#being serious with their questions instead of using their spaces to mock fandom

[bakasara]

"stop asking the actors playing two characters who could be reasonably paired up about whether or not they're gonna be paired up!!" Brother if this was a man and a woman what do you think every interviewer would be asking them about?

I promise Oliver Stark and Ryan Guzman are grown adults who've been working in the industry for a while and asking them what they think about a popular pairing involving them that has significant history in the show is not going to break them. I promise when bisexual Buck became a reality neither of them expected that interviewers wouldn't ask this question. I promise it's not offensive for interviewers or fans to make it known they are curious about what this means for the possibility of pairing up Eddie and Buck romantically even though it's not the current storyline, and I guarantee that if one of them was a woman both of them would currently be in their sixth consecutive year fielding this question, instead of their first few weeks.

Breathe.

And stop treating the question as annoying or shameful just because you've internalized that We Don't Talk About Gay Ships -- or rather because this time, unlike the last few interviews, the answer made you uncomfortable and it's easier to fall back onto that rule than contend with it. It's a bad rule.

[cafeinthemoon]

Portrait of a Monk - Chapter IX

Chapter 9/?

Wordcount 3,9k

Title The Girls

Fandom Jujutsu Kaisen

Pairing Geto Suguru X reader

Previous chapters

1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5 . 6 . 7 . 8

Symbols ⭕ . ➕ . 🖤

Warning (s): Mentions of emotional issues and seasonal depression

Tagging @darling-imobsessed @wasurenagusaa

(if you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just send an ask or a message, or leave a comment on this chapter 😉)

A.N.: Despite being simple if compared to the previous ones, I found this chapter hard to write (Idk why), but I tried to make the girls' introduction as good as possible. When I had the idea of giving reader two female friends, my first thought was that they should be Nanako and Mimiko, however I needed her friends to be adult just like her, and that was when I decided to create new characters. To me, they remind me of Uzui's wives from Kimetsu no Yaiba and to a certain point I wrote them having these girls in mind, but you can imagine them whatever the way you like.

Hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you for reading this story despite the slow updates 🥺

Though your immediate response to your master’s proposal indicated a favorable disposition, you asked him for one day to think of it, after which you would come to him with a definitive, well based answer.

- It is true that saying yes to you right now wold bring me immeasurable joy, my Lord – you justified your request – But at the same time I cannot ignore what doing it would mean. As far as I know, I was never married before. Everything wold be new to me, and also a great responsibility. It cannot be taken lightly, no matter how much love is involved.

At first, Geto looked at you a bit perplexed, but this feeling was soon replaced with that sort of pride he used to display whenever he wanted to his approval. With a delicate gesture of his hands, he surrounded your face and gave you a long kiss on your forehead.

- My y/n-chan, so calm, balanced in your deliberations – he complimented – Sometimes I wish I was as mature as you.

You laughed, and he gave you more kisses on your temples and cheeks.

- Do not mock me like this, sweetie – he asked between one kiss and another – I am serious. And because of this, I am going to concede you this day you ask for.

You murmured a sweet “thank you, my Lord”, but weren’t dismissed yet. Your master had a word or two for you, and by the solemnity in his trait it was better to pay them all the possible attention.

- Speaking of seriousness, during this day, I’d also like you to consider something else – he moved one hand away from your face, but kept the other to trace his finger through your chin – Something that might affect our common life even more than one’s inexperience in these matters.

Your laughter was replaced by a preoccupied focus.

- What are you talking about, Geto-sama? What could be so serious?

- I am talking about the circumstances under which we will be living in the next months, during the rest of Autumn and Winter – he explained – It has direct connections to the fact that I proposed to you now, instead of leaving it to the future.

You were still confused.

- And what must we expect in the next months?

Instead of questioning if your masters at your old home haven’t told you anything about it, Geto started describing the expected events in the most direct manner:

- During this time of the year, people’s emotions are shaken due to the low temperatures and less exposition to natural light. As a result, a prolonged, melancholic mood dominates the residential and public spaces, favoring the birth of an impressive number of cursed spirits, from the lowest leveled to the most dangerous ones. It has been a problem for which we still do not have a definitive solution, unfortunately. But we do our best to treat it. Of course, the common people, who are not conscious of the process in which cursed energy is produced, are mostly oblivious to this, but this is the exact reason why they experience the effects of it in a way that we with knowledge would never do.

You thought of this for a moment. What you’ve heard and read about seasonal depression and related subjects was more worrying than you first supposed, then.

- In other words, they don’t know why they are in distress – you commented – And this makes things worse for them?

- You can put things this way – Geto agreed – And since our family is responsible for places where these issues are treated, many of the common people come to us, seeking for help – and putting his hands upon your shoulders – This is what I want you to understand, my dear: when these things start happening, everyone in our temples, specially this one where we live in, will be very busy. And you are included in this.

So, unlike in your old home, where you were concentrated in studying and training, here you would apply everything you’ve learned. You thought you were finally understanding where he intended to go with this conversation.

- Yes, that makes sense. But am I going to stay here all the time, or am I going to be sent outside the temple to work with you, my Lord?

- For now, I could say both, so that you have to be ready. But when Winter reaches its apex, our activities will be limited to our own house. This is another reason why I am bringing Nanae and Makoto to our house, you see: since you will be by my side for even longer periods, they must become able to take care of things while you are away. Their diligence and reliability must be equal to yours, and you must learn to trust them as sisters.

You smiled at that: listening to Geto-sama as he spoke about the girls always made your heart warm, even though you haven’t met them yet. The simple idea of having young, female company was enough to put you in a good mood; the perspective of having them with you in the next days was something to cheer up to.

And you told that to your master.

- You know, Geto-sama, I love to think that I’ll be making them my family – he still had his hand on your chin; you held it and brought to your cheek – Just as you made me yours…

- It is so good to see your happiness, my y/n-chan – was his response – I am eager to see it grow even more.

With one last, sweet kiss on your forehead, he let you go.

Now, you had many things to consider besides your own happiness, most of them directly connected to it to the point they could improved it or interfere in it. You didn’t know much about such role, but you were sure that being a wife – more than this, being Geto-sama’s wife – was a responsibility that only a few could successfully bear. You had reasons to be worried. Fortunately for you, you wouldn’t be alone for much longer in the house’s new routine, and your master promised to give you detailed instructions as those busy days approached.

***

The next great event after the proposal was, of course, the arrival of the new children, which kept each resident excited and occupied in their own functions: the preparations of new rooms, furniture, bed clothing, more ingredients for extra meals and all the practical side of things in order to give them the reception they deserved.

It wasn’t different with you, except that it was going to mark the end of a period with long work and almost no social activity and the beginning of what you could call a proper life with a family.

When Nanae and Makoto arrived at their new house, your master soon came to share the news with you. You were at the room next to yours, the one chosen to be occupied by them, organizing the last details: you asked to personally take care of everything concerning their necessities, a request that was easily accepted by Geto.

When he appeared at the door, his eyes passed over it and approved your work.

- You did an excellent job here, my dear – he commented – The girls will feel at will sooner than they expect, this I am sure.

- Thank you, my Lord – you replied after arranging some ornaments over a nightstand – It’s been a while since I dedicate myself this kind of work for an entire day. I’ve been missing it.

You never found out what he was going to say in response, for he remained quiet when a silhouette appeared and stood before by him, startling you both, and the cheerful face of a girl showed up beside the door, a healthy face surrounded by blond curls that would fall to the side as she kept her head inclined, with two vivid, green globes as eyes and some freckles over her nose, contrasting with her reddish, big lips, half opened, all of this followed by a pair of hands that held the wood frame as she observed the room’s interior in wonder.

These were her first words:

- All of this just for us?! Heavens, I’m so happy! – she suddenly turned to your master – You are always full of surprises, Geto-sama! Thank you so much…

Your first thought was that she was going to cry and hug him with all her strength. And indeed the girl’s disposition to do such thing was clear even to Geto, but she was interrupted right in time by a second person who pushed her away by her shoulders and bowed to him in an embarrassed apology. From your spot, you noticed the person was a girl with black hair, tied up by a hairpin not so different from the one you were always wearing even after gaining a new one in the proposal’s day.

- I am sorry for this inconvenience, my Lord – she was saying, ignoring the cries of protest from the first girl – It is true that we are both excited to finally be here, but there are better ways to show it, and my cousin knows that.

Geto giggled and told her to not think too much about it, then invited both girls to enter, making his way into the room right after them.

- Girls, let me introduce you to your new friend – he put a hand on each one’s shoulders – Y/n s/n, my fiancee, disciple and personal assistant. She has been with me for months now, and understands the house’s routine and rules as no other. She will guide you in your tasks, and you can trust her with everything you might need.

When the two girls looked at you for the first time, their eyes widened, excitement clear in each spot of their pretty faces.

- Y/n-chan, this is Makoto-san – Geto indicated the girl with dark hair; then, turning to the blond one – And this is Nanae-san.

The girls nodded and spoke at the same time:

- It is an honor to finally meet you, y/n-san!

You smiled at their manners, as excited as themselves.

- The honor is all mine, girls! – you nodded in response; then, indicating your surroundings – I was eager to meet you, so I did my best to prepare your room. I hope you can make yourselves comfortable here.

This time, their reactions were diverse: while Makoto showed her best manners replying that this would surely happen and that they would both do their best to keep things as organized as you made them now, Nanae went to the closest bed, on her right side, and threw herself upon it.

- Making ourselves comfortable? You don’t even need to ask, y/n-san!

Makoto, with her face as red as can be and her delicate, lilac eyes widened, was about to scold her cousin when she heard you laughing.

- Okay, Nanae-san, if you’re saying so!

You saw your master stepping back to the room’s entry, a satisfied smile on his lips. The girls turned to him when he spoke.

- I knew you were going to get along fast, my children! Seeing you together is indeed a wonderful scene – he crossed the door and waved from there – Now, if you excuse me, I need to take care of my own matters. I will see you later.

You three said goodbye to him with a nod.

The room’s door was then closed and you started an excited conversation that lasted for an entire hour, only interrupted by the boy who came to bring the girls’ things and another one who came to announce the next meal. You heard your new friends talking about the temples where they used to live before being brought to Geto’s house, the routine in them, their first encounter with him and their travel to their new home with a curiosity that would grow at each minute.

You soon found out their innate techniques were as interesting as you first supposed. Makoto was a master of shikigami in the form of insects and butterflies she would use to examine territories and find missing things, as well as to trace preys; they were also used to collect and share information. Nanae, on the other hand, used her cursed energy to move objects of any size, and sometimes to levitate herself, a very useful and unpredictable tool for direct combat. Both abilities were excellent, especially for assistants. It was just as you were told: their presence would be a comfort and a great help.

The girls, used to deal with older people since they came to live in their old temple (a situation not so different from your own), were clearly content for having the company of someone as young as themselves, able to talk to them on the same level of understanding and familiarity, even though you were introduced as their senpai. They were particularly interested in your story and how you became their master’s most trusted person.

You told them about how you were saved by a stranger on a stormy night, at one of his temples’ entry. You explained that, despite having known his name and respected it for a long time in your old home, your first encounter with him was by accident. After some talking, you found out that your savior and Geto-sama were the same person, and showed your gratitude in a proper way. Geto, in exchange for this, chose you to be his personal assistant, for the position was vacant since he sent his previous one away. You immediately accepted the invitation and moved to his house on the same day.

- And since we have been together for long periods everyday, it was only natural that love would find a place to grow – you giggled – I mean, I didn’t take too long to fall in love, but I wasn’t expecting that he would fall too, and so soon. The day he confessed to me was the happiest of my life, only being replaced by the one when he proposed to me.

Nanae commented that she has always been sure that her master had some romanticism in him, but hearing you tell a whole story where this trait played a main role was better than anything that she could suppose. Makoto, on the other hand, had a more practical view of the things.

- To me, it is not a surprise that your innate technique has caught his attention, y/n-san – she was saying as she took her clothes off a suitcase and organized them on the wardrobe’s drawers – Being able to alter or erase people’s memories is something unique, and Geto-sama appreciates things like this. Of course he would recognize your talents once he became familiar with them.

- Not only unique, but dangerous as well – you replied with hesitation.

Both girls stared at you in confusion.

- What do you mean, dangerous? – Makoto questioned.

- I found out, too late, that my technique works in myself – you revealed – It already caused me many problems, and I don’t want this list to get any longer. So now I take extra care to not use it by accident.

Nanae was sitting by your side on the bed, with her legs crossed upon it in the lotus position. She sighed at your last observations.

- That Geto-sama likes things that are unique and dangerous is just as unsurprising, if we’re being honest here – she shrugged – He’s an important person, so he needs to be surrounded by people who are able to do dangerous things to protect him.

You swallowed. You were going to take long a path until you got used to the girl’s honesty, you knew, but that was an interesting point, which you never realized until now, perhaps because you always supposed that your master was able to defend himself – his technique consisted in taking curses under his control, after all, and what could be more dangerous than this? But your own ability was more subtle, not fitting for direct conflicts. Well, sometimes the kind of protection one would need had nothing to do with fighting, right?

- Maybe you’re right, Nanae-san – you replied after a moment – Now that I think of this, his decision towards me make sense, especially with the coldest seasons approaching and our quantity of work about to increase.

Makoto seemed interested.

- Are you talking about the darkest seasons, y/n-san?

You confirmed and told them about the growth in the number of curses during that time of the year and how you were going to be occupied, according to what your master told you.

Nanae whistled by your side.

- Working on the treatment of common people who are cursed? Sounds stressful.

You looked at her waiting for an explanation, but it came from Makoto.

- The masters in our old temple used to deal with this too – she folded a dress that got messed inside the suitcase and put it on the drawer while she spoke – They always worked in teams that would alternate between working hours and rest. The apprentices could watch the process but they weren’t allowed to participate, and no one had permission to do overtime, no matter how many people in need would appear at our door.

- Because exorcising curses and dealing with the emotional charge resulting from them is a very tiring job, to say the least – Nanae continued, giving you the explanation you didn’t have the courage to ask for – It drains one’s energy like no other task. It’s usually a bit easier during Summer and Spring, but Autumn and Winter are… complicated.

You spent some seconds in silence, looking at nowhere, then folded your knees and passed your arms around them. Suddenly the conversation you had with Geto about the next months came back to you, this time leaving a strange sensation in your stomach.

- ...I see.

Your uneasiness didn’t go unnoticed by the girls. Nanae was no longer joking.

- What’s wrong, y/n-san?

You took a deep breath.

- Nothing. I was just thinking… – and before you started a monologue about your preoccupations, you shook the bad feelings and smiled at the girls – Since this is the first time I will have to deal with this, I was scared. But this fear diminished when I was informed of your arrival. I am so grateful for having you with me...

Nanae came closer to you and threw her arms around your shoulders; Makoto left her suitcase aside and came to hug you too.

- And we are grateful for coming – she replied.

- Very grateful – Nanae completed.

***

The evening came fast that time, or so you thought while you knelt before the wood table in the middle of the room, your hands occupied with the preparation of Geto’s favorite tea. It was always like this when you had too much work to do, and now that you had the addition of your new friends’ lovely company the process seemed even deeper: you saw the autumnal sun fading on the horizon and didn’t do half of the things you’ve planned. In the end you were tired, but content.

It was in this mood that you poured the hot water on the selected mixture of herbs, their relaxing smell spreading around and attracting your master to your side: he closed the porch’s door, leaving the reddish twilight and the paper charms swinging at the wind behind, then took quiet steps toward the table. He sat with you, his curious eyes catching each of your movements, the sound of his calm breath so close making your cheeks warm.

The first words heard in the room were his.

- My y/n-chan looks so happy that her feelings would reach me on the other side of the house – his hand approached to make a caress on your cheek – And that makes her even more beautiful.

There was a pair of cups near; you took the first one and poured the tea on it, then offered it to him. Geto took it in his hands with a murmured “thank you” and you turned to the table to serve yourself with the second cup.

- Everything is going well, my Lord – you observed the steam coming up from your cup and smiled – Nanae and Makoto are wonderful girls. They’re content in being here, and they’re so diligent that we organized all their things in this afternoon and already starting planning our tasks for the next days. Working with them is refreshing and relieving at the same time.

- Very good – he mumbled in approval.

For a moment, you just drank your tea in silence, your own breaths being the only sound between those walls, until he put his cup back on the table and invited you to get closer with a gesture of his hand. You obeyed and took the place between his crossed legs; he passed his arms around you while you laid your head on his shoulder, your half filled cup still warming your palms.

- You know, it is good to see you three keeping the atmosphere light in face of the things I’ve told you about – he commented, more to himself than to you – This will be more helpful than you can suppose.

- Yes, my Lord. I confessed my worries to them, and they shared this feeling with me – you looked up to him, not disguising the anxiety in your tone – But I have yet another thing to be worried about.

- And what is it? – he stared back at you.

- Us – you sighed – How the circumstances will affect us. I can’t help the fear, despite my trust in ourselves. If there’s one thing that can make me sad now, here it is.

Geto’s response was to give you a long, warm kiss on the top of your head, while his fingers entwined with your hair, massaging your scalp.

- If you cannot help it, just let it be, my dear – he whispered – Worry about what you have to worry, and feel what you have to feel. But know that when it ends, you can always come back and rest here, with me – and with a giggle – Whenever you get tired of flying, just say it, and I will grab your ankles for you.

You smiled, but said nothing to that. You didn’t need to. You just finished your tea and put the cup back on the table, alongside his.

- Speaking of us, I have some news for you – he spoke when you went back to his lap – Good ones, of course.

You turned to him with wide eyes.

- What news, Geto-sama?

Your reaction was clearly a diversion to him, who blinked at you before answering.

- Recently, I’ve been in contact with one of the masters from your old home, and he accepted the request I made, despite the little time he will have to prepare himself.

- Prepare himself? For what?

- To lead our wedding ceremony, my love – Geto replied with a laugh – We also have settled a date for it.

Your heart pounded inside your chest with such strength that you were sure he heard it too. An established date!

- Really? And when will it be?

- In three weeks – holding your chin, he gave you a quick, sweet kiss on your lips – Counting from today.

[xxtraord1nary]

POV

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Tobias Carrick x f!mc (Charlotte West)

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: Constructive criticism is always welcome! No hate please and thank you for reading reblog and comment if you enjoyed.

Summary: A very naughty and heavily pregnant Charlotte much prefers her handsome lovers point of view.

Warnings: Strong Language, Fellatio, Sex, and a tad of dark humor. If that makes you uncomfortable please exit stage left because you’ve been warned. Overall vulgar.

Tag list: @katkart122 @missmiimiie @openheartfanfics

“Tobias, I am not playing with you get that damn camera out of my face! It's way too early for your shit.” Charlotte snapped whilst swatting at the pest she called a husband as he continued to record his very moody wife with his old camera he found a couple a months ago when Char ordered him with a broom in hand to go “clean that damn garage” or he could sleep on the couch for a month, so that being all the motivation he needed Tobias got to it with vigor.

“You're really good at this whole black mama thing Charlie.” he teases with a shit eating grin plastered on his stupidly perfect face. “Keep it up and I’ll be a single black mama if you don’t quit.” she grunted while taking down her plaited kinky tendrils that in the morning tended to have a mind of their own.

“Now why would you say that?”

“Because I’m going to kill you” she said whilst continuing to grumpily apply toothpaste to her electric toothbrush.

“Really talking like that when I’m recording, then the police will immediately know who to be held responsible in the case of my untimely demise, Charlie.” he further ribbed while shaking his head playfully behind the lens.

“Screw you and the police Carrick.” she spat.

“Babe, you know all you have to do is corporate and let me get my daily picture of you and our little Tiny Tia. So get with the program.” he chided with a small but genuine smile as he further gazed at the love of his life and their little one growing inside her very pregnant belly.

“Alright two things: that name is super cute and I’m surprised you came up with that yourself.”

“I’m good for something, see?” to which she answered with a ‘meh’ and shrug of her shoulders.

“I’m offended.” and again another answer in the form of shrugged shoulders and a hard roll of the eyes.

“Now for two, why on earth do you need a picture every day?” she whined with tired eyes.

“This is our first child out of many, I need to capture every moment. Now lift up your shirt!” he confidently proclaimed.

She didn’t want to burst his little bubble but if he thought for a second she was pushing another of his big headed babies out of her lady parts he was sorely mistaken. ‘What the hell is “out of many” anyways?’ she pondered with a perplexed expression. “Absolutely not, I look like a gross ragamuffin.”

He sighed, “Charlie lift up your shirt or I’m gonna hold out.” he asservated pleased with her shocked expression. “Oh yeah, hold out what exactly?” she challenged with raised eyebrows. He knew the denial of sex would be the thing to do it for her. Already she had an insatiable sexual appetite hence here they were here six months pregnant, but pregnancy hormones only amplified that. “You really don’t wanna play those games with me Tobias, or you’ll find yourself handcuffed to bed and taken by force.” she lightheartedly fired back. “I’m quite intrigued as long as I can return the favor.” he huskily dropped an octave and whispered to her. She shivered and scoffed “You a silly little freak.” with a laugh.

“Honestly Charlie, all this is unnecessary as all I wanted was my pictures and could have been going about my business by now but someone refused to get along with the picture. Pun heavily intended.” he sighed.

“Okay I’ll bite, but what are you even doing with these pictures?”

“Well, if you must know. I take your picture or video then I pleasure myself.” he sexily drawled “then upload it online to make a virtual scrapbook.” he happily finished. “Why am I not surprised?” she chuckled as she shoved his laughing form. “Wait, you still masturabte?” she inquisitively questioned.

“Well, yeah sometimes you're in a horrifying mood and I’d rather work with what I’ve got than you ripping my head off, do you?”

“Actually no, not since I met you at least.” she truthfully noted, as her hands just didn’t do the job since Dr. Tobias Carrick waltzed into her life with his devilishly handsome face and rocked her world.

“I’m doing my job right then.” he pressed with a smirk. “Mhm, too right if you ask me.” she quipped pointing to her very round and beautiful stomach adorned with barely visible glittery stretch marks that only magnified her beauty and strength. “What’s on your mind now?” he pried while she poked at her bump in the mirror. “Me and Sienna, Aurora, and Jackie are going out to Carson Beach and I can’t decide whether to wear a two or one piece.”

“Two pieces of course so I can enjoy the fruits of my labor.” he smiled proudly.

“Four minutes hardly constitutes at “labor” she mocked with air quotes. He smacked his teeth in annoyance, “If you loved me you’d do this for me.” he pleaded. And now it was her turn to kiss her teeth, “Fine!” she huffed. “But leave my face out of it, I look icky in the mornings.” to which he eagerly disagreed and pecked her lips but not before muttering something along the lines of “stunning”.

“Alright, I’ll give you your little video but you have to do something for me.” she suggestively proposed. To which he readily agreed as he loved her ‘just been fucked’ afterglow. He then turned off the old camcorder and attempted to put it away but she fingered the loops of his jeans “Uh uh turn it back on.”

He was sure his eyes were completely bulging out of his skull and managed to mutter a “Charlie a-are you serious?” in his daze. She nodded and sunk down to her knees as she slowly tugged down his boxers and elicited a low groan from him.

In the lens of the camera she expertly handled his member with care and tenderly began to stroke him giggling at his floored expression. “You ready for me, Tobias?” she tantalizingly asked not ceasing her stroking. Receiving an eager nod and thumbs up from the camera she smirked at her success in making the talkative bastard speechless. Expertly she teased his large in girth and lengthy member with the tip of her tongue before guiding him into her mouth as she had done tons of times before sucking her mans dick like a woman starved.

“Oh god, slow down baby.” Tobias pitifully groaned while screwing his mind down as the love of his life expertly worked him. “You wanna be inside me, baby?” she whispered in a sultry tone against the head of his member cursing a pleasant shiver to rack his body. He didn’t answer but instead made a gesture behind the camera for me to turn around. He thanked the heavens above for the easy access and the fact that she was wearing one of his shirts and abandoned underwear long ago. She hissed as his large strong hand cam crashing down on her bare ass, and soothed the pleasant sting with a soft rub. “Perfect.” he murmured as he continued his caressing of her more than generous backside. “How’s the view?” she asked with a wink through the mirror.

And with a quick and brutal thrust he was inside leaving her panting mess on the cold surface of the bathroom countertop as she moaned slowly.

“Amazing.” he quickly answered before he began his unrelenting deep thrust. “Deeper” she moaned out in the air. Resting on her palms and easing away from the countertop she made eye contact with a chipper Tobias as he violently thrust into her and she had to brace herself. “Where are you going Char?” Tobias teased as she stood on her tiptoes desperately in an unsuccessful attempt of creating space between them.

“Damn I know I told him deeper, but now he's just showing out for the camera.” she thought while groaning as he hit a spot inside her making let out a loud guttural moan. He made the most out of his opportunity reaching to rub her clit. Moaning even louder he soon used one hand to grip her shoulder as he angled the camcorder downwards to catch sight of his pelvis meeting her dripping cunt. Closing her eyes for some reprieve she opened them to meet Tobias’s eyes in the mirror to find him damn near gnawing through his lip to hold back his loud groans.

Her release soon crep up on her and she moaned loudly, “Baby, I-” to which he cut her off as he sped up his tireless thrust, “Me too. Don’t wait for me.” and with that she came harder than ever and fell back on the counter, a panting mess and sweating bullets and winced as he pulled out of her. She mistakenly thought he was going to clean her only for him to zoom in the camera to get a close up of her used pussy with his milky cum dripping out of her.

Once he caught his breath he chuckled “That was amazing and it wasn’t even my birthday.” to which she rolled her eyes with a dazed expression and a small smile on her face since enjoying the after effects of their morning activities.

“Yeah yeah you better delete that.” she warned turning on the shower.

“Uh-Uh Charlie we just made a porno, I’m downloading this to my USB and keeping it in my safe.” he remarked while being transfixed at the camcorder in his hands causing her to snort with laughter.

“Whatever, if it gets leaked I better get paid for it.” she declared while leaving to her shower leaving Tobias in a cheerful fit of post orgasmic laughter.

Fin.

A/N: That was nasty and you read it so you’re nasty too.

[tothedarkdarkseas]

If you woke up tomorrow and suddenly became the new writer for gorillaz... What would be the FIRST thing you'd add/change that you believe is important to get gorillaz on the right track, vs what would you add purely for yourself?

This is tricky to answer, because the fandom is so split on when and why Gorillaz starts going "wrong." I'd probably say I disagree with certain choices in every phase from 3 onward, but I also wouldn't say I abjectly hate any of them or any have truly worn me off the band (admittedly, this current phase has the least to offer.) I say all this to give me cushioning when my suggestions are bad/no one can agree on what's good and what's crap, haha. It's also tough to tell where the line is between The Good Of Us All and Just Good For Me, but I am absolutely aware those are very distinctly separate things.

I would start simply with more interviews. Not short statements for a magazine or ads for new products, not a cobbled together collection of ideas to fill a page in a novelty book. I don’t say that to be a hater, I think the almanac had a few worthwhile written sections, but I don't think it's controversial to say large portions were just taking up space, felt very out-of-step with the character (Paula’s revisiting comes to mind) or didn't feel like they added anything-- goofy for goofy's sake is fun in doses, very much not saying the only worthwhile interviews are the serious ones, but it can feel strange when it is the only significant written content we get for a band that have, in the past, provided actual measured thoughts about the music (mostly Noodle and Russ here) or served themselves as a satire of pop culture and mocked archetypical celebrities (particularly the irreverent, lived, sponsor-unfriendly specifics of British pop culture, as the writers are more at-home with this than, say, exploring much about actual Japanese culture in Noodle’s travels; this is Stu and Murdoc's domain.) I want to read interviews with individual members and with the band as a whole that have no focus on marketing, no focus on their own products or sponsorships, and perhaps most crucially IMO, are not reliant solely on what we’ve seen in music videos already. Honestly, the merch-plugs and promotional materials bother me way less than the short interviews or quotes (from Twitter, etc) we get just referencing the most recent events of a Song Machine video, or really blandly calling back to previously written lore without even a joke attached. I’m not trying to make some grand statement about Gorillaz “always” doing this, or this “always” being bad, I do think these critiques can be overstated sometimes-- but from the perspective of a fairly neutral fan, yeah, I think it’s as true as any subjective feeling can be that Gorillaz’s writing is fairly unwilling to say something new about the characters, maybe because the writers or actors are bound to a script with just a few plot points. Like, I just want Gorillaz to actually be funny again. I acknowledge and respect where they’ve made some attempts but I’d like to see more life in the characters-- and this may teeter into adding things just for me, but I’d like them to a bit meaner again as well. I’d like all of the characters to bring their own laddishness or snobbery to the table, I’d like them to take potshots at pop culture and start beef, I’d like the man we define as being a gross arrogant arsehole to actually come across as these things instead of the characters just rolling their eyes at him and getting virtually no unique characterization of their own-- there’s so much comedy and commentary lost when only Murdoc is allowed to be nasty, and even he can’t really say something to make an enemy. There are of course fans who love the softer family aspect but I reckon there are just as many fans who prefer the band to be sort of Always Sunny-ish, be a little bit insufferable but too much fun to quit. I definitely think there’s a way to strike that balance, because they’ve done it before. Speaking for myself I wouldn’t say Gorillaz is totally ruined and will never be good again etc etc, I don’t want to throw all my merchandise in a fire, I just think they’ve made some questionable choices in the real world, they’re struggling to stay in step now that they’ve got to be their own label, and the characters are not bringing much to the table to genuinely laugh at.

Purely for myself... first instinct/no-thought answer: I would add official artwork of Stu with a small bald spot chatting up a girl in the clinic while holding a little baggy for his prescription itch cream, and another of Murdoc leaving an alley in Soho, sneering at the camera but swiping a thumb at the side of his mouth. Or a song with Brian Molko. Or Stu recording a football chant for Chelsea on his own, ala Sleeping Powder. These are all acceptable.

[lotusthekat]

Help is just around the corner (for us)

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: G

Relationships: Platonic Lars & Steven

Characters: Steven Quartz Universe, Lars Barriga, Lion; other characters are only mentioned

Summary: “Hey, it’s not a big deal. I’ve been through worse,” Steven insists.

“Dude, you’ve been wincing the entire time, don’t tell me it’s not a big deal,” Lars mocks, annoyed.

Steven can’t help shivering inside - both at Lars’ observation and his tone. He’s seen Lars angry, of course… but never because of this.

--

Sometimes, Steven's healing powers don't quite work, but it's nothing he hasn't dealt with before. Yet Lars is... surprisingly upset about it.

Word count: 2.226

AO3 / Fanfiction

A/N: Don’t mind me writing self-indulgent stuff for my boys in the very year of 2021 *peace sign*

Half inspired by loubuttons’ “Rare and Sweet As Cherry Wine” and a comment on another Lars & Steven fic, Novantinuum’s “The Brother on the Other Side”. Both are great fics and they’re on AO3 :)

Title is from Help Is Round the Corner by Coldplay.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - past bullying/abuse, major character injury, flashback and trauma

--

“Hold on – what the heck is that?”

The outraged question was so far from expected, that Steven almost drops the bowl he was supposed to grab. The boy wonders if there’s something wrong with the bowl, until he realizes that Lars’ eyes are glued to his arm. His pink sleeve has fallen off, revealing the wound from earlier.

“Oh, I- I got in a gem fight earlier, but it’s nothing really!” Steven reassures him, “My healing powers will take care of it… eventually,” he then doesn’t sound as confident, admittedly.

Immediately after, Lars grabs him to the nearest chair and rushes to find a first-aid kit somewhere in his house. When he returns, Lars is inspecting his arm with desperate focus.

“Hey, it’s not a big deal. I’ve been through worse,” Steven insists.

“Dude, you’ve been wincing the entire time, don’t tell me it’s not a big deal ,” Lars mocks, annoyed.

Steven can’t help shivering inside - both at Lars’ observation and his tone. He’s seen Lars angry, of course… but never because of this.

Basically, Steven got into a fight with a group of gems in outer space. He’s received plenty of reports of gems that turned against Homeworld’s new system – and Steven’s decisions specifically – yet he found out too late that a specific group was larger than he anticipated. There was no time to call for help when he was attacked mercilessly, but he called the Diamonds after it was over, at least.

His healing powers usually do most of the job for him after battles, but lately they haven’t been working as well as they should - even though Steven consistently watches over his hydration and health. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he believed he could figure it out for himself, so he hasn’t told the gems… yet.

Regardless, Lars works on soothing the wound as gently as possible, despite his serious frown. Steven struggles to swallow through the pain, though it eventually gets better once Lars is almost finished.

“Are there any other injuries you’re hiding?” The pink boy demands.

Steven shakes his head. Lars then begins bandaging the former’s arm, and it’s definitely better now that it’s not burning… yet Steven can’t help raising an eyebrow at his friend’s behavior.

“Hey, don’t be mad,” Steven tries to tell him.

It’s no use in saying that, because Lars promptly and angrily ignores Steven as he insists on bandaging his arm.

“Lars,” the younger boy tries again, “I’m okay, you don’t need to–”

“Except I do, because you’re a knucklehead .”

Steven blinks and frowns, affirming, “I can take care of myself.”

Lars simply stares at him with an unamused look.

“What? It’s true!” Steven exclaims in defense. “You don’t believe me?”

As a response, Lars shakes his head in disapproval and looks away. Before the other thinks through it, Steven’s voice raises, “Fine, it’s not like everyone else takes me seriously!”

The older boy’s eyes widen. “Wait, Steven, that’s not what I meant–”

“Oh, really? Because I’m tired of everyone treating me like a baby!” Steven steams. “I’m sixteen now! I saved the entire galaxy! What else do I have to do for you to realize I grew up?!”

“That’s exactly the problem, Steven!” Lars argues. “You can’t keep doing everything alone because you think you have to!”

“What do you know? You’re not a Diamond!”

“But I know you’re still a kid and you deserve help!”

“I’m not a kid, and I didn’t ask for your help!” Steven pushes his hand away, harshly.

Instead of yelling more, however, the look on Lars’ face disperses Steven’s anger. He looks… hurt. Really hurt, like those particular words left a wound on him. Steven’s heart drops in regret.

“Lars… I…”

The other boy looks away and mentions nothing for dragging minutes. Steven doesn’t know what to say, because what he feels is true, but he didn’t mean to sound so ungrateful, either. This is why he’s never confronted anyone.

When Steven senses a hand hesitantly reaching his, he almost flinches.

“I think you should go rest, at least,” Lars suggests, not demanding like before; yet his voice is awfully quiet. “We don’t want you getting worse, right?”

Steven would have protested but he genuinely doesn’t know what to say to make up for it.

“... Right.”

Lars nods in silence. “Do you want to go home?”

Maybe he shouldn’t, Steven considers. He should really apologize to Lars; he’s not one to run away from his mistakes.

“Yeah… okay,” The sixteen-year-old replies.

There’s no other argument. Steven gazes at his bright, messy pink hair that covers his friend’s eyes. Sighing, Steven enters the pink, hairy dimension and arrives home in no time. When there, he greets Lion taking over his bed. This time, the half-gem doesn’t tell him to get off.

Lion’s gaze already tells him the big cat is looking through him as usual. Steven knows Lion can’t talk, but it’s not like there’s anyone else.

“I shouldn’t have been so hard on Lars,” Steven admits. “I know he cares, it’s just…” he pauses once remembering Lars’ look from earlier.

It hurt, but not only because Steven was rude. There was something else about it, too. It was a different kind of hurt. A pain so ingrained, so deep that words might not be able to describe it. And to think Steven brought this hurt to Lars…

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Steven whispers wetly. Right now, he doesn’t sound like he’s sixteen.

Lion snuggles against Steven to comfort him. The boy leans back on him, tears filling his eyes.

You’re still a kid and you deserve help!

(Does he?)

--

Honestly, it doesn’t look that bad.

He manages to sneak to the bathroom, after quickly replying to the usual “how was school today?”. His parents don’t really check in on him – though he doesn’t know if he’d want them to.

Because Lars knows he’s just a stupid, whiny kid. He cries too easily, he yells a lot and gets pathetically hurt too often. Who would want to help him? His teachers certainly don’t. If he went to the nursery again, they would call his parents and he’d be exposed and punished. He’d be even more humiliated for having both of them baby him in front of everyone.

Lars locks himself in the bathroom, contemplating his dirty t-shirt, his scratched arms and the ugly purple smudging his face. Well, it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with. He’s hidden some of his mom’s make-up to cover the worst of it, and the first-aid kit can be easily found. It’s far from perfect but it’s enough not to raise too many questions. As for the t-shirt, he could lie he was playing in the dirt and tripped. He’s said this for so long, they believe everything he says.

Problem is, he won’t stop crying.

He knows it’s his fault. Everyone tells him that. Lars has to deal with this alone. So what? This shouldn’t make him so emotional.

Yet his head hurts from crying too much, even more so than the purple in his cheek. The tears are burning hot, and all Lars wants is to hit something, yell, do anything because he wants so badly to give up .

… but he can’t. He shouldn’t.

Lars is twelve , for crying out loud. A teenager. School has never been easy. He should’ve learned at this point.

He can’t keep being lame.

He’s…

He’s a big boy now. It’s what his dad tells him.

Lars dries his tears with his arm, and glares determinedly at the mirror.

Yeah, he’s a big boy now. He doesn’t need coddling.

Lars will prove to everyone he can be cool and he will finally be accepted. Yeah, that’s right. He’ll get over it and be great.

(Lars tells no one, however, that he might still cry himself to sleep some nights.)

--

This time, Steven takes the longer path to Lars’ house – because he can think of something to tell him on the way. Today is cloudy, with high chances of raining. If anything, it makes him a little more uneasy.

Steven shouldn’t have left Lars alone yesterday, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t do much. He still hasn’t quite processed what Lars meant – that Steven deserved help, and the way Lars reacted to Steven’s outburst… he didn’t want to assume anything, so the half-gem figures it wasn’t the right time to ask. Well, that’s what he’s telling himself. He can only hope Lars is okay.

When he gets to Lars’ home, Steven swallows the hardest lump he’s… ever swallowed. He has to do this, though. It’s the right thing to do, and he cares about Lars. He’s not going to run away.

… but then he notices Lars isn’t inside. No, he’s actually standing on the porch, gazing at seemingly nowhere in midst of the many other houses. He holds the same distant and pained gaze from yesterday. Steven takes a deep breath and heads on awkwardly. Lars doesn’t seem to notice him until Steven has already climbed the few stairs.

“Steven?” Lars greets him with relative shock.

The younger boy clears his throat. “Hey… are you, um, doing okay?”

Lars exhales, in what sounds to be exhaustion and… fondness. “Yeah. Yeah…” As soon as Steven rubs his arms, though, his reaction is quite another. “Does it still hurt?” he asks, eyes wide and worried.

“No, no! It’s fine now, I swear,” Steven tells the truth. Lars believes him and sighs.

“Right. Okay.”

They both look away.

“D… Do you mind if I…” Steven nervously gestures at the space beside him. Lars thankfully gets it as he nods.

Steven settles in close, almost enough for their arms to brush. He plays with his hands for quite a while, unsure how to begin. Lars lets out no words, either. He’s as quiet as the town today.

“Lars,” Steven tries, “I’m…” His eyes begin to twitch. He swallows again, “I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lars speaks up, tone low. He pauses for a moment before saying, “I shouldn’t have called you a knucklehead.”

“No, you’re right! I am a knucklehead. I always take up a lot more than I can. It’s…” He sighs as he rubs the back of his neck, unsure if he should go on. “Everyone always expects me to do all these- these things, because if I don’t…” Steven swallows, “I feel like I won’t be worth it. I fear everyone’s going to pay for what I do wrong.”

He senses Lars staring back at him, maybe in shock over how strong these words are. Steven has never quite admitted it to anyone else, and never so clearly to himself.

“And I didn’t expect you to be upset, either,” the half-gem continues. “Like, it’s become so normal to me that I feel like I’ve convinced everyone not to worry about me. So, they don’t. I don’t get many questions and then I’m…”– he clenches his fist –“I’m alone.”

Steven leans on the porch, isolated raindrops hitting the wooden house. He smells the rain, the wet plants and flowers from afar. Some of the rain hits his face softly. The ambient noises are the only ones to speak at the moment. Despite the rain, everything seems so… clear.

Eventually, though, Lars is the one that approaches him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“Listen, I… I get it,” Lars tells him. “Maybe not the ‘being a Diamond’ part, or the ‘savior of the galaxy’ part, but I get you have wounds you can’t show others. Even if you want to, even if you’re hurting badly”– his eyes fall upon Steven’s arm sadly –“you’re not ready to show them. You might not be ready to show in a long time, you don’t know.”

At this, he turns Steven around slightly to face him.

“I just want you to know, you can trust me with that stuff. You don’t need to hide your wounds from me,” Lars reassures him. “I might get upset, yeah… but I’d rather know than have no idea what’s going on with you. Because I care about you, Steven, and I can’t stand the thought of you hurt and me not being able to help.”

Steven won’t lie, he might cry right now. He hasn’t realized how badly he needed to hear this. That it’s okay to hurt. Because, being honest, he’s so tired. Nothing ever ends, and his happily ever after might never come.

“But, uh, you don’t have to come to me, if you don’t want to. I won’t judge. Just… know that I’m here for you, okay?” Lars adds. Right after, Steven replies with a jump hug, because he wants this. He does.

They hold one another while the rain goes on outside. Once it’s gotten worse, they go inside, and soon after Steven is wrapped up in a blanket and he’s glued to Lars on the couch.

It’s nice.

[sparrow-flies-south]

Ten Things [3]

Fandom: Sanders Sides Pairings: Anxceit, Royality Intrulogical Summary: Ten Things I Hate About You AU When Roman Prince learns that Patton Foster isn’t allowed to date until his older brother, Virgil, is, Roman is crushed. Roman’s twin brother Remus, however, comes up with a plan: find someone who is willing to date Virgil. And who better to ask than Janus Verona, who according to rumours is willing to do anything for the right price? Taglist (ask to be added!) @glitchybina @imlikeaghostzombiejesus  @someone-idk-is-here @anxiety-ismy-name Notes: Apologies for being a day late. Hope you enjoy!

AO3 Link - Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six  

Virgil wanted nothing more than to go straight home, curl up on his bed, and blast MCR through his headphones until he couldn’t think. But he’d already agreed to take Patton to Right Round, his favourite record store, that afternoon, so he forced himself to turn left into town as opposed to right to their house when he left the school parking lot.

As soon as they got inside, Patton made a beeline to the vinyl records. Virgil let himself wander; he didn’t mind being there, even as keyed up as he was. The store was quiet and airy, and the music that played through the speakers was soothing. He headed to the guitars- not that he could afford any of them, but he still liked to look.

There, in the middle, as always, was his guitar. The one that he was saving up for. Remy had said that he could work in his shop other the summer to save up for it. Then he could take the guitar and go to college, could leave High School behind him, and not have to think about people like Mr Williams or Janus Verona again.

“Do you play?”

Virgil startled, and turned around. Speak of the devil; Janus was leaning against a shelf displaying sheet music. Virgil crossed his arms.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped. Had Janus followed him here? After his humiliation in English, and then being late to his next class because he’d been busy having a panic in the bathroom, Virgil really wasn’t in the mood for further mocking.

Janus raised an eyebrow. “In a store? Where they sell things? Gosh, Virgil, I don’t know, what could I be doing here?”

“Whatever.” Virgil scowled. He looked over at Patton, who was looking between two records, oblivious to what was going on. If he went over there, would Janus just follow him?

“I enjoyed your speech in English,” Janus said.

Okay, screw it. Virgil wasn’t going to stick around for this. “Glad I could entertain you,” he hissed, and began to walk away.

“It impressed me, actually.”

Virgil stopped, and gave Janus an incredulous look. Janus didn’t look amused, didn’t look anything but sincere, for that matter. Then again, according to Luc, Janus could look perfectly sincere while planning on stabbing you in the back.

“Mr Williams is a dick,” Janus continued. “But I liked your points.”

“Really,” Virgil said flatly.

“No, actually I’m being completely insincere,” Janus said drily. “Questioning the values an authority figure is trying to push on us isn’t something I’d enjoy at all.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a dick?”

“Not to my face,” Janus replied, mimicking inspecting his nails even though he was wearing gloves.

Virgil shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to… question authority or anything. That wasn’t my point.”

“Wasn’t it?” Janus asked.

Okay, maybe he had been. Not consciously, but… he’d been sick of Mr Williams’ scorn, of treating Virgil like he was stupid. So he’d shown Mr Williams that he could think for himself. But admitting that seemed too much like admitting common ground with him.

“I don’t hate Shakespeare,” Virgil said instead. “I just think that there are aspects of his plays that we don’t get to talk about.”

“Really.” Janus looked interested. “And what are the dark sides to the rest of the bards work?”

The smart thing to do would be to turn around and walk away, not give Janus any more ammunition for whatever scheme he was working on. But Virgil didn’t want to leave. He wanted to meet Janus’ challenge.

“Try me,” he answered.

Janus smiled. “Okay, let’s see. Romeo and Juliet is too easy: teen suicide.”

“Actually it’s that you should wait five minutes before making any major decisions. Or to not get married at thirteen.”

“Hamlet?”

“Check who you’re stabbing before you stab them.”

“Twelfth night?”

“There’s never a bad time to dress in drag.”

Janus laughed. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then stopped, his attention caught on someone just behind at to the right of Virgil. Virgil turned to see what he was looking at just as Patton came up next to him.

“Hi Virgil,” Patton said. His tone was sweet, but his gaze was fixed firmly on Janus and his eyes were narrowed. “You’ve never introduced me to your friend.”

“We’re not friends,” Virgil replied. “We just have English together.”

Patton hummed and reached out a hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Patton.”

“Janus Verona,” Janus responded, shaking the hand.

“Oh,” Patton said, still smiling. “I know who you are.”

Virgil glanced between the two of them. Patton might be smiling, but his eyes were like flint. Janus just seemed amused.

“Uh, you get what you wanted, Pat?” Virgil asked.

“Yep!” Patton held up a paper bag, finally looking at Virgil. “Ready to go?”

“Sure.” Virgil glanced back at Janus. “See you in school.”

Janus nodded. If he wanted to say anything else, he didn’t get the chance before Patton grabbed Virgil by the arm and tugged him towards the exit. He didn’t release Virgil’s arm until they were at the car.

“What was that?” Virgil asked as soon as they were in their seats. “You usually like meeting new people.”

“Usually those people aren’t Janus Verona,” Patton shot back. “What did he want?”

“Beats me. We just talked about English.”

Patton still looked uncertain. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right? Like, if he was bothering you?”

“He wasn’t bothering me,” Virgil said, because he didn’t make promises he wasn’t going to keep and the last thing he wanted was to drag Patton into his mess. “He’s just- weird, I guess.”

“Right,” Patton said sadly.

Virgil considered saying something else, to try and reassure him, but Patton just looked out the window. Virgil sighed, and turned the music up.

 ***

“We should have brought popcorn,” Roman said.

The four of them – Roman, Remus, Patton and Logan – were studying in the library. Or rather, Remus and Logan were studying, talking in Spanish, Logan occasionally flipping through his notes to find a particular vocab word. Roman and Patton were shamelessly spying from a nearby table.

“What are they saying?” Patton asked. So far, the only parts of the conversation he’d been able to understand was the occasional correction from Remus or question from Logan.

“Nothing interesting, alas.” Roman sounded disappointed. “Remus seems… well behaved.”

Patton hummed, doodling cats in his notebook. His mind kept wandering back to the record store yesterday, to the conversation in the car, to Virgil basically admitting that he would hide if anything was wrong.

“Perhaps we should take bets on how long until Remus gives up and does something widely inappropriate.”

“Sure,” Patton answered.

Roman nudged him. “Everything Gucci?”

Patton stirred. “Sorry, what?”

“You spaced out,” Roman said, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I hope my presence isn’t that boring.”

Patton shook his head quickly. “No! It’s not. I’m sorry, I was just-.”

“Thinking?” Roman guessed. “It’s okay, I just- do you want to talk about it?”

Patton hesitated, rolling his pen between his fingers. Perhaps another perspective would help… “What do you know about Janus Verona?”

Roman froze. “Nothing! Who’s Janus Verona? I mean, uh,” he coughed. “Why do you ask?”

“He was talking to my brother yesterday,” Patton said. “What if he’s- blackmailing him or something?”

Roman shifted in his seat. “Well, did you ask him what was going on?”

“He said it was just about English.”

“Well, there you go! Nothing to worry about.”

Patton shook his head. “But that’s what Virgil would say if something was wrong.”

“It’s also what he’d say if they were talking about English,” Roman countered.

“But why would they be? Janus never talks to anyone unless he wants something, why talk to Virgil? And why now?”

“Well,” Roman offered, “Maybe he likes Virgil.”

It sounded impossible. But Janus had been smiling while Virgil had spoken, had even laughed, and Virgil didn’t seem too upset. Surely, Patton would have been able to tell if Virgil was worried about something.

Perhaps Patton should stop worrying about it for now.

“Speaking of liking someone,” Roman said, cutting through Patton’s thoughts. “Are you going to Brad’s party on Friday?”

Brad’s parties were a thing of legend at Padua High School. He threw one at least once a semester, and invited everyone who wanted to come. Patton had never been, but he’d heard enough stories of drunken hook ups to get an idea of what they were like.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he answered. “Why?”

“We should go together,” Roman said. “Not as a date! Just as friends. Logan can come, too.”

“What am I going to?” Logan asked. He and Remus must be finished with their session, because they were now taking seats at Roman and Patton’s table.

“Roman was inviting us to Brad’s party,” Patton answered.

“Oh, you have to go,” Remus said. “Brad’s parties are the best for getting wasted.”

Logan frowned. “Is that supposed to encourage me?”

“Oh, live a little, Pocket Protector,” Remus shot back. “Surely you can go one night without being so serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Logan answered. “And it wouldn’t be fair to Patton to go alone.”

“I’d like to go,” Patton said.

Logan stared at Patton as if he had never seen him before. “What about your father?”

Patton loved his father. But just once, he wanted to be a teenager.

“I’ll figure something out,” Patton said. “But I don’t want to go without my best friend.”

Logan hesitated, and the sighed and nodded. “Fine. I suppose I can go for a while.”

“Great,” Roman said, grinning. “This is going to be the best night ever.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “You said that last time.”

“And this time is going to be even better, because this time no one’s going to cause any property damage, and then give my name instead of theirs when they get caught which of course they believe because we look identical and then I have to pay hundreds of dollars for some ugly vase!”

Logan and Patton stared at Roman. “Uh, what?”

“Yeah, there’s no way that will happen,” Remus said. He smiled. “I’d never try the same trick twice.”

 ***

Going unnoticed in Mr Williams English class was a balancing act. Look too attentive, and Virgil was inviting Mr Williams to call on him. Don’t look attentive enough, and he’d be asked to prove that he was paying attention. The best way to get around it, Virgil had found, was to spend his time taking notes. It wasn’t a fool proof method, but at least it was something that Mr Williams couldn’t find a way to fault him for.

So Virgil kept his head down, focusing entirely on the notes he was taking as Mr Williams talked about the way marriage in the sixteenth century differed from today, and acted as though he couldn’t tell that Mr Williams was looking at him every five seconds as he spoke.

Mr Williams cut off suddenly, and Virgil looked up to see what had distracted him. He followed his classmates’ eyes to the side of the room, where Janus had raised his hand. For some reason, the sight made Virgil’s heart speed up.

“Yes?” Mr Williams asked.

“Actually,” Janus said, “I agree with Virgil’s point from yesterday.”

Several students looked Virgil’s way and he ducked his head, cheeks burning. What was Janus doing?

Mr Williams cleared his throat. “Well-.”

“In fact, the nature of Petruchio and Katherina’s relationship was likely a point of contention even among contemporary audiences.”

Virgil couldn’t look away as Janus argued, hands gesturing as he spoke. He’d come prepared, backed up with sources to show his points, and all the time, his smile was like a snare. This was Janus in his element, Janus doing exactly what he was meant to do. In this moment, Janus had all the power.

“That’s enough,” Mr Williams snapped, cutting off Janus’ point. Janus blinked, as if he’d forgotten he was still in the classroom. “There’s a time and place for this kind of discussion, and when I’m trying to teach isn’t it.”

“I’m sorry,” Janus said, almost sounding sincere. “I thought you’d welcome hearing a student’s interpretation of the text. Surely that’s what a good teacher would do, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mr Williams’ face turned red. “Get out.”

“Excuse me?” Janus asked, looking so taken aback it was almost funny. What had he expected to happen?

“I will not have my teaching insulted. If you don’t like how I run my classroom, you’re free to leave.”

Janus narrowed his eyes, and for a moment, the entire classroom seemed to hold their breath, watching.

“Fine,” he snapped at last, and stood up and marched out of the classroom, swinging his bag onto his shoulder in one fluid motion as he went.

The class remained silent even after the door slammed shut.

Mr Williams switched his attention to Virgil. “You, too.”

Virgil went still, heat rising up inside him and pushing on his lungs. “I didn’t do anything,” he managed to choke out.

“It’s clear that the two of you are in cahoots, and I won’t stand for it. Out.”

Virgil shoved his books into his bag, unable to look up and see everyone watching him. His eyes stung, and his chest felt tight. He hurried out of the classroom, hoping no one would see how he was blinking back tears.

Outside, Janus leaned against the wall of lockers opposite the classroom. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Virgil. “Did you walk out?”

“I got kicked out,” Virgil muttered, leaving against the wall and then sliding down it until he was on the ground. He wondered what they were talking about in the classroom, how much Virgil would miss and how long it would take him to catch up.

“Oh,” Janus said. “I should have known he’d take it out on you. I’m sorry.”

Virgil shook his head, barely even noticing that someone was actually apologising to him for something. He had to focus on keeping his breathing even instead, so he wouldn’t break down in the middle of the corridor.

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Just like his therapist showed him.

“Are you alright?” Janus asked, sounding uncertain.

“Fine,” Virgil said, harsher than he’d meant to. He leaned his head back against the wall. His eyes had stopped stinging now, so it was probably safe for Janus to see his face. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

“Sic semper tyrannis,” Janus replied smoothly.

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Like John Wilkes Booth?”

“I was referring to the assassination of Julius Caesar,” Janus snapped, looking huffy.

“Pretty sure you need a few more senators for that.”

“If you want a job done well, do it yourself.”

Virgil snorted, and then slapped a hand over his mouth to hide it. Damn it, he should not be finding Janus charming. “Seriously, though, what do you want?”

“Want?” Janus echoed.

“For standing up for me back there,” Virgil clarified.

Janus didn’t look any less confused. “I didn’t do it expecting payment.”

Virgil shook his head. “Then why? Why help, why talk to me?”

“Must I have an ulterior motive?”

“Everyone has an ulterior motive.”

Janus smiled, though there was no warmth to it. “How delightfully cynical of you.”

Virgil wasn’t going to give in that easily. He crossed his arms and glared. Eventually, Janus sighed.

“Come to Brad’s party with me,” he said.

Virgil almost choked. “What?”

“This Friday. You must have heard of it.”

“Of course I’ve heard of it. But why?”

Janus spread his hands, and Virgil was reminded of a magician. Nothing up my sleeves. “No strings, no schemes. I just want to spend time with you.”

Virgil gaped at him. His mind whirred to figure out what was happening, and then promptly crashed and needed rebooting. Was Janus asking him on a date? No, that wasn’t possible. There was no way Janus needed to settle for someone like him.

Janus was watching him, waiting for a reply, but he didn’t say anything. He was giving Virgil time to decide.

This probably was some kind of plot. Janus was trying to lure him somewhere so he could murder him or something. The idea was strangely calming compared to the alternative.

The bell cut through Virgil’s panic. Any second now, the hallways would be teeming with teenagers. This strange moment was going to end, and Virgil needed to answer.

He pushed himself to his feet, and met Janus’ eyes. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then did the only thing he could do: he walked away.

“Is that a yes?” Janus called after him.

“No,” Virgil shot back over his shoulder, not slowing down his pace. Students were beginning to file out of their classrooms now, filling the corridor.

“Is it a no?”

Virgil froze, and students flowed around him. “… No,” he said at last, not even sure if Janus would be able to hear him.

He didn’t look back to check. He hurried towards his next class, cheeks burning.

 ***

Virgil spent the rest of that day and the next thinking – or rather overthinking – about the party. The smart thing, he knew, would be to not show up. It wasn’t like he’d promised Janus that he’d been there, after all, and he didn’t owe Janus anything.

He groaned and flopped back on his bed so he was staring at the ceiling. He still had most of tomorrow to decide – the party didn’t start until the evening, but he had a feeling he would just continue to worry about it.

Already, his mind was throwing out a billion scenarios. He went, and humiliated himself in front of Janus, so Janus never wanted to speak to him again. He went, and it turned out it was all a joke after all.

So then he’d decide that he definitely wasn’t going, but then what if Janus got pissed because he though Virgil had stood him up?

Virgil rubbed a hand over his face. He was no closer to figuring it out, and any energy that wasn’t being spent on worrying he’d spent dodging Janus in the halls. It wasn’t that he wanted to avoid him, it was just that he didn’t know what to do if he did see him.

A knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts, and Virgil sighed and sat up.

“Come in,” he called.

Patton pushed the door open and hopped onto Virgil’s bed. “What’s got you all gloomy?”

“Nothing,” Virgil replied, and when Patton frowned, he added, “Just thinking about something that happened at school.”

“Good something or bad something?” Patton asked.

“I have no idea,” Virgil admitted. “It might not even be a something at all. I’m probably worrying over nothing.”

“If you’re worrying about it then it’s not nothing,” Patton gently chided.

Virgil managed a smile. “Thanks, Pat.”

Patton leaned against Virgil. It was something they’d figured out years ago, to deal with times when Virgil was too keyed up for a hug, but still needed some kind of contact.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Patton asked quietly after a while.

Virgil shook his head. Going to his little brother for relationship advice felt like a whole new level of pathetic. Besides, Patton would just get excited and assume it was a date, even though that probably wasn’t what Janus had meant at all. Then Virgil would have to deal with the added humiliation of someone else knowing how wrong he was about the whole situation.

Best to not say anything.

“I just need to figure it out by myself,” Virgil said. He glanced over. “Anyway, did you want something? Or did you just come in to check on me?”

Patton shifted in his seat. “I was going to ask you something,” he said. “But it can wait until you’re feeling better.”

Virgil shook his head. “No, ask me. I need something to distract me.”

Patton hesitated, then shook his head. “No, that’s okay. It was silly anyway.”

“Patton,” Virgil said warningly.

Patton sighed. “Do you remember how dad said I wasn’t allowed to go to parties because he didn’t want me unsupervised around lots of drunk people?”

Virgil nodded warily.

“Well, I was thinking, it you went with me, it’d technically be supervision. But you don’t have to!” he added quickly. “I know you don’t like parties.”

Not liking them was an understatement. But then, Patton probably didn’t know just how disastrous his first and last party had been.

“I thought you weren’t interested in going to parties?”

Patton shrugged. “It just never seemed like a possibility. But a bunch of friends are going, and I thought it could be fun.”

Patton sounded wistful, and it made something tug at Virgil’s heart. “What friends?”

Patton hesitated. “Oh, just Logan and some other people.”

“Other people,” Virgil said flatly. A blush was starting to form on Patton’s face.

“A huh,” Patton said, picking at his trousers. “Just some people in my year.”

“Do those people include Roman Prince?” Virgil asked.

Patton froze, then nodded.

Virgil sighed. “Patton…”

“It’s not a date,” Patton said. “We’re just going together. But not together! You know?”

Virgil knew that it sounded like a recipe for disaster.

“Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time together,” he said. “You’ll just end up getting hurt.”

“I don’t think I can get hurt while I’m in this house,” Patton said bitterly, and something twisted in Virgil’s chest.

“Dad just wants to keep you safe.” So do I, he didn’t add.

Patton deflated. “I know,” he said. “It’s just… how can I be safe if I never get to do anything for myself? I’m going to have to leave home eventually.”

It wasn’t something Virgil like to think about, thought that might just be the existential dread that came whenever he thought about the future for too long.

But Patton looked disheartened, and Virgil hated seeing him like that. It would just be one party. And it’s not like he’d be alone. Virgil could keep an eye on him.

“When’s the party?” he asked.

“This Friday,” Patton answered.

Yeah, Virgil probably should have figured that out by now.

“You mean Brad’s party?” Patton nodded. “Okay. Okay, I’ll go with you.”

Patton glanced over, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

Virgil shook his head. “No, it’s okay.” And then, because Patton wouldn’t be convinced by just that, “I was actually thinking of going anyway.”

“Really?” Patton asked. He narrowed his eyes. “Does this have something to do with the thing?”

Virgil looked away. “Maybe,” he admitted.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“Yes, Patton,” Virgil said. “It might be fun.”

“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Patton said throwing his arms around Virgil.

“You don’t need to do anything, Pat,” Virgil said.

Patton pulled away, grinning. “I need to let everyone else know that I’m going!”

Patton hopped off Virgil’s bed and practically skipped to the doorway, where he stopped. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Virgil replied.

Patton left the room, leaving Virgil with his thoughts. He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

So he was going to Brad’s party after all. And he’d probably see Janus there. And probably talk to Janus there.

Which was fine. If he did see Janus, that was. He might not. Which was also fine. Virgil didn’t care if he saw Janus or not. Why would he? Just because Janus had gone two conversations without insulting him, and stood up for him against Mr Williams, and looked very charming while doing so-

No. Virgil was not getting a crush on Janus Verona. That couldn’t happen.

It might be happening.

Crap.

Virgil buried his head in his pillow and screamed.

[lefaystrent]

Five Times

Fandom: Thomas Sanders, Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic Analogical, mentions of prinxiety

Summary: There were five times that Virgil’s path crossed with Logan Sanders. Each time memorable, each time helping to shape Virgil into the kind of person he wants to be.

AO3 Link

There were five times that Virgil’s path crossed with Logan Sanders.

The first memorable moment had been in first grade, back when he’d had a different name and different pronouns. Logan had been an oddball of a child. He was the new kid in class, his family moving over from across the sea, and instead of that winning him ‘cool’ points, most of his classmates thought his English accent was funny and something to be mocked. None of the others really wanted to play with him, not that it seemed to affect him either way. Similarly, nobody wanted to play with Virgil, or Angel as he’d been called then. But that was because she was shy and hardly spoke a word, therefore she was boring.

One day during class, they were all coloring pictures. Angel didn’t understand why, but Logan walked up to her desk to inspect her drawing. She didn’t have anything against the boy. She never joined in with the other kids when they called him stupid names. But she never intervened either, and Angel wondered briefly if Logan was upset about that and wanted to tear up her picture in revenge.

Blue eyes gauged the paper in a serious manner, and it reminded Angel of when her dad was talking about adult stuff to other adults. Logan had that older look about him, despite his scrawny size.

At length, Logan set down a crayon on her desk. “Here. Purple’s your color.”

Then he walked away with no explanation.

They never spoke to each other for years after that, though Angel would always remember it as a curious thing. The next time their paths crossed was the summer before ninth grade.

Angel had always felt out of place, whether it was at school or with her personality and body. It was a time when she still didn’t know who she was, much less what to do about it. And then she met her best friend, a girl named Jeanne. She was one of the popular girls and had seen how timid Angel was and took her under her wing some time ago. She was seen as the all-around ‘nice’ girl who everyone liked, and Angel was proud to claim that they were best friends.

In the middle of June that summer, Jeanne had a party at her house. Problem was, her parents weren’t home.

“I thought you said Valerie and Dahlia were gonna be here,” Angel whispered to her shortly after arriving.

“They are,” Jeanne laughed. “There’s just a few more people here too.”

A few more turned out to be over twenty teenagers, many of them who Angel knew but hardly spoke to. Jeanne’s family had a beautiful large house, the kind that everyone recognized and all the kids talked about having something similar when they grew up. It was able to fit all the guests, but it was still crowded and made Angel nervous. She had told her dad that she was only hanging out with a few of her girl friends. If he found out about this . . .

Jeanne tried to convince her to lighten up, to get excited. All Angel felt was resigned. She couldn’t leave because then Jeanne would think she was lame. It didn’t stop her from wishing she was home though, especially when the longer the party went on, the more Angel realized that Jeanne’s parents didn’t even know that the party was happening.

There was loud music and games, and at some point Jeanne got some of her parent’s alcohol out. Everyone wanted to try some and pretend to be adults, and the one time Angel attempted to whisper to Jeanne about them being underage, she brushed her off.

“We’re about to be high schoolers. We should start acting like it.”

If this was what it meant to be a high schooler, Angel wanted to stay in junior high forever. And yet, there was a part of her that questioned if she was being too sensitive. Jeanne was just helping her overcome her own shy, boringness. And Angel didn’t want to be shy and boring for forever.

So that’s how Angel found herself playing a game of spin the bottle. When the bottle landed on someone, the two chosen players went to the closet to have seven minutes in Heaven, apparently.

What surprised Angel was not so much her own willingness to participate in such a game. That paled in comparison to seeing Logan Sanders of all people there. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who went to parties. He was still the weird kid, and Angel wasn’t sure how many friends he actually had, but there were more people amused by him now.

“What I’m saying is that everyone has their own perspective of what Heaven is. It’s different for everyone.”

“What does that even mean, Logan?”

“It means that someone’s Heaven could consist entirely of jelly. What if I wanted seven minutes in jelly Heaven?”

Everyone in the circle cracked up. The only people who weren’t laughing were Logan and Angel. Angel was merely watching. Meanwhile, Logan looked strangely invested.

“Whatever, Logan,” someone said, a guy from their baseball team. “Just spin the bottle.”

Logan gave up his debate and spun the bottle. When it landed, there were whoops and hollers, and the next thing Angel knew, she was in a dark closet with Logan Sanders.

“It’s dark in here,” Logan said needlessly.

“That it is,” Angel agreed. She could hear the party go on outside their little space. Barely a foot in front of her stood Logan, nearly a head taller than her. Not that she could see him. She could certainly feel his presence and hear his breath, and her heart should be racing at the thought of what they were supposed to do, so why did she feel so calm?

“Do you like jelly?” he asked.

“Uh . . . yeah. I like it on toast.”

“So a heaven filled with jelly wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it?”

“I don’t have any jelly on me.”

“That’s okay, I forgive you,” Logan said, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Maybe this was why she felt calm. The people outside that door were expecting them to do obscene things like regular teens would, but Logan had never been a regular teen.

They ended up sitting on the floor squished together. They talked about random things like jelly heaven, and Angel never questioned it. Likewise, Logan appeared to appreciate her never questioning the topics and allowing the conversation to flow unimpeded. It was surprisingly easy to talk to Logan once you accepted his odd trains of thought.

Inevitably, Angel asked why Logan had come to the party.

“You’re friends with Jeanne,” he stated, and for a second she thought he meant that Angel had something to do with him being there.

“Yeah?”

“You know her cousin, Roman.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s friends with my brothers. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“It’s complicated. Baguettes aren’t really that useful in a sword fight.”

“I see,” she said, though she really didn’t.    

Angel would never get to hear the full explanation. She’d later assume that Roman had something to do with Logan being at the party that day, but as it was at that moment, Jeanne’s parents returned home early.

And boy were they pissed. They killed the music and Logan and Angel could hear Jeanne’s mother’s voice, shrill with anger, chewing her out. All the kids were kicked out, and Angel and Logan sat quietly wondering if the seven-minutes-rule still applied or if they could leave. They sat there awkwardly until the door opened. It was Jeanne’s dad and they nearly gave him a heart attack.

Jeanne’s parents knew Angel, and even though she hadn’t even been doing anything with Logan, they still called her dad and told him everything. After that, Angel was grounded and wasn’t allowed to hang out with Jeanne anymore.

High school came and with it came changes.

Angel became Virgil. Same anxious, confused mess true, but a mess that strived to feel more comfortable in its own skin.

Virgil made new friends. He stopped agonizing over how a girl was supposed to act and look. He allowed himself to enjoy the fact that guys were easier to connect with.

As for his best friend, he and Jeanne didn’t speak anymore. It wasn’t as big of a loss as Virgil first thought it would be. Virgil had admired Jeanne’s popularity and kindness for a long time, but Virgil deserved friends who wouldn’t force him out of his comfort zone, and Virgil felt all the more confident in his decision to stay away from Jeanne after seeing how fake she became in high school.

Years went by and Virgil didn’t see much of Logan Sanders. They were in different classes, and when the students weren’t in class, Virgil was hanging out with his friends. There was Patton, sweet and sometimes naïve and Virgil’s go-to person for when he felt overwhelmed. Then there was Roman and Dee, his gaming buddies. Emile was a chill guy and they mostly talked about tv shows of similar interest. Remy, Emile’s boyfriend, ran a ‘black magic’ club that Virgil was a part of, but they pretty much just played Dungeons & Dragons the whole time.

The third time Virgil had anything to do with Logan Sanders was during their Junior year. It was winter and apparently raining literal buckets, according to Logan.

“I guess it’s true when they say humans don’t look up enough. I should have looked up,” he said, plucking at his drenched shirt morosely.

Virgil had found him on his way to the gym for PE class. Logan had been sitting outside by himself on an out-of-the-way bench. Virgil almost didn’t stop but he’d seen the pinched look to Logan’s face and how he was sitting out in the cold in a wet t-shirt.

“You said Roman did this to you?” Virgil asked, confused. Why would Roman target Logan Sanders of all people? They never had anything to do with each other. Roman practically lived in the drama clubroom, and Logan stuck to quiz bowl type groups.

Logan shrugged. “Not on purpose. He’s in a prank war with Joan. You know Joan? Yeah, I tripped the bucket that was meant for them. My fault for not looking up.”

Virgil heaved a huge sigh. Now that sounded more like Roman. Idiot.

Speaking of idiots . . .

“Why are you just sitting out here then? You’ll freeze like this.”

“Probably for the best,” Logan said, nodding as if he’d always known it would come to this. “I didn’t have another shirt, and I can’t go to class like this. So I’ll just sit here.”

“Don’t be stupid. Come on, get up.”

“What?”

“I said get up,” Virgil ordered, waving his hands for the other to follow him. Realistically, he should have considered the fact that he and Logan weren’t friends and he was under no obligation to listen to him. He could have snapped at Virgil and would probably be justified, except the fact that he was literally freezing out here, but he didn’t even seem to register that fact.

“Why?” Logan asked. It didn’t sound like he opposed getting up, just that he wanted a good enough reason to. God, Virgil knew he was weird, but was he really this stupid too?

“Because you’ll freeze like this. Honestly, you could have asked a teacher or something for help.”

Logan glanced down at his shoes. He rubbed them in the dead grass back and forth. “I didn’t want to bother anybody.”

It occurred to Virgil then that Logan might not only be weird but socially anxious as well. Actually, that might explain why he was so weird or awkward in social situations. Maybe he had anxiety issues.

Virgil revaluated him, taking an extra minute to really look at Logan. Did he not have any friends he was comfortable enough with to seek help from? If that was the case, there was only one thing left to do.

“Here,” Virgil said, shrugging off his hoodie and offering it to him. Virgil had owned the thing for years, loving how it swallowed his figure with its bagginess, like a protective blanket. Virgil felt exposed without it on, but he couldn’t just walk away either. “You can go take your shirt off and put this on. If you zip it up, no one will notice you’re not wearing a shirt underneath.”

Logan blinked at the offered hoodie. He tilted his head slightly. “You want me to strip right here?”

If Virgil were more easily embarrassed, He would have blushed (because he didn’t doubt for a second that Logan was crazy enough to follow through on that). As it was, Virgil was more exasperated than anything. “No, I meant that you could take this to the bathroom and change.”

Logan nodded, accepting his explanation but not the hoodie. “I don’t want to touch it at the moment. I’m all sticky.”

“Uh . . . what?”

“I’m sticky.”

“Yeah, I heard that. I meant why?”

“Roman filled the bucket up with Kool-Aid. It was strawberry flavored.”

Who knew why it was important to Logan to specify the flavor, but that might explain the red tint to Logan’s skin. And here Virgil just thought it was the cold.

“Of course Roman filled it with Kool-Aid,” Virgil said, shaking his head. He gestured for Logan to follow him again. “Whatever. You can just go to the bathroom and wash off the best you can then before you put it on.”

Logan obeyed this time. Virgil stood outside the men’s bathroom while Logan cleaned himself up. Nobody stopped to question why Virgil was standing there in the hallway doing nothing while classes were in session. More than likely, the staff were mixed up in dealing with Roman and Joan and the mess of Kool-Aid. Virgil would bet money that Logan had walked off after getting the bucket dumped on him, otherwise a teacher wouldn’t have let his wet-self go sit outside in the cold. Or maybe he’d stayed long enough for the principal to show up and while the pranksters were getting chewed out, Logan slipped away to avoid the confrontation.

Virgil glanced at the closed bathroom door and checked the time on his phone.

At this rate, he’d be marked absent in PE.

He remained by the door, waiting for as long as it took.

After more time than what was probably needed, Logan came out looking far more dry and wearing Virgil’s hoodie. It was simple and black, not at all distinguishable as Virgil’s. That meant none of his friends would be able to tell he had leant it, though truthfully Virgil wasn’t ashamed of being associated with Logan. As far as Virgil knew, he was an okay guy.

“Thanks. This feels better,” Logan told him.

Virgil looked him over, spotted what was missing, and asked where he had put his shirt.

“Oh, that? I threw it in the trash.”

“But . . . that was your shirt.”

He shrugged. “It was wet and sticky and I didn’t want to carry it around. Besides, it’s not like it’s a family heirloom or anything. I can get another shirt.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.” But he wasn’t exactly right either.

He plucked at the dark material, looking vaguely unsure. “Want me to give you back your jacket before the end of school?”

Virgil waved him off. “Nah. I’m not gonna make you go home shirtless. Just get it back to me tomorrow.”

“Technically, I’m shirtless right now.”

“Technically, you know what I meant, so shut up.”

“Only technically,” Logan agreed. But he nodded and for the first time, Virgil saw a little smile light up his face.

Virgil looked around himself, figured this was where they parted ways, and said, “We should probably get to class.”

Logan looked around as if just noticing that education was going on around them. “We’ve already missed the first fifteen minutes of class. We might as well miss the rest.”

What kind of logic was that?

Virgil raised a brow. “Are you suggesting that we skip?”

“Not suggesting. Actively doing.”

Virgil snorted. “Alright. But if we just stay in the hallway, someone’s gonna notice.”

Logan considered for a moment, glancing down the hall. “Want to go to the band room? No one should be in there at this time.”

Virgil didn’t question how he knew this, nor did he feel uncomfortable at following Logan to some secluded place in the school. If he had survived seven minutes in heaven with him, Virgil would be fine here too.

“Lead the way.”

The next morning when Virgil arrived to first period, he found his hoodie neatly folded on his desk. In one of the pockets he found a doodle of a bee.

Curiously, the jacket’s material had a smoky aroma to it. Virgil didn’t recognize it as cigarettes. It was something cleaner and more appealing, not unlike incense or sage. Over the next few days, as the smell faded bit by bit and was replaced again with his own, Virgil wondered at the boy he had lent it to and thought many times to approach him. Virgil could use the excuse of returning his doodle, but he kept rethinking that plan. For one, he didn’t know if it was left intentionally or not. And for another . . . he’d grown rather fond of using it as a bookmark. He was hard-pressed to let it go now.

An opportunity never seemed to come, or so Virgil told himself, and the days turned into weeks and then some. Occasionally, he remembered their time skipping class together, the minutes spent talking about things that did and didn’t matter, as well as things they couldn’t understand at all. Virgil could recall the distinct feeling of what resonated between them, as if they were flowing down a river with no end in sight, but that was alright because the current was a gentle one.

It wouldn’t matter if his friends thought him strange for suddenly wanting to hang out with Logan Sanders. They probably would have gotten on with him too, in time.

But Logan never approached Virgil either. Virgil would think about that too sometimes, if the reasons that held Logan back were similar to his own. Because it’s just easier to say, “I’ll try tomorrow, definitely,” until it becomes a lie. And then, eventually, it becomes nothing at all, because there’s more to life and distractions are plentiful.

Virgil completed his high school education and kept on with school. He and his friends were accepted into the best college in the state and it was only natural that when they moved away from home, they all moved in together. They rented a three bedroom townhouse, with Virgil and Patton rooming together (because Dee’s sanity depended on having a safe space of his own and all of them needed a safe space from Roman). The four of them were incredibly different, having varying interests, areas of study, goals for the future, but they made it work.

For years, Virgil forgot about Logan Sanders. He had his college education, his friends, work, a few relationships here and there. The most surprising relationship was between him and Roman. It happened rather suddenly, one night of tension snapping and spanning into other nights. They were exhilarating, pleasurable, but neither knew what they really wanted outside of that and they were left in a limbo that didn’t specify what they were to each other.

And yeah, it made Virgil the fool for putting off confronting things, like he’d done many times just because it was easier. He let things be until he couldn’t run away from the consequences. It’s not like you can ignore life growing inside of you, and there’re only so many positive pregnancy tests you can get before denial can’t protect you anymore.

But Roman . . .

He wouldn’t accept it.

“We can’t be parents. Can’t you just, I don’t know, do something about it?”

This didn’t fit in with Roman’s plans, and it wasn’t as if they were really together, was it?

So Virgil did do something about it. He packed his stuff and went back home to his dad. The most humiliating part of it all was the look his dad gave Virgil. It would have been better if he’d given him the whole, “I knew this would happen,” argument. Instead, his dad simply supported him in his time of need, hugging him and telling him, “I’m here for you, kiddo.”

Virgil didn’t want that. He wanted a fight, to let out all of the pent-up frustration. He wanted to scream, because how could Roman suggest giving up their child, or worse, killing it? How dare he?

But more than that . . . how dare Virgil? How could he have been so careless?

And that’s how he came to be sitting at a bar in his hometown. An untouched margarita sat on the polished wood before him. Part of him hoped the bartender would sense he shouldn’t drink alcohol. Then he could yell at Virgil. Tell him what a disappointment he was. At least then he’d be listening to someone else say it rather than listen to the voice repeating it inside his own head. He wanted to guzzle the drink down, confirm what a horrible person he was by tainting what was inside of him.

“You look like you really don’t want to drink that,” a man said from the barstool beside him.

Virgil shook his head, peering down at the liquid. “No, I’m just . . . getting warmed up for it.”

“Like the artist who does warm-up sketches to put off the true painting?”

“Sure . . .”

“You know, sometimes the warm-ups turn out to be more beautiful than the original intention.”

Was he implying something here? Did someone finally sense that Virgil shouldn’t be here and was admonishing him? He had wanted that, but now it angered him.

Images of Roman’s face flashed in his mind, the strained look he wore when Virgil had gathered the courage to tell him. The gleam of disbelief in his eyes right before it was squashed by unrelenting rejection.

“I’m just twenty-one,” Roman had said, as if Virgil wasn’t too. They were both too young, too in-over-their-heads. But only one of them had the luxury of withdrawing, to not deal with it and favor childish simplicity instead. “Can’t you just, I don’t know, do something about it?”

As if it could be swept under the rug and forgotten.

And in this moment at the bar, just like he had back then with Roman, Virgil turned and asked coldly, “What do you mean?”

Blue eyes stared back at him, much sharper and calmer than Roman’s brown hues ever were.

The other shrugged. “Technically, I was only making an observation on art processes.”

Virgil blinked, his ire sizzling out as he stared hard at the lanky man sitting beside him. He felt like he was missing something important. “Technically?”

“Only technically,” he agreed, nodding, but it was only when he gave a small half-smile that Virgil recognized him.

“Logan?” he asked, not hiding his shock.

“Virgil,” he returned, greeting him naturally like they met up at the bar often.

Of all people, Logan Sanders had found him and was sitting beside him. He honestly hadn’t changed much in neither appearance nor personality. Did Logan think the same about him, or did he look different?

“What are you doing here?” Virgil asked.

Logan jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “My brothers. We come here occasionally.”

Virgil glanced behind them at a table towards the wall where similar looking men sat. All three heads at the table ducked as they found something else to stare at. It was odd, to remember that Logan had brothers but to have thought he would never meet them.

Then again, Virgil didn’t think he would meet Logan Sanders ever again.

“What are you doing here?” Logan repeated Virgil’s question.

He couldn’t help to be defensive. “Why do you want to know?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed minimally, a small sign to show that he’d noticed and was curious. “Fair is fair.”

He wasn’t wrong. He’d answered Virgil first. Wouldn’t he be an ass for refusing to answer him too?

Virgil wanted to be an ass tonight. He wanted to tell people to fuck off and leave him alone.

But this was Logan Sanders and Virgil still used his bee doodle as a bookmark to this day. Something about it all made it impossible to project his anger onto him. In the end, he felt put-out and sulky.

“I don’t know what I’m really doing here,” he admitted. His fingernail grazed lightly down the stem of his glass, his full glass that he knew from the beginning that he wouldn’t really drink. “I guess I just wanted to get away for a while.”

“That sounds like a horrible idea.” Upon receiving an incredulous look from Virgil, he amended, “I meant coming to a bar to get away. If you really want to get away, you should go somewhere with no people. Like a deserted island.”

Virgil snorted, and once he saw how Logan maintained his serious expression and realized he wasn’t joking, he surprised both of them by laughing.

“Are deserted islands really that funny?” Logan asked, genuinely confused.

“No, it’s just that most people can’t really afford to run away to a deserted island.”

“I’m not disputing that. Ideally, that would be the case. But like you said, most people can’t achieve the ideal. So we content ourselves with as close as we can get, or the illusion of it anyway.”

Virgil gazed at him and recalled the feeling of being swept along by a gentle current. It was so refreshing that he asked, “Where do you go then? When you want to get away?”

Logan stood from the barstool. “I could show you if you want.”

Virgil dropped some cash down by his drink to pay his tab and let Logan lead him out of the bar. His brothers watched them go with questioning looks, no doubt wondering where they were going. Virgil wondered where they were going too, and he wanted to voice the question aloud.

But in a weird, undefinable way, he trusted Logan Sanders.

They walked together down poorly lit streets, neither one of them speaking. Occasionally, their arms would brush and the feeling was a comforting one. Along the way, Virgil imagined that Logan would take them back to their old high school and to an empty band room again. Did he remember that afternoon? Did he think back on it fondly?

Did he ever regret not saying anything the next day?

They eventually stopped at an apartment complex. Logan apparently lived there.

“You brought me home?” Virgil asked, more amused that he had actually brought him home than mad about any implications that might have entailed. This was Logan Sanders after all. When playing a game of seven minutes in heaven, he would sit on the floor of a closet talking about jelly rather than make-out.

“You did ask me where I went to get away,” he said. They stood shoulder to shoulder, both of them looking up at the building, pondering it. “It’s a place that’s changed over the years, but ever since I moved out from my family’s home, my apartment is my safe haven because it’s just me here. I don’t have to worry about how people see me.”

Then he welcomed Virgil inside. It was a cramped, one-bedroom apartment with a lot of clashing furniture and decorations. Parts of it would be incredibly minimalistic while others were filled with clutter. Virgil examined the tapestry in the living room, a design of a tree with swirling branches in shades of gold, black, and red. Logan told him it was the tree of life, a design derived from a historic royal palace. From peeking at the overflowing bookshelves, Logan had a large interest in history and mythology.

They made their way to the bedroom and found themselves laying on the bed. Both of them stretched out on their backs, staring up at the ceiling as if there were stars there.

For hours they talked. Logan contributed the most to the conversation. He had a lot of thoughts built up, plenty of things to say now that he had someone to listen. And Virgil, he appreciated having something new to think about. He didn’t mind listening to a different point of view. In fact, he wanted to hear what Logan had to say about one matter in particular.

“Logan, you know how you said you like being here because you don’t have to worry about how people see you?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“What about how you see yourself?”

Logan was quiet for a time. For several minutes, Virgil could only sense his even breathing. He wanted to turn his head, to see if those blue eyes were closed and if he had fallen asleep. But Virgil’s eyes were fixated on the popcorn ceiling. His own breath quieted as much as possible, too afraid to miss the answer.

“You have to live with yourself,” Logan said at length. “You don’t have to live with anyone else, but you do have to live with yourself.”

You just have to deal with it. That’s what he was getting at.

It wasn’t that reassuring or alarming. It was simply a fact, what was to be expected.

They fell asleep like that. The next morning, Virgil woke before Logan. He had curled up into Virgil’s side, not exactly on him but more pressing against him, his face nuzzled into his shoulder. He frowned in his sleep, like he dreamt of puzzles with missing pieces that wouldn’t let him fully rest.

Virgil left a note for him before he let himself out. He was grateful to Logan, but there were things that he needed to do.

He had to live with himself. But it was up to him whether or not he was the kind of person he liked to live with. And right now, he wasn’t.

But he would be.

It was a hard journey, accepting himself and what had happened and—most importantly—how to deal with the aftermath. His father had given him time to work the stress out. He grieved for friends he thought he could trust. He shook in fear at this new unstable future. And although it hurt, he picked himself up and forged ahead, if not for himself than for his child.

The first thing Virgil did was transfer to a closer university. If he was to keep the baby, he’d need to swallow his pride and accept all the support his dad offered. It would be more practical living here, allowing him to raise his child in a good environment while also continuing his education.

The second thing Virgil decided was to cut ties from his friends. They were Roman’s friends too, and with how Virgil left with no explanation to the others, Roman had probably given them his side of the story without any consideration for him. They were probably on Roman’s side, and with his words still flashing through Virgil’s mind from that day, Virgil wouldn’t allow himself to be hurt like that again.

As could be expected, his friends tried calling him a lot. Roman did too. Whatever his reasons, Virgil couldn’t care less and blocked his number in vindictive satisfaction. If he wanted to make amends and actually be there for the baby, then he could put in the effort to come see Virgil in person. It’s not like Roman didn’t know where he had gone.

Surprisingly enough, someone did put in the effort to come check on him, but it sure as hell wasn’t Roman. It was early June and Virgil was six months pregnant when he opened the front door to find Dee. Of all his friends, he would have thought Patton or even Emile would be the one to come around, not Dee. He stood there uncomfortably, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his pants’ pockets. His eyes immediately zeroed in on Virgil’s round stomach.

“It’s Roman’s, isn’t it?” he blurted.

Virgil was so shocked that all he could do was stand there with his mouth open, struggling to say something. Dee seemed mildly alarmed, though whether that was at himself or seeing Virgil pregnant, he couldn’t tell. He averted his gaze to a bush beside him. His ears reddened.

“Sorry,” Dee said. “It’s just—well, I guess it all makes sense.”

“What?” Virgil asked, finally finding his voice.

“Why you and Roman got into that big fight. Why you left. He said you were ditching us, but it’s his, isn’t it?”

Virgil should have expected things to go like that, for Roman to leave out the problem altogether and blame Virgil. If Roman just ignored the existence of a baby he helped create, he wouldn’t have to worry about it, right? And if he didn’t tell their friends about it, then it was like it didn’t even exist.

And here Dee was on his doorstep, telling him that Roman had made him out to be the bad guy. Because if Roman couldn’t be the hero, he’d make do with being a victim.

It pissed Virgil off.

“What are you doing here?” he asked through gritted teeth. If not to tear the scab off of a wound that hadn’t fully healed, had Dee come for curiosity’s sake?

Dee fidgeted, crossing his arms and grumbling, “You didn’t come back, and you didn’t answer any of my texts or calls. It wasn’t like I was worried or anything.”

Just like that the anger dissipated and Virgil was crying. It caught him off guard, the swell of emotion, but not as much as it did Dee. His eyes were wide as saucers and he held his hands up as if to ward off the tears. He started stammering in a frantic rush.

“I was only stopping by to check on you. But if it upsets you that much, I’ll just go—”

Dee tried to turn to leave, but Virgil caught him by the wrist and pulled him in for a hug. Neither of them had been outwardly affectionate people, and the hug was made even more awkward by Virgil’s pregnant belly and the fact that he was crying all over Dee. He squirmed, freaking out.

“Do you want me to leave or stay? Which is it?!” he yelled in distress.

“Stay,” Virgil croaked out.

He had decided to cut off ties from his friends, but Dee had done what even Roman couldn’t be bothered to. He showed Virgil that he cared about him, and that was all he had wanted. That’s all he had wanted from Roman, to see some sign that he . . .

But he wasn’t going to show up. Somewhere deep in his heart, Virgil had hoped he would. Unconsciously, he’d been waiting for him.

It seemed he still had a ways to go.

Following that day, Virgil’s resolve deepened. Dee stayed for a while, and they talked things out and caught up. He’d been skeptical of Roman’s excuses, and his behavior as of late had become unbearably obnoxious. Dee moved out at the end of the Spring semester and now lived with his older sister just one town over. He’d be finishing out his education at a college there.

Virgil let Dee back into his life and found how much he had missed having friends. Since moving back in with his dad, any old friends from his high school days that he happened to run into didn’t get much past the, “Hey, how’ve you been?” pleasantries. That or gossiping about his pregnancy and getting his pronouns wrong.

There’d been Logan Sanders too, of course. They hadn’t exchanged numbers, but Virgil knew where he lived. He could have swung by his apartment at any time. Logan wouldn’t have turned him away, Virgil knew that. And he would have liked to talk to Logan, just like last time, and hear the calm tone of his voice as he enlightened Virgil with his eccentric considerations and pragmatic perspective.

What stopped Virgil was the note he had left him.

‘I want to be the kind of person I want to live with.’

You had to live with yourself. That was the lesson that Logan taught him.

And if he couldn’t be happy with himself, he would at least find contentment somewhere. He burned the notion into his head: the next time he saw Logan, he would have it all sorted out.

Months became years. Virgil gave birth to a baby boy and juggled family, friends, and college. After graduating, he convinced Dee to give living together another shot. They worked well together, and his son was already learning to call him uncle. Dee would play it off with a frown, but secretly Virgil knew that it warmed him.

One day, not long after his son’s fourth birthday, Virgil picked him up from school. Almost immediately after getting in the car, the child dozed off in the backseat. Virgil smiled at that, peeking glances at his little boy in the rearview mirror.

On the way, Virgil spotted a car pulled over on the side of the road. A man stood towards the back, looking over where one of the tires had blown out.

He almost didn’t stop. It wasn’t his problem, and if the guy couldn’t figure out how to change a tire, then he could call for someone to help him, right?

But the way his head hung low, and his shoulders hunched high, like he’d given up . . .

Maybe Virgil was reading too much into things, applying sentimental crap where he shouldn’t, but the point was that Virgil’s heart clenched and his foot eased on the brake pedal. He pulled over, a bit ahead of the man’s car.

He got out, closing his door as quietly as he could. Virgil wasn’t nervous about approaching the stranger. Okay, he was always nervous, but it was daylight, and the road wasn’t exactly abandoned. Plenty of vehicles came through this neighborhood. How many had passed though while the man had been stranded here? How many had labeled him as someone else’s problem?

Stupid bystander effect.

Virgil’s shoes clopped down the shoulder of the road. The man of course had noticed him pull over and watched him the whole walk over with a curious expression. He was tall, lanky as ever, hair brushed back and prickly cheeks in need of a shave, but Virgil recognized him right away.

“Logan?” he asked, hardly believing his luck.

Logan leaned back slightly, blinking at him like he had seen a ghost.

Virgil worried for a moment. “You . . . remember me, right?”

He looked him over and nodded slowly. “Virgil.”

Virgil managed a relieved smile. “Small world, eh?”

He shrugged. “We live in the same town. We were bound to run into each other sooner or later.”

Always so literal. Virgil shook his head and crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder into the side of his car. “Actually, I don’t live here anymore. I live over in Arcadia now. We were just on our way to go visit my dad.”

Logan tilted his head. “We?”

Virgil recalled that night Logan had invited him back to his apartment. He’d been pregnant with a boat load of problems weighing him down, and he’d held back from telling Logan about any one of them specifically.

Virgil glanced back over his shoulder. Suddenly he felt like being more open with him.

“C’mere,” Virgil said, waving him forward. “I want to show you something.”

It was a surreal experience, seeing Logan again after so many years and finding him here of all places. It was strange, sensing him trailing behind him, inquisitive as ever. Virgil stopped by the window, and they both looked in to see the sleeping face.

Before Logan could question him, he answered, “His name’s Thomas.”

There was a long silence where Virgil let the implication sink in. He watched the slight reflection of Logan’s face in the glass, the way his brows were furrowed deep in thought.

“I always thought that you would be a parent,” he confessed randomly. Virgil could have pointed out that lots of people were parents and that it wasn’t an unlikely hypothesis for him to have about Virgil, but it was the fact that Logan must have thought about this subject at length during some point of knowing him, and it tickled Virgil in a peculiar way. He laughed. Logan just looked at him questioningly.

“You know, I always planned to come by and see you again,” Virgil admitted. If Logan was confessing random thoughts, he might as well too. “I really wanted to.”

Logan shifted his stance. Virgil would say that he looked uncomfortable, but it was more like he never expected Virgil to say something like that and simply didn’t know what to do with the information. He settled for the obvious, logical approach. “Why didn’t you?”

Virgil stared out at the passing cars, up at the cloud covered sky. A chill wind picked up and brushed his bangs against his face, reminding him that winter was around the corner.

“Because I wanted to be a different person when we met. A better person. Someone who had a handle on his life. Someone I could be proud of.”

“And do you?” he asked, his eyes boring into Virgil’s. “Do you have a handle on your life now?”

It wasn’t an easy thing to answer, but if nothing else, Virgil had always been honest to him. “Sometimes I think so.”

Logan’s hands were hidden in the pockets of his jacket. It struck Virgil how much older he looked, and he wondered if he saw Virgil the same way or if he had aged by his view.

“We don’t ever have control of our lives. Not really,” Logan said. “You wanted to wait to see me until you were a different person? If that were possible, I’d say that was incredibly . . . sad.”

Virgil’s stomach plummeted for a brief moment at the thought that Logan—Logan Sanders—would make fun of his efforts.

He must have seen the hurt on Virgil’s face. One of his hands reached out, to touch his face or shoulder or something, but he was an awkward kind of person, like Dee, and so he lowered that hand again.

“I don’t know why you would want that.” His voice was soft, frustration edging along the lines of his words.

Virgil’s nails dug into his palms. “You don’t have to know. I don’t need yours or anyone else’s approval. If I want to change, that’s my choice.”

“You’re upset,” Logan pointed out needlessly. He shook his head. “You misunderstand. I meant if you were a different person, then you’d be gone, and that would be sad. I like who you are.”

“Oh.”

So he hadn’t been insulting him. He was still just really bad at socializing.

Virgil scratched his cheek, embarrassed. “Well then, what was all that about people not having control over their lives? You made it sound like the work I put in to better myself was pointless.”

“Not pointless. You can’t become someone else. You can only be a better you.”

“That’s what I guess I was going for then. I understand that.”

“Do you really believe then that you have a lot of choice in life?”

They were doing it again, like they tended to do. Diving in deep headfirst and getting lost in the stream of conversation.

Virgil scuffed his shoes against the asphalt, mulling over his question. “I didn’t peg you for the ‘fate believer’ type.”

“I’m not. I think people have a degree of control over where they end up. But sometimes, no matter how prepared you are . . .”

“Shit just happens?”

His lips twitched up. “I was going to say that things beyond our control interfere, but yes, your way of saying it sums it up too.”

“Things like a tire blowing out?” Virgil asked, gesturing to Logan’s crippled car.

“Among other things,” he agreed. There was more to it lingering underneath that statement. How had his life been since Virgil last saw him?

“You know how to change a tire?” he asked. If he didn’t, Virgil could offer to do it for him and that would give him a chance to talk more with him. It wouldn’t take too long, and Thomas would nap the whole time anyway.

Logan shook his head. “In theory, but I lack the tools to do so. My brother is on his way. He should be here in a few minutes.”

Guess that plan was out the window then. Virgil struggled to think of something else, a segue back into the topic he wanted. If there was something going on with Logan, he would like to help him.

“Virgil,” he spoke, breaking him from his fumbling thoughts. “I like to be in control of myself.”

“. . . yeah?”

“But as I’ve said, I don’t think we truly have control over our lives.”

“To some degree.”

“To some degree, technically, but all the same, when it comes down to it, shit just happens, as you said.”

“Right.”

“And I think that . . .” Logan paused, tapping a finger to his lips as he came to his conclusion. “I think that’s one of the hardest things a person must accept.”

Virgil thought on it long and hard, trying to see what he was getting at. In the end, Virgil nudged his shoulder with his. “It doesn’t mean that good things don’t happen that’s out of our control. Just look at Thomas. I thought my life was over when I got pregnant with him. I thought I lost pretty much everything. And I used to be so . . . angry . . . about it.”

There were times when he didn’t think he could make it through, when the safer corners of his mind reached out to him and told him to give it all up. If Roman could throw away responsibility, then so could Virgil. It was his life to do with as he pleased.

But it wouldn’t have been a very proud life, one that he could live with himself in, and that made all the difference.

“But when life throws you a curveball, you throw it right back.” Virgil smiled at Logan’s expression. “It’s something my dad says. It’s lame, but he’s kinda right. Things used to suck, but I’m glad I pushed through. I love Thomas and I love being a parent.”

“What if the metaphorical ball hits you hard?” Logan asked seriously.

Virgil leaned forward and smiled wider. “Then throw the ball back even harder.”

A truck pulled up behind Logan’s car and a tall red-headed man stepped out. He exchanged greetings with them, and though he put on a polite enough face for Virgil’s sake, he could tell that he was put out by his little brother.

As he dutifully left to change the car tire, the two of them watching him go as they stood side by side, Logan whispered to him, “I think he’s annoyed with me.”

“He still came,” Virgil pointed out. “That’s the important part.”

Logan eased at that. He turned to face Virgil fully, hands back in their pockets. “Thank you for stopping, but I don’t want to hold you up. I know you had somewhere to go.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Virgil said, though he did glance at Thomas’s sleeping face and consider that they should be heading on soon. “And it’s not like I actually helped.”

“You helped,” Logan denied firmly, meaning something entirely different.

For a few seconds, the atmosphere between them grew heavy. Lots of things were unspoken between them, lots of chances lay ready for the taking. But Logan’s shoulders weren’t hunched anymore and his eyes were brighter than ever.

“I guess I’ll be going then,” Virgil said, moving to take his leave.

Logan nodded, backing away slowly as he watched Virgil round the car to the driver’s side. His hand grazed the handle. It’d be easy to pull it open and forget about the niggling in the back of his mind. To hop in and not look back.

He looked back at Logan. He was still watching him, as if he’d been ready for Virgil to call back to him.

“Hey Logan?” he called.

“Yes?”

Virgil bit his lip, gaze searching him in an effort to etch the memory into permanence. Logan waited for him, patient as always.

“Back in first grade,” he started, “the first time you spoke to me, you told me that my color was purple. Do you remember that?”

“I do,” he said, surprising Virgil that he would remember that long-ago, seemingly unimportant experience.

“What did you mean by that?”

Logan stared into the middle distance, head gradually moving from left to right. “I have no idea.”

Virgil opened the door and slid inside. All the way to his dad’s house, he had to stifle his laughter.

General Tag List: @spectralheartt @a-pastel-pan @notalwaysthevillian @rose-gold-roman @ijustrealizedhowdumbmynamewas @katie-the-noble-fangirl @yourroyalydramaticanxiousness @aroundofapplesauce @merlybird500 @beach-fan @jemthebookworm @whats-going-on-kiddos @randomsandersides @gamerfreddie @unring-this-bell @that-royal-ravenclaw @analogicallythinking @lilygold23 @punsterterry @naw2702 @levy-the-b00kw0rm @iolanomsgranola @tacohippy56900 @accio-hufflepuff-power1 @just-another-rainbowblog @georganabanana @grey-says-heck@thesynysterunknown @idont-know-what-im-doing @enteryourfandomhere

[blancheludis]

Tagging: @tokky231

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Characters: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, Bruce Barton, Steve Rogers Chapters: 32/?, Words: 177.126

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate’s arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

—

A week passes in which Steve is completely alone in the base. He wakes up alone, checks their channels for new jobs alone, eats alone, trains alone, goes to sleep alone.

By the third day, the atmosphere becomes too oppressing and he begins wandering around New York, walking streets he knew as a child, venturing into places he has never been. He visits the Metropolitan museum but leaves when he feels too lonely amongst the mass of people moving through the rooms.

Bucky does not answer his phone, Clint is chasing Natasha, Bruce does not stop by again. So much for talking about their situation with the team.

Steve does not know what to do. A decision has been made for him, or so it feels. How can he choose between a team that has mostly already left him and a soulmate he let walk away?

Things will calm down, he is sure. They will come back and then they will talk. Maybe they will laugh about the ludicrousness of him thinking they were going to split up just like that.  They just have to sort out their own problems first. It is all right if they do not want Steve’s help with that. He would not want them talking him into anything concerning Tony too. Except, maybe, he does. At least someone to talk to.

Steve puts up his drawing stuff in the gym where they have the best light. It makes a nice contrast, he thinks. Violence versus art. With Natasha, he knows, they are the same thing. He makes quick sketches of all of his teammates, but the first person he puts on canvas is Tony. He just hopes that is not a sign.

He paints and paints, more than he has in months. It calms his thoughts as much as it makes the constant, low-key humming of the soul bond more bearable, more like a melody in his head than a message from Tony.

When Sam calls, Steve tells him everything is fine.

The news tells him that, in an apparently bold move, Tony made Pepper Potts the new CEO of Stark Industries. In the picture they show, Tony is smiling, surrounded by his friends. Right at the border of the picture stands Thor, back in the action.  

By the seventh day, Steve knows what he will do. It does not matter so much whether it is wrong or right, but the waiting is making him crazy. If nobody is willing to give him an answer, he has to find his own.

He opens their group chat, then thinks better of involving the team in DC at this point. This is already a mess. It will be better to contact them when he has a plan of action.

Avengers assemble, he writes.

Then, he waits.

One by one, they all come. Steve does not greet them but sits in the safety of the office and watches the camera.

Bruce is first, which does not surprise Steve at all. After a quick glance into the kitchen where he puts the kettle on the stove, he disappears into his lab. They do not have any cameras in there, but Steve does not want to see what happens there anyway. He is afraid that Bruce is slowly packing up his things.

Clint and Natasha come in next, walking shoulder to shoulder as if they expect someone to attack them in their own home. In stark contrast to that, Clint is whistling and carrying a stack of pizza boxes.

Last is Bucky. Steve tells himself it does not mean anything, that Bucky just was the farthest away from the base. He is not losing his best friend on top of everything else.

They are all here. That is what matters. He repeats that like a mantra in his head.

When Steve comes into the kitchen, they are all seated around the table already. He pretends not to notice that Bucky and Natasha sit as far away from each other as possible, while Clint and Bruce studiously avoid looking at each other. How far they have fallen. If Steve were not so tired, he would cry at the sight.

They all look exhausted, although they carry themselves differently with that. Natasha is slouching elegantly, and if Steve did not know her, he would have missed that she is ready to jump up at a moment’s notice, either to fight or flee. Bruce is wearing a shirt that is too big for him and appears to try to take up as little space as possible as if he could just fold in on himself and disappear. Bucky has not shaved in a few days and his hair is unkempt, pulled up in a messy bun. Clint is bright-eyed and skittery, itching for something to happen.

All of this spells disaster.

Steve takes his time filling a mug of tea for himself and raises the pot to ask whether anyone else needs more too. Bruce refuses with a smile, the rest just waits for him to speak. No one told him this would be so awkward.

This kitchen has never been so silent. It was always filled with banter or good-natured fights about food or missions. Living here has felt more like a college dorm than a vigilante base. At least until everybody stopped talking to each other.

With measured steps, Steve walks to his chair and looks at all of them for a long moment before he sits down. His bones are brimming with the kind of restlessness that makes it hard to not jump into action immediately. He has thought long about this, though. For a whole week, he had barely anything else to do. It is time.

“A lot of things have gone wrong lately,” Steve says, settling back while he meets all of his friends’ eyes. They are listening, even while appearing not very receptive.

“No shit,” Clint mutters with a snort that is filled with derision more than amusement. He does not aim it at anyone in particular at least.

Steve is going to lose them before he has even said his piece. Clint has a talent for riling people up and making every situation unsolvable. Although that might be unfair. None of them has particularly stellar people skills. Not even with each other, as evidenced by the past weeks.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t start another fight, Clint,” Steve says sharply. It takes more effort than it should to stay calm. He has not made his decision easy, so he wants to get this over with.

Clint’s lazy grin softens a bit. “Aye, Captain.” He mock-salutes, not quite done stirring up trouble yet. “Please depart your wisdom on us about what is going to happen next.”

Steve wonders where the Clint from last week has gone. The one without the cruel edge to his tone and the unwillingness to play by the rules even for once. It might have been scary to hear him talk about leaving, but this Clint here is already two steps out of the door.

He is not asking a lot of them, just that they behave like adults and think about the future. If change is inevitable, they need to sit down and do damage control. They owe each other that much.

“I have talked to most of you.” He looks at Bruce, Clint, and Bucky in turn, then settles on Natasha with a question in his eyes. “You have all basically said that you’d be in favour of dissolving the Avengers.”

Part of him expects at least Natasha to protest, to raise her eyebrow at him like she does when she thinks they are behaving particularly stupid. Instead, she inclines her head, not quite an agreement.

“That not what I said,” Clint pipes up again, although the curve of his mouth has gone flat as if he is only now realizing that this conversation is serious.

“I’m paraphrasing,” Steve counters, then takes a deep breath. This is happening. “The matter with Stane pushed us all into disarray. We fought with each other instead of standing strong. We opted to run when things got complicated.”

The words get stuck in Steve’s throat. He did not expect to have to hold a speech. He thought his team would fall together the way they always do when needed.

Instead, he is met with four waiting sets of eyes, watching him get worked up over something that might appear very clear to them already.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, just barely keeping his shoulders from slumping.

“Perhaps you are right,” he says, feeling the truth crawling out of him with painful slowness. “Perhaps we need a break from this to see what else is out there for us.”

Silence meets him, but it feels different than before, almost like the sullen bravery has been sucked out of the room now that he said what they are all thinking.

“What does that mean?” Bruce asks, gentle even while sounding strangely unaffected. It does nothing to keep the cold from spreading through Steve’s chest.

This is it. All the thinking he has done over the past week pales to the reality of sitting across from his friends and watching them slip away from him.

“It means I’m tired,” Steve admits, aware that is not what Bruce was asking. It is the truth, however. “Tired of things going wrong and of everybody being gone all the time. For the past week, I’ve been the only one staying here.”

He cannot tell them how that felt. How lonely it is to walk past empty rooms, to be met by silence everywhere. Steve has not been truly alone since before he met Bucky. All these long days and weeks he spent in his bed, too sick to go outside, found an end when they became friends.

With the Avengers, none of them was ever truly alone either. Especially in DC, they are too many people for that. But even here, someone was always making coffee or training in the gym. Clanking and muttering could always be heard from Bruce’s lab. Someone was always available to talk.

The loss of that hurts more than the idea of stopping to fight the good fight. Steve might have dedicated his life to helping others, but it is slowly eating him up that he cannot even save his team, much less himself.

“I didn’t think we needed to tell you where we are at any given time,” Bucky says, ripping Steve out of his musings.

The breath Steve has just slowly regained gets knocked out of him again. He expected that protest from Clint. That it comes from Bucky just hurts.

“You don’t.” Steve almost adds an apology but stops himself. He is not here to blame his friends for what is happening, so he will not apologise for them taking it that way. They have done nothing else but heaping blame on each other in the past weeks. “But there’s not much sense in being a team when we can’t stand being in the same room together, right?”

Bucky flinches and even Clint drops his eyes. Steve cannot feel any satisfaction at that. This is his team. In a way, it is his fault that they are falling apart. He was too focused on his own problems to properly listen to theirs. Perhaps they all felt they had nowhere to turn to.

“We just need some time,” Bucky argues with just a hint of irritation in his tone. His eyes are narrowed, looking darker thanks to the badges beneath them.

Nobody else nods or shows any sign of agreement.

Steve holds up his hands, gesturing at them to stay calm. “I’m not claiming anything else.” He takes a deep breath, wondering how to tell them the result of his week of thinking, how to convince them that he is not abandoning them after he complained that they were all doing the same to him. Closing his eyes briefly, Steve blurts. “I’m going back to college.”

Where the silence was sullen before, it is not shocked, full of disbelief. Either at the sudden change of topic or the miserable conviction in Steve’s tone.

Steve has to drag up his eyes from his hands to gauge his friends’ reactions. The mild approval on Bruce’s face, underlined by a small smile, is no surprise. He has always pushed them to further their knowledge. Natasha and Clint share a look Steve cannot decipher but then they nod at him. Worst is the wide-eyed stare from Bucky, not quite betrayed but utterly caught off-guard.

“You what?” Bucky demands like he cannot believe that Steve would not be right here, waiting for him until he is ready to come back.

For decades, it has always been the two of them, but this only encourages Steve to go through with his plan, no matter what. He does not regret organizing his life around Bucky’s needs, but they do need to venture out alone every once in a while. This is their chance to build something separate from all the grief they have been through.

“College,” Steve repeats firmly, squaring his jaw in case anybody wants to question him. “I will get my art degree.” Somewhat softer, he adds, “We’ve got enough money to help all of us to go in a new direction. That doesn’t mean we won’t try to help anymore. But maybe it’s time to be more than just Avengers.”

That just hurts to say. It has never been just. They threw all their talents together to do something good. And they did. For years. All roads end at some point. If he has learned nothing else during this mess, it is that there are always new roads to walk too.

“Stark made you an offer,” Natasha speaks up. It is impossible to interpret her tone. She does not look disapproving but meets his eyes straight on. If anything, it is like she expected this to happen.

“We talked,” Steve admits stiffly. “But he is no more responsible for this than any of you. Any of us.” The last thing he needs is for them to put the blame on someone outside of their group, especially Tony. They have done that once already.

Natasha shakes her head slightly. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything.” She sounds like she means it, too.

Surprise has Steve forgetting to appear collected. He feels his mouth go slack as he stares at her. “You don’t?”

It is one thing to accept them going separate ways for now, but Steve thinks that, had any of them talked to an outsider before clearing things with them, he would not take it so calmly.

“You’re right,” says, seemingly impassionate, and shrugs. “We’re done.”

Finally, some restlessness spreads through the room. Bucky has taken to glaring at Natasha, while Clint is shifting in his seat as if he wants to add something but, for once in his life, is holding back. All the pretty words Steve has thought to say, and she outs it like that.

Done. Like there is no going back. Like this is it forever.

“And you’re not just saying that because you’re avoiding Bucky?” Bruce asks, putting his finger on a wound Steve has momentarily forgotten exists.

Natasha’s expression shifts into something very cold. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes are hard, turned on Bruce without blinking. “You know perfectly well I can keep business and personal matters apart.”

As if he has waited for this cue, Bucky jerks forward, smashing his metal hand on the table. The impact has their mugs clanking and tea spilling out of Steve’s.

“Well, I can’t,” Bucky growls, brows drawn together. “We need to talk.”

Tension is hanging in the air, almost thick enough to cut. Steve expected them to fight but not about this. Not about whether or not they can still stand to be in the same room together. His grief is a visceral thing, pressing on his ribcage so that every breath is laboured.

Natasha opens her mouth and it is obvious from the way she holds her shoulders that she is going to refuse. Whatever might have been going on between them, whatever trust there ever was, she will reject it.

Next to her, Clint leans forward, puts a hand on her shoulder as if to hold her back, and says, “Yes you do.”

It will forever be fascinating how well these two work together. Clint, with the shortest fuse possible and no patience whatsoever to hide his feelings, and Natasha, who is always holding back, never showing all her cards.

Natasha turns to Clint, nothing gentle in her face. “Do you want to hold my hand while we do, too?”

Flashing a grin, Clint shakes his head, unconcerned with the threat of violence exuding from her. “Nope,” he says cheerfully. “I need both my hands to shoot a bow.”

They keep looking at each other for a moment longer, communicating something they do not want the others to be privy too. If Steve had not been watching them so closely, he would have missed the way Natasha’s posture softens just so.

“All right,” she then says, still like she is pressured into something she does not want to do but wants to get over with quickly if she cannot avoid it. “I prefer to do this without an audience. Come on, James.”

James. That is new, too. Steve wonders whether that is just another tool to distance herself from them. He does not have time to think about it, however, because Natasha pushes away from the table, in the process of getting up.

“Wait,” he calls, noting the urgency in his own tone. “This is it?”

All of them turn to look at him. Natasha and Bucky with blank stares, Clint and Bruce with varying degrees of pity.

“What else do you need?” Natasha asks, her brow arched.

Steve is sure she does not mean to sound cruel. She simply has a task before her that she does not want to avoid any longer. Still, the moment they get up from this table there is no going back.

“I thought –” Steve says and trails off. He called them here. He wanted a solution. Now that they agreed to what he said, can he really protest that?

“You wanted us to put up more of a fight so you could back out,” Bruce explains with utter calm, neither pity nor judgement in his tone. “But we agree. We need this, We’re not out of the world, but we’ve been taking care of other people’s problems for too long.”

Because dealing with their own is too hard. Because they have something wonderful if fragile here. For too long, Steve has identified himself as nothing more than an Avenger. These people are his family, but he has always thought of them as his teammates first.

“What are you going to do?” Steve asks, slowly because he is afraid his voice will break. His throat is clogged with emotions, burning all the way down to his core.

He watches as Clint and Natasha exchange another look without offering any information. They will stick together as they have done for years. Perhaps they even have something lined up already. People with their kinds of talents are always needed.

“I have a job offer at Stark Industries,” Bruce says. He sounds wary, probably worried about what Steve will say.

It is no mystery who made that offer. And, yes, it stings that his soulmate would ask Bruce to stay while making demands of Steve. He understands it, however. Bruce has been on Tony’s side for longer than any of them, helping him and respecting his wishes when Steve did everything but.

Steve nods at Bruce, trying a smile that probably comes out mangled, but Bruce answers in kind, accepting his gesture.

“Of course, you do,” Clint mutters, but he, too, does not sound mad, just teasing.

Slowly, the tension is dispersing, all because they decided to take a break from each other. Steve has to remind himself that they had a good run, that their friendship is not worth less just because they are experiencing some bumps.

“I might pick up ballet again,” Natasha offers suddenly. Even her expression has melted into something softer.

“We won’t go dark if you don’t either,” Clint says, hiding a serious promise underneath his smile.  

It looks like everybody is on a better path already. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Steve says, “Never.” He means it with every fiber of his being.

“Great.” With that, Natasha does get to her feet and looks expectantly at Bucky. “If you would, James. I have an appointment later I cannot be late for.”

Bucky stands immediately, his expression still grim but Steve knows him well enough to see the hope fluttering over his face before he shuts it down. They walk out together, and Steve can just hope that Bucky did not say anything to his question of what he is going to do because the answer hinges on this conversation.

He knows he is not going to get on with his life if that means leaving Bucky behind. Not in the way he wants to, at least. They have been through too much together to now be impassionate about each other’s fate. He is going to wait and intercept Bucky when he is done talking to Natasha. They will figure something out then.

Silence hangs between them again. Steve waits for Clint and Bruce to make their excuses too and leave him here. Instead, they remain seated. Bruce is looking at his hands, while Clint is watching the door. At least until he turns towards Steve, his expression more vulnerable than Steve has seen in years.

“You did good, Steve,” Clint says in a measured tone, tasting each word. “All these years. With us. Couldn’t have asked for a better leader.”

He is being serious. That registers before the actual sentiment does. Here Steve is, sitting with Clint at one table, who is known for questioning every order and starting fights just for the fun of it. And he is telling Steve that he has performed well as the leader of this group they all seem entirely too happy to leave behind.

“Apparently not good enough,” Steve replies, failing to sound nonchalant. His jaw is clenched and it takes him several seconds to relax it.

Clint grins, immediately looking more like himself again. “Better stop while you’re ahead.” He cocks his head to the side. “But honestly, Steve. This isn’t your fault. We were all messed up before you got your hands on us. If anything, you made us better.”

But not good enough for them to want to stay together. Not good enough to trust each other with their problems. Not good enough to stick this out.

“He’s right,” Bruce chimes in before Steve can argue. He manages to sound earnest much better than Clint, if mostly because he is a bad liar. “We all grew a lot here. You made me believe that I can still be more than what Ross reduced me to.”

This feels too much like an ending. Steve knows it is one, of course, but not like this. They are all telling him goodbye. They might be saying we had a good time, but what he hears is we can’t get away from here fast enough.

Maybe he was a fool for expecting them to protest, to tell him that nothing would break them apart, especially nothing like this. Steve has sent out applications for college but he was fully prepared to withdraw them. He just needed them to want to stay. And they do not.

He is not sure what to do with that. What to do with himself.

Seeing them like this, barely talking, all caught up in their own problems, tells him they are right. This is not sustainable. But.

He will need to talk to Sam, explain to him how everything went wrong so quickly. Then he needs to find an apartment and somehow live the rest of his life. He is not sure whether he can stand this.

“Thank you,” he tells Bruce and Clint, briefly meeting their eyes. He wants to say more but worries to break down before them. “I need to talk to Bucky. I’ll wait for him in my room.”

He flees.

---

Half an hour later, someone knocks on Steve’s door. He hesitates to call out because he is afraid that it is not Bucky but someone else telling him that Bucky ran out on him. Considering their track record lately, it would not surprise him.

“Come in,” he calls nonetheless. What is one more bad thing heaped on the giant pile?

The door opens and it is Bucky coming in. Steve does not bother to hide his relief, especially when he notices that Bucky walks like a lot of weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He joins Steve where he is sitting on his bed and they shift to face each other like they have done a thousand times since they were children.

It is nice, this moment before they start talking, when they can still pretend that nothing has changed.

Steve remembers with a smile how they made plans before they joined the Army, before they grew up to be people they barely recognized.

“How did it go?” Steve asks, watching closely for any change in Bucky’s expression.

One corner of Bucky’s mouth just barely lifts as he stares at his hands. “We talked.”

His taciturnity is nothing new, so Steve waits. Pushing for more will only end with Bucky clamming up completely.

“Nat doesn’t believe we’re soulmates,” Bucky finally continues, still not looking up. He shrugs as if it does not matter.

Irritation sparks through Steve like a rush of sudden energy. Despite the bleakness of the past week, this rouses him from his exhaustion.

He cannot believe it. Natasha likes to pretend she is aloof and nothing can touch her. She cares, Steve knows that. She cares and she loves them. So how dare she reject Bucky, who has put his trust in her, who she has presumably opened up with.

“So what?” Steve snaps, forgetting all about allowing Bucky to take his time. “She’s just going to leave you? After all you’ve been through together? After all these years of friendship?” The frustration he kept bottled up for weeks is now bursting to the surface. “Let me talk to her. I know she doesn’t like letting anyone talk her into things but perhaps I can make her see reason.”

“Calm down, Stevie,” Bucky says. For some reason, he is smiling, looking amused at Steve’s indignation.

What really interrupts Steve’s ranting is the name. It has been ages since Bucky called him Stevie. That tender relic of their childhood. Warmth blossoms in Steve’s chest, followed by the shameful thought that, if Natasha does not want Bucky, chances are greater that he will come with Steve.

He shakes himself to get that thought out of his head. That is not what he wants. His happiness means nothing if it comes at the cost of Bucky’s.

“I want you to be happy,” Steve says, hoping he has never given Bucky a reason to doubt that.

Bucky bites his lip, and says, “I told her I’m not convinced we’re soulmates either. And that it doesn’t matter because I love her anyway.”

Several seconds pass in which Steve is trying to make sense of these words. Love, he thinks. How did that happen? He loves Bucky. He loves the entire team, and he guesses the same must be true for the rest of them too. Otherwise, they would have fallen apart much sooner.

Bucky telling Natasha that he loves her is a development he did not see coming. Yes, they were close. In some ways perhaps even closer than Bucky and Steve or Clint and Natasha. But both of them are so repressed when it comes to feelings that Steve expected anything but that to be the result of their conversation.

“Fate is bullshit for people like us,” Bucky continues when Steve simply keeps staring at him. “Perhaps we’re soulmates, perhaps we’re not. What does it matter? I trust her and I love her. We can make something good out of that.”

He sounds so convinced that Steve’s heart aches for him, wanting nothing more than for this to work out.  

“We?” Steve asks quietly, almost afraid of the answer. “She agreed?”

Bucky shrugs, but his expression tells quite clearly he never saw that happening either. “She apologised for running,” he says, almost chuckling with incredulity. “We’re both not good with feelings. But we’ve had each other’s backs before this and we’ll keep doing that now.”

So something good has come from this mess. Steve is not selfless enough to say that it was all worth it – him ruining things with his own soulmate, Tony almost losing his life, their team breaking up – if only Bucky will be allowed to keep this, but it is a close thing. This is what they have been searching for the entire time, after all, a life worth living.

He reaches out and clasps Bucky’s shoulder, relieved when Bucky does not pull away. This is real.

“What are you going to do?” Steve asks, both because he wants to know and because he wants to avoid questions about Tony.

“Natasha has been talking to that FBI agent Coulson,” Bucky says, not showing what he thinks of that. “Clint and she are going to meet with him next week. Perhaps work out a job.”

That is another surprising development. Steve has never gotten the chance to ask Natasha or Clint about how they know Coulson or why they had dealings with the FBI without ever telling them about it. He almost did not believe it when Tony told him, but since nobody came knocking on their door or kept asking uncomfortable questions about the arrow wounds Clint left behind, there had to be some truth to it.

Now it seems he knows what Clint and Natasha will be doing after this. Considering their sometimes unconventional methods to solve a job he is not sure how well they will do with getting back in government employ, but if Coulson has been following them, he knows what he is getting into.

“And you want that?” Steve asks, his worry spiking again. “To keep living this life?”

Bucky’s entire body moves as he shakes his head in a very empathetic no. “I’ll stay with her, but I’m done hunting people.”

Steve tries to take the relief in Bucky’s voice not personally. The Avengers were the best way for them at the time. Whatever else happens, he is not going to let anyone talk him out of believing that. But perhaps he has overdone it. Perhaps he has been dragging Bucky along for too long, never seeing his best friend suffer.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, stretching out his hand as if to touch Bucky, but he is not sure whether that would be welcome.

“Sometimes you’re really stupid, Stevie,” Bucky says and catches his hand, squeezes it hard. “You probably saved me with this stunt. And it was good.”

Relief floods through Steve, easing the nausea nesting inside his stomach. Letting go is one thing but getting told that he was wrong to pursue this all this time would be quite another.

“While it lasted?” Steve asks nonetheless, not sure how to ask whether Bucky regrets this.

“Of course,” Bucky asks without hesitation but does not let go of Steve’s hand. “Nothing lasts forever. You of all people should know that.”

Steve does, but this is different. This is something he built to last. Something to carry them when they could not do so themselves.

“It’s hard to let go,” he admits, staring at where his hand is held by Bucky’s.

“Wouldn’t have been good if it was,” Bucky replies with a smile in his voice. And truly, when Steve looks up, Bucky’s lips are pulled up, making him look much younger than he did for the past weeks, not weighed down as heavily anymore.

“But we –” Steve begins, then tries again. “If you leave with Natasha.” He trails off, gives up. He cannot even get the words out to ask whether that means the end for the two of them too.

“I’m not leaving you,” Bucky says, still able to read Steve. “If Nat is going to work for the FBI, we’ll probably look for a flat here.”

There goes Steve’s slight hope to move back in with Bucky, to not strand utterly alone in this city – or wherever life brings him. “That serious already?” he asks, trying for a humorous tone despite knowing it will fail.

“No need to ease into it. We’ve basically been living together for years,” Bucky answers, slightly chiding. Then he leans forward, appearing more cheerful now that they have cleared this up. “What college do you want to go to?”

Considering that Steve had still thought he would not go at all because his team would hold him back, the question catches him off guard. Tony is in New York, and if Bucky and Natasha will be staying here too, the answer is obvious.

“Here, I hope,” he says, putting some effort into sounding like he knows what he is doing.

It does not fool Bucky, of course. He is kind enough not to mention it. Then, however, he asks the second worst thing. “He’ll give you a chance then?”

There is no use in pretending Steve does not know that he means Tony. Who else would Steve hope to keep in his life other than the people who just gathered in their kitchen and gave their goodbyes?

“Possibly,” Steve says and falls silent. There really is nothing else to add.

Tony asked him to choose and Steve has. More or less, at least. The Avengers are disbanding and Steve will stay. He just hopes that is enough.

“And that’s good enough for you?” Bucky asks but sounds as if he knows the answer. He looks sad, eyes dark with something unsaid.

That is enough to rouse Steve. “If you’re trying to talk me out of –”

Bucky pats his hand, effectively cutting him off. “On the contrary,” he says earnestly. “I believe this will be good for you. You always need to be in control. It’ll help to let go once in a while.”

Steve cannot remember the last time he was really in control. It was before they took the job to steal Tony’s USB drive. Perhaps even earlier than that, before they started chasing jobs, always needing to keep busy.

“Well, prepare to have me crashing on your couch if all of this goes wrong,” Steve tries to joke. He manages to smile but it feels too tight, too fake.

“I love you, Steve,” Bucky says and his smile is bright and honest, embracing Steve like home.

“Love you too, Buck,” Steve replies quietly, grateful. “Just tell me if you need me.”

Nodding, Bucky lets go of Steve’s hand. It does not feel like as much of a loss as it could. “Only if you do the same.”

Maybe not everything has changed. Maybe they are ready for a new chapter in their lives but that does not mean leaving everything of the old one behind.

“Stay here tonight?” Steve asks, almost managing to do so without fear of being rejected.

Without the slightest bit of hesitation, Bucky nods. “Take your blanket. My bed is bigger than yours.”

Yes, Steve thinks, maybe everything will be all right.  

[ailuronymy]

Hey, I follow a WC YouTuber called Moonkitti and she'd uploaded a video called "Warrior Names". She kinda slams traditionalism and also demonstrates she has no idea what exactly it is. Like she shows some prefixes as examples which has Tree and Dirt as acceptable and Jay isn't, despite the inverse being true. I know she mentions she's not against it in concept, but that it was being enforced to limit others' creativity, but I have really mixed feelings about it and wanted to know your opinions.

Hello there, Ruddles! I hadn’t heard of this person before but I went and watched this video and I think I understand where your mixed feelings might be coming from. This video is trying to do a lot of things but, in my personal opinion, it’s doing none of them particularly well.

There’s three major things happening all at once: 1. a legitimate personal reflection about how certain traditionalists acted towards this person in the past and how that impacted her (4:50; 6:20); 2. an incorrect and misleading explanation of what traditionalism even is and very clearly no understanding of why it appeals to people, and therefore very little empathy towards people who use the style; (5:13; 6:00);  and 3. (from an outsider stance as someone who likes deconstructing arguments for fun) a fascinatingly messy argument both in favour of Erin Hunter while using Erin Hunter’s various (and typically more incompetent) choices as justifications for… everything and anything. 

It’s a mixed bag to be sure! To start with, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with saying that some people who use the traditional style are jerks. It’s very true. I remember those days too. Some people genuinely did crash forum threads just to mock and belittle other people. It was terrible and I think it’s totally legitimate to be upset about that.

I think the argument that everyone who uses traditionalism behaves that way is bad faith, however, and I also question the confirmation bias happening at 6:54, because I only ever see people talking about traditionalism for themselves, because that’s the spaces I hang out in. I wonder if Moonkitti has ever actually looked for traditional forums and sites, or if she’s just taken for granted that they don’t exist and everyone who uses the style is waging their own personal crusade. That’s not something I endorse in any way, by the way. Don’t anyone do that. 

The second topic is personally the most frustrating because at points she’s almost right. But her definitions are incorrect and explanations simplify in a way that isn’t helpful to anyone. She’s not trying to actually give an account of the style and then point out the ways it doesn’t work or shouldn’t exist or anything like that: she’s half understood the idea and gone, “That sounds dumb.” This is in fact what she claims traditionalists say about other styles (7:22), which I disagree with: traditionalism is based mostly on having a set framework in place and then fairly rigorously debating what works and doesn’t within that world set-up. Plenty of names that are traditional sound pretty silly, but that doesn’t mean we knock them back wholesale. The whole point of the style is there is a method. Making judgments based on looser qualities, like sound or flow or imagery, is more of a lyrical approach.

Anyway, she doesn’t even seem to have gone to the effort of learning about it herself before deciding to preach. I think that’s tacky. It’s exasperating to me, because it’s not like there aren’t a ton of resources out there: if nothing else, traditionalists are good like that! We love lists and archives and referring to rules we’ve written out. That’s one of the things she’s correct about. She frequently refers to the fact that traditionalism is fan-made (2:25; 3:59; 6:45), but she does so as if this is a bad thing, which it’s not. Traditionalists are aware it’s fan-made: we are, after all, the fans who made it. That’s the whole idea. 

Which brings me to the third topic: she doesn’t seem to fully understand why traditionalism exists and why it brings joy to people who use it. That’s an issue, because much of her argument is based around “well, canon.” She mischaracterises traditionalists as people who are “taking things too seriously” for being creative–i.e., she recognises that the entirety of traditionalism is fan-made, but can’t seem to understand why fans would elect to create rules to follow; it seems to cancel out the creativity in her world-view. She also repeatedly refers to the fact that she doesn’t need a traditional system to enjoy the Warriors world (0:26; 7:17; 8:28; 9:05)–to which I reply, your mileage may vary–and seems to look down on people who are pulled out of the story by “a silly name,” unlike her or Erin Hunter, who don’t take things “seriously.”

The major problem I have with this approach is that it shows a fundamental misunderstanding of the value of good world-building–or even some idea of what it looks like. She claims a strict system would result in a boring story (which perhaps would be true for her, who knows: again, mileage may vary) (8:28), but the issue I have is that she says: “don’t get me wrong, warrior cats is not perfect, but the least of our troubles with the quality of these books is how strange these names are. Sure, Bouncefire sounds weird and doesn’t seem realistic, but if you’re worried about this story’s realism, consider the fact that we have about fifty cats who live together who barely gossip except if it’s about a housecat” (1:06). 

She uses the word “realistic” throughout the whole video, as though the goal of using a traditional style is to make Warriors realistic, which in my opinion it’s not. Plausible, yes. Believable, yes. Cohesive, yes. But not realistic. These are, after all, talking cats with religion. I myself multiple times a year refer to the fact we’re all getting excited over “feral cats talking to stars in the forest.” There’s no pretense there! But the thing Moonkitti argues that actually makes me mad is that, because it’s not real, nothing matters. 

And that’s absolutely horse-apples. It matters that the names in canon don’t have structure, because the world of Warriors doesn’t have structure and that is the underlying problem of the series. That is part of why the series is not well-written. The world doesn’t have structure or consistency in how it is built, and the run-on effect is that characters are frequently flat and their decisions–even their deaths–are regularly made meaningless by the world of the story. The world-building is inconsistent and poorly planned, and the run-on effect is that plots regularly force characters who are supposed to be intelligent or even an average amount of smart into being unbelievably stupid simply for the sake of furthering it, and the stakes of the stories are constantly forced to increase to squeeze any amount of impact out of the plots because the writing itself won’t do it. 

There is no hierarchy from most to least when it comes to the quality troubles of Erin Hunter’s work. The issues in Warriors are not stand-alone. They are interconnected. It’s silly to pretend that transformative world-building, which is what traditionalism is, is somehow a superficial, ornamental thing and not simply another way for fans to mend some of what makes Warriors “not perfect,” like any other AU or fandom meta. Canon invented the name-change custom (7:43)–and repeatedly made it messy, and shameful, and had no idea what they wanted to go with. Traditionalism mended that and made it better. If you can recognise that the series isn’t perfect, I don’t think it’s a stretch to also recognise and acknowledge different ways of how fans react to and deal with those imperfections in fan-works, such as role-playing and fanfiction and OCs. 

Moonkitti’s repetitions that this is a fantasy series and it’s not real so stop caring frankly reminds me a lot people who get uncomfortable and defensive when you analyse and discuss a piece of media in any kind of critical or thoughtful way and will tell you don’t be so serious. In my case, these people tend not to realise that, for me at least, this is fun--and it’s worthwhile and important to do. It’s also my actual job, in the daylight hours. (Here it’s just a hobby).

So tl;dr: Erin Hunter doesn’t take Warriors seriously–and that is the problem. The canon naming style is a symptom of how little effort Erin Hunter puts into consistent or meaningful world-building. Traditionalism exists as some fans’ attempt to craft a solution for themselves, and I include myself in that. 

Moonkitti’s approach to explaining traditionalism from a place of 1. not being interested in understanding it and 2. being oddly defensive of Erin Hunter, the creative team behind all of canon’s terrible weird writing choices, rather than critical of said choices and choosing instead to blame fans for wanting canon to be better and then acting on that desire, feels a bit in bad faith to me. I’m sad to hear that she had such bad experiences with traditionalists in the past, because that’s awful, but I also feel strongly that it’s a good idea to know what you’re talking about before you step onto the stage like this.

For instance, she says, “There’s no real argument for why [certain] names [should] not be in the series,” (2:13), but, well. I’m here and this blog is my seven-years-and-counting argument. I like to think it’s often a persuasive one, too!

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tear Into Your Soul - Training Week 4 - ao3 link

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Hashirama/Madara/Tobirama

For @writhingbeneathyou

Something will probably have to be done about Izuna.

Hashirama smiles vacantly at his best friend’s younger brother as he continues to rant. Despite their proximity, Izuna never really became his precious person - but he is Madara's, and thus Hashirama considers Izuna to be his by proxy and thus important - no matter how annoying he might be sometimes.

Izuna had stormed into Hashirama’s office at full Uchiha boil, which would be funny except for how it’s keeping Hashirama there when all he wants is to go back to rejoin Tobirama and Madara already.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Hashirama interjects when Izuna stops for air, keeping his tone polite. Far more polite than Izuna deserves, really, what with his implications and innuendos suggesting that Hashirama has taken his beloved brother off to be murdered or tortured or for some other nefarious purpose. And, sure, there might have been some kidnapping involved, but Hashirama’s intentions are hardly nefarious! Madara’s getting everything he’s ever wanted, and everything Hashirama’s ever wanted, too. What’s the problem? “As I’ve already told you, we went out on a secret high ranked – sorry, S-ranked – mission. I got the summons telling me to come back and I did, even now a second time –”

And oh, Hashirama loves his village, but someone is definitely going to die for that.

“– but I’ll be going back out to join them soon enough. Your brother is not at any serious risk.”

Izuna crosses his arms in front of him. “And I’ll be going with you.”

Hashirama manages not to snort aloud at the thought of Izuna walking in on some of the scenes between Madara and Tobirama that he’s been recording for himself in the little hideaway he put them both in. He doesn’t think Izuna will properly appreciate what Hashirama is doing.

Pity, that, because Hashirama’s plan is working so well.

If he can just pull this off, Hashirama will get to keep his most precious people close to him, Madara will get a haven from all his worries, and Tobirama will finally, finally get to have someone (other than Hashirama) who loves and adores him the way he deserves, with all the intensity of true Uchiha obsession.

All Hashirama wants is for his beloved ones to be happy, and he truly, sincerely believes that their happiness can only be achieved when they’re with him. So, really, when you think about it like that, it’s practically incumbent upon him to do whatever it takes, anything it takes, to seize that wonderful happiness for all of them. And no matter how difficult, that is a duty he is more than willing to take on.

(For Madara, Hashirama would and has crushed his own clan into meek compliance, all to enable them to obtain their mutual dreamed-of village of peace.

For Tobirama, Hashirama would raze down forests, and for him that’s saying something.

There is nothing he will not do for them – nothing, that is, but let them go free…)

“There’s no need for you to come along, Izuna,” Hashirama says sweetly. “We’re perfectly safe, or as safe as you can get on a mission.” His smile broadens, beatific and radiating inner peace in a way he knows is extremely irritating, especially to people who – like Izuna – think he really is that dumb. “After all, we already have the three strongest shinobi in the village on the job.”

Izuna doesn’t quite manage to hide the way the reminder makes him scowl. Tobirama’s superior status rankles and eats away at Izuna, Hashirama knows, but after how gloriously Tobirama defeated him – Tobirama’s brilliant mind defeating the Sharingan at last, even the great Mangekyo Sharingan itself – there can be no question anymore.

Tobirama is the third strongest – Izuna only the fourth.

After all, Tobirama had all but killed his rival, while it was only through Hashirama’s mercy that Izuna yet walks the earth.

Mercy, yes – and patience. 

Oh, Hashirama has learned all about patience, this past decade or so. He was an impatient child, he acknowledges as much: he should never have asked Madara to choose him over his family by the riverbank – they were young, weak; they could never have stood together against their parents for their peace, not when their brothers would have paid the price for it. They should have laid in wait, grown strong, and then they could have acted, acted together, and things would have been different, better.

He didn’t wait, and now he has to work twice as hard to fix what he broke – but fix it he will.

Madara wants to choose family over Hashirama?

Fine.

(It’s not fine.)

Hashirama will weave himself and his Tobirama into Madara’s conception of family so permanently that they can never be plucked out: he’ll plant the seeds now and let them grow until Madara’s heart and soul are ripe for the harvest.

He knows what he wants and he knows how to get there - and he knows that he will use all of his resources to get it.

Even the resources that don’t yet know they are his.

Like - say - poor, ignorant little Izuna.

After all, what Izuna doesn’t know won’t hurt him -

- until Hashirama decides that it will.

“Listen to me, Senju,” Izuna says heatedly, putting his hands down on Hashirama’s desk. It’s almost offensive how free he feels with Hashirama’s personal space, but then, he thinks of Hashirama as a soft-hearted fool, a perception Hashirama has done exactly nothing to dissuade him of. It’s far too amusing. “I’m going to get straight to the point –”

“Oh, good,” Hashirama says innocently. “I’d been wondering when you were planning to do that.”

“You –! I know you're up to something. My brother never leaves home without warning or telling me –”

“My fault entirely,” Hashirama cuts in smoothly. “I’m afraid I sprang the mission on him last second – forgot all about it until it was time to head out. You know me: I’d misplace my head if it wasn’t attached!”

He laughs, even as Izuna seethes. Mostly because it makes Izuna seethe; if Izuna wasn’t so set in his belief that Hashirama is a blithering idiot, he might actually realize that Hashirama’s been mocking him this entire time.

“How long is this mission supposed to last again?” Izuna finally demands, as if Hashirama hasn’t already told him five times.

“We should be back a week after we first set out.” 

“If he’s a single day late –”

“Isn’t the usual worry date four days out?” Hashirama wonders. “Or at least two, for short range ones? Do you not trust Madara to be able to complete a mission, is that it? You should have more respect for your elders.”

Izuna makes a frustrated sound like kettle boiling. “Listen, he’d better be back on time, you hear me?”

“I hear you. I’m not sure I understand you, but I certainly hear you.”

Izuna scoffs. “Just make absolutely sure he’s back in one piece, or else -”

“I’ll always do my best to take care of Madara,” Hashirama assures him. “He’s very precious to me.”

“Yes, yes, your ‘precious people’; the whole world knows about your stupid Will of Fire and your precious people…!” Another scoff. “I’ve just about filled up on it. Tell me the instant my brother gets back.” 

Hashirama watches as Izuna storms out.

Shaking his head, he gets up to go: with Izuna gone, there’s nothing keeping him here, and he has high hopes for what Madara and Tobirama have gotten up to in his absence. Madara’s been positively mad for Tobirama ever since he left them alone that first time, worshipping every inch of him with classic Uchiha obsession; it’s all working out very well according to plan.

An Uchiha tracker does try, not-so-subtly, to follow him out of the gates, but Hashirama loses him easily, just as he does the one who follows far more subtly, seeking to use the shadow of the first as a dodge. Izuna’s loyalists, of course, but Hashirama is not respected throughout the many nations and nor revered among the many clans as the God of Shinobi because he would fall for such an insipid little play as that.

Yes, something will clearly have to be done about Izuna.

After losing his tails in the forest, Hashirama doubles back to the secure little outpost where he’s left his brother in Madara’s tender care.

Hashirama grins in earnest as he walks into the room: they’re on the bed, Tobirama lying flat on his back, eyes glazed over with pleasure and moaning as Madara thrusts into him, kneeling between his splayed legs.

Delightful.

Hashirama wonders if either of them really needed the infusion of aphrodisiac he included in the tea he served them that morning before he returned to the village, or if he would have walked in on them like this regardless, but dismisses the thought as irrelevant a second later; there’s really no harm in being certain, after all.

“Having fun without me, I see,” he remarks cheerfully, shedding his clothing as he comes forward to kneel by the bed. He’s been hard since he left the office, and after the aggravating day he had he thinks he deserves a nice treat. “Madara, push him forward a bit, will you?”

Madara obliges him, and Tobirama hangs his head back over the side of the bed, opening his pretty little mouth to take Hashirama’s cock without even the slightest bit of urging.

The position robs Tobirama of all autonomy: with one leg wrapped around Madara’s chest and the other draped over Madara’s arm, his back arching and his neck hanging low and supported only by Hashirama’s hand, he’s being held entirely aloft between them, shifting back and forth with their thrusts.

Entirely at their mercy.

Perfect.

“That’s wonderful, Tobirama,” Hashirama praises, even as he fucks his brother’s throat without much concern for the difficulties of the position. Tobirama’s a trained shinobi, lithe and flexible; he can handle it. “Very well done; you’re getting so good at this. Madara, isn’t he getting good at this?”

Madara scoffs a little. He would sound remarkably like his younger brother but for the fact that his version comes across as rather fond instead of condescending.

“Enjoying teaching your baby brother to suck your cock, Hashirama?” Madara asks, not slowing his thrusts in the slightest. “That turn you on?”

“It’s a hard job, but someone has to do it,” Hashirama says virtuously. It’s ridiculous enough to make Tobirama actually laugh around his cock, a delightful feeling, and it brings a smile to Madara’s face. “Might as well be you and me, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hashirama…”

“Besides, I’ve already taught him that. This is just a new position. Like a graduation lesson!”

Madara barks a laugh. “You’re absurd.”

Hashirama grins and reaches out to reel Madara in for a kiss, tasting Madara’s laughter on his tongue even as he enjoys the feeling of Tobirama’s hot little mouth, the way he moves his lips and tongue along Hashirama’s cock to try to make it better for him as he thrusts in, glorying in his brother’s submission.

This is how it should be, he thinks to himself: Madara happy, distracted from the worries and the weight his clan has placed on his shoulders; Tobirama safe between them, safe and loved and appreciated the way he should always be, and would never believe just from Hashirama alone; and the three of them concerned with nothing but the great joy of being together, a joy that grows all the greater for being shared.

This is how it should always have been.

This is how it will be, if Hashirama has anything to say about it. He’s going to make this beautiful present into his future, his permanent future, and absolutely no one will stand in his way.

Especially not Izuna.

Hashirama wonders idly if it’s time for Izuna to have another little relapse of that lung complaint of his, the one that stems from that little snarl of scar tissue left over in his chest from the battle wound he incurred from Tobirama’s sword. All perfectly natural, of course; the Uchiha medics themselves confirmed that it was truly amazing that Hashirama had managed to keep the scarring to such a minimum amount.

And if their iryo jutsu is not strong enough to see that within that scar tissue there is the tiniest little dab of foreign cells, mostly dead and entirely dormant unless awakened with the Mokuton, that once upon a time came from a species of tree called ficus aurea –

Well. That’s just too bad, isn’t it?

Hashirama smirks a little at the thought – he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into Madara’s mouth, to mercilessly grind into Tobirama’s face, enjoying the uncomplicated pleasure they were both giving him – but ultimately decides against it.

Annoying or not, scheming or not, threat or not, Izuna will remain untouched for now.

After all, the true purpose of the so very aptly-named strangler fig is to ensure that Izuna will not waste his life in battle: Madara loves and fears for his last brother, the bastion of his sanity, and Hashirama knows that although Madara is saddened by Izuna’s mysterious condition, he is secretly pleased that it does not impact his life in any serious manner and cannot fully hide his lack of regret that Izuna has been forced to resign from the front lines, trading battle for administration in his new role as the head of T&I for the village.

No, best not to do anything: Madara would only worry if he found out that Izuna had another attack while he was gone, starting coughing and clutching at his chest as though something had curled around his lungs to press all the air out, and Hashirama wants this week to be one that Madara remembers with untainted joy.

Maybe another time, if Izuna continues to be so irritating.

“Oh, I missed you two,” Hashirama says, continuing to kiss Madara. He likes kissing Madara, and he’s got over a decade of kisses to make up for; he could spend all day doing just this. Having his cock sucked at the same time doesn’t hurt, though, especially since Tobirama has really become quite frighteningly skilled at it given the short amount of time he’s had to practice. “You know, I haven’t come at all this morning; isn’t that a terrible shame?”

“No, you’re terrible,” Madara breathes against Hashirama’s lips, breaking away a little, but still fond, still laughing, and not pulling away the way he had been at first. No more struggling, no more attempts to escape: Madara’s forgotten all about that. It’s amazing how pleasure can break a person so much more thoroughly than torture, something professional torturers like Izuna never seem to realize – or else he’d be far more worried about his brother’s friendship with Hashirama than he already is. “Absolutely terrible, Hashirama. Did you put something in our tea this morning?”

“Who, me?” Hashirama asks, leaning forward to nip slightly at Madara’s neck – Madara likes a bit of pain with his pleasure, Hashirama’s found, and he’s already got all sorts of plans on how to best use that to maximum advantage. “I’m hurt at your, mmm, terrible insinuations. As if I’d ever do something so underhanded. Me, a sweet, good, innocent little shinobi…”

Madara laughs again.

“What makes you say that, anyway?”

“We haven’t been able to keep our hands off each other all day,” Madara says. “You did, then?”

“Obviously I did. There’s no such thing as an innocent shinobi. When did you notice?”

“Not until afternoon,” Madara concedes, which is hilarious: that meant they’d already been at each other all day without thinking anything was strange about it. “I’d decided to try riding Tobirama –”

“Oh, did you now?” Hashirama asks, delighted. He’d had to guide or force them into trying all sorts of new positions and techniques, but he’s also had nearly five days of almost non-stop sexual play to distract them by now; they’d stopped even mentioning their other obligations at this point. And now they were starting to innovate on their own! “Did he like that?”

(He wonders if this satisfaction what it feels like when you finally break a feral animal's spirit to your yoke. He thinks it might be.)

Madara smirks, smug as a rooster strutting amongst the hens. “I’d tell you to ask him, but…”

“His mouth is otherwise occupied, yes. Good, good. How’d that give it up?”

“Well, he came pretty quickly –”

“Virgins,” Hashirama sighs, tutting a little down at a now-blushing Tobirama. He does so love humiliating his so-proud brother, a pleasure he reserves only for himself and no other, though perhaps if Madara is very good and very obedient Hashirama will consider letting him in on the fun. “Really, Tobirama, and here I thought you were doing so much better…”

“He did a perfectly respectable job of it,” Madara says, and oh, Hashirama loves how he’s defending Tobirama’s honor, even if there’s nothing really to defend.

Izuna’s going to be in for a nasty little surprise the next time he tries to cast aspersions on Hashirama’s little brother just because he’s a sore loser who can’t admit his own failure.

Hashirama really hopes he’s there to see it happen.

“And?” Hashirama prompts.

“Well, he got hard again right after,” Madara says wryly. “And given that he was still inside of me at the time, it was – noticeable.”

“I’m sure it was,” Hashirama says, laughing at the thought. He’ll have to watch that scene later; he can just imagine the looks on their faces. “Should I not have done it, then?”

Madara snorts. “Like me telling you to stop would have any effect –”

Good, he’s learning.

“– but as it happens, I’m more interested in getting my hands on some of that stuff, whatever it is. I can think of four different missions it would be perfect for.”

“I’m not sure I’m pleased with you thinking about missions while fucking my brother,” Hashirama scolds his best friend lightly, though he doesn’t disagree. It is, in fact, extremely useful. “Don’t let us down, Madara; put your back into it or don’t bother.”

Madara’s always been marvelously competitive, and it doesn’t take much more than a few more goads before he’s really rutting away in earnest; Hashirama can lean back on his heels and let Madara’s thrusts move Tobirama’s mouth along his cock, no effort required.

It takes only a few more minutes for Madara to come after that, and then he curls up on the bedsheets and watches as Hashirama kneels back up to properly fuck Tobirama’s mouth.

Mindful of his visually-attenued audience, Hashirama makes sure to pull out and come on Tobirama’s face at the end.

“Lovely,” Madara says, his eyes heavy and lidded with post-orgasm languor. “Hashirama, you can handle clean-up, can’t you? Since this is all your fault, anyway.”

“Seems only right,” Tobirama agrees, his voice raspy, his throat well-used. “Go get some water, anija; we’re positively filthy.”

“Work, work, work,” Hashirama complains cheerfully, even as he does get up to get water and towels to help clean them both up. “That’s all you want me for, I knew it. I’m just superfluous free labor…”

“Shut up, anija. We’re sleeping now.”

“Damn right.”

Hashirama pretends to grumble, but he’s immensely pleased when he settles in between them, pulling both his brother and his best friend into his arms. He’ll deal with their insolence later, when he’s less content, less happy.

This is everything he wants in the world, right here. He’s going to keep it.

No matter who he has to sacrifice to do that.

[leportraitducadavre]

What are Sasuke's positive qualities?

All of them.

Okay, realistically speaking? He has a lot of great qualities, I’m not joking, and I’m not even speaking as her fan.

*For starters, he’s not a cruel person. This fandom has a tendency to see his character like this cruel, emo, crazy bastard that would be mean to everybody without any reason for it, but that’s such a misconception. Sasuke is not an open person, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean he’s cruel. Just because he doesn’t want to hang out with _____ every time they ask him to doesn’t make him cruel.

He’s blatantly honest, which doesn’t make him the most subtle person when it comes to criticizing their comrades’ abilities, but he’s not doing it to hurt the other person’s ego, but because he’s pointing the things they have to improve. With this same point in mind, if he doesn’t want to be/talk with you, he will say it, or he will show you with his actions that he does not want to; he will not pretend just for your sake.

As so, many fans tend to justify their belief in the existence of Sasuke’s cruel aspect with the premise that it’s a logical response from the PTSD that -I do believe- he has. But again, he’s not cruel, and that’s a problem in itself because cruelty is not the only possible outcome of the PTSD. I’m not an expert on the subject and this is a serious topic, so please take my opinions only as such.

I’m mentioning this because I will like to bring briefly a point that has been bothering me for quite a while; the conversation about Sasuke suffering for a post-trauma disorder is a long, totally different one but, while I do agree he suffers from it, I personally disagree with fans that state that Sasuke is an “emo”, because not only they are misunderstanding what that concept really stands for, but also, Sasuke does not present behaviors that can be classified as depressive in canon material. His post-traumatic stress disorder, I believe, tends to appear in other behaviors, such as an anti-social attitude, which prevents him from creating strong bonds with other people whom, depending on the circumstances, he could lose; explode with anger in certain situations, such as when he wanted to fight with Naruto in the hospital after chünin exams, and -once- almost having a panic attack in his mission to Wave, when he literally was willing to comit suicide in order to free himself from the fear he was feeling, the same fear -or a very similar one- he felt on the day of the massacre.

*He’s a very intuitive, very empathetic, person. He was the one who understood what Kakashi was looking for when he took the exam after graduation, he understood that Sakura was feeling down in the chünin exams, and also understood Naruto’s feelings (and defended him) when the Uzumaki seemed to be struggling to make himself understood. He knew exactly what to say to Juugo back in Orochimaru’s hideout to comfort him and make him join his team, and that not only come from his intuition but also the fact that he understands such fears, he understands that same dependency that Juugo felt with Kimimaro, because he also developed some sort of dependency with Naruto.

For this same attribute, he was capable of understanding what it meant to be Hokage, why it was a necessity to change the system since he knew the traumas and sadness this type of world-organization could, no, brought to others. He was just one in a million, there was Nagato, Haku, Zabuza, and countless others who couldn’t even start to plan a revenge because they laked ninja training; all of them lost the ones they cared most for, and all of them tried to change this same system. As such, he knew that, even if it wasn’t by his hand, this structure was destined to be questioned and attacked over and over because the same crimes would be repeated unceasingly, generating a vicious circle where the only victims would be innocent people.

So he knew that, in order to stop that, he would have to become the ultimate enemy.

*He is a tireless worker and a smart fighter. I put this two points together for the sole purpose of shortening the answer and I will bring Neji up to prove a point.

While much of part one focused on the idea of Sasuke and Neji being prodigies, which lowered their efforts and techniques because they are “naturally predisposed,” we have seen them in numerous panels training hard to reach the level that they own and exploit; we do not see them accommodate themselves in that position and title of “prodigy” to climb in the ninja rank, on the contrary, they always seek for self-improvement. This is linked to the fact that neither of them is seeking power, particularly, but their goals diverge from the idea of being Hokage (not like Naruto) and have the need to prove something, to seek revenge and/or end certain injustice.

Their goal surpass them, is beyond them as individuals, this same aspect would be brought up later, but I wanted to mention it here.

Unlike Naruto, Sasuke does not have the need of relying on a friend/comrade to think of strategy (Shikamaru), I’m not saying that this is a flaw of Naruto, or that it makes Naruto particularly worst than Sasuke, but that Sasuke is better than Naruto (the irony in this statement was so good and funny that I couldn’t delete it, sorry, please ignore it). Anyway, what I tried to say here was that Sasuke would review his options and among all of them he would choose the one that allows him to achieve his goal with the least amount of possible losses, doing the least damage to any space where the fight takes place.

*None of the goals that Sasuke has during the series comes from a selfish reason. Here I’m bringing up again the idea that his goals surpass him as an individual.

While assassinating Itachi came, in part, from a deep hatred for the betrayal Sasuke suffered by his hands, his need for revenge also encompasses the idea of bringing justice to those murdered by his brother, not only as a form of payment for taking away from him the people Sasuke loved most. Later in the series, when he learns the truth about the massacre, he wants to kill the elders and Dänzo (not destroy Konoha as a part of the fandom tends to believe), also to bring justice to his deceased family, including Itachi, and that same sentiment is what impulses him to comprehend that changing the system that Konoha is part of is the only way he could prevent this same massacres to happen in the future.

Also, because he’s not a selfish, self-centered person he doesn’t put himself as a parameter to judge other people’s goals, or better yet, he could put himself as a parameter to analyze the purpose of others (which is something most of us do, in reality, so it’s logical for him to do it), but he does not judge them. Instead of putting the other person in his shoes, he tends to put himself in the other person’s perspective. Did I explain myself correctly?

Let me do an example to clarify: While Naruto judges those who confront him, stating that he went to something similar and that he did not, and would never do, what they did; Sasuke doesn’t because he can understand why others did what they did in that specific way, which doesn’t mean that he agrees with their methods. For that reason, he respects and even encourages his teammate’s individual goals, such as Süigetsu’s dream of becoming the leader of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist.

He’s not interested in being a role-model or to be admired, he never brings up his persona in any conversation, and he doesn’t put himself in a position of moral superiority.

*He’s not by any means, and this is a point that’s not up for debate because canonically there are no proofs of it, sexist.

He doesn’t downgrade his teammates/enemies just because of their gender, and he does not expect a determined behavior/obsession just because the other person is female.

He treats everybody else as his equal regardless of their gender and focusing only on their capabilities, he never took advantage of the apparent obsession with him of most of the female characters in the series, and he was never disrespectful to them because of their feelings towards him, mocking them or putting himself in a position of superiority.

He also never encouraged those feelings because he wasn’t interested, he never feigned any kind of positive sentiment towards them to make them believe that he reciprocated them, only to later take advantage.

Back when he abandoned Konoha and was stopped momentarily by Sakura, she tried to convince him to stay by telling him that she will make him happy, that she will live for him (x)

Now, here’s the thing, yes, there’s an intent of emotional manipulation, but what pisses me off is that Kishimoto wrote her in a way that she’s offering herself as a mere toy, what is worst is that she’s literally pleading to be treated as such, and why no one is pissed about this? She’s a girl, A GIRL, not a toy, it’s not her job to make him happy, IT’S NOT A JOB. A man SHOULD be happy just to be with her, and Sasuke isn’t, Sasuke isn’t happy being in Konoha. Period. That’s why he wants to go.

This doesn’t have anything to do with her and what she can do to make him happy and the only one who understands this is Sasuke, who has enough respect for her to reject her. (…) Sasuke has enough heart, enough respect for her to think that. He doesn’t consider her a toy that he could take advantage of, which is the more feminist thing I have seen in this manga, and isn’t sad that he respects her more than she respects herself?

Even when he rejected Sakura in the war, and trust me he had every right to yell, he was respectful enough as to calmly tell her that he just didn’t have any reason to love her and vice-versa. He did complain about her obsession with him but he has done that before regarding every character, including Naruto, so he doesn’t consider it a behavior tied solely to female characters.

*While he’s not the most open or communicative person, he will demonstrate his appreciation through actions. That is, if you enter his circle of trust, if you are lucky enough to create a bond with him, he will…

protect you with his life.

I don’t think I need to give examples of this, so I will only point out two times:

Back in Wave, he saved Naruto by putting himself in front of him. Even when he was fully aware that he was going to die, even when he knew that with his death the Uchiha will be extinguished (he didn’t know about Obito) and that he will not fulfill his ultimate goal.

He literally accomplished what no one could in order to save Karin -a dear comrade- and he absorbed the flames of the Amaterasu, developing a new form of Sharingan; he hurt himself in the process, but he refused to abandon a friend only because Juugo told him it was impossible to save her.

That’s how much he esteems his friends, his comrades; and that’s why I’m a hundred percent sure there’s no way Sasuke will abandon you once you become his friend. It’s true, he tried to kill Karin when he fought Dänzo, but he was going through a meltdown, he wasn’t a hundred percent aware of his actions.

Anyway, that would be everything I can think about him right now, if you have more, feel free to add.

[epochryphal]

fictionkin anon (kind of unwieldy as a name) 3/ I worry that from poking around those links I'm going to develop shame from the other side by disrespecting the idea of fictionkin. 'you're just latching onto a favorite character, you don't actually /feel/ it.' other concerns: alien character when going outside of the human boundary feels even more taboo than human fictionkin stuff, character that is referred to as male when I'm agender (but alien genders???)

you can go by fk? that’s a Cool name right

the whole being firmly guided away from “kin” is a real thing & worry, yeah, from all sides. there are a lot of folks who have strong opinions about **it’s identifying AS, not identifying WITH** and very firm boundary lines and “it’s not LESSER to not be kin, you just AREN’T - but you can make your own community, people are starting to” and...

well.

there’s a lot to discuss around “words should have definitions” and “identities are tools to connect to people with *similar* experiences, not *exact* ones” — and maybe you’ve seen me wrestle with that about neutrois, back in the day, the way neutrois vs agender vs genderless was an Issue and the boundaries were being actively hammered out and there were camps for and against dysphoria as the difference

but i’ve been through a lot of nb, ace-spec, aro-spec, and general mogai wordsmithing and community boundary wriggling (and of course the current exclusionist movement), and my feel is increasingly that the kin and alterhuman and nonhuman communities can be eerily similar

if someone’s telling you “you’re weakening the meaning of [asexual / kin], you should use [grey-asexual / otherhearted]” or the like... They Suck

maybe it sounds pedantic of me to insist that they Not Say That but saying “oh, that’s not usually how i/my cohort interprets it, and have you considered this other word that to me sounds potentially more relevant?”

but i think those qualifiers are deeply needed; that no one should be a self- or community-appointed Authority as to Sounds Like Us, because that will always go awry; and that the true awful pedantry lies in insisting that the Word Choices with which someone tries to express their experience Points to what that experience Truly is, when um, we all have different relationships to language and english

bluhbluh you know i’m about broad inclusion and grey areas and solidarity and there being room for people to messily grasp to articulate things

anyway i *would* unfortunately recommend staying away from most Otherkin Forums, or at least looking into how they gatekeep (“encourage proper reflection and proof of serious consideration rather than faddishness to prevent later confusion and a loss of meaningfulness to the term”).

if someone is asking you questions that Don’t Feel Useful, are Pressurey, feel Prying and Unbalancing in a way that you’re not sure is helping — i’d recommend stepping away from them. maybe contemplate/discuss those questions/feelings, sure, it can be hard to tell if it’s a paradigm-shift good-identity-crisis unbalanced — but do it on your own or with someone else. you can always come back to that person later if you feel they were a positive influence.

it’s okay to split up the roles of “being given food for thought or challenged” and “being given a safe[r] space to process your truth.” nobody can handle Intense Questions all the time, and you’re not required to Defend your Conclusions about yourself.

(also, shocker, a lot of the gatekeepers are specifically against fictionkin-without-Solid-Memories and other atypical folks. because ‘glitch’ isn’t a legit, Serious identity but ‘psychopomp’ has Spiritual Tradition. anyway.)

...that’s my longass spiel on “disrespecting the idea/core meaning of fictionkin” because that’s bullshit if it’s being used to mean “watering down our TRUTH with your DEVIATING from our DEFINITION” instead of the truly disrespectful “lol wtf this isn’t real.”

as for alien & gender things:

ok gender is actually easier to address. hi hello why am i kin with all these dudes when i am Not Dude? especially with one whose fandom depiction is Cis Male Gay With Masculinity Hangups? well you see it’s because fuck off. fuck off is why. iterations, versions, au’s, headcanons, why is this character Essentially Male oh look they’re not. oh no i’m Losing part of the Point- fuck off. nono i’m Erasing FUCK OFF. is it because male characters are generally better written? is it because it’s easier to relate to non-women due to dysphoria and representation and misogyny and- God Fuck Off. who cares. i do not. i did not Pick this and, just like my kinks, just like my grey-asexuality, it is not Actually a Political or EthicoMoral Statement about me. write your thinkpiece about the prevalence of male characters in fictionkin spaces but remember that’s societal not individual. we ain’t Betraying the Anti-Patriarchy or Representation. god. we’re usually transforming them into our gender because they’re us!! and of course it’s scarier to claim a woman character as a different gender because *that’s* oh no decreasing representation!

gender is a fuck and is utterly irrelevant to Legitimacy Of Connection. arguing otherwise is falling prey to some creepy essentialist shit, often framed as not being appropriative but actually motivated by some idea of Hard Boundary Lines or by trolls. (the idea that “you can’t kin outside your race” was popularized by trolls masquerading as marginalized. and extended into “you can’t have fictives of a different race” etc which is NOT HOW BRAINS WORK. just be respectful. and know a lot of people are sensitive to any discussion of Not This World negative experiences, as if it’s always trying to overwrite them with More Oppression Points and is a Threat. sucks.)

aliens is. shrug. “oh look they’re trying to be so Special” is already in play. they say that about anyone who “makes a big deal” aka has an intense non-normative experience, wants to talk about it, considers words.

these taboos are against being Cringey and Like A Teenage Girl and caring about something Weird and being Kinda Crazy. why not embrace the whole fucking package? why stop at “well, *human* characters aren’t too attention-seeking” when the point is what resonates with you and they’ll always call you a Bad Bad Attention Seeker anyway?

i’m not super empathetic about these last two problems i guess, sorry, i’ve been a proud outcast for way too long. it can be hard to swallow in a new arena, i know. but man, restricting yourself to the Less Cringey TM sector of a widely-mocked thing feels kinda pointless to me.

/will answer next part separately because Long, Jeez

also if you didn’t see! in the notes on my last reply to you, @paradife-loft was offering to jam with you about not-claiming-fictionkin-but feels (and has Excellent villain meta as well)

[wickerjulias]

prompt: how about the first time napoleon hugs illya? and it's not just a small hug, but a long one? :D

Alright, here it is. It deals with Illya’s past as well, so you have to suffer through a little bit of angst (I couldn’t help myself, sorry lmao). Fandom and pairing should be obvious I think.Word count: 2,160Thank you for sending the prompt, I hope you like it ❤ 

In his childhood, Illya had never questioned the love his parents felt for him. He noticed it every time his mother directed a bright smile at him and every time his father listened to his stories, all serious, his chin propped on his folded hands, as if it was the most important thing in the world. His life had consisted of hugs, gentle words and kisses.

Once his father was sent to Gulag, everything changed. The light in his mother’s eyes vanished slowly, with it the hugs and consequently, his own happiness. He still tried to be a good son, because she raised him to be better, but he didn’t succeed. There was too much anger in him.

With his enlistment to the special forces and the KGB came the pain. For the first time he was surrounded by complete darkness, an endless maelstrom of hits and insults. Illya learned to live with it. He had to and ultimately, the training helped him control his anger.

He rose to top ranks quickly, but at the cost of his own gentleness. Whenever his handler unleashed him, like an animal trapped for too long, he acted merciless just like they had taught him to be. Violence took over his life and he stopped visiting his mother - he couldn’t look her in the eyes anymore.

During that time, if someone would’ve asked him what he thought about his job, he would’ve replied with: “I like it.” Even though it was brutal and bloody, he welcomed the challenge. Since Russia stopped being his home, he enjoyed travelling, going to new places and contemplating whether to get a safe house or not.

In the periods between finishing an old mission and waiting for new orders, life seemed almost slow. Illya was able to buy new books, practise his accent, chat with locals and to relax - capitalist indulgences his handler wouldn’t appreciate.

He knew people in his profession didn’t get old, which was the reason why he cherished his free time even more. It was a welcomed distraction from the ugly thoughts and memories that came back as soon as he set foot on Russian ground. There he spent restless nights in his small apartment in St. Petersburg, never knowing if they would be his last.

Until everything changed, again.

“Ich kann dich nicht hören!” Gaby puts both of her hands over her ears and shakes her head.

“Listen, you do not,” Illya starts, his usual accent lacing his words.

A warm hand settles on his shoulder, its pinky stroking the exposed skin of his neck for a brief moment. “Peril, she said she can’t hear you.”

Illya can see the damned grin, even though Napoleon stands behind him. With a scowl he half turns, the light that falls through the big living room windows blinding him for a moment, directing his best glare at his partner. “Stop encouraging her!” he snaps.

Napoleon just lifts his hands in a mock gesture of defeat. “You do know our Gaby, nothing is worth less than my word.”

From the smile that appears on his face only seconds later, Illya can tell that Gaby has probably flipped him off. The confirmation of his analysis follows immediately: “Dummkopf.”

“Could you stop it?” he snaps, focusing on her again.

In a perfect Napoleon impression Gaby draws her eyebrows up, while his partner simply looks away, sighing. He regrets his outburst immediately, because he can see both of them starting to worry again.

Since he got out of bed, he had felt anxious, as if in anticipation for a big event to happen. It had shown during their lunch “date” - a term only used by his partners - when he had bellowed Napoleon to stop playing with his signet ring. Gaby had glared at him for the next three hours, while Cowboy succumbed to complete silence, more pushing the food around the plate than actually eating it.

As soon as they had left the restaurant, Gaby had hit Illya on the arm, stomping off like a horde of enraged elephants afterwards. Napoleon had merely forced a smile before he had followed her.

Their easy camaraderie and how fast they had turned against him hadn’t helped. Illya had nearly flown into a temper then and there, only held back by the observation that he was in a public place.

“Stop what?” Gaby brings him back into the present, crossing her arms and pursing her lips.

“Stop being this childish.”

“Oh? Why don’t you stop mothering us?” she shoots back.

It hits him like a ton of bricks, burying him under the crushing weight of guilt. Illya tenses up, cold shivers running down his arms. He knows now. Knows, why he has been miserable for the whole day.

“Peril? Is everything alright?” Napoleon wraps his fingers around his wrist.

Illya shakes his head and tries to control his trembling hands. Of course he doesn’t succeed.

“I need to be alone,” he forces out, trying to breathe, but failing.

“Gaby, darling, could you give us a minute?” Napoleon asks.

“I-” She looks uncertain for a moment, before she nods. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” Napoleon begins to let go of him, seemingly to hug her goodbye, but Illya makes a low noise of protest.

The other man’s touch anchors him and he fears once he lets go he won’t be able to control himself.

“Tell me if you need something, anything,” he hears Gaby say, but it sounds far away.

There is the sound of a door closing and they are alone. “Peril, what-” Napoleon begins, but Illya shakes his head. “Just-”

“Alright.”

They stay like that for a long time, Illya trying to breathe and Napoleon massaging his wrist with his thumb, rubbing small circles into it. Finally, he looks up. “It’s my mother’s birthday.”

“Haven’t you called her?” Napoleon wants to know.

“No. I haven’t,” he confesses and braces for his partner’s outburst.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t come and he has to remind himself that not everyone’s mother was as gentle and kind as his.

“But you wrote her?”

“No.”

“Why haven’t you? What kept you from contacting her?”

“I don’t know,” he lies.

Napoleon sighs. “So what’s the matter then?”

“Nothing, I-” He licks his lips, a nervous habit he’s picked up from Napoleon. “I just realised I have not seen her in ten years.”

Napoleon’s eyes widen almost comically. “Ten years?!”

“That’s what I said.” Irritated, he looks up.

“Peril, that’s a terribly long time, especially for your standards,” Napoleon explains.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he hisses, leaning into his personal space.

Instead of answering, Napoleon lets go of his wrist. Before he can protest, he wraps his arms around Illya, pulling him into a fierce hug and crushing him to his chest. A few moments and his brain catches up to what is happening. Reluctantly, he returns the hug, while goosebumps spread over his arms when he feels Napoleon’s warm breath ghosting over his neck.

With a little bit of hesitation, and a sound that is more a sob than a sigh, Illya buries his face in his shoulder. He feels Napoleon squeeze him a little bit tighter for a moment and tries to not think about the shudder that runs through him.

They have shared hugs before, mainly to greet another or to say goodbye, but this one feels different, more significant, as if the natural balance they’ve established has shifted. It also differs from embraces of his past lovers, none of them were able to elicit such a wide range of emotions: closeness and trust - accompany to their friendship, love - the one he doesn’t want to think about - and finally, home.

The epiphany, when it comes, feels more like an universally acknowledged truth he wasn’t able to see until now. Their shared apartment should’ve been enough to indicate a drastic change in Illya’s life: Gaby’s clothes in every room, Napoleon’s library of cooking books, as well as his pans, pots and kettles, his photographs from past missions, the little cactus, a gift from an old lady in Morocco.

“I’m here,” Napoleon whispers.

“I know,” he replies, “Thank you.”  

He means it. Silence stretches out between them and he’s able to hear and feel Napoleon breathing, every rise and fall of his chest calming him down a little bit more. He bathes in his presence, because it’s a reassuring anchor to reality and a privilege, to hold Napoleon and to own his trust. Thus he doesn’t want to let go.

Although he doesn’t know how long it will take for things to get awkward between them, he huffs out a pleased sigh and thanks every deity listening Napoleon doesn’t seem inclined to put more space between them. The other man starts to rub his back with languid motions, instinctively applying a little bit more pressure when Illya leans into the touch.

“I’m here,” he whispers again.

This time Illya doesn’t answer and just lets the reassurance wash over him. There isn’t much to say anyway.

A silly thought crosses his mind and he can’t help the laugh bubbling up in his throat.

“What’s the matter?” Napoleon wants to know, sounding amused as well.

Illya separates himself to search his partner’s face, all the while trying to resist the temptation to let his thumbs run over the crinkles around his eyes. He’s never seen a more honest smile on Napoleon’s face and he’s sure he’s never seen a more beautiful one either.

“Nothing, I just thought this was the longest you were silent in my presence,” he says and huffs amused, once Napoleon sputters indignantly, “Even in your sleep, you’re always talking.”

“Be quiet.” Napoleon shakes his head, trying nonchalance, but still appearing embarrassed.

Illya decides against a verbal reply and hugs him again, briefer this time. When they part, although only for a few centimetres, Napoleon stands on his tiptoes and brings their foreheads together.

There is a suspicious click, followed by a delighted: “Wie süß!”

They both start, stumbling back. Napoleon nearly falls over the back of the couch. While Illya has no chance to recover, before Gaby is on him and throws herself into his arms.

“We’re not cute,” he protests.

“A little bit,” she answers and pinches his cheek.

Then, she hugs Napoleon as well. “Well, I am very cute,” he says.

“Dummkopf,” she says again and makes Illya wonder if it isn’t an affectionate nickname by now, because his partner’s smile isn’t forced.

“So after two years of dancing around each other you finally confessed your feelings?” Gaby asks, a smug grin on her face.

“Feelings?” Illya repeats in bewilderment.

“How about you call her,” Napoleon interrupts them, playing with his signet ring again.

“Call who?” Gaby draws her brows together.

Napoleon looks at him, all sheepish and ducks his head. It’s an unfamiliar thing to do for him and if Illya didn’t know better, he would think the other man looks shy.

“My mother,” he answers, “it’s her birthday.”

“Then call her,” Gaby says, as if it was the easiest thing to do and grabs Napoleon’s hand, “And the two of us will have a short chat about-”

“No,” Illya interrupts her, “Please stay.”

“Uhm alright.”

They all settle on the couch, Gaby taking most of the space and forcing Napoleon and Illya to squeeze in beside her. Reluctantly, he leans over his partner and takes the phone from the small side table.

“Do you know her number?” Napoleon wants to know and is about to get up, seemingly to grab their shared address book.

“By heart,” he answers quickly.

The expression on Napoleon’s face changes into a mixture of sadness, sympathy and vulnerability. Before he can open his mouth, Illya shakes his head and leans against him, to avoid loss of contact.

He feels Napoleon’s amused chuckle, before he wraps an arm around Illya. Not around his shoulders, but around his waist. At first, it feels a little bit strange, because Napoleon’s hand worms it’s way along his back, but once it settles, the intimacy of the gesture hits him and he has to suppress a shiver.

“Are you done?” Gaby wants to know, her fingers thrumming against the surface of their second side table rather impatiently.

“Not quite,” Napoleon answers, getting kicked in the side lightly for his smug grin.

He just nudges Gaby’s foot away and turns to Illya. “Are you ready?” he wants to know.

Illya turns his head to look at him, scrutinising his face for a moment. He finds nothing but gentleness and affection. When he looks to Gaby, he finds a similar expression, although she seems ready to grab the receiver and to dial the number herself by now.

They are his friends, his partners, and most importantly, his family.

“Yes,” he answers finally.

Then, with Napoleon’s reassuring warmth pressed to his side, and Gaby’s silent vigil, he takes a deep breath and dials the number.

A shout out to my lovely beta @softshao, as well as @deducitetemporacarmen for helping me :D