#just got home from my dad's birthday dinner and i love him tons. here's to a good night's rest. sleep tight | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

prettyboyjackhughes · 3 years

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-Little Crosby- |D. Cozens| [Part 1]

It’s finally here! @workhorsefromwhitehorse24 and I have been working on this for a while now and I can honestly say that this is probably my favorite thing we’ve collaborated on! This was a little outside my comfort zone but I enjoyed writing it so much! Hope you enjoy! Let us know what you think!!

“Ava Grace I’m home!” Dad calls from downstairs. I sit up and grab my sweatshirt off of the floor.

“Coming!” I say as I pull it over my head and run out into the hall. I attempt to make it down the stairs without dying but almost fail as I get to the bottom step. “Whoops! Sorry!” I yell as I knock one of the pictures off the wall. He stands in the kitchen doorway and watches me, amused, as I fix the picture then turn to face him, a grin on my face. He had been gone for 2 weeks on a 5 game road trip, resulting in the Penguins going 4-1. Dad scored a pair of goals in the first two games. But sadly, it wasn’t enough of a push to get them to the playoffs.

“Hi Daddy!” I say, running to hug him. He lifts me off the ground and kisses the top of my head. Dad and I have always been super close. It’s been just him and I for years. Ever since I was born, it’s just been Dad and I. Grandma and Grandpa were always in the picture too, along with Aunt Taylor. The 4 of them have been my entire world and my family for the past 17 years. My mom has never been in the picture since she and Dad had me when they were super young, before Dad was in the NHL. Dad had moved from Nova Scotia by himself when he was 15, down to Faribault, Minnesota. Mom and Dad met within his first week of school. Dad tells me I look just like her but from what I can tell, the older I get, the more I look like Dad. But basically one thing turned to another, Dad had his first taste of freedom, being away from his parents and all, and 9 months later, I was born. As soon as Grandma and Grandpa found out, they moved Taylor and everything else down to be with my dad and help out with me. But one Saturday, Mom dropped me off with Dad and told him she had decided she wanted more than raising a baby and my dad so she left me with Dad and left. I’ve never heard from her, except for one birthday card when I turned 6. Grandma and Grandpa raised me alongside Taylor until Dad’s first season in the NHL. That’s when he moved me to Pittsburgh with him. I mean, before he was in the NHL, he made sure that he was a part of my life and made sure I knew that I was his little girl. But it hasn’t really been that big of a deal that Mom hasn’t been in the picture since I’ve had Dad, Grandma and Grandpa, and Aunt Taylor, plus all of Dad’s teammates through the years. It’s been a ride, having a dad like I do. I mean, he’s pretty much the face of the NHL and one of the greatest players to ever play hockey, being Sidney Crosby and all. Everywhere we go, he gets recognized so it was always hard for him to come to my things as I was growing up. But he always made sure that someone was there for me, whether it was one of my grandparents or Aunt Taylor. But even through all of that, my dad is my best friend. I’ve never needed anyone else.

“I missed you so much!” He says, setting me down and looking at me. I smile and nod.

“I missed you too! Nice set of goals by the way. Sorry about the playoffs...” I say, smiling as he walks into the kitchen. He shrugs as I follow him into the kitchen and sit down at the table, watching him wander around the kitchen, making one of his shakes he always drinks.

“It was a long two weeks for sure, but I’m glad I have you to come home too.” I nod and smile.

“Oh Sweetheart, before I forget, we’re going up to Toronto next weekend for the Leafs’ first playoff game, for your birthday. We’ll spend two weeks up in Toronto.” The Penguins missed out on the playoffs, ending their season early. But my Leafs made it to the first round of the playoffs. He smiles as my face lights up. The Toronto Maple Leafs are my favorite team. As disappointed as Dad was in me when he found out, he still supports it, just happy that I like hockey. My favorite player is Mitch Marner, which is a player Dad approves of. He raised me on the ice, around his team and made sure I loved hockey as much as he does. I played for 6 years but I decided I liked watching hockey better than playing.

“Really? We are?” I say, giddy.

“Yep, I think Tanger and Geno are going to come with us. I invited Taylor too, figured we could make a whole vacation of the trip. We can go out to dinner, shopping, all the fun, girly stuff you love. Oh and there’s a surprise flying out to see you too.” Kris Letang and Evgeni Malkin are Dad’s alternate captains and my honorary uncles. Up until about 4 years ago, I had 3 honorary uncles. Marc-André Fleury, the Penguins' goalie and now the Vegas Golden Knights’ goalie was the third. He and Dad are still close which means he still claims the third honorary uncle spot. When he got married in 2012, I was the flower girl. I’ve actually been in all 3 of my “uncle’s” weddings. They’ve been a huge part of my life since I was little, even when Dad was trying to keep me out of the spotlight. I smile, pushing my hair out of my face. I think the thing that everyone always finds so interesting about Dad and I, is that he did such a good job keeping me out of the spotlight up until I was old enough to understand what was going on. But as soon as I started going to events with him, everyone knew I was his daughter. I mean, I look and act like a female version of Dad so it makes perfect sense that I’m his daughter.

“Ava girl, do you want to see if one of your friends wants to come with us? Might be a little boring to spend your birthday weekend with a bunch of old people.” Dad says, finally sitting down with his gross shake. I nod and laugh, thinking of who I could invite. I go to Shady Side Academy in downtown Pittsburgh, which is a big, fancy private school. There’s a little over 1,100 kids that go to my school, but only about 70 of them are in my grade.

“Oh, I’ll invite Carter. Let me text her and see if she can go.” Carter James has been my best friend since 2nd grade. She’s my total opposite and somehow, it works.

“Okay Honey. I’m going to go lay down for a little bit. Our flight left pretty early this morning so I’m pretty tired. Go ahead and order something for dinner. Anything but pizza please.” I pout a little, my bottom lip jutting out. He smiles and drops a kiss on the top of my head as he walks out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I walk out to the living room and flop on the couch, getting on my phone to watch Tik Tok for a while. Suddenly, the door to the house flies open and my Aunt Taylor waltzes in.

“Hello my absolute favorite niece in the entire world!” She calls, dumping her purse and everything in her hands onto the bench by the door. Grandma decorated the entire house. Dad was going to hire a decorator but Grandma insisted and somehow, Dad ended up liking what she did with the place.

“I’m your only niece so I hope I’m your favorite. But hey Aunt Tay. What’s up?” I asked, sitting up.

“Nothing much. Just came home to drive my big brother crazy and talk about your birthday trip with you. How excited are you? Hey wait, isn’t it your 18th birthday?” I smile and nod again. Aunt Tay is a little scatterbrained and once forgot how old I was turning and bought me a 13th birthday card. I was turning 11. But of course, she always means well and loves me a ton.

“Carter is coming with us. Do you know what the surprise is? Dad just told me there is one but didn’t say anything else.” Taylor grins as she nods.

“I’m not telling you but just know this, you’re gonna be really really excited.” She says, sitting down on the couch by my feet.

“So how’s things at school? Still thinking about going to UPenn?” She asks, tapping her thumb against my knee. I sigh.

“Ugh I don’t know anymore. I fell in love with UPenn when I visited there with Grandma last fall but I don’t know if I want to be that far away from everyone. I mean, it’s only 4 hours but going from how things are now to that? That’s a lot to process.” She nods, watching me.

“Well Honey, you know your dad would make sure you had a car on campus and everything. So you can always come back home and visit. But I mean, it’s been you and your dad since you were a baby. Maybe it’s time to go out on your own a little?” I cringe a little at the thought.

“I don’t wanna leave!” I say, falling into Taylor’s lap and drawing out the end of the word. She laughs and smooths my hair down.

“We’ll figure something out. You’ve still got time, Ava Grace.” She says and somehow, those words make all the anxiety I have about college and everything else coming up in my future fade to a dull roar instead of the screams it has been for the past couple weeks. I’ve always been able to talk to Dad about anything which is why he and I have such a good relationship now. But the one thing I haven’t been able to talk to him about is college. Dad went straight from high school into the NHL. He always claims to understand but I’m pretty sure it just confuses him sometimes.

“Okay you two, it’s very hard to sleep when all I can hear is laughing and carrying on.” Dad says, coming back downstairs.

“Yeah yeah, keep it down, Patrick.” Taylor says, looking up at Dad. Dad hates being called by his middle name which is why Taylor calls him that. He rolls his eyes and bats her hand away as she reaches up to poke him. When the two of them are together, Grandma always says they act like they did when they were little.

“Have you girls figured out everything for us leaving on Thursday? Ava, is Carter going with us?” I grab my phone off the arm of the couch and turn it on, quickly reading the notifications on the screen.

“Yeah she’s going. And she’s gonna be here in 3, 2, 1!” I count down as the door bursts open again. Carter and my Aunt Taylor are two peas in a pod. They’re practically the same person which is why I love them both so much.

“Hello Crosby family!” She shouts, sliding across the floor and landing on top of me.

“Oh this is going to be a long two weeks.” Dad says, laughing and rubbing his forehead.

“So we’re going to Toronto for your 18th birthday? And to see the love of your life? Hell yeah this is going to be a great trip.” Carter says, looking up at me.

“Okay, Carter James, slow down please.” I say, patting her head.

“Wait, isn’t the legal drinking age in Canada, 18?” Carter asks, sitting up and looking at Dad.

“Oh my God Sidney Patrick. You’re taking your daughter to Canada to drink for her 18th birthday?” Taylor says, looking over at Dad with a smirk on her face.

“Taylor Jane, you’d better cut it out or you’re not going anymore.” He says, shaking his finger at her. Carter and I laugh and Taylor rolls her eyes.

“She’s responsible enough to handle this. You two are the ones I have to worry about.” Dad says, pointing at Carter and Aunt Taylor.

“Tanger and Geno are going too? Oh this is going to be a blast!” Taylor says, rubbing her hands together and grinning evilly. Dad’s head drops into his hands and the 3 of us burst out laughing. Carter and I spend the rest of the evening planning our trip out while Dad and Aunt Taylor watch the St. Cloud game. The week leading up to our trip to Toronto flies by, but my excitement for the game only builds. It’s not the first time I’ve been to a Leafs game, nor is it the first time I’ve gotten to watch my favorite player play. But it’s happening on my 18th birthday and that makes it even more exciting.

Thursday morning, two days before my birthday, Carter wakes me up by bouncing on my bed.

“We’re leaving today!” She sings, bouncing more. I roll over and groan.

“Carter James, it’s too early!” I say, shoving her. She laughs at me and I sit up.

“Come on, we’re going to dinner with the love of your life tonight!” She says. I jump out of bed and look at her, eyes wide. I’m 100% a Mitch Marner fan girl. Carter thinks it’s hilarious but she’s the exact same way for Patrick Kane. We ran into him at the Stanley Cup Finals one year and she was speechless.

“What are you talking about? Dinner with who?” I ask. Dad walks in and is now standing in my doorway.

“I called in a few favors and we’re going to dinner with Mitch Marner and Morgan Rielly tonight. How does that sound?” He says, as my mouth drops open.

“Oh my God thank you thank you Daddy!” I say, running over to hug him. He smiles and Carter laughs.

“She’s gonna faint as soon as she sees him. Total freak out.” Carter says, crossing her arms and laughing.

“I am not! I’ll be perfectly fine. It’s just another hockey player. Not like I’m in love with him or anything.” I say, pointing at her. She rolls her eyes and we both laugh.

“Where my favorite birthday girl?” I hear a deep voice call from downstairs.

“Geno, it’s too early for you to be this loud. Shut up.” I hear Taylor say.

“I take it G and Tanger just got here?” Dad calls and Taylor groans in response.

“Alright girls get ready and we’ll leave in a little over an hour. Go down and say hi to everyone first though.” I nod and follow Dad downstairs, Carter tagging along behind me.

“Hi Uncle Geno, Uncle Kris!” I say, running to hug both of them as they stand up from where they were sitting on the couch. Taylor is taking up the other end of the couch, facedown in a pillow. “Are you excited for your birthday trip?” Kris asks, patting my back as he hugs me.

“I’m so excited. Do you know what my surprise is? Dad still won’t tell me.” Geno laughs, still too loud for Taylor apparently because a pillow goes flying across the room and just misses his head.

“Tay, go drink some coffee please, you’re being a brat right now.” Dad says, patting her head.

“I know surprise. You like a lot.” Geno says, crossing his arms and looking down at me. I raise an eyebrow. I’ve been the victim of one of Dad’s surprises before and let’s just say he doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to surprises.

“Is it bad that I’ve been your best friend for 12 years and I still can’t understand what he’s saying?” Carter asks, leaning over to me. I laugh and Geno looks between the two of us.

“Who you? You Ava’s best friend?” Carter rolls her eyes and nudges Geno, who laughs again and hugs her. “Alright, Little Crosby, let’s get this show on the road.” Kris says, pointing towards the stairs. I smile and rush upstairs to get dressed and grab my bags. I pick out a pair of black leggings and a peach colored Adidas sweatshirt. I change into the clothes and put my pajamas in the dirty clothes. I put on mascara quickly, finishing everything off with some lip gloss. I grab my Birkenstocks and slip them on.

“Okay, I’m ready!” I call as I drag my bag down the stairs behind me. I again attempt not to die on my way down the stairs. But yet again, I fail.

“Oh God, Little Crosby.” Kris says, somehow managing to catch me as I trip down the last 3 steps.

“Your daughter is a human wrecking ball. You know that, right Sid?” Dad laughs and nods.

“I haven’t killed myself yet. So far, we’re safe.” Everyone laughs and I smile. All these people filling this house are my entire family. They’ve raised me and I wouldn’t be who I am without all of them.

“Okay, let’s get going! Our flight leaves in 45 minutes!” Dad calls, attempting to herd us all towards the door. Taylor has finally had her coffee and returned to the world of the living.

“Toronto here we come!” She calls as we all get out the door and into the two cars we’re taking. Dad locks the door behind us and turns to look at me.

“You excited, Ava Grace?” I nod and he hugs me to his side.“I hope this lives up to your idea of the perfect 18th birthday.” I laugh and nod again as we head to his car.

The drive to the airport and the flight to Toronto are pretty boring but Kris and Taylor keep everyone entertained the whole trip. Carter finally crashed after the Red Bulls she had while we were waiting for our flight to get called in the airport, leaving me to my own thoughts pretty much the entire flight. When we land in Toronto, everyone is pretty excited for the next two weeks.

“Little Crosby surprise time!” Geno calls from the back of our group.

“Geno, we’re still in an airport. Keep it down a little please?” Carter says, patting his arm. Dad scoffs and looks between me and Carter.

“He’s right though, your surprise is right through those doors.” Dad says, pointing towards the exit of the airport. I see Taylor pull her phone out of her pocket and start recording me. I hand my bag to Kris and look over at Geno who motions me towards the door. I walk towards the doors, which slide open. I glanced around then back at Dad and Taylor who followed me out.

“Little Crosby!” I hear a very familiar voice yell over the buzz of the airport.

“Oh my God! Uncle Flower!” I shout, rushing towards my uncle Marc and hugging him.

“Surprise!” Dad calls, smiling as I hug Marc.

“So you were my surprise?” I say, stepping back and looking at him.

“Yep, I was the big wonderful surprise. Hope you weren’t too disappointed.” He says, smiling as his arm rests around my shoulders.

“I figured you’d want all of your uncles here for your big 18th birthday. So we worked it out and got him here for you.” I smile, quickly hugging Dad before returning to hug Marc again.

“Alright well, it’s time to get heading to the hotel. We’re going to dinner at 6:30 tonight. Geno, Flower and Kris are taking Tay to something that I know nothing about. And you’re okay with Carter going with us?” I nod as Marc leads us and the rest of our group to the waiting van.

“I’m taking a nap when we get to the hotel. You woke me up too early this morning.” I say, nudging Carter as she slides into the van next to me.

“Sounds like a plan. The Red Bull ran out.” She says, laying her head on my shoulder. The two of us manage to fall asleep on the 20 minute drive to the hotel. Geno shakes us both awake when we get to the hotel. We sleepily wander into the hotel and wait in the lobby while Dad and Tay get everything figured out. The adults herd us all over to the elevator and into it, somehow managing to get us all to the conjoined rooms we have for the next two weeks. As soon as we make it into the rooms, Carter and I collapse onto the bed we’ll be sharing and fall asleep.

About 2 and a half hours later, Dad comes in and wakes us up.

“Girls, we have about an hour before we have to leave for dinner. Go ahead and start getting ready.” He calls as he closes the door behind him. I sit up and stretch, the excitement building in my chest all over again.

“Okay, I think I’m gonna curl my hair and wear that frilly, layered red skirt with the white sweater and my little brown boots. What about you, Carter?” I ask, looking back at her who is still laying in bed.

“So I have to dress nice right? I think the army green pants romper thing with my jean jacket, Vans and straight hair. Sound good?” She asks, finally sitting up. I nod and get started curling my hair. She gets started on doing her makeup while I work on my hair. Somehow, we both end up being done with plenty of time left to spare. So we do what typical teenagers do and spend the extra 15 minutes we have, on our phones. Dad comes in and the two of us follow him down to the elevator and out to the car. It’s some super nice, fancy car; just like the one that lives in our garage except on home game days. Dad lets Carter play music which automatically, I can tell, he regrets as Cotton Eye Joe plays for the third time. Carter is having the time of her life and I can’t help but laugh along with her. When we get to the restaurant, it’s one Dad and I came to, back when we came to Toronto for some charity event a few years ago.

“Alright, how excited are you?” Dad asks, as he parks the car and we climb out. I squeal a little and Carter laughs. Dad smiles, draping his arm around my shoulders as I link arms with Carter. The 3 of us waltz into the restaurant and walk up to the hostess.

“Hello, Mr. Crosby. Your two guests are already seated.” I squeeze Carter’s arm and we squeal a little together. As we follow the hostess to our table, back in the back, we pass a table with two teenage boys. One looks Carter up and down, obviously checking her out, while the other locks eyes with me. I smile, forcing myself to look away as we disappear into the back, private room Dad reserved for us.

“Holy crap, did you see those guys?” Carter whisper-yells into my ear. I nod, trying to focus on the fact that Mitch Marner is standing a few feet away from me, a grin on his face, instead of the guy I just saw.

“Hey Sid. This must be Ava and Carter. Nice to meet you girls.” Mitch says, reaching his hand out. I shake it, the smile on my face impossibly large. Morgan Rielly stands next to him and shakes our hands as well. As we all sit down, I happen to glance around the room and see that both of the boys are looking into the room. As much as I want to pay attention to what Mitch, Mo and Dad are talking about, I can’t. I’m too distracted by the boy I saw. Carter, apparently can’t either.

“Ava, they were literally so hot. Can I please go get their numbers?” She asks, nudging me when she catches me staring again.

“No! Dad will kill me if he catches me talking to a boy!” I whisper-yell, glancing up at Dad and Mitch.

“Ava Grace, that could be your freaking soulmate and you’ll never know because you won’t let me go get their numbers!” I roll my eyes and glance over my shoulder at the boys’ table. Sadly, they’re gone and I sigh, looking over at Carter.

“They’re gone anyway. Not like we’re ever gonna see them again anyways.” I say, glumly, resting my chin on my hand. She shakes her head. “There went your soulmate.” I sigh, knowing she won’t let me live this down. Dad clears his throat, pulling Carter and I back to the conversation happening at the table.

“So Ava, I hear you’re a pretty big fan of mine.” Mitch says, leaning on his elbows against the table. I smile, taking in all of his features.

“Yeah, you’ve been my favorite since you came into the league. Dad’s always a little disappointed when I don’t tell people he’s my favorite player.” Mitch and Mo laugh. The rest of the evening, conversation flows easily and Carter and I both have a blast. As I glance at my Apple watch and see the time, Carter nudges me again.

“Your dad is looking at you funny.” She says, nodding her head towards Dad. I look up, my eyes meeting my dad’s gaze.

“It’s getting late, are you girls ready to head back to the hotel? Your aunt and uncles should be getting back soon too.” Carter and I nod and I turn to look at Mitch.

“I’ll be wearing your jersey on Saturday night. Don’t disappoint me. Also it’s my birthday so a goal or two would be nice.” Mitch and Mo laugh as Dad smiles down at me.

“I will try my hardest. Glad we could spend the evening with you lovely ladies. See you on Saturday after the game? There’ll be passes for your whole group at the ticket desk.” My face lights up and I know Carter’s does too.“Okay great! See you then! Good luck!” I say, standing and hugging Mitch. Mo shakes Dad’s hand and then the two of them head out.

“You two seemed very distracted all during dinner. Was everything okay?” Dad asks as the 3 of us head back out to the car after he pays.“Yeah everything was fine. Dinner was super good and fun. Carter just saw some cute boy and wouldn’t shut up about him.” Dad laughs and rolls his eyes.

“Hey, in my defense, your daughter was looking too so it wasn’t just me.” Carter says, crossing her arms. Dad’s head whips around as we climb in the car.

“A boy? What?” I groan internally and elbow Carter. I’ve never been that into boys. I mean, I’ve thought plenty of boys were cute and had quite a few guy friends but I’ve never had the time or the effort that comes with having a relationship. So it’s never been a topic of conversation for Dad and I.

“Nothing, it was nothing. Don’t worry about it, Dad.” I say, trying to avoid the topic.

“It’s interesting though. I was just talking to your uncle Kris about how you’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that. Which is fine with me because I know what boys are like.” Dad says as we drive back to the hotel. Carter is dying sitting next to me, her hand pressed against her mouth to avoid laughing out loud.

“I-I know...I’ve just never had the time or wanted one.” I say, burying my head in my hands.

“Well you don’t need one. You have all the guys you need in your life. Me, your Uncle Geno, Uncle Kris, Uncle Marc, and Grandpa.” Carter finally bursts out laughing and Dad looks in the rearview mirror at me.

“I’m serious, Ava Grace. Why do you need a boyfriend?” Dad has never really been the overprotective dad. He’s protective for sure but he kind of lets me do my own thing most of the time. He knows if I need to, I’ll come to him or one of the other main adults in my life. But he lets me make my own decisions and figure life out by myself. This whole ‘no boyfriend’ thing that he’s doing right now is new.

“I guess I don’t. You’re right.” I say, putting an end to the conversation by turning and looking out the window. Thankfully, Dad doesn’t push any farther. The 3 of us ride in silence, the radio off, the rest of the way back to the hotel. Once we get into the hotel and up to our rooms, I tell Dad goodnight, give him a hug and a kiss then follow Carter into our room. Carter distracts me from the disaster of a conversation that was with Dad and forces me to watch some cheesy rom-com with her. I fall asleep midway through and sleep in late the next day. Taylor takes Carter and I out shopping all day on Friday while my dad and the uncles do who knows what. The topic of boys is avoided all day, All night at dinner on Friday, we catch up with everyone. I fill Marc in on what Dad’s latest old person moment was, even though he’s only 33. Everything seems so perfect and happy but I keep replaying the conversation with Dad over and over again in my head.

Saturday morning, my birthday morning, Carter wakes me up with cake in bed. It’s a tradition we started when we were 12. Every year on our birthday, the other girl brings the birthday girl cake in bed. It’s one of my favorite birthday traditions.

“Happy birthday Little Crosby! You are adult now!” Geno calls, leading the rest of my family into my room. Dad brings up the end of the line and walks over to the bed. He hugs me, pressing a kiss to my forehead.“Happy birthday my sweet girl.” He says, smoothing my hair down and getting all teary-eyed.

“I can’t believe the young lady you’ve grown into. You are beautiful, strong, independent and so responsible. I...I didn’t think things would end up this way, especially with your mom not being in the picture. But I look around you and I see all these people who helped raise you and I know, you’ve turned out more than okay. I love you Ava Grace and will always love you. Happy birthday.” Dad says. I take another bite of the cake Carter brought me and smile up at him.

“I love you so much, Daddy. Thank you for everything. Thank you everyone for everything you’ve done for me. I love all of you.” They all share a sappy smile and I keep eating my cake. The rest of the day, we hang out at the hotel, lounging around before the game tonight at 7. Marc and Geno see how many pieces of pizza they can eat while Dad keeps score. Taylor paints Carter’s nails and I pick at mine. Kris sneaks out to buy me ice cream and comes back with at least 10 different kinds, all of them my favorite in one way or another.

Carter and I start getting ready around 4:30 so we’re ready to leave by 5. I straighten my hair and do just light makeup. I dig my Mitch Marner jersey out of my bag and put it on with some black leggings. Carter wears the jersey of the only Leaf she likes, Frederik Andersen. She opted for black ripped jeans instead of leggings. Everyone else is just dressed casual. Marc did wear a Leafs hat just to please me. The drive to the arena, Carter gets to play music again. She plays our ‘Hockey Game Hype Up’ playlist, something we made a few years ago. Even though I’m the music person, she’s much better at putting playlists together. I’m only really good at finding one or two songs I love and just playing them over and over again. As the songs ‘Auston Matthews’ by Svdvm and ‘Toronto Maple Leafs Anthem’ by JDME play back to back, we pull into the arena parking lot. No matter how many times I’ve been to Scotiabank Arena, it never ceases to amaze me. I think I’ve been here a grand total of like 15 times in the last 10 years, solidifying it as my favorite arena.

“Come on Ava, let’s go watch your boy play.” Carter says, linking her arm through mine. She leads me and the rest of our group into the arena. Everyone else heads to the box but I decide to stay down in the main area and wander around a bit, making sure I get the full experience again. All around me, Leafs fans are hurrying to one place or another. I take everything, wanting to remember this for the rest of my life. As I’m walking down a small set of stairs, I collide with a pretty solid body. And of course, with my human wrecking ball abilities, I manage to take both of us down, all the way to the ground. “Shit! I’m so sorry, are you okay?” I ask, sitting up and looking at the boy I collided with. He sits up, looks at me, down at the ground, then back up at me. His eyes are huge.

“I-Oh my God. Yeah-Yeah I’m okay! Are you?” He asks, jumping to his feet and reaching his hand out to help me up. I take his hand and he pulls me to my feet. “Yeah I’m all good. Sorry for taking you out. I’m known for being clumsy. Like the jersey by the way.” I say, pointing to where the number 16 is stitched into the arm of his jersey. The same number sprawled across my back.

“Hey, I like yours too. Marner your favorite player?” I nod, pushing my hair back out of my face.

“Yeah, I grew up a Penguins fan because of my dad but the Leafs are my favorite team.” He smiles and nods. He looks so familiar but I can’t place where I know him from. Talking to him comes so naturally and it seems like the world just goes on around us while we stand there and talk. Before I know it, they’re starting the lineup announcements.

“Oh shoot, I gotta get going. Enjoy the game!” I call over my shoulder as I run back towards the box we’re all sitting in. Of course, I trip up the steps and almost fall. As I glance over my shoulder, I see the boy with a smirk on his face. I blush and mentally kick myself for first off accidentally tackling a cute boy then tripping and almost falling in front of him. As I rush back into the box, Dad eyes me with a raised eyebrow. I huff and flop into my seat next to Marc and Carter. Carter glances at me out of the corner of her eye and smirks.

“Why are you all red and bothered about?” I bite my lip and Marc looks over at me.“I accidentally tackled a cute boy…” I say, burying my head in my hands. Carter and Marc laugh and Marc pats my back.

“There there, Little Crosby. I did much worse to your aunt Véronique.” I laugh and lean my head on his shoulder. Geno and Kris are behind us, teasing Taylor as Dad watches what’s going on down on the ice. His hand is resting on my shoulder, absentmindedly squeezing and releasing in a protective way. As I sit there, watching the game, all I can think about is the boy. But as I do, I think about the conversation Dad and I had last night in the car. Did he really mean what he said? Would he really get upset if I did ever decide to have a boyfriend?

#sidney crosby #dylan cozens #nhl #nhl hockey #nhl imagine #Dylan Cozens imagine #hockey imagine #nhl fanfiction #hockey #hockey boys

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hurricanery · 3 years

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hurricane

A/N: shoutout to everyone that sent me song recs I'm feeling hella inspired and I’m gonna keep them in my inbox to come back to for future one shots! <3 credit to the anon that sent me this song...i wrote this so fast in my head and now it’s here! This is pretty amelia-centric but there’s a hint of amelink in here too, so hope u enjoy!

TW: implied drug use

also this is for @wordsxstars bc chloe ur my angst buddy forever !!

_______

I’m the violence in the pouring rain

I’m a hurricane

Come and fade me

I’m a hurricane

_______

It rained the day she was born. Like really rained. It was the kind of torrential downpour that turned the whole sky a threateningly dark mix of indigo and grey.

Her Mother hadn’t planned for it. Hadn’t considered the impact that the weather would play on her child’s entrance into the world.

And she’d felt a lighthearted resentment towards this child, for deciding to push her way out at such an inconvenient time.

Because they’d sat in traffic.

Full of panic.

In the middle of a city-wide weather emergency.

“Leave it to baby number five,” her Mother had breathed through a contraction, hands gripping tightly to the cushions of the passenger seat. “To be born….during….a hurricane.”

“This hasn’t been classified as a hurricane yet, Carolyn-”

The glare she’d given her husband was enough to shut him up as she exhaled through the pressure of her contractions.

And she’d gripped the edges of the seat even tighter.

The same way Amelia does now, 18 years later.

Her fingers grip the edges of the seat, and her fingernails scratch over the fabric lightly, as she stares out the passenger side window.

It’s raining out. Not a downpour or anything. But steadily enough to trigger that feeling. That feeling that’s uncertain and nostalgic at the same time. Two practically opposite notions that crash together like the thunder that’s threatening the sky.

She hears Derek clear his throat, and her gaze snaps to his just in time.

Just in time for her to witness her brother’s eyes dart from her tightly-wound fingers to the road ahead as he drives.

She quickly moves her hands, on instinct. Burying them in her lap instead. There’s an overly-positive inflection to her brother’s tone as he speaks out into the space between them.

“I was nervous, too,” he laughs a bit under his breath, like he’s recalling a specific memory. “When I went away to school.”

“I’m not nervous.”

Disbelief flashes quickly across his face, but then he replaces it with something more soft. Like he’s deciding to give his younger sister the benefit of the doubt. Like he’s actually letting her have this one.

“Well, then….I’m impressed.”

Amelia rolls her eyes. And then she shivers involuntarily.

There’s something about being in an air-conditioned car, protected from the heat of the storm outside. It causes chills to rise through her body, despite it being the end of August. She turns in her seat, reaching towards the back of the car, to where all of her belongings are packed. Pulling out a crocheted blanket, she twists forward in her seat again and covers her bare legs with it.

She stares at the road ahead, finding patterns in the wet pavement, before she tentatively opens the conversation back up.

“Was Mom with you?” She utters the question, and she doesn’t let herself look in Derek’s direction. “Was Mom there to drop you off at college?”

It’s not until after she voices the question, that she realizes. Realizes that’s the thing that’s potentially been bothering her.

Derek sighs. And his hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

“She was.”

Amelia nods.

This answer doesn’t surprise her. And it doesn’t hurt either. It’s mostly just numb acceptance at this point.

She finally turns to him, and she almost doesn’t recognize herself in her next question.

“It’s because I look like him, right?”

It’s the first time she’s comprehended it out loud. The weight of it hits her like a ton of bricks. The fact that it all comes back to that.

“Who?”

Amelia gives him an incredulous stare, her mouth forming in a tight line. It amplifies her refusal to feed into Derek’s decided lack of wit.

Because he knows what she’s asking.

And Derek knows that Amelia knows that.

Amelia refuses to blink. She lets her eyes become unfocused as she stubbornly holds her gaze.

Until Derek eventually nods, giving up.

“Amelia….” He sighs. “You look like me.” He turns briefly in her direction, like he’s hoping her stare will have faltered slightly at his explanation so far. But it hasn’t. She’s relentless sometimes.

He exhales a bit shakily before he continues, eyes shifting back to the road.

“You look like me….and you look like Dad, too.”

Amelia finally lets herself blink at that. Relief floods her dry eyes and her mind, too.

She turns back to the window, focusing instead on the world around them. Her eyes land on two particular raindrops against the window. And she smiles slightly as she watches them drop down towards the ledge. Like it’s a race to see which raindrop finishes first. Which raindrop will dip first into the crack of the window pane, where it’ll disappear forever.

It’s a game she played as a child, too.

She loved to watch the raindrops race against the plastic walls of her playhouse. In the quiet corner of her vast backyard.

It had rained on the day of her 6th birthday party. And Amelia had almost been glad for that.

Her Mother had talked it up the entire week.

“Saturday is Amy’s birthday!”

“Saturday is all about Amy!”

But it felt false to Amelia, even as a 6-year-old.

The forced element of the celebration. And the way her Mother had demanded her siblings participate, too.

But the party was cancelled. And Amelia instead found herself in her favorite place to be during a rainstorm. Surrounded by the yellow walls of her plastic playhouse.

Derek had found her that day. A smile playing at his lips as he ducked his wet head of hair into the window of her little hideaway.

“Whatcha thinkin about, Amy?”

“What are you thinking about?”

Amelia quickly shakes from her daze, abandoning the slight pride she’d just felt at her choice of raindrop winning the race against the car window.

She turns to Derek, and she even smiles a bit in his direction.

“I’m thinking about….starting over.”

“Starting over?!” Derek gives her one of his classic smiles. There’s an element of surprise to it, that lands in his eyes. But ultimately it’s laced with excitement, through and through. “Starting over is good.”

Amelia beams at him. It starts off small but she can feel the way it grows on her face. It’s the kind of grin that makes her cheeks dimple.

Derek shakes his head, laughing under his breath as he faces the road again.

“You know….no one wants you to start completely over, Amy.”

She raises her eyebrows at this, her grin transforming into more of a doubtful smirk at her brother’s words.

“Well I, for one, don’t want you to change.”

Amelia exhales a slight chuckle.

“I’ll try not to get rid of the good parts,” she mutters.

Derek is focused on the road in front of them, so all Amelia can really decipher, is his side profile. But she can see it. The hint of glassiness in his grey-blue orbs.

Silence falls between them, and Amelia feels a tightness form within her own throat. She attempts to clear it, tries to alleviate what the moment is turning out to be. But then Derek starts speaking again in a low tone, and the tightness spreads itself further.

“Dad would be so proud of you, you know.”

Amelia smiles tightly.

She only half believes that statement.

Because truthfully, she has no idea how she got here. How she managed to make it this far anyway. That realization hits her hard and fast and suddenly she doesn’t care that her eyes are stinging the same way Derek’s were a moment ago.

“I wish I remembered him better,” she admits, and her voice is notably thin.

Derek turns to her, his eyes filled with something Amelia can’t quite place.

“I feel like….” She continues, ignoring the way her voice wavers. “My idea of him comes from the pictures I’ve seen? If that makes sense? And I don’t have the actual memories anymore….I don’t….I wish I remembered what he was really like, you know? His voice, his mannerisms, everything-”

“I know what you mean.”

They exit the freeway, the car slowing at a stoplight as they enter the college town.

“You’re so like him in so many ways, Amelia.” Derek says it in a whispered tone, as they turn onto the main road. Like the comprehension is overwhelming to even him. “So….just like you said….don’t get rid of the good parts, okay?”

Amelia lets herself smile as she turns away from him, eyes scanning the surroundings of the town that will be her new home. The rain has died down significantly, and Amelia questions whether that’s an accurate observation, or if it’s just that they’re driving at a slower speed now.

“Okay,” she eventually responds.

“Are you okay?”

The question had come from Derek.

“Jesus Christ, you scared me,” Amelia had practically gasped upon slipping through the front door. She thought she’d been inconspicuous.

Derek stared at her expectantly.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, but she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering.

“It’s pouring out. Did you walk?” There’d been criticism in his voice.

“You’d be more upset if I said I drove, right?”

“Amy.”

“Derek.”

They’d been at a standoff. In the middle of the entryway. Both of them seemingly unphased by the mix of mud and water that tracked all over their Mother’s favorite area rug.

Derek sighed. And Amelia stared at the floor. Unable to make eye contact, too aware that her eyes were hinted red and full of haze.

“Why didn’t you call me for a ride?”

“I didn’t know you’d still be here.” Her reply sounded bitter. But maybe it had just been the tightness in her jaw, the pressure from fighting off the wet and the cold.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“You missed Dad’s birthday dinner.” Derek’s tone had been accusatory again.

“Dad missed it, too.”

“Amelia-”

She’d cut Derek off with a bizarrely edged laugh.

Their Dad’s birthday dinner. They’d celebrate every year as a family. They’d sit down and have dinner together. And Amelia ultimately despised it. Mostly because they’d started grouping it together with her own birthday celebration. Her birthday followed a week after their Dad’s. And it just served as another reminder. Another reason for displaced resentment.

Amelia bit down on her laugh, stunned. She’d be turning 16 the following week.

“Amelia.” He said it again, this time more cautionary.

She finally looked at him. And she could see genuine concern in his expression.

“Are you okay?” He asked for a second time.

All Amelia could do was nod.

“Are you on your way out?” She whispered the question.

And then it was Derek’s turn to nod.

“I just wanted to say goodbye before I took back off to school,” he explained. “And I wanted to tell you happy birthday.”

Amelia smirked coldly at him, and finally started moving towards the stairs.

“Bye, Derek.”

2 years later and they’ve yet to improve this part.

It’s a rushed goodbye. Like it usually is for them. They don’t do goodbyes very well. Maybe that had something to do with shared past experiences.

Derek helps her set up her dorm room and when there’s nothing left to do, a knowing shift occurs in the atmosphere.

He pulls his hands out of his pockets, and forces a smile on his face. And when he pulls her into a tight hug, it takes Amelia a moment to reciprocate the gesture.

But Derek just squeezes her tighter until she does.

“You’re going to love it here, Amy,” he mumbles, before pulling away.

And Amelia just nods. Not able to find her words.

Because they’re bad at goodbyes. Which Derek knows. So he lets her off the hook, backs out of the small room with one last glance in her direction.

And Amelia watches him go.

Amelia doesn’t love it here, right away.

She tries to. She really does.

She sits in the shared common areas and convinces herself that maybe she’ll step up and talk to someone today.

It’s strange. She’s an outgoing person. She could be the life of the party when she really wanted to. But, she sits now, textbooks open in front of her, glancing around the library at fellow students. And she feels worlds beyond them. She questions to herself how she can even feel years beyond people her own age.

And that’s the self-inquiry that ruins her plan. She gets way too inside her own head and it hinders any chance she has at trying today.

Instead she gets up, shoving her books into her bag and walking purposefully to the exit.

It’s when she reaches her dorm, that the rain starts. She can smell it first. The distinct way the air changes when it’s about to rain. It feels humid and thick and her skin starts to feel sticky before the cold front lightly passes over her, and it provides relief.

The sky gets dark and it starts to sprinkle, just as she climbs the steps of her building.

As she enters her room, a dark cloud of restlessness storms her mind. Because she doesn’t know what her next move is. What her plan is for the rest of the day.

She looks around the small room, eyes catching on a piece of paper that’s been slipped under her door.

She picks it up, and when she reads the words on the flyer, she wants to laugh to herself. Because it simply lists an address for a party later tonight. And she’s laughing because, is this really how college works?

She decides there’s no way she’s going to the party.

After 2 hours of staring at the ugly off-white paneling of her dorm room ceiling, Amelia sits up in bed.

Because there’s a hint of it. A fleeting thought. A question that flashes through her mind almost too quickly to even divulge in.

But it’s there. The question of ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’

It’s enough to make her get out of bed. Which is confusing, to say the least. Because she hadn’t anticipated spending her evening this way. But now she’s pulling open her dresser drawers, trying to find something to wear. And she’s glancing at herself in the mirror, reaching for her makeup bag at the same time.

The last thing she remembers thinking, when she exits her dorm room is, what’s the worst that could happen?

The worst that could happen, happens almost right away.

It takes place in the form of ‘jungle juice.’

“It’s called jungle juice!”

Amelia stares blankly at the frat boy in front of her. She’s standing way too close to the bouncing speakers and the music is way too loud.

“What?!”

“Jungle juice!” He yells again, “Basically everyone brings a fifth of something and it all gets poured in there! It’s disgusting, but it makes for a dangerous concoction! Want me to grab you a cup?”

Amelia shakes her head. She doesn’t know what she was thinking.

Well, that’s not entirely true. She was thinking that she had to at least try. Give a shot at relating to people her age.

She surveys the boy in front of her. He’s attractive. Jet black hair, green eyes and even a slightly alternative vibe to him. It surprises Amelia, considering she’s in a frat house. He seems unexpected. And maybe her type. She’d probably go for him, if she wasn’t currently so inside her own head about it.

She feels her nails dig lightly into the palms of her hands as she drops her arms to the side, and she immediately catches herself. She exhales, trying to relax.

“I’ll grab something else, probably!” she yells back to the boy patiently standing in front of her.

Patiently, she thinks. Because she’s already a step ahead of him, labeling him, and she knows she’s someone that requires patience in events like these.

She shifts her eyes away from him, instead looking to the tiny window in the corner of the crowded room. It’s raining outside. Drops of condensation race against the glass in a familiar motion.

A feeling swells in her chest that’s hard to ignore. There’s a strong desire to escape her current environment and it practically makes her want to crawl out of her skin.

“I’m not supposed to be here!” She shouts over the music, turning back to the conversation.

“Huh?!”

“It’s raining!” She’s an octave louder this time.

“Yeah! It’s good we’re inside, right?!”

Amelia shakes her head, stepping away. Ignoring the confusion on the boy’s face, she turns on her heels, pushing through the crowd until she can find an exit. When she finally makes it out onto the less crowded porch, she lets out a huge exhale.

She keeps waking. The sun is setting, and the impending storm makes the sky a glorious shade of violet.

The rain pelts her skin as she walks hastily through the campus and although it provides relief, there’s also a sense of something else. It’s almost yearning. Or maybe homesickness. But it doesn’t make sense, because she’s never craved home before.

She thinks she’s crying. She can’t really tell. It’s hard to separate the rain from any potential saltiness that threatens her cheeks. The only thing that gives her away is her labored breathing.

She’s overwhelmed. And for once in her life she wishes Derek were here. He’d know the right thing to say.

Her thoughts are interrupted when a figure passes her on her left. It’s sudden. She doesn’t anticipate it and she doesn’t hear anyone approach, mostly because her thoughts are so loud and there’s thunder starting to rumble through the sky.

“Fuck,” she gasps, hand clutching her chest as the stranger passes her.

He’s running, but he slows his jog after she voices her alarm.

He turns around, taking in Amelia’s startled expression.

“Oh, sorry!” His own surprised guise shifts quickly to one of concern, though.

“Are you okay?” He asks, voice raised to compensate for the rain as he calls out to her.

Amelia nods.

“You just scared me, is all,” she shrugs.

He looks her up and down, but Amelia doesn’t even feel scrutinized by it.

He steps towards her. And Amelia finds her voice.

“Out for a run?” She’s surprised by her own curiosity.

He shakes his head as he approaches. “I was walking back from the library,” he points to the sky, in an obvious gesture. “And then it started raining….and I started running….”

Amelia feels a smile break across her face, the dimpled kind. Because there’s something about the way he looks up at the sky while he explains himself, that amuses her.

He turns to her, and he has a wide grin on his face as he catches his breath from running. Not wide in the way that he’s smiling hugely, or anything. But Amelia can tell that his typical smile just happens to stretch that far. It makes her own smile further.

“You heading to north hall?”

Amelia nods.

“I live there, too!” He exclaims. “Food sucks but we have the biggest closets out of all the dorms on the entire campus.”

Amelia raises her eyebrows at this.

“Am I….bothering you?” His grin quickly fades. “God, I didn’t mean to just start….walking with you. Sorry, shit. You must think I’m some sort of-”

“You can walk with me,” she bites down on another smile. Because it’s the most she’s smiled in weeks and it feels foreign to her. “It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” she peeks sideways at him. “As long as we don’t have to start running,” she adds with a laugh.

His smile returns. And they keep waking. The rain starts to die down a bit, but Amelia questions whether she’s imagined that. She can see the rain. And maybe she can hear it, too. But she can’t really feel it. Her focus has shifted.

“I’m Amelia, by the way.”

“Amelia?” He repeats her name, and there’s a spark of interest in his inflection, like he’s really doing his best to store that information.

She nods.

They reach north hall. The rain has come to a complete halt, and Amelia thinks it would almost feel sunny, if the sun hadn’t already set.

“It’s nice to meet you, Amelia. I’m Link.”

_______

#amelia shepherd #derek shepherd #atticus lincoln #amelink #i feel like. this might have potential for a pt 2 but WHO KNOWS #amelink fanfic #amelinkfic #amelia x link #amelia x derek #greys anatomy fanfic #greys anatomy fic #grey's anatomy fanfic #grey's anatomy fic #my writing #amelinkfanfiction #grey’s anatomy #grey’s abc

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honey-dewey · 3 years

Text

Lightning in a Bottle

Pairing: Trans Fem! Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels/GN! Reader

Word Count: 2,484

Warnings: swearing, homophobia/transphobia, needles, hurt/comfort.

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

It is week three of pride month! This is the third set of prompts that came from @flightlessangelwings and @autumnleaves1991-blog Pride writing prompts! I’ve never written Trans Jack before, and while I would typically headcanon him as trans masc, I thought this would be fun instead.

Prompts: Glitter and/or “I’ll always be by your side”

You sighed, settled at Jack’s vanity as you organized her makeup. She was a menace when it came to organization, and more often than not, you were the one lining her lipsticks up in front of the mirror and putting the eyeliner pens back in their cup. After two years, you’d think she’d get the hang of this, but you’d be wrong. Even when she was away, like she was now, she couldn’t bother to put anything where it went before she left. You put her brushes back in their proper place in a drawer, absently checking your phone for the time or a text. Jack was due home any minute now, and even though she hadn’t been away for long, her absence had affected you.

The front door creaked open, and you perked up, turning in the vanity chair so you could pay attention to the sounds coming from downstairs.

“Hey babe!” Jack’s voice filtered up the stairs, and you smiled, hearing her take her boots off downstairs. “I’m home!”

Standing, you abandoned the mini project you’d been working on in favor of walking to the top of the stairs to watch Jack shimmy out of her coat and hang her hat up on top of the coat rack. She was a picture of beauty, her back to you as she loosened the top buttons of her shirt and rolled her sleeves up. Turning, she caught sight of you, her face pulling into a wide smile. “There’s my baby!” She said, running up the stairs until she was on the landing. “Come kiss me. I missed you.”

You ran down the steps, crashing into Jack and wrapping her in a hug. She’d been gone for two days, out on a mission for work. It was only two days, but you’d been grouchier than usual for those two days, and all you wanted was Jack cuddles. “I missed you too baby.”

Jack scooped you up, carrying you to the bedroom and plopping you down on the bed. As you laughed, Jack pulled her skirt and petticoat off, leaving her in shorts and her button up. You smiled, gesturing her close. Jack didn’t argue, crawling across the bed so she could rest her head on your chest. It took a minute to find the best spot that wouldn’t send any of your limbs to sleep, but when you did find it, you knew Jack wouldn’t be getting up for anything.

“Did you have fun?” You asked, gently tugging Jack’s hair ties out and undoing her two braids. “Where’d they send you? Wasn’t it Montana again?”

“It was,” Jack said, eyes closed as you combed through her curls with your fingers. “Still as beautiful as ever. I’m gonna take you for our honeymoon.”

You chuckled, blinking slowly. “If we ever get married,” you finished.

“We will,” Jack promised, reaching up and trapping one of your hands in hers. “We absolutely will.”

Almost an hour passed while you and Jack cuddled, both of you nearly falling asleep until you remembered something. “Ah fuck,” you grumbled, untangling your limbs from Jack’s. “I have to run to the grocery store. I forgot to do it yesterday. I was so hectic with this work thing, and then you called to tell me you were coming home, and it completely slipped my mind.” As you rambled, you pulled on a neater shirt, looking around for your shoes.

“Can I come?” Jack asked, rolling over and sitting up.

“When am I ever going to say no to that?” You pointed out, picking up Jack’s skirt and tossing it at her. “But you should probably cover your ass.”

Jack laughed, leaving her skirt on the bed in favor of scooping up a pair of shorts. She loosely tucked her shirt into her pants, piling her hair up into a claw clip and watching as you finally found your shoes. “Big trip or small trip?” She asked, tossing you a pair of socks.

“Medium trip,” you said. “I don’t need a ton, mostly just stuff for dinner and the odd thing or two. So we can go to Sam’s.”

Sam’s market was a tiny mom and pop grocery store that hadn’t changed in decades, but you adored it. It was a ten minute drive, and you and Jack were there in no time.

“Fucking love this place,” Jack said happily, reaching out to pet Claire, one of the resident cows. “Reminds me of my dad’s ranch.”

You nodded, grabbing a basket and entering the store. Jack followed, immediately detouring to the pharmacy. You stayed nearby, half listening as Jack picked up her estrogen and made her way back to you.

“I hate those things,” Jack said, putting her prescription bag in your basket beside a bag of dried apple slices. “They’re super gross.”

You smiled. “You don’t have to eat them,” you said, linking your arm with Jack’s. “But I like them.”

The trip around the store was quick, and in no time, you were up at the counter. Sam, the owner, grinned when you two came up. “Haven’t seen you two in a while,” he said. “How’s work?”

“Good,” Jack said. “Just got back from a business trip, actually. It’s why I’m late on my prescription.”

“Ah,” Sam said, pulling the bag out of the basket. “Jen was wondering why you hadn’t picked it up yet. It’s all still working out for you?”

Jack nodded, opening her mouth to say something before a loud snort came from behind her. She turned, and so did you. Behind you was a young man with his arms crossed, looking between the two of you with a grin. “Did I interrupt?” He said in a thick southern drawl. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Jack said, drawing herself up to her full height and raising an eyebrow. “Do you have something to say?”

The man shook his head. “Not to you, you freak.”

Jack blinked, stepping back a tiny bit. She’d been passing consistently ever since her hair got long and she started to hit what she called second puberty, and it was rare anyone was able to tell right off the bat that she wasn’t a biological woman. You stepped in front of her, shielding her from the man. “You leave my girlfriend alone.”

“That ain’t a girl,” the man jeered. “That’s a man in a skirt.”

Your jaw clenched, and you were two seconds from punching the man square in the jaw when Sam stepped in.

“Here are your purchases,” he said, handing you a bag. “And you,” he turned to the man. “Need to leave if you’re going to be harassing my loyal customers like that.”

Jack gripped your hand as you quietly pulled her towards the truck. She was dead silent as you put your bag in the backseat and slumped over the steering wheel. “You okay?” You asked softly, not wanting to startle Jack.

She shook her head, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “I just wanna go home,” she said thickly, voice wavering.

It took all of your willpower not to pull over when Jack’s crying didn’t stop, and when you were finally home, you immediately closed the distance between you and Jack, holding her tight against you. She collapsed into your arms, burying her face in your shoulder and sobbing. You rubbed her back, silently curing the man in the store.

“Jack?” You said, still holding Jack close. “You know I love you, right? No matter what.”

“But-“

“No.” You pulled away, putting your hands on Jack’s shoulders and making her look at you. “No! I love you, no ifs, ands, or buts. I will always be by your side Jack. I don’t care who you are or what you look like. I love you for you.”

Jack bowed her head, face hidden by her hair. “You’re sure?” She asked, voice so small you almost didn’t hear her.

“I’m sure,” you said. “C’mon, let’s go inside. It’s more comfortable than the bench seat of your old ass truck.”

Jack stood, following you into the house. She trudged up the stairs, still holding your hand as she went. When you dropped the grocery bag by the bedroom door and tugged Jack inside, she didn’t protest, only looked at you, slightly confused.

“I was going to wait until your birthday, because I know Statesman insists on that huge birthday gala for you,” you said, sitting Jack in her vanity. “But I think you should have this now.”

Jack watched you enter your closet, growing more confused by the second. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes,” you said, grabbing a hangar. “It’s a surprise!”

When you peeked out of the closet, Jack had her hands over her eyes, waiting patiently. You hung the hangar on the back of the closet door, smoothing out the garment and moving to stand behind Jack. You took her wrists gently in your hands, smiling. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Jack said, leaning back against your chest.

You pulled Jack’s hands off her eyes. She gasped almost immediately, seeing the intricate and gorgeous dress hanging in front of her.

“Happy early birthday,” you said. “I had Ginger help me with things like measurements, but it’s 100% custom made. I figured since you didn’t have a dress for your birthday party, I could get you one. What do you think?”

Jack was speechless, turning around to hug you. “I love it,” she said, voice tight with emotion. “It’s perfect.”

You smiled, kissing Jack’s cheek. “Every woman should have a fancy evening dress that makes her feel like royalty. Wanna try it on?”

Jack was incredibly eager to put the dress on. You ushered her into the bathroom, carrying the dress and handing it to her as she ducked behind a privacy divider.

“Oh my god!” You heard her say after you heard the zipper pulling shut. “It fits perfectly!”

“Do you want shoes?” You asked, still not peeking around the divider.

Jack was quiet for a minute. “Yeah. Those white ones.”

You knew exactly what she was talking about and grabbed the aforementioned white shoes. Handing them to Jack, you waited while she finished getting dressed, barely managing to contain your patience. When you finally heard her heels on the tile, you looked up, fully breathless as Jack stepped out from behind the divider.

She was gorgeous. The dress hugged her in all the right places, conforming to the curve of her waist and the slope of her hips as if it were a second skin. The heart shaped neckline and thin straps showed off what you and Ginger had both agreed was a very professional amount of skin, but still enough to make Jack feel sexy. The top of the dress was beaded with shimmering beads, each one catching the light and making Jack seem positively radiant. Even with minimal makeup and her hair haphazardly tossed up, she was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

“Oh Jack,” you said, standing in front of her. “I don’t- I can’t. You look. I don’t even have the words to say how beautiful you are.”

Jack smiled, swishing the dress. “I love it,” she said softly. “Thank you. I feel like a princess.”

“You look like a queen,” you breathed, putting your hands on Jack’s sides. “God above you look stunning.”

You two stood there for a while, just holding each other, until Jack pulled away to take the dress off. You watched her go, silently gathering her pyjamas, knowing she’d want them. When you were done, you headed out of the bedroom, intent on putting away the groceries that had been left out in your eagerness to show Jack her dress.

Jack came trailing down the stairs after ten minutes, wearing her Hello Kitty pyjama pants and an old Statesman distillery shirt that was a size too big. You kissed her and handed her a bag of apples as she entered the kitchen. “Put these away please?”

“Sure thing,” Jack said, moving around you to put the apples in the fruit bowl. “Can you grab my medicine?”

You reached around Jack and grabbed her estrogen bottle and a syringe. She hopped up on the counter, tugging up one of her pant legs to give you easier access to her thigh. After having been shot multiple times, often fatally, needles were something Jack didn’t even blink at. Giving Jack her estrogen had been something you’d had to work up to in the first year, but now you could do it with ease.

“Ready?” You asked, holding up the syringe. “Three, two,” you pushed the syringe into Jack’s leg. “One!”

Jack made a face at you as you disposed of the syringe and pressed a Disney princess bandaid to the tiny puncture wound. “Your bedside manor is horrible. Could’ve at least waited until you said one to stick me.”

You laughed. “You say that every time!” You said, taking Jack’s hands and helping her off the counter. “Bake Off or Friends?”

“Can we watch Friends?” Jack asked eagerly, following you to the couch and grabbing the TV remote. “I’m in the mood to laugh.”

“We can watch Friends,” you said, snuggling up next to Jack. “I’ll never say no to Friends.”

While Jack cued up the show, you fell against her shoulder, already feeling sleepy. In a few hours, you’d have to get up and make dinner, and Jack probably had a report to write on her mission, but for now, it was completely calm in the house.

At some point during the second episode you watched, you must’ve fallen asleep, because one minute, you were sleepily watching Friends, and the next, you were opening your eyes to Jack holding two bowls of her famous cowboy mac-and-cheese. You sat upright, accepting the bowl with a small pout. “I was gonna make dinner.”

“But you didn’t,” Jack pointed out, sitting beside you and taking a bite. “I swear, this gets better and better the more I make it.”

“Don’t tell Tequila,” you said. “He would kill a man for this bowl of food.”

Jack laughed. “He would,” she agreed. “Did you have a good day today?”

“My girlfriend came home,” you said sweetly. “Of course I had a good day. What about you?”

“Hm,” Jack hummed, pretending to think. “Well, I got to see my beautiful partner again, so that was good. But then a raging asshole yelled at me, and that was bad. But the dress made up for it, so all in all, a good day.”

You smiled, leaning against Jack and gesturing to the TV. “I’m glad you had a good day. More Friends to finish it off?”

“You know me so well,” Jack said happily, taking the remote again. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said, turning your attention mostly to the TV. “No matter what.”

#Kingsman #kingsman the golden circle #agent whiskey #jack 'whiskey' daniels #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #Pedro Pascal #My writing #writer wednesday #jey's pride celebration 2k21

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iam93percentstardust · 4 years

Text

AU-gust Day 11: Farm/Ranch

Requested by @warmachinesocks for a Stevetony AU! This kind of veered from the prompt but I swear, Steve does have a farm! They’re just not on it in this story.

Also on ao3 here

“You can pick out one jar of jam,” Steve hears and immediately perks up. He hates saying that he has a favorite customer but he absolutely does. It’s just so hard not to like Tony when he always has a quick and ready smile for Steve and a compliment about whatever he’s selling this month. He thinks they’ve been flirting too but Steve has always been bad at figuring out that kind of thing so he never says anything about it.

Tony turns the corner, leading a little girl wearing a Frozen shirt by the hand, and Steve smiles brightly, waving at the two of them. He’s heard tons of stories about Tony’s beloved daughter—and about her mom, who is apparently just a surrogate and actually spends her time running Tony’s company, as the man had seen fit to tell him. He hasn’t had a chance yet to meet the girl since Tony’s only been coming to the market for the last six months and school has been going on but it’s June now and school has been out for two weeks.

“Hi Steve!” Tony says brightly.

“Hey Tony! You gonna tell me who this little lady is?”

Tony gently nudges the girl’s shoulder. “Are you gonna introduce yourself, Miss Morgan?”

She looks up at her dad, blinks, and promptly sticks her thumb in her mouth. Steve laughs as Tony just shakes his head. “That’s alright, I’ll bet I can guess. Let’s see…obviously, you’re Queen Elsa.”

Morgan giggles and shakes her head.

“Princess Anna?”

She laughs even harder. “No, I’m Morgan,” she says, still giggling through her words.

“Well, that’s even better,” he tells her. He kneels beside her. “And how old are you, Morgan?”

She holds up five fingers.

“Five!” he gasps.

“No you’re not, silly goose,” Tony says fondly. “Your birthday isn’t until next week.”

She holds up four fingers.

“Four years old!” he exclaims. “And with a birthday coming up too. Guess I’ll just have to give you an early birthday present. How does a free jar of jam sound?”

“Jam!” Morgan shouts and runs over to the table. There’s a stepstool under the booth for the kids and Steve slides it out so that she can stand on top of it to look at the jam.

“You don’t have to do that,” Tony says quietly. “I can pay.”

“You’re my favorite customer,” Steve says easily. “What’s the point of having favorites if I can’t give you a jar of jam sometimes?”

Much to his surprise, Tony blushes a little. “Thank you then. I know this is your income.”

Steve makes a soft enh sound. “I had a higher yield than usual this year so it’s not much of a hardship.”

“Oh? I didn’t realize you have an actual farm.”

“Orchard, technically. About four miles outside of the city. It was my granddad’s and when he died, he left it to me.”

“Do you like it out there?”

Steve glances at him, wondering if he’s just being polite but Tony looks like he’s genuinely curious so he says, “I miss the city sometimes. I grew up in Brooklyn and the orchard’s a lot different.”

“I bet it’s quieter.”

He chuckles. “Not really. It’s just loud in a different way.” He glances at Morgan picking through the jars of jam, looking for the one she wants. “She seems great.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, smiling fondly. “I love her to pieces. What about you? Don’t think I’ve ever asked if you’ve got kids.”

“Nope, got a dog though.”

“Morgan wants a dog.”

“I think most kids do,” Steve comments. Tony laughs and says, “Yeah, that’s probably true. My building won’t let us have one though.”

“Don’t you…own the building?”

“Own the…?” Tony frowns, furrowing his brow. “Oh! We don’t live in Stark Tower anymore. It just wasn’t a good place to raise a kid so I moved out.”

Steve’s heart just melts at the idea of Tony deciding to move homes just so he could have a better environment for Morgan. That’s probably why, before he can think about it, he offers, “If she wants to spend time with a dog, you’re both more than welcome to come out to the orchard.”

Tony gapes at him for a moment, mouth open and everything, and Steve winces. Okay, so maybe that was a little creepy. He’s just getting ready to take it back and apologize when Morgan calls, “Dad!”

“What’s up, Maguna? Pick out what you want?” Tony says, dragging his eyes away from Steve.

“Peaches!” she says cheerfully, shoving a jar under Tony’s nose. “Just like you!”

“Peaches?” Steve asks curiously.

To his surprise, Tony goes bright red and stammers out, “Oh, um, it’s what her mom calls me…because of my, um—” He cuts off and looks slightly behind him. Steve follows his gaze to—oh.

Oh, those peaches.

“Well, they’re really nice peaches, you know?” he says faintly, distracted by Tony’s bubble butt. Then he stops, thinks about what he just said as Tony chokes, and says, “No! I didn’t mean to—”

“You said you live four miles outside of the city?” Tony interrupts.

Steve snaps his mouth shut. “Yes?”

“Um, so tell me if I’m overstepping here, but how does tonight sound? I’ll bring dinner,” Tony offers.

Steve stares at him, long enough that Tony squirms uncomfortably and then he bellows, “Yes!”

Tony laughs. “Great,” he says relievedly. “Oh! Phone number, you need a phone number, thank you darling.” He takes the paper Morgan is waving in his face, scribbles a number on it, and passes it over to Steve. “I’ll call you later today? We can talk about a good time to show up?”

“Sounds great,” Steve breathes. He has a date. Sort of. He thinks it’s a date. Right? “This is a date, right?”

Tony nods a little, smiling sweetly.

“Great.”

“Great,” Tony echoes. “So I’ll see you then?”

Steve nods, unable to get the goofy grin off his face.

“Great.”

#stevetony #alle writes #august2020 #if you like please consider reblogging

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falloutjay · 3 years

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Stan x worried reader where reader comforts Stan and tries to make him feel better. Never giving up on him and even having to be forced away from him, that's how worried she is. Stan sneaks into her house when her parents are out and thanks her for trying so hard and they cuddle 💕

First of your requests done! Im kinda happy how it turned out and I hope you enjoy it as well. Cant wait to get to the more detailed one, but that one will take a little while longer. 😚

_____________________________________________

Stan Marsh x worried!Reader

You stare at him.

Your eyes scanning him up and down but never leaving him. Maybe you should pay attention to what is written on the board, but you honestly couldn’t care less. This stupid math bullshit didn’t matter anyway.

Nothing did.

All that mattered to you sat in between Kenny McCormick and Kyle Broflovski in the row in front of you. Stan Marsh, your boyfriend, and also the person that was constantly on your mind. But not in a good way, like you’d normally think of your boyfriend.

You worried a lot about him, and it made you insane that seemingly no one else did. Not even his super duper best friend forever Kyle.

Did no one see the sadness in his eyes? How his smile faded whenever he thought no one looked? Were they all blind?

You weren’t blind. You saw through his façade. And you were determined to make sure he will feel better, no matter what was bothering him.

You stared at the message on your phone. “Where are you? I thought we wanted to hang out for a while before you go?”

A deep sigh escaped your lips. Hesitantly, you typed; “Sorry, family emergency. Can’t come.” And pressed send. It hurt you to just lie to your friends, but you had to. You could see Stan slacking at his beloved Football training, so it only confirmed your suspicion, that something was up.

He seemed unfocused, messing up throws, the ball slipping his hands or stumbling sometimes. His thoughts weren’t here at all.

You watched him play and sat through the whole training. It sure bored you, but it didn’t matter. He mattered. And that’s why you sat there for two hours. You didn’t even sit with some of the other people watching. Now you were waiting for Stan in the hallway, waiting for him to come out of the locker-room.

You saw Clyde and Craig come out, and they gave you a quick wave, smiling at you. You did the same, but your eyes were still glued to the door, waiting for a certain black haired.

When he finally came, he seemed surprised to see you. “Y/N, you’re still here? I thought you only stayed for training?” Stan questioned, that fake smile you hated so much resting on his face. “Nah, I wanted to spend time with you. That ain’t a crime, is it?” Stan shook his head and took your hand.

You two wandered through the school and finally got to the parking lot, where Stans small car stood. It was of course plastered with Tegridy Farm advertisement.

You were happy that Stan didn’t have to wear his 100%-Hemp-Shirt anymore. You hated that one so much.

To your surprise, you spotted your parents car and your mother not too far away. “There you are!” She called out and you stood there frozen in place.

“Hello Stan!” She greeted your boyfriend when she came over and looked at you sternly.

“I send you a thousand messages and called you endlessly. Why didn’t you answer?”

“Phone was on mute, sorry.” You mumbled, genuinely embarrassed.

“Doesn’t matter, it is fine, your Grandmas Birthday dinner is tonight, did you forget about it?”

This hit you like a ton of bricks. You really had forgotten it. You were so busy with worrying about Stan that you forgot your favorite Grandmas birthday. Your mother immediately could tell by your expression what was going on and let out a sigh. “Well, I’m just glad I had a hunch where you could be. Come on, we need to get home and get ready. We will be in Denver until Sunday.”

“But-” You wanted to protest.

You felt conflicted. You loved your grandma and those amazing food-tastic weekends in Denver. And yet there was Stan and your ever growing worry…

“I-…Can’t I stay here and skip one time? I wanna stay with Stan!”

Stan looked at you surprised. He knew how much you loved going to your Denver-Grandma. You always told him about the amazing food she makes and the money she secretly gives you.

“Hun, it’s okay, you can go. We can hangout next weekend.” He said, giving you a peck on the cheek. You shook your head.

“No. I don’t want to.”

“Y/N, come on, we don’t have time for this. We need to get home.” You mother said, taking your hand.

“But-”

“No but’s, come on now.” She sounded a little annoyed and you looked at Stan with a horrified expression.

“But I need to stay with Stan.”

“Y/N, you see him every day basically. You’re gonna go to Grandmas, whether you like it or not.” Stan simply gave you a smile, waving goodbye.

“I’ll text you when I can okay?” You called out, while your mother basically dragged you to the car.

“Don’t worry about it. I can wait!” Stan replied and went on his way to unlock his car.

The TV was almost annoying at this point. What were you even watching? A quick glance told you, that Family Guy was on.

Cartman better not hear of this.

You turned around, laying on your stomach, hoping you would not die of boredom in a few minutes. Stan wasn’t replying to you, as he was helping his parents with something apparently. You came back from your Denver Grandma adventure just a few hours ago.

The weekend wasn’t bad at all, you actually had fun and a great time with some of your relatives. But yet Stan didn’t leave your mind and you were sure, some people could tell you weren’t happy.

And you turned again, now laying on your back again. You just keep turning every few seconds, waiting for something to happen, yet nothing did. All of a sudden, you hear a bang.

Confused, you turned your head and looked at the direction at the noise. It seemingly came from the window. You felt scared. You were home alone, your parents out for dinner and you were left alone. You watched too many horror movies and murder mystery shows for your own good and millions of possible scenarios began racing through your head.

Carefully and trembling, you scooted closer to the window and looked outside. There in the drizzle stood Stan, throwing small rocks at your window. You opened the window, still utterly confused.

Somewhat swiftly, Stan began climbing up to your window, using the growth support for your mothers’ roses. Once inside, he smiled widely at you.

“You do know you could have just rung the doorbell? My parents aren’t home.” You said while deadpanning.

“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m here now anyway, so who cares.” He laughed and hugged you tightly.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” Stan asked with genuine worry in his voice. “Me? I could ask you the same thing!” You exclaimed, waiving your hands around. “Why? I’m alright?” This just pissed you off.

“Seriously? I’m no fucking Kyle, Kenny, or Eric! I see that something is off. I see that something is going on inside you.” You poked his chest and continued your rant. “I’m not an idiot and care about you. For fucks sake. Sorry for cursing but you just won’t tell me what’s going on!”

You finished and took a deep breath, feeling relieved now that you spoke your mind. Stan was taken aback, holding his hands up in defense.

“Jeez, sorry for making you worry. I’m really alright. I was just bothered by some shit my idiot dad spoke about. He keeps talking stupid shit when he’s high with Towlie, shit like me having to take over the farm when I’m out of high school, so that he can become a “Weed-Grandpa”. That’s all, it’s nothing serious, I promise.”

Stan offered a hug to you and after a few seconds in which you thought about what he said, you went straight into his arms.

“You will tell me if there’s actually something going on, right?” “You will be the first one to know, babe. Thank you for caring so much about me.” You nodded, now feeling more relieved than ever.

“I’m sorry, for not telling you about the shit my dad said. I didn’t know it affected you this much.” A smile crept onto your face. “Please don’t actually tell me that shit your dad says when he’s high, I swear, he’s so weird sometimes.”

“Agreed.” Carefully, Stan navigated you to your bed and you two made yourself comfortable.

“For how long are you gonna stay?” You asked him, while you cuddled up to him. He pressed a sweet kiss onto your forehead and whispered:

“For as long as you need me.”

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rftwfic · 4 years

Text

Ok so an AU that I’ve been really soft for recently is modern Nanny!Jaskier. Like Geralt is a single dad and he’s having so much trouble getting Ciri into a decent pre-k. Most of them are so expensive and the ones that actually charge a decent rate fill up so fast. He can’t keep passing her around between his brothers and father whenever he has to go into work though and he really needs to go back full time. He still has two years until she’s old enough to start first grade at the local elementary school and until then he desperately needs someone who can keep her during the day.

Enter Jaskier, who is currently working towards his masters in music theory and composition and who recently got fired from the music store he worked at the past four years when it shut down. Since then he’s been taking odd jobs just trying to keep his head above water, and after he spends a week kid-sitting Eskel’s goats while he’s out of town he gets put in touch with Geralt who is looking for a nanny for his four year old daughter.

At first Geralt is wary of just letting some stranger keep his daughter all alone during the day, no matter how good Eskel claims he was with the goats. He runs a background check though and they have a few “play dates” where Geralt can watch Jaskier and Ciri in action and he’s pleased to find that not only is Jaskier attentive and gentle without letting Ciri walk all over him, but he’s also energetic and playful and has tons of games that they can play together (thank you Pinterest). After a week of Geralt being cautious and over protective he finally agrees to hire Jaskier full-time.

Jaskier loves his job because despite the occasional tantrums and messes he has to clean up he gets to spend most of his days doing fun stuff with the most adorable little girl in the world and Geralt is super sweet and chill and hot and he even makes sure to come home early the two days a week that Jaskier has night classes just so he doesn’t have to rush on his way to the university.

Obviously this whole thing is ridiculously fluffy and soft and filled with all kinds of unresolved sexual tension because it’s bad to hit on your boss, right? Right? Some of the greatest hits include the time that Ciri told Jaskier early on in his job that her dad fights people for a living and Jaskier got to have a minor crisis on whether he was watching an MMA fighter’s kid who would totally kick his ass if anything happened to his precious daughter, only for this to be resolved when Jaskier finds out that Geralt is a fight choreographer for movies and plays and such (not like that means Geralt can kick his ass any less, but at least all those weapons Jaskier thought were real were actually just very nice props). There’s also the time that Geralt came home to the two of them all sticky and wet because Jaskier was teaching Ciri science that day by doing experiments with mentos and coke and no Jaskier there’s no way I can let you ride the bus home like that, you should use our shower, here are some of my clothes you can wear while yours are in the wash (Geralt nearly has a heart attack even though he was the one to offer all of those things).

Of course the lines eventually start to blur. On days where Geralt has to work late he always invites Jaskier to stay for dinner to “further compensate him for his time.” Ciri has grown to love Jaskier so much that she demands he be invited to her birthday party even though it’s on a weekend so he has the day off, and from there it’s easy to also invite Jaskier along to some of their weekend outings to the zoo or the carnival, and no Jaskier I’ve already bought the tickets for all of us, you’re honestly such a big help to me I only wish I could do more.

Jaskier starts having a place in more and more of their life (the sexual tension is unbelievable folks) until one day he and Geralt are taking Ciri to first grade orientation together and Jaskier is asking the teacher questions about the curriculum and how they’ve structured the school day in a way that balances the students’ play time with instruction time while Geralt takes Ciri around the classroom to find her desk and check out all the cool blocks and legos they have and it hits Geralt all at once, like fuck, they’re coparenting. This whole time Geralt hasn’t made a move because he didn’t want things to get weird with Jaskier being Ciri’s nanny but also possibly his boyfriend but then he realizes they’ve been basically doing that just without all of the kissing and the sex that usually comes with it.

Once Jaskier says yes to the whole dating Geralt bit (or more like “I’ve literally been pinning for you for two years, thanks for finally noticing”) Geralt then has the most wonderfully frustrating conversation with Ciri where he tries to make sure it’s ok with her that he dates her old nanny and she has no idea what he’s talking about because weren’t they dating already? (“It means that Jaskier would spend more time over here, like after school when we have dinner together.” “Doesn’t he already do that?” “We would also go out on dates sometimes, like to the movies or out to eat.” “But we already do that too.” “Yes but this time Jaskier and I would be alone.” “You mean you’re going to the movies without me? But you know how much I love going to the movies!”) Poor Geralt has a headache by the end, but at least Ciri ends up taking it well.

#geraskier #gerlion #geralt x dandelion #geralt x jaskier

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thebadboyfanclub · 4 years

Text

We’ll See About That (Elijah x Klaus x Reader)

Requested by anon. I wrote this two times cause my laptop decided to be an asshole and wouldn’t let me post it. Enjoy

(Y/n) was raised by her parents and the small pack of werewolves they belonged a few miles away from New Orleans. However she wasn’t a child brought to life as a result of a happy marriage, her mother married her father because of an arranged marriage, so s he fell in love with a warlock while being stuck at a toxic marriage. When (y/n) was born everything became worse, her father started to suspect and her mother took her stuff and (y/n) in the middle of the night and left, she was only 11 but she was thrilled to leave everything behind.

However, she never cared for the whole werewolf thing nor cared if she was a witch, she was spiritual yes, meditating and cleansing her house, having different type of tarot decks and aligning her chakra was something that brought her peace, but going in further was like dipping your fingers in the honey jar and expecting your hands to not get sticky.

(Y/n) studied abroad, once again leaving everything behind and making her own memories and decisions as a young adult. She knew that to “active” the wolf gene meant you have to kill somebody and she never had that intention, one night though when a man decided to follow her home and attack her, she lost control and had to not only deal with activating the curse but also dealing with the police and finding a way to keep her criminal record clean.

As graduation rolled around (y/n) decided to go back to the U.S.A, New Orleans to be exact. She could never go back to the pack her dad belong, she hadn’t talked to him in years and she doubted he would want to help,so her mother told her that a lot of different people have their home in New Orleans, so she decided to try her luck there.

“A pretty woman like you alone? It must be my birthday”

It was (y/n)’s first night in New Orleans, so she decided to go and have a drink, maybe get an idea or two on how to find someone that is willing to help her. She was sitting peacefully drinking her cocktail when a tipsy and absolute douche approached her.

“Well go find a cake, cause I for sure ain’t giving you any”

“Too bad, i’m sure your icing taste great”

Her facial expression showed how disgusted she was by the vulgar comment, she was about to answer a man when she saw a man nudge the annoying creep and take her hand in his.

“My sincere apologies for keeping you waiting love, you look beautiful”

He brought her hand up to his lips and looked at her right in the eyes, the wink he gave her made her understand what his plan was at. She smiled brightly at the kind stranger

“No worries babe, let me introduce you to this absolute creep that tried to hit on me”

“Oh how amusing. Listen mate, you have two options, one is to keep going at this and force me into take actions that will make me your worst nightmare, second is go on with your night while your arms are still attached to your body. Choice is yours”

He didn’t even say anything, he just looked down and left, (y/n) could see his already fragile ego crumble right in front of her. She started laughing, finding the entire situation cut out of a comedy.

“Thank you so much, let me buy you a drink”

“I think it goes the other way around love”

“It’s the 21st century, also you deserve one for scaring him to death. I’m (y/n) by the way”

“Klaus, pleasure to officially meet you”

They ended up talking and drinking for hours on end, the conversation flowed effortlessly making them feel comfortable with each other. Klaus walked (y/n) home at the wee hours of the morning, oh how beautiful she looked as the first streaks of sunlight caressed her face. They hugged and made a promise to see each other again

(y/n) slept until 3 p.m and woke up to her stomach demanding food after the back to back drinks she had last night with her new friend. She did her morning routine and decided into putting on a yellow sundress and placed her hair up into a quick updo, last was her moisturizer and sun screen, to protect her skin but also give her a nice glow and she was ready to hit the streets.

She got distracted by a very talented musician that played on the side of the road when she bumped into a mans back. As Elijah turned around all he saw was light, he couldn’t really put it into words but the woman that was standing right there looked like she was surrounded by the holy light and angels.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking at where I was going”

If sirens every existed, she was one of them. Her voice sounded like little singing bells and those eyes, her gaze could stop the devil. He was so astonished by her beauty that he didn’t realized the human like fairy had stopped talking, making him look like he was mute.

“It’s alright dear, no need to worry”

“I got distracted, I am usually very aware of my surroundings”

“I understand, this town is full of distractions. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Elijah”

“Ohhh YOU are Elijah”

“Pardon?”

(Y/n) remembered the name from last night. Klaus had mentioned how him and his brother Elijah with his sister Rebekah came back to town. Of course Elijah was not aware of that conversation

“Your brother Klaus, I met him yesterday when he came to my rescue. I’m new here so he kept me company”

“What a kind and rare thing for my brother to do”

Of course Klaus would put his best foot forward when he meets a girl, well at least she was not hurt by him nor by anyone, such a shame for a miracle like her to get harmed. Regardless of that, Elijah got an incredible idea

“Well since my brother made a friend-which never really happens- I like to say that they are my friends as well, so would you accept my offer and accompany at our home for dinner tomorrow?”

“Oh you don’t have to, it’s fine”

“I insist, since you are new here someone should show you hospitality”

(Y/n) couldn’t really keep up with this whole thing, two handsome brothers coming to her aid and wanting to bring her over for dinner, it was almost too good to be true. She would dumb if she didn’t accept

“Fine, but i’ll warn you I have a big appetite”

As Elijah informed his brother of the interaction he had with (y/n) and the invitation he gave her for dinner the brothers started to sharpen their knives. Both of them requesting specific dishes from the chef they hired, arguing over what wine goes best and what music should they play or if there’s going to be music.

The hours passed and (y/n) stood outside their door. Klaus was the one to greet her first, he was stunned when he saw her. Her hair was down and curly, she wore a satin maxi dress with a plunging neckline and a slit on the side that showed her right leg.

“You really outdid yourself love, you look ravishing”

“Why thank you Klaus, you look amazing in this suit as well”

Klaus had chosen a formal attire for the evening, a black suited he had tailored back in the 20s, you could never go wrong with a classic.Klaus offered her his arm and she linked hers with his, walking in the house that looked like it was cut out of a fairytale.

“(y/n) you arrived, I must say that you are breathtaking”

“Thank you Elijah, you look very handsome as well, do you sleep with a suit on?”

Klaus took the opportunity and pulled a chair back for (y/n), helping her and then took his seat as well.

The night passed beautifully,(y/n) felt so pampered and the brothers felt euphoric by being at her good graces, they also spend the entire night keeping mental notes on who (y/n) smiled more, who’s joked she laughed, what compliments she gave, what foods she liked and most importantly who she talked to more. As the night came to an end (y/n) insisted into taking her car, besides two glasses of wine were nothing compared to the tons of alcohol she consumed when she was in college.

“Thank you for everything tonight, it was truly amazing”

“Of course love, with a guest like you anything else would have been an embarrassment, right brother?”

“Yes that’s quite right Klaus, we hope to see you again then”

“For sure, I wouldn’t pass on tasting that delicious food again”

She hugged both of them and then they saw her disappearing into the night, leaving them both with the sweet taste of happiness that they got to dine with such a magical being, they had to agree that (y/n) was the most peaceful and calming human being they have met.

“Well brother, I am happy you bravely put on a fight but I think I’ll take it from here”

“We’ll see about that Niklaus”

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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

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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

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lovelylogans · 4 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.

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