Alright, look… How about I get off early tonight and I buy us a bunch of candy and we can sit around and get fat and we can watch a scary movie together? How’s that for a compromise? C-compromise? C-O-M-promise. Compromise. How about that’s your word for the day, yeah? It’s something that’s kinda in-between. It’s like halfway happy. By 5-1-5? 5:15. Yeah, sure.
Can i request for a bad boy serpent jughead jones and the sweet girl next door betty cooper fiction and maybe with a steamy make out session scene? Thank you!
So the story is slightly AU. Jughead never attended school in Riverdale, never was friends with Betty and Archie, as a matter of fact they didn’t even know each other. No murder ever happened, Betty was never pinning over Archie. I also made some other small changes that you’ll notice upon reading. Plus, I made Reggie a Serpent too, for no reason really, I just wanted him to be Jughead’s childhood best friend in this universe. :p Last but not least, Betty turned out to be extremely feisty while I was writing this; she is still a sweetheart in pastel colors but her character is a tad more Betty Cooper in episodes 12 &13. I hope that’s ok! Thank you for requesting, dear anon! Enjoy, lovelies! ❤️
(Okay, this is 34 pages long. I don’t even know why, I don’t even know what I have written in so many pages. I apologize in advance for that mammoth length. Warning: turns mildly smutty but definately hot and heavy at the end.)
P.S. Because this is too long, I have put it under a “read more” so if you are on mobile the story gets cut halfway through. Here’s an AO3 link if the tumblr app doesn’t work for you. :)
Fruit Punch Lips & Leather Jacket Dreams
Part 1/3: But Mama, I Want a Bad Boy
Southside Elementary School
was a rare example of fine architecture in the small town of Riverdale. Rebuilt
at the outskirts of town, after a disastrous fire caused by a minor during a
prank gone wrong a couple of years ago, and squeezed between Southside Kindergarten
and Southside High, it looked nothing like the two crumbling, cement colored
buildings on its sides that lacked any learning motivation. It was modern, pure
white with splashes of green and purple and it brought a fresh air of change, a
promise that maybe the next generation of Southside kids would not have the
ominous fate of their ancestors.
The Serpents had outdone
themselves with the construction of the of the building, hiring Fred Andrews
and his crew – one of the few people that wasn’t driven by discrimination and
always agreed in doing business at the south side of town – and wasting a large
amount of money from their infamous Serpent vault to create a place appropriate
for shaping young minds. Maybe that’s why sweet and always optimistic Betty
Cooper smiled every day at three o’clock sharp when her sneakers would hop up
the marble stairs of the buzzing with life building. Because it was proving her
right; Serpents would do anything for their children, just like any other
parent on a prestigious office job. Serpents weren’t the monsters everyone
thought they were.
Her excuse for walking all the
way from their quaint north paradise to the disreputable south district five
days per week was something that Betty always found fascinating; volunteering.
Nurturing and caring by nature, she was constantly filling her free time with
activities that offered assistance to those needed; taking care of stray cats
and dogs down at the animal center, gathering food supplies and clothing for
the homeless at their local church, being an annual blood donor, being proud
cofounder along with her best friend, Veronica Lodge, of the two years now
successful female empowerment club, Girls Speak Louder, at Riverdale High. And
when senior year came and she needed a bigger challenge, something to bring her
out of her good girl comfort zone, a tiny announcement had caught her eye,
stuck on the bulletin board at the center of her high school corridor; Volunteers needed at Southside Elementary School.
Sam’s fingers flew over the suspect’s keyboard. Flashes of color flickered over his face as he cycled between screens quickly with a shortcut maneuver. You watched as he licked his lips, intently focused on hacking into a zipped folder. His eyes narrowed catching some detail of significance. When he swallowed, your eyes followed the shift of his throat greedily. You pulled your eyes away attempting to continue through a pile of paper on the suspect’s end table. A slip of paper dropped from the stack in your hands, catching the air to flutter to the floor behind you. You turned to pick it up, eyes drifting over an accent mirror near the far wall. You paused. Sam’s eyes had lifted from the monitor to your form. You ducked your head hiding a smirk. Keeping a secret eye on the mirror, you stood, lifting your ass first in fluid motion you often used when dancing. He licked his lips, shifting lower in his seat. Shuffling the papers in hand, you turned just in time to see his head snap back to the computer.
“Got it.” He cleared his throat after a minute.
You dropped the papers on the end table, sauntering to the desk with renewed confidence.
“It looks like there’s a thread of emails here and-” His explanation was cut short as he glanced up at you.
You slid onto his lap, resting your elbows on the thin strip of cleared table before the keyboard keeping your back arched forward. You could hear him gulp audibly and feel him shift awkwardly trying to find a place to put his hands.
“What emails?” You asked innocently, seeing full well the emails in a smaller window behind the main one.
Sam released a shaky breath. He moved forward, chest pressing against your back as he reached for the mouse. You leaned against him, tilting your head to the side to give him view of the monitor. His breath touched your neck bringing a tingle to travel across your skin. You didn’t suppress the light shudder it caused.
“It’s, uh, here.” He replied breathlessly.
You responded with a deep hum. A smirk curled your lips as he shifted beneath your thighs. You scrolled through the emails, which would have been painfully dull if not for the pleasant distraction hardening every time you slid forward or back to “readjust” your reading position. Finally, you finished. Making a show of stretching your arms upward, you unleashed a satisfied moan and turned to face Sam. For his effort, he attempted to look unaffected. A muscle twitched in his jaw and his nails dug into the leather armrests.
“So, it doesn’t seem like the emails contained much, did they?” You asked in hushed tones.
He glanced between you and the monitor quickly, obviously having no idea what was in the emails. You twisted in his lap, grinding against an evident bulge between your legs.
“Sam?” You lowered your eyelashes, “You okay?”
“Yeah.” His eyes darkened briefly lowering to your lips before he found composure. “Yeah, fine.”
“Are you sure? It seems like you’re having a… hard time focusing.”
His hand paused halfway to the mouse.
“I know these emails can be… lengthy,” You continued finding it increasingly difficult to hide a smirk, “and having to sort through them is… really shafty…”
Sam sat back, embarrassment coloring his features.
“I know it would really… grind… my gears if I had to hack into every dude’s computer while Dean gets to take a break at the bar.”
“Are you done?” Sam interrupted.
“No, no… wait! I think I can come up with something for penetration and erection-”
Hot lips met the juncture of your shoulder and neck with leisurely-paced open-mouthed kissed, effectively transforming your teasing words into a sharp inhale. His fingers wrapped around your hips, gripping your pelvis firmly before pulling it back. A flash of sudden pleasure surged through your core. His nose dragged against your shoulder inching closer to your neck, heat building between your flushed bodies. A shiver ripped up your spine as he found a sensitive spot. He paused, pressing a kiss there. Your head lolled back against his shoulder. His hands slipped up your body, sliding under your shirt. His rough fingers pressed and caressed in disorganized trails, drawing each nerve to maximum stimulation. You gasped, unable to stop an onslaught of shivers from his touch. He sucked at the spot on your neck, locking his arm around your waist as you squirmed with assailing pleasure. His tongue flicked against the spot, his teeth following immediately. A cry broke from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, surprised by the outburst. Sam chuckled darkly against your skin, the deep rumble sending an aching between your thighs.
“Oh, fuck…” You breathed, heat enveloping your body with a savage ferocity.
His hands grabbed your chest, barely restraining his strength as he kneaded. He closed his fingers over hardening nubs sending your hips to jerk forward in response. You bit your tongue holding back a moan, as your clit rubbed along his impossibly hard shaft. He moved quickly, grabbing your hips with a near bruising force. Every nerve in your body seeped with the heat building between you, overreacting with every little stimulus. Pleasure pulsed through your body with every breath hitting the tiny hairs along the nape of your neck, each finger digging against your hips, and every inch where your center rubbed against his.
He thrust up pulling your hips back. Sparks of unadulterated ecstasy exploded from the friction. Before the sensation could cool, he pushed you forward. White flashed before your vision. A helpless moan left your lips, an animalistic need for contact infecting every cell in your brain. You jerked against him, heat blazing, pleasure mounting endlessly. He grunted desperately against your ear, whimpers rising from your throat as you grinded together fueling an erotic fire threatening to consume your entity. There was nothing but sharp concentrated pleasure coursing through your core like live electricity. A strangled cry broke the room as he thrust against your sliding bodies finding an edge so high, you couldn’t believe a pleasure could be so intense, but it kept building, growing until you found a new edge before the other could finish. Your body shuddered, head falling to his shoulder, completely at his mercy.
He embraced your body, crushing you against him as he stiffened, broken groans tumbling from his chest as he shuddered against your back.You squeezed your legs together, his hold slackening as you felt a warm stickness in the apex of your jeans. You slid to his knees, turning to see Sam’s face. Surprise, mirroring your own expression, bloomed from a devastatingly sexy look of contentment. You jerked off his lap, stumbling to your feet.
“S-sorry!” You yelped, yanking your head away from the dark patch on his jeans.
“N-no, I’m…” The chair crashed into the wall as he pushed to his feet. He skirted around the opposite side of the desk muttering something you couldn’t catch over the blood pounding in your ears.
He retreated from the room. Your hands trembled, pleasure still lingering along your skin from his contact, as you hugged yourself close. It seemed the heat would never cool and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
This one is for my dude @officialgrandpa. They asked for those boys Yusuke and Kazuma, and man I love them a lot! I gotta keep watching Yu Yu Hakusho. I got distracted watching Scooby Doo instead (ง ˙o˙)ว
Are they a lil ooc? Maybe. Let them enjoy their date they’re having a good time. I’m happy for them (´∀｀)♡
Summary: Logan stumbles across something called a comfort box and decides to make one for Virgil. However, he quickly discovers that he’ll need Patton and Roman’s help to make anything worthwhile—because it’s not like he can make anything good on his own, after all.
Logan is scrolling through Tumblr (an act which, he has discovered, greatly assists him in learning modern slang vocabulary) when he stumbles upon a post regarding boxes. Ordinarily, he would scroll right past it, but as he does a word catches his eye—anxiety. His curiosity is immediately piqued. Any information about the other sides is useful.
This, while perhaps not about Thomas’ sides directly, may allow him further insight into others’ dealings with anxiety, which might in turn offer him a greater grasp on what Virgil deals with. Perhaps it’s a long shot, but he’s willing to try. No time spent trying to understand one of his boyfriends can be considered wasted.
Besides, cubes are his favorite shape, after lemniscates, and a box is basically a cube.
The post, however, turns out to be less about boxes and more about what’s inside of them. It details a thing called a comfort box, which it insists can help ease anxiety if used appropriately. Suggested contents of said box are objects that appear to engage as many senses as possible in a soothing way. By doing this, the post declares, the box can serve as both a distraction and a comfort for those who suffer from heightened anxiety.
Logan is, to say the least, skeptical. He has often found that the best way to calm Virgil—and thus anxiety—is by talking their way through whatever troubles him. Patton’s hugs and cookies (snickerdoodles, specifically, although the peanut butter ones will suffice as well) also seem to help. Roman’s boisterous stories and jokes, too, usually serve to make Virgil relax—sometimes they even get him to laugh.
But, Logan supposes, extra comfort can never hurt—and he knows himself well enough to know that he won’t stop thinking about the possibilities of this box until he’s run an appropriate experiment.
That night, he excuses himself from his boyfriends’ movie-watching extravaganza, and they let him go without much of a fuss. For a moment, he allows himself to feel immensely grateful for them. They’ve begun to understand—he needs to focus, he needs to work, and if he needs to do that instead of watching a movie with them (not that that’s not fun, it’s just not his idea of mentally stimulating) they’ll let him. Of course, if he begins skipping every night, he’s certain that they’ll question him. They’ll let him exercise his mind, but they won’t let him run himself into the ground and oh, how he loves them for it.
The first thing he does when he slips into his room is conjure up a box. Its dimensions are 16x16x16 (all in inches), leaving it with a volume of 4,096 cubic inches, which Logan thinks is suitable for the items he’s selected. The first things to go in are a DVD copy of The Black Cauldron, followed closely by an MP3 player with several My Chemical Romance, Fallout Boy, and Gorillaz albums on it. Next is a jigsaw puzzle of the galaxy with one hundred pieces—simple enough that Virgil shouldn’t become frustrated putting it together, but complex enough that it should encourage him to focus.
After that, he slips in a package of peppermints—the kind that make Logan’s tongue burn and the air feel cold when he breathes through his mouth, sharp and piquant. A pair of noise-cancelling headphones go in next, along with a small box of Logan’s favorite herbal teas. Finally, he puts in a small card with crisis hotlines on it. His gut clenches as he does, and he hopes that Virgil never has to use them, but—but just in case, they’ll be there.
Once he’s done, he crouches in front of the box and takes a moment to study it. It seems much emptier than he had envisioned—perhaps he had miscalculated the volume he would need to fit everything inside. Unlikely, but possible. So maybe if he conjures up another one, but smaller—
A sudden hammering knock at his door startles Logan from his thoughts. “Logan, Patton is making cake and he wants to know if you want any. Do you want any? Logan? Are you listening to me? Do you have headphones on? Are you listening to that silly piano guy again? What’s his name? Bait oven? Whatever. That’s nerd stuff. But hey—hey, Logan. Logan, do you want any cak—”
Letting his breath out in an enormous whoosh, Logan crosses to the door and opens it to reveal Roman. “No, I do not want cake, and for your information, it’s Beethoven, and he’s not just a piano guy, he was one of the most important and influential composers of the—”
“What’s that?” Roman peers curiously over his shoulder.
“It’s a box.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious. I meant why do you have a box?”
“If you meant ‘why do you have a box?’ then why didn’t you just say ‘why do you have a box?’ instead of ‘what’s that?’ Really, your communication ability leaves something to be desired. It—”
Roman waves him off. “Quit deflecting. If you don’t wanna say, don’t say.”
Logan pauses and frowns. Deflecting? He’s not deflecting. He’s merely attempting to eradicate Roman’s ignorance (an everlasting and thankless job) but, well, he supposes he is avoiding the question. And why? It’s not like the box has to be a secret. Secrets are irrational.
Still, he wishes that maybe, just this once, he could’ve done something nice for someone without help. It seems as though he always needs help to be kind, and he dislikes it—extremely.
Looking back at his bare, empty little box however, he knows that perhaps (the facts have added up, over the years) he simply cannot be kind on his own. Certainly he can try, but he must be missing something—some essential thing that the other three have, a thing that enables them to create and love and protect.
Something better than mere intelligence.
“It’s a comfort box for Virgil,” Logan says, sighing. He’s not selfish enough to try to do something on his own when the blatant fact that he can’t is clear. His box isn’t good enough for Virgil, but maybe with Roman’s help, and perhaps Patton’s, it can be.
“A comfort box. It’s supposed to soothe feelings of anxiety by stimulating the senses and allowing an individual to distract themselves, although I’ve no idea how accurate that statement is, as I’ve yet to test it myself.”
“The box does that?”
“Well, more specifically, the contents of the box. You can look, if you want.”
Roman goes to sit on Logan’s bed, picking the box up and rifling through it—although he is, Logan is pleased to notice, putting everything back where it belongs once he’s examined it. “This is cool,” he says. “A little minimalist, but—”
“Yes, exactly, that’s the problem,” Logan says. “So you should help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Fix the box.”
“I mean, there’s really nothing to fix.”
Logan stares pointedly at the box in Roman’s arms, plain and unassuming and minimalist. “That was sarcasm, correct?”
“No, I’m serious. I think it’s really—”
“Can’t you just—oh, I don’t know, add something?”
Roman snorts. “If you insist. First things first—we’re looking for comforting things, right? Like self-care stuff?”
“That sounds adequate, yes.”
“Great. In that case—” Roman twirls his hand and an array of items materialize on Logan’s bed. There are bath bombs (lavender and lemon and mint, if Logan is recognizing the colors correctly) along with vanilla-scented lotion, small candles in a variety of soothing scents, and a bar of milk chocolate. “How’s that?”
Logan stacks the items neatly into the box, and now it’s more than halfway full. “Good,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Oh, wait—one more thing.” Roman conjures up a coloring book of intricate patterns and a box of colored pencils. “Here. And then maybe we could put something on the outside of the box, too.”
“Hm, that’s—not a bad idea, actually.”
“Okay, here. Take this and draw something on that side. I’ll work on this one.”
“Like what?” Logan asks, critically examining the navy marker that Roman hands him.
“I dunno, math equations or something, whatever. Just make it seem like you.”
Logan does not think that he is very comforting, and thus nothing he makes will be, but he’s willing to entertain the idea if it’s Roman’s. Despite the fact that many of Roman’s ideas are completely ridiculous, the few that aren’t are often impeccable. After a long moment of contemplation, Logan sketches a graph on his side of the box and plots a lemniscate on it.
“Oh, that’s cute,” Roman says, when he finishes his side—it’s an intricate picture of himself in a crown. Well, it’s the thought that counts, Logan supposes. “An infinity sign.”
“What language is that?”
“English,” Logan says, baffled. “The shape is called a lemniscate.”
“No, that’s an infinity sign.”
“Perhaps in the common vernacular it can be addressed as such, but its true name is lemniscate.”
Roman holds his hands up. “Okay, okay, fine. Your box, your weird lemniscate.”
Logan nods, satisfied, and hands his marker back to Roman. “Very well. Thank you. Go and fetch Patton now, please.”
“You don’t think that’s suspicious?”
“Why would it be suspicious?”
“This is Virgil we’re talking about. Everything is suspicious to him. I was supposed to come down, like, ten minutes ago, and now I’m sending Patton up to your room? Sounds sketch.”
Logan waves him off. “Let it be sketch, then, just don’t let him come up here.”
“You got it.”
Roman slips out of his room, and Patton comes bounding in not two minutes later. “Heya, Teach, what’s up?” he asks.
“I need you to help me with this box.”
“You need my help? Oh, golly gee willikers, I thought this day would never come.”
“Yes, yes, enough gloating. It’s a comfort box for Virgil, so put comforting things inside of it, please.”
“Oh my goodness that is such a cute idea—you’re just the nicest guy, Lo—”
Logan shakes his head—he’s not nice or he would’ve been able to do this by himself. All he can do is nudge the others in the right direction. They’re the ones that actually do the nice thing. “Come on, before Virgil decides to come and investigate what we’re doing.”
Into the box Patton puts bubble wrap, stickers, a small stuffed dog, a fluffy black blanket, and a glitter jar that even Logan concedes looks fascinating when it’s shaken. On his side of the box he draws hearts and stars, puppies and kittens, and a large smiley face. “There,” he says, once he’s done. “How’s that?”
Logan looks contemplatively at it. One side of the box is still plain, but perhaps Virgil can color on it to make it more his. It’s quite full now, too, and Logan feels something untwist in his chest. He has done a good thing—albeit not alone (he can never do good things alone) but the point remains. “It’s adequate,” he says. “Thank you.”
“No problem, sweetheart. Do you want me to go get Virgil?”
Logan hesitates—but he doubts he can make the box any better than it is. If Roman and Patton are finished with it, then there’s nothing more for him to contribute. “Yes, please.”
Patton practically skips down the hall, calling, “Virgil, Virgil, Logan has a surprise for you, you’re gonna love it, c’mere c’mere c’mere—”
Virgil appears grudgingly in his doorway several seconds later, flanked by a bright-eyed Roman, and a Patton who is nearly trembling with excitement. Before he can speak, Logan holds the box out to him. “What’s that?” Virgil asks, making no move to take it.
“It’s a comfort box,” Logan says. He doesn’t meet Virgil’s eyes, but it’s not because he’s scared, of all things. It’s only—only, well, he really hopes he hasn’t overstepped his boundaries and made Virgil embarrassed or made himself look like a fool or—
“A what?” Virgil says, accepting the box from Logan and setting it on the desk to open.
“A comfort box. It’s supposed to help with feelings of anxiety by—” Logan stops, his words momentarily rendered unimportant upon seeing Virgil’s face as he begins looking through the box. Logan, having studied body language quite intently during Thomas’ acting lessons, thinks that his expression hovers somewhere between wondering and stunned.
“This is for me?” Virgil asks quietly.
“Yes,” Logan says. “Do you…like it?”
The smile that Virgil bestows upon him then is one of his rarest—bright and open and adoring, his eyes crinkled at the corners and dimples showing. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I like it just a little bit.”
Patton squeals and wraps Virgil up in a joyful hug. “Oh, I’m so glad. You deserve it, kiddo.”
“I, too, am pleased that you find our labor of love to be satisfactory,” Roman says, straightening his shoulders a tad arrogantly, Logan thinks.
“It was Logan’s idea,” Patton says. “Isn’t he just the sweetest thing, oh my goodness—c’mere, Lo, pretty please.”
Logan crosses the room to stand before Virgil, back straight and eyes averted. Patton latches onto his arm and does his emotions thing, nuzzling his face against Logan’s and making happy sounds. “It was nothing, really. I merely found the idea on Tumblr—”
“You’re on Tumblr?” Virgil asks, startled.
“Never mind that. I gave the others the idea—which, mind you, was not technically mine in the first place—and they did most of the work. Patton is over-exaggerating the role that I played, but I do find myself pleased that you enjoy it.”
“Patton? Over-exaggerate? Why, always,” Roman says. “However, inexplicably enough, not this time. It was Logan who motivated us to make the box—although I shall take credit where credit is due and say that I clearly drew the best picture.”
“Thank you, Lo,” Virgil says, and when Logan finally meets his eyes they’re wide and unbearably fond.
“I didn’t do all the work,” Logan protests, glancing away again. “It was primarily Patton and Roman. I merely gave them direction, as per usual.”
“Hey, come over here.” Virgil holds an arm out and Logan slides under it, fitting himself to Virgil’s side. At least this way Virgil won’t try to catch his gaze anymore. “I know you didn’t do everything—and thank you, Patton, Roman, very much. But you are the one who gave them direction, Logan, so don’t think any less of yourself for that.”
“But that doesn’t matter,” Logan says, his frustration with—with himself, with this whole ordeal, finally boiling over. “Anyone could have seen the post on Tumblr, anyone could have said ‘why don’t we make a comfort box for Virgil?’ and it would have been just as well constructed without my help. It may even have been better. When it comes to doing nice things, that’s not—that’s not me. That’s them. I just tell them what to do. They’re the ones who get it done.”
The other three fall completely silent. Patton and Roman both fix him with shocked gazes and Virgil’s arm drops off of his shoulders. For a moment, vulnerability is a quivering and terrified thing in the center of Logan’s chest. He shouldn’t have said that. He should be celebrating the gift they’ve given Virgil, not complaining about what he can and cannot do. That was self-centered. He’ll have to apologize. Patton says apologies are polite and necessary if you’ve done something wrong. So—
“I’m sorry,” Logan says. “That was a poorly-timed outburst. Please disregard—”
“No,” Virgil says, and suddenly his arms are back around Logan, pulling him into a tight embrace. “No way in hell am I disregarding that.”
“Oh, honey,” Patton says, stepping closer and running his fingers through Logan’s hair. “Of course you can do things by yourself.”
“Yes, I am aware of that,” Logan says, his voice muffled by confusion and Virgil’s shoulder. “But I cannot do anything good by myself.”
Roman takes one of his hands, unlatching it from its death grip on Virgil’s hoodie (when had he begun to clutch that?) and lacing their fingers together. “You certainly can. Whatever makes you think otherwise?”
“Now is not an appropriate time for such introspection. We should be allowing Virgil to examine and appreciate his box, or at least—”
“Now is the perfect time for such introspection,” Virgil says, fingers scratching gently over his spine. A shiver twists its way through Logan as he does. “You’re more important than fussing about a box—however lovely that box may be. So—what makes you think you can’t do anything good alone?”
Logan sighs and relents—his boyfriends, whilst endearing, are also hellishly stubborn. (And oh, how he wishes he could believe them. Maybe, technically, they are right, and he can do good things by himself, but—but he just doesn’t know how, and that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?) “I was going to make the box alone, at first, but I wasn’t creative or emotional enough to obtain a satisfactory end product. It’s the same with most everything I do. Certainly, I can do some things—many things—but they will never be as nice as they could be when I have all of your help.”
“But that’s the same for all of us,” Patton says. “We can all make things on our own, but they’ll never be as good as they are when we work together.”
“I know, but—you see, the things that you and Roman and Virgil create alone will always be better than what I create alone. Patton, the things you make are full of—of love or joy or sadness, and they’re always brilliant. They have the ability to move others emotionally.”
“And what Roman creates is always, naturally, creative. He’s an artist, that’s what he does, and he does it well. He can create something out of nothing, and it’s rather incredible.”
“True,” Roman says, “and thank you. But—”
“And Virgil, the things he creates are—well, negative, yes, but they manage to be both creative and emotional. Some of the things he thinks up terrify me, and I, rationally, know that they are not real and cannot harm me.”
“Thank you, I think?” Virgil says.
“But the things I create are—are boring,” Logan says, hunching his shoulders. “There’s nothing admirable about them, save perhaps that they can be useful, from time to time, and encourage the three of you to do something even better.”
“Logan, you—hey, look at us, please,” Roman says, and Logan reluctantly lifts his face from the safety of Virgil’s shoulder. “The stuff you create is awesome. Like patterns! I use patterns all the time when I’m creating things, but I wouldn’t be able to use them without you. Like—like you literally made an infinity sign out of a mathematical equation.”
Logan glances at the box and his lemnsicate—boring, plain, unnecessarily complex. “I’m glad you like them, but—”
“And routines,” Virgil adds. “You make routines that work for us, which helps me feel a lot better. It’s comforting. You’re comforting.”
Well—well, perhaps that’s one way to look at it. (Another is that he’s a control freak.) “I’m happy that you think so, although—”
“And body language,” Patton says. “The way you understand what people are feeling just by analyzing how they stand, or how they move, it’s fantastic—and it’s really helpful when I’m trying to decide how to respond.”
Maybe. “Okay, so I may possibly—”
“There’s no possibly about it,” Roman says. “The things you create alone are just as good as any of the things the rest of us do. Okay?”
Logan drops his head and sighs into Virgil’s shoulder.
“Logan, okay?” Roman says, cupping the back of Logan’s neck. “Understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Logan says—and he does understand. Even if he does not believe it, he understands what they’re saying, and maybe—maybe they’re right. Maybe. “Maybe you are correct.”
“I know we are,” Roman says.
“You’re wonderful with us or on your own, sweetheart,” Patton says, pressing a kiss to Logan’s temple.
“And Logan?” Virgil says.
“Thank you. I really like the box. The infinity sign is a nice touch.”
“It’s a lemniscate.”
“The shape is called a lemniscate.”
Virgil laughs and brings a hand up to cup the back of Logan’s head, ruffling his hair. “Okay. I really like your lemniscate.”
A smile tugs at Logan’s mouth, although he’s careful to keep it hidden against Virgil’s hoodie. “Thank you. I—I like it too, I think.”
“Good.” Virgil pulls back enough to give him a crooked smile. “You should.”
“I hate to interrupt this emotional moment,” Roman says, glancing towards the doorway, “but does anyone else smell something burning?”
Logan pauses, sniffing the air and yes, that smells like smoke. “Oh. Was it—perhaps—Patton, did you ever take your cake out of the oven?”
Patton freezes for only a moment, his eyes widening in horror—and then he bolts for the stairs, shrieking, “My cake!”
I’m only a teenager. I’m watching
Blue is the Warmest Color, or
Boys Don’t Cry, or
I’m still in the closet, because my father
does not believe in bisexuality, and so
I do not believe in myself.
From the television, I’m learning that people like me
don’t get happy endings, that queer cinema isn’t so much
a genre as it is a fashionable body count. Because
the straight masses only love us when we’re martyrs,
or tragedies, because we’re less sympathetic
when we’re not being punished.
Skip to now.
Halfway through June of 2016 and seventeen
lesbian characters have been killed on mainstream television.
Most of them, in brutal, graphic ways and in the wake
of dead lesbian number eighteen, my girlfriend texts me
to ask if we get to be happy.
And I don’t feel safe.
I’m struggling to pay rent and another lesbian dies on television.
I get a new job and another lesbian dies on television.
I ask my girlfriend to move in and another lesbian dies on television.
So how much longer can they calls us beautiful tragedies
before they admit we’re a cautionary tale? A warning
that women who love women have no right to their own futures?
A boogieman to keep queer little girls up at night?
Queer cinema evolved to be reactionary—
to challenge the prettily packaged clichés of straight romance,
to tell the gritty parts of our stories that straight audiences refused
to look at directly, but my existence is not for straight consumption.
Now, when heartbroken little kids go looking for someone, anyone,
who looks like them, they get to see themselves as
blood in the bathtub,
a teenager in a body bag.
We need the dream of the happy ending.
We need the promise of a future.
If I wanted to watch queer people being slaughtered en masse,
I’d turn on the evening news. What I need
The other day, I finished this book and the ending was so
sugary and unrealistic and horribly cliché, but
more than half the main characters were queer and
it was just so good to exist, even for a moment, in a world
where we were all happy
and no one died.
8.11.17 // 11:00am // this will be our year (será nuestro año)
so i’ve had my bujo for a year already (and i’m only about halfway through lol) so i needed a new year-at-a-glance page. definitely really liking the minimal black + white color scheme with little metallic accents. can you tell i love my new washi? also 10000000 cool kid points go to whoever can tell me where the quote in the bottom right is from. good luck figuring it out :) xoxo, m
ya he tenido mi bujo por un año (sólo he usado la primera mitad del cuaderno jajaja) entonces necesitaba una página nueva para planificar el resto del año. me gusta mucho el esquema cromático blanco y negro con acentos metálicos. ¿puede ver que me encanta mi washi nuevo? también 1000000 puntos va a quienquiera que puede decirme de donde es la cita en la equina inferior derecha de las páginas. (estoy bastante segura que la traducción de la frase previa es incorrecta…) buena suerte :) tqm m
Barry spends all week during one cycle working on a chemical mixture that would help the cotton-like creatures of this cycles planet stop overheating. He determines that they need a decolorizing agent to make them a lighter color that doesn’t attract sunlight and is harmless. However, since there’s only so much solution and a lot of civilians, the mixture is super potent.
Halfway through completing the mixture he spills a drop on his pants. He watches in fascination as it rapidly spreads across his pants turning them close to pure white instead of blue denim. It wasn’t really an inconvenience but it helped him discover that it had a funky smell so that’s cool.
He decides to take a lunch break and meets the others in the large open-concept kitchen lounge area of the Starblaster. Smelling fantasy stir-fry, he meets Taako, Lup, and Davenport talking and sits by Lup on the loveseat. Adjusting himself before looking at the group, he gets comfortable when all conversation suddenly drops.
“Barrold what the FUCK,”
Taako is the first to speak out of the slack jawed crew members on the couches. Lup’s expression is a strange spread of confusion, shock and interest; Davenport looks concerned; and Taakos expression can only be described as terror and a splash of rage.
“What’s wrong? I don’t-“
Everyone begins speaking rapidly and all at once.
“BARRY YOUR PANTS. I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF I CAN CALL YOU BARRY, WH-WHO ARE YOU?”
“Is he sick?? Do humans do that?” Davenport has begun to panic looking at his crewmate. “Magnus and Lucretia never changed colors of their apparel when they were sick, but this is so unheard of for Barry! Barry, are you okay??”
“Babe are you okay? What happened?” Lup is the only one hiding her emotions for the most part. She still holds this deep concern in her eyes, but it’s for Barry’s well being.
“-Guys I really don’t even know how to respond to this, this is because my pants color?” He takes another look down at his ensamble. He’s now sporting his signature white shirt and red robe, but now with a pair of pure white jeans.
“YOUR FUCKING NAME IS BLUEJEANS, YOU WEAR BLUE JEANS, AND I KNOW YOU THINK ITS HOT WHEN MY SISTER WEARS DENIM. ARE YOU SICK, BARROLD?” Taako is practically climbing over the coffee table now in front of where Barry and Lup are sitting, right in Barry’s face. If he didn’t know any better he’d say he was close enough to see small tears welling up in Taakos eyes.
Davenport runs out of the room to get the resident cleric and the other humans, maybe they know how to help him.
Lup goes to hug Taako to calm him down as he whimpers about personal brand and how you don’t BREAK something like that Lulu, how could he break that it’s his own name! It’s like the easiest thing to not fuck up something must be wrong!
At this point Barry gets the message. For decades the crew had gotten so accustomed to Barry and his blue denim pants that it was jarring to see an outfit change. Frankly he was a little offended.
He could have contemplated his closet choices for longer if it wasn’t for Magnus barreling through the door and squeezing him, blubbering something about him being sick and how he’d help him get better if it was the last thing he did. Barry couldn’t have been more done with this situation as the whole room ran around with every member of the ship. Merle cast some spell on him that made him black out and it was three minute before anyone heard him snoring.