#i came out to my dad today as trans it went better than i could have ever imagined he’s skeptical but not angry | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

checked-windows · 3 years

Text

Stupid Smug Prefect Face

Also cross posted on ao3.

Spencer Reid x trans male reader

We see dad!hotch cause man is total dad material.

Warnings : swearing, suggestive themes, tw for depressive thoughts and I think that's everything!

Strauss was introducing a new agent today and emotions varied, they knew very little about them only that they were fresh out of the academy with one of the highest scores that they had seen. Rossi was almost vibrating with excitement when Strauss had accidentally let your name slip to him but had sworn him to secrecy.

They had gathered in the round table room in order to wait for her to bring you and she did. You walked next to her with your head held high, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle on your dark grey suit. They started profiling you immediately. You were uncomfortable in the suit, it wasn't your usual atire and you were just wearing it to make a good impression. Age range was 20 to 35 roughly. You held yourself to high standards and would not allow for any sloppy work. As much as you stood tall you also had a slight hunch in your spine from what looked like years of slouching over.

"Stop profiling me" your voice snapped them out of their heads "Seriously, I'm an open book just ask me what you want to know."

"Tig" Rossi greeted taking your face in his hands kissing both of your cheeks before pulling you into a hug. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and squeezed.

"It's good to see you Dave" you said into his shoulder. Dave was only just taller than you but enough that he could see over your head.

"Sorry I'm late, budget meetings" a very familiar voice came from behind you. Your released Dave and spun around grinning.

"Suprise!" you exclaimed jumping at him. Aaron caught you easily smiling, wrapping you up in a hug, out of both men he had always given the best hugs.

"(y/n)!" he said laughing. Smiles on Hotch's face had come few and far between after Haley's death but he happily smiled at you "You never said anything"

"I wanted it to be able to surprise you for once" you answered shrugging finally letting him go. Aaron's hand stayed on your shoulder as Strauss introduced you to the rest of the team with a faint smile on her own face.

"This is Agent (y/n) (l/n), they'll be here for a while" she said and you snorted.

"Oh no you're stuck with me now. Please just call me Tig. These two do" you said pointing between Aaron and Dave or Hotch and Rossi while you were in the office. You had been there a few days before your first case, you had been at home with Aaron and Jack and hadn't quite managed to change out of the pants and shirt you had worn into work, due to the excitement that Jack brought with him, so that's what you wore back in, just with the top button undone and your hair pointing in everywhich angle from Jack playing with it while watching whatever movie it had been. Staying the night at Aaron's had started as a weekly occurance a year or so after you had met him, and you had moved in permanently after you had graduated from college and joined the academy.

"Ooh walk of shame, tiggy" Morgan called. You weren't entirely sure when he had changed your nickname but you rolled your eyes and smirked while Penelope went about flattening your hair back down in order to look more presentable.

"Aaron you should have said we were doing that I would have turned off the cartoons you said and got an eye roll from said man. The teams eyes widened comically." I'm kidding, it was movie night with Jack and I hadn't got changed yet"

"Was it the one with dragons again?" Dave asked.

"Yes" Aaron answered as you shrugged, he looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Your child had his hands in my hair I wasn't paying attention" you said with a lopsided smile which got you a shake of his head. Penelope gave everyone a run down but you felt your eyelids getting heavy about half way through. You weren't entirely sure how you got on the jet but there your were curled up on a chair next to Aaron, your face pressed against his arm, falling asleep to the voices around you. Completely missing the glare a certain doctor was sending you. The case went almost without a hitch. Almost. The unsub wasn't going down easily, you had profiled him as unorganised (the team had agreed) but he wasn't. He had led you all into a trap and when you had figured it out chose suicide by cop. Everyone else was getting ready to leave, which had left you and Reid to clear up the teams borrowed space.

"Well that could've gone better" you said trying to initiate conversation as well as lighten the mood.

"No thanks to you" Reid snapped and your eyes widened "I didn't realise you were that bad I don't know what Hotch was thinking getting you in here"

"I don't understand" you said meekly wringing your fingers.

"Everyone knows you're sleeping with Hotch to get here" Reid spat and left the room with an armful of boxes. You stared behind him tears pricking your eyes. You angry wiped at your eyes with your shirt sleeve and grabbed the other box. You sat shotgun next to Aaron on the way back to the jet only to seclude yourself as far away as possible when you got there. You should have known better than to get on a plane full of profilers upset but it was too late by this point. Aaron moved to sit opposite you laying a hand on your knee. You snatched your leg away from him.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"Nothing. It's fine" you almost snapped at him, he raised an eyebrow but you shut down refusing to hold eye contact.

"(y/n) what's going on?" he asked again. You shook your head, hiding things from Aaron had never been easy, but he knew not to push too much. "We'll talk about this at home"

There was really no choice in the matter and you caught Reid's scowl this time. The conversation at home was just as bad as you imagined it would be. Aaron was furious at the accusation, he was shouting. Not at you just about the subject, demanding to know who had told you that. You never told him. You just said that it had been brought to your attention. You tried to keep it together but tears were streaming down your face. Out of both sadness and humiliation.

"Oh honey. Come here" Aaron stuck out his arms and you slid into them. Physical contact was your love language and hugs were like air for you, as well as being comforting for the situation. You slept in Aaron's bed that night but changed up your entire routine, arriving after him in the morning after making a flimsy excuse, not visiting his office randomly during the day when it was quiet, not joining him for lunch no matter how many times he asked. Aaron noticed immediately but didn't say anything instead he went to Rossi who gave him the obvious answer but that would open up a whole new can of worms. So he allowed you to distance yourself for a couple days. You just hoped he didn't notice the glares you and Reid shot at each other or the hurtful snarls of insults in passing or currently you unscrewing his chair as payback for him putting the sugar on the top shelf where he knew you couldn't reach it. Was it petty? Yes. Did you care? No.

You successfully got two screws out before Morgan knocked the desk in warning. Bouncing up from the floor you dropped the screw driver in your bag and the screws in your pocket. Reid sat at his chair and it creaked but did not give way, you frowned and put the two screws on his desk watching in almost delight as his face fell and horror replaced the relaxed features.

"(l/n), where are these from?" he asked sitting impossibly still.

"You figure it out genius" you said smirking, after a particularly hurtful comment about your intelligence you used the term genius more and more.

"Tig, please stop tormenting Reid" Aaron's voice sighed from your left but you just beamed at him. Not spending time with him was hard and seeing him with the same exasperated look he gave you when you had taught Jack the macerana was enough to make your day. Especially when you had worn a short sleeve shirt to work forgetting that your tattoo was now visible to everyone, Morgan and Penelope had persistently asked what the Roman numerals signified you had answered with 'one of the best days of my life' and left it at that. Aaron put a coffee cup and a small gift bag in front of you before kissing the side of your head gently.

"Happy anniversary" he said quietly and went back to his office. Leaving you beaming like an idiot at your desk. You took a sip of the coffee and opened the bag, you raised an eyebrow at the manilla envelope but opened it slowly. You scanned the pages, mouth dropping open and happy tears forming. You jumped up from your chair taking two stairs at a time to Aaron's office barging in ignoring the looks behind you.

"Are you being serious?" you almost shout and he just grins at you. Then nods.

"You just need to sign the forms and pick a date" he said and your behind his desk in seconds wrapped around him like a koala.

"Thank you" you whisper followed by another several thank yous and a declaration of love which he returns stroking the back of your head gently. The door opens and Dave pokes steps in quickly.

"Meltdown?" he asks quietly. You sniffle and laugh.

"No but I do think I've just won person of the year award" Aaron laughs and you are just happy to press your face against his shoulder. Dave must have known Aaron's plan because you could hear the smile in his voice.

"And here I was thinking (y/n) would throw a fit for you spending this much money" Dave pointed out because he had offered to pay and you had lectured him about being self sufficient for 25 minutes while Aaron had cackled in the corner.

"No more boob" you murmered into Aaron's jacket which earned you two lots of laughter "No more sore ribs" Aaron's hand was rubbing your back at this point over the material of the binder hidden beneath clothing. A kiss was pressed to the side of your head again.

"Just so you're aware. The blinds are open" Dave supplied.

"It's OK they all think I fucked my way here anyways" you mumble but haul yourself off Aaron's lap, even as he sighed at your comment "Thank you again. I'm surprised you remembered the date"

"As if I could forget it's one of the days of your life" he responded and you went back to your desk after kissing both of them on the cheek, Dave only got one cause he was blocking the only exit and refused to move until you gave him one.

Aaron decided that hosting a party at the house was a great way to integrate you into the team more, both of you had spent hours the night before prepping dishes while fending off Jack trying to eat them. Then you were fending off Aaron's attempt at eating parts of them and swore down that they were the reason you had grey hairs so young and promptly kicked both of them out of the kitchen. Aaron let you sleep in even while the team were arriving, as far as he was concerned you needed it.

Dave had been last to arrive with the excuse that cool people were never on time.

"Where's tigs?" he asked Aaron who was pouring coffees.

"Still asleep, actually Jack do you think you could wake (y/n) up?" Aaron asked and the boy nodded.

"Is he in your bed?" he asked and it was Aaron's turn to nod. The boy darted upstairs to wake the beast.

"Long night?" Dave asked and Morgan wiggled his eyebrows. Aaron sighed.

"Same nightmare again, he woke up screaming twice" he answered and Morgan's face fell.

"Pretty boy why don't you give him some sleeping tips, surely that big brain of yours knows something to help" he suggested and Spencer scowled at him but before he could answer you shuffled into the room wearing a pair of Aaron's shorts and an oversized hoodie. Spencer glanced at you before looking away completely, he hated that his brain supplied that you looked adorable or that you should be wearing his clothes instead.

"Good afternoon" JJ said with a grin and you looked at the clock on the fridge.

"It's 11:58 so still morning, you psychopaths are here early" you said and Aaron passed you a cup of coffee "Oh I love you and you love me"

"Yeah I do" Aaron said as you sat next to Emily at the table.

"I was talking to the coffee" you said smiling into the mug which earned you a gentle slap upside the head.

Aaron and Dave were taking things outside when your phone started buzzing on the table. You picked it up mentally preparing to answer it.

"Aaron! It's shot day" you called, shutting off the alarm "I'm gonna do it myself, I'll shout if I need you" you heard a shout of agreement back and downed the rest of your coffee in order to hunt for the box on the cupboard. At some point during cleaning Aaron had put it on the top shelf which meant to you to climb to reach it, cursing him the entire time. Morgan had stood behind you ready to catch you if you fell.

"Just being safe Tiggy" he had said and you bounced off the work top.

"Oh I've fallen off way worse" you responded "Walls, trees and a person that one time"

You smiled at the looks they gave you and finished out one of the needles and the vial of testosterone. A shout from the back yard drew your attention away.

"Screw you! I'm more than capable of stabbing myself with a needle" you shouted back only to hear Aaron and Dave laughing.

"Yeah dad!" Jack called and you ruffled his hair on the way past, Jack was happy enough to wander around and talk to everyone. You were glad he was becoming the social butterfly that you and Aaron were not.

You on the other hand had been sitting on the edge of the tub for 15 minutes trying to work out how to put the needle in your leg without looking at it.

"(y/n), everything OK? Hotch sent me up to check on you" Spencer's voice called through the wooden door.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine" you says before shaking your head "Actually could you get Aaron?"

You heard a faint grumble but couldn't make it out and Aaron was in the bathroom moments later helping you with your shot. Not long later you found yourself sitting between his legs on the concrete patio. Refusing a chair no matter how many times he offered.

"So how long have you been on hormones?" Penelope asked, you touched your tattoo gently.

"Four years" you answered and they realised what one of the best days of your life had been. The conversation flowed from there and Aaron seemed happy you were opening up to them, occasionally he would card his fingers through your hair or try and plat the short strands. You had rested your head against the inside of his thigh as Dave recalled your first meeting and all the meetings afterwards.

"If we had found you when you were 6 Aaron would have a criminal record for aggravated assault and I'd have a child to babysit" Dave pointed out after you and Reid had partially compared childhoods, his parents were neglectful out of illness yours were out of malice.

"We were 13 years late to the party, but I think it was worth it when we finally did arrive" Dave finished. Then the team realised that you had been 19 when your had met Aaron and Spencer looked disgusted but you ignored him.

"Of course I didn't start coming over until I was 20, I moved in after I graduated UVA " you said thinking back on it being 25 and knowing the men for this long was mildly amusing. Even Haley had welcomed you in with open arms after a while. The rest of the day went without a hitch until Jack had thrown a water balloon at you and you had tried to smother him with your now wet shirt. In taking it off you had revieled the rest of your tattoos to the team. Haleys birthstone under your collarbone, Jack's name in cursive on your upper arm, a fish on the opposite shoulder and another date across your heart. You didn't mind, they were a big part of you.

If anyone had asked you that morning your day had been going great, that was until Spencer Reid swooped in with all his stupidness. Hell broke lose when you went to get a coffee and Anderson bumped into you which caused you to bump into Reid.

"Sorry!" Anderson called as he escaped the room.

"Sorry Reid, domino effect" you tried to apologise but he spun on you.

"Watch where your going" he growled and you rolled your eyes at him. Everyone in the team bar Aaron and Dave had witnessed you both butting heads at least once and each of them had assured you that Reid would chill out eventually and that he just didn't like change very much and of course a new member of the team was a big change.

"Get a grip" you snarled at him "Anderson bumped me into you and we've both apologised, genius"

"Don't call me that" he snapped and went to walk away but stopped "Sex in the office is a new low even for you"

He was clearly referring to the two hours you had spent in Aaron's office that morning trying to work out the logistics of time off for your surgery.

"Excuse me?" you snarled.

"Also studies show that you should never tattoo an anniversary on yourself due to pressure it desolves the relationship faster"

Reid walked away after poking you in the chest over the tattood date and you watched him with wide eyes before growling and stalking after him.

"We've got a bad one" JJ's voice broke through your need to punch the doctor in his stupidly perfect face. You froze briefly, perfect?

You shook your head slightly and moved to the round table room making sure to slam your shoulder into Reid's for good measure. He scowled behind you but you sat between Dave and Morgan in order to be as far away from him as possible.

The case was not going well in the slightest, the local police were unhelpful and there were 5 teenagers missing with no leads. This is where you had the advantage, you looked younger than you were and the right outfit would take a good couple years off. Aaron had been very against the idea from the start and had sat on the bed of your hotel room grumbling as you got ready.

"This is a terrible idea" he said as you pulled on one of his spare tshirts which always made you look younger. Making sure it was sitting right in the mirror.

"Aaron, you are being a mother hen. If this was anyone else it would be fine" you said before spiking up your hair.

"That's not true" Aaron said crossing his arms over his chest, you raised an eyebrow at him and he glanced down at himself. Unfurling his arms only to recross them "I worry about you, the others have more field experience, and you're still my baby"

"Jack is your baby. I'm the one you picked out of a line up" you laughed and felt his hands on your shoulders.

"You are both my babies. Also I think we should talk about Reid" he said and your eyes widened "Later, when we are home but I know you don't think I've noticed, the way you look at him and the constant tormenting. You know what they say about little boys pulling pig tails in the playground"

"I have no clue what your talking about" now it was you crossing your arms "I want to punch Reid in his stupid arrogant smug pretty face"

Aaron was grinning at you, the one that rose his eyebrows and showed his teeth.

"Yes" he said as your eyes widened.

"No. NO no no no" you said, half an hour later you refused to make eye contact with anyone while your were dropped off at the park with the instructions to look like a kid walking around. After the slight argument with Aaron about your own emotions you had the sulky teenager look down to a fine art. You had told him it was possibly a silly crush at most and that it would go away in time. Then everything went pear shaped quickly, there was a cloth covering your mouth and nose and a hand around your throat. You passed out with the faint noise of Aaron calling your name through the comm. The next few hours passed in a blur, the unsub, Dean Wertim, had originally started out as almost kind then he had snapped when you couldn't answer his questions. Your head was still spinning from the force of his punches. You weren't sure when you had passed out again but gentle hands on your face and someone calling your name brought you back around.

"Drk" you slurred when Morgan's face filled you vision, someone was behind you untying the ropes from your wrists "Wrs arn?"

"Hotch went into a different room he's on his way here. I promise" Morgan spoke softly, two sets of hands were helping you to stand and stay balanced. You knew Morgan was one of them so you swivelled your head to look. Reid was looking back at you and he didn't look happy, in the slightest. Part of you wanted to request a new rescuer. Light reflected off of something to your left and it took a few seconds to realise that it was a gun pointed at you. You kicked the back of Morgan's knee sending his sprawling and tackled Reid to the ground as three shots filled the air. People were shouting but all you could concentrate on was the pain in your side and the almost soothing voice coming from under you.

"(y/n), come on listen to me. You need to breath" the voice said you tried to nod and were rolled off of the boney figure under you. Hands were pressed roughly to your side "(y/n). Come on don't you dare close your eyes"

"Spencer?" you asked his face finally coming into view, he looked grim, his lips forced into a straight line.

"(y/n)!" Aaron's face was also above you now but all your could do was blink at him and hiss in pain with Reid pressed harder. You tried for a smile but the two men didn't return it even as your eyes slid shut.

Aaron's heart had been thundering in his chest since he saw you dropping to the ground, Reid had broken your fall but the whole team could see the panic spread on his face after the gunshots. Dave had threatened the medics with bodily harm if they didn't hurry up and they had all felt useless waiting in the hospital waiting room. Spencer had wiped his hands clean of blood while the man had just stared at them and they had all huddled close. Dave was trying to comfort Aaron who was slowly working himself into a panic seeing Haley all over again.

"Agent Hotchner?" a nurse asked, he was on his feet in seconds moving towards her "Mr (l/n) suffered from minor internal bleeding after we got the bullet of out his side. It was a fight for a while to get him stable but he is now." she said and Aaron was nodding alone.

"Can we go see him?" he asked and the nurse shook her head.

"Immediate family only" she said looking between them. Aaron frowned.

"We are his family" he said slowly then nurse opened her mouth to argue but Aaron's wasn't having any of it "Let me see my son, or so help me I will be on the phone faster than you can say 'wait'"

The teams eyes widened but Aaron was too panicked and frustrated to care. They eventually let him through to see you once they had hunted through your file for the copy of the adoption certificate. By the time you had woken up the whole team had managed to get into your room.

"Dad?" you mumbled when you finally focused enough to see his face. His fingers tightened around your hand.

"I'm here. You can go back to sleep" he whispered and you did.

Getting out the hospital was a small affair, Dave and Aaron had taken you home and you had spent the rest of the day curled up on the sofa with them and Jack refusing to release your grip on any of them. Aaron became even more protective of you but you had assured him as much as you loved him that the BAU was just as much your dream as it was his and you weren't leaving no matter what. It took a month of constant puppy eyes before you managed to even set foot back in the office. Spencer avoided you like the plague and your couldn't get the rest of them to leave you alone. The doctor had successfully avoided you for 5 hours before you finally managed to corner him in the men's restroom.

"OK spill, what is wrong with you?" you snapped at him, there had been no jibes or pranks. Nothing.

"I'm sorry" he answered and you stopped to look at him.

"For the past three months I've been insinuating that you were sleeping with Hotch, I didn't know he was your dad"

"Aaron adopted me years ago" you said shurgging "Not long after I met him when he was doing a presentation for the criminal psychology class I was trying to sneak into, I owe a lot to that man. But I let you think what you wanted and so did he because correcting you would bring up the 'oh your only here cause your dad's the unit chief' and honestly Spencer that sucks"

"I shouldn't have been such an ass about it" he said.

You blinked at him before a smile crawled onto your face. The hallmarks were on there and you were sure how you hadn't put it together quicker.

"Spencer were you jealous?" you asked and he tried to barge past you but you stopped him with a "Spencer" and a hand on his chest. His eyes avoided yours but you gripped his chin and grinned, his eyes dropped to your lips before going back to your eyes.

"Hotch is too old for you" he mumbled and the grin never left your face.

"He's my dad" you respond "And you were jealous!"

You weren't entirely sure what happened but Spencer's lips were pressing against yours, you gripped the front of his vest and pulled him in closer. He pushed you against the sink, his lips never leaving yours. You pulled away to breath.

"Me. You. Date?" you breathed. Spencer laughed and nodded ducking his head once more to kiss you.

The date had gone well, you had picked Spencer up and taken him to a restaurant that Dave had helped you get a reservation for as much as you refused to tell him who the date was with.

"Does Hotch know we are on a date?" he asked when you were driving him home.

"Nope" you said popping the p "You've been in an interagration with Aaron. Do you want to be on the receiving end?"

"Good point" Spencer responded after a second. You pulled up outside his apartment complex. "Do you want to come up?"

"Spencer Reid, on the first date" you said with mock scandal, his face flushed red and he started stuttering "I'm kidding. Let me park then I'll come up"

That's exactly what you did before following Spencer up the stairs with his hand in yours.

"We could totally just make out on the sofa like teenagers?" you suggested only to be pulled forward by your shirt. Well Dave's shirt that you had stolen. Somehow Spencer had ended up in your lap, your arms wrapped around his waist his fingers clinging to your neck and jaw as your mouths moved together. His tongue chased yours between your mouths, your own fingers dug into his hip bones. He whispered your name into your mouth and your flipped him over so you were pressing him against the cushions and hovering over him with one knee between his thighs.

"Hi" you breathed looking down at him. His hair splayed like a halo around his head, your hands pressed into the plush material, his on your shoulders.

"Hello" he whispered back, and that tongue that drove you crazy when you had first met him peaked out to wet his lips. You bowed your head pressed a chaste kiss to him lips, he chased you as your tried to pull back his hands on your face again holding you still.

"I should go" you murmered against him, he tried to hold you where you were "Seriously Spencer. If I don't go now we are going to do something neither of us are ready for"

That seemed to resonate with him cause his grip on you loosened.

"One more for the road?" he suggested and tugged you back down to meet him. One for the road turned into your shirt on the floor and his hanging loosely off his frame, Spencer had a necklace of bruises across his chest and one that would just be covered by his shirt collar. Yours were less contained sporadically across your chest, even under the straps of your binder and one on your ribs. You finally left almost an hour later after hunting down your shirt and leaving a last lingering kiss on his lips. You were pleased to see the lights off in Aaron's House when you arrived and tip toed through the house to get a drink from the kitchen, you were moving back to the stairs when a light caught your eye and you froze glass half way to your lips.

"And what time do you call this?" Aaron asked marking his page and closing the book on his lap. You felt like a teenager being caught sneaking out after curfew. Then remembered that you were an adult and you could return at anytime.

"I" you started then froze again because Aaron was smirking at you.

"How was your date?" he asked when you dropped down on the sofa next to him, curling up against his side.

"It was good. Really good" you murmur against his arm before it was moved and wrapped around you to pull you closer. You heard him sniff and realised you definitely smelt like Spencer. "Don't start"

"I'm just working out who he is" Aaron said with a laugh "Maybe if you told me his name"

"So you can have Pen do a background search?" you asked looking up at him.

"No" he answered "yes"

You sighed opening your mouth to bite the bullet but his phone was ringing. You briefly heard the conversation but the gist of it was a case. You called Jess while Aaron got ready and he drove you both to the office. The conversation was briefly forgotten until you reached the elevator and were heading up.

"We'll continue this conversation later? If you want" he suggested and you smiled at him your agreement.

Clearly Spencer had time to change because he wasn't wearing what he had been only an hour ago. You on the other hand were still wearing the same outfit that wasn't quite work appropriate, the shirt itself was thin and ridiculously expensive.

"Oh tiggy, did we interrupt a date?" Morgan asked leaning forward with a grin on his face.

"Nope" you answered and took the t-shirt the Aaron offered, Spencer shifted in his seat to rest his chin in his hand accidentally showing the hickey you had left on the side of his neck.

"Oh pretty boy got some lovin'. What's her name?" Morgan asked and Penelope squeeked from next to him. You went to move away to change your shirt but JJ stopped you.

"Get changed here. We need to go through this case" JJ said handing out folders. Your eyes widened but you couldn't think of an excuse without it looking suspicious. You unbuttoned the shirt as she started talking aiming to get it off and replaced as fast as humanly possible, you thought you had succeeded but you managed to get stuck in the t-shirt in your haste. The briefing stopped and you managed to pop your head through the hole. Everyone was looking at you then to Spencer who was flushed red and you decided to just take in his features before Aaron murdered him.

The case was a quick one however, Aaron wouldn't leave you and Spencer unattended for any period of time. It was on the jet back when Spencer finally broke.

"Don't mind him, he's being a helicopter parent" you responded throwing your legs over Spencer's thighs, he wrapped a hand around your ankles to keep you steady.

"Don't anger him, please" Spencer almost begged and you folded an arm behind your head with a grin blowing him a kiss.

"No PDA one the plane" Aaron snapped and your grinned more swinging your legs off Spencer's lap to stand up, you leaned down an pressed a quick kiss to Spencer's lips before dropping down next to Aaron.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked leaning against him, Aaron glanced down briefly before going back to his file "Dad."

"Why Reid?" he said then looked at the doctor "No offence"

Spencer waved a hand to show that it wasn't taken to heart.

"Why not Reid?" you retorted "Would you be like this if it was Morgan and Pen? Or Emily and JJ? No. You would not"

"They are not my kids" Aaron spoke slowly and you shook your head, he sighed "Maybe I'm being a little over protective"

"A little?" you scoff "Dad I promise I'll keep you up to date on everything"

Which got you a resigned nod.

"So we went on a date, I was very gentlemanly. Pick him up, pulled out his chair for him. Had a lovely meal" you said then smiled widly "Then the lovely doctor invited me up to his apartment"

Aaron's eyes widened briefly and his head snapped around to you and his mouth opened.

"Nothing happened, I promise" you patted his arm before moving to sit next to Spencer once more.

"That's not what those bruises say" Emily pointed out, you winked at her as you sat down. Aaron was watching you with narrowed eyes, you gave him your best smile and pulled out your phone to play online scrabble.

"We'll put a tie around the door knob" you said typing and Aaron nodded before it finally caught up in his brain.

"No. There will be no such activities" he said pointing at Spencer, you wiggled your eyebrows. Spencer nodded like he was wholeheartedly agreeing with him and you cackled.

Life continued as normal, cases, killers. Your relationship with Spencer flourished even with the tight leash Aaron was keeping you on. On the fourth month mark your were getting ready for another date while Aaron followed you around your room giving you the safety lecture. You stopped and whirled on him taking his face in both hands.

"It's just Spencer. I'll be fine, you're helicopter-ing again" you said pressing a kiss to his forehead, he sighed and nodded.

"Do you need anything?" he asked and you cut him off.

"Don't finish that sentence" you warned earning a smile "Seriously, OK stop worrying. Spencer's a gentleman if anything you should be more worried about him than me"

He finally released you into Spencer's car.

"You look lovely" Spencer greeted with a kiss.

"Not so bad yourself" you responded. The movie was great from what you actually saw between Spencer kissing you. That's pretty sure how you both ended up sprawled on his bed covered in sweat and panting heavily. You reached out to tangle your fingers together, then both your phones started ringing.

"We have a case" JJ's voice flowed through the speaker.

"We'll be there in 30" you said stroking Spencer's knuckles.

"You sound out of breath" she pointed out with glee in her voice.

"He sounds what!" you heard Aaron shout and you hung up the phone quickly.

"How attached are you to your balls?" you asked Spencer and he paled. Aaron was trying not to show his emotions but when you both had shown up with post-sex hair, he had almost exploded and you had just laughed. Then 3 weeks later everything went to hell, you and Spencer had a massive fight and you had went back to Aaron with your tail between your legs and tears streaming down your face. Who had just held onto you while you cried out your feelings. Then the case went wrong and you had gone in without a vest or backup. Not on purpose, you had been in the area as the unsub had started brandishing a gun. Aaron was yelling at you, well more like screaming and you were taking it like a champ. Standing still, hardly breathing probably looking like a scared child. Yeah like a champ.

"If you die how does that look on me. You are my responsibility (y/n)! Just because your my kid doesn't mean that you can just ignore my orders" he shouted. Your heart thumped in your chest when he stepped forward and you were no longer seeing Aaron, you were seeing your biological father. "You don't listen! Why do you have to be so reckless?"

Your brain didn't quite pick up the rest of the lecture, every word felt like a slap to the face. Actually you would have rather the slaps. Then you heard the words "worthless" and "waste of my time" and your heart shattered in your chest.

"Aaron" Dave said from behind you but you were too busy trying to push your way out of the office.

"I'm going home" you stammered, struggling to see through tears and the pain in your chest. Dave made an effort to stop toy but you were already out the door.

"(y/n) wait" Aaron called from behind your as you continued your path towards the exit. Then Spencer tried to stop you after seeing the worry of Aaron's face as he tried to chase you.

"Fuck off Reid" you snarled shoving him away. You keep walking, stabbing the down button in the elevator which shut just before Aaron got there. You left everything at the BAU, car, phone, bag. You cried as you walked hugging yourself around your stomach. It really was only a matter of time before they got fed up with you, Spencer had been right all along you weren't cut out for the job and Aaron, the man had adopted you at almost 20 so that you had some resemblance of a family after your own had thrown you to the curb after you had come out. If you had been home, where you were supposed to be, Haley would have still been here, but no you had been at extra tutoring for your masters. Then you realised you didn't know where you were, so you kept walking until you saw something familiar. The park was empty bar a few dog walkers. When the libraries opened tomorrow you would email your resignation letter, parks were probably going to become your new norm. You were too busy trying to plan anything and everything that you missed the stranger sitting next to you.

"Thought you'd be here" Dave spoke softly snapping you back to reality. You didn't even look at him.

"Go away Dave" you sighed. There was no fight in it. Not really.

"Sorry Tigger. No can do" he replied, you wanted him to leave. Your life was over, there was a bridge not far away. It was high enough to take care of all your problems. "Come on, let's get you home" he tried to coax you to your feet.

"I don't have a home" you whispered "Just go Dave, Aaron probably needs you for something. A lawyer maybe to reverse the adoption, I'm sure you know someone to help him"

Dave must've realised your plan because he moved closer to you and wrapped you in his arms. Tightly.

"No. Kid I know what's going on in your head and that's not the answer. We've hit a snag that's all. It can be fixed" he said his grip tightening.

"Doesn't matter. He's got you and the team and his son he doesn't need me. I wasn't there when he needed me" you whispered "I could have saved her for him"

"(y/n), listen to me you are as much of his son as Jack is. He loves you just as much as he does Jack. And you're Jack's big brother, don't let that boy lose another family member" he whispered and the tears were flowing again "Haley loved you too, she didn't show it very well but she did. If you had been there Foyet would have killed you both"

You turned your head into his jacket and he stroked your hair.

"Spencer loves you too. You know that? The past few months he's been walking around with a boyish glee written all over his face. Relationships are hard you just have to put the work in. I love you, you're my nephew. The team loves you, especially Aaron. Aaron's who's sent everyone in opposite directions to find you when he realised that you weren't at home. Aaron who is probably pacing a hole in the floor worrying because he knows that he was in the wrong, he knew he should have stopped when he noticed that you weren't with him any more, when you where in your head nad only hearing part of what he was saying. Aaron that refused to leave his house incase you went home and there was no one there. Who sent Spencer to his apartment incase you went there. Who has Garcea constantly watching for any of your cards or movements to ping her systems. Who has Morgan, Prentiss and JJ patrolling the streets looking for any sign of you. Who sent me here hoping that maybe you'd come to this bench" Dave was panicking, you could hear it in his own voice, trying to get everything through your skull. You nodded slowly, Dave was picking up your broken pieces and showing you that they weren't broken at all, they had just come lose for a second. Then the shame flooded you. Shame of what you had been thinking about. It just made you cry harder, Dave basically carried you to his car tucking his jacket around your shoulders carefully when you had cried yourself to sleep. He sent out a mass text to the team informing them that he had you and that you were being taken to Aaron's for a long chat about your headspace, which sent cold shivers down both Aaron and Spencer's spines.

You woke up in your own bed with the headache from hell, you didn't want to go downstairs. Downstairs meant facing Aaron.

"Bite the bullet" you whispered to yourself and pulled on one of the sweaters you had stolen over the years ignoring the pain that shot through your ribs from sleeping in your binder. You snuck down the stairs, Jack was in the living room watching cartoons so you assumed Aaron was in the kitchen by the slightly clanking sounds floating through. He was cleaning up the worktops but stopped when he heard you pad into the room.

"I'm sorry" you whispered barely loud enough for him to hear. He was moving towards you and you briefly expected a slap but instead you were wrapped up in his arms and held onto like you would disappear if he let go.

"I was so worried" he whispered in your ear "And I'm so sorry I should have been paying attention to you instead of yelling. I'm so sorry (y/n)"

You clung to him as sobs tore through you, your fingers digging into his back as your knees buckled sending you both to the floor. Aaron was leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen with you wrapped around him. He didn't press he just let you cry into his chest. Jack must've poked his head in to see what the commotion was because Aaron's voice rumbled in his chest under your ear. You tried to apologise again but he was shushing you gently.

"I want you to talk to someone, it can be me or Reid or Dave or someone outside completely. Just someone that can help you, you're not OK and I should have seen it sooner." he said and you agreed. You spoke to him eventually but you ended up going to the beauros own psychiatrist to talk. Maybe it was time. Time to put ghosts to rest.

Aaron had arranged it for you and you had gone willingly then next day still having not spoken to Spencer. Until you bumped into him walking through the corridors after your appointment, his hand wrapped around your arm to steady you.

"Hi" he whispered.

"Hi" you whispered back reminiscent of your first date with him "Spencer, I'm sorry"

"No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed, if you want to keep living with Hotch that's ok" he said resting his hand on your jaw. You leaned into the touch.

"I'm done hiding" you said turning to kiss his palm. He smiled softly "I'll tell you everything over coffee?"

He took your hand in his own and lead you back down the corridor, prattling about a coffee shop that you would love. You let him.

Aaron and Dave were looking at the file the psychiatrist had dropped on Aaron's desk.

"This feels like the biggest invasion of privacy ever" Aaron grumbled with his arms crossed and Dave agreed.

"We can't help if we don't know what's going on" Dave pointed out and got a resigned look in return. "I'll read it therfore you don't have a guilty conscious"

"Still feels wrong" Aaron pointed out but allowed Dave to read it anyways.

"We know his name, age blah blah blah" Dave started flipping through the pages "Agent (l/n) has taken on the personal blame of the murder of Agent Hotchner ex wife Haley Brooks. (l/n) stated that he should have been home at the time and that Agent Hotchner also thought he was there at the time but in fact had been 45 minutes away on campus getting extra help on a thesis paper. He was aware of the dangers posed by George Foyet however insisted on not changing anything about his life. (l/n) clearly stated that he feels as though he could have saved her had he been home, where he was supposed to be and that it is his fault 'The love of Aaron's life is gone and that Jack doesn't have a mom'. He also informed us that he had also been on the phone when Haley Hotchner was murdered however the call was not terminated at the same time as Agent Hotchner and had let it be known that he did indeed hear her take her last breathes and still does to this day. Agent (l/n) also let himself into the property afterwards to hunt for a stuffed toy for Jack Hotchner but admitted that he went to the room were Haley Hotchner was murdered"

"He told us the toy had been in his car. He didn't say he went back to the house" Aaron breathed, he didn't know whether or not to bring it up to you. You had planned to go see Haley with Jack that evening and Aaron wondered if he should go too.

And life continued again, you saw a shrink every few weeks, cases allowing. Aaron had started dating which allowed you a Spencer more time alone at your place instead of his. Which is how you ended up watching Jack while Aaron went out with Beth, not that you minded. Jack was asleep leaving you and Spencer on the sofa with a movie playing lowly in the background. Spencer's hips bucking into yours when your fingers dipped under his shirt while your tongues tangled. You were working his shirt over his head while trailing kisses down the column of his throat coaxing whines out of him as you did so. In doing so you never heard the front door open or the two voices coming towards you.

"If that shirt goes any further up Reid's body I will personally shoot you both" Aaron's voice cut through your current task, Spencer yelped and pulled his shirt back down before hiding his face in your arm, you shimmied back cause Spencer to try stifle a groan.

"Let the kids be kids Aaron" Beth said kissing Aaron's cheek, he huffed as you climbed off of Spencer.

"Is good to see you Beth" you greeted "I'd give you a kiss on the cheek but Spencer will start a lecture about germs and I'm really not feeling it tonight"

She kissed you on the cheek instead and you hauled Spencer to his feet. Guiding the shocked and mortified doctor up the stairs to your bedroom.

"Remember Jack's in bed" Aaron called up after you but you just continued pushing your boyfriend forward.

"Hotch heard me whine" he whispered with wide eyes and you laughed "I was almost begging. My boss almost heard me begging" you laughed even harder and knocked him onto your mattress straddling his hips once more.

"He'll hear you screaming in a minute too" you breathed against his ear and Spencer's face turned scarlet. Life was good.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #Trans male reader

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fairyoftbz · 3 years

Text

impossible love | j. changmin

🍞 pairing: tailor son!Changmin x baker!fem! reader 🍞 word count: 3.9k 🍞 genre: angst, fluff, sort of crush-to-lovers, Middle Ages!au 🍞 tw: swear words, jealousy 🍞 synopsis: your relationship with your sister has never been good, and you completely lose it when you see her flirt with your crush. 🍞 a/n: everytime I write for Changmin i have to tag you @sainthwngs 🤍🤍🤍 i hope you will enjoy this "small" work of him!! 🍞 requested: nope!

╰☆☆☆☆╮

“Y/N, darling! Make some more bread after serving the Gatsby family, please!” your mother exclaimed from outside the shop as you actively kneaded the dough at the back, wiping your hands on your off-white apron before offering a smile to your customers.

The stretch on your face immediately disappeared as a sight on the other side of the street caught your attention. Sweat rose to your face, and shivers erupted in your body, resulting in you almost dropping the two loaves of bread you had subconsciously grabbed for the middle-class family. They didn’t even spare you a glance as you messily placed their order in the jute bag the servant was holding out to you, hands shaky as thoughts clouded your brain.

The woman threw a few crowns on the wooden counter with disdain before walking away, the servant hastily grabbing the bag and the son’s hand as the family walked out. You leaned your elbows on the counter and rested your hands against your forehead, biting your lower lip to prevent your tears from spilling out as your heart started hurting.

The tailor’s son Changmin was leaning against the shop doorway, a playful smirk painted on his face as he talked to your sister. While the man was completely oblivious of your feelings, your sister took the advantage of it. Much to your dismay, she knew that you liked him.

You didn’t want her to know at first, but you were a little too obvious of your attraction for the man when you stammered as you talked to him. He was really handsome, all the women wanted to marry their daughters to him, but he wasn’t interested at all. Changmin was nice to you, cracking a few polite jokes when he came to the bakery to buy some bread for his mother, making you feel like you could potentially have your chances with him. But you were wrong, oh so wrong. So naive and innocent to think that your sister wouldn’t seize the opportunity to plant you a knife in the back at this marvellous occasion.

You were trembling in rage as they were clearly flirting, and there was nothing more infuriating at the moment. You scoffed when she had the audacity to quickly turned around to check if you were in the shop, purposefully leaning closer to him with the same seducing smile she offered to every single of her conquests.

The relationship between you and your sister had always been difficult, her constantly accusing you to be your parents’ favourite child since you were born, and the time didn’t help at all. Many fights broke between you two for various reasons, but the most recurrent ones were about money. You were the most hard-working child, spending days and nights at the bakery to help your parents and make everything ready for each following day. Your sister, on the other hand, was busy roaming the streets, flirting and spending all the money you and your parents had given up hours of sleep to earn it in alcohol or street bets. You couldn’t even remember the last time you saw money in the clutch bag your grandmother sewed for your 18th birthday a few years ago, one of the many items your sister had the bad habit of stealing.

Anger boiled through your veins, letting the tears spill out of your eyes in rage. Stomping your ankle boots on the floor, you almost tripped on the pans of your dress as you went in the back office, slamming your fists on the table before crouching down while letting all the sorrow in your body come out in choked sobs. The smell of freshly baked bread gave you a small wave of warmth and comfort as you desperately tried to get this image of Changmin and your sister swooning over him out of your head, but it was to no avail.

And again, she had won. She was prettier, more confident than you, and there was nothing you could do against it. No matter how hard you fought, she’d always have the upper hand and take the slightest opportunity to ruin and humiliate you.

You don’t know how you found it, but you managed to gather some strength and get back to work as if nothing had happened. You were a bundle of nerves, kneading the dough angrily, imagining that it was your sister’s face instead of a pile of flour mixed with milk and eggs. Since you were the only bakery in town, you didn’t necessarily need to be nice, but you didn’t want any rumours to start about you. Some people got twisted brains and were ready to say some blatant lies to hear gossip and witness street drama.

Once you closed the bakery from inside, you walked upstairs and locked yourself in your bedroom without sparing your parents a glance. They asked you if you wanted to eat, but you just paid no attention to them, slamming the heavy wooden door behind you as an answer.

Without freshening up or eating, you drew the curtains and went to bed, head facing the wall. A few choked sobs escaped your pursed lips as you tried to control your emotions, but it was to no avail. You cried a major part of the night, your body fuelling with rage again when you heard your sister walking through the main door, shutting it like it was the middle of the afternoon, visibly drunk and in desperate need of attention. You almost went crazy when she stopped at your door and snickered, loving the way you had reacted to her provocations the same afternoon.

Chest heaving up and down heavily, you clutched your teeth to control your anger, not wanting to give her the satisfaction to get what she wanted. You heard your father scolding her for coming home so late and being so loud, and she immediately changed her tone, apologising to your dad profusely before going into your room. Your dad tried opening your door, but it was locked, whispering a few sweet words in case you weren’t asleep.

When you woke up a few hours later, the sun still hadn’t risen, but it was time for you to go to work. You felt sick to the stomach and dizzy, your lack of sleep and your self-inflicted fast from yesterday were not helping you to feel any better.

“Y/N, dear, come and eat something,” your father said as you got out of your bedroom, ready to start your day. His face saddened when he saw your tired state, resting a kind-hearted hand on your shoulder. You offered him a brief smile before shaking your head.

“I’ll eat some bread downstairs, don’t worry about me,” you mumbled, eyes flickering as you just wanted to go back to bed.

“Promise?” he said, raising his forefinger towards you. You nodded and offered him a tired smile before exiting your home.

Since you promised your father, you half-heartedly munched on some bread, watching the closed tailor shop in disgust. Your brain made you imagining again Changmin and your sister flirting together, your teeth angrily ripping apart a piece of bread from the small loaf.

“Woah, easy there Y/N, who came in your dreams and turned you into a beast? What’s gotten you so angry?” a deep voice got you out of your trans, mouth filled with bread as you noticed Eric, your childhood friend but also the farmer, holding a wooden crate filled with all the ingredients you needed to make bread.

“Sorry Eric, it’s just my sister again. Thank you for all of this,” you said as you walked around the counter and guided him in your workplace, putting everything in its place. “Your relationship between you two will never get better, will it?” Eric sighed while helping you in your task, only to see you half-shrug as an answer. “As long as she won’t behave, no, nothing will change. But it’s better like that, it’d be weird to have her being nice to me,” you said, and Eric shook his head. “I saw murder in your eyes when I arrived, I highly doubt it’s better like that,” he smirked, and you sullenly chuckled through your nose, walking with him outside the bakery, where his horses and his dog were waiting for him.

Eric’s hand landed on the side of your neck, his thumb caressing the edge of your jaw. His friendly gesture helped your muscles to relax, offering a small smile as a thank you, paying his products by sliding a few crowns in his pouch.

“Hey! That’s way too much, you’re not buying me a donkey! No please Y/N, take it back,” he said as he gave you back half of the coins you gave him, but you shook your head. “Take it as my way to thank you for being there for me since day one,” you sadly said, wrapping your hand around his to close his palm and pushed it back towards his pouch. “I don’t need your money to prove that you are my friend, I love you for what you are,” you rolled your eyes at his words and petted his dog’s head, who happily yapped at the display of affection.

You waved at him with a tired smile as he rode his horse further into the village, going back into the bakery once he was out of sight. This little encounter with your childhood best friend helped to clear your mind, reducing your anger close to zero. Of course, it was still there, but you will manage to tame it down for a moment.

However, this peaceful moment got interrupted when the bakery door creaked open, head peeking from your workplace, hands kneading the dough. Your heart skipped a bit out of anger as you rubbed your hands together to get rid of the flour before going behind the counter.

“If you’re looking for my sister, she’s still sleeping,” you spat as you stared at Changmin, who was surprised by your aggressiveness. “Well good morning to you too, Y/N,” he said, and you huffed, your hands gripping the edge of the wooden counter. “Well hello Changmin, welcome to the bakery. What can I serve you today?” you imitated the fake nice, high-pitched tone and body movements of your sister, your face falling back to neutral a few seconds later.

The tailor’s son was completely taken aback by your actions, not expecting this type of behaviour from you, who had always been sweet and helpful to him and his family. You placed the loaf of bread he usually asks for on the counter between the two of you, Changmin not moving an inch, still gazing at you with questioning eyes. His gaze fixated on you, and he was surprised when you didn’t blush and look away like you used to, your orbs boring into his with boredom.

“Anything else?” you dryly asked, and Changmin shook his head, extending a few crowns towards you. When you were to grab it, his other hand seized your wrist, your eyes widening. “What’s gotten you today? You didn’t look this mad when the farmer came here before me,” he said, and you raised your eyebrows. “Now you’re spying on me? Is everything alright in your head?” you frowned and freed your wrist from his grip, taking the crowns before turning your back to him. “It was hard for anyone to miss your little flirty moment in the street,” he bitterly snickered, and you scoffed loudly, feeling the anger boil back into your veins. All the hard work Eric had put into calming you just flew out the window in a millisecond.

You turned around to face the tailor’s son, your head shaking side to side at the boldness of his remarks. Changmin looked kind of angry, but it was nothing compared to your fury when you slammed your palms against the counter.

“The fucking cheek of it! You dare to accuse me of flirting in the street with my childhood best friend, when you and my sister were the ones making a spectacle of yourselves just yesterday, swooning and courting her like Romeo and Juliet!” you spat at him, feeling the tears rise in your throat. You swallowed them, as well as your pride, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you hurt by his words. Moreover, you never knew when your sister could appear, and you were not giving her the opportunity to humiliate you again in front of him.

“What on Earth are you talking about? I am not courting your sister!” he retorted, eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t try to act all innocent, it’s not gonna work with me, I saw yours and my sister’s little game. Don’t take me for a fool Changmin,” you said through gritted teeth and went back to your workplace, kneading the dough as a way to reduce your anger.

Once the front door closed, you fell onto your knees, tears flooding your cheeks. You felt so remorseful for talking to him that way, you were never this impolite and aggressive, but your anger spoke before your reason and values. But at least something was clear, your chances with him were reduced to zero. With the way you behaved this morning, there was no way for you to win against your sister. It’s not as if you had the slightest chance, but it’s always good to keep dreaming.

Later in the day, your mother asked you to go and get her and your dad’s shoes repaired to the cobbler down the main street. You sent a death glare to your sister as you noticed her smoking tobacco in front of the tavern with the innkeeper, who was around the same age as your dad, sometimes extremely inappropriate and shameful for your family reputation. She discreetly raised her middle finger to you, and you ignored her, her fake laugh sending chills of anger down your spine as you walked past her.

Despite being the richest man in town, the cobbler had always been humble and sweet with you. Maybe the fact that he was Eric’s uncle helped, but you always appreciated going there. The dim atmosphere and the smell of the different types of leather always made you think of the bakery, feeling like you shared something for your respective jobs with the old man. He loved making and repairing shoes as much as you loved making bread, so you understood the other when you enthusiastically talked about your passions.

“How’s your sister doing? I heard she got a job at the flower shop,” the cobbler chuckled at your flabbergasted state as he finished his sentence, readjusting himself in his seat. “My sister is jobless, flirting with every man she encounters and spending all the family savings in street bets and alcohol, I highly doubt she hit upon a job by Mr. Kim,” you said as he handed you your mother’s pair of shoes, thanking him with a nod. “This is what she told me last week when she came. She had this wonderful pair of black heels that got stuck in the pavement,” you nodded, clicking your tongue as you found out that she stole something from you, again.

“Hey, hey,” the cobbler shook your shoulder across the counter, trying to prevent you from crying as he noticed the tears of exhaustion filling your eyes. You nodded your head as if to convince him and yourself that you won’t break, smiling through your glossy eyes. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll deliver your bread tomorrow as usual,” you mumbled and he offered you a reassuring smile, almost seeing some similar features with your best friend, knowing that you could always go back to the Sohn family if you weren’t doing well. “Take care, Y/N, take care,” he said as you walked through the door, waving at him before wiping your eyes and walk back to your home.

For once, your sister was at the bakery, swooning excitedly over a flower bouquet resting on the counter in a clay vase. Your eyes widened at the sight of the bouquet, your sister swatting your hand away as you were about to touch a yellow rose.

“Stop it! You’re gonna ruin it with your ugly fingers. Plus they’re not for you, so you’re not allowed to touch them,” she spat, and you walked past her, purposefully bumping your shoulder against hers, making her whine like a child and take a few steps back to take in the shock. Your mother was cooking lunch in the kitchen on the higher floor, and she asked you who was making this much noise downstairs.

“Your daughter, Mother,” you dryly said, clearing your throat before continuing. “She apparently received a bouquet from a special someone, and she feels the need to let the entire neighbourhood know about it, just like when she has a man over. Here are your and Father’s shoes,” you said as you placed them down next to yours, your mother thanking you as she reflected on your words.

“Sometimes I wish she was more like you,” she said as she stirred the liquid in the cauldron, her words making you bitterly chuckle. “I don’t think that will ever happen, Mother, she despises me too much to even consider me as a family member. Anyway, I’m going back to work,” you stated and walked back to the entrance, hearing your mother disagree. “Y/N, dear, what do you mean? Y/N!” She yelled, but her words fell on deaf ears, closing the door behind you before going back down in the bakery.

Your sister and the bouquet had vanished, much to your delight. You breathed in deeply as you started working hard again, focusing on your tasks to forget everything that happened today that scarred your heart. The afternoon went by in the blink of an eye, but it seemed like your faith had prepared still more trouble to come.

Just as you were about to finish your last loaf of bread of the day the front door opened again, this time you didn’t even bother to look.

“I’ll be there in two minutes!” you yelled from the furnaces as you pulled out freshly baked loaves with your big, wooden spatula, letting them rest on the side. You quickly checked if they were baked all around and nodded, inwardly praising yourself for your nice job.

Once you arrived behind the counter, you huffed heavily as you noticed who is standing in front of you.

“You know that the door to our home is on the left side of the house, you can go and knock there if you wanna see my sister,” you stated, lazily showing him the wall. “Stop thinking I’m here to see your sister,” Changmin said, looking annoyed at your words, “I’m here for you.”

You snorted and immediately apologised, letting out a true laugh as you thought he was joking. The tailor’s son frowned at your reaction, making him look ridiculous. His tongue poked his inner cheek and waited for you to calm down, his serious expression making you frown.

“Why did you want to see me, then? You had to come back to humiliate me again since doing it this morning was not enough?” you said, a sarcastic smile on your face. “I don’t know who planted this idea in your head, but I am not in love with your sister. She does not interest me. At all!” he exclaimed, and you had to laugh again. “Of course, you want me to believe that. That’s why you delivered flowers here this morning, right?” you said, and Changmin’s face decomposed in front of your eyes, his shock state making you raise your brows.

“No. No, she bloody didn’t,” he said and swiftly turned around to look outside, a hand pressed on his mouth. He quickly turned back to you and leant over the counter, resting his palms on it. “It was a bouquet of white tulips and yellow roses, right?” “Yes, in a white clay vase,” you confirmed, “those are not her favourite flowers by the way. She prefers purple hydrangea,” you added.

“Is nothing ticking inside your brain right now? Your mind is so clouded by hatred towards your sister that you don’t understand where I wanna get at?” he said, his face nearing yours closer and closer at each word. “Mh, who do you think those flowers were for? Why would I be gifting your mother some, my mother did that for her birthday a few weeks ago. Then if it’s not for your mother nor your sister, who’s left?” You thought in silence for a second before opening your eyes wide.

“They were for me?” you whispered, suddenly feeling all the pressure and anger reducing in your body as you pointed at yourself. Changmin was so close that his breath fanned against your face as he sighed deeply, his eyes searching for yours as you took in this confession. “Of course they were for you, Y/N. Sunwoo’s father told me that yellow roses were gifted as a form of apology. I was asking for forgiveness with those. But of course, I now understand your reactions if you believed they were for her,” he said, and you glanced at him.

“I don’t know what you imagined or saw yesterday, but I was only polite with your sister. I don’t want to be one of her conquests or just a one-night stand, this doesn’t interest me at all. I wanna mean something for someone. All the times that I came here, your sister was working, except for this morning. I was happy that you were the one behind the counter, I wanted to have a nice chat with you, but everything became so confusing to me when you were this dry and rude to me. But now I understand, I understand everything,” he quietly explained, and you felt like an utter idiot, looking at his large hands resting on the wooden counter.

“I should be the one apologising. I shouldn’t have treated you like that, but I was just… close to exploding,” you said, head hanging low as you realised you behaved like a temperamental child.

“Y/N, I’m responsible too. I shouldn’t have assumed you and your childhood best friend were a thing. I guess I was... jealous and upset that you gave another man attention and probably scared to see you slip through my fingers,” you looked up at him, and he smiled, your heart skipping a beat as you feel like breathing again.

He was interested in you. Not in your sister, in you.

And that simple thought just stretched a smile on your face, your breath mixing with Changmin’s as you were staring in each other’s eyes, so close to the other. A delicious shiver ran down your spine as your nose bumped into his, smiling as he rubbed them together. You closed your eyes, still smiling, millions of butterflies erupting in your stomach as you felt his lips locking with yours in a sweet kiss. It felt even more magical than you had always imagined in your dreams, and a groan got stuck at the back of your throat when he cupped your cheeks with his slender hands to deepen the kiss over the counter.

And for once, you were the one winning. Your sister had better watch out, because you were already excited to rub your relationship with Changmin in her face, a feeling of sweet revenge creeping up in your stomach as you kept kissing your crush.

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adhdeancas · 3 years

Text

12x01 Rewrite with Trans Dean

trigger warnings for minor mention of dysphoria. Also minor/negligent transphobia.

“Mom?” His heart is stopped in his chest, staring at the face he’s kept in his head for all of his life, the face he’s thought of as the only real home he’s ever had. She looks the same, exactly the same. “I… uh, are you really… real?”

He reaches out without thinking, needing to just make sure that Amara didn’t bring back a fantasy or a ghost or a sick joke. She proves it without him touching her, flipping him in a neat trick he recognizes from his own training and ending up with her foot on his neck, pressing him into the dirt. “Where am I? Who the hell are you?”

She looks so scared. Dean swallows, his Adam’s apple bouncing against the bottom of her foot. He needs to make her trust him, preferably before she does something rash like snap his neck. “I’m Dean Winchester. I’m your son. I’m… Sam’s brother”

The pressure lets up on Dean’s neck even though Mary’s shaking her head. “No. No, I don’t have two boys. They’re- they’re just kids.”

Dean winces, breathing heavily. This is gonna be a motherfucker for her to understand. Still, Mary lets him up, and he stands and rubs his neck, trying desperately to recall every bit of information he’s stored away about his mom. “Mom. Listen to me. Your name- your name is Mary Sandra Campbell, okay? You were born December 5, 1954, to Samuel and Deanna Campbell. Your father, he bounced around a lot for, uh, work, and you bounced right along with him, and you ended up in Lawrence, Kansas.”

Mary flinches, the facts hitting straight-on. “How do you know all that?”

“Dad told me.” Dean tells her. He doesn’t tell her that he had to gather the story from slurred words, drunken tears in between stories about the perfect wife. That he recited them in his head like a prayer so he wouldn’t forget her. “March 23, 1972, you walked out of a movie theater - Slaughterhouse-Five. You loved it, and you bumped into a big Marine and you knocked him flat on his ass. You were embarrassed, and he laughed it off, said you could make it up to him with a cup of coffee. So, you went to, uh,” God, what was the name of that stupid place? “Mulroney’s, and you talked and he was cute and he knew the words to every Zeppelin song,” A memory of a smiling young alive Mary comes to mind, and he pushes it away because it hurts. She’s right there. “So when he asked you for your number, you gave it to him, even though you knew your dad would be pissed. That was the night that -” You fell in love with- “that you met -”

“John Winchester.”

“August 19, 1975, you were married… in Reno. Your idea.”Dean had always thought that was hilarious. He looks her in the eyes again, pleading with her to not dispute the next part. “A few years later, I came along, then Sammy.”

“No, no. My oldest was a girl, Deanna.” Mary looks Dean up and down, taking in his short hair, wide shoulders, and flat chest. He crosses his arms over that now, uncomfortable, hoping she isn’t looking at his long eyelashes or his delicate cheekbones or his hips. All the places he’s insecure about.

“Yeah, um… that’s me.” He looks up at her, his jaw clenching, waiting for the ball to drop. “I shortened the name a little, and the- uh- hair.” He tries for the old charming smile as he runs a hand through the spiky hair he hasn’t let grow out in 20 years. It doesn’t quite get there, settling at a more delicate need for approval. Mary doesn’t give it to him. “Do you believe me?”

She bypasses the question, turning her eyes away from him to look at the car behind him. Something changes in her eyes. “I burned.” She says quietly, like she’s remembering the heat. Dean swallows. He remembers the heat too. “How long have I been gone?”

“33 years.” His voice cracks.

Mary looks back to him, and she moves forward, putting two gentle fingers to his cheek, to the freckles sprayed across soft skin. He’s had them forever, even when he was little. “Dee?” She calls him by his old nickname; Dean’s doubly thankful that he doesn’t use his deadname.

“Hi, mom.” There are tears in his eyes.

------------------------------------------------------

“How did he die?”

Dean bows his head. He’s really not selling himself too good here, is he? First the trans thing, now- “He gave himself up for me.” He’ll be surprised if Mary wants anything to do with him. Surprisingly, she chuckles and sniffles.

“That does sound like John.” He looks over, and she’s smiling. His brow furrows. Killing himself to save Dean’s ass does sound like John, but not in a way that makes him want to smile. “And he was a hunter? And he raised-” She stutters now, looking at him again and looking away just as quickly. “You and Sam to be-”

“Yeah, he did.” A cold weight is settling in Dean’s stomach, and he tries and fails to not let it seep into his words.

“And you said we’ve met before, when you traveled through time,”

Dean nods. It had been horrible and amazing to see Mary and have her see him, just as some guy. A guy, at all. “Twice. Your memory got wiped, so…” So you don’t remember me telling you I was your kid, and you not believing me. I do.

“And you’re… my daughter-”

Dean coughs. He hasn’t been called a daughter in a long-ass time. “No, I’m- I mean. I was. I know it’s a lot. And I’ll explain everything. I will. But right now, let’s get out of here. Let’s get you home. Come on, Mom.”

She doesn’t correct him, which means she must believe, at least a little bit, that she is his mom.

-----------------------------------------------------

“You live here?” She looks around the cavernous space and he smiles, looking around too. It really is awesome.

“Yeah, when we’re not on the road. It’s an old Men of Letters bunker.”

“Men of Letters?” She scoffs. Dean grins a bit and looks at her. He thinks he likes her. “They’re a myth. An old hunter’s story.”

He tilts his head. He’s just gonna keep blowing her mind today, apparently. “Not so much. New duds look good.” He gestures to her clothes. He’d lent her some extra clothes he’d had in the trunk, and he tries not to fixate on how they weren’t that big on her. He’s not much taller than her, and he knows part of that even is the heeled boots he’s wearing.

“Well, thanks. It’s better than walking around in that nightgown the rest-” Dean’s nodding, about to say something extremely awkward like ‘Yeah, nightgowns are a bitch,’ when he finally looks at what she’s staring at, spattered on the floor of the bunker. “That’s blood.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s heart leaps into his throat, but he goes into autopilot before he can think about freaking out. He takes his gun out from his pants and cocks it, clearing the immediate area. A blurred sigil on the wall puts another bolt of fear through his chest. “Sammy? Cas?” He winces at how high his voice goes.

He takes the Map Table’s gun out from its hiding place and hands it to Mary. She was a hunter too, and he’s not about to leave her unarmed to clear the place. “Take this. Stay here.” Dean takes off immediately. It isn’t until he’s moving on to check the kitchen that he hears the voice. Mary’s clear as a bell, saying,

“Hands, now,”

Dean’s in the room before he can think about it. His heart practically comes undone when he sees that dumb familiar trench coat. He puts his body between Cas and his mom’s gun immediately, hoping she will trust him enough not to shoot through him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa! It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s a friend, all right?” He meets Cas’s eyes and sees the utter relief in his eyes, and a surge of warmth fills his chest. “Hey, Cas.”

It’s a lackluster greeting when they both thought they’d never see each other again, and Cas shows it when he steps forward quickly and pulls Dean into a tight hug. “Dean!”

Dean grins and pats his back. “Hey, okay. All right,” He comforts him quietly.

“Dean, you’re alive?” Cas pulls away and looks him over, like he’s afraid Dean might disappear. Dean nods, understanding; he had done the same thing to Mary, after all.

“Yeah.”

“What about the bomb and the Darkness? What happened?”

“I’ll tell you everything. Where is Sam?”

“He’s not here.” Obviously. Dean could smack him, but his face wants to break into a fond smile instead. He represses both urges.

“Are you a hunter?”

“No, I’m an angel.”

“He’s an angel.” Dean says over Cas. They look at each other and then back at Mary.

“Come again?”

“An angel, with a capital A,” Dean clarifies. He feels, ridiculously, a little bit like he’s showing off. Showing Cas off. “You know, wings, harp.”

“No, I don’t have a harp.”

Dean laughs. “This is Castiel. Cas, this is… Mary. Winchester.”

------------------------------------------------------

“It’s been kinda weird, here. You know, with mom being back?” And learning that her baby girl is now a full grown man? “It’s like we don’t know how to act around each other, so we just kinda make this small talk, and act like it’s normal, but it’s- it’s so not normal.” Dean can hear the pleading in his voice.

“What has she said to you?” Cas asks quickly. Dean bites his lip to hide the smile he’s trying to get from hearing Cas get all angry and protective on his behalf. He’s reminded of the time Cas looked him directly in the face and said, ‘Dean Winchester, if anyone is ever transphobic to you, I will smite them immediately and without any remorse.’ And before Dean could make a quip about internalized transphobia, Cas added, ‘Do not make me do that to you.’

“Well, nothing. That’s- that’s the whole point.” It’s the kind of thing most people usually wanna go over, what the fuck gender their kid is? He’s pretty sure no news does not mean good news in this context.

“Okay, what have you said to her?”

“Well, nothing. I’m- I don’t know what to say to her, y’know? It’s like it’s all too much, and I don’t wanna overwhelm her.”

“Dean, your identity is not ‘too much.’” Cas says immediately. Dean sighs. That wasn’t what he meant, even though he has said something similar before. Something when he was lonely and sad and feeling like explaining his dick to a one night stand was too complicated for him to do to even assuage it that way.

“No- I know. It’s not that. It’s… everything.”

Now it’s Cas’s turn to sigh. “Don’t make things unnecessarily complicated, as you humans tend to do. I’ll call you.” He hangs up.

Dean lets the phone fall with his arm limp to his side. “Yeah. Great. That’s helpful.” He says to the empty air. “That’s helpful.” Asshole.

-------------------------------------------------------

They’re in the car, and Dean is driving, and there is too much going on. He’s not sure whether he’s happy that Cas is in the backseat for this conversation or not. “So you’re… my Deanna.”

Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel. He looks at them and ignores the voice in his head that says they are petite. Womanly. “Uh, yeah. I was born Deanna Jane Winchester.” He clears his throat and meets Cas’s eyes in the rearview. He gives him a little nod, and Dean continues. “I’m… It’s called trans.”

Dean risks a look over at Mary, and she’s playing with her ring. “So you… wanted to be a boy.”

Dean clears his throat again. He’s pretty sure he does it every time before he talks, and he’s also pretty sure his voice gets lower every time he talks, too. He swears it’s an automatic reflex.

“Dean’s soul is- that of a human man.” Cas interrupts, saying it like that clarifies things. The corner of Dean’s mouth tilts up a little bit. Cas did tell him that he could see his soul, and also told him that it was, and he quotes ‘A color more similar to that of a men than women.’ Which, yeah, that tracks. He guesses Cas leaves off the ‘more similar’ part to make things simpler for Mary.

“And so you…” Mary trails off, a finger pointing toward his chest aborting its mission when she realizes it might be rude.

Dean raises an eyebrow with amusement. “Cut my tits off? Yeah.” He takes a hand off the wheel to raise his shirt, proudly showing off his top surgery scars. Mary trails a hand along them, feeling the raised skin. “After Sammy went to college. It was a bitch of a few weeks, but it was worth it.”

Mary takes her hand away and nods, brows furrowed like she’s trying to wrap her head around it. Dean grins. The grin freezes awkwardly, the edges tilting down, when Mary opens her mouth again. “So you have a-”

Cas coughs loudly in the back seat. Dean meets his wide eyes with a similar expression, and Mary cuts off the question, catching onto the fact she said something wrong. “Don’t think we really need to go there, do we, mom?”

That was a question for him and whatever lucky son of a bitch (gender neutral) ended up in his bed at the end of the night. “Right.” Mary says quickly. She turns her whole body then, asking, “Is that why you like men?”

Dean only swerves a little, he swears. The car coming the opposite direction doesn’t seem to agree, holding its horn long and hard. Luckily, it gives him a moment to stutter less obviously.

“Sorry, I just meant- since you two are-” Mary gestures between Cas and Dean, and Dean blinks his eyes solidly, trying to convince himself this is really happening.

“No! I mean, we-” Dean doesn’t have the balls (hehe) to look at Cas in the back seat, but he can see the trench coat shifting out of his peripheral. “I��m not-”

“Was John okay with this?”

Dean laughs. It comes out bitter and dark. “Dad didn’t much give a fuck what I did with my body. He’d given up on grandkids about the time he saw how decent I was at hunting, so my long hair wasn’t a personal loss.” He knew I wasn’t gonna live long enough to give him grandkids, not without some self-sacrifice on John’s part.

Mary looks a little shocked at his outburst, and Dean almost feels bad for being so blunt and crass. But then he remembers growing up with John as his male role model, and he tightens his jaw. No, the bluntness and crassness was accurate. “Oh.”

“... Yeah.” Dean bites his lip and risks another glance at his mom.

“So, you’re okay with this?” He waves a hand at himself. Asking if she was okay with him was just too pathetic, even for him. She looks at him uncertainly, a frown he recognizes as his own on her face.

“I don’t think I’m okay with any of this, Dean. But… I guess I’ll adjust.”

#tw: dysphoria #trans dean #destiel #deancas #ftm dean #transmasc dean #fanfic #dean is trans #my writing #mine

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tiredb0igivemesugars · 3 years

Text

It takes a village

Summary: ftm y/n comes out, scared of his dad's reaction but Tony Stark manages to be full of surprises.

📝words:📝 994

⚠️Warnings:⚠️ swearing, gender dysphoria, anxiety, transphobia (kinda)

💙Pairing:💙 Tony Stark!dad and reader!son

📎note:📎 hi! sorry for being gone for so long. I'm having a really bad writer's block but here's an old one I found. Also no proof read.

Have you ever had to wake up to a body that didn’t feel like yours? A life that didn’t feel like yours? Have you ever had the urge to cry and throw up when you walk down to the kitchen in the morning and your dad greets you with ”good morning my beautiful daughter”? Have you wanted to scream: ”That’s not me!” ”I am not your daughter!”

Is PE just a relentless nightmare because of the changing rooms?

Is every waking moment pure agony?

If you answered yes to any of these questions you probably are Tony Stark’s daughter. Yes, daughter, because that’s how you were born. In a girl’s body, hating every second of it.

In the back of your mind, you knew your dad would accept you, you just didn’t think that you were ready to have that conversation. In some parts of your brain, you held back because you didn’t want to bother anyone with it. It always seemed like there was something more pressing at hand, you could do just one more day as Tony Stark’s daughter.

Your alarm clock disturbed your peaceful sleep, waking you up to reality. You groaned, remembering who you were and what today would hold for you. Thursday. School. Preparations for tomorrow’s charity ball, which you were also supposed to attend.

You had a dress fitting tomorrow morning, could not wait for that.

Dressing quickly for school, you made your way to the kitchen, grabbing the usual coffee and looking for something light for breakfast in the fridge.

”Good morning princess.” You heard your dad say as he walked in, you bit back on a groan before turning to face him and smile.

”Morning dad.”

The both of you sat down, enjoying the minutes of silence before Steve would walk in with something new to ramble about, he was really talkative in the mornings. Always bombarding everyone with questions. His voice could already be heard down the hall. He was talking with Natasha.

”Yeah but I don’t get it, why can’t I call her that? It’s her name.” Steve probed.

”Firstly, it’s not she, it’s he and second because his name is Elliot.” Natasha explained, clearly trying her best to remain calm while navigating through the kitchen for food.

It was quite clear to you that they were talking about Elliot Page. Steve had watched Juno last night and was more than confused when everyone kept talking about Elliot when that wasn’t the name that was credited in the movie.

Should you but in? Well, you should but could you?

”You know what, talk to her, she’s young, she knows more about these things. I’m old and I’m from Russia.” Natasha finally snapped. ”Her” was an indication to you. You had to explain to the 100-year-old man about trans people while trying to hide your own identity, that’s 3rd-degree interrogation right there.

Without missing a beat Steve sat in front of you, looking at you like you’d have all the answers in the world, all he had to do was listen.

"What?” You asked, trying to play oblivious.

”This Elliot thing, I’m confused.” Steve clarified.

”Well yeah, his name is Elliot and uses he him pronouns.” You tried to explain without going too much into detail.

”What are pronouns?”

”Well like she, her, he, him and even they and them.” You could’ve gone more in-depth with neo pronouns but you decided to cut him some slack since he was basically a grandpa.

”I don’t follow.”

”Well I am assuming that you go by he and him pronouns, right? That’s what that means. Natasha is most likely she and her. You understand how that works, don’t you?”

Steve’s face was blank as if he was still processing.

”So..” Steve began.

”He and him.” He said and pointed to himself.

”She and her.” Pointing at Natasha.

”He and him.” Tony’s turn.

Oh god.

”She and her.” He pointed to you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to not let emotion convey you.

”Y-yeah.” You wanted to stutter out.

There was something different about this. He pointed at you while he said it, it went right through you. You couldn’t stand another day being Tony Stark’s daughter.

”Actually, no.” You corrected, already feeling the anxiety beginning to bubble. Hands getting shakier, breathing just that much harder than you knew you couldn’t breathe properly.

”Wait now I’m confused.” Steve said and put his hands up as a sign of giving up.

”Dad, I’m not your daughter anymore. Haven’t been for a long time.” You confessed, trying to keep it lowkey despite your anxiety. You could tell that your voice was shaking, you cursed yourself for it.

Tony seemed to have frozen, staring down at his cup of coffee.

Fuck. Shouldn’t have said anything.

Tony cleared his throat.

”So we should probably get you a suit, right? Can’t have you wearing no dress tomorrow night.” Tony turned to smile at you.

The anxiety that had bubbled in your chest, threatening to overspill, had died down.

You let out a relieved sigh, the weight finally off of your shoulders.

Tony pulled out his phone. ”What name should I put for the suit fitting tomorrow at 10.30 AM?”

”Y/n”

”Hm, it fits you. Couldn’t have said it better myself.” He said and reached to give you a shoulder rub and a warm smile.

A plate clattered against the table, the table sliding towards you. ”Pancakes for y/n,” Natasha said and offered you a smile.

You couldn’t be Tony Stark’s daughter. What you could be was Tony Stark’s son.

The suit was fitted to you, a jacket to give the illusion of wide shoulders and straight-legged pants.

And when the inevitable wave of anxiety came right before you were supposed to walk past all the reporters, Tony was there. Offered your shoulder the familiar squeeze.

”It’ll be alright.”

And it would be, eventually, because you were y/n Stark, Tony Stark’s son.

#tony stark #y/n stark #ftm reader #steve rogers #natasha romonova #fluff #marvel #the avengers #oneshot #coming out #trans reader #tony stark x stark!reader

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suzuki-violin-school · 3 years

Text

Can I Really Wear A Dress?

This was..written in like ten minutes late at night oopsie

Masterlist

Content: amab reader, trans mtf reader, body dysphoria tw, mild self-loathing tw

The parts don’t go together. Your body is one thing, your head is something else, your heart says something totally different, nothing makes any sense. Wouldn’t it be better to go under the knife? But how long would it take? What would it cost? How much would it hurt? What if something went wrong? Can I even-

“Hey, what’s up?”

-Kirishima is so sweet. He mentioned he was going out today, is he going to invite me with him? Maybe he’s here asking for another study session.

“I’m going out, want to come with? Sero and Ashido are coming. Couldn’t convince Bakugo, and Kaminari’s stuck with Iida and Momo since he bombed the test yesterday.”

“I don’t blame him, that one was tough!” Y/n groaned. She smiled. “Yeah. Gimme a sec to change, I don’t want to go out looking like a hobo.”

“Yeah… Might want to buy some new sweats while we’re out.”

Kirishima chuckled, withdrawing from Y/n’s room, having cracked the door open and stuck his head in, leaving Y/n alone once more in the vastness of her unkempt room.

Sweats… They’re comfy, but I should probably stop wearing sweatpants.

Y/n stood up from her desk, abandoning a notebook half filled with math equations but mostly with doodles. She walked over to her closet and picked the first dress she saw, changing quickly so she could think about anything else but the plagues in her mind. She had to stop herself from running down the stairs, eager to get out and have a good day not cooped up in her room stuck in her own head.

“Hey, Y/n!” Ashido said excitedly. “Ready to go?”

Y/n nodded, grinning.

Mina’s always so happy, and she’s so strong! She really is the best.

“I just know Ashido’s going to drag us around to every store in the mall,” Sero said, raising an eyebrow. “Prepare your wallet, L/n.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Y/n said. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“Hey, if you run outta cash, I’ll cover you,” Kirishima said happily, gathering the group and leading them out of the dorms.

It was a peaceful train ride to get to the mall. Ashido kept eyeing up an attractive stranger who got off two stops after they got on, Sero was spewing an unending chain of dad jokes he learned on the internet, and Kirishima was listing facts about Crimson Riot the whole way. Y/n was just happy to be a part of any of their conversations.

As soon as they got to the mall, however, Ashido zoomed off to a jewelry store and disappeared. Sero got lost in Build-A-Bear Workshop.

Y/n, afraid of being left on her own, stuck to Kirishima like glue, never letting him out of her sight.

“D’you think Ashido or Sero’ll come back anytime soon?” She asked, following Kirishima into some fast-fashion shop full of tweens. Kirishima grimaced.

“Probably not,” he said. “Last time I came here, Ashido stopped at the food courts and ended up coming back an hour later than us on a different train.”

“Oh, was that the time last week when Kaminari came back totally zapped?” Y/n asked, remembering the loud yey as Kaminari entered the dorm. Kirishima nodded. “I should really get out with you guys more. I never get to see him embarrass himself in public.”

Y/n stared at a pink dress as they walked past it, taking it in before following Kirishima to the men’s jeans section. Not noticing he’d stopped, she bumped into him awkwardly.

“Sorry. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “My fault. Is something up?”

“You looked like you wanted that,” he said simply. “Do you want to try it on? I can pay if it’s too much for you.”

“The dress?” Y/n asked, unsure of what he meant. Kirishima nodded. “Oh. It’s cute, but I don’t think I could pull it off.”

“I politely disagree,” Kirishima said, grinning. “Go try it on! It really is cute, I think you’d rock it.”

Y/n smiled shyly, walking back over to the dresses and flicking through the ones hanging on the rack, trying to find her size. She finally did, holding it up so Kirishima could see as he kept browsing the jeans. He gave her a thumbs up, and she went to the dressing room, eager to try it on. If Kirishima thought she’d look good in it, then she would, right? After all, he was one of the sweetest people she knew.

She pulled off the dress she was currently wearing, cream-colored with a floral print, and stared at herself in the mirror for a few minutes.

…It’s just not right. Who am I kidding, just because Kirishima thinks it’s a cute dress doesn’t mean it’ll look any better on me. If anything, I’ll just make it less cute. It probably won’t even fit, it’s not made for people like me. Maybe if I looked more like Ashido, then I could pull it off. She looks good in anything! I’m not like her, though. I should just put the dress back. It’s not like I’ll end up wearing it. I’ll just end up in sweatpants and a t-shirt again as soon as I’m back at the dorms. Even the dress I’m wearing today doesn’t look good on me. I should’ve worn something else today. I can’t-

“Hey, Y/n, you’ve been in here for a while,” Kirishima said. There was only one occupied dressing room, so he assumed that was where Y/n was. He took a seat on one of the benches. “You okay? Does it fit?”

“Um- No, it doesn’t,” Y/n lied, panicking. “And it doesn’t look that good either, so I think I’ll just not get it-”

“Can I see it?”

Y/n paused, staring at herself in the mirror before looking at the dress, hanging off one of the pegs on the wall. She sighed quietly, taking it off the hanger and slipping it on quickly. She opened the door to the dressing room she was in and brushed off the skirt awkwardly.

“I don’t really-”

“What do you mean it doesn’t fit? That looks awesome on you!” Kirishima said excitedly. “Turn around!”

Y/n spun around slowly, showing off the dress. There was some comfort in Kirishima’s enthusiasm, but the dress still didn’t fulfill any particular dreams.

“Do you really like it that much?” She asked. Kirishima nodded.

“It’s super pretty,” he said. “I told you you’d look good in it, didn’t I? Do you want me to buy it for you?”

“Um… No,” Y/n said awkwardly, seeing herself in the mirror again as Kirishima gently turned her around, carefully examining the strappy back of the dress.

“Really? Why not?”

“I just… I don’t want it,” she said.

“You looked so in love with it earlier,” Kirishima protested. “Is it uncomfortable or something?”

“I just don’t think I look good in it,” Y/n mumbled. “You’re really nice, and I’m happy you like the dress, but it’s not for me.”

Kirishima sighed, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t like the dress,” he said firmly. “I like you. I like all the dresses you wear. Actually, I like everything you wear! You’re so pretty!”

Y/n walked back into the dressing room and closed the door, changing back into her other dress slowly.

“I’m not pretty, Kirishima,” she said, voice wavering. “…I’m hardly handsome, either. It’s just not right. The dress doesn’t look good on me.”

It didn’t take much for Kirishima to put the pieces together. Y/n had never had a particularly feminine figure, though he thought it was just because she had more muscle than most of the girls in their class. She was really strong, after all. She went out of her way to do very feminine things, more so than the other girls in class, even going so far as to learn how to make different teas from Yaomomo or to have Tsu teach her how to do complicated braids. It all fell into place when Y/n said ‘handsome’.

“The dress does look good on you, Y/n,” Kirishima said, his voice more firm than Y/n had ever heard. “And you are pretty. Beautiful, even! You’re the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever met. …Emphasis on girl.”

Y/n didn’t respond.

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, but I do know you look good in dresses. And in skirts. And anything else you wear! …You use the girls’ bathroom, and you wear ladies’ perfume- the same one Uraraka wears, just a little less of it- and you do your makeup even better than Ashido does. Even if you don’t want me to buy the dress, I want to hear you say it looks good on you.”

“…I look good in the dress.”

“Damn right you do.”

Taglist: (Want to be on it? Fill this out!) @forrest-fern @adminbryantsaki @kirishibaby @nightwingsgirl @bumbleswipe @devilgirlcrybabiey @sageyrage @a-mongoose @dompubliczn @romancefiend @jodrawssmut @dearestdynamight @romancefiend @patchworkpuzzle @angelmidoriya

#xineohp's fics #neo's fics #pride month #x reader #x trans reader #trans mtf #dysphoria tw #bnha #kirishima x reader #amab #eijiro kirishima #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #fanfiction

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bowie-boy · 3 years

Note

Favorite LGBT+ headcanons for X-Files characters? Mine is that pretty much every main F.B.I. agent(including Krycek) is either bisexual or asexual(or both)! :)

This has been in my inbox for months and I keep forgetting about it I’m so sorry but TODAY IS THE DAY!!!! Happy TDOV Fox and @himbo-mulder (this is my response to your ask too)

LGBTQ X-Files Headcanons Because Someone Asked

Fox Mulder:

Bi and trans icon

The first person he told was Samantha

She accepted him immediately as her big brother and told him he should name himself Fox (it was her favorite animal at the time)

He was going to make his name William Mulder Jr. up until she disappeared, in which he actually decided to make his first name Fox (he misses her 🥺)

Came out to his parents sometime in high school, both took it badly

Bill was hella transphobic—he was already pretty shitty to Mulder but this added a whole new layer to it

Teena was more passive aggressive about it but still made withering comments about how she “lost two daughters now”

Some high school friends (*chants* PHOEBE AND GIMBLE PHOEBE AND GIMBLE) helped Mulder start T and change his legal name on government documents before he left for Oxford

Mulder wanted to go stealth while he was there but came out to Phoebe

When they broke up, she outed him to everyone

Things got so bad that he almost dropped out

Mulder joined the FBI, excited at the prospect of knowing no one and being able to go exclusively by his last name

He was somewhat happy of his solitude in the basement—no one really looked into him past his spooky nature, so no one could find out he was trans

Since Samantha, Scully was the first person who was truly accepting of who he really was

Got top surgery sometime before Colony

Definitely fell in love with Scully right after reading her profile skrjnwkdjwka

Mulder and Krycek were definitely an item for a hot sec until Krycek went evil

Mulder is 500% faithful to Scully but kinda had a crush on Doggett for a little bit

Mulder just wants to be a better dad than Bill 🥺🥺🥺

Mulder helped Byers realize he was trans!!! More on that later though

Dana Scully:

A bi queen

Definitely experimented in college and had a couple girlfriends there and through med school

Ending up breaking up with a girl she was really close with because Scully’s job was just putting too much strain on their relationship

It was really hard on her and made her swear off serious relationships for a long time

She thought Mulder was adorable from the moment she saw him but was really scared of actually developing feelings for him so she pushed it down

And kept pushing it down until she finally realized Mulder was never going to hurt her and actually let him in

I’m just ranting about MSR now oops

100% faithful to Mulder but thought Reyes was super hot

Scully is just a distinguished bi idk what else to say

Walter Skinner:

You can’t adopt THAT MANY LGBT agents if you’re not LGBT yourself, right?

Definitely bisexual

Grew up in a really conservative family and didn’t even consider it an option until he moved out

Skinner was attracted to a lot of guys in his squad in Vietnam but he thought it was just because there were no women around

(Spoiler alert: it wasn’t)

Skinner fell in love with John “Kitten” James and he fell hard

Absolutely did everything possible to protect that man

He was terrified of his feelings though and pushed them down, eventually starting to resent his best friend for making him feel things he couldn’t understand

When Kitten got infected by that gas, Skinner put his values over the man he loved, not just because he thought it was the right thing to do, but because he was terrified that he might be bi

He has regretted it ever since

Married his wife after the war and had a pretty good relationship until he became too consumed with his work

Their breakup was really hard on him and he delved even more into his work

Sometime after Avatar (maybe by season 5 or 6), Skinner meets a really lovely man and that man becomes his boyfriend

It’s really hard at first, but the guy helps Skinner to open up and allow himself to be okay with who he really is

They make time for each other outside of work and are really happy together!

Skinner’s boyfriend is 100% okay with the fact that Skinner has basically adopted all these agents

Skinner is everyone’s dad!!! No exceptions

John Byers:

Trans man!!!!

Discovered it pretty late in life, like he knew earlier but he Repressed it

First person he ever came out to was Mulder (as in my fic 😌)

Lots of internalized transphobia in this man but Mulder and the Lone Gunmen really helped him break out of that

Langly and Frohike obviously went with him to get his first T shot and chanted “MAN JUICE” while it happened (scaring a lot of the nurses)

Met Susanne before he transitioned so seeing her again in Three of a Kind was a little terrifying for him

She accepts him though and is a bi icon herself

Byers wears suits so much because they make him feel really validated

Ringo Langly:

Non-binary and gay!! Langly uses any pronouns (gonna stick to he/him for this list to keep things simple though)

Grew up pretty unaware about gender as a whole, just living his life

Moving away from home to a city was huge for him, he started going to gay bars and really realized that he was gay

Eventually started to experiment with his gender, using different pronouns etc., and found out he was non-binary!

Came out to Frohike shortly after learning Frohike was bi (more on that later)

Goes by Ringo because it’s somewhat gender neutral

He isn’t dysphoric very often but when he is it’s very hard for him to cope, Byers and Frohike are always there to support him and help however possible though

Langly gets way more dates than Frohike and loves to brag about it

Melvin Frohike:

We stan one funky little bi king

HE WAS AT STONEWALL I’LL DIE ON THIS HILL

Frohike had a mega crush on Mulder when he first met him and it persisted all the way until he met Scully

And then when he met Doggett he crushed on him too

Frohike is just kind of a hopeless romantic okay I love him

Absolutely bonds with Scully and they always debate which celebrity is hotter while they get more and more drunk

John Doggett

GAY MAN

Doggett was really repressed for a lot of his life, not because he thought his family would hate him for being gay but mostly because of his environment

(He was a drama kid though)

The military REALLY repressed him and thoroughly fucked him up

It wasn’t until he met Reyes that he started to accept himself more

At first Reyes being a lesbian totally freaked him out and he was really upset, leading to a huge strain on their friendship, but one night he broke down and told her he was pretty sure he was gay

Reyes really helped him through everything, especially his divorce from his wife and the loss of his son

Doggett eventually came out to his dad, who was super accepting

It took Doggett a long time to be comfortable enough to date but he started and met a really great guy, one who he’s now married to

One day he mentioned his boyfriend in passing and the rest of the Spooky Squad totally flipped out because they had no idea he was gay

Doggett just straight-faced “I didn’t think it was relevant?”

Sings musical theater songs in the office when no one else is there

Monica Reyes:

A lesbian

There isn’t a straight bone in her body have you SEEN her???

Absolutely crushed on Scully for the longest time at first, totally backed off when she realized she was involved with Mulder

Total mlm/wlw solidarity with Doggett

Reyes is super comfortable with her sexuality

I’m convinced that she’s married and she and her wife live in the same neighborhood as Doggett and his husband

Running out of brain power at this point but I just love her so much??? Mwah

Alex Krycek:

Gay rat

Everything he did against Mulder and Scully was fueled by spite at his ex-boyfriend Mulder

Daddy issues

Sometimes he breaks into TLG’s base and vibes with them for a few days

Rat (affectionate)

Deep Throat:

Gay :)

Bonus: Melissa Scully is a trans lesbian and Samantha Mulder is bisexual and they’re dating

#jack’s posts #the x files #txf #x files #fox mulder #trans fox mulder #bi fox mulder #dana scully #walter skinner #alex krycek #john byers #ringo langly #richard langly #melvin frohike #john doggett #monica reyes #melissa scully #samantha mulder #long post

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goldenchan-fx2thepeacock · 3 years

Text

Don’t Go Running Off Into Danger, Even If I Do pt 2

So, I have no clue what a publishing schedule is. So here, have more of this dumb fic at 11 pm. FUCK SLEEP! SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK!

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Chapter 2

Danny and Jazz managed to finish just in time to put everything away before their parents got home. He’d actually managed to have a ghost free night. But the peace wasn’t going to last. And this wasn’t about ghosts. He got slammed into his locker. “Hey look, it’s Fenturd. What’s with the dumb picture of Phantom? You’ll never be on his level,” Dash said and laughter broke out. Danny groaned. At least they didn’t know he was trans. He’d be beaten twice as much if they knew. The locker door closed and locked. “Seriously Dash? I have to get to class!” He yelled through the metal. “Whatever Fentina. No one cares! Oh hey, it’s fresh meat!” Dash went away from Danny’s locker. Danny had found out a way to make it so he could open his locker from the inside without it being outerwardly compromised. He jumped out. It was those kids from last night. “Leave them alone Dash. They haven’t even been here for a day yet. The rules are that newbies get a probation period,” Danny crossed his arms. “I don’t know Fentoenail. Would you like to take their beating?” Dash mocked him. Danny sighed. He’d have to do this. “Any day,”

Danny regretted everything. Dash had hit him twice as hard as normal and his locker trick wasn’t working. Everything hurt. He was going to miss Lancer’s class. At least his ghost sense wasn’t going off or something. Lancer wouldn’t miss him. Suddenly, his locker opened and he tumbled out. He yelped. “Are you okay?” The girl twin said. “No worse than what I’m used to,” Danny brushed himself off. “You didn’t have to do that,” The boy twin told Danny. “Yeah, I kinda did. The probation period is sacred. Dash knows that,” “Probation period?” The boy said. “A rule we made up last year. If Dash really wants to break it, I take the beating instead. Fenton gets to take the beating so the new kids don’t have to,” “That’s not fair. You should report him,” “Nah, he threw like four perfect throws last night and is exempt from punishment,” “Football?” The boy gave Danny a knowing look. “Danielle- I mean Daniel Fenton to the main office,” The loud speaker said. “Oh come on! At least it was probably just a misread,” Danny was fuming. The beating plus being deadnamed was getting on his nerves. “We have to head there too,” The girl said. Danny shrugged and let them follow him.

Lancer called them all in at once. “Sup Lancer. Can I help you?” Danny leaned against the wall. “Mr Fenton. You and I both know that you need to show me more respect. W-what happened to you?” Lancer looked up from his papers. “Just a certain football star. Nothing I can’t handle. He broke the probation period,” “That’s a rule between students. I have no need to enforce it,” Lancer sighed. “I have no clue why you of all people were chosen for this, but you are too be Mr and Ms Pines guide around the school,” “Jazz not good enough for you? Had to pick the ‘slacker’ Fenton?” “Daniel, mind your tone. Jazz is our top student,” “We all know I’m destined to fail in life. Can I get their timetables?” “Yes of course. Listen Danny, both you and I know you’re capable of better grades. I don’t understand why you don’t try,” Danny wasn’t in the mood for Lancer’s pep talks. “I’ve got more important things to worry about,” Danny grabbed the papers and stalked off with the Pines Twins on his heels. “Why didn’t he do anything about Dash?” the boy asked. “He has no reason to. Not like I’m about to ask,” Danny handed them their timetables. He’d seen that the girl was named Mabel and the boy Mason. “We’ll start with your classes Mason,” “I prefer Dipper,” “I’m not calling you by a dumb nickname. Let’s go,” Danny growled.

Just as he was about to lead Mason to his first class, a royal pain in his ass showed up. “Daniel! I require your assistance, little badger,” “It’s bound to be another plan to get in my mom’s pants. Go away,” “Now, don’t be like that. I’m the mayor after all. You should be honored,” “Plasmius, shut your goddamn mouth. I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck,” Danny said so that only Vlad could hear. “Well, something’s got you in a tizzy. I’ll ask later. I should tell you though, it’s about Danielle,” “What did you do to Dani?” Fury. Wait, he had to get the kids to class. “Nothing. It wasn’t me. You should ask your ghost hunter girlfriend,” Vlad grinned. Fucking Valerie. “Come on kids. You’ve got to get to class,” Danny ignored Plasmius. Valerie was going to die.

At lunch, he purposefully turned into Phantom and waited for Valerie on top of the school. She took no time at all. “What. Did. You. Do. To. Dani,” He glared at her. “I didn’t do anything to her! You’re going down ghost!” “Am I really?” Danny was pissed. She wasn’t getting any mercy today. He teleported behind her. “What the... HOW?” “Where is she?!” He growled. “What do you care? She’s always off on her own,” “Does it look like I care Valerie?!” “How did you know?!” “I know more than you seem to think. Tell me where Dani is. NOW!” He froze her feet. She looked terrified. “What’s wrong with you!? Why do you care so much about her? Ghosts don’t have feelings,” Danny lost it at that point. The laughter was dark. Hollow. Horrible. Val’s terror was visible. “Don’t have feelings? DON’T HAVE FEELINGS? FUCK YOU! I’M SO TIRED OF ALL THIS!” “Phantom, calm down,” Val was terrified. Danny wasn’t done. The rings were threatening to come down and expose him to her. “So you admit this is real? Would you like to know how it feels to die Val? How it feels to live on the line between life and death? Wait, I can’t do that! You don’t have a deactivated portal in your basement that I can make you turn on while your inside. I don’t have a stupid jumpsuit with your dad’s face on it so I can take off the that sticker. You don’t have parents that threaten to rip you apart molecule by molecule for just exsisting! You don’t have to see a future where you become evil because you cheated on one test and your family all died! Can you even begin to comprehend what I go through? Ever been cloned? And forced to do something incredibly painful so that one clone can get fixed and watch another get lied too? And that’s just the brunt of it Valerie. Keep telling me how I don’t feel. How I’m nothing!” Danny screamed at ice engulfed their feet. Val’s eyes went wide. “D-Danny?” She said quietly. “Congratulations! You aren’t as niave as the rest of Amity Park! How does it feel?” He’d snapped. “Calm down! I’ll tell you where Dani is!” She shrieked. That hollow laugh came back. But instead of an angry rant afterwards, he just sunk to his knees and screamed. It wasn’t a wail. It was a scream of pain. Of being done with the world. “I can’t do this anymore,” He sobbed and the rings went down. All that was left now was a beaten, broken Danny Fenton. “You should change back. I’ll take you to Dani,” Danny nodded and followed her. “Sorry I broke down. I’m just sick of people telling me that I can’t feel. That all ghosts can’t feel. You don’t even bother talking to us, ya know?” “Ghosts lie,” “And so do people! I’ve talked to the ghosts. Listened to them. Heard their stories. I protect people, but I protect them too!” “How do you know those aren’t just acts?” “Cause they make sense. I’d have the same response if it was me. If my parents burned down the place I was in because I got caught being gay,” “I’m confused,” “Ember. I told her I wouldn’t tell anyone. But you need to know that they all have reasons for being the way they are. Skulker’s family was hunted, so now he hunts to prove his strength,” “Maybe we should talk to you more,” “Maybe you should. No one asks to die,” “But your parents say that ghosts don’t remember their lives. They’re the leading experts,” “That’s like putting a ten year old in a room of babies. They’re the expert by default in that situation, but an adult would be the expert the moment they walked in,” “Why don’t we know about that,” “Dying is traumatizing. Even half dying is traumatizing. It’s taboo to mention it unless you’re told. No one explains it until they’re ready. And talking about a life before that is almost wrong,” “How did you learn?” “Skulker told me during the Christmas Truce. Ember told me one day when she just wanted to be left alone, but I did too. I guess things end up working out in weird ways,” “The Christmas Truce?” “On Christmas Eve and Christmas, ghosts have a truce. No one is allowed to fight anyone that day. The Ghost Writer broke the truce and Walker got to haul him off in just means,” “We really know nothing about ghosts, do we?” “No, you don’t. They even have a party. I got invited last year. Skulker let me make the star! It took me weeks to get it right,” Danny smiled at the memory. He’d made a scale model of a blue giant that went through it’s life stages. “So there’s a whole society?” “A government. Systems. Main rules. Taboos. Just cause we’re ghosts, doesn’t mean we don’t have a system,” “I’m sorry,” “What?” Danny nearly froze. “I’m sorry that I made so many assumptions. I never should’ve chased you or any ghost like that,” “Keep them out of Amity Park and send them back to the Zone. Most ghosts forget that living is dangerous, so they just rampage. I keep trying to talk sense into them, but they’re pretty stubborn,” “What about the dog?” “Dog? You mean Cujo? I was trying to stop him from trashing Axiom. He was trying to get a toy. I’m sorry that recked your life Val,” “My life? Wrecked? When compared to you, my life is a dream. It’s not like I died,” “I guess you’ve got a point,”

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Thanks for reading. I just like fics where Val finds out, and this one seemed like an okay place to stick it. Dani is fine. I’ll fill you in on that next chapter, but I should get some sleep.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #trans!danny #trans!dipper #danielle (dani) phantom #valerie gray #mr lancer #red huntress #cujo #skulker #ember #ghost writer #christmas truce #gravity falls #dipper pines #mabel pines #I know Dipper's real name because I learned about the series through journal three #ocs

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keanureevesisbae · 4 years

Text

Mister Cavill, your dog is kinda fat - Chapter 17

Summary: Veterinarian Olivia Tran has zero time for bullshit. After becoming a mom at age twenty three, the one thing she wants is a good life for her daughter Vanessa. Her ex didn’t want anything to do with her nor the baby and she decided that man are officially banned out of her life. But then she meets Henry Cavill at her clinic and her ban slowly starts to crumble apart. Henry on the other hand is looking for one thing: a family. And when he meets Olivia Tran, he finds just that.

Henry Cavill x Olivia Tran (ofc)

Warnings: None

Wordcount: 2.4k

Masterlist // Previous chapter // Next chapter

Henry’s life is slowly but surely becoming what he originally wanted. He adopted Vanessa a few weeks ago and he never thought he could be so emotional. He cried while he had to sign the papers, he cried the entire way back to the car, to a point where Olivia decided it would be best if she drove back to his parents’ place. He sat in the back of the car, right next to Vanessa, who wasn’t crying, but went out of her way to comfort him. He was just so happy that it was official now.

If—God forbids—something happen to Olivia, Vanessa goes right to him. They don’t have to bother with that low life of a Wesley, she is going right to him. They even changed their will. If something happens to the both of them, Vanessa goes to his family.

But right now Olivia is officially thirteen weeks pregnant and it’s getting harder and harder now to hide her belly. Since she is out of her first trimester, she is been feeling a lot better. She told him that during her pregnancy with Vanessa, she puked quite a lot, but that was nothing compared to how she is feeling with this baby.

But right now, her glow is mesmerizing. She was always beautiful, but seeing her in her underwear before she trows on his shirt at night, he realizes that she is a whole different kind of breathtaking now. After she steps into the bed, he lays behind her, wraps his arm around her waist and sneaks a hand under her shirt. He loves feeling her tiny bump. It’s still beyond him that this is happening, that they’ve created an already beautiful human. He cannot wait to see the more definite changes of her body, the further she gets into this pregnancy.

It’s Friday and they are waiting for Vanessa to walk out of the school. Henry wraps his fingers around her hand and pulls Olivia closer to his body. The weather is getting nicer and nicer, making it even harder for her to hide her little bump. She opted for a pretty midi skirt with a large shirt over it, that doesn’t show anything yet.

Today they are not only going to tell Vanessa about the baby when they are at home, but they are going to tell his entire family, since they are having a little dinner at his mom’s. The school bell rings and it doesn’t take long, before Vanessa rushes out of the school. Thankfully she has adopted a new normal by jumping into Henry’s arms, instead of Olivia’s, like she used to do. She presses tons of kisses on his cheeks, before she leans down to give Olivia a kiss.

Keeping this a secret has been the hardest thing, especially since Henry wants to share this with everyone.

‘Ready to go home, sunshine?’ Henry asks her and she nods. While he carries her to the car, she keeps on talking about how wonderful school was. Though he doesn’t quite understand that she likes school this much (especially with the witch that calls herself miss Sue in front of the class), he likes her stories. He could listen to her for hours on end and not be bored for a second.

Henry helps his official daughter in her carseat and while he drives back home, he holds Olivia’s hand. Once they are home, Olivia pulls Vanessa with her and the two of them sit on the couch.

He leans against the doorframe, wanting to see everything that is going to happen, but also allowing them to experience this. He might be officially Vanessa’s dad now, it’ll take a long time before they will have the bond that Vanessa has with her mother. Their bond is so tight, it’s mesmerizing. ‘Vanessa, sweetheart,’ Olivia says, ‘I have something to tell you.’

Vanessa looks at her mom with a frown between her brows. ‘Okay… What is it, mommy?’

Olivia takes Vanessa’s hand and places it onto her stomach. ‘Mommy is growing a baby in her stomach right now,’ she says in a soft voice. ‘And that means you are going to be a big sister.’

Henry had looked online on how to tell your kids that they are going to be a brother or sister. He saw all those sweet and funny videos online, with cakes, balloons and other stuff, but when he showed Olivia, she simply frowned and said that she just wants to tell Vanessa.

And now when he sees this moment happening in front of his eyes, he knows damn well that it shouldn’t happen any other way than this one.

Vanessa’s eyes light up, as her hand rests on Olivia’s bump. ‘I’m going to be a big sister?’ she asks, just in case.

‘Yes, sweetheart.’

And for the first time since he met Vanessa, she is crying happy tears. They drip over her cheeks, yet a smile is evident on her face. ‘I’m doing the happy tears thing,’ she sniffles.

‘Oh sweetie,’ Olivia says, a few tears in her eyes as well. She pulls her daughter closer to her body and presses kisses on her cheek. She ushers Henry over and he walks over to his two favorite girls.

He takes place on the other side of Olivia and looks at the two of them and he can’t hide his smile.

‘Daddy,’ Vanessa says, looking up, ‘I’m going to be a big sister.’

He wipes the tears from her face. ‘I know, sunshine. You are going to be a wonderful sister,’ he tells her.

She takes his hand from her face and places it on Olivia’s bump, just like her own. ‘Are we going to tell grandma, grandpa and everyone today?’

‘We are,’ Olivia says, stroking through the soft hairs of Vanessa.

‘We do have to tell you something,’ he says to Vanessa.

‘And what’s that?’

He clears his throat. He really wants to tell her this, because he thinks it’s important. He talked about this with Olivia and she agreed to it. ‘We love you so much and we always will, sunshine, but you have to know that a new baby is hard work. Both me and your mom will be pretty tired. There is also a chance that we will not have as much time for you as we usually have.’

Vanessa nods. ‘I know,’ she tells him. ‘Bettie’s mom is usually pretty tired too, when she is pregnant and when she just had a new baby. I can help around the house and otherwise, I can sleep at grandma’s place. I think she and grandpa want to babysit, so you can maybe sleep in.

How is he going to be an excellent father, if Olivia has managed to do this by herself? He is so lucky that this amazing woman is going to be the mother of their kids.

‘Then we have nothing to worry about,’ Olivia chuckles, kissing Vanessa’s cheek. ‘You are such an angel.’

Vanessa smiles. ‘So when is this baby going to be born? Bettie’s mom always knows, but she said something about a flu date?’

Olivia chuckles. ‘Due date, sweetheart. The doctor can guess a little bit. So the due date for this baby is the twenty first of November.’

‘That’s near my birthday.’ She smiles even brighter than before. ‘I kind of hope that the baby will be born on my birthday. That means we are going to have an even bigger party.’ Vanessa looks at Olivia’s stomach and asks: ‘When do we know if it’s a boy or girl?’

‘Somewhere in August,’ Henry says.

‘How can they know?’

Olivia gestures that she should stay put, as she walks over to her purse. ‘The doctors have a machine and what that one basically does is that it can make pictures from what’s inside my stomach.’

‘Oh,’ Vanessa says, ‘like the pictures daddy makes?’

Olivia chuckles. ‘Absolutely not.’ She plops back on the couch and shows Vanessa the picture of the ultrasound.

‘I don’t get it. There is nothing on here.’

Henry places his arm on the back of the couch and explains: ‘This little bean right here,’—he points to the same spot that the doctor showed him, because if he is being fair, he can’t see it—‘is your brother or sister and when we go back there in August, the baby is a little bigger. Right now he or she is as big as… what was it again, sweetheart?’

‘A lemon, so there isn’t much to see yet.’

Vanessa nods. ‘When you go to the doctor to see if I get a baby brother or sister, can I come with you?’

Olivia nods. ‘Of course you can,’ she says.

Vanessa leans down, pushes up her mom’s shirt, as she whispers against the tiny bump: ‘When you are older, you and I are going to eat chocolates at night, but don’t tell mommy and daddy, because I don’t think they’ll allow it.’

≫≫≪≪

Henry is insanely nervous for meeting his family. He knows that they will love it, he is absolutely sure of that. Though it doesn’t stop him from being nervous though. His family definitely knows how babies are made, but exposing the fact that they have been having sex and now she is pregnant…

He holds onto Olivia’s hand so tightly, that she has to whisper that he needs to chill, because he is hurting her.

And he never wants to do that of course.

Olivia came with the idea to involve Vanessa in the reveal to his family and he honestly couldn’t agree more. Vanessa was and will always be his first baby and she means the absolute world to him. The fact that she was already thinking about how she is going to be the best daughter in the world to them, how she is going to help not only her mom, but also himself out whenever she can, speaks volumes about how she is going to handle this big sister thing.

They walk around the house, to enter the garden and everyone seems to be totally happy that they have finally arrived. Vanessa continues to look at Olivia, waiting for the right moment. ‘Everybody,’ Olivia finally says. ‘Our little Vanessa has a little surprise.’

‘Little princess, what you got?’ Charlie says.

She unzips her vest and shows everyone her shirt. ‘I’m going to be a— Oh my God!’ Belle screams, running towards Olivia. The rest is further away from Vanessa, so they haven’t even read it yet, by the time Belle has pulled Olivia in a hug. ‘I’m so happy for you, babe.’

Henry watches as the rest of the family has yet to catch on, but his mother is the first to notice. She starts to tear up and Henry quickly walks over to her, to engulf her into a tight hug.

While his brothers and father are the first to congratulate Vanessa, giving her big hugs and saying how she is going to be such an amazing big sister, he hears his mother sniffle: ‘This is wonderful news, my dear.’

Since he officially adopted Vanessa, he realized that his mother was finally getting what she wanted. A big family, where she would be the grandma of the entire clan, a role that she had been wanting ever since his brothers and he reached the age of twenty. She never pushed them to get married and to have kids, but now she is finally getting the larger family she always wanted. It’s long overdue.

The fact that Olivia already had a wonderful daughter and him being really serious about having kids, made it easier for them to get pregnant, though it wasn’t necessarily planned. A couple like Simon and Belle are not even thinking about children. Well, they are, as in: we don’t want them right now.

After everyone gave him one hug, Vanessa at least two and Olivia a big hug and a kiss on her cheek, he can finally stand next to his beautiful girlfriend again. ‘Can I?’ he asks, letting his hand hover over her stomach.

‘You can always do that,’ she whispers, pressing a kiss on his jaw.

He gently places his hand on her tiny bump and she places her hand on top of his. ‘God, you are so amazing,’ he chuckles.

‘Don’t forget to give yourself credit, Henry,’ she says. ‘Remember, you are going to be a wonderful father, I just know it. You have already proven how much of an excellent dad you are with Vanessa.’

‘Can I take you with me for just a second?’ he asks, looking over at how Piers and Niki are showing off their football skills, though Vanessa doesn’t seem impressed at all.

Henry carefully pulls Olivia with him, until they are inside. He clears his throat and asks: ‘Should I share this with my fans?’ It has been a question that has been running through his thoughts for quite a while now.

Since he met Olivia, he posted pictures of course. After he first met her, he took a picture of Kal on the couch, looking a little sad and he wrote in the caption: Thanks to the greatest veterinarian who did pick up at three in the morning, Kal is all okay now after he vomited over my new carpet, though I was informed that he was kinda fat, so I have to work on that.

After that he posted pictures of Kal, of the Christmas tree and the cookies that he attempted to make for them. But he kept both of them out of the picture and since Valentines Day, he didn’t post anything.

Olivia smiles before she nods. ‘You can, as long as my face or Vanessa’s isn’t splattered on the news.’

Henry scoffs. ‘You think I’d allow that?’ He leans in to press a kiss on her forehead. ‘I just feel like I should tell them that we are expecting.’

‘You should tell the whole story,’ she tells him, grabbing his hands. ‘That you have a girlfriend, adopted Vanessa and that we are expecting.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asks. ‘I mean, I know that you two didn’t ask to be in the spotlights like that and I don’t want to force it on you.’

She pulls him closer and gives him a long kiss on his lips. ‘I am one hundred percent sure, sweetheart.’

≫≫≪≪

girlygirlx2: OH MY GOD?!?! THIS IS SO FUCKING UNEXPECTED!!!

kieralee: sooooo, we are getting Dad!Henry content? because i’m up for it!!!!

julia5487: hold up… he adopted someones kid and now they are having a kid on their own? wth happened?

muziarealm: I really want to see the lucky ass lady who is giving him babies.

kittycat421: OMG THIS IS SO AWESOME?!?!?!?!?!?!

ursula_9903: HOLY CRAP!!!!!! congratulations are in order!!!

#henry cavill #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x oc #mister cavill your dog is kinda fat #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x Olivia Tran

171 notes · View notes

lovelylogans · 3 years

Note

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

debutante

part of the wyliwf verse.

chapter one | next chapter

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

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

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

⁂

“i need a dress.”

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

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

“i’m coming out,” logan continues.

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

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

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

the double-meaning clicks in his head.

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

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

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

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

“you remember dee.”

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

“who came over to our house once.”

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

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

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

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

a cold feeling crawls uncomfortably in his stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“so you’re okay with it?”

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

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

that cold feeling is back. “ah.”

logan blinks. “what?”

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

“what about—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⁂

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

“hello, mister slange.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“where is she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hello, granmè,” he says in french.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

dee hides his smirk in his tea.

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

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

she might not know. she might not even remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s just not very… well. lived-in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the exit door opens.

shit. shit.

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

“are you skipping class?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“were you… crying?” logan says uncertainly.

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

“may i sit?”

“will you listen if i say no?”

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

“—i wasn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

“try again.”

“what?” dee says. “i could.”

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

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

“please,” logan scoffs.

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

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

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

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

except logan clears his throat, and dee braces himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

must be nice.

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

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

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

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

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

logan stiffens, ever so slightly, in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“why do you ask?” logan says.

“you know why.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“dee,” he begins, haltingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what if i stopped it?”

dee scoffs.

“what?” logan says.

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

“we can get you out of it.”

“the bill’s already paid,” dee says.

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

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

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

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

“what?” dee says.

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

“what,” dee snaps.

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

“might,” dee repeats.

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

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

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

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

“dee?”

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

“if you want to talk about it—”

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

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

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

“okay.”

“but i probably won’t.”

“that’s fine.”

dee hesitates. “but if i do—”

“i’m around,” logan says simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⁂

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“uh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it clicks. “alterations.”

“got it in one,” patton says cheerfully.

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

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

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

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

virgil thought too soon.

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

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

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

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

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

“oh,” virgil says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

virgil’s jaw drops. just a little.

“oh,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what? no,” virgil scoffs.

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

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

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

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

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

“wait, what, no way—“

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

“the tux is bad enough!”

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

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

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

a tux. tails. white gloves.

a cumberbun.

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

⁂

it’s been a shitty day so far.

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

and it isn’t even eight yet.

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

dee rolls his eyes. typical.

except—

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

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

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

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

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

“excuse me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

except that isn’t even the only time.

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

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

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

dee pauses.

fight the patriarchy, tristan had said. trouble making.

“what if i stopped it?”

and then he moves immediately toward the locker.

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

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

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

presumably.

“what,” dee says, “was that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FIGHT THE PATRIARCHY!

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

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

i won’t be outed.

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

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

“old crows?” logan says uncertainly.

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

“the…?”

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

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

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

“only ten?!”

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

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

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

dee stares at him for a long few seconds.

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

a grin breaks out on logan’s face.

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

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

but he isn’t. obviously.

⁂

logan has his game face on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“liesl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

patton nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“quite,” logan says.

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

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

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

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

patton holds his breath. here we go.

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

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

emily lowers her fork.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she’s calculating.

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

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

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

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

his mother!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“dad?” logan calls.

“yeah, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

he still would have hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s a soft hmph.

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

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

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

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

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

he looks good.

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

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

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

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

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

“heels,” she says.

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

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

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

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

“that’s ridiculous,” logan huffs.

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

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

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

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

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

logan looks like he’s sincerely regretting it.

⁂

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i thought you were working?” patton says.

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

“it is,” logan says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“uh-huh,” patton says.

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

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

“oh, absolutely agreed,” patton says.

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

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

logan glances up, frowning. “lessons?”

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

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

“…what,” virgil says. because. what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

patton blinks. “putting them on already?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“they hurt,” logan says, frowning.

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

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

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

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

“amen, brother,” virgil says dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it reminds virgil of logan learning how to walk.

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

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

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

logan’s far too big for that now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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platypanthewriter · 3 years

Text

Dildos and Hayfever

Harringrove April prompt day 13, Hayfever. Detective Billy Hargrove's had a rough time lately, and Captain Hopper assigns him a partner who'll either make everything worse...or everything better.

“All you need to know is he’s the commissioner’s son,” rang in Billy’s head as he stalked down the hall. Hopper had followed up with “I told him you were fresh out of rehab,” and “I’m sure you can remember enough of the ropes to show him, right, it’s not like he’s gonna be doing the work anyway,” and Billy gritted his teeth, punching the elevator buttons with a vengeance.

The light flickered, worsening the headache that always came on in the spring when all the flowers bloomed, and every tree on every sidewalk in the city shot its rocks off in midair—or when he had to walk into the office of the captain. This morning, to his utmost joy, he’d had both, and he took the opportunity of alone time in the elevator to blow his nose, hard.

Captain Hopper meant well, probably, Billy told himself, and set his shoulders.

He found the right building because of the smoke pouring out half the upper windows, the six fire trucks, and the EMTs coming out with the victims—a nice brownstone, before. Billy looked—somewhat hopelessly—for an elevator, sighed, and hauled himself up seven flights of stairs, sneezing.

Police Commissioner Harrington’s son was interviewing witnesses. Billy’d seen him before—always with his own office, always flirting with whoever worked reception, always with his uniform tailored. How he’d brokered a transfer to Major Crimes was a riddle Billy couldn’t wait to ask about—though if he was absolute dead weight, Hopper would probably come up with another solution to Billy’s bullshit, and kick Harrington back onto a desk somewhere.

Harrington was on an upper landing, listening to a black lady and her husband. They looked in their...seventies, maybe, well-off, both crying, and clutching tabby cats. “I can speak to you later,” he said gently, “—if you’d like to—” but the woman shook her head, grabbing his hand.

“He’s a good boy,” she said, sniffling, “—and you better catch whoever did this. Anyone who could do this. There aren’t many young men ready to haul an old lady’s groceries up nine flights, or open her pickle jars, either. Anything we can tell you—”

The man nodded too, holding her hand, and Harrington crouched, jotting down their story, while Billy showed his ID and ducked under the crime scene tape into the half-gutted apartment. He listened as he pulled the whole crime scene kit on, his gloves, mask, booties, and haircap and all.

It smelled horrible, still thick with greasy smoke that clung to the inside of Billy’s sinuses, and he was grateful for the mask.

The parts of the apartment that hadn’t caught fire were nice—nicer than he could afford, certainly—with art everywhere, photos, paintings...and a floor-to-ceiling, sculptural mobile he couldn’t help thinking looked like a cock. He surveyed the scene—a coffee table with wine glasses for two, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and chocolate dick-shaped marshmallows, in front of a couch with penis-shaped pillows.

There was a spray-painted ‘GOD HATES F—’ on the wall, the last word obscured by char from the fire, but Billy honestly wasn’t sure it was new, given the decor in general, and the adjacent broken glass glued to the wall in a penis shape. He leaned in and sniffed it, and he could still smell the fumes of the paint. He snapped a few pictures of it, for later.

When he backed up to get a wider view, his shoulder thumped into someone. “Sorry,” said Harrington, and then, showing why he’d made detective, “...that huge thing on the ceiling kinda looks like a dick.”

“A lot of things in this apartment do, you’ll find,” said Wheeler, the lead CSI, raising her eyebrows at Billy with a smirk. He tensed, a little, but she just started giving him the report, and he nearly shut his eyes in relief. “Including the weapon.” She waved at a bagged, cement dong sculpture that looked like art deco. “It probably didn’t take any prints,” she said, sighing, “—with a gritty surface like that.” Harrington grimaced, wincing, and touching his head.

“The victim will probably regain consciousness,” Wheeler went on. “He left the windows open all along that side of the apartment,” she pointed, “—and with as windy as it’s been today, it sucked the fire away from him, so he didn’t get much smoke inhalation.”

“What even...robbery?” Harrington asked, then, “Domestic violence?” and she grimaced, clicking around on her tablet.

“From his phone, it looks like a first date. We’re going over it with a fine-tooth comb, though,” she said, frowning at Billy, then down at her tablet. “Since the assailant obviously wanted the crime scene burned to the ground.”

Billy nodded, his eyes watering either from the fumes, or the pollen count. He sneezed inside his mask, and grimaced as it stuck to his face wetly. “Who is the victim?” he asked, sighing, and wrinkling his nose.

“Ishaq Hill,” Harrington put in, glancing between them. “Profession, camboy. Posted photos and videos of himself, pinup style mostly, artsy, sometimes naked. Neighbors don’t think it was stressing him out any, though, he just talked about being single a lot.”

Wheeler raised her eyebrows. “Because of the head trauma, they’re keeping him in a medically induced coma, so we can’t ask him what happened at least until tomorrow. But look,” she said, leaning between them to flick between photos on her tablet. She zoomed in on the victim’s crotch, and Billy automatically shot an alarmed glance at the nearest human, who happened to be Harrington, his brown eyes frowning back.

“Was there evidence of sexual assault?” he asked, and Wheeler shook her head, waving him closer.

“No, no, look,” she said, zooming it in further. “It’s hard to see, but look, the harness. The color, there, against his white vinyl? It’s a leather harness, dyed rainbow tie-dye. The straps are cut—and it’s empty.”

Billy stared at her. “...you’re saying the victim is trans,” he said slowly, making sure he had it right, “—and the attempted murderer stole his dick.”

“What the hell,” Harrington breathed.

She raised her eyebrows, waving her arms in a dramatic shrug. “I have no idea! But go look, there’s another one in the bedroom—” she pointed, and then bent back to sweeping something into a tiny ziploc bag.

In the bedroom, Harrington pointed at the waist-to-hip sculpture of a man, used to demo, apparently, turquoise leather straps similar to the rainbow straps they could make out in the photos. This one had a securely-fitted glass dildo in it with a whole blown-glass coral reef inside. Harrington bent close to stare at the cock made of tiny jellyfish and anemones, while Billy took in the display on the dresser—a whole array of fancy condoms and butt plugs, with decorated stands, and nameplates.

“He must have used this stuff in videos,” Harrington said. “Like, you know, unboxing.”

“I think he probably filmed less taking them out and more more putting them in things,” Billy muttered, as Harrington snickered, and then waved at the small, rhinestoned pastry stand labeled ‘God <3 Fags’. It was empty.

He looked over to see whether Harrington had noticed the empty stand, but he was fiddling with his phone. “...doesn’t look like he had any nasty public messages, or anything,” he said, frowning. “I’ll look through his account when we get back—”

“I’m gonna see where he gets all these dildos,” Billy said, frowning at one with what looked like birthday candles, and ‘Ishaq 23rd’ floating inside. He pulled a drawer open, and found a few boxed vibrators, and a lot of lingerie. “Some of this stuff has to be custom. Maybe they’ll know which one got stolen.”

“Oh,” Harrington said, brightening. “Good idea!”

“You can call around,” Billy told him, and Harrington shot him a sideways glance that made Billy wonder if he was gonna be a shithead about his dad being the commissioner, but he just nodded. He dropped into a chair at a desk out on the floor like any other cop when they got back to the precinct, searching up both Ishaq Hill’s social media, and local sex shops.

Billy went to find coffee and gossip, avoiding the old guard—his father’s friends.

“Steve’s all right,” said Holland, another CSI he thought he could trust, since she was friends with Wheeler. She considered, crossing her arms. “Everybody figures he’ll be bad at the job, so he gets all the desk work, and he’s kind of obnoxious, but he’ll get down and dust vac a bloody trunk, if you need him to.”

Hagen in Vice sneered, and yelled for everyone to come say hey to Neil Hargrove’s son, back from rehab, and Billy turned on his heel and stalked back to his own department, his heart racing.

He returned to hand Harrington a vending machine coffee, and Harrington looked grateful, toasting him in the air as he talked on the phone. “No, ma’am, I’m not trying to make any trouble. No, it’s nothing like—” he groaned, leaning his head against the handset, then sipped his coffee, and hit redial. “Hey, I’m looking to buy custom, handmade dildos. I’ve got a—” he grimaced at the wall, screwed up his face in thought, and then shrugged, glancing at Billy, and grimacing as he sighed. “I’ve got a highschool ring I wanna put in a dildo. Uh, go 2011!” He listened. “Oh, you do? Oh, thanks so much,” he said, writing down a phone number, and mumbling more thank yous.

“What’d you get?” Billy asked.

“Just another store to try,” Steve muttered. He kicked the desk, and rolled a couple feet closer to hand the post-it note to Billy. “They don’t want to talk to me until I want a weird sex toy,” he said, flushing a little, but laughing. “I’ve looked for one with plastic dinosaurs in it, a butt plug with my old glass eye—”

Billy snorted his coffee, coughing as Harrington scrambled up to pat his back.

“I think one time I maybe said moose antlers,” he muttered, counting off on his fingers. “That one must think I’m pretty weird.”

“Not the eyeball one though,” Billy choked out, trying not to die. “The fake eye ass plug store thinks that’s normal as shit.”

“I just mean,” Steve said, blushing, and waving his arms in a vaguely antler-like shape from his head, “—moose antlers wouldn’t probably fit in my ass, you know?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Billy gasped, wiping his eyes, leaned in to where Harrington had brought up Hill’s social media, and scrolled.

“What’s all this shit about the Westboro Baptist Church?” he asked.

Steve was mumbling and scribbling, and then he hung up. “Oh,” he nodded. “They’ve been spamming ‘God Hates Fags’ on all his sites. He’s been doing a big photoshoot with teasers, kind of...at them? He kept tagging them. It’s gone viral.” He held out his phone, and Billy was treated to a lock screen of their assault victim on his knees, arms out like he was singing, his glittery dick spurting a cartoon rainbow.

“...sorry, that’s not very professional,” Harrington said, grimacing, and yanking it back. “I’ll change it.”

“Did you see this at the crime scene?” Billy asked him, yanking his phone out and showing Harrington the spray-painted ‘GOD HATES F—’ he’d found on the wall.

“Holy shit,” Harrington said. “Eugh, imagine them knowing where you live. Shit, I didn’t even notice that.” He sighed, and Billy kicked his chair, lightly.

“Kinda busy walls in that place,” he pointed out, and Steve shot him a smirk.

“Hargrove!” a familiar voice yelled, and Detective Holloway ran up and gave Billy a hug. “You look so good!” she told him, and then nodded at Harrington, and smiled back at Billy. “We found the guy the date was with on Grindr. They’re bringing him in.”

It was nice to have somebody happy to see him, even if her face made him kinda uncomfortable, knowing she’d been the one to catch him drinking in the supply room after all the—after.

“Make him wait,” Billy said, considering. “I wanna go through the conversations on Grindr. He can work up some nerves first.”

“He’s ex-military,” she said, grimacing. “His CV says his last job was as a ‘fully armed and trained combat specialist’ who did security for diamond mines in war-torn areas. I don’t think you’re gonna make him nervous.”

“Eugh,” Harrington said, making a face. “I can see why that date didn’t go well. He probably dresses like a supervillain.”

Holloway’s look at him was a little withering, and he shut up, turning back to sit at his computer. “Lemme know if you need anything,” she told Billy, frowning into his face, and he pushed her shoulder away, quirking his mouth.

“...I’m okay,” he told her, and she didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t hug him again, at least.

“How are you doing?” Harrington asked, after she’d left, and after swallowing half the cup of coffee in one chipmunk-cheeked slurp. He wiped his mouth, blinking wide brown eyes up at Billy, and Billy groaned.

“Look, about what the captain—”

“I know the story,” Harrington said, tossing back the rest of the coffee like a bathtub drain. Billy reminded himself to make Harrington pee before they got in a car together, like a little kid on a road trip. “My dad’s the commissioner, I know the whole...thing,” he said, grimacing. “You shoulda got a commendation.”

“...he was a dirty cop,” Billy grunted, hunching his shoulders. “It’s our job to make sure—”

“Yeah, it is,” Steve agreed, nodding at his screen, and Billy relaxed a little, out from under the weight of sympathetic eyes. “It’s our job, but not everybody does it. And you knew what it was gonna be like.”

“I did,” Billy said, grimacing. “I thought I did.”

“Hey, they let me into Major Crimes for this,” Harrington laughed, unhappily. “Even if my police work isn’t up to scratch, they won’t try anything on you if I’m standing there.”

Billy watched him, and felt a kind of brotherhood, suddenly, looking at Harrington’s tight smile, and tense shoulders. “...police work’s been okay so far,” he said, and Harrington shot him a startled grin. “I’m gonna go...call the hospital,” Billy told him, suddenly needing to be somewhere else. “Maybe swing by and take a look at our victim.”

“Oh,” Harrington said, nodding.

Billy had a few more pictures of the harness sent over—Wheeler was right about what it was, at least—and then they brought the ex-military Grindr date in. He didn’t look that intimidating, actually—his huge biceps were flexed as he held kleenex over his nose, sneezing so hard every few feet he staggered, and he was wearing a t-shirt with a badly-designed logo for a Queer Youth Charity Marathon.

“Hey,” Harrington whispered, touching his shoulder just before they went inside. “Uh, there’s a lot of hate on there from the Westboro Baptist Church. Like, they were getting specific, said someone doxxed him.”

In the interrogation room, their person of interest sneezed so hard snot dangled from both his nostrils, like a drooly dog. Steve snorted a laugh, and walked off to lean against another detective’s desk—Carol’s, Billy thought.

“Can I bribe you for some of that kleenex?” he asked, leaning in like he was flirting on a movie poster, and Carol laughed out loud, and hit him with it.

“Take it and git,” she said, and Steve ran back, grinning.

“Here we go,” he said, handing one to Billy. “One for you, the rest of the box for him.”

“I didn’t even stay for the whole date,” said Braxton Haglund, 34 years old, dark haired and caucasian, with a tattoo Billy could see peeking from under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Haglund blew his nose, again, and the kleenex was so wet it made a noise as he dropped it against the table. “He’d left the windows all open. I walked up so many stairs—” he sneezed, miserably, several times, wadding handfuls of kleenex under his nose, and wiping his eyes.

“God,” he mumbled. “If I didn’t have hayfever, I’d probably still have been there when...whatever happened,” he said, between sneezes. His wide shoulders were hunched despairingly, and even Harrington had a sympathetic grimace. “Dunno if I’d have been much use, though.”

“Did you see anyone as you left?” Billy asked, and Haglund thought, taking deep breaths between blowing his nose.

“...nobody that stood out,” he said. “Some neighbors, maybe. Think I walked into somebody, once, my eyes were watering.”

He hadn’t seen anybody going in, either, so after they let him leave, Billy spent a while scrolling through all the victim’s media accounts. Harrington stayed doggedly on tracking down the dildo maker—Billy nearly felt sorry for him, except it was giving Billy such a good read on what to expect—and he was coming up with a continuous stream of weird sex toys to be in search of. “I’m an author,” he told one. “I want a dildo containing the pen I wrote my first book with.” He jotted down another number, called it, sighed, and tried again. “Uh, I want a dildo full of baby teeth—” he started, and then stopped, frowning at the phone. “They hung up,” he said, sounding betrayed.

“Wouldn’t you?!” Billy asked, smiling despite having to see comment after comment by the Westboro Baptist Church. He found further reasons to hate them, but nothing specifically actionable, so he finally stretched and grabbed his jacket. “I’m done for the day,” he called over the other empty desks.

“Go ahead,” Harrington said, frowning at the screen. “I won’t stay much longer. How the hell hard can this be, really?”

He was there before Billy the next morning, his jaw set, with dark shadows under his eyes. Billy detoured to the coffee machine first, and plonked it down in front of him, and Harington rewarded him with widening eyes, and then a bewildered stare.

“...thanks,” he said softly, then smirked up through a yawn. “Heard back from the arson investigators, and guess what? The fire looks accidental.” He bounced a little in his chair, and Billy wondered whether he was really into murder mysteries, or whether he was just trying to stay awake. “There was a pan on the stove, some kind of chocolate fondue, they think. Just caught fire, and with Ishaq unconscious, nobody turned off the stove.”

“...lucky bastard,” Billy said, grimacing, and Harrington raised his eyebrows.

“You think? Oh, also, guess what—I found her. Our dildo artist. She’s not all that local, but she did send me a few pictures of the dildos she’s made for our guy.”

“Had to track her down eventually,” Billy said, sipping his coffee, and then caught the way Harrington just bit his lips, his jaw tensing.

“Good job,” Billy told him, feeling a little...stupid, like he was praising a dog, but Harrington brightened, smirking up at him again.

Billy studied the printouts, as Harrington spun around on his chair, guzzling down coffee, and explaining his triumph. “She says that photoshoot that had the Westboro Baptist Church up in arms? Upcoming? Get this,” he said, getting up to lean over Billy’s shoulder. “—they’re pissed because our boy was staying at a hotel once with the new leader, Steven Drain. He pretended to be maid service, snuck in, and took the guy’s wedding ring, and made it into a dildo. He describes it as ‘surrounded by rainbow unicorn confetti and delicious queer flesh’. Our victim stole his wedding ring,” Harrington cackled, beaming. “I’m subscribing to his...everything.”

“Lemme see if any of these comments can be traced to Steven Drain,” Billy said, heading off to ask someone to do computer magic. Steve hopped up and came with him, which was kinda weird, but it was nice to walk down a hall without people shoulder-slamming him like he wasn’t there.

“Hate that he has my name,” Steve muttered, as they walked back. “Drain’s got restraining orders for beating up and threatening two young teenagers his daughter talked to, it’s on the public record. We could see what kinda injuries they had,” Harrington said. “...imagine taking down the whole Westboro church.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Billy laughed, dropping into his own chair as Harrington got more coffee, then called around and discovered the assailants had both been right-handed.

“Get this,” he said excitedly, “—Steven Drain is in town. Gay soldier’s wedding, they’re planning to picket it and scream at his widower, you know, their whole thing, but he flew in the night before the assault.”

“We should talk to him,” Billy said, most of his brain on the photos of dildos and butt plugs.

“Can’t we just drop a piano on him?” Steve muttered, and Billy snorted, flicking back through, and trying to figure out what was bugging him about the dildos. There were lots of them, more than Billy’d seen in the victim’s room, and Billy stopped, squinting at his phone screen at one that looked like it was full of tiny antique coins. “...wait,” he muttered. “Where did you say she lived? Dildo lady?”

“Upstate,” Harrington told him, blinking up at him, as he held his pen on the list of neighbors he’d called to ask whether they’d seen anyone that looked like Steven Drain.

“I need to talk to Dildo Lady,” Billy announced, and Harrington blinked at him, then glanced at his screen and back to Billy, waiting. “...we should go talk to her,” Billy amended, and Harrington grinned, grabbing his jacket.

“Should we talk to Drain first?” he asked, “—since he’s local?”

“Let’s wait and see the CSI reports,” Billy told him. “We’ll be on a lot firmer ground if he clipped his nails after he clocked Ishaq Hill upside the head.”

“Hard to believe somebody that loud went down quietly,” Harrington said, nodding. “There’ll probably be hair or something. Even if he doesn’t wake up and tell us. I called this morning—he’s out of danger, it sounds like,” he said, grimacing, and Billy nodded.

“Nice if we can tell him it’s all handled, though,” he said, and Harrington laughed.

“That’s a definite yep.”

Billy led the way to the level where his car was parked, and then stopped.

His car had dead rats on it. He walked closer, and there was a scratch where somebody’d jimmied his window, and tossed more rats inside, and suddenly he longed for a drink.

“Shit,” Harrington said, putting an arm around his shoulders to steer him away, and whipping out his phone. “Yeah, hey—”

“Stop,” Billy hissed, grabbing for it. “You’ll just make it worse, don’t tell your fucking dad—”

“Wheeler,” Harrington said. “Mmm, yeah, you know you said you had some CSI training to do? I’ve got a, uh, little crime scene in the parking garage. Could you get your most annoying rookie to come down and—yeah. Yeah, blue Camaro, license plate PCE 235.” He listened for a long second, and then thanked her again, tucking his phone away.

“...shit,” Billy sighed, as Harrington manhandled him to a different car.

To his relief, Harrington didn’t say anything sympathetic. After a few minutes, driving at a snail’s pace through downtown traffic, he took a breath, and Billy’s hands twitched. “Huh,” Harrington said, glancing down, and then biting his lips in a cartoonishly intent face.

“...jesus, just say whatever it is,” Billy told him, snorting a laugh, and sipping his coffee.

“Sorry your dad is a bastard asshole shithead,” Harrington said, wincing, and Billy choked again, coughing and spluttering coffee down his shirt, but he hadn’t been able to laugh about it before, ever, and it felt good, even if he tried to breathe coffee, and couldn’t stop coughing.

When he could finally draw breath, he sighed contentedly, leaning his head against the window. “...he is, isn’t he,” he said.

“He is, and so are most of the officers he came up from the academy with,” Steve said, clenching his hands on the steering wheel. “My dad too. He didn’t—ugh.”

“What?” Billy asked, curious, suddenly, about Steve Harrington, instead of just the commissioner’s son.

“He didn’t want me to transfer,” Harrington muttered. “He said Major Crimes doesn’t need the dead weight. Hopper had to kinda go out on a limb. I fuck up and I’m kicked all the way down to traffic, I think.”

The thought that the commissioner had stepped in to help Billy, Detective Neil Hargrove’s son, had gotten Billy through some long nights in rehab. He drew a long breath, realizing he was even more alone than he’d thought. “...shit,” he said softly. His eyes stung.

“It’s fine,” Harrington said. “Hopper’s got your back. There are enough of us. I’ll lean on Hagen some, I think I can talk him around. It’s good you turned your dad in. You did a good thing, and everybody shit on you for it,” he growled, glancing over. “I’ve got your back. Jesus, man, don’t cry.”

“It’s the pollen,” Billy said thickly.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I have hayfever,” Billy hissed at him, rubbing his face.

The Dildo Lady looked about sixty, Pakistani probably, and wore a hijab. Her name was Faiza Khalol, and she was delighted to tell them about her work.

“Do you have any better pictures of these?” Billy asked her, showing her the one with the coins in it. “Or could you describe them?”

She could, as it turned out—and even better, when she’d asked about them, Hill had given her one, and she handed Billy a tiny silver coin which, after some googling, he thought might be an Athenian drachma.

“Oh,” she whispered, her brows drawing together. “Um, is it valuable?”

“I have no idea,” Billy told her, but flicked to another picture. “But these are, I think.” The clear butt-plug was full of greyish crystals, with a huge one where it would show.

“I didn’t see these in his dresser,” Harrington said, leaning in warmly against him, and Billy annoyed himself by shivering.

“No. These are uncut diamonds, I think.” Faiza and Harrington gasped satisfyingly, and Billy grinned. “Ishaq Hill stole more than a wedding ring, I think. We’ve had the wrong motive.”

“Braxton Haglund guarded diamond mines,” Harrington breathed. “He’d probably recognize them. Did Ishaq post pictures with these?”

“He always put up pictures of my latest work,” Faiza said, covering her mouth in horror. “Do you think…”

“I think we better talk to Braxton Haglund again,” Billy said, reveling in Harrington’s impressed grin.

“You’ve got duthing on be,” Haglund gasped, blowing his nose miserably. “You gan’t brove I saw ‘s pictures. You gan’t brove anything.”

Billy tried to parse that for a long second, and then, for Harrington, who looked bewildered, said, “Oh, that’s not all we have. Have you wondered,” he said, turning to his partner, who grinned back, “—how anyone could come in to Ishaq Hill’s apartment, clonk him from behind with a dick sculpture, then search his apartment, and not notice he’d left chocolate heating on the stove? Chocolate burns fast,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Haglund. “How did you not notice the smell?”

“His hayfever,” Harrington breathed, his eyes widening at Billy as his cheeks flushed, and Haglund slammed his fist on the table, opened his mouth to yell, and then stopped to blow his nose, and sneeze.

“Also while you were waiting,” Billy told Haglind with satisfaction, “—we searched your apartment. The warrant judge was convinced by our diamond-and-hayfever argument, and guess what we found?”

Haglund’s eyes widened in horror, and his back thudded against his chair as Billy shot Harrington a grin, and Harrington smirked back. “Good job framing a hate group for the crime,” Billy said, his grin widening, “—but why were Ishaq Hill’s dildos on the table in your front room?”

The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done

#Harringrove April #harringrove #Ridiculous #Billy and Steve like each other more than they thought #=D

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