall, she’s very sweet. very easy to be around.

being observant and intuitive really leans into her being empathetic in that she’s . . . good at people. again, you might not know it since she does a good job of keeping to herself, but she’s very easy to be comfortable around, very easy to spill your secrets to, very easy to trust. which is fair!! because she’s quite trustworthy

though she doesn’t give out her own trust so easily and that absolutely stems from her mommy issues

she’s quite .. .. unforgiving with that sort of thing, too. once you lose it, it’s gone. once you break it, it’s broken. 

super laid back which occasionally looks like apathy . . . but. that’s far from the truth

she’s passionate about a lot , but she’s not going to waste her breath arguing with someone who isn’t willing to learn or compromise.

fearless in a very quiet way like . . . the way i explain it is this: if a whole group was arguing ab who was going into a haunted house first, she wouldn't participate in the argument. she'd just kinda .. . blink . .. and then turn her flashlight on and walk in first

always up for adventure. that little shrug and ‘why not’ sort’a vibe when you ask her to do something is actually a hard yes from miss mason

level-headed as fuck, will keep you sound of mind in a fight

loves being outdoors, especially by the water

rides a longboard everywhere despite having a car

has broken her left wrist twice due to falling out of trees. still has not learned her lesson and will continue to climb trees bc it’s a nice place to sit and read ig chill out tarzan

super mellow. if she were music, she’d probably be a bob marley song

will answer your question with a question bc one: she doesn’t like talking about herself and two: she’s genuinely curious

honestly very smart . . . like clever as the devil and twice as pretty but book smart too . . .. good for her bc her mun could neVer

will not take help if her life depends on it i s2g this idiot could be sinking in quicksand and she’d be like ‘it’s fine i can gET OUT ON MY OWN’

freelance photographer, mostly for the coston paper

bartends at a local dive on fridays/saturdays, otherwise catch her in an ugly tennis skirt lookin uniform at the clubhouse serving old men shitty bloody marys and wishing she could commit murder when they hit on her 

loves her people relentlessly but chooses them very very carefully

did not like living in new york one bit lemme tell ya

always carrying around a film camera. always. 

writes in the margins of all of her books... and even in the margins of her own notes for annotation purposes

brain always running at 139871 mph which is why she’s in her thoughts a lot like she rly is just trying to sort it out

CONNECTION IDEAS.

childhood friends . . . that stayed friends even as she crossed into kook territory . . . and that didn’t stay friends and have since drifted 

the one (1) kook that prob welcomed her and honestly is still pals with her because there’s a genuine friendship there not just a toleration

a skinny love that was at it’s prime during childhood like these two were gonna grow up and get married, had their first kiss on a dare while sitting in a literal tree, old old friends that idk mayb they’re still pining because that like never went away!! or maybe ‘you’ve changed’ and now it’s uhhh.. different

an ex on the kook side would be a fuckin adventure especially if it was after she moved back to the cut and was like i waNT nothing to do with ANY of them . .. , except that one i like that one

an ‘enemy’ aka someone she just never clicked with and they’ve been at each others throats since high school

u KNOW miss mason sterling is all about her girl gang shit so gimme that

the brother she never asked for! never really wanted! but, begrudgingly, needs

ANYWAY THAT’S MASON!!! overall. . . .. she's mellow. v calm, v levelheaded, v to herself. observant and a lil nosy. fearless to a fault on occasion, and stubborn in her independence. loves her people, but chooses them carefully. shouldn't be climbing trees. uHhHhhHhhH hit me up on discord or like this and i’ll come bother u for PLOTS so we can get this thing poppin’ ok that’s all

[moonstomars]

Withering heart

Kiane week, day four : Loneliness/Sacrifice

Summary: settled in a world where Meliodas has never gathered the Seven Deadly Sins. After one thousand years in prison, the Fairy King is free to return to his loved ones. He finds nothing more than ashes and ruins. 

Notes: I wrote this a few months ago after discussing with some friends what would have happened if Meliodas had never formed the Sins. So, that’s my take! Consider that this is pretty heavy angst and please, check the tags before reading. 

Warnings: heavy angst, major characters’ death, canon typical violence (considering that nnt can be pretty gory sometimes), mention of self-harm

“Come on, this can’t be real!” The younger man keeps staring at the paper he holds in his hand with furrowed brows, almost as the intensity of his gaze could change the words written on it. He rapidly looks at his feet, just to make sure he is not going to trip on the stairs, then returns his eyes on the document. “One thousand years of prison? This is a joke!”

At his side, carefully going down the stair with his hand on the rail, the older one shrugs, a big iron key between his fingers. “I’ve learnt since long ago not to question anything about that prisoner,” he simply says, eyes fixed on his feet. “They are here since I started working here, and as far as I know, they were here before. Every day, I’ve brought them food, and they have always eaten it. Whoever is in that cell, I don’t know, but they are surely alive - and old.”

“Yes but - one thousand years?” The young guard skips the two last steps and lifts his gaze to look at his companion, scepticism clear on his face. “The has been a mistake for sure! Maybe the scribe was distracted when they copied this. Or drunk.” His nose wrinkles as he shakes his head, “You can’t trust those guys.”

The other man doesn’t answer as he reaches the end of the stairs, immediately turning and pointing at the sturdy wooden door at the end of the hall. “You can ask them yourself since we came to free them,” he comments finally, barely glancing back - the other has followed him, still muttering under his breath.

“We are going to find a - an old, decrepit guy, you know right? Maybe we’ll be lucky enough and they’ll be able to walk, so we won’t have to drag them until the exit …”

With an annoyed sigh, the old guard lifts the key. It slides in the lock without problems, yet he needs to strain the old iron for a few moments, turning it with force and breathing out with relief when finally the latch cedes and the door starts opening, revealing a dark room, barely illuminated by the little window that opens right under the ceiling. Only then the man hesitates, peeking out from the entrance and looking for any sign of life. “Hello?” He says, taking a step inside, his companion immediately following him as his wide eyes search the cell. “Your penance has ended prisoner. We have come to free you.”

“It ended?”

Both the men jerks, turning toward the left side of the cell, where, in the shadows, a figure stands up. “I’m really free to go? The king will not declare war to the Fairies, as he promised?”

“War?” The old guard asks, furrowing his brows as the other one let out a surprised gulp, the word “Fairies?!” almost getting stuck in his throat. “I don’t know what you are talking about, there are not been wars for almost - ah, fifty years, now?”

Silence falls as the prisoners takes a moment to assimilate the words, then they nod and take a step towards the two men, lifting the chained wrists, “Take them off, please, I - I need to go, now." 

But neither of the guards can do anything else but stare, eyes wide and mouths falling open as the young figure of a boy emerges from the shadow, his tired amber eyes so incredibly old and yet set on the face of a teen. 

"So?” He raises a brow when nothing happens, “There are people who are waiting for me.”

“How - who are you?” The young guard squeaks while the other is still frozen, “This is insane! You can’t be - you can’t!”

The boy purses his lips before snapping his finger, and the old man yelps as the key leaves his hand and floats in the air until it reaches the lock of the chains. In a moment, the old iron falls on the ground and the prisoner sighs, massaging his wrists. “Good,” he murmurs, before glancing again at the two now terrified humans. “Tell the king that everything is settled, then.” In the blink of an eye, his feet have left the ground and then he is flying through the door, leaving the guards and the dark cell and everything he has known for the past one thousand years. Leaving to finally reuniting with them. 

Elaine. His people.

Diane. 

                                                                -

Beheaded.

Harlequin blinks, once, twice, then he squeezes his eyes for a long moment before opening them again, yet the letters are still there, scratchy but so clear on the yellowed paper. The other words seem to blend and blur in a dark mass that covers the page, the only sentence he can see is the one that now echoes in his mind, wiping out any other thought. 

Sentenced to be beheaded.

His heart pounds, fast and strong, it’s like a drum in his chest and his head, but it almost feels distant, a simple background to the images flowing in his mind. He sees her, so young and innocent like the time they were together. He sees the chains tight around her hands, he sees the soldiers gathering around her figure, using their weapons and magic to make her kneel. He imagines the fear and panic in her eyes as the knowledge that it’s over sinks into her, he imagines the tears rolling down her cheeks and the broken sobs escaping her lips. Did she fight? He doubts so, or at least, he doubts she did everything in her power to stop them. She was alone, most likely without training, and besides, she wouldn’t have wanted to hurt them because she was good, and kind, and selfless - not envious, never envious, that’s not her. Whoever wrote the accusation against her was lying - and that lie, that filthy lie, was all it needed to end her life.  

His grip on the old papers tighten, the sheet crinkle and swish and the words distort. He doesn’t care. He is not seeing it anymore. In his mind, she cries when her neck rest on the wooden stump, she struggles, trying to get away, when the blade is lifted and it starts to fall - but it’s not enough. And before the blood spurts and her head rolls on the ground and the light leaves forever her violet eyes, she screams his name. He blinks, eyes wide fixed on the paper that is falling into pieces in his grip. That was just a trick of his mind, it had to be - like everything else, for that matter. She didn’t remember him, she couldn’t have called his name. She died thinking that she was alone.

She died because he left.

She died.

Harlequin feels nothing and at the same time, he feels too much, too many emotions bursting into his chest and burning his heart as his mind empties. He can’t think about anything else than her, than Diane, the young Giantess he loved - he loves - and he left because it thought it would have been for the best for her. The girl he condemned to death. 

She is dead. 

She was taken away from him, like everything else, while he waited and waited for that cursed sentence to finish. Without him even knowing. 

She died -

No. 

She didn’t die. She was murdered. And he wasn’t there to stop it. 

The paper is decomposing and falling into pieces in his hands, but he doesn’t need it anymore. The sentence, the date, the place are marked with fire in his brain. Liones. Around 800 years ago. Sentenced to be beheaded. Executed. And he was there, waiting in a cell. To be free. To find her again. He was there. Just a few miles from the place where her blood spilt. It would have been a joke for him to fly there and save her. If only he had known. 

If he had known - 

The scream echoes in the underground room, bouncing on the walls and the ceiling and returning distorted to his ears, and only when his throat starts to hurt, when he coughs and silence falls for a moment, he realizes that it came from him. He screams again, and the paper crumbles to dust in his hands, soaking his clothes when he grips the cloth right beneath his heart, his fingers sinking and scratching in the skin under it. It should hurt, but he feels nothing but an empty place in his chest where once it was hope, yet he digs his nails in the warm flesh, pressing against the bones - if only he was strong enough to break them and reach his heart and rip it out, if only he could end this here and now, before his mind has the chance to wrap around the fact that Diane is not anymore.  

When the ground shakes he falls on his knees, head bent as he keeps slashing his body; he blinks, the tears that were watering his eyes finally falling on his cheeks, staring at the stone floor until it breaks before his eyes. Vines emerge from the creaks, making their way through the rocks, and when he glances around Harlequin notices that the wooden shelves are rotting and falling and the paper records he had searched for so long are pulverizing. It’s him, part of his mind realizes, he lost control, yet he can’t bring himself to care as the new plants tear apart the room, not even when the ceiling starts to fall around him. Let it fall, he thinks, lowering his head, let it hit him and bury him under the earth, where he deserves and craves to be. Harlequin sobs and waits, embracing himself as the dust and the debris envelop him, as the sound of floors and walls and ceiling crumbling down covers his cries - he calls for her, for Diane, and for his sister and his friends and everything he lost. He calls for them, desperately hoping that when he will open his eyes they will be there, welcoming him between them in the land of death. 

But fate is unfair and he is not so lucky. When he raises his head, minutes or hours later, the shaking has stopped and the dust is settling, yet he breathes and sees and feels. Vines have wrapped around him, creating a wooden shield that protected him from the debris shower. At the summit, the branches thin out and he can catch glimpse of the night sky where once was the left wing of the royal palace. Out there, he can hear people screaming and calling, crying over the ruins of the building and most likely the corpse of the unfortunates who were there. His is not among them. He is still alive. He is still alive. 

He covers his face with his hands as he cries, and he hates the pathetic whine that comes out of his mouth. His nails sink into his skin again and tear his skin until they are soaked in blood. It hurts, but not enough to overpower the sorrow that is suffocating his soul. His sight is blurred again, and he can barely distinguish the figures who now look out from the top of the hole he created. 

“Someone’s down there! I think he is alive” 

“That’s impossible! How can someone - ?”

“Hey, kid! Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Their voices reach for his ears, yet he can’t hear them, nor he cares. Why? Why he had to be the one who lived? Why it wasn’t Diane, why it wasn’t Elaine? Why him?

The desperation that clenches his heart is overcome by the burning rage that flares up in his chest, making him cries again as the vines writhe over him. More screams rise in the night and he doesn’t care, because his Forest has burnt and his loved ones are dead and it’s all his fault. Hot blood falls on his cheeks, mixing with his own, and then on his arms and hands, with something else, something solid and red that hits the ground with an obscene squish, and that’s when he realizes what the vines are doing. He doesn’t stop them. Why bother? Those humans are guilty - not as he is, but almost. A human took away the life from his sister’s hands, and then made sure to burn the Forest to the ground until nothing but a bleakness of death was left. Humans were the ones who took Diane to trial and judged her and killed her - not minding that she was so young and kind and too good for this world and its madness. They deserve nothing. 

He is not fully aware of what he is doing when he lifts into the air and get out of what should have been his grave. His eyes wander without interest on the dismembered bodies around the hole, on the ruins of the buildings and the crooked plants that rise from the ground - they weren’t there, earlier, when he slipped in the palace through a tiny window, fear and hope mixing in his heart. He doesn’t care. When he passes next to them they tremble and rotten and fall and other buds sprout from the ground, growing crooked and black. Under his feet, the grass darkens and wither, the flowers fall and the earth dry, leaving a path of desolation behind him. He doesn’t care. 

When someone yells on his right, his eyes move and he lazily turns his head. The bleakness in his eyes doesn’t change when he spots the lying man, nor when he notices the red wound on his arm. The man cries and presses the cut, trying to stop the blood, but the red liquid is spurting and pouring on his clothes as the wound gets larger and larger until it covers all his forearm. Whining, the man lifts his eyes, and that’s when he sees Harlequin. “Help,” he croaks as he crawls towards him, “Help me! It doesn’t stop!” 

Harlequin stands still, his eyes empty as he watches the man stopping with a panicked scream, as his skin is sliced towards the shoulder and then the chest and the belly until he is covered in his own blood, until his body freeze on the ground and lies motionless in a pool of red. 

He doesn’t care. 

He forgets about the man the moment he turns away, making his way towards the walls of the city. Even when the screams and the sounds of the crumbling palaces surround him again, he keeps his eyes straight ahead, slowly walking across the town. His mind is blank, his chest is empty. 

He doesn’t care.

[luckylq29-blog]

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[traincat]

What to read for peterxfelicia(i'm not sure if there's a ship name?) goodness for someone who's getting into it because of the current hunted storyline?

I never know what the ship names for anything are; I think PeterFelicia goes by PeterFel and SpiderCat, but don’t quote me on that one. For Peter and Felicia content, I’d go way back to Felicia’s first appearance to start with, and then follow along from there.

Amazing Spider-Man #194-195: At the tail end of his affair with married Betty Brant, Peter runs into the Black Cat, an enigmatic thief with whom he has an instant romantic connection, but the Black Cat has her own agenda.

Amazing Spider-Man #204-205: Felicia makes her reappearance in Peter’s life. Don’t pay too much attention to the ending of this one; it quickly gets overwritten.

Amazing Spider-Man #226-227: Felicia’s scheme from the previous story pays off, and she and Peter attend a costume party. Felicia attempts to quit her criminal ways to further her romance with Spider-Man, but it’s harder than she expects.

Spectacular Spider-Man #74-79: Peter tries to help his colleague, friend, and beleaguered love interest, Deb Whitman, only to end up surprised when Felicia crashes into his life once again. The two battle Doc Ock with disastrous results.

Spectacular Spider-Man #84-90: Felicia is released from the hospital and she and Peter continue their romance. In Spectacular Spider-Man #87, Peter unmasks to Felicia. Felicia, wanting to be Spider-Man’s partner in more ways than one, strikes a deal to get herself superpowers. 

Spectacular Spider-Man #91: Felicia runs into Peter in his alien black suit for the first time.

Spectacular Spider-Man Annual #4: The B-Story, Cat and Mouse. Felicia goes on a wild goose chase when a carafe Peter gave her goes missing, and a friend expresses doubts about whether the relationship is good for her, which I think is an important bit of nuance – fans who don’t like PeterFel love to label Felicia as “bad” for Peter, and there is dysfunction in the early days, but I think it’s important to realize it more than goes both ways. (I love a complicated relationship.)

Amazing Spider-Man #256-258: Mary Jane reveals a secret to Peter, while Felicia has apprehensions about both Peter’s black suit and his civilian identity. 

(It’s not a Felicia issue but I highly recommend reading Amazing Spider-Man #259 if you haven’t already – it’s the issue that reveals Mary Jane’s backstory and it’s perfect, completely throwing all of her previous actions into a new light.)

Spectacular Spider-Man #95-100: Cracks develop in the relationship as Felicia worries her new bad luck powers are harming Spider-Man, and as Peter begins to question Felicia’s morality. They break up at the end of #100. (Peter and Felicia also have a brief and tense conversation about Felicia’s new powers in Amazing Spider-Man #263 and a frosty interaction in ASM #266, which takes place before Spectacular Spider-Man #100.)

Spectacular Spider-Man #112: My very favorite Christmas issue. While a Santa-themed robber strikes around the city, Peter, Felicia, and Mary Jane ruminate on the holidays.

Spectacular Spider-Man #115-117: Peter’s attempts to get rid of Felicia’s bad luck power’s influence over him leads to her powers cutting out at the worst moment possible. Felicia’s new costume debuts in #117.

Spectacular Spider-Man #119: Felicia has a moment of introspection on her relationship with Peter.

Spectacular Spider-Man #123: Peter and Felicia seemingly reunite after Peter saves her after an explosion in her apartment.

Felicia has appearances in Amazing Spider-Man #288-289, which are part of the larger Gang War storyline, which takes place from Amazing Spider-Man #284-288. In ASM #289, which takes place after Spider-Man vs Wolverine (highly recommended), she presents Peter with some new costumes.

Spectacular Spider-Man #128-129: Felicia’s revealed to have double-crossed Peter up – or has she?

At this point in time, Felicia vanishes off the pages for a little bit. Peter and Mary Jane shortly get married, which Felicia only finds out when she returns to Peter’s old apartment, expecting to find him. In an attempt to get revenge on Peter, she starts dating his best friend, Flash Thompson – only to end up genuinely falling for him. I love Flash and Felicia’s relationship, and it’s genuinely really sweet, but some PeterFel highlights from this period: on the last page of Amazing Spider-Man #329, Flash shows up with Felicia at Peter and Mary Jane’s loft, and ASM #330 has a flashback to a double date dinner. In ASM #331, Felicia confronts Mary Jane about her marriage to Peter and reveals her plan to break Flash’s heart to hurt Peter. (I think it’s important to remember at this point in time that everyone here is in their early 20s and very dramatic.) In ASM #335, Flash tries to arrange a double date while Felicia canoodles with him in front of Peter. In ASM #341-343, Felicia twigs to the fact that Peter’s lost his powers, and the two team up again. In ASM #346, Felicia offers to help Peter with a supervillain, and in ASM #347, she says that even though she still has feelings for Peter, she’s now in love with Flash.

Web of Spider-Man #80: When Peter goes missing, Mary Jane asks Felicia to track him down.

Spectacular Spider-Man #204-206: Both Felicia and Peter attend the reading of Harry Osborn’s will following his death in Spectacular Spider-Man #200. When Flash is injured by Tombstone, Felicia becomes furious that Peter didn’t tell her. This isn’t a particularly romantic Peter and Felicia teamup, but I do feel it’s a good look at their dynamic post-romantic relationship.

Spider-Man Unlimited #11: The Spider-Man in this story is Peter’s clone, Ben, but on top of the Ben/Felicia flirting, there’s plenty of PeterFelicia background. A woman from Ben Reilly’s past has been murdered – and someone wants to put the blame on the Black Cat.

Peter Parker Annual 2000: The B Story (although the A Story features one of my favorite rare Marvel characters, Bounty). With Mary Jane currently presumed dead, Peter encounters Felicia one night.

Spider-Man/Black Cat: The Evil That Men Do #1-6: Felicia Hardy’s asked to track down a missing friend, while Peter Parker hunts for the source of the mysterious drug-related death of one of his students. When these two events bring them back together, they team up to take down a threat who can give people a high – or kill them – without ever being in the same room. This one tends to be a “love it or hate it” series for people, especially considering it retcons Felicia’s backstory to include sexual assault as motivation for becoming the Black Cat, but there is an awful lot of Peter/Felicia content in it. Warning that rape is a major theme in the story. 

Marvel Knights Spider-Man #1-12: Aunt May is kidnapped, and Peter’s on a race around the clock to save her before time runs out. Felicia’s the first person he calls for help. Feilcia takes a few issues to become a major part of this story, but it’s all one big arc, and she has a huge part in it, especially in the ending. Also features Peter and Felicia both calling each other “baby” when they’re not in a romantic relationship.

Spider-Man Unlimited (2004) #14: A Story. Felicia enlists Peter help to break into the Latverian Embassy.

Amazing Spider-Man #606-607: Post-Brand New Day, the link between Peter Parker and Spider-Man has been erased from the minds of almost everyone, including the ones who knew him best – like Felicia Hardy. It doesn’t stop them from teaming up – or hooking up.

The Many Loves of Spider-Man: A oneshot collecting several different stories about the women in Peter’s life. The Black Cat one is very cute.

Web of Spider-Man (2009) #11-12: When Spider-Man goes missing, Mary Jane contacts Felicia Hardy to find him.

After this we hit Superior Spider-Man and things get not good for a while, which you’re probably familiar with if you’re getting into them through the current ASM run, where Peter’s finally re-unmasked to Felicia and restored her memories. But that should bring you up to date!

Some other continuity PeterFelicia recs:

Spider-Man Noir & Spider-Man Noir: Eyes Without a Face: Four issues each, Spider-Man Noir takes place during the Great Depression. The nephew of socialist rabble rousers, Peter Parker is an angry young man taken under the wing of Ben Urich, Bugle Reporter, when he’s bitten by a mysterious spider. Felicia Hardy owns a speakeasy, the Black Cat, and knows all about the criminal underworld. Felicia first appears in Spider-Man Noir, but the romance doesn’t kick off until Eyes Without a Face. If you liked Noir Peter in Into the Spider-Verse, I recommend his comics.

Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Heist: While Felicia has a quest in the main game, she makes an appearance during The Heist, the first DLC from the PS4 Spider-Man game. When Felicia starts stealing drives belonging to a major crime family, she claims she needs to complete the heist to save her son -- leaving Peter to wonder if the child is his.  

If you don’t have the time/cash/inclination to play the game but still want to see the PeterFelicia scenes, this video has all the Black Cat stakeout missions from the main game, and this hour long video basically has the entirety of The Heist.

[r3b3lgrrrrrrrl]

A LunaTic and her Gunn (Part 33)

"Just Listen... Remember."

@lovemythsworld

@creatureofthen1ght-v3

The water is warm as Colson and Luna make-out in the shower. They're trying to squeeze a quickie in before going to Sunday Brunch.

Careful of her gunshot wound, he runs his hands all over her wet body as she firmly strokes his oversized cock. He can only take it so long before he spins her around, pulling her hips out as she leans into the wall. He runs his large hand over her ass ❗SLAP❗ He hits her hard to her delight.

Moaning, she tells him "Fuck me." With that he slides carefully into her tight pussy.

"Unhhh!!!! You feel so fucking GOOD!!" He calls out, gripping her wet hair. They fuck each other like it's their last time. Hard and passionately. Slamming into each other, panting. He grips her hips tightly, feeling her clench around his hard cock.

"Ready?" She begs, slamming into him.

He grips her harder, telling her "DO IT!" as they both cum. Bodies tingling.

He then pulls her up into his arms. Holding her loosely to be careful of her wound, letting the warm water continue to cascade over them as they catch their breath.

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Dressed in a flowing, blue printed dress, littered in jelwery, with chunky ankle boots. Luna, Colson and Casie meet Luna's grandmother Pattie and her friends for brunch at Poppy+Rose. It's not long before Emma joins them.

They enjoy breakfast and mimosas as Casie gushes to her mom about "How cool!!" yesterday was, bouncing around with excitement. Emma smiles, listening to her excited little girl. Pleased with Luna's thoughtfulness towards her daughter.

"She was such a delight!" Pattie tells Emma regarding Casie.

"MOM!!! I MET BEYONCÉ!!!" She interrupts the women, pulling a peice of cardboard out of her bag. It's littered with the autographs of famous women. Casie points out Beyoncé's.

Shocked, Emma looks at Colson then Luna. "Really???" She asks, amused.

"YEAH! And RiRi is even COOLER than we thought, Mommy!!" Pointing on the cardboard to her autograph. Casie looks at her mom "Luna's friends with Rihanna, so I get to call her RiRi." She tells her with sass. Emma catches Luna's eye. Both beaming at each other as they and the other grown ups erupt into laughter.

Susan reaches over to Casie to check out her prized cardboard. "Now, THAT'S punk." She declares to the little girl's content.

They continue talking about the video shoot.

After a while Casie and Emma have to leave to catch their flight. Luna and Emma hugging warmly, as Luna thanks her for letting Case be involved. Bending down, Luna then thanks Casie for being in her video.

"I'M IN IT!!!" She shouts, eyes wide. Making her parents look at her.

Luna laughs "Yes, Silly. Remember when you were walking with all of us holding the sign?"

"Yeah?!" She asks intrigued with wide eyes.

"We were shooting then." She tells her grinning.

"THHHAT'S SOOO COOL!!!!! THANK YOU, LUNA!! THAT'S SO COOL!!! I LOVE IT!!" Casie shouts out again, diving into a laughing Luna, hugging her tight. Luna squeezes her back through the pain as she lays dozens of kisses on her cheek.

Pattie had been happily watching her granddaughter, until she sees her wince under Casie's weight.

As Colson walks them out, Luna hears Casie tell her parents, holding their hands. "I, was in a MUSIC VIDEO with Beyoncé. NOT DAD. MY friends are gonna think I'm SO cool...."

Luna grins, sliding back into her seat, turning to the 5 women staring at her. "What's uuuup?" She asks them, laughing.

"That was really sweet to watch, Loons." Joni speaks first.

Debbie looks at her in dismay. "Don't tell me you're fucking conforming." She says with a smirk.

"Never." Luna laughs reassuring her.

Pattie cuts the bullshit. "What happened to your shoulder, Luna?" Her grandmother asks her bluntly.

Luna sheepishly looks at her Mom-Mom, sighing. "I got shot on the ICE job." She says reluctantly. Colson has returned to the table.

"And I'm JUST finding out now, Luna ADELAIDE Smith?" She says sternly using her full name. Pattie's friends are quiet.

Luna looks down at her hands in her lap. Colson reaches for her hand. Looking up "I'm sorry, Mom-Mom." She says apologizing. "It was late, I took care of it and I didn't want to worry you."

"You know that's no excuse, Luna." She states firmly. "What else don't I know?"

Besides being worried about meeting Casie, Colson's never seen Luna look so intimidated. "FUCK." He thinks to himself. Holding Luna's hand under the table.

Looking around the table. She knows she can trust these women. "I shot a cop." Luna says lowly, looking her grandmother in the eye.

Pat doesn't flinch. She had been listening to the words of The City and already knew the details. "Kill 'em?" She's still stern with pursed lips. Keeping steady eye contact with her granddaughter.

"No. Knee shot." Her fingers are interlaced into Colson's, squeezing his hand. Anxiety reliever, she reminds herself.

"And YOU?"

"Through and through."

"Dr?" Knowing Luna is smart enough to keep herself off the radar.

"Two." This satisfies Pattie a bit

"Antibiotics?"

"Yes."

"So, you're okay?" Pattie softens.

"Yes, Mom-Mom." Luna tells her quietly.

"You should have fucking told me, Luna." She states, flashing back to firm.

Luna sighs. "I know, Mom-Mom. I'm sorry. Never again." She reaches across the table to squeeze her grandmother's hand with her free one.

Pattie knows she's referring to honesty, not danger. She squeezes her back with a smile and soft eyes. "Well, now that, that's settled..." She turns to the group.

Annie interrupts her. "I think it's safe to say, Deb's worries about Loons conforming are out the window!!" Luna and The Women laugh to Colson's confusion.

The rest of their time is light and enjoyable. Mimosas dripping. Before parting ways, Luna and Colson make plans with Luna's grandmother to come to NY for dinner after his show in NC. Hugs, kisses and love are exchanged. Pattie looks into Luna's eyes. Firmly stating, lowly enough for only to her to hear "Never again.". Luna nods. Before hugging and kissing her grandmother good bye.

Each of the women privately cheer Luna's rebellion with their goodbyes. "Keep fighting the Good fight." Being their overall message.

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In Colson's Rover they both let out a sighfull "FUCKKK..." in unison. Looking at each other and laughing. Luna fires up a joint.

"You're Mom-mom is hardcore." He releases.

"I know. Here, we need these." She says passing him the joint before sparking another. Both with their own on the way back to Colson's.

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At Colson's, after A Drink, A Smoke, A Chat and A Fuck, they're back in the studio. He wants to play her Hotel Diablo in full again. She knows the titles and lyrics now, after listening and watching him work as he finished pulling the album and its contents together. It had been a pleasure to watch him. Grabbing shots with her camera along the way.

"Just listen, remember?" He smiles at her.

She's on the couch again, like the first time he played it for her. Only with a beer instead of water. He watches her intently, from his same spot, chin in his hand, as the album begins. It opens up with Sex Drive. She LOVES the beat he created with The Marks. She drips from his fire on el Diablo, moving with its beat, like the first track. The Chester homage still hits hard on Hollywood Whore. Glass House and Burning Memories nail her in her gut. Just like the first time. And again, she's visibly relieved by Pete's entrance onto the album. Colson smiles as she laughs, smiling up at him as she runs her index finger along her cheek. Wiping stray tears from the previous songs.

She's moving again to Floor 13 and is bobbing to Roulette. Truck Norris comes on. Remembering that night, she laughs hard, high-fiving Colson. Death in My Pocket makes her climb onto his lap again, kissing him sweetly. While during Candy, she grinds against him, reciting the dark lyrics to him playfully. Still on his lap, she pulls back from the change as I Think I'm Okay comes on. After chair dancing on him through the acoustic part, she pulls him out of the chair with her to sing, jump and dance around together. Kissing happily.

As 5:3666 starts, they flop on the couch together, Luna wincing.

Colson hands her a beer, wanting her to catch this next part. To his pleasure she does, seeing another tear drop for the track before. As 5:3666 fades out to his voice questioning himself, you hear a door open and heels walk across a room.

"This is different." She thinks, noticing it wasn't there before.

Luna's head whips over to him with wide eyes as she hears her voice say "Come to bed, Bunny.... Please". He agrees before her heels walk out and he sets down a razor blade. Door closing behind them. The album then flows into Bad Things.

"Seriously?" She looks at him, her blue eyes, sparking brilliantly. Red painted lips open in shock. She climbs on top of him. Kissing him all over his mouth and neck, making him laugh. The sound of them singing together, plumping her pussy as she grinds into his hard cock to their beat.

"It's not finished." He tells her, laughing, through wet kisses as she pulls his pants off. Sliding her panties over, she seperates her wet lips and slides him into her, inch by inch, as he sings to her over the track 🎶And your my drug🎶Breathe you into my face numb🎶 This makes her buck against him hard, head back, pushing her tits against him.

After a moment, she looks into his eyes replying with the track 🎶What can I say🎶It's kismet, ain't it🎶 She rides him, as she giggles in delight, He squeezes her tits over her dress. Her hips controling his dick. Feeling them both close and knowing the end of the song, he flips her over, carefully onto her back, on the couch. Throwing her left leg over his shoulder, he takes long, deep strokes. Making her quiver. Pushing hard inside of her, he STOPS.

"Listen." He demands. Luna tries to focus while his dick is buried in her guts. Bad Things leads into the end of the album with a door opening again. Boots and heels walking. A car door creeks open, his voice saying, "Get in, Kitten." to a loud kiss. The car door slams closed, boots walk again. The car door creaks open again in the background. The Boots stop. Car door slamming before it's engine revs up and peels out to Sex Drive.

Luna's whole body is pulsating. Her pussy clenching around his cock. She drops her one leg, wrapping both around his waist. "Oh Bunnny..." Is all she can say, sticking out her bottom lip before pulling him into a deep kiss. Throbbing inside of her, they thrust to the beat. Looking into each other's eyes, kissing passionately. Moving slowly for the first time. Both enjoying every long inch of him inside of her. It doesn't take much, just a few smooth, full pushes before they cum together happily, as usual.

"This is IT." Both of them knowing their destiny and truth.

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To be continued....