#we gotta write some original story where we have the spy with flower shop and doctor relationship and the story surrounding the relationshi

[fg083nrt]

What ships from Naruto do you like, except Kakuhida? I'm asking out of curiosity :)

Also your art makes me want to eat tables!!! RAAH!!!!! (/pos)

This is a surprisingly loaded question because I have so many and some of them span for almost 20 years now.

Also, as usual, disclaimer, since I've seen all the ship wars and holywars, THESE ARE ALL PERSONAL OPINION. PERSONAL OPINION ONLY.

(endless yapping below the cut)

In the past:

My first ship when I was 12 was Pain/Konan, and I think that was the first smut I've ever read like period. I was a big cheerleader of Hinata and Naruto/Hinata because I liked that Hinata just minded her business and stayed in her lane while everyone else was going thru shit (Team 8 had the best work-life balance, I think, they just clocked in and clocked out, no shenanigans). Obviously, Temari/Shikamaru and I loved Neiji/Tenten. I think as a kid these were like really fun dynamics. Once the anime reached the Akatsuki I was all over the Akatsuki LMAO.

But now, as a grown adult, I am almost 99% just KKHD, and Akatsuki ships are like the default absolute truth to me, but recently, I've been obsessed with more Naruto Yuri.

Love Ino/Sakura for that double-income spy who owns a secret flower shop/doctor dynamic; it's just nice. Like I am a firm believer that they could have solved their differences by scissoring or something. Also like, I think their backstory is like an insane missed opportunity (but what's written cannot be unwritten, so whatever) because these pages made me feel like I was reading some kind of josei backstory. Like, go ahead and read these pretending this is not from Naruto, and tell me where do u think this could be from.

Like "pussy from a girl who treats you like a small stupid animal (good until psychic damage hits)"

Like, I would be like, this is either a shoujo manga, or the next page is older Sakura crying in the kitchen with a photo of Ino or something, and then by the end of the story, they, like fuck in the field or something while Sakura is like "I can't believe my toxic female friend from school has 4 fingers up my pussy!", but this could just be projecting, but I still like the ship. On a serious note, Sakura being a crybaby who was picked on would have been a fun opportunity to play with her character and create more empathy for Naruto within her, but her role was more like tying the two characters together, which worked well, but lots of people were salty, but it pushed people to support her character more so it evens out.

Tsunade/Shizune is like my next super fave, especially after rewatching the Tsunade arc. Tsunade's character is just so well done when it comes to how people cope with grief by doing destructive things, I loved it; Kishimoto is fantastic at mature story beats like this weaved between magical ninja fights. But yeah I loved their dynamic like Shizune is essentially her attendant/pet girl/assistant who is extremely loyal to her, but also nagging in a way and also Shizune is just very animated and kinda dorky while Tsunade is a calm mommy- sorry a mature rich woman of status who needs to be taken care of (nearly blacked out writing this). Their back and forth is just chef kiss, too. Honestly, I think that's my favourite Naruto arc; the first part of Naruto is great when it comes to mundane details that I now have more appreciation for.

Their auntie banter!

GODDDDD THAT WAS SO LIKE IT HURTS SEEING OTHERS LIVING THE LIFE YOU DREAM OF

And obviously still love Temari/Shikamaru! I loved that Shikamaru was always very tsundere and going on about how much he hates girls, but deep down is actually like, "Me when a bad bitch tells me to do anything." it's a satisfying way to play with his "character flaw". Seeing him go soft on Temari was like a mini character arc within his already happening character arc during Sasuke's pursuit, like we saw him grow up twice, great stuff!

The entire chapter 235 is just an amazing growth for Shikamaru in elevating the like "men/women" way of thinking to like "what makes a person who they are" way of thinking I really love that. The character is also a great reminder for those afraid of failing btw.

Kakashi/Iruka is my fave, 50% from a historical standpoint; the fact that you can find Kakairu fanfic on Geocities from 2001, and I have some doujins in my collection that are more than 20 years old now is fascinating to me. Love how incredibly loyal the Japanese fans are to Iruka; these guys were holding onto hope for so many years till the Pain arc and then, boom, Studio Pierrot's final Naruto arc!!! It's just incredible fandom history. I love that kinda stuff, love the ship itself too, it's very homey to me, some of the legendary fic they had was fantastic, like entire book's length, incredibly loyal fans.

#brainworms #idk I just think kishimoto's earlier writing in Naruto is detail rich and well done everyone feels like a real person #also rereading stuff for shikatema and its funny how shikamaru and his dad's convos feel like kishimoto's personal inner dialogue #shikatema is honestly like fandom's most beloved ship because of how natural it feels and how well and early it was setup without like any #cliffhangers or major conflict apart from some early tension #but also ino and sakura should have had more rivalry but idk if it would have fit in the story Kishimoto was telling and that's okay means #we gotta write some original story where we have the spy with flower shop and doctor relationship and the story surrounding the relationshi #is like fun as well #easier said than done but fail we may sail we must

[quinns-ocs-and-things]

Transient Boy (Second Draft)

First things first, Happy one-year anniversary Quinn’s-OCs-And-Things! I made this blog on the 28th of last December (I remember watching The X Files while picking out themes!) To celebrate, here’s some writing for you all. I turned in the original draft of this story at the end of September in my fiction writing class, and I’ll be honest the original was a clusterfuck. Well I took that feedback and rewrote it, so here you go! Here’s to another great year here!

“Logan, you awake yet?”

           Jamie never knocked before. When I was sixteen he just waltzed right in and picked me up like a princess. If he wanted to he still could, the man’s built like a Greek statue, but he doesn’t waltz right in because he probably thinks I’m naked. Since my boyfriend started living with us that’s a reasonable assumption, Santiago’s a little pervert who tries to feel me up because the day ends in Y and he thinks it’s hysterical to watch me squirm in front of Dad and Jamie. But I’m not naked this time around.

           Still, truth be told, I’m not sure I’d want him to just invite himself in like he used to. Things have been awkward since Jamie kinda came back from the dead.

---

           His parents were dead, his real parents. She slipped on the icy curb, he tried to catch her, and together they fell to the ground, under the wheels of an overworked truck driver who’d already run a red light and didn’t see them in their dark winter coats. So they were dead and their four-year-old son, Logan, was at home with a babysitter waiting for parents he’d never see again. Neither of them had any siblings, his parents were too old to take on a rambunctious four-year-old, her father had passed and her mother turned a recluse who wouldn’t take the boy, and Logan’s godfather had died two months prior. The Kangs thought they would’ve had time to update their will. When Logan grew up he wouldn’t remember any of them.

           He wouldn’t remember much of the first couple who took him in either, just vague memories of the retirees he’d stayed with for so short a time. They lived in a house on the corner and had double the shoveling to do on snowy days. One of his earliest memories had been making a snow angel in the front yard, his coat only half buttoned because he’d run out in a flurry of excitement, watching the man shovel snow. It was one of his earliest memories.

---

           Now, Jamie didn’t actually die, I know that now. The only reason Dad told me he was dead, Dad being Jamie’s husband, Preston, was because he left us. I was eighteen, almost nineteen, and I was a dumb teenager. I didn’t notice how much Dad and Jamie were fighting over the course of what was apparently the whole last year. I didn’t realize how distant he’d been from Dad. Dad never wanted me to see it and I don’t think Jamie did either, it was one of the few things they still agreed on, apparently. And then Dad came home crying one night and Jamie didn’t come home at all.

           It’s not fair to Dad to say he told me Jamie was dead, he didn’t. He just didn’t correct me when I made the assumption because he never thought either of us would see Jamie again.

           So imagine my surprise when, just over two years later, I come back from the grocery store and there’s my dead father standing in the kitchen with Dad looking on the brink of tears, shaking his head when I drop the shopping bag like a movie cliché and go to give Jamie a hug.

           “Yeah, I’m awake!” I say, shoving a drooling Santiago off my shoulder so I can sit up as Jamie comes in.

           “’Sup Mr. Williams,” he says blearily. “Shit, no, it’s De Witt-Williams now, isn’t it?”

           “It is,” Jamie says. He took Dad’s last name when they got back together and had a vow renewal. “You boys hungry? Preston’s making Logan day breakfast.”

           By Logan Day he means it’s June tenth. That’s the day Jamie brought me home, it’s been a family holiday ever since, just less so in those two years when Jamie was MIA. Jamie was the driving force behind it and Dad was always on call. Dad’s an analyst but not the kind you see in spy movies. When people on cop shows shout, “We need to get a bulletin out, stat!” Dad is the guy who does that, meaning even when he’s home he’ll still have to answer emails and distribute information. He still made it a point to celebrate but it was never the same.

           Santiago looks at me worriedly as Jamie ducks out of the room.

           “I’m not stepping on you family’s toes, am I?” he asks. “Because if this is a family thing I can lock myself in the room and play video games while you do the happy family thing.”

           “No, please,” I say, maybe a bit too urgently. “This is the first one since Jamie came back and I’d really like you there as a buffer.” He’s got that same look he got that first time in family therapy, that deer-in-the-headlights “why am I here?” look before the therapist told him it was important to me that he be there. I can’t really blame him, Jamie never did anything to him and I’m kinda being selfish putting him in the middle of our awkward bullshit. “Besides,” I add. “We’re dating, you live here now. You’re family too.” That seems to be enough for him and he pulls on a shirt that I’m pretty sure is mine.

           Dad is making breakfast when we finally wander downstairs. He’s a skinny guy with glasses who barely comes up to Jamie’s chin and Jamie always said he looks like the human equivalent of a Beanie Baby.

           “I made breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “Bacon and scrambled eggs, a lot of them. I know how much you all eat.” Jamie wanders over and kisses dad on the cheek as fare before stealing a piece of bacon. Even I can admit it’s cute. Before everything went to hell, I used to think my Dads were the gold standard. They seemed so in love, so in synch with each other, I always said if I could be as happy as they were one day I’d be lucky.

           Now I don’t know if that’s true and saying that feels like a betrayal of Dad in some way I can’t explain.

           “So it’s your day!” Jamie says cheerfully. “What do you want to do?” He says it so cheerfully, like nothing’s changed. Like I didn’t hear him and Dad yelling in the kitchen when I was still reeling from him coming back and they thought I was upstairs.

“You told him I was dead?”

           “I wondered if you were dead and I didn’t correct him when I found out otherwise because finding out how cruel you’d turned would’ve killed him.”

           “Don’t put that bullshit on me, Preston! I almost stayed for him. He was the one thing in this damn house that made me pause even for a second!”

           “But you didn’t! You told me to get fucked and you left, you said it just now you didn’t care about me, about anything. You weren’t the man who brought him home, you weren’t his Dad anymore, and he worshipped you, Jamison!”

           I knew it was bad because he called Jamie by his full name.

           And now Jamie’s sitting here smiling like nothing’s changed.

           “I dunno,” I mumble, looking at the kitchen floor. Santiago pauses with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth and looks like he’s about to bolt upstairs anyway.

           “Nothing?” Jamie asks. “Come on, you had something that first year when I surprised you with all this. You knew this was coming, you’ve gotta have something.”

           “I kinda got caught up in everything and I didn’t realize it was the tenth,” I say. “So no, I haven’t thought of anything.”

           “Well I took the day off!” Dad adds, all too quick to try to diffuse the tension. “And I called in sick today, so we can properly celebrate Logan Day without my phone constantly going off.”

           “Are you going to get in trouble?” I ask.

           “I’m the top analyst they have, they can’t exactly fire me,” he says. I’m grateful, to be honest. Last time I was alone with Jamie I almost punched him in the face and he almost let me. I wanted to hate him, I did hate him then.

           But I guess I wanted my Dad back more.

           I don’t hate him anymore, but that doesn’t mean everything’s all sunshine and puppies. I may not hate him but I don’t worship the ground he walks on any more and more than anything it’s all just awkward, at least that’s what I said in family therapy so I know Jamie knows it too. Dad’s looking so damn hopeful and I know for him I can get the stick out of my ass. Dad’s doing so much better than he was in those few years.

---

           With so many foster homes at such a young age, the names blurred together in his memory. Not Lisette and not Tim. He lived with Lisette when he was eight and Tim lived across the hall. She always smelled like flowers and Tim taught him how to ride a bike one afternoon on a day when Lisette couldn’t make herself get out of bed.

           “She was just feeling sad today,” Tim said as they walked around the park.

           “She was sad yesterday too,” Logan said. “What’s she got to be sad about? It’s pretty outside. Coming outside might make her happy!”

           “That’s just not how it works, kiddo,” said Tim, ruffling Logan’s floppy hair. “Brains sometimes get sad is all.”

           Years later, there were some days after Jamie had left when Preston stayed in bed like he was sick, days when Logan could hear him trying to cry softly. It was days like this that made Logan understand what he hadn’t when he was eight years old and wanting to stay with Lisette and make her brain happy. He understood now that she didn’t trust herself to give him the life he deserved because her own mind worked against her, much the way his father’s did now. On these days when Logan slid a pack of Twizzlers under the door so Preston knew someone was thinking of him, he remembered Lisette and hoped she and Tim were happy now.

---

           We end up going to a movie, some action flick where the one character was supposedly an analyst but he was out in the field shooting people and jumping out of the way of explosions. That always drives Dad crazy and I can see Jamie with his hand on Dad’s knee because he’s heard this rant before.

           My family is a pieced-together sort of mess. At first glance, Dad looks like the one who doesn’t belong considering that—out of the four of us—he’s the only one who’s white. It’s surprising how many people think Jamie’s my actual Dad and Preston’s my stepdad, not realizing they’re married to each other. These same people don’t bother to look close enough to see that I’m Asian and Jamie’s clearly not. I can’t remember if his mom is from Pakistan or Palestine, but the point is none of us look enough alike for anyone paying attention to think that. We all found our way to each other kind of by accident; Jamie found Dad and then me eventually. At least I can take credit for Santiago, even though it was Jamie who stormed over to his house and basically told Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza that if they were gonna be homophobic bigots then we were keeping their son.

           Or something like that. I was upstairs helping Santiago pack up his stuff while Jamie was tearing into ‘em, but if their expressions when we left were any indication it was something like that.

           So in a way we’re all here because of Jamie, the first person to actually want me since an accident at my last good foster home when I was fourteen. I hadn’t had that in years and suddenly I had two Dads who wanted me. Dad took me to buy blankets and stuff for my room and I almost broke down crying in Target because this was really happening and they weren’t gonna return me. Too many people had sent me back to the social worker for being a hyperactive little shit who started crying when they yelled at me to sit still and here was Jamie telling me to “go running. Take a jog around the block, hit a punching bag, throw a cinderblock, hell if I know what kids these days do for fun. If it works, it works,” and making it such a non-issue. It really was no wonder how I’d practically worshipped him back in those days and now I can’t even bring myself to call him “Dad” again.

           ---

           The Gellards were the last of the good ones, once they didn’t want him it was all downhill.

           They’d kept him for two years, two years of having parents and a little sister, the kind of family you see on sitcoms. He’d gotten birthday parties since for the first time in his life he had enough friends to invite to one. It would’ve been perfect. It would’ve been home.

           Until a January day at fourteen years old when a sledding accident led to stitches in his newfound sister’s head and her leg in a cast. Little Elise was nine years old.

           “I’m worried she’s going to get hurt again trying to imitate him,” Mrs. Gellard said one night when she didn’t know Logan had come downstairs.

           “They’ve lived together for two years and this is the first time anything like this has happened,” said her husband.

           “But what if it’s not the last?”

           That was all Logan heard because after that he ran. That was the first time he ran away, packed the things that meant something to him and a duffle bag full of clothes and called his social worker from the park. She’d been with him for so long that by now he had her cell number. She was supposed to return him to the Gellards, she should’ve returned him to the Gellards, but he pleaded and they didn’t fight for him, so she quietly found him a home with a younger sister named Carissa, only a few years younger than Elise.

           That home lasted less than a year and the one after it wasn’t much better. The Gellards were the last of the good ones and when they realized their mistake in letting him go, he’d run away again and this time no one could find him.

---

           After the movie, while Jamie’s in the bathroom and Santiago’s trying and failing to win something out of a claw machine, it’s just me and Dad.

           “Thank you, Lo,” Dad says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

           “What for?”

           “For being so nice to him these days,” he says. “I know it can’t be easy.”

           “It’s not.” I never told him about the time I almost punched Jamie in the face but he could tell something was different the day it happened. Nowhere near what it used to be, but better than it had been since Jamie came back. It’s still better than it was even if now it’s just awkward. The look on Dad’s face tells me that came out harsher than I meant it. “But I’m willing to try, he’s the reason we’re all here.”

           “He is,” says Dad. “I remember the day he brought you home. I’m lucky he called ahead to ask and didn’t just come home with a fifteen year old.”

           “He made that call with me right there,” I say. Dad laughs.

           “Thank god I didn’t say no,” he says. “But that sounds like him. He was always more prone to spontaneity than thinking things through. To this day I think the most forethought he’s ever put into anything was when he asked me to marry him.”

           When I was younger I never got tired of hearing that story. Even now, as much of a cynic as I’ve turned into these past few years, it’s still sweet to remember them tell it. Jamie kept coming home late and Dad thought he was avoiding him and wanted to dump him. Dad’s never been the most confident person in the world so it never occurred to him that Jamie was out so late because he couldn’t make up his mind on a ring at the jewelry store. Apparently he came home with champagne and Dad started crying because he thought that was the end and he wanted to let him down easy. They had a courthouse wedding that weekend, with Dad in khakis and a cardigan and Jamie in his military dress uniform. I’ve seen the picture.

           “What made you take him back?” I blurt.

           “I’m sorry?”

           “What made you take him back?” I repeat. “He was awful to you at the end there, I know how much he hurt you…” We’ve both pretended that I didn’t hear him crying some days because he didn’t want me to know. I don’t bring that up, I don’t want to make him feel bad. I’ve asked him before and I’m not sure I ever got a straight answer beyond just that he’s a sap. He sighs.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told him when he asked the same question,” he says. “He’s my lobster. I know it’s actually a myth that lobsters mate for life but my family is from Maine, we liked the lobster sentiment and the phrase stuck. He’s my lobster, and when the guy whose nickname in the military was Scary McFuckface practically broke down crying because he didn’t know how to show me how sorry he was, when I saw that he kept his wedding ring these two years, that’s when I remembered why he was my lobster in the first place.”

I remember how they looked at the vow renewal. They did it right this time, rented out the whole bar they had their first date in, wore actual suits, had an actual party, the works. I hadn’t seen Dad look that happy in years; he looked like he was about to cry from joy the whole time but to be honest we all were. The way that Jamie was smiling at him while they were dancing looked like Dad was his second chance at life. I don’t know how better to describe it, just that it made me want someone to look at me like that.

“You are a sap,” I say. That gets him to laugh.

“I just want my family to be happy,” he says.

---

Gabriella Brieser. The name was burned into his brain as the last foster home and one of the worst, and that was saying something considering the woman he lived with when he was six hit him with a high heeled shoe.

Gabriella Brieser thought she was getting off easy, taking in an older kid. That’s how she’d apparently talked her husband into it. He’d overheard her talking on the phone and she’d said it herself, there would be no diapers to change, no mother’s day breakfasts to attend, to wandering handssmearing craft glue on her nice china cabinets. She didn’t count on a hyperactive fifteen-year-old who wouldn’t sit still while she showed him off to her rich friends and they called her ‘brave’ and ‘admirable’ and whatever other bullshit words she wanted to hear. She’d tell him that at fifteen he was “supposed to be an adult, grow up and stop fidgeting. Do you have a disorder or something? Do I need to get your head checked out?” Though when he asked to go to the park, desperate to get out of the house he was a child “you’re only fifteen, you could get abducted by some molester! What’s wrong with you that you would even think that?” The hypocrisy had astounded him and at that point he’d just stopped asking.

The piano was the final straw. His most recent foster sister had taken piano lessons and had shown him how to play a few snippets of random songs. Logan hadn’t thought about that in months, but one day when Gabriella was upstairs, he wondered if he still remembered. It wasn’t like anyone else was playing the piano that sat collecting dust in the living room.

           Apparently, collect dust was all it was meant to do. That’s what Gabriella screamed at him when she slammed the piano case down on his fingers, reminding him how he’d been told countless times he wasn’t allowed to touch anything of value.

           He heard her on the phone with the social worker that night, saying how she “Couldn’t stand his attitude problem” and how “the boy isn’t right in the head, no wonder no one wants him.” He didn’t give her the chance to return him. He threw the few things he valued in that same worn out duffle bag and ran away while she was in the shower.

---

           We go to a buffet for dinner that night. No matter how worried Santiago was about there being awkward family tension, it seems outweighed by the prospect of stuffing three platefuls of mac and cheese in his face and I can’t really blame him. At some point during dinner, Jamie pulls something out of his pocket.

           “So we’ve all talked about moving,” Dad says. “Since fitting the four of us in that tiny townhouse is getting harder. Well we’ve started cleaning out closets and drawers and things, just to get the process started…”

           “And I found this.” Jamie slides an envelope across the table to me. “Meant to get it framed when we first took it but someone started using it for a bookmark and it got misplaced until now.” Dad tries to put on an innocent face, which isn’t hard considering he really does look like a Beanie Baby.

           “We thought you’d want it,” he says. “It is Logan day, after all.”

           Inside the envelope is a picture of the three of us, take on the day Jamie told me the wanted to adopt me. We went out to dinner that night and Dad told the waiter we were celebrating before asking him to take our picture. I’d completely forgotten this existed until now.

           I can’t believe I ever looked like that, with floppy black hair falling in my eyes and a squishy face that makes me look way younger than fifteen. Jamie was right when he told me the day we met that I looked twelve despite my insistence that I was passing for a legal adult. After Jamie left I shaved half my head and dyed what was left green in some sort of weird grieving ritual that I actually grew fond of, so the fact that I haven’t seen my natural hair color in over two years makes the old photo so jarring.

The changes in my dads are less obvious, but they’re there. They both look younger, with less grey in their hair. The scar Jamie got in those two years away from us doesn’t cut his left cheekbone in half. As much as things have changed, there’s a lot that’s still the same: Dad’s wearing a sweater in the picture—he claimed the restaurant was freezing, I remember now—and that same sweater’s still in his closet. Jamie has his hand on Dad’s knee just like he did during the movie today. The smiles are all the same.

“Dude,” Santiago says, leaning over my shoulder to look at the picture. “You look so weird, I forgot you weren’t always the emo head of lettuce you are now—shit, Logan are you crying?”

And though I didn’t realize it until he said anything I guess I am. This is my family, a pieced-together sort of mess but they’re the ones who wanted me. Jamie wanted me, and though he’s not the same person who brought me home that day, the way he’s looking at me now makes it obvious that that guy isn’t as gone as I thought. We’ve been through hell and back but somehow we all ended up here right now and that’s something I thought I’d never have when I was little. I thought there was something wrong with me and that maybe I should run away and stop hoping.

Turns out, running away from that cranky woman with a piano that wasn’t meant to be played was the best thing I ever did.

“Yeah, I think I am. I’m fine, I promise.” I wipe my eyes and pull out my phone before flagging down the waitress. “Excuse me, could you take a picture of me and my family?”

---

The name on the paperwork was Timothy Gellard. The forged paperwork he’d bought with the money he took from Gabriella Brieser’s purse. He didn’t like stealing, felt it proved her right about him, but he could still remember how his hands smarted when she slammed the piano cover down on them. Timothy for that first person who loved Logan more than he had to, and Gellard for the last. According to those papers, Timothy Gellard was old enough to be enlisting in the military and he’d practiced reciting “I’m older than I look.” It had gone well so far, which was admittedly not very long, up until Scary McFuckface.

Scary McFuckface was what everyone called the high-ranking man called in to assess the new recruits straight off the bus. His real name was something a lot more human but as soon as he walked in the room Logan promptly forgot it. Murmuring under his breath that he was older than he looked, the second Scary McFuckface saw him he ordered him up to his office.

And that was where Logan found himself now, trying to look like an adult and trying not to cry as he man glared at him from across the desk. According to the metal placard between them, Scary McFuckface’s real name was Jamie Williams.

“You’re not eighteen, are you?”

“I’m older than I look.”

“I would hope so considering you look about twelve and that hair doesn’t help. How old are you really, kid?”

“Eighteen.”

“No, you’re not. Because Timothy Gellard as listed on your papers doesn’t actually exist. What’s your real name?”

“Timothy Gellard.”

“Kid—” He rubbed his temples wearily. “You know forging this shit is a serious crime, right? The fine alone is worth more than you are.”

“Maybe you should try checking again.” His confidence in this charade was waning fast.

“Why are you so eager to die?” Mr. Williams asked. “You’re what, fourteen? Fifteen? What’s got a high school freshman so eager to run off and get himself killed? What are you running from?” Logan had sworn he wasn’t going to cry but his eyes hadn’t gotten the message.

“I’ll just run away again.” He sniffled. “If you send me back to them my last foster mom was about to return me, so I’ll just run away again. Third time’s the charm, maybe this time I’ll join the circus. No one wants me anyway.”

And for a moment, Scary McFuckface softened. Then he picked up the phone.

“Hey, Love? Do you have a minute?” Logan could hear a voice on the other end but he couldn’t tell what they were saying. “No, no, I promise, nothing’s wrong, but some dumbass kid came in with fake papers and a death wish. It got me thinking, did you still want kids? I know you’ve mentioned it before—” The man on the line was yelling, Logan could tell it was a man now. “Yes, I know this is sudden but he just showed up! I don’t know what else to do with him—Preston—Preston, please, that’s why I’m asking instead of just bringing him home—Well I figured the guest room, nobody’s stayed there since you got your appendix out and your mother came to visit—okay—okay—Alright I’ll ask him now—Well I figured I should check with you first, you’re always on me about not thinking things through—Okay bye, Love, I’ll see you tonight!” He hung up with the other man still yelling.

“What was that all about?” Logan asked.

“That was my husband,” said Mr. Williams. “He’s a sweetheart, always wanted kids, and he’s on board with this so if you are I’ll make you a deal. You can come stay with Preston and me until we figure out what to do with you, sleep in our guest room, and you won’t get in any trouble for this.” He held up the papers. “But in return, you have to do something around here when you actually turn eighteen. Enlist then if you still want to, but you gotta find some way to make yourself useful. Sound good?”

It didn’t seem real. People didn’t want him. Mr. Williams and his husband would be sick of his hyperactivity within the week.

“…Okay.”

Mr. Williams actually smiled.

           “What’s your name, kid? Your real name.”

           The desk calendar read June 10th.

           “Logan. Logan Kang.”

#Quinn's OCs and Things #Logan Kang #Preston De Witt #Quinn's Writing #Original Writing