#not virgil though hes soft

[lexqa]

#as someone who listens to asmr everyday #i’d say cody kostas and joe #even ​though i feel like kostas would try very hard but then just yell into the mic for like a second #joe ​has a very relaxing voice i feel like he'd be great for asmr #i’m not even into soft spoken asmr but if joe tried that i think i’d like it #darwin ​wouldn’t even know what they want from him #he would just sit there with a smiley face and do some random tapping #trent wouldn’t give af #i ​also feel like trent & robbo would make fun of people who listen to asmr #ibou virg​ and domi would definitely be laughing the entire time #liverpool fc #lfc #trent alexander arnold #dominik szoboszlai #kostas tsimikas #virgil van dijk #darwin nunez #and everyone else

[photmath]

NYE Kiss | Trent Alexander-Arnold

Pairing: Trent Alexander-Arnold x Female Reader

Summary: At Trent's New Year's Eve party, he confesses to the reader, his childhood bestfriend, that he's lonely.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: mention of alcohol, angst, miscommuncation, childhood friends, kiss

Note: Happy New Year!

With twenty minutes left until the clock struck midnight, Trent’s brothers, Tyler and Marcel were already setting off fireworks. A couple of Trent’s teammates were also in attendance, and some of the friends you and he shared, but there were still a few valuable ones missing.

Despite Liverpool playing a match the next day, Trent still wanted to do something for New Year's Eve, even if it was a bit risky. But he promised Virgil he would kick everyone out by one in the morning so that they had time to be well-rested for the match, luckily it wasn’t a noon match. Even though he had his brothers, parents, and best mates surrounding him, the night still felt—empty. A bitter taste was left in his mouth as he took a swig of his drink, searching for a solution to his ache.

Trent makes his way over to you, a brown bottle pinched between his fingertips. It’s too dark for you to notice if he’s looking at you, but the pause in his step once his eyes land on you gives you everything you need to know. He stops at the pillar of the canopy, face lighting up with the blast of a firework, “Did the fireworks get too much for you already?”

You purse your lips, shaking your head, “No. I just keep having the recurring thought of one of the ashes falling on my hair and it going up in flames.”

The corner of his lip barely tugged up, “That’s quite an image.”

“It’s very rational,” you defend, tugging the sleeve of your knitted sweater over your hands. Trent was dressed way more casual than you, a black pair of sweatpants and a dark gray hoodie. Had you known him and his brothers would dress like that, then maybe you wouldn’t have nearly lost a finger trying to put yourself into your tight jeans tonight.

A beat of silence washes between the two of you as he decides to stay quiet. He wasn’t usually this quiet when the two of you were with his family, but when he was, he was thinking. So in his head that everything else was irrelevant. It could be a battle trying to ground him back to the present sometimes.

“So, how are you?” you break the silence, sparing a weary glance at him.

“Lonely,” he mumbles. He stays facing the alleyway of Tyler’s home where they light another firework and then scramble away from it.

“Lonely at the top,” you sing, referencing his team’s position at the top of the table. Trent gives you a hard look immediately and you quiet down, averting your eyes from his. “Sorry.” There’s a heavy plate of tension that fills the air between the two of you and despite you both being outside, it feels suffocating. “What’s wrong?”

He shrugs, “Everyone is moving.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone moved, I feel like I’m the only one who stayed,” he says. His voice is soft but aloof, still not giving you a glance. “I just thought you would stay. Was a slap in the face to see that your house was for sale.”

It was your parent’s house, the one you grew up in. You lived on the same street where Trent grew up, only three houses separating your families. After riding your bike down the street and dramatically tripping over the rock that you saw at the last minute, Trent came running out of his house and helped you up. Him and his brothers were playing football in the street, the three of them had just gone inside, but he noticed your sparkling pink bike and got distracted looking back at you. Once he realized a kiss to your scarred knee wasn’t going to make the bleeding stop, he called out for his mom and the three of you walked you and your bike back to that house after she cleaned your knee. Trent had stayed by your side the entire time, assuring you that your knee would be okay in the next couple of days.

The sound of a firework exploding shutters you out of the past, forcing yourself to look at a sullen Trent. His bottom lip is tucked through his teeth as his eyes follow the firework’s path. 

“Trent, can you look at me?” Trent slowly looks in your direction and his eyes seem more hurt than he lets on. Much different than the bright eyes that welcomed you two hours ago. You swallow, “Did you think we would live here forever? I mean Jude, Alana, Kai….” You list off the friends and neighbors you both shared who had since then moved away. 

He shakes his head, “Obviously not, but you could’ve told me you were moving.”

“I know, we’ve just both been so busy. We barely put up the house for sale a couple of days ago.”

Trent blinks his eyes a couple of times and doesn’t speak immediately.

“I am lonely though,” he confesses and it stabs you right in the heart. “The season has felt really long, haven’t seen you or the lads that much. I know you go to some of my games, but we don’t speak afterward, and I miss you. I miss having people around that aren’t my family.”

“Trent,” you sigh. “I’m sorry for not being there.”

“It’s okay,” he shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve tried to be there for you either.”

“Trent—”

He cuts you off, “I haven’t had much time either but I dunno…the time I do have at home, it’s so quiet. I’ve been staying at my parents house actually, for the past couple of days because I’ve been sick of the silence. Sure, I could’ve walked to your house but I never did…”

He swallows another swig of his drink, the bitter taste in his mouth had yet to leave. And after chewing on the inside of his cheek for so long, he also tasted copper. He couldn’t blame you for being busy. He knew you had just landed the job you had been working so hard for, at a company that treated you well and respected your work, and with the way Liverpool’s hectic season has been going, he didn’t have much time off either.

You're left with your thoughts screaming at you to say something, but what could you say that would heal his loneliness? That you two could schedule a meet up soon? But it wasn’t concrete, ‘soon’ could be tomorrow, could be a week or before the month ended.

“We should hang out sometime,” you decide. “I’ve missed you too. My schedule is clear for whenever, just let me know.”

He downs the rest of his drink, before tossing it in the bin that Tyler usually has next to the side of the canopy but it’s not there. The bottle goes crashing to the ground but doesn’t break, it rolls off some steps away from him and he ignores it.

“Are you drunk?” you ask, eyebrows raised. You knew he shouldn’t have been drinking the day before his game, even if it was New Year’s Eve.

Trent looks back at you, a tsk leaves his lips, “I’ve only had one.”

“One case?”

“Funny,” he grits, any humor in his tone is gone. “I’m being honest.”

You cross your arms, not realizing you pointing out him drinking would upset him. Yeah, maybe you wouldn’t want to be caught doing something you shouldn't be doing, but Trent had been acting out of character the moment he admitted his loneliness. He was never one to talk about his feelings, always shoving it somewhere down deep that you had given up trying to pry out of him a long time ago because it always upset him more than helped.

“Tell me what’s really wrong,” you demand.

He looks away but you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he glances down to the pavement. The door to the house suddenly bursts open behind you, his mother weaving through you both as if you aren’t standing there.

“Fifteen minutes until midnight!” She announces, and then marches back inside but stops once she notices the two of you, “Oh, you two look so cute. Please, you both can stay in the upstairs bedroom if you get too tired to drive home. I’m sure Tyler won’t mind.”

Her presence seems to break off the tension because Trent lets out a low chuckle, “You know, she always thought it’d be us.”

“Us…what?” You bite the annoyance of him switching the topic away.

“It’d be us,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “That we’d be married and have a kid by now.”

Your eyes bulge at his words. He had to be drunk.

His voice rumbles as he kicks an imaginary rock, “What? Does the idea of starting a family with me repulse you that much?”

“No,” you shake your head frantically, hoping you didn't make him feel more bad than what he was already feeling. If Trent was going to be vulnerable for the last fifteen minutes of the year, then fine, you weren’t going to be petty and let your own feelings get in the way of him being open. You choose your words carefully, “I just—” Screw sparing his feelings. “You’re drunk.”

He rolls his eyes, words spitting out of his mouth in irritation, “It was one drink. One drink does nothing to me other than make me honest. Even then, it wasn’t a high percentage of alcohol.”

Your eyes dance between his dark brown ones. They seem more watery than before, the glow of the light from the inside of the house and fireworks glaring off of them. You look away briefly, “Honest? Like I can ask you any question and you’ll tell the truth?”

“Well,” he shrugs, “I don’t need a drink in me to be honest. I’m always honest to you.”

“That’s a lie,” you remark. “You lied to me when you said I could take your car for a drive.”

He rolls his eyes, “That’s because I value my life.”

You huff, “You didn’t have to be in the car with me, but fine, whatever.” You needed to control any impulsive comment you had. Trent was opening up, this was unchartered territory, and maybe he needed a clean conscience for the New Year more than you did. “I wasn’t repulsed by the idea of starting a family with you, I was just shocked to hear you say that.”

Nothing could’ve prepared you to hear him utter those words. Sure, the two of you shared your first kiss together and took each other’s virginities on the night of your twentieth birthday, but the two of you were never anything more. Never went on a date, never received flowers from him—minus the single daisy he plucked out of the grass one day as an apology for leaving the rock in the middle of the sidewalk—but nothing the two of you did was glaringly romantic. He held your hand for a total of two minutes and fifteen seconds one day underneath the table at a shared family dinner, but nothing came of it either.

He was off focusing on the academy, while you were busy studying in school. Once he did make his first team debut, you were in the stands cheering him on. He felt like the happiest man—boy—that day, having both of your families witness his debut. But still, the bone-crushing hug he pulled you into after you all met in the car park, it meant—nothing.

Even the night you lost your virginity, him as well, it was haste. He was in your bedroom, flipping through the birthday cards you received when you confessed to him that it was comical being a virgin at twenty, feeling the weight of society’s judgment on your shoulders for whatever reason, while he didn’t laugh at all. The liquor you both were sipping on gave you both the courage as you went on, sneakily closing your bedroom door and turning a page. After the both of you came down from your high, he cuddled you for an hour before slipping out of your bedroom window and going home.

Nothing was ever really mentioned after that, the both of you deciding it was best to scrape it under the rug so that it wasn’t awkward at combined family dinners, but there was a feeling. A tingling feeling that made your voice hitch whenever he looked at you or texted you. Any visit you made from uni, your heart did flips when he pulled you into a hug and welcomed you home for that weekend.

He snorts, making your eyes dart to him, “We’re being honest, yeah?”

“I’m telling you the truth,” you say.

He nods, “Okay, I believe you.”

Another moment of silence passes between the two of you and he sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Can I ask you another question?” you mumble and he nods. “Why did your mom think that?”

Trent shrugs for the hundredth time that night, leaning against the pillar as his head rests against it, “Because I told her that I liked you. She said to go for it, I told her I would, but I never did.”

Oh.

Oh.

“When was this?” you muster up the courage and power to ask, feeling breathless.

He blows a raspberry, “Maybe ten years ago?”

You're glad that Marcel misfires a firework that goes flying towards a tree to the left of the house, earning a commotion from Trent’s family and teammates, so that you have time to wipe off the shock before Trent looks at you.

Trent looks at the tree and holds his breath, hoping it erupts into flames. Perhaps he needed a break in the conversation as well. He felt exposed, too vulnerable at the expense of your curiosity and even though he said he would be honest, he wasn’t sure how much more truth he could give out when you weren’t exchanging much back.

“Why are you leaving?” he blurts out.

“You know I don’t live there right?” your eyebrow rises. Surely you told him you moved. “I moved out when I was twenty-two. I live almost ten minutes away, but my parents are moving because they need the money. After I left, they started spending on stuff that they shouldn’t have, putting us into a lot more debt than we should be. So, I say ‘we’ decided to sell because the only reason they were keeping the house was for me. For what it represented.”

Your childhood. A part of you was heartbroken for what it meant, but the other part of you knew it was the right thing to do. You knew it would serve you and your family well.

Trent eyebrows furrow, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you would’ve wanted to help.”

Trent averts his gaze, “I can. I can buy it.”

“Trent,” you gawk. “Seriously, I’m going to accuse you of being drunk again—”

“It’s your childhood home.”

“Yeah, and I made a choice. It was my choice to make.”

His shoulders deflate, “So you did want to leave?”

You nod, “It was time for a change. They lived there for the past twenty years. A home isn’t a single house anyway.”

“Do they have a place for after it sells?”

The quick glance at the floor reveals the almost lie you would’ve told him, but the two of you agreed to be honest, so you shake your head, “No. They haven’t left the house entirely. They still live there and whatever they make from the sale, they’ll use it to purchase their next.”

“I can buy it,” he states again and you shake your head.

“Trent, you aren’t going to buy my childhood home, drop it,” you spit, voice unwavering as he looks back at you. His jaw is clenched.

“Fine,” he agrees. “But if you have any doubts, I can buy it. I’ll give them whatever double the asking price is—”

“Trent.” You knew he wasn’t going to drop it, he’d most likely ask your parents first thing tomorrow and you didn’t even want to think about what their response would be.

He sighs, “Okay.”

Instead of letting the conversation simmer into silence, you take a deep breath and ask him another question. Here goes nothing: “Why didn’t you ever pursue your feelings?”

Trent rotates his body towards yours, leaning against the column with his shoulder. His hands are still stuffed into the pockets of his sweats. “I was fifteen, I was scared.”

At fifteen, the two of you would’ve already shared your first kiss and held hands underneath the table. You were so giddy, but you weren’t sure if you were giddy at the idea of getting caught or because you had a crush on Trent. The two of you spent so much time growing up together, playing footy, exploring the neighborhood, everything. Tyler would often tag along, and then Marcel as well once he got older, but still you knew you were closer to Trent more.

“And they’ve just gone away?” you ask without a second thought. Your heart lurches as he looks away. What a stupid thing to say!

He coughs, clearing out his throat and your cheeks burn. He looks down at the hem of your sweater, “Would my mother still be trying to play matchmaker if not?”

A squeezing feeling encompasses your chest that you wince. The shock was gone, you were upset now. It had been ten years, you could excuse the first five years because they were hectic with you at uni and him training, but the both of you had sex knowing the feelings were there.

Because no matter how much you tried to convince yourself you didn’t have feelings for Trent, they were always still going to be there. He was the first boy you were really exposed to. The boy you followed throughout the neighborhood despite not knowing anything about him. You wanted to be brave and follow him into the woods. Doing all sorts of things you would’ve never done had he not been by your side. The sweet boy who kissed your knee in hopes of getting you to stop crying held your heart the moment he ran to you.

He watches the way your eyes dart from the fireworks to his family members cheering as they drink a champagne flute. The crease in your eyebrow and nose, he knew you were in deep thought. On a night of too many truths, he was exhausted.

“Just say it,” he whispers. “We’re being honest.”

“You watched me,” you start, voice trembling but teeth grinding, “you watched me get my heartbroken not once, but twice. Gave me all this advice on boys, broke my heart in the process because I thought you didn’t like me back, and then I went on to have two relationships where they were both shit. And you just watched? Knowing you felt something?”

Trent can’t stand to hear the shake in your voice, it itching his ear in a way that makes him tilt his head away from you.

You continue, “I liked you too, a lot. So much that I would sometimes scare myself because I would see my exes as you, even though sometimes it would be months since we last talked. You were always on my mind, and had you said something earlier, all of it,” you wave your arms around to symbolize the time and heartache lapsed. “All of it could’ve been avoided.”

Trent glances down, “I was a coward.”

“No shit,” you yell. Trent abruptly looks at the crowd of people and hopes you don’t catch their attention.

“I wasn’t ready,” he says, truthfully. “I wasn’t ready to give you my all if we had gotten together. I was still finding my footing on the team, all of my focus was on that and wouldn’t have been on you if we were together. Okay,” he relents, “maybe I could’ve spared your heartache had you known, but it just—it wasn’t worth all the drama—”

“Drama?”

He shuts his eyes closed. Think! “It wouldn’t have been worth you getting hurt because I had training. Or I had a game and had to miss something important of yours. I would’ve been physically there but not emotionally present—”

“Do you think I would’ve cared, Trent?” you gape.

He shakes his head, “You wouldn’t, and that’s the problem. You wouldn’t have deserved that. You wouldn’t have deserved me not being present, it would’ve driven us both away. The only times I saw my family were because they came to my game and I met them at their suite. That would’ve been the only time you and I interacted, do you seriously think you would’ve been okay with that?”

No. But you would’ve been content knowing he felt the same. The small moments you saw him would’ve made up for any multi-hour-long day spent with him.

“Like you needed to find yourself at uni and focus on what you were passionate about, I did too,” he says. His voice is much softer and less urgent, knowing that you were understanding and on the same page as him. “But I’m ready now. I’m not saying you have to be ready right now—or maybe you won’t ever be because you don’t have the same feelings you once had—but, I’m here now. I’m as present as I’ll ever be. The season started off fast and will continue to be difficult, but I’ve learned how to be present at home. How to not focus on football and be with my family and pets during my spare time.”

On cue, the rest of Trent’s family—and yours—burst through the back door. There are only a couple of minutes until midnight, those fifteen minutes blew right past the both of you. Tyler and Marcel had stopped popping fireworks as they compiled a bunch together to be ignited exactly at twelve.

Trent looks at you, pulling your hand so that you’re closer to him near the pillar as your family members stampede outside, settling in lawn chairs and anywhere on the floor. Trent hasn’t dropped your hand yet. He caresses the backside of your hand with his thumb as his fingers squeeze tighter around yours.

“I know I was a coward, I know I could’ve said it anytime you were around, but it was never the right time,” he whispers in your ear. “We were busy, our lives never aligned perfectly, and maybe they don’t align right now either, but I’m willing to take the risk.”

A breathy sigh escapes you as you soak in his words. You close your eyes as you lean the side of your head against his chest. You needed to be grounded as you thought, and he was always someone stable. His hands don’t wrap you into a hug because he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“I still like you,” you acknowledge. “I’m a little upset you kept this a secret.” He snorts. “But, if I’m being honest, I’m not sure when I would’ve bursted and confessed the same thing. I wanted to tell you that we were moving, especially whenever we were thinking about it when it was first brought up, but I stopped myself. I was scared, because I knew my first instinct to reach out to you meant that it was something more, that I saw you as someone more than just my friend. That I always have. Every failed relationship was a reminder of it.”

Trent chuckles, finally being able to breathe. The tightening feeling in his chest had dissipated, replaced with jittery nerves as he restrained himself from pulling you into a hug.

You drop Trent’s hand and face him. If he was confused, he hid it well.

“I’m willing to take the risk too,” you state, the heavy weight on your shoulders dissolving. “I’m trusting you, just like I trusted you the day I followed you into the woods.”

“We ended up getting lost,” he recalls. He isn’t sure how much longer he can keep his hands off of you.

“I know,” you smile. “But I trusted you still, despite being so scared. I knew you would keep your promise and get us out of there before the moon rose. I’m willing to get lost with you, wherever you are, I want to be there.”

“You trust me?” he cheeses, his lips breaking out further into a grin. A chorus of a ten-second countdown breaks out in the background.

“Of course, stupid,” you smack his bicep and the brief contact makes the both of you hold a breath.

Trent knew he couldn’t get the smile off of his face no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t expect to have this conversation with you tonight, but after seeing you underneath the canopy, your clothes and figure lighting up from the colorful lights of the fireworks, he knew he couldn’t let you walk away from him again. You didn’t even hold his heart in the palm of your hands, you held it in your gaze. One look at him from you and he was floored, a weak and desperate man on his knees begging for your attention.

“…three, two, one, Happy New Year!”

Your blissful eyes combined with his gleeful ones don’t look away as you both lean closer. Your hands stay tucked by your side, his suddenly not wanting to move either as he leans down. The moment your nose grazes his, you close your eyes and let him kiss you. You press your lips further into his as the sound of fireworks go off behind you.

The kiss feels like the first one you shared together, tentative but passionate. It feels like a new promise, one full of commitment for the year to come. A promise from him that he’ll be there for every second of the day, and you a promise to be present as well. To not make him feel like he needs to bottle up his emotions and wait until the last minute to confess them.

His hands find your cheeks at the same time you wrap your arms around his waist. He pulls away and sighs against your lips, resting his forehead against yours. “Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

“Happy New Year,” you smile, pecking his lips one more time before burying your head into his chest. He pulls you in for a bone-crushing hug, squeezing your shoulders tightly against him and then resting his head on top of yours.

Instead of letting you close your eyes to soak in the feelings of him being this close in your arms, he shuffles the both of you and points up, “Look up.”

His careful gaze looks down at you as he double checks that you’re actually looking up at the fireworks, but he bursts into a nervous laugh when he sees you looking back at him. You can feel his heart quicken its pace as he stutters, “No, not me. The sky!”

“You’re so happy,” you whisper. Earlier his eyes were on the verge of breaking down, but now, they seem so full of light and hope.

“Yeah,” he slips his hand back around your waist. “I got the girl of my dreams in my arms, my girl.” He enunciates the last two words like they’re a testimony.

Your cheeks rush with heat that you’re glad he can’t feel them. He leaves a chaste kiss on your temple before looking back up at the fireworks. And then he glances down suddenly, “Do you remember when we made that fort in my living room?”

You burst into a laugh, pulling away from his chest, “What?”

“The fort,” he repeats, “it ended up crumbling because Marcel rolled too far and pulled the blankets down—you remember?”

You nod, bewildered by his sudden excitement.

“Well, the spare bedroom of Tyler’s only has a mattress on the floor, but there are some chairs and sofas we can combine to you know,” he lets his voice fade away.

“You have a game tomorrow, maybe you shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor.”

“It’s a new mattress! That’s why it has nothing else,” he laughs. His laugh is intoxicating that all your logic and usual bickering dies out. He could build the fort, you’d be right there helping him either way.

Your heart swells as his eyes go wide, his face glowing red. He taps your waist, “Look, look look.”

The red firework that just popped erupts into the shape of a heart. You smile, standing on your tippy toes to give him a kiss. To think you’ve been missing this for the past twenty years that you’ve known him. What a fool the both of you were.

That night, Trent holds his promise as you help him build the fort around the mattress. You steal a lantern from Tyler’s shed outside while Trent found blankets to use and old moving boxes. It isn’t an exact replica like the two of you first shared, but it’s quite close, only this time you two are wrapped in each other’s arms.

#trent alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold x you #trent alexander arnold fanfic #trent alexander arnold x reader #trent alexander arnold imagine #em.writes

[haitiangirl4life]

you should do a fluffy smut with Virgil! with a size difference 🤭

Homecoming

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Virgil finally comes home after going away for matches and you give him a warm welcome.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Virgil Van Dijk x you

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 5.1k

Warnings! NSFW! SMUT (18+), size kink, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (f receiving), rough sex, choking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dom!Virgil, sub!reader.

There's nothing you hate more than away games.

The house feels too big, too empty without him. You move through the rooms, trying to fill the silence with the sound of your own footsteps, but it's not the same. It's never the same when he's not here.

Virgil. The love of your life. The center of your universe.

Tonight is different, though, because he's finally coming home.

After nearly two weeks of no contact, except for the occasional brief FaceTime, you were more than ready to have your husband back home.

So you’ve been preparing, setting the stage for a quiet, intimate night. Just the way you know he would like it.

The dining table was set with candles, a bottle of his favorite wine, and two plates filled with rice, butter chicken, and steamed vegetables, perfectly seasoned. His favorite. You were dressed in the short red dress he bought you last month and had sprayed on his favorite perfume.

All that’s left to do is count the minutes until he walks through that front door. Which is exactly what you’ve been doing for the past thirty minutes. 

You hear the distant hum of the car engine, and your heart skips a beat.

You run to the mirror in the hallway to quickly check your appearance, smoothing down any stray hairs and adjusting your dress. Satisfied with your reflection, you take a deep breath and go stand by the door.

Finally, you hear the familiar sound of the key turning in the lock, and the door swings open, and there he is—Virgil.

You don't hesitate as you rush to greet him, jumping into his arms once you're close enough. Giving him barely any time to react as you wrap your legs around his waist and shower him with kisses.

"Hello to you too." Virgil chuckles, stumbling a little from the force of your attack. Without dropping you, he places his bags on the floor and tightens his arms around you as he returns your affectionate kisses, his hands slyly sneaking down to cup your ass, squeezing.

"I missed you," you whisper against his neck, your breath sending shivers down his spine. He responds with a soft laugh, brushing his lips against your cheek. "I missed you more," he confesses, bringing his hand up, cupping your face, and pressing a soft, lingering kiss on your lips.

His stubble grazes your skin, and for a moment, time stands still. You love him. And he loves you.

As you pull away, Virgil's gaze lingers on you, taking you in. "Are you wearing my perfume?" he groans, giving your bum another generous squeeze, causing you to release a soft moan. 

"Mmh," you whisper shyly, gently tugging on his goatee. His eyes sparkle with absolute awe as he leans in closer, nipping teasingly at your neck, hands kneading your ass roughly. You feel a surge of desire course through your body, down to your pussy at his actions.

“Yeah, you miss me that much?”He asks playfully, wrapping his arms around you tighter, letting out a small growl when you giggle at the sensation of his beard tickling your chin. 

You nod, pressing your forehead against his. “Yeah.”

“Then I guess I should make it worth it.” He purrs, pulling you in for another kiss. This one is more passionate, your tongues dueling together as hands roam. They are all over your body, feeling every bump and curve, his fingers leaving goosebumps behind. His lips trail down your neck, leaving wet, sensual kisses. 

Your breath hitches when he reaches your collarbone, sucking on it gently. “Wait.” You whisper, pushing him away.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, brown eyes looking at you with concern. You melt at the sight, falling in love with him all over again. 

“I made dinner.” You smile sheepishly, flushing red as your stomach growls at the reminder. You were so busy getting everything ready today, you hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. 

He giggles at the sound, and you blush even more. "Alright," he huffs with a playful pout, slowly releasing you, setting you down on your feet, keeping his hands on your hips. 

 You giggle, give him a quick kiss, and go to walk away, but he yanks you back, bending down to place a soft kiss on your neck. "But I’m having you for dessert," he purrs into your ear. You feel his warm breath against your skin and melt in his arms.

"Virg," you whimper, feeling a shiver run down your spine. He smirks, his eyes sparkling with mischief, as he tightens his hold on you, nibbling gently on your earlobe.

“On second thought. Maybe the food can wait; my appetite is craving something else right now.” You almost give in, but then you remember the surprise you have planned for him later and put your foot down. 

“Nope.” You say popping the ‘p���. "Now come on, the food is getting cold.” You lead him into the dining room, where the flickering candles cast a dance of shadows on the walls. The soft glow accentuating the sharp lines of his face, making him look even more captivating. 

“Wow.” He gasps, eyes wide, as he takes in the scene before him. The table is set with care, adorned with coconut scented candles (his favorite) and rose petals everywhere. “Babe, this looks amazing!” He turns towards you and smiles. “Thank you.” 

You’re beaming at his praise, happy that he likes it. “Welcome. Now please sit.” You gesture towards a chair, inviting him to sit, and he complies with his usual charming smile. 

The first bite is a revelation—a burst of flavors that dance on your taste buds. You can't help but moan in delight, and he chuckles. “Hungry?” You can only nod, scoffing down the food in the most unladylike manner. But it doesn’t faze him.

Virgil has other things in mind, barely touching his food and instead finding subtle ways to express his affection—a stolen kiss, a tender touch, a whispered compliment.

As delicious as everything is, he has a different hunger—a hunger for the woman sitting across from him.

He can't help but admire the way the candlelight plays on your features, accentuates the curve of your smile, and the way your eyes light up as you talk about her day and ask about his.

"Virgil, are you even listening?" You tease, breaking him from his thoughts.

Caught off guard, he chuckles, "Of course, love. I'm just appreciating the view."

You blush under his lustful gaze, warmth spreading across your cheeks at his subtle compliment. "Smooth talker."

As the last bite is savored, he rises from the chair, making you look up in confusion. "I believe I was promised dessert." He states, eyes trailing your figure, a hunger of a different kind building within him. 

You raise an eyebrow, at his words, feeling your heartrate spike up at the subtle indication. "Oh? And what might that be?"

He circles the table until he's behind you and bends down to press a gentle kiss to your neck. "You, my love. That's all I want."

Then he's pulling you out of the chair and throwing you over his shoulder, sprinting up the stairs as you shriek and giggle.

The door to your bedroom closes shut and your heart rate skyrockets. You know what’s coming next. You feel him set you down before he’s gripping your waist and pulling you closer. 

Even after five years of marriage, you still can't get over how much of him there is. 

The way you have to crane your neck to look at him, forced to take in the way he towers over you. All broad shoulders and hard lines. Forearms that look like they could be the size of your thighs. Hands that easily encompass your waist, gripping and squeezing until all that’s left are faint bruises. 

The epitome of masculinity.

You want to cower at the way he’s looking at you right now. Hungry and possessive, as if he could devour you whole. 

"Hi,” he whispers, his deep voice resonating through your body. It's a simple word, but it sends shockwaves down your spine, igniting a fire within you that only he can quench with the way his words wash over you like spring rain.

"Hi," your voice trembles, and you watch his pupils blow wide. His gaze holds you captive, as if he can see every secret and hidden desire within you. Every nerve in your body is on high alert, craving his touch.

He's magnetic, drawing you in with an irresistible force. The short time apart seems to have made you forget how beautiful he is. How good he smells.

He’s warm water on a cold winter's day, thawing you from the inside out—settling deep in your bones and filling up a space you hadn’t known was empty. You want him.

All those nights spent In the dark, a pillow finding its way between your thighs, the scent of him lingering on each one as your hand muffles your moans. When you're empty and dripping and coming with a cry. It chokes you.

It stuffs its way down your throat, filling your lungs, and blocking your airways. It plunges you underwater, leaving you gasping for breath. It sticks to your clothes, your sheets, reminding you of him even when he’s not there. 

All you can think about is him. The way he consumes your thoughts, leaving no room for anything or anyone else.

It’s hell.

It’s bliss.

You watch his gaze rake down your body, setting on the place where the hem of your dress meets the tops of your thighs. Catching the moment he decides he's going to devour you whole.

The room feels smaller than usual. His presence overwhelming you in the best way. A heat—unbarabely intense—fills the air, making it difficult to breathe as his gaze lingers on your trembling body.

A need—coarsing through your body with vengeance—eats through your bones and settles low in your belly.

You hurt, you ache, you need. 

Fucking need him, to fill you up until you're dripping onto the grey silk sheets. 

He approaches you with a predatory grace, a smug smile on his lips. "Time for dessert." Your heart pounds in your chest, matching the rhythm of his confident steps towards you.

“Virg-” a whine, clawing its way up from deep in your throat. “I need you.”

A look in his eyes that you can’t quite decipher—something soft, something primal, something hungry. “Shh, I know. it’s okay.” Full lips stretched thin—a smile that asks you to stay, to trust, to submit. A smile that tells you to run. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

A needy whimper drips from your lips like the sticky mess that drips from your core. You want him to lick it. “You will?” Big, soft, doe eyes looking into the stare of a predator that wants to rip you limb from limb.

The grin that spreads across his face tells you everything and nothing, and you know you're not sleeping tonight.

Gently, he walks you both backwards until the edge of the bed presses against the back of your knees, his body trapping yours. You're his for the taking.

Slowly, Virgil trails his fingers along the straps of your dress, teasingly pulling them down your shoulders until they hit the floor, leaving you exposed for his eyes only. 

His breath hitches involuntarily at the sight of you, big brown eyes traveling along your curves, indecisive on which part of you he wants to explore first. “Fuck, baby.” His voice is soft as he takes in the black lace covering your skin. “Look at you.”

You can’t help the way your face lights up at his words and the warmth that floods your veins. “You like it?”

A kiss to your forehead. “I love it. I love you.” His words make your heart swell, knowing that he's still just as enamored with you as the day you first met. "I can't wait to fuck you." His words send an unmistakable ache deep in your chest. An excruciating emptiness in your cunt. The heat is back, and it burns. 

“It hurts.” You sound so small and afraid, and all you want is for him to make it better. “Please fuck me, Virg, please, please, make it stop hurting.”

Soft kisses on hot, itchy skin. The feeling of his beard against the sensitive flesh of your neck leaving you to squeeze your sticky thighs together, hoping for the smallest bit of friction.

A large hand grips your thigh, forcing you to remain still. “None of that.” A tone that leaves no room for argument. He lays you down on the sea of sheets and pillows and big, buttery soft blankets. Taking soft, sweet moments to tell you how perfect you are.

How beautiful. How precious.

He kisses your neck, your collarbone, the tops of your breasts, gently pulling down the clasps of your bra, leaving you topless. His hands explore the curves of your body, tracing every inch with gentle caresses as he licks his way down to your breasts. You are so soft, warm, and sweet—and he wants all of you.

His mouth closes over one nipple, sucking until it becomes hard and you're aching for more, as his large hand comes up to cup the other breast, completely encasing it and massaging softly, making you whine in pleasure.

He nuzzles his face into your chest and breathes in deeply—the scent of you intoxicating him. Pulling back, his hands cradle your face, his gaze searching yours. "I can't get enough of you," he admits, his voice husky with lust.

He moves his way down, planting wet kisses as he goes, over your stomach, across your hips…until he reaches the juncture between your legs and prys them open. An obscene amount of slick rushes out of you, soaking your panties and leaving a wet spot in the center.

He pulls them down with his teeth, exposing your dripping pussy. He inhales deeply, taking in the sweet scent of your arousal. "Oh, fuck, baby. You're so fucking pretty." His voice is deeper than usual, drenched with thirst. "Is this all for me?" He asks as his fingers trace the outline of your labia, and you nod frantically, unable to form words. "Yeah? Good girl."

He plays with you for a little bit longer, teasing you with gentle strokes and flicks, making you squirm and moan in pure pleasure. He pulls away and looks up at you with those chocolate-brown eyes. "Tell me what you want, baby. I need words." His voice is low and husky, chuckling at the wanton moan that escapes your lips.

You look down at him, eyes glazed, as you try to speak, but all that comes out is a garbled mess of sounds. He shakes his head, smiling wickedly. "No. Tell me. Use your words, babygirl."

You swallow hard, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. "I-I want you to, to eat my pussy. Please, please, Virgil." You moan, pleading, your eyes welling up.

"Your wish is my command," he purrs before diving right in.

Not even warning you before you feel a hotwetsogood tongue devouring you. Consuming you like you're the sweetest treat he's ever tasted. Licking and sucking.

Your hips buck up off the bed, and you whimper. He holds your hips down with one hand, his palm covering your lower stomach, while he uses the other to slide two fingers inside you.

Too big and too much for the size of you. Forcing their way in, like the tight entrance of your pussy was made to accommodate them. They curl once, twice, grazing that sweet spot inside you that he knows oh so well.

Stretching you open. Leaving little starbursts behind your eyes. And your mind goes blank. All you know is him.

And God, does it feel good.

Pumping and licking, and it’s too much.

It’s not enough.

You need–

His lips wrap around your clit and sucks and it's over. You cry out his name as your orgasm hits, waves of pleasure washing over you, body shaking, pussy muscles clenching hard around his fingers.

He doesn't stop until your body stops convulsing, and you reach down to push his head away, clit too sensitive to handle any more stimulation, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

You hear his voice.

Somewhere distant, cloudy, and out of reach. Barely making out the way he whispers, “So good. You did so good for me, baby.” against your clit. The sound of his voice leaves you soft, and gooey, and floating.

"That was good, wasn't it?" he asks, stocking your thigh. You nod, still breathless. "Yeah, that was amazing." You whisper, face red as you recover from your high. He grins and rises from his position between your legs, his 6'5 frame towering over your 5'3, before he leans forward and presses his lips to yours, his tongue sliding into your mouth, making you taste your own sweetness.

You feel him against you—all firm and warm—and realize he's still dressed. You tug at his shirt, eager to feel his bare skin against yours. He chuckles and quickly undresses until he's naked, revealing a sculpted body that can only come from years of dedicated fitness.

He reaches down and takes hold of your hand, guiding it to his cock. It's hard and throbbing, ready for you. You wrap your hand around it and squeeze, stocking slowly. He groans, his hips thrusting forward.  "Your hand feels so good, babe. I can't wait to be inside you."

You whimper at his words, stocking faster at the thought. It's been so long, and there's only so much your vibrator can do. You want him, you need him. "Fuck me. Please fuck me, Virgil."

He leans down, supporting himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you under his weight, to press his cock against your dripping cunt. You moan at the feeling, anticipation runs through you at the sheer size of him against you. "Please put it in. Please!” you beg, hips arching towards him.

He grabs them, forcing you to stay still. “Hey,” he whispers, his voice husky with desire. "Patience, my love," he murmurs, his eyes locked with yours. His hands going down to rub your clit “I got you. I'm gonna give it to you. Always do."

He hovers above you. Bending down and spreading your legs so wide, you feel like he's trying to split you in half. "You ready, baby?" You can only nod.

His cock glides through the sticky mess you've made between your legs, and you gasp when it grazes your clit. The smile on his face when he does it again is enough to make you clench down on nothing. 

You watch him stare down at where his cock disappears inside you. Watching the way his eyes darken and his breath stills. Watching as heavy lids fall over dark eyes as he bottoms out inside of you in one long thrust. 

The moan you let out is pornographic as you feel his firm grip on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Oh, fuck! You're so fucking tight. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?" he groans, starting with slow, long, deep thrusts.

The feeling of utter fullness never ceases to amaze you, even after all these years. The feeling of him filling you so deeply, so completely, that you can’t help but roll your eyes back and moan.

He carves out a place inside to fit the shape of him and no one else.

Because no one, no one, can ever or has ever come close to how he seems to take up every inch of you. No one can ever compare to the way all of the air in your lungs seems to leave you with a choked gasp.

There’s nothing like it. There will never be anything like him.

You want more, so you ask– "Please, please-”

He thrusts hard, and your head falls back against soft pillows. Silk wrapped around your head, leaving you with nothing but the feeling of featherdown clouds and the sounds of fabric rustling with his every move. 

“Look at you.” He fucks in deep, leaving you a puddle of tears and slick. “Crying so pretty for me,” his cock reaches places in you that you never knew existed until him—places that you're sure he’s created just for him. “Letting me in like a good girl. Taking me so well."

Your cunt clenches down on his cock, gripping him tighter at every word that falls from his lips. “Oh? You like that, baby? You like letting your husband fuck you like the little slut that you are?” You can do nothing but cry, nod, and hold on tight. “Use your words, my love. Tell me how much you love it. Look at the way you’re dripping on my cock, and tell your husband you love how he fucks you.”

You can’t—can’t make your mouth form the words. Can’t tell your body to do anything other than take what he gives you and pray he decides to give you more.

He doesn't like that.

His hand leaves your waist to wrap around your throat. Adding pressure and forcing your head up until you can do nothing but look at him.

“Tell me, darling. C'mon, be a good girl.” He grits through his teeth, his eyes fluttering in pleasure at the tight clench of your pussy around his cock. Fuck, she feels so good. He thinks.

The tone of his voice fills your head, and you go slack against him, left with nothing but the need to take what he gives and give him anything he asks for 

"I love it.” You're sobbing now. Salty tears falling from your eyes and leaving trails down your cheeks. "I love it, I love it, I love it.”

“Look at it. Look at how good that tight little pussy is taking me—fuck!" His grip on her throat tightens, and he gently pulls until you're forced to watch the way he pumps in and out of you and the mess you've made on his cock. "You're so fucking wet, baby."

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!" You scream, your body shaking with pleasure. “It’s– I’m–”

His fingers find your clit, rubbing hard circles on it until you're a sobbing, blubbering mess under him. “Go ahead." He fucks you hard, the sound of his balls slapping your pussy echoing through the room, drowned out by your loud moans. “Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how good you are.”

A guttural moan rips from your chest and forces its way into his mouth, where he crushes his lips against yours. He’s everything. you're everything. And it’s so fucking blissful and hot, you sob at how much you love him.

It took a few minutes for your fuzzy head to clear to realize that his hips were still moving. “No, no, I can’t- I cant-” You shake your head, desperately trying to crawl away from him but finding nowhere to go but deeper into the pillows. “It’s too much.”  

He grabs your hips and drags you back to him, massaging your hips. “Shh, it’s okay.” Soft, soothing circles traced onto your skin. A half-teasing smirk on pink lips. “You can take it.”

Your head shakes again, hiccuping a little as you twist and turn in his arms. “I can’t.” But deep down, you know you can—you always do.

"You will,” he moves you. His grip tightens as he lifts you effortlessly, flipping you over and adjusting you in a way that’s to his liking until he’s settled under you—griping your waist. "Trust me," he whispers, his voice filled with confidence. "I got you."

With a gentle yet firm grip, he starts to guide your movements, slowly easing you into the rhythm. "There we go. I told you you could take it." He speeds up your movement, each thrust more powerful than the last. "So tight." Groans and moans escape his lips in perfect harmony with his movements.

"You're mine," he growls, emphasizing the word with a deep, hard thrust, bucking his hips up. He brings his hand up to your throat, lightly applying pressure as he continues to thrust. "Tell me you're mine, baby." No answer.

He tightens his grip on your throat, his voice growing more demanding. "I said, Tell me you're mine." This time, he pulls you down, forcing you to look into his eyes. "Y/N,” he presses, gently demanding his answer as his thrust becomes faster and deeper. You feel him in your stomach.

"Oh, FUCK!" you shout, the intensity of his thrusts becoming too much, and you finally manage to gasp out, "I'm yours." His grip loosens slightly, a satisfied smirk plays on his lips. "Good girl."

He releases his grip on your throat and in one sudden movement, flips you over onto your back, continuing his relentless pace. The room fills with the sound of your moans and the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin. “Feels… fuck, your cock,” you babble, unable to form a coherent sentence. “So… so big.”

It doesn't take long for you to cum, vision turning white with pleasure. "Fuck, baby. That's right, squirt for me." He pulls you up, holding you tight in his grip, until your back bows and you're flush against his chest. Your other knee drops as he wraps an arm around your waist—moving you until you're wrapped up in his arms and he’s settled back on his heels. Your legs around his waist, his nails digging into your soft skin—his lips at your neck.

You collapse into him, your body limp and spent. He holds you close, whispering sweet words of affection as you both catch your breath. “Mmmm, yeah. That's right, you're mine.”

His pace slows down, but he doesn't stop. And it's not long before you're clenching down on him again, pussy so sensitive that the slightest movement sends you closer to the edge.

“You gonna come for me again?” He whispers in your ear. "Yeah," you whimper. "Fuck, yeah." He grunts. "Give it to me." He orders, and you obey.

"Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!" You sob as you come a fourth time that night, clenching around him in a vice grip, milking him for all he's worth. He growls, and then you feel his hot cum shoot deep into your pussy, triggering a mini orgasm from you. "Oh! God!" You feel it coating your insides. "fuck baby! I love you." He moans as he thrusts harder and harder, until there's nothing left.

"Goddam, woman," he rasps, collapsing completely on top of you with a huff.  "What a welcome. That was amazing." He kisses your neck, and you feel his cock twitching inside you.

“Virg! I can’t breathe!” you exclaimed with a breathy laugh that instantly turned into a wince when he shifted, his pelvis dragging along your sore, throbbing clit.  

“Sorry,” he apologizes, gently easing up onto his forearms, panting.

“Don’t go away,” you whine, locking your legs around his waist and pulling him down, loving the intimacy of him still fully sheathed inside of you as his eyes bore into your soul. 

“How do you feel?” Virgil asked, his gaze soft on you as he caresses your thigh, trying to soothe the remnants of a dull twinging ache he knows you usually feel after, but the bliss you were feeling at the moment countered it all. 

"Great," you respond, a contented smile spreading across your face. "I missed you," you whisper, tracing circles on his back with your fingertips. 

"I missed you too," Virgil murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I love you." He whispers, so low you barely hear him.

"I love you." You murmur, wincing as he gently pulls out, making him whisper a string of apologies into your skin. Virgil kneels between your legs, your pussy red, raw, and gaping, and plunges his fingers in, stuffing his cum back inside.

"Fuck, that's hot." He says, watching his fingers slowly move in and out of you, as you tremble beneath him. "You okay?" Virgil's voice rumbles against your thigh, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine.

You nod, a content smile playing on your lips. His fingers trace lazy circles on your clit, a soothing gesture that lulls the ache.

"Never been better," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Virgil chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your calf. He presses a gentle kiss on your mound, his lips warm against your skin, and pulls his fingers out. 

“Stay here, my love. I’m gonna grab something to clean you up.” Virgil said, kissing your inner thigh. "Okay,” you reply, watching him walk to the bathroom, his naked ass bouncing slightly with each step. Your eyes follow him until he disappears from view, and then you melt into the sheets, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

You hear the sound of rummaging, then water running, before he finally emerges, damp washcloth in hand. 

He crawls back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. He wipes your inner thighs first, gently cleaning away the evidence of your pleasure. You squirm a little as he gets closer to your pussy, but he’s gentle and careful, wiping away any remnants of cum that may have escaped. 

“All done.” He booms and tosses the rag aside, his attention fully on you. He lay down beside you, his arm wrapping around you protectively. The warmth of his body against yours.

You shift slightly, snuggling into his chest, finding the perfect nook to rest your head. His arms wrap around you protectively, the soft thud of his heartbeat comforting, and you listen, lulled into a sense of peace.

Virgil presses a tender kiss to the crown of your head, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your skin.

Virgil tilts your chin up, his dark eyes locking onto yours. There's a softness in his gaze, a vulnerability that mirrors your own. "You mean everything to me, you know that?" he says, his voice carrying a weight of sincerity that sends you spiraling.

You nod, a lump forming in your throat as you absorb the depth of his words. "I know," 

Virgil leans down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. It's slow, unhurried, a sweet exploration of each other's mouths. You taste the remnants of the passion you shared moments ago, mingled with the sweetness that is uniquely Virgil.

When he pulls away, a soft smile plays on his lips. "I'm the luckiest man in the world,"

-Bianca🌻

#football #footballer x reader #virgil x reader #virgil van dijk x reader #virgil van dijk #virgil x you #liverpool

[itsgrimeytime]

The Nurse (Part Five) || Rick Grimes (TWD)

Part One, Two, Three, Four, Five

Taglist: @strnqer @1985bitch @curlycarley @imaginemyfavoritefics @t-uroboros @crazytxgradstudent @addisonnie @whos6claire @taylvvrr @quicksilversg1rl @catt-leya @1tsk1tty @pascalshearts @hopefulatrocity @xoyouronlyamorrxo @fuseburner @idkseraphine @all-for-kpop @carlgrimeskisser @emo-potato-virgil @timotheesrealgf

Summary: Before all this, you were a nurse. A nurse who had patients, one of which was a man in a coma. A sheriff, you think, it was all kinda fuzzy now. When it all went sideways, you set up what you could for the man - but had to leave. You'd always wondered where he'd ended up; until in your search of shelter, you run into a familiar face.

TWS: Blood, gore, mentions of death, gun violence (just violence in general), swearing, angst, angsty!Rick, hallucinations, and all things typical of TWD.

[[A/N: Much happier vibes this time around, but I figured a story like this one should be a little bittersweet. This one has got the good stuff. (Farmer Rick, patching up his wounds, TENSION, etc.) Also sorry if you're good at juggling, this is no longer realistic for you lol. Thank you for reading. ]]

"Alright," you hummed, bandaging up the hand, "-just try and keep the bandage clean, we're really only worried about infection."

Glenn nodded, simply just listening to you, "Right."

"Oh," you remembered, grabbing up just two bandages and antiseptic, "-and here's some replacements, just in case you get into something that can't wait."

"Got it," Glenn spoke, standing and kind of roaming towards the door, "-and how often should I check in with you?"

"Once a week," you answered, "-just to make sure the inflammation has gone down."

With confirmation and a smile that only Glenn could produce on prison grounds, your space was empty. You'd had a makeshift area down in one of the front offices of the prison because, well, the medbay was currently... off limits, so to speak. Your most important supplies, though, stayed on your person -certain medicine types and a few medical instruments in a fanny pack often hanging over your shoulder (unless you needed your hands).

You sighed, wiping your hands off with a spare rag, pushing your fingers into your temples for a bit of headache relief. It wasn't hurting in that moment, but you could feel the pressure building, keeping an eye on yourself was hard enough as is.

It was really not the time.

Muttering, you rifled through a few of your drawers -trying to keep track of the supplies was key to this working out in the long run. So, you were running through what you'd given out and what you still had. Eager to make lists for runners later on in the week.

Hershel still helped sometimes, so you couldn't always get the amount used down to a science, but you could get close enough. It worked.

"Hello?" a voice spoke, the drawl ever so familiar to you, "-Anybody in here?"

You, who were currently ducked behind a cabinet rifling through supplies, didn't even think about the fact you weren't visible, calling out, "Just a minute!"

"Alright," Rick hummed in response, seeming to trail off in his speech -looking at something else you assumed.

"Okay," you scribbled down some more numbers, before coming to eye level with Rick -focused and a touch playful, "-So, what can I do for you today, Mr. Grimes?"

Rick smiled, light and airy, "Mr. Grimes, huh? 'Been a long time since I heard that one."

You looked at him, donned in a plaid shirt and sweat dripping down his face -hands dusted in dirt, and pants even worse. But still, his blue eyes twinkled. Ever since he'd started to work on the farm, you'd seen that haze clear. He seemed to find it calming, easier to manage. You were happy for him.

"Too professional for you?" You hummed, trailing your fingers along some of the bandages -keeping count in your head.

Rick smiled before muttering off -tone soft and reminiscent, "Just feels like a different time."

The lull in conversation brought you back to the issue at hand, Rick was one to work as long as he could. Doing only a few checkups throughout the day, he'd found himself busy often. Or you guessed, you found him busy often; that was very much on purpose, though.

"Alright, enough of that, what do you need from me?" You questioned, fully focused on him now; the man had a tendency to under sell his injuries, so you'd need to see it.

"Hershel told me to come see you," he spoke, drawl slow and sure, "-I fell on one of the runs recently. Got a scratch on my chest. He patched it up a little, but-"

"He wanted me to take a look?"

"Yeah," Rick confirmed as you motioned to a chair -dousing your hands with some antibacterial.

He was sitting on a stool, one someone probably found in an old bar, the leather was worn, and the metal squeaked loud any time you so much as breathed. It would work.

You took your place beside him, pulling out some extra bandages, "Which side? And what exactly did Hershel do?"

"My right," he answered, and you moved to that side, "-and just cleaned it and bandaged it up tight."

"Okay," you noted, grabbing a few extra things (most likely looking like a chicken with your head cut off) before spinning around. Where he was sitting as still as a statue, "-Rick? You okay?"

He blinked, eyes cleared of the daze he'd apparent found himself in, "Oh, yeah, sorry. It's just... nice."

"Nice?" You questioned, furrowing your eyebrows together, and pulling up your own stool close to him.

"You," he paused, before stuttering through the rest -hand going to rub at the back of his neck, "-bein' in your element, I mean."

"Oh," you responded, softly -ignoring the soft blush rising to your ears, "-well, thank you."

He smiled at you, and the silent buzz was nice, warm even. You really couldn't dwell on it, though, not sitting this close to him.

"Alright, cowboy," you spoke, "-let's see."

Rolling his eyes at 'cowboy', you assumed anyway, his hands made quick work of the edge of the shirt, pulling it up in a swift movement. Just an edge.

You held your breath, watching as unblemished skin matched your eyes, and suddenly, you realized that it was much higher than you'd anticipated. So, that wasn't going to work.

"Rick, I'm not pressuring you into anything, but-" you spoke, kind and soft, this was a personal boundary, you'd treat it as such, "-I think the shirt's going to have to come off."

There was a moment there, where he just stared at you in silence -eyes focused and intent- and you were truly worried you'd just crossed a boundary.

"If you're not comfortable with that-"

"No, no," he shook the motion off, clearing his throat to himself -to clear the air maybe, "-it's alright. Just been a while."

You laughed, tilting your head a bit in curiousity, "Since what, exactly? Since you took your shirt off? Rick, you did that yesterday-"

"Oh?" he hummed, a smirk peeking at his lips, "-Didn't know I had an audience."

"Ha, ha-" you rolled your eyes, ignoring the buzz of warmth that hit your cheeks -he could not see that, "-you're just stalling."

Rick raised his hands in defeat, smiling at you in a way that you wish you could keep for yourself for later. His smiles had always been so bright, you supposed that was why you could notice when it was absent for a while.

Digging through your bag, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye, the fluid motion quick -so quick you'd hardly noticed it, really. He'd done it enough, you assumed.

Not the time, you chastised yourself, not letting your mind linger on that fact. Not now, you were professional.

"Okay," you pulled out some of the materials you may need, "Let's see what you've-"

Your eyes flew up to see his chest, which was bandaged, wrapped tightly around his sternum. They had gone over his right shoulder and under his left arm, the blood stain just a bit under his collar bone and down from there. It didn't seem too long, based solely on the pattern.

You were completely focused now, eyes drawn across the bandage and fingers dancing along the stain, "Did Hershel tell you how deep it was?"

"No," Rick answered, and it took you a bit out of you to hear him so close -drawl low and gravely, "-we didn't have much time. Needed to stop the blood, I'd guess."

Fingertips fluttering over the torn edges of the bandages, you could feel the heat of his skin a breath away. You pursed your lips, these bandages were quite worn, "And when was this?"

"About a week ago," Rick answered.

"Rick..."

"I know, I hear you," he started, explaining himself, "-it was the last run, ran over a bit. Had to camp out, remember?"

You hummed in confirmation -relaxing in the slightest, before continuing, "Did you have somebody check it then?"

"Couldn't chance it," he explained, tone soft and earnest, "-any fresh blood woulda been dangerous."

"Okay," you exhaled, "-okay. I understand, Rick, you shouldn't have to explain yourself to me."

Rick interrupted tone solid and unwavering, "I want to. You should- No, I want you to know."

"Okay," you whispered, softly, a bit speechless at the admitance, "-thank you."

There was a fizzling there, as you sat a breath away from him -fingers laid gently on his chest and barely a bandage between your fingertips and his skin. You could even feel the heat there, gentle gusts against your fingertips.

You took the biggest breath you could take without startling the man, deep and focused. Not the time to let your mind wonder.

"Okay, I just need-" you pulled back, the fizzle dissipating and began searching for one of your sharp edges... particularly one you could wipe down ahead of time, "-here it is."

Within seconds, you'd doused the instrument in whatever you could nearby, wiping it solidly with a cloth that has been safely sealed ahead of time.

"You're fast," Rick spoke up, eyes apparently watching you as your roamed around the room -gathering a few extra things in case of worst case scenario.

"You'll get used to it," you smiled, chuckling and making your way back to the chair -where he sat, his own little smile on his face, "-Alright, so, first order of business, Rick."

He blinked, and sat up a bit straighter in your gaze.

"If anything hurts, you tell me," you asserted, eyes connected to his directly, "-this will go as comfortably as it can."

"'Course," he answered, serious and eyes unwavering, before cracking a smile, "-plus, can't disobey doctor's orders, can I?"

You snorted, scooting in closer and trying to find a comfortable place to start, "Whatever you say, Grimes."

He laughed, small but still felt nice against your ears and on instinct, you smiled brightly. He was contagious. To you, anyway.

With a steady hand on the tool and the other gently holding his shoulder, you gently pressed it along the bandage. The threads unweaving themselves with the movement, almost like a seam breaking, it seemed quite fluid.

Gently peeling back the bandages, which were solidly tightened around his skin, your fingers drifted across the newly exposed skin. Even for just a second and your heart would jump out of your chest. You held the hitch in your breath without thought -you really needed to be focused right now.

And there it was.

The cut wasn't too much to look at. It was thin -the edges were a bit dirty from the worn bandage you assumed. No telltale symptoms of infection, you let out a hum of relief.

"Good," you spoke, mostly to yourself, leaning back from his space -sorting through your supplies.

Rick spoke, questioning, "Everything alright?"

"All good," you answered, hands preoccupied, "-just needs a bit of cleaning up. You're lucky, though. It's healing on its own."

"Lucky?" he hummed, watching you move across the space -eyes trailing behind you.

"Would've needed stitches, otherwise," you answered, dousing the cloth in your hands, "-although, I'm sure a scar would fit you well, cowboy."

Rick chuckled, motioning towards his other shoulder, "Already got one."

You paused, looking towards the shoulder; there it was. The wound you knew him from. It reminded you of so long ago, your coworkers, your friends, your boss-

"Right," you hummed, settling down back into your chair, "-I remember."

He shook his head, a little in disbelief, "Right, you were there."

"I was," with a distant hum, you pushed forward -warning before you started, "This might sting a bit. Feel free to keep talking if it helps. I'm told I'm a good listener."

"Oh, really?" his tone quirked in interest, and you could feel the familiar playfulness seep into his tone.

"What? You don't think so?" you questioned, gently dabbing at the cut -soft and gentle.

"No," he began, voice smooth and gravelly, "-just wonderin' what you aren't good at."

"Well, I could tell you that, cowboy," you smirked -the peek of a smile on your lips, "-if that's what you want."

He chuckled, slightly wincing as you cleaned the skin around the cut, "I'm all ears."

"Hmm, let's see," you hummed, pulling back and unraveling some bandages, "-I've never been good at juggling."

Rick laughed, his body leaning forward, his shoulder bumping into yours. There was a buzz there, between your skin and his - and your nose filled with the familiar smell of just... musk, strong wood tones, and a bit of dirt.

You blinked, bringing yourself back down from your head, where Rick was looking at you with a smile -the crinkling by his eyes sending warmth through your skin, "What?"

"Juggling?" He questioned, "That's all you got?"

"No," you laughed, pulling out the bandage and holding your hand in the beginning place of the wrap, "-you didn't let me finish."

"Go right ahead," he spoke, his tone lilting to a tease -you knew it well.

"Don't try me, Grimes," you tsked, before rearranging your hands, to hold the bandage in place, "-here, hold this."

Unflinchingly, he moved his hand where yours was -his fingertips (calloused) brushing against yours with a spark. You try to school your facial expression, cursing at the rising pink on your cheeks. Just because he was pretty and the low drawl of his voice was insanely attractive-

"Okay," you threaded the bandage around his shoulder, leveling to his eyes but not looking there -preoccupied with the placement, "-now. Something I'm not good at... You know, I used to think I wasn't good with kids."

"Really?" Rick asked, disbelieving, and you could feel his breath on your face -puffs of breath across the bridge of your nose.

"Yeah," you answered, humming as your hands completed the motion, "-why? You don't believe it?"

"I don't," He answered, simply and honestly, "-just... You with Judith and Carl... I'm surprised you ever thought you were bad at it."

"Well," you hummed, feeling oddly flattered, "-thank you."

"No, actually-" he began, tone a bit unresolved, "-I never... I never thanked you for taking care 'em. When I was..."

"Rick..." you interrupted, looking into his eyes -attentive and gentle, "-you don't have to."

"No, no, I do," his voice was thick with earnestness, "-I wasn't. I couldn't even think straight... And you- And everybody took care of 'em for me. You deserve a thanks."

You faltered, blue eyes so open and honest -it was so familiar, the same stare burned in your head so long ago. The one you couldn't shake as you watched over him when the world was falling apart, still stuck to your brain as you ran through the woods scared of every step you heard.

It would never leave, not now.

There was a cut along his cheekbone, thin, maybe from a tree branch snapping in his face. Your hand almost naturally went to it, to trace it with your fingertips. You held it back, fingers tightening on the bandage slightly.

"Rick," you hummed, holding your hand where it was -despite your instincts being elsewhere, "-it's really nothing. I'd do anything for them. For you, even. You needed your time, I'm not- You're a great father, you just couldn't be one then. So I helped, really."

He stared at you, eyes bright and warm -he looked like he was just analyzing you. Eyes skimming across your face in rapid succession, like he was trying to understand you, dissect you.

"Okay," he sighed, a hand laying on top of yours -soft, gentle, it sent a shiver down your spine, "-okay."

You exhaled, shaky and your head filled with a fuzz of intimacy, affection, that you hadn't felt in so... long. You felt safe, here with him. Seen amidst the darkest things you'd ever laid eyed on was Rick, and his open vulnerability that you could never shake.

Slow breathing, you had a thought. Just one thought and your eyes almost dipped to his lips. It felt so natural then, just lean a bit forward and-

Clearing your throat, you shook your head before scooting back just a touch -you couldn't think, not with him so close. The buzz under your skin was so strong, and you sat a breath away, it was easy to fall into it.

"Let's uh-" you stammered slightly, "Let's get you patched up, okay?"

Rick swallowed (you watched his Adam's apple bob for a second before dragging your eyes away), eyes darted to yours for a split second, and he nodded.

Without much more thought, you tightened the bandage around his chest -enough to allow it to heal without exposure. As the bandage ran thin, you carefully lifted his hand, which was heavily calloused from the days work against your own, and sorted out the ends.

Just like you'd done it often, rhythmically.

"Keep an eye on that," you spoke, pulling back and sorting through your supplies, "-if anything, and I mean anything feels wrong, come to me."

Rick hummed, eyes hazily focused on you -it kind of made you giddy, "'Course."

"You sure you listening?" You asked, smirking to yourself, "Everything alright?"

"Just... you too," he spoke, tone cautious and honest.

"What?" You tilted your head, turning around to view him in your curious.

"The headache," he hummed, not standing up yet -as he slipped on his flannel, hands working on the buttons.

"How-" you began, pursing your lips, "How did you-"

"Saw ya on the way in, with the temples," he added, fingers working their way up the shirt, nimble and practiced, "-high time you took a break, you know."

"I have," you spoke, stuttering a bit, "-I am."

Rick smirked, bright and boisterous, "Is that when you're lookin' at me shirtless?"

"Yeah, yeah," you hushed him, waving him off with a passive smile and a blush buzzing up your cheeks, "-get your laughs out now, cowboy."

He laughed, trailing towards the door but not stepping out of it -feet stayed solidly in your space, like he didn't really want to leave. It made you bite back a smile.

"But, seriously-" Rick continued, smile fading slightly and eyes leveling to yours as he put his hand on your shoulder, and leaned forward to brush his lips across your forehead -his words exhaling along your skin.

"There's people who care about you, ya know?"

"Okay," you whispered, placing your hand over his on your shoulder, "-okay."

#rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #its griming time #stuff n' thangs #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x y/n #ricky dicky doo dah grimes #twd #twd rick #rick grimes x y/n fanfiction #the nurse #nurse!reader #doctor!reader

[skeletinmoss]

Ruffled feathers

Chapter 2: The avian's nest

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Ships planned: Prinxiety, Logicality, Dukeciet

Patton and Virgil are brothers in this one

Thanks @lovelivingmydreams for being my beta

Virgil wasn't sick for too long. And after speaking with Emile he was much easier to deal with. He still hissed at anyone who got close to him though, even his brother. He hated being vulnerable and certainly didn't want to be treated like a baby.

« Being sick sucks,» he decided observing his brother's work from the height of the tree.

« Is that so? You must be glad it's over then,» Patton briefly looked up from his creation and quickly returned to gathering. It didn't look like much yet, but it began to look like a circle. Virgil huffed from his observation point.

« Are you making a nest?» he asked confused. « You think it's safe enough here?» he already knew the humans were going to freak out about it.

Avians made nests for two reasons: they either felt really safe or really stressed. In particularly bad situations avians made so-called panic nests. It was usually a couple of twigs and leaves, or, as they both did, from anything they found at hand (one time Patton made it out of cutlery). Panic nests looked rightfully awful and the word 'nest' mostly meant it was kinda circular pile of things.

What Patton was making looked nothing like that. It was going to be a proper nest about two meters wide judging by the lines Pat drew on the floor. This meant he wanted to make this his sleeping place. And he even did it in the open where everyone else could see.

« It's mostly so we can get more comfortable,» he blushed looking for the sticks he could use. His brother growled in disapproval, « You don't even have anything soft for it.»

« Yes, I do! I have moss!» he pointed at the floor, «And our wings will start to molt soon.»

« Eh. A so-so nest. Not sleeping in the mossy bed,» Virgil hopped on the ground and strolled past the construction.

« You sleep on the floor!» Patton argued.

« Yeah. And that's why I'm not making a bed out of it,» bit the black avian before disappearing behind the door.

Bathroom was Virgil's favorite place. It was warm and shiny. And oh boy did he love the shiny stuff! He made a mental note if ever going to build a nest he will steal that bigass mirror.

He started at it for a minute. There was a scar on his nose left from a muzzle, two more on his hands from the handcuffs and one on his neck from the electric collar. They looked kind of badass, but held dark memories. He looked skinny, but not as bad as before. A proper feeding could do wonders, and he hoped that he could get his muscles back too. He was sick of being weak.

He took off the hoodie, struggling a bit to get it off the wings. Pants went down next, and he plopped into the warm water face first. Wings, still dry, held him him on the surface of the water as he did little to no movement, drifting in the middle of the pool. He tilted his head just enough for him to breathe and relaxed.

It looked like a corpse. And it scared Roman half to death. He sprinted out of the door, through the hallway, past the confused Logan, past the not so confused Janus, into the enclosure and into the bathroom. But before he could pick the body up, it moved disturbed by the sound of splashing water. He did however drag the avian out of the water.

The rescued was not pleased with it and declared so with a strong bite. Roman however was reliеved, « You can't just drown yourself!»

Moody stuck his tongue out.

Roman frowned at his bratty patient. «You looked dead! Did you think that wouldn’t make us worried?»

The avian seemingly tasted the thought. He grabbed Roman by his shirt and walked back in the water, not even bothering to hide his naked body with his wings. He once again settled on the water's surface. His wings were now wet because of him jolting from Roman's touch, so he sank deeper than before. But his head was still afloat and Roman calmed down after he realized it was simply the way he relaxed. Moody squinted his eyes from the comfortable warmth and purred quietly.

« You're an absolute nightmare,» the rescuer huffed dramatically. He observed the avian a little intrigued. It's been a while since he was this close to him. Moody hadn't allowed himself to relax near anyone other than his brother and now he was swimming near him seemingly unbothered.

« Your wings look better,» Roman couldn't help himself but to comment. To his delight the avian in question blushed and started daggers at him. « What? It's true! We definitely need to thank our fawn friend for that thing he gave you,» he declared.

The actor pushed himself out of the water and sat on the edge. His clothes were soaking wet now, but it wasn't something that bothered him at the moment. He couldn't take his eyes of the beautiful feathers. Now looking at them he noticed how wobbly they looked. It wasn't just because of the water, they looked more messy when they should be. They were ungroomed. It would have been understandable if Moody was on his own, but he had a brother. Didn't they groom each other?

Now thinking about it he remembered what Logan told him. Right… Patton didn't have any claws, and his brother simply couldn't reach his back to do it on his own.

« Can I touch them?» he asked finally.

A hiss was the obvious answer.

« I can groom them, you know,» he tried to justify. There was a hesitation before the next hiss, a true master of pretending to not understand the language. Now Dark and Stormy moved further from Roman not quite interested in letting an untrusted creature near his wings. It made Roman frown.

He wasn't frustrated, no. He was angry actually, but not at the avian. Each time he tried to help, Virgil would hiss and try to get away. And it was all because of how he was treated before. It was infuriating! Who can do something bad to a creature this beautiful?! Or any other creature for that matter, not just the beautiful ones. It was so wrong and inhumane!

« I will make friends with you,» Roman half jokingly threatened, and had to go after another loud hiss.

Later, when Virgil finished his bath, he went out to now three people working on the nest. There was a couple of boxes with some soft materials like animal undercoat, feathers and cotton fiber. Patton was currently looking through the box with twigs, Logan helped making the base of the nest and Princey was mostly being a hype man and helping them both. Still in semi wet clothes.

« I told you I got soft stuff for it,» Virgil's brother pointed out smugly.

The black one huffed at that. « You mean THEY got it,» he argued.

Patton's wings shot up flustered, nearly hitting the nerd in the face. His darkwinged brother smirked and stuck out his tongue. There was a moment of silence between them until Patton stood up. Another moment. And then suddenly they both ran: Virgil for the trees and Patton after Virgil.

« Come here, you smart butt!» yelled Pat trying to catch his brother who climbed away as fast as he could giggling to himself.

Eventually they both reached the top and Virgil didn't have anywhere else to run. « No, stop! I'm sorry!» he laughed as his brother got him in a head lock and started to ruffle his hair.

The humans watched it with amazement. It was nice seeing the avians coming back to life. They probably didn't have much opportunities to have fun and banter like that in captivity. To think only two weeks prior they hadn't even talked in front of anyone.

« They are nice,» Patton said more quietly, releasing his brother from his hold. « Don't you want to talk to them?» he wondered.

Virgil took his time to respond, « What if they are still hiding something? Princey absolutely hates me. We're clearly doing something to upset them.»

« I don't think they are upset,» Patton replied. « Not at us at least. They give us nice food and we can move how much we want, they take care of us,» he brushed Virgil's hair.

Storm cloud sight and hugged his legs. « You can talk if you want to,» he relented. The smile on his brother's face lit up his soul.

« I'll ask them if we can go outside!» Patton suggested.

V shook his head at the helpless optimism. « Don't get your hopes up,» he warned, but Patton was already on his way down.

« Can we go outside?» this was the first official thing any of the avians said to their saviors in the human language. The conversation before it was short, but the older brother clearly allowed for it to happen. The whole team should have discussed this and given an answer later with all of the details figured out. But looking in those innocent blue eyes all Logan could say was « Yes, of course.»

Both birds got a little surprised at the answer.

« R-right now? Can we do that right now?» Patton's wings folded behind his back in anticipation. He tried to make himself presentable and obedient as if a little walk outside should be earned.

« If you won't fly away I don't see any reasons not letting you. Clear air is good for health, as people say. And our goal is your recovery.» Logan allowed and Prince nodded.

They should have discussed this with the team first. They should have predicted that something like this would happen.

Virgil tried to fly.

And he fell, of course. They couldn't have reacted in time. The avians were just walking and enjoying the grass and the trees, and the wind outside when the Black one suddenly started to climb higher with a surprising speed. His wings unfolded to their full size and a moment later he was in the air.

The landing was not as rough as it could have been if one of the humans just jumped of a tree. Wings still allowed for some gliding. But it was heartbreaking. Very heartbreaking. And Virgil showed just how much with the enraged scream that left him.

His brother slowly went up to him and hugged him.

They stayed like that for a while before going back into the enclosure.

Tag list: @aphandgflover @yourdragonwitchroyalty @warcats-cat @aevhee

Let me know if you want to be in the tags. Preferrebly in the post

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #ts virgil #ts patton #patton sanders #roman sanders #ts roman #logan sanders #ts logan #ruffled feathers au

[fangirltothefullest]

Janus from A Primrose Promise.

I have been working on this story since 2018 back when I really first joined the fandom and I have been in a funk lately with the drought between episodes. So to cure my art block, I decided to redo the bookmarks I made eons ago for the story. Back then, I had drawn the pictures before ever writing anything down so they all looked much more modern than the story actually takes place (I have fixed that now). Also, my style hadn’t really caught up to what it is today and what most people recognize from me as the “scratchy lineart but soft blended colours and textured overlay” didn’t apply to the first set. Suffice it to say I am really happy with this one. I am working on the others but there are SO many. Virgil will be next because ultimately the story is predominantly about Virgil and Janus. (Spoilers though, he goes by another name in the story and I did not change it after his name reveal on purpose. If you read it you’ll figure out why in uhhhhhhhh one of the later chapters lol). I feel like I have greatly improved and it’s definitely cured my art block!

I worked hard on this for several hours.

IF YOU LIKE IT, PLEASE REBLOG IT.

Original work under the cut for a side by side comparison + close-ups.

#sanders sides #tashiarts #janus sanders #a primrose promise #deceit sanders

[astranite]

Limp

John and Virgil!!! The whole range of hurt/comfort, angsting and fluff though leaning rather towards comforty. Scott also sneaks in for a good bit at the end. And there are hugs. Also there is autistic John and Virgil which it isnt about but its very there :)

This started off from the first line from a tumblr prompt from @aliceinwhumperland and the idea from @katblu42 to have John being the one limping then it grew from there!!! Minor warning for injury and medical stuff. Also that this reached 6k words!!

---

"You think you're hiding it, but I can see that limp from space."

Virgil leaned closer to his comm, giving John a prime view of dark, angular done-with-this-shit eyebrows.

John definitely didn’t panic. He just didn’t want the totally needless scrutiny of a medic brother all up in his business. Or asking questions like, ‘What did you do to yourself this time?’

“What limp?” he replied. He could play it off as obtuse and then no one had to ever to find out. 

Virgil gave a Scott-worthy facepalm. “Do I have to worry about a concussion too?”

Okay maybe that was too obtuse. But he was running on few hours of sleep, back to back rescues and no bloody breakfast so who could blame him. 

“I’m fine, Virgil.” John rolled his eyes. 

Virgil didn’t dignify that with a response. 

Well then, John could prove it. Ignoring the ache in his left foot and that the last time he tried this was probably what had gotten Virgil’s suspicions on him in the first place, he twisted through the central hub of Five to the entry to the gravity ring. 

Lowering himself carefully in what was usually a thoughtlessly graceful manoeuvre, he landed on his feet in the grav ring, a triumphant, “See, I’m perfectly fine,” already on his lips. Except as soon as his left foot touched the ground with his weight on it, a sharp stab shot through it.

He couldn’t hold back the painfully obvious wince. Or the sudden gasp. 

Virgil’s disappointment was another blow. “And here I thought I had one sensible brother. How did it happen?”

Mechanism of injury, a completely ordinary question for a medic to ask. One he’d compliantly answered for many accidents, even ridiculous earthside ones such as, ‘Fell over again and it’s all gravity’s fault.’ But up here he was meant to be in his element. 

John crossed his arms stubbornly, wobbling on one foot. 

“Couldn’t say.”

“Johnny.” Virgil was exasperated by now. 

“Definitely not telling you anything if you call me that.”

“Johnathan Glenn Tracy.”

“Nope. That’s not even my name.”

“John.”

“Congratulations, you figured it out,” John spat. 

Virgil looked taken aback. 

A lump rose in John’s throat. 

“I’m sorry. It’s been a shit day.” 

He could feel his face growing as red as his hair with shame. It would definitely be visible over holograms. To make it worse, Virgil was probably as exhausted as he was. The last rescue had been nasty, earthquakes so often were, and Thunderbird Two had been on several more before that. He didn’t deserve to have to deal with John’s sarcastic, bitchy attitude as well. 

John admitted defeat and hopped over to the wall to hold onto a grab bar to keep his balance and take the weight off his foot. And resisted the urge to bang his head against it because that sort of thing had gotten him into this mess in the first place. 

His foot was throbbing, Virgil’s expression was soft because he’d already forgiven him and John was just over it all. 

“Please promise you won’t laugh.” He couldn’t deal with that on top of everything else, no matter how unlikely it was that Virgil would. 

“Alright, I promise. I’m not going to judge you, John.”

“I kicked a wall,” John mumbled, “On purpose, because I got mad that the bagel dispenser wasn’t working and a call came in so there was no time to fix it and I couldn’t sleep last night and I’m stressed about literally everything and just wanted a fucking bagel but clearly that was too much to ask of the universe!”

John shut his mouth with a clack. The words had come out in a torrent rising in volume that he couldn’t hold back. Over such a stupid thing too. 

When John could finally  bring himself to glance up from the stars beneath the floor outside, Virgil’s gaze held nothing but empathy. 

“You’re right, it has been a pretty shit day.”

John nodded quietly. 

Virgil continued, “Just— John, you know you don’t have to hide stuff like that from us, from me, right?  We’ve all done stupid things in anger before and probably will do so again. That big, blue splodge of paint on my studio wall? Yeah, I chucked a paintbrush at it because a painting wasn’t working out and I was frustrated and it was three am after a string of bad rescues and I lost it a bit.”

Huh. John hadn’t known that. Virgil was usually least likely to blow up as far as it went. 

“Point is, you’re not alone in this. Tracy temper, remember? We’ve all got it and we are all working out how to work with it. But it isn’t an excuse to conceal an injury that might need treatment even if it seems like it, ‘Should be fine,’ or ‘Isn’t that bad,’ or you think it’s caused by something stupid and you’re worried about us judging you. Because we won’t.”

John took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. 

He wasn’t even getting lectured at for being an idiot, or having it brushed off as nothing because, ‘Red heads and their tempers, y’know,’ or plain old being yelled at because, ‘John, you’re meant to be better than this.’

Virgil cared about him. That was simple fact. 

So John cooperatively answered Virgil’s questions about pain, the range of motion he had and when exactly had the injury occurred this morning. That he couldn’t bear weight on it was pretty telling something was wrong. And it really did hurt. 

“You’re going to need to come down here so I can get x-rays of that foot,” Virgil said apologetically. 

John bit back the wave of disappointment, along with the accompanying urge to snap and snarl. 

“I know.”

He really didn’t want to go back to earth and deal with everyone’s concern and fussing when he just wanted to ignore them and go to bed. Up here on Five no one was close enough to be affected by his moods unless they put in a comm call which he could, as above, ignore. 

But John dutifully transferred control over to Eos and the island, packed his bag because he’d probably be there for a while but he wasn’t going to think about that and loaded himself into the space elevator. He knew how dangerous untreated injuries were in space better than anyone. 

The descent was slower than usual, as was protocol for an injury where speed was not of the essence and a less turbulent descent outweighed the need for timeliness. It gave John plenty of opportunity to stare at the rounded edge of the space elevator’s inner ceiling. Frustration over near guaranteed being grounded bubbled up until he had to screw his eyes shut and force himself to focus on the way the g-forces felt against his body so he didn’t utterly lose it. 

Landing on earth came with a jolt that managed to catch John by surprise. He flinched, then checked the systems read outs and undid his restraints. Remaining lying on the launch couch was one third to demonstrate he could be sensible and wait instead of trying to walk off a potentially serious injury, another third because he didn’t want to tangle with gravity on his own, and also so that he could childishly pretend he was still up on Five and far away for a little longer. 

Virgil knocked on the space elevator doors and a second later they slid open. John gave him a weak smile. 

The journey through the hangars to the infirmary was made with Virgil’s supportive arm around his waist and John’s arm draped across his brother’s broad shoulders as John stubbornly limped along. He did take a moment as his feet first touched the concrete floor and gravity really took hold to lean into Virgil’s half hug and just breathe. 

The infirmary was the same as it always was, with its sterile smell overloaded with the sharpness of antiseptic that made it different from the atmosphere on Five, and thankfully quiet. 

John manoeuvred himself up onto the closest bed, sinking into the stiff foam mattress as much as was physically possible. Stars, he was tired. 

Virgil was exceedingly gentle as he eased John’s foot out of his space boot. He stripped the sock off too, propping the foot up to rest in his lap to examine it. John grimaced as Virgil necessarily poked and prodded at where it was sorest.  Though the bruises and swelling were not particularly hard to spot from where contact had been made with the solid bulkhead. 

John anxiously chewed his lips waiting for Virgil to get the portable x-ray, zap him and be done with it. 

Moving his sore foot around at all the required angles for the shots was… a process. 

He did his best to be patient as Virgil took the x-rays off to Grandma for a second opinion on how they would most effectively treat him, but ended up curled in a ball on the slightly plasticky hospital sheets, stubbornly facing the wall with his foot carefully positioned in a way that it least hurt.

He wasn’t asleep, it was not late enough for that and he was far too wired but he was knocked out of his reverie nonetheless by Grandma stroking his hair. 

“Definitely broken, kiddo. No getting around that.”

Even John could see it when they showed him the x-rays. He could only be grateful the fracture was neatly aligned and wouldn’t need surgery, he’d seen plenty of worse breaks in the field. It still meant weeks of being grounded, away from Five and unable to go home to his stars. 

Virgil applied the cast under Grandma’s supervision. John shuddered at the sensations even as he tried to keep still. He was proud of how far Virgil had come in his medical education and he made sure his brother knew that. 

The usual checks after coming down from space wore on his nerves. He took the painkillers for his stupid broken foot, the anti-nausea meds as his stomach wasn’t settling from the change from microgravity and the tall lidded cup of the least disgusting flavour of electrolyte drink as directed. 

He fidgeted with his baldric, tracing over the lines of his suit; everything was a lot today. For all of them; John didn’t miss the dark circles beneath Virgil’s eyes or the way he slumped as he sat on the bed next to John once Grandma had left and the cast was setting. 

Virgil had briefly crossed his arms over his chest, hugging himself, hands rubbing the flannel of his sleeves. Then he uncrossed them, hunching his shoulders to appear smaller, less intimidating, fingertips still going over the soft, worn fuzzy material of the cuffs of his flannel.

John placed his hand, palm up on Virgil’s leg. Virgil took it and John squeezed his fingers once as they sat in silence for a while. 

Changing out of his space suit for the loose pyjama shorts and t-shirt Virgil brought was difficult and awkward with his foot. And how clumsy he was here in general. 

Trying to walk on crutches was, to put it in far politer words than John vehemently used, a disaster. 

One second he was standing with the crutches around his arms, adjusted to the correct height, his casted foot off the ground, everything done properly, about to take a step. The next he was a tangled pile of limbs on the ground. 

John’s cheeks were burning red yet again. Stupid, fucking gravity and his miraculous ability to trip over nothing. 

He shoved the useless hunks of metal away from him as the room blurred, swiping at the angry tears as they formed. 

Virgil crouched in from of him, checking him over for injury. Well, further injury. 

There wasn’t any, apart from his rather dented pride. John didn’t count the damp tears trickling down his face as he studiously attempted to ignore them. 

Virgil made a soft noise as John let himself be pulled into a hug. Warm flannel absorbed his tears as John hugged Virgil tighter. Somehow it felt like he hadn’t seen him for months even though it couldn’t’ve been that long, could it? Unless they counted for quality time rather than John being periodically dragged down to earth… He missed his quietest and closest brother in age even if they’d been talking mission only this morning. 

Maybe John tried to hide from the world for a little while, and Virgil let him. They both needed this; Virgil’s face was also buried in John’s hair. 

After a while, sitting sprawled on the hard infirmary floor caught up to them with all the aches of too long days of heavy work. And broken bones. John shifted with a grimace.

Now he had to get back up off the ground when the crutches were clearly not a help, when he was pretty near useless down here, unable to resist the inevitable pull of gravity to the centre of the earth and the unforgiving ground. 

…He was probably being far too dramatic about it. Should just get it together like everyone else seemed able to do. 

But it was still a problem that he didn’t want to deal with because fundamentally, he wished he was back on Five. 

He had been going to tell someone about the injury, of course. Just as soon as he’d thought up a watertight excuse slash explanation. As soon as got himself under control and stopped being so sensitive over everything that he’d snap at anyone who got near him. So he would not end up like this, a too-emotional mess on the floor. 

Virgil once again checked his cast and his broken foot were undamaged by his fall. John wondered whether it was as much for Virgil’s sake of making sure idiot big brothers weren’t going to suddenly keel over as for John’s. John rubbed a hand roughly over his face. It was because Virgil cared. And maybe time had proven he had a right to worry.

John protested as Virgil went to pick him up, on the grounds Virgil had already been doing plenty of heavy lifting on rescues today and he had to be exhausted already, and John really didn’t want him to throw his back out or his knees or whatever other worst case scenarios John could come up with. 

He also knew he’d look utterly ridiculous in Virgil’s hold, all gangly, lanky limbs out of proportion with Virgil’s shorter, stockier build. And John was more likely to accidentally elbow someone in the nose, which had demonstrably happened before and the guilt still chewed at him, than even Scott fighting tooth and nail against being slung over someone’s shoulder when he there was no way he could even physically stand, let alone walk any distance. He warned Virgil away sharply.

“John. I know my limits, and you aren’t any worse than Scott.” Virgil sounded done with it all. “And I’d rather carry you than have to pick up the pieces or reset that cast, which I have also had to do before, because one of my brothers is injured and deserves help but they are too damn stubborn to let me.”

The fight in John left him as a hissing exhale, like a hole in a space ship venting atmosphere. 

Virgil scooped him up off the ground, promising to figure the rest out later as John avoided flailing too much. 

His brother’s arms were secure around his knees and under his shoulders, holding him close so there was no danger of him hitting the ground, of the falling that some part of John secretly feared, even with the rocking movement of Virgil’s strides. John’s cheek stayed mushed against Virgil’s flannel-clad chest. 

The walls of the house passed him in a tired blur. He really didn’t want to be left to sit around in his room where no matter how tired he was he wouldn’t sleep yet. Lying there staring at the ceiling all afternoon with nothing better to occupy him than his turbulent thoughts was frankly not a good idea. 

He said as much to Virgil, probably far too bluntly. The usual multi-stage filter he sorted his words through before he ever said them had met its untimely demise in face of his exhaustion several hours ago. 

It wasn’t like he wanted to hang around amidst the noise and movement and peopleing of the lounge with everyone else either. John being difficult again, as usual, the voice in the back of his head snarked.

Virgil had mercy on John and took the back route through the house instead of past the comms room where everyone would see him, even if it was only his family who he should know wouldn’t judge him. Everyone had been in the position of being carried about when they’d fallen asleep somewhere or were injured or were about to be chucked into the pool, so except in the last situation, John shouldn’t’ve been embarrassed or really cared, except that he did. 

They passed by John’s bedroom. John curled a little closer to Virgil in something that could’ve been called relief. He really wasn’t sure he wanted to be completely alone right now; he trusted Virgil.

A booted foot nudged open the door before Virgil placed John down on one of the big, squishy beanbags in the corner of his studio. 

John melted into it. He didn’t think he had bones anymore. Or any outside of the ones he’d just broken which had plenty of painful evidence of their existence. But no bones. He could even forgive gravity just this once when it was letting him sink into the soft surface. 

He looked up at Virgil’s low chuckle. 

“They’re good, aren’t they? Gordon found them online and I chose the colours.” Virgil smiled fondly. 

They hadn’t been here the last time John had hung out in Virgil’s studio with him. A spike of sorrow stabbed at his chest. 

New beanbags were a tiny change. It shouldn’t even matter. Except they demonstrated precisely how he was missing out on the details of his brothers’ lives while he was away. 

The beanbag covers were greens and yellows, soft, earthen shades exactly what John would expect Virgil to pick. Colourful, but not in your face. Soothing and restful but not dull. 

Observations probably not as important to anyone else as John found them. 

Virgil ducked out and came back with John’s tablet, the one he used earth-side with its bulky, lilac shatter-proof case. 

John took it carefully from Virgil’s hands, not because it was breakable even dropped from quite a height, but because of the consideration Virgil gave him, to bring him it to read on when he couldn’t go get something himself. 

In space, alone, it wasn’t like there anyone to do that kind of thing for him. Even with the gifts snuck into monthly supply crates by his family, he’d sort of forgotten how it felt.

He shoved away the ever so familiar feeling of being torn in two. He loved the stars, loved being up on Five, he really did. In spite of this, missing his family while up there was a constant wound he packed with the duty of constantly being called upon, of constantly needing to be the Voice Who Answers, in hopes of staunching his bleeding emotions. It contrasted with how he never wanted to outstay his welcome on Earth. 

Why was it that no matter where he was, he still wanted to go home?

Why did anger seethe and rise only to leave him all hollow and empty?

John gulped, running his hands over his face. He tucked one into his hair, tugging at the strands in an effort to distract himself. Why the fuck was he like this?

Virgil had turned away to get something off his desk, so at least he didn’t have to see John freaking out over nothing.

John forced a smile when Virgil looked back at him in concern. It wasn't like he could do anything about it. 

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Virgil said.

He was wearing his set of large, over-ear noise-cancelling headphones, covered in green stickers, his chin nodding along to a beat John couldn’t hear. Virgil wasn’t smiling but the creases around his eyebrow scar were shallower. Today had been getting to him too. 

Left alone, John examined the art studio more thoroughly, letting himself become absorbed in the details, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

The whole place was very Virgil, in the best possible way. Storage for art materials was arranged with an engineer’s precision for putting and keeping things in their proper order, cupboards with closed doors painted olive green and neatly labeled in Virgil’s blocky handwriting. Only the pencils Virgil was currently using were left on his desk, in their tray reordered into an exactingly coloured gradient. John couldn’t deny that it also clicked in his brain with that urge to line stuff up. 

An electric keyboard lived along a side wall by a bookshelf containing folders of sheet music and art theory books. John knew from Virgil that the music was arranged by each song’s dominant colour palette according to folder, when he asked as at first he couldn't make sense of the system when of course Virgil would have a system. 

There were speakers in a few places around the room for the frequent times Virgil listened to music while creating. Good quality ones because Virgil said certain staticky types gave him the same sensation as putting gritty sand in his mouth.

It was Virgil’s space for making art and just being, so he’d adapted it to him. Virgil got overwhelmed when there was too much visual stimulation, with constant busy, bright colours and clutter of the world he couldn't put away, so here was an escape from that. 

The walls and ceiling were light, giving an airy feeling. A large landscape window joined inside and outside seamlessly, looked over what John privately thought was the best view on the island, except for the observatory. You could see right out past Mateo, over pokey trees and ocean. Late afternoon sunlight poured in, and there were shades if it got too much.

Greenery was introduced into the room itself by the massive monstera plant in the corner, its umbrella-like leaves forming pleasing shadows on the floor, contrasting with the near liquid golden light. More smaller plants were scattered about. John brushed his fingers over the monstera, to reach out and touch the tangible connection with life and the earth. 

Occasionally a piece of art was hung up for a while as it was finished before being moved to its intended display area in an other part of the house, like the watercolour sketch of playful dolphins amongst their reef obviously intended for Gordon. But mostly there wasn't anything to distract from the artwork, on canvas or as music, that Virgil was bringing to life. 

John found the studio calming too, even when he usually tended towards wanting all his bright stars, books, open screens and telescopes in his space at once. There was something about the soothing surroundings, how the faint smell of paints and real paper lingered, mixing with engine bio-oil and coffee, that meant safety and home. His brother’s mark on it was undeniable. 

John couldn’t help but search for the splatter of paint Virgil had mentioned earlier. It was blue and on a wall in this room, so it shouldn’t be hard to miss but in spite of all of his skills at searching, it was nowhere to be found. Eventually he resigned himself to the fact that Virgil must have painted over it, destroying the tangible proof that he’d acted out in anger.

The beanbags squished beneath him when he flopped back, long legs stretched out and foot smarting when he moved it, picking up his tablet for something to do. His substantial library of books wasn’t holding anything that could keep his attention right now as he flicked between them, opening and shutting pages. He tipped his head back, looking upwards, letting his tablet fall face down onto his chest.

And there it was. On the wall above him, the blue splodge of paint exactly from Virgil’s story. 

Except it wasn't just a splodge because a rainbow of lines had been added around it, faithfully following the original shape and expanding upon it, forming a bird with wings outstretched, flying freely across the wall. Something utterly beautiful from from what had begun as only painful.

John’s breath caught. He didn't know how Virgil did that. He wrung out hope from anger, forming all the emotion into art where John just flailed because he didn’t want to touch his feelings with a thousand kilometre stick.

But here, in Virgil’s studio surrounded by the calm quiet where he could finally breathe, he could try.

So he picked up his tablet. Opened up the word programme. And began to write.

He had no idea where he was going. No plot, no plan, no outline. When he usually did this, for reports, for academic works, he always had his ideas and arguments all laid out in his head and he simply had to put them on the page in front of him.

His fingers found the keyboard and he let them, doing his best not to second-guess and delete every word he put down. To think too much and bail out as it got too big and too scary even when this was just typing on his tablet sitting in a beanbag in the corner of the room, not doing anything at all that could be thought of as dangerous or would mess up his broken foot. 

It wasn't really much. In subject or in word count or in technical finesse. He hadn’t been doing this writing thing for very long, not since university and stories scrawled in his near illegible handwriting hidden in paper notebooks beneath his bed. Not for himself. 

He saved the document and slammed the window closed before he could look at it and convince himself it was all completely stupid and he never should’ve even tried in the first place.

But it was cathartic and it gave him somewhere to put the irrational seething anger, outlined by the sorrow that seeped through in the lines between, to bleed out on paper, in words that were his first language and first love. In the beginnings of stories that didn’t have to be perfect or real and contained far too much of himself to even think about showing anybody yet, but that maybe one day he would. 

When Virgil knocked on the door and opened it, John jumped like he’d been caught out. Then he glanced up and saw the blue paint splodge turned flying bird from the corner of his eye, and he could smile at Virgil with all the love in the world and more understanding of how his brother worked. Of why after hard rescues and bad days his first instinct was to turn to piano or canvas.

Seeing what Virgil was carrying on the tray in his hands had John wishing he hadn’t ever broken his foot so he could throw himself at Virgil to hug him this very second. Though if he hadn’t been injured, he never would’ve come down from Five today.

A blueberry bagel, toasted, with the special strawberry cream cheese that was his favourite but never lasted long in space. Or on Earth, unless his brothers saved it for him on purpose. 

There was a cup of tea too, next to Virgil’s customarily massive mug of coffee.

John just stared up at him, until he found his voice to whisper all his thanks over and over. He took the plate and the cup in slightly trembling hands, then placed them on the floor next to him. 

He raised his arms so that Virgil would crouch down and John could squish him into a hug. 

John clung to red flannel for a few seconds longer than he usually would. Virgil returned it in kind, smiling at him with soft, brown eyes. 

Then he was fussing over John’s foot again, propping it up on pillows and wrapping an icepack around it. John took it in because this was Virgil’s way of showing he cared. As well, it would mean he could get back on his feet sooner by not ignoring the injury. Plus it hurt less.

Before Virgil returned to his desk and pencils, John bumped their foreheads together in show of affection not as frequently done between them with the distance. It was often Scott and Virgil’s thing.  Virgil hummed happily at him even when John wobbled as he leaned forward, making the collision slightly more forceful than he intended. Instead they laughed together over Tracy hard heads. 

Enjoying each other’s company with no pressure to talk or interact was nice and exactly what they both needed. They could do their own things in parallel, Virgil with his art, a sketch forming beneath steady hands, and John with… whatever he was doing at this point.

Gathering up his courage, he cautiously reopened his word document from earlier and read over what he’d written. It was… okay actually. The typos and errors he grimaced at were numerous, but those were fixable problems.

It was a story, he’d written something. John found himself smiling down at his tablet with the urge to add more so he did.

The time passed in the light from the windows transforming from light gold to a fiery orange, stretching across their room and their island alike. As dusk grew closer, the bird calls and insect songs changed, and there were so many wonderful things about space that John could never give up loving but it didn't have this.

So maybe that was what was wrong with him. Instead of a flaw in his very humanity, it was more not enough food and too much stress, not sleeping right or talking to anyone. Those simple things he sort of… forgot about, ignored. John needed to be around family too, with the sunlight streaming in, plants in touching distance and the quiet company of Virgil and some care to feel better. 

Maybe while he was down here, he’d even go stargazing outside tomorrow, lying on a picnic blanket on the grass like he used to. Monitor work could be taken care of at dad’s desk, there’d be time to help Allie with his school work then play video games together and once his cast was off, swim in Gordon’s ocean. To hang out with Scott too and help pull his beloved biggest brother out of his own overwork spiral. He hadn’t had a chance to catch up with Grandma or Kayo or Brains in a while either. 

Only then would he return to Five, to his stars and space, his research and monitor duty proper. His little room up there, the gravity ring and central floating hub, with Eos as his companion, they were home too. Not in replacement of the island and his family but in addition. And he knew he could come down to Earth when he needed to even if, especially when it was just because he wanted a hug.

Right now, the soft patter of his fingertips on the glass screen blended with the scratchings of Virgil’s coloured pencils on artist’s paper. 

He munched on his bagel and sipped his tea contentedly. Virgil had been cupping his warm mug of coffee in his hands, happily sighing as John fought the urge to giggle.

It was with a cheerier and more relaxed Virgil that they ended up squished together on the beanbag pile once the sun was fully set. John snuggled into his brother’s side, it really had been too long but he was here now. 

Virgil’s fingers tapped contentedly against the knee of his jeans like he was playing a melody on the piano, other arm tucked around John, meaning John could feel the vibrations as Virgil hummed along. John went from messing with the case of his tablet to happily flickering his hands at his sides.

Also, how were the beanbags this comfortable? These ones didn’t even rustle and squeak like he remembered the ones they’d had as kids did. 

Those had met a horrific end with their guts all over the house when Gordon had wanted to know what was inside them and out of scientific curiosity John had helped find the answers, utilising his ability to read and follow the instructions on the tag of how to open the pull-less zipper with an ancient paperclip. 

He retold the story to Virgil whose eyes widened in surprise.

“So it was you!” he laughed. “I’d wondered how Gords did it, but I hadn't put anything past the fish.”

John lost his battle with holding in his own giggles and decided to let Virgil in on the secrets of a few other John-and-Gordon specials.

There was a knock before Scott ducked his head around the corner of the doorway, just as John glanced up.

Scott leant against the frame, intense blue eyes looking him over. John couldn’t tell whether they were sharper in person than over hologram or softer. They stuck on John’s cast, flicking to Virgil before scanning carefully over his body, same as if any of the others were injured in the field. 

“Scott,” John stated. An acknowledgment that his big brother was here. The tight, tangled  barbed wire ball that had been living in his stomach for days loosened further. 

“You okay?”

How was he supposed to answer that? In this moment, laughing aloud with Virgil, yeah he was. But all the rest of the day, the week beforehand? John gave a noncommittal shrug that didn’t give much either way. 

Of course that became cause for Scott to come closer. He knelt in front of John, ever so mindful of his broken foot. 

Telegraphing his movements, Scott reached out and brushed John’s hair out of his face before silently kissing his forehead, all gentle big brother who was here for him no matter what.

He repeated the motion with Virgil. 

John froze for precious seconds then threw himself at Scott. 

It hurt. He’d forgotten about his foot in its awful cast for a moment, knocking it painfully against the floor with a broken yelp. But Scott caught him anyway. Virgil’s arms went back around him too and he was still humming but in a steadier pitch. 

John was sniffling against Scott’s chest, soaking up his brothers’ warmth and all the love in the room, even as he wasn’t sure whether he was crying again from sorrow or pain or because they both cared about him so, so much and the happy-overwhelmed feeling got stuck as a lump in his throat.

Maybe together they could fix this mess John had somehow made. But right now John let them hold him close, let Scott rock them until the calm of the room could creep back in.

A cuddle pile formed on the beanbags once again, this time with Scott too. John leant back on Scott’s chest, still hiccuping occasionally from the tears. Both sets of their long legs alongside each other were tossed over Virgil’s lap, who’d very fairly called them a lanky, boney weighted blanket, while snuggling in with no suggestion they move. He could feel Scott’s chin resting on top of his head, breaths lightly tickling his hair.

Virgil had had to check again, with the medscanner he kept in his studio first aid kit, that John hadn’t screwed up his foot in its bright orange cast. Yet he hadn’t and even though John could still feel the pain of the impact, Virgil had given him another dose of ibuprofen which would take the edge off soon.

John’s eyes slid half shut with exhaustion. Scott let him fidget with his hands as he gripped them. Virgil was tapping out piano pieces again, a more relaxed melody now against the top John’s bare shin, the sensation grounding and reminding him Virgil was close.He had his brothers. All of them. All of his family. They loved him and they’d help him figure this out and that was more that enough, it was everything.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #john tracy #virgil tracy #astrawrite #autistic john tracy #autistic virgil tracy #neurodivergent tracies

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Happy Tears

insecure virgil who fears that janus and remus only kept him close out of pity because of his anxiety – anon

I’m not putting the whole ask heard bc by god is it long

Read on Ao3

Warnings: panic attacks, insecure virgil, touch starvation

Pairings: virgil/janus/remus, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 3970

Virgil is no stranger to tears. Of fear, of anger, of panic, of sadness. Especially since he's become distant from his family, the two people who he misses more than his own shadow. Perhaps, though, he is not the only one missing someone so terribly it aches.

There are few things more truly upsetting than learning that someone you thought cared for you is only doing so out of the genuine kindness they themselves possess and not out of anything that makes you special to them.

Everything they have done for you, every bit of kindness paid to you, every time you thought to go to them because you knew they would make you feel safe…all of it is a testament to how good of a person they are and has nothing to do with you. You are but another recipient of their kindness. There isn’t anything that differentiates you from everyone else they choose to be kind to because they are kind and the world is all the better for it and their world would only change slightly if you were no longer receiving that kindness. And there is something…oddly wonderful about that, for how lucky are you to have known even a day of kindness, and how crushing it is to discover that it isn’t your own virtue that sprung up that desire for kindness.

Perhaps that, in and of itself, is a whole new kind of selfishness.

Virgil knows, he does, that he is not easy to care for. He doesn’t make it easy, how can he, when his brain is constantly trying to make itself believe the worst? How can he, when even the merest offer of kindness is misconstrued to be a trick? Or when he lashes out in fear and anger and hurts those who would come to help him? What use is there for something that breaks if someone so much as looks at it wrong?

He tried to explain it once, when the kindness had come in the form of soft words and gentle questions, to say that he becomes convinced that everyone secretly hates him, that every time he’s gone they all think about how much better it would be if he didn’t come back, or that one day they’ll realize how much of a pain he is to deal with and cut him swiftly from their lives like a chunk of dead wood. And because his brain is his brain, the words had no more formed than a swift rebuttal arose, stating how cruel it was that he thought that of them, how mean it was, how unjust it was for him to think of them like that. And he’d wanted to scream at that part of himself that he wasn’t doing it on purpose, he couldn’t help it, that was him trying to explain why his brain was such an asshole, not what he was doing to make the job of paying him kindness even more challenging.

But in the end, the other side won, and he swallowed the words behind his hoodie strings.

He’s messy. He’s too messy for them to deal with. And now that they don’t have to do it anymore, why would they bother?

Because it wasn’t just the three of them in the dark anymore. It wasn’t the frantic skittering of spider legs and the wet sloshing of tentacles and the comforting hisses of a snake, no. Now the cobwebs blew through near-empty corridors as the glimmer of light led toward laughing and talking and the glimmers of a better place. The sun looked so nice sparkling on the tops of the waves, and snakes did better in the warmth of the bright light, but spiders scuttled and hid in the shadows because no one wants to look at a spider if they can help it.

He gets the irony. Really, he does. He was the first one to leave. He left them first. And he dragged his feet all the way there while the others sought to bring them out too. What right did he have to say they left him?

But how could he go to Patton, who was sweet and kind and strong enough to believe unwaveringly in the good of the world and ask him to love a spider? How could he face that with snot and tears running down his face while he screamed and shouted? How could he go to Logan, who was clever and compassionate and tell him he didn’t know what to do? How could he explain what he was doing when it was at its very core irrational? How could he go to Roman, who was brave and kind and good and ask him for anything? How could he? How dare he?

And how could he contrast the three of them with Janus and Remus, when they had been with him for as long as he could remember? How could he believe the others too good for him when everyone always had been?

No. He was too much. They didn’t deserve to deal with that. He would deal. By himself. That was better.

And it’s not like it’s all bad. He’s not—he’s not totally alone. He’s got them, he does. He has people now. He could go and talk to them if he wanted to. And they’re good people. They would listen. Because they’re kind like that. They scoop spiders up in paper towels or cups and put them outside so they can run free.

Virgil just squashes them on sight.

No. This was okay. He could make it easier for them. He can give them Virgil to deal with, not the spider.

He…he’ll be the spider by himself. In his dirty webs covered in flies. He can…he can do this. They don’t need to deal with him.

It doesn’t matter that the webs blow around all the time in the empty corridors. It doesn’t matter that the nights get colder and colder with no other moving creatures around. It doesn’t matter that he has to build his web in secret corners the Light has forgotten about.

It’s better this way.

…he just has to get over it.

***

“Virgil?”

Virgil pulls an earbud out of his head. “Yeah, Princey?”

“I have a question for you and I don’t want you to throw anything at my head.”

“So ask me a question that doesn’t make me want to throw something at your head, I don’t understand what the problem is.”

Roman sighs, huffing something that could be a laugh as he swats halfheartedly at Virgil’s leg. “Why don’t you come to movie night anymore?”

Okay. Stay calm. There’s a way to handle this question without summoning the snake.

“After all the bullshit you guys have been giving me about getting my sleep schedule on track?” He scoffs. “Now you want me to throw it all away?”

“Movie nights normally end at like, ten at the latest. And we can always start earlier if it’s really a big deal.”

“Nah.” He waves a hand. “Just not my thing.”

Roman narrows his eyes. ‘So it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that Janus and Remus have started coming to more of them?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. “What’s it to you, Princey?”

“Just—is it?”

Virgil hunches his shoulders. “What if it was? Would you stop inviting them?”

“No, but—“

“Then I don’t get why we’re having this conversation.” Virgil jams his earbud back into his ear and turns up the volume. He can see Roman still talking but he’s not listening. He’s not. He’s done with that. “I can’t hear you, you know.”

“Take the earbud out, then.”

Virgil sighs but does, turning to glare at Roman. “What?”

”I just—they miss you, Virgil.”

Now he really does scoff. “They don’t miss me.”

“I don’t think you get to decide that for them.”

“What the fuck could they possibly miss about me?” His hand balls up around the discarded earbud. “And what—no. You’re wrong, Princey. They don’t miss me.”

Roman just looks at him. His eyes narrow slightly. He’s staring at him like he’s trying to figure out what Virgil’s talking about, which—if Roman doesn’t understand there’s nothing about Virgil worth missing, that means he needs to leave before Roman figures that out.

”Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, getting up from the couch, “just—don’t ask me stupid questions.”

”Virgil, wait—“

Roman grabs his arm.

Three things happen at the same time.

First, a burning sensation rockets up Virgil’s arm and shocks his chest.

Second, his throat constricts and squeezes around every sound he could ever possibly make.

Third, he feels a very familiar tug in his gut as someone, or more accurately, two someones notice that something is wrong.

He rips his arm away from Roman and sinks out, scrabbling frantically at his chest and arm to get that feeling off of him, make it stop, go away. The room buckles and shudders around him as he yanks his headphones off and tears at his clothes. He dives under the covers and curls up tight. The mass in his chest keeps building, building, building—

They almost found out. They almost found out and they can’t find out because if they find out they’ll want to deal with it and that’s awful of him to want to make them deal with him again, not again, he can’t do that to them, they’re too good for it, how dare he t try and make them deal with the mess that he is is, with the awful thing that he is, the horrible, awful, messy, terrible thing that he is. He can’t do that. He can’t do that to them. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

Shame on you, the tendrils of web hiss as they shoot out in all directions, shame on you. All Roman wanted to do was check in and you were awful to him.

Stop it, he pleads through a ruined chest, stop it, stop it, stop it!

You’re the awful one, it taunts, tying him up in sticky ropes, you’re the one who insists there’s nothing to miss about you. You’re right, who the fuck could miss this?

Another slimy web wraps around his throat, burning from how cold it is. A cruel wind howls in Virgil’s ears and he curls up tighter, fists pressed against his temples to try and drown it out.

You’re such an idiot, the voice hisses, because it’s in his head, so how could he ever drown it out? You’re such a fucking idiot. You can’t do anything right. You couldn’t even make yourself scarce right.

The howling wind stings his ears and his head pounds. The sticky webs fill his lungs and his nose and he can’t breathe through them. More webs tangle up in the spider’s legs and tears glue themselves to his cheeks. It doesn’t matter how hard he tries to curl up. The wind will find him.

It’s cold.

It’s so, so cold.

He weathers it for as long as he can. The webs shake and shudder in the storm as he cries and hyperventilates. His ears fill with merciless wind and he can’t make anything other than horrible, hitching sobs until the webs glue his mouth too. But when even the wind grows tired of him, he drags himself up out of the disgusting mess he’s made of the blankets and shambles to the bathroom.

The lights make him wince. He fumbles to turn on the sink. He shoves his sleeves up to his elbows and scrubs harshly at his face. He spits out mucus and tries to remember how to breathe like a normal person. He catches sight of his face in the mirror.

There is no tragic hero in what he sees, no dramatic catharsis, no pitiable victim or wounded survivor.

There’s just a mess. A drippy, bloated, disgusting mess.

He tears his eyes away from the mirror and scrubs his face with a towel. A bit of makeup comes off on it. As he looks at it, a memory flashes to the front of his mind.

Here, a soft voice says, try this first. This will take off most of it for you.

Not that I care, another voice says, I like it. Fuck up my towel as much as you want.

Despite everything, a laugh chokes its way from his throat. He rubs his thumb over the stain, again and again. Memories swirl around, of Janus coaxing him into a cuddle, of Remus rubbing his back and playing with his hair, of the both of them gently bullying him into the bath and then into a pile of soft blankets, of them whispering that it’s okay, everything’s okay, he’s going to be okay. On instinct, he turns to show it to them, but—

But he meets an empty, blank wall.

He clutches the towel to his chest. He slides down to curl up on the floor. The tile is cold under him.

This time, when he starts crying, he can’t blame the panic attack, or the webs, or the cold, or anything other than the fact that he is enough of a mess that he can make himself get this upset over nothing at all.

***

A robin, carrying a small piece of paper in its beak over a forest of bare trees and strange creatures.

A raven, landing atop a glistening balustrade.

A deer, walking across a perilous stone bridge with a small basket strapped to its back.

A shambling rock beast with a secret compartment in its chest, crawling up the side of a babbling brook.

A dragon with gleaming red scales flying towards a tall tower of oily black stone.

A Kraken emerging from the water depths in the moat of a shining castle.

A plan.

***

Virgil gets up at the knock on his door, frowning when he opens it to see no one on the other side. He’s about to write it off as a very unoriginal prank, when he notices the card lying on the floor. He frowns, going to pick it up., A gold wax seal holds it closed and he rolls his eyes fondly as he closes his door.

Princey truly is one for the dramatics.

He opens the card, setting the envelope down on his table. There’s a cute picture of a cottage on the front and very simple text that reads: ‘Imagination. 6PM. Come and see.’

It’s li Princey knew he wasn’t getting up before 3 at the latest. He glances at the clock—2:45–and decides that yeah, sure, why not? Roman has good surprises in the Imagination more often than not, and it’s not like he’ll have to stay if he really doesn’t like whatever it ends up being.

He flips the card over to the back and laughs when he sees the other text Roman’s left for him. No tricks. Just for you. Promise.

“You’re a dork, Princey.”

When 6 rolls around, he tucks the card in the pocket of his hoodie and ambles over to the door the Imagination. He debates if he should knock—that would be polite, right?—but as soon as he raises his hand, the door swings open. He steps through into a late-afternoon path through a glade of trees. Sunlight slants through the leaves, golden light touching the stones in the path leading up to the cottage from the card. The air is pleasantly warm, not too hot for his hoodie, nor cold enough to make him grateful for it. The door to the Imagination swings shut behind him, its outline glowing for a moment before it melds seamlessly with the forest path. The smell of wildflowers and the sound of faintly-buzzing bees follows him as he walks up to the cottage.

The door opens with barely a creak as he steps inside. A tiny kitchen sits at his immediate left, a small staircase leading up to a second floor on his right. Directly in front of him are a set of large windows, each framed by curtains, and a giant mound of pillows in the centre of the floor. A fireplace sits ready and waiting tucked into the recess of one wall, directly opposite a table pushed against the side of the room. The windows are cracked, just slightly, and he realizes they’re doors. Huge glass doors that can be opened up to let the evening air in. He wanders forward, drawn by the pile that seems to sparkle in the golden hour light, his hand going to the card in his pocket.

”Wow,” he mumbles under his breath, taking another step forwards, “this…this is…wow.”

From above him, he hears the creak of floorboards, followed by footsteps on the stairs. He turns slightly to meet who he assumes is Roman, but doesn’t take his eyes off the pillows.

“This place is great, Princey. What’s the, uh, what’s the occasion?”

The footsteps come to a stop right behind him. Something out of the corner of his eye moves and he looks down to see two gloved hands wrap around his waist and pull him against a terrifyingly familiar chest.

“Gotcha,” Janus murmurs into his ear, “hi, sweetie.”

Virgil’s heart stops.

“I know Roman wrote ‘no tricks,’” Janus continues, voice still as soft and gentle as Virgil remembers, “but I’m afraid I may have…misled him a little. Not that he suspected otherwise, I’m sure, but I had a feeling you wouldn’t have come if you thought it wasn’t just Roman asking.”

“What—how—why—“

“Shh, sweetie,” he interrupts with a gentle squeeze around Virgil’s middle, “just let me talk for a little, okay? I’m not—I’m not sure if I can get all of it out if I don’t start now.”

Virgil’s mouth shuts and he nods jerkily.

“Thank you.” Janus takes a breath and Virgil can feel his hands trembling ever so slightly. “I…I’m the one who asked Roman to ask you about movie nights. I didn’t know it would upset you. I’m sorry.”

Virgil doesn’t say anything. He feels a shaky breath on the back of his neck.

“We miss you, sweetie,” comes the whisper, “we miss you, little spider.”

A whimper leaves his mouth before he can stop it and he claps his hands over his mouth to keep the rest of them in. He hears a soft noise of protest and another hand—right, because he can do that—covers them.

“I know you don’t believe me,” Janus says softly, “I know you don’t. It’s not your fault your brain is awful to you, sweetie. But I need you to believe me when I say we do miss you, Virgil, we miss you terribly.”

Virgil swallows. His throat works against the collar of his hoodie. Janus carefully pries his hands from his face and holds them tightly. The arms around his waist squeeze again.

“I miss you,” he croaks, the pillows blurring in front of him, “I miss you so much.”

“We miss you too, little spider, come back to us. Let us be with you again.”

“But I’m—“

“What,” Janus asks when Virgil chokes himself off, “what are you?”

“I’m so messy.”

The softest chuckle as Janus squeezes him again. “Since when has Remus shied away from a little mess? Since when have I?”

Virgil’s lip wobbles. He wants. He wants. He wants to believe so bad that this is real and they don’t care but they do care and the problem is that this is just how good they are, and it has nothing to do with him.

As if he can hear him, Janus sets his chin on Virgil’s shoulder, voice soft in his ear.

“Are you going to be stubborn, little spider?”

Oh, god.

Those words were whispered when the storms were too loud, or the bath was too cold, or the night too scary, when he was pulled into embraces whether he pouted about them or not, and he’s crying, he’s crying all over again, and he can’t say yes but he can’t say no.

“Alright, you asked for it.”

The arms and hands begin to pull away and he lets out a frightened noise and there’s a small shove in the small of his back and he’s tumbling into the pillows and the pillows are—opening?

A blur of black and green surges up from the middle of the pillows and wraps around him, pulling him deep into the soft pile and wriggling around until he’s neck-deep in them. He splutters and flails a little until the blur solidifies into arms and legs and a torso and a head buried into the crook of his neck, snuffling against the collar of his hoodie. He hears Janus chuckling in the background as a low purr rumbles against his chest and he—he—

“Little monster,” Remus mumbles happily, getting comfortable half on top of him, “I gotcha.”

“R-Remus?”

“Yeah, it’s me. You gonna be a pouty spider about it?”

Virgil couldn’t not be pouty if he tried right now, not when Remus is cuddling him and teasing him and it’s still so warm and soft. His lip wobbles again and he knows his eyes must be huge as Remus leans up just enough to kiss his nose.

“Aww,” he coos, half babying and all care, “you feeling lonely, little spider?”

Something collapses.

Virgil doesn’t know what’s happening, where he is, what is going on, only that he’s crying and Remus is holding him and Janus is here and he’s babbling something about being sorry and missing them and wanting them and not wanting to be a mess and crying all over them and everything is messy and sticky and perfect again. Remus keeps making his weird purring noise that makes Virgil’s tummy feel funny and Janus murmurs in his ears, filling them with soft words and gentle touches. The sun is warm and the light is soft and the world is still, just for a little while, just so that Virgil can be a mess and that’s okay.

“When you’re ready,” Janus says softly as his hand cards through Virgil’s hair, “you can have a shower upstairs and we can cuddle in the big bed.”

Remus hums in agreement, still half on top of him just to keep his soul squished into his body. A hiccuping breath is met with shushing and a gentle rub of his stomach. “You’re getting spoiled, little monster. You’ve deprived us of it for too long.”

“Mm.”

“A-bup-bup.” Remus holds a finger over Virgil’s mouth as he goes to protest. “No arguments, little monster. We care about you and you have to deal with it, understand?”

“Best nod and agree,” Janus threatens playfully, “he’s been in a mood all day.”

As fingers dig warningly into his side, Virgil squeaks and nods. Remus grins and presses a smacking kiss to his forehead. “You need to be a puddle for a bit longer?”

“…is that okay?”

“Of course,” Janus murmurs, sliding down to lie beside them, “whenever you’re ready.”

Remus just makes a gleeful noise and flops back down, going back to nuzzling him like he’s a cat. Which…he might be. Virgil’s not putting anything past him.

The world is still soft and safe as they lie there on the pillows. Twinkling motes of light come in through the big windows and a soft breeze starts to dry some of his tears. Remus is warm and solid on top of him, Janus’s hand gentle as they card through his hair. As Virgil blinks up at the ceiling, his eye catches on a silvery strand of something between two of the wooden boards. He follows it to a corner near the center beam splitting the roof, and he sees a glistening, sparkling spider web.

In the strands of the web are the words welcome home.

For the first time in who knows how long, Virgil cries happy tears.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash  @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv  @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl

#dragonbabbles #sanders sides #fic #virgil sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #roman sanders

[loopstagirl]

Midnight Snack

Just a bit of brotherly fluff for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt this week.

Word count: 1000

Scott’s senses were tingling.

With a groan, he threw back the covers and rolled from bed. There was no point trying to go back to sleep now. His brothers always mocked him for his ability to just know when something was wrong, but that didn’t stop them from listening to those same instincts when it suited them.

This wasn’t a collapsing building sort of wrong, though. It was much closer to home.

He padded out of his room on silent feet, not pausing to grab a top. The island was hotter than usual, and he welcomed any breeze he could find.

He pushed open Virgil’s door. A deep snore was his only hint there was someone in the bed. Despite the heatwave, Virgil was still buried under his covers, just the top of his head poking out. Smiling, Scott retreated and shut the door.

Alan was the opposite. Limbs splayed in all directions and lying on top of the covers. His head was thrown back, mouth open, but he, too, was fast asleep. Scott couldn’t resist watching the rise and fall of his chest for a few moments, finding it soothing. But it wasn’t Alan who needed him.

Habit made him open John’s door. Of course, the room was empty. Hovering in the doorway, he touched his watch, sending the faintest vibration up to space. If John was awake, he’d answer. If not, he wouldn’t feel it.

Nothing. His space-bound brother was also lot in dreams, although Scott prayed they were good ones after the few days they’d had.

He didn’t bother checking Gordon’s room. He didn’t need to now he knew the other three were resting. Instead, he stole downstairs, glancing into the lounge as he did so. The automatic lights were off around the pool: Gordon wasn’t out there, either. However sneaky he tried to be, he couldn’t get around the sensors – which was the exact reason their dad had installed them in the first place.

There was a light on, however. It wasn’t really a surprise it was coming from the kitchen. Scott nudged open the door, blinking in the soft glow. Gordon was sat on a bar stool, head resting in his hands, slumped against the table. He didn’t give any sign that he’d heard his big brother, but Scott knew he had. It was harder to sneak up on Gordon than him – and that was saying something.

He slipped onto the seat opposite, waiting. He didn’t say anything, knew he didn’t have to. It took a good ten minutes before Gordon lifted his head. He looked exhausted, red-rimmed eyes and dark bags betraying how much sleep he hadn’t been getting. But more than that, he looked miserable.

“Tell me,” Scott said softly. His tone was a mixture of command and plea, knowing Gordon needed to let whatever it was off his chest.

“It’s just…” Gordon breathed deeply for a few moments. But then he pushed himself into a more upright position and looked Scott in the eye. “So many rescues, lately. Do we even make a difference?”

Scott smiled gently. Gordon was always the lightest of sleepers out of all of them, and no doubt the heat had been keeping him up despite the tiredness caused by the rescues. But while exhaustion may have given voice to his words, it hadn’t planted that thought. Who knew how long this had been bugging Gordon?

“168,” Scott said. Gordon blinked.

“Huh?”

“168 people. That’s how many we’ve had contact with over the last two weeks. Sure, some of them would’ve been fine without us. But you know a lot wouldn’t have been. Especially those fires.”

“168,” Gordon repeated softly. “That’s how many we’ve-,” he trailed off, as if saying it was just too big.

Scott nodded. “Saved, yes. And 38 were you alone when you got that trawler to safety.”

“Well, Virgil-,”

“Gave you a lift there, and that was it. You saved those people, Gordon. You let them go home to their families and loved ones that night. Why don’t you ask them if we make a difference?”

Gordon managed a weak smile. But a shadow was shifting in his eyes. This wouldn’t be the end of it: the next hard spell would bring those same doubts back, for Gordon, or any of the others. But for now, Scott hoped that nightmare had been put to rest for the time being.

He stood up. Gordon looked surprised.

“That’s it? You’re going?”

“While my bed is calling me, no,” Scott said. He crossed the room, grabbing a couple of spoons before opening the freezer. The kitchen tiles were bliss on his bare feet. “There’s something we both need more than sleep right now.”

He heard Gordon shift behind him as he rummaged to the back.

“I’m not in the mood for a beer.”

Scott shot a scathing look over his shoulder. “Since when do we keep beer in the freezer?”

He pulled out his prize, dumping it on the table between them and passing over a spoon. Gordon’s eyes lit up.

“Chocco-chunk,” he half-moaned. “I thought Al had eaten it all.”

Scott winked. “I hid it the last time he was raiding the freezer.”

It was already half eaten. Gordon wasn’t the first to need an emergency sweet treat lately, and Virgil had helped him make a good dent in the ice cream last week.

As Gordon attacked it, smacking his lips in delight at the ice-cold sensation, Scott smiled and prised some out for himself. He wasn’t generally a big ice-cream eater – that was John – but there was something about a middle of the night crisis session where it was the only thing that would do.

As the coldness melted on his tongue and he felt his entire body temperature drop, Scott relaxed. Gordon’s shoulders had softened, his posture had straightened, and the look in his eye gave away Scott wouldn’t be getting much more if he didn’t hurry up.

In other words, back to normal.

#flash fiction friday #fff244 #critical ice cream #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #gordon tracy #one-shot

[yourchemicallyimbalancedromance]

Blurred Lines

Prompt: Deceit has disguised himself as Patton multiple times off camera as well but it's gotten to the point where Patton's started to forget his identity and not believe he is himself

(credit to @bug-infested-demon for this prompt which you can find here<3)

Ship: platonic moxiety

CW/TW: derealization, a quite literal identity crisis, mention of past panic attacks in detail

Summary: a few weeks after “Can LYING Be Good??” Patton starts to have an identity crisis after Janus disguises himself as him again.

———————————————————————

Patton was swimming. No, not literally. In his thoughts, in his head.

He had laid in an unmade bed with unkempt hair wearing the same black and white snoopy shirt and black shorts for two days straight, stuck inside of his mind while the others attempted desperately to care for Thomas.

He stared at the ceiling, watching the ceiling fan spin around and around and around, the cool breeze brushing against his face every so often.

He listened as the others argued in the commons. Janus had disguised himself as him again for the fourth time that week.

“Shut up!, you…you…” Roman blanked on an insulting nickname.

“Oh Roman, no need for the name calling today, can’t we all just have a polite discussion?” Janus said, voice as smooth and soft as a rock in a creek.

“Your chance for a polite discussion was thrown out the window when you decided to contribute by lying, again.” Virgil quipped, his voice becoming as sharp as a knife at the end of his sentence.

“Now now, Virg. No need to get snarky. I can practically see the malice on your tongue.” Janus replied, voice still soft, though sarcasm reeked off of it.

Virgil’s voice dipped an octave, sensing a disturbance in the environment. “Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that.” He spat firmly.

Janus just chuckled, loving how easy it was to get to the anxious side standing next to him.

“Janus, you have to know by now that—“ Logan began.

Patton didn’t hear the rest, he didn’t want to. He grabbed the pillow next to him and folded it over his ears, muffling out the sound.

That was until they started getting louder. No, not the others, his thoughts.

I’m not real. Am I real? Am I me? Do I exist?

The thoughts swirled around in his head, boiling up for weeks like an awful stew.

He sat up, staring in the mirror bolted onto his door. Photos of him and the others were carefully slid into the open space between glass and wooden outline, holding them in place so he could see them every time he’d get ready. He ignored them, looking into the mirror. He was so lost in thought it was almost as if he was staring past himself.

There were slight bags under his eyes, indicating he hadn’t slept for more than an hour at a time in the last 48 hours. He looked as white as a ghost, considering he hadn’t left his room or gone outside for any other reason than to use the bathroom.

In conclusion, he looked like a total wreck, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to do something about it.

He raised a hand up to his face, touching it lightly.

…What if Thomas has no Morality?

Virgil appeared next to him, arms folded across his chest. Instead of his usual demeanor of dark edginess, he looked oddly..sympathetic, more worried than anything, really.

Patton didn’t bother looking at him, just gazed in the mirror, internally panicking. He was shaking a little.

Virgil couldn’t stand seeing Patton like this, all broken and with no one to defend him against himself.

“Pat..?” The name came out as a whisper. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Patton?”

Patton still didn’t make eye contact, but tears welled in his eyes. If he didn’t exist, then neither did Virgil, or any of the others.

Virgil sat on the bed next to the Moral side, looking at him intently. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Patton tried to speak, he wanted to. He hopelessly wanted to tell someone the thoughts in his head, but all that came out was a whimper with tears falling down his face.

Virgil gently turned Pattons head to face him. “Deep breaths, ‘Kay?” he said, compassionately.

Patton nodded, breathing in, then out. in, then out, until finally he had a grip on his emotions. Not that it mattered if he did or not, he wasn’t real.

“Don’t leave. I know you aren’t real but, please. I need this, you don’t understand how much this family means to me.” Patton begged, voice wobbly.

Virgil’s face scrunched in confusion and concern. “Not re— Patton, what are you talking about?” he held the side close to him, making sure his breathing stayed even.

“None of this is real,” he squeezed out, throat tight from holding back tears, “I don’t even think I’m me. And if I’m not me, than that means Janus is, and if Janus is me then that means that Thomas had no morality in the first place and I’m probably something Roman just conjured up in the imagination and—“

“Patton, oh my god, no, no.“ he held him tighter, “you’re real. This is all real, okay?” He said frantically, cutting off the others spiral.

“You are not something that was just made up, Pat. Do you feel the carpet under your feet? That’s real. It’s okay, I promise.”

Patton nodded, “you’re sure…? Because Janus—“

Virgil shook his head, “I couldn’t care less about Janus right now. We’ll definitely be talking later, but I’m more focused on you, and yes I am extremely sure.”

He wanted to laugh at the word he used, ‘talking’, as if it wouldn’t be a full on screaming match.

Patton sniffled, “thank you.”

“Any time, bud” he responded, “and hey, Thomas does have a sense of Morality, or else you wouldn’t be here.”

Patton nodded, gripping on to the Anxious side a little, as if he was still unsure of what he was saying.

“I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.” Was all he could think to say.

and apparently it worked, Patton eased up his hold a bit, noticing how neither of them had magically faded into thin air. He laughed at himself for thinking something so unrealistic.

“…I’ve been there, you know.” Virgil quietly admitted, to which Patton raised a brow in question.

“Thinking about the whole not being real thing. It was the cause of a lot of my…outbursts, to put it lightly.”

Patton understood what he was trying to get at, the massive panic attacks he used to have. He would find him in the bathroom curled up in the shower in the middle of the night, sobbing. He didn’t like to think about it.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He said timidly, almost as if not to disturb the sadness of the memory and their conversation, a tiredness in his voice.

“Hey, it’s okay. I just want you to know that I get it.” Virgil rushed out, not trying to upset Patton further.

“Do you want me to go so you can sleep? Not to sound rude or anything, but it looks like you need it.” He asked, eyeing the bags under Pattons eyes and the exhausted look on his face, like he could barely keep his eyes open.

Patton said nothing, having gone limp in the others arms. He was as tired as Virgil thought.

He blew air out of his nose in amusement. “I’ll be here, don’t worry.” he whispered to the sleeping person in front of him. “I’ve got you.”

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #ts virgil #virgil sanders #ts anxiety #ts patton #patton sanders #ts morality #patton angst #moxiety

[pencilpat]

okay okay! first i wanted to say i love your art! it's so unique and cool!! also super soft when you do moceit and analogical 🥺🩵💛 💜💙 i think those are the characters i find perfect in your style, logan is just 💙✨ (/gen)

so! on the topic of moceit and analogical, maybe some headcanons you have for both pairings? :3 🩵💛 💜💙

Thank you, that's so sweet of you to say! I love every tag you leave on my art, and the whole system is glad you enjoy our work!

Moceit:

Patton has trouble with seeing the other sides as equals, tending to view himself as an authority figure. Not only was Janus the first to challenge this, he was the first to become an equal. Janus challenges a lot of Patton's preconceived ideals and it's good for him - Patton has been living by the morals of a child while also putting himself in a role of power over the others. Janus is needed in order to break apart that dynamic.

Janus and Patton really both love hanging out in the outdoors, and just being around each other and chatting quietly is their favourite way to spend time. Very old married men behaviour.

Janus isn't much of a cuddly person, but Patton very much is. Janus is willing to concede to bedtime cuddles and maybe 5 hugs a day, but no more, no less.

Janus rarely talks about himself and his emotions, he's not fond of the vulnerability that comes with sharing facts about yourself. However, Patton tells Janus everything about himself. To the point that Janus knows about his cold shoulders, even though Patton didn't even know why Janus likes Halloween best.

Patton crochets so many warm clothes for Janus to use during winter to keep him from getting all slow and foggy brained. Janus can become nearly catatonic if he gets extremely cold, and Patton tries to help him stay warm as possible to prevent it.

Analogical:

I LOVE queer romantic analogical!! They care for each other so greatly, even if it couldn't necessarily be defined as a 'relationship', and neither of them want a relationship anyways. (aroace kings)

Logan writes fanfic and Virgil lays against his back on the bed and just hangs out with him. He calls it "nerd stories" but he loves editing for him and proofreading his work (and he loves the opportunity to spend time with Logan and engage his interests and passions in general).

Logan really enjoys letting Virgil show him his music! He enjoys breaking down the beats and melodies logically and the excitement of discovering new things. Logan is an emo and goth music fan by proxy.

Both of them are a bit touch averse and not incredibly physically affectionate, so cuddling or even hugging is rare between them. They much prefer to parallel play beside each other, doing their own thing yet enjoying each other's company.

Virgil truly understands Logan's current struggle, being disregarded and pushed aside, having your opinions discredited and ignored. That's why he never gets mad at Logan for snapping or jumping to conclusions that people hate him. After all, Logan was the one that taught him about cognitive distortions. Virgil is pretty much the only person Logan will accept comfort from at this point.

That's all that is on my mind for now, I love both of these ships so deeply <3

#moceit #analogical #patton sanders #janus sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #sanders sides #qpr analogical #qpp analogical

[footballffbarbiex]

players: trent alexander arnold x oc x virgil van dijk words: 749 request and warning: 500 + words - no pref - Smut - Threesome with Trent and Virgil or (if it’s not too much Foursome with Trent, Jude and Mount 🙈)

“Lift,” you hear Virgil say with a well placed pressured slap to your ass. You do so, shifting your weight more onto your knees temporarily while doing your hardest to keep Trent’s cock within your mouth. He gives slow thrusts, careful to never push more than half of his dick inside of you. The last few times you’d had these stolen moments, you’d managed to take almost all but the last inch of him and you’d sworn you’d work on throat training with him.

Virgil makes himself comfortable beneath you before pulling your hips down slowly until finally, your exposed pussy is pressed to his own lips. He gives small kitten licks to part your folds, licking you from slit to clit and back to your wet hole. You’ve often thought about how he would feel between your thighs but this was nothing compared to the reality of it.

You try to compose yourself but you can’t resist moaning around Trent’s shaft as you hollow your cheeks, something which makes him whimper and buck his hips a little harder, pushing a few more inches into your mouth and past your gag reflex. He watches as your eyes widen, feels your throat work as it tries to expel him from there. There’s a brief look on his face as though he’s apologetic, but the way your throat closes around him feels too good for him to be 100% sorry for the invasion.

“Have I ever told you how gorgeous you look with a mouthful of my cock?” Trent asks, though it’s certainly more rhetorical. All you can do is remain between both men, players who you’re supposed to be looking after within the team, and be used however they wish. You’re pretty sure when you took the job and they explained the role requirements, sexually satisfying them wasn’t specified but it was certainly assumed after a few months.

Virgil swirls his tongue around your opening before darting it inside of you in quick succession. It’s enough to caress the sensitive nerves in the entrance of your pussy, enough to make you want more while still wanting to grind yourself upon his face and ride it. The light stubble on his cheeks and jaw scrape against your soft inner thighs and your cunt and as he pushes his tongue inside of you fully.

Spit is drawn from your mouth whenever Trent pulls his cock to the tip before pushing back in again, creating a well lubricated hole for him to fuck. Your hands remain on your thighs as he requested, but you know to put them on his thighs and tap if he goes too hard or fast. What you aren’t expecting is for Virgil’s large hands to cover yours as he pulls you down onto his face further once his mouth covers your clit.

He gives quick licks, swirling his tongue around your bead before giving little sucks which sends your vision into a burst of white noise. The groan that forms from him only vibrates against you, making you rock against his mouth until he applies the pressure you urgently need. Trent’s able to bend ever so slightly so that his fingers can pinch and roll your nipple between his fingers. His new position makes it so only the tip is between your lips but this is all you need to make him groan with frustration and pleasure while giving yourself over to Virgil.

You focus on how Trent’s fingers feel in comparison to Virgil’s mouth, the sharp pinch and soothing roll vs the perfect suckles and well timed flicks with the very tip of his tongue until you pull yourself from Trent’s cock and finally fill the air with your moans and soft calls of Virgil’s name. You remove a hand from your thigh and reach behind you as Trent gets to his knees beside you, finally wrapping his lips around your hard nipple. Your hand fills with Virgil’s aching cock, fingers already met with his pre-cum which drips down the shaft. He lifts you up slightly, enough for him to be able to moan “fuuuuuck” into the air and get his breath, not expecting you to play. “Want to turn around?”

“Are you ok if I play with Virgil for a bit?”

“I’ve only ever had a 69, not watched one. Can’t promise I won’t cum while watching you both.”

“I’ll clean you up after, if you do.”

“Then let me see you suck that cock baby.”

#trent alexander arnold one shot #trent alexander arnold smut #trent alexander arnold blurb #trent alexander arnold drabble #virgil van dijk imagine #virgil van dijk one shot #virgil van dijk smut

[anxiousgaypanicking]

Breeding

Moxiety (Patton x Virgil) Kinktober 2023 Day Eight: Breeding Warnings: sex, breeding, overstimulation, hickeys

Patton's big hands hold firm to Virgil's thighs, keeping them spread wide open. As his callouses rub over Virgil's skin, the latter can't help but shiver.

"Feel good?" Patton teases, which makes Virgil frown, tucking his face into his shoulder to hide his blush, as he mutters a bitter, incoherent response. The sight of Virgil shyly hiding his countenance makes Patton huff out a soft laugh.

"Here I am, generous enough to breed you full, and I don't even get to see your pretty smile?" Patton then says, voice playful, though his words only serve to embarrass Virgil further. "Let me see you, please. I won't continue until you do."

Not that they'd started much. Virgil had foolishly hoped for a quick fuck, neglecting the fact that Patton loved to take his sweet time peppering kisses and touching Virgil's body until Virgil 's begging for him to get to the actual sex. This time was no different, though Patton's drawn-out affection felt more humiliating in this moment, seeing as Virgil had approached Patton asking for something he hadn't before.

In a moment of vulnerability, he'd confessed his own breeding kink, and asked with a red face and darting eyes if Patton would consider indulging him.

And of course, Patton had said yes! And had been playing the part rather well.

Virgil just wishes they could move a little faster!

Slowly, Virgil moves his face from his shoulder, making bitter glaring eye contact with Patton, who smiles affectionately when he sees him.

"There we go," Patton praises, cupping Virgil's face with one of his hands. "My good boy."

Virgil shifts at the praise, glancing away as he licks his lips, before going "can you hurry up, please?"

Patton laughs softly, before leaning over Virgil in order to kiss at the latter’s neck, as his hand rubs over Virgil’s stomach, before wrapping around Virgil’s leaking cock. The feeling of his shaft suddenly being grabbed and stroked slowly has Virgil moaning immediately, arms stretched above his head.

“Is this fast enough for you?” Patton coos, very slowly working his big hand over Virgil’s comparably smaller cock, until Virgil is leaking into his palm.

But despite how good this felt, they both know what Virgil really wanted. And so Patton pulls his hands away after just a few seconds of pleasure, leaving Virgil whining and squirming beneath him.

He’s quickly silenced by Patton’s hands on his hips however, pulling them up off the mattress, before a bottle of lube is being pressed up against his hole and suddenly squeezed, making Virgil gasp and cry out a curse as excess is poured into him.

His blunt nails dig into the pillows above him, only easing once the bottle is tossed away and Patton’s thumbs once again push into his plump thighs, rubbing at the fat.

“There,” Patton muses, sounding a mixture of soft, and proud of himself. “Now it’s like you’ve produced slick all on your own.”

Virgil lets out a trembling moan at Patton’s words, flushing dark red as one of Patton’s fingers circle his hole, pushing two of his fingers in only briefly before pulling them out again, watching as Virgil’s hole clenches around nothing. Laughing under his breath, Patton backs up just enough to unzip his khakis, and pull his cock out.

Virgil watches with wide eyes as Patton reaches for the bottle of lube, pouring the rest over his shaft until the bottle is crushed, and then guiding Virgil’s legs to wrap around his waist.

Pale hands dig into Patton’s shoulders as Virgil reaches for him, gripping hard to his polo as he feels the tip of Patton’s cock push against his hole.

“Ready, love?” Patton murmurs, sweet as ever.

Virgil can only moan in response, eyes pressing shut as Patton slowly pushes into him, thick cock filling Virgil near instantly. The pads of Virgil’s fingers press into Patton’s shoulders as he pulls him closer, perhaps hoping that clinging tighter to Patton will get the rest of his cock inside faster.

“There we go,” Patton whispers, as his cock slides halfway in. “You’re doing so good. You were made for me, Virgil, and this is proof.” Patton’s soft lips hover against the corner of Virgil’s mouth, trail down his cheek, and pause just above Virgil’s earlobe. His hot breath fans against Virgil’s skin, so intimate it makes Virgil shiver.

“I’m going to breed you so full,” Patton says, and Virgil’s head falls back with pleasure as Patton’s hips press flush against his ass. “Going to pump you full of come. Do you want that, Virgil?”

“Y- yes,” Virgil stammers, embarrassed.

“What do you want?”

Patton pulls away to fully admire Virgil’s twisted face, brows furrowed and nose scrunched with a mixture of humiliation and bitterness at the question, but a bit of gentle prompting from Patton has Virgil turning his face to the side, and muttering something unintelligible.

Patton smiles at the muffled sounds. “I can’t hear you.”

With a bit more bile, Virgil turns back to Patton, gritting “I want you to… breed me full.”

“There we go! Good boy!”

Patton pulls him into a kiss before Virgil can even think about uttering a disgruntled comment, trapping his tongue in a brief war with Patton’s own, before Patton shamelessly pushes his tongue past Virgil’s lips, tasting him fully as his hips slowly begin to move.

Their stomachs are pressed flat together, the hair on Patton’s stomach tickling Virgil’s relatively barer skin, though that sensation is quickly forgotten as Patton’s cock thrusts forward and right back inside of Virgil, causing Virgil to break away from the kiss with a gasp, spit dribbling down his chin. He wraps his arms tighter around Patton’s neck, and in return Patton holds tight to Virgil’s hips, as though they’re joined in a perverted embrace.

He thrusts slowly into Virgil, though Virgil isn’t sure whether Patton’s doing it on purpose to tease him, or if he’s genuinely attempting to ease them both into this. Regardless, Virgil feels tortured by his pace, and if it weren’t for Patton’s lips brushing over his neck, he’d be begging for more.

Teeth nip at Virgil’s pale jugular, light and questioning, but Virgil just cocks his head to the side in response, sucking in a sharp breath as Patton accepts the invitation with a firm bite, sucking hard on the skin until they’re both confident a dark hickey will form.

“Going to breed you,” Patton breathes, before kissing Virgil’s skin briefly, interrupting his affection to continue mumbling “going to stuff you full. You’re all mine, Virgil, all mine.”

“God!” Virgil groans, head thrown back. They’d hardly started, and he felt like he was losing his mind.

Patton sucks another mark into Virgil’s flesh, closer to his jaw. Virgil feels his body heat up at the idea of the others seeing, and asking questions about it, but still he moans. He pulls Patton even closer.

“Please,” he pleads, though he’s not even sure what he’s asking for.

Patton’s big hands massage Virgil’s hips and upper thighs, squeezing his fat love-handles before gliding up his sides, and running back down to his hips, of which he holds so tight Virgil feels as though he might have bruises in the shape of Patton’s hands afterwards.

His thrusts speed up inside of Virgil, causing Virgil to jolt with each thrust into him. A steady moan spills from his lips as Patton kisses down his neck and over his collarbone.

Until finally the tip of Patton’s cock slams into his prostate, making Virgil suddenly cry out in pleasure, digging his nails into Patton’s shirt.

“There!” Virgil begs, a pretty, red blush enveloping his features. “Right there, please! Oh, please, please, please!” 

"Please what, Virgil?" Patton urges him. "Use your words." 

The sheer grit in which Patton commands him makes Virgil feel like a doll, helpless to do anything but obey, but happy to do such anyway, despite the pit of humiliation sitting in his stomach, further fueling his arousal. It has Virgil sucking in desperate mouthfuls of air as Patton's thrusts speed up, only serving to make talking a bigger challenge. A glance towards Patton's face reveals his amused, gleaming eyes, as he purposefully works to make Virgil struggle. Virgil groans as he meets Patton's intense gaze, feeling flush. 

"Please-" Virgil stammers, unable to catch his breath, "please- breed me. Please- I need it, I-" 

"Shh," Patton soothes, mockingly, before sucking another deep hickey. "You'll get it. I won't deprive you." 

He lets out a soft moan against Virgil's skin, making Virgil shudder with glee. 

Heat overwhelms Virgil's body as Patton thrusts into his prostate, fucking into it over and over until he's trembling on the brink of an orgasm. Patton's thick cock stretches him open just right, adding to his ultimate pleasure. 

Furthermore, Patton slides one of his big hands between their stomachs to grab and stroke Virgil's cock, working it steadily and lovingly between his fingers, sliding his palm up, then back to the hilt, and then back up again. He sets a rhythm with his rubbing until cute cries are spilling from Virgil's gritted teeth, as the latter attempts to bite back his louder moans of overwhelming delight. 

"Close," Virgil eventually gasps, holding to Patton as tightly as he can. He may be able to hold back for a few minutes, but not forever. Not with how well Patton is handling him. He hears Patton laugh softly from where his face is buried in the skin of Virgil's neck, mouthing over unmarked skin as though it's unclaimed territory. 

"My good boy," he whispers, so quiet Virgil can barely hear. "Be good and come for me." 

Patton's fingers squeeze around Virgil's shaft, urging him to do as he's told and come, which Virgil does in just a few more strokes, making a mess between the two of them with a loud cry. His head is thrown back onto the pillows, giving Patton a clear view of Virgil's neck, littered with hickeys.

Patton slows down inside of Virgil only briefly, giving him a few seconds to catch his breath, before his thrusts start back up again. 

Blearily, Virgil whimpers "what- what?"

"Oh, baby," Patton coos, the pet name making Virgil flush a dark red. "You didn't think we were done, did you? I haven't bred you, yet! How am I going to stuff you full if I haven't even came?" 

Virgil moans at his words, cursing in between his pants. Before he can respond though, Patton is thrusting harder into him, slamming into his prostate so suddenly Virgil can't help but cry out in overstimulation, cock twitching between his legs. 

Patton leans down so they're pressed firmly against each other, trapping Virgil's cock between their pudgy stomachs as Patton kisses Virgil again, gently scratching at Virgil's scalp as his cock slides repeatedly in and out of Virgil, earning overwhelmed cries and moans as Virgil's prostate is abused. 

Thighs shaking, Virgil squeezes them around Patton's waist, pulling him closer despite his body's shaking sensitivity. 

"Come in me!" Virgil pleads, slinging his forearm over his face to hide his no-doubt pathetic expression. "Breed me! Please!" 

His cock is rubbed against Patton's stomach, smeared in his own come as Patton's cock fucks harder into him, making him gasp as he digs his nails hard into Patton's back and shoulders. If they weren't protected by the thin fabric he was wearing, his skin would no doubt be pierced. 

Patton suddenly groans, pulling Virgil's head back in order to bury his face in Virgil's neck. 

"Going to fill you up," Patton huffs, voice sweet but decently excited, making Virgil feel equally as anticipatory. "Going to stuff you full. I wish we had a plug nearby; I'd keep you plugged up all night. Would you like that? Being plugged full of my come?" 

Virgil whines at the question, pushing his hands over his face. 

Immediately, Patton tsks. "Bad boy. Don't you want to be bred? Don't you? If you don't answer me-" Patton's thrusts slow, and he begins to pull his cock out, "-I'll just have to come over you instead. Make an even bigger mess on your stomach, instead of pumping my come inside of it." 

"No!" Virgil pleads, before hesitantly pulling his hands away. "Please- please, Patton!" 

"So nice," Patton coos, ignoring him. "Such a nice, polite boy. Are you sweet, Virgil? A sweetheart who wants to be bred full?" 

Humiliation creeps through Virgil's veins, and seem to go straight to his leaking cock. 

"My sweet boy. My good boy." 

Virgil lets out a soft sob of pleasure as Patton continues to thrust into him, though he's growing noticeably sloppy. He moans, before pressing his lips against Virgil's earlobe, kissing it gingerly, before whispering "I'm close, Virgil. I'm going to fill you up." 

Virgil wraps his arms tightly around Patton, only responding with an embarrassingly desperate "please!"

And Virgil needn't plead any further. 

Patton comes with a pleased groan into Virgil's ear, come spurting into Virgil's hole, properly filling him like he promised he would. Patton fucks Virgil gently through his orgasm, and is pleased when Virgil comes too (he's always found it cute when their orgasms lined up!) but is careful not to let any of his come be pushed out. He's equally as careful as he leans back and slowly pulls out, even lifting Virgil's hips up to prevent spillage. 

With one of his arms wrapped around Virgil's midsection, his other hand lightly gropes at Virgil's pudgy stomach, smiling wide. 

"There we go," Patton breaths, face flushed as he attempts to catch his breath. "Bred properly! How do you feel?" 

"Good," Virgil responds, huffing slightly. There's a bit of silence between them, before Virgil eventually mumbles "thanks, I guess." 

His gratitude makes Patton smile cheekily, as he leans down immediately to smother Virgil in kisses. And despite Virgil squirming slightly, he eventually resigns himself to being on the receiving end of a kiss-attack, letting himself pull Patton close as he relishes in the feeling of being delightfully stuffed full. 

#moxiety #moxiety smut #moxiety nsfs #sanders sides #sanders sides smut #not safe for sanders #agp smut #sanders sides kinktober

[itsgrimeytime]

The Nurse (Part Eleven) || Rick Grimes (TWD)

Part: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven...

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Taglist: @strnqer @1985bitch @curlycarley @imaginemyfavoritefics @t-uroboros @crazytxgradstudent @addisonnie @whos6claire @taylvvrr @quicksilversg1rl @catt-leya @1tsk1tty @pascalshearts @hopefulatrocity @xoyouronlyamorrxo @fuseburner @idkseraphine @all-for-kpop @carlgrimeskisser @emo-potato-virgil @timotheesrealgf @mcuclintasha @8crazy-freak8 @peepeepoopoobutt @crazyunsexycool @moneyoverl0v3 @alixxhere @allthetroubleiveseen @dxrkymxrchy @taylormarieee

Summary: Before all this, you were a nurse. A nurse who had patients, one of which was a man in a coma. A sheriff, you think, it was all kinda fuzzy now. When it all went sideways, you set up what you could for the man - but had to leave. You’d always wondered where he’d ended up; until in your search of shelter, you run into a familiar face.

TWS: a touch of angst (mostly fluff though), mentions of death, gun violence (just violence in general), gunshot wounds, swearing, and all things typical of TWD.

[[A/N: listen, I know there's a similar scene to Maneater but this has completely different vibes okay? (I just like face kisses, sue me) So don't judge me. Thanks for reading !!! ]]

Your head hurt, that was the first thing you felt upon waking up. A sort of throb in the darkness of your mind.

It was warm, under a sort of scratchy blanket that you felt was oddly familiar. As thin as a sheet, but it still kept you warmer than without one. You'd felt rather tired, sort of heavy, particularly in your shoulders it felt sore -you briefly wondered why.

"Y/N?"

You were hardly awake then, as you shifted ever so slightly -there was a pillow under your head, you realized. You couldn't remember the last time you'd had one. All you remembered was concrete floors-

"Hey, hey," the voice spoke, "-you're safe. You're safe, sweetheart."

You recognized him then, something in you relaxing -safe, safe. You knew that if he was there, you weren't in Woodbury anymore -you weren't locked away. You were safe-

"Rick-" you whispered -your voice dry and cracking, you wondered how long you'd been out, "-Rick?"

"Breathe, baby, I'm here-" he responded -you felt something shift near you, "-right here."

Your eyes opened then, settling to your right -where you heard him, searching. Despite the pound of your head, you wanted to see him -really see him, he was right there. You could see him.

He was there, looking slightly tired -blue eyes intently focused on you, something warm and heavy there. His hair pushed intently behind his ears almost as if he was doing it anxiously, you wanted to reach forward and fix it.

"Hi," you echoed -quietly with a smile, he was right in front of you.

Rick smiled -a sort of hazy fond one that sent a flush down to your toes, "Hi, sweetheart, you feelin' okay?"

"Sore," you answered -shifting slightly, the deep ache only spiking, "-did Hershel-"

"He stitched ya up," he spoke, careful to keep his voice low, "-you're supposed to be on rest for a while. Doctor's orders."

You smiled -voice still dry, "You gonna be my nurse, cowboy?"

He laughed -a wonderous sort of noise that made your heart squeeze in your chest, "Already am, darlin'. Haven't left y'er side since we got 'ere."

You faltered, trying to turn more toward him -ache rather distant at the moment worth looking at him better, "Have you been sleeping?"

"Yes," he responded, "-when I can, I 'ave. Don't worry 'bout me right now-"

"'Can't help it," you hummed, "-I just need to make sure you're okay. I have to know-"

"'Course you do," he echoed, moving his hand to smooth against your hair -soft and tender and fond, "-you're on bedrest and still worryin' about me. You're unbelievable, ya know that?"

You leaned into his touch, now recognizing the surroundings to be your own 'office', "I just... I care about you, Rick. You know that."

Your words echoed off as you just looked at him, heavy eyebags underneath his eyes but there was something so content there. Deep within the slope of his shoulders, he seemed to relax -you were safe. You wondered just how similar his experience apart from you had been -had he slept? Could he think straight? Could he breathe?

"I'm sorry," you spoke, sort of quietly -his hand still cradling your face there, "-for... for leaving everyone here. Leaving you, Carl, and Judith here. I- I really thought I was doing what was best, saving lives. I just... I can't imagine what it was like me just leaving so quickly-"

"Y/N-" he urged in a soft whisper that swept a heat across your face -he was so close.

"No, I..." you paused, raising your own hand -despite how weak it felt, to flutter along his jaw, "-I need to say it. It was all I could think about, the pain that I had caused."

"I won't say I wasn't affected," he hummed -leaning into your fingertips slightly, "-but I know why ya did it. There's no need to apologize, not when you're here. When you're safe-"

"Rick..."

"I thought, well I hoped really that you would be safe," he spoke -rubbing his finger along some of your cuts (from the glass, you assumed), "-when we started makin' that plan, I... I thought he might'a killed ya already. That I was too late."

"You weren't," you soothed -a sort of twisted turmoil rooted in your stomach, "-I'm here."

"I kno', darlin'," he shushed you, holding your eyes steady with his -a sort of cloud hanging over their normal blue, "-I kno'. I was just scared. And when I saw you again... I just got... got so hopeful. Even though we were in danger, I was just so happy to see you breathin."

"Rick..."

"And when he-" he started before his throat seemed to choke up slightly -tears rising behind his eyes, "-when he shot you. I just... I got the feelin' I'd lost it all again."

"Rick," you whispered, slowly moving to grab his hand from the side of his face -both hands timidly enveloping his skin, and pulled it to your chest (where your heartbeat was a steady thrum against your ribs), "-I'm right here, I'm alive."

He seemed to pause, hand tensing at the sensation, as his eyes trailed over your chest -rising and falling with each breath. Making sure you were still there.

That you were okay. You knew the feeling.

"I love you."

He said it quietly, a sort of breathy whisper through his tears and the ghost of a smile on his lips. Tone washing over you like the morning sun, you felt something in yourself shift. Maybe a little disbelief, like you wondered if you'd actually heard it. Or if he intended for you to.

Rick answered the question himself with a watery chuckle and moved his hands to cup your face -fondly, so fond, "God, I love you."

You smiled, teary in your own way but smiling, happy, "I... I love you too."

"Never thought I'd get to say 'at," he grinned, still teary but you'd taken it upon yourself to wipe away any you saw, "-I love you."

"Rick-" you laughed.

He leaned forward, kissing your forehead first, "I love you-" then your eyebrows, "-I love you-" the apples of your cheeks, "-I love you-" your cheekbones, "-I love you-" the creases of your smile, "-I love you-" the tip of your nose, "-I love you."

You only laughed louder, your heart sparkling more and more each time he said it. It sent your head spinning, "Rick-"

He leaned back, looking at you in a sort of wonder -so happy. You couldn't believe it, honestly, that he... that you could make him so happy.

One hand moved down to your chin, fingertips pressing into your skin -guiding, blue eyes set on you in a haze. Something soft, something like a daydream-

"Can I kiss you?"

You stilled, heart beating along your chest, as he stared. It felt like all he did was stare, you couldn't read him. But... you knew what you wanted.

"Yes," you echoed, breathlessly.

Rick was slow to move, tender sort brush as he tilted your chin to face him. Gentle, he roamed closer -breaths fanning across your face, slowly so as to not hurt you. You could tell he was worried. Fingers moving up from your chin and fluttering along some of the glass cuts -which seemed to be healing. Like he was giving it extra thought, extra care.

Before you could speak a word, he connected your lips to his.

It was something small, a press of the lips (he was worried-) -stubble creating a buzz against your skin, in time with the thrum of warmth.

You let him guide you, hand still placed casually on your face - affectionately brushing his thumbs against your cheekbones. Calloused fingertips so warm so safe, you want to stay here -enveloped on Rick. From the woodsy scent that trailed behind him, to the feeling of his stubble against your skin, the gentle push of his lips against yours. It was anything done in a passionate moment or as a last resort, but more so... a promise.

A step in what was to come. A notion of something small for now, but bigger things to happen to see, to feel-

Rick pulled back but stayed close -breaths a puff onto your skin, just looking at you, "I love you."

"Really?" You smirked -rather playfully, eyes dashing between the two of his, "-'Couldn't tell, cowboy."

He laughed, and you felt your heart flip in your chest, as his eyes softened into something you could see now -love, "I missed ya, so much. I can't- I won't lose you again, 'kay? No matter what. Promise me... Promise me you'll stay safe."

"Okay," you whispered back, leaning into his touch -a little stunned by such admiration, you'd never... you'd never considered that he loved you too, "-I promise, but you too, okay? I can't... If you're not safe, I don't know what I'll do-"

"Deal," he answered, in a sort of low rumble you could feel down to your toes -eyes heavy on you, as if they were tracing every inch of your being. As if doing so, would keep you there -safe.

And you thought, just for a second, maybe it would.

#rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #its griming time #stuff n' thangs #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x y/n #ricky dicky doo dah grimes #twd #twd rick #rick grimes x y/n fanfiction #the nurse #nurse!reader #doctor!reader

[lio-the-chaotic-nonbeanie-weenie]

Merry Christmas, Janus

Summary: After the gift exchange, Janus returns to the Dark Side of the Mindpalace to relax and reflect. As he picks up his new socks, he finds a second gift from Roman…maybe he really should have laid off of the wine.

Pairings: None, background prinxiety if you squint

Warnings: WINE/ALCOHOL MENTION, NO COMFORT, I GUESS?

(A/N: So I'm posting this really, REALLY late because I had no energy to finish this but I finally do!)

When Logan had invited him and Remus to this year’s gift exchange with the whole Fam-ILY, Janus hadn’t expected things to go the way they did. Yes, he might have downed a few glasses as he refused to show up sober. He didn’t want to have to remember such a warm and soft event. He didn’t to have to hear all the sappy shit coming from those Light side dorks. Especially from Patton. Janus especially did NOT want to deal with Virgil and Roman while he was sober.

            Speaking of the prince, Janus finds himself glancing over at the Creative side. Roman was currently curled up on the couch with Virgil, babbling away as he showed the anxious side his twenty-dollar bill with his face on it. Virgil chuckled, lounging against Roman’s side, and saying something Janus could care less about. Though…something twists in Janus’ stomach as he watches the two of them get cozy, Roman wrapping an arm around Virgil who nuzzles him. Gross.

            Janus watches them a little longer before turning away. He finishes his remaining wine and makes the mug vanish as he tries to ignore his still throbbing cheek from the bitch-slap earlier. Yeah, he probably deserved it though. The lying side then glances at Roman and Virgil again, glancing away when Virgil suddenly glares at him. Janus doesn’t know when, but Virgil has been acting like the prince’s guard dog and hardly ever leaves his side. Huffing, Janus turns to Remus.

“Remus, get up. We’re going home.” Janus hisses.

Remus looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor with his air-fryer. Somehow, Remus has managed to put several substances and a stick of deodorant in it.

“Already?” he whines. “But I wanna stay! I’m making dinner!”

Janus cringes at the chunky slop in the air-fryer bucket.

“We already had dinner. You can bring that home and play with it all you want there.”

Remus pouts and unplugs his appliance, tucking the bucket back in.

“Boo, you’re no fun, you Scrooge.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to be here. It’s getting too sappy for my liking.”

“Fiiine.” Remus then turns to the rest of the room. “Hey, dorks! We’re dipping out. Snakey here is getting grouchy.”

Janus huffs.

“Thanksss, Remusss…” he hisses.

            After what felt like an hour of goodbyes, thank yous, and Christmas wishes as well as a good riddance from Roman and Virgil, Janus and Remus finally sank out and returned home. As soon as they popped up into the dark and cold common room, Janus beelined towards his office while Remus scurried off somewhere with the air-fryer. Janus didn’t care and entered his office, locking the door behind him. Usually, this is where he starts chugging a bottle of wine but for once he’s trying to sober up so he can sort out his mind. Maybe he’ll thank Roman for slapping him somewhat awake.

Roman…

Of all the sides…Roman had to be the one to have his name.

            Janus sighs and stares at the box on his desk. Despite everything he’d done to the prince, Roman still put in the effort to make his gift look nice. Roman was even thoughtful, giving him a gift he could make use of rather than giving him some fancy trinket. The snake side picks up the box and opens it. Luckily, the bitch-slap-in-a-box was a one-time thing. Setting the lid aside, Janus picks up the mustard yellow socks inside and gazes at them. Sure, they’re just socks and usually they’re not a gift you want to receive on Christmas, but part of Janus couldn’t be upset. Roman gave him an actual gift rather than just leaving him with nothing.

Trying to ignore his heavy thoughts, the deceitful side discards his gloves and runs his fingers over the fabric of the sock. They’re quite soft, much to his surprise. He at least expected it to be some god-awful fabric that would try to rip the scales off of his feet. Janus then picks up the other sock and feels it only to pause when he feels something crinkly in the sock. He winces and prays it’s not another prank from the prince. Bracing himself, Janus reaches in, and his fingertips pluck a folded and now crumpled piece of stationery. Of course. There in black ink and written in cursive is his own name. Oh. Janus then opens the paper, a very long and cursive message waiting inside.

Dear Sna  Dec  Janus,

            I apologize if my gift to you isn’t anything fancy. And I’m not talking about the bitch slap. Sorry for that by the way. I wasn’t going to do it at first but I thought it’d be funny. Honestly, I’m glad I got to see it in person. I really wanted to slap you, but I didn’t want to look like the jerk of all jerks. Again. Now, why am I writing this letter to you? Well…I have a lot to say to you and I don’t think you’d understand if I tried to say it in person. Despite your role, you’d never believe me. You’d probably think I was sucking up to our dear old dad or even Thomas. So, I’m doing it in letter form. Writing always helped me free my mind of the things I don’t want to think about.

            I just wanted to know, why do you hate me? Forgive me if you’re still bitter about the hat stealing and the name calling. Everything. To be truly honest, I had no idea what to do. When we were in the courtroom, everything was flipped outside down and all around. They said to trust you and then they said not to. When I tried to follow, they didn’t like it. Like I walked down the wrong path despite them giving me the map. Funny, isn’t it? Trying to do what you thought was right only to hurt yourself and someone else. That’s probably why you hate me.

            I suppose I should also apologize for my growing ego. Better it grew rather than let it fall apart and ruin Thomas, right? Then again, what do you care? I’m just a bumbling, arrogant prince who cares for no one but himself. Is that what you wanted to hear?

            I also miss you. When we were up on that stage and I had no clue you had taken Patton’s form, I had fun acting on stage and having, well, ‘you’ to direct me. It was fun and you seemed to like drama and theater. I had hoped we could work together again but now I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to tell when you’re acting and when you’re not. It’s a shame, really. After we were formally introduced, I thought we were friends. I wanted to be friends, believe me, but I’m scared. I don’t want you to lie to me again and make me believe you care. For Thomas’ sake I’m willing to be as civil as I can so we can work together but outside of that, I don’t think I’m ready to face you. Maybe in the future, we could talk but not right now. Not until I feel ready.

            I suppose I should end this letter now. If you’re still reading this, Janus, then thank you, I guess. Thank you for not trashing this letter. I mean, you can once you’re done reading if you want. You probably still don’t care. I’ll see you around the Mindpalace or something. Take care of Remus for me. He seems to like you more. I really wish we could’ve been friends. I hope you enjoy the rest of your Christmas evening. I mean, you won right? You beat the mighty prince and his massive ego. Congratulations. Merry Christmas, Janus.

Roman

           Janus stares at the letter, rereading it once more before putting it down on the desk with shaky hands. He rubs at his face, ignoring the fact that his cheeks were wet now. He leans back in his chair, hanging in his head guilt. God, Roman…what had he done? He just…the prince wanted to be friends…Janus licks his lips, the taste of salt and bitter grapes mixing. He stares at the letter sitting on his desk, regret and something heavy pooling in his gut. Janus hadn’t realized how much he’d hurt the prince has was supposed to protect.

He really should lay off of the wine…

#li talks #sanders sides #sanderessides #ts fanfiction #roman sanders #janus sanders #roman sanders angst

[delimeful]

how easy you are to need (redux) (6)

warnings: PTSD, misunderstandings, panic attack/anxiety spiral, MASSIVE miscommunication moment this chapter, brief mentions of past death, lmk if im missing any!

-

Despite having every intention of plotting escape, Virgil found himself spending the bulk of the next few days sound asleep.

He’d suspected foul play, something slipped into the meals that they kept freely giving him, but there was nothing unnatural or forced about his rest.

His body and mind had been pushed to their limits, and he was simply exhausted.

The humans did their best not to disturb him, but he was restless, his mind always registering the wrongness of his surroundings and trying to drag him back into consciousness. He woke the moment one of them stepped into the room, no matter how brief or silent the intrusion.

He didn’t open his eyes or twitch when this happened, morbidly curious to see how they would behave if they thought he wasn’t aware and watching their every move. He laid there with his heart racing, listening keenly to catch the muffled steps and soft breathing, waiting for the inevitable moment that one of them approached.

They never did.

When he wasn’t sleeping, the humans held meals with him. Unperturbed by his stubborn silence, they would chatter on just as much as they had back when he’d taken refuge under their floorboards, the thread of conversation frequently derailed by quips and rambling anecdotes.

He thought he had figured it out after that first night, between the food he’d assumed was drugged and the sting of the silverware in his grip— not pure silver, but close enough to burn.

But he’d only felt more and more clear-headed as time passed, and the moment one of them had noticed his fingers spasming around a fork, they’d all kicked up a fuss and instantly swapped the silver utensils out for carefully carved wooden ones.

As though that wasn’t enough, Logan continued to check on his wounds with precise regularity, and despite the fear that rose in Virgil whenever the scent of medical supplies filled the air, the human never took so much as a hair from his head.

His care seemed designed to be as painless as possible, from the way he carefully instructed Virgil through each step of administering treatment to the damp, oven-warm cloth he would press against bandages to keep scabs from tearing free when the padding was changed.

It was bizarre, and Virgil didn’t know how to handle it.

He could see why they would want to keep his wounds clean and uninfected. It made sense; they wanted him all healed up by the full moon, not sickly and delirious in the grips of a fever.

That didn’t explain the rest of it. The meals, the sleep, the way they listened.

The way restraints still hadn’t appeared, even as he slowly but surely regained his strength.

They might have called his bluff, somehow realized that he was too weak (too attached) to turn his teeth against them, but any hunter worth their blade knew better than to rely on such an uncertain assumption.

Especially not when he could potentially do so much damage, placed in the soft, unguarded center of their home.

There was nothing to gain. His body would serve its purpose to them whether it had spent the last few weeks on a silk cushion or a stone cell floor. Why would they risk it?

Once he’d successfully spent most of the day awake, and even shuffled through the house without tearing any stitches, they seemed to deem him well enough to hold a coherent conversation.

(He’d actually been trying to count all the potential exits, maybe even see what sort of lodestone Logan was using for the ward. When Patton had caught him slinking around, he hadn’t seemed suspicious or angry at all, only overwhelmingly enthusiastic about his health improving.

He also hadn’t seemed at all wary about stumbling upon the unrestrained captive that had taken him hostage the last time they were alone, because of course he hadn’t. How had these idiots even survived this long?)

“Did you like the meatloaf?” Patton asked him, over halfway through his own meal. The three of them tended to occasionally neglect their dishes in favor of rambling conversation or spirited arguments, so Virgil was almost always done well before them.

They also tended to not ask him such direct questions, and Virgil blinked in silent surprise for a moment, waiting for him to realize his mistake.

Instead, Patton let the silence stretch, unperturbed, for long enough that Virgil finally gave a half-hearted shrug.

“His plate speaks for itself, does it not?” Roman jumped in eagerly, tilting his head towards the empty space where the meatloaf had– very briefly– sat.

Virgil resisted the urge to snort, shifting in mild discomfort at becoming the topic of conversation. They could have put basically anything edible on his plate and gotten the same result. He knew better than to turn down food.

“Dishware can’t speak,” Logan informed him blandly. “Or consume and judge the quality of food, for that matter.”

Virgil felt a flare of amusement at the look on Roman’s face, and the words slipped out without thought. “He’s got you there.”

Three pairs of eyes flicked over at the barely-audible statement, and he only barely resisted the urge to shrink back. Surprisingly, none of them seemed mad, although Roman was visibly torn between surprised delight and dismay.

“Well, I thought it was just loaf-ly,” said Patton, because he was the funniest one there. Virgil’s lips twitched as Roman settled fully into dismay with a groan.

“Must you mock me?” Logan asked with a longsuffering air.

“Your recipe was delicious!” Patton continued. “I’d love to meat the ones who made it!”

Roman groaned louder.

“You’ve already met my family?” Logan replied, confused. “My mother– ah. You were engaging in more juvenile wordplay. More the fool I.”

“I pan do this all day!” Patton paused, and then shrugged. “That one would have worked better if it was still in the baking pan.”

Roman cleared his throat.

“Wow, Specs, I didn’t know this was your family’s recipe,” he said, his words just a little too over-exaggerated. “Are they going to come to visit any time soon?”

Virgil kept his gaze on his cleared plate, trying to force down the sickening lurch in his stomach. More humans. Just what he needed.

Logan hummed. “At this point in the season, I imagine they’re very busy with the farm. If they do decide to visit, they will let me know well in advance. And yours?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve gotten a letter.” Roman’s expression soured. “Not that it matters. If he decides to visit, he’ll let me know about five seconds before he kicks the door in. Probably by screaming at the top of his lungs.”

Despite all the irritation in his expression, there was worry hidden there, too. Virgil was also feeling worried, admittedly for entirely different reasons.

(For some people, hunting was the sort of thing that ran in the family.)

“At least his visits are always… exciting!” Patton tried, sounding a little uncertain himself. “What about you, Mister Wolf?”

The words registered a beat late, and Virgil’s head jerked up enough to see that they were all looking at him, again. “What?”

“I know you’ll only be here for a little bit, but I know I always worry when my loved ones are injured, especially if I can’t be by their side,” Patton elaborated. “Should we be on the lookout for any potential visitors?”

Understanding hit Virgil like a fever, his blood running cold for a moment before spiking into an unbearable furious heat.

So that was why. He should have known.

“You won’t find anyone out there,” he forced through grit teeth. A low growl had started vibrating in his chest, and he relished in the way the three of them went taut at the noise. “There’s no one to find. If there was, I would never give them up. No matter what.”

Maybe he should have lied, pretended that there was a reason for them to keep treating him with this targeted kindness. Lead them on with stories about a pack that didn’t actually exist, make them believe he was nothing more than a naive idiot, act as though he didn’t have a single clue as to what they were trying to do. It would probably have made escaping easier.

It didn’t matter. Anger had overtaken fear, sharp and fire-bright, and now all he wanted to do was burn. They could do whatever they wanted to him, use the stick now that the carrot had so miserably failed, and it still wouldn’t ever be enough to make him give up a pack. Not to a fate as cruel as this.

Movement caught his eye, and his head snapped up with teeth bared, a snarl at the tip of his tongue as he braced for an attack–

The humans had retreated.

“We’ll leave you be,” Logan said, and Virgil realized that at some point, he’d corralled the other two out of the room and into the hall; he could see Patton’s arm around Roman’s shoulder, the two of them casting worried looks back as they shuffled away. “We didn’t mean any offense. Please call on me if you need anything.”

When Virgil only stared, his growl still rumbling from deep within him, Logan nodded once and slid the divider door into place, his footsteps retreating shortly after.

The dishes had been left where they were. Virgil’s plate was shattered, the ceramic pieces laying heavy on his lap. It was quiet.

They’d left him alone. By now, they had to know baiting him wouldn’t work. And still, they’d given him space, backed off instead of pushing on with other, more painful tactics. It didn’t make any sense.

Unless they had some other way of getting what they wanted.

Virgil curled in on himself, his growl cutting off as panic doused him. Logan knew enough about spellcraft to make potions, to set wards, to locate leylines. If they knew something Virgil didn’t, if they knew enough about magic to twist it to their own ends, and if they knew a way to find other wolves through him without his participation– if they knew about packbonds, and had a way to reveal his…

So what? He didn’t have a pack, not anymore. He didn’t have a pack. He didn’t, except.

Did any packbond count? Even ones that had only existed for a day?

The thought sent icy nausea through him, and he gripped a shard of the ceramic hard enough to break skin, his breath coming too-quick and catching in his throat.

No, no, no. He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t afford to pass out, not when he didn’t know what they might do to him while he was under. Who they might find.

Unfortunately, knowing he had to stop panicking and actually calming down were two entirely different things.

Black spots dotted his vision, and he passed out between one frantic inhale and the next.

—

He woke to something touching his shoulder, and ingrained reflexes had him snapping a hand out, lips curling up to bare teeth.

“Oh!” a voice exclaimed quietly, and Virgil froze.

It took a few blinks to make out Patton’s form in the dark. He had the human by the wrist, his claws pricking at skin, but he seemed more sheepish than anything.

There was a blanket slipping off his shoulder, one that hadn’t been there before.

The sight of it sent a miserable curl of guilt through him, one that was quickly dampened by the memory of what had happened before he’d passed out.

His hand sprang open as he scanned the room for the other two, desperately straining his senses for any trace of magecraft that had been performed on his person, only to come up empty on both counts.

It was only Patton, standing there in the dark with his hands clasped tightly.

There was a beat of silence, in which all he could think about was that one ephemeral, damning packbond, and everything he’d do to keep it undiscovered.

If he could just convince them to settle for one. For him. He could behave, he would swear it, he would beg–

“I’m sorry,” Patton said, which was so surprising that it practically stole the voice from his throat. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, asking that sort of thing at dinner.”

‘Didn’t mean to hurt’ him? How stupid did he think Virgil was? Or worse, how cruel?

“How would you feel,” he forced out, “if I’d asked you that. And it was your pack.”

The words were hardly more than a rough whisper, but Patton reeled back as though struck.

“I know,” he replied after a moment, his voice thicker now. “I know. We weren’t– It wasn’t meant to bring back painful memories. I swear. We only wanted to know if there was anyone missing you, and we didn’t think about how you would feel if… if there wasn’t. We– I, of all people, should have known better.”

Virgil’s brow furrowed as he listened, a small spark of hope flaring to life in him. It sounded like… like Patton had taken him at his word.

Was it possible that he had a chance, after all?

“Yeah, well. I should have known you’d ask,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control. “Still, it doesn’t change my answer.”

Patton inhaled, his words coming out slightly wobbly. “You really don’t have anyone? It’s… It’s just you?”

Virgil swallowed, aware that he was walking into the trap of his own volition. Once there was nothing else to drag from him, there was no reason for them to keep treating him like this.

“Yeah. It’s just me.”

Patton exhaled, slow and shaky, and reached out for Virgil’s hands. His face was hardly visible in the low light, but he was moving slow enough for there to be a question in the motion. Trying to see if he would cooperate?

Restraints right away, then.

Well. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t fight if it would keep them from tracking down the only good thing left in his past.

He held his hands out and braced himself for the burn of silver.

Instead, he felt two warm points of pressure against his palms. Patton was holding his hands firmly but harmlessly, in a grip that Virgil could break away from with a twitch. He was rubbing small circles on the side of Virgil’s hands with his little dull-edged thumbs.

It was a soothing gesture. A gentle one.

Virgil stared dumbly down at the shapeless mass their hands formed in the dark.

“Why?” he asked, unable as always to keep himself from looking the gift horse in the mouth. “Why are you treating me like this? You have to know this isn’t necessary.”

Patton withdrew slightly, seeming almost startled.

“I’m not doing it because it’s necessary, kiddo. I’m doing it because I want to. Because it seems like maybe you need it.”

“You don’t even know me,” Virgil replied, his hands twitching the slightest amount. They were beginning to tingle with that strange warm sensation that he’d felt when Logan had carried him.

“I know that you protected my partners,” Patton replied steadily. “I know that you probably saved my life, and got hurt something awful in the process. Is it so strange that I’d want to comfort you?”

Virgil paused.

That’s right. He’d saved them.

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten, it was just that he hadn’t expected it to matter. The moment they’d realized what he was, his fate had been sealed. To humans, shifters were dangerous and valuable, and so they couldn’t be allowed to live.

Even his humans knew it. Why else would he be here, locked behind wards to wait for the full moon?

It was a necessity, but that didn’t change who they were. He’d spent all this time bracing for a blow, waiting for the cruelty and malice that he’d experienced at the hands of humans before. Yet it hadn’t come.

Maybe it wasn’t coming at all.

“You want me… to be comfortable,” he tried, the words strange on his tongue.

“Of course!” Patton replied. “It’s the least we can do to repay you.”

Virgil nodded slowly, finally grasping the shape of the puzzle that had been placed before him.

Back when he was a pup, his pack had run across a solitary wolf, badly wounded. There was nothing they could do to save her, but the pack stopped anyway. They’d curled up around her, shared what meat they had from the morning’s hunt, and invited her to sing when dusk fell. For the handful of hours she’d had left, she’d been one of theirs.

His humans had their own sense of honor. They couldn’t afford to let him live, but it was thanks to him that their small pack hadn’t been torn to shreds. This gentleness, the way they held meals with him and offered him conversation and tended his wounds, it was their way of showing gratitude.

He could trust it would stay.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Until the full moon rose again, he was one of theirs.

#sanders sides fic #werewolf au #heyatn #heyatnr #how easy you are to need #ts virgil #ts patton #ts roman #ts logan #my writing #writing