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just-call-me-the-intrusive-thot · 2 years

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Three Queens And A Joker

First fic for this year’s @sandersidesbigbang !

A huge thanks to my team for being amazing!! Check out the amazing art by @antisocial-xxxpert and this adorable art by the wonderful @talking4the1 a big thank you to @im-an-anxious-wreck for beta-ing this fic so quickly and thoroughly!!

Also thank you to the lovely @nyxi-styx for letting me include their OC, Eden Sanders/ Olmeda so I could include our boys <3

I’ll be updating with additional links as I have them! I hope you all enjoy!

Drag AU

Word Count: 11958 words (dang)

Pairings: Platonic Creativitwins, developing Prinxiety, Dukeceit

Content Warnings: Remus being Remus, swearing, sexual jokes and references (no actual sex though), injury mention (non-graphic) Rated: Mature (see above)

Summary: A late night text from Remus sends Roman Castillo into a world of wigs, makeup, and lip syncing. Being pulled last minute into performing on stage, will Roman be able to deliver? And will be be able to leave it all behind? It’s only one performance and then he’s done... right?

Roman Castillo flicked the crown charm on his cellphone in time with his steps; one, two, three, repeat. He wasn’t sure what it was Remus wanted from him out of the blue on a saturday night, but he just hoped it wasn’t anything he’d regret having his fingerprints linked back to.

“The corner of Stokes and Williams, he says…”

It took a little bit of guesswork to finally find The Palace. The club was nestled between a dingey pizza place, and what Roman theorised was a bridal store if the opulent white gown in the window that cost the same as his car was anything to go by. The neon sign flickered in a magenta-purple hue, not quite brokenly, but it definitely needed a rewiring at the least. The club’s exterior was painted a black that caught the light with a purple glint. The walls were surprisingly clean even if the sidewalk they held firm to was littered with pieces of trash and pock-marked with all manner of splatter from stains Roman didn’t care to think on.

Posters of all sorts were torn like faded tattoos — most boasted shows long since performed and performers long since moved on or retired, but few remained legible. He could make out a few advertising lounge singers or the occasional stand up performance but names had long since been rubbed away or bled out with the printing ink in the rain.

Roman was jolted from his distracted thoughts by a familiar voice.

“Hey, Ro! You made it!” Remus called from the doorway of the pizza place, “And hey, you got here with time to spare! Look at you being responsible ‘n’ shit!”

Roman sighed. “Great, wonderful. Now can I finally be told why I’m here—?”

He paused as he actually caught sight of Remus. It only now occurred to Roman that he’d never thought to ask Remus what he actually did at The Palace, but going by his twin’s outlandish exaggerated costume, Roman could safely assume he was some kind of performer. He wore a green tentacled head piece complimenting a navy slip of a dress decorated by a large anchor piece in front. The makeup job was something else entirely, a gradient of purples, blues, and teals that covered Remus’ visible upper chest. Some of the makeup was wiped away in varying circles, mimicking bubbles.

“All in due time, Ro.” Remus snickered, clearly enjoying Roman's reaction. “Let’s all get introductions out of the way first!”

At Remus’ side, two women were eating pizza from the box Roman’s twin was holding. One of them gave Roman a firm once over with her eyes. She wore a glamorous black and gold evening gown that fit her pinup model figure, her flaxen hair worn long and elegant. Roman had to admit, despite his attraction laying solely with men, she was bewitching in that old film femme fatale kind of way.

The other woman simply fixed him with a bored stare as she impassively – and impressively – ate her pizza without smearing her pastel violet lipstick. Roman wondered if she’d leapt out of the pages of an anime: her gothic lolita attire and hime-cut hair screamed I kin Misa Amane and owned a homemade ‘Death Note’ in middle school. The monochrome black and shades of purple suited her well, complimenting her green-hazel heterochromia. Roman watched her mirthlessly twirl her fancy parasol in her grasp and wondered if her indifference was genuine or simply a cover for her to observe him without giving anything away.

Regardless, Roman wasn’t about to be rude on their first meeting. “Right, of course.” With a charming smile, he offered a hand out to whichever of the two would accept it first, “I’m Roman, it’s a pleasure to meet you, ladies. I dare say you both look incredible, truly a dazzling pair of beautiful queens.”

Both women shared a look of thinly veiled amusement and upon seeing the genuine sincerity in his expression, burst into laughter. Confusion spread over Roman’s face, looking to Remus for answers, but the bastard was also in fits.

Then, the woman in gold gave his arm a soft but patronising pat, speaking in a rich, deep voice, “Well you’re not wrong; we certainly are a pair of queens.”

Oh. Oh.

Roman felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment. It didn’t help that he could see the one in purple was snickering into her free hand. He huffed, fixing his brother with a tired glare. “And just when were you going to tell me I was making an utter ass of myself?”

Remus snorted. “When aren’t you making an utter ass of yourself?”

Tossing the now empty pizza box into a trash can, Remus quickly made introductions, “This one here’s Virgil, and this sexy son of a bitch is my boyfriend, Janus.”

The one in gold, Janus, rolled his eyes with an aching fondness. Virgil snorted, whether in amusement or distaste it was hard to place.

Roman awkwardly offered a reintroduction, “Charmed. I apologise if I insulted you earlier—”

“Nonsense,” Janus dismissed, firm and matter-of-factly. “It was adorable. Like an excited puppy running full pelt into a glass sliding door.”

He wasn’t sure if that was Janus being kind or insulting him. He hoped it was the first option.

“Alright then.” He fixed his twin with an impatient, narrowed stare. “Now, what exactly did you haul me away from my art studio at midnight for anyway?”

Janus raised an eyebrow curiously. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No, he just texted me, and I'm quoting here,” He took out his phone and read Remus' text, “Hey bitch, need ur help, will text u address. Wear clean underwear lol.” He looked up from his phone, “Followed by a poop emoji, a devil emoji, a woman dancing emoji, and a crown emoji.”

“Sounds like a Remus text for sure.” Virgil snickered.

“I’m surprised you actually showed up with a text like that.” Janus said, taking a small tube of lipgloss from down the front of his dress and quickly touching up his lips before he continued, “Regardless, it’s good that you came, aware or not.”

“And will I be told what I’m here to do now or will I continue to play an endless guessing game until I get it right?” Roman huffed a little impatiently.

“We’ll clear our schedules for the next five years.” Virgil snarked, already walking towards the club’s entrance, “Come on then, we should get inside before you two freeze to death.” He gestured lazily to Remus and Janus, hauling the door open. Remus waltzed inside. “Let’s go, Ro! We’ve only got an hour to get you ready!”

Roman gave Virgil and Janus a semi-panicked look as Remus all but fucked off and left them all. “What does he mean by that?!”

Janus took his arm, patting it a little too close to patronisingly rather than reassuringly. “Hush now, we don’t have the time to waste. Follow us.”

He led Roman past Virgil and into The Palace without much more fanfare.

Roman took about a half a second’s glance around the place and decided that the name was ironic.

The Palace wasn’t by any means dirty or rat infested or mouldy, so clearly there had been a great deal of upkeep maintained over the years. Unfortunately, said upkeep was rather obvious. Patches of unpainted plaster repairs, a carpet that while scrubbed within an inch of its life had dulled from what was a plum purple to a sad mauve-burgundy, and walls decorated with well kept but outdated black pattern wallpaper that would look more at home at a blacklight retro disco. Frankly, in Roman’s opinion, the foyer of the club reminded him more of something he’d see in an episode of Stranger Things than a drag club.

Janus must’ve caught him staring and gave a soft hum. “Not a fan of the decor? Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to clean up before you arrived.”

“Oh, you needn’t have— Ah. Sarcasm.” Roman realised a little late.

He pretended Janus’ eyeroll and Virgil’s quiet snort of amusement didn’t make him feel even more stupid while the former dragged him by the arm through the foyer and past the entertainment area. It was better decorated than the foyer, looking like an actual club. It was clear the place was once a theatre of some form —Roman guessed it was a musical theatre rather than a cinema going by the layout of the main stage— but he had little time to dwell on things as he was hastily brought through to the backstage area.

Costume and makeup felt the most lacklustre compared to the grandeur of the rest of the building. It felt like the kind of backstage layout you’d see perhaps in a high school’s auditorium. Of course, that would be minus the abundance of wigs, loose costumes, and swaths of makeup on every surface. There were some doors labelled as dressing rooms though most of the queens were far more content to dress up and dress down in the open area if the current scene was anything to go by.

Roman counted at least eight queens milling about; some were applying makeup while others sat atop the dressing tables chatting away amongst themselves. One looked up from a rather animated conversation, locking eyes for a moment with Roman.

Said queen gestured for her (His? Roman wasn’t sure which pronouns to use now that he thought about it) friend to look over. Sure enough, the queen looked over and, with a smile, gave a small wave and returned to the conversation with the first queen. Roman wasn’t sure why, but he did feel a mix of pride and anxiety in his gut. He was no stranger to being noticed though he felt so out of his depth here; the closest he’d been to the world of drag was binge watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race for the whole fifth season and then forgetting to watch the following or previous season.

“Don’t zone out,” Janus’ voice cut through Roman’s haze. “As I said, time is short and we need to get you into a wig, makeup, and a dress yesterday.”

Sorry, what.

“Um, wait, hold on.” Roman stopped just as he realised Janus and Virgil had walked him all the way into one of the dressing rooms. “I thought you needed me to paint a set or fix the lights or whatever! You’re not seriously suggesting—?!”

“That you’re going to go on stage for one measly little performance since we’re one act down? Yes. That’s exactly why I had Remus call you. Such a clever, handsome boy you are,” Janus responded, utterly unapologetic.

In one quick movement, Janus picked up a tape measure and before Roman could process the situation, he was being measured from all angles.

“Hmm, you’re a little leaner than Remus, not as broad in the shoulders, but you look like you’re about the same for shoe size..”

Roman looked over at Virgil. “Surely he’s joking. This is a prank right? Remus put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Virgil snorted. “I mean, he absolutely put your name out there, but this is real shit, Princey.”

“Princey—? Wait no, I can’t do this! I’ve never done drag before!”

He barely had a second to protest before Janus tossed a red dress into his arms and placed a wig head onto the dresser table.

“Calm down, all you need to do is lip sync, dance a little, and not fall off stage. Think you can do that for me, pretty boy?”

Roman’s cheeks flushed a little at being called ‘pretty boy’ “Well, yes, I suppose but—”

“Perfect, then you’re more than qualified. Virgil will handle your makeup, once you have a drag alias and your choice of song ready to go, I’ll let our stage tech know.” Janus turned and barely looked back as he addressed Virgil over his shoulder, “Make sure you pick out a pair of kitten heels for him, I don’t want our replacement breaking his ankle too.”

Before Roman could further protest or ask about the broken ankle comment, Janus sashayed off into the unknown presumably to do pre-show prep. Well, what else was there to do but try and get this over with? He turned to Virgil who was already opening a glorified toolbox of makeup.

“Do you know your concealer shade?” Virgil asked.

“Oh, uh. No. Unfortunately.”

Virgil squinted at him, looking him up and down like he was looking for any hint of deception. When he seemingly didn’t find it, Virgil huffed. “Okay then, we’ll just have to go with… this one, I think.”

He picked up the shade in question, tossed Roman the concealer and Roman dropped the dress to catch it.

“Good lord, couldn’t you have handed it to me like a normal person?!”

The gothic queen rolled his eyes. “Get over it. Check your shade, and pick up that dress, it’s about the only thing we have in your size so it’s that or you’re going out buck naked.”

Roman was sure Virgil was joking… but he wasn’t taking chances. He picked up the dress and looked over at Virgil who just stared back at him.

“...Take a picture; I’ll look twice as unamused and you’ll die in seven days.”

“Calm down there, Samara, I’m just letting you know you can leave so I can change –”

“Dude, it’s fine. I’ll just set out the makeup while you do it.” Virgil shrugged, “I’ve seen like, a hundred guys of all types in far less than just their briefs, you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before, Princey.” With that, Virgil went to his make up box and began hauling out all manner of eyeshadows, lip glosses, and several other things that all began to look like the same products to Roman.

“...Well, I suppose,” Roman grumbled, taking off his jacket and placing it on the coat rack by the door. “Seriously though, where did that come from?”

“Where’d what come from, Princey?”

“There, that. That ‘Princey’ nickname. Not that I oppose that nickname per se…”

Virgil sighed. “Lemme think. Your brother’s drag name is The Duchess, your letterman has a little gold crown on it that matches your phone charm, and you’re high maintenance as fuck. Therefore; Princey.”

“High maintenance?!” Roman huffed, shimmying out of his shirt. “You’ve known me for barely ten minutes, Scare-amore!!”

“Mhm, and I’ve juuuuust now decided that’s ten minutes too long.”

Roman gave an offended gasp. “Now I can see why you’re so fond of my brother. You have utterly abhorrent taste in men. Qué triste.”

Virgil flipped Roman the bird and decided to busy himself with checking texts on his phone. Or perhaps he was opening up google translate. Roman wasn’t sure so he just jumped right back to undressing.

Once his pants and shoes were off, he picked up the dress and gave it a proper once over; it was a cherry red sleeveless little number with a heart-cut bodice that would probably show off his figure well. The skirt part of the dress was on the puffier side, the ruffled off rose-white underside making it flare out just a little; the kind of dress you’d see some girl twirling about in at prom. He ran his hand over it for a moment to access the fabric feel and thankfully it wasn’t stiff nor was it a horrible texture on his skin.

Satisfied that he wouldn’t wind up chaffed and or uncomfortable, Roman unzipped it and pulled it up around himself. He felt a little silly – like a child playing pretend with their mother’s clothes – but when he caught himself in the dressing table’s mirror he had to admit it. He looked pretty good in it. He was right about it hugging his figure too, it actually made him feel a little sexier though he shook that thought away when a sarcastic wolf whistle broke him out of his self admiration session.

“Not bad, Princey,” Virgil commented, looking him over. “You look pretty passable.”

Eye rolls must be catching in this area considering Roman caught himself doing it too. “Thank you. Your kind words warm the depths of my heart and cradle it oh so gentle.”

Virgil chuckled. He set up two seats and sat on one. “Come on, Shakesqueer, we have about forty five minutes to do your makeup, hair, pick a name, and a song for you. Let’s get as much of it out of the way as soon as possible.”

Roman couldn’t argue with that. He took the seat and Virgil put out a hand as he asked, “Does the concealer match close enough?”

Shit. Roman quickly nodded. “Uh, yeah, here.” He handed it back and thankfully, Virgil decided to test it out rather than just take Roman’s word for it. He watched as Virgil squirted out a dot of it on his finger then took Roman’s hand in his own. He needed to actively stop himself from letting out a little gasp at the contact. Christ, was he really that touch starved? He knew it’d been a while since he’d been able to actually socialise but…

Virgil turned Roman’s hand over and swiped the concealer onto the back of his palm. He frowned, “It’s a bit on the light side, but fuck it. We can fix that with blush and some contour.”

He nodded dumbly. “Right. Of course.”

Virgil hid a huff of amusement as he began to work his magic; Roman wasn’t sure how to feel —he’d never had his makeup done before. Hell, the closest he could think of were the times he’d get his face painted as a child— but whether it was his touch starved-ness or the fact Virgil was being so delicate with him, the process was working wonders at relaxing him.

So much so he nearly missed Virgil snapping his fingers in his face.

“Earth to Princey, we need to come up with a name and music. We don’t have all day.”

“Right, um… how does one pick a drag name?” Roman asked sincerely.

Virgil shrugged unhelpfully. “Depends.”

“... On what, Misa A-Man-e?”

“Ah, great. I’m stuck with a weeb.” Virgil sighed, “It just depends; do you want a name that passes for a legit name? Do you want one that’s punny? One that’s glamorous? One that’s a straight up innuendo? It’s really down to each queen individually.”

The gothic queen stopped working on Roman’s makeup for the moment. “Look, don’t put too much thought into it, okay? It’s one show and then it’s over. You can just pick something you think sounds good... Now, close your eyes for a second while I powder you.”

Roman did as asked, expecting Virgil to stay quiet, but surprisingly, he kept going.

“If it helps, the name I used when I got started was The Femmie Gorgon— Don’t you fucking snicker at me, you rude bitch!”

Coughing as he chuckled, Roman apologised, “Sorry, sorry, it’s just a rather humorous mental image.”

“Ha ha, well if you don’t behave I’m about to get real fucking hilarious. Suck in your cheeks.”

Doing just that instead of pointing out that Virgil’s rebuttal made no sense, Roman waited for Virgil to apply shading to his cheeks and under his chin before he spoke up again.

“So what name do you go by now, then?”

“Anna Ryo,” Virgil responded idly, too focused on picking out lashes for Roman to elaborate.

“Anna Ryo? Is that a pun or…?”

Virgil seemed to settle on a pair of medium length curled lashes and explained, “Do you know anything about Japanese ghost folklore?” He shook his head.

“Figures.” Virgil sighed. “Well, you’ve obviously seen The Ring, right?”

Roman nodded, “Yes, obviously.”

“Cool. Samara’s ghost is what’s called an Onryou; it’s a type of spirit, they’re usually vengeful women who were wronged and came back to seek revenge. Some real girlboss shit.”

Putting on some lash glue, Virgil continued while he waited for it to get tacky, “Anna Ryo, Onryou, you get it, it’s just wordplay.”

“I see.” Roman nodded. “Though why pick that?”

“Well, I’m half Japanese on my mom’s side and I just really like cool supernatural shit. That and I wanted something unique. I was torn for a while between that or Phantasma Goria but Anna Ryo felt more me in the end. Anyway, we’re meant to be coming up with a name for you, not getting into my business.”

“I know, but I can’t think of anything. There’s too many possibilities!” Roman lamented.

“Okay, well… what are you into?”

“...I sincerely hope you don’t mean in the bedroom—”

“I will stab you in the eye with my eyelash curlers, I swear to god, Princey.”

“Okay, okay!”

He really wasn’t about to argue with the drag queen applying his false lashes. Thinking hard, Roman finally responded.

“... Don’t judge me, but I really like musicals. And Disney movies.”

Soft fingertips gently tested that the false lashes were properly stuck on before Virgil sat back down. “I mean, I’m absolutely judging you, just not for liking musicals or Disney. I like those too.”

Surprised, Roman gave Virgil an incredulous look. “You, of all people, like Disney movies? Goodness, I really didn’t take you for the colourful, singing, happily-ever-after type.”

“Are you kidding me? Disney’s got it all; queer coded villains, despair, pain, death, the works.”

“What?! Disney movies are bright and heartwarming!”

“Dude, there’s dead parents everywhere, and horrific deaths for most if not all their villains. Shit, Clayton gets hung in Tarzan, Ursula gets run through with a ship, and Gaston falls hundreds if not THOUSANDS of feet onto sharp rocks. And need I mention Scar getting eaten alive, or the very end of the A Girl Worth Fighting For sequence–?”

“But you can’t seriously keep making out that every movie is so dark, dreary, and death-filled!!”

“Uh, yes I can, but we’d be here all week.”

Roman pouted. “Be that as it may, how is Disney going to help me pick a name?!”

Virgil swore under his breath. “Stay still. Jesus, you’re like a toddler.” He began to fix the eyeliner he’d been applying and neatened the edges of the eyeshadow he’d applied earlier. “Pick a princess’ name, and uh… shit, I dunno, what’s your favourite colour?”

“Red, fittingly enough.” He glanced down at the dress he’d been given.

“Red. Okay, well, your drag name is your favourite Princess and a synonym for red, or a shade of red.”

“Hmm… well, I suppose that could work…”

As Virgil neatened up his make up, mostly adding some blush and highlights, Roman pondered over which princesses he could name himself after. For a moment, the name Mulan Rouge came to mind, but he scrapped it pretty quick. He didn’t want to be insensitive considering he had no asian heritage, and he really didn’t want Virgil to think he was being an asshole for the sake of a punny name.

Not to mention all he could think about was the devastating moment where the army came upon the destroyed village thanks to a certain emo nightmare dusting his face with lord knows what.

Maybe he should go classic. Snow White was out of the question of course, he couldn’t do much with that, but perhaps Sleeping Beauty would be best to work with?

Aurora… Yes, he could imagine that working well.

Now for something red.

“Hmm…”

He looked to Virgil’s makeup supplies while keeping his face still, lest he be yelled at again. The makeup strewn about came in a range of shades all with interesting names. Carmine Fantasy, Golden Midnight, Carousel Candy Pink; even some more out-there names like Blackest Parade and Under The Seafoam. They were fun but none stuck out to him to use as a potential name.

It was then Roman noticed the toolbox was covered in stickers; most were band stickers, some were Nightmare Before Christmas themed (he would absolutely be asking about them later), but something that stuck out to him was a sticker of a dying rose intertwined with a flourishing one. Captivated by it, Roman mumbled under his breath, “Hm… Rose.”

Virgil —who had moved on to prepping Roman’s hair for the wig— stopped what he was doing, and queried, “Huh? Rose?”

“Yeah, um, I think I have my name. Aurora Rose?”

For a moment, Virgil was quiet, contemplative. He finally gave his verdict, “It sounds pretty basic. But good enough for a first timer, I guess.”

Roman huffed a little; sure Virgil was probably right but he didn’t have to say it.

Carefully lifting the wig from it’s stand, Virgil gave Roman a look he was quickly realising meant I’m about to give you an instruction, do NOT fuck it up.

“Right, I just need to get this on you. I don’t want any complaints, if you DO complain, I’ll kick you in your shins. If you fuck up the makeup somehow during this process, I’ll do worse than any amount of shin-kicking could ever manage. Clear?”

Swallowing, Roman nodded. “Crystal.” “Good.”

With little else being said, Virgil began to place the wig and Roman did his best impression of a living statue. Once it was pulled properly into place, Virgil began to brush and style the hair in little adjustments.

“...That’d actually make a good drag name.”

“Hm?” Roman queried, “What would?” “Crystal Clear.”

“And you had the gall to tell me Aurora Rose was basic.”

Virgil snorted in retort, “Because it is. Besides, Aurora’s a shit princess choice.”

Roman recoiled like he’d been shot. “You take that back—!”

“Hey! No sudden movements in the wig, fucking hell, Princey!” He hauled Roman back into position — for a scrawny looking guy, Virgil sure didn’t lack any strength. “And fuck you, I’m not taking it back. She’s the shittiest Disney princess. Why couldn’t you pick like, Merida or Eilonwy?”

“I’m sorry, back up. Who in the name of Walt When-You-Wish-Upon-A-Star Disney himself is Princess Eilonwy?!”

“Princess Eilonwy? From the Black Cauldron?” Virgil spoke like Roman ought to have known exactly what he was talking about. Instead, Roman frowned.

“That hardly counts! Besides, Disney disowned that whole film—”

“Because they’re pussies who can’t appreciate good dark, welsh fantasy. Not my fault the execs can’t appreciate the darker side of fairytales.”

“I’m coming to a startling realisation,” Roman deadpanned, blowing as a strand of hair bapped him in the face. Virgil fixed it with a couple of bobby pins and rolled his eyes.

“Really? And what would that be?”

“You totally had an emo phase in high school.”

Virgil laughed. “Bold of you to assume my emo phase isn’t still going strong.”

For some reason, that got a laugh out of Roman too. It took them a moment to realise someone was knocking on the dressing room door. Virgil checked the time, “Ah, that’s probably Janus.”

He called over Roman’s shoulder, “Come in!”

The person who walked in was very much not Janus.

The queen who stood there was dressed in a silver-grey power suit jacket coupled with the same shade of pencil skirt. The corset top underneath had refined black ribbon lacing that matched her classically styled black wig. Topped off with the apple martini headpiece and fancy black rimmed glasses, Roman got the feeling that she was toe-ing a line between campy and sophisticated.

“Janus asked me to check in with you both. Is he ready?”

Virgil hummed. “Should be, he just has to pick something to lip sync to and we’re home free.”

“That’s good.” The queen came to look over Roman like she was sizing up a rowdy student. Her eyes bore into him in a meticulous way that reminded Roman of his mother. Satisfied, the stern queen looked to Virgil with a far softer expression; again motherly, but like a proud one. Something Roman had never seen from his own mother.

“Estoy muy bien, Virgil. Marcus will want to see this too, it’s fine work.”

“Oh my god, no, Eden, this is NOT gonna end up as a Proud Dad Moment-”

Virgil’s protest was cut short as Eden called to someone in the doorway, “Marcus, mi amor, come see Virgil’s work!”

“No, E, don’t, I swear to goD—!”

“Too late,” Came the response of the queen from the doorway, “I’m coming to have a look!”

Roman felt just like a child’s first finger painting that’d been stuck to the family fridge; endlessly observed and silently judged. He watched as the second queen stared him down. Glittering pumpkin eyeshadow, an electric orange tutu dress paired with a black leather jacket, and several decals and piercings modelled after oranges told Roman the oddball lovebirds had a theme going on.

“Wow, he did great!” Marcus turned from Roman to wrap an arm around Virgil. “Our little drag baby’s doing so good!”

“You’re both only ten years older than me, tops.” Virgil grumbled, though Roman noted he made no effort to wiggle out of Marcus’ embrace in spite of his protests.

“We’re still your adopted drag mothers, you know this,” Marcus teased fondly.

Eden chuckled under his breath. “He may be overly enthusiastic, but he’s right, Virgil. We, as Marcus put it many times before now, called dibs. And that’s legally binding as I believe you remember from our numerous discussions on this exact subject.”

Virgil groaned loudly, looking at Roman like he was dead inside. He pointed to his face. “See this, Princey? Take note, it’s very important. This is the face of someone who has decided to welcome immediate death. Off to join the Black Parade and what not.”

Roman chuckled. “Go figure, I just assumed you were so overwhelmed with joy, your face and heart simply couldn’t handle it.”

“Ha ha, fuck you.” Virgil snickered in response.

Eden and Marcus shared a wordless look between themselves, like they were playing imaginary rock, paper, scissors; and it seemed like Marcus lost this time. He unhanded Virgil reluctantly.

“Alright, I need to go update Janus. Make sure this one picks a song before he’s set to go onstage.”

And with that, Marcus left, leaving Eden alone with Roman and Virgil. Whispering quietly, Eden remarked to Virgil, “Él es muy lindo. Y él es tu tipo. ¿Crees que le pedirás su número?”

Roman blushed and Virgil flusteredly swatted Eden’s arm, hissing embarrassedly, “iÉl habla español, Eden!”

Eden met Roman with a surprised and much more cheerful expression. “iBien, muy bien!”

Before he could embarrass Virgil any further, Roman spoke up, “Um, I should probably talk with Virgil. We still need to discuss the music I’ll be lip syncing to so um… yeah…”

“Ah, sí, sí. I’ll leave you both to it then. You don’t have all that long actually, so do be quick lest we give Janus an aneurysm.”

“Okay, yep, sure, will do, now go!”. Virgil blurted as he all but hurried Eden out the door and gave an immediate sigh of relief. He anxiously turned back to Roman, feeling so much more awkward and embarrassed than before. “Uh, sorry about all that. It probably made you super uncomfortable, right?”

Roman shook his head. “No, no, it’s alright. Really. I’m just curious now; how’d they end up as your ‘adopted drag mothers’? They don’t seem that much older than you...”

“Long story short; my family aren’t exactly shitty about it but they really don’t get what I do and they’re low key kinda off put by it. I had a crisis or two early on when I started out here, and those two were always there for me. Really took me under their wing in their own ridiculous way. And now they see me like a son, even though they’re barely a decade older than me.”

“Huh. That’s… actually rather adorable.” Roman chuckled.

“Oh god, don’t validate their bullshit, please. Just talk music with me; do you have anything in mind? And if you suggest anything from Disney or a musical, that’s out of the question for tonight and probably forever. The last thing we want is Andrew Llyod Webber or the corporate mouse breathing down our necks because someone decided Part Of Your World is worth the lawsuit.”

Frowning, Roman gave a petulant pout. “Rude. And FYI, I would’ve gone with Once Upon A Dream.”

“Of course, because you’re so incredibly basic.”

He ignored Virgil and thought about his options, “Hmm, I suppose anything in the incredible Dolly Parton’s repertoire is-”

“Absolutely not something we’re letting a beginner like you try out, no.”

“Wooooooow.”

“Hey, it’s the house rules; you earn your Parton here. Anything else is fair game though.”

“Boo, you’re all terrible.” Roman groaned jokingly. He of course realised they were low on time and while his heart told him to pick something classic – a bit of Cyndi Lauper or something by Bonnie Tyler – he thought perhaps something a little more current might work. After all, his look didn’t exactly scream classics.

Roman tried to think back to his high school prom, but instead of remembering the music, all he could think about was being stood up by his date and wanting to go home so badly he faked being wasted so he had an excuse to leave. Finding out the next day that his date had stood him up to go hook up with their ex boyfriend just put the final nail in the Prom Was A Mistake coffin.

Roman sighed to himself, thinking, “Who knew he would be the heartbreaker—?”

Wait a gosh darn moment.

“Virgil, I think I have my song choice!”

Virgil nearly leapt out of his skin at Roman’s sudden outburst in the quiet that had elapsed. “Princey, you do that again and I’m going to skin you!”

“Sorry, but we don’t have the time!” Roman took out his phone and scrolled through Spotify to show Virgil his song choice. The emo raised an eyebrow, but he seemed less judgemental this time around.

“Marina, huh? Yeah, that’ll work.” Virgil turned to the cubby of shoes, picking out a pair of bloody red kitten heels with a ruby rhinestone encrusted ankle strap. “These are about your size, try ‘em on quick. Then you just need to pick out any last minute accessories and you should be good.”

Roman took the shoes, swallowing nervously and, cracking a joke, “Let’s hope no houses land on me once I get these on.”

With a snort, Virgil retorted, “Don’t worry, Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Roman chuckled lightly. Surprisingly, Virgil’s tone had felt less harsh, more playful this time. Maybe the emo queen could tell he was nervous. Roman couldn’t be sure but considering their time restraint, he undid the straps and put on both shoes. It felt… odd. Not necessarily bad, per se; just different. He gave standing up a go and almost wobbled right into Virgil.

“Watch it, Princey, we don’t need two queens with broken ankles.”

Roman frowned. “Sorry… ”

As he gathered his footing, Roman finally asked, “Janus mentioned before about a queen with a broken ankle, is that who I’m filling in for?”

“Yeah,” Virgil began, already putting away his makeup and laying out a similar toolkit of makeup and some other accessories on the table, “Cath Theene thought it’d be so funny —super fucking hilarious in fact— to try and install a stripper pole in her apartment while she was ten sheets to the wind. She didn’t read the instructions, climbed on it haphazardly and—”

Virgil whistled, mimicking a fallen tree with his forearm and making a crashing sound when it was laid flat.

Roman nodded, “I see. I hope my performance can do her justice.”

That dragged a deep throated laugh from Virgil. “Roman, honey, you could waltz your perky ass out on stage, take a massive fall, and dive straight into the audience and you’d still be doing Cath justice.”

Roman couldn’t help but snicker, internally trying not to preen at the perky ass comment. “Well, I’m about to do her memory one better than justice.”

“Good. Now, we have a bunch of costume jewellery here we keep incase of emergencies, and I’ve dug out some stuff like ribbons or whatever just in case you wanna spruce up the look. I’ll go fill in Janus while you look through this stuff, okay?”

Virgil needn’t have bothered asking considering he immediately left to go see Janus anyway, but Roman appreciated that it would save time, so he simply hummed in the affirmative as the door closed.

Roman perused the options with the same scrutiny one would a catalogue, mentally accessing each item in the toolbox: earrings, necklaces, rings, bangles, bracelets, even a few circlets and faux piercings had found their way in there too. Decisions, decisions, thought Roman as he settled on a pair of red marbled earrings. He was thankful that they were clip-ons considering he had let his one pierced ear heal back in ninth grade. Also fortuitous was the comfortable clipping mechanism. They didn’t pinch yet still felt secure.

Digging through the rest of the trinkets the way a raccoon sifts through garbage, Roman picked out a pair of elbow length white gloves and a lovely golden necklace to complete the look. With the ensemble look complete, Roman took a moment to stand in front of the full length mirror.

If you’d asked Roman if he ever thought he’d look good in a dress up til now he’d have been sure the answer would be no.

Now though…

Now he couldn’t deny the answer would be yes.

Roman turned gingerly to each side, then gave an awkward rotation. He felt… pretty. A part of him that was still stuck in the toxic masculinity his father had tried to enforce in him and his twin was telling him that he shouldn’t be happy about this. However, he managed to force that part of him into silence. He wasn’t looking at Roman Castillo anymore; he was admiring Aurora Rose.

A gleeful mirth he hadn’t felt in a long time rushed through him; he twirled in his dress – careful to avoid the wig flying off though it felt very firmly in place – and posed with purpose. The years of stress and anxiety he’d accrued with the instability of his painting career receded like the tides. He felt free in a way he hadn’t since he and Remus were children playing princes and pirates in their back garden. A genuine laugh escaped him as he twirled, utterly lost in his own little world.

“Enjoying yourself, Princess?”

Roman almost screamed, whirling around to face an amused Virgil. His cheeks flushed bright pink.

“I’m going to ask Janus to get you to wear a bell,” He grumbled, embarrassed.

Despite having ample ammunition to tease Roman, Virgil instead stepped closer to give him a proper once-over. Roman felt a little more than scrutinised under Virgil’s gaze; even if he thought he looked good, if Virgil disagreed that could toss all their work into the gutter. Thankfully, Virgil seemed satisfied. “Yeah, I like it. It suits you.” He took Roman’s arm. “Come on, let’s get you stageside before our last five minutes are up.”

Roman nodded dumbly, all but letting Virgil haul him towards the backstage. The process of handing off the music selection to Janus and being told where he would come in within the order of performers was a blur; by the time they’d taken to leave the dressing room and reached the backstage area, Roman’s anxiety had reared its ugly head.

Fuck, that’s right. He actually had to perform now.

It felt a little too real all too quickly. Sure, he looked the part —and probably awakened something in himself he didn’t have time to psychoanalyse at the moment— but he would have to go out there and lip sync with a dance routine he’d have to make up pretty much on the spot. And for how long? The whole song? A snippet? He’d never danced on this stage before, what if he fell off?!

Thankfully, Virgil took note of Roman’s change in demeanour and calmly pulled him aside. “What’s wrong, Roman? You feeling okay—?”

“I can’t do it,” Roman blurted in a terrified mumble.

“What? Princey, you can absolutely do this,” Virgil assured him. “You just go out there and dance and lip sync a little. It literally doesn’t have to be all that good. If you can’t dance, just make the audience laugh. Or be sexy. That works too.”

Despite Virgil’s more playful tone, Roman just got even more anxious.

“I’m going to ruin it. Fuck, I shouldn’t have come, you wasted all this time dressing me up and doing my make up—!”

“Roman.” Virgil stopped him mid ramble. “I’m saying this with all the kindness in my body; shut the fuck up.”

Roman gave a small huff of offence but Virgil just continued, “We literally just need you to go out there and look pretty. Wing it, have fun, that’s all we need from you then you can go home and do whatever it is you do. Okay?”

The unconvinced nervousness in Roman’s expression must’ve given him away as Virgil sighed. “Okay, come watch this.”

Virgil led Roman to the curtain; upon peeking out at the audience, Roman could see… frankly about twenty people sat at their tables, a far cry from what he’d imagined. Perhaps the lights distorted his view, but either way, Janus walked out on stage in a sleek evening gown dripping with gold sequins paired with hoop earrings and the same wig from earlier, though now paired with a large brimmed black hat that he must’ve stolen from the 1920s lounge he’d robbed to find his dress.

Janus had barely set foot on stage when the whistles and applause began. Roman figured the crowd must all be regulars.

“Good evening, my darlings. How are we all tonight?”

A thunderous response had Roman recounting the crowd, perhaps thirty people instead of twenty. He dragged his attention back to Janus.

“Tonight we have a very special performance; an exclusive performance by a first time queen! A Miss Aurora Rose! How excited are we, darlings~?”

Janus had to be part siren. That or the crowd was multiplying via mitosis each time. Roman was sure no crowd could make that much noise with only thirty people. He wasn’t sure if he preferred the idea of a smaller crowd or a larger crowd at this point. His worry blocked out the rest of Janus’ warm up while scenario after scenario popped into his head. Falling off stage, the crowd hating him, his wig flying off (that one felt like it may be a cardinal sin of drag), a wardrobe malfunction—

“Hey.”

Roman snapped back to the present as Virgil placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t zone out, Princey. Watch the act, take it in, and let it be an inspiration for your performance. You’re on last, so you have plenty of time to think of something, okay?”

Unsure still, Roman nodded.

“When do you go on?”

“After Janus. Then it’s Remus, then Marcus, then Eden, and then it’s you. After that, Janus will close it out with a closing routine.”

Virgil gestured back to the main stage and Roman waited for him to say something, however no words were needed. The music faded into life as Janus placed the mic to the side and used the buildup of the music to slowly saunter into position.

A spark of recognition hit Roman as the music settled into his brain; something by Caravan Palace. He vaguely recalled having heard the song once while painting in his studio late into the night. He didn’t recall the name, just that the music video was pretty wild and definitely some form of furry bait.

With little warning, the first lines hit and Janus performed.

No, that’s wrong.

Calling what Janus did a performance was an understatement.

Miss Lie-Gon took the stage and made it her kingdom for three minutes and fifty one seconds. Strutting like a runway model, sleek snappy movements that fit the beat so perfectly, each little acting flare boosting the performance, and never once did she let up on the sex appeal. Mesmerising, electrifying, the air crackled with an energy Roman couldn’t begin to grasp the words for. The click of heels on wood, gilded glimmers of light dancing in tandem with the glamorous queen on stage, the roar of patrons going so wild for the sight that it bordered on feral.

He’d never had one himself, but Roman was sure this must be what a spiritual awakening must feel like.

As soon as it had come, it was over. The music faded out and Miss Lie-Gon —now Janus once more— blew the audience a parting kiss.

From beside him, Virgil stood and fixed his hair. He shot Roman a half smirk of amusement. “Don’t zone out, Princey. You’ve still got a lot more to watch and learn.”

Before Roman could think to retort, new music started up and Virgil disappeared onto stage.

Virgil then proceeded to make that stage his bitch.

Anna Ryo was so very different from Miss Lie-Gon; where the latter was salacious, the former was bold. Where the latter was sophisticated, the former was wild. The difference was like night and day. Janus’ appeal lay in a tantalising performance that felt untouchable, a spectacle you were to only witness from a distance.

Virgil’s appeal was intimidating, in your face; the kind of appeal that has people screaming “step on me”. Anna Ryo was a building storm that beckoned you to come closer. No, dared you to come closer, come get a taste if you’re brave enough. Roman could see the appeal, the rock vocal (he wasn’t sure, but part of him thought the song may have been an Ashnikko cover) fit Anna’s dark gazes and snappy movements. Gravitational, each beat she hit made it impossible not to want to get closer. Her dancing made Roman feel like he had been ensnared in a spider’s web, and lord help him, he loved it.

He was so enthralled, he nearly screamed when Janus tapped a hand to his lower back,

“Captivating, isn’t he?”

Roman wasn’t sure why, but Janus sounded less like he was asking a question and more like he was teasing a younger sibling. He supposed that was just how Janus generally sounded given their interactions til now. He dragged his attention reluctantly from Virgil to properly address Janus who unfairly looked like he hadn’t even broken a sweat from his performance.

“He is. It’s… intimidating to be following that level of excellence.” Roman uttered, trying not to make it obvious he was trying to peek back at Virgil’s performance.

“Now, now, you’ll be fine. You’ve already done the hard part anyway.” Janus sounded so nonchalant it battled between putting Roman at ease and making him more anxious.

“I beg to differ…” He looked out to the stage in time to see Virgil wink at him to punctuate the lyrics, “No dickstraction can confuse me”, and fuck.

Oh no.

He felt a flutter in his stomach and quickly turned his attention back to Janus who looked far too amused.

“Then beg.” Janus smirked, adjusting his earring. “Roman, believe me when I say being on stage is as easy as breathing if you let go. Otherwise it’s still like breathing — only under water with lungs full of hat pins.”

Roman let out an anxious whine and Janus rolled his eyes. With a single finger hooked under Roman’s chin, Janu turned his gaze back to him, “Listen carefully. If you get into trouble, lean into the audience. Not literally, but dynamically. Engage them, make them feel special just getting to witness you.”

He punctuated his advice with, “Make them want you. And they won’t give a single fuck if you miss a lip sync or your dancing is sub par. Understand me?”

Roman nodded and Janus released him, “Good. Now, I’m going to go get your brother ready. You enjoy the rest of Virgil’s performance.”

He hated the knowing wink Janus sent his way as he left. And even in spite of it, he didn’t wait to keep watching Virgil’s performance. It may have only felt like a couple more seconds until the end of the song but Roman caught the signature half smile Virgil shot at him upon his return to the backstage.

“Enjoy the show, Princey?”

“So much”, he longed to say, but Roman simply shrugged, playfully responding, “It was alright, I guess—”

Virgil punched him in the arm; lightly but enough that Roman made a mental note that if he ever hung out with the emo nightmare again, he would avoid doing anything punch worthy. The little shit had a mean left jab.

“Asshole.” Virgil snorted.

“Ooh, where?” came Remus’ voice as he stepped up to go on stage.

Virgil didn’t humour him and instead gestured to the curtains. “Just go out there and do your thing, Remus.”

With an excitable grin, Remus clapped his hands together. “You know I wiiiiiill~!”

Roman watched as Remus stepped through the curtains to rowdy applause, rolling his eyes as his twin gleefully warned the audience, “Fair warning; the first two rows WILL become a splash zone!”

Deciding he didn’t want to find out what that meant – especially coming from his own twin – Roman struck up conversation with Virgil to hide his nerves.

“Was it the same for you? Your first performance, I mean, were you also nervous?”

Thankfully, Virgil glossed over Roman’s pathetic attempt to grasp the English language and gave a thoughtful pout. “Well, yeah. It’s fucking terrifying the first time you try anything, Princey.”

From a table next to him that Roman had been too transfixed to see prior, Virgil picked up a water bottle, popped the cap, and took a sip. Once he was done, he continued, “It’s hard to talk about it; not ‘cause the performance was all that scary, just, I told you before right? My family isn’t all that keen on what I do even if they’re not gonna be assholes about it. So I did all my makeup, I picked out a fancy dress, and then it hit me… I’d have to walk out there and know I didn’t have any real support to fall back on if I failed. I wasn’t working here yet so I didn’t have Jan or Remus either back then. I was all on my own if I fucked up. You on the other hand have Remus and me at least, if not Janus too.”

Virgil patted Roman’s arm comfortingly, despite the part of Roman that felt like he should be the one giving Virgil comfort instead.

“Besides, you’ve got it way easier. Just one night then you get to dip and never have to think about this ever again.”

An unexplainable weight began crushing against Roman’s stomach; just one performance, right…

“Still, it’s a lot of pressure,” Roman responded. “I don’t want to let everyone down.”

“You won’t. Honestly, you’re just filling in and everyone is aware of that. No one’s gonna come after you with pitchforks or torches, Roman.”

It didn’t put Roman at much ease, and Virgil must’ve picked up on it because he was silent for a beat before speaking again.

“...If it helps —and you can’t tell him I told you or he WILL skin me— but the first time Remus was performing, Jan told me he was so nervous he panicked and swan-dived off stage. It was a mess; he got pretty banged up, but apparently it also kinda put him at ease.” “How so?” Roman asked, astonished.

“Jan said Remus knew after fucking up that bad, he couldn’t do any worse. So now he goes out there and borderline lap dances the patrons like it’s his birthright,” Virgil deadpanned.

Roman wrinkled his nose. “Not an image I wanted, Virge.”

The emo chuckled, ignoring Roman’s protest. “Where did that come from?”

“Where’d what come from, Virge—?” Roman caught on, giving a snort in realisation. “Ah, right. Well, I mean… I’m not sure, just… Virge.”

“So articulate, very creative,” Virgil began, teasingly. “Such a bold new take, you should quit your day job and become an artist with all that creativity.”

Roman snorted in amusement. “I am an artist.”

Virgil took a moment to see if he was joking.

“...Really? Not, uh, not bad ‘really’, just, I dunno…”

The white foundation on Virgil’s cheeks began to lose out to the flushed rosy pink forming underneath them. “Just figured you did… something else.”

“Well now you have to enlighten me, just what did you think my job was?” Roman asked, both curious and teasing. Virgil looked so flustered, he needed to know.

“Uh.. I mean, at first I thought maybe something like… a model—!”

Roman hadn’t meant to laugh, but come on. It was hilarious. Even with Virgil swatting him flusteredly.

“You jerk! Don’t laugh at me!”

Roman threw up his arms in defence. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just so funny, I’m hardly model material!”

Virgil avoided eye contact as he muttered, “I wouldn’t say that…”

“Well, now I’m curious as to what you thought it was after you thought I was a model.. You did say you thought I was a model ‘at first’ so…”

Virgil groaned, “Promise you won’t like… get mad or laugh again, right?”

“...I promise, but now I’m a little worried.” Roman chuckled.

With a fond snort, Virgil exhaled nervously. “I thought… maybe, just maybe… you were uh… well… I mean if you are, it’s cool… just—”

He seemed to really struggle, so Roman softly prompted, “Virge, don’t worry, I won’t be upset—!”

“—A pornstar!” He blurted in a half whisper.

Blinking the startledness from his eyes, it was Roman’s turn to blush. “You thought I was—?!”

“Shut up! I figured y’know! You’re pretty good looking, you have a nice body–”

“I KNEW you were looking when I changed—!”

“Oh my god shut up, I’m gay, and very much not blind, you asshole!” Covering his flushed face, Virgil muttered, “I just thought all that made sense!! I always thought it was weird, but Remus told me you worked with naked men for a living—!”

“He WHAT?!” Roman whisper yelled. “Okay, well, I’m very much NOT a pornstar. And I haven’t painted a naked model since college!” He huffed, murmuring, “I don’t even have a boyfriend to paint naked.”

Virgil looked him up and down shyly, “...Why not paint yourself?”

Roman considered it but shook his head, “I couldn’t. I can’t stay still when I paint, and… I don’t like painting myself in my work. It always comes out…” Depressing. Unappealing. Pathetic. “...Looking wrong.”

Even with the music changing and Marcus swapping out for Eden —had Roman really not noticed the change over from Remus to Marcus?— the silence stretched a little too thin until Virgil finally filled it.

“...I can’t sit still to save my life —ADHD and all that shit— and I would prefer not being naked… but if you ever needed someone to pose for photos…” It looked physically painful for Virgil to make the offer. “Then I wouldn’t be opposed to helping you out sometime. You dropped everything to come help us so… it’d be the least I could do to pay you back.”

Surprised, Roman took in Virgil for a moment; he needn’t have offered, but he did. He didn’t try to wave off Roman’s insecurities and just tell him to overcome his crippling self image issues like it’s that easy. A traitorous flutter awoke again within him.

“...I’d love that. Thank you, Virge.” Roman responded when he noticed Virgil getting antsy.

Thankfully, that soothed Virgil’s nerves it seemed, “Awesome, cool, I’ll uh, take the pictures myself sometime and send them to you unless you need, like, proper photos—”

“Virge, it’s okay. You could send me selfies and I’d be glad to paint with them as inspiration. You don’t have to be so nervous.”

Virgil fondly elbowed Roman. “Hey, that’s my line. But I guess you don’t need me to tell you that now, do you?”

Virgil was right, Roman did feel far more at ease. He was still terrified about going on stage of course, but now he wasn’t thinking about it so much.

“I suppose you did.”

The rest of Eden’s performance came to a close while Roman stood waiting to go out. His nerves returned the closer the music came to ending though thankfully Virgil stayed with him.

“Just remember, it’s one performance, then you never need to do this again. Go out and have fun.”

Roman nodded with a security he still didn’t fully feel. “I’ll try my best.”

If Virgil was going to say more he didn’t get the chance; all at once, Janus reappeared from lord knows where and geared Roman into position behind the curtain, very quickly informing him, “The time is now, Roman. Good luck—”

“—And don’t fuck it up?” Roman supplied.

“Preferably.”

With little extra fanfare, Janus gently ushered him past the curtains and onto the stage.

The lights overhead blinded him but thankfully his highschool musical years had helped him adjust to it quickly enough to avoid awkwardly stumbling on stage. The applause felt suffocating and for the fainted moment, Roman’s mind went blank.

Shit, this was a bad idea. What was he thinking?! It’s been so long since he even got anywhere near a stage–!

As if grounding him, the music broke through the panic. The opening strum of the guitar hauled him off of the ground and set him right. He knew the words. Every inflection, every beat. All he had to do was perform. He took a deep breath and waited.

“Rule number one… is that you’ve gotta have fun.”

Heeding Janus’ advice, Roman let go. No longer Roman Castillo; he was Aurora Rose. And like he’d practised for weeks, he began to perform. Falling into the persona was easier than he had once thought; Aurora was a protective armour he wielded with a playful, alluring demeanour.

Roman may not have been perfect, but he lip synced to the lyrics he would hum around his apartment while cleaning, moving in ways he saved for his solo dance sessions in his living room — minus the profanities he’d spout whenever his shin would connect with the coffee table.

He had fun with it.

The pulsing beat of the chorus hit and by then Roman was running on the rush of performing.

Aurora was alive and loving every second. She swayed her hips with the music, shimmied and moved with the energy of a true party girl, and when she felt bold enough, she did as Janus suggested and leant into the audience. She winked, blew kisses, one lucky man in the front row close enough within range was blessed by the softest passing caress of the cheek. Aurora put on a hell of a show.

And the audience loved it.

They loved her.

Slowing things down before the final stretch of the song, Roman came back to himself for a brief second; he could feel the blood rushing through his veins and his lungs hammering in his chest. Like a headrush, he found himself in awe of the effect he had on the audience. He could feel them watching his lips, eyeing his slow movements. This was the final crank before the jack-in-the-box would spring free again, the seconds before the last fireworks burst.

‘Look at me’, Roman thought to himself, slipping back into the delirium that had swept him up at the beginning, riding the high of the oncoming crescendo, ‘Look only at me, I want your eyes on me, only on me.’

“This is how to be a heartbreaker–!”

Once more, Aurora broke free. Her lips caressed every non-existent word that left her lips while she gave it her all. Twirling spins, the click of her heels, each playful toss of her hair, not a single step was taken without a flourish. Still imperfect, a princess not yet a queen, but that didn’t stop her putting in every ounce of effort. After all, it was her one night of life, and then Aurora would sleep forever in her eternal tower; she wasn’t going down without being remembered.

Aurora approached the edge of the stage.

“Cause I lo-lo-lo-love you–”

She leant in, cupping her hand to her mouth, winking.

“At least I think I do~!”

The aftermath felt like an out of body experience; Aurora melted away and Roman stood there on stage while the audience went wild. With an excited bounce, Roman did his best courtesy —he couldn’t even care that he fumbled it a little— and exited backstage to Janus giving an elegant applause.

“Excellent job,” He congratulated, gesturing with a dainty flourish. “Remus and the others are waiting for you.”

Without another word, Janus walked past him, patting him on the arm as Janus disappeared to close out the show.

On autopilot, Roman made his way to the dressing area where Remus immediately bear-hugged him so hard it’s a wonder his ribs didn’t crush.

“Look at you, Ro!!! You did great!!”

Roman huffed, but he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. Especially with Virgil looking at him like he was the coolest thing since the North Pole.

“You were great, Princey.” He smirked playfully. “A little sloppy, but otherwise, great.”

Roman gave an offended huff as he wriggled out of Remus’ hold, still beaming even in spite of Virgil’s playful teasing.

“Oh hush, you’re just jealous I might steal your job.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Oh I’m shaking. Besides, now you can go back to your art studio and become the next Leonardo Da Vinci instead.”

“Perhaps I will!” Roman chuckled with a confidence in himself that frankly, was nowhere to be found. The rest of his time with the queens was mostly spent receiving praise from the others and removing his outfit. It was strangely melancholic; as he went to remove the ensemble, he caught himself in the mirror again.

Aurora stared back. Her face didn’t suit a frown, that wasn’t how he wanted to remember her. Sure, he’d been all but hauled into some after show group photos at Remus’ request, but he still pulled out his phone and snapped some happier, smiling pictures in the full length mirror.

Now he could say goodbye to her. Right?

Roman began to change. Undressing now felt like readying himself for a funeral, but in essence, it was in a way. He tried not to think about it as he put on his pants and shirt, carefully trying to remove the wig pins when Virgil caught up with him.

“Lemme help you there, Princey.”

“Oh thank goodness, I thought I’d be trapped in this for eternity.”

Virgil snickered. “Yeah, yeah, just hold still…”

In the end, Virgil wound up helping Roman remove his wig and sat him down to remove his makeup properly too.

“You really did good tonight,” Virgil mused as he carefully removed Roman’s false lashes. “Especially for a first time performer.”

Roman blinked once his eyes were free of the lashes. He tried not to miss their weight.

“Actually, I’ve been on stage before, just quite a few years ago,” He admitted.

“Oh? I thought you were an art kid,” Virgil asked curiously.

“I dabbled in all the arts at some point. Music, painting, and acting.” Roman waited for Virgil to remove his makeup from around his mouth before speaking again, “My childhood dream was to be a star, to perform on stage and play all the greatest heroes! So I signed up for every musical our school would produce, and I landed quite a few good roles in my day.” His bravado faltered ever so slightly, “I always wanted to get back into it someday.”

“... So why didn’t you?”

Virgil’s tone was softer than a Persian cat but the question it carried felt like barbed wire against Roman’s heart. Virgil hadn’t meant it badly, he knew that, but the answer was painful to recall.

“...I’m not sure,” He lied. “But it’s alright. I have my painting, and that’s enough for me.”

Virgil didn’t look convinced but refused to push things further. “Well, as long as you’re happy. Now gimme your phone so I can send you those photos before my stupid ass forgets.”

Exchanging numbers and making sure all traces of the makeup was washed away, Roman waved goodbye to the other queens for what was likely the last time unless Remus brought them to visit. He could come visit sometime perhaps, but Roman tried not to think about it and stepped into the cold night air. After the warmth of the club coupled with the sweat worked up from performing, the chill settled in harshly. Roman pulled his coat tighter on the walk to his car while trying to stamp down the pit in his stomach as he reversed out of the parking space and made his way home…

---

The next four days felt so empty for Roman.

As usual, he woke up, threw on his overalls and shirt, and set about painting. Or trying to. Virgil had sent him plenty of great photos —including the group photo that made him feel a little warmer inside— yet the creative muse wouldn’t flow. Charcoal, pastels, ink, nothing worked to spark that fire. Desperation led him to other means than his usual sources, mediums like collage and print, but aside from half-hearted attempts, the canvas was blank.

“Oh Muses, why have you forsaken me…?”

Roman lay forlorn across his studio’s sofa, running his hands down his face in frustration. A groan slipped its way out like a ghost in the night; he needed to create something new soon, otherwise he’d never claw his way out of this artistic malaise. Times like this were when Roman lamented his fickle, perfectionist brain the hardest. Perhaps he should’ve quit painting a long time ago…

“...So why didn’t you?”

The question plagued Roman ever since Virgil had asked it. He knew damn well why he stopped performing, but admitting it was the hardest part.

“...Because I was scared.”

Blinking back to reality from his daydream, Roman sat up slowly. It was true; the first signs of trouble had him turning tail and running back to his next best creative outlet. He didn’t hate his art —not at all— but he resented what it had begun to represent. Isolation, failure, stagnancy. How long had it been since he’d been out with friends? Did he still have friends to hang out with? His work took days to months to complete on canvas, it left little to no time for socialising anymore. True, he’d been the one to guarantee gorgeous paintings in such a short timeframe… but that was only because well…

What else did he have?

The realisation brought Roman to his feet, though he had no idea where he was going until he’d grabbed his jacket and his keys. Without a second for doubt to set in, he drove to The Palace and hopped out in time to catch someone taking a smoke break outside. “Excuse me—!”

“We’re closed, come back later—“

Roman knew that voice. “Virgil?”

Virgil looked up from stubbing out his cigarette, sounding far more friendly, “Princey, what brings you here? We’re closed right now but if you’re here to talk to Remus—”

“I want to work here!” Roman blurted out, adrenaline still pounding through his system from his impulsive decision.

“I… I miss it, Virge. I know it was one performance but I—!”

“Hey, whoa, take a breath, Ro.” Virgil ushered Roman to come inside. “Janus is the one you should talk to. He owns the place, so he has final say.”

Roman gladly locked his car and followed Virgil inside. Approaching the stage area, the queens from last night were playing Uno at one of the tables; by the looks of it Remus was winning. They were mostly out of costume save for Janus who was wearing a black pencil skirt, a white blouse with the sleeves rolled, and what Roman assumed was a blonde wig tied into a messy bun with long strands at the front to frame his face. Even with more minimal makeup, he managed to look stunning.

“Uno, bitches! Suck my dick!” Remus declared. “Pick up your eight cards, Coffee Slut!”

The aforementioned ‘Coffee Slut’ flipped Remus off, picking up eight. “I fucking hate you, Remus.”

“Love you too, Remy.”

Virgil cleared his throat and all eyes fell on him. Roman could recognise most of the people present —Marcus and Eden were hard to miss, especially with the former all but sitting on the latter’s lap to play, and Remy he remembered seeing with the still-visible leg cast before— except three of them.

One was a friendly-looking fellow with dark skin, with candy pink semi-long curly pink hair with an undercut, dressed in a sandy cardigan littered with colourful pins and buttons. Another sported wavy chestnut hair and round spectacles —unlike the other two’s half moon glasses— that highlighted their big blue eyes, freckles kissing their olivine cheeks as they smiled eagerly at their cards. And the last was a tall, broad man with a pale complexion much like Virgil’s with piercing deep blue eyes and slicked back brown hair so dark it was nearly black.

“Oh, hey Virgil! Do you and your friend wanna join in?” Asked the shortest of the three.

“No thanks, Pat. I just came to get Janus for a moment.” Virgil smirked. “Besides, Remus cheats at Uno, no way am I playing.”

“YOU WHORE, I KNEW IT—!” Remy tossed his cards at Remus who did the same. Everyone around the table began arguing and Janus stood up, gesturing for Roman and Virgil to follow him while the table descended into chaos.

“This is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. What brings you back, Roman?” Janus asked as he led them into his office before sitting atop his desk.

“I want to work here,” Roman stated, determinedly.

Janus hummed. “I’d be happy to offer you a job, however our clientele, while loyal, only brings in so much. I’m not sure we could afford to hire you on top of fixing this place up—”

“Roman’s an artist,” Virgil interrupted. “Most of the fixing up is just repainting the walls and decor, right? If Roman offered to help out with that, it’d save us a lot of money since we wouldn’t have to hire a painter.”

Roman wanted to interrupt to say that his job was far from the level of an interior designer, but then again, he did entirely repaint his studio pretty damn well on his own. Plus, Virgil was out here trying to get him the job, so he nodded along. “I’d love to help out. I can afford the paint for the walls and I have a step ladder of my own I can use.”

Studying him with those piercing eyes, Janus was quiet for a while. A sinking feeling overcame Roman, each second convinced him Janus would say no. No, and back to his lonely life. No, and the closest he’d be to a stage would be watching the other queens perform if he could stomach to return.

No, and it’s back to isolation and failure—

“Alright.”

Roman blinked, shell shocked. “Sorry?”

“Spacing out while asking for a job is very rude,” Janus began. “But you’re lucky I’m willing to take a chance on you.”

Janus stood up, taking Roman’s hand and shaking it. “Welcome to a life of heels and tucking, Roman.” He smirked playfully. “Or should that be Aurora?”

~~~~~~

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naminethewriter · 2 years

Text

Royal Duties

Day 2! This includes Trans Male Janus and talk of trans male pregnancy. Hope you enjoy 💛💚

@dukeceitweek

Here on Ao3

Masterpost | Dukeceit Week 2022 Masterpost

Summary: Remus calls Janus to the music room to tell him exciting news.

Janus walks the halls of the royal palace with purpose, ignoring the displeased looks other nobles shoot his way as he passes. As the best friend of the crown prince, he was used to their stares, whether of envy or hatred or a mixture of both he doesn’t know, nor does he care. He has places to be.

More specifically, Remus called him to the music room without explanation as to why. Another thing he was used to, the prince rarely explained his reasoning behind anything. Not that he particularly minds, it is very refreshing compared to the rest of the court life. Especially since over the years they had less and less time for whimsy.

He reaches the ornate double doors soon after and thankfully, there is no one in the halls loitering around, trying to catch a moment of the crown prince’s time to make a proposal of some kind that they should just send a formal request in for. He knocks and but a second later Remus calls for him to enter.

The room is one of Janus’ favorites with a large window front, that lets in the sun, a lot of space that gives each instrument placed within its own space to shine and the acoustics are perfect. If he could, he would spend days here, playing song after song until his arms tire. But he cannot.

“Janny! You made it!” Remus calls, delighted. He sits at the piano and waves him over to join him. “Everyone else: out.” The woman standing next him, who Janus recognizes as Remus’ piano teacher, scowls.

“Your royal highness, we aren’t done yet. There is still- “

“I said: out,” Remus interrupts, in a tone that makes it clear that he won’t accept no for an answer. She acquiesces, bowing to the prince and following the two maids that had been attending to them out. She glares at Janus as she passes him. He ignores her.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Remus says, joyfully, as soon as the doors close. He stands and walks over to Janus, pulling him into a hug. “That damn hag was nagging me for two hours already, any longer and I would’ve thrown her out of the window.” Janus chuckles.

“I’m honored to be your savior, then.”

“As you should be! Not many have had the privilege.”

“Was there another reason you called me for or just to alleviate you of your burdens and ease your loneliness?”

“Don’t say ‘just’, you make it sound like I’m using you as a tool,” Remus pouted. “I haven’t seen you in forever, I missed you!”

“We saw each other yesterday.”

“Your point?”

“You’re right, how foolish of me, that is infallible reasoning. What was I thinking, doubting you?” He smirks which quickly becomes a fond smile as Remus starts giggling. Then, he is pulled across the room and towards the gramophone. He follows along without complaint. Remus lets him go as soon as they reach the device, fiddles with it for a few moments and then drags him away again, towards the middle of the room this time as music starts to fill the room.

“Dance with me,” he says, already moving them both into position. He knows Janus would never deny him a dance in private.

“Of course, my prince.”

They’re quiet for a while, just letting themselves be moved by the music. Remus leads him through different dances, whatever he felt like in the moment, never sticking to steps for an entire song. Janus is very familiar with his way of dancing. They’d practiced together since they were five years old, Remus’ attention span had led them to divert from the usual steps back then as well.

It is purely improvised but Janus makes it look as if they practiced it for month, elegantly following Remus’ every move without misstepping.

“Hey Janny,” Remus eventually speaks up, unusually quiet. The music had slowed and so had their movement. Janus looks up, having been lost in the music only moments prior. Remus’ vibrant, green eyes are fixated on his own brown ones, and he can see the deep emotions behind them.

“You know I love you, right?”

Janus almost falters. Why would Remus ask him that? Of course he knows. He’s known for years. They’d planned their wedding together, before Janus figured out that he was a boy. He’d been so happy to finally have an answer to why he’d felt his body wasn’t his own, like he wasn’t born right. Remus had been happy with him, had taken to his new name without complaint and not once slipped up and used his old one. Janus had told his parents and they’d been happy for him, too. They went to the temple and changed his name, he’d been officially Janus, he’d been who he wanted to be.

And then Remus had learned that that meant they couldn’t get married anymore. Members of the royal family weren’t allowed to marry someone of the same gender. The rest of the populace could, but not the royals. Because of a stupid law that the nobles would never let them change.

Janus had offered to take it back. To go back to his old name and clothes and duties. Remus had told him no. That he wouldn’t let him throw it all away because he knew he was happier now, being Janus and not a girl. Instead, he offered to give up his place in the royal family. Janus told him no. He loved his family; he’d be miserable if he left.

They were stuck. So, even if they didn’t want to, they gave up the thought of getting married. They could still stay together, just not like that. Remus would have to marry a girl someday and they accepted that. Janus accepted that.

So why was Remus telling him he loves him now, when it will only lead to pain for both of them?

“I know,” he whispers.

“And you love me.”

Janus presses his eyes shut tight, trying to push the tears threatening to fall back.

“Yes.”

“So, will you marry me?”

Janus freezes. Remus stops dancing but keeps his hold on him. He must have heard that wrong. He looked back up, back into those green eyes and found nothing but honesty in them.

“I… we… we can’t,” he says weakly. “The law says that- “

“The law says,” Remus interrupts him gently, “that members of the royal family cannot marry someone they cannot have children with.”

“Huh?”

“Father brought up finding a fiancée for me yesterday. I tried to avoid the topic, but it seems like he finally grew tired of me dodging it. We had an argument and your name came up because he knows that you’re the reason I don’t want to talk about it. He told me that I either need to get over it or find a way around the law. I was angry so I told him I would. Of course I didn’t think I’d find anything but out of pure spite I went to look it up.

“Turns out the law was instated because some scummy king who needed an excuse to get rid of his wife and marry his mistress, so he used the fact that they were lacking any children and said that she was unable to produce an heir. You know how the court is about bloodlines, so they ate it up and the law was born.

“There isn’t a word about same sex marriage in there, it’s only implied because it’s just a fact that two men or two women can’t have children together. But that doesn’t apply to us because while you’re a man, you do have a working womb. Right?”

Janus can’t help but let out a startled laugh. “Yes, dear, much to my dismay, my womb is indeed working.”

“So, as long as you’re willing to, y’know, use it for its intended purpose, we can get married.” Remus smiles at him in that loving way and Janus can’t stop the tears from falling any longer. He’d spent years thinking he would need to give up either the love of his life or his identity but all they had to do was actually look up the damned law? Ridiculous. He laughs.

“It was that easy all along? The answer was right in front of us, we were just too scared to look?” Remus joins his laughter.

“Yeah, I guess it was. Does that mean-?”

“Yes, Remus. I would love to marry and have children with you.” Janus would never forget the smile that spreads across Remus’ face in that moment as he is picked up and spun around, their laughter filling the room. It was, in Janus’ opinion, the most beautiful sound ever produced.

#namiswriting #dukeceitweek2022 #day 2: dancing #janus sanders #ts janus #remus sanders #ts remus #fluff #trans male janus #discussion of trans male pregnancy #royalty!au #sanders sides #fanfiction #reblogs are appreciated

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golden-songbird · 2 years

Text

my tss ballerina au

logan is the star of a nation-renowned dance company (run by the one and only remy!), and he has perfect technique from years of training for hours on end. at one point in his life, he used to enjoy dance, but now, it feels like nothing more than a job. while his dancing is amazing, he doesn’t really take the time to feel and experience the story. he feels disconnected from himself, and he doesn’t think he has the capacity to understand emotions.

it doesn’t help that his toxic boyfriend patton is slowly draining him of what passion he has left. he’s controlling, and he takes advantage of logan’s mental state. he orders him around, and has harsh punishments when logan doesn’t obey him. but logan thinks that patton’s treatment is normal in a relationship, and his life grows duller and duller.

but when roman, a newcomer with amateur tendencies and a much better understanding of the real world than one might predict, is invited to the company and disturbs the natural balance, logan can’t help but be intrigued by the young man’s dedication to courage and freedom.

especially when he and roman are assigned to perform a duet together.

what could go wrong?

#sanders sides #roman sanders #sanders sides au #logan sanders #remy sanders #ballerina #dance au #unsympathetic patton #patton sanders #logince #logicality

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whatsnewalycat · 7 months

Text

Passenger / Chapter 5

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Five: Wyoming (Part Two)

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ Spotify Playlist ]

Chapter Summary: Charlie and Din test the waters.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.8k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, horny thoughts, anger problems, crying, food mention, handcuffs, hi yes the only one bed trope is alive and well, unlike the Titanic (it's relevant I promise), small town, lying, fictional town, sorry to Wyoming-ites if I got WY all wrong, (Bernie Sanders voice) I am once again talking about The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Notes: Howdy, howdy. We are balls deep in the yearning with this one, folks. Thank you @frannyzooey for proofreading and being the literal best, I appreciate you endlessly.

Just like Paul promised, The Jackalope Motel is conveniently located straight across the county road from Giddyup Auto.

The single-story, L-shaped motel, whose faded roadside sign advertises low weekly rates and color TV, shares a gravel parking lot with a two-pump gas station. Its brick exterior is painted a pallid shade of yellow, all ten room doors varnished with this glossy teal finish.

Nestled into the elbow of the building sits a white screen door with the words MOTEL OFFICE printed on the front.

Din departs from your side to hold the door open, an action you assure yourself is rooted less in chivalry than it is him not wanting to turn his back to you. A loud creak sounds from the battered door and announces your arrival. The dog charges through the threshold, pulling his leash taut in your grip as you step inside the cramped, wood-paneled office.

An elderly woman perks up on her barstool behind the front desk. She stubs out her lit cigarette in a nearby ashtray and calls in a husky voice, “Howdy, howdy.”

“Hi there,” you smile, glancing back at Din to determine who will take the lead in this interaction.

He does, taking three wide strides past you to the counter. As he moves through the room, a thick sea of smoke parts for him, churning and dancing in his wake.

“We need a room. Two nights for now.”

The gray-haired woman pulls the glasses hanging on a chain around her neck onto the bridge of her nose, “Let me see here…”

At your feet, the dog sniffs his surroundings. He follows an invisible trail to a tattered plaid couch. You follow, listening to Din and the motel manager discuss lodging arrangements.

“I got a couple two three rooms open, I can stick you in one away from the rabble rousers. Somethin’ more private,” she winks at him.

His back straightens and he holds up a hand, “Do you have anything with two beds?”

The mischievous look on her face flattens and she raises her eyebrows, looking down at her books with a frown, “‘Fraid I don’t.”

Din looks over at you, his face blank, eyes inscrutable behind his aviators, then turns back to the woman and gives her a nod, “Anything you have is fine, then.”

He takes out his wallet as she starts getting paperwork together. You gravitate towards a wall of faded, dusty brochures that advertise Western Wyoming’s finest tourist traps, including, but not limited to: a cowboy-themed amusement park, guided tours of mountain ranges and caves, horseback riding expeditions, and hot springs.

“What brings y’all to town?”

When you turn to Din, he gives you a mild, one-shouldered shrug, so you tell her, “His rig broke down about an hour from here. Paul—do you know Paul?”

She chuckles and nods, “I’ve known Paul since he was in diapers. Used to watch him for his momma while she was at work.”

“No kidding?” you approach the tall front desk, propping your elbows up on the counter, “He’s fixing the truck. Really nice guy, referred us to this place ‘cuz we don’t know how long it’ll take.”

“Can I get your ID, hun?” she asks Din, who complies without comment, then she glances up at you while jotting down your companion’s information, “He’ll get y’all fixed up good. We got a few things to do ‘round here if you get tireda bein’ holed up here. A few parks, some trails. There’s a fella that has a ranch just on the outskirts of town, he does horseback riding, if that squeezes your lemon. Downtown, we got some bars, coupla places to eat ‘n’ all that,” she hands the ID back to Din, sighing, “Nothin’ fancy, but better ‘n nothin’ at all.”

“We don’t need fancy,” you grin at Din, who does not return the sentiment, then ask the motel manager, “What’s your name?”

“Annie.”

“I love that name,” you smile, “Annie Get Your Gun.”

She smiles, too, toothy and wide, revealing her too-perfect teeth–obviously dentures–and says, “You know, I was actually named after her. Annie Oakley.”

“That’s awesome. A fantastic namesake, she was a true badass.”

“She sure was,” Annie nods and takes the glasses off her face, letting them drop around her neck from the glasses chain, “Well, the room comes to $59 per night, plus taxes and fees, ends up runnin’ closerta $75. Do you wanna settle the tab for two nights now, or see if you needta tack on more and take care of it at checkout?”

You look over at Din, who answers, “We can settle at checkout.”

“Fine with me,” she swivels on her little stool and stands to grab a key off the wall behind her, “We got an ice maker and vending machine outside the door here, don’t be too loud, and pick up after yer dog. Any questions?”

She slides a key across the counter, whose big turquoise keychain reads 10 in metallic gold, and glances between you and Din. He grabs it, and you respond, “No ma’am.”

“Alright, well, let me know if y’all need anything.”

“Will do, thank you, Annie,” you give her a polite wave before following Din outside, pulling the dog along behind you.

The room smells of bleach and water damage.

Much like the office, its walls are all wood-paneled with a dull oak finish. A framed painting of a bunny with deer antlers hangs above the queen sized bed. As you try to untangle the leash from your guitar and backpack, you nod at the painting and chuckle, “A jackalope.”

Din grunts in response. He tosses his backpack on the bed, then turns to the dog, crouching down to unclip his leash from the collar. The dog reacts like he’s hit with a cattle-prod and goes zooming around the motel room in a lop-sided oval.

You start giggling as he tears over the bed, to the bathroom door where he makes a U-turn and speeds past the dresser, then your feet, then Din’s, then does it again, around and around until he runs out of steam. He comes to rest on the fireproof, floral bedspread, circa 1984, and leans back on his haunches, panting and out of breath, tongue hanging out of his jowls, glancing between you and his person.

“Feel better?” Din asks him, and he sneezes.

You go to the window, pulling the top pane down to let crisp October air spill into the room, carrying with it the earthy scent of organic decay. When you close your eyes and inhale, you see piles of raked-up maple leaves, those big mosaics of orange and red and yellow and brown, hiding rot underneath. It reminds you of home.

You turn to your captor, who seems to be inspecting the bathroom. He flicks the bathroom light on and peeks inside while you release an exaggerated sigh, “So, Din.”

He brings his attention to you and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows in question.

“That is your name, right?”

“It is.”

A smile spreads across your face.

The fact that you’re able to put a name to this man, brings you a surprising amount of joy. He seems less like a force now, and more like a person. Which, you suppose, is probably why he didn’t formally introduce himself before shoving your face into a trailer door and abducting you.

“Great, well—Din, it’s nice to actually meet you,” you cross the room and extend your hand to him. All he does for a moment is stare at it, until you tease, “Aw, come on. I don’t bite.”

“Maybe I do.”

Your lips part and you blink at him. When the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, your face transforms into a heater. This whole situation would be a lot easier if he wasn’t so handsome.

RULE #3: Keep your wits about you.

“Funny guy,” you snort, rolling your eyes in feigned annoyance, but continue to hold your hand out to him.

He takes it and gives it a firm shake. His palm is warm and calloused and his grip seems to swallow yours. Even though he’s wearing those stupid sunglasses, you can tell when his eyes meet yours because a jolt shoots through the middle of you. Your throat tightens and your cheeks get even hotter.

Before he can tell how flustered you are, you take your hand back and retreat to the bed, plopping down to scratch the dog as you ask, “What now? Do you wanna go explore this podunk town?”

“No. We’re staying here. The less we’re seen, the better.”

You groan and throw yourself back onto the bed. There’s a yellow-tinged water stain on the ceiling that almost looks like a face if you squint and tilt your head a little. It brings to mind this short story of a woman slowly losing her sanity while on “rest cure” to treat her depression. She’s forced to do absolutely nothing, and starts to see figures in the yellow wallpaper of her bedroom.

Granted, your situation is much different than the one Charlotte Perkins Gilman penned, but you still feel a sense of solidarity with her protagonist’s captivity. You feel antsy. Cooped up. The thick layer of grime on your skin becomes hard to ignore, and you remember it’s been a week since you last bathed.

“Can I at least shower?”

When he hesitates to respond, you can’t stop yourself from sitting up and scowling at him, “Seriously?”

“There’s a window in the bathroom.”

You stare at him blankly, “So, what, you think I’m going to—”

“Yes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you get to your feet and stomp past him into the very retro, very pink bathroom, yanking the shower curtain open to inspect the window.

In all fairness, you could climb out of it if you really wanted to, but you still roll your eyes and tell him, “Probably can’t even fit through there.”

He just stares at you, unmoved.

Frustration simmers in your stomach. All that’s standing between you and the sweet relief of a shower is his lack of trust. There has to be a middle ground.

“What if—” your mouth clamps shut. You shift your weight from one leg, to the other, then shrug, “Would it make you feel better if you were in here while I showered?”

Din’s lips part, stunned for a moment before he carefully says, “Better isn’t the right word—”

“Ok, well, feel free to substitute ‘better’ with ‘more secure,’ or ‘reassured,’ or whatever. You know what I mean.”

He studies the window for a moment, the muscles in his jaw wiggling as he considers the compromise, then looks back at you and nods, “Sure.”

“How long will this take?”

From behind him, Din hears you wrestle clothing off your body into a pile on the floor as you say, “Five minutes, tops.”

The faucet squeaks, then the water comes to life with a stuttering hiss. Twin metallic swooshes signal the shower curtain being pulled open, then shut, then you moan, “Fuuuuck that’s so good.”

His imagination bucks out of his control, and for a moment the only image in his mind can conjure is his body pressed up against yours, skin on skin. How soft and warm you must be. How those words would taste on your lips. All the ways he could make you utter them again and again.

He thinks of your stubbornness, your defiance, and wonders what it would be like to break you. Would you like it?

I am not a good man.

Din squeezes his eyes shut and tries to flush out the deviant thoughts, reminding himself of the handsome bounty he’ll collect when he turns you over. The peace that financial security will bring him. He won’t have to live job-to-job with a white-knuckle grip on existence. He’ll have room to breathe. Maybe he’ll even be able to live a little.

Your honeyed voice pulls him out of his tail-spin.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

Din opens his eyes and stares at the bathroom door, shaking his head in amusement, thinking, Of course you sing in the shower.

It’s sort of nice, though. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of likes it.

Grogu, obviously feeling left out, scratches at the other side of the door, then lets out a disgruntled whine.

You stop singing and ask, “Is that the pup?”

“Yeah.”

The shower curtain rings squeak, then your voice is right next to him, “Let him in.”

Without thinking, he turns to you and scoffs, “No.”

Water drips off the ends of your sudsy white-blonde hair onto his boot. Your features pinch into a scowl, dark eyes searching his face, “What, why not?”

His gaze flicks to the blur of skin barely concealed behind the shower curtain, then to the pink tiled floor as heat rises to his face, “He’s just gonna jump in there and get wet.”

“So?”

“He’ll stink up the room.”

You snort, “You’re already doing that.“

Din goes to glare at you, but corrects himself and glares at the ceiling instead, “Sure that’s not you?”

You let out an exaggerated gasp that quickly dissolves into laughter, “You asshole.”

He looks down at the doorknob and shakes his head, stifling a chuckle.

“So rude,” you tease as you slide the curtain closed and step back into the steaming shower stream, “Come on, big guy, let the pup come in. He can’t possibly stink more than I did.”

Grogu scratches at the door again, this time letting out a sharp bark instead of a whine.

“Awww, listen to him,” you say, the pout evident in your voice, “So lonely, he just wants to be with us.”

Din rolls his eyes and twists the doorknob to let him in. The dog barrels into the room, skittering across the shiny, bubblegum pink ceramic into the empty garbage can. It goes toppling over, and he uses it like a bumper to correct his course towards the tub. He stands on his hind legs and peaks behind the shower curtain, then woofs for your attention.

“Hello handsome boy!”

Grogu starts panting with excitement, his nails clacking on the floor and the porcelain tub.

“Oh my goodness, do you want to come in here with me?”

He barks.

Din protests, “Don’t—”

“Ok, ready, here we go.”

Both you and the dog groan a little when you lift him, then Din hears clattering and splashing as he lands in the tub and starts flailing around in the water. A sharp giggle pierces his eardrums, making him wince, but there’s such an abundance of joy in your laughter and the dog’s playful growls, Din catches it secondhand and ends up smiling like an idiot.

“Look at you, happy pup! You love the water, don’t you?!”

Grogu lets out a low bow-wow and sneezes, which you respond to with a squeal of delight. Something tender and warm blooms in Din’s chest. Just as soon as he realizes its fragility, he stomps it out, snipping over his shoulder, “Are you almost done?”

The water shuts off with a loud clunk from the faucet and you respond, “Yep.”

Din ends up trying to dry off the wet, rowdy dog while you dig through your backpack.

“Do you think there’s a laundromat here?”

He glances up at you, eyes briefly trailing along the outline of your body beneath the fluffy white towel before he clears his throat, then says, “I don’t know.”

You sniff one of the sweatshirts from your backpack, shrug, and toss it onto the dresser.

“We should check. Everything in here is fucking rank,” you mutter while inspecting a pair of dark pants.

The dog zooms past, drawing Din’s attention, and he manages to scoop him up into a towel, “Gotcha!”

Whining and throwing his weight around like a fish out of water, Grogu tries to escape as Din dries him off. You turn and snort at the dog, “Good luck, I’ve been trying to do that for days,” then pad across the faded, low-rise carpet to the bathroom.

Din glances up at the oval-shaped mirror mounted to the wall, catching a glimpse of your reflection as you drop your towel. Stunned, he fumbles the task at hand and the dog flies from his grip like a bat out of hell.

“Shit,” he mutters, propping his hands on his hips, watching the little white dog torpedo from one end of the room to the other.

“This probably feels like wide open spaces to him after being cooped up in the truck, huh?” you chuckle from the bathroom.

His eyes betray him, flicking to your reflection again. At least you have pants on this time, the waistband of tight black leggings nestled into the dip of your waist. He studies the curve of your spine up to a compass tattooed between your shoulder blades. You pull a baggy maroon sweater over your head and spin around before he can look away. Shame creeps hot up his neck and makes him drop his gaze.

If you caught him staring, it doesn’t show. You just trot past him and throw yourself onto the old, squeaky mattress, stacking one foot atop the other as you stretch out.

Grogu breaks out of his orbit to hop up onto the bed and climb in your lap, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth. A giggle chirps up your throat, and you scratch between his ears, “Do you two have a home base, or just the truck?”

“Just the truck,” Din answers, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.

“Oooh a coupla rubber tramps,” you grin, “It’s fun, right? Nomad life?”

He tilts his head at you.

Is that why you do this? Because you think living on the road is fun?

His lack of response tugs at the arch of your brow. You look around the room, releasing a sigh through slack lips, making a pfpfpfpf sound, then ask, “Well, whaddya wanna do?”

Din pushes off the wall and starts towards an armoire that looks heirloom or at least second-hand, swinging open its solid oak doors to reveal an old tube TV. A shelf at the top of the cabinet stores a VCR and a few tapes.

“Finding anything fun?”

He reads movie titles off the faded VHS sleeves, “The Wedding Singer, Titanic, Pocahontas, Men in Black.”

“Anything you like?”

“I’m not much of a movie person,” he admits in a murmur, and casts a glance over his shoulder, “Do you have a preference?”

“Not really,” you shrug, “I’m not much of a movie person, either. You pick.”

Din swings his gaze back to the armoire, wrinkling his nose at the options, then pulls out the double-barreled VHS of Titanic and pops in the first tape.

After feeding the movie into the VCR, your captor goes to the little two-person dining room table in the corner of the room and grabs one of the chairs, carrying it over to the opposite side of the bed. You watch him the whole way, eyebrows raised, blinking with annoyance when he sits in the chair and kicks his feet up onto the bed.

“You’re really gonna watch a movie like that?”

He glances over at you, crossing his arms over his chest, “Like what?”

“With your whole,” you circle your wrist around your ear, “Incognito thing. Plus, boots? You can like… be comfortable, did you know that?”

His mouth flattens into a line. A few awkward seconds go by before it clicks and you nod in understanding, “But you can’t be comfortable around me, can you?”

He doesn’t answer. Not that you expect him to.

You grab the remote control off the nightstand and turn up the volume. With previews still running on the TV, you sigh and pull a pillow out from the cheap bedspread, plumping it up and adjusting yourself into a more relaxing position.

“I get it,” you mumble at the screen, “You think that in order for you to maintain this power dynamic, you can’t show belly.”

“Is that what I think?”

When you look over at him, he seems to be studying you through the tint of his aviators. You ask, “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. Probably because he doesn’t want to admit you’re right. Better than him giving you some bullshit contrarian retort, you suppose, but his silence still burrows gritty between the layers of your skin.

“Whatever, man,” you scoff and roll your eyes, “If you wanna sit way over there in your stupid getup, that’s your decision, but it seems pretty fucking miserable for no good reason.”

His jaw gnashes back and forth a bit before he sits up and takes off his hat, tossing it onto the nightstand, then his sunglasses. His dark eyes meet yours, “Better?”

You look at his black leather boots.

He sighs and drops his feet to the ground, bending over to remove the boots one at a time. When he returns to his previous position, arms crossed over his broad chest, socked feet propped up on the bed, you suppress a grin and turn back to the movie.

"I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

Beneath the thick, curved glass of the TV, the first VHS runs out of tape. Out of the corner of his eye, Din sees you sit up and throw your legs off the bed. Grogu croaks out a sleepy sound from beside you, rolling onto his back. You rise to your feet, asking, “Can we get something to eat before starting the second tape?”

Din glances down at his watch. 4:30. His stomach rumbles. Given the unpredictable twist this day has taken, food has largely remained at the back of his mind until now.

“We could walk further into town and see what we find. I bet the pup has to go potty, anyway. We could take him with us. Maybe Annie can give us a recommendation—”

He looks over at you to respond, but finds himself momentarily tongue-tied. You stretch your clasped hands skyward, pulling the hem of your sweater up to expose a generous slice of your midriff. You’re still distracted as rambling he stares, unable to stop his thoughts from returning to how soft and warm you must be.

His hungry skin aches, deep and throbbing, down to the marrow. An infection festering for years. Or longer. Decades, really.

He tries to recall how long it’s been since he felt the heat of another person. It was snowing, he remembers that much. She was one of those women that made her way around truck stops selling pleasure to lonely guys like him. Lot lizards, some of the truckers called them.

Was he in Colorado? Or was it Ohio?

He remembers the excruciating quiet as she stripped off her snow-clotted outer layers, revealing a petite brunette with wary eyes and a businesslike attitude. Not that he holds those things against her. It’s understandable. Advisable, even, given her line of work and clientele.

Her company didn’t do much to quell his hollow yearning for intimacy, but it was a release nonetheless.

“—So, what do you think?”

Din snaps out of the trance and meets your eyes, all warm and hopeful.

Goddamnit.

“You stay right next to me the whole time.”

“Do I get a treat if I’m good?” you smirk, one eyebrow raising in challenge.

The question bubbles hot at the base of his spine. He tries to keep his countenance neutral when he says, “We’ll see how you do.”

Grogu waddles over to the side of the bed closest to him and yowls for attention. Thankful for the diversion, Din reaches over and scratches the dog between his big ears, “Both of you.”

The dog sniffs the sidewalk a few feet ahead of you and Din, tethered to his owner by a leash. He zig-zags back and forth, completely engulfed in the sights and smells of this brand new world.

You find yourself in a similar state of awe and appreciation. Tilting your face up to the big cotton candy sky, you inhale two lungfuls of the most refreshingly crisp air you may have ever been blessed to receive. Yellow Seed was built in a valley, and it seems like everywhere you look there are mountains in the distance, dark and evergreen and ominous. A stark contrast to whatever magic is happening in the atmosphere.

The world feels so infinite and beautiful that if you let yourself, you could cry about it.

Too caught up in the moment to pay attention to your gait, you knock hands with Din. The impact makes your heart jump. You hear yourself stammer out an overreaction, “Oh shit—sorry, I um, didn’t mean to—”

“Might help if you stop daydreaming.”

“What’re you, my mother?” you scoff under your breath, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“What’s that?”

You glance over at him.

His smug smirk draws your attention briefly before you shake your head and change the subject, “Have you seen Titanic before?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“What made you pick it?”

He shrugs, “Long run time.”

“Shut up, that’s not the only reason, is it?” you laugh, “It’s not because you get to see Kate Winslet’s tits or anything, right?”

His head jerks back a little and his ears turn all red, “What? No—”

“I’m just giving you shit,” you snort.

He exhales an airy chuckle, and a few seconds go by before he asks, “What about you? Have you watched it before?”

His cadence is halting and rusty. Out of practice. You can tell he doesn’t make conversation often, but he’s trying and that’s… sort of sweet, actually.

“I have, but it’s been years. I think I was a kid, maybe six or seven, when I watched it with my grandma at her house,” you smile fondly at the memory, kicking a rock along the sidewalk, “She made me cover my eyes during the nudity and sex and stuff, but I totally peeked.”

“So you’ve always been a troublemaker.”

“I guess so, huh?” you chuckle.

The conversation dies a natural death, and for a while, the two of you just walk alongside each other, following the sidewalk further into Yellow Seed.

The houses you pass, like motel, auto shop, and gas station, all seem to have been built in the 1950’s with few updates since the 1990’s. Mid-century ramblers outfitted in white trim and chipped pastel paint—so much canary yellow. Neat lawns and landscaping and tattered American flags flapping in the wind. As the sidewalk brings you closer to the heart of the town, structures get older, more homes with front porches and earth-toned exteriors.

Downtown Yellow Seed barely occupies two city blocks. The businesses stand shoulder-to-shoulder, all of them constructed of brick or lumber, none of them within the last century. When you turn down the main drag, you squint and blur your vision so that the pickup trucks look like buggies, and you can picture exactly what it looked like when the roads were dirt paths carved out by wagon wheels and horse hooves.

“Outlaw Saloon,” you nod to the sign on an upcoming building and grin at Din, “Sounds like the place for us.”

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, stepping up onto the sagging floorboards of the porch and starting towards the door.

The dog follows his suggestion, suddenly very interested in this change of direction, his ears perking up into high-alert. Din plucks him off the ground, then pulls the squeaky door open for you to enter, releasing a cacophony of noise: country music and clinking glass and the low murmur of conversation.

As you walk past him into the establishment, you tell Din, “That’s your problem, big guy, you know that? You think you’re so much better than me, but you’re not.”

All you hear in response is a grumble, then the jarring crack of the spring-loaded door slamming shut behind him. When he saddles up to your side, you feel his hand press into the small of your back.

It surprises you a little. Both the action itself, and the way your pulse jumps in response.

You don’t move, but look over at him and find you’re close enough to see his eyes behind his aviators. They flick around the bar as if searching for potential danger in the two dozen locals occupying the saloon. He holds the dog firm and close to his chest and he doesn’t move his hand and you realize that he is protecting you both. Subconsciously, probably, but he’s doing it nonetheless.

Something happens inside you.

A brief but sudden free-fall that flips your stomach and gelatinizes the cartilage in your joints. Your throat struggles to swallow around your thudding heart.

RULE #9: Do not get attached.

Ignoring the warning, you bring yourself closer to him. Just an inch or so, intending to be subtle, so that maybe he won’t notice. You don’t want him to think you like or need his protection, because you don’t.

Need it, that is.

Liking it, however…

If you can glean anything from the steady thrum of heat between your thighs, it’s that you do like it. That is, unfortunately, too blunt a force for you to ignore.

An unamused looking waitress approaches your little trio, grinding a wad of gum between her molars, “No dogs.”

“Oh—he’s an emotional support dog,” you tell her, softening your features into a non-threatening, winsome expression. You put your hand on Din’s arm and explain, “My friend has horrible agoraphobia. The only way I can get him to go out is if we have the dog with us.”

Her eyebrow raises and she blinks at Din, “That true?”

He nods once, “It is.”

She glances between the two of you for a moment, eyes flicking in time with the smack smack smack of her chewing gum, then shrugs, “Alright, come with me.”

As you follow the waitress, he stays by your side, with his warm, wide palm held flush to your spine.

He’s just making sure you don’t bolt. It doesn’t mean anything.

This little voice inside your head makes you feel so foolish, your cheeks start to flush. She’s right, though. You’re making something out of nothing.

But then his thumb moves. Only slightly, and just once, this gentle wiper blade motion—a fucking caress if you’ve ever felt it.

Your face heats even more.

The waitress stops at a wooden, high-back booth and pulls two menus from her apron, placing one on each side of the table. Only when you slide into the booth does his hand depart your body. He sits across from you, placing the dog down beside him.

“Can I get y’all somethin’ to drink?”

“Could I get a water, please?” you ask, flashing her a polite smile.

She nods, then looks at Din.

“I’ll have the same.”

“Two waters, anything else?”

You glance up at Din, trying hard not to drop your gaze when you feel his eyes meet yours. He shakes his head slightly, and you tell her, “No, I think that’s good for now, thank you.”

“Be right back.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Din asks, “Agoraphobia?”

“Pretty slick, huh?” you grin.

He smirks and shakes his head, looking down at the menu. The dog wriggles his way under his owner’s arm. Din allows it, absentmindedly petting him while evaluating food options.

Letting out a sigh, you turn your attention to the menu, too. Burgers, chicken, basic sandwiches, fried food. Standard bar fare. It doesn’t take you long to decide on a grilled cheese, leaving you to study the innards of the Outlaw Saloon.

The place is cavernous. Tin ceiling tiles two stories above the ground stretch much further back than you expected. Everything else, from the walls to the furniture to the floors, all appears to be made from the same dark, lacquered wood.

Predictably, the décor is an homage to cowboy lore. Taxidermized livestock, paintings of horses, and antique farm equipment have been mounted on the walls. Among them hang wanted posters of infamous Wild West gunslingers, such as Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. Sort of camp, but in an endearing way.

The bar bustles with activity, much busier than you thought it would be. In a small town like this, you weren’t expecting to see more than a handful of regulars out on a Wednesday evening, but there are at least 20, maybe 30, other patrons scattered about the venue.

As you look around at the strangers, you think to yourself, “Not one of these people would look out of place at a rodeo,” which is to say that the crowd looks to be a mix of ranchers and other working class folks. At least half are strapped with a handgun, which isn’t particularly alarming, especially in a rural Western town like this, but always good to note. Occasionally, people mutter to each other while shooting dirty looks at your table. Probably because you’re out-of-towners who had the audacity to bring a dog into their beloved saloon.

“Damn, if we were carrying, I bet we’d fit in a little better,” you comment mildly.

“Who says I’m not?”

You look over at him and tilt your head, “Are you?”

“I am.”

This interests you. You fold your legs up into a pretzel and lean your elbows onto the table, “Whaddya have?”

With his expressive eyes concealed, it’s hard to read what his silence means, but you guess trying to determine your question’s intent.

Before either of you can say anything else, the waitress approaches your table carrying two glasses of water. As she slides one in front of you, then the other in front of Din, you ask her, “Do you guys ever have live music here?”

“Sure,” she shrugs and plants one hand on her hip, “Nothing this weekend, though.”

You glance over at Din, who’s shaking his head slowly, as if to say, “Don’t you fucking dare,” but ignore it and ask, “Do you want live music this weekend?”

“I take it I do not get a treat?”

Din clenches his jaw, glaring up at you from his crouched position as he unhooks Grogu’s leash. He hasn’t said anything to you since you coaxed your way into a gig at the Outlaw Saloon, blatantly disregarding his wishes to lay low in this town.

If he wasn’t so goddamn hungry, and if it wouldn’t have roused the attention of the already suspicious locals, he would have hauled you out of the restaurant the second you inquired with the waitress about live music.

You must have felt the anger radiating off him in waves, because your attempts at conversation since have been few and far in between.

For that, he’s grateful.

The red glowering beneath his skin feels unpredictable. That familiar loathsome beast. Something he believed extinct inside him, eradicated through years of training, now awake and growling.

He rises to a standing position and starts pacing, trying to keep calm.

Meanwhile, you take your doodle-ridden acoustic guitar, plop down on the bed, and start strumming a tune.

Heat wells up in his chest.

“It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Gives us something to do,” you tell him, watching your own fingertips move skillfully along the neck of the instrument, “Plus, I could rake in a decent amount of money, which could help us—”

“Stop it.”

The music cuts immediately.

He takes off his hat and sunglasses, tossing them onto the chest of drawers, then turns to face you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze with too much vitriol.

“There is not an us. This is not a team. I do not want or need your help.”

Your shoulders sag. You furrow your brow, searching his face, and your lips part to protest, but he cuts you off hard.

“You are nothing to me but a payload. An annoying, entitled payload. Do you understand?”

You react as if he slapped you across the face. Your head jerks back and you drop your gaze to the floor, face getting all red.

He stares at you, awaiting your counterattack, but all you do is let out a choked sob.

The sharp tip of this noise pierces the over-inflated balloon of his anger, bursting it instantly. In its sudden absence, an ache starts in his chest. He looks back at the situation from this calmer state of mind, cleared of red haze, and feels ashamed of himself.

Grogu jumps onto the bed to sit at your side, and whines up at you. Inhaling a wobbly breath, you reach out and scratch his head, then mumble a damp, “It’s ok, pup.”

Some time goes by with only your quiet sniffles to break the silence, then you ask, “Where am I sleeping?”

As soon as the mention of sleep hits him, his bones turn to lead, heavy with exhaustion. How long has it been since he’s slept? It feels like days. Nothing last night, barely a few hours the night before that.

“You have options,” he responds. At this, you let out a sad, soft chuckle that he ignores, continuing, “There’s the bathroom, your sleeping bag, or the bed.”

“I assume I would be restrained in each of these scenarios?”

He folds his arms over his chest and nods, “In the bathroom, I would cuff you to the toilet. The other two, I…” he grimaces, “It would be to me.”

“Wow, ok,” you take the guitar out of your lap and prop it up on the nightstand, “A toilet or the man who thinks I’m a piece of shit.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.”

He meets your gaze, holding it steady for a few seconds before saying, “Charlie, I…”

The apology gets all tangled in his throat. You wait a while for him to finish the thought. When he doesn’t, you move past it, your voice void of emotion.

“Do you have a preference?”

“No.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to sleep in the bed.”

Din nods in acknowledgment. He glances down at his watch, finds it’s barely past 6, and asks, “Are you tired now?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

As if to confirm, you suck in a shaky breath and yawn, stretching your hands above your head. It spreads to him.

“Give me a few minutes,” he tells you.

In response, you tug at the bedspread and wriggle your way between the sheets. Grogu grumbles for a moment at the adjustment, then turns in a few circles and plops down beside you with a hmph.

You’re probably exhausted, too, given the ups and downs of this week. Being taken captive. Sleeping in the same room as Din when you cannot trust him. Spending all your time with someone whose explicit intent is to turn you in for a pretty penny.

It must take an emotional toll, even if you don’t let it show most of the time. Even if you have that rule to… how did you put it?

Live in the now.

To your credit, you have been trying your damnedest to follow that rule. By getting to know people whose paths cross yours, bonding with Grogu, writing and drawing in your notebook, playing music, suggesting ways to squeeze as much experience as possible out of what little time you have left.

Din likes that about you. Your relentless optimism. It’s admirable.

He likes a lot of things about you, he realizes. Your cunning, and your curiosity, and your ferocity. Your gap-toothed smile. The skillful way you play the guitar. How you curled into him ever-so-slightly when he placed his hand on your back earlier.

It occurs to him then that you may feel it, too. That gooey electric current when he touches you, or when his eyes meet yours for longer than a second.

His own words echo back to him: “You are nothing to me but a payload.”

He wants to take it back.

It’s not even true, he just wishes it was. He wishes he looked at you and saw a bad person who’s going to get what she deserves. The truth couldn’t be more contrary.

While your captor goes about his nighttime routine, you sulk.

It’s all you can do, really, since he’s made it abundantly clear your presence is a nuisance. Worse than that, even. You are nothing but an asset to him.

Ironically, it makes you feel worthless.

You think about how pathetic your burgeoning crush on him is. Were you imagining the chemistry between you?

Of course you were.

You were making things up—“Living in LaLa Land,” as your mother used to say.

Din pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed. The mattress shifts under his weight, and he groans as he stretches out. Every nerve ending in your body lights up when you feel the heat of him. The distance between you is exactly the width of a French Bulldog.

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs.

His voice is low and syrupy. Warm.

Your throat works in a slow bob before you roll on your back to look at him. Your eyes meet his, and your stomach flips. When whoever said that thing about the eyes being the window to the soul, they must have been talking about him. You can see it all right there, written in bold print: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.

Or maybe that’s just what you want to see. Fuck, but why? Why do you even care?

You should fucking know better.

This is only temporary. Din. His dog. The truck. This room. Tonight. Life, really, if you wanted to get existential about it.

“Do you want to watch the rest of that movie?”

You frown as you consider this for a moment, then nod.

He gets out of bed and walks over to the big armoire. As he pops in the second Titanic VHS tape, you study the broad span of his shoulders and biceps stretching his t-shirt taut.

God, he looks solid and strong and just so fucking good.

This guy robbed you of your dignity and all you can think about right now is what his lips would feel like on yours. If he would be a greedy lover, or a generous one, or both. Would he be intuitive or clumsy with your body? Would he be rough?

He would be with me.

Heat blossoms on your cheeks and deep in your center. You don’t know how you know, but you do. He just seems… pressurized. Combustible. Especially towards you.

On his way back to bed, while the tape rewinds, Din rummages through his backpack and piles some of its contents into one arm. He sits down at the edge of the mattress and hands you a bottle of water, then holds out two candy bars and says, “Pick one.”

“Is this an apology?”

“No, it’s chocolate.”

You blink at him and cross your arms.

His features soften. He shakes his head, “What I said was not kind. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I didn’t,” you agree, keeping your gaze stern, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

You search his face. There’s such earnestness there, you believe him.

A mechanical click sounds from the VCR, then the TV lights up as Titanic starts where it left off.

Your gaze drops to the candy bars, and you pluck one from his hand. The one that advertises a peanut-buttery crunch. Peeling off its yellow wrapper, you smirk, “Apology accepted.”

Din climbs all the way into bed, stuffing the flat hotel pillows behind his back, then opens the shiny silver wrapper of his candy bar. For a while, it’s quiet except for the warbled audio from the TV and the crunch of your chewing.

You get that feeling again like sunshine on your skin or God or whatever, and you laugh out loud.

“What?” Din asks.

“It’s probably really weird that I’m happy right now, right?”

“Are you?”

You peek over at him and chuckle, “Yeah, I mean… I’m eating my favorite candy and watching a good movie. Laying in a bed with a cute dog and…yeah,” you shrug, turning back to the TV, “I don’t know. I like it.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then asks, “Do you have your knife?”

“Why, you gonna take it from me so I don’t kill you in your sleep?” You let the question hang in the air for one whole second before continuing, “I’ll be real up close and personal, wouldn’t even have to sneak, just,” you drag your thumb across your throat, “Blech, dead.”

“I’m not taking it from you,” he tells you, pulling out his handcuffs, “But if you want to get it or use the bathroom, now’s your chance.”

You take the opportunity to relieve your bladder and change into your comfiest (and least offensive smelling) clothes.

Before tucking your pocket knife into your sleeve, you stare at it for a minute and consider actually using it to get the fuck out of here. Something you’ve considered dozens of times, if you’re being honest, but this time the idea weighs a million pounds.

When you open the bathroom door and step into the motel room, Din looks up at you from the bed. His gaze wanders briefly down your body as you climb into bed, then correct its course back to your eyes, “All set?”

You nod and hold your right arm out to him.

His touch is gentle when he closes the cuff around your wrist. Clicks sound from the apparatus until it’s clear your hand won’t be capable of wiggling free.

He secures the other cuff around his left wrist, settles his arm next to yours, and asks, “How is that?”

“It’s fine,” you nod, your voice too high, then swallow hard and chuckle, “Well, I guess as fine as being handcuffed in a bed can be. Probably not the best it could be, but not the worst, um, either.”

You wince at yourself and look at the TV, where Rose is wading through thigh-high water, carrying an ax. Thankfully, he doesn’t respond, but turns off the light on his nightstand. You do the same with yours. Aside from the TV, only a faint glow comes in through the window. Daylight’s last gasping breath.

You close your eyes and fondle the cool metal of your pocket knife in your left hand.

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

Din shifts a little, and the back of his hand butts up against yours. Neither of you go to move. Warmth branches out from the spot, expanding and taking root deep in your belly.

RULE #2: Listen to your gut.

With this, you tuck the pocket knife under your pillow and roll onto your side facing him. You think about how nice it would be to rest your head on him, but resist the urge. The edges of consciousness start to fold in on themselves, and you murmur, “Sweet dreams, big guy.”

“Goodnight.”

#din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #passenger

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krislin · 2 months

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Monster Sides

A Sanders Sides Monster AU fic

Summary:

In a dark forest, some distance away from the capital, but right outside a small village, lived six individuals.

These six were seen as cursed, as monsters.

But those in the forest saw them as a part of nature, maybe even guardians.

These six were a close family, living together and helping each other.

Word Count: 4590

The land of the large kingdom was extraordinary. The meadows were a beautiful green, the skies a bright blue, and the weather was usually at its best. Gentle winds blew over. The grass and leaves dancing softly alongside it. The forests around in the kingdom were a significant source of materials for the city, towns, and villages. All from herbs, to food, and to wood could be gathered in these gatherings of flora.

But there was one forest in the kingdom that none dared to even approach.

Next to a small village, a fair distance away from the capital of the kingdom, was a large, gloomy forest. Objectively, one would say it looked no different from any other forests in the territory of the kingdom, but for the people, it was a cursed and dangerous place.

After centuries of living next to that forest, people had come to learn to never step inside, or even close to it. It didn't even take long after the village was first established that they found out something dangerous resided in the darkness between the large, old trees.

Or not just something.

Deep in the forest stood a large and old, almost run-down, mansion. But no human lived inside.

Or preferably said, no full human.

All the creatures belonging to the forest knew who they were, and what they were. But they all lived in harmony.

Because in the mansion lived six men. All hybrids that made them only half human.

Many would see them as monsters, but the fauna saw them as much of a part of nature as themselves. Maybe even more. The nature of the forest would sometimes even call them the guardians of their home.

Outside the mansion laid a small lake. Next to the lake was one of the six. The man had bright brown hair and round gray glasses on his face. As a silhouette, he would have the appearance of a normal human, but in the light, one would immediately take their words back. His skin was a slight shade of green, and clearly looking moist. The man smiled brightly as he skipped alongside the lake side. His leaps were longer and higher than possible for the normal human.

Because this is Patton. The frog hybrid of the mansion.

Patton continued to hum and skip his way back towards the mansion. His beams were as bright as he was known for every time he saw an animal or a pretty plant close by. Even if he knew their domain well, it always made his day to see the forest in such a pretty state.

The sound of a hysterical cackle came from the trees next to him, but it didn't alert the man. Patton only smiled widely as he stopped to turn in the direction. "Remus! Back already?" he beamed as he waved towards the rustling bushes closing in.

Through the bushes stretched a dark green tentacles, placing itself on the ground to drag its core forwards. "Heya, Croakie!" the man, Remus, grinned when through the plants. The man had the upper body of a human with dark brown hair with a silver highlight on his bangs. But his lower body was of just dark green tentacles with black dots on the top.

This is Remus. The octopus hybrid of the mansion.

"You should have seen those brats!" Remus told, laughing hysterically as he dragged his tentacles to approach the other. "They had the audacity to make a dare to approach our territory! But that just made the day so much better!" he laughed, as he held his right arm to the side. He held his hand open, and suddenly green sparkles sparkled over his palm, and his morning star fell into his hold. "It's been far too long since I got to play with the humans!"

"Now, now, kiddo. I know they're humans, but don't be too harsh on them. Especially if they were kids," Patton softly scolded the other. But even with his hands on his hips, there was still a slight amused smile on his face. Patton may ever be the optimist, friendly, and peaceful one, but even he had the disliking to the human species.

Snickers filled the air around them as Remus explained the humorous scene to Patton. They had never hurt any humans, unless necessary. They only wanted the selfish species to stay away from their territory and those residing in it; them, the animals, and all the plants.

The sound of wing beats reached them through the silent air, making the two turn to see the third of the six flying in for a landing. Patton beamed seeing the man, jumping high in joy as he landed. "Logan!" he beamed, leaping to immediately stand next to him. "Everyone's back early! This is great!"

This one is Logan. The owl hybrid of the mansion.

"Indeed," Logan answered, a tiny smile of joy visible. He tucked his dark brown feathered wings into his back, then turned to the octopus hybrid. "It would seem your scare has given us the boost for a peaceful day today."

"Of course!" Remus beamed at the praise hidden behind the sentence. A hand was proudly placed to his chest, his weapon disappearing with a green light. "But as much as I wished to play with them more, Hoarder and I have something to finish."

Logan's black hair blew to the passing wind as he narrowed his eyes at the other. "If this is that creation competition you are talking about, I do hope you tend to mend what you break and make sure he doesn't hoard more than he already has."

"Hey!" an offended yell came from the mansion. They all turned, and they all saw a man with red hair and red dragon wings and tail come flying over. "I am only keeping the necessary things in life in our home. Thank you very much!" The man landed down by the group, but he was mostly throwing Remus a glare, which earned a grin back.

This man is Roman. The dragon hybrid of the mansion.

A deep sigh left Logan, and Roman turned to the owl hybrid to see the man shaking his head. "The pile of unnecessary equipment and object in your hoarding room says otherwise, I believe." Logan turned his eyes to look at the dragon hybrid through his black glasses. The talons of his hand were raised to adjust the glasses properly back on his nose again. "But as long as it doesn't pile up outside that room, do as you please."

"Great!" Roman beamed, but shook his head and coughed into his fist of clawed hand. "I mean-. Like it will ever overfill. There's so much room left inside! I can still fly inside, you know!"

"Now, now, do not lie," another man's voice came from behind, a slight hiss in his speech. Everyone turned around to see a man with a bright yellow snake lower body slithering towards them from the mansion. The man's snake tongue flicked out, but looking rather amused as he slithered closer. The left side of his face had greenish-yellow scales which almost gleamed in the light, and on top of his brown hair laid a black fedora with a yellow ribbon around the base. "You know lying to us won't do."

This is Janus. The snake hybrid of the mansion.

Roman rolled his eyes at the fifth man of the group as he stopped by them. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, Slithering Scales," the man scoffed out, but gave out a small smile as he nudged the yellow snake hybrid with his elbow. But a small scoff them came from him, and his red eyes glanced between Janus and Patton. "But you two alright to be out? Winter's approaching, you know."

"Ever the overprotective hoarder you are," Janus commented as he rolled his eyes, but gave a small smile as he shook his head. "We are fine. The season is yet to properly begin. We cold-bloods have survived multiple winter already, you know."

"Yeah!" Patton beamed, leaping around them all. "Your fire and my strange, dark son's clothes and blankets really help!"

Roman gave out a pleased smile at the response, but he did give out a pout at Janus's comment. As part dragon, of course he would be protective of his hoard. And his main, and most precious, treasure he had in said hoard was his family. "Great to hear, Padre," he smiled at Patton, but turned to glance back at the mansion. "Speaking of him, where is he?"

"He was resting in his web the last time I saw him," Janus shrugged as he answered the other. "I had him rest after creating a bit too much silk for his crocheting and knitting later. He doesn't eat enough for the silk production he's doing."

"My poor kiddo!" Patton immediately spoke out in horror and concern. The man made a giant leap towards the mansion, but the sound of skittering had him stop.

Everyone glanced up the walls of the mansion. And out one of the top windows, something came out. "Hey, Snake Face, I have control of my own health, you know," the last of those calling the mansion their home said. The man had black hair and a black hoodie on, but his lower body was of a large spider body. Though his upper body wasn't fully human. The man had eight eyes, six fully purple and the last two human brown, and on each side of his mouth he had the fangs of a spider, which moved slightly as he spoke. And his lower body, his spider body, was large enough for someone to actually sit on his back, but mostly having to curl into themselves to not get hit by the eight legs as the man crawled around.

This is Virgil. The spider hybrid of the mansion.

Virgil crawled down the wall of the mansion, his spider legs letting him walk on any surface without troubles. He crawled down to step down on the grass, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he glared at the snake hybrid. "And for your information, I had just stopped when you slithered in. I was just about to start crocheting, but you just had to barge in."

"Whatever you say, Spiderling," Janus responded, rolling his eyes, but throwing him a smile. "Just make sure to rest. You work too much when winter approaches. You're cold-blooded as well, so you need your rest, especially with the stress of the season."

A scoff left the spider hybrid, but he shook his head and let his arms fall down, his black clawed fingers having a few short silk threads dangling down and dancing to the breeze. "I'm the one making clothes and blankets, you know. So for now, I'm the warmest cold-blooded here."

The chirp of birds came as two magpies came flying down, landing on the back of the spider hybrid. The birds chirped happily up at them all, and they all smiled and greeted back with a nod. Virgil gave the two a smile, and he moved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Getting something out of the pocket, Virgil got out a small crochet blanket of his silk, handing it over to the two small birds.

"Here you go," Virgil spoke, smiling as he handed the birds the small blanket. "Stay safe and warm in your nest now. The cold's approaching soon." The magpies gave him joyful and thankful chirps, and the two grabbed the silk blanket and flew off into the forest. Virgil smiled as he watched them fly off, but turned to glance at the others again, also taking notice of the skies above turning dark. "Well, evening's coming, so I better get to my route while handing out what I got."

"Alright, stay safe, kiddo!" Patton beamed at the other, beaming brightly as Virgil went to crawl past them. "Let us know if you need anything, alright?"

"Of course, Popstar," Virgil responded, giving a salute over his shoulder as he headed for the trees behind. Suddenly the man stopped and turned around to face them again. "Oh, and I repaired all the stuff with holes in them," he informed them all, earning beams of delight in return. "That includes the plushies. They're all on my web, so get them whenever."

Cheers erupted from Patton, Remus, and Roman, while Janus and Logan smiled with a nod of appreciation. "You're awesome, Virge!" Roman beamed, eyes visibly sparkling with joy before he spun around to bolt into the mansion to fetch what Virgil had repaired for him.

Patton was not far behind the flying dragon, Remus quick to follow as well. Janus and Logan was left, chuckling alongside Virgil as they watched the others charge in with such energy. "Thank you, Virgil. It is much appreciated," Logan said with a smile at the spider. "But stay safe out. Remus most definitely has scared the humans away for today, but one never know when it comes to that species."

"Yes, yes, I know," Virgil answered, rolling his eyes. "No need to say that every time. I can take care of myself. My poison is paralyzing for a reason."

"Yes, Remus had you show so too many times," Janus agreed, snorting at the memories of the octopus hybrid constantly having Virgil paralyze some of his detached tentacles after regenerating new ones for fun. "Just make sure you don't freeze. The colder you get, the slower you get. And that means the longer in the cold you will be."

Virgil huffed in response, but gave no other answer as he turned to leave the place. Janus and Logan watched as the spider left into the forest, and the two turned to head into the mansion themselves.

*************

Virgil silently hummed to himself as he crawled between trees and bushes. Each step his eight legs took made a tiny sound in the grass and leaves, and with the speed of his steps, his crawling always sounded like skittering. And many in the forest recognized that skittering.

Birds, squirrels, deer, and all the animals of the forest would glance up and approach him during his routes through their home. Virgil greeted them all with a small smile, and many animals came either leaping, running, or flying over. The day was turning dark, a time where most would go to lie down for the day, but seeing the hybrid being close, they'd always come over to greet him.

"Hey, guys," Virgil softly greeted. All the animals joyfully greeted back, and a soft chuckle left the hybrid as bunnies, squirrels, and birds came to rest on his spider back. "Hope you're all doing well. But since winter is approaching, I came to give you all new blankets."

The spider put his hands into his pocket, and out came a roll of blankets of his silk. All of the animals grew visibly joyful, and Virgil smiled, pleased to see them like it. He handed out blankets, one by one to the animals around him. All the deer got the larger blankets over them, the birds got the smallest to carry to their nests, and the squirrels and bunnies got the perfect size for them, or larger ones if Virgil knew they had a family. All the other animals with them got their blankets as well, and Virgil was happy as to how tight he rolled the blankets, seeing that it was good that he brought as many as he could.

Virgil lifted the last blanket in his hold to hand to another pair of birds, but the sudden harsh gust of a wind had it fly out of their hold. The birds chirped in dismay as the silk was blown away from them, and they watched it quickly disappear into the darkness with a distressed look.

"Oh, crap..." the spider muttered, seeing the blanket fly between all the trees and much farther away through his night vision. "That was my last one too..." The birds' chirps was low and short, both lowering down to the ground in sadness. "Hey, hey, it's alright," Virgil assured them, gently holding down his hands to them. Both birds glanced up at him, but jumped onto his palms for him to lift them up. Virgil held them up and guided them to his left front leg, letting them jump on to rest right by him. "Don't worry, I can quickly make a new one. It's all fine."

Questioning chirps came from the two, and Virgil gave a soft chuckle as he shook his head. He quickly reassured them once again, and he raised a clawed finger to his mouth and stretched out multiple silk threads, enough to make a thick enough thread to use.

"Won't take long. Don't worry," Virgil mumbled as he moved the thread to his left pointy finger, using his right one to drag out more silk from his mouth. Unlike normal spiders, Virgil created silk from his mouth, usually using his fangs to hold the thread still as he used his clawed fingers to crochet, knitt, or sew with. And his clawed fingers were able to make a small hook at the tip, which was what made him able to crochet, but for knitting and sewing, and outside all that, he usually kept his claws straight and pointy.

Virgil laid on the ground as he started. His legs, except the one the birds sat on, halfway tucked under his body to lie comfortably. Most of the animals had left to sleep for the approaching night, but some continued to stay around the spider, curled in their blanket as they peacefully watched the hybrid crochet another of his blankets.

The birds happily chirped as they watched him masterfully create their blanket, and Virgil smiled as he glanced to the side at them.

Unusual gusts of winds came to their hearing, and they glanced up at the dark night sky to see something red come flying over them. "Ah, there you are, Spider Nightful!" Roman was to speak as he beamed seeing them under him. The dragon flapped his wings to slowly lower down to the ground, careful of the trees' branches. But as he landed his feet down on the ground, he raised an eyebrow at the glare Virgil was throwing at him. "What?"

"Mind your wings, Flame Head. I'm crocheting here, and your gusts are not helping," Virgil scoffed, but returned to his crocheting, being close to finishing the small silk blanket for the two waiting birds.

"And why are you out here, working more in the middle of the cold night after not having had your meal after your last production?" Roman challenged the other, a protective glare thrown at him through narrowed eyes. "I am certain you have not eaten anything protein filled since you left. You know you'll grow weak if you're lacking that, Virgil! You can't go producing more silk without refilling yourself!"

Another scoff left the spider, and he finished off his blanket as he sent the other a glare. "Geez, never took you to be one to sound like Logan," he commented, but averted his gaze to give the blanket to the thankful birds. The birds gave thankful chirps and took off with their new blanket, and Virgil gave them a small smile before turning it into a sigh as he turned back to the dragon. "Why are you here anyway? Aren't you supposed to stay in the mansion to keep up the fire for the others?"

"Logan can hold the fire up long enough until I return," Roman answered with a shrug, but stepped forwards to give Virgil a push in the direction of their home. "You're much later than normal, and you need my fire just as much as them! So off we go now, Night Crawl!"

"Alright, alright, Ro! Geez!" Virgil yelled, but sighed as he shook his head. "I know you're a hoarder, but keep it down, could you? You know I can defend myself if something would suddenly come."

"Whatever you say, V," was all Roman responded before grabbing the spider's wrist to drag him along with him. Virgil groaned as he was dragged by Roman, who power-walked through the forest. The dragon hybrid was dedicated on bringing the spider with him back home before the air grew too cold for the cold-blooded. Roman threw the other a glare after hearing the annoyed groan. "You have no right to do that, Emo Nightmare. Only one hoodie isn't good enough! You don't even have any of your blankets on you! What you have on isn't enough to keep you warm, and you know that!" Roman scolded, only receiving an annoyed deadpan in return, which he ignored as he faced forward again, all out on getting home. "This is why you need my fire!"

A snort came from the other, but he didn't speak out. He knew Roman was in his protective hoarder mode because of his longer than usual absence. And because of that, he knew it was futile to fight against it. He never fought against it, only showing his annoyance or teasing the other, whichever fit the situation best.

It wasn't long until they came to the treeline ending by their mansion. Stepping through the last bushes, they appeared in the back garden of their home. Faint light danced on the grass during the darkness of the night, so Roman strode towards the back door, still dragging the spider with him.

Roman swung the old wooden door open, stepping into the indoor light with Virgil right behind. The moment they stepped inside, Virgil felt the change in temperature, and a silent sigh of relief left him. The spider's shoulders slumped down at the warmth, not having to force an appearance anymore.

"Come," Roman spoke with a stern voice, but stepping through the room and towards the living room right by. Another sigh left Virgil, but the spider crawled after to follow into the warmer room.

Huddled together in some type of pile were the others. Janus and Patton laid in the middle, Remus using his tentacles to keep the large blanket over them in place, and Logan standing by the fire in the fireplace. Hearing the two return home, Patton beamed brightly, almost jumping out of his spot as he waved them over.

Roman smiled at the frog hybrid, but turned to give Virgil a brief nod to then take Logan's place by the fire. Logan gave the dragon a nod, and he stepped to join the pile of hybrids to help keep the warmth for the cold-blooded ones.

Virgil soon came to crawl over, and Remus lifted some of his tentacles, a part of the blanket while at it, so the spider could join in the middle, the spot for the cold ones. When tucking in his legs and lying down, Janus wrapped his long tail around him, but placing an arm on his back as support. With Virgil's body being a lot different, his back basically going ninety degree up from his spider body, he always only laid with his spider body, his human top having to hang or lean into something for support.

Remus stretched the blanket out to lie over the spider's back, but stretched a different tentacle to fetch another blanket to their side. With the new blanket, he wrapped it around Virgil's shoulder, having the spider now fully covered. Finished with his job, he continued to have his tentacles spread to keep the blanket over the three firmly in place, even if they were to move slightly.

But having nothing much but an arm to support his back, Virgil raised a finger to his mouth for his silk. He needed something to lean on, or his back would turn stiff again, and a single thread hanging from the ceiling would be enough for him. But as he went to do so, a growl from Roman had him stop to turn and raise an eyebrow.

"What did I just tell you earlier?" Roman questioned, eyes obviously narrowed with a warning look.

A huff left the spider, but he let his hand fall back down. A demanding look was shot back, and the dragon immediately went to drag over a cushioned stool for him.

When the furniture was in arm reach, Virgil immediately dragged it over and leaned onto it with crossed arms.

Seeing as everything was finally settled, a sigh of pleasure came from Patton, and he melted into the pile. With everyone back home, and Roman keeping a bright fire burning for them, everything was perfect. The group had always lived together and had this routine for the colder times. The more warm-blooded would always make sure the cold-blooded were all well in health, not growing cold or sick.

Remus, as an octopus hybrid, should also be a cold-blooded, but for some miracle, he was actually not. Maybe it was from his creation magic, like Roman's, or if it was his relation to the dragon hybrid, no one knew. They were just glad he wasn't cold-blooded as well. Knowing he would have been a difficult one to keep healthy as so. That man was always all around. All from being underwater in the lake, to climbing in the trees, to doing his job to scare off all the humans daring to step close to their territory. Keeping him constantly warm enough would be a pain for them all, so they were thankful for that miracle.

Logan got up from his place, his wings tucked behind his back, but Virgil could see the others had helped him groom by the time he had gotten back, or more like Roman dragged him back. "I will go and start on something for us all to eat," Logan stated, heading to the kitchen, leaving the group to continue to huddle together for warmth. "I will be right back."

"Alright! But call if you need help!" Patton called after the other, but cuddled closed to Janus as he hugged the silk blanket closer to them.

"He'll be fine like usual, Padre," Roman chuckled as he stepped over to take Logan's place by the frog. "He does fine in the kitchen. Though I do still prefer your meals, but the priority is to keep you warm."

A small chuckle left Patton, and the man croaked as he reached an arm up at the dragon. Roman smiled as he took it, and Patton dragged him down to lie with them. An amused laugh came from Roman, but he got himself comfortable by the pile, but making sure he had good view of the fire, being ready to strengthen it if it was to weaken for even a moment.

Everything was nice, cozy, and peaceful for them as another normal day passed by. The six men were as close as one could be without being blood-related, with the exception of Remus and Roman that is. And they would continue to be a close family of unique specimen, who stood out from everything else in the world.

The moon of the night sky shone beautifully down over the mansion as they all feasted and cuddled together for warmth and rest. This was all they ever needed, and it was all they ever wanted.

This is the hybrids' mansion. Their home.

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