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reasoningdaily · 11 months

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The First Self-Proclaimed Drag Queen Was a Formerly Enslaved Man

In the late 19th century, William Dorsey Swann’s private balls attracted unwelcome attention from authorities and the press

In the late 1880s, a formerly enslaved man named William Dorsey Swann started hosting private balls known as drags, a name possibly derived from “grand rag,” an antiquated term for masquerade balls. Held in secret in Washington, D.C., these parties soon caught authorities’ attention.

As the Washington Criticreported in January 1887, police officers who raided one such gathering were surprised to encounter six Black men “dressed in elegant female attire,” including “corsets, bustles, long hose and slippers.” The following April, the Evening Starreported on a raid that targeted men in “female attire of many colors,” as well as “gaudy costumes of silk and satin.” On both occasions, authorities arrested the party guests and charged them with “being suspicious characters.”

Joseph’s chance find marked the beginning of a yearslong quest to uncover Swann’s story—and, with it, the history of drag in the United States. He chronicles the results of this research in an upcoming book titled House of Swann: Where Slaves Became Queens—and Changed the World. Drawing on extensive archival research, Joseph presents a compelling portrait of the nation’s first self-proclaimed drag queen. The historian proudly positions Swann as the “first queer American hero.”

The identification of Swann as the first reported drag queen in the U.S. is a “major event,” says Jen Manion, a historian at Amherst College. “LGTBQ history is hampered by the lack of diaries and personal letters and family papers, because you just don’t put [those feelings] in writing.” For much of recorded history, Manion adds, being gay or bisexual was considered “a sin; it’s illegal.”

Joseph says his research resurfaces the “experiences of queer people, … historical experiences, not fictionalized experiences, documenting them rather than speculating.” These findings, in turn, helped him pinpoint the birth of “the drag queen.”

The concept of drag “existed for some period of time unknown,” says Joseph. But the term only came into use in 19th-century Great Britain, where Joseph says it referred to “a gathering of people, particularly men, who were dressing as women.” In 1871, two members of the British aristocracy were put on trial after they were caught dressing as women in public. Authorities charged Ernest “Stella” Boulton and Frederick “Fanny” Park with “conspiring and inciting persons to commit an unnatural offense.” A jury found the defendants not guilty but handed down a minor indictment to the men for wearing women’s clothing.

Cross-dressing, which is often a component of drag, has a lengthy history on both the stage and the screen, from Elizabethan-era performances in which men played women to Japanese Kabuki theater. In the early 20th century, performers like Julian Eltinge became stars by impersonating women during the vaudeville craze. In the 1950s, Milton Berle dressed as a woman on his variety TV show, as did comedian Flip Wilson in the early 1970s. In the early 1980s, the sitcom “Bosom Buddies” starred Tom Hanks and Peter Scolari as two young men who disguise themselves as women so they can live in an inexpensive, women-only apartment building.

Historian Kathleen Casey, author of The Prettiest Girl on Stage Is a Man: Race and Gender Benders in American Vaudeville, takes a much wider view of drag. While she includes all manner of cross-dressing performances in her definition, she doesn’t think there will ever be “a stable meaning of the term ‘drag.’” Casey adds, “Drag is about race, class and sexuality as much as it is about gender. If we focus exclusively on only one of these intersections, we fail to see how drag performances are layered across time and space and can have multiple meanings for different audiences.” Drag, she says, is really about a performer’s own perspective of their work, as well as audiences’ understanding of this work.

Many of the “contemporary categories and terms that we use in modern life to describe LGBTQ people or sexual and gender minorities” date to the late 19th century, says Manion. “Lesbian,” for instance, was first used in a medical journal in 1883. The historian adds, “We debate amongst ourselves as scholars when it seems appropriate to use contemporary terms to describe things [in] the past, but in this case, these were terms used by … the people at the time as well.”

Swann was born into slavery in Washington County, Maryland, around 1858. According to a 2021 entry by Joseph in the African American National Biography, Swann was the fifth of 13 children born to enslaved housekeeper Mary Jane Younker and enslaved wheat farmer and musician Andrew Jackson “Jack” Swann. (His biological father may have been a white man, but Joseph hasn’t found definitive evidence confirming this theory.) After the Civil War ended in 1865, Swann’s parents bought a plot of land and started a farm. Encouraged to work as soon as he was old enough, the young Swann found employment as a hotel waiter. In 1880, he relocated to Washington, where he worked as a janitor and sent money back home to his family.

Like Washington more broadly, the capital’s underground queer networks were divided into white and Black communities that rarely intersected. As a 2019 report prepared for the city’s Historic Preservation Office notes, “It was a hushed fact that Lafayette Square in D.C., which is adjacent to the White House, was a known cruising spot for gay men, both Black and white,” but the majority of these individuals were only interested in liaisons with partners of the same race. An exception to this trend was Washington’s drag scene, which often attracted mixed-race audiences.

Forging a place for himself in the city’s queer Black community, Swann held parties that Joseph deems the first documented “drag balls” in American history. Held in secret, they provided a safe space for gender expression but were risky to attend. “A large but undetermined number managed to flee during the police raids, but the names of those arrested and jailed were printed in the papers, where the men became targets of public scorn,” wrote Joseph for the Nation in 2020. “In post-Civil War America, there was very little patience for men who subverted gender norms.” Sentences for those charged with attending drag balls ranged from around three to ten months.

Around this same time, Swann became enthralled by the “queens of freedom” crowned at Washington’s Emancipation Day parades—annual celebrations first held in April 1866. Historically, each neighborhood was represented by a woman who “personified freedom for Black people,” according to Joseph. Inspired by these queens, Swann started crowning the winners of his dance competitions the “queen of the ball,” says Joseph.

Swann also adopted the title for himself. As the Washington Critic noted on April 13, 1888, “William Dorsey, who, by the way, was the ‘queen,’” was one of 13 people arrested during a raid on a “drag party” the previous night.

“There’s this concept of drag, which is separate, and there’s the concept of queens of freedom, and in D.C. in this particular time, post-slavery, post-Reconstruction, these two concepts collide,” says Joseph. “To identify as a drag queen, which is what William Dorsey Swann did, is combining these two strains, these two cultural traditions.”

The 1880s saw a “wave of laws passed in cities all across the country explicitly banning cross-dressing,” says Manion, who adds that the rules were “applied very selectively” and were riddled with inconsistencies and contradictions. The arrests of Swann and his friends were “even more sensationalized in the press and probably drew the attention of authorities because most of the participants were Black,” Manion explains. “And this is in Jim Crow America. For queer … Black Americans to just see so much joy and freedom in their gender expression at this time was definitely seen as a threat.”

The court sentenced Swann to 300 days in prison. After serving three months of his sentence, Swann, who had pled not guilty, filed a petition for a pardon from President Grover Cleveland, says Netisha Currie, an archives specialist at the National Archives, which houses a copy of the petition. In a show of support, 30 of Swann’s friends signed the document. But U.S. Attorney A.A. Birney argued vehemently against the pardon, stating,“The prisoner was in fact convicted of the most horrible and disgusting offenses known to the law; an offense so disgusting that it is unnamed. … His evil example in the community must have been most corrupting.”

Ultimately, Cleveland denied the petition. Still, wrote Joseph for the Nation, Swann’s unsuccessful attempt to clear his name represents the earliest documented example of an American activist taking “specific legal and political steps to defend the queer community’s right to gather without the threat of criminalization, suppression or police violence.”

As Manion says, “What’s unique about [Joseph’s] work is that it captures a collective community. When we have been able to identify queer and trans figures in this era and earlier, we find them in isolation. And we can seldom connect the dots to say, ‘Oh, these two couples were friends. They always hung out.’ … We have very little evidence of collective socializing.”

No known pictures of Swann survive. But his contributions to queer activism in Washington will soon be recognized with the redesignation of a stretch of Swann Street Northwest in his honor. The street was originally named for Thomas Swann, a former Maryland governor and Baltimore mayor who bore no relation to the drag queen.

“We have seen so much anti-trans and anti-drag legislation and rhetoric around the country in a very problematic way,” says Brooke Pinto, a D.C. Council member who introduced the bill. “In Washington, D.C., where we are proud to have so many trans residents, we [need to] speak up and recognize, sometimes through symbolism, sometimes through legislation, how important these issues are.”

The bill also calls for a historic plaque to be posted in Dupont Circle, a Washington neighborhood with a rich LGBTQ history. The plaque will sit at the corner of New Hampshire Avenue, Swann Street Northwest and 17th Street Northwest.

“One of the things that’s so exciting about this case is that it is an African American man who was formerly enslaved,” says Manion. Such individuals “just don’t get … recognition in our histories of LGBTQ people, in part because we usually can’t find them in the archives. But … Swann was hiding in plain sight.”

#swann #Drag Balls #Origins of Drag Balls #DC #LGBTQ+#The First Self-Proclaimed Drag Queen Was a Formerly Enslaved Man #William Dorsey Swann #Drag Queens #origins of drag ball culture in DC

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ms-moonlight-inn · 3 months

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#William Dorsey Swann #drag balls #drag queens

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mizgnomer · 8 months

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Crowley vs. The Tenth Doctor - Parallels Good Omens Season 2 - Part 2

Season Two's [ Part One ] Season One's [ Part One ] [ Part Two ]

#good omens #doctor who #david tennant #michael sheen #go2 #gos2 #good omens 2 #tenth doctor #my brain is auto-tuned for finding doctor who parallels #I think they're fun #maybe I'll do a part 3 #dragging david tennant onto the dance floor at a ball #if I had a nickel for every...#crowley and aziraphale #ineffable husbands #GOvsDWParallels #stuff i posted

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theminecraftbee · 3 months

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okay so. hear me out. but. au concept--

joel is one of many people affected by a Vanishing. its a phenomenon sweeping the country--people simply not showing up for work, school, life one day, as though they've vanished from the face of the earth. it's almost possible to mistake for normal missing persons cases, if it weren't for the way a few of the higher-profile Vanishings have happened to people who shouldn't have been able to vanish at all, let alone in a way that wouldn't be noticed until too late. look at joel's hometown. the people monitoring the dam were supposed to be redundant, and yet--

anyway. not like he cares or anything, except for the fact this stupid disaster or whatever has left him without anywhere to live or anyone to live with, and he still has a year of high school left, so he can't just do whatever he wants. luckily there's this school in a town called new hermiton that agreed to give him a scholarship to finish his education in the name of recovery and solidarity or whatever, and it's kind of a shwankier school than he'd normally go for, but it's free and, more importantly, they're willing to pay for his lodging, and he can't really turn that down. and it's not like he has a choice but to upend his entire life now. so packing what few of his belongings survived into a bag and getting on a train and moving across the country to a new school it is, he guesses.

(he's been having nightmares that inexplicably feature swarms of blue butterflies. last time he checked, lakes don't have butterflies in them. although maybe it's a metaphor or something, on account of the butterflies saying stupid stuff about how people who are remembered can't disappear, and even a false world cannot be erased if it's watched over, and how fate depends on him holding people in his heart. thanks for saying the same stupid shitty platitudes his social worker told him, just more cryptically, butterflies. real cool.)

new hermiton, it turns out, is a small city. while new hermiton academy is a newer school, much of the city is older. he's moved into a nice enough flat in an older apartment building. he has another cryptic butterfly dream. he thinks he remembers someone trying to urgently warn him of something, but it's all... shaky. that morning, he goes to the school for the first time. he's greeted by a fellow transfer student, skizzleman, although apparently he already knows some of the other folks in town, and transferred here so he could stay with them. but it's at least someone else in a similar enough situation to joel, especially since joel can just tell by the way people are looking at him that skizz didn't have much of a choice but to be here, either, and best friends with impulse or not, he's on his own too.

so. a friend. maybe this school won't be that bad, even if joel keeps having nightmares, and even if the weather here is weirdly cold for july, and even if his new homeroom professor keeps on looking at him really weirdly. (aren't professors supposed to be better about stupid rumors anyway? what's that mr. hills's deal?)

and then, two days later, he waves skizz off at the end of the school day, and gets skizz's friend, impulse, at his door, desperate to hear that skizz had just come to stay the night in joel's shitty lonely apartment, because otherwise it looks like--come on man. joel's already having a shit time. the universe deciding to go after his one existing friend too? he promises impulse to help investigate that night, in the vain hope that Skizz isn't one of the Vanished. joel gets a splitting migraine trying to follow their path back, though, and they have to stop for the night.

skizz is reported missing the next morning. joel resigns himself to cutting himself off from the people around him, as per usual. then, strangely, mr. hills corners him as he goes home.

"you'll need this," he says, and shoves what feels like a cheap butterfly knife into joel's hands. "uh, remember, trust your heart! you'll know how to use it."

"what," joel says. "hold on. you're supposed to be a teacher. why are you giving me this. i know for a fact my file says i have like, ptsd or whatever, which is stupid, but you definitely aren't supposed to be giving me a knife, you weirdo?"

"you'll know how to use it," joe hills says again. "goodbye! believe in yourself!"

mr. hills sprints behind a building before he has to explain anything else. joel is left standing on the sidewalk holding a knife, staring after him.

so. that's weird as hell. joel shivers in the cold and continues on his way home. the butterfly knife feels heavy in his pockets. he should probably report that guy to his social worker or something, but actually talking to his social worker feels like conceding defeat. joel can take care of himself. he can prove he can take care of himself. just watch him. step one: go out to get ramen because he forgot to buy any food for his apartment.

he sees impulse putting up signs as he eats. impulse looks miserable. joel thinks about how skizz, just in the short time he'd known him, had sort of unintentionally given away that he felt isolated after his mother Vanished. that impulse was a great friend, but impulse didn't understand what it was like. he never really SAID as much, but--

it's not fair to impulse, for that to be the last thing impulse remembered of what was apparently a friend since childhood. and joel doesn't care about any of these guys, but he can still pay his check and go out and help impulse go looking. he's no good at comforting people and doesn't know this guy, but joel had been alone too, sitting on the roof and crying, when the helicopters came.

except when they go back to the path by the school, joel's head starts to hurt again.

he looks up and there's a butterfly.

"hey, impulse, are butterflies common here?" he asks, a little desperately.

"i mean, not really, why?" impulse says.

"uh," joel says, and gestures. the two of them stare as the strange yellow butterfly circles in place.

"okay, so that is kind of weird," impulse admits.

"right?" joel says. "the only way it would be weirder is if it were blue." impulse gives him a look. joel does not explain.

it starts to fly away.

"we should follow it," impulse says, his voice getting a little dull. "yeah. we should follow it."

"what? no! no we should not follow the haunted butterfly, are you nuts?" joel says, but it's a bit too late. (maybe this is what the knife is for: stabbing impulse. it would be an effective method of stopping him!) he chases impulse down, down to the river, where yellow butterflies are swarming. impulse, as though possessed, simply steps into the swarm and falls through them to the water.

joel's, uh, freaking out more than a little bit? he'll admit he's freaking out. he dives forward to try to grab him, only to realize that he doesn't see impulse anywhere.

a single blue butterfly lands on joel's shoulder. "do you hold his heart next to yours?"

"i'm going insane," joel says.

"no heart is meant to be completely alone. do you hold his next to yours?"

"this isn't happening," joel says. "this is like a stupid manga or something. it's not happening."

"there is still time to save them; you must hold your heart strong, or the consequences will be dire. i believe in you."

the butterfly vanishes.

"fuck it," joel says. "if i drown then it's nothing people haven't expected of me anyway."

he steps through the swarm of butterflies.

that night, he drags both impulse and skizz out of the river. they're all freezing cold. shadows and strange, yellowy liquid still cling to all of their skin. also, joel stabbed himself, which like, glad to know that's what the knife was for, apparently, and the scar is warm and comforting. he can feel his--persona, and don't ask him how he knows that--shifting under his skin, under the mark on his hand. it said its name is pygmalion; it says it is a piece of joel's soul.

this is all patently insane. but skizz and impulse are alive and NOT eaten by shadow monsters, so even if they're both a little unconscious, joel takes that as a win.

they lie on the ground outside the river. someone stumbles across them. "well give me some teeth and call me an alligator. you got out on your own," breathes a fellow student clutching a dagger. joel thinks he's in the class across the hall. also--

"what are you talking about," joel wheezes.

"you found it on your own. you can find them?" the student says. his eyes are wide. something in joel's soul recognizes something in the student's. something in joel's BRAIN puts two and two together and realizes why mr. hills gave him a knife.

"no. no, go away, i don't want to be involved in this," joel says.

"well, don't you think it's too late for that?" the student says, and joel passes out. he's pretty sure the butterflies have to be laughing at him. in fact, as though to mock him further, after passing out, he doesn't even get to avoid it forever, because he wakes up in a glowing blue boat. there is a man with white-blonde hair, blue eyes, and a blue outfit leaning over him, poking him.

joel takes no responsibility for punching him. he'd do it again, too, as the long-nosed man sitting next to the unmanned steering wheel welcomes him to the velvet room.

(this, joel realizes later, all rather sets the tone for what the next year of his life is about to become.)

#hermitcraft #joel smallishbeans #smallishsona au #THAT'S RIGHT BABY ITS THE PERSONA AU I WAS WAFFLING ABOUT #because i'm playing p3re right now this is pretty p3 inspired but also expect elements of p4 (my fav) and p5 #i. do not know enough about p1 and p2 to be using all these butterflies but FUCK IT WE BALL.#a bee fic #KIND OF I GUESS I'LL PUT THIS THERE.#anyway the idea is that this au is half a crack au and half DEEPLY SINCERE #because the JOKE is that joel hates every minute of being a persona protagonist #but the OTHER bit is that joel is genuinely an extremely loyal guy who would do VERY WELL as a persona protagonist #you just have to drag him there kicking and screaming #(sort of in a very. p3-esque way)

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gothpersy · 1 year

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Me *slapping together several different art styles*: HARDCORE

#i should have just used the stock photo i used as ref for the disco ball but i have standards so it's drawn #is it messy? yeah #but also nobody's paying me xd #disco elysium #disco elysium fanart #disco elysium poster #i do admit i looked in the direction of alexander rostov's art when drawing the pale/clouds so it's a very similar color palette #not identical though i have different brushes and shit #also I'm obviously not even nearly as good like could you imagine i will never paint like him #not a self drag just facts i am all about low opacity softish stuff #so yeah #i still like it enough to post #next poster will be l.s. dunes again and I'll try traditional art techniques bc i have a whole drawer full of art supplies i do not use

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shy-the-trash-lion · 2 months

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Hi ✨ Getting into Dragon Ball (mayhaps)

Check out my silly wares ✨

#a mutual of mine has dragged me in and he is to blame smile #I’m having a good time and I already have a persona that he help me work out #her name is Kaboom and she is a cerealian #I’m still working out her back story but I’m obsessed p #dragon ball #dbs broly #piccolo #dbs jiren #broly #jiren #shythetrashlion #my art #dbs sona #kaboom the cerealian #granolah

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rapidhighway · 4 months

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i need a pen grip that works similar to this is this possible to achieve does anyone use something like that

#like #i would like to hold it like you would a mouse? a little bit #i guess i just need a big ball of something #but i looked #i dont think i can find this in my language fdgbgdfsfgf #i have one option i found on some foreign site but i would like to have someone's opinion if there is someone who uses #something like that #also umm that hand.#i need something that will stop my fingers from curling under the pencil #and dragging on the surface

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eltystuffs · 5 months

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🎈Furblets🎈

My Furblets arrived early and I'm literally so happy!? I plan on naming them after pizza restaurant foods like lava cake or stuffed cheesy bread but I'd love some suggestions in the comments!

#furby #furblr #furbycore #furblets #furby 2023 #2023 furby #kidcore #ball pit #i was dragged into the ball pit because my niece and nephew think autism torture is fun so I thought I'd get a picture while I was there #my furbies

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ball-slayer · 5 months

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the sequel.

#dragon ball #joke version: vegetto yajirobe and yamcha (<- also there) odd trio just hanging out all day doing fuck all and its funny #soap opera version: infidelity speedrun any% vegetto drags all of earth straight to hell. and its still funny

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vegetas-crying-blog · 6 months

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always thinking about this youtube comment i found under a hit vs vegeta video

#vegeta #dragon ball #dbz #dbs #dragon ball z #dragon ball super #vegeta dragon ball #vegetag #he deserves to have his losses dragged out btw

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jewish-culture-is · 3 months

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jewish culture is talking to a jewish friend about jewish holidays and theorizing about a drag show for purim, which turns into "what if I start a jewish drag bar that has daytime programming for minors (and adults) and nighttime programming (for adults only) to be a queer inclusive jewish space somewhere (which we queer jews desperately need more of), and seriously starting to consider it, so now you have to think about what you'd name it if you DID make it (taking suggestions for my hypothetical jewish drag bar)

#jewish culture is #judaism #jewish #jumblr #queer jewish culture is #drag king #drag queen #ok but imagine drag king hamen #drag queen esther??#I would literally lose my mind #just saying #and then we'd have holiday specials on the menu for like #rosh hashana hanukkah purim etc #matzo ball soup year round #yk itd be soooo good #manischewitz also as a special of the bar lmao #and of course everything would be kept kosher to respect those who keep kosher (even tho I don't)

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kimtaegis · 2 years

Photo

🫧🌈🪩

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crownedcrowrow · 10 months

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Stimmy Mikey screenshot redraw for your timezone

#pixelcrowart #tmnt #tmnt 87 #87 tmnt #tmnt mikey #tmnt michelangelo #87 mikey #stimmy baby #Ball and Kangie dragging me down to the 87 sink hole kicking amd screaming <33 #pitdwellers #1987 tmnt #tmnt 1987

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petrichorium · 1 year

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Symbiosis

in which you break down, and draken is there to pick up the pieces

draken x gn!reader

word count: 2.9k reader: gn (no pronouns, neutral terms, neutral clothing) tags: hurt/comfort ig??? just pre-relationship, cuddling, flirting, idk man reader's going through it and draken's v much in love w them

“stay,” you mumble.

draken stiffens. he pulls up a little, just enough that he doesn’t have to brace himself anymore, but it has you whining anyway until he sinks to his knees and lets you fall in close again.

“i can sleep on the couch—“

“no.” you shake your head and ball your fist around the fabric. “here. sleep with me.”

“i’m not getting in your bed wearing my work clothes, baby, i’ll get grease all over your sheets.”

“i can change my sheets. small price to pay for you to hold me tonight.”

he’s quiet for a moment. you think the words might have stunned him, just a bit; but they work either way, because after a beat he rises without protesting any further and silently pulls your covers aside to join you.

“all right,” he says, unbearably low and soft as his work boots fall to the floor with two heavy thuds, “can’t say no to you.”

Draken shows up on day three of your self-induced isolation.

You’re sitting out on your balcony, enjoying the cool of the evening and watching the sun dip beneath the horizon. It helps you orient yourself, you've come to find, being outside as the light slowly fades. When you crash like this you need all the help you can get.

Frankly you should be thankful it’s only him and not an entire brigade of motorcycles and ex-gangsters. You’re not well-versed enough to know it’s him from the sound of the engine—not like he is, when you sit next to him in the shop and he can tell you who will come walking through the door by the roaring noise of their approach—but you’re fairly certain it’s him. Even when he stops, and stands, and you can’t see much more than the bulky silhouette of his form with those broad shoulders and thick forearms covered by the work overalls he still wears, you know.

He doesn’t see you at first. The first few steps he takes are towards the stairwell that leads up to where your front door is, but then he pauses and lifts a hand to squint up at you before approaching your balcony.

You can only just see him through the bars of the railing by the time he stops, but he’s close enough now that you note the ponytail his hair is in—you hadn’t been there to braid it over shitty burnt coffee from the pot in the back room this morning.

“Didn’t come to work today,” Draken calls up to you. You hunker down further in your seat, and though you thought he couldn’t see you well enough he moves forward a bit at the action. “Everyone’s worried, you weren’t answering your phone.”

“I called out.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been three days. You hurt?”

“No.”

“Sick? You sound—“

“No,” you say again, more sternly the second time, because you know he’s asking about your voice and you don’t exactly want to shout down to your colleague that you sound congested because you’ve been crying all day.

“Good.” There’s relief in his voice as he glances over towards the stairwell up to your front door, then back to you, “can I come up?”

“Door’s locked.”

“I’ll pick it.”

You shake your head. “Latched.”

His sigh is long-suffering. “Always makin’ me work for it, huh?”

When he disappears from view you figure he’ll kick down your door. You resign yourself to it; anticipate the muffled sound of his foot against solid wood until it gives in, the complaints from your neighbors in the morning. Maybe someone will call the police thinking you’re being robbed and you’ll have to deal with that at whatever hour it currently is.

Instead you hear a grunt, and the shabby metal railing of your balcony rattles violently as a big hand catches hold of it.

And what you let out is more a screech than a yelp, taken entirely by surprise. You’re a bit calmed when Draken’s head follows—he hefts himself up with a surprising amount of ease, bicep bulging visibly even beneath the long sleeve of his jumpsuit—but your heart still pounds rapidly within your chest, and you’re still frozen half lunged away from him.

His other hand finds the top of the railing and it’s all over from there; soon he has all six-feet-and-change of his body up and one leg over. For a beat he sits like that, straddling the banister, and then he swings his other leg over all the way and settles heavy on the concrete floor.

The balcony is tiny, made even more so by the sheer size of your new companion. He approaches, careful not to disturb the multitude of plants, and drops to sit facing you.

For a heartbeat, two, several, he is still. You’re both silent. You tuck your head further into your knees, looking out at the drab buildings and glowing yellow street lights past the railing. Before your very eyes you watch rain begin to fall—a light smattering of drops at first, thick and fat against the dark asphalt below, and then more, heavier and heavier, until the world beyond is covered by the curtain of a deluge and nothing more than blurry acrylic on canvas.

“Got up just in time,” Draken says suddenly. You nearly jump. His voice is surprisingly clear despite the roaring sound of rain hitting every surface beyond the balcony.

You let yourself turn to him. He straightens as soon as you do, shuffling in a bit closer until he could practically lay his head in your lap. But he doesn’t; he shifts, turning to face out and extend his legs as far as they can go, toes of his large boots pressing between the bars of the railing he’d just climbed. His legs are so long they’re still largely bent, but he rests his arms there as he leans back against the building behind you, and you suppose it seems comfortable enough.

“How’d you even get up?” you ask him finally, earning yourself a biting grin.

“Used the balcony under yours. S’easy to climb these things if you know what you’re doing.”

Your nose scrunches, and that grin softens into something fond. Draken shifts to reach out and press a thumb between your eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles there.

“I don’t like when you do stupid shit,” is what you settle on saying.

“That’s a lie, you love when I do stupid shit.”

“Not when it’ll get me a complaint in the morning about the massive boot print on my neighbor’s railing.”

“To go with the noise complaints about the motorcycle after dark.”

The hackles you’ve had up slowly fall; his presence is calming, big but warm. Protective. You feel like he could shoulder every burden for you.

It would be cruel of you to make him.

But he catches onto your silence. “Hey, don’t go quiet on me now. Unless you’re figuring out how to tell me what’s up with you.”

Your shoulders slump. You pull your legs up again, leaning back, and Draken’s hand finds itself on your thigh, all big and heavy and comforting.

“Look, it’s just… been a bad few days. Happens sometimes. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Hm.” He hums to himself, and squeezes your thigh, almost in thought. “Can’t say I agree with that. In fact I think my whole goal here is to make you somethin’ I gotta worry about. So… give me more to work with.”

“It’s just me, okay? I just… crash, sometimes. Need to take a few days and work it through.”

“Alone?”

Your lip quivers. “Always have.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Well… fine. Talking won’t do much. I’ve just told you all I know—I get in a funk, like, twice a year and can’t leave my place for days at a time. Can’t say there’s been anyone around who wanted to help me out during it. So I guess if you wanna spend your Friday night trying, be my guest.”

He ponders on that a moment, turning away from you to look out at the still raging storm. Then he turns back and says, “C’mere.”

It sounds almost like an order as he pats his thigh, and to your genuine surprise you obey it. There’s barely enough room on the balcony as-is and you think it’ll only make things worse to attempt to fit two grown adults in the space next to the chair—especially when one of them is Ryuguji Ken—but there’s a magnetic pull to the idea of letting him comfort you that you don’t even want to fight. Halfway down though, as he reaches up to guide you, you have a sudden realization of what position you’re in—and what the implications might be, despite the overall context.

“Don’t kiss me,” you say.

“What?” There’s easy amusement in his voice—endearment, adoration—as he leans back comfortably against the wall and pulls you all the way into his lap without missing a beat. It’s strangely right. You’d have thought that feeling small in his hold would be distressing to you, but somehow it’s not some disjointed desire to leap away that beckons the tears welling in your eyes—rather it’s something like his hands, large and warm and secure on your waist, punching down whatever dam had been stopping the waterworks.

One of those hands reaches up to wipe away your tears. It’s sturdy, calloused—so very much the hand of a man who uses them for hard labor. Draken seems to have the same thought at the same time, though he comes to a vastly different conclusion.

“Sorry.” His thumb pauses against the soft skin beneath your eye, eases off you slowly. “’s probably—too rough.”

Your hand is flying up to make him keep it there before he can fully take it away, fingers a vice around his wrist. There’s a denial on your lips, an insistence that his hands are perfect, but you make the mistake of looking up to meet his gaze before you speak and whatever words you might have said get caught in the back of your throat.

He lets you hold his hand to your cheek and you kind of want to melt with him staring down at you like that. Sable eyes—deep and abyssal, like the starless night sky above you—regard you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. You watch as they trace over your face, as his Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat and his thumb brushes away your tears again, and your heart jumps.

“I’m serious,” you choke out, burying your face into his shirt just to hide from the way he’s looking at you.

“Aww, c’mon, don’t get all shy on me—“

“If you decide to kiss me for the first time like this I’ll hit you.” Your voice is muffled against him, thick with sobs, and you can feel in your chest the way his broad form shakes with low, smooth laughter. “I’m literally bawling, pick a more romantic moment.”

It takes a minute for Draken to stop laughing long enough to answer. “Noted. I won’t kiss you.” A pause. His arms tighten around you. When he speaks it’s softer, slightly hesitant. “Can I kiss your head, though?”

You snort. It’s watery. “Sure.”

The word is no sooner out of your mouth than he’s pressing his lips to your hairline, just above your temple, right where the head of his dragon is, on his own scalp. And he doesn’t pull away when he’s done; he noses into you, like some affectionate dog, pulling your own bark of laughter out of you simply from shock by the way the motion makes your stomach flutter.

“There. Feelin’ better already, yeah?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

At your waist, his thumb brushes soothingly against bare skin, tucked up beneath your shirt. His hand squeezes there, almost groping at your stomach; if he were anyone else you might be annoyed by it.

“You ready to head in?” he asks. “It’s getting cold.”

You wouldn’t quite say cold, but certainly brisk. And now that you’ve cried your eyes are feeling heavy, the exhaustion of your emotions settling in, so you nod against him and allow him to help you to your feet.

Once you’re standing, he joins you—and suddenly it’s even more tight, and you have to lean back against the railing to let him sidle along the building to get to the door and open it for you. His hands find your hips as he does; you laugh breathlessly at the cliched motion, and he squeezes at you again in a silent tease.

Draken reaches out to guide you through the door with a broad hand on the small of your back, thick fingers spread wide. The heat of it flutters across your skin as it urges you forward, stark against the chilly air, gentle but insistent.

You’d probably let him carry you back to your bedroom if the opportunity arose—honestly, he’d probably do it if you asked, but it’d been too cramped outside for him to even attempt that and you’re feeling far too contrary now to ask. Soon enough you’re at the door anyway, and he’s trudging over to turn on your bedside lamp for some light before returning to you.

“Wash your face,” he orders with a little nudge towards the bathroom. “It’ll help you feel better.”

And though a part of you resists giving in to his advice, you know he’s right. You even successfully push down the urge to tell him you’d have done it anyway; instead you obediently wander in the direction he pushed you towards and begin running the water to let it get warm.

“What do you sleep in?” he calls out as you go to bend down.

“Top left of the dresser,” you call back, directing him towards a drawer of soft t-shirts. “And a pair of sweats under it.”

By the time you’ve finished cleaning your face and patting it dry with a clean towel, he’s returned to lean against the door frame.

“Put a set of clothes out for you,” he tells you as you approach him, and sure enough when you look over his shoulder you can see a shirt and sweatpants laid out on your bed. He dips now that you’re closer, turning his face into your hair for a fleeting moment, and mutters, “I’ll go get you some water while you change.”

With that he’s gone, carefully closing your bedroom door behind him.

You want him to stay the night, you realize at that moment. You want him to stay the night and you’re almost certain he’d never go for it—Draken and his stupid, thickheaded chivalry. He’d have kissed you if you hadn’t stopped him, just because you looked cute cuddled up in his lap with your eyes all big and watery, but you’ll have to drag him into bed yourself if you want him to stay.

No matter. As you pull on the shirt he’d picked out (it’s big enough that it might be one of his, you think absent-mindedly; yet another thing he’d shamelessly do if he thought you wouldn’t notice) you make up your mind, and a plan of attack comes to you easily.

You’re getting into bed when the knock comes at your door. Draken doesn’t quite wait for you to answer, opening it just barely and peeking in to check himself if you’re decent. When he sees that you are he opens it entirely and comes in with his promised water cup in hand.

He sets the glass on your bedside table and turns off your light but you don’t acknowledge him verbally. Instead you reach up to hook a finger into his collar and tug his towering form down to loom over you. It’s a little clumsy, and he lets out a surprised grunt, but he catches himself with a hand against your headboard before he can come crashing down on top of you.

Like this, it’s easy to press your nose into his neck, just beneath his jaw, letting your eyes flutter closed as you take a deep, slow inhale to ground yourself.

“Stay,” you mumble.

Draken stiffens. He pulls up a little, just enough that he doesn’t have to brace himself anymore, but it has you whining anyway until he sinks to his knees and lets you fall in close again.

“I can sleep on the couch—“

“No.” You shake your head and ball your fist around the fabric. “Here. Sleep with me.”

“I’m not getting in your bed wearing my work clothes, baby, I’ll get grease all over your sheets.”

“I can change my sheets. Small price to pay for you to hold me tonight.”

He’s quiet for a moment. You think the words might have stunned him, just a bit; but they work either way, because after a beat he rises without protesting any further and silently pulls your covers aside to join you.

“All right,” he says, unbearably low and soft as his work boots fall to the floor with two heavy thuds, “can’t say no to you.”

One of his hands eases beneath you as he eases himself over you and pulls the covers back on top of you both, sliding up under your shirt to press a warm, calloused palm against your back. You reach your arms over his shoulders in return and use the motion to tug the hairtie from his hair—one of your own, you realize as you slide it onto your wrist, and it has your chest fluttering as those black strands fall to curtain your face along with his.

You let your fingers scratch at his scalp and he lets out a low groan. First his head drops to tuck into the crook of your neck, then his whole body, pressing not even close to the full weight of him against you. His other hand runs down the side of your body to your waist, and then he’s shifting you, pushing you over a few inches so that there’s enough room between you and the edge of your bed for him to lean against it.

At last Draken relaxes, more on top of you than not but carefully keeping enough of his weight off you that you’re not being crushed. You’re not sure you’d mind, though; as you begin to nod off, all that remains in your mind is how nice the pressure is. It’s grounding, and warm, and it’s not as if you’d complain about feeling him pressed up against you.

You turn your head to tuck his beneath your chin, and he sighs heavily against your skin, pulling you in even closer. Like that, you both drift off.

In the morning you think you’ll finally let him kiss you.

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