#then I’ll probably take a month off so I can make a huge buffer for CH3 like I originally did for CH2

[hawkfurze]

Almost finished with drawing the last few pages of CH2 of TSOO and realizing I really need to get to finishing the CH3 script

[something-tofightfor]

Powerless

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader (female reader insert; no ‘Y/N’)

Word Count: 9,782

Rating: This is NSFW. This is like 8000 words of smut and 1700 words of back story. I’m not sorry. It’s not for anyone under 18. If that applies to you, go away.

Summary: A storm’s rolling into Bogotá, but you’re barely paying attention because Javi’s right in front of you... and he’s the only thing that matters. 

Author’s note: This is a continuation of the 500 word kiss prompt for Javi that can be found HERE. 

There is very little plot. 

The playlist for this story/pairing/whatever it is can be found here.  This isn’t where I wanted to end it ... so there might be something else coming. Maybe. Thank you for the encouragment, @the-blind-assassin-12  ... I know that bombarding you with random snippets at 3 am isn’t always helpful, but I probably wouldn’t even have continued this without you.

When you’d suggested going ‘home’ to Javi, you’d meant your place - only because it was closer to the bar you’d gone to than his DEA-furnished apartment. He’d agreed without hesitation, already easing you off of his lap before you’d even finished speaking, but when the cab let you out in front of your place, you realized it had been a mistake. “I’m… fuck.” This was a huge mistake.

You rubbed at your face - likely smearing the remnants of your eye makeup - while looking up at the complex. It was a few stories tall … and completely dark, the only light coming from the other side of the street, which apparently still had power. “Hey.” He reached for you, fingers closing around your elbow. “You didn’t know.” No, I didn’t. You could feel the oncoming storm; the air thick with humidity, lightning far out on the horizon. “Want to go back to my place?” He was moving his thumb over your skin slowly, eyes focused on your face. “It’s -” “No. That’s just a waste of time, Javi. Might be out there, too.” You sighed, closing your eyes. “As long as you don’t mind the apartment being hot, you can -” He leaned in, kissing you hard, and when he pulled back, you could feel that he was wound tightly again, the hold on your arm firm. It was hard to keep your eyes off of him; even in the darkness, you could see the exposed portions of his chest and neck, the way tiny beads of sweat collected on his brow, the lines between his eyebrows deep as he watched you, even though there was a gleam in his eyes. What, Javi? “I can think of a couple ways to cool off.” You laughed at that, but weren’t surprised. The two of you had started something in the bar - unintentionally - and you knew that the twenty minute cab ride and disappointment of finding that your power was out hadn’t derailed him entirely. “Come on. I’ll get the flashlight out of my truck first.” After a quick visit to his vehicle for the heavy device, you and Javier made your way up the three flights of stairs to your apartment, the man’s fingers wound tightly around your hand. It was in his nature to be protective; Bogotá was moderately safe at best, and in his time in Colombia, the man had seen - and done -  a great deal of violent things. But it still surprises me sometimes that he’s so protective of me.

You knew what he did for a living, knew how he lived his life, but it hadn’t ever bothered you, because above all, you knew that Javier Peña was a good man, and he’d never done anything to make you believe otherwise. And because you knew that it made him feel better, you let him take the lead when you were together, acting as a buffer between you and even the slightest inclination toward danger. But the funny thing, you thought as he unlocked the door with the keys you’d handed him, is that he’s the most dangerous thing to ever happen to me. 

You knew that he knew it too. You’d told him as much, but Javier had laughed it off, not even asking for your explanation until much later - after you’d known each other for a few months and had been sleeping together for a couple of weeks. He was dangerous because he didn’t realize how appealing he was; the effect he had on women - the pull you felt toward him and how easy it was to care about him, even though your coworkers had warned you away from him the moment they’d seen him. They tried, but it was never going to happen. 

This was true even though he’d been upfront about himself and the methods he used for work - telling you about the informants he’d gotten close to, the responsibility he felt for the women that he’d met during the time that he and his partner had been trying to take down Pablo Escobar, the value he placed on connecting with people in intimate ways. Because it’s his way of making things right. You’d understood that, too, telling him you were perfectly fine with keeping things casual, that your job wasn’t permanent enough to make you think about long term - and that had been the turning point for him. After you’d assured him that you weren’t looking to fall in love, the phone calls had increased in volume, Javier wanting to spend more time with you -  wanting to include you in his life in more ways than just bedroom activities. He’d wanted a friend, too, even though he didn’t know how to admit it - and that was something that you were more than happy to be for him. Because he has his informants and his coworkers, but friends? They don’t exist.

He worked at all hours, but your schedule was set - as an English instructor at the University right across the street from the American Embassy, you worked a specific set of hours that typically did not include anything at night, meaning that you were free more often than he was. That freedom was how you ended up meeting Javier in the first place - by chance, at a bar with some of your coworkers on a random Wednesday night. He’d caught your eye, giving you a quick smile and raising his bottle in your direction, but you hadn’t thought twice about him until you were waiting for a drink of your own later that night, fingers drumming against the scarred wood of the bartop. “Tell me what you’re getting, and I’ll buy it for you.” His voice matched his face, though you were surprised to hear him speak in nearly perfect English, and you couldn’t help turning to face him, one eyebrow raised. Smooth. “Well?” “How often does that work for you?” You smiled at him, turning your body slightly toward the man in the same motion. “Demanding women that you don’t know to tell you their drink of choice just so you can look like a nice guy when you pay for the next one?” He took a second to look at you, and you did the same - eyeing the way the dark blue shirt he wore clung to his chest and shoulders, though a couple of the buttons were undone, the way his hair looked well groomed, even in the dim lighting and despite the fact that it was suffering from the humidity. 

“It’s better than ordering you something you won’t like. ” He shrugged, eyes flicking away from you and then back. “Look at the bar we’re in, it’s not like I’m just gonna waste drinks.” You laughed first, and the man joined you, the sound comforting to your ears even over the crowd and music. He’s got a dimple. “I’m Javier Peña.” He stuck his hand out, and you took it, still grinning. “And I was serious about buying you whatever you want, even though a lot of people will tell you I’m not a nice guy.” That’s direct. “I’m here with -” But he waved you off, squeezing your hand once before he let it go. “I know. I saw.” He raised an eyebrow too, holding back another smile as he straightened his shoulders. “From the University, right?” You wondered how he knew, but he didn’t give you a chance to think about it for too long, raising a finger and calling the young woman behind the bar over. “Her next one’s on me.” You tried to protest, but he shook his head, and so you relented, ordering a beer and then closing your hand into a fist, taking a long breath. It’s just a drink. 

“Thank you, Javier.” His eyes brightened as you said his name. “And yeah, I’m with some of my coworkers.” You glanced back over at them, holding up a finger to tell them that you were fine and that you were almost done. “From the University.” The woman set your bottle down and you reached for it, fingers closing around the chilled glass. “Where I teach English.” You weren’t going to give him everything, but you didn’t want him to think you were ungrateful, either. Holding your bottle out, you waited until he picked his up, and then clinked the necks together, giving him a single nod. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Javier.” “You didn’t tell me your name.” He sounded like he didn’t expect to get it from you, but when you’d swallowed your first sip and then said it out loud, he smiled widely, the expression genuine. The first time he said it, it was halfway covered up in the other sounds of the room, but you felt it, the way it looked and sounded coming from his mouth - and you liked it. Ah, shit. “Well.” He took a drink, too, pausing. “I also work in the area, so maybe I’ll see you again.” 

And it was as simple as that - saying goodnight to the man and returning to your table, drink in hand. You kept an eye on him, even after one of the other women - Maria - explained that he was well known in the local bars, that he had a reputation - and so you were surprised to see Javier leave alone less than a half hour later, tossing a few bills onto the counter as he stood, pulling a leather jacket over his shoulders after pulling it from the back of his bar stool. 

He caught your eye again and winked, but didn’t make any other move toward you, and then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd. “Promise me,” the woman said, reaching over to take your hands in hers. “That you won’t be just another woman to him.” She paused. “That you won’t let him charm you.” He might have already. You’d waved her off, laughing and telling her that you had no intention of getting involved with anyone - short or long term - no matter their reputation. 

That had been a lie, though, and the next time you’d seen Javier, it hadn’t been inside a bar. He’d been walking down the street, a stack of papers in his hands. Again, he’d called out to you, using your name and you’d stopped for a few minutes, talking with him. He’d looked different in the sunlight, older - but at the same time kinder, dressed in a suit that looked good on him but didn’t quite seem right on his body - and you hadn’t hesitated when he’d asked you to meet him for a drink. 

It was dangerous because you liked him, and he was dangerous because if he found that out too soon, he would have run. 

That started it all. Shutting the door behind you, you locked it without looking back, instead watching as Javi moved through your darkened apartment. But it didn’t end there. “It’s not too bad in here yet.” He looked back, chin turned against his shoulder as he stopped to push your largest living room window open, a slight breeze wafting in. “Just dark.” He made it into your kitchen, the path he walked one that he’d taken countless times before, and as you followed him, you let one hand trail over the back of your couch. “Want a drink?” “If that’s what you want.” You murmured the words, keeping your eyes on him. “You don’t have to stay here tonight, Javi.” He paused with a hand on the refrigerator door, and you continued. “It won’t be comfortable if the power stays out, and my alarm clock won’t -” “Hey.” He spun back to face you, stepping away from the refrigerator and toward where you waited, a concerned look on his face. “Why are you …” You felt his hand on your side, urging you closer. “I thought -” “I’m giving you an out, Javier Peña.” You wrinkled your nose, tilting your head to one side so the light through the window brightened his features. “You know as well as I do that it gets disgusting in here without the air conditioning.” “Won’t be the first time we go to bed covered in sweat.” He was smirking as he spoke, leaning in even closer. “Won’t be the last, either.” You sucked in a breath at his words, Javi’s other arm going around your shoulders, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. “So…” He nudged your nose with his, the press of his lips against your skin distracting you. “I’m staying.” You were nodding before he’d even finished, hands at his waist and working to untuck his shirt from the jeans he wore. “Thought we were gonna have a drink.” He was smiling; you could feel it in the way he held you, the man pushing you away gently. “Come on.” 

He led you to the kitchen, clicking the flashlight back on and then handing it to you, instructing you to point it at your cupboards. With a grin of your own, you hopped onto the counter across from the refrigerator, angling the light up. “Good thing I didn’t buy groceries yet.” He laughed, even though he kept his back to you, hands busy pulling two glasses from a shelf and setting them down next to the fridge before he reached for a bottle of rum, unscrewing the cap and then pouring it between the two. “Do you think the ice is still alright?” 

“Let’s find out.” Quickly, he opened the freezer door, pulling out one of the trays and twisting it between his hands to loosen the contents. “Seems like it.” You heard the sound of the frozen cubes hitting the glasses - quiet clinks - and then the sound of the tray hitting the counter. Javier spun to face you, stepping between your legs and you stayed quiet, waiting. “Open your mouth.” 

You did it without question and only a few seconds later, you felt the chill of an ice cube against your lips, tongue curling to suck it entirely into your mouth. He hummed at the feeling of your lips closing against his fingertips, and you rolled the ice around between your cheeks for a few seconds, savoring the cold as it began to melt. You closed your eyes as he rubbed his thumb over your lips and then your chin, the edge of his nail gliding over your jaw before it moved down, fingers spreading over your collarbone, the pad of his thumb pushed into the dip at the base of your throat. 

His hand was warm - it always was - but that night it felt white-hot against your skin, contrasting with the rapidly melting ice in your mouth and the cool counter beneath your thighs. Clicking the flashlight off, you plunged the room back into almost darkness, Javier taking the device from your hand and setting it down to your side before he returned his hand to your hip, the other one still firmly pressed against the skin of your chest and throat. “Javi, you -” His fingers tightened and you swallowed, knowing that he could feel the way your throat worked as you did, and before you got anything else out, his mouth was on yours, the hand at your hip tightening to bunch the fabric of your skirt beneath it. You’d questioned your choice in clothing earlier that night, knowing that while Javi liked to look at your legs, you didn’t want to attract attention to yourself, but as he teased the seam of your lips with his tongue, his hand letting go of the material and moving to the bare skin above your knee in the same motion, you thanked yourself for choosing it. It wasn’t anything special - a floral sundress with thin straps and a deep scoop neck, the hem skimming your knees when you stood - but it also meant that there wasn’t much between the man’s hands and your body, even though it wouldn’t have mattered if there was. The hand at your throat dropped as Javi sought out the remnants of the ice in your mouth, tongue hot in the otherwise chilled space, fingers spread out until his large palm was pressed over your chest, the very tip of his thumb barely grazing one edge of fabric. 

Without warning, he pressed hard, grinding his palm against the fabric beneath it in a slow circle. You sighed into his kiss, the hand that had been holding the flashlight moving up, your fingers lazily stroking through his hair as you shifted your lower body. He didn’t let you move much, the hand on your leg holding you in place, even as it slid up and toward your body. I need to breathe, I need air, I - 

Breaking the kiss, you took a deep breath, his hand continuing to move. “Either you tell me to stop now,” he breathed the words into your ear, his cheek resting against yours, nose grazing the highest point of your cheekbone. “Or we’re doing this here.” He gave you time to consider, although you didn’t need it - you were already nodding, the ends of his hair curling around your fingers as you urged his mouth back to yours. “Yeah?” You nodded, the man’s lower lip dragging over your skin, hands resuming movement; the one on your chest pushing fabric to the side and the one on your leg crawling higher, almost completely beneath your skirt. “Tell me what you want, then.” “Fuck, Javier.” You only used his full name when you were overwhelmed or angry - the sound of it leaving your mouth in hushed tones nearly always causing the man to falter in his movements, and that night was no different. “I don’t care. Anything.” You were speaking against his lips, the man paused in front of you -  and while you didn’t know what to expect at your request, you weren’t expecting him to pull away entirely, both hands leaving your body and his hair slipping between your fingers and resulting in your hand hanging empty in the air. “Wh-” “Drink.” You heard the sound of a glass sliding over the countertop as he picked up one of them, pushing it into your hand. He picked his up then, and even in the dim lighting you watched as he brought it to his lips, the translucent alcohol visible in the light shining in from behind you. You did as he told you, the chilled liquid sliding down your throat with each swallow. “Done?” “Yeah, but…” He didn’t let you finish, reaching for the glass you held and then setting both of them on the counter to his right, the upper half of his body twisting away from you slightly. What do you have planned for me, Javi? He busied himself for a few seconds and then turned to look at you again, one eyebrow raised, his dark hair hanging over his forehead. You couldn’t see it, but you knew that the skin of his chest was likely covered in the same thin sheen of sweat that your skin was; it wasn’t getting any cooler in the apartment, even with the window open. Especially not with him touching me like this.   You loved seeing him that way; disheveled and eager, the furthest thing from the smart suits and combed hair he presented at the Embassy every day. This was your Javier, the man that had worked his way beneath your skin with very little effort beginning with that single drink and burrowing in for good the first time he’d asked you to spend the night. He let me in too, though. Not as easily, but it happened. 

“Hands on my shoulders.” His voice was still low and you did as he asked, unsure of what he wanted next. But you didn’t have long to wait, the man’s hands returning to your dress and pulling it up toward your torso, exposing your legs inch by inch. Oh, he wants me to… “Push.” You did - immediately - lifting yourself off of the counter enough for him to get the skirt up and over your hips and then settled back down, biting your lower lip as you waited for him to see the other fashion decision you’d made that night. As he pulled the material up your body, he didn’t touch you; just kept gathering the material in his palms and going higher until you had to lift your arms over your head. 

He made quick work of it after that, leaving you in only your bra and sandals as he tossed the dress to the side, and you didn’t need light to know that he was staring at you, eyes moving over all of the exposed skin he’d revealed. “Surprise, Javi.” You spoke quietly as he tilted his head down, a soft fuck escaping his lips as he noticed you were otherwise bare. “It was too hot, I -” “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, you know that?” He stepped even closer, hands going back to your thighs and tugging them apart, allowing him to press his own against the edge of the counter, getting as close to you as possible. “You went out to that bar with me with no goddamn -” “I did.” Lifting a hand again, you slid it up the back of his neck and into his hair, leaning closer. “What are you gonna do about it?” Challenging him like that had been something that you’d had to work up to - using dates and drinks to learn the man’s mannerisms, what you could and couldn’t say to him - what got the biggest rise out of him. “Hmm?” He finally kissed you again, this one soft, but he still wasn’t touching you, and you didn’t know why. But he… “Oh my God, Javi, you -” He laid one hand on your knee, and you jumped at the touch; his palm and fingers cold, the result of reaching over and wrapping his hand around the glass while you’d teased him. The contrasting temperatures drew your focus as he broke the kiss, massaging the meat of your thigh even as his lips went back to your ear. “You’re gonna like whatever I do.” He bit down on your earlobe, tugging. “I promise.” He squeezed your leg one more time and then pulled his hand away, but it returned quickly, followed by a yelp from your lips, the hand in his hair tightening. “I’ve got you.” Agreeing with a quick nod, you glanced down, Javier doing the same as he began to move his hand - an ice cube held between his fingers - up the inside of your leg. 

He didn’t speak as he did it, but the both of you studied the movement, the feeling of it sending a jolt through your body. He followed a straight line, but made sure not to touch you with anything but the frozen cube, his other hand flat on the counter next to you. Legs opening wider as he got closer to the apex of your thighs, you prepared yourself for the sensation of him pressing the ice against you, but Javier didn’t do that, instead lifting it and then replacing it on the opposite leg, slowly moving it away from your body and back toward that knee. “Tease.” You whispered the word, eyes locked on what you could see of his hands, your breath coming out in quick, short bursts. “Such a fucking -” 

“Quiet.” He spoke the one word, letting what remained of the cube fall from his fingers, and then you shivered as his fingers finally landed on your skin, cold and damp, spreading the droplets of water as he slid them against your inner thigh. “You said anything.” I did. I did, but I … Chest rising and falling rapidly as Javi’s fingers brushed against your center, you felt your hips move, jerking toward his hand, and he hummed out an appreciative reply, eyes flicking back to yours. 

His fingers were still cold when he dipped two of them into you - just barely - and then pulled them out, pausing. “Javi, you … please keep…” You loved it when he touched you, and this was no different; the chill of his fingers a direct contrast to the heat of your body, and before you could stop yourself, you were reaching between the two of you, encircling his wrist with your fingers and urging him to continue. He did - working them in and out of you leisurely as he watched your face, waiting for the right moment to change his pace. Your eyes closed at the feeling; even as the cold dissipated, you continued to rock your hips as much as you could, Javi’s head angled slightly down to stare at you. Leaning back because there was nothing behind you for support, you felt him shift the hand on the counter to your thigh, the pace of his fingers never faltering. You were still gripping the back of his hair, and urged his head down even further - wanting his mouth on you, too; teeth marking your neck and shoulders, the pressure of his lips trailing over any skin they could reach. “Relax.” He murmured the words, mouthing at your collarbone. “Let me…” 

But he didn’t continue, instead straightening up and pulling his fingers from inside of you slowly, the tips curled and dragging, your breath leaving you in a shudder. “Fucking hell, Javi, you…” He’d barely touched you; the previous minutes nothing in terms of what you knew he was capable of, but even you couldn’t hold back a disbelieving laugh as he reached over, picking his drink back up and tilting his head back, swallowing the last of the liquid. “Are you serious?” He didn’t reply, instead giving your leg one more squeeze before he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands around your calves to urge your legs apart. “I… you…” At that angle, you could see the look in his eyes - hungry, focused, greedy, even, and you gave him an unconscious nod, knowing exactly what was coming next. 

In the time it took him to shift his grip from your calves to your hips, you’d lifted your legs, draping them over his still covered shoulders, and Javier’s eyes dropped from your face to what was in front of him. He didn’t waste time making his way back from your knee; instead he turned his head to the side and pressed one kiss to the skin of your thigh and then you felt him swallow, lips parting as you realized why he hadn’t replied to you after you’d asked him if he was serious. He had …the ice in his mouth he… 

Your suspicions were confirmed when Javi’s tongue licked its way up the crease between your leg and your hip, strong hands urging you closer to him, and you moaned at the feeling; something cold in the sticky heat, the edges of your nails on both hands returning to his hair, heels digging into his back. Instead of using the tip of his tongue to tease you, Javi licked, covering as much area as possible with it at one time without delving into you, and you cried out, wanting more but at the same time completely content with what he was giving you. 

He continued, the grip on your hips changing as he adjusted his angle - long, deliberate strokes with his tongue becoming shorter, punctuated with gentle suction and then his teeth, grazing the sensitive skin between your legs before he finally flicked his tongue against you over and over, his name leaving your mouth repeatedly as you stared down at him in the darkness. I wish I could see. I… It was only then that you remembered the flashlight on the counter next to you, and before you could tell yourself it was a bad idea, you reached for it, turning it in your hand and then clicking it back on, the light pointed down, illuminating the top of Javi’s head.  

His hair was messier than it had been, thanks to your fingers, and you let out another low moan as you caught sight of his tongue as it moved in and out, the man pausing only long enough to glance up at you, absolute fire in his eyes. Oh, fuck, Javi. Nudging against you with his nose, he averted his gaze and returned to what he’d been doing as you tried to keep the flashlight steady.  

He wasn’t trying to make you come. Instead he was focused on tasting you, savoring the liquid that dripped from your body and onto his tongue with each swipe of it, and finally, you couldn’t stand it any longer, murmuring his name and tugging on the ends of his hair, forcing him to look back up at you. “Javi, I need you.” 

You were whining, and you didn’t care - hand moving from his hair and down over his damp cheek and then lower, watching as he licked the slickness from his lips. He was breathing hard, but he nodded, shrugging your legs off of his shoulders as he stood again, the glow of the flashlight proving that  you’d been right; the exposed skin of his chest glistening with sweat, the hair over his ears matted down, too. “You wanted to watch.” Nodding, you closed your eyes as he reached out, the hand moving up your stomach and then between the valley of your breasts, tugging on the center of the bra you still wore. He let out another string of rapidfire Spanish; words you likely couldn’t have translated in real time on a good day, and then he was kissing you, tongue pushing into your mouth with force, his hand gripping the nape of your neck. 

He’d been hesitant to do that the first few times you’d been together; it was one thing to pay a woman for sex, where many things were on the table. But with you, he’d made you tell him what you liked and didn’t like - what he could and couldn’t do with you. He’d laughed at you when you said you’d kiss him at any opportunity - almost like he didn’t believe it was the truth - but as time passed, you noticed that you had to urge his mouth to yours less and less after he’d spent time with his head between your legs. A learning curve, if you will.

He did it on his own now, wanting you to taste yourself on his lips and from his tongue - even occasionally off of his fingers - and you never complained, willing and eager to fully immerse yourself in Javier Peña and what he could do to your body. “Bedroom.” 

He muttered the word, teeth closed around your bottom lip and all you could do was nod, pushing yourself off of the counter and keeping the flashlight angled at the floor, illuminating the space in front of you as you walked. He followed close behind and you heard him undoing the buckle of his belt as he moved, the metal clanging to the floor as he dropped it. 

By the time you reached your bedroom, his shirt was totally unbuttoned, the stripe of tanned skin visible in the open space - darker than the light colored material that covered his upper body. You raised the flashlight, centering it on his chest, and stared, Javier standing with one hand on his hip, the other hanging by his side. 

For the first time, you heard thunder in the distance, your eyes darting to the window - which was still closed, the light from outside dimmer since your bedroom faced away from the street. “We don’t need the light.” Javi stepped toward you, head tilted back slightly, a smirk on his lips. “I’d know what to do to you even if I couldn’t see a fucking thing. You gasped at that, but knew he was right; the man had made it his personal objective to learn you - all of you - over the time you’d spent together, and he hadn’t failed. 

“I know, Javi, but I…” You were chewing on your lip, eyes focused on the way the shirt clung to him, the comfortable material wrinkled from a combination of your hands and the humidity. “I still want to see.” He moved even closer, the hand on his hip reaching out to palm the skin of your side before it slid around you, settling against your lower back and urging you forward, the circle of light growing brighter at the center of his body. “Always want to see, I -” “I know.” He murmured the words, forehead pressed to yours. “But we should save the light in case we need it.” You knew what he meant without him having to say it; Bogotá, after all, was even more dangerous in the dark than at any other time. Instead of feeling anxious at that thought, though, you clicked the light off, reaching over to set it on the dresser while he turned, unlocking and pushing the window up to let more air in. With your hands free, you lifted them, pushing both beneath his shirt, nails raking against his abdomen and then up. 

“You wouldn’t let anything happen to me - pitch black in the room or not, Javier.” His hold on you tightened at that, but he nodded, letting out a deep breath as you kissed his jaw. “We both know that.” You were teasing him, yes, but at the same time, it was the truth. Javier Peña looked after the people that he cared about, and you were near the top of that list.  Not that I’ve ever needed him like that, but… it’s nice to know that if I did… Your thoughts trailed off as he brought his other hand up, the tips of his fingers moving up your spine until they found your bra’s clasp and then deftly undid it. The straps sagged down your arms and you reluctantly pulled your hands off of him to let it fall to the ground - the last piece of clothing you wore gone. “I wouldn’t.” Javi confirmed what you already knew, his hand still trailing up your back. “Ever.” Your heart thumped in your chest; the words more meaningful than the other words of affirmation you knew the women sharing his bed had ever hoped for. 

His hand reached the back of your neck, grip tightening as he urged you closer again - your head already tilting to the side, eyes drooping closed before he’d even pressed his lips to yours. “Wait.” You pushed against his chest, letting out a quiet sigh. “You’ve still got all your clothes on. This isn’t fair.” He actually laughed at that, shrugging his shoulders as he stared down at you. 

“Took my belt off already.” You did. Rolling your eyes, you tilted your chin down, tracing over his skin with the tips of your fingers, following the line of dark hair to the waistband of his pants. 

“Unbuttoned your jeans, too.” You pulled on the denim, feeling the zipper give. “Don’t know how you wear these, Javi. You’ve gotta be -” “Used to it.” His hands were roaming your shoulders, alternating between squeezing and scratching, and you hummed, the smile still on your face. “Grew up in -” “Texas. Yeah, yeah.” Murmuring the words as you finished with the zipper and began to pull the pants down, you were careful that they didn’t catch; the man’s length clearly straining beneath the material. “You’ve told me.” He wasn’t wearing anything under the denim - which was typical - and as you cleared his thighs, you lowered yourself with them, Javier hissing out your name as you moved. “What?” “For someone who said they needed me, you’re taking your damn time.” You could hear the amusement in his voice, but you didn’t acknowledge it, instead making sure that he’d stepped out of his jeans, kicking them to the side before you looked back up. He was watching you, the shadows moving across his face with the fluttering of your curtains, and you felt your throat go dry. I do need you. More than … more than just like this. “Come up here.” He was speaking quietly and you heard his voice catch, but you only smiled at him, head moving back and forth a few times before you turned your attention back to what was waiting in front of you. Leaning in, you let your lips wander over the coarse hair on his abdomen, hands traveling back up his legs to rest on his thighs. Javier stayed silent, one large hand stroking the back of your head but not guiding you anywhere. When your nose brushed against the length of him, though, he sucked in a breath, swearing quietly when you turned your head and mouthed at the base, hand moving from his leg to encircle the tip, tugging it gently upward. He was hard but not fully - until you began to suck on the skin beneath your lips, tongue hot and wet against it from between your teeth. His hold on your hair tightened at that, but you paid him no mind, eyes closed and focused on the way he felt and tasted. You had no intention of getting him off on your knees, and Javi knew it, too, but was content to let you reciprocate for a few minutes, taking your time to get him worked up to the state you’d been in in the kitchen. But not just because I can… it’s because I want to. Pulling back just enough to take a breath, you opened your curled fingers so that he laid heavily against your palm, dragging your tongue up the length of him before flicking it over the tip, trying not to moan at the taste of him there, saltier than usual because of the added sheen of sweat that covered his body, but still Javi, still - “Hey. Don’t.” What? “Don’t start something you aren’t going to finish.” 

“You’re right.” You stroked him, eyes traveling back up his body and lingering on his stomach and then his chest before they reached his face. “Shouldn’t start -” “If you don’t stand up in the next five seconds …” There was no real threat there, but you could tell that Javi was getting frustrated - and you didn’t want to tease him for any longer. You wanted him, the feeling of him everywhere, the bite of him between your thighs and at your throat, the sound of him whispering into your ear and speaking against your skin as he marked it with his fingers and teeth. You were on your feet before you realized it, and by the time you were upright, he’d removed the shirt he wore, too, finally as exposed as you were. “Fuck, Javi, you…” It was a revelation each time; the man lithe and broad, so much of him hidden by the suits and leather jackets he preferred to wear to work, but you knew different. “I’m standing now, Javi.” You angled your head to the side, the man lowering his lips to the corner of yours. “What was that threat? You -” He stopped you with a kiss - hard and fast, quickly turning into him biting at your lips, your hands back in his hair as you tugged on it, holding him close. He switched like that often; going from total restraint to the passionate man you’d fallen quickly for, and while you never knew what would make him snap, you were always prepared for it - and wanted everything he had to give. His lips moved from your mouth to your chin and then to your throat, and you realized that as he was working you over, he’d turned you, your back to the bed, the two of you advancing step by step through the darkened portion of your room as he gripped your waist, fingers digging into the skin. “Get into that bed.”

That was a command, and you complied immediately, only glancing behind you for long enough to make sure you wouldn’t miss the end, your body sinking into the soft mattress as you settled i in and then scooted back. He stood at the foot of it, watching you, and it took you tilting your head to one side, teeth digging into the corner of your lower lip and whispering his name for him to join you - the man lifting one knee and then the other, crawling toward you on his hands and knees as you waited patiently. 

He reached your body and you laid down on your back, one knee bent, Javi straddling the other, one hand on either side of your body. Even in the dark, you could still make out his outline; the man hovering over you, the muscles in his arms flexed tightly. “What are you waiting for?” Reaching up, you pressed a hand to his chest, the slightly concave center of it slick beneath your palm. “An invitation?” He laughed at you then, the sound low and short, but you watched Javier’s head shake back and forth as he lowered it toward yours. “I’m waiting for you to tell me what you want.” He kissed you - lips setting fire to your already overheated skin, and you felt the muscles in your abdomen clench, your body’s reaction to his words and tone involuntary. “How you want -” He was interrupted by a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder, the curtains in your window blowing wildly in the wind. Perfect. You grinned against his lips, digging your nails into his chest and using the other hand to rake through his hair, the ends of it damp and curled against the back of his neck. “Wanna be on top.” You waited until your lips were against his ear, breath fanning out over the outer shell of it. “Want you to watch me for once, Javi.” He groaned; the sound vibrating against the skin of your throat as he lapped at it with his lips and tongue, but he wasted almost no time pushing his arms beneath you and lifting you from the mattress, urging you to follow his movement before he laid down, the upper half of his body propped up by your pillows and you kneeling over him. Without speaking, you leaned over to your night table and opened the top drawer, feeling as one of his hands settled on the bare skin of your thigh, stroking up and down slowly. Fingertips brushing over the barrel of the gun he’d given you to keep in the drawer, you kept searching for the box that you knew was there. “I always watch you.” It was another of those casual admissions that shouldn’t have affected you the way it did, but you froze at the sound, your fingers wrapped around one of the foil packets you’d only begun to keep in the drawer regularly once you’d started sleeping with the man. He can’t say things like that to me. It was a short pause, and at the sound of your name, you looked back at Javi, wrinkling your nose at him. “What?” “Nothing.” Shifting back, you peeled the wrapper open, glancing down. “Taking things into your own hands?” You watched his eyes darken, Javi’s lips parting as he touched himself; fingers wrapped firmly around himself. “Fuck, Javi.” You were nearly panting at the sight - even though you’d seen it before, seen the way he lost himself in his own actions, and despite the fact that you were right there and could have done it yourself. 

He was still gripping your thigh, fingers squeezing into the meat of it as he stroked himself, and instead of closing his eyes, they were locked on yours - another flash of lightning showing you the deep brown before his face was once again mostly shrouded in darkness. You could feel him moving beneath you, the slight jerk of his hips lifting yours, and with the hand that wasn’t holding the condom, you reached down, fingertips brushing against your own skin. Just for a second. Just to - “No.” The single word was sharp, but his movement didn’t falter, Javi saying your name with an urgency that you weren’t used to. “Not yet.” He grunted, sucking in a breath, his hold on your leg tightening. “Not til I’m inside you.” 

“Fucking Christ, Javi.” You were desperate for him, breaths short, and before he could stop you, you pulled the rubber from the wrapper and halted his hand with your other one, rolling the condom onto him with a smooth, practiced movement. “Now. I need you.” It was the second time you’d said it that night, but you didn’t mean it any less; the man urging you on with his touch, murmuring your name as you rose onto your knees, scooting up and toward his waist so that he was beneath you. “Javi, I -” “I know.” And he did; you heard it in his response, heard how ready he was for you, how similar his need was. “Come on.” Easing down, you felt him rub against you, the latex slipping through your slick without resistance. “You can take it, I know you can.” You could - especially from the angle you were at - though there’d been a little uncertainty the first time you’d gone to bed with him. So you reached for his forearms, bracing yourself as you sunk down onto him, hips rolling forward slightly as he let go, giving you the entire length to use. “Fuck. You feel…” He snarled the words out as you moaned, eyes finally leaving his face and snapping shut as you tilted your head back. 

He couldn’t help the movement of his hips - rising to meet you as you lowered yourself onto him, but aside from that, he didn’t react, and you knew that he was determined to let you take the lead. See how long that lasts for. The room was quiet aside from the sounds of your breathing and the low rumble of thunder in the distance, and you opened your eyes again, letting go of his arms and moving your hands behind you, fingers closing around his calves  as you rolled your hips forward. “Oh, fuck.” You nearly whimpered at the sound of your own voice combined with the feeling of him inside of you, but kept it in, biting down hard on your lip to keep quiet. 

His hold on your thigh was tight; the fingers pressed into your skin hard, and he couldn’t keep quiet as you moved again, using your arms for leverage and lifting yourself off of him. “Faster.” His voice didn’t falter, and you complied right away, knees digging into the bed beneath you as you brought your chin down, catching Javi’s mouth hanging open the same way you were almost certain yours was as he watched himself disappear into you. Fuck. 

You still weren’t used to the feeling of him - even after countless times with Javi, the stretch of him; the slide of your body as you took him into it - these things still surprised you, eliciting tiny moans and sighs from you that you knew he loved hearing, that he loved feeling as your muscles pulsed around him. The hand that wasn’t on your thigh was gripping your leg just above your knee, but that wasn’t enough for you, and so you cleared your throat, tilting your head to one side as you continued to move, the rise and fall of your body slow but steady - something that you knew was driving him crazy. “Gonna touch me, Javi? You said -” “That’s what you want?” He groaned when  you ground down on him, exhaling. “Me to -” “Yes.” Eyes closing as you nodded, you couldn’t help wetting your lips before you spoke again. “I want -” He moved before you could finish your thought, one hand sliding up your leg, the other sliding back and around your body, his entire palm curved around you as he urged you into a different position, your body closer to his. Letting go of his legs as he bent them behind you, you leaned forward, resting your hands against his shoulders. “Fuck, Javi, you -” “Got you.” He did - and you both knew it - but when Javi got talking, the man talked, spewing dirty phrases into the darkness in a fluid mix of English and Spanish, and that night was no different. He wasn’t hurrying with you; there was no rush to the finish, but he set his pace with you quickly, his hips rising as yours bucked backward and into his, the rhythm one you were familiar with. You were holding onto his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as the two of you moved together, and the new angle made it possible for Javier to mouth at the skin of your throat and collarbone, the man’s tongue trailing over it with no hesitation. Throwing your head back, you whined when he bit down at the base of your neck, teeth sinking into the muscle, the grip on his shoulders tightening. I’m gonna hurt him, I - But he bit down again before moving lower, and you let go of his arms, moving one of your hands to the back of his head, the other one clawing at the pillow next to him. You knew it was coming - his lips latching onto the swell of one breast, mouth urgent against the already heated skin beneath it, but you cried out again at the feeling of his teeth, the pain sending a jolt of heat throughout your body and straight to your core, muscles again clenching around him. You felt the moan he let out at that, but he didn’t release you from his mouth, and his hold on you grew tighter, too. “Feels fucking good, Javi. You feel…” You were panting and could barely get the words out, instead just humming quietly, your tongue wetting your lips. “So goddamn…” That was all you managed before he moved his mouth to the other side of your chest, bypassing everything else and sucking a nipple between his lips, tongue flicking against it quickly. There’s no point, you realized as he sucked harder, his thrusts shortening and becoming harsher, both of his hands on your ass as he guided your movements further. None at all. 

So you stopped trying to talk, turning your head toward his and burying your lips in his hair, fingers curling around the base of his skull. You saw lightning flash from behind closed eyelids, and felt the man stiffen for a second beneath you, movement of his hips faltering, but then, before the thunder even came, he was moving again, faster than before, covering the center of your chest in openmouthed kisses. You could feel it everywhere - your body reacting to your movements, the tightness in your belly growing, breaths getting shakier. You knew he could feel it, too, the changes in the movement of your hips, the way you were gripping him. “I didn’t forget about you.” You were unsure if you’d heard anything at first, but then the man’s mouth was on yours, tongue licking into your mouth as if he’d never kissed you before. Oh, fuck. You moaned, Javi swallowing the sound, and all you could do was tug on the ends of his hair, fingers tangled in the damp curls, urging him to stay close. You didn’t even realize that he’d let go of your leg until his hand was between your bodies, increasing the friction exactly where you needed it. Oh, fuck, Javi. You moaned again, finally tearing your mouth from his and stared down at the man, lips parted as you struggled to breathe. He was using the pads of two fingers on you, the longer middle one dipping down just enough when he pulled his hips back to coat it with you before he pushed it back against your body, both of them circling slowly - purposefully - against your oversensitive skin. 

It was almost too much - the feeling of him inside of you, the way he was using his hand on you, the gentle rub of the hair on his abdomen against the insides of your thighs, but all of that was heightened by the way his breath was hitting your cheek in short pants, the feeling of his nose as it nudged yours, his mustache against your upper lip. “Javi, I’m -” You were nearly breathless, the tension of the humid night air only adding to the feeling, and Javi took your words to heart, hips snapping up toward yours, trapping his hand between you - the only movement the tips of his fingers against you and the thumping of your heart behind your ribs. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, it - 

You came hard a few seconds later; the absence of all movement but his hand tipping you over, and at your slightly strangled cry, the pillowcase crumpling beneath your grip, he began to move again, working you through it with those same fingers as he used the way your muscles were clenched around him - pulling him deeper - to chase his own high. “C’mon, Javi.” You muttered the words, barely able to form them. “Feels so good. I want you to…” There was a quiet yelp from you as you shifted your hips, the pressure of his fingers increasing. “Javier.” 

You moaned his name, unable to help it, and pressed your forehead to his - and that’s all it took; the muscles in his abdomen seizing as he came, hips thrusting in short, jerky motions as he emptied himself into you, the condom he wore doing nothing to disguise the added warmth between your legs. When his hips slowed, you heard him muttering into the crook of your neck, lips moving against your skin. You combed through his hair, a satisfied smile overtaking your features as you began to relax. “Fuck.” He sounded tired, the hold he had on your leg finally loosening, and with a low hum, you rose on shaking knees to pull off of him, intentionally going slow so that you could feel the shudder of his body beneath you one last time. Always does that. By the time you’d rolled onto your back next to the man, he had the condom tied off and was leaning over you to drop it into the small trash can next to the bed - another new addition after beginning things with Javi. Neither of you spoke for long minutes, letting the slightly cooler air blow over your bodies, the two of you side by side on the bed. I’m surprised it isn’t raining yet. Your eyes were on the window, even when you felt him roll onto his side and toward you, resting his palm against your stomach and then moving it up, toward your chest. “I should get up.” You looked over at him, a small smile on your lips. “Clean up, let you have a cigarette, get some -” “You want me to leave?” He was frowning, but the movement of his hand against your bare skin didn’t stop. “Trying to -” “No.” Swallowing hard, you rotated your body toward his, bringing a hand up to his cheek and using the back of one finger to stroke it. “I thought you’d want to.” The frown deepened, but you didn’t pause for long. “Power’s still out, Javi. And there’s no way they have anyone come look if it’s raining, so -” The look in his eyes changed, forehead smoothing out as the frown disappeared. He really thought I wanted him to leave. What the fuck? “You can’t go to work tomorrow without new clothes, so -” “I’m not leaving you alone. Not in a storm. Not without power.” He’d stayed before - plenty of times, and you’d done the same at his place, but you never assumed, even months into your relationship. Not with him. “And I’m off tomorrow.” I didn’t know that. “So are you.” “I am.” You heard the humor coming back into his voice, watched as his chest rose and fell in a less rapid pace as he caught his breath. “Didn’t know you knew my schedule, Javier.” You winked at him, unsure if he could see it, but when his hand slid from your side to your back, pulling you closer, you knew he had. 

“I’m a DEA agent, not an idiot.” He kissed your forehead, waiting for you to tuck yourself against him. “Not usually classes on Sundays.” It was you that laughed first, his hold on you tightening as your body shook. “Hilarious.” No, it’s not, but … “It’s raining.” Peeking up from your view of his chest, you glanced at the window, listening for the sound, but before you heard it, you felt it, the air damp as it hit your bodies in the slightly stronger breeze. “Want me to close the window?” “No.” The smile still on your face, you turned your head back toward him, getting comfortable. “We’ll get up if it gets bad.” It likely wouldn’t - Bogotá wasn’t known for strong storms or high winds, but the rain always calmed you, helping you sleep. And without power, there’s nothing to … One of Javi’s legs hooked over yours, and despite the fact that it was still warm, you didn’t care, resting your hand on his bicep. There’s nothing to mask the sound. “Power comes back and I’ll make you breakfast in the morning, Javi.” “Yeah?” You nodded, ready to say more when he beat you to it. “Alright.” There was a quick pause and then his mouth was over your ear again, mustache tickling the skin there. “Even if it’s not back on, I’m sure I can find something to eat.” That’s the cheesiest fucking … But you laughed as Javi settled onto the mattress on his back, and when you glanced up, you could tell he was smiling, too. 

The two of you got comfortable on the bed, using only a sheet to cover yourselves. Instead of keeping space between you, Javier pulled you against his chest again, spooning you from behind. It was comfortable - familiar - and it didn’t take you long to relax completely, the feeling of his breathing behind you and the sound of the rain through the window working in tandem to pull you under.

It started at the bar on a weeknight, sure, but some part of you had always known it would continue into the bedroom - yours or his, it didn’t matter. He probably did, too. Neither of us could have stopped it. The thought didn’t bother you, and the last things you felt before you finally nodded off was the man’s arm tightening around your middle and his lips against your shoulder blade.

--- 

Javi Tag list: 

@samfindsout @gollyderek @the-blind-assassin-12 @deceiverofgodss @nicolethered @pheedraws @alraedesigns​

[therenlover]

Red Nights In Jupiter (A Jimmy Darling/Reader Oneshot)

Synopsis: At the end of another long day, you fall into bed with Jimmy Darling. The men you served throughout the day don’t matter then, nor do the coins in the mason jar by the door, or the women scheduled to attend Jimmy’s next Tupperware party. No, in that quiet darkness it’s just you and the man you love, bone-tired and happy to be home. Who could ask for more?

Tags: Cuddling, Prostitution, Wound Care, Hurt/Comfort, Referenced Past Non-Con (it’s not Jimmy, don’t worry), Implied Sexual Content/Innuendo

Rating: 16+

Warnings*: Mentioned Police Officer Abusing Their Power, Referenced Non-Con, Jimmy Drinks A Beer, Non-Graphic Wound Care 

Word Count: 3000~

* - This fic includes a reader who is a prostitute and has recently been taken advantage of by a police officer in exchange for not going to jail. There are no graphic scenes and it's mentioned only a couple of times in passing, but the ending portion of the fic is Jimmy helping the reader recover from wounds (just bruises/scratches) they got during the incident. If this is potentially triggering, please steer clear!

This fic has been crossposted under the same title to my AO3!

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“How did the show go tonight?” You mumbled, mouth full of toothpaste.

“It wasn’t anything special,” Jimmy responded as you spit, “some dumb kids snuck in a couple of rotten tomatoes but their aim was shit. Nobody got hit, so I’ll consider it a success,”

The two of you stood shoulder to shoulder over the tiny kitchen sink in his trailer, clumsily going through the motions to wind down from an exhausting day. Outside the sky was a deep red. The last of the sun’s dying light shimmered over the ferris wheel as it made its last run, cutting through the muggy Jupiter air. In the last weeks of July, everything was sweltering. Even the walls of the little trailer were hot enough to leave a burn in the full heat of the noontime sun. Thankfully for you, as the sun receded so did the worst of the scalding heat, leaving behind a hot, wet, and thick fog over the nighttime landscape.

Jimmy finished washing his face while you rinsed your toothbrush. “Elsa and I were thinking that maybe, in the next couple ‘a years, we should invest in another ride. Not a ‘coaster, nothing huge, just something other than the ferris wheel that would keep the kids busy while their parents watch the show,” As he spoke, he wet a washcloth under the tap before wringing it out and tossing it over his shoulders. “What do you think, doll?”

“I think-” you held your tongue, your biting reply dissolving into bitter acid in your mouth, “I think that if that’s what’s best for the show, we should start investing sooner rather than later. It’s always best to be prepared so we can figure it into the budget ASAP,” With a practiced hand you bundled up your toiletries and tucked them away in the drawer. The shake in your tired digits was barely perceptible in the dimly lit room. What was best for the troupe was what was best for you. Still, you couldn’t help but sneak a gaze at the half-full mason jar sitting on the counter by the door.

“You sure?” Jimmy asked. He was down in the mini-fridge now, pulling out a can of some cheap beer. You closed your eyes and offered a curt nod. There was no need to argue over an impossible dream. If Elsa wanted a new ride, she would get a new ride.

“I’m sure, Jimmy. I’m just tired,”

Thankfully, he accepted your excuse with a shrug, settling in at the pull-down table. “Whatever you say, sweet thing,” he cooed, “now get over here. I missed you today,”

You gave in to his request easily. After everything you’d been through over the last 12 hours, you weren’t about to turn down a little affection and attention from the man you loved. Your sunburnt shoulders stung as you clambered into Jimmy’s arms and allowed your face to settle into his sweet, sweaty embrace. His heart thudded under your ear, a steady quarter-note rhythm guiding your own soaring staccato down to normalcy.

Somewhere out in the field, probably in one of the other rusted-out trailers where your friends were settling down in their own nighttime routines, a radio buzzed to life. The sweet sounds of Paul Anka crooning his newest hit loosened your nerves. Over your shoulder, Jimmy took a long swig from his can.

“How was work?” you whispered. Jimmy set down his drink with a little more force than usual. One of his fused hands found its way into his hair. You both knew you weren’t asking about the show.

“I didn’t make much today, but I’m almost fully booked for Thursday. That’s the last party until next week unless the ladies want to throw something after church on Sunday. Wednesday we don’t have a show, so I’m all yours,”

His voice was tired, a departure from his usual confidence. This wasn’t Jimmy Darling the leader and performer, it was your Jimmy boy, the man who held your broken heart together with his unusual hands. You relished in the vulnerability, letting yourself nuzzle closer to his skin. He smelled like sweat and grease and cheap cologne but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It was him. That’s what mattered.

“I could take Wednesday off, Wednesday is never that busy,” you mused.

“Then we’ll go out on Wednesday,” Jimmy was jovial but not loud, dropping his hand down from his hair to rub abstract patterns into your back above the starchy cotton of your day dress, “I’ll take us down to the beach on my bike and we can have a picnic lunch by the ocean. I know a spot off the road that nobody would ever think to go to, it’s like a private beach we’ll have all to ourselves, and the guy at the deli owes me a favor so I can pick up sandwich stuff for cheap when I run in tomorrow. Maybe I’ll even spend a little extra a grab a bottle of that white wine you like. How does that sound, doll face?”

You hummed out an affirmative, far too deep into your newfound relaxation to form words. Your boneless, half-lucid state made Jimmy laugh. His smile only fell when he found a fresh bruise on your back, making you wince.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, pulling his hand away. You whined at the loss of contact. It was rare for you to have the time to wind down together these days, every second of attention was something to cherish.

“It’s just a bad bruise,”

In an instant, Jimmy had you straddling his lap to face him with your face in his large hands. “Did somebody hurt you?” he asked, running a thumb over your cheek to check for concealer or any small cuts and bruises he might have missed, “‘cause if somebody hit my girl I’m gonna have to show them what’s what. I don’t care if they paid, they don’t get to do that shit to you,”

You couldn’t help but avert your eyes, letting your gaze linger on the veins bulging in Jimmy’s neck instead of his face. It would be too difficult to risk seeing the disappointment in his eyes. “It was a cop, Jimmy. I got busted,”

He groaned. “Those bastards…”

“Thankfully this time he just took what he wanted and let me off with a warning. He’ll be back, though, they always are. I’m sorry, Jimmy, I’m just so tired,” A shudder wracked your shoulders, a silent sob you couldn’t quite choke down. You had to take a minute to remind yourself that you were safe. Jimmy had you. You were tucked away from the world in his arms, and he’d kill someone before he let them do anything to hurt you. Nothing and no one could touch you as long as he was there. When he wasn’t, though…

You gripped his thin, white undershirt a little tighter.

Jimmy was with you, not some stranger who had picked you up off the streets for a little fun. You were at home in your caravan with Jimmy and he was holding you and nothing else mattered. There was no reason to be afraid.

He gritted his teeth. Obviously, your distress wasn’t as invisible as you wished it was. “Don't be sorry, doll, this isn't your fault. You know what? You don’t have to go back out there. There are plenty of other ways we can make the money, sweetheart, just say the word and I’ll make it happen. You never have to deal with them again,”

“But the new ride-”

“To hell with the new ride!” Jimmy was shouting in earnest now, but you weren’t afraid, pushing yourself further into his touch. Part of you liked watching him come to your defense. It was something he would only do for someone he loved, someone who was a part of his family, not just any horny housewife that used him to chase their own desires. “Your safety is so much more important than a new ride a couple years down the line! I’ll go tell Elsa to scrap the idea right now if that means you feel better. You’re the most important thing to me, Y/N. You say jump and I say how high. I’m not gonna force you to do anything, if you choose to keep working I have no right to stand up all high and mighty and tell you not to, but if you do wanna stop… I guess what I’m sayin’ is that I want you to be happy, and if I have to pick up the slack for you to do that then so be it,”

You were cradled against his chest again by the end of his schpiel. Your anxiety wasn’t quite as bad as it had been before, and the newly fallen darkness added a sort of buffer to your feelings. Everything was fuzzier in the dark. In that place past dusk where the problems of the word lost their sharp edges you let yourself abandon everything that scared you during the day. Children were afraid of the things they couldn’t see by moonlight but you relished in the anonymity of the night. Life was much scarier by the light of the sun.

“Thank you, Jimmy, I mean it,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his palm before pulling away from his touch, “but we both know I can’t quit,”

“But doll, I-”

“No buts. I bring in more in a week than the troupe makes in a month, not to mention that I get half the essentials for the mess tent at a discount from customers who are sweet on me. Someday, and that day can’t come soon enough, we’ll have enough saved up to get out of here, but until then we both just have to do whatever we can to make that future a reality,”

Jimmy nodded, draining the last warm dregs from his beer and tossing the empty can into the trash. “I just hate thinkin’ about you standing out there alone while those assholes look at you like a piece of meat,”

“I get by well enough,”

“I know you do, but you can’t blame me for worrying,” In a moment of drowsy bliss, you let a soft yawn escape your lips. Jimmy grinned. “Are you fallin’ asleep on me?”

You offered him a loose, gummy smile. “Maybe a little,”

He was quick to sweep a well-muscled arm up under your knees, lifting you up bridal style. You let out a small shriek of surprise. Jimmy didn’t let that distract him, though, as he carried your wriggling form over to your shared bed before setting you down with a low chuckle. “Now dollface,” he said, pulling off his sweat-damp undershirt and the washcloth that had been resting on his shoulders, “you up for a little bit of the Jimmy Darlin’ magic tonight, or would you rather just cuddle?”

“Can we just cuddle tonight? I’m still sore as hell. That asshole cop had me up against a brick wall and didn’t exactly take the time to lighten up his grip when I started to bruise,”

Jimmy nodded. “I tell you what,” he said, running a fused digit over the top button of your dress, “first let’s get that dress off you, then I can rub on some of that arnica gel we got as a gift from the new girl last month, alright? She said it helps with bruises. Once you’re all taken care of, then we can cuddle,”

“That sounds heavenly,” You smiled up at Jimmy as you unbuttoned the front of your dress, easily sliding out and discarding it as he changed out of his work jeans and into some thin cotton pajama pants. Your bra came off last, and much to your surprise your beau didn’t spend much time ogling you, instead turning quickly to go recover the ointment from the shelf in the bathroom.

From your viewpoint on the bed, Jimmy looked like Adonis. He was always handsome, sure, but you loved how the moonlight hit his bare back, revealing each plane of thick, workers muscle as it caressed his skin. As your eyes fluttered closed, you could almost feel the ghost of his body above yours. The radio across the field was still droning on outside the window. In your bed, watching Jimmy putter around the trailer and listening to the fuzzy music that drifted in from the outside, you felt complete for the first time in a long time. There was only one thing left to do that could make you feel better.

“Jimmy,” you asked, “tell me about the future?”

He turned to you with a sigh, the glass jar of arnica gel in hand, “Doll, I’m no Dr. Seuss...”

“Pleeeease, Jimmy,” you whined, “for me?”

It didn’t take anything more for Jimmy to give in. “How could I ever say no when you ask so nicely,” He sat down at your side on the bed, nudging you to roll onto your stomach and give him access to your bruised and scraped back. As he began his gentle probing of your wounds, he started to talk.

“Once we save up enough money,” he whispered, scooping up some gel from the jar before rubbing it into a particularly tender purple spot, “we’re gonna get out of here. You and Ma and me will find a nice little house somewhere with some land, and we’ll be happy there. When we get there, I’ll find a job somewhere where people won’t gawk at me. I can work construction or grow produce in the yard, and you… you, doll, will finally get to rest. You can stay home with Ma, cook, sew, read; you’ll never have to sell yourself on the streets again,”

You squirmed under his touch. “Now tell me about the kids,”

Jimmy groaned. “Really?”

“They’re the best part!”

“Alright, alright, because you won’t stop buggin’ me I’ll talk about the kids, but next time I’m down and out after a fight you’d better return the favor. I expect you to talk my ear off about all the sinful things I wanna hear while you’re busy holding a steak to my eye,”

You grinned. “Since when have I ever let you down, Mr. Darling?”

“Not once, sweet thing,” he pressed a soft kiss to the back of your head before going back to focusing on your flesh, now doing more of a massage on the less marred areas than anything else. “Now where were we?”

“The kids, Jimmy,”

“Oh right, the kids!” You let your eyes drift closed as he spoke, relishing in the feeling of his hands against your skin. Every moment in his arms was heaven. It was a real shame the rest of society didn’t see him the way you did, but it kept any potential competition away, and for that you were grateful. Life without Jimmy would be like baking with no sugar; just plain wrong. “Once we have our own place and the money is coming in, I won’t have to waste my pocket change on rubbers anymore. I’ll get you nice and pregnant and then, after nine months of getting looked after by yours truly, you’ll finally have your own little Darling, yours an’ mine. Won’t that be a sight? A little Jimmy Jr. runnin’ around in the yard, absolutely spoiled rotten by his grandma. I dunno much about bein’ a good dad, but I sure as hell know what not to do. No matter what the child ends up looking like, I’ll be there every step of the way. Who knows, if you and I get real busy we may have a whole brood of Darling children before long,”

You wanted to offer up some sort of placation, a witty reply, but you found that your tongue was too heavy and your eyes were drooping lower by the second. It was cooler now that the moon had started her ascent into the night sky, cool enough to stay comfortable with the little air conditioning unit in the window running full blast. Suddenly, the bed shifted next to you as Jimmy screwed the top back onto the jar and got up to return it to its shelf.

“Hey, Jimmy?” you called, voice thick with exhaustion. He was quick to respond, slotting the jar into its place and stepping out of the dimly lit bathroom to check on you.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” you said, rolling onto your back and getting comfortable on top of the sheets, “I just wanted to say I love you, so much,”

Jimmy was back at your side in an instant. “I love you too, doll. I dunno what I ever did to deserve you-”

“Oh stop!” your words were slurred now, dripping from your lips as you watched Jimmy climb into bed. You found your place at his side quickly. It was muscle memory to link your leg with his and set your head on his chest no matter how tired you were. "You're the most handsome, wonderful, perfect man I could have ever asked for Jimmy Darling, and don't you forget it!"

“It’s time for sleep now, doll,” he whispered, burying his face in your hair and wrapping his arms around you, “There’s plenty of time to talk about how wonderful you think I am in the morning,” The smile on his face was clear from the tone of his voice, but you heeded his words, quickly falling into a dreamless sleep while he protected you from the rest of the world.

Things weren’t perfect. You would still wake up the next day and watch the man you loved leave as both of you sold your very bodies in search of an impossible dream for the future, but that was okay. As long as Jimmy was by your side, everything would be.

--------

a/n: I hope you enjoyed this fic! I intended for it to be a short drabble where I could practice writing for jimmy, but in the end I’m really happy with how it turned out. This is, genuinely, something I’m really proud of, so please let me know if you liked it. Thank you so much for supporting me!!!

[joezworld]

📁

Specifically, any headcanons of the Sodor Engines interacting with the internet, or the internet in general?

For some reason, I’d imagine that podcasts and the like are popular among vehicles in general.

That is a question that I've been working on for some time - because I'm workshopping my own Tornado headcanon (and boy oh boy does she use the internet a lot) - but I have some ideas for the Sodor engines as well: 

Henry is probably the most "plugged in" engine on the island, weirdly enough. One of his drivers gave him an iPod back in the early 2000s, and kindly preloaded it with a bunch of torrented music.

 BTW, that works because all the engines are now equipped with automatic train warning systems, and the little on-board computer has a USB port - as a nice side effect it allows music players to work with the engines in the same way as bone-conducting headphones do. The computer also acts as some kind of computer interface, which I am not going to explain how that works because Jesus Christ I don’t know how it does either.  

 Henry has managed to upgrade his iPod a few times since thanks to hand-me-down units from NWR staff, so he eventually got his buffers on a wifi-enabled iPod Touch and now downloads new music from the station wifi. He does listen to podcasts, but as every other engine will tell you, you could show Henry ten thousand new and exciting songs from the best artists in the world, and his top ten played songs are still going to be Genesis, Phil Collins, and Yes. Bear considers it a win that he managed to convince Henry to regularly listen to Rush after a mere twenty years of convincing. 

 Mavis and Daisy listen to a very interesting program called The News, because as stated elsewhere, they invest a shitload of money and need to be on top of things. Thomas and Percy wish that Daisy would use headphones or something similar to that, instead of listening to Bloomberg TV at loud volumes in the middle of the night. Toby frankly doesn’t mind, as it’s very nice to be kept up-to-date on the outside world.  

In a move that surprises no-one, Bill and Ben have a podcast where they talk about whatever they think about at that moment - usually horse-racing, investing, and clay mining. As such, they have a wide audience, almost none of whom know that they’re that Bill and Ben, as their podcast is audio-only.  

 In an also unsurprising move, Edward and BoCo have been made very much aware that Bill and Ben have a podcast, but are still unsure as to what the hell a podcast is, despite being frequent guests on it.  

Of the main line diesels, only Bear has shown any real interest in the internet, and was immediately put in charge of the Amazon Alexa when a unit was installed in the diesel shed. He also has an iPod that he got for Christmas a few years back. (The NWR has a very good personal  electronics recycling program called give it to Henry, he’ll make use it.)  

Bear does listen to podcasts as well as music, but his choices are so insufferably boring that even Henry refuses to listen to them. (I don’t really listen to podcasts - despite making one - so insert the most boring podcast you can think of here.) 

 As for other internet uses... 

Gordon is very up-to-date on the newest social media trends - somehow - but only really cares when he is involved. He won’t admit it, but he’s been trying to figure out how to work a camera/selfie stick for some time so he can start up his own Instagram account. So far he has been unsuccessful, but one day he will manage it. 

 James has had an ongoing feud with his own Wikipedia page for about a decade now. The article sourced most of its information about his construction off of some out-of-print book about the L&Y. The book in question is accurate about James’ class, but not James himself - as he was a prototype engine. There’s no other primary sources available, so the very dedicated Wikipedia mod who created the page won’t change it - no matter how much James complains that he was there! He knows what happened! 

Every now and again a TTTE fan blog/tumblr will make a post about hypothetical “ships” of the Sodor engines. Most of the time it’s shipping the core characters like Gordon and Henry, much to Gordon’s bafflement and Henry’s amusement! 

Only one blog (a ttte fan tumblr by the curious name of @mean-scarlet-deceiver  ) has gotten it right. Henry actually reached out to congratulate this blogger, but was unfortunately mistaken for a very dedicated roleplay account.  

James is very annoyed by these blogs, as they have never once correctly guessed who he is “shipped” with! He has tried several times to be seen in public with Delta, but these events have never gone as planned - the “best” instance is when Edward rolled by at exactly the wrong moment, leading to months of speculation that JamesxEdward was the ship to look out for! 

Thomas, being a generally oblivious sort of engine, was totally unaware of the online fan community around the TV show until he started getting actively harassed by vloggers and Instagrammers in the early 2010s. He’s fine with it now, but it was a deeply unusual experience for most of 2012.  

Toby has developed an unexpectedly popular following on social media following his collab with Stormzy. His official twitter is huge now, with over a million followers, even if he has no idea what to do with it. He posts rarely, but usually manages to make an incredible post when he does.

No-one is sure who told Oliver what a “fan-production” is, but if you manage to get ahold of him for any period of time and ask him nicely, he will lend his voice to your TTTE fan-project, so long as it isn’t about [INSERT TERRIBLE SOCIAL/POLITICAL VIEW(S) HERE]. This means that he has 100% voiced dramatic readings of NSFW Fanfics before, which is always an absolute riot to spring on people unannounced.

There is a series of slice-of-life TTTE fanfics on Ao3 that have been written with such accuracy and innate railway knowledge that people are sure it was written by a Sodor engine, but nobody knows which one.

The Culdee Fell Railway has very active Instagram, Twitter and YouTube accounts, with all of the engines and coaches showing up regularly. It’s about the closest any of the railways on Sodor have come to what those outside the UK would call “normal locomotive social media”.

The Skarloey Railway has social media accounts too, but they don’t really feature the engines in any meaningful way, instead being used as a normal service announcements page.  

 The SR is a real working railway that doesn’t rely on tourism money as much as the others do, so they get a bit of a pass here.  

 The Arlesdale Railway has Twitter and YouTube, which didn’t usually get a lot of hits until 2020, when Ivan and Amanda Farrier started badgering the staff to make some videos just to alleviate some boredom. So far the most popular videos on the channel are a front-mounted camera video of the entire line slow-tv style, Bert explaining how steam engines work, and a video of Mike complaining about Justin Bieber for a solid half-hour.  

 That’s about it as far as Sodor goes, but before we’re done, I want to take a moment to talk about Tornado, because I have some fun ideas for her... 

First of all, we need to establish that Tornado is very young. Her construction only started in late 90′s, and she was steamed to life in 2000, putting her firmly into the “Zoomer” category. Add in the fact that she was built by a bunch of old men who didn’t really know how to treat a new engine, and she was raised much more like a human than a locomotive - I’ll get to this much more in the proper Tornado Headcanon post, but what this means here is that when social media started being a thing in the mid-to-late 2000′s, the people at the A1 Trust decided that they needed a young person to run things like Twitter, Facebook, and Myspace... and, well, Tornado was the youngest person in the trust by a large margin.

I should state here that in the rest of the world, locomotives are on the internet at roughly the same level as humans are, so there’s plenty of equipment to connect a phone/computer/camera to an engine - being English, the A1 Trust didn’t know how common it was, but they managed to get it up and running just the same.

 So Tornado has very quickly become attuned to the internet, just like any other teenager would. (yes, let’s let that settle into our minds for a moment - Tornado is barely old enough to drink in the US!) Quite naturally that means that she knows social media inside and out, and is actually quite a proficient social media manager for the trust, managing all of their social pages. More than one person who has complained about the trust on twitter has unknowingly been complaining to Tornado herself! 

 “On the internet, nobody knows that you’re a dog Engine”. 

 Tornado has her own personal social media accounts too, but most/all of the time she gets mistaken for a very dedicated role-player, as the general perception of British Locomotives is that they don’t tweet. This has resulted in some amazing reactions from podcast hosts (because, as you might expect, Tornado is very knowledgeable about steam traction in the 21st century, and tweets about it often, so train podcasts want to talk to her) when she gets invited onto video calls, turns on her webcam, and is met with screams from people who suddenly realize that her profile picture is accurate.  

 By far the best instance of this is when she was invited onto a video call with a railfan podcast. She was at the NRM at the time and managed to convince them to let her use their Skype setup. A wide-angle lens was needed because she was on the turntable in the Great Hall, so that podcast quickly got sidetracked when her webcam was turned on and revealed Tornado, with Mallard, Evening Star, City of Truro, and Green Arrow visible behind her. Whatever the original topic was quickly got thrown out in favor of a 2-hour Q&A with some of the most famous engines in the UK. 

[tarantulas4davey]

Ufc Fighter Albert Dasilva Headcanons

hello, people who still follow me despite the fact i never post cause i’m a mess. how y’all doin? my favorite ufc fighter won the other day so now ✨this is what we’re doing✨. also i originally sent this thought to @we-are-inevitable ‘s ask box so find that post here (hi jac ilysm mwah mwah mwah)

i also wrote a part 2 so find that here !!

also,,,,, this is fairly obvious. but trigger warning for violence/physical fighting, and well as blood and injury. (it’s a rough gig y’all fjdhdb)

i sincerely apologize in advance for what a mess this post is gonna be i just had a monster and i’m hyped up on the win and this is a hyperfixation i don’t get to talk about very often so feel free to ask questions and HERE WE FUCKIN GO

OK SO

albert is just,,,,,, a violent sports guy. always has been, probably always will be.

most forms of recreational fighting, football, hockey, rugby, fuck even soccer if he gets too into it. he’s just a Built Person, and he wicked competitive, and that makes for violent displays of athleticism

I think he was probably a hockey or football guy in high school, but he was also on the wrestling team cause i said so

then after graduation he got really into kickboxing, just to have something to do cause he didn’t have school sports to play and train for all the time

and then one day his coach is like ‘hey. you’re like,,, stupid good at this. you should sign up for competitions, you might make some money.’

he does, in fact, ‘make some money’, cause in straight kickboxing? he’s pretty much unmatched on the regional scene, which is ridiculous cause he didn’t start training his stand up game til he was 18 or 19

then American Top Team (ATT, it’s a really big MMA training camp that had trained a boat load of the top talent in the UFC) approaches him like ‘y’know if you worked on your grappling you could be a really solid mma fighter’

which is HUGE, but obviously albert can’t pick up his entire life and move to florida to train with them, so him and race (this is me, of course race is with al. supportive boyfriend and number one fan alert <3) find gyms willing to work with him based in new york. then he starts signing up for shit.

he sticks with stand up fighting when he can, he likes it more and cause,,,,, well. it’s more entertaining. the higher your entertainment value, the more people watch your fights. the more people watch your fights, the more likely you are to get noticed by big promotions (like the ufc)

he uses his wrestling to keep grapplers on their feet (he’s got like a 90% takedown defense, what an icon) and he picks people apart.

he has a lot of technical skill, but he also is fiery and passionate and scrappy. he gets hit too much for his own good a lot of the time.

he’s super durable. this man can get hit clean over and over and stay on his feet, but that’s not gonna hold up forever. it takes a loss or two in a row to motivate him to change it

and oh boy does he change it

he spends a month in auckland, new zealand at city kickboxing (one of the best kickboxing gyms in the world, and they lean heavily on tactics rather than just charging forward blindly)

he’s straight up a different fighter after that. he’s quick, light on his feet, and avoids punches way easier while also setting up the angles for his own. he gets signed to the ufc 2 fights later.

his first fight is short notice. no training camp, he’s got 5 days to make weight, AND it’s against a top 10 ranked opponent. no big deal, right?

and albert, being albert, is super chill about it. sure, this is the opportunity of a lifetime, could decide his entire future as a fighter, and he’s barely got time to prepare.

but he’s in the gym every single day of the week, he doesn’t super cut on weight like most ex-wrestlers, and most importantly, it’s just fighting. all he has to do is get in the octagon and punch some dude in the face. he can do that all day.

race on the other hand,,,,,,,,

he believes in albert with his whole soul, he really does, but Fuck watching your boyfriend get hit in the head is no fucking fun. especially when you know that the guy throwing the punches has been training for months, and your guy hasn’t even had a week

so he brings jack for moral support. also cause jack is DEFINITELY a ufc fan and was the only one that would understand what was happening.

at some point in the first round albert gets caught clean, opening a cut on his cheek, which makes race Panic Even More

but he gets cleaned up between rounds, and it’s not swelling so he can still see, and it’s over by the middle of the second.

and albert wins, cause (this is fiction and i’m telling a story) of fucking course he does, and he probably wins with some stupid dramatic spinning back kick and gets clipped on twitter cause he’s just Like That

the part that makes me, as the ralbert shipper, super fucking happy is coming up but i need to add a lil real talk first

considering albert is like,,,, openly in a relationship with a man when he gets into the ufc,,,,, that makes him the first publicly gay ufc fighter. like,,,, ever.

this is realized after his hand gets raised after the ref calls the stoppage.

bruce buffer makes the official announcement, al gets his hand raised, he gets interviewed by joe rogan, and then his coaches, jack and race get to come into the cage

at first everyone things it’s a best friend or something, especially after the dap up bro hug things he gives his coaches and jack

but then albert sees race, and you can watch this boy’s face light up on the camera. then race throws his arms around albert’s neck and albert half lifts him off the ground in a hug around his waist and ok, sure, that’s not the most platonic thing you’ve ever seen, but that doesn’t prove anything

and then albert kisses race. like full, actual, on the mouth in front of all the cameras kiss. cause he doesn’t give a shit.

and nobody’s talking about his spinning back kick anymore, cause Holy Shit That Wasn’t Very Straight Of You Dasilva

but he doesn’t address it, cause every other fighter gets to kiss their wife or girlfriend or whatever in the cage after they win and nobody bats an eye, so why should it be any different for him and his boyfriend?

also, because it needs to be said, statistically there are ALREADY lgbtq+ male fighters in the ufc. like currently, in real life. they’re just not out publicly. the ufc has openly supported queer people’s rights in the past, and is partnered with 4 prominent HIV/AIDS awareness organizations. there is multiple openly queer women currently fighting in the ufc, including amanda nunes, who has been repeatedly called the greatest women’s fighter of all time. but as of right now, there is no openly mlm ufc fighters, so that would technically make albert the first. we love a trend setter. now back to what i’m supposed to be talking about djdhdbd

and eventually interviewers and fans on twitter realize that they’re only going to get one answer to vague questions about sexuality, which is “i’m dating a man and i fight people for a living. if that makes me a revolutionary, so be it bro.”

he includes race in a lot of his answers, especially in interviews where they ask more personal questions or grill him on his mental game, cause he loves race and thinks he deserves credit for everything he does to make al a better person and a better fighter

also, purely for my own entertainment, i think after he becomes champion (cause of course he does) he goes on the joe rogan podcast, and joe is pretty much the only one who gets albert to talk about any of it in a genuine way

he doesn’t get sarcasm or a blunt “can we talk about fighting, now?” like everyone else, he gets a real answer, cause that’s what albert came on to do anyway

he talks about getting together in highschool, and how it was race’s idea for him to start kickboxing in the first place, and what a fucking genius race is and how he’s getting his PhD right now, and how he didn’t want to talk about it cause he didn’t want to be the “gay fighter”, and how that’s a trivialization of his relationship with race and he refuses to let it be seen as anything but what it is, which is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him

just. Ugh. them <3

THIS POST IS SO LONG HOLY SHIT DHDHDHDH

anyway-

y e a h. albert dasilva would rock anyone’s shit. if i keep having thoughts about this i’ll make one about him becoming champion. thank you for your time ✨

also gonna tag @soaps-posts cause the brainrot is powerful so here you are my dear <3

[fountainpenguin]

It’s an Update

Hello, Riddle here! I know I’ve been pretty quiet on Tumblr lately. Here’s an update on my situation:

I will definitely post more fanfic updates soon. I’ve picked at drafts, but haven’t posted anything lately. Here are the reasons why:

I got a new IRL job. It’s a good fit for me, but I have less free time than I used to, of course. It’s a job that involves writing lots of articles on a variety of topics, and I enjoy how every day is a little different

Most of my free time for the last year has gone towards my mod work at the Creature-Crossing ARPG, and to my personal CC writing. I’ve been working on new activities over there (my recent favorite being our seasonal familiar shows... I won first place in the summer show!) and I have a lot of plot plans that are coming together now. If you ever want to see my original characters and read my CC writing, you can find my character directory HERE and my Table of Contents HERE.

Once November 1st hits, I won’t be preparing for the release of any more CC activities or events. All future activity or event releases will be overseen by the other mods, and I’ll simply be someone they can ask for extra help if needed. This is a big change for a mod who spent the last 12 months working on new releases, and will give me back some of the free time my IRL job will eat

The Creature-Crossing admin (my boss) greenlit my request to bring an assistant on the mod team who will specifically help me with a lot of my behind-the-scenes work, such as data entry and organization. I’ve never had another mod who specifically helps me with the back end duties before, so that will be awesome. I will need to spend some time training them, but once they are official, that will take some of my workload off and allow me more free time for this blog and personal writing time.

===

Fanfic updates you can expect to see soon:

- Reedfilter Rules

- Frayed Knots

- Origin of the Pixies

- Debut of Factor It In, my Kid Math-centric “WordGirl” fanfic (Subtitled “Tales of a third-grade superhero in training”)... Yes I am still in love with this idiot boy, expect lots of doodle pages soon

- The 130 Prompts project is on a slow-burn writing schedule... I’ll write for it when I want to, but I mostly want to focus on Origin and Knots this year.

Further info below the cut. There is more info about non-Fairly OddParents ‘fics in here too (under “non-FOP fanfics”), so if you’re looking forward to Mario World or “WordGirl” ‘fics from me, give this a click so you know what’s coming!

So, what does this update mean for your fanfics?

They’ll be active again soon! I’ve been picking at them behind the scenes, trying to build up a buffer. In an ideal world, I would love to release a new chapter for SOMETHING every Friday. I doubt this will be possible, but it’s something I would love to work towards in the future. Realistically, you can probably expect some kind of fanfic update once every two Fridays (two updates per month).

There might be some Fridays where posting an update is not possible. Instead, I’ll make a post about what progress I made instead. In the past, I often overworked myself to get a chapter out in time for my old deadline. I will not be doing that anymore, but will instead hold myself to a goal of “Make progress on something every week.”

In the best ideal world, I would love to post one FOP fanfic update per week and one non-FOP fanfic update per week. This is not likely to happen for a long, long time, but that would be the dream.

-

Here are the things I most likely worked on if there is no fanfic update:

- A fanfic chapter draft that needs more time

- A sideblog profile

- A Toyhouse profile for personal characters

- IRL work or mod work may have kept me busy this week

- Creature-Crossing writing... I will try to prioritize my fanfics more, but my CC writing is still important to me and I will be working on it in a lot of my free time too. At the moment, I have a hard deadline of December 14th that I need to meet if I want to release huge plot drama on the day that it happens in canon. I’ve been building up to this for a long time, so I’m really excited about that.

I currently have summer or autumn 2022 planned as the “finale” for the majority of my plot to explode. I will be hosting a member-run event in Creature-Crossing that will last for two months, so a lot of my time from January until the event’s release will be spent doing event prep. Once the event ends, my story content will mostly be a “return to slice of life.” Stories will be more casual one-offs as characters grow, live their lives, and start their own families. Hitting seasonal deadlines for plot will no longer be so important. I’ll be giving Creature-Crossing work less attention after that, and much more attention to my fanfics.

- I may not have a fanfic chapter out each week, but I WILL post a note every Friday to let you know what I have been doing with my time. You’ll see me around. Feel free to send Asks and talk!

===

What non-FOP fanfics would you like to work on?

For literal years, I’ve been claiming I want to post Mario World fanfics. This is still something I want to do. I tag Mario World posts as “mushrooms and more.” I’ve already done a lot of worldbuilding, I have thousands of words of content written for this fandom... I just haven’t posted any of it. I hope to do this soon.

- “WordGirl” fanfics are prioritized over Mario World fanfics. After I finish my first “WordGirl” multi-chapter, I will probably be ready to post my Mario World ‘fics. I may possibly post some Mario World one-shots in between other fanfic updates. Might take another year or more before I touch Mario stuff unless there’s high interest in seeing it sooner?

I also really want to write some WordGirl ‘fics and get more involved with the fandom community. I’ve been building headcanons and lore for this show ever since I was a kid, and I have multiple ‘fics for this fandom that I want to write.

- “AlgoRhythm” is a ‘fic I have already posted on FFN and AO3, about WordGirl introducing Kid Math to the villains in town

- 28 Cities is a ‘fic I started about Rhyme and Reason before they arrived in Fair City. I put it on hiatus since it didn’t seem like anyone was interested, but I’m willing to post more for it if there is interest in it now that years have passed and I’ve gotten more followers who like WordGirl. I have a lot of worldbuilding and plot I never shared for it

- Factor It In is a ‘fic I’ve been working for a while that parallels the official show from the moment Kid Math arrives in town. It focuses on Rex’s struggle to adjust to this world as a child coming into his superpowers for the first time (Y’know, the whole “superheroes don’t have powers when they’re on their home planets” thing), his struggle to adapt to the social world of a non-logical planet, and Becky’s struggle to help him become accustomed to Earth and learn to share it with her as well. If the episode “Kid Math” was a full-length novel about Rex’s arrival and character development, that’s what this story is. This is the highest priority of all my non-FOP ‘fics... I’ve had a cover image made for 6 months and even though I tried setting it aside, I’ve always been super inspired to write for it. If I felt like it would be a good idea to commit to weekly updates alongside my FOP updates, I would, haha.

- I have two one-shot WIPs called “Squishy Feelings” and “A Little Ambiguity”, one of them focusing on Becky and Rex talking about the events of “Rhyme and Reason” and what it means for Rex’s secret identity, and the latter being a future ‘fic showing WordGirl and Kid Math dealing with life 10 to 15 years down the road. I’ll probably post the latter, not sure yet on the former.

- If desired, I may make a WordGirl specific sideblog where I post lore, answer Asks, post character profiles [smaller than my FOP sideblog ones], and mention fanfic updates. If you would be interested in this, feel free to send me an Ask requesting I do this. If there’s not interest, I’ll just keep my WordGirl stuff on the main blog.

- I’d like to get more involved in the WordGirl community, so I’ll probably post more content and reblog more art and headcanons

I also have a handful of miscellaneous ideas I might follow through with. I’d like to write at least one “TUFF Puppy” fanfic so I can say I did. In a perfect world I would like to finish the two “Danny Phantom” and “Bunsen Is a Beast” fanfics I started because... I just kind of want to dip my toe in each of the Hartman shows once since I already went through all the effort of worldbuilding for them to make them canon in a single Hartman show universe. “ChalkZone” is another show I adore and might touch someday (You may recall I have a full outline planned for an FOP/ChalkZone crossover ‘fic called “Dust to Dust”).

Will I write all of these things? Maybe not. I have no idea if I want to spend the next 10+ years writing fanfics, or if I’ll simply be done with all misc. fanfics immediately once I decide to be done with my main ‘fics. I definitely intend to write for a few more years and finish my main ‘fics, but I might not go through with some less popular side ‘fics if life is getting busy for me.

===

What is the posting schedule for FOP ‘fics?

Reedfilter Rules, Frayed Knots, Origin of the Pixies, the 130 Prompts project, and “Come What May” are all high priority FOP writings. I will swap between them depending on my mood that week.

Here are some other ‘fics I want to work on.

- If you like, you can send me Asks requesting I work on a specific story above the rest. I will try to prioritize whichever stories interest you guys most.

Snips and Snails is a ‘fic I started and posted the first chapter for years ago. I’m not sure when I will get back to it, as I ran into some writer’s block. It’s still on tentative hiatus for now..... Possibly forever, though I hope it isn’t forever since it’s only supposed to be, like, five more chapters.

Pink and Gray is on official hiatus. I actually have a lot written for it, but I know it’s a little weird to put so much time and energy into Gary and Betty content when... well, let’s be honest: they’re my niche favorites and most of you probably don’t care. So, I am lifting my usual “no spoilers” policy from my Ask Box. If you would like to ask about my Gary and Betty backstory headcanons, feel free. I will tag my replies as “ridwriting spoilers” for anyone who wants to blacklist the tag, and spoilers will be hidden under a Read More line. 

I’d like to return to this story someday because there are tons of things I like about it (ranging from Betty’s secret tattoos to Gary’s plot drama with his mom to the background drama between Talon and Anti-Cosmo, but I always feel immense pressure to make it extra cool to make up for the fact these are weird side characters, so... it’s officially at the bottom of the priority pile. Once Talon shows up in Frayed Knots and readers understand who he is and why he exists, I’ll consider coming back to it.

Identity Theft is a story about Foop and his time in the alternate dimension he was flung into following the episode “Playdate of Doom.” To put it short, Foop was abused by alternate versions of his parents in this dimension and he witnessed some pretty intense stuff, including the death of the alt version of himself who existed in that reality. The trauma he experienced resulted in his alternate personality, Hiccup. Foop himself has very few memories of what happened, as Hiccup has all of those memories. This story is canon in my works, and it is regularly referred to during the 130 Prompts as part of Foop’s backstory. It’s my highest priority side story to work on.

Along the Cherry Lane is a 20-chapter work focusing on the lives of the main human cast from age 11 to age 30, with one chapter showing a snippet of their lives each year. You see Timmy raising Tommy and Tammy in this ‘fic, and it ends with them receiving godparents. Since the 130 Prompts don’t give humans much attention, this ‘fic does. You’ll probably see it debut two years from now, closer to when the 130 Prompts is ready to talk more about humans.

If this becomes a popular ‘fic of mine, I’ll probably write a sequel or continue it past Chapter 30 and write about Tammy and Tommy living with fairies, but I won’t if there’s no interest in that.

Little Imperfections is a Pixie AU ‘fic of mine about what life would be like in a universe where the Fairies are even more like insects than I play them as during my main works (where I already play them as semi-similar to insects). In this world, the Head Pixie is a figurehead whose duty is to reproduce for the sake of the colony and do nothing else, and he’s bored out of his mind until he befriends Sanderson, who introduces him to music. It’s extremely self-indulgent and silly because I like Pixies.

Francis is a multi-chapter ‘fic about bully Francis’s life getting yet another fairy godparent in a long string of memory wipes and godparents. It takes place during the canon series, and when you see an “orange fairy” mentioned in some of my writings, it’s usually referring to this fairy. His name is Rover and I occasionally post art of him. I feel like I can’t truly call myself an FOP fanfic writer until I actually write about a godkid and their godparents, haha...

Hawthorn Haven is a side ‘fic that will be posted towards the end of the 130 Prompts, as it veers off from the prompts in its own self-contained multi-chapter story. It will be approximately the length of “Baby, You’re a Rich Man.”

Acacia Arcadia is a far-past ‘fic detailing the fall of the ancient fae, the imprisonment of the nature spirits, the rise and fall of the chimera nation, the fall of the Martian genies, and the early days of the cloudlands. This is close to the bottom of the priority pile... It’s something I spend time on for personal reference to ensure accuracy in my other ‘fics, but it’s probably not what you guys came here to read.

AA has a bunch of characters in it that you might vaguely recognize, such as Ezekiel Whimsifinado, Evadne, Ione, Two Feathers, Rho, and Sablewood (If you’re astute, you might recall cloudland legends and landmarks in modern day that refer back to these characters). There are also a lot of characters who were reincarnated as Anti-Fairies, in accordance to traditional Anti-Fairy beliefs; Foop for example exists as a main character in one of his past lives, and you’ll see a hint dropped about each of his lives in the first chapter of Identity Theft. My tentative plan is to use Foop’s past lives as my central characters, following the events of each part of the timeline until he gets killed and reincarnates at a later point of the timeline.

I also keep some one-shots in a file I call Mixed Nuts and I may possibly post them someday (they’re mostly just one-shots of main cast characters I do to get a feel for their personalities, I have some Wanda and Cupid in here). @zachbrightside and I are also working on a collab ‘fic called Like a House On Fire that shows more of Timmy and Chloe’s lives during Season 10 (especially around the time of “Which Is Wish?”) No news on a release date for that yet.

-

As I’ve said before, once all my other FOP works are complete, I will write Devil’s Backbone, which is my far-future ‘fic and the finale of my FOP writing. I do not plan to write any more FOP content after that story is finished, as I expect to have all other FOP projects done by then.

- Devil’s Backbone is a finale 'fic, so all worldbuilding from all stories is fair game to blend together, and it’s highly recommended you read everything else first. This story has been outlined since 2016, and it might not be published for another 10 years... Who knows! But it’s something I always work towards as a concrete endgame goal.

- If something serious comes up in my life and I officially decide I don’t want to write this story, I will post the outline for it. The link to this draft is included with all the other Google Docs links I have in a far-future queued post unveiling my WIPs in case I unexpectedly die and you still want to know how my stories would have gone, so you’ll get access to this story eventually even if I die young. Yes, share access is turned on for them all and I do take extra careful measures to be sure that post doesn’t get posted early skldfj

===

What is the plan for the main blog?

Every Friday, I will post either a fanfic chapter or a progress update. You can blacklist the tag “ridlife” if you do not want to see the progress updates on your dashboard. Fanfic updates will not have the “ridlife” tag, so you will not be blocking them.

During the rest of the week, I might post doodles, reblogs, or general comments. Basically... you’ll see the blog become active again. Feel free to send in Asks about my worldbuilding and thoughts on fanfic characters.

@fountainpenguin is my personal blog, so you will see non-fandom things on here sometimes

@riddledeep is my FOP-exclusive sideblog. It contains all my lore notes and goes into a ton of depth, more than my fanfics give in one breath

===

What does this mean for the Riddledeep sideblog?

I really want to go back and edit those character profiles that were posted early by mistake. The reason they were queued is because if I turned them into drafts, they would have been buried all the way at the beginning of my draft collection, and I have many, many drafts saved. There are no page numbers to navigate quickly through the draft collection, so I would have to click through each page one by one if I ever wanted to look at them. I hated doing this, which is why I kept my posts queued.

I was regularly updating the queue deadlines, trying to keep things in the order I wanted to post them in, but Tumblr made a change to the way drafts are dated and it kept throwing off my system. My inability to remember when my queued things would post combined with my busy schedule led to some profiles being posted early and incomplete. I want to fix these.

Over a year ago, my good friend Vulpix150 helped me finalize my designs for the Aos Sí and Daoine Sith. I’ve been sitting on that art in secret for a while, and at some point I plan to post it on the sideblog and talk more about that lore.

Updating fanfics is my higher priority (and it was the priority my followers voted for when I asked you to send votes to my Ask Box a while back). So, I will usually spend my free time working on fanfics unless I need a break from them and want to work on sideblog profiles instead. Thank you for your patience!

===

TL;DR

I’m posting fanfics again soon. I’m going to take a more relaxed approach to posting them. I’m going to post more of what I want to post and what I feel motivated to post, not always a main ‘fic update. If I’m not “feeling it” when working on a draft, then I’ll set it aside for a while unless I know my followers and readers have high interest in the next chapter of that story. I always write for me first, but if I know there are other people who care a lot about a story, then of course I want to write it for you too!

I’m going to embrace my decade-long love for WordGirl and post more ‘fics and art or this fandom. I’ve always been a little shy about doing this, but I’m ready to make it an official fandom on my main blog (unless there are lots of requests for WordGirl things to be contained in their own sideblog). I will be posting the first chapter for a ‘fic called Factor It In very soon. Love my easily frustrated alien kiddos having a long day.

I am working on Creature-Crossing stuff too, and will be especially busy in November and December. Updates will be slow for a few months, but I hope to find my groove and a good pace soon.

Each Friday, I will post either a fanfic update or a mention of what I am working on. I will be checking in on Tumblr regularly. Feel free to talk! I much prefer you send messages to my Ask Box, not my private messenger, please <3

===

Is there a specific story of mine you like and want more updates for?

Asks and reviews help me know which ‘fics people are enjoying. I plan to keep writing ‘fics no matter what, but I definitely give more time to the ‘fics that get more attention (and I have been spending so much time writing for Creature-Crossing because that’s where the attention was coming from)

It’s easy to stay motivated and get the next part of a story out soon if I know that people like it. It’s always harder if you feel like people are silently judging you and ignoring your posts. So, let me know what you’re interested in. And if you only leave Likes or Favorites instead of asks and reviews, that’s okay too! Thank you for interacting anyway and enjoying my work.

Thanks for reading!

[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.

[daisukefmd]

hey guys, it’s oli here, late as ever. sorry to be so tardy to the party, but work’s been kicking my ass for the past week ;-; but fortunately i have today and tomorrow off, so i’ll be around to plot and get some threads going! below the cut, you’ll find his background info, how he came to be an idol, present day stuff and everything in between. if you’re interested in plotting, just drop a like and i’ll shoot you a dm!

BACKGROUND

he’s the youngest of five children and he was born in kobe, japan. he’s always been a little bit on the more quieter side of things. his preschool teachers used to try to tell his parents that he was antisocial and wouldn’t interact with the other kids, but the truth was just that he was quiet and shy. his whole family is quiet and shy too, something his teachers found out when his parents came in for their meeting about daisuke. he was definitely a wall flower while he was growing up, which was pretty difficult to believe given the fact that he was always the tallest person in his class ever since he was a little kid. despite his height, he always managed to fade into the background.

he continued to fade into the background until he was about thirteen years old and he was scouted by a label in japan for his height and visuals. he was thrust into training, where they discovered that he had a pretty decent singing voice and they decided to make him the main vocal of that group. it was supposed to be an idol super group (think akb48 but with a bunch of guys instead). unfortunately the company lost more money than they gained and they ended up shutting down and his group disbanded before he could gain any real recognition with the public.

he had only been out of the group for a week before bc found him and asked his parents if they could take him to south korea to be in an idol group they were debuting. it didn’t take much to convince his parents, and a month later he was being shipped off to south korea. he arrived at the end of the summer in 2014 and officially joined bc entertainment as a trainee. 

being a foreigner made forming connections and bonds with others difficult for him as well. it didn’t help that he was socially awkward and tended to stick to himself when he wasn’t training or sitting through lessons. his first year and a half as a trainee was spent more or less on his own, which took a huge toll on his mental health at the time. he was lonely, but he had never really learned how to reach out and form friendships with one another. it didn’t help that he was so far away from his family, whom he had never spent more than a few days from at a time.

the year and a half mark brought along not only stronger korean language skills, but a certain comfortability being in south korea. he had grown used to it by then, and while he would have preferred to be home with his family, he had figured out a way to cope by just burying his negative feelings deep down until he didn’t really acknowledge them anymore. not the healthiest way to cope, but it was all he could do at the time. fortunately, on the brighter side of things, he had formed a handful of friendships that made being away from his family a little easier for him.

he had began to grow a little weary that his debut would never come because he had been a trainee for over two years, but then bc told him that he’d be participating in cloud6. usually, daisuke isn’t a competitive person, but he couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t give his all on the show. he knew that his personality fell flat, so he worked hard to make sure that his talent more than made up for his more subtle and underwhelming persona.

while he was praised by many for his hard work ethic and strong voice, he was attacked by just as many for being boring, some hateful comments even taking shots at his cultural background. while that was something he had been expecting, he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that everyone would be accepting of a foreigner, it did hit him very hard. he just wanted to sing and there he was, being attacked for something that he couldn’t even change.

despite all of that, he ended up ranking in third place on cloud6 and ended up debuting in cloud. he was happy to make it to the end, but he was also a little hesitant in his happiness because he was met with such criticism when his ranking was announced. people accused the show of rigging and giving daisuke his spot, and it made him question his own ranking for quite some time.  was his spot given to him? did he really earn it? those were thoughts that ran through his mind consistently, and still do whenever he’s in a particularly bad place mentally.

cloud’s success was a source of happiness for daisuke for a while - still is, however not as much. he was glad that they were being well received, but as the years dragged along, he couldn’t help but crave more. he wanted to start dipping his toes into other aspects of the entertainment industry, mainly creating his own music. he had learned a lot from the industry, and he wanted to step out of the realm that cloud had created for him and try out something new. he was given the opportunity to do so with his debut album and solo releases so far. however his next album will be completely his sound, different from anything cloud’s released before, and he’s excited that bc’s letting him experiment a bit more. 

DAISUKE’S OFFICIAL IMAGE 

while cloud’s overall image might be bright and refreshing, daisuke’s personality and persona don’t really fit into that category. on stage, he’s more than capable of putting out that vibe during performances, however once he steps foot off stage, he’s retreating back into his real self - quiet and reserved. despite bc trying consistently to bring him out of his shell during his trainee years and the first few months of cloud’s career, they eventually found an image that could work for him. daisuke’s job in cloud is to be the buffer. he’s the calm, cool and collected one. the mediator. he’s literally and figuratively the middle child of cloud. he balances the group out really well, adding a personality that’s the opposite of his group members’.

he’s marketed as mature, intelligent and hard working. the voice of reason in the group. respectful, the kind of guy your parents would trust their daughter with. a lot of cloud’s fans have even called him “regal” because of how he carries himself and speaks. the general public sees him as a strong vocalist, one of the better ones of the current k-pop generation, but they don’t know much about him aside from that. most of the time he makes headlines is because of his singing, and bc likes to keep it that way. there’s a slight air of mystery around him that makes him interesting enough to pay attention to. bc does have a habit of using that to their advantage whenever they can, and so far it has worked for daisuke. a lot of people are, surprisingly, drawn to his quiet demeanor and hard working attitude.

OTHER INFO

some people are a little intimidated by him because he’s not really smiley and he’s super tall (he’s about 6′5″) but he’s really not a bad guy. he’s just really quiet and shy, but if you can make your way through his shell, you’ll have a great friend. he loves his group members, although it may not seem like it because he’s not really affectionate, but he’s happy with them.

most people are shocked whenever he sings because his speaking voice is so deep and then he sings and that voice comes out of him lmao not to mention his physical appearance contradicts his singing

he knows that his stage name is ‘dai’ because it’s probably to make it easier for koreans to pronounce, but he hates it lmao he hates nicknames and pet names and anything of the like.

while he’s still a quiet guy that prefers to keep to himself, he’s not as much of a pushover as he used to be. he has a voice for himself, and he speaks up for himself when he needs to. 

[virtchandmoir]

Tessa Virtue On Her Second Act and Finding Balance In the New Normal

We asked Canada’s Olympic darling and Nivea’s new ambassador how her goals, self-care and beauty routine have transformed in 2020

December 21, 2020

In partnership with Nivea

The last 10 months have been *insert another word for unprecedented* for everyone, even for five-time Olympic medalist Tessa Virtue. In some ways, they’ve been uniquely challenging for someone like Virtue, a 22-year competitive athlete who was just a few months post-retirement when the COVID-19 pandemic hit. No more weeks on end of travel, no more rigorously regimented exercise schedule, no more stage makeup, and a whole big world of opportunity to navigate in this New Normal.

FLARE spoke to the retired skating champion and Nivea’s first Canadian ambassador over Zoom (yes, both parties wore real pants—it was a good day!) about finding joy in lockdown, the ways she has been practicing self-care this year, how her beauty and skincare routine has evolved and how her priorities have shifted since retirement.

You retired from professional skating in fall 2019. What has life been like since then?

“It’s been upside down, but that’s from a more global standpoint. For me personally, the more difficult transition was going from competition to touring. After we wrapped up our Rock the Rink tour last fall, there were so many challenges and goals that I had already set for myself, so it was about navigating the path of, ‘OK, how do I go from being so singularly focused [on skating] to seemingly endless options and ideas and plans?’

“One thing I’ve realized is just how pressure-filled that time was. It was so intense and draining on so many levels that there’s a bit of levity that has been nice to embrace. And having new purposes and goals ahead of me also helps because I’m so task-oriented.”  

Tell us about pursuing your MBA—all over Zoom, no less!

“I’m doing my MBA through Smith’s School of Business, associated with Queen’s University. I have a bit of an entrepreneurial spirit so I wanted to make sure that I was learning as much as I possibly could about all facets of the business before I truly pick an avenue and take a run at something.

“Also, as a buffer between sport and real life, it’s good to have a goal that is in the not-so-distant future. May 2022 is graduation so it’s this tangible thing that I can work towards, challenge myself in a way that is not so physical, but rather academic.

“There are about 90 students in the class and they’re such formidable, exceptional humans that have accomplished such amazing things in their own realms. I have to admit, I’m much more nervous participating in our school sessions with 90 people than I was ever performing or competing, probably even at the Olympics (laughs)!”

What’s something that has been bringing you joy in these recent months?

“What has been really special is seeing those smaller, random acts of kindness that people have been showing, whether that’s on social media or just in the neighbourhood. When I was home in London for a time, the sense of community was so strong, whether it was checking in on each other, enjoying a driveway chat, or helping with grocery runs. There have been those who have stepped up and showcased their thoughtfulness and generosity, and that is so beautiful to witness during this tumultuous time.”

What has been something that has been challenging for you in the recent months, especially as Toronto settles into its second lockdown?

“The hardest thing is missing that human touch with the people you’re close to. Oddly enough, I always considered myself as not an affectionate person (laughs) and I’m really missing that now. I have two nieces and one is around 9 months old and I get these photos or videos and see her chunky little arms, and I just want to hold her so badly. I saw my other niece at a great distance in a field one day and it was so hard not to hug her. I feel that kind of sadness and loneliness.”

How have you been practicing self-care during this time?

“This time has made me realize that in ‘busy culture,’ people were deemed successful or living a full life if they were busy, and that was sort of my party line for a long time: People would say ‘How are you doing?’ and I would say ‘Oh, I’m so busy.’ And I really was. I was home maybe one day a month and I was always on the go. But this time has made me stop and reflect and really just sit in my emotions, sit with my feelings. And that has led to prioritizing self-care because I know now that I need those moments. I need the quiet time alone to journal or to reflect on my thoughts.

“In terms of working out, I’ve kind of done a full circle where I really had great departure from it for a bit because I didn’t want to feel like an athlete. And now I feel like, ‘Wow, I’m so grateful to be able to move my body and it feels good.’ That hit of endorphins is healthy. So I’m finding little moments like that throughout the day to treat myself.”

What have you been doing in lockdown when it comes to beauty?

“The nice thing is that I’ve been doing absolutely nothing! (Laughs) Letting my hair air dry, no makeup really, and it’s been so refreshing. The Nivea Micellar is a great cleanser that lets my skin be free and breathe. [I’ll use that] and Nivea moisturizer, and that’s been it.

“It’s been great, especially coming off of tours and competitions where the makeup is so heavy and there’s always a hot iron on my hair. I feel like my priorities have shifted and really, that doesn’t seem important at all anymore.”

Do you feel that your beauty routine has changed in recent months?  

“Because I’m not all that patient, I’m pretty low maintenance in general. But in terms of self-care, it’s been about making it more of a purposeful choice and a treat to dry brush and then moisturize, for example, or exfoliate and then use Nivea Care Cream. I do it more purposefully and it feels nice to be intentional about it.”  

Is there anything you’re going to be changing about your skincare regimen now that it’s getting colder?

“Moisturize, moisturize, moisturize! My skin is so sensitive and I’m used to being in a freezing cold, dry rink all the time so moisturizer has always been the key, especially with all that sanitizer now. I have moisturizer in my pockets, in my purse, in my car, every little place.”

What is keeping you feeling good in your own skin?

“There are a couple things. Moving. Working out. Sometimes it’s just stretching or doing a bit of yoga, whatever it is, just moving my body has been really good. And then also positive messages. It sounds crazy but just accepting whatever state my body is in today, in this moment, just acknowledging it and thanking it. [Thinking], ‘I’m grateful and this is what I’m working with and it’s good enough.’

Especially because we’re in this global health crisis, I think it forces you to be more grateful for what you have.

“I did an event with the singer Jully Black recently and she mentioned something about how important breath is right now and how grateful we can be for it when you think about people who are on ventilators. There’s so much to appreciate just with a simple inhale and exhale. I thought that perspective was really powerful, too.

“There are so many stories around right now that make you think, ‘Gosh, the stresses that seem huge in my relative bubble are not really that important.’ That perspective is key, I think.”

What are some of the most pleasant surprises that you’ve had this year?

“I thought I would be really restless if I wasn’t travelling so much, because that’s what I had grown accustomed to, and I was so surprised by how grounded and comforted I felt at the notion of not even seeing a suitcase for a while. That’s been really, really nice.

“And then, because those times are so fleeting when we do get to connect with family and friends, that joy is magnified. That is so special. Every little tiny moment or phone call seems like a more monumental event and I really try and savour all of those moments.”

—Flare

[anthonyjlockwood]

lukebobby for #21 "you're not very intimidating"

tysm for the prompt, jay!! 💜 I spent way too long on this lol I’m sorry. you can find it on ao3 here! 

Bobby Wilson was not afraid of very many things.

In fact, he prided himself on being the most fearless member of Sunset Curve. He was the knight in shining armor, the one reckless enough to do anything the others deemed too dangerous— and that was saying something, considering he was best friends with Luke and Reggie. Alex, at least, had some sense of self-preservation.

Physical things rarely scared Bobby as much as emotional things. Feelings. Tears. Feelings and tears. Sadness, confusion-- anger, at least, he understood. He’d been all too acquainted with anger these past few months, because absolutely nothing on Earth pissed him off more than people messing with his friends. Luke’s fights with his parents had been getting more frequent. Alex had come out to his parents, and they wasted no opportunity to tell him what a “sinner” he was, and how he was “destined to burn.” It made Bobby see red. 

And then, there was Reggie’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Peters were some of the worst offenders of the bunch, really. Because while the Pattersons and the Mercers had problems with who their sons were at their core-- which was horrible enough-- the Peterses just… didn’t care. They didn’t know who Reggie was, and they couldn’t be bothered to learn.  

In Bobby’s eyes, apathy was just as bad as hostility. 

So Bobby was no stranger to anger. But other emotions, less understandable ones, shook him to the core sometimes. Bobby didn’t really “do feelings.” Sure, he was a pretty good listener, but even when someone was complaining to him, he was always solution-focused.  

Someone more emotionally in-tune than he was would probably have a name for his incessant need to problem-solve, instead of just allowing people around him to be upset. Realizing that it was okay to be upset sometimes. 

But Bobby just… didn’t work like that. 

And, a brand new emotion had emerged recently, one that was far more confusing and frightening than any other.  An emotion that had accompanied some inner thoughts of his-- thoughts that he’d been skirting around for months, if not years. 

Bobby was in love with his best friend.

Or, at least, he thought he might be.  Bobby didn’t think he’d actually ever really been in love before. He took pride in the fact that he was reasonably attractive, and could get a date with pretty much anybody he wanted. But that’s as far as any relationship of his had ever gone-- just dating.  And the feelings he was experiencing now were… different, to say the least.  

Because Bobby didn’t just want to date Luke Patterson. He couldn’t explain what exactly, but… he wanted something more. 

And that shit was terrifying. 

He didn’t really know if Luke noticed that he’d sort of been avoiding him lately. He’d started using Alex and Reggie as a buffer so he wouldn’t have to be left alone with Luke for an extended period. Because, when he was alone with Luke, and the other boy did something totally offensive, like smile or laugh, Bobby just wanted to die. It sucked, honestly, wanting something you couldn’t have. Feeling emotions that you didn’t want; weren’t used to.

Emotions had always been far more frightening to Bobby than those more common physical fears. Heights. Flying. Darkness.

But, there was one thing Bobby would absolutely never do, under any circumstances, no matter how the planets aligned. One common physical fear that he would never deal with.

Bobby would never, ever, be the one to kill the spider.

And there was one, now, laughing at him from under the old, rickety sofa Luke had gotten cheap at someone’s yard sale. Bobby didn’t know what kind of spider it was, but it was big, and it existed, so that was all the information he needed, really.

But Bobby knew enough about fear to know one thing: never let the thing you’re scared of know that you’re scared. Knowing gave them power. And this spider had far too much power already. Since Bobby had seen it skittering across the floor nearly ten minutes ago, it had successfully managed to overtake the couch; Bobby had shot up like a rocket and scrambled up the ladder into the loft.

And he would not be coming down any time soon, thank you very much. 

This spider thought it was so scary, kicking Bobby off the sofa like that. Bobby would show it— just as soon as he mustered up the courage to climb back down the ladder.

Still, show no fear. That spider had to know who was in charge, here-- it would not be keeping Bobby Wilson up in that loft bed forever. 

“You’re not very intimidating, you know.”

He was talking to a spider. Before Bobby could process just how unhinged that was, a snicker from the doorway made him jump. Whipping his head up, towards the sound of the laughter, he saw Luke. Arms crossed, eyebrows raised, looking absolutely delighted to see Bobby in whatever predicament he’d gotten himself into. 

Luke surveyed the scene with a knowing smirk, and not a hint of sympathy. “What’chya doin’ up there, Bobby?” 

“Just-- just hanging out,” Bobby said nonchalantly. 

“In the loft?” 

“Yes. I… like it up here. I’m enjoying the view.”

“Ah, I see,” Luke nodded, as if Bobby’s words had confirmed some sort of unproven theory about the universe. 

Bobby was trying to act nonchalant, but-- the spider moved again. Bobby flinched automatically as it briefly emerged from under the sofa before disappearing again.

The only thing worse than seeing a spider, Bobby lamented, was losing sight of a spider. His eyes traced the floor near the couch frantically. 

Unfortunately, Luke had noticed his flinch, and his facial expression morphed into a smug grin. “Is… is the great Bobby Wilson afraid of something?”

“No!” Bobby shuffled further back in the loft bed, farther away from the door. 

“What is it?” Luke asked. “Is the studio haunted? Is there a zombie-vampire-ghost hiding under the couch, or something, waiting to claim you as its next victim?”

“There’s no such thing as a ‘zombie-vampire-ghost,” Bobby huffed. 

“Okay, so what—“  Luke was cut off by a loud shriek. Bobby dove behind a pillow on the loft bed, hugging it against his body and slinking further into the wall. 

Luke followed his friend’s gaze and saw the subject of his friend’s terror: a spider, standing by the leg of the sofa. 

“You’ve barricaded yourself up in the loft because of a bug?” Luke said gleefully. “Oh man— wait ‘til I tell Alex and Reggie about this one!” 

“You won’t be laughing when you see it move!”

“I’ve seen a spider move before, Bobby,” Luke snorted. “Not the horror movie material you think it is. I’m sure I’ll survive.” 

But… but then the spider did move, and it moved towards Luke. He got a better look at it, and he saw that it was probably about an inch and a half long, dark brown, and menacing-looking. 

Nope.

No.

Nooo thank you. 

With a shriek of his own, Luke scrambled up the loft ladder, too, the force of his body slamming into Bobby’s as he landed on the bed sending the whole structure shaking. “Dude, that thing is huge!”

“Yeah, looks a lot bigger and more threatening when it’s coming towards you, right?” Bobby snapped. “I’ll accept my apology in the form of you paying for the pizza delivery tonight.”

“What makes you think we’re gonna survive long enough to eat pizza later?” Luke asked incredulously. “That spider’s probably gonna have us for dinner first!”

“You’re being dramatic,” Bobby said. It was time to take the reins, here— he had to be the brave one. It was Spider Versus Bobby & Luke, now, and Bobby had to be captain of this team. Luke certainly wasn’t going to do it, useless as he was— now hugging the very same throw pillow that Bobby had abandoned, realizing that, as far as shields go, it was a fairly weak one. 

“Dude, don’t you watch those boring nature documentaries on the Discovery Channel?” Luke remembered. “That thing’s probably poisonous. Venomous. Whatever. It’s deadly.”

“So you just want to be stuck up in this loft for the rest of the freaking day?” Bobby asked. 

It wasn’t really the way Bobby would’ve preferred to spend his Saturday. Especially because the close proximity to someone he was trying not to have feelings for brought a tingling sensation to his cheeks and set his heart racing. He hoped Luke couldn’t hear it pounding away in his rib cage. 

Bobby had been doing a very good job at not thinking about Luke that way. But ever since Sunset Curve had gone to that stupid indoor skydiving place for Luke’s birthday— the only thing he’d really wanted to do, child that he was— and Bobby’s hand had brushed against Luke’s arm in the small air chamber, and Luke had grabbed Bobby’s hands in his own, lost in the thrill of adventure… Bobby had been thinking about it.

Thinking about how, with Luke, he felt alive. Alive in a way nobody else made him feel. Not Alex, not Reggie. Not any of the others he’d dated since. With Luke, Bobby felt like there could be something more. 

But, for the sake of their band and their friendship, Bobby had resolved to Not Think About It. He’d decided to take his feelings for Luke and bury them deep, and that meant keeping his distance. The exact opposite of… whatever the situation they were currently in was. 

Luke’s slightly panicked voice broke through Bobby’s thoughts. “What else are we supposed to do?!”

For as much as Bobby loved Luke— and was trying not to think about it— he recognized that the guy was truly terrible under pressure. Not for the first time, Bobby wished he’d encountered this spider with someone like Reggie. Alex, even, would be slightly preferable, because while he wouldn’t do anything to help, he also wouldn’t spike Bobby’s anxiety and make the situation worse. Alex, for all his anxiety about other things, didn’t really care about bugs.

But Reggie had this weird fascination with them. Bobby thought Reggie just wasn’t capable of hating anything. Reggie would probably pick the spider up with a napkin, or something, calm as you please, and start talking to it about his day or something.

Totally unbothered, totally friendly. Even to a spider.

Bobby was not friendly to spiders. This thing had to go, stat.

“We should throw something at it-- take off your shoe!” 

“My shoe? Gross! I don’t wanna get spider guts on my shoe,” Luke complained. 

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Well, we need some sort of ammunition, here!” 

“Why don’t you use your shoe?” 

“Hell no,” Bobby said. “I just bought these!” 

“Okay. Okay. What about…” Luke grabbed one of the pillows off the bed and jettisoned it down towards the general direction of the spider. It bounced off the couch cushions and fell to the floor. 

“D’you think we got it?” 

Just then, as if it were mocking them, the spider crawled back out from under the couch towards Bobby’s guitar stand.  

“Oh no,” Bobby moaned. “It’s-- it’s going for my guitar. What if it touches it?”

“We’ll have to burn the guitar,” Luke said solemnly. 

“Those are expensive!” he protested. “Hey-- hey Itsy Bitsy Spider, go for Luke’s guitar instead! A little to the left…” 

“Where’re Alex and Reggie when you need them?” Luke complained. 

“Cute that you think Alex would help us out, here,” Bobby rolled his eyes. “He loves when shit like this happens to us. He’d be getting a kick out of it, for sure.” 

“Reggie would help us, though,” Luke sighed longingly for their best friend, bassist and bug-getter-ridofer extraordinaire. 

“If they don’t come for us, we might be stuck up here for the rest of the night,” Bobby commented. 

“They gotta come eventually,” Luke reasoned. “They know we have to practice for the gig this weekend.” 

“I hope it’s soon,” Bobby’s eyes followed the spider, aimlessly making its way along the perimeter of the couch. To his relief, his and Luke’s guitars had come out unscathed. 

-

An indeterminable amount of time later, deep into his staring match with Itsy Bitsy Spider, Bobby finally heard the garage door open.  Risking a glance away from the spider, he saw the other two, very late, very unbothered members of Sunset Curve stroll into the garage. 

“Hey, guys,” Alex greeted, Reggie on his heels. “Ready for-- what’s going on?” He caught sight of his two best friends, hugging each other atop the loft bed, and raised an eyebrow. 

“There’s a spider,” Luke whispered. 

“Ooh, where?” Reggie perked up. “I love spiders!”

“There, by the couch,” Bobby pulled away from Luke, pointing in what he hoped was the spider’s general direction. “Get rid of it.”  

Alex snorted. “I thought you guys were gonna work on that new chord progression Luke came up with-- you said you wanted to start rehearsal early.” 

“Yeah, well, something came up!” Luke snapped. 

“Okay,” the drummer said, smothering his laughter into his hoodie.

Reggie had grabbed an empty coffee mug off the table and was crouched by the sofa, searching for the spider. “I don’t see it anywhere…” 

“It’s there!” Luke argued. “And what are you doing? Don’t use my coffee mug!” 

“Baby,” Bobby smirked.  

Reggie finally located the spider  and was ushering it into the coffee mug.  “Got it!” 

“Thank God,” Bobby exclaimed. “Take it outside. Make sure it goes far, far away.” 

He watched as Reggie honored his request, carefully carrying the mug to the garage door and stepping outside. 

“What was your plan here, anyway?” Alex asked. “Stay up in the loft until Reggie got here to get rid of the spider for you?” 

“Yes!” Luke and Bobby said in unison.

Alex snorted again. “Luke, you literally live here. What happens when you see a bug and no one’s here with you?” 

“I… may or may not climb through Bobby’s bedroom window,” the guitarist said sheepishly. 

“You do?” the guitarist perked up. Luke snuck into his room sometimes? 

Bobby… didn’t hate that, actually. He wondered why Luke had never woken him up before-- whenever Bobby woke up in the mornings, his bed was always empty. Did Luke sleep on the floor? 

Before his mind could get lost in daydreams of snuggling up with Luke under the covers, because he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it, Bobby shook the thoughts out of his head. 

“Yeah,” Luke mumbled, lifting a finger to his mouth and gnawing on his nail-- Bobby had told him so many times to give that habit up. But, nail biting was a nervous tick of Luke’s, and Bobby knew it.  

What did Luke have to be nervous about? Did he think Bobby would kick him out of his room, or something? That wasn’t true at all. Bobby would love for Luke to spend the night in his bed--

“Should we start practice?” His voice came out in a very weird, high-pitched squeak. It sounded like he’d just gotten finished sucking all the air out of a balloon. 

Alex smirked at him knowingly.  Avoiding his gaze, Bobby shot up off the couch just as Reggie returned with the empty coffee mug.  He tossed it in the sink and headed back over to the others, grabbing his bass and slinging it over his shoulder. “Bug’s gone,” he grinned. 

-

Once they were alone, Bobby nudged Luke’s knee with his own. “Hey.” 

Luke turned towards him. “Yeah?” 

“Um… next time you see a bug in here,” he started nervously, rubbing the back of his head. “You can wake me up. If-- if you come into my room, I mean. If you even want to come into my room. I dunno if you’ve been sleeping on the floor, or whatever, but that can’t be comfortable. So… so yeah. You can sleep with me-- not like that. I just mean, you can share my bed if you want. Or, if you don’t want, I can sleep on the floor. We can work something out. Just-- you can-- just wake me up next time, okay?” 

So quickly he would’ve missed it if he’d blinked, Luke pressed his lips to Bobby’s.

“Okay,” he said with a smile. 

That night, Luke kept his word. He saw another spider-- smaller in size, but greater in threat, because Bobby wasn’t there with him-- he did climb through Bobby’s window.  Bobby felt him shake his shoulder, and, mumbling incoherently, he shifted to the far side of the bed, so Luke could climb in next to him.

And that’s how Bobby found out that Luke was a blanket hog. 

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Seventy Five

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

November 22nd, 2000

“Toby!” Remy exclaimed, running to his brother and hugging him tight. “Oh, God, Toby, am I relieved to see you!”

“Hey, Rem!” Toby exclaimed, turning from where he had been talking to Vanessa to hug Remy. “It’s so good to see you! How’s college been?”

Remy’s stomach churned and he groaned. “Oh, God, I don’t want to talk about it,” he complained.

“Fair enough,” Toby laughed. “I feel the same way after midterms. Have you made any friends, at least?”

“I mean, I guess...” Remy said. “Although he made me his friend more than I made him my friend.”

“Still! A friend! That’s progress!” Toby said excitedly. “What’s his name?”

“His name’s Emile, and he’s—”

Remy was cut off as his mother called them all to the dinner table. “You can explain about him more after dinner,” Toby promised. “I’ll love to hear all about him.”

  November 22nd, 2002

“Oh, my God, Emile, hon, breathe,” Remy said with a little laugh, placing his hands on Emile’s shoulders and gently shaking him.

Emile was not, in fact, breathing like Remy requested. Emile was bawling on the couch having just watched the finale of Courage the Cowardly Dog. “I-I-I don’t want it to be over!” Emile wailed.

“Want it or not, it’s over, hon, you’re gonna pass out at this rate. Please. Breathe,” Remy requested.

Emile took in one deep breath, then another, and Remy gave him an encouraging smile. “Good. That’s good, hon.”

“I feel dizzy,” Emile breathed.

“Yeah, well, you hyperventilated for a good fifteen minutes, I’m not surprised. Should I get you some water?” Remy asked.

“Please?” Emile asked softly.

Remy kissed Emile’s temple and went to the kitchen, grabbing him a glass of water. He walked back over and Emile took the water with a small “Thank you,” taking small sips as his hands ever-so-slightly shook.

“Are you like this when any cartoon you like ends? Because if so, then I might need to get you a designated sobbing corner in our apartment,” Remy teased.

“No, I’m not like this every time,” Emile huffed. “I’m just like this with the ones that mean a lot to me.”

“So, all of them,” Remy filled in.

Emile stuck his tongue out at Remy but Remy just grinned shamelessly. “Listen, I don’t freak out over every last cartoon I’ve ever seen,” Emile said.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Remy said. “You have your calm moments, totally.”

“Remy!” Emile laughed. “I’m trying to be serious.”

“I’m trying to be realistic while also being lighthearted,” Remy said with a shrug. “You get really obsessed with all things cartoons, Emile. I would not be surprised if this happens again.”

Emile pouted, but Remy counted that as better than a scowl, and therefore a win. “I’m not a child, Rem,” Emile said.

“Of course you’re not a child,” Remy said, blinking. “You’re my boyfriend, and a wonderful man, and a massive geek, but you’re not a child.”

Emile was continuing to pout and Remy sat down next to him on the couch. “Is this post-cartoon withdrawal or is this a serious self-esteem issue about you being seen as a child?”

“Probably a mix of both,” Emile said reluctantly. “I just...everyone likes to joke about me getting obsessed with cartoons, and just being...like a giant puppy, or something. And yeah, most of the time that doesn’t bother me, but is that all people see me as? Do they only see me as an overgrown child who just needs to...grow up?”

“I can tell you right now that’s not the case, Emile,” Remy said with absolute certainty. “I mean, sure, cartoons are generally made for children. But liking them doesn’t make you a child. You’ve seen what happens in the adult world, and you’re training to become a therapist to help people with the real world being far, far too much for them to handle. You know exactly how depraved the real world can be. And you use cartoons to remember that good can triumph over evil, that at the end of the day, friendship and family make everything better, and that even in our darkest moments, there’s hope. You don’t simply use them as an escape from the real world, you use them to look at the real world in a different, more positive light. And that’s...honestly, that’s one of the most mature things I can think of. Proving to the world that you won’t be beaten down, that you’ll keep looking for the good in everything. You’re not a child. Sometimes, you like childish things, but liking childish things doesn’t make you a child. I should know. I’m a grown adult who lives vicariously through comic books.”

Emile laughed. “I guess you’re right,” he conceded. “It’s just...hard to remember sometimes. And I know my family always means the teasing about me loving cartoons in good fun, but after a while...it wears on me, and then something happens, like one of my favorite cartoons being cancelled, and I cry over it, and I ask myself, am I really that child that everyone says I am?”

“No, hon, you’re not a child,” Remy said. “Think about it this way: everything my mom says is wrong, and my mom called you a child and ‘stuck in the past.’ Still feel like that has any basis in truth?”

Emile blinked. “...No,” he admitted. “But I really don’t think I can use your mother as the basis for making me feel better most of the time. Usually, she just makes me mad.”

“That’s fair, she drives me up the wall too,” Remy said with a grin.

Emile laughed, only slightly hysterically. “You know, we’re having Thanksgiving here this year,” he said.

“Yeah?” Remy asked. “With your parents. What’s your point?”

“What if your mother comes back?” Emile asked. “Are you ready for that?”

Remy shrugged. “If she comes back I’ll refer to your mom as my mom until she gets the message to leave, and we don’t let her through the door for literally anything,” he said. “Like, my mom scares me, but your parents have gotten her to back down without too much trouble before. If worst comes to worst I can hide behind your dad.”

Emile laughed. “That doesn’t sound like a very solid plan, Rem,” he said.

“Well, I mean...I don’t have a solid plan. I’m not, like, getting nightmares over Thanksgiving but I am admittedly anxious enough that I don’t like thinking about it if I can help it,” Remy admitted. “I’m not really ready to go head-to-head with her. Your parents can act as a buffer, at least a little bit, and I know you won’t put up with her hanging around the apartment, but like...I’m still nervous.”

“That’s understandable,” Emile said with a nod. “Are you ready for Thanksgiving otherwise? I mean, my parents agreed to get the turkey, but do we need to go grocery shopping?”

Remy blinked. “I completely forgot! That’s what I was going to do before I found you sobbing your eyes out on the couch. Emile! We need to go grocery shopping.”

Emile laughed and nodded. “All right, good to know. Should we head out now?”

“Um. Yeah. We have six days, so everything we need should be there and not bought out, with the benefit of it not going bad before Thanksgiving.”

“Then we’d better head out,” Emile said, finishing his water and standing up. “We don’t want to miss out on the cranberry sauce because I was bawling my eyes out about Courage.”

Remy laughed, but his mind was whirring as he grabbed his coat and shoes. His mother was probably going to show up on or around Thanksgiving again, to try and take him back to her house. And much as he would like to see Toby again, he didn’t have his own car that he could use to drive away once he got contact info, so he had no chance of leaving if he went with his mother. And not coming back home, never seeing Emile again, that wasn’t an option. In fact, if Toby found out Remy had left the love of his life just to see Toby again, he would probably be calling Remy bone-dead stupid for the rest of time.

Emile brushed his hand against Remy’s as they left the apartment complex and headed to the grocery store. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Toby,” Remy admitted. “I just...miss him and wish I could see him again. Not enough to go with my mother anywhere, of course, but I still miss him.”

“We’ll find him,” Emile promised Remy. “Dice said he had a couple leads last time we met, remember? It’s not much, and it will probably take some months to get everything figured out and find out which lead is going to lead us to him, but we’ll find him. We’re closer than ever before.”

“Yeah,” Remy said, but he wasn’t feeling as confident as Emile sounded.

“Remy,” Emile said. “We will find him. I know you’d love to see him by Christmas, or your birthday, or someday soon, and it bums you out that isn’t possible. But one day, we’re going to find him, and he’s going to give you a big hug, and you’re going to give him one back, and you two will keep close. Like, I can’t see a time where he isn’t a phone call away, once we find him. Even if the two of you didn’t talk for months, I have no doubt you could just pick up the phone and chat again like the two of you had never stopped talking in the first place. Just from what you’ve told me of him, he wouldn’t throw away his second chance. He would hold it as close as he could, and he would never, ever let go.”

Remy nodded with a sad smile. “That does sound like him,” he sighed. “I just...I don’t know. I wish he could be here for the big things, and the little things. Like, Christmas is going to be a pain, just because I’m going to think about him no matter what with all the emphasis on family and friendship and camaraderie and staying together no matter what. Like, I’d kill to just have the option of calling him, even if I didn’t actually do that. And it feels like Toby is just...a huge focus on our conversations nowadays, and I don’t mean for that to happen, but it just kinda...does.”

“Well, the holidays are coming up, which means you miss him more. That’s normal, Rem,” Emile said, placing a hand on Remy’s shoulder. They walked into the grocery store, and Emile grabbed a basket. “We’ll talk about him as much as you need to, and when the hurt ebbs away a little bit, like it usually does after the holidays, we’ll have room to talk about other things.”

“Like what?” Remy asked. “What do we normally talk about when I’m not obsessed with Toby?”

“Normal life stuff. Work, school, friends. Whatever crazy project you want to try whenever you have the time. Whatever small thing has gotten into my hair and refuses to let me go free until you help me work through the knots.”

It felt like Emile was trying to hold something back from him, though. “What aren’t you telling me, Emile?” Remy asked, his eyes squinted.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Emile lied.

“Emile,” Remy insisted.

“Remy, trust me when I say it’ll be much better as a surprise, okay?” Emile said. “I’m working on something for your birthday, and it’s taking a while so I started early, but I’m getting everything set up, slowly but surely. And it’ll be ready in time for your birthday, and you’re probably going to be chattering about it non-stop when it comes to pass. But right now, it’s not ready, and I want to surprise you. So can we talk about something else?”

Remy groaned. “Oh, you’re no fun, Emile. Fine. What boring thing do you want to talk about that doesn’t involve my birthday?”

Emile looked around the store. “Where do we go first? What ingredients do we need for Thanksgiving dinner?”

Remy hummed and said, “Well, we need the cranberry sauce, and stuffing, and ice cream. I talked to your dad, and he’s bringing a pie over—”

“—Because of course he is,” Emile finished.

“—So we don’t have to worry about that,” Remy said. “I think we should pick some rolls up, or at least some dough and bake the rolls ourselves, just because that’s always a nice add-on, and then we need to figure out the gravy.”

Emile nodded. “Sounds good,” he agreed.

Remy started pulling Emile around in the search, but in the back of his mind the gears were still whirring like crazy. What exactly did Emile have planned for his birthday? What would take so long that he’d have to start in November?

And would it ruin Remy’s plans to go out and buy a ring for Emile?

[until-theend-oftheline]

Homework

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader

Warnings: Relationship hard patch, therapy, working through things, mention of postpartum depression, self-guilt, talk of the future - not as bad as it sounds 

Squares Filled: Unbreakable Bond for @goodthingshappenbingo​   

Word Count: 2100ish

A/N: This is thought of as part of my LLL Universe, but if you don’t wanna read them all it can still be read as a one-shot. Though it will probably make the most sense if you know the story a little beforehand.  

Betaed by: @blacktithe7​ - thank you love

***My fics are not to be saved nor posted on any other sites without my express written permission.***

For the past three weeks, you had been in therapy two times a week. Once on your own, and once with Sebastian. You were working hard on yourself and your relationship. It hadn’t taken your therapist long to suspect you might be suffering from a mild case of postpartum depression. You loved Isabella and hadn’t once thought about hurting her or yourself. That’s what you always thought postpartum depression was, but your therapist had taught you otherwise. 

You felt off. You didn’t feel like yourself. You had distanced yourself from Sebastian because of it. You woke up in the middle of the night worrying about Isabella for no reason, and you didn’t want to leave her with anyone other than her father. 

The last part your therapist had taken as a positive. Even if you had distanced yourself from him, Sebastian was still someone you trusted. The only one you fully trusted with Isabella. You hadn’t seen any of that before, and that first session had you crying against Sebastian’s chest, apologizing for you didn’t know what. He didn’t blame you one bit, he just held you and reminded you he wasn’t going anywhere. 

Before you left her office you signed up for solo sessions to get your depression under control. Those sessions were going pretty well. Understanding what you were feeling helped you, but you still didn’t want to leave Isabella with anyone other than Sebastian. 

Sessions with Sebastian were hard. He felt as if he should have seen how you were feeling, that he had given up on you too easily. You felt everything was your fault and that you should have told him how you were feeling. Last week you had been fighting a lot again, just like before Sebastian had moved out of the apartment. Only this time it was because you didn’t want each other to blame yourselves. 

This week had been a little better. Things had been awkward, but you had come to an understanding with each other. An understanding that you both needed to let the other go through whatever you were feeling in your own way. 

You hated the awkwardness though, and the homework your therapist gave you didn’t help matters. Maybe that’s why you had invited Sebastian over early to have dinner with you and Isabella. You let your daughter work as a buffer between the two of you, which appeared to work. For a moment you felt normal. Like you were a family again. 

You hadn’t been done cooking when Sebastian showed up, so he had hung out in the kitchen with you, playing with Isabella. The little girl adored her dad and was giggling and making happy baby noises. She kept reaching for him and showing him different toys. Sebastian’s attention never wavered as he happily went along with anything she handed him, even if he still managed to chat with you about the food, what Isabella had been up too, and possible job opportunities. 

Sebastian and you took your time feeding the little girl. When dinner was over, Sebastian offered to give your daughter a bath and tucked her in, while you cleared the table. When you were done, you headed for your bedroom, where you kept Isabella’s crib. You smiled, leaning against the doorway as you watched Sebastian kiss your sleeping baby girl goodnight. 

He smiled at you when he turned around to see you, slowly tiptoeing up to you. You backed up with a smile, letting him close the door behind him after turning on the baby monitor. For a few seconds, you just stood there, looking at each other. Neither of you willing to let this part of the day end just yet, but both knowing you had too. 

“You ready?” Sebastian reached out, gently tugging your hair behind your ear. 

You leaned into his touch, letting him cup your cheek as you looked up at him. You took a deep breath before kissing his hand and nodding. 

“Yeah. I guess so.”

The two of you walked to the couch and sat down across from each other. You felt nervous. You looked down and started to fidget with your hands, only for Sebastian to reach out and put his on top of yours. 

“It’s just me okay?” Sebastian reminded you, smiling softly when you looked up at him. 

“This is weird though. Sit down and talk about what’s on your minds,” you mocked your therapist, causing Sebastian to laugh. 

“I’d rather do trust exercises or something,” you grumbled, even though his laughter was putting you more at ease. 

“Hey if you wanna hop up on the couch and fall backward, I’ll catch ya,” Sebastian teased, laughing again when you stretched your leg, poking him in the stomach with your foot. 

“And just for that. You get to start,” you stuck your tongue out at him, and Sebastian pulled a face back at you. Your childish games made you both laugh before your eyes met, and you both grew serious again. 

Sebastian took a deep breath, before looking down. “What’s on my mind a lot is I really wanna move back home to you and Isabella.”

“Sebastian…” your voice was soft, and your heart hurt for having to reject his wish. You weren’t there yet, and you didn’t want to do anything that might cause the two of you to lose each other for good. 

“I don’t mean tonight or even tomorrow,” Sebastian quickly interrupted you, looking up at you with a sad smile. “I know we still have work to do, but that’s what’s on my mind the most. I miss the two of you when I’m not around and it kills me every time I have to walk out that door.”

“I’m sorry,” you felt yourself tear up as he spoke and Sebastian, quickly moved closer to you, pulling you against his chest. 

“Hey. No. Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself,” Sebastian tried to put you at ease, but instead you pulled away from him. 

“How can I not? I was the one who told you to go,” you argued, but Sebastian just shook his head. 

“You didn’t. I was the one who offered that…” Sebastian tried, but you interrupted him before he could finish. 

“You offered to move out. To couch surf between your friends and mom’s place for months because you didn’t want me to move across the country with your daughter,” your voice was harsh, and tears were streaming down your face as you spoke. “I never meant to take her away from you, but Seb I almost did.”

“No you didn’t,” Sebastian stayed remarkably calm this time around. Maybe he had been working on that during his solo sessions. “Honey, we were fighting. You wanted the fighting to end, and going to your mom's was the first thing that occurred to you. If that had happened, you would have been back. We would have figured something out.”

What Sebastian said sounded so rational, but you also hated the amount of faith he put in you when you still felt you were to blame for all of this. 

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that.”

“I do. Because I know you Y/N/N.” Sebastian tried to smile at you as he reached for your hand. This time you didn’t push him away. “And you have to stop blaming yourself for all of this. I ran away. I felt something was off between us, and instead of talking to you about it, I ran away to shoot a movie I got an offer for last minute.” 

You nodded and looked down at your hand holding his. You gave it a small squeeze, not wanting him to think you were mad at him as you confessed. 

“I did feel like you abandoned me. You decided on your own, and all of a sudden I was alone with a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian’s voice was thick as he spoke and you looked up at him. You could see the tears pooling in his eye. You hadn’t wanted to hurt him. 

“You’re here now. That’s what matters,” you forced a small smile. “And I want us to be a family again someday. We both miss you when you’re not around.” 

“Yeah?” Tears were streaming down his face, and you could no longer help yourself. You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, holding him close to you. 

“I love you, Seba,” you whispered, smiling when you felt his grip on you tighten as he buried his face against your neck. 

“I love you too, Y/N/N. So much.” 

You didn’t say anything else for a while. You just sat there; holding each other. Sebastian was the first to pull back a little, looking down at you. Your heart skipped a beat and you felt like you did that night you first met. You wanted him to kiss you so badly and yet something stopped you, causing you to pull back at the last second. 

You saw a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, but he quickly masked it behind a smile as he reached for your hand again. 

“Your turn.”

“I… I think about you moving home, but…” you wanted to tell him. You had no idea why it was this hard. Maybe because this was a huge part of the reason you had pushed him away in the first place. 

“But?” Sebastian pushed, even though you could hear the flicker of doubt in his voice. 

“I don’t feel like myself.” You didn’t look at him as you spoke. “I’m not ready for us to have sex because I hate looking at myself still. I don’t want you to see me when…”

“Stop.”

You looked up at him with surprise written all over your face. Not once had he stopped you sharing anything with him before. 

“Honey how you feel is completely valid, but I promise you. What you see is not what I see. I see the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. I see a woman that gave me the most amazing little girl in the world. I see a woman that I have been completely head over heels in love with even way before she realized it,” Sebastian confessed with a smile, and you couldn’t help the smile on your face as you looked down with a blush. 

You knew Sebastian well. He was, despite everything, your best friend, and you knew when he was lying. He wasn’t now. He never lied to you, especially not about how he felt. 

“Hey.” Sebastian placed a finger under your chin, making you look at him. “Is that why you pulled away before. Because you thought I wanted too…”

“Yeah… I… logically I know you weren’t. I know you’re not like that,” you stammered. 

“Brad?” 

You had shared everything about your past with Seb long ago, even before the two of you started dating. He had never met Brad, and still, he spoke his name with so much disdain that it was almost dripping from his teeth. You loved him all the more for it too. 

“I know you’re not him. It’s just…” you tried to explain, but Sebastian just shook his head. He knew. 

“Trauma can be hard to shake. Especially when you’re feeling low,” Sebastian assured you. “I’m never gonna push you into anything you don’t want. I miss you. In every way. But I can wait. Sex is not even close to the thing I miss the most. Kissing you and holding you is up there though.”

His confession made you smile. You bit your lip and looked down. 

“What are you thinking?” Sebastian gently tugged your hair away from your face and you looked back up at him. He looked at you so softly and lovingly, it gave you the courage you needed.

“About you kissing me.”

Sebastian swallowed, licking his lips never taking his eyes off you. “Do you… Can I?” He looked at your lips, making you smile. 

“Please kiss me, Seba,” you asked gently as you leaned in close enough to feel his breath on your lips. Sebastian slowly closed the gap, letting your lips meet.

He kissed you slowly and tenderly, letting you feel all the love he held for you as he pulled you tightly against his chest. He silently promised you everything would be right between the two of you again, and you believed him as you kissing him back, making the same promise right back to him. 

Reblogs spread my work and make me happy. Got a favorite part/line? Did something touch you? Do you relate in some way? Please tell me and make my day.  

Sebastian Stan Tag Team

@feelmyroarrrr​ @sleepretreat​ @roxyspearing​ @jewels2876​  @hellaqueerangelofthelord​ @danijimenezv​ @rumoured-whispers​ @becs-bunker​ @smoothdogsgirl​ @blacktithe7​ @grace-for-sale​ @averyrogers83​ @like-a-bag-of-potatoes​ @sorenmarie87​ @docharleythegeekqueen​ @erosbellarke​ @the-wayward-robot​ @super100012​ @myfanficlibrarium​ @winchesters-favorite-girl​ @awkwardfangirl2014​ @igotkatiepowers​ @dottirose​ @deathofmissjackson​ @miraclesoflove​ @badassbaker​

[tayerroos]

Patchwork Tales: Book 1

A “9" roleplay compendium.  Read on AO3 Chapter: 4 [First] [Back] [You Are Here] [Next] Warnings for this chapter: None

[othercat2]

Trip to the Mall

Crossover between Untamed and After the Storm by Hannah Birchwood, Key Dyson and Raymond Roach a fusion au in which Wei Ying is a geneticist who rescues a family of experimental soldier mods and moves to a city of ships out in the middle of Lake Michigan.

___________________________________

It’s been a month since their arrival as refugees to the Michigan Fleet. They’re still working their way through hours and hours of “prosocial education,” that takes the form of watching a children’s program and answering questions and talking to counsellors and their social worker. 

Wei Ying has been living with Wen Qing, her brother and their little cousin Yuan. Qing has been barrelling her way through qualifications to become a medic, Ning got a job on a restaurant boat while taking psychology classes. Baby Yuan still has nightmares about the labs and the trip, but he’s recovering. Wei Ying has a job waiting for him: an “internship” working with another bio-engineer that’s mostly just a drawn out assessment period, from what the social worker says, but that’s a couple weeks away. 

Wei Ying is half asleep with Yuan in his lap. Yuan's singing along with Nanna Dog the Librarian as she teaches a lesson about sleeping things organized and neat. Wei Ying wants to object to this on grounds of dog, and also, he already had to watch several episodes that are thinly veiled and not so thinly veiled discussions of ptsd and trauma. And also dog. (Even if it's actually a puppet.) Sadly, Yuan's piping voice and tendency to actually answer questions the puppet asks out loud is adorable, so he's trapped.

He also falls asleep, only to be woken up by Wen Qing, who's nudging him. "You need to get out," she says. 

Wei Ying gives her a look of exaggerated hurt. "After all we've been too each other, Miss Wen?" He nudges Yuan, who's also fallen asleep. "Yuan, big sister is throwing me out!"

"Noooo," Yuan says sleepily, and clings like a limpet. 

"Drama queen," Qing says with a snort. "You've been mostly hanging out on the couch since we got here. The neighbors have been politely wondering what's wrong with you that you don't come out of our quarters ever." 

"So that means you're kicking me out?" Wei Ying asks, pouting. 

"Just temporarily," Qing says. "I've uploaded a shopping list. Take Yuan with you."

Wei Ying whines about it, but his protests lack force. A trip to the Mall might help him shake off the fog that had been hanging around him since they'd reached safety. (Travelling cross country, travelling through countries, bribing and lying and praying no one saw under the Wens' makeup and realized they were looking at experimental gene mods. He'd been on a hyper alert adrenaline rush and this was the crash.) 

He gets dressed in the Local Costume of sarong, sandals and a t shirt (his says in binary, "if you can read this you know binary"), gets Yuan dressed and takes one of the deck hoppers from the Sandy Button out to the Mall. The Mall was a huge former tanker, repurposed  as a trade center for not only the fleet, but also most of the American Midwest. It was permanently anchored about a mile from shore and acted as a buffer between the Fleet and the cities surrounding Lake Michigan. 

Yuan is of course immediately drawn to the toy and foodstalls. Wei Ying gets him bacon on a stick as they sightsee their way to the clothes and second hand vendors. He's working his way through the shopping list when he realizes Yuan is missing.

"The little boy who was with me, did you see where he went?!" Wei Ying asked frantically.

"Could've sworn he was here a minute ago!" a vendor says. "Should've had him in harness." The vendor tsks. 

"I'll keep that in mind," Wei Ying says while trying really hard not to think of Wen Ning walking with the chains that had been used yo restrain him dragging. On the other hand he'd seen a really cute backpack harness with Wilimina Wolf, a character that mostly showed up in Family Fleet to talk about nature, weather and ship safety.

"If he's  wearing data rings or a tracker shouldn't  be any problem for the Mall to track him," the vendor says reassuringly.

Asking the Mall to track Yuan turns out not to be necessary, though Wei Ying almost needs a medic. Yuan is back at the toy vendors, bothering what looks to be off-duty Security. The officer, a cute guy with a solemn appearance, has Yuan balanced on his hip and appears to be listening intently to whatever it is Yuan is saying. "I'm so sorry, officer," Wei Ying says, running over. "He wandered off."

"If you or your caregiver is lost, you should find Security," Yuan says in a very definite tone. The Security officer nods approvingly.

Wei Ying isn't  so sure about that. "Even if they're off-duty?"  

"I am not off-duty in the case of a lost caregiver," the officer says with a faint smile as he sets Yuan down. The kid immediately latches onto Wei Ying.

"Excuse me? I'm not the one who wandered off!" Wei Ying says in mock offense. Yuan just giggles at him.

"He should have a harness," the officer says. "If it were rainy or windy there would have been a fine."

Wei Ying just barely manages to avoid snapping a childish, well it wasn't. Partly because the officer was so quietly genuine about it, partly because if he got in trouble with the police, Wen Qing would probably--no, definitely--kill him. "I promise it'll be the next thing I buy." To be friendly, he says, "How about I treat you to lunch, officer?"

"Zahn Lan," the officer says. 

"Wei Ying, or I guess Ying Wei now," Wei Ying says. And because he can't  help himself, and Zahn hadn't said anything one way or another, "so, lunch?" 

There was another faint smile. "You said the harness would be the next thing." 

"Want to make sure I follow through?" Wei Ying asks in mock offense. "Or just the right order?"

"Yes," Zahn says.

Wei Ying heads to the nearest children's clothing shop, giving a highly edited story of asylum seeking and immigration. He ends up carrying most of the conversation. Zahn seems quiet, not a talker. The kind of guy who's better at listening than talking. 

They go to lunch in one of the small diners on board the Mall. It's a bright airy place with a good view and lots of rowdy gulls vying for scraps. Yuan gets nuggets pressed into dinosaur shapes and sweet potato fries and fruit punch. ( He immediately starts making them fight.) Zahn gets a tempura plate sampler and green tea. Wei Ying gets a burger, onion rings, and without thinking about it, a beer. Zahn says nothing, but Wei Ying could almost feel the weight of disapproval. "Just one won't  hurt," Wei Ying says. "It won't even set off the alchohol detector on the deck hopper." 

"Hmn."

The drinks arrive first of course, and Wei Ying starts to take a drink. Zahn immediately reaches out, stopping him. Wei Ying can't  help the slight flinch. "Is there a problem officer?" Wei Ying asks. He tries for humor but misses.

"The lake must first be given her due," the security officer says, disapproving.

"What?" 

"Pour some of the beer out the window," Zahn said patiently. 

"For the lake," Wei Ying said blankly. 

"The lake is thirsty?" Yuan asks, brow furrowed.

"It's a custom, to pay respect to the lake," Zahn explains. "Food dropped into the lake must not be retrieved, it belongs to the lake, and one must pour a drink for the lake before drinking yourself."

Yuan frowns at his punch, looking worried. "I don't want lake-jie to be mad at me," he decides, and before Wei Ying can stop him, he tries to toss the contents of his glass into the water. Unfortunately, the glass goes out the window along with the punch.

"Yuan!" Wei says in exasperation. He feels instantly terrible about the way the little boy freezes. At the same time, he feels a spike of anxiety about the cup, stupidly out of proportion to the accident.

"No harm was done," Zahn says.

"Harm!? You're security, Fleet littering fines are ruinous and we're still under probation!"

"An accident," Zahn says. "Is hardly littering. You are fine."

"Thanks I know," Wei Ying says, and immediately regrets everything. He unthinkingly starts to take a drink, only to be stopped once more by Zahn's hand on his arm. "Seriously?!"

Zahn just stares at him. 

Wei Ying sighs, makes absolutely no comments about quaint folk religions (North America also having everything from radiation worshipping death cults to gene mods who thought they were literally gods to ancient web comic characters and saints invented by fantasy authors) and pours some his beer out. "There. Happy?"

Zahn nods. "Mn."

[not-poignant]

I know you often plan your writing out, did you do that this year? What sort of things can we look forward to? I'm so excited XD

I did do that this year!

I’m sitting on a very tentative plan this year for the official writing stuff, though it blows my wordcount out completely, so I think I’m going to have to shift something off the slate.

But so far:

Official projects for 2020:

* The Ice Plague #2: The Seething Seas (to be completed)* Perth Shifters #2: Little Star (to be completed, and probably changing title)* The Ice Plague #3: The Ice Plague (commence)* Mallory & Mount* Patreon extras (probably The Lone Wolf AU officially, but actually maybe also some Perth Shifters/Mallory & Mount content as well, depending on where I need to resolve some wordcount issues)* The Beast that Chose Its Own Bridle

Officially, I’ll finish The Ice Plague #2 in February, and for you folks, it finishes on May 29th. This buys me about 3 months to write as much of Perth Shifters #2 as possible, and start plotting TIP 3. Ideally, I want the first draft of Perth Shifters #2 finished by the time I start writing the buffer for TIP 3. I don’t really see how I can get by this year without putting the Patreon on hiatus for 2-3 months while I get my buffer for The Ice Plague #3.

But that won’t be happening until June anyway. It always takes a little while for me to properly plot The Ice Plague, and I know I have some things missing in book 3 that I’m still figuring out.

Mallory & Mount will commence once I’ve finished The Beast that Chose Its Own Bridle, but it still needs a lot of worldbuilding. I don’t really want to stop writing fanfiction, so I’m willing to turf Mallory & Mount until after The Ice Plague is finished (in like another year and a half) if I have to. I don’t want to do that, but I also don’t want two huge original serials sitting on my shoulders (not including Perth Shifters) overlapping each other, and feeling like I have to sacrifice fanfiction and small side projects to manage it?

Like, I have seen other people take up huge serial projects alongside each other, and a lot of the time one of them suffers. I do not want to give TIP 3 anything less than my full attention. I’m already terrified of this whole series not ending strong (though I do really love the ending), and I just...want to keep my eye on the ball. Like, for the people who’ve stuck with it this far, I want to make sure you come out of the other side of the official Fae Tales canon not regretting sinking your life into like one million words of writing.

I have around 350k to play with for the year, and so far what I’ve planned sort of fits into that. I wrote 510k in 2019, but I don’t expect to be able to repeat that, and I don’t really want to for my own health and wellbeing. On the outside, I’d be chuffed if I hit around 450k. But we’ll see. The Ice Plague is slower to write than projects like Spoils of the Spoiled, and Perth Shifters, despite having shorter chapters, is also slower to write.

But that’s the 2020 plan so far! I tend to stick to my plans, and I’ve given myself some wiggle room.

I am super interested in what you folks think! What are you excited about? What are you looking forward to the most? Are there side projects I haven’t mentioned that you wished I would? Let me know :D

[holytheoristtastemaker]

Remote work is rapidly growing in all industries. Some professionals might just push away this new work style, seeing it as simply a necessity that’s not fit for a product manager who’s constantly managing team members, strategies, client and partner communication, and upcoming challenges. But let me tell you this: Product management can be even more effective when done remotely. No need to fear going for this career path. I’ve put together this detailed guide to help you understand the challenges of remote work and its implication on your product management career. First, I’m having a look at a remote product manager’s core duties. What it means to to be a remote product manager I’ll just say this from the start: There’s not much of a difference between what a remote product manager does when compared to someone who works from the office. In fact, you’re probably already doing part of your work remotely. Like conducting user interviews or holding meetings with your stakeholders. Your role in remote product management So what does a remote product manager even do? Different companies and products have specific needs. Your daily activities as a product manager or owner can be similar though. Remote PMs too have the exact same roles as their office-based counterparts. Here are some of the duties a product manager has: Lead the development of the product and its strategy across multiple lifecycles Discover user requirements through user interviews Develop the positioning and vision of a product Use a variety of tools to produce wireframes and mockups, gather feedback, and deliver results Establish clear timelines and feedback patterns Define quantitative and qualitative metrics and use these to evaluate the success of the product and review delivered work to ensure alignment with the specifications Build actionable user stories Create and manage the product roadmap Maintain consistent client and stakeholder communication Partner with other teams to ensure a unified product development and delivery process Lead the product team and take full responsibility for its actions Create new feature announcements and content Who hires remote product managers To find a new remote job and make the first step towards this ideal lifestyle, you can simply look under the Product category of these remote-exclusive job websites: Dynamite Jobs DailyRemote Working Nomads Remote Age Remote Global Remoters Jobspresso NODESK letsworkremotely Good news is that more and more companies are starting to consider switching to distributed teams and even accepting remote workers for highly skilled professionals. If you need an overall look at some of the companies who are hiring remote product managers, here’s a list to start with: Buffer Canva MailerLite Close.io Convergys ConvertKit Hotjar MeetEdgar Pearson Dell DigitalOcean Glassdoor Pluralsight Toptal VMware Zapier Apple Automattic Keep an eye on their job boards to see when a new opportunity pops up. Note: You can always just ask your current employer to let you work remotely or reach out to companies you’d love to work for and inquire into any available positions. Why working remotely might not be right for your product management career Just like the skills of an in-office and remote product management expert are similar, there are a couple of personality traits and habits that will influence whether or not you’re the right fit for working remotely. To get it out of the way, it’s safe to say that bad communicators will never make it as remote employees. These are those people who can’t take feedback, always have to contradict other team members, and just don’t want to answer your inquiries on time. Product management is fast-paced. 🚀 Especially in small teams who are commonly the ones looking for remote members anyway. So communication needs to be done in detail and accurately even when you’re not face-to-face with the rest of the team. There’s no time to nudge people into sharing their thoughts or asking questions when they don’t know how to move forward with a task. Even more so, the product manager should be the one to tie all team, user, client, and other stakeholder communications. That’s why most remote product management jobs start with “X years of experience in a cross-functional product design or product management role”. Companies want their product managers to be dependable. Sometimes even more than what they expect from the rest of their team since they’re literally handing over the product to you. If you’re a constant slacker who’d rather scroll through Reddit for hours than create one more ticket, you’re better off somewhere else. What are the skills you’ll need to land a remote product management job A product manager in general needs to have some of the most varied soft and hard skills in a team. Honestly, besides exceptionally good communication and organization skills, the traits and abilities you need to develop are roughly the same as for any office job. I had a look at 100+ remote product manager jobs on Glassdoor so you don’t have to resume what the top skills for such professionals are. Next are the results that prove my point. 😉 Here are some of the most commonly mentioned skills that employers are looking for from their next remote product manager: Strong leadership skills Organization and prioritization capabilities Critical thinking Excellent communication and interpersonal skills Strong client management abilities Ability to manage multiple, simultaneous projects Time management and budgeting skills Command of diverse product development frameworks, strategies, and/or rapid prototyping solutions Ability to troubleshoot customer issues and create detailed bug reports Ability to work autonomously Passion for working cross-functionally Problem-solving skills Strong technical understanding of how software products are built Ability to collect and structure qualitative and quantitative research that will be used for making product and design decisions A clear understanding of key metrics and ways of measuring a product’s success All in all, the requirements depend on the company you apply to. Some will prefer a strong communicator who is able to work cross-functionally and bring the entire team together. Other employers will have specific needs such as programming language knowledge or stronger experience when it comes to user interviews or focus on a specific stage of a product’s life cycle. What you’ll need above any of the above skills is product sense. This means you’ll first have to become a subject matter expert and learn all the ins and outs of the product. You’ll then own the entire creative process around generating new ideas, spotting challenges, and creating the whole roadmap along with doing user research, keeping track of metrics, and prioritizing tickets. Simply, you need a complete product-oriented skillset along with dependable traits that will allow your employer to trust you with their product’s evolution and fixing potential problems. Where to start your remote product management career preparation? There’s no training in particular that you need to go through separate from your usual product management courses. However, before jumping into this entirely new work style, I recommend you test it out for a couple of weeks or months. Try a side project or get a part-time job that will have you interact with clients and other team members through multiple time zones. Having this kind of beforehand experience will show you if you actually like collaborating this way, if remote work is suited for you, and where you need to improve. You might not like using multiple tools to maintain communication or maybe you’re just someone who only feels productive in an office environment. For tiny problems like the latter, try to find an actionable solution. In this case, going to a coworking space daily or setting up a fully equipped work desk. If the issues are huge [like when you’re not productive at all without supervision], there’s really nothing you can do. If you’re at the beginning of your PM career, being ready for remote work is the least of your worries. You’ll first need to develop and grow your product management skills overall. From learning how to conduct user research and market analysis to knowing what goes into a product roadmap, how PM frameworks can be used within different types of teams, how to set and monitor key metrics, and so many more product-focused skills and roles you’ll put to use for real products. By far the biggest struggle new PMs always have is worrying about their interview process. What will I say? What if I don’t know the answer to a question? I’m not ready for this job. All natural concerns for any product manager newbie. There’s so much help out there though. 🙏 I’m a huge networking fan so the best tip I’d have for you is to connect with experienced product managers who are willing to coach and prepare you for your next interview. If you’re the shy type, you can always opt for classic LinkedIn messaging instead of face-to-face meetings but bear in mind you’ll have to get over your fears to nail the interview.  💪 Remote product management best practices So you’ve landed a new job or you just want to prepare yourself mentally for what’s to come? I’ve put together my 6 best tips I’ve acquired throughout the years from my own experience and talking to other professionals: Maintain a regular schedule One of the top perks of remote work is flexibility to work whenever you want to. Honestly though, as a product manager you might have to mold your schedule according to when the rest of the team is online. Postponing work [and implicitly communication] can cause serious gaps in productivity. If you don’t know when you have to work on your tasks, when it’s time to dedicate yourself to prioritizing other colleagues’ duties, and when you can still fit in time for feedback and meetings, you’ll end up postponing everything indefinitely when you’re really supposed to be one of the faster responders in the team. As a PM, others look up to you and expect your input and instructions at all times. So compared to the asynchronous communication that remote companies are used to, sending feedback and holding video conferences in real-time works better for product managers and their teammates. This takes me to the importance of establishing clear communication patterns and methodologies. Communicate You already know the story: communication is the ruling king when it comes to remote work. Yet, in this kind of work situation, one-on-one meetings are more insightful than ever. They allow product managers to talk to every single member of a team individually, get feedback, and improve not just their product, but also the employee-company relationship. Beyond this, you need to understand that working remotely takes extra effort for maintaining those friendly work relations you would in real life. Managers have a top duty here: to create strong bonds that will eventually build up employee retention. No ideas? Turn to your team. Hold special opportunities for non-work related activities like get-togethers or just a weekly one-on-one meeting to allow employees to get to know each other better, learn about their hobbies, and make a new friend. Turn to video tools to bridge the communication gap Your basic Slack back-and-forth messages or email exchanges create huge information loopholes. They don’t give enough room for clarifying any details and you might end up with results that are totally different from what you’ve expected. Video, on the other hand, fully replaces your face-to-face office meetings. All remote fun aside, in-person meetings are still an essential part of work for humans as they allow your team members to understand that there are other people who depend on their performance and it’s not just them working from an empty office room. This, in turn, creates accountability, making the entire collaboration process much more effective. Plus, screen sharing will save the day every single time. Establish clear review patterns There’s no such thing as working aimlessly. You need goals and set performance review methods to assess whether the work you and your team puts into a project or product is efficient and spot potential bottlenecks. To keep everyone involved in this review process, set up a defined timeline for your review tasks and meetings. For instance, decide when and how to hold your daily stand-up meetings. Working remotely you have lots of possibilities for every single review process. For the stand-ups you can opt for video conferences or use a Slack bot to automate everything and save time since team members can simply write down what they worked on, what they’re taking care of on a given day, and their potential challenges. The review workflow doesn’t just end here as you’ll probably have to take over and see how and who can help a person with their issues so the product development process can run smoothly. Address risks ahead of time While strong communication is a common trait both on-site and distributed teams need to develop, what remote product managers need more than anything are plans. Particularly a highly-detailed action plan for tackling risks before panic installs. I’m talking here about a common document any team member will access to read and find out how they can manage their own crisis. Keep your whole team on board Working remotely is a collective effort. As the person who’s held responsible for any success and failure of your colleagues, you’re in charge of cultivating a desire for remote success within the team. Here’s the list of everything your team needs to understand and work on before you jump into the world of fully-distributed companies: The benefits of remote work Communication guidelines Risk management techniques The importance of feedback and staying connected Staying accountable for one’s work Get involved in the teams’ overall growth by supporting its cohesion and moving collaboration processes forward Developing traits and skills such as discipline, empathy, dependability, and self-organization [in other words, constantly developing themselves on a personal and professional level] Key takeaways So yes! You can work remotely as a product manager and be just as effective at your work. No performance limitations here. Product managers still have the same duties and roles when working from home or an exotic beach in the middle of nowhere. Daily work is quite similar too but your quality of life is highly improved. Here’s what a day in your life as a remote product manager might look like: Take care of urgent tasks or team/client inquiries Stay updated with any industry or market changes Do some networking 🤝 Stand-up meeting time! 🥳 Work on the product roadmap Take a well-deserved lunch break 🍔 Answer some more emails Respond to tickets Client meeting One-on-meeting with one of your teammates Sprint retrospective! 🥳 Do keep in mind that product managers have some of the most diverse days with a constant flux of new challenges and opportunities that need to be covered. Already a happy remote fellow? Share your best tips with fellow product managers or people who are considering this career but have been hesitant thinking it’s not suited for the remote lifestyle.

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