#not targeted at anyone specific just a friendly reminder at the end of the day h is a worldfamous popstar who quite likely wont see your

[finelinegynandromorph]

a gentle reminder that using woman-coded terms for h (like girlfriend, woman, mommy, she/her, etc.) does *not* erase his queerness! a soft reminder that gay non-binary people exist! a friendly reminder that queer people can use all sorts of terms and labels and ways of referring to their own unique experiences! a further reminder that affirming harry’s consistent expression of his affinity/connection/alignment with womanhood and femininity does not take away from his queerness in any way!!

i’m literally non-binary and i didn’t grow up with access to a lot of queer terminology or representation of different ways of being queer so this is genuinely not coming from a place of malice at all but rather an earnest suggestion that you listen to varied trans perspectives and not outright dismiss something because it doesn’t align with your personal experience of queerness. as h said himself: “what’s feminine and what’s masculine...it’s like there are no lines anymore.” [and an obligatory reminder that no one is in good faith suggesting harry is non-binary solely bc of the way he dresses but rather his overall consistent messaging about his experience of fluidity and identity && this is obviously not me defending ppl who take alignment w femininity or aspects of personality to mean that a queer person needs to occupy a certain rigid sexual role or vice versa]

#less specific to h but many binary trans ppl identify as straight after coming out but may have spent years in gay communities and maintain #a powerful connection to those communities #everyone's free to interpret music and art in their own way #just please be kind to others and reflect on why you might such a visceral reaction to the idea that h could see himself as a woman #(which doesn't negate him viewing himself as a man too!) #also a reminder that h is viewed by the world largely as a man and as such using woman-coded terms for him can be an affirming move to show #respect and appreciation for a part of himself that isn't largely acknowledged at all #pls know that trans person referring to h and l as gf and bf does not erase their queerness but rather is a playful recognition of h's #consistent self-alignment with woman bc these are all just terms #there's no one right way to be queer and i think it's in bad faith to shit on largely trans fans for expressing affirmation and connection w #h and his feminine-coded qualities that don't often get the recognition they deserve compared to his manhood and relation to masculinity #(which have been played up for marketing since he was 16) #and the ways that that dynamic is inherently intertwined w sociocultural misogyny #not targeted at anyone specific just a friendly reminder at the end of the day h is a worldfamous popstar who quite likely wont see your #comments but gay nb friends who might be struggling to figure out their identities could and they could be really damaging #strict labels and boxes are like the antithesis of being queer #like even if you personally don't feel fluid remember to leave space for expansive fluidity in others!! #reminders

[voiceless-terror]

I mean, I don’t believe in the predictive power of dreams, obviously, but still, it’s a deeply unsettling thing to find. I had Tim look into it, as I don’t entirely trust the others not to have written it as a practical joke and slipped it into the archives. - Episode 11, Dreamer

Jon stares down at the paper in his hands.

He’s had many an unkind thought towards Gertrude, his predecessor, the woman responsible for this mess and the current bane of his existence. She’s been the topic of most of his grumbling as he sorts through piles of nonsense and decaying cardboard boxes. He’s got no love lost for her, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy she’s dead. Or, specifically, to have a statement apparently predicting it through the medium of some prophetic dream. Ridiculous. He wants to feel detached, unaffected, but he can’t help the sickly sense of dread that creeps up his spine and lingers in his throat. 

It was your face and the expression upon it was far more fearful than any I had seen in eight years of wandering this twilight city.

Jon doesn’t know Antonio Blake and has no reason to believe him. But he’s known something’s wrong for a long time now.

He’s never admitted it aloud, never within his assistant’s hearing range, but he can feel it, as foolish as that sounds. This miasma of wrong, of being watched, of becoming...something else, that happens every time he records a statement. Despite the academic detachment he aspires to, he does attempt to empathize with each statement-giver and get into their mindset. But what he’s doing here...it’s different. He can visualize it so perfectly, the terror in their words sticking in his throat and setting his own heart pounding, as if he were the one experiencing it and not just regurgitating it to an ancient recorder. He’s always had an ‘overactive imagination,’ as his grandmother would say, but this is relentless in its manifestation. The fear is real, not imagined. Each statement draws him further and further away from the safety he used to cling to, where the only real cases were few and far between and the most sinister things lurking out there in the world were books and the monsters within them.

And as much as he wants to linger on the false accounts and take comfort in tearing them apart, his hands automatically seek the real ones, the right ones. It’s frightening, the ease with which he finds them nowadays. Perhaps he’s a better archivist than he thinks. 

She died and you’ll be next, something whispers to him. He’s being dramatic, as he’s wont to do, but it feels true. Every statement that doesn’t record correctly, every follow-up he has to qualify with an ‘I would dismiss this, but-’ is starting to add up. His nights have become restless. He often lies awake regretting that he ever took this job, that he left the relative safety of research for a position he’s not sure how to fill, his only reassurance Elias’s occasional emails that he’s ‘moving in the right direction,’ whatever that means.

Jon assumed he’d be more removed from the dangerous aspects of the job that research entailed- following up, going to locations, field work. And it’s true, he has assistants to do that for him now. Dependable, for the most part. And while he should feel safe in his tiny office with nothing but dust and paper and cobwebs (good lord, the cobwebs) he feels more unsettled and exposed than ever. He once joked he’d die of old age before getting the archives in order. But now a stroke sounds much more pleasant than whatever happened to Gertrude. If it’s true.

Perhaps it’s a joke, he thinks. Planted by one of the others, designed specifically to unsettle him. Well, it worked. 

It wouldn’t be surprising. He’s...not had the best start. The promotion was a surprise, but not wholly unexpected; he knew he’d been on Elias’s radar, though he wasn’t expecting it quite so soon. He’s young and unfortunately, it shows. The way he stutters through department meetings, talking about digitization while the others, all of whom have at least a decade on him, shoot pitying looks. He stays later and later, the desire to show some sort of progress even as he discovers more mess by the day. The permanent scowl that now graces his features becomes his armor as he walks the halls and feels himself becoming the uptight, unlikable curmudgeon everyone believes him to be. The one time I measure up to expectations, he can’t help thinking.

A joke. There’s a comfort in that. At least it’s familiar.

But it didn’t record to the laptop, his traitorous mind supplies. It's a bit sad he would prefer it to be a mundane attempt at bullying rather than a real expression of the supernatural, but he supposes it’s par for the course. There were many nights as a child he wished for the same thing, for that boy to go back to taking his lunch money and the occasional beating or two instead of…still, he dismisses it from his mind. You don’t know there’s a correlation. Follow up. Disprove it. 

He’s interrupted from his musings by a knock on the door and the vague outline of Martin through the frosted glass. “Come in,” he calls, attempting to inject some irritation in his voice to cover up the shakiness. “Did you need something?”

“Ah, I finished my write up for the Herbert case, was wondering if you had anything else for me?”

His hand hovers over the statement on his desk. He opens his mouth but then closes it, thinking better.

“Can you send Tim in, actually?”

______

“Sorry boss, I couldn’t find anything on this Antonio Blake fellow- well, at least with the details he provided, which were next to none. Proper spooky, though.”

Of his assistants, he trusts Tim the most with this sort of thing. 

On a surface level, it wouldn’t make sense to some. Tim can be loud and gregarious: the typical, charming extrovert. But he’s not unkind and he’s a hell of a researcher, especially when something grabs his interest. He digs into statements and doesn’t let go- not unlike Sasha, though he’s a bit better at empathizing and handling things...sensitively. Easily attuned to Jon’s moods, Tim’s always been willing to lend an ear whenever he gets too in his head about cases, helping him talk things through or on several memorable occasions, go down the rabbit hole with him. He’d taken the statement from his hands with an easy smile, though his face grew serious with the nervous look Jon shot him.

And if Tim couldn’t find anything, well. Maybe it was a prank after all.

He sort of wanted it to be true, frightening as the implications were. Because then it would mean this terrible, heavy feeling on his shoulders was real, and not just the byproduct of his own mediocrity. He doesn’t want to be scared, he doesn’t want to be in danger, but at least it would provide a real reason for panic, and not just his own inability to measure up.  He doesn’t want to prove them all right, collapsing under the stress of a job poorly done and so easily crumbling at a stupid, made-up statement, targeted as it may be. 

“A joke, then.” Jon says, rubbing a hand at his temples, trying not to let the hurt seep into his voice. Tim makes a commiserating noise.

“You know how people are, the institute isn’t exactly popular. You remember last Halloween, when-”

“Yes, I don’t need a reminder.” Jon sighs. He’d rather not relive that day, stressful as it was. “But that wasn’t quite what I was thinking.”

Tim stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Jon continues, attempting to make his hands busy as he pointlessly shuffles papers.

“It’s rather pointed, isn’t it? I doubt someone off the street would create such a detailed account of the death of an...archivist as opposed to the usual ghostly drivel.”

A look of pity flickers in Tim’s eyes and Jon has to turn away. “I don’t really think anyone here would-”

“Really? You don’t?” Jon lets out a mirthless laugh, rubbing a hand across his face as he stares down at his desk. “I’m not blind. Or deaf.” The derisive snorts if he goes off on ‘needless tangents,’ how Rosie pretends to be busy whenever he approaches Elias’s office, the way his name badge still reads ‘researcher’ after months of asking for a new one. He’s basically become a pariah.

“Jon, did someone say something to you?” The words are carefully chosen and he’s leaning forward now, making as if to stand up and god forbid, do something comforting. It’s not that Jon doesn’t want the comfort; he craves it more than anything. But he’s gone without for so long he doesn’t trust himself not to break at the gentlest of touches. Being on the receiving end of Tim’s protective streak is nothing new, but he shouldn’t need his assistant looking out for him like he’s some sort of helpless infant. 

He snorts derisively instead, covering up the insecurity and hurt with a sardonic, self-effacing smile. The kind he knows Tim hates. “They don’t need to. I’ve walked in on conversations, I’ve seen the way people go quiet, the looks they give me-”

“Hey,” Tim’s voice is low, like he’s dealing with a frightened animal. Jon wonders how he looks, if Tim’s going this soft. “Don’t listen to them, alright? You inherited a mess, we all did- but we’re doing our best, yeah? Study and record, like Elias said.” Jon doesn’t dodge the hand that finally lands on shoulder, and he’ll deny to anyone that he leaned into it. 

“Study and record.” He repeats listlessly, slumping back down into his seat. He’s let himself get too worked up, acting like a child instead of a boss. He’s not sure when he started wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Tim’s always been good at reading him. Though he’d rather people think him an arrogant ass than the seething mess of insecurity he truly is. 

“Atta boy.” The pat to his shoulder is purposefully light, devoid of Tim’s usually friendly force that sends him stumbling forward. “Now get out of here at a normal time, alright? We can grab lunch tomorrow. Just the two of us, if you like.”

Jon makes a noncommittal grunt, though the thought is nice.  He entertains the idea for just a moment, remembering their occasional outings back in research. Tomorrow he’ll make his excuses. He hasn’t been much of a friend as of late, and he’s not sure he deserves the kindness of company.

“And if there’s anyone that needs a stern talking to from me, I-” Tim wags a finger and Jon rolls his eyes, ignoring the pang of warmth the words send through his chest.

“Don’t, please. It’s fine.” It isn’t. “But...thank you, Tim.”

“Course.” A wink and a sloppy salute to lighten the mood, and Jon feels the tension in his posture ease minutely as Tim shuts the door behind him. 

He lets out a breath and reaches for the tape recorder. He’s wasted too much time already.  

Be careful. There is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least, you should look into appointing a successor.

Good luck.

He fights a shiver as the man’s voice leaves him and the last vestiges of that twilight world fade back to his dimly-lit office. In his follow up, he tries to play it off as a joke. A bit of hazing for the new boss. And yet the uneasiness still creeps into his voice, and he ends another tape on a stilted, half-believed note.

If this is genuine…

Jon prays that it isn’t. 

And like most of his prayers, it goes unheard and unanswered.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32165071

reblogs > likes

#tma #the magnus archives #my writing #jonathan sims #tim stoker #season one jon feels #with added tim #in which rye has feelings about jon 'dismissing' statements and thinking it could be a joke and TRUSTING TIM #what else is new #reblogs appreciated <3 #a light bit of #jontim

[romantichopelessly]

Talking to the Moon

This fic is somehow my favorite thing that I’ve ever written. It started out as a Halloween fic, and then I wanted it to be my longest one shot and aimed for 8k. Now it is so much longer and so much more and I really really hope that you guys like it.

Words: 15,400+

AO3

Summary: Logan is a man of routine. Routines are sensible. It's perfectly sensible that his routine revolves around his roommate. Virgil. Even though his roommate doesn't know that he's a vampire. Even though his roommate doesn't know that he is in love with him. (Or: Virgil and Logan are vampires. And neither of them know about the other. And they were roommates.)

Pairings: Analogical, Background Roceit and Intruality

Warnings: Blood, blood drinking mentions, kidnapping, non-graphic violence 

----

Bright fall leaves littered the cracked sidewalk as Logan made his way home from work. The satisfying crunch of them underneath his loafers was something that he would never admit to enjoying as much as he did. Past the buildings lining the city street, a soft orange hue was beginning to light up the dark sky, encapsulating what most would see as the perfect morning.

Logan glanced down at his watch. 6:53 A.M. He picked up his pace. The stop at the early morning coffee shop had been on an ill-advised whim, and though the warmth that the cup of earl gray tea radiated into the chilled skin of his palm was welcome, Logan did not want to end up regretting the indulgence by arriving at his apartment after sunrise.

An early morning breeze stirred Logan’s scarf and nipped at his nose with a bite that would cause most to shudder and hunch back into their coat. Logan, however, maintained perfect posture, completely unaffected by the temperature as he rounded the corner of the block with purpose, the door to the apartment complex that he lived in now in sight.

Long fingers fished in his pocket for a moment before hooking through his keyring. The black fuzzy keychain that his roommate had gifted him weeks ago brushed against his palm as he climbed the concrete steps and pushed open the door with force, anticipating the way that it stuck, just as it had every morning for the past year and a half.

Logan stepped inside, an unvocalized sigh of relief smothered in his chest. Behind him, the door fell shut, locking out the cold breeze and rising sun.

Logan picked his way across the lobby, keys still in hand. He paused for a moment at the mailboxes, glancing over boxes 221A and 221B. Nothing new. He hummed softly to himself and continued up to his apartment.

His keys turned with a satisfying click in the lock and Logan finally let himself breathe, a habit of relief more than a need.

A deep inhale. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

Was that tomato soup that he smelled?

Thirst burned at the back of Logan’s throat. He swallowed it down as he toed off his shoes and deposited his keys in the bowl by the front door, the jingle alerting anyone listening to his whereabouts.

“L?”

Which, of course, was exactly what Logan wanted. A completely artificial warmth bloomed in Logan’s chest.

“Virgil.” Logan called back, an inexplicable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Padding down the hallway, Logan rounded the corner to the community room to see his roommate curled up on the far corner of the couch--a position that Logan had found Virgil in more times than he could possibly count.

Though he supposed that he would have had to count them had he been asked.

“Hey.” Virgil’s voice was as gruff as it always was. His legs were curled beneath him, cushioning his laptop on his lap, and his hands were curled around a mug of something deep red. Likely the soup that Logan had smelled when he entered. It reminded Logan of the cup of tea that he was still holding. He turned and headed for the connected kitchen for his add-ins before he could drink it. “How was work?” Virgil called after him.

“Satisfactory.” Logan replied, depositing the paper cup containing his earl gray on the counter before opening the fridge. “There were not many visitors at the planetarium tonight. Just the couples.” Logan wrapped his fingers around the jam jar that he was searching for. He pulled the top off of the to-go cup with one hand and rooted around in a drawer for a spoon with the other. He shoveled two or three (most definitely three) spoonfuls of the red gelled substance into his tea and stirred it quickly before closing the cup and jar both, putting the jar back in their shared refrigerator and finally turning to fully face his roommate.

“That’s good.” Virgil watched him with pensive eyes, eyes that made Logan’s mind do funny things, like imagine that Virgil’s look was a bit more fond than it really was. Logan crossed the room again and sat on the middle cushion of the couch, taking a slow sip of his tea. Virgil immediately stretched out his legs and nestled them underneath Logan’s thighs.

“What about you? How was your day?” Logan asked, politely.

Virgil shrugged with a single shoulder. “Same old, same old. Do a bit of work, read a ton of emails, get bored and listen to music and stare at the ceiling on the company dime.”

“You are self employed, Virgil.” Logan felt the need to point out.

Virgil shrugged again, this time with a coy smile on his face. “What can I say? I’m a tough boss. Sometimes you just have to stick it to the man. And by the man, I mean me. And by you, I also mean me.”

Logan watched, emotions that he could not name despite all of his years welling in his chest as Virgil leaned forward and took a long sip from his mug of soup. To suppress the sudden insatiable urge to say something stupid like ‘you look like a dream, sitting on this musty old couch with tomato soup on your upper lip’, Logan took a long sip of his own drink, hiding his wry smile at Virgil’s antics.

Despite the emotions rolling and bubbling within Logan, the silence that followed was not uncomfortable. Rather, the quiet felt full in a way. Virgil’s feet wiggled underneath Logan’s thigh, searching for a warmth that Logan wished he could provide more of. Virgil let out a quiet sigh as he leaned back against the corner of the couch that he was nestled into. Logan let the coppery twinged tea in his throat warm him for a moment, as the stresses of the day rolled off of his shoulders and evaporated, as they were wont to do when Virgil was around.

“Want to watch some Cosmos?”

Logan perked up, a slight smile on his lips. Not so wide that he would show his fangs, which had, of course, descended due to his thirst, but a small quirk of the lips that never could be pulled back in Virgil’s presence. “I’d love nothing more.”

----

P&J’s Coffee Shop was never truly busy. It was a nice coffee shop, to be sure. Virgil’s favorite, in fact. Where else in the world could he get a perfectly brewed O negative espresso?

Of course, the secret menu being absolutely sublime had nothing to do with the reception of the café, as most of the daytime customers would be appalled by the contents of the midnight drinks. Which was quite a shame for the general public, but the lack of popularity was quite the plus in Virgil’s book, especially on nights like this, when he came to the café specifically to whine to his two best friends.

“Patton isn’t going to let me give you another espresso if you finish that one too soon. I’m already on their list for allowing you four shots in the first place.” Janus was leaning against the back counter, decidedly not restocking the refrigerator like Patton had asked him to.

Virgil grumbled in response, taking another long swig of his drink out of spite.

Janus rolled his two-toned eyes. “You’re a piece of work, Noir.”

On the very rare occasions that Virgil left his apartment, P&J’s was usually his destination. The small, soft gothic inspired coffee shop fit his aesthetic perfectly. P&J’s was one of the few creature-of-the-night-friendly spots in the city that wasn’t completely overrun. This lesser-known energy was exactly what kept it from being a target of hunters as well, which was quite the blessing, even though there were less and less incidences of slayings being reported as time went on.

And while Virgil was glad to be living in such a progressive time, he still was not about to put a target on his back by heading out to the more popular vampire and werewolf bars, clubs, restaurants and coffee shops around town.

“Shut up, Janus. I’m your best customer and you know it.” Virgil paused, thinking. A sly grin formed on his face. “Except for that fae you’re always talking about, of course. But I know that you’re biased towards him.”

Were Janus a vampire, Virgil was positive that he would have hissed at that moment. As it was, Virgil could tell that Janus was just suppressing a growl. “Untrue. Shut up and drink your coffee, I no longer wish to speak with you.” Janus sniffed, turning his nose up at Virgil’s words. Despite the dramatics of the gesture, Janus somehow managed to look poised. He always did.

In Virgil’s--albeit limited--experience, it was very difficult for a werewolf to look so poised all of the time. However, Janus constantly defied those expectations. Even the three long scars that crossed the otherwise blemishless medium brown skin on the left side of his face and his left, caramel colored eye didn’t stop Janus from looking aloof at all times. Even on days like this, working in the café, with his long, dark and curly hair twisted into a loose knot at the base of his neck and a pastel yellow work apron on, Janus could make anything look as sophisticated as if he were about to attend a grand ball, and honestly, Virgil was a bit jealous.

Logan would probably be into Virgil if he took his appearance more seriously.

Janus was watching Virgil with a knowing look now, and the vampire scowled back.

“You know, Virgil.” Virgil hissed, pulling his cup closer to his chest defensively. He knew that tone. “I wouldn’t really be throwing around accusations like that. Glass houses, and all.”

Virgil’s shoulders rose up to his ears. An onlooker would say that he looked remarkably similar to an angry black cat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh you don’t? Must be hard being so old-”

“I’m 38.”

“Let me jog your memory.”

“Physically I’m only 24.”

“Cobwebs in your head aside,” Janus plowed on, “Logan Doyle? Your current roommate who you’ve been obnoxiously pining for for the past few months? The one that you come into my café to bemoan about at least once a week? You know, the studious, oblivious, wonderful, handsome-”

“Okay! I get it!” Virgil snapped, interrupting Janus’s infuriatingly accurate imitation of his voice. “All things unholy, why do I never come in when Pat is on the clock?”

Janus shrugged, a shit eating grin on his face that almost made Virgil want to take his drink and leave. Almost. “It likely has something to do with the fact that you only come out here during Doyle’s working hours. Suspiciously sentimental, wanting to spend every moment you can with your roommate, don’t you think?”

Virgil bristled. “Stop saying stuff like that, Janus.” He knew that the barista was joking. Hell, Janus had teased Virgil about this exact subject far too many times. He really should not be so touchy about it. It was very likely that the only reason that Janus’s ribbing was rubbing him the wrong way today was the events of the night--dawn?--previous.

Logan had looked so… fetching coming home that particular early morning. The soft wool of his sweater vest looked almost irresistibly touchable. The contented look on his face as he took slow sips from his tea. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly as he fought away laughter at Virgil’s not-actually-that-funny quips while they watched Cosmos.

“Ugh, are you reminiscing? Didn’t you see him less than an hour ago?” Virgil curled in on himself, glaring up at Janus’s feigned disgusted look. “Keep that out of my coffee shop.”

Virgil was about to retort when a light, melodic voice piped up from the front door. “Your coffee shop? Well darn! You should have told me that you were taking over, Jan! I wouldn’t have come in.”

Virgil turned on his stool to look at Patton, who was smiling widely, unabashedly showing their fangs for all the world to see. Behind him, Virgil could hear Janus’s amused snort.

Patton Darling was an older vampire than Virgil was, though by all other standards they were still rather young at 49. They looked younger than Virgil, and although their physical appearances only differed by three years, Virgil couldn’t help but feel like he paled in comparison to Patton. Patton had that ethereal beauty about them that all vampires were supposed to have, but on them it looked effortless and… simply put, right. Their smooth, deep brown skin and sapphire blue eyes glowed in an inhuman sort of way that could enchant any mortal, and most immortals that Patton happened to meet. This week, their hair was a pastel purple. The previous week it had been a sunflower yellow. It was like Patton wanted to call attention to themself, something that Virgil and most other vampires avoided.

Between them and Janus, Virgil wasn’t sure who was more mysteriously stunning. Had Logan been in the room, the sheer amount of beauty in the café probably would have knocked him unconscious.

“Hey, Pat.” Virgil couldn’t help but smile back at the older vampire.

“Hi, Virgil! How are you today?” Patton pat Virgil’s shoulder genially as they slipped past him to get behind the counter with Janus.

“He’s pining again.” Janus answered before Virgil could. “Also he snuck four shots of espresso when I wasn’t looking.”

Virgil glared at Janus with a renewed vigor as Patton gasped. “Virgil! You know that that isn’t good for you!” Janus nodded from behind Patton, a smug grin on his face.

“I don’t really digest it.” Virgil pointed out. He certainly was not pouting under Patton’s stern gaze.

“Hmph.” Patton looked dissatisfied with that answer, but they didn’t push it, thankfully. “Well, what did Logan do this time?”

Then again, maybe Virgil would rather they continued to chew him out for his coffee choices.

“He just-” Virgil sighed. If he had a beating heart or blood running through his veins, Virgil just knew that he would have been blushing by now. “You know.” He gestured helplessly.

“Existed in your presence?” Janus quipped.

“Exactly!”

Patton hummed sympathetically. Virgil knew that they could relate to hopeless crushes. For all the time that Virgil had known them, they had been in love with some man or another. “I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Virgil grumbled. “I look older than you.”

Patton paid no attention, but dropped the pet name. “You should really just tell him. Be honest about your feelings! What’s the worst that could happen?”

Janus and Virgil glanced at one another before leveling Patton with their best ‘are-you-actually-serious’ look.

“So many things.” Virgil could almost name them by heart by now. He had run them over in his mind so many times. “For one, he doesn’t even know that I’m a vampire. I’d have to drop that bombshell on him, and you know that he’d just be scared off. At least now I have him as a friend.”

Suddenly, Janus had turned his dubious stare away from Patton, and Virgil had both of his friends staring at him with matching looks of… amusement? Surprise? Sympathy? Virgil couldn’t tell, but he very much felt like Janus was not on his side in this conversation any longer.

“Are you kidding?” Janus’s voice held a note of high pitched incredulity that only confused Virgil further. Janus turned to Patton, unhidden laughter in his tone now. “Is he kidding? Does he not know-”

From the way that the werewolf winced, Virgil got the distinct impression that Patton had just stomped on his foot. Bewildered, Virgil turned to Patton. “Know what? Pat, what is he talking about?”

Janus looked like he was about to break into a laughing fit. “You-”

“Shh!” Patton nudged Janus, sending him a very severe pointed look. They turned back to Virgil, who felt extremely lost. “It’s nothing, V. He’s just being stupid.”

“Hey!”

“What Janus means to say is that you can’t be sure how he’ll react. You really should tell him, Virgil.” Their eyes were kind, but Virgil could not shake the distinct feeling that he was being made fun of.

Knowing that he would definitely not be following that advice, and that Janus was about two seconds away from laughing in his face for some reason, Virgil pushed away from the coffee bar and stood up, clutching his O negative espresso.

“Yeah, alright. Look, I’ve got to be going.” He gestured lamely over his shoulder.

“Oh! Okay, Virgil. Well, good night!” Patton waved as Virgil backed away from the bar towards the door. Janus looked like he was in a lot of pain. Probably because Patton was standing on his foot. “Sucks to see you go!”

Virgil turned and dashed out of the store. As the door to the café swung shut behind him, he could hear Janus break into a deafening cackle.

Weird.

----

The view of the night sky from the planetarium never ceased to amaze Logan.

Despite the fact that he had worked at the planetarium as a lecturer for approximately two years now, the sight from the observation deck would always be a sight to behold. Logan had spent many, many years under the same stars, and he had never once beheld anything as beautiful as them.

Well, perhaps there were one or two things that rivaled starshine from the heavens.

Like his roommate’s crooked smile. Or his alluring violet eyes, and how they lit up with a fond twinkle that Logan used to think could never be aimed at him. Virgil’s laugh also rivaled the constellations that Logan knew by heart--the way it dipped and fell, how it was low and gravely sometimes, stirring something deep in Logan’s stomach.

Even now, Logan was staring up at the sky--his one true love for over a century and a half--Logan found himself wishing that he were at home, sitting with Virgil on the couch, watching a sitcom.

Logan was startled out of his musings by the clearing of a throat.

Blinking, Logan tore his eyes away from the open sky. A man--a customer--stood before Logan. The first thing that Logan noticed were the sunglasses that the man was wearing. They were perched on top of his curly black hair, almost unnoticeable in the dark of the planetarium. Why on earth would anyone be wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night? Judging by the rest of the man’s outfit, a black leather jacket, a nondescript gray t-shirt and ripped jeans, Logan presumed that it was simply part of this man’s aesthetic.

Virgil would probably have approved. Or called him a try-hard. It was hard to predict Virgil’s opinions.

“Yes, sir?” Logan finally got around to responding, his polite customer service voice on.

The man smiled charmingly. It was quite unlike Virgil’s unsure smile, which often left Logan feeling as though he were the only one in the world who got to see it. This man looked like he handed out smiles to any and everyone.

There was something… familiar about him. It nagged on the back of Logan’s mind.

“I was wondering when the next lecture was.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of a question. Again, Logan explained it away. Many customers were entitled and downright rude to him. This certainly was not out of the norm, or even noteworthy.

Logan glanced at his watch, as if he didn’t know the planetarium’s schedule by heart. It was nearly 5:30 A.M. “I’m sorry, sir.”  Logan answered as he looked back up. The man was a bit closer than he had been before. Logan took a step back. “We are actually about to close for a couple of hours before morning tours of the museum can begin.”

That was another odd thing. Not many customers stayed around the planetarium as morning was arriving. Logan usually had the last hour or so of his shift free of customers on weekdays.

“Bummer.” The man did not sound too put out by this information. “I was really looking forward to hearing your lecture, Mr. Doyle.”

Logan felt distinctly uncomfortable now. He knew, logically, that the man could know his name for any number of reasons. It was all over the pamphlets set out around the room. It was on the badge stuck to Logan’s turtleneck. However, the way that the man said it…

“It is Doctor, but thank you.” Logan said, stiffly. “If you return another night, I’m sure that you can make it to a show.” Logan very much did not want this man to return another night.

“Do you work any day shifts?”

Logan hadn’t seen the man move, but he was closer once again. Logan took another step back, hoping that his distancing himself was not too obvious. “Sadly, no. I am here most nights, however. There are schedules on our free pamphlets.” He wished that there were not schedules on their free pamphlets.

The man was just opening his mouth to speak again when the doors to the planetarium burst open, and a young man in a pale pink sweater tumbled through.

“Came in early, Doc! Couldn’t get much sleep last night, so I thought I’d come in a few hours early and let you go! I can do the cleaning before my shift starts, and you can get home to- Oh. Hello.”

Logan held back a sigh of relief. It helped greatly that he did not need to breathe. “Hello, Dr. Picani. I was just telling this customer-”

“Nate. Nate Miller.” The man, Nate, had looked very disgruntled to be interrupted, Logan had not failed to notice. Now, however, he was smiling charmingly once again as he crossed the couple of steps between Logan and the door to shake Dr. Emile Picani’s hand.

“Nice to meet ’cha!” Emile exclaimed, sending a slightly confused look over Nate’s shoulder to Logan. Logan shook his head. No. He did not know this man. Emile, the saint that he was, stepped in gracefully, making up for his clumsiness at the door before. “Well, I can answer any questions that you have now! My friend, Logan, here is going to be going home early. You can stick around while I clean up before we close for a bit.”

Nate looked very much disgruntled with this turn of events, but Logan did not give him a chance to respond, grabbing his messenger bag as quickly as a human possibly could.

Nodding his thanks to Emile, Logan tried to maintain a neutral stature and pace as he left the planetarium, scanning out at the buzzer by the door and grabbing his keys.

He felt eyes on him all the way out.

----

When Virgil got back from P&J’s it was only 4 A.M.

Which meant that he had about three hours before Logan got back from work.

Was it odd for one to measure time by their roommate’s whereabouts? Virgil wasn’t quite sure. To be fair, he had never had a roommate that he was so attached to. Logan was… special.

Virgil shook that thought away. Logan wasn’t even home yet, and all Virgil could seem to think about was him. It was Janus and Patton’s fault. What they had said was sitting in the back of his mind and making him think all kinds of crazy things.

Like that he should possibly… maybe consider telling Logan his feelings.

Virgil bit the inside of his cheek harshly, shoving that thought as far away as he possibly could. No. Not an option. Logan was just a human who was unluckily living with a vampire. Virgil could never ruin his life like that.

Determined to distract himself, Virgil placed his phone face up on the kitchen counter and turned on some music.

Usually, around the apartment, Virgil would only listen to his music with his headphones on. Music was a very personal thing. Not to mention that blasting music that other people may not like was too much of a risk for is anxiety ridden self.

However, tonight--that morning?--Virgil needed to blast the traitorous thoughts out of his mind, and he didn’t feel like dealing with the headache that would surely come with wearing headphones on full blast. So, Virgil queued up his favorite distraction playlist of early 2000s punk songs and played it for all the empty kitchen to hear.

For the next hour or so, Virgil bobbed his head along to bands that reminded him of when he was still alive and worked on his computer. Being a web developer and consultant had its perks, the greatest among them being the lack of strict hours and the absence of human interaction.

Just after half past five, Virgil was bored. Not that his job was particularly thrilling most nights, but what Janus had said earlier was still bothering him.

What had the werewolf been insinuating? He had acted like he knew something that Virgil didn’t. And Patton hadn’t exactly proved Virgil’s suspicions wrong. In fact, they had seemed just as amused by whatever secret Janus was keeping from Virgil.

It was infuriating. His two best friends, and he couldn’t for the undead life of him figure out their angle.

Why did they want Virgil to out himself as a vampire to Logan? If it were just Patton, Virgil would simply assume that they wanted him to be happy, but Janus… Janus knew a bit more about what could happen if their secrets were outed. And yet he had still acted like Virgil keeping his blood drinking habits a secret from Logan was some sort of joke.

Virgil groaned, burying his head in his hands and pushing his computer aside.

Looked like he was going to get that headache whether he liked it or not.

Just as he was lamenting his choices in friends, the song changed and Virgil reached for his phone without thinking. With only a few taps on the screen, Virgil closed out of his current playlist and pulled up one that he had clocked many an hour listening to in the early hours of dawn, shut up in his room, curled up on his bed and hugging a pillow.

It was simply titled “Logan” with a blue heart emoji.

He never had been very creative.

Before he could think about the ramifications of his decision, Virgil had pressed the shuffle button and set his phone back down.

“Now that she’s back in the atmosphere

With drops of Jupiter in her hair

She acts like summer and walks like rain

Reminds me that there’s a time to change”

Virgil closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. It was silly. It was really, really, really silly, and Virgil knew for a fact that if Janus were here to see what Virgil was doing, Virgil would probably die for the second time.

That knowledge didn’t stop him from getting up and sliding slowly around his own dark kitchen in his socks, though.

For a good couple of songs, Virgil danced alone in the kitchen. Not really danced, just sort of swayed in place and slid around, but that didn’t matter. All the while, he thought of Logan. His roommate who wore hideously outdated, probably thrifted, sweater vests like they were the height of fashion. His roommate who watched bad documentaries with him and ate terribly sugary jelly right from the jar in the fridge. His roommate who still used that ugly black fluffy keychain that Virgil had given him as a joke weeks ago.

Maybe he should tell Logan. About his feelings or about his nature, he wasn’t quite sure. He hadn’t decided when a pair of smooth, comfortably chilled hands slipped into his and a soft voice spoke.

“Can’t say I’ve ever come home to this before.”

Virgil’s eyes flew open. He had been so deep in his own mind that he hadn’t even heard the door unlock. For the tiniest of moments, he tensed, all too aware of the type of music that was currently pouring from his phone, but he quickly relaxed.

Logan tended to have that effect on him.

Maybe he should have been more wary of that. He wasn’t.

“You’re home early.” He responded, trying to hide his burning embarrassment. It was quickly overshadowed by the sudden, all too visceral knowledge that Logan had placed one of his hands on Virgil’s waist and was now leading the two of them in a real dance.

In the middle of their dark kitchen, illuminated only by the light of the refrigerator clock and the glow from Virgil’s abandoned laptop, while the jazzy notes of Fly Me to the Moon played in the background.

He could die again happy.

Logan was nodding. “Yes. My coworker, Emile, showed up early and let me take the hour off. Something about being unable to sleep. I probably should have been more worried for him.”

Virgil couldn’t stop his lips from quirking up in a small smile. He didn’t even try to. “Lucky me. And- I mean, lucky you, of course. An hour off. That must be nice.”

Logan hummed. “It’s turning out to be, yes.”

The two of them turned slowly as the song faded out. Logan didn’t let go, so Virgil didn’t either. Feeling uncharacteristically brave, or perhaps just a bit too comfortable, Virgil leaned forward and rested his head on Logan’s shoulder.

His turtleneck was soft against Virgil’s cheek.

“I know you're somewhere out there

Somewhere far away

I want you back, I want you back

My neighbors think I'm crazy

But they don't understand

You're all I have, you're all I have

At night, when the stars light up my room

I sit by myself

Talking to the moon

Trying to get to you

In hopes you're on the other side, talking to me too

Or am I a fool, who sits alone, talking to the moon?”

They were silent as the music played. They swayed slowly. Logan led them in circles effortlessly. Distantly, Virgil wondered whether Logan had some professional training on his front. At one point, during the chorus of their second song, Logan pushed Virgil back slightly. Just as he was about to apologize for taking liberties and invading Logan’s space, though, Logan lifted their joined hands.

Virgil spun underneath, an incredulous laugh floating easily from his chest.

His fangs flashed in the laptop’s glow just as he was facing away from his roommate.

Logan caught Virgil back in his arms easily, pulling him back to their original position and rubbing his thumb along Virgil’s waist in a way that gave him goosebumps.

It dawned on Virgil as the sun dawned on the city streets.

He was desperately, irrevocably in love with Logan Doyle.

----

“I’m in love with him.”

Remus choked on his thai food, noodles still half out of his mouth. “What the fuck?”

“I am in love with him.” Logan repeated. “What did you think that I said?”

Remus spat out his noodles in a frankly disgusting display that Logan was sadly used to. “No! I heard you, I’m just flabbergasted!”

“Nice word.” Logan commented.

“You’re in- I can’t even say it! You sound like Roman! I knew that you had the hots for Virgey, but in love-” Remus fake retched.

Logan bristled, but before he could make a sarcastic remark about how much less disgusting his feelings were than Remus’s… everything, Roman stepped out from the back room.

“You know that I can hear you, right?”

Roman rounded the counter, his knee length skirt swaying against his legs. Roman and Remus were starkly different. Where Roman wore flowy, soft and stylish clothing, Remus was all hard lines and punk outfits. However, both had plenty of tattoos. Roman’s right arm was nearly covered with brightly colored tattoos that looked like a watercolor project. Remus had a similar, monochrome sleeve on his left arm.

Roman and Remus were co-owners of the tattoo parlor known as King’s Inks, named for their own last names. Logan never came in for an actual tattoo, they weren’t really his style, but the brothers were always welcoming to him. It wasn’t hard, even when living in a big city, for the creatures unknown to most humans to find one another. People like Logan… and people like Roman they stuck together. No matter if they both enjoyed tattoos or not.

Roman King and Remus King looked like normal, human twins to most. Other than Roman’s slightly pointed ears, of course. If someone was not in the know about fae or changelings, then they may just assume that it was just a part of Roman’s unique style.

“I don’t care! Lolo’s lost his mind!”

Logan scoffed. “I assure you, my mind is very much intact and in my head, thank you. Do not insert me into your arguments with your sibling.”

“Please, Rem.” Roman rolled his eyes, completely ignoring Logan, as if the conversation were not completely about him and his emotions. “Stop acting like you’re so disgusted by displays of emotion, already.”

“Acting? Bold of you to assume that I can act. You’re the acting one. Your entire existence is based on acting like me.”

Roman huffed, dramatically. “As if you weren’t waxing poetic about Patton last Thursday! Logan remembers! Don’t you, Logan?”

“I was under the impression that we were talking about me this week.”

Roman waved his hand dismissively. “He means he remembers. So cut the bull, Remus.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but did not defend himself. His mouth was full of thai food again anyway.

Roman glared at his brother for just a second longer before returning his attention to Logan. Instantly, his expression was brighter, almost giddy. “In love?! Finally you got around to admitting it! What happened? Did something happen? Was it cute?”

“We danced.” Logan answered, simply. He had long surpassed any feelings of embarrassment around the King twins.

Roman squealed. Quite literally, squealed. Logan winced and leaned away. Remus fake retched again.

“You’re not going to just say that and not tell us everything, are you?” Roman hopped up to sit on the counter across from where Logan and Remus were sitting at the small table in the waiting room.

And so Logan did. Not because Roman King was particularly good at convincing, but because, not so secretly, Logan really had just come to the tattoo shop to tell his friends everything. That was what these weekly meetings were for, after all. It wasn’t official, or anything, but it had become expected for Logan to turn up at the tattoo parlor every Thursday to chat with Roman and Remus about all manners of things.

Most particularly, their individual romantic endeavors.

As Logan recounted the events of the previous night, Roman looked more and more excited. Usually, Logan would be frightened by such a level of sheer giddy enjoyment on the fae’s face, but today Logan could feel nothing less than happy. Content.

He still didn’t really know where his own courage had come from the night before. What exactly had possessed him upon entering their apartment to find Virgil swaying alone in the kitchen to music? Why had he suddenly acquired the romantic prowess it took to lead his roommate in an impromptu dance around the linoleum floor? Was it simply love?

Did it really matter?

Apparently not, according to the twins. Even Remus looked begrudgingly moved at the end of Logan’s tale.

“So when are you going to tell him?” The human twin asked.

“What do you mean?” Logan asked, confused. He had only just discovered these feelings, why on earth did Remus believe that he should instantly confess them? Honestly, Logan was much more comfortable enjoying this discovery in private, thank you very much.

“You should tell him!” Roman nearly shouted. “Don’t tell me that you’re just… not going to.”

“That was the plan, yes.”

“Wh- Men.” Roman exclaimed, falling back dramatically to lay across the bar that he was still sitting on.

Logan huffed. “This has nothing to do with my gender, Roman.” He wasn’t really offended by the comment, of course, he was just deflecting. Roman himself was genderfluid and was quite liberal with his comments about men, whether he was using he/him pronouns at the moment or not. “I just do not plan on telling Virgil about this right now. I see no reason to.”

“The reason is that you can be happy, Logan.”

Logan blinked, turning to face Remus. The moustached twin looked shockingly somber. Serious. It was like spotting a unicorn, seeing Remus like this. “I-”

“Logan, just listen and don’t talk for once.” Logan desperately wanted to point out that coming from Remus, such a statement was frankly laughable, but he bit his tongue. “You’ve been alive for nearly two centuries.” Logan barely held back a wince at the reminder of his age. Remus continued, completely carelessly. “And how many times have you really, and I mean really let yourself fall in love and stick with it?”

Logan could feel a lump of shame forming in his throat. He swallowed around it.

Roman picked up this time. His voice was much more soothing than his brother’s, but no less stern. “You’re always working, Logan. You’re always going, and we get it. You’ve been stuck at twenty-six years old for over a hundred and fifty years. You keep moving because the world keeps moving around you.” There was something sad in Roman’s golden-green eyes for a split second, but it was quickly masked. “You have to take a chance every once in a while. You should tell Virgil about your feelings. You know that you would be saying the same thing were it either of us.”

Remus continued. “Listen to your besties for once, Logan. You’ve been coming in here and going on and on about Virgil for weeks. Months. I don’t even know, it’s been so long. But the point is that you need to tell him. It’s been long enough, even Roman is tired of it. Not to mention, I’d bet my ass he feels the same.”

There was a moment of silence. Those were few and far between in King’s Inks.

Remus broke it after a few seconds, as though continuing his thought from earlier. “And you desperately need to get laid.”

Logan wrinkled his nose, distastefully. “Honestly, Remus, can you resist being vile for longer than ten minutes?”

Remus grinned, proudly digging back into his thai food. “Nope! It’s what I’m here for.” There was a momentary pause. “No, literally. It’s why the fair folk brought me back after switching me with Ro.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “It is not. Stop talking bad about yourself, or I’m going across the street and telling Patton.”

Logan may have been mistaken, or too caught up in his own issues, but for a moment there, it looked as though Remus’s cheeks were brushed with a light shade of pink.

As the brother’s began to bicker, Logan pulled back into his own thoughts. Perhaps… Should he tell Virgil? Despite the raging swarm of butterflies that attacked the pit of Logan’s stomach at the very thought, he had to admit that letting his emotions out in the open would feel a lot better than continuing living with Virgil for however much longer, pretending that he felt nothing more than friendship for him. It was already agony just in his mind’s eye.

There were so many possible downsides, though. Logically, Logan knew that Virgil would not become angry if Logan were to confess. It was highly unlikely that Virgil would cut off all contact with Logan or kick him out of the apartment, either. In fact, after the previous night’s display…

Logan, holding Virgil against his chest as though he were something precious--because he was, of course--the two of them twirling around their tiny kitchen, as though they were the only two people in the world. Soft music playing from Virgil’s phone, the perfect songs for them luckily playing back to back, as if hand picked. Logan had had the lyrics swirling in his mind on repeat ever since. It had been… magical. Lovely. Wonderful. Everything that Logan had never known he needed.

And it was well worth the risk of mortification that he could forget in fifty years if Logan had even the slightest of chances to hold onto Virgil like that again.

“I’m going to do it.” Logan’s voice rang out, perfectly clear, over the twins’ quickly heating argument.

Roman gasped. “Really? I didn’t think we would be able to talk you into it!”

“You didn’t. I simply decided that it was a low risk, high reward situation. Statistically, I have more to lose by not attempting to tell Virgil my… discovery than I do by telling him.”

“Cut the bull, nerd.” Remus was grinning again, in a way that would have appeared almost… menacing, were Logan not so used to Remus’s odd expressions. “We all know that you did not actually calculate the statistical risk of telling Virgil you’re in-” Remus caught up to his own words and dramatically retched again, as though the very word he was about to say was an allergen.

“In love,” Roman finished for his brother, “I can’t believe you’re going to do it! Oh- You should get some flowers for him from the shop down the street! The warlock who owns it is always so perceptive about what to get for which occasion. Oh, this will be so romantic-”

Logan cleared his throat. “You do know that if- when I tell Virgil, you will not be in attendance, correct?”

Roman waved a hand dismissively. “Details.”

Remus stood and stretched, his back cracking loudly. “Alright, well if you two are about to plan the most boring pre-fuck in the world, I’m going down to the café. You two want anything?”

The vampire and the fae both shook their hands, and Remus left the tattoo parlor, the bell above the door jingling jovially over the quick chatter from Roman as the door swung shut behind him.

----

Virgil couldn’t focus on his work.

To be fair, Virgil had never been good at focusing on his job. When he wasn’t actually consulting, Virgil was a developer. Which meant that he essentially made his own schedule. Which also meant that he had no accountability for any sort of timeline.

It became especially hard when Virgil’s mind was completely occupied by Logan Doyle.

Virgil, lately, had spent quite a bit of every day thinking about Logan. But after the night before… Virgil couldn’t stop thinking about him. Every time he closed his eyes, he was there again, in the middle of the kitchen, breathing in Logan’s vanilla scented cologne. Every time he paused between keystrokes, the notes from the music that had played that night floated through his mind.

It was unbearably distracting.

Patton had texted Virgil at about 1 A.M., asking whether he would be at the café that night. At first, Virgil had considered sending back a snarky text telling them that he would not be returning to P&J’s until Janus stopped being a little shit and avoiding telling him what his little laughing fit during his last visit had been about.

Instead, however, out of his own gracious nature, Virgil held back his sarcasm.

It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he had spent the past 20 hours feeling as though his chest were full of bubbles, imagining Logan’s hand on his waist.

Virgil: not tonight. I’ve got work to do.

What happened? Patton texted back immediately.

Virgil cursed his friend’s intuition.

Virgil: nothing! I just don’t feel like coffee.

Pat: And you do feel like work?

Virgil: no, I feel like being at home.

There was a pause. Virgil watched as a bubble indicating that Patton was typing appeared and disappeared about three times in quick succession.

Pat: Hold on. I’m moving this to the group chat.

Virgil cursed. If Janus got wind of what was happening, Virgil would never hear the end of it. Janus could sniff out Virgil’s emotional turmoil like no one else. No pun intended.

Before he could respond and tell them to not tell Janus under any circumstances, Patton had sent a text in the trio’s group chat.

Pat: What’s going on, Virgil?

Janus: Something’s up with Virgil?

Virgil: no. I just said I wasn’t coming in today.

Janus: Why not?

Virgil: I have work to do!

Pat: We’re just worried about you, honey.

Virgil groaned, but didn’t correct the pet name. Even though he didn’t like being coddled, sometimes the affection Patton put into their words wasn’t so bad. It certainly wasn’t a decision ruled by Virgil’s current good mood.

Virgil: I just wanted to stay home today. I’m fine.

Janus: That means you’re either mid depression spiral or-

Virgil softened a bit. His friends really did get him. It wouldn’t have been the first time that Virgil had fallen into a spiral since he met the two, and Janus and Patton were sadly well acquainted with Virgil’s moods. He knew that if he really were in the middle of an episode that Patton and Janus wouldn’t hesitate to close the coffee shop for the night and come keep him company.

Pat: Are you? V?

Virgil shook his head and texted back quickly.

Virgil: I’m not. Really.

Janus: Oh fuck.

Pat: ???

Janus: Are you in bed with Logan right now?

Pat: !!!

Virgil: NO.

Janus: Are you about to be?

Pat: !!!!!!!!!!!

Virgil: no.

Janus: What happened, then?

Virgil: none of your business. I just answered Pat’s text. I do not deserve to be interrogated.

Janus: This is not an interrogation. It is a series of educated guesses and negations.

Virgil: I plead the fifth, then.

Janus: Not an interrogation. You have no rights.

Virgil: didn’t you drop out of law school?

Janus: After my girlfriend nearly killed me, actually.

Pat: Boys, let’s not fight. Are you sure you’re alright, Virgil?

Virgil: yeah, I promise.

Oddly enough, Virgil was considering expanding on what was actually going on--Patton tended to have that effect on him. They were amazingly good at pulling Virgil’s deepest thoughts from him. Something about their trust and gentle concern was surprisingly convincing. Just as he was about to respond, there was a knock at the door.

Virgil instantly tensed. It was only 1 in the morning. Even on Logan’s off nights, like Virgil knew tonight was, Logan never got home before 2 or 3.

And even when he was early or late, Logan had his own key. Of course he did. With that stupid fluffy black keychain that Virgil had clipped onto his key ring weeks ago.

Had something happened?

Virgil glanced back down at his phone and sent a quick dismissal text to his two friends.

Virgil: I’ll see you guys later. Gotta go.

Janus: Chicken.

Pat: Alright! Have a good night, Virgil!

Virgil couldn’t stop the way his lips quirked up at the texts. He was still looking down at his phone as he took his first few steps towards the apartment door. There was another, slightly less polite sounding knock on the door.

“Coming!” Virgil called, clicking his phone off and sliding it into the pocket of his hoodie.

The light from the hallway outside cast a shadow that Virgil could see in the crack underneath the door. Whoever was on the other side was standing rather close to the door. Virgil couldn’t quite shake the sense that there was something off. He tried not to focus on it too much. He was in a good mood. Whoever the hell it was knocking on his door at one in the morning was probably just at the wrong door.

Any other night, Virgil would have been more cautious.

Any other night, when Virgil was in any other mood than completely besotted, Virgil may not have answered the knock at all.

As it was, Virgil opened the apartment door with little to no hesitation.

On the other side, standing in the dimly lit hallway stood a man with a nest of curly black hair and a form-fitting leather jacket, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neck of his plain black t-shirt. If Virgil didn’t feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up with some sort of instinctual unease, he may have thought that the man in front of him was handsome.

“Can I help you?” Anxiety seeped into Virgil’s tone. He looked the man up and down. The large boots. The perfectly straight posture. The tense shoulders. He suddenly wished very much that he had not opened the door.

The man smiled. There was something distinctly menacing about it. “Is Logan here?”

Virgil’s stomach twisted. He knew, suddenly, that he should not, under any circumstances, tell this man where Logan was. He felt his fangs poking at his lower lip, descending involuntarily. “Who are you?” His voice was gruffer than intended. The question was polite enough, but Virgil’s tone was nearly a hiss.

“I’m Nate Miller.” The man put a hand on the outside of the door. He didn’t push it open any wider than Virgil held it, but Virgil got the distinct impression that he would if Virgil made any sort of move to shut the door in his face.

“And you’re Virgil Noir, aren’t you?”

----

The warlock from the flower shop suggested that Logan go with a traditional bouquet of a dozen red roses.

Logan, however, while a traditional man of 182 years old, wanted something a bit more creative.

Roman had hovered over his shoulder for the entire exchange, offering his two cents with each choice that Logan attempted to make. His helpfulness was suffocating, but Logan didn’t let it deter him.

By the time that they were done, Logan had a beautiful, and rather pricey, bouquet picked out.

It was beautiful. It was wholly unnecessary, of course, but Logan didn’t mind getting caught up in Roman’s dramatics from time to time too much.

Virgil deserved as much.

The walk back to the apartment passed by Logan in a blur of cracked sidewalk and brisk air.

Logan had made this walk plenty of times before, but that time it felt… different. The air was full of promise, and though he was hesitant to admit it, even to himself, a sort of… hope that Logan hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

It was a breath of fresh air. Possibility.

Probability, if Logan allowed himself to make a couple of more hopeful assumptions based on that look in Virgil’s eyes the night before.

It wasn’t until he got to the door of the apartment complex that any sort of anxiety started to catch up with him. Seeing Virgil usually brought a calm over Logan. Coming back to the apartment to see his roommate was in itself like unwinding after a long day. Virgil had an uncanny ability of loosening every ward that Logan set up around himself.

But as Logan ascended the stairs--the elevator would definitely take too long right then, especially since Logan had noticed that it was descending right as he walked into the building--he took note of the fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach.

The bats taking nest in his gut quickly fell into a pit as Logan saw the door to their apartment.

The open door to their apartment.

The bouquet fell from Logan’s hands, tumbling to the carpeted floor of the hallway.

Logan was at the door in less than a second, much faster than any human could move.

The bolt on the door was scratched, as if it had been forced open. If Logan’s heart hadn’t already stopped beating, this would have put a halt to it. He pushed the door open lightly, slowly, as though the seconds that it took to do so would stop this from happening--stop what he was seeing from being true.

Carefully, residual training from his years of being a detective when he was alive kicking in, Logan picked his way into the room so as not to disturb what was inside.

The apartment, for the most part, was exactly as he had left it. Further in, Logan could see that the living room was undisturbed.

Whatever had happened hadn’t made it past the entryway.

The entryway itself was a mess. The corkboard that Logan had hung up on the wall was crooked, the miscellaneous take-out menus and schedules were either barely hanging on by their push pins or scattered across the floor. The umbrella stand was knocked completely to the ground, as was the dish that usually held their keys. It was laying on the wood floor, shattered. Virgil’s keys underneath.

The knot in Logan’s throat that had nothing to do with thirst tightened. Finally, emotion overtook care. “Virgil?!” Logan called out into the empty apartment. His voice echoed off of the walls.

Dashing forward, past the wreckage of their entryway, Logan entered the living room. He glanced around quickly, desperately, but it was empty. “Virgil?!” He turned on his heel. So was the kitchen. Fast as he possibly could, Logan was at the door to Virgil’s bedroom, throwing it open and finding it silent and desolate. Desperate, Logan shot to the door to his own bedroom and flung it open, only to find the same thing.

Shaking, Logan was back at the kitchen in a blink. Virgil’s laptop was sitting, untouched on the counter. Just as he was about to give up, something caught the corner of Logan’s eye.

A flash of white. Instantly, Logan was back at the front door, pushing it closed.

There, pinned to the door of his and Virgil’s apartment with a silver knife was a slip of paper.

Logan felt sick. It was paper from a pad that they kept in the kitchen. Paper that he usually wrote notes for Virgil on before he left for the night.

Doyle,

I believe I have something you want. You know where to find me.

-NM

The shaking stopped. The paper nearly tore with the force that Logan was gripping it. Clutching the note in one hand, Logan reached into the side pocket of his messenger bag for his cell phone. By the time that he had dialed Remus’s number, he was already out the front door of the apartment building.

----

It was barely fifteen minutes later when they all made it to King’s Inks.

Fifteen minutes too long, in Logan’s opinion.

Roman had just barely been able to talk Logan down from taking off after Virgil.

Rationally, Logan knew that he would have done the same thing if he were in Roman’s place. If he had snatched Remus's phone from his hand and heard himself, desperate and earth shakingly angry, raving about going off alone after a hunter of unknown ability, he would have talked himself down too.

That didn’t mean that he was any less angry about it.

When Logan had reached the tattoo parlor, only one twin had been waiting for him. When Roman told Logan that Remus had gone down the street to get the owners of the local coffee shop, Logan had nearly gone off on him. Thankfully, Roman’s bullshit detector and friendship was stronger than Logan’s ferocity.

The bell above the door had jingled not too long later, and Logan had stopped his pacing to look at the new arrivals.

Remus entered the tattoo parlor followed by two rather eclectic characters that Logan could only assume were the owners of the café down the street. He barely listened through introductions, just gathering the essentials--that Patton and Janus were friends of Virgil’s and here to help.

Roman then had to pry the--for lack of any other possible description, though it made Logan sick to the stomach to think it--ransom note from Logan’s hand to pass it around to the other three.

“Who is NM?” Janus’s voice was gruff, enough so that Logan didn’t even need to register the wet dog smell to know that he was a werewolf.

“Nate Miller.” Logan hissed out. His foot tapped impatiently against the polished concrete floor of the tattoo parlor. “He approached me at my work earlier this week.”

Janus raised a single eyebrow but didn’t challenge it. If Logan were in a better state, he would have noticed the worried tilt to Janus’s mouth, or the way that his back was ramrod straight. He would have noticed that Janus was just as worried for Virgil as he was.

To Janus’s left, holding the ransom note and staring unblinkingly at it, was Patton. They were trembling, their eyes glassy. Remus was leaning over their shoulder to read the note as well. Logan barely noticed the supportive hand that the human twin had placed on the new vampire’s back.

“And there was no sign of Virgil?” Logan swallowed back the urge to snap in his reply, only because of the waver in Patton’s voice. “How long ago do you think-”

“I don’t know.” Logan clipped. “Not long before I arrived back at the apartment. It still reeked of him.” Old Spice and gunpowder. Logan could still smell the phantom of it. “I need to find him.”

Roman placed a calming hand on Logan’s shoulder. “That’s what we’re trying to do, hothead. We’re trying to get your boyfriend back, but you shouldn’t go running off after a hunter alone. Especially not one that is obviously targeting you.”

Janus nodded along. “For once, Roman is speaking sense.” Roman’s cheeks flushed a soft pink at the low-bar praise. “I thought that you were supposed to be smart?”

Logan leveled a glare at the wolf. “I’m sorry, do you know me?”

Janus shrugged. “Might as well. Virgil talks about you enough.”

“What does it mean?” Patton interrupted before Logan could respond. “‘You know where to find me.’ Do you, Logan?”

Logan nodded curtly. “The observatory. There’s nothing else that it could mean. That’s where he confronted me before.” Just thinking about it stirred up Logan’s anger again. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging on it at the ends. “I just don’t understand! Why would he take Virgil if he wants me? He’s a human! He has nothing to do with this!”

The whole room froze and went suddenly, unbearably silent.

“What?” Logan snapped. He should probably feel worse about being so harsh with his friends--and, apparently, Virgil’s friends--but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Are you kidding me? Still?” Remus’s voice was shrill. More shrill than usual, even.

All four of the others were staring directly at Logan, with varying looks of disbelief and resignation.

“Logan, honey.” Patton’s voice was unbearably fond, despite the fact that Logan had only really known them for a couple of minutes. “Virgil is a vampire too.”

Logan blinked. Then blinked again. For a moment, just a moment, he forgot all about where they were and what was going on. And suddenly, everything made sense. “Shit.”

The others watched him, concerned, for just a moment before Janus spoke again, redirecting them all back to the matter at hand. Logan, however, felt as though his head was spinning. Everything that he had known was suddenly turned on its head. He took a deep breath.

There would be time to deal with his revelation later. For now, he needed to focus. Virgil needed him. Virgil needed all of them.

Logan looked up, refocusing back on the others. They were talking quietly amongst themselves. Logan cleared his throat.

“We need to make a plan.”

----

The planetarium was silent when Logan arrived. Anyone would have assumed that it was deserted.

The planetarium was closed for the night, which is why it was Logan’s day off. Usually the planetarium and, specifically, the observatory was a place of comfort for him. Tonight, however, he wanted nothing more than to not have to be here.

Well, that was untrue. He did want one thing more, and Nate Miller knew it.

His footsteps echoed through the empty halls. Spinning diagrams of planets and moons that would normally have been mesmerizing hung from the ceiling. During the day, the planetarium was beautiful.

Logan had the path to the observatory memorized. He walked down the halls quickly but with caution, not using his vampire speed. There was no way of telling what Nate had been prepared for when he demanded that Logan meet him here. There could be any number of traps and Logan needed to keep his head on his shoulders, as Janus had not so politely warned before they had split up.

Despite his admirable restraint, Logan still moved more recklessly than he probably should have on his way there.

The door was cracked when Logan reached the observatory, propped open with a stopper. Logan didn’t hesitate before crossing the threshold and entering. It was just as quiet inside the observatory as the rest of the planetarium had been. The aisles of plush, fold theatre-style seats innocently lined the rounded walls and radiated inwards, completely empty. The ceiling was rolled back and open to the heavens. A clear night sky shown down on Logan and the empty rows of seats. It was beautiful, but Logan knew the implications of the sight.

It was nearing dawn now. The sun would be rising within the hour.

Behind him, the door slammed shut. Thankfully, Logan had just enough dignity and composure not to flinch at the sound, although he did turn to see that the door had in fact been closed behind him.

“Well, well, well.” The voice--Nate’s voice--seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The intercom system. Logan scanned the room for movement, quickly and imperceptibly. To the human eye, he would have simply appeared unmoving. Almost bored. “You actually came. Took you long enough.”

Logan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had never hated anything more than he hated that voice. “I got caught up.” He responded through clenched teeth. Logan wasn’t thrilled with the concept of conversing with Nate at all, but he needed the time. “Next time you should call.”

The laugh that followed sounded like nails scraping against a chalkboard to Logan.

“Oh, but darling, you never gave me your number.”

Logan’s fingernails were digging crescent moon shaped wounds into his palm. “Enough small talk. Where is he?”

“Who?” There was laughter still in Nate’s tone. Even though Logan couldn’t see him, his stomach was boiling with rage at the audacity.

“Enough of the games!” Logan hissed, striding a few purposeful steps further into the circular room. “Where is he? Where is Virgil?”

There was a despondent sigh from above, and suddenly, Logan could hear the stage in the center of the room rising.

Logan had been on that platform many times before, giving lectures and presentations to excited audience members. He was always filled with a warm sense of anticipation and excitement before those speeches, no matter the fact that he had given them countless times before.

Now, he felt nothing but dread as he watched the stage rise up from under the floor to eye level.

The figure in the center of the stage was strapped to a chair. Logan’s heart lurched to see Virgil, slumped over and limp, but his worry was rapidly overcome by venomous fury when he saw Nate Miller, standing just behind his unconscious roommate, a wooden stake in one hand.

“The monster is alive. For now. You and I have business to attend to, Doyle. It should be coming around any moment now.”

----

Virgil’s head was pounding. The world was spinning, and he hadn’t even opened his eyes yet.

It was worse than any hangover that he had ever endured as a human. His vision was blurred as his eyes cracked open, spots of brilliant color dancing at the edges of his vision. He felt his fangs poking against his bottom lip.

Virgil twitched, raising--or at least, trying to raise--his hand to rub at his temples. His eyes shot open as he realized that he couldn’t move his hands. Chest rising and falling rapidly with breaths spurred by increasingly rising anxiety rather than an actual need to breathe, Virgil jerked against the shackles on his wrists. Matching shackles, he realized, locked his feet to the legs of the chair that he was in.

He couldn’t move at all.

“I’d stop that if I were you.” An almost bored voice spoke in Virgil’s ear. Jerking away, Virgil turned his neck to face his captor. Distantly, Virgil recognized the face.

His mind was still swimming, but he remembered it. Opening the door, half expecting Logan to be on the other side, and being met with this man. Knowing almost immediately that something was off, being forced back into his own home, barely having a chance to fight back, barely getting to call out before a sharp pain was radiating through his skull and everything was fading to black.

Virgil hissed, desperately leaning away from the man and the wooden stake that he was gripping with obvious intent.

The man’s eyes flashed, the patient facade disintegrating before Virgil’s eyes, revealing a manic sort of rage that terrified Virgil to the core.

“Virgil.”

The voice snapped Virgil out of his terror. Virgil’s eyes flew across the room, down to where Logan was standing, in the middle of an aisle--where were they?--worry and--Virgil’s heart panged with hurt--fear in his eyes.

Logan took a single step forward, but before he could move any more, the man behind Virgil was pressing the tip of the stake right against the spot where his unbeating heart was.

“Not another step, Doyle. You even try and move and this monster is dust.” The man growled the words in a way that reminded Virgil of someone barely hanging on to sanity. Virgil kept his eyes trained on Logan. The man’s voice smoothened suddenly, as though he were getting himself under thinly spread control. “We can just talk, can’t we? Just the three of us.”

Virgil sent Logan a pleading look. Logan needed to get out of there. He had to leave before this hunter--because he had to be a hunter, there was no other explanation--hurt him. Logan met the look with a determined shake of the head.

“Why don’t you introduce us all, Doyle?”

Virgil swallowed thickly, glancing back at the hunter before returning his eyes to Logan, confused. But Logan wasn’t looking at him any longer. His gaze was trained on the hunter behind him and Virgil felt as though he were missing something distinctly important.

Logan’s eyes narrowed. Virgil knew that face. Logan was biting back what he really wanted to say, and if there weren’t a stake pointed at his heart, Virgil would have wanted Logan to speak his mind and push this arrogant bastard right off of his soapbox.

Logan’s eyes flicked back to Virgil’s, and once again Virgil could see that little flicker of fear. Virgil swallowed down his own hurt.

“Virgil Noir, my roommate and… my friend.” There was something hesitant in the way Logan said it. Virgil tried desperately to focus on his anger. He had every right to be angry right now, and it had everything to do with the hunter threatening to kill him. He had no right to feel so… betrayed by Logan.

Logan, however, had every right to be scared after finding out that his roommate was a monster.

“And you are Nate Miller.” Logan continued. Virgil grimaced. Fuck Nate Miller. Virgil hated even his name. “A hunter who approached me yesterday at my place of work, and who is not targeting me. Why?”

There was a shocked, deranged sounding laugh from behind Virgil, and the hunter placed his hand on Virgil’s shoulder. Disgusted, Virgil shook it off, only to freeze when the sharpened end of the stake pressed threateningly against his chest. “Are you joking?” Nate’s voice was nearly an octave higher than it had been before. He sounded incredulous. “Don’t act like you don’t remember me, Doyle. Stupidity is unflattering for you.”

Logan’s face remained impassive. Virgil curiously looked him up and down. As someone who considered himself very good at reading Logan, Virgil could confidently say that he genuinely looked confused.

Virgil forced a laugh past his monumental anxiety. “Looks like you’re not that memorable, dude, sorry to break it to you.”

Nate grabbed a fistful of Virgil’s hair at the back of his head, tilting it back. “Shut up, bloodsucker! Don’t think I won’t put you down like the monster you are.”

Virgil gritted his teeth to hide the pain. “Do it then! By the time you turn me to dust, Logan will be gone.” Virgil looked down from where his head was still tilted at the uncomfortable angle to meet Logan’s eyes.

Logan shook his head minutely and Virgil’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Nate chuckled, breathlessly, releasing Virgil’s hair from his grasp and stepping around the chair so that Virgil could finally see him fully. Virgil’s first thought was that he was rather short, for a hunter. “Nice try. Goading me into focusing on you. I’m not an amateur. Doyle wouldn’t leave his perfect little boyfriend. That’s why he’s here, you know. For you.”

Virgil ignored the words, though they made something that wasn’t strictly fear squirm in his gut. He wasn’t going to get hope for his relationship with Logan from a hunter who was threatening to kill him. “Sounds like someone’s jealous.” He said instead, taking a vindictive sort of joy from the fury that was clearly written on Nate’s face at the statement.

“Virgil.” Logan warned, taking a single step forward.

Nate held up the stake again, menacingly. “Don’t move, Doyle.” Logan froze. “You want to pretend you don’t remember? Fine, I’ll jog your memory.” Gripping the stake tightly but lowering it, Nate took another step closer, his eyes trained solely on Logan. It made Virgil want to kick him. Luckily for the hunter, his legs were still shackled to his chair.

“We met three years ago, before you moved here. You were working at that bookshop, remember?” Virgil frowned, his eyes lobbying back and forth between Logan and Nate. He was confused. Why was a hunter so obsessed with Logan? “You were always wearing that cute little scarf. For a few weeks there, I came to the shop to see you every day.”

Logan’s eyes were widening in recognition, surprise and confusion warring on his perfectly smooth features. Virgil swallowed thickly. Logan knew this hunter.

“I remember.” Logan’s voice was low, barely there. His hands, which had been tense and balled into white fists since he first arrived at the observatory were relaxing slightly. “But- I don’t understand? If you were a hunter-”

Nate laughed, an odd mixture of pleased--likely at the fact that Logan suddenly remembered their connection--and cruel. “Please. If I had known right away what you were, I wouldn’t have wasted the time. When I found out, it was right before you moved away. I was disgusted. Wasting so much time and energy on a vampire-” Nate spat the word like a curse.

Virgil sucked in a shallow breath. A vampire? Logan? No. That couldn’t possibly be true. The hunter had to be mistaken. There was no way that Virgil would not have known that Logan was also a vampire. Except…

It did sort of make sense. Why Logan was also only ever awake at night, even on his days off. Why he was always just as cold as Virgil was. Why he kept so many jars of jam that Virgil was just realizing were definitely not full of jam. Virgil cursed himself. How had he not known-- How had he not noticed?

He remembered the other day at the café with Janus and Patton. If he got out of this alive, he was so going to kill Janus.

Then, of course, it dawned on Virgil exactly what sort of situation they were still in. If Logan was a vampire, then both of them were in danger right now. Logan had come for him, putting himself in grave danger. A hunter may spare a human, but they saw all creatures of the night as the same. Virgil’s eyes widened and he stared at Logan, trying to convey his urgency with his eyes.

Above all else, Logan had to get out of this observatory okay.

But Logan wasn’t looking at Virgil anymore.

“So you followed me?”

“I had to track you down!” The hunter cried, as if the alternative were impossible. “All you monsters are the same. I couldn’t just let you get away with tricking me-- with seducing me, masquerading as if you could possibly be normal. You’re a killer.”

Logan looked incensed. “If you’ve been watching me for so long, then you know that I haven’t killed anyone recently.”

“But you have before.” Nate spat, his eyes wild. “Don’t deny it. All of you are killers, whether you fancy yourself reformed or not. You need to pay for what you’ve done.” Nate gestured to Virgil, hatred burning in his eyes, despite the fact that he couldn’t even deign to look at him properly. “From the research I’ve done about this one, it took it three years before it managed to stop slaughtering humans. You’re all the same, no matter how much better you think that you are.”

Virgil winced. Guilt clawing at his insides. He barely remembered the three years after he was first turned. It was the darkest period in his past, and having it so gracelessly laid bare in front of Logan made him want to do nothing more than disappear. But when he managed to look back up at Logan there was something… understanding in his eyes.

And that was when Virgil knew that whatever his past, whatever this hunter said and did, Virgil would do anything in his power to get the man that he loved out of this safely.

Even if it meant putting his neck on the line by riling up a deranged hunter.

“And how many lives have you ended in the past year alone?” Virgil hissed, staring defiantly up at his captor.

Nate scoffed. “None that matter, vampire. You dare to compare the lives of you creatures to human life-”

“Say,” Virgil drawled, his voice low, “are we just here to listen to you spew your manifesto about how much more pure than us you are, or are you actually going to do something?”

“Actually, I did have something in mind.” Nate’s face was unnervingly calm again. A pit of dread settled in Virgil’s stomach. Nate nodded up at the ceiling.

The open dome of a ceiling.

Virgil looked up and couldn’t help but notice the tell-tale signs of a sunrise along the edges of the circular opening. The clear implications dawned upon him--Patton would be proud that he could manage to think a pun even in such a dire situation--quickly. His eyes slipped closed in momentary resignation.

The sun is going to rise--likely within the next few minutes--and Virgil was there, shackled to a chair just under the open ceiling. The stake in the hunter’s hand was just for show. He fully intended to burn Virgil alive, and there was nothing that Logan could possibly do about it without risking his own life.

Logan himself just seemed to be putting together the implications of Nate’s thinly-veiled threat.

And suddenly, as though a switch were flipped, Logan’s calm demeanor changed. No longer was he feigning interest in Nate’s monologue or humoring his explanations. His fists were once again balled at his sides, white with tension, and for the first time ever, Virgil could see his fangs.

All at once, Virgil knew that Logan would not be letting this go quietly. He wasn’t completely sure what tipped him off, but he knew that if it came down to it, Logan would not be leaving him to burn alone under any circumstances.

It’s a sobering realization. Logan was going to risk his own life for no reason at all--because, honestly, how would his death help anyone? Virgil was still stuck there. If Logan really was a vampire--and he obviously was--he could have been out of there and safe before Nate could even blink. Virgil could not fathom why he looked so determined to waste his life, but he already knew what he needed to do about it.

Virgil forced a laugh. It was loud in the otherwise silent observatory. “Burning me? Really? That’s the best that you could do?”

Nate looked hilariously offended by the complete lack of shaking in his boots that Virgil was doing.

Virgil continued. “No, honestly, did you sit in your sad little apartment, surrounded by cut out pictures of Logan and red string and come up with this plan? Did you rub your little hands together and laugh maniacally? Did you honestly think that using the sun as your choice of weapon was poetic or something? What are you going to tell your little hunter friends? That you tracked down your old vampire crush and just sat and watched the sun rise with him?”

Nate turned an absolutely alarming shade of red. Really, it would have been funny had it not been immediately followed by his fist colliding with Virgil’s nose.

Virgil barely had time to hold in a grunt of pain before Nate was being pulled off of him and shoved to the ground. Virgil opened his eyes to see Logan on the platform with them, his knees straddling the hunter’s chest, and his hands wrapped around his neck.

“Logan-” Virgil desperately called out, completely ignoring his throbbing nose.

Nate was resisting, thrashing against Logan’s hold, and although Logan had the upper hand with the element of surprise, Virgil could do nothing but watch as the hand that was still clutching the wooden stake rose behind Logan.

“Logan!” The scream tore it’s way out of Virgil’s throat before he could think of the consequences. Logan’s grip on Nate faltered.

Before anything life shattering could happen, the stake was kicked from Nate’s hand by a black combat boot. Virgil’s eyes snapped up to see what--who--the boot was connected to, and his eyes were met with a man dressed in quite a bit of leather that Virgil had never seen before.

His first, terrifying thought is that this was another hunter, but no, this man was very obviously not on Nate’s side.

“Not on my fucking watch.” The man growled, kicking the stake even further away now that it was out of Nate’s grasp. The man looked angry, albeit not as angry as Logan, who was still apparently attempting to choke the life out of the hunter. His wild eyes were matched by a wild nest of shaggy brown hair that had a couple of glinting silver streaks in it, and offset by what appeared to be a very carefully maintained moustache.

He was altogether the strangest looking person that Virgil had ever seen, and he hadn’t even glanced in Virgil’s direction yet.

Virgil’s eyes were pulled away from the struggle by a light touch against one of his wrists, just above the shackle.

“Patton?” Sure enough, Patton was hovering over Virgil now, their eyes kind and concerned.

“Are you okay, V?” Their voice shook a bit. “What am I saying? Of course you aren’t okay. I’m sorry, Virgil.”

“Wh- How did you-?”

Patton smiled kindly, their eyes flicking over to Logan. “Logan called us--or, well, he called Remus,” They nodded in the direction of the punk guy, “and he told Roman, who called me and Janus. We’re going to get you out of here.”

For the first time since he had been texting Janus and Patton earlier, something loosened in Virgil’s chest. Relief.

Before he could say anything to thank Patton or perhaps ask who the hell Remus and Roman were, Patton was gripping the shackle that held Virgil’s left hand in place and tearing it away as though it were nothing.

Sometimes Virgil forgot just how strong they were.

Patton quickly repeated the process with Virgil’s remaining restraints.

“Logan. Get off of him.”

Virgil craned his neck, looking over his shoulder to see what was happening. The scuffle had moved. Logan still had the upper hand, but now there were two more figures standing over him and the hunter. The first was nearly identical to the one in the combat boots, though minus the moustache and with much tidier hair. The second--

“Janus.” Virgil almost felt like smiling at the sight of his friend. Janus looked up, his two-toned eyes flashing in the light.

Right. The light. The sunlight that was quickly approaching.

“Logan.” It was the second unknown one, the one with the perfect hair, that was speaking. Virgil just noticed the pointed ears that were poking out between his curls. “You have to stop. Remus, Jan and I have this. It’s almost sunrise. You have to get out of here, Logan.”

But Logan wasn’t listening. Virgil’s chest constricted. There was something dark--something dangerous--in Logan’s eyes. Nate wasn’t fighting much anymore. Any words that Virgil might have said were stuck in his throat.

Beside him, Patton whimpered.

“Logan!” The one with the moustache snapped, reaching down and grabbing one of Logan’s biceps. “Logan, you need to get Patton and Virgil out of here.”

Something of what the human said must have registered in Logan’s mind, because his grip on Nate loosened until he was no longer strangling him. Luckily, Nate didn’t get a chance to recover, because as soon as Logan was pulling away, Janus had Nate in his grasp, his eyes flashing golden.

Virgil could breathe again. He trusted that Janus, and whoever those other two were, had this.

“Logan.” He called, breathless. His voice was still raw from screaming earlier. His nose was still gushing blood and very likely crooked, but he didn’t care in the slightest. Not when Logan looked up at him.

In an instant, Logan was across the room and pulling Virgil into his arms. And Virgil let him. He didn’t resist for even a second, willingly letting himself melt against Logan like he’s a lifeline.

And in some ways, he was.

“Are you alright?” Logan’s voice was achingly tender. So heartbreakingly tender, given what he had just been doing seconds ago. “Did he- Did he hurt you any more than-”

Virgil cut him off because that dangerous note was coming back into Logan’s tone. It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. It shouldn’t have been hot at all. “I’m fine, L. Are you-”

“If you’re safe, I am.”

And it was terrible timing. Just feet away, his best friend and two other people who he could only assume were Logan’s friends were fighting with a hunter. Patton was still right behind him, standing just off the stage, watching. But Virgil found himself leaning just that much closer to Logan. It was as if Logan had his own gravitational pull that tugged only on Virgil. He glanced down at Logan’s lips. One was split, but otherwise they looked just the same as they had the other night, when they were safe in their apartment.

Virgil let out a shaky exhalation. When he looked back up, Logan’s eyes were trained downwards. Towards his own lips. Virgil licked his lips.

Behind him, Patton gently cleared their throat. Virgil whirled around.

“I don’t want to interrupt, kiddos, but the sun is going to rise any minute now. We need to get you home.” They didn’t speak for themselves, but Virgil knew that Patton wouldn’t be leaving without them, and he didn’t want his friend to burn alive either.

He glanced back at Logan, but Logan’s expression was shuttered once again.

“Yes, you’re correct, Patton. We need to leave now.”

Virgil glanced back at the other four one last time. They had Nate under control once again. Swallowing, Virgil turned back to Patton and Logan and nodded once. “Let’s get out of here.”

----

In the end, they did indeed make it back to their apartment before the sun rises, if just barely. Patton left them only once they were sure that Logan and Virgil were okay enough to be left alone at their apartment.

Which was perfectly fair, because they had just had a home invasion only a few hours ago.

When they were back in the apartment building and safe from the approaching dawn, the two of them began to clean the apartment in silence.

It really wasn’t that big of a mess, but both of them seemed to silently agree that they would not be able to rest until the apartment was returned to the state that it had been before. When things were safe.

Virgil’s tongue felt too big in his mouth as he helped right the entryway. Only hours ago he had been trying and failing to fend off Nate in this very spot. And, sure, things were okay now, but somehow it feels suddenly much  more real than it had when they were leaving the observatory.

As for Logan… He looked tense. It was understandable. Because Virgil had gone and got himself kidnapped like some sort of damsel in distress-

His stomach curled in on itself. He couldn’t shake the anxious thought that Logan was… angry with him for it.

And it was stupid. It was so stupid, and Virgil knew it. After everything that Logan just went through to get Virgil back, there was very very little chance that Logan would blame anyone other than Nate for this turn of events. And even if he did blame someone else, Virgil knew Logan, and he knew that if anything, he was likely blaming himself.

Which was even more stupid.

Once the entryway was presentable again, Logan cleared his throat. Virgil paused, halfway through taking his hoodie off. Usually he wore it even when inside their apartment, but right now everything that he was wearing felt… dirty.

“Are you sure that you’re alright?” Logan’s voice was soft. Quieter than usual. Almost… unsure. Which was almost unheard of for Logan.

Virgil softened, pulling his jacket the rest of the way off. “I’m… I won’t lie, Logan, I’m pretty shaken but… I’ll be fine. Are you…?”

Logan dodged the question, finally looking over at Virgil with thinly masked guilt in his eyes. “Your nose stopped bleeding.”

Virgil reached up a tentative hand to his face. To be honest, he had forgotten about it. The pain had numbed, but when he prodded it gently with a finger, he could tell that it was definitely broken. Patton would have said something if it had needed to be set, though, so Virgil wasn’t too worried. “I’m sure I’m a sight right now.” He chuckled weakly. It fell flat. There was silence in the apartment for a moment. “Logan-”

“I’m sorry.” Logan exclaimed, before Virgil could continue. “This is my fault. I… If you were hurt, I would… I never would have forgiven myself.”

“Don’t say that.” Virgil tried, stepping closer to Logan.

“It’s true.” Logan insisted. “If he had hurt you, or heaven forbid-” Logan made a little choked noise. “I couldn’t have lived with myself. You did nothing wrong. You didn’t deserve-”

“And neither did you.” Virgil’s voice was firm, pushing back against all denial. “You didn’t call this upon us, Logan. I don’t care if he thought that he knew you, or if he had hurt me any more than he did. None of it was your fault, and none of it would have been your fault. He is a hunter. I’m- We’re vampires. It could have happened at any time with any hunter.”

“But it didn’t! It was him, and he was targeting me. He only hurt you because I-”

Virgil’s mouth felt very dry as Logan cut himself off. “What matters is that we’re safe. We’re okay.” He tried to reassure Logan.

Logan closed his eyes, defeat settling over his features. “You don’t understand. He only hurt you because of how much I love you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy. They certainly weren’t how Virgil had ever imagined that they would be said for the first time. Still, a soft warmth blooms in Virgil’s chest. There were nerves there too, but he found it easy to ignore them. Mostly, he felt an overwhelming sense of rightness. Two days ago it had been impossible to consider that Logan loved him back.

But now… it was like he could see that Logan had been saying it for a long time now. He had said it earlier, when he had been so obviously terrified for Virgil. He had said it the night before, when he held Virgil close and they swayed around the kitchen. He had said it even before that, when he made sure to be quiet every evening when he left for work just after sunset, when Virgil was still holding on to sleep. He said it when he picked ocean documentaries for Virgil, even though he was not-so-secretly terrified of the ocean. He had said it countless times since they had met, even though Virgil was only just now hearing it for the first time.

Virgil took the remaining few steps forward to close the distance between them. Logan looked almost pained. Before Virgil could lose his confidence in himself--in this--he reached out and placed a hand on Logan’s cheek.

When Logan met his eyes, Virgil damn near melted into the ground. Logan’s deep, chocolate brown eyes always were a weakness of his. He wanted to say something. But, then again, Virgil never really had been the one that was good with words. That was definitely more Logan’s department. Instead, Virgil just leaned forward and closed the distance between them completely.

Logan’s lips were soft, just like the rest of him was, although he was loathe to show it. He gasped softly against Virgil’s mouth, but he didn’t even try to pull away.

Logan leaned into the kiss with an insistence that made Virgil’s still heart pirouette in his chest. Virgil exhaled, and it felt as though he had been holding his breath his entire life, despite the fact that he hadn’t needed to breathe in just over fourteen years.

Kissing Logan was like finally coming home. And though it was terribly cliché, Virgil couldn’t bother to imagine another way to describe it. Virgil couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of this sensation. From his head to his toes, he felt warm.

He felt alive.

Slowly, Virgil parted his lips under Logan’s and even though Virgil had been the one to initiate the kiss, he was surprised when Logan took his lower lip between his own. Virgil didn’t bother to hold back the low noise that arose in the back of his throat, thankful once again that he couldn’t blush.

The noise seemed to be appreciated, though, because Logan made a rather audible noise of appreciation. Right before Virgil felt a sting on his lower lip.

Logan pulled back almost immediately after, a startled--no, a shell shocked--expression on his face. His fangs were descended and Virgil knew instantly that that was what he had felt. He bit back a laugh.

Logan looked breathless. He looked breathtaking.

“I love you too.” Virgil confessed, his hand still cradling Logan’s cheek. “Of course I do. I would have done exactly the same thing if it were you.”

And Logan.

Logan laughed.

And it was the tension break that they needed after the completely awful night that they had both just experienced.

It was not a loud laugh. It was not really hysterical, either, though Virgil would have understood if Logan had lost his mind just a bit after the night that they had just had. It was a laugh of disbelief, mostly, and Virgil wholeheartedly agreed.

He couldn’t hold back a smile, and as he often couldn’t when he was with Logan. He didn’t even want to try. So instead he smiled.

Logan’s eyes turned serious. “I love you.” He repeated, this time with more conviction. He brought up a hand to cradle Virgil’s face, just as Virgil was. Virgil ran the pad of his thumb across Logan’s perfect cheekbone.

“I love you too.” Virgil replied. And after everything, that was enough.

#analogical #virgil sanders #Logan sanders #ts analogical #ts virgil #ts logan #sanders sides #roman sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #patton sanders #ts roman #ts remus #ts patton #ts janus #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #im literally so tired I can't think of any more tags #my eyes hurt goodbye

[hallothere]

I broke down and wrote the essay. No, I did not and will not proofread it. I don’t waaaannaaaa

There’s Only One Winner For Isengard

In a perfect world, in a world with no meta requirements that could bend to the will of the player, we would roll up to Isengard level-capped, no debuffs, with one quest-marker on hand: Ruin Saruman’s day. But this is a pre-written sequence of events in which we are only along for the ride. We, the player, and a Ranger are shipped off to Isengard with only one conceivable goal: survive. On a meta level we know what Saruman is capable of. At level 70 or 80-something at best, even we are aware that we are no match for a wizard with a canon fate. Not to mention our Ranger companion! The Grey Company has been through enough (though we don’t know the half of it yet) and we are reasonably distraught at the possibilities.

This is why we, the player character, will lose the game of Isengard.

Beyond the meta rules of the game, where quest objectives are whatever the devs wanted them to be (looking at you, Mordrambor) the player character can not defeat Saruman in any way that’s meaningful. And (again on a meta level) in order for us to get to experience the action at Helm’s Deep and Rohan at large, we have to get out of Isengard. We’d get bored of waiting for Theoden and Co. We’d hurl insults or slap fish at Saruman and realistically incur wrath. Honestly, with the set of circumstances presented to us, who could survive imprisonment in Nan Curunir?

Only one of the Company ever could: Lothrandir of Suri Kyla. 

To begin with, none of the Rangers we have any real information on could have done it. Anyone who’s spent time in Angmar is at a disadvantage due to the prevailing dread (game mechanic or otherwise) that can be manipulated by Saruman. Any Ranger that has a major traumatic past is at a disadvantage (sorry Mincham) because if nothing else, Saruman has proven to be a master of illusion. Even Halbarad for all his leadership ability has a pretty exploitable weakness: eventually Saruman can crack the code with a vision of Aragorn’s demise, the one end Halbarad must fear above all others. Or what bond could more easily be exploited than that of a leader and his men? Lheu Brenin’s in the gang now after all. All Saruman would have to do was send for a few more incentives. 

But Lothrandir comes built with a few key advantages that make him the only Grey Company Ranger qualified to come out of this battle of wills on top. His specific strengths, mindset, and personality traits combined with the circumstances that the game sets up going into Isengard make him the clear choice of Rangers- if a Ranger you must have- to stay behind in Nan Curunir. 

Lothrandir wins because he changes the game. From ‘go’ our co-prisoner does something that either puzzles the player character or sends them into an anxious fit. Lothrandir declares himself fearless and sprints recklessly into the ring. Any way you figure it, this seems like a poorly calculated move. He doesn’t stop to survey the enemy. He doesn’t gather intel. Heck, he doesn’t even bide his time to see if he’ll be killed before he even reaches the dungeons. Lothrandir sprints right in without so much as a thought or a plan. Saruman doesn’t know it yet, but from that moment on Lothrandir has him on the back foot. 

Consider for a moment Saruman’s MO. He’s a wizard, and he uses a great deal of magic, sure, but time and time again we are reminded of the power of his voice and his words. He calls down a storm on Caradhras (in the movies for darn sure), he via-Wormtongue whispers poison into the ears of King Theoden. He doesn’t lead with any kind of grandiose display when trying to sway Gandalf. No, he leads with a persuasive argument. Later on, he nearly talks Theoden back around, after failing to wipe out all of Rohan. After killing the man’s son for goodness sakes. He nearly talks himself out of that one!

But Lothrandir has already changed this from a game of wits to a game of wills. There will be no vying for favor, or biding time, or compliance, or even giving Saruman a chance to ‘talk it over friendly’ first. He’s already spitting on the shoes of everyone he sees. The accomplishment in this is twofold, and it makes a major impact on the rest of his time in Nan Curunir. 

Firstly, by establishing a new game, Lothrandir sets Saruman up for a whole lot of assumptions. He does not display any signs of diplomatic ability, wisdom, or even common sense. He very intentionally projects an attitude of reckless disobedience. In the player’s own eyes, it seems as if he ‘doesn’t know any better’. This gives Saruman a clear path to take regarding Lothrandir. He assumes you can’t reason the typical way with someone who has shown zero inclination for listening. The player character demonstrates that the Grey Company (or least their associates) are capable of compliance. For all intents and purposes, this Lothrandir doesn’t appear to be. He’s contrary, fool-hardy, and evidently dumb enough to dive in headfirst and get himself killed. You beat that kind of guy into submission… don’t you?

But Lothrandir has changed the rules of the game. Saruman is no longer fighting with his best weapon, but with a tool to be found in any old villain’s arsenal. When he took the approach of reasoning with the player character and disregarding Lothrandir, he set the victor’s foundation on our snow-pilgrim’s greatest strength. 

Secondly, by establishing a new game, Lothrandir makes this a battle of physical endurance. Unbeknownst to Saruman, this is the one thing that makes him stand out from the rest of the Grey Company. He has walked through the frozen north lands and the fiery south lands and come out unscathed. He has mastered the unarmed combat style of the Lossoth by joining in mid-winter wrestling matches in a place that took down many Elves, Angmarim, and notably one King of Arthedain! Lothrandir has conceivably spent his entire life training for this matchup. Any endurance he has built up, any fighting he can do without access to a weapon, all are assets to the kind of game he just made Saruman play. Lothrandir is uniquely built to survive any physical torment Isengard can throw at him, or at least, better equipped than any of the others. 

To say Lothrandir is the best choice, we also have to rule out the others. Corunir was thwarted by the Rammas Deluon and for all he learned from that, it’s a weak spot in his proverbial armor. Golodir too, resisted a fair degree of torture (palantiri based, even!) in Carn Dum, but it won’t be hard for Saruman to suss that one out and make our old man’s life a living nightmare. Even Radanir, serious and seemingly unattached to any social bonds now that his good pal Elweleth has gone sailing, would be a poor choice. He is too serious, (for lack of a better term) too genre-savvy, and even if he is spitting blood and delivering a witty one-liner, that’s Saruman’s foot in the door! ‘I’ll never betray my friends and kin, you kaleidoscope hack’? You’ve just told him your weakness, Radanir! No, he can’t keep his mouth shut to save his (or Saerdan’s) life. Radanir is the wrong choice too.

We don’t know a significant amount about the others (except Ranger death would move Calenglad to tears, we can’t put him through this) in order to pinpoint their fatal flaws in the Isengard encounter. But, the game puts us in the incredible position of having seen Lothrandir’s Achilles’ heel and letting us take that disadvantage away. 

Lothrandir of Suri Kyla is uniquely equipped to survive any physical encounter that Saruman throws his way. Now, who’s to say the wizard won’t change his tune and go back to his old tricks? In an incredible twist of fate, we are. The game sets us, the player, up to play Saruman’s game from the get-go. We keep our pixelated head down, try and fly below the radar, and express just enough concern over the fate of our fool-hardy pal to get Saruman to cement his estimation of Lothrandir as a pawn in the game in stone. By making ourselves the better target for the words of a wily wizard, Saruman decides that the best way to deal with the spare prisoner is by playing right into his hands. As we all know, the player character escapes. While that might seem bad for someone who Saruman has earmarked for corporal punishment only, it covers Lothrandir’s one weakness. 

Aside from being the only significant unarmed fighter, Lothrandir is also never painted as a loner. He spends his time in Suri Kyla, hanging out with the Lossoth and sharing their campfires. In the new questline in Forochel, he jumps at the chance to make a new Dunedain friend and takes to King Arvedui like a duck to water. They’re instant best pals. It’s minutes before Lothrandir is telling him Aragorn’s life story and pledging to go with him on a buddy adventure to seek peace for a regretful shade. And if that’s not enough canon for you, Lothrandir bears the brunt of the Falcon clan aggression on the way to Isengard. He does it for you, his friend and companion in suffering. It’s a bit meta, but we have to assume in the internal universe he knows you a little. You’ve run your merry adventures to a degree where, were this not a video game, Lothrandir would at least consider you an ally if not a friend outright. 

He exposes his weakness unwittingly to the Falcon clan, but he leaves it at the gates of Isengard in an extremely well-timed move. By sprinting through the gates without a care as to what’s going on with you or anyone else, Lothrandir establishes an emotional distance between you both in the eyes of any onlookers. Whatever affection you have for him, it doesn’t seem reciprocated. This isn’t a major weakness for Saruman to exploit, then. You’re not one of his kinsmen. If he did want to pursue that line, he could always send to Tur Morva for one, right?

This is where the game comes back in to shift the tide in Lothrandir’s favor. We escape. We play the game, we nearly lose the game, and had we not been given an out the power scaling makes it difficult to conceive of an outcome where we the player can win Isengard. Sure, we’ve been released from prisons before (Delossad to name one) but this is the climax of Dunland. We make a daring escape, and move south towards the Gap of Rohan and all sorts of bad times. 

Back in Nan Curunir, Lothrandir is getting the daylights beat out of him, and taking a victory lap. He’s cemented his position as ‘the prisoner we’ll break with violence’. The uruks have seen him insubordinate and disorderly. In the Lothrandir interlude, there’s not only the canon (stated outright!) reality of past and present torture. There’s also zero hesitation in Lothrandir taking that one on the chin. There are no other objectives on his mind than making the next few minutes as miserable as possible for everyone around. He has no other goals. And he doesn’t need them. Nobody is surprised that Lothrandir is signing his death warrant within nanoseconds of being presented an offer to comply. He spits on the offer. He tips over the slop bucket. He beats bloody any orc (and gameplay purposes aside there are very few that dare come forward) that actually tries to kill him for it outright. 

He’s built up a non-rapport with Gun Ain. She talks about killing him and he doesn’t say anything. They’re all playing his game and he’s winning. In the conversation with Saruman, we’re not given the opportunity to watch Lothrandir ‘resist’ in the same fashion the player character did. We don’t need to. Saruman has bigger and better things to worry about- killing a prince, wiping out a nation- than one Ranger who he’s just going to order well-flayed again. By setting himself up as the punching bag, Lothrandir has managed to fly beneath Saruman’s priority threshold. He’s been relegated to the responsibility of Gun Ain, and still with somewhat protected status because they haven’t wormed anything useful out of him yet.

All of these moves have culminated to an impasse. Saruman is not winning points in the game like he expected. One ‘meathead Ranger’ has managed to resist all the torments of Isengard, and he’s gained nothing from this. The other prisoner escaped, word had doubtless reached him that the Tur Morva Thirty-Odd are free and raring to be a thorn in his side again. He has no external leverage to apply on Lothrandir and it’s become increasingly obvious that our Ranger friend is not engaging like the player did. But still, Saruman has his pride. It’s his downfall in the end, and it’s his downfall in his fight against the one Ranger who’s already beating him. Lothrandir can’t be killed outright because Saruman hasn’t won yet. And with that guarantee of protection, Lothrandir can coast all the way to the conquest of Isengard. 

He can keep playing the game and stalling for time. It’s morbid, but what better way to waste someone’s time and energy than convincing them slow, drawn-out torture is the way to go? A little extreme, Lothrandir, but it’s still his game to lose. He wastes Saruman’s time. If he is eventually rescued, total victory. If he’s killed in the end, he definitely didn’t give the wizard the satisfaction, so a less resounding victory but one in the win column nonetheless. 

With a little help from our usually Ranger-cidal devs, Lothrandir reprograms Saruman’s game of chess to a boxing match. He takes out all his disadvantages, gets Isengard to attack from a point of... if not weakness then at least neutral ability, and then devotes his every waking breath to violent disobedience.

Sure, you could have taken any of the Grey Company with you to Isengard. Lheu Brenin could have swapped out for Braigar or Amlan or Mithrendan or Culang- but only one of these guys has the brute strength, commitment, and sheer audacity to pull it off. 

You take Lothrandir to Orthanc. There’s a different prisoner of Nan Curunir when he leaves.

#lotro #long post #lothrandir #did i spell check or add accent marks? absolutely not #this is very fully baked but limited by my ability as a writer #lol who cares it's nearly midnight

[secretpajamas]

a different kind of rush;

an ezra x reader fic

pairing: ezra (prospect) x female reader

rating: explicit

genre: romance/smut/and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates)

words: 5.6k

part 2 of 2 (read part one HERE)

please scroll to the end to “content” if you would like to know specific smut-related content before reading!

--

When you emerged from the shower, you changed into your long sleep shirt (the thing was far too old and ratty at this point to be considered a “nightgown”). Even though it wasn’t dark out yet, you figured you might as well go to bed at the rate this day was going.

As you slowly crept through the tent partition, you noticed that Ezra was gone—and so was his gear.

You found a note in Ezra’s barely-legible scrawl placed at the foot of your bed.

“Starstone quality check,” you mumbled, reading the note aloud.

Starstone was so finicky that it was necessary to check up on it in storage to make sure it maintained its stability. But you knew in your gut he was avoiding you. While he was out, you cleaned the filters and checked the tanks like you always did—minus the filter and tank that Ezra was currently using—the methodical work helping soothe your nerves a little.

When Ezra came back in, you were sitting up in bed, reading the book Ezra’s kid Cee had hand-written (“She didn’t come up with the story, but she basically rewrote the whole damn thing herself. Smarter than she knows, that kid.”). It wasn’t your usual kind of story, and not even your usual medium of consumption (you preferred late-night radio dramas, but they broadcast from the Ephrate—the signal was spotty at best in the Fringes and nonexistent here in the Reach), but it was captivating nonetheless.

You didn’t look up from the book as Ezra walked in. Neither of you said a word.

Part of you was relieved that you didn’t talk about it.

The other part of you was desperate to talk about it.

--

The next morning, you woke to Ezra sitting at his makeshift desk—a chair set in front of an old wooden shipping crate—swirling together the starstone enzyme bath. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a gray t-shirt, his hair already matted with perspiration from the heat.

You grumbled and slowly sat up.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Ezra said, not lifting his eyes from his work.

“Mmph,” was your sleepy response.

“Oats are ready if you have a hankering,” he continued, gesturing with his head towards the “kitchen”—another wooden shipping crate, this one with a battery-operated stove placed on top.

You were suddenly very awake at the promise of food. “Please tell me there’s coffee, too.”

“Haven’t made it yet,” he replied. “Go easy on the stuff, you’ve drunk near all my supply.”

“I believe food and board is included in my contract.” You yawned before shuffling your way over to the stove.

“Food and board, sweetheart, not drink.” Ezra held the canister of freshly mixed enzyme solution between his knees as he twisted on the cap with his hand.

Your stomach rumbled and you eagerly grabbed your bowl of oatmeal. After wolfing down your breakfast, you filled Ezra’s rickety kettle with water and set it on the stove, turning the power up to high. You pawed around the mismatched collection of canteens piled next to the stove until you found two clean ones and set them out, along with four packets of powdered coffee (three for you, one for Ezra). It was the instant stuff anyone could grab for cheap at a shuttle station, and it tasted wretched, but it did its job.

As you waited for the water to boil—not long when the water in storage was already warm thanks to this planet’s heat—You heard Ezra stand up and approach you. When you felt his hand brush the small of your back, you shivered.

Ezra huffed. “Are you cold? For cryin’ out loud, woman, it’s hotter’n two channel-rats fuckin’ in a wool sock.”

“Must be caffeine withdrawal,” you lied, knowing full well it was Ezra’s touch.

He rubbed his thumb back and forth and you nearly shivered again. “I suppose it’s high time I replenish our supplies,” he said, “lest you pillage the remainder of my coffee.”

When the kettle began to whistle, you switched off the stove and poured equal amounts of hot water into the cups—and unequal amounts of coffee packets. All the while, Ezra’s hand stayed on your back.

“Speaking of supplies, we could use another full O2 tank,” you said, trying your best to ignore how your stomach did somersaults every time Ezra absentmindedly rubbed his thumb against the material of your sleep shirt, “and coolant for the air circulators.”

“I’m well aware,” Ezra said, “but thank you kindly for the reminder.”

You offered Ezra his canteen of coffee. You mourned the loss of his hand on your back, but feeling the brush of his fingers against yours as you handed him his cup was nearly as electrifying.

“S’posin’ we pull a good haul of starstone today, I can ready the pod for the shuttle station tomorrow,” he said between sips. “Be back within a couple days’ time.”

You swallowed down a lump in your throat along with your coffee. You did need supplies, but it was hardly urgent—was he really that keen on avoiding you? But the way he just touched your back—he’d never been more intimate than friendly pats on the shoulder before—

“The shuttle station gets a clearer radio signal to the Ephrate,” Ezra continued, “I can have a good an’ proper talk with Cee.”

Oh. He wants to talk to his kid, you moron. Why did you make this about yourself and your ill-timed masturbatory ventures?

“I’ll hold down the fort, then,” you said between gulps of your coffee.

“I’m countin’ on it,” Ezra said. “Now let’s score some stone afore this bitch of a planet bakes us alive.”

–

Ezra was gone before you woke, but you had expected it. He told you as much last night. But you still couldn’t shake the notion that he was avoiding you. You sighed deeply before untangling yourself from the bedsheets and crawling over to make your morning coffee.

On the table, the kettle was already set out on the stovetop, along with three coffee packets, a clean canteen, and a note from Ezra.

“Radio at 21:00,” you mumbled. That was tonight—so he was planning to call you as soon as he got in. You couldn’t help but smile as you made your coffee.

You didn’t have to mine today or tomorrow, thanks to working double-time yesterday (and your aching muscles certainly reminded you of that), but there was still plenty to do around the tent. After gulping down your coffee, you started with the pile of laundry in the corner. It was the most urgent order of business, based on how it was beginning to climb up the wall—and how much it stunk. You filled a basin with water and soap and got to work.

While hanging the garments to dry, you noticed a pair of Ezra’s compression pants had a tear in the thigh—thankfully, it was on a side seam, so you could easily sew it shut. You noted to fix it as soon as it was finished drying. You wondered if you could mend anything else, noting Ezra’s ratty assortment of boxers and briefs. If he made any cash in the aurelac rush, he certainly didn’t spend any of it on underwear. You could mend holes, but you couldn’t work miracles.

As you waited for the clothes to dry, you snacked on a ration bar and read more of Cee’s book. You were invested in the characters now, despite your initial skepticism of the subject matter. You had to admit, it was a bit of a page-turner. After a while, you didn’t want to put it down. You moved from sitting at Ezra’s desk to leaning against one of the tent supports to laying on your bed mat, your eyes glued to the page.

When you finally came to a satisfying enough chapter to pause your reading, you looked around for a piece of scrap paper to mark your place. You picked up Ezra’s note and tucked it inside the pages before shutting the book. You noticed the laundry hanging up was dry—had you really been reading that long? Oh well. Time to get mending.

–

You had mended Ezra’s pants, a pair of his socks, and were about to sew a button back on the pocket of your suit when you heard your name crackle from the radio headset in the corner. Startled, you dropped your work, the button skittering across the floor.

“Gimme a minute!” You shouted, hoping your headset would pick it up from across the tent. You quickly found the runaway button and placed it on Ezra’s desk before scrambling to your side of the tent to put on your headset.

“Sorry about that,” you said, “I’m here. You get in okay?”

“All in one piece,” came Ezra’s voice in your ear, “give or take an arm.”

You rolled your eyes at Ezra’s wisecrack. “Talk to Cee yet?”

“Not yet,” Ezra said, “with the time difference between here and the Ephrate, she’s still in class. I shan’t interrupt her studies.”

You looked at the book where it lay on Ezra’s desk and smiled. “Well, when you call her, tell her I said hello.”

“Will do.”

“So, what station did you end up at?” You asked.

“Trinity,” Ezra replied.

“Trinity,” you said, “don’t think I’ve been on Trinity since the rush.”

“Ain’t any different,” Ezra said, “still got egregious docking fees and an abundance of unpleasant company.”

“Already shooed away a pick-pocket busker, haven’t you?”

“Several,” Ezra grumbled, “Damn this stump, they think I’m an easy target.”

“Were any of them good players, at least?” You asked.

“Truthfully, the boy on the panpipes was a talented little devil,” he said, “both in playing his instrument and his victims. I let him pilfer a coin from my pocket—I fancy myself a patron of the arts.”

You snorted. “You keep coin in your pocket? On Trinity?”

“Sweetheart, it’s the decoy cash,” Ezra explained. “You keep a couple low-credit coin in your pocket for the vandals so that they don’t go scroungin’ for the heavy-hittin’ gems in your suit lining.”

“Speaking of your suit lining,” you said, “I’ve been doing some mending.”

You heard Ezra’s raspy laugh through your headset. “Don’t suppose you’ve been sewin’ up my underthings.”

“Those are hopeless,” you remarked, “I meant your spare compression pants.”

“Ah!” Ezra said. “I do recall those had a rip in ’em. I was fixin’ to fix those.”

“Well, I figured I’d do it as long as I had the time,” you said. “Also darned a pair of your socks.”

“Are you anglin’ for a raise?” You could hear the smile in Ezra’s voice.

“Your listing did say ‘compensation negotiable,’” you replied.

“Hmm. That it did,” Ezra said. “Perhaps we shall negotiate upon my return.”

The radio line lay silent for a moment, and you felt a nervous pang in your stomach. Enough small talk. You needed to say something about what happened the other day—even if it was just to apologize.

“Ezra?”

“Yes, sweetheart?” He replied.

“Is everything... Okay? With us?” You asked, trying to suppress the anxiety in your voice.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Ezra replied, before quickly adding in lowered tone, “Did somethin’... rub you the wrong way?”

“Kevva help me,” you grumbled, feeling the wave embarrassment crawl up your spine. “I’m so sorry, Ezra. It won’t happen again.”

“Stop apologizin’. There ain’t a thing wrong indulgin’ in a little well-earned self-pleasure.”

The way he said pleasure made your breath hitch. You hoped like hell it didn’t pick up on the radio.

“If there’s one thing I’ve come to realize in my years,” he said, “is that there’s no use feelin’ shame in feelin’ good.”

His voice was smooth and deliberate now. That bastard knew exactly what he was doing to you. “So don’t you stop yourself because of me—truthfully, I don’t mind. Not one bit.”

Hesitantly, you reached down to press the heel of your hand against your clit, choking back a moan threatening to escape your throat—but not entirely succeeding.

You heard Ezra’s breath coming loud and heavy through the radio. “Are you touchin’ yourself right now, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you gasped out, your previous inhibitions completely shattered.

“Fuck,” Ezra replied. “Thank Kevva this radio headset is hands-free.”

You heard what might have been Ezra undoing his zipper—and your suspicions were confirmed when you heard a low moan through the radio.

“Ezra—”

“Do you have the faintest idea what you do to me, woman?” The line swelled with static and the throaty rasp of Ezra’s voice. “Told myself not to—made myself not think of you like that. It ain’t proper. But when you—you let me watch—”

You whined and slid your hand beneath your underwear. “I was thinking of you,” you confessed, “always thinking of you—”

“It’s a cryin’ shame,” Ezra said, “all I’ve got is spit-slick and a weak hand wishin’ like hell it was you.”

You sped up the pace of your fingers as he continued.

“If you were here,” he said, “I’d bury myself inside you so deep—ah, fuck—’til you were the only thing I could feel.”

At his words, you slid two fingers inside yourself up to the knuckle, arching your hips, trying to get them as deep as they could go, thumb tirelessly working at your clit.

“I want that,” you panted, “I want you.”

“—Make you come on my cock again and again ’til you’re dizzy with it,” he said, “fuck you so hard you feel it the next day.”

Ezra’s words were pushing you close to the edge. “Ezra, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he groaned, “let me hear you, sweetheart.”

You came to the overwhelming sound of Ezra’s broken moans and your own desperate cries and the static of the radio and the beating of your heart—

a discordant symphony of absolute ecstasy.

–

Ezra returned the following night with a full pod of supplies. You worked together like a well-oiled machine, moving various goods from the pod to the tent in an orderly fashion. You both made small talk—Cee was doing well at the Academy, the shuttle station shop was stocked enough with what they needed, no, they didn’t have real coffee, just the shit stuff in packets.

Despite the friendly conversation, the air was thick with unspoken words.

It was hot out—as it always was on this planet—so you breathed a huge sigh of relief when you had both moved all the supplies to the tent and you could leave the sweaty pod. You both discarded your helmets and stood in front of the air circulator on Ezra’s side of the tent, sifting through the supplies and placing them where they belonged throughout the tent.

When you reached at the same time as Ezra for a can of coolant, your hands collided, sending a shockwave up your arm and stopping your breath.

You both froze, staring at your hands where they met.

Slowly, carefully, Ezra intertwined your fingers with his.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered, those beautiful brown eyes of his gazing at you tenderly.

You couldn’t take it anymore—you climbed over the pile of supplies between you and pressed your lips to his.

He let out a surprised little noise against your mouth before returning the kiss with fervor, wrapping his arm tightly around you and pressing you close to his chest.

“Couldn’t—stop—thinkin’ of you,” he said between kisses.

“Do you want to—can we—” You gasped against his mouth.

“Yes,” he breathed, scrambling to work at the zips and fasteners on his suit. He didn’t object when you reached out to help remove the suit—and honestly, you weren’t thinking of it as helping him, more like getting all your clothes off as fast as possible because holy shit this was happening. Ezra had already removed his boots when he took his helmet off earlier, and you were only dressed in your undershirt and shorts, so this blasted contraption of a suit was the main obstacle.

You both managed to get the damn thing off and Ezra kicked it aside. He reached back, grabbing his sweaty t-shirt behind the collar to tug it over his head. You grasped the hem of your top and pulled it up and off, throwing it to the growing pile of discarded clothing.

You were about to strip off your shorts when Ezra reached for you again, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck, down to the tops of your breasts along the edge of your bra. You scrambled to unclasp it, letting it fall to the floor. Ezra wasted no time, cupping a breast in his hand and lavishing kisses on the other. When you felt the wet heat of his tongue against your nipple, you cried out, grabbing his hair and giving it a tug. He moaned against your breast before pulling away to look at you.

“Let’s take this to a bed,” you urged.

Ezra nodded vigorously in agreement and you both stumbled over to his bed mat, falling atop the sheets in a tangle of limbs.

Ezra sat up and you situated yourself on his lap, wrapping your legs around him. You could kiss him like this for hours, his tongue in your mouth, your fingers in his hair, his hand steady and warm on your back.

When you both took a moment to catch your breath, Ezra cleared his throat and looked you in the eye, his expression almost timid.

“I must confess, I have not had the chance to... partake, since I lost my arm,” he said. “I may not be as formidable a sparrin’ partner as I once was.”

“Ezra, I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” you said, leaning in to kiss him again. He stopped you with a press of a finger to your lips.

“Allow me to enlighten you.” He shrugged with his stump. “Nothin’s as it once was. I can’t even take a piss the same way. Ever try to hold a dick with a hand that ain’t there?”

“Can’t say I have,” you said.

“Oh, hush, birdie, you can understand the sentiment,” Ezra grumbled. “Everything is at the behest of my damned weak hand. I can’t read my own handwriting anymore. Can’t shoot like I used to—my grip’s shit on the left. Even gettin’ dressed is harder than minin’ aurelac.”

He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. “And as long as we’re on the subject of minin’, I can no longer mine most things on my lonesome. Each harvest is hardly half of my previous yields, and I got the kid to support on top of everything. Now, Cee deserves every bit of that support, do not misunderstand my words—I would move Kevva and earth for that girl. But such meager wages do tend to make one feel... inadequate. A man’s work is no petty thing.”

You listened to Ezra attentively, not knowing how you could get it across to him that he was no less of a man in your eyes than if he had two arms. You wanted to reassure him, but he pressed on.

“So please, allow me to posit this caveat,”  he said, “that I intend to make love to you, and to do so to the fullest of my capabilities—but even my best efforts may prove... unsatisfactory.”

Make love. Ezra wanted to make love to you. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

You were so stunned by Ezra’s choice of vocabulary that it took you a moment to process what he said.

“Oh,” you said. “You don’t think you can make me come.”

Ezra ducked his head; you could have sworn he was blushing. “You always cut right to the quick.”

You cupped his cheek, running your thumb along the little white scar there.

“Ezra, I don’t care. I just want this. With you.” You glanced down to where you straddled his lap, rolling your hips a little against his growing arousal. “And forgive me if I’m assuming things, but it seems like you want it, too.”

Ezra moaned quietly at your movements. “My desire was never in question, I assure you,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile.

You leaned in and kissed him softly. He returned the kiss before gently moving you off his lap.

“Lie down, sweetheart,” he whispered, and you eagerly obliged, reclining on the mattress. He settled on top of you, propping himself up on his elbow, kissing you passionately. Eager to get your hands on him, you hooked a finger under his waistband and gave a tug.

“Whoa there,” Ezra said, “slow down, spitfire.”

You moved your hand away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, believe me. But those clever hands of yours will have to wait, because I’ve been starvin’ for you,” he said with a sly grin, kissing a path down your breasts to your stomach, “and I can no longer deny myself a taste.”

It took a moment for your Ezra Translator to kick in. “Oh.” You scrambled to shimmy your shorts and underwear down. Ezra took over, pulling them all the way off and tossing them over his shoulder before leaning down to continue his trail of kisses.

He nudged at your thigh with his head and you eagerly opened your legs for him. Rough stubble tickled your thighs as he kissed his way to your cunt. At the first feeling of his hot breath against your clit, your hips jumped up out of their own volition, knocking Ezra off his left elbow and face-planting him onto the bed beneath you.

“Sorry!” You squeaked. You reached out to steady him but stopped yourself—you knew he hated being helped.

“Hell’s bells,” Ezra grunted. He gripped at the sheets with his hand as he slowly pushed himself to sit upright.

“Left arm ain’t worth shit,” he grumbled under his breath, “can’t even hold me up.”

“It’s alright, Ezra,” you said, “we can try again.”

“Indeed we can,” Ezra said. He lay down on his back next to you and motioned to his chin. “Take a seat, sweetheart.”

“Um,” you started. You’d done this before, but not like that. “I don’t want to—hurt you.”

“Kevva’s sake, woman, I ain’t gonna break,” Ezra said, then added with a grin, “if I suffocate on account of your cunt, I will embrace death with open arms. Well, one of ’em, anyway.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a groan.

“Here lies Ezra, drowned in pussy,” he continued teasing, eyeing you with a wicked grin.

You hesitantly shuffled toward him. Drumming up some courage, you knelt above him, one knee on either side of his head. You were so nervous that you could hear your pulse roaring in your ears.

Whether impatient or just eager, Ezra grabbed you by the hip, then, and urged you down onto his mouth.

You gasped, bracing yourself as you felt the white-hot warmth of his tongue against your cunt. You choked back a moan, your hips stuttering forward, trying not to grind down too hard on his face. Ezra was having none of that. He urged you to move, his hand gripping your hip and firmly pulling you forward. With a little more certainty, you rocked your hips forward and back, making his tongue slide against your clit in long strokes. You moaned again, louder this time, and Ezra hummed his desperate response, burying his face in your pussy like a man starving.

You rutted against him urgently, your thighs beginning to burn from holding yourself up over him. Your movements became less graceful, more desperate—you slid forward too far, causing your slit to grind against the bridge of his nose, and you’d be embarrassed if didn’t feel so damn good. You were right on the precipice, moments away from shaking apart, when Ezra stilled your hips with his hand and brought you back to his tongue. He latched his mouth over your clit and sucked on it, wet and sloppy and fucking perfect.

“Fuck, Ezra,” you gasped, the heat coiling inside you tighter and tighter, “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—”

Ezra growled, his teeth grazing your clit for a moment, and the jolt of sensation just on the right edge of pain had you coming so hard you thought you might black out. You stumbled forward, reaching out to break your fall, your cunt pulling away from his mouth. Somehow, Ezra knew you needed more, reaching behind his head for you and guiding you back in place with his hand. He began to lap at you again, working you through another shaking shockwave of pleasure.

You had to pull away before it was too much. You collapsed next to Ezra on the too-small mattress, trying to catch your breath, feeling your thighs burn and your cunt twitch and your heart sing.

“Give me a minute,” you gasped.

“Take all the time you need, sweetheart,” Ezra said, equally breathless.

You turned to look at Ezra. His face was flushed red, beads of sweat dripping down to mix with your slick that had ended up all over his mouth and chin—and his nose. He looked absolutely filthy and you’d be mortified if he didn’t look so damn pleased with himself.

You reached for your discarded t-shirt and gently wiped at his face, cleaning up the most offensive wet patches before tossing it aside again. “Sorry,” you said.

Ezra chuckled. “I do not accept your apology, ma’am,” he teased. “That was sexier than hittin’ a motherlode of aurelac.”

“Now that’s high praise,” you teased back.

“C’mere and kiss me,” he all but whispered, reaching out to hold your chin between his thumb and index finger. You closed the distance and pressed your lips against his. It was almost chaste—if not for the knowledge of where that mouth had just been.

He pressed his forehead against yours. You breathed deeply, absentmindedly playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

You looked down at the straining bulge in his pants, snaking your hand down to stroke at him through the fabric. A little choked moan tumbled from his throat at your touch.

“Let’s take this off,” you said, thumbing the waistband. He nodded in agreement, laying on his back and lifting his hips so you could pull his pants down and off in short order. His cock sprang free, hard and aching.

You licked your lips. “No underwear?”

“Too fuckin’ hot for underwear,” he said, gasping when you gently rested your hand on the crease where his thigh met his hip.

You moved your hand up and down his thigh, making him squirm and thrust up against nothing but air. He practically whined, his hand clawing at the sheets.

“Touch me,” he begged, voice cracking.

“I am touching you,” you said with a wolfish grin.

“Damn it, woman,” he groaned, “if the heat don’t kill me, you sure as shit will have the pleasure yourself.”

“Patience,” you chided, not sure how long you could keep this up—you wanted him inside you, and you wanted him now—but you loved seeing him spread out and desperate for you.

Finally, you wrapped your hand around him and gave a long, firm stroke. He threw his head back and moaned, arching into your touch. You licked your lips as you studied his cock, the thick length of it twitching ever so slightly in your hand. You rubbed at the underside of the head with your thumb and your mouth watered when a bead of precome welled up at the tip. On instinct, you moved down to lick it off.

Ezra cursed, bucking up to meet your mouth. You held him down by the hip before taking him into your mouth as far as you could.

“Fuck, sweetheart—I—fuck!” Ezra cried out, clawing at the sheets with his hand, writhing against your hand where it held him down. When you tentatively reached down to gently squeeze his balls, he nearly sobbed.

“I’m gonna—” Ezra gasped.

You pulled your mouth off of him, then, replacing it with your hand, not moving, just holding him at the base.

“Hold on, I didn’t say stop,” he said with a breathless chuckle. “Everything alright?”

“I want you inside me,” you whispered, barely audible.

Ezra reached out to still your movements. “I don’t have protection, sweetheart,” he said, voice strained.

You bit your bottom lip, averting Ezra’s gaze for a moment. “I have the implant,” you said, looking him in the eye again.

Ezra’s eyebrow shot up. “Well, shit, woman,” he said. “Thought they only had those fancy contraptions in the Ephrate.”

“They do,” you said. “I did have some decent money, once. In the rush. Before my crew took it all and left.”

“You and I have trod similar paths, so it would seem,” Ezra said.

“The rush left a lot of us in the dust,” you said.

Ezra nodded. “The deadliest dust there is.”

After a long moment, he sat up to kiss you, just a gentle press of lips. You put your arms around him and closed your eyes, breathing with him for a moment.

“How do you want to—which way should we—” you stumbled over your words.

“You may have me whichever way you desire,” Ezra said, voice low in your ear, “and I will do my darnedest to provide.”

“Can—can you be on top?” You started, “I mean—I will if it’s easier, but my thighs are kind of killing me.”

Ezra chuckled, and you thrilled at the vibration of it against your chest. “Lay back,” he said.

You complied, laying down on the bed mat. He reached behind you to grab the pillow.

“Lift up that pretty ass of yours for me,” he said, and you did. Kneeling before you, he placed the pillow under your hips.

“Reckon my knees will hold me up longer than my arm,” he said, gripping your hip to tug you towards him.

“Guess both our thighs will be burning tonight,” you said with a sly smile.

“Worth every ache,” he replied, taking himself in hand.

He slowly rubbed at your slit with the head of his cock. You moaned, your cunt clenching against thin air as you felt wetness dribble down. Ezra dragged his cockhead through the slick, gathering it before rubbing at your clit directly. You gasped at the jolt of pleasure lighting up your body—it felt so good you could cry. You could hardly stand the teasing anymore, wanting him inside you now more than ever.

“Ezra, please,” you begged.

At your urging, he lined himself up and slid inside you with one deliberate movement. The sensation of his thick cock filling you up, the almost-aching stretch of it—it was better than you ever imagined. He grabbed you by the hip again to pull you even closer as he began to thrust into you at a steady pace.

“Look at you,” Ezra said, his voice gravelly and low, “takin’ my cock like it was made for you. Shoulda known you’d feel this good, sweetheart.”

“Ezra,” you panted, “Ezra.”

You looked up at Ezra as he filled you completely—from his pupils blown wide and his lips slightly parted, to the broad expanse of his shoulders, to the torso adorned with freckles and scars, to—fuck, where his cock was seated deep in your cunt—he was more beautiful than any gemstone.

You could tell Ezra was trying to control the pace of his thrusts, biting his lip in concentration. You didn’t want him to hold back.

“Harder,” you breathed.

“I ain’t gonna last,” Ezra said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t care!” You cried out, clenching down on him.

“Fuck!” Ezra leaned forward and braced himself against the bed, arm trembling with the effort as he set a brutal pace, fucking into you hard and deep and unrelenting. You nearly screamed.

“Touch yourself, sweetheart,” Ezra’s voice was frantic and loud, “come for me, please, please, fuck!”

You rubbed your clit for hardly a moment before you shook apart, your cunt spasming around his cock, your body consumed in flames of pleasure so intense you could hardly breathe.

Ezra managed a few more thrusts before he came with a shout, his cock inside you as deep as it could go.

–

In the aftermath, Ezra collapsed beside you, absolutely exhausted. You turned your head to kiss him, lazy and slow.

“If it’s alright with you,” he said, his breath warm and close, “I’m inclined to take the day off tomorrow.”

“We’re sure going to be sore,” you sighed.

“Well, yes,” he agreed, “but I’m keen on more...sparrin’ practice.”

“You can say sex, you know,” you laughed, “not everything has to be a metaphor.”

Ezra smiled. “I do have an inclination to run my mouth, don’t I.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Ezra just rolled his eyes before taking your hand in his, your fingers twining together.

“I just realized,” you said, looking over at Ezra’s desk, “I could’ve sat on that chair instead of your face. Would’ve made things easier.”

Ezra’s eyes widened a fraction, looking over at the chair, then back to you.

“Why didn’t I think of that? I am dumber than a box of rocks,” he said with a chuckle. “But I do believe my method is superior.”

“We’ll have to test your theory,” you said. “Do some serious research.”

Ezra nodded eagerly before setting a steely expression with a furrowed brow. “Of course.”

--

content: phone sex (well, radio sex if you wanna get technical), cunnilingus, face-sitting, blowjob, vaginal sex

a/n: listen. all the scifi sex I write will conveniently make use of “the implant” purely so they can raw-dog it. also like where tf is ezra gonna go buy space condoms. this is set in the fringes of the galaxy. it’s not like he can pop over to space cvs and get some cosmic cock wrappers for his magnum dong. they don’t carry them at the shuttle station, okay?

and yes I DO go back and forth in my fics deciding whether “come” or “cum” is hotter/more grammatically correct/etc and this is a come fic, apologies to the cum crowd

special thanks to taylor (@damerondjarin​) for the exchange of messages that inspired this fic, and for all the moral support thereafter. believe it or not this entire fic was supposed to be JUST the face-sitting sex scene and uh it expanded from there. Oops.

#ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra prospect x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction

[stardewspellshed]

Bad Birthday Bouquet: A Stardew-based Techno Magic Curse

There's a guy I've known for years who's notorious for being a terrible person by... everybody I know who isn't terrible in their own right, honestly. There's a mile long list of reasons why he got to eat this curse, but the relevant one is that he's been mistreating a bunch of people and this is unfortunately not the first time this has happened.

And so when I'm out of all other options, I go for a curse. This one has worked swimmingly. This is a freakishly long post so it's under a cut for once.

What you need:

Some knowledge of energy work and poppets-- if you're unfamiliar these are pretty common concepts and there's many resources that can explain them to you.

Six Wilted Bouquets (Substitute with something else gross if you can't buy bouquets from Pierre's yet. Any hated item works. Void Mayonnaise or Rotten Plants would be my pick but your mileage may vary.)

Six tables for your bouquet (end tables work best)

Something to play Happy Birthday with

At least one light source that can be manually turned on and off by the player (like braziers, campfires, or fireplaces.)

A villager to represent your target-- you're going to be giving this villager the nasty thing!

(Optional) crops, fish, fruits, gems, artifacts, or other items with correspondences that match your intentions-- I picked kale for bitterness and catfish for drowning in his own negativity, but your items will vary depending on your desired results and personal associations.

(Optional) a notepad, paper, and writing utensil in a color you associate with cursing if you can't do or are just not great with visualization.

Timing

Cast on your target's birthday in real time, on the target's representative villager's birthday in game, or Fall 28 in-game. A waning crescent moon or total lunar eclipse in real time would probably also work in a pinch.

Pre-Spell Prep Work

Prepare your Bouquets by tossing them in a furnace with a piece of coal, or if you're using something else instead, craft that if you need to.

Also, if you aren't using Wilted Bouquets, you might want to do a bit of research to make sure they actually hate the nasty thing you plan on using since it's kinda missing the point to give Snails to Vincent or a Void Egg to Sebastian haha. I recommend using the Stardew Valley wiki (though friendly reminder not to do that if potential spoilers for patch 1.5 bother you since that JUST came out on console at the time I'm writing this) to check their hates. As an added bonus if you're like me and the kind of person who hates the thought of losing friendship points, this is a great opportunity to check what they love so you can stock up on stuff to fix it when you're done with the spell.

After that, pick a villager to represent your target. (I have a whole thing with suggestions for how to do that here if you're at a loss for who to pick.) I picked Penny to represent my target because other than the part where he's a heinous shitgibbon they've got very similar values, interests, and goals.

Setting Up The Spell

If you have a specific pre-casting routine (whether that's grounding, centering, meditation, warding, casting a circle, calling on deities or spirits for help, etc.), take care of that now.

Put down your light source inside a farm building then arrange the tables around them in a shape you feel is fitting-- I chose as close to a circle as I could get because that's the shape I most associate with birthday cakes. Leave space for one bouquet in the center or between your light sources, and if you're using extra ingredients set those up too. I felt it was best to set them up directly next to the bouquet in the middle, but that will probably vary depending on you.

Casting the spell

Turn your light on, then take a strand of energy and visualize it anchoring itself inside the thing to start things off. Play Happy Birthday while you bring the energy through all of the other items. Stop at each of the other bouquets, and say/think a reason why this person is getting cursed at each. If you don't have five reasons, something like "your behavior is messed up and you need to stop" or similar works.

Bring your energy through your correspondence items and for each, say/think, "for your birthday, in return for <insert the last straw that made you decide to do this here>, I give you <insert the intention this item is being used for here>."

End on the one you're going to give and say/think something summing up everything you've already said and making it very clear why you're putting this on them.

I said "<target's full name>, I'm really just sick of your shit. You are bigoted on so many different levels, two-faced, treat anyone you think is less than you like trash, have an enormous entitlement complex, and <something he did to one of my friends that they would like to keep private>. My birthday wish for you is that you get your head out of your ass. Apologize for your crappy behavior and stop doing it, or drown in misery and realizing how small of a person you actually are. Happy birthday!"

Let it stew as long as you feel appropriate, then figuratively blow out the candle by turning off your light source.

(If you struggle with visualization, plot out your layout on a piece of paper-- it doesn't need to be incredibly detailed if you don't want it to be, a bunch of Xes in a square will work.

Focus on your intent and emotions like discussed above, but do it while looking at the item you're going to give to your villager. While doing that, draw a line at the mark representing your light, and speak it into existence-- keep focusing on your emotions and intent and describe it connecting into the light source whether by speaking out loud or thinking it. Draw your line going through all of the other items while describing your energy the same way, stop on the other bouquets and correspondence items as described above, and end on the one you're going to give to your target just like you would otherwise. )

Deliver those nastyass flowers to your villager, then end the day. You are done!

Post Spell Procedure

I like to get a snack, stretch, and watch something silly to make me laugh and shake off any residual anger or sorrow from spells like this.

I also like to turn off my Switch and sound cleanse my whole space since I have a bell. I'd strongly recommend doing some kind of cleansing even if you don't sound cleanse.

(Note: ribbon dividers are not mine, I found them here. Please let me know if you know who actually created them!!)

#tech magic #pop culture magic #techno magic #techno witchcraft #pop culture witchcraft #tech witch #gif warning #curses #baneful magic

[emy-loves-you]

Sanders Sides AU-gust Day 18: Bodyguard

When Logan signed up to be the bodyguard of a wealthy (and questionable) man’s son, he thought it would be an easy job. Just sit in the background and make sure the kid doesn’t get killed. He didn’t expect the kid to be his age. Or flirty. Or dating his ex. Logan POV, eventual Analogince with parental Moxiety

Day 17 | Masterlist | Day 19

Logan sighed as he twirled the ballpoint pen between his fingers. He was sitting in the middle of a cafe, filling out a crossword puzzle. He took a sip of his chamomile tea and bit back a grimace. It was exceedingly bitter; the coffee shop he normally went to served much better drinks. But he wasn’t here because of the drinks. He briefly looked up from his crossword to quietly observe the real reason he was here. On the other side of the cafe, scrolling through his phone while he sipped on an iced coffee, sat Virgil Tempest Sanders, son of Patton Sanders and heir of Sanders Financing.

Logan thought back to everything leading up to this moment. Before this, Logan was commonly hired to take out corrupt politicians and gang leaders. So when he got a call from Patton Sanders to be a bodyguard, he was shocked to say the least. Patton Sanders was seen as the epitome of goodwill; he frequently donated to charity, has never spoken ill will towards anyone, and always had a smile on his face. So it was extremely odd for him to contact an assassin who was frequently hired by much more sinister individuals. But apparently Logan’s skills impressed Mr. Sanders enough to provide Logan a more permanent (and well-paying) job.

The job was simple: shadow his son any time he was out of the house. Virgil was kept on an extremely short leash after he was ‘kidnapped’ 5 years ago. He was only gone for a few months, but it was enough to essentially put him on house arrest. Virgil was only allowed to be out of the house between 10 AM and 5 PM. Mr. Sanders paid Logan to watch Virgil during these hours. When Logan had first learned about the job, he’d nearly scoffed in disbelief. He didn’t want to be babysitting a child! But after hearing about what wages he’d earn, Logan quickly changed his tune.

It was also shocking to learn that Logan actually wasn’t babysitting a child. Virgil was 23 years old; shockingly close to Logan’s own age. The age surprised him for several reasons. First of all, why was Virgil kept on such a short leash at 23 years old? Sure, he was kidnapped for a few months (which Logan doubted was an actual kidnapping. It was more likely that Virgil ran away) but that still didn’t warrant such restrictions for an adult. Second of all, Virgil still looked like a teenager. He had an extremely youthful face, with large brown eyes hidden beneath an oversized purple hoodie. He was actually quite attractive, almost as attractive as-

Logan figuratively shook the thought away, attempting to focus on the crossword puzzle. There were a few words that he was stuck on, but he was most likely going to stay here for a while. One of the perks to this job was that Virgil only tended to go to four places: this cafe, the local library, a small music store on the other side of town, and the local park. Still, Logan had been following this pattern with Virgil for the past two months. A small part of Logan, the part that smiled slightly when he managed to shoot someone directly between the eyes, wished that something would happen to spice things up-

“Amir.”

Logan looked up and was surprised to see Virgil leaning over his shoulder, staring at the crossword puzzle. “What?”

Virgil smirked. “‘First name that can mean ‘prince.’’” He took the ballpoint pen from Logan’s hand, which he had been lightly nibbling on. Logan bit back a gasp as Virgil deliberately ran the pen against Logan’s bottom lip before using it to write ‘AMIR’ on the crossword.

Logan examined the paper and was surprised to see that it was the correct answer. He blushed as he turned back to Virgil, who had a smug look in his eyes. “Th-Thank you, Mr…?”

Virgil smiled, settling down in the seat across from Logan. “Call me Tempest. And you are?”

Logan smiled at the use of Virgil’s last name. He felt like he should at least reciprocate. “Adstrum.”

Virgil smirked. “Glory. Immortality.” He gives Logan a once-over before practically purring. “Divinity.”

Logan blushed at the implications. “I’m sure my parents meant ‘star’ when they named me.”

Virgil laughed before his expression darkened. “So, how much is he paying you?”

Logan put on a faux-innocent expression, but on the inside it felt like his blood had turned to ice. Mr. Sanders specifically said that Virgil couldn’t know about Logan unless absolutely necessary. Logan thought he’d been subtle and inconspicuous. “Who is paying me, exactly?”

Virgil sighed. “My father. Look, you almost fooled me at first. If I wasn’t always watching my back, you would’ve fooled me. But nobody ever visits this cafe because their coffee’s shit.” He gestured to Logan’s tea. “And I’m guessing the tea is too judging by how much you face screws up when you drink it. You could’ve been just a regular customer, but I’ve seen you at the library and the park, and I don’t doubt that you were at the record store too. And the people around here get really gossipy, so I knew that you were only here on the days that I showed up.” He leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face. “So I’ll ask again: how much is he paying you?”

Logan looked him in the eye before sighing. “Too much to say no.” He carefully folded up his crossword puzzle. “Though I’m quite uncertain as to why this job exists in the first place. You obviously have no intention on running away again-”

“Running away?” Logan looked up to see Virgil confused and slightly angry. But Logan had dealt with enough people to see the acting for what it really was. “I was kidnapped and held against my will!”

Logan scoffed. “Kidnapped?” He straightened his tie as he spoke. “You disappeared in the middle of the night from a building whose security rivals the White House. There was no sign of struggle, nor was there a ransom note. Either your kidnapper was an extremely intelligent individual who wanted more than just money from Mr. Sanders, or you left on your own free will. And judging by my observations and personal experience, I’m inclined to believe the latter.”

Virgil stared for another moment before laughing. “Well, would you look at that! You’ve got a brain to match your bark. And I assume you bite, too. Because there’s no way you’re some random civilian. So, what’s your real job?”

Logan coughed. “I must admit, I’m not used to having my job description be, ‘keep client alive. ’”

Virgil blinked, and Logan suddenly felt like he’d said something wrong. “You stressed the word alive. ” Now it was Logan’s turn to blink. “You wouldn’t need to stress it unless there was something specific about keeping them alive.” His eyes suddenly lit up. “Are you an assassin?!”

Logan blushed. “Essentially. But now I am your bodyguard.”

Virgil vibrated in his seat. “How many people have you killed? Do you usually kill good people or bad people? Or does it only depend on the money? I wouldn’t blame you for that. The economy sucks.”

Logan chuckled. “I mainly target corrupt politicians and gang leaders. I turn down any jobs that involve families or children.”

Virgil mouthed the words ‘corrupt politicians and gang leaders’ before gasping. “Do you know Logan Croft?”

Logan blinked. “How do you know that name?”

Virgil gasped again, stars in his eyes. “Are you Logan Croft?” Logan decided to nod his head. Virgil already knew about his job, and his father was paying Logan. It wouldn’t hurt to give out his name, just this once. “Oh my gosh, you’re the guy who killed Jacob Smith four years ago! How did you do it? They say he was impenetrable behind his gang and-” Suddenly his phone ringed. “One moment, please.” He pressed the phone up to his ear, and Logan could hear his boss’ muffled voice on the other end, though he couldn’t understand what he was saying. “Hey, Dad. Yeah, I’m at a cafe. Yeah, I can come home for lunch. See you then. Bye.” He turned back to Logan with a grimace. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go. Maybe we can have a full conversation next time?”

Logan nodded. “I ask that you don’t tell Mr. Sanders about our conversation, or that you know about having a bodyguard. I’m afraid he might fire me if you do.” Or expose me to the world.

Virgil nodded. “Of course!” He stood there awkwardly for a moment. “Well, you know where I am… see ya, bye!” And with that, Virgil walked out of the cafe. Logan waited a few minutes before following. It was just to make sure that Virgil got home safe. It was part of his job, after all. It wasn’t because he found Virgil interesting and funny and cute-

Logan frowned, shaking away the thought. He would not get attached to Virgil. It would only serve as a cruel reminder of Roman. Roman and Logan had met in middle school and dated for several years. But Roman had fallen in love with another man a few years ago. And while Logan is polyamorous, it was dangerous enough to be attached to one civilian. So, they broke up on friendly terms. Logan had never felt so… empty, after leaving Roman. It had felt like Roman had taken Logan’s ability to be happy. Logan hadn’t fully smiled or laughed since their breakup…

Except for today, when he’d talked to Virgil. Virgil reminded Logan of Roman. He was charismatic, sarcastic, and funny. And with every butterfly that formed in Logan’s belly, a new knife stabbed him through the heart. Being with Virgil would only remind Logan of what he could no longer have with Roman. So, Logan would keep his distance (even if he could no longer do so literally).

---------------------------------------------------

When Virgil got home that day, he had a brief lunch with his father before retreating to his room for the day. Once he got there, he immediately pulled his phone out of his pocket and started texting his boyfriend.

V- (3:05 PM) Hey, your ex’s name was Logan Adsrum Croft, wasn’t it?

R- (3:06 PM) Yeah, why?

V- (3:06 PM) Guess who my hot new bodyguard is ;)

#sanders sides #AU_gust_2020 #bodyguard au #analogince #logan sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders

[partnersatfazbear]

Fazbear Frights Analysis: Friendly Face / #10

I was at my in laws last few days and shopping for decorations with my bff yesterday so I had time to read the Friendly Face book. I'm a few pages into the final story so havent gotten to the epilogue yet. Its fairly more pages than normal so suprised I havent stumbled on spoilers yet.

The first story was okay but stupid ending (I think it could work if it was set up better ie making the Friendly Face seem like it wanted revenge rather than playing--and yes this was kind of creative but didn’t really feel satisfying as an ending.) and the second story was very Goosebumps like ( Seabonnies are assholes but also kinda adorable. Seabonnies are the Sour Patch Kids of the FF universe... ). The third story.. Every character annoys me so far and its a slog. We got some cool animatronics and as I guessed early on it seems like a mini love letter to Kings Carrie. Read my thoughts below, since I had stopped reading before we got to the good stuff.

Nothing really Willry/Helliam relevant lately, unfortunately. Hoping there’s something in the epilogue though. (Now that I read it: Yeah, I think we have a Henry stand in, actually)

More on the book later.

***

So, turns out the last story was the most relevant, at least for me. It gives us more insight into the springlock suits (maybe more specifically the second set of them, not sure). They are described similar to Funtime Freddy in terms of the stomach cavity, but they are springlock suits. There is a switch on the outside that is stated to sometimes fail that converts it from suit to animtronic mode / vise versa. We get a pretty cool description of a character death inside of it--and well, it’s about how you’d imagine it [and pleasantly suprised close to how I remember writing it in my fic]. What’s odd is the springlock suit appears to be immediately “haunted” by the first, then the second girl in the story. I don’t think the number is as relevant as the fact that the souls attatched immediately. I guess Mrs. Carrie-Pig (Rosie Porkchop) may already be infused with remnant? It’s never explained. The springlock suit is also programmed outright. I think this was assumed before, but we get some insight into how it’s done. Also, this furthers my theory regarding Springtrap chasing the voices in FNAF 3. It’s definetly programming. The ones in this story are listed as specifically avoiding adult voices and targeting children’s voices.

Epilogue and theory is under the cut:

The epilogue... you guys, I don’t know where to begin with this. I’m gonna write my initial thoughts here and then scour Freddit for some clarification. The beginning starts with Larson looking into the DNA samples and connecting them to a bunch of incidents, mostly involving a skeletal figure which appears to be Eleanor. Next, we get confirmation that Eleanor took over Renelle at some point. Eleanor goes to the house of “her father”. The description does hold many similarities to the Afton household, specifically a couch with a lamp next to it reminded me a lot of Sister Location, but it’s not enough to really confirm anything (the lamps are different types too). The man is a remnant-specialist named Talbert. I feel like I remember the name being mentioned before. The story specifically points out a photo of him and his partner, Phineas. (This should ring so many bells for anyone in the Willry/Helliam ship..). However, Eleanor as she was or is is NOT Talbert’s daughter, who is shown in a photo and described with: black hair and brown eyes. Most people would probably associate it with Cassidy, but my mind went more to Charlotte. So Talbert seems to be a Henry stand in. He seems shocked to see his dead daughter, yet can believe she’s alive (probably because he’s very experienced with remnant or maybe The Spark). Talbert takes remnant to give to his “daughter”/Eleanor who is disguised as her. We know she can project her appearance with the locket and I guess she does that here. If I wasn’t speed reading too much, it seems the Plushtrap chaser might be there too? Eleanor starts turning into another wierd rabbit-bot-monster thing at the end, too. I’m assuming this thing is related to Pit-Bonnie, but we don’t get many details here. The entire thing also has a long segment of Larson’s “visions” going through all the events of the Fazbear Frights we’ve seen so far and even explaining Blackbird in more detail.

I don’t know what to think about it...

Having checked Freddit: I guess this went over my head, but the most important detail seems to be that Eleanor is harvesting remnant and/or agony to grow stronger and was also behind many of the events in the stories. As in, not just setting them up sort of way, but like... being one of the doctors in Step Closer and having the Plushtrap chaser... and being present somehow in 1280. I think it’s wierd, bordering on dumb, but I’ll roll with it. Also worthy to note, she appears to be bringing all the remnant/agony back to the ballpit. I’m secretly really hoping it’s all an effort to revive William (despite the epilogue that sort of contradicts it, where Eleanor steals agony from AlmagAfton--although I see this as a last ditch kind of move to save it rather than destroying him--it’s clear the Puppet did that, isn’t it?) I even had the thought when they discussed Eleanor specifically having the Plushtrap chaser that it reminded me of the Spring Bonnie plush at the end of FNAF: VR / HW.

Also, since I jumped to the idea that Renelle was Charlotte, I missed a specific detail about curly black hair, which gets reiterated. [TBF, I based my Charlotte off of game-Charlotte, so I depict her with black, not brown hair. I didn’t see the ‘curly’ word specified or missed it] A theory I like and really agree with is Renelle WAS who became Andrew. We all know Andrew is our Cassidy stand in... and what has the fandom been fighting over? The damn gender. If Renelle died and forgot who she was, she could easily reimagine herself as a male spirit aka Andrew. This solves that dilemma. As an extra note, Scott’s voice request for the angry spirit was listed as ‘male or female’.

I think that’s all the important stuff.

#fazbear frights #initial thoughts #friendly face #fnaf theory #fnaf spoilers #spoilers #cassidy #andrew #eleanor #giraffe baby #fnaf theories

[kinetic-elaboration]

August 21: 3x04 And the Children Shall Lead

Okay, I’m finally going to write up my thoughts on And the Children Shall Lead. I think I’m (mostly) over all of my excessively-strong emotions about this ep lol. Maybe going through my notes will bring them back. Or maybe not. I’ve felt very tired and uninterested in everything today so it’s hard to tell. So far the process is not going well: tumblr ate my first attempt at a post, like literally I wrote a few lines, clicked to a new tab, and when I clicked back the post was empty so thanks for that, and I keep on just generally not being interested in the task. So, we’ll see.

The tl;dr is that I don’t see why this ep is considered one of the worst. I actually really liked it!

Single-color jumpsuits: the fashion of the future.

Another old Kirk friend! (This isn’t even important lol; it never comes up again or matters that Kirk knew this guy, but we must always be reminded that he is the best networker in Starfleet.)

“He’s dead, Captain.” Not “he’s dead, Jim”?? Sounds wrong.

“The enemy within.” I thought that was a S1 ep?

Ah, another bunch of creepy kids. In pajamas this time, apparently.

Kirk is not having fun being the center of their creepy little rhyme.

RIP to McCoy but my diagnosis is “alien shenanigans.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Kirk.” Such a polite little alien.

McCoy corralling the kids

This sounds a lot like Miri, except purposeful—something targeted all the adults but left the kids, just like the virus in Miri affected all the adults, but not the kids.

…A disturbance in the cave!

Lol at Kirk’s anxiety face. I feel you, man.

Spock’s never experienced anxiety? My first thought is ‘sounds fake’ but actually… maybe he really hasn’t.

“There has to be an explanation.” This is the MOST Jim line.

I like these kids. They’re actually pretty cute. Also love Kirk trying to relate to the kids.

Where are they? Is this Sulu’s greenhouse lol? I love it. They should have used this set more.

“That place is for adults.” Gotta say, I wrote this down but now have no recollection what it actually refers to. The bridge? I think it’s the bridge.

Are they performing witchcraft? Intriguing.

“Friendly angel”—nothing creepy about that at all.

Got a little alien cult going on here. Every time I feel anxiety from now on I’m going to assume it’s an alien cultist nearby.

“We’ll pursue this in my quarters.” Wink wink.

Can’t fool Uhura.

Never mind. Yes you can.

For someone who wanted the kids guarded all the time, Kirk sure was ok with them just traipsing around the bridge. I mean the guards are at the door but like…they’re only at the door.

Never really thought about how there’s apparently an…engineering component... to flying the ship? I don’t know, I don’t really get it but it’s cool.

"Evil does seek to maintain power by suppressing the truth." Damn. Great line.

BAND OF MARAUDES. That’s a cool backstory for the dead alien society. Basically, they’re ghosts. Greedy ghosts. Alien ghost pirates.

Great triumvirate scene. McCoy want to protect the kids and Kirk’s like “…but the ship, though?” Which is fair!!

What does the ghost want? Um, a ship to maraud in, were you not listening to Spock’s exposition of the back story?

No don’t beam anyone down!!

Love any time Spock pushes someone else out of the way so he can man the transporter. He’s somehow the second-best expert on it on the entire ship.

Eeek, low-key gruesome death there. Look, I know that this is one of the scenes that haters love to point out as a reason to despise the episode but I personally don’t think deeply enough into the transporter situation to wonder how much information they have or assume before they beam people anywhere. Also…weird alien stuff is happening, guys. Just attribute it to that. Also also, if you’re gonna nitpick like that, be prepared to hate all of TOS.

THE KIDS STOLE THE CAR.

“Sulu, what did you to do my ship?”

Uhura’s watching this little witchcraft scene from the background like ‘aw, so cute.’

“Call upon their beasts.” Metal.

“Go to your stations.” This little kid is a future Captain in the making.

SPACE KNIVES

Kirk's like "Oh no, my crew is deserting me, I'm gonna have to fly the whole ship by myself AGAIN.”

“Captain, why are we bothering Starfleet?” Et tu, Spock?s

How did they get to Spock? He doesn’t seem scared of anything…more like he’s under the influence of a general hallucination, like the others seeing the planet on the screen even after they left orbit.

I remember this part, with Kirk freaking out. Spock doesn’t like it one bit.

He’s just being a littttle Dramatique.

Cannot believe that all Spock has to do is say “Jim” in a quiet, intimate voice and Kirk is immediately okay. Just let it out of his system, grabbed onto his friend, heard his own name, and the beast is defeated.

“My Vulcan friend”? Lol.

Kirk’s face when he realizes they’ve got Scotty too…

“Go away or we’ll kill you.” That was legitimately creepy. Scotty gone rogue.

Aw, Spock was worried about him again.

“Without followers, evil cannot spread.”

“Where did you hear this order, Chekov?” / “The voices in my head.”

It’s interesting that Kirk and Spock can’t be manipulated—perhaps because they have each other?

Enough of this—fight time!

That guard sounded like he really liked that nerve pinch; he was kinda moaning as he went down.

“Spock, corral them to their rooms.”

Outta the chair, brat.

Is Kirk going to defeat the alien evil using logic?

Summoning the “angel” by using the old recording is very clever.

When did they decide to start calling him the Gorgon?

“It lost its power in the light of reality” = “I looked into Spock’s eyes and knew myself again.”

HE IS GENTLE. It’s true and you should say it.

And he doesn’t even dispute it. “AND we are ALSO very strong.”

"You are full of goodness. Such as you cannot be changed."

So the girl is Jankowski.

This is very Candyman. The alien needs their belief to live. When they cease to follow him, he literally disappears.

Honestly, this whole alien scheme starts to look equal parts silly and sad, trying to call the crying children "generals.” They’re babies!

McCoy loves to see children in tears lol.

Kirk just hands them all off to McCoy, like ‘well, my work here is done.’

Okay, now we reverse course to pick up those stranded security guards still on the planet, right? Right? No? Okay, guess not.

Uhura, immediately ready with the paperwork lol. Now IS the time.

The end!

Now to try to interpret all of my other, more general notes.

The way I interpreted Spock being able to defy the mind control was that he was affected by Kirk. Because he clearly was affected, but then when he saw Kirk starting to freak out, he looked concerned, and then got them both off the bridge—he had a breakthrough of clarity long enough to understand he needed to get off the bridge. Then he’d be away from the kids, and they wouldn’t have as much control, and he could snap Jim out of it, too.

Like I’m sure his Vulcan resilience could easily have been part of it, too, but that resilience wasn’t enough to keep him from being affected at all—and of course they could have easily written it that way—and it seems obvious that his moment of clarity was caused specifically by watching Kirk starting to lose it. There are so many shots of him specifically watching Kirk and the guard.

The K/S vibes were so strong. Spock was so protective, then they get in the lift and Kirk basically clings to him. All he has to do is say Kirk’s name and Kirk is fine, which is basically the power of true love. And then even outside of that scene… for the whole rest of the ep, they’re a duo. It’s not just Kirk against the Evil of the Week, it’s Kirk and Spock, working together at every turn. Neither of them could have done it alone.

it's a pretty classic trope, in fact, especially in s1, to have Kirk all alone, abandoned by all...where he's the last man standing, the one who has to run the whole ship and save the whole day. Naked Time, This Side of Paradise, and Trouble with Tribbles (kinda) all come to mind. But this time he has Spock! You see the progression of their relationship in that.

I really enjoyed this episode in general. Lots of classic tropes: creepy children; surprise alien; old alien society not as dead as we thought; Kirk has to run the whole ship by himself (with Spock); heroic!Kirk saving the day… It has it all. It’s clearly revisiting some older themes and ideas, but in a sufficiently unique way that it doesn’t just seem like a rehash of an older plot. In some ways, it felt like a Classic S1 episode to me. It has some Miri elements, some Charlie X elements, some Naked Time elements…

I literally don’t understand why it’s so disliked.

Skimmed the wiki and the only specific criticism in there is that Kirk shows an “unmistakable hostility to the children.” Well first of all, he doesn’t. He might not have the best manner with them, but why should he? He’s certainly not mean or cruel to them. He recognizes they’re a danger to his ship, and to the whole planet of Marcos-12, which by the way is objectively true, but that’s not being hostile. McCoy is the one who represents ‘exclusive care for the children’s welfare’ in this ep, but he CAN do that, because he’s not the Captain. He represents that perspective, he gives his opinion, which is both his job on the ship and his role on the show, and then Kirk takes that into account while doing HIS job, which is running the ship. McCoy would have literally let the kids take over their ship and conquer the galaxy as part of their grieving process lol. Kirk was right and I should say it. (Also btw he understands that killing the kids might be an option—but he obviously doesn’t actually do it.)

I actually think this ep is a great example of the triumvirate functioning--McCoy reminds Kirk that the children are just traumatized children, and Spock reminds him that he's responsible for 400+ people on the ship, and Kirk makes the decisions that vanquish the evil, save the ship, and free the kids.

And look, even if you don’t like this episode, you’d have to argue very hard to convince me it’s the WORST, as in worse than Spock’s Brain, worse than The Alternative Factor, worse than Assignment Earth (not even a real TOS ep!), worse than The Omega Glory.

Some stuff I actively liked: the concept of the alien taking over the children specifically (both creepy and…kinda makes sense? That they’d be vulnerable); the message that the followers of demagogues can be both truly dangerous and objects of sympathy; the backstory of the evil empire of pirate aliens—and how greed doesn’t die; the witchcraft aesthetic, ESPECIALLY when paired with the kid antagonists, since kids are so into that like chanting, incantations, rituals thing; that the ep used every single main character (when was the last time a TOS ep did that?). Also I thought the kid actors did a good job!

The theme about the authoritarian and the cult followers was actually quite resonant, I thought; inevitably made me think of Tr/ump and his Tr/umpies. Just like in this episode, you must have some kind of… if not sympathy, at least willingness to do the hard work of deprograming and then bringing them back to the fold, or else the country is never going to heal and it’s never going to be able to go forward in a positive way. It might not go forward at all! But fuck it’s hard to have that sympathy; they’re so abhorrent. Here, you see the terrible things the kids do, and yet sympathy isn’t so hard, because they’re kids. You see how much they are victims/pawns also. And so in that sense, Kirk’s ability to deprogram them is comfortingly optimistic—a little bittersweet, as TOS often is, because the kids have done horrible things and seen horrible things and now they’ll have to live with it, but comforting nonetheless.

I can’t even think of that many things I didn’t like in the ep. Mostly just nitpicky things. Like, was McCoy a little inconsistent in what he thought should be done with the kids? Yeah, but we get the general idea. Did Kirk drop the ball when he let them hang out on the bridge? Yes, especially as he knew how dangerous they were at that point, but I actually don’t mind it so much because they’re kids—it’s understandable that their true dangerousness didn’t fully compute to him. I don’t see that as a mistake or sloppy writing tbh. And was it an amateur hour mistake to beam two people into space? Yes, but it made up for it in being creepy and upping the stakes of the ep.

I guess I could see how the fist gesture could be seen as a little silly. But the other option, having them speak rhymes each time, would have been distracting—and probably also looked silly! Also, as my mom pointed out, it looks like a kid’s game (sorta like the start of rock paper scissors) so it fits appropriately with the theme.

I really liked how they wove in the aesthetic of kids’ games, kids’ manners of playing, into the narrative. Kids can be really creepy! They like creepy things! So the ring around the rosy rhyme at the beginning—a quite disturbing chant, of course, about the Plague, that is also very commonly sung by actual kids—foreshadows the summoning chant that brings the alien to them. It’s all of a piece. And just like the rhyme is just a rhyme, and they don’t know the real meaning behind it, they probably also don’t fully understand the meaning of the summoning chant or the alien that comes with it. It’s all one big game to them.

It’s interesting that the alien seemed to play off their desire both to punish their parents for working too much ("they like the planet, they're always busy") and to have freedom from parental rules (how they react to any instructions from adults, the alien's promise that the whole universe will be their playground, etc.). He really picks their sore spots as kids specifically and turns them into his “generals” accordingly. Like all kids, they don’t think too much about the larger consequences of their game because in some ways, it really is all just a game to them.

I liked how the episode characterized Kirk’s ability to interact with kids. He’s not bad with them at all, but he’s not like McCoy or Chapel either. He “wants to communicate with the future adult in the kid,” as my mom put it, which is perfect. He doesn’t exactly treat them as mini-adults—he doesn’t say inappropriate things to them, and he does simplify his language and his ideas for them—but he does treat them very seriously. And he’s probably best at one-on-one interactions like with Tommy. I think this makes total sense for his character: he doesn’t have kids (David aside lol), he doesn’t have younger siblings, he doesn’t work in a place where he’d see other people’s kids, he doesn’t get to see his nephew much, etc.

…Okay those were all my notes. I know I had other thoughts that were a little less scattered later, but… I’m tired. And most of it is probably in here in some form or another. I also found a list of, like, actual critiques of the episode, and I was considering going through them and addressing them all, and I might still do that. But I think that’s for another day.

#the year 2021 #2021: star trek #2021: fandom thoughts #star trek tos

[thefirsthogokage]

Time to Hate-Watch Turner and Hooch, Episode 5

Because I am bored. And I hate myself. Of you aren't ok with me hate-watching and commenting, well then this is not the post you are looking for. Please move along.

Ah, yes, reminder of the love triangle they put in a kids copaganda show for the parents. Again. Because reminder: they did that last week.

Ew, bad shaky camera work.

Oh god she was listening to that music as a personal stake out sound track by choice? Like, why?

"You're all hopped up on juice boxes and I don't like it." I did like that line.

Laura is 5 years old.

I do like the theme song.

You know what also is weird about this supposed kids show? The episodes are nearly 50 minutes long. No kid is going to pay attention to that long of an episode.

So much natural lighting and making Hooch very yellow in some scenes and not others.

I'm probably too tired to watch this tonight.

Honestly that poor girl. Such a big crush on a very oblivious dipshit.

Branden is a fucking gift to this show. Again, I am just so glad he kept acting after Power Rangers SPD. Not many former PRs stay in the business, let alone get steady work. I'm really proud of him!

Rain. This show must be filmed in Vancouver. Actually, I vaguely remember hearing it was shot there. ... (Googles)... Haha

I mean, air cold enough mid-day to see their breath + rain had to = Vancouver. I mean I guess Portland too. But either way, California my ass.

Dreary natural lighting. Classic Vancouver. I can't believe anyone could actually think this would look like California.

Having Laura recognize a lot of people so that they could give her information to make her getting the information super easy is certainly a choice... by writers who don't want to work to hard. Then again, I think this is supposed to be a a family friendly show...kind of. Line, this isn't a straight up specific demographic this is targeted towards. They just have done a few things I absolutely would not put in a kids show this day and age. Like, it honestly so bizarre to watch.

I'm not fond of stories like this. Guy is getting married, all aspects of the case have a relation to weddings. It's just too much happenstance in this episode. And I'm tired, I should have very little ability to notice most of the is shit tonight.

Oh god, this would be so painful if I wasn't so sleepy. Like, what the fuck are you doing, Laura. Well, at least this is showing Lyndsy's versatility and expressiveness. My god this is such a different character then Alex on Nikita.

Tired sidenote, my watermelon is very good.

Laura gets up to leave after getting this woman to hang out with her. The woman has to remind her that she doesn't know where she lives. I liked that.

"Thank you for your never-ending aquatic references." Ok, this show does have some good lines.

(This is honestly like kind of watching Lucifer. I hat the show, but occasionally there are so lines that I really like. Though I did stop watching Lucifer because I just hated it too much. I was only watching it out of boredom.)

I am really glad that they have a Native guest star. It's nice to see more Native rep on shows the past couple years.

Messaging: Kids, you gotta stand up for other kids being bullied because you are just as bad as the bullies if you just stand there. I'm really ok with this messaging. Good job, so that I mostly don't like.

I'm sorry, I'm so tired.

"His name was Jean-Luc-" Me: stares at camera in 'Robert Duncan McNeill directed this episode and is the primary Executive Producer on this show.'

For those of you who don't know, RDM was Tom Paris in Star Trek Voyager and a character who's name I can't remember that he also played on Star Trek TNG.

Fun fact, Tom Paris was initially going to be the same character he played on TNG, but something about rights blah blah blah, made that a no-go.

Sorry, back to me hate-watching while tired.

Oh god there are 21 minutes left.

Why is Laura holding a guinea pig? And why does she have a karaoke machine?

Why is Branden's character having a romantic time with his fiance while on a case? Ugh, the unprofessionalism. Like, aren't they only a two hour drive from home? Why is this happening? Do they think of distance like the British? Or people who live in Saint Louis? (Seriously, in Saint Louis some people think 20 minutes is a long drive. Granted, ten minutes is a long drive for me, but the position I have to sit in to drive really aggravates my Interstitial Cystitis (meaning I have to pee so, so bad the whole time I am in the car)).

I want to take this moment to apologize. I am very sorry about the tangents and the personal health and whatnot. But at this point I'm too tired to go bad and delete things or care about what else I'm going to write, so I'm just going to keep going without my filter on. Of you make it through this whole thing with me, bless you you sweet, sweet, probably bored soul.

🎶Ooo Heaven is a place on earth 🎶

Oh god, so much tomato stuff. All over the bathroom. The very white bathroom. Good luck with that...Scott? Is that our main characters name? Scott? I don't care to look it up at th- yeah it's Scott, Laura just said it.

Uh, shouldn't that have been made of metal? Either way, shitty craftsmanship if the dog could break it that easily.

That can't be how you train a bomb sniffing dog.

No way someone who's been a police officer for a few years wouldn't know that there are drugs on literally every bill.

Again, family show why?

Neither of them thought there would be a back door?

This while thing is insane. Not in anyway that I find entertaining. But I'd probably be more pissed if I it was more conscious. You should probably be reading all of my angry sounding things as just very tired and a bit sedate because of the tiredness.

I'm sorry Branden's character was a soldier in combat and he's never been shot? Unless I'm misremembering. But seriously, he doesn't know what getting shot in the vest fells like.

Oh look, the girlfriend fires at vehicles driving towards her too. In the same episode..I hate when things are related like that. Not upper level writing.

Why was the Secret Service also looking for those people? What? That can't possibly be their preview.

(Before I finished the episode, I discovered that for the second time this week, I did not get to the litter box fast enough (as in since this morning) to prevent my cat from moving the liner enough to pee between it and the box. So, at 11pm I had to go clean that out.)

Like this guy wouldn't know that he was copping to extortion by saying that.

God, why are they making this case the dad was working on (stupid arching plot in a family tv show why? For the adults who can tell this show is bad already?) even more complicated? Like, is this going to get Heroes level stupidly complex? Because that shit killed that show. Ok, so it probably won't be that bad...just the kids show equivalent of that bad.

Oh good for you, girl who's name I never learned! Quit the job with the evil boss! Please let her be OH NATALIE! Once again, thank you Laura for saying the name of the character whose name I wasn't sure of. What was I saying... Of yeah, I hope Natalie comes back and wasn't just on one episode. More native characters on TV please!

Oh wait, am I just realizing the girls in the live triangle were both on Glee, or did I remember that in a previous post? I know they were both on Glee from the moment I saw them in this show, but, like, I somehow didn't realize it was a very mini Glee reunion when they were in the same scene?

Wait, where did Scott wash Hooch if it wasn't in his own place the first time? Where was that bathroom? Wait, unless this isn't the bathroom in him home? I was definitely too tired to watch this. That might be saving me on the anger level, but it's certainly making it a bit difficult to keep track of some stuff.

Oh bad edit/consistency moment with the foam on Scott's face. Always hating to me.

Episode over.

Closing Thoughts: This show is still driving me insane with it's not on point demographic aiming and just silliness that isn't really good-silly, more like bad-silly. Also, I'm tired.

#turner and hooch #turner & hooch #disney plus #riley watches tv #long post #even though it's not that long I'm sure some people still consider it as long

[redbirdbella]

@clintasha-week advent calendar day 25 - holidays

No hate against quiet celebrations of christmas i just really want to write a found family fic. My last advent calendar day!!! 

The Invitation arrives mid-November.

You are cordially invited to Morgan Starks first Christmas. The 23rd to the 27th of December.

Great. Just great. It's a little too early for Christmas but either Peppers excellent organisational skills or Tony's excitement had got the better of one of them. She should reply, she really should, she loves her little goddaughter. But Christmas has always been a quiet affair, a lazy day between her and Clint. One where she didn't have to walk around with her guards up, ready for anything. She pins the invitation to her notice board and mentally makes a note to reply, once she's made a decision.

Then HYDRA rears their ugly head and Christmas becomes more of an afterthought. Its Clint who gives her the nudge she needs.

"So what's the plan for Christmas?"

Natasha shrugs "It's Morgan's first Christmas"

"Yeah, I know. That normally happens once someone's had a baby"

"I'd like to be there"

"Yeah?" Clint asks smile rising to his cheeks, "Pepper says it's just going to be low key. Just the Avengers, Bucky, Rhodey, Happy and Peter and his Aunt. We can bring Lucky. Leave early if it gets too much"

Natasha nods. That sounded - tolerable. "At least I won't have to cook"

It sounded simple. Just RSVP but nothing could ever be simple for Tony. There's even a freaking timetable for her to agree too.

They should arrive anytime on the 23rd but preferably in time for the adults-only party in the evening. The words PETER CAN ATTEND BUT WILL NOT BE SERVED ALCOHOL have been written in pen underneath. The 24th involves baking and board games and carol singing and a visit from Santa followed by a child-friendly fancy dress party in the evening. The 25th is Christmas. Presents encouraged, Pyjamas only. The 26th is an open house with exclusive invitations to those Tony deems worthy of paying homage to his baby daughter. She knows that Hills been invited so that'll be - nice.

They receive time off from SHIELD starting the 16th so there's a rush to get presents (I mean what do you get a billionaire and an 8-month-old?!) acceptable pyjamas and a fancy dress costume. Clint decides they should be pirates so he can master the eye patch ready to take over from Fury. Natasha leaves that to Clint using the time to buy her archer a few presents. A new lead for Lucky and a Tourist's guide to Budapest amongst other things. She spoils Morgan into a state of rotten worse than the back of Clint's fridge but it's worth it or it will be.

It's already by the 23rd. Just. She'd be lying if she wasn't still wrapping presents under Lucky's supervision in the back of the quin jet on the way over to Tony's Minnesota mansion. The sun is dipping as they arrive exchanging hugs and a quick squeeze with Morgan before she needs to go to bed. She's surprised to find she doesn't hate it. They give them space to settle into their rooms. Separate accommodation had been provided, but one instantly becomes a luggage storage facility. No one comments. It's nice even when Jarvis directs them down to the Outside barn for the party. It's smart casual, laid back and lit up with fairy lights and a moderate Tree in pride of place. Like someone had put real thought and care into who and what they were doing. Theirs an ice sculpture that's giving out some sort of non-alcoholic punch. A pool table, air hockey table and various amusements but it's the target practice area built into the corner with various weapons from axes to darts that they make a beeline too. Clint quickly claiming the bow. It's a nice icebreaker. Bucky and Clint hit it off occupying two of the lanes showing off to no one but each other, leaving Natasha and Steve to talk.

"Your Clint is good isn't he- there's not much between them. Your Clint. My Bucky" he's had a little to drink but Natasha doesn't care. They've earn't this.

"He's not my boyfriend"

"I know. You're just sweet on him and he's sweet on you. It's nice to see you both happy" Steve says knowingly.

That just about sums it up. She's sweet on him -for him. Just about him.

"Yeah, I'm just sweet on him" she nods.

"Good. Think he's got a fan" he says tipping his bottle towards the young Spiderman who Clint greets warmly.

Natasha smiles downing the rest of her drink in one "Ever thrown an axe before Cap?"

Slowly the numbers in the building rise until everyone's arrived and it's - nice. Really nice. Just a relaxed evening with people she considers friends. She doesn't think once about home or switch to the 5D chess or Machiavellian mind games. They all call it a night at 2 am for fear of waking Morgan but Tony assures them the Barn will be open to use thorough out the stay. Perfect.

Lucky wakes them early the next morning. Too early. but he still manages to drag them on a walk exploring the gardens of the house. It's beautiful even as the snow starts to fall driving Lucky crazy. Clint holds her hand once the mansions out if view. "Need to keep them warm or Morgan will scream the place down when hold her"

They walk until the winter sun rises enough to melt the snow clouds and return to the house Jarvis greeting them upon arrival. Apparently most of the house were in the kitchen baking- or at least attempting to. Only Rhodey seemed to be busy with a few saucepans. The pantry is well stocked though and Steves happy enough to try his hand at gingerbread to escape Bucky and Sam's endless bickering. Natashas just happy to hold the sleeping Morgan, Lucky laying on her lap as Pepper gives Clint the pantry tour. She can't escape the nagging worry that she's not worrying enough until Morgan wakes and stares longingly at the next Christmas tree of the Starks small forest. She gives her a tour and gets roped into help Clint with cookies when Morgan gets hungry and Clint forgets the correct conversion rate between metric and imperial. They're good though melting into her mouth as Clint offers her out a bite. She can feel eyes on them but she doesn't care. They don't care, she reasons or they'd have commented when they'd disappeared into the same bedroom the night before. The afternoon starts as planned with boardgames but quickly dissolves into chaos once it becomes clear that playing trivial pursuit with 3 geniuses, two people with somewhat blank memories of the past 60 years and a Norse god will simply end in tears. It moves to charades which Clint cheats at using ASL to end his torturous turns as soon as possible. Peter soon figures that out causing them to move swiftly onto Jenga the ultimate superhero lever. The games are long drawn out competitive things. It's taken more seriously than most of their missions Natasha notes with a grin. She melts into Steve's arms letting her whisper trash talk into her ear, maybe he's more fun than he first appears. It lasts until Morgan decides it shouldn't screeching and whimpering and demanding a nap. Ruining the quiet calm required for competitive Jenga. Slowly the party breaks away, Tony reminding them of the carols and Santa's visit promised later. Natasha promises to come only to see Morgan's reaction Clint had a $50 bet she'd cry at the sight of the new Intruder, presents be dammed. He's unfortunately right and it takes her through half of the carols (and some of those own songs that mention too much war to be specifically Yuletide) to settle into Pepper's arms before doing the tour of all her Uncles and Aunty's. She coos at Natasha obviously complaints about the new red intruder, but one tickle under her chin and she bursts into giggles.

"Your a natural" Pepper says with a smile, "Obviously her favourite"

Natasha savours the cuddles for a little longer before handing her back carefully removing her little hands from her curls.

"Thank you, Natalie, we are going to have a little nap ahead of the party tonight. Starts at seven. Back here, it's too cold for this little one in the barn. She'll want to see all the costumes hopefully you'll be much happier when it's all your friends dressed up, huh, baby" Pepper coos.

She whisks the little one away before the tears can flow once again leaving Natasha to care for her own needy creature who is just desperate for a walk.

Clint has laid out their costumes on the bed. The costumes are beautiful, Clints has a definite focus on his arms sleeved cut enough to draw attention to each muscle. The swords are surprisingly substantial.

"Mine from the circus"

"A pirate in the circus?!"

"A swordsman in a circus?"

He grins "exactly would you like to learn?"

She smiles picking one up and testing its weight. "I think I can figure it out. Most weapons are fairly intuitive"

"Ready then? Let's see if you can figure it out"

He meets her sword swinging it gently into hers. She grins and meets it using the motion to try and push him off balance. It's ineffective so he capitalises using the swing in her weight to knock her backwards on to the bed but he's too confident in knocking her down leaning too far forward that it would be rude not to bring him down with her.

"Hey" he grins, not exactly disappointed by his new position.

"Hi" She whispers standing up before the blush can rise to her cheeks "You'll have to bring these to SHIELD one day. Give me a proper lesson."

Clint agrees completing a quick change into his pirate costume. Natasha isn't one for fantasy but she can make one exception letting her mind wander.

"Your turn?" He says before putting on his boots.

She doesn't even need to question the sizing if anyone's Natashas body it's him. She changes quickly staring at her self in the mirror. What would madam say at this act of childishness dressing up for a child barely able to comprehend their presence let alone who they are dressing up as. Whatever she would say it doesn't matter Clint wraps his arms around her waist.

"This has been surprisingly Ok. Christmas with the family"

Natasha leans back into his arms "It's complicated, but I wouldn't want to be anywhere else"

"Welcome to Christmas" he laughs, "now I just need to get the mutt ready, You wanna be a pirate bud?"

Lucky complains about the pirate flag neckerchief until the fuss arrives at the party. Steve and Bucky and Sam have dressed in 1940s attire. Bruce in his lab coat and goggles. Thor surprisingly as a firefighter though Natasha isn't sure how he learnt about them but she's sure it's a long story. Rhodey as a member of top gun. Peter is some sort of star wars character Clint recognises on sight though the teenager seems more distracted by his Aunt and Happys couples costume. Tony and Pepper are attendees of Jurassic park the two scientists that become a couple if Natasha remembers the films. Morgan dressed in a dinosaur all in one.

"Oh, you are terrifying" Natasha coos offering her arms out for the little girl. She chirps and delightedly reaching for her hat.

Pepper hands her across returning to grown-up conversation with May and Happy.

Natasha let's her hold the hat bringing her to the sofa and to Lucky's waiting nose.

"Does she smell like dinosaur" Natasha coos letting Morgan pat at Lucky's ears. She manages to keep a hold of her goddaughter for most of the night but she has a curiosity for hats swapping quickly to gain a small collection. She falls asleep playing with Clint's buttons and that draws to a sudden close. Tony smiles that new smile he's developed just for his daughter and takes her into his arms.

"Jarvis will drop off breakfast in bed tomorrow if required. Presents opening at 10.30"

The rest of the evening is a timeless blur of a short walk for Lucky, Warm showers and bed before waking up in Clint's arms as Lucky nudges her arms. Apparently jet lag is harder to adapt to when you're a Canine.

"Merry Christmas Lucks" She whispers brushing her fingers through his hair. They're walking fifteen minutes later holding hands today simply out of habit. They discuss gifts and tell stories until they can no longer feel their fingers when they get back no matter how hard Clint holds her. The ice melts away as they eat breakfast, warm Pastries on a platter left by Jarvis dressed in her new pyjamas. It's a new sort of intimacy. Childlike and raw but it's not awkward. Not like she fears.

They give presents amongst friends when 10.30 rolls around. It's tolerable everyone opening presents at once no one needing to explain or pretend. She needs to work on her pretending, she decides as she opens present after present and finds herself liking most of the presents. It's easy to slip under the radar and just enjoy opening presents or watching others open they're own. Well, that is until Clint opens his tourist guide to Budapest his pointed look puncturing the mood until everyone's quiet.

"I know you've been meaning to visit," Natasha says with a grin.

"Yes, I've been told Budapest is very beautiful at Christmas time" Clint returns flicking through the book.

"Well?" Sam asks "is that it?"

"Thank you Natasha," Clint says with a nod when he reaches the back page.

"Fine keep your secrets" Sam mutter's returning to his own pile.

They settle in for Lunch and then nap in front of the fireplace after the queen's speech. Tony had indicated a childhood tradition enforced by his butler. She holds Morgan as they doze pulling the little one in close.

"So this is Christmas huh?"

#clintasha #clintasha advent 2020

[carnistcervine]

Haunting AU

Hey everyone, it’s ya gurl Carnist with another AU that she came up with instead of sleeping.

*The Avatar is an ancient spirit amalgamate that is reborn into a new mortal body every time it's current one dies.

*However, since the attack on the Air Temples 100 years ago, no one has encountered any trace of the legendary being.

*It is with this knowledge that Ozai banishes his gravely injured son, sending him on a quest to find the Avatar.

*So, a freshly burned Zuko is send off with his uncle and a motley crew with a half-trained medic.

*At first Zuko's fever fueled nightmares are centered purely around the agni kai and his father burning his face away.

*However, it's not too long before the dreams evolve. The dark figure that looms over Zuko changes in shape, instead of burning him, it gently cups his chin.

*The figure is not Ozai, no, it looks barely anything like his father, it's hair is much too white, and the beard is too large.

*It is gentle with him, but he finds himself afraid anyway. Zuko eventually finds the strength to push away from the figure and run, but he finds that he's surrounded by familiar, yet unfamiliar figures.

*They loom around him, closing in on him, chanting his name.

*Thankfully when he wakes up, he's safely by his Uncle's side.

*By what is considered a miracle of Agni himself, Zuko recovers from his injury. The only reminder being the scar that now mars his face.

*Once he's well enough to stand, he demands to search the air temples.

*Iroh tries to get him to rest, as the old man knows Zuko will never find the Avatar, and needs this boy to take this time to rest and recover. But Zuko is too stubborn to listen. So Iroh assists the boy in getting around until he's well enough to walk on his own again.

*There is a heaviness in the temples that Zuko cannot ignore.

*He tries to anyway, leaving as soon as he's able to see the Avatar isn't around.

*He pushes himself to get back to firebending as soon as possible.

*Much to his dismay, he's developed pyrophobia. His terror over his own element drives him up a wall. Iroh is patient with him, but Zuko can't stand his lack of progress and nearly re-traumatizes himself trying to force himself to get over it.

*The Iron Slug roams from place to place as Zuko runs his crew(and himself) ragged tracking down every hint of the Avatar.

*He pours over any information on the Avatar or Air Nomads to find any info he use to locate the Avatar.

*He's absolutely obsessed determined.

*It's been three years, his crew have grown resentful of him, and his Uncle just keeps trying his best in the hopes that he can help his nephew.

*One fateful day, he spies a strange light while sailing through the south.

*"It must be the Avatar." He tells himself.

*His Uncle however, believes it to be nothing more than the southern lights and encourages him to get some rest, maybe drink some calming tea.

*Zuko persists and tracks the lights down to a small Water Tribe village.

*The village is nothing more than women and young children.

*Well, there are two slightly notable exceptions, a teenage boy and girl who hold the most vicious, venomous gaze towards Zuko.

*He simply brushes them off as he talks to the village's leader.

*The woman holds a firm glare at him, telling him that his people have already taken the last of the waterbenders, that their village has /nothing/ left.

*Zuko remarks that he's not interested in waterbenders, or warriors, or anything of the like. He's looking for the Avatar or information on the Avatar.

*The woman makes an odd expression, and tells him that the Avatar has been gone for a hundred years.

*Zuko knows that the woman is hiding something and threatens her at flamepoint, when suddenly his target comes out of hiding.

*A small boy, eyes burning with the purest light comes in from seemingly out of nowhere.

*The Avatar offers himself up if Zuko leaves the village alone.

*Zuko accepts these terms.

*He doesn't see the strange, pitying looks the villagers give him as he leaves.

*Zuko tells his men to lock up the Avatar, and they just look at each other, only opting to move when he yells at them to quit dawdling.

*Uncle looks very concerned and asks Zuko if he's feeling alright, Zuko says that his journey is finally over and he can finally go home, he's never been better.

*Iroh looks even more concerned at this, but Zuko brushes him off to go to his room.

*He's not surprised when he finds the Avatar sitting on his bed, head tilted like a curious puppy.

*Zuko's not really surprised that the Avatar has essentially been allowed to roam loose on his ship, his crew are a bunch of useless good-for-nothings and he has to do /everything/.

*The Avatar doesn't even so much as flinch as he approaches him, but the second he's on the stupid arrow head, he's all the way across the room.

*Like he teleported or something.

*Zuko pinches his nose. He should have known that catching and containing a spirit would be hard.

*The Avatar offers a friendly smile and calls himself Aang, he extends an offer of friendship to Zuko, but Zuko turns the spirit down.

*Aang frowns, glumly saying that he won't play along with Zuko's game if he doesn't wanna be friends.

*Zuko angrily yells that none of this is a game, when two new voices catch his attention.

*It's the Water Tribe teens from before.

*They're pretty pissed at him, ranting at him about how terrible he and his country are.

*Zuko yells and argues back until he's as blue in the face as their clothes.

*Eventually, he just yells at them to fuck off, and just like that, they're gone.

-Now for the other side of things-

*Iroh's already tired when Zuko goes on an impassioned rant about the southern lights. Like sure, they're very beautiful, but they've been down this road before.

*The Avatar is GONE. If they go and check out the lights, they won't find anything.

*They end up coming upon a tiny village, a remnant of the once might SWT. Iroh can barely bring himself to look at the place, seeing what his country has done to these innocent people hurts him deeply. But he needs to keep an eye on Zuko and make sure he doesn't get himself hurt.

*Iroh notes that the only people in the village are grown women and small children, and no one else.

*Iroh and the crew are very surprised at how easily Zuko agrees to leave the village.

*That surprise turns to muted horror when Zuko tells his crew to take the Avatar below deck.

*They want to ask Zuko exactly who he's referring to, as no one was taken aboard the ship, but Zuko is quick to get angry and yells at his crew to get on it.

*Not looking to get yelled at some more by the clearly agitated Zuko, the crew disappear below deck. They opt to gossip in the engine room like they usually do when Zuko is behaving strangely.

*Iroh tries to ask his nephew if he's feeling alright. He worries that some of their food might have gone bad or that the boy had caught something.

*Before Iroh can press further, or check for fever, Zuko disappears below deck to go to his room. He specifically requests that no one disturb him.

*Iroh hopes that Zuko is going to finally lie down and get some rest. He clearly needs it.

*The crew have grown used to tuning out Zuko's yelling, so they don't bat an eye at the shouting match coming from his quarters.

-Basically, Zuko is being haunted/possessed. The Avatar is pretty much a person that's possessed by a spirit amalgamate. Zuko is the Avatar.

*Aang is one of Zuko's past lives that's reaching out to him.

*Katara and Sokka are ghosts from the SWT that came to torment Zuko because they’re mad about being dead.

*Aang gets Katara and Sokka to slowly mellow out and chill a bit, and be a bit nicer to Zuko.

*Aang also convinces Zuko to go to all sorts of places in an effort to get him to have fun.

*He convinces him to visit Kyoshi, where Zuko is assaulted by the ghosts of the Kyoshi Warriors.

*When he inevitably gets captured by the locals after getting beaten and tied up by ghosts, Iroh has to come in and rescue his nephew.

*In fact, quite a few scenarios end up like this, where Aang somehow convinces Zuko to do something or go somewhere and Zuko ends up knee deep in ghost shenanigans, meanwhile Iroh's blood pressure could kill a komodorhino.

*Zuko has always been a bit off, but lately his strange behavior has taken a frightening turn. As no one else can see the ghosts(except Iroh, on few occasions) the crew go from near mutinous to deeply worried over Zuko and his mental state.

*Once they learn the truth of his scar, they want to go and kill Ozai themselves.

*A few times the Iroh Slug will dock at a port and a mysterious entity will be spotted. At first it's assumed to be a glow-eyed jiang-shi, only to be later identified as the lost Avatar.

*During these times, Zuko is overtaken by the Avatar Spirit and takes on one of his past live's appearances. Usually Aang's. He'll move in an unnatural manor, like something that isn't used to controlling a human body, or some limp, corpse being.

*It's not until Iroh realizes that he hears other distinct voices coming from Zuko's room, with no evidence of anyone coming in or out, that his nephew is being haunted.

*Slowly but surely, Aang drags Zuko northward so that they can "teach Katara waterbending". *wink wonk*

*It's only after they end up at the North Pole, fighting off waterbenders that Zuko goes into the Avatar state in front of his crew and they realize that /he's/ the Avatar.

*But the NWT also know that Zuko is the Avatar and they're like: 👀 so Zuko's crew is gonna have hell keeping custody of him.

*Especially when the ghosts keep trying to drag him away too.

*Speaking of ghosts, Yue is fairly ghost-like in appearance, with her pale brown skin, supernatural blue eyes, and snow white hair, but very decidedly physical and alive.

*But she is haunted/possessed by the Tui, and can empathize with Zuko on the being harassed by ghosts or possessing spirits.

*I'm still deciding on whether Toph should be a ghost or someone pretending to be a ghost.

*On the one hand: Ghost!Toph who kicks just as much ass and causes even more trouble than normal Toph, and haunted the shit out of the underground earthbending ring before she decided that harassing Zuko would be more fun. On the other: Little blind girl who dresses up as a spooky spirit and beats everyone's ass teaming up with a ex-prince who's possessed by an evergrowing, all powerful spirit amalgamation and constantly haunted by a pair of Water Tribe ghosts.

*It does eventually get back to Hakoda that the spirits of his children are haunting the Avatar and he just:  👁👄👁

#ATLA #Avatar #Avatar AU #Zuko #Avatar Zuko #Haunting AU #i wrote this instead of sleeping #I probably left something out but my last braincell is melting #It comes out that Zuko is the Avatar #So Azula ends up being sent to capture the Avatar #I'm not sure what I want to do with Zhao #But I do think it would be funny to have the ghosts harass him every time he messes with Zuko #Like they become a bit protective of him #He's their target #Back off sideburns

[itsnotokbutwereallright]

Oh! Oh! If you’re taking prompts from the Drabble list, could you do a #38/39?? Or your choice!!

This rambling brought to you by writer's block, margaritas, and a sudden urge to write instead of working from home.

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

"I'm just tired"

"It just...hurts"

The capacity for want had been beaten out of Natalia and the other Red Room girls early. They were taught that wanting something meant it could be used against them. Money, fame, and the attention of a beautiful woman were the most common desires of their targets; the Red Room trained them to ensure the third became the only. Natalia quickly became adept at manipulating men (and sometimes women) to succeed. They were taught first not to express wanting. If a girl wanted a specific weapon, it was used against her. If they asked for an extra portion, they went hungry. And if they asked to rest, the girl never came back to her bed. Instructors repeatedly hammered into the girls that their only desire should be to serve the Soviet state; anything else was a weakness, and there was no weakness allowed in the Red Room. The girls learned not to ask for anything, and they learned to accept what they were given. 

One time, at the end of what had been a particularly bloody mission, she caught herself wishing she had more discretion about who died at her hands. She made the mistake of asking her handler why even those in their beds had to die. Her arm was broken and she was forced to sleep in a concrete cell for a week without medical care for questioning the orders she was given. It was a painful, but effective, lesson. Wishing led to wanting.

It wasn't until a man in black with a fucking bow and arrow was chasing her through Eastern Europe that anyone brought up wanting with Natalia again. When he finally cornered her in Budapest, panting against a wall with blood in her eyes and an arrow aimed at her heart, Hawkeye asked, "Do you want to hear an offer that doesn't end with an arrow in a vital organ?" She'd been planning to catch her breath so she could break his hands. The recruitment offer had sparked a pain in her chest that she'd grit her teeth against as she nodded. 

The next few days were a blur of questioning, testing, and more instances of that chest pain than she was willing to acknowledge. People kept asking her what she wanted, so Natalia did what she had been taught to do - manipulated them into giving her an indication of what they wanted and pushing that agenda forward. It was determined she was able to be released to the SHIELD base at large after only four days. When she walked into the cafeteria for her first meal outside of a cell, all eyes were on her until she slipped on a friendly mask and went through the line. The agents cautiously turned back to their meals, except for Hawkeye (Agent Barton, she reminded herself). He studied her with those cool blue eyes and a wry twist of the mouth as she sat, then stole the pudding cup off her tray. It was a game she'd been playing for as long as she could remember, and she knew better than to show a reaction. It turned that twist into a frown, but Natalia ignored it as she ate the vegetables off her plate and diverted him with asking about the various facilities. He'd want her to take an interest in her new home.

Clint would needle her into making choices between two things - pineapple on pizza or no? Milky Way or Three Musketeers? Cats or dogs? He normally did it at a time where she was focused on something else - once, memorably, as she was hanging out the passenger window trying to blow out the tires of an SUV that was chasing them through the streets of Puerto Vallarta. She'd been annoyed about that one and took it out on him on the mats - in the middle of the night, after she dragged him from his bed. Afterwards, as he lay panting on his back, he gasped out the logic. If she didn't have time to think, if he could get her brain to turn off, it became more of a gut instinct. She couldn't play off of what people wanted to hear, he'd said while side-eyeing her. The searing pain in her chest stopped her from acting on a want right then. She'd strolled to the locker room only to collapse with shuddering breaths as soon as the door closed. Natasha resolved that she would get rid of this trigger on her own. No matter how long it took. 

Six months later, she hadn't progressed much beyond smacking Clint's hand away from her pudding cups and stealing his fluffiest blanket when she came to his room. There would be plenty of times that Clint flashed that grin at her, the one so sure of itself, that she had to step back to keep the pain from showing. The smile dimmed a little, but it made Natasha work harder for the day when she could show how she felt.

A year after that, Natasha had started stealing the cookies off his tray, and was firmly team pineapple. She was able to go to him on particularly rough nights (the hospital fire, waking up to the smell of smoke in her nose and a ringing in her ears) and ask to stay - always on his couch. He didn't ask about the bed after her first vehement rejection of the idea. 

It was another six months before she could say the words to her mirror. The day that Natasha convinced herself to say them outside of her room, she walked into breakfast to find him sitting hip to hip with an agent named Bobbi - sharing a muffin. The heaving in her stomach had never been a sign of a trigger before, so she could only blame herself. Natasha dipped her head courteously as she nabbed an apple and headed back out to the gym. Stupid girl - wanting is weakness. The faintly Slavic accent couldn't be ignored, no matter how much Natasha had changed since the Red Room. They were right all along. It would just have to be packed away and ignored. She'd done it this long, she could keep doing it.

Except that she couldn't close Pandora's box once it had been opened. Every laugh, every secretive wink, every time Clint showed up to a briefing late and flushed, it was like a dagger to her heart. Natasha pushed herself as hard as the Red Room had taught her and tried desperately to forget. The risks that she took on missions became greater; Coulson and Clint side-eyeing her in briefings but unable to argue with results. And that pain in her chest became more and more frequent, until it was just a continuous pain that made her want to scream that Clint was HERS. Still she kept quiet, though the distraction of Clint and Bobbi started causing mistakes. Little ones at first that only she noticed, but they gradually became larger. When they were panting in a warehouse in Istanbul (not Constantinople, dammit Clint for singing that on the way here) it was clear she had Fucked Up. They had found temporary cover and Clint was cursing in several languages as he tried to staunch the bleeding from her abdomen. 

"What is going on with you?! You've been in black ops for as long as you've been alive! What the hell were you thinking?!"

She shook her head. She hadn't been thinking. At least, not of the mission. She'd been thinking about the slim gold band she'd seen Bobbi Morse wearing in the cafeteria this morning. One that matched the ring on the chain Clint stashed in his locker on the Quinjet before they disembarked. "I'm just tired."

He snorted at her. "Oh, spare me the bullshit. You could beat these assholes with only your pinky toe if you had your head in the game." They heard the roaring of ATVs at the same time. "Keep the pressure on that. I'll take care of this and then we're going home to figure this shit out." She shook her head again, but he ignored her and moved to high ground to take out the gang they had been assigned to monitor. Once that was done and the emergency evac was on its way, Natasha pretended to pass out to avoid the discussion. She did actually pass out from shock at some point, she assumed, as she woke up in a white room in a med bay with fresh stitches and an IV. Clint had his dirty boots on her bed as he played an invisible drum set to music only he could hear. It was just another thing she lo- 

Sharp pain, gasping as she came off the bed. Clint jerked up and tried to grab her so she didn't run. "Tasha, Tasha, I'm here! You're safe! It's okay!" Shallow, rapid breaths as she tried to focus on something other than the necklace that she could glimpse beneath his collar. "Come on, Nat, deep breaths," he tried to soothe as he reached to jab the nurse call button. 

"Back. Up," she managed to force out as she slapped his hand away from her remote. A panic attack. God, if Ivan could see her now. Yelena would kill her in a heartbeat. Clint jerked back, more from surprise than anything else. Hurt showed in his eyes, but he stayed with her. Natasha forced her breathing to regulate. If this is what her body was forcing her to, she would have to fess up. It took several minutes to get her breathing under control, but Clint stayed the whole time. "Sit down and stop staring at me," she grumbled at him.

"Excuse me for being concerned," he snapped, but he sat. "Does this mean you're ready to explain?"

Natasha closed her eyes and nodded. "You don't get to say anything until I'm done." It wasn't worth checking for a response. "I love you, Clint. It's not fair for me to say that to you, not with what you and Bobbi have, but I can't not tell you. It just...hurts. I've wanted to say something for two years, but I was trying to break the conditioning and I couldn't even out, and then when I could it was too late, and ever since then it's just been pain and I feel so weak and I hate it," her breathing started speeding up again and she had fistfuls of the sheets as she tried to anchor herself but couldn't and she ruined everything and…

Clint placed his hand over hers. "Two years?" Natasha slowly nodded, not loosening her grip on the sheets. "What a mess," he sighed. Natasha squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry in front of him. "Tasha, I've loved you since that day you let me steal the pudding off your tray without breaking all of my fingers. I waited for you to be ready. No one should go through what you've gone through. You survived, and you deserve to set your life on your terms. Bobbi and me? It was a bet that escalated really quickly. She's got her sights set on some British hot shot, and I've been busy pining after my partner." A tear leaked out of her eye and was brushed away, causing her to open them. "I want you, Natasha."

Finally, finally she could say the words. "I want you, too." He moved to capture her lips and she put a hand on his chest. "I also want a shower. And some food. Like pineapple pizza."

"Aw, Nat," was Clint's answering whine.

"And then? We'll see what else we find out I want."

He laughed, loud and long, and was allowed to push the button to call the nurse. "Let's get out of here."

#clintasha #writing #fanfiction #prompt response

[elcorhamletlive]

fandom: MCU (Post-Avengers) relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Bruce Banner & Clint Barton & Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark & Thor, Nick Fury & Avengers Team, Maria Hill & Avengers Team, Nick Fury & Tony Stark tags: POV Outsider, Fluff and Humor, Team Feels, Truth Serum My fic for the Holiday Exchange, for talesofsuspense! Summary: “Look, I’m not thrilled by the prospect of spending my day here either," Nick said, "but there’s no postponing this. We can’t give them a chance to combine stories.”

“Right,” Hill said. “And I’m sure they’ll all be very…cooperative.”

“Hope you didn’t have any dinner plans."

Hill’s sigh mirrored his own so much it was unnerving. “Okay.” She leaned forward and pressed a button on his desk. “Send in the first one.”

Hill flipped through the pages, making the already thin folder appear even smaller. “Not much of a starting point,” she said.

Nick leaned back in his chair. “No,” he agreed. The report from Stark’s A.I. was very brief, and the rest was just what the scavenging team managed to comb through from the quinjet debris. “The press will not be satisfied with that. And there is a key part missing. We deliver this to the Council, they laugh in our faces.”

Hill raised an eyebrow at him. “So our job is to make the folder thicker?”

“Our job is to understand what happened,” he replied. “So we can deliver them something slightly more coherent, and they can feed the reporters whatever they want.”

“And you think this will work?” Hill gestured to the room around them. Across the desk where she was sitting, on a perfect diagonal view from Nick’s eye, there was a single, empty chair. “Seems like a criminal interrogation.”

“Maybe it is,” Nick said. He wasn’t sure if the superficial report was an intentional cover up or just plain sloppiness – both were equally likely when you had people like Romanoff or Stark in the middle of an OP – but at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. There was a hole in the story, and the World Security Council didn’t deal with holes. “Look, I’m not thrilled by the prospect of spending my day here either, but there’s no postponing this. We can’t give them a chance to combine stories.”

“Right,” Hill said. “And I’m sure they’ll all be very… cooperative.”

“Hope you didn’t have any dinner plans,” Nick quipped.

Hill’s sigh mirrored his own so much it was unnerving. “Okay.” She leaned forward and pressed a button on his desk. “Send in the first one.”

-

“There isn’t much to tell,” Romanoff said, and, if Nick wasn’t sure there was something being hidden before, now he did. “I believe JARVIS sent you a detailed account, didn’t he?”

“Depending on what you consider ‘detailed,’” Nick replied. The report had extensively covered the material damage to the quinjet, as well as the information pertaining to AIM’s plan and how it related to it. It was just lacking in the “explanations” department, and it seemed to jump in key time periods between events very hurriedly. Either Stark’s robot was a shit storyteller, or the human factor (specifically the “what the fuck were your team of freaks thinking to let something like this happen, director?” factor) had been strategically avoided.

And there was the matter of the tapes. The security footage recovered from AIM’s quinjet seemed to cover just about every angle of the battle - that is, up until a point right where everything just faded to static before it returned just in time to record the crash.

“This is standard procedure,” he continued as Romanoff’s eyes studied him attentively. “Which, I’d like to stress, is actually a kind way to go about it.” Romanoff quirked an eyebrow at him. “The Avengers initiative isn’t the most popular plan SHIELD has ever come up with, agent. To the world, you might be celebrities, but a lot of people on the inside see you as - how did Banner put it? Oh, yeah - a time-bomb.”

Romanoff smiled. “We’ve made it work so far.”

“Only barely,” Nick said. Romanoff didn’t deny it, nor could she - ever since they had all decided to stay at Stark’s tower, after the battle of New York, Nick had kept his eye close on their performances, be it on the field or with the press, and though the initial animosity seemed to have lessened, they were still a far cry from a synchronized, united team.

The Council had been against them moving in together - there was just too much potential for the proximity to make things go south again - but Nick had argued in favor, and they ultimately decided to allow it. Nick himself knew he was making a risky bet, but at the end of the day, he figured a bunch of anti social people on the edge of normal society had a better chance of making it as a team if they could at least learn how to deal with each other on a friendly basis. And Stark putting the damn A on the tower was as close as he’d ever get to admitting he wanted the company, so Nick didn’t want to deny him it. Hill had a laugh at his expense, then, saying he was getting old and soft.

None of them knew about any of this, of course, and they would never find out. But if Nick Fury made a bet, he wanted to ensure it’d pay off, and crashing a quinjet belonging to one the world’s largest weapons manufacturers in the middle of rural property of the some of the richest people in America was far from a reward, especially while keeping potentially vital bits of information in the dark. That wouldn’t do, and he was determined to get the full picture of what had gone down, whether they liked or not.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning, agent?” Hill suggested.

Romanoff’s eyes blinked astutely before she smiled. “Of course,” she said, much more kindly than Nick would have anticipated. “It started at the fair.”

-

“I wouldn’t normally have come,” Dr. Banner said, straightening his glasses. “The events we get invited to, they're… not my usual scene.”

“Too many reporters?” Nick asked. He knew Banner wasn’t the press’ favorite target - Stark and Rogers, both recipients of huge celebrity fame way before anyone added superhero worship into the mix, were tied up for that position - but he also knew the Avengers in general were the go-to topic for any gossip show running out of material. The fascination with them pendulumed from healthy curiosity to obsessive speculation way too often for Nick’s liking.

“Too many people,” Banner said, with a nervous smile. “The other guy doesn’t like crowds. But AIM said they were interested in having me and Tony speak. ‘The science bros.’” He made air quotes. “Or something. And, well, it was a nice idea to hang on a science exposition. I looked through the flier, and there were some interesting exhibits.”

-

“The whole thing was just a blatant rip off of the Stark Expo. But you know how it goes – imitation, flattery, yadda yadda.” Stark leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk as if it was his office. “So, we get the invite, and, not going to lie, I was a little curious. Pep said we should make an appearance, smile a little, make niceties – but, well, you know me.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the display. “We do?”

Stark smiled. “I don’t like to do things halfway. I’m just not built for it.” He shrugged. “So I decided to come, and I thought it would be good if everyone else came too, and that we should try out some of the exhibits together – team bonding, you know? Sometimes it’s nice.”

-

“Stark wanted to show off,” Barton said, taking a sip of his water. “He thought there was no way Hammer’s people could organize something on that scale, and he wanted to drag us all there to see it because he was sure it would end up being a huge mess.” He sighed. “I guess at the end of the day, he wasn’t wrong.”

-

Rogers’ jaw clenched so hard Nick thought he’d pull a muscle. “Everything went normally. We got there, took some pictures, got inside… Nothing out of the ordinary.” He looked at Hill. “But, like I said, this is all in JARVIS’ report.”

“Right,” Nick replied. He tilted his head to get a better look. Rogers was as tense as a wood board, and his effort to not let it show made things a lot worse. “I have to say, Cap, I was a little surprised to not get the usual report coming from you.”

Rogers shifted on the chair. “Tony—” He cleared his throat. “We, uh, we thought JARVIS would make one more quickly.” His eyes turned towards Fury, defiant. “From what I understand, every piece of information the Council needs should be in that file.”

“Need and want are two very different things,” Nick said. Rogers took a deep breath, and Nick couldn’t help but frown. “So, you guys started to mingle, right?” he asked, wanting things to get back on track. “That was when you decided to go to Hammer’s stand?”

“Yes. He… invited us.” He paused. “Well, Tony, at least.”

“Right,” Nick said. “But you also ended up going, right?” Rogers gave a reluctant nod. “Why?”

There was a moment of silence, and Rogers said, “It seemed like it could be an interesting experience.”

-

“Stark dared him to do it,” Thor stated bluntly. “Said Steven was probably too scared to lose to him.” He smiled, amused. Nick was fighting against the urge to underestimate him, but boy, was it hard. “It reminded me of some of my disputes with my brother, when we were both younglings and daring ourselves to attempt to steal Heimdall’s helmet.”

“Well, that’s a nice thing to hear about two adults who are constantly in charge of saving the world,” Nick deadpanned.

Thor looked at him disapprovingly. “They are worthy warriors,” he said. “They just… get a little wrapped up in their blind spots, sometimes.” Nick and Hill stared at him questioningly, and Thor looked away, coughing on his hand. “Uh, well, where was I? Right – the stand.”

-

“It was a silly concept – melt stuff with our new laser project, whoever melts the most wins, woohoo! - but I’ll admit it seemed like it could be fun. It took place in a separate room, though, and they were only letting two people in at once.” Stark straightened his tie, looking away from Nick for the first time since he walked inside the office. “So me and Cap decided to try it out.”

“Why just the two of you?” Hill asked, precise as a whip.

Stark stayed focused on his tie. “Well, I wanted to check out what was so great that Hammer was showing off in public. As for Cap, who knows? You should probably ask him.”

“So it was a spontaneous thing?” Nick pushed. “You didn’t ask him to come along?”

Finally, Stark looked at him. For a second, his expression was downright defiant. Then it all melted away in a shrug. “I might’ve. I wasn’t driving back home, you know? So I had a few drinks, and I was saying a lot of things, and maybe I asked if he wanted to try it out.”

“We heard you dared him,” Nick countered. Normally he wouldn’t put the cards on the table like that, but something in Stark seemed to favor a more direct approach.

Stark’s expression didn’t change. “Again, I might’ve. What’s life without a little challenge, right? But, still, if you want to know why he came in the stand, you should probably ask him.” His eyes darted towards the window, avoiding Nick and Hill. “Maybe he just… needed a distraction. He hates those things.” Nick tilted his head, noticing the strange thoughtfulness in his voice, but as soon as it came it was gone, and Stark was rambling at rapid fire speed again. “Anyway, I suppose this is where I get to the gas, right?”

-

Hill turned a page of the folder. “This is where the truth serum got them, right?”

Barton gave them a lopsided smile. “Stark would blow a fuse if he heard you calling it that,” he said. “But, yeah. Exactly.”

read the rest on ao3!

#capimexchange #stony #stevetony #superhusbands #stony fic #my fics #reblogs are highly appreciated #im very excited to finally post this #probably one of the strangest things i've ever written #but i'm happy i actually managed to finish it

[lonelyandlovelorn]

Loophole

A/N: This is so much longer than I meant for it to be.

Genre: fluff, a little angst, some nice insecurity

Warning: really mild language I think

Word count: 3000

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem reader

Summary: You’re a secretive person cursed to flirt with the person you’re attracted to. Thankfully, you're also good at finding loopholes. 

Masterlist

Tony was hosting an Avengers (and friends of Avengers) get together. You somehow always managed to forget just how many of them there were and how much presence they possessed until you were surrounded by super strong, powerful, intelligent, skilled people. You were all sitting around on couches or the floor, squeezed together and talking about whatever. As always, there was a lot of teasing and joking around. 

You were probably one of the more mysterious members of the extended Avengers. Nobody seemed to know anything about you aside from what was necessary to know. They knew nothing of your personal life. Were you single? Married, like Clint? Most of them weren’t even sure how old you were, and you liked it that way. You were a very private person. You didn’t like everyone knowing everything about you. 

All of the people sitting around the couches had been drinking through the evening. None of you were drunk (since some of you couldn’t be). A few of you, however, were on the tipsy side. When super people got drunk, things didn’t tend to end well. 

About an hour in to hanging out and chatting, Tony called for everyone to join him in a game of Truth or Dare. The group groaned in unison, but after a while of the patented Stark pestering, you all agreed. 

Questions were usually pretty tame, mostly asking personal questions they couldn’t ask otherwise. The dares were more creative. Sam was dared to fly his wing suit out the window and sing “I believe I can fly.” Bucky got dared to try to put his foot behind his head, which was a sight to behold. Tony was dared to walk around in Pepper’s tallest heels, and no one wanted to know why he was so good at it.

You weren’t a daring person, so you decided to play it safe with a truth. You weren’t that shocked when Tony loudly asked if you were single. With a sigh, you nodded and waited for them to move on. They would have to ask you every question they had as a turn. 

The next time it came around to you, they asked if you were attracted to anyone on the team. You gave a begrudging nod, but made sure to keep your eyes trained on Sam, who had asked the question. At this rate, you weren’t sure you could safely continue to choose truth. On your next turn, you chose dare, hoping for something to make you look silly rather than anything more revealing. 

“I dare you to… look at the person you’re attracted to in this room.” Sam thought he was being sneaky, but you simply swept your eyes around the circle of teammates. When he raised an eyebrow at you, unimpressed, you shrugged.

“You didn’t say I could only look at that person.” You took a sip of your drink and tried not to notice the smirk on Natasha’s lips. You had made an effort since the game began to avoid looking at her. She just looked so pretty that night. Her hair was curled and she had worn tight skinny jeans and a fitted top. 

Without you noticing, Loki leaned in to Clint sitting next to him, letting him know his plan. The two weren’t exactly friends, as Clint was still a little bitter with Loki. However, the two were kindred spirits, pranksters who liked to cause trouble. Clint grinned mischievously and leaned back, excited to put the plan in motion. 

On Loki’s next turn, he chose dare. Clint dared him to cast a spell on someone in the group. You had a bad feeling when both of the men looked in your direction. Loki smirked and waved his hand vaguely in your direction. You didn’t specifically feel anything different, but you knew you were in trouble when Loki explained. “For the next three days, Y/N will flirt with the person she most desires.” A frown appeared on your face as your mind worked through the loopholes. You could just not talk to her, but you knew that would be just as obvious as the flirting. That was when you figured out that you could do what you did for the last dare. It would be exhausting and you would hate it, but it was better than everyone knowing how you felt. After a moment, you forced a smirk on your face and looked back at Clint, winking in his direction. His eyebrows scrunched up for a second in total confusion and mild horror, before he figured out what you were doing and rolled his eyes. 

You spent the rest of the evening sending flirty smiles and bad pick-up lines to everyone in the group. It felt odd that it took no effort for the flirtations sent Natasha’s way, but you hoped that it wasn’t obvious. Considering no one had commented on it, you thought you were doing a pretty good job. You went to bed that night exhausted and dreading the next day.

***

You spent the entire next morning hiding in your room. The alcohol you consumed last night was the only reason you had been able to keep up the charade. Now that you were sober, you knew you wouldn’t be able to do it all day. You locked the door, told FRIDAY to notify you if someone was outside, grabbed a book, and settled in for the day. You were almost thankful for this opportunity, no matter how unpleasant, if only for the chance to disappear for a while. You cared deeply for all of your teammates, but you only had so much energy to invest in socializing. Unfortunately, there were only three of them who didn’t seem to drain you at all, and you were avoiding one of them today so that wasn’t an option. 

Only once did someone try to bother you, and it was just Steve offering you lunch. You smiled gratefully at him and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek, not wanting to say anything. He seemed to understand and handed you the plate he had brought with him. He also extended the offer of talking if you needed him. You smiled at him and nodded before closing the door as he walked away. Steve was a bit of a mother hen, and you could tell that no matter how curious he was, he disapproved of this method Clint and Loki used to learn more about your personal life. 

The rest of the afternoon, you spent reading. It had been so long since you had spent a day like this, and you forgot how much you enjoyed it. 

By the time evening rolled around, you knew you couldn’t hide out the whole day. Just to be safe, you made sure to ask Friday who was in the kitchen for dinner. You were relieved to hear that it was just Steve, Bucky, Wanda, and Vision. You set your book aside and headed towards the shared kitchen area. You decided on your way that you trusted them enough not to tell Clint or Loki (or anyone else) if you didn’t keep up the charade. 

Walking into the kitchen you smiled at them and gave a gentle hello. They all waved at you, though Bucky glanced at you in mild confusion. “I’m not attracted to any of you and I’m too tired to keep up the flirting, since I trust you guys not to use it against me.” They all nodded in understanding and sat down around the table, Wanda grabbing a place setting for you. After that, you all had a normal dinner, joking and talking like any other day. 

The only hiccup of the evening occurred when Natasha walked into the kitchen for a snack. On instinct, you closed your mouth so you couldn’t say anything incriminating. The only one who seemed to notice was Wanda. While you were grateful it was only her, you cursed yourself for being so obvious. Of course she didn’t call you out for it, but her eyes widened slightly. She knew that you wouldn’t hold your tongue out of distrust of the assassin, so there was only one other conclusion to make. Natasha was quickly in and out of the room, none of the boys even breaking conversation to acknowledge that anything had happened. You quietly excused yourself from dinner after that, brought back down from the high of carelessness with the reminder of why you couldn’t be. 

You returned to your room and sat down on your bed. You just wanted a moment to think. You were tired of trying so hard to hide things, but you also knew you didn’t have a shot. She was one of the most beautiful women in the world, coveted and completely aware. To top it all off, there was no indication that she would be interested to another woman. Quite the contrary, she had given every indication that she was only attracted to men, given her track record through flirting with targets and teammates alike. You had never seen her flirt with a woman. You had never even let yourself consider the actual possibility of her liking you back, because you were sure that was absolutely ridiculous. You were a big girl, you weren’t heart broken, just maybe pining and a little lonely. You would never admit it if you could help it.

You spent the rest of the night in your room, reading your book. Wanda reached out, texting you with an offer to talk about it if you needed. You thanked her, but didn’t follow up with anything else. 

***

The next morning, you woke up, comfortable in bed and planning to hide out the rest of this curse in your room. 

That plan was going really well until it suddenly wasn’t.

After about two hours hiding away, there was a knock at your door. You pulled yourself up, brushing your hair out of your face and straightening your clothes. After giving yourself a second of preparation, you opened the door, only to nearly close it again immediately. Natasha was standing in your doorway, looking gorgeous as always. You had spent enough time around her that her presence didn’t fluster you, but you still knew that thanks to Loki, you wouldn’t be able to pretend everything was normal. She smiled at you, and you kept your mouth shut, returning the smile and hoping you could just nod to answer her questions. 

“Hey Y/N. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay, We haven’t really spent any time together since the party.” She sounded so concerned, it warmed your heart. Unfortunately, you had a hard time conveying that the way you wanted to.

“I’m always okay when you’re around.” Your face heated up, immediately regretting opening the door at all. You couldn’t control your mouth and you knew that, but you were still an idiot for her. She cocked her head at you before assessing you briefly. 

“You know, you don’t have to keep it up with me, I won’t tell anyone.” Now, Natsha was smart. Ridiculously good at reading people, and you were sure you were no exception. You had given yourself away with the flush, but she was testing you. You knew you were screwed, but you were determined to pretend as long as possible. Instead of risking whatever you might say, you bit your lip and nodded your head. You were had, like a deer in the headlights, unsure where to go from there. She was watching you like she studied her targets. As if you were a fascinating mark, giving away important information by trying not to. No one would ever argue that she was not good at her job. 

Her face softened with her conclusion and she began to step towards you. Panicking, you tried to apologize and say goodbye, which instead came out, “I always love spending time with you!” With that last humiliating statement, you shut the door. You told FRIDAY to make sure it was locked and to ignore anyone who came to the door. 

You were furious with Loki and Clint, annoyed at Natasha for figuring it out, but mostly, ashamed of yourself. Of course you were practically in love with someone completely out of your league, without a chance in hell. You couldn’t get her face before you shut the door out of your mind. You couldn’t help but think that it looked like pity. You didn’t think you could look her in the eye any time soon. 

You spent the whole day moping in your room. You didn’t plan to tell anyone, and you believed you could trust her, that she wouldn’t tell anyone. You were trying to figure out how to continue to have a professional relationship with her now that she knew. If you tried to ignore it, would she go along with that? Or would she confront you and force you to admit it before turning you down?

You were plagued with these worries for the rest of the day. No one heard from you the entire rest of the day. None of them thought that weird until you didn’t bother to talk to people the next day, or the day after that, at which point you definitely should have been able to talk to people without having to flirt. It was obvious something was wrong at the point that Clint was asking if anyone had heard from you. Tony had asked FRIDAY if you were okay, at least breathing and in your room. When she confirmed that you were both alive and in your bedroom, there wasn’t much more he could do. Even though he designed it, he designed it so that overrides only worked in emergencies for privacy. 

You didn’t talk to anyone until the choice was taken away from you. Two days after the spell wore off, Wanda and Vision walked through your wall. You could only assume Wanda had tried to knock and had finally just resorted to getting Vision’s help. He looked between you, nodded in your direction, and backed out of the room. You didn’t really try to acknowledge her, not interested in talking about your feelings and all of the other things you had managed to keep hidden in your time as part of the Avengers. You were a good actress, you had to be, but you weren’t good at lying to people who cared. You knew Wanda cared about you and just wanted to help, but you didn’t want to admit all of your fears to her, or anyone else. 

She sat on the bed next to you and you finally looked up at her. You watched her face drop into pity as she looked over you. That definitely didn’t make you feel better. She leaned her head on your shoulder and asked, “What’s going on?” 

You had no idea how to explain it all, and no desire to try either. Finally, after heaving a sigh and looking to see that she was still patiently waiting for you to talk, you began to tell her about how you had been feeling about the assassin. How you knew you weren’t good enough. How you were sure she didn’t even like girls. How you were scared to admit that you liked girls, knowing sometimes people just didn’t like that. How you had made a fool of yourself and were afraid to talk to anyone, especially her. She was silent through it all, nodding or holding your hand. After listening to you, she didn’t offer any input or tell you to leave your room, she just gave you a hug and asked if you needed anything else. You shook your head and she left you to your own devices.

***

After telling it all to Wanda, you felt better. You didn’t leave your room that day, but you managed to walk out to the kitchen for lunch. Most of your team was in the common room or the kitchen, but they all simply smiled or waved at you when you came out. You were grateful they didn’t make a big deal of it. 

Well, most of them didn’t. However hard you tried not to, your eyes locked on Natasha. You were startled to see her glaring at you. She got up and walked towards you. You thought she was going to kick your ass or something. With that fear in mind, it wasn’t that surprising when she stopped in front of you and said, “You’re an idiot.” While not shocked, you were definitely a little hurt and confused. You were even more confused when she gently grabbed your face and placed a soft kiss on your lips. You obviously weren’t the only one shocked by it, as you heard at least three people drop something they were holding. You were so focused on Natasha that you didn’t bother looking in the direction you had heard glass break and swearing follow. 

“Wh-?” you started, at a loss for words and unsure what you wanted to say. 

“I put a bug on Wanda yesterday, and I just want to let you know that you're a dumbass.” There was a lot she wasn't saying, but you had never been happier to be called a dumbass.

You finally heard Clint and Sam snap out of their frozen states to start asking a million questions. You glanced around, unsure why you were so nervous, but incredibly relieved to see that all of your teammates were smiling at you. Finally realizing that Natasha had just kissed you in front of everyone, a blush crept up your face. It got even warmer when you heard Tony mutter, “Of course, Y/N was the only one with a shot at you dammit.”

#natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #natalia romanova #natasha romanov #nat x reader #avengers #fanfic #reader insert #imagine #x you #gay #fem reader #lonelyandlovelorn

[wri0thesley]

it is the 27th here in the UK (and in italy) so HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRUNO BUCCELLATI I WROTE YOU FLUFF

When you are given to Passione by your family to pay off a debt that’s plaguing them, you are not sure what you’re expecting - but it is certainly not to be asked to play secretary. Though the numbers are simple and the work is far easier and more lenient than you would ever have expected, there is one glaring problem; the debilitating crush you develop on the man you’re told is to be your boss, Bruno Buccellati. 

SFW, fem pronouns. Word Count: about 4k. 

There are few things more important, you have been told your whole life, than family. And if one's family has the misfortune to be a family that’s deeply involved in the organized crime underbelly of Italy - well, there are few things more important to that family than the Mafia. It’s a circle; one that it’s almost impossible to wholly remove oneself from. And really, you should feel lucky that your family owed a favour to the Don of Passione, and not some other Don with nefarious purposes for the daughter of a family fallen well into disrepute--

Because, when you meet Don Giovanna, you’re well aware that you could be walking into your doom. You’re on high alert, looking for a gun, or for something a little less ordinary (you have heard the whispers about Passione just as surely as other people have), and you’re certainly not prepared when the charming blond brings you to an office and motions to a handsome dark-haired man and says;

“We’re thankful for your family’s continued support of our regime, Signorina. This is Signore Buccellati; although you’ll be working for Passione, it’s him you’ll be reporting to.”

You force a smile for Buccellati. You don’t know what he’s in charge of, but his office is large and spacious and he’s dressed in impeccably tailored Armani and has the air of someone used to being obeyed. He gives you a smile in return (and you’re ashamed to say that his warmth is far more convincing than yours).

“Aah,” he says, and he repeats your name. “I’m glad you’re here. This paperwork is an unwieldy beast.”

~

You don’t know whether it’s an insult or not that Don Giovanna seems to have hired you to be Buccellati’s secretary. You’re sure your family would see it as one (as disreputable as your family have become, you are still a Mafia family, and your father has always considered menial work such as this beneath anyone of your bloodline), but personally - well, you’re not so sure. You wonder if Don Giovanna had seen a lack of bloodlust in your eyes when you’d met him and shaken his hand; if he’d written you off as someone who could not stomach the harsher day to day life of being a gangster.

He’d have been right, of course, but you’re not supposed to think like that. You fired your first bullet (at a bullseye, not a target, though the steps are the same) at eight years old. Even the women of your family are supposed to be able to stand their ground. Your father would be so disappointed--

Though he’d sold you off to pay a debt to Passione (and Don Giovanna, by extension) without a second thought. Perhaps he did not care what Don Giovanna did with you. You suppose your soft nature and reserved ways and easy to read fear have always been a disappointment to him. Perhaps he was hoping that you’d be shuffled away quietly and he’d never have to worry about you again.

Well. It seems Giorno Giovanna is not that kind of ruler. Your place beneath Bruno Buccellati is an enjoyable one, if you are being honest with yourself; whilst the paperwork the two of you deal with is not simple, it is at least not particularly nefarious. You have a quick brain; the money and the names and the debts are simple to you. You would far rather be here than in some dingy alleyway clutching a gun and sweating.

Sometimes, other members of Passione drop by, and though they look at you - bent over your own desk with your head in accounts that seem as though they've never been looked at before - with distrust, their eyes are always filled with warmth when they turn to Buccellati.

("Call me Bruno," he'd said to you, one of the first days after you'd been assigned to work under him. "Signore Buccellati is very much my father, and although I'm aware I'm above you in the chain of command, I'd like us to be friends, cara." You had denied the request. Though he seems sweet, you know what gangsters can be like, and if he does turn on you, you do not want him to have anything to call upon.)

And as for you . . .

Well. As for you.

Buccellati is handsome and kind and clever, and when he smiles at you, for a moment you kid yourself the smile is more than just him being friendly. When you and he go out together for lunch on unbearably hot days in Naples, people call out to him and he asks after sons of families who are cleaning up their act and matriarchs of families who are in hospitals, always remembering their names, always remembering the specifics as if they are his own flesh and blood.

When he chooses a restaurant and you scan the menu trying to work out what you can afford (you are a secretary, after all. Though Don Giovanna does pay you, your pay reflects your not particularly dangerous work - and you are surprised in the first place that the daughter of a family who owes Passione a debt greater than money is earning any kind of wage. Fear is always prickling at your throat, reminding you of what you could be doing right now and all of the other ways he could have chosen to reclaim his right.), he lays a hand over yours and smiles and orders for both of you.

Sometimes you come into the office and he is already there, working too hard - but there's a fresh bunch of carnations upon your desk, or some kind of fancy cake, or a new pen with a fluffy end that, despite how simple it is, makes a smile rise to your face.

"It reminded me of you," he says, eyes warm. Or; "I noticed your pen was running out yesterday." "Your side of the office needed some cheering up."

So it's not a surprise, really, that the thought of Bruno begins to mean more to you than just earning back a freedom. It stops being about impressing your boss because you long to be released from service to the Mafia and to disappear into obscurity. Instead, it starts being about impressing Bruno because you want him to notice you.

He's sweet to everyone. You see lovestruck eyes when you and he go about town, and if you're not mistaken sometimes even when people pop into the office to say hello and to ask how cleaning out the old accounts are going. Bruno, for his part, does not seem to notice; the men who clap his shoulder and laugh and reminisce about the old days have no distinction in his brain to the men who hover at the doorway and speak to him with a flush rising on their face. The women who wave at him whilst they cling to their husband's arms have no distinction from the waitress who serves him and slips him an extra slice of cake, a wink, and her phone number scribbled on a receipt.

And oh, you find that horribly charming.

That someone so handsome can be so unaware of his own charms! That Bruno does all of these things, not for any attention or reward, but because he thinks it's the right thing to do!

You suppose it shows what a terrible environment you were raised in that you find basic human decency the most attractive thing about a man, but with Bruno it's something more than that. He's just so . . . good. And with his goodness comes a smile that makes your heart skip a beat and warm hands that land too often on your shoulders and understanding blue eyes and a voice that makes your throat feel dry and a hundred other things that you can't quite put into words.

You are good.

You know Bruno's workmates adore him; that he occupies a special place in the pantheon of Passione. Sometimes, it is Don Giorno Giovanna at the door, and Bruno smiles at him and gets up from his chair, telling you to behave yourself with a charming grin as he leaves. He does not acquiesce to the Don in the same way as you have seen other men do; no, it seems that Giovanna looks at Bruno like a guide and an equal, and you wonder not for the first time what it is that binds them together as you try to throw yourself back into numbers and debts instead of lingering for too long on the way that the light reflects the cobalt of Bruno's eyes.

You do not make any kind of move on him - not that you would know where to start! You come to work and you go to your little room in the bad part of town, and when Bruno takes you out on lunch breaks and introduces you to people as his secretary, you summon a smile and an agreement and pretend it does not sting that this is all you will ever be to him.

And then, of course, things change.

The Mafia does not stagnate. Things are ever-changing and shifting, tumbling over one another like time-smoothened rocks - and though it seems bare days to you since your life changed, the truth is that Don Giovanna has been in charge of Passione for five years now, and there are some who think he could be doing a better job. There are always pretenders to any throne; but when Bruno comes in, harried, later than he usually is (which is unusual by itself), you realise that this particular time things have come uncomfortably close to too far.

You have never seen Bruno seem so out of sorts. His hair is mussed and there are shadows under his eyes, and his suit jacket is not quite buttoned correctly, as if he left his last destination in a rush.

"Signore Buccellati?" You venture, your words careful, your voice concerned, and Bruno looks up from his place on the opposite side of the room on the bigger desk and meets your worried gaze. He summons a smile for you, the way he says your name chiding.

"Ah," he says, "how many times must I tell you to call me Bruno? It's been six months!"

"About as many times as it will take me to tell you to not work so hard," you reply, and this makes Bruno's smile turn sad.

He is often in the office before you, and he leaves after you. A few times you have come in and looked around and it's been quite clear to you that Bruno has not actually left in between your exit and your return.

"Oh, cara," he says, and he sighs, "I wish I could relax a little more. But all of this business . . . it's not good at all."

"The paperwork can wait," you say, a little timid, though you know that it is not the paperwork to which Bruno is referring to.

"When I have such temptation asking me to come in and help sort it?" He retorts, one eyebrow raised, and your face flushes. "No, it's not just the paperwork. It seems every time we get somewhere, things set us back. I did not . . . I did not think that being at the head of the organisation would be so difficult."

He says things like this sometimes; little things that make heat rise to your cheeks and you wonder briefly if perhaps he has picked up on your feelings for him, only to change the subject and move on with things as if he has said nothing at all out of the ordinary. You replay them to yourself when you are alone, and convince yourself that Bruno does not mean it. He cannot mean it - surely, if he did, he'd have done something by now?

"You're doing so well, though," you say, and immediately regret it. You hasten to change your answer. "I mean . . . I know what Passione was like before Don Giovanna stepped out of the shadows. Everyone knows what it was like. And now . . ." You shrug. "It is not perfect, I suppose, but perhaps the Mafia never is. Naples is so much safer now, though. People are not afraid. And the death toll--"

He's smiling.

"Yes," he says, "drug-related deaths are down at an all-time low, and there is nothing I am prouder of in the world. But sometimes I wonder if all of the other deaths that have happened are worth it. If all of the blood on my hands negates the blood that is not spilt on the streets."

There's a beat of silence.

You swallow, and it's indecently loud in the room.

You know that Bruno is high enough up in the way things are run that he must have blood staining his name - but when he is before you, a bunch of sunflowers by his tired face, his hair mussed up, it's hard to imagine him as the killer he must be.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't mean--"

"If it's blood on your hands," you say, your voice trembling. "Then I'm sure they deserved it."

He looks at you.

He really looks at you, his gaze searching, his blue eyes lit with something that is unfamiliar to you but makes your entire body sing in a way that you don't recognise. Your breath feels shallow in your chest and your cheeks feel aflame and you think that perhaps you've said the wrong thing.

(Of course he'd be touchy about his murders, your subconscious scolds you. No matter your intentions in telling him that, there's no way he's going to take it well! Oh, you've put yourself in it now, haven't you? Landed such a cushy job despite the fact your blood and name are mud, and about to lose it over something so stupid--)

"Do you really think that of me?" He says, finally.

You want to fall over yourself to apologise and reassure, but you know that Bruno will not take kindly to that. He's not the kind of man who likes to have himself bolstered, and he will not appreciate your dishonesty. You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to think through the syllables even as they drop out of your mouth.

"I only mean that you're . . . so good. You're so righteous about your beliefs. Principled, I suppose. I don't think you'd murder for the sake of murder. If you were moved to do that . . . I honestly believe they must have done something to deserve death."

When you open your eyes again, Bruno is looking at you, a sad smile on his face.

"Cara," he says, "I have done things I regret terribly. I am not . . . I am not the principled man you think I am. I have done terrible things to get where I am. But I did do them because I believed in them. In that you're right."

"I'm glad you got where you are," you say, because apparently your mouth no longer listens to rationale or your brain. "Who knows what else might have happened if you didn't."

"Hmm," he says, but there's a smile pulling at the corner of that gorgeous, full mouth. "Perhaps you're right. Thank you. If you don't mind . . . I think I may need to go and pay a visit to our esteemed Don."

"O-of course I don't mind," you say, your voice barely a squeak now, disbelieving that you managed to claw your way out of the pit that you were so certain you'd dug yourself into. But Bruno is already opening the door, much of the exhaustion in his face gone, a new spring in his step and determination in the set of his mouth.

Oh, you're absolutely gone for him.

It's tragic that he's never going to notice you.

~

A few days later, you come into the office and Bruno is stood by your desk, his raven head bent.

"Signore Buccellati?" You ask, and he turns, guilt in his movements. You see now that there's a new bunch of flowers in a brand new vase sitting on your desk; these ones are a soft pink, and the vase is crystal glass, catching the sunbeams from the window beside Bruno's own desk.

"Oh," you say, surprised, "they're beautiful. I don't recognise them."

"Camellia," Bruno says, and then it's his turn to blush. "I'm afraid that Don Giovanna is rather fond of gardening, I've picked up a lot from him--"

"No, it's fine," you say, moving towards them and him, cupping some of the delicate blossomg in your hand and inhaling the light perfume. "They're really lovely. You didn't have to . . ."

"You deserve something pretty on your desk," Bruno says. "I can't bear looking at it so empty."

"I should start buying things for yours," you tease, "maybe some novelty statues? Some of those tacky figurines of a mother and a child, perhaps? Or maybe some garden statues of guinea pigs or cats that have gotten caught up in shoelaces--"

"The flowers are perfectly adequate," Bruno replies, grinning, and you realise with a start that he hasn't moved away from your desk and you and he are pressed very close beside one another. The light perfume of the flowers is still in the air, of course, but now you can sense something else - something masculine and woodsy and unmistakably from Bruno. You swallow as you look up at him, and are even more surprised to see that he's looking down at you, his eyes dark, his head bent, his smile turned from a grin to something softer and affectionate.

"W-well," you say, stuttering. "I really do like them--"

"I've been thinking about the other night," he says, interrupting you, although your voice is so quiet and you're shaking so much that it is not so much an interruption as a mercy. "What you said about me being . . . good."

"I meant it," you say, softly. "You and Passione as a whole. Hell, if it had been anyone else . . . nobody would have been so kind to me, after all of the fuck-ups my father and my family were involved in. He . . . he was probably expecting you to sell me, or to shoot me and send him the pictures. I can't describe how grateful I am to Don Giovanna that he sent me to work with you."

Something you say changes the mood. You don't know what it is, but Bruno leans back a little, some of the affection leaking from his eyes, his movements stiff and uncomfortable instead of easy and close.

"Giorno," he says, "Of course. He's . . . he's a great leader, yes."

"I haven't had much chance to interact with him," you say, and then; "He frightens me, a little. He's less approachable than you are, definitely."

"I could arrange something, if that's what you'd like, cara--"

Holy fucking shit.

Things clang into place like chiming bells; the flowers, the way Bruno is standing by you, the way he'd backed off when you'd mentioned Don Giovanna--

"He's only a great leader because he has a great team behind him," you say, swallowing, licking your lips and trying to will your brain to be brave for once in your life. "I'm . . . I'm much happier with you."

"You're a smart girl," he says, "you could certainly be doing more than the accounts in a dusty old room with me--"

"I like being with you," you say, letting it tumble out and hang in the air for all to see. It's open and honest and painfully, painfully true. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

The realisation hits Bruno too. His eyes soften once more, and he leans in closer.

"I'm glad to hear that," he says. "Sometimes you seem . . . distracted. Like you'd like to be anywhere else but here."

You look up into his blue eyes. He's close to you now, his face lovely, his expression serene, his posture more relaxed now that the fear of who else you might want to be with is gone. Oh, he's gorgeous, you think, and your brain begs you to stop while you're ahead. You're probably reading the way this is going incorrectly. If you do something now, you're going to regret it - someone like Bruno could never want somebody like you.

"There are lots of places I'd rather be," you admit, "but . . . when I imagine all of them, I imagine them with you."

"I really thought you weren't interested." He murmurs, and one hand comes up and cups your face, and your skin feels like it's all over fire wherever the tips of Bruno's fingers brush. You can't believe that it's his hand on your face - you panic, for a moment, that you're about to wake up and everything is just going to have turned out to have been a wonderful daydream.

It wouldn't be the first time you'd fallen asleep over an open account book; your shitty little room, hired from a draconian lady who is, you think, practically robbing the poor girls who are living in her house, is uncomfortable with a rickety bedframe, and your office chair often feels more inviting.

"How could anyone not be interested in you?" You ask, and Bruno chuckles low in his throat.

"I've been trying to flirt with you for months," he says. "Mista always says I'm doing it wrong, of course, that I'm not leaving you enough time to say if you're really interested--"

"He's right," you say breathlessly. "You always changed the subject too quickly, I thought you were like that with everyone."

He seems bashful, blinking, his head lowering so his forehead is pressing against yours. Time seems to have stopped still. One of Bruno's hands lands gently on your waist, and you realise with a frenetic bump of your heart against your ribcage how close you and he are. How intimate the embrace is. How you can smell the coffee on Bruno's suit and the honey on his skin and the toothpaste on his breath.

"That's the first time anyone's ever said Mista was right," he murmurs, and then he huffs out a laugh. "Listen to me. I'm nervous about kissing you, you know--"

"Don't be," you breathe, and then; "I've wanted you for months--"

And he kisses you, and it's worth those months of pining and worry and confusion. It's worth your family's disinterest in you, it's worth nights of staring at numbers until they dance in your brain, it's worth the hostile looks people who clearly wish they were on Bruno Buccellati's arm have sent you every time you've gone out into Naples with him--

It's worth more than that. For a moment, as Bruno's mouth is on yours and his hand is on your face and his arm wraps around your waist to hold your form against his, there is nothing in the world except you and Bruno and how long you've been waiting.

He pulls away, his golden skin flushed, his eyes bright. He laughs, but it's not awkward - it's the breathless, pleased laugh of someone who has finally gotten what they want after not expecting it. Your smile is the same, you realise, as you look at Bruno and your cheeks ache and you find that you cannot make the expression on your face shift.

"Camellias," he says. "Giorno was right. They're . . ." He gestures to them, still embarrassed, still breathless, and absolutely gorgeous in every sense of the word. "They're flowers of longing. Giorno grew them for me. I . . . I know you probably didn't notice that, but . . . well. They worked, didn't they?"

You look at the delicate flowers and then back to Bruno, who seems . . . different. He's still gorgeous. He still seems to glow with a goodness that makes your heart ache and beat and your mind long to kiss him and run your fingers through his silky raven hair. But some of that tension that always seems present in the stoop of his shoulders and the lines of his face seems to have simply dissipated - and you wonder if perhaps he has wanted you for just as long as you have wanted him.

"Bruno," you say, "if it had been a bouquet of thorns, it would still have worked."

He smiles at you, face soft, your heart feeling like it's melting.

"I'd never have brought you thorns," he says, "the flowers needed to be at least half as pretty as you are."

#jjba #bruno buccellati #writing #sfw #afab reader #fem pronouns