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absolutepokemontrash · 3 years

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MC’s Half Demon and They Look Awfully Familiar Lesson 17

Series Masterlist

So, the aftermath’s here! This took significantly longer than I thought it would, but oh well. Enjoy everyone!

So, to recap where everyone’s favourite dysfunctional demon family are at right now: Belphie’s still guilt spiralling but he wants to make amends, MC is having a self worth crisis because of what happened, Lucifer was homicidal less than a day ago, and the rest of the brothers are very mad at Belphie.

So, a good little while passes, MC moves back into their room and doesn’t really come out or try to talk to anyone, Lucifer practically lives in his study, and Belphie holes himself up in whichever room that no one else is in.

Keep in mind, no one knows the truth about Lilith’s death yet because it never came up because MC isn’t a descendent of the human version of Lilith.

The brothers (sans Belphie) went and visited MC, who was very happy to see all of them, but everything felt kind of off, everyone was slightly on edge. But nobody brought it up because no one wanted to be the catalyst for the next big family fight, especially so soon after MC got hurt.

It had been almost a week and MC could barely cobble together the desire to leave their room. They had made themselves a prisoner in their own house right after freeing Belphie from his house arrest, how ironic is that?

Stupid…

How naive could they get? To think that just because they were family that everyone would welcome them with open arms? And how stupid would they have to be to believe that they were a proper demon like the rest of them? Demons were manipulative tricksters at their nicest, if MC didn’t understand that than they were a shit excuse for a demon.

Spending time lying in bed staring up at the ceiling wasn’t the best way to pass the time, but MC had grown tired of flicking through the same five apps on their DDD and had contemplated chucking it at the wall. With nothing to distract them, MC was alone with their thoughts.

Of course they couldn’t fend off Belphegor, of course they lost… they barely had any better a hold on their magic than they did when the year started. They weren’t a full demon, but they weren’t some weak little human either, but maybe things would have been better if they were human. If they were human, they wouldn’t have had magic, they wouldn’t have had a fighting chance at all. There would have been no shame in losing. But MC wasn’t a full human, they had their fighting chance and lost anyway.

“MC?”

Their head snapped towards the source of the voice. Through a bright gold glow, they saw an unfamiliar woman, her eyebrows were knit with concern. Not being able to muster up the energy to really be openly panicked, MC sat up and rested their head on their chin, then raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Oh! Um…” the ghostly woman puffed out her cheek and twiddled her fingers as her eyes darted around the room. “I didn’t exactly think this introduction through, my bad…”

It was MC’s turn to be confused, standing in front of her was a woman who didn’t look like an angel or a demon, yet somehow was able to cobble together the magical strength necessary to actually make herself visible to MC. And now, she was stressing about an awkward introduction.

“I’m Lilith!” The woman finally blurted out, she clamped her eyes shut and quickly stuck her hand out.

MC blinked at the outstretched hand like it was a completely foreign gesture. “…what?”

“Yeah! Um… I uh…” Lilith withdrew her hand and facepalmed. “I’m really sorry…”

“I-uh… Lilith? Like… Lilith, my father’s sister Lilith?”

“…yes?”

“…please explain.”

And Lilith did explain, she explained the ghost bit, how she can’t technically go up to the Celestial Realm nor does she want to, and how she’s kind of been playing guardian Fallen Angel to the entire family.

MC finally got to learn the reason the Grimoire was in the tomb, and why their father was so damn loyal to Diavolo.

Lilith also explains that she’s kind of the reason MC is down in the Devildom in the first place. Lucifer picked an entirely different totally normal human, but Lilith switched the files and MC was brought down instead.

MC still obviously had questions.

“So…” MC mumbled. “That’s why he tried to kill me.”

Lilith pursed her lips and looked away. “Yeah…”

MC let out an explosive sigh as their hand unconsciously creeped to their neck. MC’s fingers brushed over raised skin from barely healed over scratches.

“He wants to apologize.”

“What?”

“Belphie, he wants to apologize to you.”

MC snorted and rolled their eyes, they shifted over so Lilith couldn’t see their face. “Hmph… maybe if he grovels enough I won’t sic Cerberus on him…”

“You’re under no obligation to forgive him-”

“I know!” MC snapped, grinding the base of their palm against their eye to stop the tears that threatened to burst. “And I won’t!”

The problem was, Lilith’s story actually ended up making MC feel bad for him, which made them feel angry at themselves, which made them feel more upset than before.

On one hand, Belphie was motivated by the loss of someone incredibly close to him and never received closure because Lucifer kept Lilith’s “survival” a secret.

On the other hand, Belphie tricked, manipulated, and then tried to kill MC. That couldn’t just be waved off with an “oh he was just grieving”

After some deliberation, MC decided they were going to do one more thing to help Belphie.

“Father.” MC hit their knuckles against the door to their father’s room. The door opened almost immediately and Lucifer stood in the doorway.

“Yes MC? Do you need anything, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just need to talk to you.”

“Come in then,” Lucifer stepped aside and MC walked into the room, he closed the door behind them. “What is it?”

“I know about what happened with Lilith.”

Lucifer froze, MC did their best to hold his gaze and not waver.

“You need to tell everyone.”

“…how did you find out?”

“She um… told me. Lilith, I mean… she’s still around.” MC awkwardly twirled their finger in the air as they explained. “You’ve kept this hidden for too long, the secret has to be told so this can end.”

Lucifer wasn’t on board immediately, but eventually, he was convinced.

Everyone was gathered, including Belphie, and Lucifer explained what had really happened the day Lilith had died.

Of course there were shouts of shock and outrage that slowly melted into a melancholy silence. Lilith was still around, but her presence was so limited, but she was still there with them! Their sister was still there!

When everyone dispersed to go process the news, Belphie approached MC.

“H-hey.”

MC almost outwardly shuddered at the sound of the Avatar of Sloth’s voice, but they held firm and turned to face him.

Anything they wanted to say died in their throat as MC got a good look at Belphie for the first time in over a week. He looked like complete and utter garbage. His hair was a mess, bags lined the underside of his eyes, and his entire posture seemed to just droop like a wilting flower. Though, it wasn’t like MC had much of a platform to stand on when it came to critiquing appearance at that point in time, they looked just as awful.

“What do you want?” MC asked quietly, they had meant to put more force behind their words, but most if not all of their focus had gone towards not allowing their voice to break or waver.

“To apologize.”

So, Lilith was right, he was sorry. Rage bubbled in MC’s gut as they clenched their fist. How dare he think he could just, apologize and think everything could turn out okay?! MC opened their mouth to scream, cry, hurl every insult they had spent the previous week thinking about, but nothing came out. The anger subsided and MC deflated, they crossed their arms and gestured for Belphie to go ahead.

“Go on.” They mumbled.

Belphie’s gaze drifted to the wall, he clenched his pillow tighter to his chest, then looked back to MC. At least he had the decency to look them in the eye.

“I’m sorry for what I did, MC. I messed up and I hurt you. I blamed you for something you had nothing to do with, even though you were nothing but nice to me. No excuse would make what I did any better, so I’m… I’m sorry…”

MC gnawed on their lower lip and knitted their eyebrows. He sounded sincere enough, but MC wasn’t just going to roll over and forgive him just like that. They were still so angry and betrayed, but they didn’t want to be. Stupid feelings…

They took a deep breath and squared their shoulders, looking Belphie directly in the eyes.

“Okay.”

“…okay?”

“Okay.” MC repeated. “I’m not going to forgive you just to absolve your guilt, but I’m done with this. It’s over and I’m moving on. If you’re really sorry, don’t ever do something like that again.”

The tiniest glimmer of hope sparkled in Belphie’s eyes as he nodded. “I swear on my life I’ll never do anything like that again.”

MC stiffly nodded. “Good. Now, I’m going to my room. I have school tomorrow.”

When Belphie turned to go back to his room, Lucifer melted out of the shadows and stood next to MC.

“That was very big of you.”

“Thanks father.” MC mumbled.

“Are you sure you want to go to school tomorrow? I can ask Lord Diavolo to extend your time off.”

“No,” MC shook their head. “I’m ready. Besides,” They stifled a giggle. “I don’t want to miss everyone’s reactions to Human History.”

Wanting to watch demons freak out about weird parts of human history is a very valid reason to want to go to school.

Anyway, all eight residents of the HOL goes back to school, and MC’s cover story was that they had gotten the flu and was too sick to go to school, and Belphie had been brought back from the human world early. No one had the balls to question the seven rulers of hell, so no one asked any questions.

Luke was very excited to see his friend again, so excited that he got in trouble for talking in class. No big deal, lunchtime was still free for them to talk!

The day was perfectly normal, which was a blessing for everyone.

Diavolo officially deemed that Belphie was no longer a threat to the exchange program, so Belphie was allowed to return to his student council duties without issue.

Things between Diavolo and Barbatos and MC were quite… confusing.

For one thing, Diavolo was the crown prince and MC had really liked him before the stuff in the previous timeline and learning about exactly how he had secured their father’s loyalty.

And for Barbatos… he was just fucking terrifying.

“MC!”

The sound of Diavolo jovially calling their name jolted MC out of their thoughts. Thinking about the upcoming Demonology midterm would have to wait.

“Hello, Lord Diavolo.” MC knew better than to be openly pissed at the soon to be monarch, especially after everything that had transpired.

“Are you doing alright, MC? How has school been treating you?” Diavolo continued to pepper MC with questions with barely any gaps for MC to actually reply. Barbatos stood on the sidelines with a soft neutral smile on his face, which only served to unnerve MC more.

“I’m doing fine, Lord Diavolo. There’s no need for concern.”

Diavolo’s rampant questioning came to a stop, and MC swore they could see his expression fall ever so slightly.

“I’m glad to hear that, MC. If you need anything, just ask!”

He ended the interaction with a hesitant pat on MC’s head before walking off to his next class. Though, the presence of the butler still loomed behind MC.

“While I’m very glad you’re well, MC,” Barbatos said icily calm. “I must ask that you refrain from going into my room again.”

“Y-yes sir.” MC mumbled.

“Have a lovely day.”

Reason why everyone should be at least a little afraid of Barbatos #473

The relationship between MC and the Royals does end up getting repaired eventually, it’s just… really awkward for the time being.

Home was still awkward as all hell, the murder attempt definitely weakened the brotherly bonds MC had spent months repairing, and the hostility wasn’t doing MC’s emotional recovery much good.

“This is ridiculous.” Lilith’s voice popped into MC’s head while they sat at the dining table finishing up their homework. MC jumped slightly in their seat and frantically looked around for their aunt’s apparition.

“What’s got you spooked?” Satan asked from his place across the table.

“N-nothing. Just a chill.” MC quickly replied, trying to go back to their work.

“Nice recovery, MC. Very smooth.”

“Shut up!” MC thought. “What are you doing in my head?”

“If you want me to leave, just say so.” Lilith’s nasally childlike huff nearly caused MC to openly roll their eyes.

“No, what is it? What do you need?”

“I don’t really need anything, but look at this fractured house!” Lilith cried. “This is worse than the time Mammon stole everyone’s pocket watches!”

“Pocket…watches?”

“It was 1803, get with the program, MC.”

“Lilith, what are we talking about here?”

“Oh! Right! Well, this house is insanely divided and sucky right now, it’s terrible!” Lilith whined, as much as MC hated to submit to their ghostly aunt’s whining, she did have a point.

Just that morning Asmo just happened to neglect to paint Belphie’s nails when he went out of his way just minutes earlier to track down Lucifer to make sure his nails were painted. Later when Belphie walked into the library with Beel, Satan ended up picking up the cat and walking straight out. Satan walking out of a library was like a fish walking out of water.

That wasn’t the only thing either, Mammon had taken it upon himself to be a human (or demon to be more precise) barrier between Belphie and MC at almost all times. The only times when Mammon couldn’t do that was when the witches decided to summon him.

Levi continued to be a recluse, but on the rare occasion he did come out, there was no friendly hellos between him and Belphie.

Lucifer… well, he did a good job hiding his contempt. He had respected MC’s decision to let Belphie try and fix things and he himself seemed eager for everything to be fixed, but he wasn’t exactly aiding in the repairs. Every time he had to look at Belphie it was so expressionless that MC swore that Mammon could swipe someone’s wallet right in front of him and Lucifer wouldn’t even frown.

Even Beel, he bounced back the quickest in terms of being ready to be around Belphie again, but the even psychically linked twins couldn’t fully shake the feeling of distance between the two.

“Well, what do you want me to do? Last time I tried to fix this family’s problems I almost died.”

“H-hey, I don’t think you should joke about that just yet…”

“Bite me. I wasn’t joking.”

“Well… okay. But I can’t really manifest any power right now! Smacking some sense into Belphie really took a toll on my ability to do much.”

“Hmph…” MC thought long and hard, well, two minutes long. “We could hold a movie night.”

Lilith gasped and MC swore they could hear the sound of her clapping her hands together. “Yes! Everyone can hang out and eat popcorn! Oh it’ll be great! Build a Fort! Forts bring people closer together!”

The movie night was the first of many little get togethers that MC quietly orchestrated to get everyone back on speaking terms with each other. They weren’t a direct part of all of them, but they could see the good they were doing.

A small video game tournament, going out to eat together, just relaxing in the same room, all of it added up, and sooner rather than later everyone was back to… not hating each other.

The brothers are still brothers after all, there’s always that tiny instinct that tells siblings to try and ruin the other’s day

As for Belphie and MC’s relationship…

Things slowly but surely moved back to the way they were before. MC came out of their room to sit with everyone and hang out, everyone progressively let Belphie back into their lives, and the nightmares gradually lessened.

For the first time in a little over a month and a half, MC felt truly safe again, which was odd considering they were in their planetarium with someone who they declared they’d never forgive. They still hadn’t, but things had gotten better.

Belphie was doing his damndest to show that he was truly sorry about everything. It started off with small things; helping MC clean the house, giving them pencils when they didn’t have any, covering for them when they had dinner duty,

The little victories may not have seemed very noteworthy, but to Belphie and MC, they were everything.

“That’s Orion, that’s Orion’s Belt,” Belphie pointed up at the shifting ceiling of the planetarium, tracing each and every constellation that he saw and pointing them out to MC and Beel. The latter had seen these stars and heard Belphie’s explanations a thousand times over, but never tired of them. MC was staring up at the gorgeous sight of the human world night sky they had left behind with a small smile on their face.

“That’s Ursa Major,” Beel pointed up as he offered MC the bag of chips he was eating.

“Mhm,” Belphie quietly chirped, he then pointed to a nearby constellation. “And that’s Ursa Minor.”

“Huh, if you connect these stars, it looks like a pair of pants.” MC piped up, tracing the set of stars.

Belphie snickered and nodded. “Yeah, it kind of does.”

“Look, that one’s a spatula!” Beel pointed at a constellation, Belphie snorted and facepalmed.

“Beel, Buddy, that’s the Little Dipper.”

After a little while longer Belphie let out an explosive yawn and stretched out like a cat. MC and Beel yawned in response.

“I’m goin’ to sleep.”

“Belphie wait,” MC giggled. “You can’t sleep here!”

“Watch me.”

“You’ll get a sore back, Belphie.” Beel picked up Belphie and slung him over his shoulder as the Avatar of sloth began to snore, he then turned and sat MC on his other shoulder. “Bedtime for everyone.”

MC let out another yawn and rubbed their eyes. Maybe Belphie had the right idea, it was late as hell…

——————

Author’s Note: You ever know how you want something to turn out in your head, but the moment you go to write it down you kind of want to yeet yourself into oblivion? Yeah that’s what happened here.

The game itself didn’t give me much to work with in terms of how everyone would react if MC didn’t shrug off their near death, so… 🤷‍♀️ oh well! What’s done is done!

#obey me #obey me!#obey me! shall we date?#obey me shall we date #Obey me MC #Obey me Lucifer #Obey me Belphegor #Obey me Barbatos #obey me Diavolo #Obey me Beelzebub #Obey me Lilith #Obey me Headcanons #Obey me! Headcanons #Obey me fic #obey me fic #Obey me! Fic

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beifongsss · 4 years

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doubts [zuko]

Pairing: (Fire Lord) Zuko x reader (i’m such a simp for Fire Lord Zuko)

Requested?: Yes! By a marvelous anon!: “hi! so i was thinking either a zuko x reader or sokka x reader please, where it's the night of your wedding and you're not ready and then he gets mad but fluff at the end :) if you can't do it i totally understand, thank you !!”

Summary: It’s a day before your wedding and you find yourself in Katara’s room, worried about your duties as the Fire Lord’s spouse. I tried to keep it gender neutral!

.masterlist.

You had met Zuko way before Aang had defeated Ozai, back when he was still the banished prince. The start of your relationship was rough, especially when you remembered how the two of you had constantly been at each other’s throats when he finally joined Team Avatar.

Eventually, the scathing remarks and backhanded compliments faded away to teasing comments and shy smiles as the two of you shared many sleepless nights under the stars. It was during these nights that the two of you opened up to each other, Zuko finally revealing information about his childhood and how he got his scar and you telling him all about your own upbringing and how you ended up traveling with the Gaang. You had ended up sleeping in each others’ arms that night, Momo snuggling in between the two of you.

That night changed your whole dynamic and after Ozai’s defeat, Aang forced the two of you to confess your feelings for each other. Your relationship bloomed quickly, the events you had been through only making your connection that much stronger. It wasn’t a relationship built only on attraction; it was one built on mutual trust and respect, and the confidence of knowing that you were there for each other no matter what.

That was what had led to Zuko proposing marriage at a young age.

When the words came out of his mouth, you had been shocked. To be honest, you had always thought that you’d be the first to bring up the idea of marriage. You had also expected to talk about it once the two of you were older and Zuko had gotten used to his duties as the Fire Lord, not when the two of you were on the edge of seventeen. Despite your surprise, you had agreed after making him promise to wait until the two of you were eighteen.

He had agreed, stating that he was certain that you were it for him.

Now, two years later, you found yourself smiling as the Gaang arrived at the palace. They were there for your wedding, which would be taking place in two days. Zuko had kept his promise and now that the two of you were eighteen, he didn’t want to waste any more time without you at his side.

The first day the Gaang was there was spent catching up with each other. Zuko had even managed to get the day off by asking Iroh to attend some meetings in his place. You had taken them to the city, giving them a proper tour now that they weren’t wanted criminals.

The Gaang spent most of the day silently fawning over the way the two of you treated each other, Zuko buying you snacks that he knew you liked and smiling when you kissed his cheek in thanks and you making sure that he was comfortable being surrounded by so many people. You truly were the perfect couple. Your action-packed day came to an end with a picnic in the royal gardens, lounging around as Aang played with the turtle ducks.

The next day was the day before your wedding, and you didn’t get the chance to see Zuko all day. You spent the day in the library with Sokka, who claimed that he wanted to learn more about the history of the Fire Nation. It felt nice to have a calm day, especially knowing that after tomorrow you would be married to the Fire Lord. Your stomach flipped uncomfortably at your thoughts and you swallowed nervously as Sokka turned to you.

“So?” he asked, a book in his hand as he stared at you. “How does it feel knowing that after tomorrow you’re no longer single?”

“I’m not single now,” you replied blandly. “I’m dating Zuko.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sokka said, waving off your words. “But after tomorrow you’re like, bound to him. How does it feel, knowing that you’re going to help him run the Fire Nation?”

You visibly paled at Sokka’s words, causing him to put the book down immediately and approach you.

“(Y/N/N)? Are you good?” he asked, gently grasping your shoulder. You didn’t look at him as you nodded.

“I-I’m great Sokka,” you replied quietly, shooting out of your chair and heading for the door. “I just remembered I promised Katara I’d visit her.”

Sokka’s worried gaze followed you as you darted out of the room. He stood there for a moment before shrugging and sitting back down.

“Wow, those pre-wedding jitters must be pretty intense.”

Katara gasped and whirled around as you burst into her room. She was about to scold you when she noticed the panicked look on your face and the tears welling up in your eyes.

“(Y/N)? What happened?” Katara asked, rushing to you and wrapping you up in her arms. She tried to kick the door closed as she led you over to her bed but failed, leaving the door open an inch. You didn’t say anything as she sat you down, your face contorted in a grimace as you thought about Sokka’s words.

“Sokka said something and it made me panic,” you finally breathed out, turning to look at Katara. She snorted.

“Don’t listen to anything my idiot brother says.”

“No, he asked me if I was ready to help Zuko rule the Fire Nation,” you clarified, nervously fidgeting with your fingers. “And I’m not. I’m not ready Katara.”

Katara rubbed your arm as she looked at you understandingly. “It’s a little overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“That’s an understatement,” you mumbled. “I love Zuko, so much. But I’m not the right person to rule by his side. It should be Mai or someone else who knows the proper etiquette and laws of the Fire Nation.”

“You can always learn (Y/N/N),” Katara said softly. “Zuko wants you by his side. We’ve all seen the way you act around each other; he wants you by his side because he trusts you to help him out whenever he needs you to. And you’re gonna do a great job!”

You sighed before replying. “I’m just so nervous Katara. I’m not good enough to marry royalty. I feel so inadequate here, and I don’t know how to change that! How am I expected to help the Fire Lord when I can barely help you cook?!”

Katara chuckled at your words before falling silent. She didn’t know what to say.

Elsewhere in the palace, Zuko was getting out of his last meeting for the day. He walked off in the direction of your bedroom, determined to surprise you with a romantic dinner before your big day. When he didn’t find you, he checked the library, knowing that it was one of your favorite rooms in the palace. The only thing he found was a reading Sokka, who only mumbled that you had gone to visit Katara before he focused on his book once more.

Sighing, Zuko made his way towards Katara’s room, pausing slightly when he noticed that the door was open. He was about to knock when he was halted by the sound of your voice.

“Katara, maybe this marriage isn’t the best idea.”

Zuko felt his heart drop at your words, his throat closing up slightly as he registered your words. Before jumping to any conclusions, he waited a bit, wanting to hear Katara’s response

“(Y/N)? What do you mean?” Katara replied. “Zuko loves you, he’s been waiting for this day for literal years.”

“I know,” came your reply. “But I can’t go through with it. Especially not when I’m having all these doubts.”

“Ok, wait,” Katara spoke again. “Let’s think this through first.”

“Let’s not,” Zuko said, finally stepping into the room. The two of you stared up at him, Katara’s mouth dropping open in surprise as your eyes widened in shock. “If you didn’t want to marry me, you should’ve just said so.”

Katara stood up immediately, her cheeks blushing with embarrassment after Zuko’s sudden appearance. She awkwardly bowed to the boy before heading to the door. “I’ll uh, I’ll let you two sort this out.”

“That was weird,” you spoke first, breaking the silence. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her bow to you before.”

A smile twitched at Zuko’s lips before he remembered your earlier words. You glanced up at him, flinching slightly at the hard expression on his face. “Zuko, I-”

“We don’t have to get married (Y/N),” he spoke bluntly, no emotion present in his voice. “You could’ve just told me and I would’ve called it off. In fact, let me go do that right now.”

“Zuko, no,” you replied, standing up. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just didn’t want you to-”

“You didn’t want me to what, (Y/N)?” Zuko snapped, causing you to flinch and take a step backwards. He was angry, that much you could tell. “You didn’t want me to find out that you had no intention of staying in my life, that you had doubts about being with me? What have these past few years meant to you? Because if you were planning on leaving me at the altar you could’ve just told me you didn’t love me anymore.”

“W-What?” you asked, gasping lightly at his words. That’s why he was angry; he thought you wanted to call off the wedding because you didn’t love him anymore. You stepped closer to him. “Zuko.”

He pulled away from you, trying not to look at you as tears pricked at his eyes. His thoughts ran wild as he tried to pinpoint the moment you had lost feelings for him. He knew it was his fault, he didn’t spend enough time with you or buy you any sparkling jewels or-

“I’m so in love with you, Zuko,” you whispered, interrupting his inner turmoil. You sidled up next to him, reaching out to gently brush away the tears that had escaped his eyes and were now trailing down his face. He turned away from you and scoffed, a harsh expression still on his face.

“No you aren’t.”

You felt your heart leap into your throat as you took him in. You held your breath as you turned his head back towards before pressing your lips against his. Zuko’s hands went to your waist instinctively and you could taste the tears he had shed as his lips molded against yours perfectly. You tried your best to pour as much love as you could into the kiss. He pulled away from you first, tears still falling as he looked at you in disbelief.

“My doubts weren’t about my love for you Zuko,” you spoke quietly, your eyes never leaving his. “I have never doubted my love for you. In my heart I have always known that you’re the one for me, as cheesy as that sounds.”

Zuko swallowed as he searched your eyes, finding nothing but the truth. “Then w-why-”

“I was having doubts about myself,” you whispered, cutting him off. “I love you so much that it hurts, but I’m not good enough to rule by your side. You deserve someone better; someone who knows how to deal with Fire Nation issues and help you make the best decisions that will benefit your nation. That’s not me. I barely even know who the Fire Lord before Sozin was!”

“You’re more than enough,” Zuko replied, his voice rough as he reached out to hold you. “You’re all that I have ever needed or wanted and you’re gonna do an amazing job by my side.”

“How can you be so sure?” you asked softly, melting into his touch.

“You can always learn about your duties as the Fire Lord’s spouse,” he replied, causing your mouth to twitch up as you remembered Katara’s earlier words. She had said the same thing. “You’re a quick learner. Besides, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

You sighed softly as you leaned against him, his anger and insecurities fading as he held you tightly.

“If it makes you more comfortable, we can always postpone the wedding,” Zuko mumbled. You hummed lightly as you snuggled up against his chest.

“No, you’re right,” you replied quickly. “I’m gonna have to learn about my duties anyways, there’s no reason for the wedding to be postponed.”

The room went silent for a while.

“Did you really think that I would leave you?” you whispered, your heart sinking as you realized how upset Zuko was when he thought he would lose you.

The Fire Lord cleared his throat before speaking. “I uh, I- yes.”

You looked up to see him hanging his head in shame.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just, I could understand why someone like you could stop loving someone like me. You’re too good for me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you replied, looking at him in disbelief. “Zuko, if anything I’m not good enough for you! I love you so so much. You’ve shown me what it’s like to love and be loved and you’ve always respected me, which is all I could ever ask for. You mean the world to me and I never want you to forget that.”

Zuko stared at you for a minute before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips. You responded eagerly, tangling your hands in his hair and causing the royal headpiece to topple to the ground. He backed you up against the desk in the room, breaking the kiss to look down at you.

“I love you too,” he said breathlessly. “More than you will ever know.”

“I can’t wait to marry you,” you mumbled as he pressed his lips back to yours. He smiled into the kiss, only responding by pulling you closer to him.

“So, I’m guessing the wedding is still on?”

The two of you broke apart to see Katara leaning against the doorframe, a smug smile on her face. Your face turned bright red as Zuko’s head dropped onto your shoulder in embarrassment, only managing a small nod. Zuko nodded along with you as he straightened up, intertwining his hand with yours as he began to lead you out of the room.

“Yeah, it is,” he said as he passed Katara, knowing that she was about to go tell all their friends about what she had witnessed. He could deal with the teasing just this once. After all, how could he be angry when he was about to marry the love of his life.

The two of you were halfway down the hall when Katara poked her head out of her room, holding out the royal headpiece in her hand.

“Hey! Aren’t you two forgetting something?”

~ taglist!

@musicalkeys, @mywigglybaby, @bubblebars, @iguessthefloorislava, @dekahg, @boxofteenageideas, @bottledcostcowater, @butterflycore, @coldlilheart

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nicholasmoneysign · 3 years

Text

MY FIRST SILENT RETREAT

Nick C. Haze

I couldn’t stand my voice so I decided to shut up for three days.

Talking to myself has gotten out of hand. I forget it’s not entirely normal to have conversations with the imaginary person I believe to be in my head. The voice is normal, but treating them as a separate entity may not be. My forms of regular conversation are hour-long therapy sessions each Thursday (after cutting down from twice a week), recording my songs and the atrocious task of mixing my own vocals, and one-sided taunts and greetings with my cat.

To hear my voice became the cringe of all cringe – my final straw before I lose all faith in myself. I didn’t know what to do but had a thought for a couple of days to stop talking temporarily. One more therapy session to express the chagrin I felt each time I nattered; something had to be done. So, last Thursday, the first of July 2021, at 1;30pm, I decided to shut up.

To help me through the urge of uttering fleeting thoughts, what my head was aching to blurt out, I tried writing down the nonsense into my notes as a helping tool.

P.s. this is my silent retreat. Technology is allowed.

“May the silence be ever in your favour”

Day 1

When does one begin a silent retreat?

I’m not going anywhere, no desirable destination for total vocal silence. I am left to attempt my everyday life without the use of my voice. Three days seems plenty. I can’t think of a better time than now to start.

3:21pm Thursday July 1, 2021

Clio got into a pee squat position on the carpet, so I reacted with a single “pshh” in an attempt to stop her. I cleaned her litter of the poop, but I know she’ll try to piss somewhere else in a matter of time. I don’t think pshh breaks my silence promise.

The tea kettle was being obnoxiously loud and so I uttered “Jesus”.

I am learning I have unnecessary sounds that escape me when my body turns in certain ways.

Took a sip of my coffee to taste the new creamer and began to speak but stopped myself.

I forgot and sang put your head on my shoulder while lifting off from the toilet seat.

A little over two hours. Reading the Art of War, I haven’t spoken anything other than accidental utters. Developed a frontal lobe headache. Not a scientist. Just a guess. If I die from a severe case of pissed off-ness and my body lays without signs of a struggle – a headache was involved.

Irked: sighed and uttered to a nude Polaroid left in my wallet as I decided to toss it out. Sitting in my wallet from the early pandemic months, it had warped her face and made the symbolism of her meanness too memorable, and she, in fact, was a mean person. The photo had to go. The nude of my sex worker romance and me in the pool at my desert birthday weekend went back in the Polaroid pile. Fresh slate needed, granted, the wallet was a gift from a former flame, fling, partner – disastrous fool. I need a new wallet.

It’s 7:00pm Thursday

The sun is starting to set, but it’s still daylight. Bless you, LA. I broke my vow of silence for a work call concerning a new designer to finish my book.

Dishonourable message to scammers, fuckwits and fucktards – suck the farts from J.Lo’s spicy booty hole.

Can’t trust anyone.

It’s 10:17pm

A lapse in memory loss, remind me: And I’m back on my silent retreat. I do slip up but working on minimising that.

12:08am

The only person I don’t mind hearing talk tonight is Tom Cruise. Shall, go chop wood and then continue reading the Art of War. Must take melatonin.

“19. Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”

Excerpt from The Art of War

Sun Tzu

12:39am

Solid wank. I only thought about four or five exes. Finished with the prettiest actress. Luxury girl. Looks like charity. The person, not a philanthropic wank.

Day 2 – Friday

Still only going to break the silence for work conversation. Which will be calling Bill, this graphic designer and get my mother fucking book cover designed.

By far the longest I’ve gone without having to say nonsense. It’s peaceful. Starting to forget the sound of my voice. It sounds like a calmer voice in my head. Today is brighter.

11:43am

Broke silence to mumble one of my songs, hoping to think of better lyrics. This is a positive sign. Progress into what I hope happens after my retreat - to not be disgusted when I hear my voice.

I had to talk gruntingly because tik tok was on a nazi informational kick, which was odd. You play secret Hitler one time, and your phone thinks you need more fascist history lessons.

They’re going to kill off enough Bitcoin big stake owners, so the coin is too valuable, essentially wiping out the real possibility of it as currency. Ethereum should be the next best thing.

I broke the silence at the pool. Being a little lit and not noticing my neighbour was also here, once he said hello, I immediately chatted. I knew not to speak but don’t know how to tell others I’m not speaking at the moment. Maybe I’ll just not talk until they figure it out. Or make a t-shirt.

(nap)

1:04am Sunday

Rewarding experience. Continuing. holy fuck it’s not Sunday. It’s Friday night/Saturday.

(1:04am Saturday)

Continuing the silent retreat until tomorrow night, and then I’m going out and drinking. Hopefully, dancing and hold a titty.

3:52pm Saturday and I haven’t said a word

I think Clio learnt that even she went too far on this dramatic meow.

What somebody else’s granddaddy used to say: “if you wanna be seen, stand up. If you wanna be heard, speak up. If you wanna be appreciated, shut up.” – Contestant on survivor

7:59pm

I am ending this retreat. It’s been interesting. I have learnt how to hold back from speaking unnecessarily a little more. Clio is more scared of doing wrong when I’m silent rather than shouting profanities.

8:00pm ending my first silent retreat

“What do I say?

I need a playlist.”

– – – – – – – – –

Authors note: did not get to hold a titty.

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winterwallacehenderson · 3 years

Text

|Illicit Affair- Luke Patterson x Reader|

|Pairing|- Luke Patterson x reader

|Warning|- Swearing, toxic household, mentions of sexual abuse and su!cide (let me know if I should add thing else)

|Word Count|- 1600

|Summary|- Luke and the reader are in an illicit affair. However, when Luke sees her dancing with the man her family chose for her, things t=in their relationship change.

|a/n|- hi hi hi! Okay, first off, how are y’all??? Also, I’m so sorry for not posting for so long. This is based off Illicit Affair by Taylor Swift (I would totally recommend listening to it while reading this). I’m really proud of this and I hope y’all like it. until then, stay safe and drink water!!

I grabbed him by the neck and pulled him for one last kiss of the night. “Pull you hood over, keep your eyes down, make sure no one is around and if anyone asks you where you've been, just tell them you were-”

“Out for a run, I remember love”, Luke finished my sentence, before grinning and kissing me on the cheek. He gave me one last smile, a sense of longing already seeping in his eyes. He jumped out of my bedroom window and made his way back home. I hope he takes the 7th avenue, it’s the road least travelled by.

I made my way back to my room and stood there taking it all in. The remnants of our clandestine meetings still fresh, the soft wrinkles on my pillow where Luke laid.

I tidied up my room and sprayed myself with some of Luke’s perfume. It was the only explanation I had when my father asked me why I smelled different. I told him I brought new perfume which smelled like vanilla and apples. Sounds weird but it's probably the most beautiful smell in the world for me. Plus, Luke likes it when I smell like him. Reminds him of the long nights he usually spends in my room. There was a knock on their door. I quickly patted down my untamed hair, and opened the door. There stood Lydia, my maid and friend. Growing up in such a prestigious household came with many drawbacks. One of them being that I couldn't choose my own friends. Or make any decisions of my life. As a woman, my upbringing consisted of learning how to do all of the housework and be the perfect wife for my husband. I knew I never would have a shot at love or to marry someone I liked at my own will. My husband would be chosen for me, it would be a deal for the fortune of our either families. I realised Lydia had been standing there for a while. I nodded at her, signalling she had my attention. “Miss-”

“Lydia, I’ve told you before. Please call me Y/N”, I interrupted her.

“My apologies Miss Y/N. I came here to inform you, you have a meeting with a potential suitor tomorrow evening at the Princeton’s party. Your mother has asked you to be on your best behaviour and present yourself accordingly, not like you don't already do that”, Lydia finished her sentence in a small mocking tone, erupting a laugh from me. “Thank you for informing me Lydia. Tell my mother I shall behave as she wished for me to”. Lydia gave me a smile and left the room. I lay on my bed, the scent of Luke’s perfume surrounded me. It felt so real almost like he was here with me. I closed my eyes and drifted off to my dreams filled with a beautiful, talented, man who had the prettiest hazel eyes.

The Princeton’s party was beautiful as always. They had the most beautiful house and the couple themselves were hilarious and welcoming. Apart from this, they were so painfully in love, even after years of marriage, it filled me with a longing feeling, I wondered if Luke could ever be like this.

Dressed in a soft blue ball gown, I tucked my hand in my brother’s arm as we made our way to the suitor’s family. As we passed the group of musicians hired for the party, my eyes fell on the lead singer.

Luke....

He stood there, looking more beautiful than ever. It's almost like he gets more handsome every time we meet. His eyes locked with mine and he gave me a subtle wink. My cheeks flared at his gesture and I averted my gaze to the man in front of me. He looked me up and making, an action that usually makes me blush when done by Luke but this man just made me feel uncomfortable and disgusted. His red hair gelled to give him a sleek look and his green eyes had a glint of lust. I lowered my gaze to the floor, in hopes for this to get over as soon as possible and I could go back to Luke. “Y/N this is Mr Williamson and his son James.” Right on que, a slow song came up and Luke’s vice filled the room. “Oh my, what a perfect timing! “My mother squealed, “Y/N why don't you and James go have a dance, maybe get to know each other a bit?” I looked at my mother and back at James, who had his hand extended towards me. I quickly stole a glance at Luke who was intently starting at James and I. I placed my hands over his and he walked us over to the dance floor. He placed his hand on my waist, dangerously close to my butt. I placed my hand on his shoulder, keeping my eyes down casted. “So Y/N, have you ever been with anyone?”, my eyes shot up at his question. No, he can't know. No one can. I shook my head no and James smirked . “Good so I know that you're a virgin now. I can't wait to have my way with you”, his hands brushed my butt and a gasp escaped from my mouth. I looked around to see if anyone heard the exchange between me and James. My eyes fell on Luke who was glaring at James. If looks could kill James would most definitely drop dead at this instance. Luke’s gaze switched over to mine, the same glare now directed towards me. I furrowed my eyebrows. Why was he mad at me? . He reached the end of the song and whispered something to the dark hair boy next to him. Luke spared one last hard glance at me and rushed out of the room. I quickly detached myself from James by saying I had a bathroom emergency. I followed the path Luke had taken out to a scheduled garden, away from the party. I spotted him at a far corner by a stone wall, his head placed on the cool wall. His shoulders were slightly trembling, almost like he was crying. A twig snapped beneath my foot and his shoulders stiffen. He quickly turned around, a cold hard look glazing over his eyes. “Baby-”, I started off but was cut off my Luke's booming voice “DON'T CALL ME THAT! You don’t have a fucking right to. Not anymore. I actually thought you loved it. I thought you cared for me. But you only care about yourself. All you wanted was a good fuck. But look what you did. Look at me y/n! Look at this godforsaken mess you've made me!”, Luke spoke, tears slowly streaming down his face. “Love no listen to- '', I started but he cut me off again, “I SAID DON'T CALL ME THAT. ITS LUKE JUST LUKE FOR YOU! I saw you and that preppy boy flirting. Hell the two of you were so close, yawl might as well have kissed in front of me. I saw the way you flushed when he touched you, and flirted with you. I feel like a fucking idiotic fool”, Luke chuckled to himself, sarcastically, “ I actually thought we could happen. That we would have a future. That our secret language was only spoken by us. But turns out you don't. Was any of that real? Did any part of us mean anything to you-” I couldn't take it anymore. His misunderstanding was causing me pain. A lot of pain. He actually thought I didn't mean any of that, when the moments I spent with him were the ones that kept me going.

“Y/N did you ever even love me?”

“LUKE SHUT UP. JUST SHUT UP. YES I LOVED YOU. HELL I STILL FUCKING AM IN LOVE WITH YOU. AND I WILL BE FOREVER. YOU HAVE KNOW RIGHT TO ASK ME THIS WHEN YOU KNOW DAMN FUCKING WELL THAT I WOULD RUIN MYSELF FOR YOU.”, I yelled. I never raised my voice at anyone but I couldn't watch the love of my life walk away because I was too afraid to speak up. Luke stared at one dumbfounded. He knew I never swore nor did I ever raise my voice.

“W-what?”, he said after he found his voice.

“I would ruin myself for you, Luke Patterson. Not once. Not twice. A million fucking times I would.”, I replied, my voice cracking at the end.

I took a step close to him, and held his hand. “Luke, I know it's difficult. I know my family won't ever accept you. Accept us. But I don't care. I don't care what they think. You're all that matters for me. Yeah everyone will talk. They'll talk about it for what a day? Month? Then they'll find another topic to gossip about and we will be history. And I am ready for that. I'm ready for the whispers, the taunts. I'm ready to face anything as long as I get to wake up in the same bed with your arms wrapped around me. I'm ready for us”, I cupped his cheek, wiping a tear with my thumb. “I'm ready too. I'll always be ready for you. God, I love you. No scratch that. I'm in love with you. Not just love, IN love”, Luke said cracking a watery grin at the end. “I'm in love with you too Luke Patterson”, I smiled, placing my forehead against his. And in that moment I knew, illicit affair or not, we will always love each other.

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fishoutofcamelot · 3 years

Text

It has come to my attention that after all these years I still have not told yall about the Cell City Incident. Well, it’s time to rectify that

Realistically i know this story isnt all that funny, but its probably the only interesting thing that will ever happen to me so let me have this dammit

So! I was 12 years old. My science class was doing the Cell City project. For those of you who don’t know, Cell City is a thing that some schools around the US do where everyone has to make a physical/visual model of a cell. We spent a full month learning about the cell, studying its components, and using class-time to design/construct our models. A full month. Logic dictates that I should have this in the bag, right?

Well. That’s only if you use your classtime wisely. I, the dumbass I was, had the chronic inability to pay attention in class, and instead spent all my time sitting in the back and watching “Keroro Gunso the Super Movie 5” about fifty times in a row.

So no. I didn’t work on the my Cell City Model. I hadn’t started it. I didn’t even know the first thing about cells, because I hadnt listened to a single thing my teacher had said for the last month.

And to make it even worse than that, I didn’t realize this until the night before this very important, grade-defining project was due

So. I panicked for about ten minutes - and then, true to form, procrastinated again. Told myself I could just work on it in the morning. And then rolled over and went to bed, nary a trouble to be seen.

Come morning, the morning this big project was due. I had twenty minutes to eat breakfast, get dressed, and whip together a project that SHOULD have taken me a month to prepare, and also was about a subject i had no knowledge of.

So. I looked up ‘cell anatomy’ on Google, found an old poster-board in the closet, drew a bunch of random shapes and labeled them as various parts of the cell, and then used pink and orange highlighters to color everything in. It was TRASH, and it looked hideous, but it got the job done.

But! I was also worried that everyone else in class would be doing posters too, and if there’s one thing you should know about me its that since birth i have been afflicted with the deeply american need to be Different For The Sake Of Being Different TM.

So on my half-hour walk to school, I contemplated ways to jazz up my mediocre poster. And you know what I came up with? You wanna know what my tiny, lazy, absolute dumbass past self came up with?

I had the oh so brilliant idea to just. Tape the poster to my chest. Just take scotch tape and attach it to my body. And then dance around saying, “Hi! I’m Planty, the magical plant cell that came to life!” Essentially roleplaying as a cell while i tell people about what all my body parts do.

Yeah. I really did that. The limits of my stupidity know no bounds, but in my defense I was 12 and also an idiot and also pressed for time

So, eventually presentation time rolled around. And when my teacher strolled by my desk and asked me to present to him, I did the shtick. “Hi, I’m Planty the magical plant cell that came to life!” And proceeded to spend three minutes riffing on whatever information I could only vaguely remember learning earlier that morning - because my dumb ass had struck again and neglected to take any actual notes

At the very end, my teacher paused, wrote down my grade on his little rubric clipboard sheet, and said, “That was very creative. I can really tell you spent a lot of time on this.”

And looking back I realize he was probably being sarcastic, but in the moment? Hearing him compliment the effort I had put into a 20-minute Hail Mary? I absolutely ascended.

I got an A.

Now here’s where things get tricky. The moment presentations were over, I tore the poster off my body and theatrically ripped it into shreds. But little did I know, my teacher had decided to enter me in for a community outreach presentation night thing, where parents and civilians could come to the school and review everyone’s best projects.

And he entered me in. And the project I was supposed to present? The Cell City poster. Yknow. The one I had slam-dunked into a trash can in the hopes of getting someone to pay attention to me (no one did, obviously)

But my teachers didnt know that. They just eagerly approached me like “Oh, your science teacher told us all about the Planty thing! We’re all so excited to see it!”

So I lied through my teeth. I told them that I couldn’t remember where I put the poster, but I know I left it in the storage room next to the lab. Which resulted in me being led around the school for a half hour in search of something I already knew full well had been destroyed. Because I had ripped it to shreds. With my bare hands. I even primal-screamed while I did it, too.

In the end, my history teacher dejectedly lent me his laptop so I could showcase a Prezi I’d allegedly made about Old Growth Forests. I say ‘allegedly’ because in truth no such presentation existed, but I told him it did, and hastily whipped together a Prezi in the five minutes his back was turned. I got good reviews for that presentation too, but thats only because the people reviewing me were parents, and parents know youre supposed to be nice and supportive to kids that arent your own

(That night, my parents asked me how it went. Not wanting them to think I was a total failure, I lied and said I had made a new friend named Sebastian. There was no Sebastian. A month later, they suggested that we invite Sebastian over sometime, to which I hurriedly lied and said he was moving to Wisconsin like tomorrow and I was never gonna see him again. I know for a fact that they probably didn’t buy it, but they never brought it up so neither will I)

To this day I remember almost nothing about cells, and even in college I still pull dumb crap like this. So that’s a big fat ‘no’ on whether I learned my lesson. But my teacher already gave me the A, and I’ve already graduated, so its too late. No take-backsies.

#every time someone says im Smart or a Model Student #i instantly flashback to the Cell City Incident #i also flashback to the time it took me 18 years to realize why they call it a butter knife #its because you knife butter with it. revolutionary i know #long post #fish post

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thinkingisadangerouspastime · 3 years

Text

dance

Written for Day 4 of @aangweek! Read here on AO3.

~*~

4. dance - if you hit a wall, climb over it, crawl under it, or dance on top of it

What year did Fire Lord Sozin battle the Air Nation army?

The Air Nation army.

What army? The ashen remains of bones that littered the Air Temples? The memories of a past erased and rewritten by the conquerors? The whispers and cries of voices drowned out by roaring flames? That army?

Aang shuddered, pulling his knees to his chest. Was that how his people were remembered? As part of a history reformatted and reworked? As aggressors instead of defenders? As casualties, no, as soldiers instead of victims? Was that how the world had chosen to immortalize his people?

Aang sighed, releasing his legs before slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. He wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. And besides - he could see the sun inching upwards over the horizon. Daybreak had almost arrived, which meant it was only a matter of time before everyone woke up and they continued travelling. There was no point in him trying to catch an extra hour of shut-eye.

Maybe he could meditate for a bit. While he waited for morning to come. It could help him clear his mind, he supposed, of… of those more painful memories. Of false knowledge force-fed down his throat.

But as Aang stood to find an open place for meditation, he was distracted by the presence of Sokka. His friend was already awake, hunched over and scribbling away at his lengthy schedule.

“We can shorten our stay here,” Sokka muttered, “and taking this route shaves two hours off our total travel time if we only take one break instead of two -” He stopped when Aang joined him, the airbender plopping down on a patch of grass. “Good morning?” He paused. “Uh… What are you doing up so early?”

Aang gave his friend an amused smile, folding his legs criss-cross. Considering he himself was usually the first one up, Aang couldn’t help but find Sokka’s question rather hilarious. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Sokka shrugged. “Just trying to rework our schedule. I have to take in account the extra days we stayed in that cave if we want to arrive at the meet-up point for the eclipse invasion on time.”

Aang flinched at the reminder. Of the upcoming eclipse or the additional days he’d encouraged his friends to stay in the city, he wasn’t sure. When Sokka glanced at him, Aang looked away. Down at his feet. “Right. Yeah. I guess we do need to make up for that… lost time.”

Sokka raised an eyebrow, at first not commenting. He rolled up his schedule and placed it aside. “So, why again did you say you were up so early?”

Aang hadn’t.

He sighed, leaning backwards to stare up at the arrival of dawn and bracing himself with his palms. Clouds of orange and red and yellow burned before Aang. Hues not dissimilar to fire. “Dreams.” Memories.

Sokka nodded. “Nightmares?”

“Kind of.”

“Want to talk about them?”

The Air Nomads didn’t have a formal military.

Aang shook his head. “Not really.”

Sokka nodded. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.” He tucked the group’s schedule into his bag. “Want to talk about something else?”

Aang didn’t answer immediately. Stuck on some twisted loop, his mind traced over and over and over the surprise, the shock, the disbelief of every kid’s face in the cave as he’d danced before them. They, too, had been robbed of their childhood. Not in the same way, no. Not at the same price. But it had been stolen from them all the same.

“Do you think I helped them?” Aang finally whispered. His fingers dug into the dirt beneath his palms, collecting behind his nails. “The Fire Nation kids, I mean.” He sat up straight again, this time making eye contact with his friend. “Toph told me I helped them to be free.” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Do you… Do you think she was right?”

Sokka raised an eyebrow. “Uh, what are you talking about?” Aang opened his mouth to explain, but Sokka continued before he could get a word out. “Of course she was right.”

Aang’s voice disappeared into his chest for a full ten seconds before resurfacing. “She was? But it was just a dance par-”

“It wasn’t ‘just’ a dance party, Aang,” Sokka interrupted, giving him a wry smile after his use of dramatic finger quotes. “You gave those kids their first moment of independent thought. I know I called them ‘depraved little monsters’” - Aang snorted at the reminder - “and while I don’t think I was too far off with that assessment, I’ve come to the conclusion that…” Sokka pursed his lips. “Well. Deprived might be a better word.”

Deprived.

Yes, that was fitting.

“I still can’t believe they didn’t know how to dance,” Aang said after a pause. “A hundred years ago, the Fire Nation was - was the place to be for dancing!” He learned everything he knew from Kuzon, after all. “And now…” Aang sighed. “Sure, I gave them a taste of fun, but they’re all going to be punished for it.” If they hadn’t been already. “Was that - Was it even worth it for them?”

“I think it was,” Sokka answered, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. “Like I said - it wasn’t just a dance party.” A beat passed, and he winked at Aang as he held a finger over his lips. “It was a secret dance party.”

Aang laughed. “What are you talking ab-”

“You taught them to challenge authority!” Sokka continued, throwing his hands in the air. “You taught them that sometimes, to learn the real truth, you have to think outside the box and track down other sources.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Aang, you showed them that adults can be wrong. That people in power are not infallible.” Sokka grinned at him. “So you didn’t just teach them to be free. You taught them how to find their own freedom, too. And in a brainwashed, messed-up country like the Fire Nation?” He snorted. “Spirits know they need that.”

Brainwashed… Not an inaccurate term to describe the misinformation - the lies - Aang knew their country had built its new foundation on.

“Thanks, Sokka,” Aang said, giving his friend a soft smile as tension eased from his shoulders. Maybe it was a good thing, then, that he’d stayed those extra days in the cave. Those kids were the future of the Fire Nation. Change would have to start with them.

“You’re welcome, buddy.”

Aang bit his lip. A beat passed. “Can I ask you another question?”

“I mean, you technically just did - kidding, I’m kidding,” Sokka amended as Aang rolled his eyes. “None of you have a sense of humor.”

“Sokka, you know I think you’re the funniest guy in the four nations.”

“And you would be right!” They both laughed, and Sokka continued once their snickering had died down. “But sure, go ahead. What’s on your mind?”

Aang opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, out of nowhere finding that it was thrice as difficult for air to enter and exit his lungs. How embarrassing for an - the last - airbender.

Deep breaths. In and out.

Well, I don’t know how you could possibly know more than our national history book.

“What… What were you taught about my people?” Aang found himself staring at the ground, at his feet, at anywhere but Sokka’s eyes. “The Air Nomads?”

“Uh… not much,” Sokka admitted, and Aang grimaced. “We knew Sozin massacred them in an attempt to kill the Avatar, which started the war. Gran Gran told us they were a peaceful people, too, and were all really gifted benders.” He hesitated, giving Aang an apologetic glance. “I’m… sorry I don’t know more.”

Aang’s chest ached with an emptiness he sometimes feared would never be filled. But at least Sokka hadn’t been told -

“You know my people didn’t attack first, though?” His voice faltered, and Aang cleared his throat. “That - That they never wanted to fight?”

Sozin defeated them by ambush.

“Yeah,” Sokka said quietly. “I know.”

He forced down the lump in his throat, and when Sokka moved to pull him into a tight embrace, Aang allowed himself to fall apart in his friend’s arms.

When the sun had risen and his tears had dried, Aang spoke.

“After I defeat Fire Lord Ozai… you’re going to dance with me.”

Sokka raised an eyebrow. “I’m gonna what now?”

“Dance with me.” Aang gave him a small smile. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’re too much of a picken to dance with your best friend.”

Sokka rolled his eyes. “You know what? Sure. Why not. When you defeat Fire Lord Ozai, I’ll dance with you.” He grinned at Aang. “I look forward to it, hotman.”

Aang laughed. “Flameo!”

~*~

i am prepared and willing to throw hands with anyone who says "the headband" ep was pointless filler (it really and truly was not). also, i read something and it said flameo was a curse word, and idk if that's true, but you're welcome to interpret the final line as aang being like "fuck yeah!" if you'd like. thank you for reading, and i hope to see you tomorrow for day 5 - air temples!

#aang #aang week #aanglove #sokka #atla #avatar the last airbender #the headband #atla fanfic #atla fanfiction #fire nation #air nomads #amy writes #consider this your sokkaang crumbs for the day if you want to

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lovelylogans · 3 years

Text

debutante

previous chapter / chapter three / next chapter

part of the wyliwf verse.

warnings: mentions of transphobia, food mentions, alcohol, kissing, someone makes an approach as if they’re going to start a fistfight but they do not, please let me know if i’ve missed anything else!

pairings: logince, moxiety

words: 15,031

notes: the spanish is from an online translator, so if it’s terribly wrong, please let me know! also, the emails in this are fake, please don’t try to email them, pretty sure they don’t exist lol. also the wine advice is from my general family's ideas about the value of wine, but the pretentious way you're meant to drink wine was taught to me when i was in italy by some other students who went to sommelier class, a few days before i posted the first chapter of wyliwf, so

⁂

patton’s lingering over one last (decaf, darn virgil) mug of cocoa/coffee when the bell over the door jangles.

patton turns to glance over his shoulder and automatically brightens when he sees that it’s logan.

“hey!” he says eagerly. “i hope everything at the slange’s went okay, and even if it didn’t, i have masterfully wrangled virgil into allowing you to select a sweet treat of your choosing, or we can stop by lucy’s, if you want, and—oh!”

because logan had made a beeline straight for the counter, and has wrapped his arms around patton, burying his face in his shoulder.

“oh,” patton says softly, because—because logan’s not much of a hugger, and if he’s hugging him now...

patton immediately wraps his arms around logan in kind, rubbing a hand up and down his back as he does so. logan’s taller than him—patton distantly wonders if that will ever not be strange to him—and so he has to duck his chin to place his face into the space between patton’s neck and shoulder. patton squeezes tighter, and logan shivers a little bit.

“oh, hey, buddy, are you okay?”

logan nods, but he doesn’t say anything, lingering with his face pressed into patton’s sweater for a couple seconds, taking a couple deep breaths, shoulders relaxing slowly, oh so painstakingly slowly, before he emerges, looking slightly embarrassed, in a way that feels distinctly teenager-y.

“sorry.”

“you don’t gotta apologize for hugging me, kiddo,” patton says, frowning, reaching out to cup logan’s cheek. “is everything okay?”

“yeah,” he says. “just—” and he awkwardly reaches out to poke patton’s shoulder. “y’know. you’re my dad.”

“well, yeah,” patton says, still a little confused. “super thrilled i’m your dad, lo, have been for sixteen years and—how many days has it been since your birthday?”

logan’s lips twitch up into a little smile, and he settles into the chair next to him.

“d’you wanna talk about it?” patton says.

logan shakes his head, and he says very quietly, “not here.”

patton nods, absorbing this, but before he can say anything else, virgil comes out from the kitchen, rag and spray bottle in hand, ready to wipe down the counter.

“oh, hey, you’re back!” virgil says. “uh, your dad’s been taking decaf most of the night in order to get you a sweet, if you want one, even though nutrition doesn’t work like it’s split across two people—”

“can i get a brownie?” logan asks. “no offense, virgil, i just—kind of want to get home.”

“that’s cool,” virgil says, not at all offended. “one brownie, to go, comin’ right up.”

and so virgil plucks a brownie from the pastry case with a pair of tongs, setting it in a wax paper bag, before sealing that inside of a virgil’s diner to-go bag, passing it across the counter. “see you tomorrow for breakfast?”

“breakfast,” patton confirms, and leans forward, cheerfully demanding “kiss!”

virgil obligingly leans forward the rest of the way, giving patton a quick peck. patton passes over enough money to cover his meal and a tip, before he gently taps logan on the shoulder.

“let’s go, then, the couch is calling my name,” patton says, like he isn’t even a little worried about what could have prodded logan into hugging him out of the blue.

they step out into the night, the bell jangling in harmony with virgil’s goodbye. patton tucks himself a little more snugly into his jacket—spring may be approaching, but winter wasn’t letting go without a fight, so he was stuck with steel-gray cold mornings and too-early sunsets for a while longer—looking over to logan, who’s backlit by the street lamps and the fairy lights dotting a few of the buildings around town.

his face doesn’t give anything away. it almost never does, but patton studies his face anyways; stiff and unyielding, eyes sharp and looking out for any oncoming traffic. patton wishes a little bit that logan’s face would at least give him a little hint as to what happened at the slange’s, but logan just looks like he normally does, if a little stressed, and that could be for any number of reasons—school, or tiny bureaucratic roadblocks for the debutante ball, or a fight with dee, or just something to do with dee in general.

either way, patton jerks his head in the usual direction they walk to get home, and logan nods, falling into step beside him, the pair of them mirroring each other’s posture; hands in coat pockets, faces ducked to shield from any stray gusts of wind, their pace the same, the way it only ever is when you’re very used to walking to the same places with the same person.

they walk in silence for a couple minutes before logan takes a deep breath.

“can i ask you a morality question?”

patton smiles, just a little—journalistic morality and ethics questions are always interesting conversations with logan, as patton’s innate moral compass works well with logan’s encyclopedic knowledge of the history of journalism, so they tend to spend almost hours talking about stuff like this, hypothetical situations they can puzzle over together. plus, it’s a nice little insight into something logan’s so passionate about; it’s something they can do together that increases patton’s appreciation for logan’s talent.

“‘course you can!”

logan chews at the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, getting his question in order, before he says, “let’s say i’m interviewing someone. a peer.”

“yes.”

“and, not due to any prodding from said peer, i come into knowledge of something from… that peer’s family.”

ah. okay. so this might not be a hypothetical question.

“yes,” patton says cautiously.

“and if a previously established… editor,” logan says, edging carefully around it. “already knows sensitive information about said peer that was previously, ah. decided against publishing. if the reporter wished to ask advice, should they ask the editor, or keep said knowledge to themselves?”

patton rolls the question around in his head, removing the hypothetical-ness of it all. so, if patton knows sensitive information about dee that he’s already keeping secret, and if logan found out something else, then is it okay for logan to tell patton about it?

if patton knows one thing about dee, it’s that he’s secretive. the fact that dee has secrets isn’t surprising. the part that’s surprising him is that logan feels the need to get his dad’s opinion on the secret. so that probably means it’s a pretty serious secret—logan’s a smart kid, he knows what to do in a lot of situations, so if he feels like he needs patton’s help...

“well,” he says cautiously. “um. i guess it depends on the knowledge itself. is it going to hurt d—um, the peer, if no one knows? is it something that puts them in danger?”

“...no,” logan says. “i—ah, the reporter doesn’t think it will put the peer in physical danger.”

patton frowns. “so it would be more of an emotional distress situation.”

“yes,” logan says, relieved. “yes, exactly. it would put the peer in emotional distress. it causes the peer emotional distress.”

“currently?” patton says, frowning deeper.

“yes.”

“is the peer alone in knowing this? do they have other people to talk to about this in their personal life, not just the reporter and their editor?”

“technically,” logan says and frowns. “the peer and their family… employs people. so, the staff are aware of the situation, but they aren’t—friends.”

“the peer’s family?” patton says, glancing. “is that an option, for them to talk to their family?”

logan’s face deepens into a scowl. “it seems like that is not an option, given the information that the reporter has learned about the peer’s family.”

patton sighs, because, well. he probably should have expected that. dee’s dad was never particularly kind, but. he’d been hoping things like marriage and fatherhood might have changed him.

“um,” logan says, and gives patton a sidelong glance. “i thought a potential solution could be… offering the peer a space to come in and sl—um. interview. in the presence of the editor who already knows things. because the reporter feels out of their depth, but—but maybe the peer will decide to discuss things with the editor, who seems to have more expertise in this… area.”

the sleepover text, patton realizes. logan bringing dee over doesn’t just mean more planning, or an easy place for dee to stay after Get Cultured day; it’ll mean that patton will be there, too, and if they all get to talking, like last time, and dee lets something slip, like last time, or (more preferably to patton) if dee decides that patton seems like an adult he can trust with information, if patton seems like an adult who can give out sound advice...

“that seems like a great choice for the reporter to have made,” patton says, smiling at logan. “not divulging any confidences, but offering a way for the peer to decide if they want further support or not. agreed. that was a good moral exercise.”

logan nods. “on a completely unrelated note, i texted you earlier—”

“oh, yeah, totally unrelated,” patton agrees, winking. “but—yeah, that sounds good to me! totally down for that, it’s been a while since you’ve had a slumber party. have you already asked dee over?”

“no, not yet,” logan says, and that line of conversation has carried them to the front door of their house, where patton steps ahead of logan to unlock the door and let him in, flicking on the light as logan divests himself of his backpack and his jacket.

“well, you can go ahead and do that, i may as well mention now that you don’t need to get some gloves, i ordered some,” patton says, “so we can cross that off the list. um, your escort—what’s her name again?”

“poppy,” logan says.

“right, poppy,” patton says. “one, do you know if she’s coming to Get Cultured day, and two, does she have a tux?”

“i’ll text her and ask,” logan says. simultaneously, they collapse on the couch. logan makes no move to text her. instead, he frees his brownie from virgil’s, breaks it in half, and hands one half to patton. patton, grinning, accepts it.

“so,” patton says, taking a bite of the brownie. “how was the slange’s house, anyway?”

logan turns wide, beleaguered eyes to patton. “rich people are ridiculous.”

patton snorts and tucks his legs up underneath him, propping his head on his hand. “tell me about it.”

⁂

dee’s eyebrows arch at him as logan opens up his lunchbox. logan’s had his lunchbox for a few years, so it’s not quite as pristine as it was when he first bought it, after a lot of time spent in backpacks with heavy textbooks, and dropped on the ground, and shoved into lockers, but logan still likes the design of it—it’s black, with white sketchings of chemical formulas.

logan glances at his ziplocked jam sandwich and back up at dee. “what?”

“i don’t know how you can eat the same thing every day,” dee says.

“just for lunch,” logan says, removing a clementine. “and the fruits and vegetables change seasonally. dessert depends on what grocery store sales are on. what do you have for lunch, anyway?”

dee, wordlessly, proceeds to remove a gold-foil-wrapped something from his lunchbox, a black yeti-branded one, and logan eyes it.

“that’s excessive,” he tells dee.

dee shrugs. “yellow and gold are my favorite colors. shortly followed by black.”

“what, not brown?” logan says, eyeing his cape. “also, do you have a special understanding to flout uniform rules? ted grayson got pink-slipped because he wasn’t wearing a jacket or a sweater, how do you get away with—” he gestures vaguely to the bowler hat, the cape, the yellow gloves.

dee’s smile flits across his face so fast that logan thinks he might have imagined it, before he pulls out his phone.

“if you ever come to my parents’ house, i’ll show you my pink slip collection,” dee says decisively. he hands over the phone to logan, and logan obligingly looks.

it’s a wall full of filled-out pink slips.

“it’s the most precious art piece i own,” dee says in an officious tone, taking his phone back.

“how have you not been expelled,” logan breathes out disbelievingly.

dee’s smile is much less fleeting, this time, and he says, “anyways, speaking of clothes. you know a tailor, right? i need one for the ball.”

“well, tailor,” logan says with a shrug, beginning to peel his clementine. “it’s just virgil, but i could ask him. he’s doing a lot of dresses for sideshire high kids, is yours very complicated in terms of alterations?”

dee looks at him, before he says in a measured tone, “it fits perfectly fine, i just think the fabric at the shoulders needs reinforcing.”

logan blinks at him. “the shoulders?”

dee stares at him, for a few seconds, before he says in a purposefully casual tone, “yes, i had to look at a binder full of designs and i thought this one would be the best, what with the binder and all, but it turns out it needs a little bit of cover. some of the lace at the shoulder’s torn already, i need to make sure that’s hidden.”

logan promptly feels like an idiot—dee would need alterations to ensure that his secret’s kept, and if he’s wearing a binder and has a lacy shoulder, that would surely show—

“of course,” logan says. “i can ask him later. should i… tell him? about the… shoulder?”

dee chews at his lip for a moment.

“virgil’s my dad’s partner,” logan adds, as a means of explanation as to why he’s the tailor, but also to somehow pass along that virgil is supportive of trans people. “he’s been a bit puzzled by brick’s dress—brick’s nonbinary, they’re a year or so younger than us—but i think virgil’s managed to figure out how to customize the dress to best help brick feel comfortable. that was the biggest alteration, for a while, all the rest of the ones he’s doing are mostly hemming and the like. other than mine. mine used to be my dad’s, and he was quite a bit shorter than me at the time.”

dee chews at his lip a little harder.

“i’d tell only virgil,” logan says, and tacks on hastily, “about the, ah. torn lace at the shoulder. you don’t need to worry about that getting out to anyone else.”

“...i suppose you can,” dee says eventually. “as long as he’s discreet.”

“of course he is,” logan says. “you can let me know if you change your mind, though, i’ll probably tell him after dinner tonight. anyways. if we’re already talking about the debutante ball, shall we go over any of the more recent developments?”

dee nods, and the conversation turns to less fraught topics.

well. perhaps a little bit fraught, because if this blows up in their faces, logan still isn’t entirely sure of what repercussions could face him, but he’s sure there are repercussions.

poppy less casually enters dee and logan’s murmured conversation during lunch about the last touches before Get Cultured Day, and more quite literally shoulders her way in.

“so,” she barks, setting down her lunch tray with a clack, “what are the registration numbers looking like?”

logan looks at dee, and dee shrugs at him, tilting his head ever so slightly so his bowler hat covers his yellow eye, as if to say, you’re her partner, you’re less of a social threat than me, you handle it.

logan turns to poppy, and instead of saying any of that, asks, “aren’t you a freshman? why are you at sophomore lunch?”

she gives him a look, before she says, “so. numbers?”

“it looks like the final number of our participants is at forty-six,” logan says, “barring any last-minute entries, of course.”

poppy looks impressed for a moment, before she says, “i’ve gotten my tux, by the way. what’s your dress like?”

logan pulls up a photograph on his phone—the dress on the mannequin, not on himself—and tells her, “it’s still being altered, but it should be done by the end of the weekend.”

“you have your gloves, your fan, all of it?”

“yes. heels, too.”

poppy nods, and pulls out her planner, ticking talk to logan about dress off her list—logan spots bribery? and namedrop logan to dr. kramschissel and ask opinion on pitch as part of a sub-list underneath it—before she pulls out a manila folder and hands it to him.

“what’re these?” he says.

“design plans, new letterheads, and font families i think we should start using,” she says briskly. “oh, and a few new ways to update the website. that thing hasn’t been updated since before the dot com bubble burst, and we need to stay up-to-date on the latest design trends in the newspaper circle to be able to win a pacemaker, or at the very least continue the all-americans.”

(hey, a definition break from a former staffer here: all-american awards are distributed through the nspa, or the national scholastic press association, and the jea, or journalism education association. an all-american yearbook or newspaper is the highest rating given in critiques; it covers approximately the top five percent of high school and college publications in the entire country. the pacemaker is the highest award a high school publication can receive. these awards are basically high-school versions of pulitzers. and, uh, not to flex, but two-time all-american winner here!)

logan opens the folder, and his eyebrows arch at the infographic example greeting him. it looks incredibly professional, like an image in a magazine, with a color palette pleasing to the eye and simultaneously incredibly simple to read.

“so you’re a designer, then,” logan says; he’s dabbled in adobe photoshop and illustrator, and he knows better than most how long it takes to seem even slightly competent in illustrator, and by the looks of this, poppy is incredibly competent.

“artistic hobbies are proven to improve job performance, ease stress, and can improve memory and cognitive function,” poppy says matter-of-factly. “there’s no front-runner for design editor your senior year, which means there’ll be a gap, and if i prove early now that i know my stuff in design i can get an editor position my junior year. which means i put even more of an impressive resume forward to secure editor in chief my senior year. also, the style guide hasn’t been updated at this school in eight years. i want to write the newest edition.”

“...right,” logan says, and gestures vaguely with the manila folder. “have you shown these to mel?”

“obviously,” she says. “she said i had to wait until i got on staff, but my enthusiasm is apparently very encouraging. anyways, editor-in-chief gets a say in who the other editors are, so i figured i’d submit a portfolio early. also, there are pitches back there. you’ve already had three contribution bylines and i want your opinion on my chances of getting at least one this year.”

she takes the folder from him, flips past a couple pages, before she slides over another infographic, centered with empty boxes for photographs, placeholder text for an article. she’s designed an entire double truck layout. (double trucks are two facing pages in a newspaper; these are usually reserved for photo stories or large events. these are double trucks.)

DEBUTANTE HEADLINE HERE, it screams at the top of the page.

logan’s eyes flick across the table to dee, whose face is entirely blank, even though logan knows that an entire story about the debutante debacle would just draw more attention to what they threw the debutante event to cover.

“you’d have to be interviewed,” poppy says. logan cringes.

“i know, i know, you’re used to being the one who holds the pen,” poppy says. “but—”

“tell you what,” dee cuts in, voice smooth. “i know a way to pitch this to mel that benefits all of us, and won’t require poor logan to have to undergo the interview hell he’s used to submitting others to.”

“hey,” logan says mildly, without any heat.

poppy turns her attention to him, and dee digs out a pen, flipping it smoothly over his fingers.

“may i?” he says, gesturing to the mock-up.

poppy takes it from logan’s hands and passes it to him.

“right,” dee says, and draws a large circle around the infographic, jotting a p beside it, then circling one of the articles (headlined as DRESS SHOPPING PIECE?) and putting l beside it, along with the PARTICIPANT COLUMN, which also gets an l. DEBUTANTE STORY HEADLINE, he circles, and places a d beside it.

“there,” dee says matter-of-factly, capping the pen. “we all get actual bylines, not just contribution ones. logan can write a column and a dress piece, because he knows the person who’s altering sideshire dresses, and i can write the debutante piece, because i’ve been integral to the process, but i’m not as close with the organizers as logan is, which clears him of any bias. he’ll write the column about why the whole thing started. you can get credit for graphics and layout. we’d only need a staffer to take photographs.”

poppy’s eyes dart to him. “you’d think she’d take an entire double-truck by students who aren’t staffers yet?”

dee shrugs, spreading his gloved hands. “the worst she can do is say no. plus—” he slides the paper back, and takes a photograph of it with his phone, tapping a few buttons. “there. now we’ve got proof we came up with it first, and you and i can pitch a fit if they take the idea without involving us.”

“not me?” logan says.

“obviously not,” dee says, “you’re the favorite, which means you’ll be editor-in-chief once you keep that up, and i can benefit from nepotism.”

“i won’t be—”

“okay,” dee says with an eye-roll, “and who else are you going to trust to be your managing editor, louise? please.”

logan hesitates, because, well, he has a point. dee is by far the most capable person in their grade, aside from logan, of course. louise would be best qualified for entertainment editor, or perhaps photo, and then he shakes himself before he starts mentally assigning every proficient journalism student in their grade to editor positions.

“it wouldn’t be nepotism, you’d be qualified,” he says pointlessly.

dee tsks, patting logan’s hand. “of course not. mcmaster, buzz off for a moment, while i finish up this chat with logan, and then i’ll walk you to the journalism lab and help refine your pitch on the way, if you like.”

poppy’s eyes sharpen. “what, pitch it now?”

“no time like the present,” dee says. “and anyways, they’ll probably want a photographer there as we learn all the dances and curtsies this weekend, so—”

“right!” poppy says, “right. i’ll be right back” and she darts off, forgetting her folder, backpack, and lunch entirely.

logan watches her go, and says, resigned, “she really is going to be one of my editors, isn’t she.”

“editor in chief works closest with managing, copy, photo, and design, so she’ll practically be your right hand,” dee says gleefully.

“yours too, if you’re going to be my managing, so don’t look all smug because i will delegate if you make some kind of comment,” logan says, and dee grins at him—an actual, real grin, not a smirk or a smug little smile, a grin, like he’s happy.

and so of course logan has to ruin it by saying, “oh, i’ve been meaning to ask—would you like to come over and spend the night on Get Cultured day?”

the grin vanishes. dee actually looks somewhat alarmed. “what?”

“come over and spend the night,” logan repeats, trying his best to maintain a normal tone even though dee is looking at him as if he’s said come over and we’ll sacrifice you in an attempt to perfectly re-enact aztec ceremonies. “we could make sure everything’s done, then, and you could bring your dress so virgil could alter it and it could go home with in the morning, already done.”

he waits a beat, and when the alarmed look on dee’s face doesn’t abate, he adds, “it could be practice for a work night at the newspaper,” as if that is at all helpful.

“a sleepover?” dee says.

“well, yes,” logan says.

dee continues to stare.

“you can just say no,” logan says, perhaps a bit snippy, because dee’s acting like logan’s invited him away to get murdered. he is trying to help.

“at your house?”

“yes, at my house,” logan says.

poppy comes back; she’s managed to pull her hair back into a neat french braid that shows off the sharpness of her cheekbones, the intensity in her eyes.

“all right, i’m ready for the pitch,” poppy says decisively. “i think we should open with pointing out how this feature wouldn’t exist without you two, but i’m the one who came up with the idea.”

dee ignores her. “are you sure?”

“yes.”

“just you and me,” dee checks, wary.

“well, and my dad, but that’s a given.”

dee absorbs this, still looking rather spooked, before he says decisively, “fine.”

“fine?” logan repeats, arching his eyebrows.

“i mean—yes,” dee says. “yes, i’ll come.”

“all right, then,” logan says. “we can text about details.”

dee clears his throat, and offers his arm for poppy, which she takes with a confused look on her face.

“poppy,” he says, as they’re exiting the cafeteria. “i don’t suppose you’ve been to any slumber parties lately, have you?”

“oh, my mom usually pays me to stay at parties until ten-thirty,” poppy says cheerfully. “she thinks socialization is important and i’m not enough of a people person, so she keeps sending me to parties, so she has to keep paying me, which means i can save up so i apply to the summer science program through mit this summer. mom wants me to stay and do some kind of internship at a beauty company, but how is that going to further my career in cancer research? once i get in she can’t just keep me from going, it’s mit.”

great. his first sleepover, ever, and his only options for in-person advice are the person who invited him to the sleepover and the girl who has her life planned out through her forties likely down to what she’ll eat for lunch every day.

“fantastic,” dee says through gritted teeth.

⁂

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

CC: [email protected]

Subject: Debutante Spread

I’ll admit, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten quite so ambitious a pitch from three underclassmen, and never one spearheaded by a freshman. I absolutely love the idea, and if you stumble across a spare ticket for an adult to witness this socially conscious display, please feel free to let me know. I’ve CC’d Lauren Patrikis on this email—she’s a staffer on the Franklin who’s free on Saturday, and she’s very talented with a camera. Feel free to exchange numbers and text about other photography opportunities that you think would help benefit the spread.

Poppy: please put your infographics on a flash drive and drop it off in the lab so we have the highest resolution to upload. Thank you very much for coming up with this idea; I’m all the more excited to have you in class.

Dee: I think that about 1000 words should be the goal for the main piece, but we can discuss length when you come by. After school still works for you, correct?

Logan: Please confirm a time to come and see me so we can discuss the more specific story pitches for the two columns you’re doing.

I very much look forward to what you three get up to in your years in the Chilton journalism program. I have a feeling this is just the beginning of all the unique ideas you’ll have, and I eagerly await the opportunity to edit them.

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

CC: [email protected]; [email protected]

Subject: Directions for Lessons

Hello,

The directions to the dance studio we’re holding lessons in are attached. Please let me know if you have any further questions about navigating to Sideshire, or about the event in general. I can get you the phone numbers of the teachers, if you’d like them. Would you mind sending me your number, as well?

Regards,

Logan Sanders

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Pitch meeting

Hello,

I’d be available during sophomore study hall, if that would work for you? If not, I can stop by after school with Dee.

Regards,

Logan Sanders

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Pitch Meeting

Logan,

I’ve got a feeling that you’re the de facto leader of this little trio, even though the current spread is quite clearly Poppy’s brainchild, and I must say, this is very promising in regards to your future on the paper. I’m sure you’ll do exceptional work with this.

Sophomore study hall works great. You’ll be peeking in on the paper, but I have a feeling you won’t mind that at all.

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

(P.S.—Me pairing Lauren on this project is entirely out of selfish curiosity. Take from that what you will.)

⁂

patton is not sure if he has ever been more awkward eating a cherry danish in his whole life. he supposes that’s a pretty narrow gap to clear, but really, today has blown it out of the water.

most of the time whenever he’s around isadora, he feels like anything he does is dreadfully awkward, so it isn’t like this is news.

they’re together in isadora’s office, a small room just beside the studio; patton had offered to pick up supplies from remy’s café, so he’d brought her a tea and gotten a coffee for himself, and a little tray of assorted pastries. patton had grabbed the danish primarily because it was closest to him, and because isadora had already laid claim to a cruller that she’s been slowly picking at.

he winces a little as isadora takes a sip of her tea, pinky up, more preoccupied with the list in front of her. seriously. he went through years of etiquette training, he knows every fiddly little rule of silverware, he knows the various subconscious messages you can send while selecting a menu for the evening, and yet attempting to eat (or talk, or walk, or do most things) in the presence of isadora’s effortless, intimidating grace, it, well.

patton’s not the most refined person (anymore) but he knows he’s refined enough that he shouldn’t feel so buffoonish in isadora’s presence. he swallows his bite of danish, chasing it quickly with a sip of coffee.

“have you done the viennese waltz before?” he asks, just to break the silence.

“twice,” she says idly, turning the page. “well enough that i can remember the choreography and teach it to the children.”

“oh, good!” patton says. “good, good—um, not that you wouldn’t be able to pick it up really fast if you’d never done it before, since you’re obviously very good at dance being, um, being a dance teacher. and also a professional ballerina! even though i suppose ballerinas don’t really do waltzes, unless it’s, like, the waltz of the flowers or something, so i guess ballerinas do do waltzes! sometimes! what do i know, you know?” and immediately takes another sip of coffee because oh my god, patton, shut UP, he always gets like this whenever he and ms. prince have a one-on-one conversation, she’s so quiet and patton can’t help but word vomit because sometimes the silence gets agonizing.

isadora politely ignores him. patton takes another bite of his cherry danish and chews with fervor, because this way he won’t start blabbering about whatever comes to mind.

“all right,” isadora says at last, closing the handbook. “so, we’ll need to ensure that they know how to do the st. james bow, the viennese waltz, and the circle dance with the fans. that will all be my jurisdiction to lead, with you helping demonstrate, of course.”

“of course,” patton says, nodding like a bobblehead.

“—which means you shall take lead on the proper walk, proper dinner manners, and general courtesy, comportment, and etiquette.”

patton keeps nodding.

isadora takes another sip of tea and says, “so, we have approximately thirty-five kids coming, is that correct?”

“logan’s checking, but some of the chilton kids are being sent to other prep courses by their parents,” patton says, and frowns. “so—maybe a little less than that number, really. i can text him, if you want? i should text him—”

“that’s acceptable,” she says, waving him off. “he’ll be home from school soon enough, we can ask then.”

patton freezes, phone already in hand, before meekly puts it aside.

“i think we should begin as one big group,” isadora says, “and demonstrate the bows and curtsies, then we can split off into groups to cover the fans and the walk…”

and so patton mostly just listens and takes notes—he does not want to forget any part of this process—on how isadora thinks the teaching should be done. honestly, it’s a miracle she agreed to do it when roman pitched it to her, because one, she’s a teacher and he has basically no experience in teaching teenagers other than his own very curious kid, two, the studio is basically the only space big enough to hold all of them at once, and three, isadora has come up with a way to do this in such an organized way that’s almost militaristic. he’s very grateful that she’s agreed to this, and he tells her so once she’s finished informing him of the general outline she’s come up with for Get Cultured Day.

she nods in acknowledgement and says, “well, roman’s quite excited about the whole ordeal.”

patton grins at her. “i heard about their date—sounds like his dress is a definite statement piece.”

isadora huffs softly, shaking her head; she hasn’t yet put her hair up in a severe bun for her afternoon lessons, like she almost always does, though she’s in a pair of stretchy leggings and a loose sweatshirt that tumbles down to her mid-thighs. her hair’s in a ponytail, with a few black strands framing her face. it’s one of the only times that patton’s seen her hair out of a bun, though he’s never seen it down. he’d had no idea that her hair was so long—he guesses that it might come down to her ribs, maybe even her waist.

“roman wants everything to be a statement,” she says. “he got his dramatics from his father.”

“ah, but he makes it work, doesn’t he?” patton says. “both did, from what i hear, if a bit differently.”

“more than a bit,” isadora says.

“he wouldn’t be our roman without it, though, would he?” patton points out.

isadora’s lips twitch with what might be a smile.

“no,” isadora says. “no, he certainly wouldn’t.”

“wouldn’t have him any other way,” patton says. “love that kid, i’m thrilled to see what he’s gonna do—not just with the debutante ball, either.”

she’s certainly smiling now. “that’s the wonderful thing about children, isn’t it? watching them grow. like you’ve done with my boy, and i with yours.”

patton smiles, too, a little bittersweet. “gosh. we’re presenting them as adults to society. seems like yesterday roman was putting logan in a dress for a fashion show for the pair of us.”

“oh, yes,” she says, “and roman nearly dropped logan because he wanted to have a grand finale stunt he’d seen the older dancers do, i remember it well.”

patton snorts a little; after the initial rush of paternal panic when logan had clung to roman’s neck and it looked like they were both going down, it had been kind of funny to see logan, eyeshadow smeared over his eyes and lipstick messy on his mouth squawking in protest at roman even as roman had attempted to do the stunt again, even as isadora was telling him all about the importance of recovering from mistakes smoothly on stage.

“they’ve come a long way from a fashion show for the pair of us.”

“that they have,” isadora agrees, and offers an expression to patton that is the softest he’s ever seen from her. “i’m very fond of your boy, as well.”

patton can’t help but smile—he always smiles when he hears about people loving logan, because it’s logan, his son, of course he’s happy about logan being well-loved.

“we did a good job with them,” patton says musingly. “the weird parenting pool we’ve made—you, me, virgil. we turned out two amazing boys.”

“that we did,” she agrees. “and it looks like they’ll stick with each other. it’s rare for a young love to last so long, i know, but—”

“but they’ve been stuck on each other since they were five,” patton says, with a nod of agreement, and holds his breath as he reaches over to gently squeeze isadora’s hand, moving slowly enough that she could move away if she wanted to. she does not swat him away, so, success! “should we do the stereotypical thing now and start planning their wedding? i think logan and roman would be lovely spring grooms, personally, but i’m not totally set on season yet.”

isadora’s letting out that soft huff once again when the studio door opens, and patton turns to see who it is.

roman, his red backpack slung over one shoulder, him bracing the strap with one hand to unceremoniously dump it on the nearest bench, and scrolling through his phone with the other.

“¡mamá!” he calls.“¿qué peluca crees que se vería—?”

he pauses in his tracks, blinking, before he grins sheepishly at patton.

“hi, pa—mr. sanders,” he corrects. patton can feel the force of the arched eyebrow that ms. prince was giving him to make him correct himself.

“hi, roman,” patton says; he doesn’t know much spanish, so he isn’t really sure what roman’s asking. “how was school?”

“oh! good, good,” roman says. “the cheer squad finally figured out what uniform we’re gonna wear at the next game, and also they finally decided who’s officially escorting who—sasha’s mine, i’ve got a list i was gonna send to logan—”

“do i know sasha?” isadora asks.

“nah, i don’t think she ever took classes here,” roman says. “she’s one of the kids who comes in from the farm towns nearby, y’know?”

isadora nods, noting this, and roman hesitates, looking between patton and isadora, before—

“do you think you can keep a surprise a secret?” roman asks patton.

patton considers this. “well, i can definitely try my best!”

“oh, good, i want opinions,” roman bursts out and rushes over, showing off two pictures on his phone.

patton blinks at them; they look like two people, from what he can tell, with big hair and a lot of makeup, maybe a bit familiar, and if he could get a closer look ohhhh he knows where he recognizes them now.

“so, looking at wig alone, which one?” roman asks, and patton glances at roman, before he looks back at the pictures, and back at roman.

“you’re doing drag?”

“uh-huh,” roman says brightly. “as soon as i got my dress, i realized, like, i have to go full camp with it, you know? it’s this massive eighties monstrosity, i adore it. it’s definitely something a drag queen would wear, and i’ve been looking at makeup tutorials, and—”

“—and i was a private instructor for a few queens back in the day, so i know enough of the process to help,” isadora says, as if this is an utterly casual thing to say and not the most wild job he could imagine for her.

“you did?!”

“mm,” isadora says, sparing him a slightly bemused look, as if his surprise is completely unnecessary.

“i know, i had the same reaction,” roman says to patton. “my mom, isa-diva prince! anyways. from someone who’s seen a lot of drag queens, and someone who has been to a debutante ball—?”

“oh, yeah, i’ve attended one,” patton says, “i just never actually, y’know, debuted. but, um, lemme see the options again—?”

patton, as one might guess, does not know anything about wigs. he doesn’t have to, either, because isadora tuts at roman for one of his options, which is apparently subpar, and her son is going to make his drag debut fabulous—

roman, grinning, sends the link to isadora so that she can order the wig for him, drops a kiss on her cheek then patton’s, and calls, “i’m gonna go change and warm up to get ready for the baby’s class soon! you gotta remember to put in calls to get me an actual fairy drag mother!” and darts up the stairs, the door closing behind him.

patton turns to her, smiling. “drag?”

“drag,” isadora agrees. “he’s been watching some shows for long enough, i’ve been expecting him to at least express a little interest in attempting it for himself. and now he is absolutely exhilarated by the concept of wearing drag to an event that is so traditionally heteronormative and surprising everyone. well, except for you, now, i suppose.”

“everyone?”

“everyone,” isadora confirms. “he hasn’t told logan, or virgil. he wants to see their reactions.”

patton laughs, a little bit. “that seems… very roman.”

isadora huffs softly and agrees, “remember what we said about dramatics?”

⁂

New Groupchat

Logan Sanders, Dee Slange, Poppy McMaster, 1 Unknown Number

Logan Sanders: I’ve taken the liberty of putting everyone involved in the debutante spread for the newspaper into one group text. This is Logan Sanders.

Unknown Number: Hi, Logan, I’m Lauren! We’ve got a friend in common, you’re in the GSA with my boyfriend Kai.

Dee Slange: dee slange here

Poppy McMaster: I’m Poppy McMaster.

Logan Sanders: I was wondering where I’d heard your name before. Yes, Kai’s talked about you.

Groupchat has been titled: Franklin Debutante Spread Team

Lauren Patrikis: Okay, so, I think I should get to the debutante lessons about fifteen or so minutes early, just to get my camera set up with the lighting and to get a general idea of the space. Do either of you have ideas on who you want to focus on in your pieces, so I have an idea of who to photograph?

Dee Slange: i’m going to interview ana and janey definitely, plus logan’s dad and the ballet teacher, but other than that, I haven’t settled on who I’m getting quotes from

Lauren Patrikis: Ana and Janey, got it. Logan?

Logan Sanders: One of my pieces is a column from me to explain where the idea came from, and the other one will be focused on dress shopping, but Kram said she got photos for that already.

Lauren Patrikis: Oh yeah lol I went with a few of the other Clairs to get their dresses, so I got that taken care of. Good thing they wanted me there for Instagram otherwise we’d be depending on student-submitted cellphone shots Lauren Patrikis: Not that those aren’t nice, but. You know. Gives off a certain vibe.

Dee Slange: yeah, really convenient for us that you’ve withdrawn your participation into the ball and turned it into something for our direct gain

Logan Sanders: You’re a Clair?

Dee Slange: don’t be obvious logan Dee Slange: ofc she’s a clair

Lauren Patrikis: Haha yeah I’m a Clair

Poppy McMaster: Really??? Poppy McMaster: Can I text you with a few questions about that Poppy McMaster: And about your plans on going into journalism after high school

Lauren Patrikis: Ofc! Love to help a fellow journalism gal, and that you’re an aspiring Clair makes it all the better, girls gotta stick together, right? Lauren Patrikis: no offense boys

Logan Sanders: None taken. We’re all feminists here.

Lauren Patrikis: Now, with all the planning out of the way, can I ask your guys’ specific interests when it comes to the paper? Lauren Patrikis: I’m planning on applying for an editor position next fall, and fingers crossed I get EIC, but I’d be happy with managing or copy, really, and it’d be cool to get an idea of some of the juniors I’d (hopefully!) be working with

Dee Slange is typing…

Logan Sanders is typing...

⁂

“logan?”

logan glances up from his plate, where he’s been spearing scalloped potatoes without really lifting them to his mouth. virgil and patton are giving him twin looks of what might be parental concern, and logan grimaces without really intending to.

they’re having dinner, all three of them, which logan has been carefully edging around calling family dinner in his head, because if he says it aloud, he’s pretty sure it’ll spook virgil or patton. it’s a good dinner, too; the butcher was having a sale, so virgil got three good cuts of steak and made scalloped potatoes and asparagus and herbed butter, with something brought under a round tin that is now in the fridge. patton’s eyes have been darting to it, then back to virgil, trying to evaluate what dessert fulfills virgil’s stringent ideals for nutrition.

“sorry,” logan says, and eats the scalloped potato that he’s been butchering.

he is also slightly certain that this is their way of having a date night without leaving logan home alone on a week night. he is also edging carefully around that in his mind. he is very happy that they’re dating. it’s just that if he gives any thought to the implications for what they might do after their date it would be, as he would have declared ten years ago, icky.

the trouble is, logan reflects, is that it’s much more nerve-wracking to come out on another person’s behalf than his own coming out process was.

as he’s chewing, he reflects; it’s not like virgil is going to have a negative reaction, given that his boyfriend has been openly trans for sixteen years, and in regards to the dress tailoring, the worst virgil can do is say no.

“no need to be sorry, kiddo,” patton says. “busy thinking about that awesome double-pager—”

“—double truck,” logan corrects—

“—which, again, we're so thrilled for you, or is something on your mind?”

logan sighs to himself. there’s an opening if he’s ever heard one.

“dee still needs a tailor for his dress,” he says, and then he turns his attention to virgil. “i am wondering if you would be willing to offer your services.”

virgil’s face twists up.

“look,” virgil says, sets down his fork, and sighs. “i’m glad that you’ve got—i dunno, an understanding or whatever with this guy. you’ve got two more years at that school and i’m glad you’ve settled into things there. but—”

“but,” logan repeats quietly.

“—but,” virgil agrees, looks at patton, who has a polite listening expression on his face, and then virgil looks back at logan again, “look. you might have heard some things about my teenage days around town, and you’re almost an adult, so i don’t really hold any compunctions with telling you i was an asshole. a lot of teenagers are assholes, and some of them even manage to grow out of it. as a former teenager who was also an asshole, i can tell you that i got into some scrapes here and there. now, did i punch a few people on my own? ‘course i did. i was an asshole, i got into fights. but i can tell you that even in the depths of my stupid teenage actions, i never manipulated someone into punching someone else for me.”

logan absorbs this with a slight dip of his chin, a silent go on.

“these are just my two cents,” virgil adds, firmly, “you can do whatever you want, it’s your life, and you’re the one who’s at that school for hours and hours a day, you have a better idea of how to navigate things there than me. but. to add in my two cents, i don’t think the kind of guy who manipulates someone into doing physical harm on his behalf and has been openly very competitive with you to the point of doing something like that is a—a good buddy to hang around.”

he spreads his hands. “i could definitely be wrong. but—”

“but those are your two cents,” logan murmurs. “right.”

patton’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, now. “well,” patton offers timidly, and then snaps his mouth closed, clearly not wanting to spill the secret.

“i know you believe the best in people, patton, and that’s great,” virgil says, reaching over to squeeze patton’s hand. “i’m the jerk in this relationship, i’m aware of that, i can be an overprotective asshole, so i couldn’t sit by and just not say anything. you have the main call, obviously, logan’s your kid and this is your house.”

logan sighs a little, meeting patton’s eyes.

“he said i could tell him,” logan says, nodding his head in virgil’s direction. “he needs the tailor to be able to alter the dress without his parents’ interference. or so i gathered.”

patton sighs, too, except it’s more in relief, and he reaches over his other hand, to clasp virgil’s hand between both of his.

“dee’s…” patton says quietly, and then he straightens up a little. “he’s like me, honey.”

virgil’s brow furrows, ever so slightly. patton tilts his head. they’re looking each other in the eyes, a silent conversation, and patton arches his eyebrows at virgil, as if to punctuate whatever thought they’re nonverbally passing between them.

and then—

“oh,” virgil says blankly, and then he looks to logan. “he’s trans.”

it’s not a question, but logan nods anyways.

“he kind of accidentally mentioned it when he was over for the gsa posters, a month or so ago,” patton says, still quiet. “we promised we wouldn’t tell.”

“‘course not,” virgil says, still with that blank tone, reaching over to pat his hand. “you wouldn’t out someone, i wouldn’t want you to, not without their consent, but why—?”

“the dress,” logan says. “he needs someone to alter the dress to hide his binder. i don’t think he can go to any tailor his parents would bring up, they wouldn’t want him to wear one.”

virgil’s brow furrows. “why not?”

“his father never quite managed to grow out of it,” patton says primly, avoiding the swear. “apparently he found a wife who didn’t, either.”

and so the whole story behind why they’re really doing the debutante ball comes out slowly, as they’re finishing up their meal. virgil sits and listens, brow still furrowed, as logan explains how he’d come up with the idea, and patton provides a little further insight into dee’s background, and logan tells him as much as he can about dee’s house, without disclosing his grandmother’s illness, and by the time they both finish, a deep line’s marring virgil’s usually smooth, pale forehead.

“so,” virgil says slowly. “let me get this gay. you—” he points to logan, “came up with this whole idea to hide dee’s status, and you hid that behind the idea of doing this for feminism.”

“well, two things can be true,” logan points out, very reasonably, he thinks. “it started as just dee, sure, but i still despise the tradition of it and the sexist absurdity of it all should be pointed out.”

“and you,” he says, lightly bumping patton with his shoulder, “are hosting the Get Cultured day, plus a sleepover with the pair of them?”

“there’s—more,” logan says haltingly. “in dee’s life. i think dad could be a help with. i’m not at liberty to say.”

“christ, of course there is,” virgil mutters, rubbing at his forehead, as if he’s developing a headache. “right. i’m getting the chocolate-dipped strawberries—” patton brightens—“and the prosecco.”

“ooh, prosecco,” patton says. “fancy.”

“can i try?” logan asks, more out of curiosity than anything else.

virgil pops the cork, and then turns his eyes to patton, attentively waiting for an answer. patton considers this.

“pour him a little one,” patton says to virgil, who nods, and then proceeds to pour logan the tiniest flute of prosecco he can, before pouring more substantial servings for himself and patton.

“this has fruity flavors of green apple, juicy peach and ripe lemon, framed by hints of minerality,” virgil reads aloud, before he sets down the bottle, passes over the glasses, and then fetches the tin.

logan takes a cautious sip. patton is watching him do so closely, his hands under his chin, pinning logan with a curious look.

“this tastes like none of those things,” logan informs him. it mostly tastes like fizz, and, if he holds it in his mouth long enough, eventually just bitter grape juice.

“yeah, the whole flavor profile things tend to be bullshit,” virgil says, setting the tin at the center of the table and uncovering it to show off a collection of chocolate-dipped strawberries, drizzled over with dark or white chocolate, sitting in cupcake wrappers, and patton oohs and aahs.

“don’t say that around my family, or else you’ll be treated of stories of about thirty different wineries,” patton says dryly. “mom thinks she could have been a sommelier in another life.”

“don’t tell me you did the grape-crushing thing with your feet,” virgil says to patton, amused.

“i can neither confirm or deny,” patton says, taking his own sip of prosecco. “ooh, this is good!”

“thanks,” virgil says, then, to logan, “just as a pro-tip for when you’re twenty-one, go for the highest rated wine you can find at the lowest price.”

“highest rated, lowest price, understood,” logan says, and claims three strawberries for himself before his dad can take all the ones with white chocolate.

“and,” virgil adds, “if you find yourself around pretentious people—god knows you will, with your grandparents—just swirl it and sniff it and say oh, the bouquet is lovely, is this oak? or whatever.”

“oh, i can teach you the pretentious way you’re meant to drink wine!” patton says brightly, and so virgil and logan are treated to an informal lesson of how to best hold wine glasses (at the stem, so your fingers don’t transfer heat to the wine, which seems logical) and to swirl them (“you’re supposed to do this with wider glasses and wines that aren’t bubbly mostly, but it helps oxygenate the wine so you can smell it better,” patton says wisely) and how to aerate it while you’re drinking (“you’re kidding,” logan says, but obligingly attempts to suck in air and not dribble prosecco from his mouth simultaneously) and the three of them try their very best to drink their wine in as ostentatious a fashion as possible.

once logan’s had his fill of strawberries, and finished his tiny helping of prosecco, he helps wash the dishes and graciously bows out of the kitchen as subtly as he can. virgil and patton pour themselves thirds, kissing as they clink glasses when they think logan’s out of sight.

logan thinks he’s managed to be a fairly good third wheel to this date.

⁂

“well, i’ve got mine hanging in the closet,” patton says. “have you gotten yours yet?”

virgil groans; he’s feeling much too pleasant to think about such things.

patton’s sitting almost in his lap; his thighs are slung over virgil’s, at any rate, and virgil’s got his free hand resting on patton’s thigh, absently kneading at the muscle, savoring the warmth and weight of him. patton’s got his free hand playing with virgil’s hair; they’re both finishing off the last of the prosecco and talking about the debutante ball.

virgil knocks the last of his back, and sets the flute aside.

“i’ll get mine while you and the kids are off for Get Cultured day,” virgil grumbles. “a tux. ugh. no one more than the people who’re absolutely necessary will see me in that.”

patton smiles at him, fondness making his eyes go softer and sweeter than usual; his cheeks are pink, probably from the prosecco.

“you’re forgetting that we’re all gonna see you wear it at the ball,” patton points out, voice sugary, and virgil groans, tilting his head back, and therefore into patton’s hand; patton bears the weight of it gently, his hand bracing his skull, giggling even as he does.

“and don’t forget your white gloves,” patton points out, and virgil groans louder.

“oh, stop,” patton says, but any scolding attempt is ruined by how tender he sounds, the way he carefully tilts virgil’s head so he’s looking at him; virgil’s eyes trace along his cupid’s bow lips, lush and wet from the prosecco, the curve of his jaw, his eyes, a loving expression in them that makes virgil’s chest ache with devotion, his cheeks, going pinker the longer virgil looks. his eyelashes brush against his cheeks when he looks down for a moment, unable to hold eye contact.

patton seems to rally, shaking himself a little, before he says with great dignity, “you know looking at me like that makes me go to bits.”

virgil tries for a smirk, but it probably comes out soppy and moonstruck. “do i?”

“you know very well,” patton huffs, before he sits up a little and says, “and. you’re all deeply touched that roman asked you, i know you are.”

virgil’s the one to break eye contact, now, looking down at patton’s legs in his lap and mumbling excuses that sound weak even to himself. honestly, it’s a bit of a miracle he manages to get it out around the lump in his throat.

“i was talking to isadora, about our weird little circle of parenting,” patton continues, his tone victorious. “you, me, her. the boys. our boys.”

virgil squeezes patton’s thigh again, just listening.

“logan and roman are credits to you,” patton says. “not just us.”

virgil squirms a little. sentimentality is still not his strong suit. “you—and ms. prince—are the ones who raised them, took care of them day and night. i helped out where i could. and,” he kisses patton’s cheek, “you’re the ones who let me into your lives, so. they’re still majorly credits to you.”

“mm,” patton says, and looks at him with half-lidded, slightly mischievous eyes. “we’ll call it even, how about that?”

virgil snorts again and says, “if you think i’m about to claim credit for an isadora prince production, i hope you’ll plan out my funeral.”

patton swats his shoulder, but conversation veers away from virgil’s role in the kids’ lives.

good. if they go too much into parental feelings after virgil’s had three glasses of prosecco, he’s pretty sure he’ll get all annoyingly teary, and he’s pretty sure patton would think it cute and sweet, but he doesn’t exactly plan on getting all annoyingly teary to conclude this date.

⁂

the excuse that he’s told logan is that dee is coming early to survey the studio and help set things up.

the fact of it all is that he could probably drive his range rover in fifty laps around this town and he could probably still find something new to surprise him, like some kind of small-town culture shock.

for example—his range rover sticks out like a sore thumb. he has already spotted five people gawking at it as he drives around. two people even elbowed their walking companion and pointed.

they’re in for an influx of bmws and mercedes’ bought with daddy’s money—dee supposes it must be a car enthusiast’s idea of christmas to be able to see all the chilton students’ cars unexpectedly flood this tiny town, whose ideas of automobile finery are probably topping out at a prius.

he spies the punnily-named cat-themed store that he’d been so boggled by the last time he was here, and the community garden, and the town is just as kitschy as it was at night, except now he can see better in the light of day, instead of the light of fairy lights and wrought-iron street lamps.

now, he can see a local newsstand. he didn’t even know those still existed. on the same level of outdated absurdity, there is something called a mailboxes etc., which he can only hope is this town’s excuse for a post office. there is also a shoe repair store, because apparently these people are right out of the victorian era and have employed cobblers in this town.

there is a store called harry’s house of twinkle lights, which only sells twinkle lights, how on earth is that a sustainable business model?

incongruously, there is a tattoo shop right beside the famed virgil’s diner he’s heard logan talk about so much. he spends a lot of time parked in the street, staring at that. a tattoo parlor. well, at least something in this town has evolved past the ideals of a fifties housewife.

(there is a black lives matter sign in a place of pride in the window, along with a rainbow flag. there are a lot of pride flags waving brightly in the bleak wind, of all stripes and colors. there are black lives matter signs staked in a lot of front yards, actually.)

(in his neighborhood, there are no black lives matter signs staked on the professionally manicured lawns. he isn’t even allowed to have one in his room. he’s tried. his parents threw it out.)

dee checks the time, clears his throat forcefully, and moves to park as close to the dance studio as he can.

he’d seen it before; he’d watched as logan got all moony-eyed and reverent at his boyfriend dancing in the window, without the boyfriend’s awareness. it isn’t particularly difficult to find—it’s in what passes as the town square, which he supposes makes it as a technicality of being the shape of a square.

it’s also easy to spot because logan is out front, along with another boy their age; he recognizes him from logan’s birthday party last fall.

he hops out of the car, locking it as he does so (the town may look like it’s a fifties housewife’s dream, but he doesn’t know the crime rates of this town off the top of his head, and his sleepover bag is right in the back, looking prime for someone to steal, but the most they’d get is a decent bag, some clothes and toiletries, and his phone charger, so there.) logan glances at him, holding up one half of the sign; the boy (roman, dee remembers) glowers at him behind logan’s back, and dee tries his very hardest not to grin. thank goodness, something fun today.

“i didn’t know you had your license,” logan comments. he’s in jeans, but otherwise he still looks like an accountant (an actual accountant, not the wink-wink nudge-nudge joking kind that’s been popularized over that one song that says the accountant is a cover for really being a sex worker)—he’s wearing a collared shirt and tie, and a jacket on top of that.

“turned sixteen in february,” dee says.

“well,” logan says. “happy belated birthday, i suppose. roman, would you pass me the tape—?”

even dee has to admit roman is very well-dressed. he is wearing a black overcoat that is so nice that dee would not be embarrassed to wear it over a collared shirt, a red-and-black plaid sweater, and a pair of black, pleated, high-waisted pants and a pair of black booties. it’s like he’s stepped off someone’s painstakingly curated ✨ winter fashion ✨ pinterest board.

roman, however, is still glowering at dee even as he ensures his half of the sign will hold and passes logan the tape.

dee tucks his hands into his pockets. the wind is sweeping in their direction, which means his cape is flowing dramatically in the wind. it’s like he choreographed it. he hopes he looks like a norse god sweeping down to enact destruction.

“roman prince, i remember,” dee says smoothly. “we had a conversation at logan’s birthday party. nice to see you again.”

roman’s scowl deepens. “i can’t say that’s mutual, villain,” he declares, and takes a moment to ensure logan’s got a grasp on the sign (he does, he’s taping the last corner to the window) sweeps dramatically off into the studio with his nose in the air. dee can’t help but laugh.

logan simply looks chagrined.

“villain,” dee repeats, delighted.

logan rolls his eyes at dee and says, “my dad is just about the only one who’s forgiven the louise incident from you, so. be cautious.”

“when you say the only one,” dee begins.

“virgil and roman are the primary grudge-holders in the family,” logan says absently, too busy smearing a hand over the corner to ensure it’ll stick to the window to catch dee blinking at him, caught off-guard—family?—before logan continues, “and i suppose ms. prince, but ms. prince terrifies most she interacts with anyways, so the fact that she’ll hold a grudge should be indecipherable to those who are not practiced in conversing with her.”

“terrifying?” he asks.

logan looks away from the window at last, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. if dee didn’t know any better, he’d think that logan was being mischievous.

“oh, yes,” he says. “i’m uncertain if you’ll fear her or love her. perhaps both in equal measure.”

forget the tattoo parlor, this ms. prince woman is by far the most fascinating thing about this stupidly charming town.

dee looks at the sign. DEBUTANTE BALL TRAINING HERE, in logan’s neat hand, and then underneath it in a scrawling, well-practiced calligrapher’s cursive, GET CULTURED DAY! and a variety of other doodles around it. there are sparkles. he briefly entertains the mental image that logan is actually a sparkle enthusiast behind closed doors, but also, dee has seen his boyfriend, so. he’s got a feeling on who insists on sparkles in that relationship.

“well,” dee says, and nods to the door. “shall we?”

logan opens the door as an answer.

dee steps through, pausing just for a moment to sweep his eyes over the dance studio.

there are what look like old church pews in the hall, which leads back to what looks like a small room and a set of stairs; it is, he knows just by looking, renovated from an old building in town—a barn, maybe, or an old house, but one can hardly tell once they’re inside it.

he steps into the actual studio. the studio itself has two walls lined with mirrors, one with the windows facing out into the street, and a few windows facing out into the hallway. there are three round tables shoved to one half of the room; patton sanders, in one of his sweaters (a muted shade of plum, today) and jeans; a short, brown-skinned woman with her black hair swept back into an impressively tight bun.

they both glance over at the sound of someone entering; patton brightens, the woman frowns.

“dee!” patton says. “happy you made it, kiddo, c’mon in!”

the woman must be ms. prince.

ah. roman prince. this is roman’s mother.

“this is isadora prince, but she’s ms. prince to you,” patton prattles on cheerfully, seemingly ignoring the fact that the woman is sizing him up—predator knows predator, dee supposes, so he does not feel any compunctions about doing the same.

“she’ll be teaching all the dance stuff, the movement things,” patton says, “and i’ve got how to behave yourselves in a fancy-schmancy setting like this. plus, like, the proper walk. now, it’s been a few years since i’ve taken lessons, so i might be a bit rusty, but—”

dee stops paying attention, then, too busy tilting his head ever so slightly to survey ms. prince. she looks almost clinically disinterested, except for a unyielding, rigid look in her eyes that simply gives away impressions of stubbornness, but nothing of observational value. dee could have guessed she’s stubborn, she’s a single mother, as far as he knows, and a ballet teacher. aspects of both of those things require a certain amount of tenacity.

the closest thing dee can amount her expression to is a no-nonsense substitute teacher waiting for class to calm down, with the eerie sense of preternatural calm that the entire class will be in trouble far beyond their wildest dreams.

it absolutely does nothing to him. he does not react at all. if, perhaps, there is a chill sent down his spine, it is obviously because the heating system in here is inadequate and the old, shoddy architecture is clearly allowing a draft.

“...think it should be okay!” patton finishes, smiling still, completely unaware of what has come to pass. “‘course, i haven’t been around teenagers in a while that aren’t you, logan, and roman, but i manage the part-timer kids at the inn okay, so fingers crossed it’s the same for the chilton kids.”

ms. prince looks away from him. he does not feel anything that could possibly be likened to someone removing the last piece of rubble that was pinning someone down, and at last they could scramble away.

“you shall manage just fine,” isadora says. it sounds less like a comforting statement and more like the prediction of a military officer before a battle.

patton nods, seemingly bolstered by this. dee does not even try to imagine what would have happened if he wasn’t.

“can we practice?” roman says, doing his very best to pretend that dee isn’t there; dee rolls his eyes, even as patton exclaims “‘course we can!” and logan leans in to murmur, “roman usually assists his mother with dance classes, he’ll do the same for the dances we’ll need to learn.”

isadora moves to turn on music, and patton and roman turn to face each other. patton smiles at him encouragingly, and, as if unable to help it, roman smiles back as the music comes in, with an old-timey blare of horns.

“may i have this dance?” patton offers gallantly.

roman tee-hees and takes on a nasally tone reminiscent of most rich brats as portrayed on television, “i dunno, do you have a trust fund?” before he turns and declares, in a passable teacher’s tone, “always make sure, ladies, we’re mocking the original purpose of the ball! gold-dig away!”

it makes patton laugh and logan smile, but roman takes patton’s hand without waiting for his answer.

patton promptly assumes form—dee isn’t sure why he’s surprised it’s picture-perfect, but he is anyways—and roman does too, their hands clasped together, roman’s opposite hand on patton’s arm and patton’s hand resting on roman’s shoulder blade.

patton counts aloud as they sweep across the room, “one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three,” for his own benefit or for roman’s, he isn’t sure.

if not for that, if not for the surroundings of this dance studio, if not for their relatively casual state of dress, if not for the frank sinatra in the background, dee could easily believe that they were leading the opening dance of the actual debutante ball.

if roman were in his debutante gown, if patton were in his tuxedo, if the studio surrounding them was replaced by a beautiful, marble ballroom, then they would have been the jealousies of everyone at the ball.

roman, dee observes, is good. patton dances with the practiced air of someone who learned how to do this years ago, and roman’s ability to keep pace is so well-matched that dee passively wonders if they make a habit of dancing together; if perhaps they share a common hobby of attending sock-hops.

he recalls the dance-a-thon poster he’d seen while he was in town. he really cannot discount this theory.

“dee?”

dee looks away from the pair of them twirling around the room, roman’s coat flaring with them the way his skirt eventually will.

logan gestures to the table, and holds up a handful each of forks and knives. “would you help me with these?”

you expect me to do what, he nearly says, before he recalls his excuse to get here early was to help set up, and so he heads over to the table, logan handing him the forks and knives, dee setting the table as if for a proper three-course dinner.

he watches patton laugh as he dips roman, roman laughing too, their faces lighting up with it; he glances over out of the corner of his eyes, and he sees logan’s eyes gone soft, the way that dee has only ever seen him do once, that night of the poster-making when he had watched roman without being aware. he’s stopped unfolding the cloth napkins to stare at roman, that look on his face, the corners of his mouth lifted up; he has the fond expression of someone wed to their husband for fifteen years, watching them do the thing they love, not watching boyfriend of less than three months.

huh. logan sanders is a sap. he honestly wouldn’t have guessed it.

he mentally analyzes his memories of seeing logan and roman together; at the chilton dance, logan watching him through the window, and now. all three times, logan had looked at roman like he'd hung the moon and stars.

it bears further observation, for certain.

dee clears his throat loudly, just for the pleasure of seeing logan jump, come back into himself, and hastily resume placing napkins.

dee smirks to himself as he straightens the dessert spoon.

all right. that is also his major motivation to continue the observation—the fun of watching logan get flustered.

⁂

so maybe patton hasn’t thought about the way that a lot of teenagers are until virgil brought it up over dinner, but honestly, patton doesn’t think it’s his fault he overlooked that.

his track record with teenagers isn’t exactly a stellar one: when he was one, he was something of a wild child, and the other teenagers only ever really liked him at parties, and their opinion declined even more once he came out, and then that opinion crashed straight through rock bottom to start digging for the center of the earth when he got pregnant.

then he dropped out of school, and moved here, and he didn’t really have much interaction with other teenagers in sideshire, except for the occasional part-timer at the inn, who mostly treated him cordially, if a bit awkwardly.

then he kept working with those teenage part-timers, who were technically coworkers, and most of them carried that same generally friendly attitude throughout the years; then his boys turned thirteen, but he’d been so used to the pair of them, the only turmoil they’d had to deal with were occasional emotional outbursts and boy drama.

and now, well. dee, too, he supposes. he isn’t sure how much dee qualifies as a typical teenager, though, what with him dressing like a victorian gentleman on an off day and his apparent secret that logan’s hinted at but not said.

and now an incoming horde of chilton students. the last generation of chilton students he’d dealt with while he was at chilton, and he’s pretty sure those opinions are still slow-cooking in the lava in the core of the earth. he isn’t sure how a new generation of chilton students is going to be. for one, they’re chilton students. for another, they’re teenagers.

so patton is maybe a little nervous about today!

the boys are milling about the room, checking on everything. roman seems to have settled on the strategy of ignoring dee, which seems to suit dee just fine, even amuse him, a little bit. logan goes back and forth between helping the pair of them—dee with the tables, roman with nametags—and isadora is scrolling through her phone, checking to make sure she has waltz-appropriate music queued up, and patton…

well. patton is nervously pacing around the room, trying to see if he can poke in somewhere in help, but apparently they’ve all got it covered, so. patton’s job is apparently pacing.

unsurprisingly, the sideshire kids filter in first; brick comes bearing what they say is a gift from virgil, handing patton a tray full of heat-preserving cups for the four of them, and patton eagerly removes the top to sniff it only to pout that it’s decaf before he passes out the other three drinks to isadora, roman, and logan.

“hi,” brick says to dee.

“hello,” dee says warily, hovering near the corner of the room.

“wicked cool cape,” brick says. “you’ve got the phantom of the opera thing going on, then?”

dee lifts his eyebrows, looks as if he is about to do something that will be great fun, and says in a tone that is mildly threatening, “was that a joke about my vitiligo?”

“okay!” patton breaks in, as brick starts to look like they’re about to fall all over themselves in apology, “brick, kiddo, this is dee, he goes to logan’s school. how about you go on over with roman and get your nametag, huh?”

brick scampers off with a squeaky “sorry!” and patton turns to dee.

“be nice,” he says, in the same tone he’d use when logan was in kindergarten and demanding to know how on earth the other kids were unaware of what he’d thought to be universal common knowledge, like the heat death of the universe.

“it’s too easy,” dee complains, gesturing to his face.

“be,” patton repeats pointedly, “polite. i know that wasn’t the best thing for them to say, it was not a very good comparison, but they were talking about your clothes, not your face.”

with a facial expression much the same as six-year-old logan grumbling about how it isn’t his fault the universe might one day reach thermodynamic equilibrium, dee sighs before he goes over to pick up a nametag off the table.

“don’t worry, brick,” roman says, giving dee a dirty look, “that villain is vile to everyone he meets. it’s such a disaster that’s probably where he got his name. dee-saster.”

patton looks between them. brick, looking very much like they would like to duck out of this conversation now please; roman, victorious in his nicknamery even though patton can admit quietly to himself that it’s not exactly roman’s best work; and dee, who looks entirely unaffected.

and then he smiles. a placid, calm smile. he looks rather mild-mannered, actually. the room is quiet.

“you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid,” dee returns, and roman looks terribly offended, his hand flying to his chest.

“exCUSE you,” roman says very loudly, “i am very happily and VERY CONTENTEDLY in LOVE with the HANDSOME man whose face you chose to MAR through—through your machiavellian manipulations and jealousy of logan’s many talents like you’re the stepmother in snow white! how dare you! i—ew!” he says, sounding like that one character in the canadian sitcom he’s trying to make logan watch. he’s clearly about to continue, but patton takes that as his cue to cut in.

“boys,” patton says loudly. he waits for them both to be quiet before he continues.

“be polite,” he repeats sternly, putting his hands on his hips. “be nice. we are here today to learn about absurd, sexist traditions that we all plan on going in and upheaving, and any good heist team needs to get along! am i clear?”

roman sighs but grumbles out an affirmative; dee rolls his eyes but does the same.

“good,” patton says, and points. “dee, please go help logan. roman—stay here.”

the boys, at last, split up.

“sorry,” brick repeats to dee.

dee shrugs. “i’ve heard it before.”

“still,” brick says, “i’m really sorry. patton’s right. that was a bad comparison to make, i should’ve said mr. darcy or something,” and then brick proceeds to stand as close to isadora’s general vicinity as they dare, as if her mere presence will protect them from any other catastrophes.

it probably will, honestly.

any awkwardness in the air doesn’t linger very long, though, because some other sideshire kids come in; elliott, for one, so they can go stand with brick, along with a few members of the cheerleading squad, which means that roman is distracted. there’s a girl with a camera he doesn’t recognize, but patton’s guessing she’s probably with the franklin, because she splits straight off to talk to logan and dee, stopping briefly to introduce herself to him and isadora, before she takes up residency in a corner and starts adjusting her camera’s settings.

dee and logan stand in the back, heads tilted toward each other, speaking quietly; he catches something about how brick’s in the theater program at school with roman before patton turns his attention to asking isadora a question about waltzing. at one point, brick accidentally catches dee’s eyes, and rather than scowl at them or anything, dee, instead, nods, as if in acceptance. brick’s shoulders relax, they nod back, and they turn to resume talking to elliott.

huh. that’s something.

he doesn’t really have time to think on it, though, because then the first wave of chilton kids start arriving.

the difference between the sideshire kids and the chilton kids is immediately stark, even though it’s not anything as visible as the quality of their clothes, or the way they look, or like all the chilton kids are wearing their blue-and-navy and the sideshire kids are wearing their red-and-white.

it’s in the way they’re acting.

the chilton kids are all in clumps of each other, and patton’s sure that logan and dee could tell him the precise clique each of them are in; a group of girls whisper behind hands and giggle together, and the sideshire cheerleaders look immediately ticked off at the sound of it. a group of chilton boys bump up against each other and ruffle hair in typical teenage rough-housing fashion, scoffing at their surroundings together, and the sideshire boys—if patton’s looking at them right, he thinks that group’s mostly the hockey team—look like they’re ready to go over and join in with the rough-housing with a much less friendly intention.

so. patton might have his work cut out for him. he'd say the same for isadora, but he holds no illusions about the fact that isadora will be able to rule her half of teenagers with a firm hand.

once the time ticks to the new hour, patton looks at isadora, who simply nods at him.

right. patton’s doing this on his own, then.

he steps forward into the front of the room, clapping a few times to get everyone’s attention; their conversations die down, and all of their eyes turn on him.

all of their eyes. they’re all watching him. waiting for what he’s going to say. a group of teenagers. yay. so fun.

why is patton’s mouth suddenly so dry.

patton wipes his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants, trying to pass it off like he’s putting his hands in his pockets.

“hi!” he says, in a bright and cheerful tone that sounds fake to his own ears. “i’m patton sanders, some of you might know me as the manager of the independence inn here and town, others might just know me as logan’s dad.”

logan hunches his shoulders slightly when some chilton kids look back at him, looking so much like virgil for a second that patton’s heart pulses a little stronger than usual.

“—and this is ms. prince,” patton continues, gesturing to isadora, “she owns the ballet studio here in town and has been very gracious to let us use this space and to join in on teaching you kids how to waltz properly. she’s a professional ballerina, so this is a really unique opportunity for everyone!”

isadora crosses her arms over her chest. the kids do not look particularly enthused about this really unique opportunity.

“okay,” patton says. “um—if you haven’t already, go ahead and grab your nametags over there at that table, that’s roman, he’s gonna help us out with the waltzing today. we’re splitting you up into two groups, we’ve already assigned—”

some of the kids groan.

“—you’re probably still going to be with some of your friends!” patton continues. “um, it’s just the two groups, one of them will learn dancing first and the other one will get a review of the proper etiquette to have at these sorts of events, and then we’ll switch, and then we can convene back together as one big group to answer any questions you might have, or practice the dance all together, does that sound good?”

there’s a chorus of teenagers grumbling in agreement.

“okay!” patton says, putting a lot of effort into maintaining his bright tone. “if you’ll take a look at your name tag, red dots are with ms. prince first, blue dots are with me, all right?”

there isn’t even a chorus of teenagers grumbling in agreement this time.

“um,” patton says, then, because it seems like the thing to do, “any questions?”

it is a terrible mistake.

“didn’t you get pregnant when you were sixteen?” one of the chilton girls with a very familiar pair of eyes and a strikingly similar chin (god, if this kid is somehow related to shauna christy, and she probably is, patton’s going to have a terrible time trying to teach her anything) and patton clears his throat.

“i, um—yep. yep, i did—”

“wait, you got pregnant?” another chilton student says.

“i’m trans,” patton says, really hoping this isn’t going where it’s about to go, “so, any questions about the ball—”

the first girl, the one who might be related to shauna christy, makes a loud noise as if she is about to ask another question, but there is something louder that even makes patton jump a little.

the entire room swivels to look at what has caused the noise, only to see dee with his hands hovering casually in the air, as if he’s still holding the massive block that isadora uses as a standing prop.

“christy,” dee says, still with that same calm voice (aha! a tiny voice in patton’s head says, i was right, she IS related to shauna!) “if you continue this line of questioning, everyone in this room will know precisely why the words ‘snyder’s hanover’ are significant to you.”

christy goes incredibly pale, and she squeaks out, “how the hell could you know about—?”

“well, i didn’t,” dee says, looking remarkably pleased with himself. “not for sure, anyways, but now i do.”

the chilton students turn curious eyes to christy, who goes beet red.

dee surveys them all with the same air patton's mother gets whenever she’s observing the way a new maid cleans to see if it’s to her satisfaction.

“i know at least five significant things about every chilton student in this room,” he continues imperiously. “if you all don’t shut up and let us get this over with so i can get a unique college essay and not just a story about how i was adopted at a young age that thousands of other students will surely have, i will sow social chaos unlike anything this school has ever seen. those of you who will recall the nettie eckstrand incident will know that is not an idle threat.”

a tall, blond boy snorts and says, “what are you gonna do about it? swim back home to haiti?”

“hey,” patton says sternly, but before he can really lecture this boy, dee holds up a gloved hand.

dee looks at the boy, sweeping his eyes up and down him. the entire room is silent; though the chilton kids are clearly waiting with bated breath, even the sideshire kids seem like they’re interested, a fresh batch of drama and gossip that doesn’t affect their school at all. the boy is all smirking, postured swagger, every inch the stereotypical young, rich white boy who’d known no consequences.

then dee looks him dead in the eyes and says, “pj harvey.”

okay, look, patton doesn’t know why a musical artist who was very popular in the nineties has to do with anything, but before he can say anything the boy surges forward, as if to fight him—

“HEY, HEY!” patton yells—

—and he’s stopped in his tracks by two of his friends who step in to hold him back, and he huffs, straightening his jacket with a bit more fervor than necessary. he stalks off, which doesn’t have quite the effect it would’ve if he’d stormed out of the room.

dee hadn’t even flinched.

patton looks to isadora for help—he can’t imagine she’s often had brawling ballerinas in her classroom, though—but before either of them say anything, a tiny, dirty-blonde girl bursts out from the corner.

“now that the male posturing is done,” she declares impatiently, “can we get to the part where we subvert patriarchal expectations, please? we all have homework to do after this and some of you really need to at least try to make it seem like school is for more than making out with each other and killing your brain cells with alcohol.”

“okay!” patton blurts out, before anyone else can try to start a fight with her, “blue dots over here, please, blue over here!”

the girl comes over to his side of the room first, as does dee.

great.

patton spies her nametag, too; POPPY MCMASTER.

ah. she’s the escort to logan’s debutante.

even better.

as logan’s crossing the room to join with the red dots, patton bends his head close to his ear and murmurs, “goodness, aren't your chilton friends…" he wracks his brain for a good word, "so enthusiastic?”

logan scowls, and returns in an equally quiet voice, “first of all, that is not exclusively a chilton thing, you have known roman for over a decade, and secondly, poppy isn't quite a friend, she has more attached herself to me in the hopes that i will be a mentor to her and give her an editor position her junior year.”

patton opens and closes his mouth a few times, before he says, "excellent," what on earth is in the water at that school, before he pushes logan gently in ms. prince’s direction and turns his attention to the group of teenagers.

they are not any less intimidating when halved.

“right,” patton says brightly. “let’s get this Get Cultured day started!”

#text #my post #my fic #my fanfic #the sideshire files #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides fanfic #moxiety #logince #janus sanders #cartoon therapy #patton sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #sanders sides

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zeppelin-and-unicorns · 3 years

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Fanfic recommendations part six: 100% Alternate Universe stories.

Hey! It took me a while to post this and I’m sorry, got too caught up with, well, you know, life (ew). But I’m back!

All the stories listed in this are stories are 100% AU (yes, I’m including the Soulmate AU’s in this category). I’ve read and enjoyed them all.

Accidentally In Love by the bohemian flow.

Rachel Hyde was a witness to a strange romance that blossomed between her twin brother, Steven, and Jackie Burkhart, of all people. Her and Steven weren't the biggest fans of Jackie, but now, he loves her. How could Rachel possibly put up with her brother's girlfriend?

AU where Hyde has a sister. Not 100% focused on J/H, since it’s from Hyde’s sister POV, but it’s still pretty good.

This story is a WIP and it’s being updated constantly.

109k words, 28 chapters so far.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, OC/Kelso, OC/Eric, Eric/Donna.

A Different Start Could Lead to a Better End by SoftBubbles

Instead of Hyde meeting her as Kelso's annoying girlfriend, what if he met her as his annoying English partner, whom he quickly learns is more than she seems.

This story is not complete, it was last updated on July of 2020, and I pray for the author to come back to it one day, it’s a really good story.

Trigger warning for child abuse.

13k words, 14 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Bad Moon on the Rise by Badfanfic

Set around season 2. Jackie starts to develop feelings for Hyde, even though its the last thing she wants. Hyde is just trying to survive but is having difficulty controlling himself, especially around a certain cheerleader.

Hyde is a werewolf in this story. And THIS IS GOOD Y’ALL, I’ve read this like 10 times already.

Unfortunally, I think this story is abandoned, the last time the author updated was in June of 2020, but I still have hope, it’s really good and I’m DYING to read more. I absolutely adore stories with supernatural elements, and it’s so hard to find good ones in this fandom. Please read this.

13k words, 9 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Focus by Jenny7

After a metaphysical awakening, Hyde develops the ability to telepathically connect with a single stranger. What he doesn't expect is that the girl that he shares the connection with, a rich cheerleader with a complicated past, will forever alter his views on life and love.

SO GOOD. It’s complete and it has a sequel (that’s not complete but still worth the read), called Darlin, Walk Awhile With Me.

2k words, 19 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde.

History Rewritten by kezztip

What if Hyde got his Season 1 wish and stole Donna away from Eric? And then what if Eric had turned to a certain tiny cheerleader instead?

This story is complete, and if you have a soft spot for Eric/Jackie, than you might like this a lot.

81k words, 25 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Jackie/Eric, Hyde/Donna, Eric/Donna.

(I absolutely hate the Hyde and Donna pairing but it’s temporary so it’s okay).

Playing Pretend by isnotme

Caught up in her teenager concerns – and some wounds to heal, Jackie didn’t realize that her parents' marriage was crashing down for real, causing a major turnaround in her world.

In the edge of seventeen, Hyde had too much on his mind. With graduation coming so soon, he knew too well he was about to be kicked out of the Forman's home. But when Bud’s illegal activities came to knock on his door, Hyde saw his plans falling apart once again.

An AU where Jackie and Hyde get themselves in one of those fake relationship situation and somewhere along the way, they find somethings in commun. Highly inspired in every cliché Rom Com ever made, including Netflix's most recents TATBILB and Isi and Ossi.

This story is a WIP and it’s being updated often.

33k words, 13 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, background Eric/Donna

Pretty in Wisconsin by BelleBae

Jackie Burkhart has a lot to deal with. Her dad is in prison, her mum can't get it together and one of her best friends is in love with her. Will she be able to sort everything out by Prom? Inspired by Pretty In Pink.

Cute and complete.

20k words, 23 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Rock You Like a Hurricane by zeppelinandunicorns (yours truly)

Alternative universe where Donna met Jackie before meeting Eric and the rest of basement gang.

Jackie and Donna are 16 and 17 when they finally met the four basement misfits after a Fleetwood Mac concert.

This story is a WIP, and I do not plan on abandoning it, I love it too much to do that.

77k words, 15 chapters so far.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Eric/Donna, background Red/Kitty and eventual Fez/Laurie and Kelso/Brooke.

Also Available on AO3

She Belongs to me series by QueenBookBuff

A universe where Kelso cared a lot more about Jackie and Hyde getting together and implications of a deeper background for both Jackie and Hyde and Kelso and Jackie.

This got me hooked, it’s really good, please read it.

It’s complete and there are sequels! They are called All Our Tomorrows

and The Scarlet and SJ Chronicles.

27k words, 7 works in total.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Summer Music Series by Wickedfetch

What if Hyde and Jackie didn't meet until 1985?

Complete.

7k words, 3 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Also Available on AO3

That 70s show by Zenmaster21

What if Jackie had dated Hyde from the beginning instead of Kelso? This is simply a re-write of the episodes had Jackie and Hyde always been together.

One of my favorites stories from the entire fandom.

Not complete, but please read it, it’s worth it.

Trigger warning for child abuse.

152k words, 37 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Eric/Donna

The Fifth Forman by BlueZeppelin

What if it wasn't just Eric and Laurie? What if they had another sibling? Like...Jackie? What would happen with Hyde? Would Eric be happy with his sister dating his best friend? Would Red like his daughter to be with one of the basement dumbasses?

This story is complete!!

52k words, 18 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

The One Where Jackie Moves In by Floweerchild96

Jackie has been living in New-York with her family but after her father goes to jail and her mother abandons her, she is forced to return to a town she thought she was done with for good. How will Jackie's reemergence in the basement effect the gangs lives?

A really good story, but unfortunally, it’s not complete. Still worth the read.

103k words, 20 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, background Eric/Donna.

Wall Around Your Heart by ourinvisibleink

Jackie Burkhart-Forman was adopted at almost ten years old by Red and Kitty, after her parents flee the country for drug trafficking crimes. Laurie grapples with addiction, Eric is messed up because of Red’s verbal abuse, Steven’s arrival is brought on by Jackie, Kelso is neglected, Fez is victim to racism, and Jackie befriends Jason, the new kid who happens to be gay.

This story is really good, but it deals with some serious stuff. I still love it.

Complete and it has a sequel called Plastar and Mortar.

52k words, 26 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Eric/Donna, Fez/Laurie, Red/Kitty.

One-shots:

A Little Less 70s, A Little More Modern AU by fairytalesandfolklore

A modern AU where the characters from That 70’s Show grew up in the 90’s x early 2000’s instead.

Cute as hell!!! Worth the read!

1k words.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

found a wife and a home (and a family that matters) by blackorchids

Hyde’s been part of the Forman family for years before they make him move in.

I placed this in the AU category because apparently Jackie and Hyde always dated, it doesn’t specify much.

1k words.

Rated G.

Pairings: background Jackie/Hyde and background Red/Kitty. This is not focused on the couples, but on Hyde’s relationship with the Forman’s.

Lady and The Tramp by soobeans

'See, I, myself, don't like you. I find you abrasive. But if I didn't know you, and I'd never talked to you, I'd think you were totally hot.'

In Point Place, Wisconsin, there are only three distinct areas. The Western area consists of the burnouts, thugs, outcasts, hopeless dreamers, poor people, and overall, tramps. The Eastern area holds the classy, rich, and more fortunate ladies and gentlemen. In between is where the two are forced to intermingle, but of course, they found a few ways to separate themselves.

8k words.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, some minor background Eric/Donna moments.

That Disco Episode: Zenmasters Style by springsteenicious

What if Hyde had learned how to dance to impress Jackie instead of Donna? And what if Jackie hadn’t been dating Kelso?

That Disco Episode, rewritten for Jackie and Hyde.

2k words.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Bonus: Soulmate AU’S:

I am so in love with Soulmate AU’s that I’m currently writing one, I wanted to make a special post just for this category but it would be too small so I just included it in here.

Finders Keepers by nannygirl

It's said that before you find your soulmate you will find one of their lost items first, so what happens when Hyde finds a gold bracelet in The Formans' backyard? Will it lead him to his soulmate, someone who he's sure probably doesn't even exist?

This story is not complete, but worth the read.

5k words, 2 chapters.

Rated K+.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, some background Red/Kitty

It Takes Time to Fall in Love by yabookreader96

Jackie can't wait to meet her soulmate, but a dire mistake on her part leads her to mistakenly identify him as Michael, while Hyde watches his soulmate clock hit zero and immediately knows that it's Jackie. Years pass, Jackie with Michael, Hyde saying nothing as he knowingly watches from the side. Will this dynamic be permanent or will destiny bring the true soulmates together?

This story is complete.

18k words, 12 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, temporary Jackie/Kelso.

Mistaken Messages by MistyMountainHop

Jackie longs for her soulmate to accept her, and Hyde hopes his will leave him alone because he's in love with someone else. A stack of mystical index cards lets them communicate with their as-yet unidentified soulmates. But the more their soulmates write, the less control Jackie and Hyde seem to have over their fate.

This story is complete.

23k words, 5 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, background Eric/Donna

Also Available on AO3

Until We Get There by poetdameron

Running away from their own wedding is the craziest thing Hyde and Jackie have ever done together. But the tug he feels at his heart when realizing she doesn't want to marry him? The worst.

This story is complete.

39k words, 8 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Also Available on AO3

Voodooized by mc_1

Eric’s been noticing something weird going on between Jackie and Hyde. At a party one night, all of Eric’s suspicions are confirmed when the two become love-marked- an event that occurs when soulmates are ready to be together, resulting in a mark on the skin that bonds them together for life. The unlikely couple puzzle over how they could possibly be paired together as they struggle to understand each other.

This story is a WIP.

14k words, 4 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde. Eric/Donna

Where It Wasn’t Supposed To Be by moved-ao3

Jackie thinks it's a blessing, Hyde a curse. Set in an alternate universe where characters receive a list with their soulmate's worst qualities, Jackie and Hyde struggle to navigate their feelings for each other when everything else seems pitted against them.

Not complete, and it makes me want to cry, but it’s really good.

15k words, 5 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Also Available on AO3

One-shots:

all i need by orphan_account

"When he is six years old, the words 'Pudding Pop' appear on his wrist in the curliest, loopiest handwriting he's ever seen. There's even a little heart dotting the 'i'."

1k words.

The author didn’t rate this one, I would rate it as T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Blush by springsteenicious

On a person's eighteenth birthday, they swap bodies with their soulmate. Hyde doesn't have high hopes for his soulmate, but when he wakes up in a very pink room with posters and painted nails, his life is changed for the better.

4k words.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Also Available on AO3

I believe this is all!

I’ll repeat this at the end of every single post (seriously, I literally copy and paste this every single time): Speaking as someone who writes, it would be really cool if you guys decide to leave a review (or a comment, if the story is on AO3) in the stories you read, especially the unfinished ones. It really motivates the authors, and receiving a compliment is always a mood lifter. I’ve seen some authors updating stories after years because of nice reviews, so… yeah, this is just an idea.

Feel free to reply to this post if you think I left out a good story!

Next category: Christmas fics!

#jackie x hyde #jackie and hyde #zenmasters #fanfic #fanfic rec #that '70s show #that 70s show #alternate timeline #soulmate AU #fanfic recommendations

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chockfullofsecrets · 3 years

Text

Critical Role: Making People Happy

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: Jester fidgets with her sleeves for a minute, then with her tail and then -

Then, she has an idea. A wonderful, brilliant idea that’s going to cure her boredom and also hopefully make Caleb a lot less grumpy.

Beau and Caleb are fighting, again, and Jester's determined to solve at least half of this problem.

Wordcount: 3093

A/N: Went a little overboard with the lead-up here, whoops - one day i’m going to learn how to write actual tk fic lol

Fill for this anon prompt - hopefully I’ll only have to apologize for how late these are a couple more times, but anon i’m so sorry

---

Jester’s new friends aren’t like anyone she’s ever met before.

Some of them are super strong - like her! - and some of them can do magic even though they don’t know the Traveler - and some of them, she thinks, eyeing Fjord where he crouches over the beginnings of a fire, are very, very handsome -

More importantly, at the moment - her new friends are also really fucking grumpy.

The Lavish Chateau has had its fair share of visitors that snap like Beau or sulk like Caleb - but there’s always been a door or a wall in the way, Jester on the other side peeking through at the mess. The two of them have been arguing over some bits of Empire history for hours on the road, through Fjord gritting his teeth and Nott chugging from her flask and Molly wrapping himself in his coat to block them all out and get some sleep.

Jester had sat and sketched them - the way Caleb’s eyes went razor sharp among the dirt and hair on his face, the hooked snarl of Beau’s smile. There was a little space left at the bottom of the page, reserved for when they finally stopped and made up, but as the afternoon wore on she had given up on filling it.

Adventuring is plenty of fun, and she’s real good at it, but - sometimes she misses home. The simplicity, if not the loneliness.

They make camp in silence. Caleb stalks off the minute his bedroll is laid out, shoulders up around his ears.

“Yeah, you better run,” Beau lobs after him. There’s a soft oof as someone - presumably Fjord - elbows her.

“All right,” Molly interjects, finally, and waits for all of them to turn and stare at him sitting cross-legged on the grassy earth. He smiles beatifically under their attention. “While we wait for that mess to simmer down… dinner?”

Beau is sullenly silent. “Dinner,” Fjord agrees around her.

Molly holds an arm out to her. “Preferences, dear?” Taking the invitation wholeheartedly, Jester is on the ground and scrambling to cuddle up to his side with a speed that surprises even her. Molly just laughs and squeezes her around the shoulders.

She headbutts him playfully in the chest, minding her horns. “We should have something delicious, and really warm and nice, and maybe it can be sweet too-”

“The sweetest thing we have right now is carrots,” Fjord says flatly, but he’s - finally! - smiling too, and even Beau’s fists unclench a little when Jester groans dramatically and slumps completely into Molly. “Beau, would you care to help me slice some of them up with your incredible monk skills?”

Beau grumbles something under her breath. “I use my fists, man, I’m not a ninja.”

“You punch carrots into pieces? That’s insane.”

The visual and Fjord’s nonplussed tone have all of them laughing, even Beau, and the two of them get up to wrestle some food out of the cart. She nuzzles contentedly into Molly. “You’re really good at that,” she tells him. “Making people happy.”

Molly shrugs like he hasn’t just salvaged their chances of staying together as a group. “It’s good to get everything resolved before dinnertime. The things I’ve seen angry people do with hot food…”

“Really?,” she gasps, faux-scandalized, and then squeaks as Molly’s hand makes its way down to her tummy and starts tickling right at the soft spot under her ribs. “Hehey! Tell - heehee - tell me!”

She tries to tickle him back, reaching between them to pinch his side, but he just jumps a little and searches out her belly button to make her laugh even harder. “Maybe later. Come on, let’s not laze around - we’ll see if we can’t find some more firewood, hm?”

She bounces happily on her toes, swinging Molly’s arm around her like a shawl and then twirling it away as they both get up. “I’ll get you back, you know!”

Molly’s cheeks go dark purple, like they always do when she threatens him. It just makes her more intent on following through. “ I look forward to it,” is all he says, eyes flashing devilishly, and shoos her in one direction before sauntering off in the other. “Don’t go too far.”

“I won’t,” she calls over her shoulder, and immediately makes for the rise that Caleb disappeared over.

He’s so squishy, after all - if anyone shouldn’t be wandering off, it’s him.

She passes one tree, then another, leaves crunching under her boots. It’s clear after a few seconds that she doesn’t know any of the things that would help her figure out which direction Caleb is in, so she scoops her holy symbol up in one hand and flicks it with her thumb. “Oh, Traveler! Help me out here, okay?”

She’s asked for his help a million times before, for pranks and spells and just wanting company, and he has yet to disappoint - a gust of wind shuffles through her skirts and blows her bangs right into her eyes.

Well. No one would call the Traveler nice, but neither is she.

She spits out a hunk of hair, grinning, and skips along after it. Sure enough, there’s a flash of red hair that soon resolves itself into their stray wizard.

Caleb’s knees are tucked up under his chin, his back painfully straight against a tree. His eyes are closed - and it’s dangerous to sit in the middle of the woods with your eyes closed, isn’t it, especially when you’re a stinky wizard that probably attracts lots of bugs?

Caleb’s not dumb. But this? Very dumb. She’s going to wake him up and tell him so, and take him back to camp for dinner, and everything will be better tomorrow.

She reaches for his shoulder, but just as she’s about to grab him -

“Jester?”

“Nott!” She stumbles back, grabbing her face in shock as a particularly greenish patch of shadow transforms into a cloak with little pointed ears. “Where did you even come from?!”

“Oh, you know. Rogue stuff.” Nott shrugs, scampering up to meet her like she hasn’t just appeared from nowhere. “Caleb’s scouting right now, so I’m making sure nothing sneaks up on him.”

She knows that Caleb can’t hear them, but they’re in a dark forest and everyone else is being quiet so she kneels down and whispers to Nott anyways. “What, with Frumpkin? Why can’t he do that in camp? Not that you’re doing a bad job or anything, but we would totally look out for him too, you know.”

“He knows, it’s just-” Nott glances over at Caleb. “It’s been a long day.”

She sits there, both of them watching Caleb’s eyelids twitch. “Can I stay here with you, then? Just in case.”

“Sure, pull up some floor,” Nott encourages, and sidles over to tuck herself under Caleb’s arm. He makes an acknowledging noise and pulls her in, letting her rearrange herself against the folds of his coat, and Jester tries very very hard not to think of the way she used to cuddle with her mama as she settles on Caleb’s other side. It doesn’t quite work - the careful inches that she leaves between them, not wanting to spook him with her sudden appearance, feel like every single league from here to Nicodranas.

And. Well. It’s boring.

Jester fidgets with her sleeves for a minute, then with her tail and then -

Then, she has an idea. A wonderful, brilliant idea that’s going to cure her boredom and also hopefully make Caleb a lot less grumpy.

She holds out a single finger, wiggles it around a bit and smirks to herself, and then gently, gently reaches around behind Caleb’s knees to poke at his tummy.

He really is thin, and her finger sinks further into the ratty fabric of his shirt than she expects. But eventually her fingertip finds the soft curve of his belly and she skitters it around a bit, trying to find something sensitive.

Nothing happens.

She pouts, pulling her hand back, but after a moment of consideration she dives right back in, searching for his belly button - surely even he’s ticklish there. It takes a couple seconds of patting around - not a single muscle here, no wonder he goes down so easily in fights - but she finally finds the little dip of flesh and wriggles her finger inside.

Caleb does flinch at that, snorting a little and reaching hastily to bat her away. “Nott the Brave,” he huffs, the corner of his mouth twitching up, “what is going on out there? Are you all right?”

There’s a little fwip as Nott tugs wire through her fingers. “All clear here, Caleb! I’ll take care of it.”

The second Caleb hums in acknowledgement, Nott whips out from under Caleb’s arm to glare at her. “What are you doing? I thought you were here to help him-”

“We don’t even need to scout!” Jester protests. She rubs guiltily at the back of her hand. “And if he comes back to camp, then maybe he and Beau can talk and-”

Nott cuts her off, teeth flashing. “Caleb didn’t do anything wrong! If she says one more thing to him, I will shoot her-”

“Nott!” she interrupts, horrified. “Geez, calm down, we don’t have to shoot anyone!”

Nott quiets suddenly in her odd way, retreating slightly into Caleb’s shadow. “Well… all right.”

“Then shouldn’t we bring him back?”

Nott wraps a strand of hair around her finger, yellow eyes flicking from her to Caleb. “It makes him feel better to be in Frumpkin sometimes,” she says. “To be someone else for a bit.” Her eyes close. “I definitely wouldn’t want to be in this body, if I could choose.”

“Oh,” Jester says. She spins through a couple half-formed sentences and then thinks fuck it and reaches out to squeeze Nott’s hand instead. “That’s really sad, Nott.”

Nott sniffs and squeezes her hand back. “No, no, it’s alright… Caleb and I are going to figure it out. He’s very smart.”

Jester nods with considerably more certainty than she feels, pulling on a smile. “Well, I think that maybe he would feel even better if he just talked to Beau. I know these things! Sometimes I would be upset with Mama, and if I couldn’t talk to her about it I would have to go just stay in my room and it was all I could think about until I saw her again.”

Nott blinks. “Your mom just left you alone in your room?”

Wrong turn, wrong turn - “Oh, well, we had to, you know?”

“Sure, sure.” Nott’s eyes are still fixed squarely on Jester. “I wouldn’t know, I don’t have kids or anything.”

She kind of wants to chase that particular thread, but before she can say anything Nott sighs and looks back to Caleb. “You know what? Bring him back. He should have finished lapping around the camp by now anyway.”

Now that’s the turn she wants to take. “Really?” she asks, and doesn’t wait for a response before scooting around to sit in front of Caleb and stretch her fingers teasingly - really, it’s a shame that Caleb can’t see her right now or he would definitely be squirming. “Hm hm hm, okay, let’s see - hey, Nott, do you know where Caleb’s ticklish?”

They both consider Caleb’s skinny frame, the distinct lack of laugh lines. Nott scrambles around next to Jester and cocks her head thoughtfully. “His ribs, maybe? When we were on the road together, we couldn’t always light a fire and Caleb would let me sleep under his coat with him.” She smiles. “He wouldn’t complain when I moved around, but I think it tickled him a little.”

It sounds very cute, in her mind - so cute that she reaches for Nott and tickles her belly through all those layers instead. “Aw, did you squirm a lot? How come?”

Nott squawks and somehow rolls away to Jester’s other side between one blink and the next. “Hey! Focus!”

Jester pouts. “You never tickled him, though? How could you not? He’s so grumpy and sad all the time.”

“Oh, well…” Nott grimaces. “We were both pretty grumpy and sad, because we were very poor and on the run from the law. Honestly, I’ve never thought about it.”

“Oh,” Jester says. Maybe she shouldn’t have told them about the horse dresses.

Nott shrugs. “That’s why it’s good that we have you around, I guess. You make us all happier.”

That - the recognition, the simple way Nott says it, as fact - lights something bright and warm in her chest. “You really think so?”

“Yes! I mean…” She gestures to Caleb. “It’s not like anyone else came out here to look for us.”

“I will always come look for you, Nott.”

“Thanks Jessie, but we’re kind of worried about him right now-”

“Right, right.” She turns back to Caleb and wraps her hands gently around his ribs, right under his book holster. “Oh, Cay-leb…”

She wiggles a finger into his left side, then his right, delighted as he starts to squirm between her hands. “Coochie coochie coo,” she teases softly, even knowing that he can’t hear her yet. “Come on, wake up!”

Caleb reaches up and shoves her hands away, but that’s hardly a deterrent - and the little yelp of shock as her fingers get right back to tickling is very good. For the first time since she’s known him, laughter threatens under Caleb’s low tone. “Nott, was-”

And then, almost pleading - “Nott, that. It. It ti - tick -”

Oh. Oh, he can barely even say it. Jester beams.

Behind her, Nott sounds alarmed. “Jessie, you look evil right now.”

She stops tickling briefly and turns around. “Nott!” she whisper-screams. “He’s so ticklish!”

“You’re enjoying this, huh?”

She scoffs. “Yes, of course! All tieflings do.” It’s true, for all of two tieflings that Jester knows - her mama and Molly love tickling, and so does she. And so will the rest of their group, if she and Molly have anything to say about it.

She turns back to Caleb, squeezing back and forth between his ribs to make him wriggle again, and this time Caleb comes fully back to himself with a gasp. His eyes blink open, scanning frantically. She sees him register Nott, off to the side, then jump a little as he finds her right in front of him. His cheeks redden. “Ah - Jester -”

“Caleb,” she purrs, and twitches the tips of her fingers just a little. “Hey, did you know that your ribs are really, really ticklish?”

His arms shrink back against his sides, pressing her hands even further into his ribs where she’s still latched on. “They - I - I’m not-”

“Oh? You’re not ticklish?” Jester worms her fingers into the grooves of his ribs. “How come you’re so smiley then, huh, Caleb? What’s so funny?”

One of Caleb’s hands reaches up to pat shakily at the corner of his mouth, feeling out the wobbly grin there. He shoves it hastily over the lower half of his face. “I’m not!”

“No, I’m Nott,” Nott says, sounding terribly amused. “Come on, Caleb, I don’t think you’re fooling her.”

Jester doesn’t give him a chance to try again. “No, no, maybe he’s right!” She buries a hand under his arm, fingertips curling cruelly against the tender skin there, and reaches around his knees to find his belly button again with the other. “Maybe’s he’s not ticklish at all, not even a little, not even if I tickle right here-”

Caleb’s entire body jerks, eyes flaring wide as she digs in. “Mmph - heh-”

He’s much more ticklish when he’s paying attention, it seems. She can feel him trying to suck in his tummy, desperate to keep her away, and his face disappears into his knees as he brings his hands down in a futile attempt to protect his armpit. He can’t stop himself from laughing, though - he breaks almost instantly, whining through peals of frantic laughter as she reverts to nibbling little pinches along his ribs. “Ha - ha - ahaha!”

He kicks out, heels drumming against the ground as he spasms. “Uh oh,” Jester teases, digging her thumbs into his exposed tummy and rubbing in little circles, “that definitely looks like it tickles. Were you lying to us, Cay-leb?”

Caleb shakes his head, trying to hide against his shoulder now, and she can see red all the way to the tips of his ears. “Nn - hngh - plehehease, bitte,” he chokes out through an adorably enormous grin. “Why - I don’t-”

“Why am I tickling you?” she finishes, gleefully noting how he flinches at the word. “We-ll, at first you just looked so sad and lonely out here that Nott and I thought we should cheer you up. But now that I know you were lying about how very, very ticklish you are…” She digs back into his ribs, giggling as he breaks down into laughter all over again. “Well, now I think I’m just gonna tickle you until you admit it.”

“No,” Caleb pleads breathlessly. He doesn’t seem to be making any moves to get away from her, though, just flops onto the ground and shoves his face into an elbow. She could tease him about that too, she thinks, and maybe he would get even redder.

“Or,” she says instead, tickling along the curve of his ribs to his back, “I could tell Beau how ticklish you are and she could make you admit it.”

He does try to get away, then, rolling onto his belly and trying to wriggle out from under her. “No, no,” he begs between snickers, “don’t tell her, gods-”

“I think it would help you two fight less,” she tells him, curling her fingers under him to tickle his tummy again. It’s cute, the way he rocks from side to side trying to protect all of his ticklish spots at once. “But maybe, if you make up another way, then I won’t have to! And then no one else would have to know how cute and tickly you are, Caleb-”

“Fine,” he says frantically, “yes, yes, just stohop-”

She’s a little reluctant, especially when he starts to catch his breath and she just knows that he could take more tickling, but technically this solves the problem.

And technically, he still hasn’t admitted anything. There could be a lot of tickling in his future.

He’s back to normal now, holding Nott’s sleeve and whispering something sternly to her, but she tucks the memory of his infectious grin away for later.

This, it seems, is a pretty decent way to make him happy.

#tickling #critical role #widojest #jester lavorre #caleb widogast #nott the brave #chocfic

42 notes · View notes

welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

First-Line Defensive Pairing

Of all the things they’d done in the last few months, spending the afternoon at the Museum of Ice Cream was one of the more ridiculous. Mostly because of the wooden spoons they gave out on the tour. Partially because it seemed Will Scarlet could not stop casting furtive glances at Belle French. Or the heels that always matched her dresses. Maybe because she kept answering his hypothetical questions. And maybe even because he was willing to drift far closer to genuine these days. At least when it came to his feelings for her.

————

Word Count: 3.7K AN: Take two! Ok, so apparently yesterday when I posted this Tumblr thought it’d be a really cool idea to just...reformat the entire story. With whole graphs in totally wrong spots. Anyway, here it is again. Just as ridiculous as yesterday. With just as many Will and Belle emotions. Because that’s a thing I’m doing now, apparently. Writing Blue Line-era Will and Belle. If you’d like more of these flirt-prone idiots, here is their first date and Belle getting annoyed that Will fought someone on the ice. Technically, this was part of the kiss prompts and was “height difference kisses.” I hope the five of you who are interested in this enjoy it. That includes @shireness-says and @eleveneitherway who are mostly to blame for this.

————

“I’m going to ask you a hypothetical question.”

Belle lifted her eyebrows. Let some of that light creep back in her gaze, a flash of amusement that regularly made Will’s stomach leap dangerously close to the base of his ribs. That’s why he did it. Maybe not the rib thing, partially because he wasn’t even sure that was the correct technical term. The rest of it, though. The eye thing. Sure. Definitely. One-hundred percent. Why he’d also made sure the little wooden spoon they’d been given at the start of this tour was still in the corner of his mouth; to guarantee absolute absurdity, and he figured that started when they decided to spend their afternoon at the Museum of Ice Cream, but he was willing to take it all a step further.

In the absurdity factor, at least.

Other things were—

Well, it wasn’t as if they explicitly decided to keep the relationship a secret. Not on purpose. Not really. Or come to any sort of legitimate agreement regarding the use of the word relationship. It never seemed...important, honestly. And that was a potentially problematic and lackadaisical approach to someone who made Will smile with an almost alarming consistency in the last few months, but she’d also sort of snuck up on him, and Ariel was going to be so annoying.

About the whole goddamn thing.

She’d never shut up about it, he knew.

So he didn’t push. Belle didn’t, either. An unspoken agreement, that’s what it was. He had other things to do, anyway. Like get ready for a playoff run and ignore the lingering ache in his calves after the echo of Arthur’s whistle stopped ringing in his ears, and, ok, his apartment was starting to feel a little bit larger than it had in a long time, maybe since Killian had moved out, but that was fine. Cup runs did not come because someone was in a relationship. Will had seen that first hand. With Cap, of all people.

Watched the way his whole life had fallen apart around his ankles, little shards of hope and possibility that, Will knew, still threatened the structural integrity of Kilian’s internal organs and all four ventricles of his heart, and he did not understand enough basic biology to be making those sorts of sweeping observations, but Robin had lost someone too and that had been horrible and tragic and—

If Will simply did not want to jinx things, then that was neither here nor there.

Relationship’y speaking.

It was good. They were good. He hated the wooden spoon they gave them to taste test half a dozen ice cream flavors.

He was legitimately worried about getting splinters in his tongue.

No excuses could possibly reason away that problem pre-game.

Belle’s eyebrows were still in the same spot. “You going to follow up on that, or…” “Would you burn a Gutenberg Bible? To stave off the apocalypse and or potential frostbite?” “Those two things go together, do they?” He shrugged. “In this instance, yeah, because—” “—Well, it wouldn’t matter,” Belle said, eyes flitting towards the overly enthusiastic tour guide and the seemingly never-ending history of ice cream, “because I wouldn’t allow myself to be in that position. And I don’t live anywhere near the Public Library. What would I be doing there when the freeze-wave came?” His stomach. Did that thing. Jumped and twisted, got a ten from the Russian judge on its floor routine. He was cautiously optimistic he’d be able to pull off a flawless beam performance too. It was an exceedingly convoluted metaphor. Wrong Olympics, too.

“Does salt air give you mind-reading powers?” “You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are,” Belle grinned. Moving her hand faster than he was entirely prepared for ensured that he nearly dropped his small plastic cup of churro churro ice cream. He made noise. Without trying. A hiss and a grunt in the back of his throat that then led to a sound escaping between Belle’s half-hearted scowl, and that sound was closer to a giggle than either of them would ever admit and just enough to mess with his mental faculties a little and the tour guide stopped talking. To stare straight at them.

Color lifted on Belle’s cheeks, ice cream-covered spoon held awkwardly between them.

“As you were, ma’am,” Will said, all false bravado, and that was something of a trend. In several different capacities. It was far too depressing a thought to have while eating cinnamon-flavored ice cream.

Belle elbowed him.

And the tour guide got back to her to spiel. Without a reprimand.

“Say freeze-wave again without laughing.”

Her eyelashes were more of a problem, honestly. Than the eyebrows. Or the specific jut of her chin Will had rather quickly learned meant she was ready to challenge him on some ridiculous topic, fully prepared to argue a position she might not have otherwise agreed with. Only because it wasn’t what he was arguing, and it was easy to understand why she won that Model UN award.

Plus, her eyelashes were just stupid long, and he thought she was really pretty.

Like in a fundamental sort of way.

“Freeze-wave,” Belle enunciated, pausing between syllables for maximum effect, “are you asking me Day After Tomorrow questions because of the ice cream, because I’m a librarian or because you’re the strangest man alive?” She finally ate the rest of the ice cream. It was starting to melt, that was why. This was very melt-prone ice cream. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled, “this is really good. Better than mine.” Something popped in his shoulder when he reached towards her plastic cup. He wouldn’t tell Ariel about that, either.

“Which kind is—” Fighting off the objections of a small librarian who resolutely refused to wear anything except heels, no matter what the weather was like, was not usually as difficult as it was in that moment. Will assumed it had something to do with sugar. Or the force of his smile. Robbing the rest of him of energy and the ability to fend off either one of Belle’s fists. “Why are you like this?” “You didn’t want to try peanut and pretzel. With peanut butter swirl.” “Swallowed the flyer for this place while I wasn’t looking, huh?” Sticking her tongue out was distracting. Almost enough that he didn’t notice the absolutely atrocious attempt at impersonating his voice. “Oh, no, no, babe, I don’t want that; you can get peanut butter anywhere. That’s not special.” “Well, it’s not.” “I’m a big fancy hockey player, and I know everything there is to know about ice cream flavors and the potential life-changing palette moment that comes from the sublime combination of salty and sweet.” “Oh, now you’re just taunting me.” Her eyes narrowed, that time. His smile was going to permanently stretch out his cheeks. “You have a disgusting mind.” “You can’t get churro ice cream everywhere, babe.” “I’m going back to get honey later.” Will hummed. Stuck his lower lip out. Noticed that flash return. And hoarded it. Like a relationship—

Ah, fuck.

“Would you burn the Gutenberg Bible?” Her laugh was quickly becoming his favorite sound. Which wasn’t bad, per se. Was just kind of passably concerning. God damn. It was the heels. All of them kept matching the dresses she wore. She kept wearing dresses.

Of course, that was going to mess with Will’s head.

Belle shook her head. “No.” “Historical significance?” “Well, once again, I would not be in that position, would have listened to science and fled to warmer climates, so as not to make myself prey for escaped...what were they? Tigers?” “I honestly can’t remember,” Will admitted.

“This was your hypothetical!”

Heads snapped their direction. Frustration creased the tour guide’s forehead, and they’d paid extra to learn about the history of ice cream. Will had already known about the origins of the ice cream cone, though. So, the whole thing felt almost like a raw deal, and he was far more interested in preserving the color in Belle’s cheeks. He saluted. Who he was saluting was anyone’s guess, but it very likely was the otherwise unengaged teenage kid trudging behind his family who absolutely recognized Will.

“That’s going to end up on sixteen different social media sites,” Belle warned, not quite able to get her voice to an appropriate whispering level.

“So long as he got my good side, you won’t hear me complaining.” “Do you have a good side?”

“Sweetheart, the self-confidence. God.” She squeezed her eyes shut. While practically beaming at him, and Will had to bend his knees to reach, something else creaking in the process, but that was fine, and good, and pretty goddamn fantastic because her lips tasted a bit like chocolate.

“‘S’not your best work,” Belle mumbled, almost entirely into his mouth.

“Brain freeze.” “I would burn no books. That’s my final hypothetical answer.” Her eyelashes must have existed purely to torment him. Leaning back made it clear when they fluttered back open, and he swore there were flecks of gold in her eyes. Maybe he was melting, too. With the ice cream. That was almost poetic. “None at all? What if you were going to die?” “Maudlin.” “I don’t know what that means.” “Liar,” she challenged, another smile tugging at her mouth, and Will was clearly staring at her mouth. Stained slightly with chocolate, as it was. “I stand by it, though. The book stuff, not the commentary on your burgeoning intelligence.” “You want to find a corner to go and make out in?” Different laugh. The kind that came with her head thrown back, hair tickling Will’s forearm because at some point his arm had found its way around her, and touching Belle was becoming something almost close to second nature. “I could keep complimenting you if you want,” Belle said, “or I could give you my reason for not burning books.” “You’re a giant nerd, that’s why.” She clicked her tongue. “Very, very cute nerd, though.” “Betcha say that to all the girls.”

His stomach stilled. Dropped a few inches, for good measure. Below where it was supposed to be, and inching dangerously close to his feet, and what Will could not imagine was a very sanitary floor. The Museum of Ice Cream had a giant sprinkle pit. Nothing about that seemed very sanitary.

“I think stories have a purpose,” Belle said, still not quite whispering but definitely getting there, and he knew. Knew she knew. What he was thinking and feeling and unspoken understanding was quickly becoming the name of this particular game. With them.

Where it wasn’t a game at all.

Damn.

Ariel was going to be so annoying.

“No matter what they are. Shitty as they can be, all those ups and downs, and ridiculous, often unnecessary melodrama. It’s going to matter to somebody. Someone, somewhere, will be living their life and read those words or see those letters, and they’ll think, wow, whoever wrote this, gets me, and it will change everything for them. They’ll go back to it. Find solace and safety in it. Themselves, maybe. They’ll believe everything will be ok. Even if they only think that while they’re reading.” “Don’t forget audiobooks,” Will muttered, voice strangled and tinged with emotion. In the ice cream museum. Figured, honestly.

Belle pinched the side of his wrist.

“Ow. Avoid the bruise further up, please.” “Did you get hit?” Nodding took more energy than it should have, too. She hadn’t been to a game. He hadn’t asked her. What an idiot. “Not bad though, that’s just—” “—Par for the course.” “Mixing idioms, mon trésor.” “Oh, I got that one, actually.” “Slow pitch softball, that’s why,” Will reasoned, some of the tension he wasn’t especially pleased by loosening.

“I think we’re on a roll now.” He hummed. Nodded, again. Curled his fingers into the back of Belle’s dress. Blue, that afternoon. With matching heels. “It all matters,” she added, soft and earnest, and his eyes snapped. To her and with her and that second one didn’t make sense, not really, but he was and wanted to be and that absolutely terrified him.

Of it all falling apart again. Of it not being enough.

He wasn’t enough.

A story no one was ever all that interested in finishing.

“You think?” Belle nodded. “Why’d you start playing hockey?” “Quite a transition.” “Tit for tat, or—no, no, c’mon don’t look at me like that.” Red stained her cheeks, now. Making it difficult to concentrate on anything else, although the desire to kiss her again was a fairly strong second, and that kid was taking more pictures. “That’s not fair.” “You’ve brought this on yourself, babe,” Will argued, and he hoped Lucas didn’t yell. At him. He’d never really listened to the social media rules. “It’s a very long, occasionally depressing story about a kid and his single mom, the second of whom often worked her ass off and her fingers to the bone, and all those other delightfully visual clichés. But then! Who would guess, she got a job picking up extra shifts cleaning at the rink in town. Home to the world’s shittiest ice and loudest Zamboni, it instantly drew the attention of our kid-like hero.

“He was...infatuated, let’s say. With the sounds, especially. Nothing sounds like that first scrape of skates on fresh ice. Full of possibility, you know?” Belle didn’t answer. Will kept talking. “Best noise in the world. And then he learned there were other noises. Pucks hitting the back of nets. Sticks clanging together. Grunts and groans and the game itself, how loud it was. Helped silence some of his thoughts, none of which were ever very good. Lots of worries, some about his very dead sister, then a few more about that mother and her predilection toward clichés.”

“Good word,” Belle murmured. He kissed the top of her hair. The kid was openly staring at them, now.

“Anyway, the crux of the story is that the guy who owned the rink agreed to let the kid play on the rink. Knew the mother, understood her situation, and hockey is expensive. Like, well, we spout all that bullshit about hockey is for everyone, and I’ve got to stand up there and smile and nod and agree, and it’s fucked up because it’s not really true. Hockey’s for rich kids and families with regularly functioning alternators in their car.”

He shook his head. Had to. To chase away the memories and the cobwebs, and Cap knew this, too. Understood it, even. Remembered a life before the Vanklads, and not every kid got the Vankalds, and sometimes Will let himself wonder what would have happened if he’d found the Vanklads. Or their upstate New York equivalent.

Gotten better shin pads, probably.

“Hockey’s an exclusive sorta club,” Will continued, “gotta know someone who’s related to someone else, and they know someone who played, and it’s six degrees of increasingly desperate separation. By some lucky twist of fate, though, Jimmy Newell knew some bastard who knew somebody else, who saw me play, and you don’t say no to USA Developmental. Spent two years in Minnesota, way before Cap did, so he doesn’t get to claim that state as his own.” Belle’s lips twitched. “Good to know, for argument’s sake.” His stomach was becoming a problem.

Heart, too.

Sputtering and slamming, uneven beats that were going to leave another bruise. Will licked his lips.

“I went to Developmental, declared for the draft, got picked by New York, went to college, stayed in college, and the rest is history. As they say.” “They do say that, yeah.” “What’s the next question, then?” “How do you know there’s another question?” “Shot in the dark,” Will shrugged, but that was a lie, and it was getting increasingly easier to read that pinch between her eyebrows. “So, hit me.” “Literally?” “Please do not literally hit me. Locksley’s been feeling the forecheck the last couple’a practices.” “I know what that means!” Someone shushed them. Will couldn’t imagine the color will ever leave Belle’s cheeks.

He kissed the bridge of her nose.

“Who’d you get to teach you French?” “Who said I didn’t just learn French on my own?” “Babe,” she chided, and, well, that was the tipping point. As they say. To his heart and his stomach and—

“You wanna come to a game this series?” Belle blinked. Once, twice. Leaned back. Tilted her head. Likely waited for the camera crew that was inevitably lurking in the corner he was cautiously optimistic they’d make out in eventually. Didn’t happen, though. There was no camera crew.

Just Will Scarlet, professional hockey player, and part-time sap. Standing in one of the more nonsensical museums they’d been to in the last two months. Although they did go to the transit museum on three separate occasions, and he could honestly say he didn’t expect that.

So, maybe this was all just—

Par for the course.

He’d have to make some sort of deal with Eric. To make sure Ariel didn’t proclaim her relationship-plotting victories from a variety of rooftops. Someone in front office had to know someone else with Empire State Building connections.

Zelena probably did.

Ariel would use that.

“Where would I sit?”

He pulled her. Up. With an almost violent amount of force, threatening the safety of both of Belle’s shoulders in the process. But she’d asked the one question he hadn’t totally considered in his half-plotted plan, and getting his mouth back on hers was an acceptable diversion. Plus, she looped her arms around his neck pretty quickly.

Which had to count for something, he figured.

One hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him closer. Like he had any intention of being anywhere else, swiping his tongue against Belle’s lip and swallowing her sigh. They were still in public, technically. Her feet trailed the multi-color carpet beneath them, Will’s arms tightening and his palm flat against her back and her spine, and if she kept rocking up like that, he was going to do something drastic.

Something in the same realm as melting, probably.

Strands of hair tickled his skin, making him tilt his head and alter the angle, and that was entirely appropriate, but getting kicked out of the Museum of Ice Cream would probably make an absolutely fantastic story. Once they told people they were—

Doing whatever it was they were doing.

They’d get there eventually.

“Cap’s sister-in-law is coming,” Will said, not entirely able to catch his breath, “wants to see Kris and—” “—Should I know who that is?” “Works in equipment, and that’s not really the point.” “What is?” “That Little Vankald isn’t super interested in listening to Cap be full older brother on her and, far as I know, is fully capable of getting tickets wherever she wants. Can sweet talk the gold out of anyone’s pockets, and—” “—Wait, wait, are you equating hockey tickets to gold?” “When I’m playing, ma choupette.” “Is that cabbage?” He hummed. Nearly tripped over his own feet trying to hold onto Belle and the mostly melted cup of ice cream and paying for more churro ice cream made perfect sense. At the moment. “One of the kids at school was French Canadian,” Will explained, “used to swear all the time on the ice, and then he’d use stuff like that.” “You’re sharing endearments with a trash talker.” “More or less, yeah. Used to infuriate other guys.” “Who wants to be called a cabbage?” “I think you’re super cute.” Belle scowled. Didn’t argue, though. And Will refused to linger on the beat of his pulse. “I’d really like it if you were there,” he added, “Little Vanklad’ll be cool about it. She owes me. I fed her for a very long time.” “Did you just?” “I make incredible garlic bread; ask anyone.” “Wow,” Belle drawled, “just like people on the street, or…also, do you call her Little Vanklad all the time?” “To her face and behind her back with startling regularity. Not everyone gets my French endearments, babe. Consider yourself lucky.”

She scrunched her nose.

Stayed silent. All Will could hear was the soft explanations of the tour guide, and the questions from tourists who probably also thought going to the Museum of Sex made them edgy. After they bought a STRAND tote bag. God, maybe he was a dick. A judgmental dick, who still had too many thoughts and used an occasionally violent game to silence them by making sure he was the one dictating the noises and the trash talk and—

“Hey, uh, Will...Mr., uh—Mr. Scarlet? Do you think we could get a picture?”

Belle’s lips disappeared. Behind her teeth, and that didn’t do anything to temper the sound of what might have actually been joy. At the prospect of the staring teenager and his photo request.

In the goddamn Museum of Ice Cream.

Giving a jerky nod, Will quickly scanned the kid for any team-branded, but it didn’t look like he was wearing merch and that was a rather small miracle. Far as those things went.

Still, he had been in the middle of a pretty intense internal dialogue and potential freakout, and there was going to be ice cream on his hand if he didn’t throw this cup away.

Belle took the phone.

The kid’s phone.

“Smile,” she instructed, and Will tried. Really. He hoped he didn’t end up looking like a murderer on Twitter or Instagram or whatever kids used, and he had no idea when he got that old. When things started to freak him out, and he let the nerves claw back in, and the worry take root and—

“Hey,” he said before the kid could walk back to his parents and their matching STRAND tote bags. “You think you could take a picture of us, real quick?”

No one had ever moved faster.

In, like, the history of photography.

Circling an arm around Belle’s waist, Will’s smile came a bit easier and that was good because he was totally unprepared for what happened after that. Another instruction and flick of someone’s thumb, but then Belle was on her toes, even with the heels, and her lips were pressed against his cheek and it was like some sort of really exceptional sugar high.

Without the threat of inevitable crash.

Will didn’t think so, at least. He was also pretty positive it wasn’t tigers in The Day After Tomorrow. Wolves, maybe.

“Tell Little Vankald to save me a seat.” “I mean, I don’t think you should call her that.”

Her teeth grazed his jaw. Both of them were laughing in the picture, the kid’s eyes going impossibly wide as Will thanked him. “How hard you think it is to set up an Instagram account?”

#scarlet beauty #scarlet beauty ff #scarlet beauty fic #will x belle #blue line one shots #what did i use yesterday as my tag for this?#so as not to also confuse it with the au of the au staring will scarlet?#defensive!blue line #that wasn't it but it is now #anyway these have been real fun to write #because as we all know i am certified trash for alternate stories in the same 'verse #also giving belle a personality finally is a delight #seriously i hope the five people interested in this enjoy it

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kyidyl · 3 years

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Kyidyl Does Archaeology - Part 5

(as per usual, all these posts are collected under the KyidylCL tag)

Pottery and shErds

So, what are we talking about today? Well, I think the next thing is gonna be pottery. This is where we’re gonna talk about time, space, and dating a site. Because most people think that the only way to date an archaeological site is via C14. That’s not true, and actually we don’t always do it. C14 dating can have some problems, including that the wood used in the fire is likely older than the time in which it was cut down and burned. It also only goes back 50,000 years, so anything older than that won’t have any carbon isotopes (it’ll have all decayed), and we have to use other things that are more expensive. And c14 testing itself is expensive - we sent in 2 samples and it was around $500/sample so we spent about $1000 on testing. Instead, there are other ways to date a site and one of the most accurate is pottery.

See, like all other kinds of material culture (AKA, stuff people leave behind. Non-material culture is like...song and story and stuff like that.), pottery follows stylistic trends and trends in how it was made. And it does this both regionally and chronologically. Which is great, because if we find bits of one type of pottery we know is made in one place in a settlement in another place, then we know the two people traded with each other. But I have to explain something else so that determining a date from pottery makes sense.

Every area of the country has what’s called a “type site” for a given period of time. In undergrad I was lucky enough to actually get to work on the type site for the Safety Harbour period, which is Weedon Island....ironically enough there’s a Weedon Island period and Weedon Island isn’t the type site for that period so uuuhhh...yeah it’s weird lol. Anyway, a type site is a site that is considered stereotypical for a given time and place in history. Usually they’re large and well-preserved, and they’re often the first sites found in that time period/area (but not always, which is how the above weirdness happened.). And so what happens is we dig ‘em and analyze the finds and do testing on those finds. So now we know “hey, this kind of pottery comes from here and it is X years old”. Now you know when you find it in other places where and when it comes from. This is all a very generalized explanation, but I think any more is like extraneous detail you don’t need. Just know that things like type sites help us determine where and when stuff like pottery was made. Lots of literature usually exists for type sites, but I actually can’t remember the type site for this area for this time period.

We also use a term called “diagnostic”, which is used much as it is in medicine. If we find a certain thing that was only made during a specific time period or in a certain place, then it’s diagnostic. IE, a certain kind of pottery is diagnostic of the late, middle, or early Woodland. The pottery we have at our site is diagnostic of the late Woodland. Some of the lithics we thought might be a bit earlier, but honestly I think that was just misidentification by the site director bc we were in the field at the time. Lastly, identifying pottery has a few components. Color and decoration I think are easy to understand (they didn’t have glazes, but you can make different colored pottery by varying the composition of the clay and the temperature at which it is fired.). Paste and temper are the other two. IDK how modern pottery is made, but old ass pottery is made with paste - the main body of the clay, the matrix that contains the temper - and temper. Temper is stuff they’d crush up and mix in to help it not break during firing and heating during normal use. So we combine these factors to ID the pottery and thus the age of the site and trading habits of the people in question. One last thing you need to understand about pottery - ancient people used pottery the way that we use disposable things. They didn’t think it was like an important thing that had to keep safe. They’d use it until it broke and then toss it in the garbage pit and make a new one. So it’s really common and we find it all over the place, but TBH in the future pottery *won’t* be diagnostic anymore because our ceramics come in such a wide variety that we couldn’t possibly hope to narrow down time or place.

Alright, so who wants pictures? You, of course. Who *doesn’t* want pictures? Here’s some of the pottery we found:

This is the larger shard that I found in the features I’ve talked about in previous installments. You can see where I accidentally broke it. >.> Anyway it’s kind of unique bc of the light color outside and the black inside. It’s like...idk, 4 or so inches long.

This is a rim piece that I happened to find two matching sherds of. I always check the rim pieces because the patterns on them usually make them easier to fit together. Honestly I’ve got hundreds of pot sherds from this site and I don’t have the sanity to try and make pots from them.

This is the outside and inside respectively of the largest piece we have. TBH taking this thing out of its box and handling it makes me nervous because of how large it is - about the size of my hand, but I did include my earbuds for scale. The black is charring from both firing and subsequent use, and it came out of the pit feature I’ve been talking about. And do you wanna know the cool thing about the inner surface of pottery? Because they didn’t use glazes, the surface was porous and retains the unique chemical traces of what was made in them. However, the vast majority of the time those kinds of tests aren’t done because archaeology as a whole is extremely underfunded and trace chemical analysis of pot residue is an expensive test requiring expensive equipment and expensive scientists. Funnily enough I probably could do some of this testing bc I used to be premed and so I’ve taken a lot of chemistry and know how to read a mass spec thing, but I don’t have access to the chemicals or tools to do these kinds of tests. Plus, they’re often destructive...which....I mean...there’s so much pottery that it doesn’t really matter if one piece gets destroyed but like you do still have to be careful *which* piece you destroy.

Anyway, you also can see the striations on the outside piece, and that’s decoration on the pot. It probably also helped with gripping it. This is a piece of Shepardware, which is diagnostic of the late Woodland period in the Shenandoah valley. Here’s some more cool pottery:

This is a random assortment of the kind of stuff we regularly pull out of the ground when it comes to pottery. The most common kind we have is the orange on one side black on the other (3 upper rt pieces), whiteish (upper left 2), orange on both sides (lower left 3) and totally black (lower right 3). All of ‘em are some variety of shepard or pageware. You can see the texture on a lot of them, too. We have a good mix of textured and untextured, and that’s why the composition of the pottery is more diagnostic than the decoration. Frankly, people can and will put whatever design they think looks cool. But they made that particular design by wrapping twine around the end of a flat stick and pressing it into the surface of the wet clay. I also chose those two upper right pieces because they have really visible temper. Here’s a side shot of one of them:

You can see how big the bits are compared to my fingers (yeah, there’s dirt under my nails....I haven’t taken some tweezers to them yet after working on the car.). And...wait, I WAS going to try to describe this to you but then I was like “no, they deserve better” and I broke out my DSLR and my macro lens and took some pics. Here are some macros of the temper:

The white balance is a little off on the top one...the bottom one is more true to color (they aren’t the same piece of pottery, but they are a similar color). So you can see that it’s crushed up limestone. Pardon the depth of field on those...I had to open the aperture pretty wide to get one that wasn’t blurry bc I don’t exactly have bright lights in my room.

Anyway....so that’s the pottery we’ve gotten at the site and what we can learn from it. It’s going to take some time before we can start determining patterns and whatnot in regards to style, but we do have some evidence of trading here because some of the pottery we have is from the piedmont culture....

...wait, let me explain what that means. When archaeologists need to describe a group of people who existed in a given place in a given time based on similarities in material culture regardless of ethnic and social grouping we call it a culture. This is different than the standard meaning of the world culture, or even the way a cultural anthropologist would use the word. So when I say the piedmont culture, I mean people that lived in the general area of the Piedmont plateau during the late woodland. They were of varying tribes, languages, etc. And we do this to describe the extant boundaries of cultural influence of particular trends in physical objects and not the social groupings of the humans in question. So, for example, lots of people are familiar with the Clovis culture. When archaeologists use this term we mean “these are the boundaries of the places we are finding physical objects in the group we’ve named Clovis” not “everyone in this area was a Clovis person”. Like no, obviously, they weren’t. There were tons of social groups, tribes, etc. that were all distinct and different. It’s a way of mapping cultural influence via physical objects to see how far they spread and who was using them.

So, we have some piedmont stuff despite not being in the piedmont area, so we know that they were trading with those natives. If you’re interested in more detail here, this is the VDHR resource I use for IDing pottery. It looks like it came to visit you from the late 1990s, but the info is good and it’s easy to use.

Anyway, that’s it for tonight. Tomorrow is gonna be rocks and weird stuff, depending on how much I end up saying about rocks. Probably not much bc we know how I feel about rocks. ;)

#kyidylCL #archaeology #science #pottery #native pottery #native americans #anthropology

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yeocult · 4 years

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lover’s guide | s.mg

genre: fluff, slight ansgt, college au

wc: 4.2k words

synopsis: 5 steps to love by song mingi

step one: being noticed

“mingi, are you even listening?” the male jolted up at the sudden call of his name from his professors, earning a few stares from his classmates.

“um y-yes.” he mentally slapped himself for stuttering. mingi sighed and closed his eyes, desperately trying to kill off the feeling that welcomed itself into his mind.

just a few days earlier, during lectures when he laid his eyes on you. he thought it was maybe admiration at first. you were one of the top students of the class and the way you carried yourself with such grace was so attractive to him. your range of style was captivating, each day came with a new outfit. he liked the way you were confident and also was experimenting with different styles. not to mention you killed every look.

the sudden attraction seems like one of those middle school crushes that he could get over within three days, maximum. but even after three days, he didn’t. he couldn’t stop himself from staring at you from across the room and he often caught himself thinking about you.

he would use every chance he got to interact with you, although he couldn’t say he was the best at it. he knew that small smiles whenever you two pass in the halls or that silently complementing your choice of accessories was not enough for you to get the hint of his crush on you. but he did it anyway.

today was nothing new. mingi found himself stealing glances at you once in a while, especially since lectures were long and he rather had his focus somewhere else than some boring discussion about costume history from the professor’s monotone voice.

“mingi can you be any more obvious? if i was them, i could feel you basically staring into my soul from across the room.” his friend whispered leaning closer to mingi to avoid making a scene. mingi scoffs and wooyoung earned an elbow to his side. “don’t word it like that…” mingi fixes his eyes on the professor to avoid getting called on again, “is it that bad?” he quietly asked and wooyoung nodded.

the boring lectures came to an end and granted him a long desired freedom. since it was his final class for the day, he was free to go home and take that nap he craved for. wooyoung was long gone with yeosang as they walked out of the room together, while mingi was a rather bit slower when packing his supplies.

it wasn’t until you came up to him that he felt his whole body freeze. his insides were jumping and he didn’t know if it was from excitement or nervousness, probably both. you held onto your tote bag with one hand while the other was playing with the hem of your shirt as you approached the tall male.

“hey mingi!” you happily greeted him and mingi mirrored your smile and waved back at you. your smile was continuous, how could he not smile back even if he looked like a huge idiot.

“i really like your style. you always stand out,” you paused for a moment realizing how that sounded. “you dress really well, um your style is different from others, i like it.” you added for clarifications, not wanting to sound impolite or anything in that manner.

within less than a minute, you manage to make mingi do cartwheels in his head and the happiest man alive. “o-oh thank you! i actually made this shirt myself. it didn’t turn out well so i just wear it casually—sometimes even to bed…” he trailed off. “thank you, uh i really like your earrings, by the way, they’re pretty.” he tells you. mingi wanted to evaporate right now after so much he just stuttered and rambled right in front of you. he shyly scratched his nape, hoping his nervousness didn’t make the air awkward.

your soft giggles filled the lecture room as you thanked him. then you waved cheerfully and made your way towards the exit, leaving mingi there stunned. you noticed him and that was all mingi needed to know he was in love.

step two: being friends

mingi has been falling asleep with a soft smile and waking up with full energy the past week. because ever since you interacted with him, you two have grown closer. he felt more comfortable and less shy around you. the short greetings have turned into telling each other how his days went and him listening to you praise the new album your favourite group released. the two of you would walk to the bus station together after the bell rings, spending lunch breaks together, and facetime once in a while.

he learned a lot about you during the period he started to hang out with you more. mingi took note that you often wore dangly earrings over studs and that you like to eat strawberries to fuel your body during study sessions. he also learned that you went into fashion major simply for the interest and passion of it, he admired you for that. mingi likes to think that your jewelry choices match you fairly well; bright and attractive.

the two of you have been spending lunch breaks together. during those times, you noticed that mingi is a slow eater and he told you he also makes music with one of his friends, hongjoong, who was a year older than him. you noticed his little habits of laughing with his whole body. throwing his head back and sometimes clapping his hand in amusement. although he might come off intimidating or cold to some people, mingi is definitely the most wholesome person you’ve come across and you still can’t wrap your head around his duality.

you two would sit at the bus station waiting for your ride home. mingi’s place was within walking distance but he insisted on waiting with you. after all, it was a perfect opportunity to spend more time with you. and if there’s anything mingi likes more than you, is spending time with you.

the both of you were browsing your phones while waiting for your bus to arrive. getting bored with the lack of notifications on his phone, mingi leaned in to glance at your phone screen.

“you like cats?” mingi asked you as the both of you watch some fluffy cat video on your instagram feed. you shifted your phone for the better view for him and nodded.

“they’re just so cute, right?” mingi hummed in response. he held back on telling you that he thought you were way cuter than the cats, but decided to save it for another time. you proceed to tell him that your mother is allergic plus that you probably wouldn’t have much time to take care of a pet being in college and all that. he watched your eyes filled with glitter as you continue to watch more cat videos on your screen.

the bus finally arrived and you quickly stood up. it saddens him a little that he couldn’t watch you become all smiley over cats.

“thanks for waiting with me again, mingi. i’ll see you tomorrow.” you gave him a quick hug from the side and softly smiled at him. silently hoping your swift action wasn’t weird or sudden to him, because you really were appreciating the little things mingi does for you. including companying you while your bus arrives.

mingi softly smiled at you. “anytime.” he kept his response short because knowing himself, he wouldn’t know how to speak normally with stutters and rambling if he continued.

he tried to cover up the fact that he’s blushing like a fool right now and his heart is beating extremely fast over a simple and quick hug. didn’t go very well as mingi stood there with his cheeks painted a crimson colour and heat rushes throughout his body. a damn hug. you simply warped your arms around his figure and made your way towards the bus like nothing had happened. like you hadn’t made mingi the happiest person alive.

overtime, mingi was proud to call you his close friend. even though that wasn’t what he exactly hoped for, he hoped for a little more actually. but at the end of the day, he was happy nonetheless to have you with him.

step three: first date

today’s a special day, making you want to doll yourself up more than usual. “is this too much?” you’ll never admit it out loud but being around mingi made you feel a bit timid and shy. the total opposite of how people view you, bold and charming.

you weren’t the type to care about what others thought about you. after all, fashion was how you expressed yourself and you didn’t limit yourself to one style. if you felt like adding one more hair clip to your hair, then who’s gonna stop you? on days when you’ve lost your confidence, mingi would be the first person to compliment you. and that was all it took for you to truly appreciate yourself.

“w-what? no! you look amazing, you always do.” mingi pointed out how your nail polish matches your hair clips and you felt at ease, your body loses its stiffness and you softly smile at his compliment.

mingi on the other hand, felt like he was always overdressing. maybe choose something a little more simple? tone down with the colours? those types of thoughts kept mingi from truly playing around with his wardrobe. he admitted, he was insecure. that all changed when he started to hang out with you. your confidence brushing on him made him careless about what others might think of him. he started layering jewellery and wearing that flashy jacket because he can. you had noticed your little influence on him and you loved that for him.

“you don’t look too bad yourself.” you helped mingi break from his shell and gain confidence, mingi made you feel comfortable in your own skin.

the bell chimed at your entrance. your eyes light up at the environment. the welcome scent of coffee wafts through the air and the soft melody playing in the background automatically brings joy to your face. you’ve never been to a cat cafe before, seeing this amount of cute cats casually walking around has added ten years to your life. mingi and you settled to a small table by the window with a few cats already sitting there on the shelf. the sun shined through the glass, warming up the seat and table. while you busy yourself with your new furry buddy, mingi left to order a few drinks and dessert for the both of you.

as he waited in line, he thought about how lucky he was to even be here with you right now.

“so…” mingi takes a break from drawing figures on his sketchbook and meets your face. you hummed and pulled your laptop screen lower so you can see his face. the two of you were studying together in the library, helping each other in various topics covered in today’s lessons. mingi was always grateful that your schedules line up with his. meaning all of his breaks, he can spend time with you since you were off as well. and since you were both fashion majors, it only made sense if you both helped each other out.

“i have a friend, he works at this cat cafe and i was wondering…” pause. his eyes lowered at his hands fidgeting with his pen. “if you wanted to go with me tomorrow?” he continued but couldn’t help to lower his voice almost to a whisper as he shyly asked you out. he knew how much you loved cats and thought it was a perfect idea to take you to visit the cafe one day.

your face immediately lights up at the idea of a cat cafe. “mingi are you serious? i would love to!” you send him a big toothy grin as you were so excited to be able to go with him. “it’s a date then!”

mingi swore his heart stopped beating and his nose forgot how to breathe for a second at your words.

“you’re deep in love aren’t you prince charming?” his friend from behind the counter teased. san grinned at mingi while typing in his order into the machine. it seem like wooyoung had already told san about mingi’s little secret.

he rolled his eyes, as if he doesn’t get ridiculed enough from wooyoung and yeosang in class already. “and what about it?” mingi scoffs, pulling out a couple bills and handed them to san.

luckily for him, you weren’t around to hear it. although parts of him wished you could hear what just san said because he doesn't know how long he can control his feelings anymore. but mingi wanted his confession to be a bit more romantic rather than his friend blurting it out, so he kept quiet and waited. you were currently occupied with your phone, filling up your photo gallery with pictures of them while waiting for mingi to order.

“it means you should probably do something about it.” san winked, handing mingi his receipt before heading back to prepare his drinks. mingi knew exactly what he meant about that. he knew exactly what he should do about these uncontrollable feelings. but he just couldn’t find the courage to do it anytime soon.

he sighed and glanced towards the table where you sat. he was really glad he brought up the idea of bringing you here because mingi realized how endearing your love for cats was. even from afar, the way you gently pet the cat by the window makes his heart melt. no complaints from him though. if they can make you smile non-stop, then that’s all it matters.

“order up for lover boy.” san announced playfully, snapping mingi out of his thoughts of you and bringing him back from reality. mingi rolled his eyes and blatantly ignored his friend’s word, taking the tray of food in his hand. hearing san giggle from behind him only made him more annoyed but he quickly calmed down at the sight of you playing with a cat’s paw.

“hey. i got your favourites.” he placed the tray in the middle. you thanked him as you took a bite into your strawberry shortcake and a sip from the iced americano. you felt butterflies in your stomach, you couldn’t help but to feel this way towards mingi because he never fails to remember all the little things you’ve told him.

the two of you enjoyed your drinks and desserts and talked about anything that came to your mind. mingi was an easy person to talk to. no matter what you talked about or how long you would ramble on a topic, he was listening to every single word that came out of your mouth. sometimes you would carry the whole conversation and he didn’t mind. and neither did you because something about not worrying or stressing over if you were being boring or annoying was what made you love talking to mingi. your voice was like music to him, he could listen to it all day long. he propped his chin on his hand as you continued to talk.

you jump up slightly at the furry feeling the side of your leg. you melt at the sight of a persian cat making figure eights around your legs. another kitten nearby was on its back, all sprawled out. you both were in awe at the sight of all these cute cats around the place. while you fixed your gaze on the cats, mingi had his eyes focused on you the entire time.

step four: confession

everything was going fine. until it wasn’t.

self-doubts and anxiety starts creeping in and you feel weak. you were unsure, because nothing good has ever lasted this long. you had no idea this would happen when approached mingi. but after that day, you found yourself looking forward to talking with him more. and over time, of course, you fell for him. who wouldn’t?

it felt odd. suspicious. everything was going so smoothly with you and mingi. he makes you feel excited to wake up every day and spend your breaks with him. he makes classes and college a little more bearable. you love the way he unconsciously caress your hand under the table like it’s a habit. you love the little things he does for you like sharing earbuds while waiting for your bus. mingi was an angel towards you.

it was too good to be true.

you were hidden underneath your blanket in a fetal position, curled up with your knee to your chest as you quietly sobbed in your room. you felt terrible. how you’ve been avoiding mingi recently ever since this unsettling feeling started to creep in. you tried to bury your whimpers and sniffs as you heard your door creak open and felt the bed dip.

“hey.” no response. he couldn’t see your face. the only thing he could hear was the shaky breath that you tried so hard to hide from underneath the covers. he could tell you’ve been crying for the past hour or even days considering your current state.

“leave me alone,” you snapped at him. mingi pursed his lips at your jarring words, deciding to push it away because he knew you didn’t mean any harm.

he’s noticed, he always does. today is sunday, he hasn't seen or heard from you ever since friday afternoon. even so, you disappeared right after classes ended and he couldn’t get a hold of you. you weren’t at the bus stop as you normally would, it had mingi worried to death. he started to think about his past actions or words to see if any of that had made you upset, but none came to his mind. opting to just stay by your side for now.

“i haven’t seen you in so long, is everything okay?” he asked but got no response. the lump in your throat prevents you from telling the truth, so you kept quiet. you could only shake your head from underneath the covers.

“i’m here for you, i don’t want you to go through this alone.” mingi took a deep breath. he didn’t like seeing you like this. he settled on the bed right next to your figure, you flinched at his touch when he patted your shoulders gently. he didn’t say a word, he allowed you to continue crying, letting out any pain that has been trapped in there.

and with that, you slowly pulled the covers down. revealing your glossy eyes and puffy lips from the endless hours of crying in your room.

mingi quickly took you into his embrace because he just couldn’t stand the sight of you crying. he’s been dying to hold you. he tells you that everything is okay to be okay and that it’s okay to cry. maybe silence was the best medicine for now, but he felt the urge to tell you that things were going to be okay. he lets you cry in his arms, allowing you to break down as he rubs your back. you buried your face into the warmth of his chest as he held the back of your head and rubbed your back. soft whispers from mingi calmed you down, you focused your mind on his smooth voice to escape the unsettling thoughts that welcomed itself into you.

you pushed yourself off him and took a shaky deep breath, it sounds like you were going to break and tears would storm down your cheeks again but you quickly collected yourself.

“i’m sorry.” you whispered, wiping your face with the back of your hand. you didn’t know what to do now. tell him? or make up an excuse on why you’ve been down lately? tell him that you were afraid that he would leave you? or push off the topic and hope that he’ll buy it?

you played with your hands as you sat there helpless in front of him, until mingi’s voice broke your racing thoughts. “it’s okay. take your time.” he took both your hands in his, caressing your hand with his thumb gently, like he always does. holding them like you were going to disappear any moment now, leaving him alone.

a comfortable silence falls between you and mingi as you both sit on your bed holding each other's hands. until you blurted out the words you’ve been holding back, words you’ve been thinking over and over.

“i love you.”

mingi froze at your sudden confession. releasing his grip on your hands and his eyes widened. he felt like his heart was about to explode. the fluttering in his stomach, feeling hesitant of what to say back because he was definitely not expecting this so suddenly.

“i…” he began, unsure of how to properly explain the complexity of his feelings, “i love you too, ever since i laid my eyes on you.” chuckling at himself at how cheesy he sounded. unashamed of how stupidity in love he sounds right now, because letting you know how important you are to him was his goal.

giggling at how adorable he looks when he proposed his feelings, loving how he can make you smile despite you being a mess just a couple of minutes ago. loving how being here with you, makes you forget all about those negative thoughts. you took his hands into yours once again. a wave of relief washes you over because now. you didn’t have to worry about anything anymore, not when he’s by your side.

“it’s just…” you drop your head down at his hands as you play with his fingers, “nothing this good as happened to me and i just…” you trail off, feeling the tears in the corner of your eyes coming back. just afraid of you leaving me, was what you wanted to say but couldn’t. mingi notices and instantly intertwines his hands with yours.

“hey, it’s okay. i’m going anywhere, okay?” he reassures you, like he was reading your thoughts. lifting up his hand intertwined with yours to your eye level as his little proof. his action didn’t fail to make you smile.

“thank you, mingi. for being with me.”

“like i said, i’m always here for you. now c’mere.” opening his arms wide with a huge grin plastered on his face as an invitation for you to melt in his arm. you hurled in his arms.. finding solace in the crook of his neck, feeling his warmth and taking in his scent.

the room was filled with little sniffles from you, sounding like a toddler who’s favourite toy went missing. “sorry for getting my snot on your shirt.” you shyly chuckled for ruining the slightly romantic atmosphere.

“it’s okay, only because i love you.” if hugs healed, mingi would hold you forever.

step five: being a couple

“close your eyes for me?”

“don’t tell me what to do.”

“you—” mingi sighed. “just do it, please.”

“okay, only because you said the magic word.” you quipped with a smirk.

mingi scoffed. when you shut your eyes, he leads you in front of the mirror. he pulled out the handmade necklace he’s been working on the past couple of days. his hands, unlike the rest of his body, were cold. he carefully brushed your hair out of the way then carefully clipped the two ends of the necklace together. turning them to the front and letting them sit on your collarbones.

it was a simple gold chain with a charm, representing you. he was aiming for a piece you would be able to wear casually, fitting with everyday outfits as well as complementing your other jewelry pieces since he knew you liked to layer them.

with anticipation, you asked if you can open your eyes, mingi hum a tune in response. “i got you a little something, i hope you like it.” slowly opening your eyes to reveal mingi’s gift. heat crawling up your face when your eyes laid on the beautiful piece of gold jewelry resting around your neck. there laid a charm, a key.

“baby…” you gazed at your new favourite jewellery while trying to hold back tears. getting on your tippy-toes, reaching for his cheeks to give him a quick “thank you” kiss.

mingi flashed you a huge satisfied grin, “ta-da! we’re matching!” he pulled his own necklace that was hidden under his shirt with the brightest smile on his face, the type of smile that turned his eyes into crescents. instead of a key, his was a lock. you were in awe at the connection and how thoughtful it was.

“thank you mingi, i love it so much.” you wasted no time wrapping your arms around his neck and a quick peck on his cheeks that made his heart burst into a million pieces.

in a short amount of time, you two managed to brighten each other’s day effortlessly. mingi has never been so wrong about his little crush on you lasting three days. even though it was silly, he thanked himself every day for choosing to wear that shirt. who knew something he put so little thought into could turn to be the best thing that’s happened to him? he was so proud to be in love with such an incredible person. a love he would cherish for life.

“thank you for loving me.”

happy birthday to the best boy, song mingi <3

#ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #song mingi #song mingi imagines #song mingi scenarios #ateez x reader #much longer than i thought but o well...this is my longest work to date lmao #song mingi x reader #ateez fanfic #song mingi fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez drabbles

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