#and when they bring Tashi in to teach her to ask for what she wants then what???? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

artdcnaldson · 9 months ago

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NEED art and patrick to find out I'm a virgin and offer to teach me how to kiss and how to fuck and use eachother as examples and guide me and tell me I'm doing a good job and reward me for being such a good student and come back later and quiz me to see if I remember everything they taught me ugh obsessed with them individually and as a unit

This has lived rent free in my mind for literally forever. I can’t stop thinking about it, it haunts my every waking moment.

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: Making out, Handjob lessons, guys being pervs, not a love triangle they just all want to fuck each other

A/N: unedited bc I wrote this while on the clock okay whatever. Enjoyyyy and if u want me to continue this lmk >:)

“I think it’s sweet,” Patrick said, and you could hear the amusement in his voice, practically dripping from every syllable. “The last American virgin. You belong in a museum.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your empty Taco Bell cup at him— the ice rattled and it leaked a puddle of condensation onto the ground. “You could try not to be a dick about it.”

Art’s dorm room was hot and sticky thanks to a faulty AC, which meant the three of you lounging on the floor by his open window, sucking down soda watered down by melted ice cubes. You were down to a T-shirt and shorts, they were down to their boxers. It wasn’t lost on you that it was an intimate situation to be in— barely dressed, crammed into the shoebox of a dorm. And of course Patrick had dug his fingers in until you admitted your secret— you had made it all the way to college totally unfucked.

Patrick leaned forward, smiling the smarmy smile that tended to wear at your last nerve. “So you’re a virgin, but like,” he leaned in, so close you could feel body heat radiating from him. He dropped his voice, just above a whisper. “How much of a virgin, really? You’ve at least gone to third, right?” You glared, but shook your head.

“Second?” Art supplied, suddenly jumping in with an eager sort of curiosity.

“What? No, I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted. You sighed before you spoke up. “I’ve only ever kissed one guy and one girl, and it was during a game of spin the bottle, like, junior year.”

“How?” Patrick asked.

Your brows furrowed. “How? I spun the bottle, it landed on the person, I leaned in, put my lips against theirs, and that was it.”

Patrick sighed. “Just fucking show me how.” He looked at you expectantly, inching even closer.

With an annoyed sigh, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his— mouth closed, lips firm. When you sat back, Patrick and Art were both grinning.

“What?” You asked with a frown.

“That’s how you kiss on the playground in elementary school,” Art said, unable to contain his laughter. “C’mere.”

You crawled forward, stopping in front of the blond. His hand settled on your jaw, coaxing you forward.

His lips met yours softly, sweetly. It was easy to lose yourself in the feeling of Art’s mouth, in the gentle brushes of his lips against yours and the way he held your face so tenderly.

The feeling of his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips was strange, but you welcomed it, letting him lick into your mouth.

Each pass of his tongue against yours drew you deeper and deeper into it, into him. You moved into his lap without realizing it, kissing him with sweet, timid laps of your tongue.

Art pulled back first, his cheeks soft and pink and so pretty. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kiss someone. That was really good.”

You laughed softly, and moved off of his lap sheepishly. Patrick leaned forward, brushing your hair back, holding your face in his hand.

“Okay, show me what Art showed you,” he instructed, then leaned in.

Kissing Patrick was different than kissing Art. He was hungrier, more insistent. His tongue pressed into your mouth like he wanted to chart every inch. You did your best to match what he offered, to kiss the way Art had just shown you, sweetly, like you really meant it.

And you did mean it. Patrick’s hands moved along your side, up until they cupped your tits through your shirt. You moaned softly into his mouth— the sound was muffled, met with a moan of his own. He gave an experimental squeeze of your tits and you whined softly. So he did it again, amused by the pretty, sweet noises you mewled out.

Patrick was getting hard, pressing against your thigh. It was a new sensation that you were hyper aware of as you unconsciously ground yourself against him.

You pulled back first, cheeks burning hot after you remembered Art was right beside you. You tucked unkempt hair behind your ear, smiled bashfully. “How was I?”

“Good,” Patrick said.

At the same time Art supplied, “So good.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. Cool.”

Art was squirming, fidgeting, holding a pillow over his lap. Patrick was less covert— opting to openly adjust himself, drawing more attention to the fact that he was hard. You rolled your eyes and stole the nearest cup you could find, sipping at watered down Mountain Dew.

“Do you want me to leave?” You teased, raising an eyebrow. Your teeth dug into the plastic straw as you looked between the two of them.

Art stammered, mortified, but Patrick just smiled dizzyingly over at you. “I can teach you something else. You got to first base, so why don’t you steal second?”

You rolled your eyes, but heat flared behind your cheeks. Jesus Christ, he was such a smug asshole. “I still don’t know what that means,” you said, feeling a little embarrassed.

He grinned and mimed jerking off. Your eyes widened, and you laughed softly. “That would be weird,” you said, half-believing it. “Like, if I did jerk one of you off, that leaves one of you just watching.”

You glanced at Art, who looked just as interested as Patrick did, and your heart stammered nervously. “What if I show you how you do it on Art? Look at him— he’s the perfect little practice dummy.” Patrick reached over, pinching at Art’s cheek until the blond kicked his shin.

“Show me?” You echoed. “Like… you’re going to do it to him, and I do it to you?”

Patrick nodded, leaning into Art’s side, his smarmy smile dissolved into something needier. Art swallowed hard, lips parted slightly as he looked over at Patrick.

Patrick’s lips met his slowly, hungrily. You watched wide eyed as Patrick deepened the kiss, as Art eagerly accepted the other boy’s tongue into his mouth.

Patrick threw the pillow out of Art’s lap and sent it careening into the desk on the opposite side of the room. Your eyes widened at the sight of Art, hard and tenting his boxers. Patrick palmed him in his large hands making the blonde whimper into his mouth and buck up, seeking friction.

You swallowed hard, biting down on the straw as you watched Patrick tug at the elastic of Art’s boxers. Art lifted his hips to allow Patrick to tug them down his thighs, just enough to expose his cock to both of you.

“See,” Patrick gasped, leaning back from their kiss. Art chased his lips fruitlessly, mouth ajar, waiting for more. “He’s so fucking easy. Come feel.”

You moved closer, looking at Art for permission. When he nodded, you reached out, letting your fingertips graze the soft skin of his shaft. He exhaled a shuddery breath, eyes fluttering shut. Patrick’s hand covered yours, guiding you to squeeze around his length.

He was warm under your touch, silky soft, pulsing in your grip. Your heart hammered just at that— at the feel of him in your hand. “Feels nice, huh? Knowing how much he wants you.” You nodded, then slid your fist up, testing the waters. Art moaned softly, throbbed in your grip, aching for more. Patrick smiled like the cat who got the cream. “Hands off, just watch me.”

Patrick spat into his hand and replaced your hand with his own. The second Patrick curled his fingers around Art and started stroking him slowly, the blond was mewling for more. “Fuck,” he moaned, his forehead knocking against Patrick’s, mouth open, panting. “That’s good, feels good.”

You watched Patrick rub his thumb over Art’s tip, eyes widening as Art really whimpered for it, hips thrusting up into Patrick’s fist, chasing more of the pleasure the brunet offered.

“You get it now?” Patrick asked. You nodded quickly, and he tugged down his own boxers. “Fuck, okay— fucking show me.”

Your heart hammered with nerves, but you nodded. You held your hand out and spit into it, mimicking what Patrick had done before you wrapped your hand around his cock.

He felt bigger in your hands, but you didn’t say that. One, you worried it might piss Art off, and two, he didn’t need the ego boost. And he was slick, beading precum at his tip so each pass of your hands felt slicker and slicker.

And you couldn’t help but want to be an asshole. “You’re wet like a girl,” you said with a smirk, gliding your thumb over his tip.

And he was shameless, nodding with a sly grin. “That means I like you.” He panted, moaning softly. “Besides, I bet your fucking panties aren’t dry right now.”

Well, fuck. You tried to ignore the rush of heat in your belly that those words caused, to focus only on the glide of your hand on Patrick’s cock— up and down, copying his pace on Art, copying the ways he’d squeeze and twist his hand.

Art was moaning, rutting up into the tight sheath of Patrick’s fist, the muscles of his abdomen tensing and relaxing in unsteady jerks beneath his soft skin.

“Fuck— switch, switch,” Patrick said quickly. Art whined when Patrick stopped touching him, but it was ignored. “Want you to feel it when he comes.”

He guided your hand back onto Art’s cock and nodded for you to move. “Fuck, your hand’s so soft,” Art groaned. “Faster, faster, fuck—“ He was practically begging. You swallowed, increased the pace, squeezed him a little tighter.

Art was touching Patrick— jerking him off while you brought him closer and closer to finishing. Patrick leaned in, kissed you deeply, pulled Art in too until the three of you were a mess of tongues and lips and spit and hands.

Art came first— coating your hand in warm, slick cum, throbbing in your grip. He was panting into your and Patrick’s mouths, moaning softly as you continued to slowly work him through it. Patrick came next, once Art redoubled his effort, focused on making Patrick add to the mess covering your hands.

Patrick was loud, pornographic, messy. Art brought a cum covered hand between his lips, cleaning it up. Your eyes widened.

“Art, c’mon, you’re scandalizing her,” Patrick said, like you weren’t even there.

“Shut up,” you said, shoving him. He laughed and pulled his boxers back up. Art followed suit, and the three of you were left gross and sweating in the heat. You wiped your hand off on one of their discarded shirts and gave a sheepish smile.

They sat there, expectantly. Waiting for you to make the next call. There was a level of want in you, need, but the thought of asking for them to take care of it was mortifying. “Do you want to watch a movie or something now?”

#and when they bring Tashi in to teach her to ask for what she wants then what????#if u want me to continue this……. please god please keep sending me reqs for this au #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #my writing #art donaldson #patrick zweig #challengers fanfic #challengers x reader

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volchitsa-of-winterfell · 9 months ago

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the way patrick zweig is so clearly a creature of desire; so fundamentally hungry. always devouring, uncaring of how desperate he might appear for it—taking a bite of the line judge's bagel sandwich before he even sits down; scarfing down his hotdog before grabbing a bite of art's, and then later treating their churros exactly the same way; picking the cigarette that tashi slapped out of his mouth up off the literal alleyway street so he can finish smoking it. acting on his hungers without asking permission first.

the way art donaldson is comfortable expressing desire without acting on it; content to yearn. mr. i-do-what-she-says-and-then-i-win obediently drinks his green juices, his electrolyte mixes; he lays his heart on the table for tashi, twice, and lets her decide when to take it; he tells her he wants to kiss her, but then lets her come to him to actually do it. a lapdog, just like patrick says: he'll turn his pleading eyes to you, desire writ across every line of him, but he is too well-bred to ever snap and just take.

....except, of course, with patrick; but even then, only when he can sublimate his desire for patrick into the appearance of desire for another woman. snapping at the churro when patrick calls him out over sowing doubt in his relationship with tashi is the obvious one, but also the fact that art is the one to come first in their mutual-masturbation experience when talking about kat zimmerman (how much of it was because of miss zimmerman and how much of it was art letting himself imagine patrick with her?). patrick, in the churro scene, describes it as seeing art "lit up about something," and while he's not wrong i think it's more specific than that. art feels deeply, keenly, but he guards the flames of his desire so carefully; banks them down and keeps the embers glowing for years. tashi is content to meet art halfway, to take the quiet longing invitations he extends. patrick is not. his desire, his hunger, is bigger than that. he wants to see sparks fly. how perfect, then, that he is the only one who can bring that out of art. he does exactly that with the racket-neck signal, and art (once he's over his shock) is once again lit up; ready to take the win, not to have it handed to him.

the way tashi duncan understands them both, perfectly, from their very first night in that hotel room that was so formative for all three of them. she kisses art first, because she already knows that if she kissed patrick first, art would take that as a rejection and retreat; put his desire away. she kisses art first because she knows patrick will not give up on his own desires that easily. she understands how to stoke art's desires and how to temper patrick's and teach him patience. and because of that, she gets them both: she doesn't have to choose.

#challengers #challengers meta #patrick zweig #art donaldson #tashi duncan #fan analysis #challengers analysis #my post #text post #v speaks #character analysis

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fanfics4all · 3 months ago

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Mistletoe

Request: Yes / No Fluffcember Day 18!

Don’t be shy, request things! <3 Have a nice day/night

Caliban x Fem!Reader

Word count: 478

Warnings: Just funny cute fluff!

Y/N: Your Name

Prompt(s): Mistletoe

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(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)

*Caliban’s POV*

I had seen many odd decorations hanging around the moral world in December- glittering lights, red and green ribbons, fake snow in windows- but none confused me quite as much as the small, leafy sprigs tired up above doorways. I found myself staring at one in particular, a cluster of green leaves with white berries hanging in the kitchen of my girlfriend, Y/N, whom I was currently living with. I narrowed my eyes, my brows furrowing, trying to understand the significance of it.

“What in the Hells is this?” I muttered, tilting my head. Y/N walked in, hiding a smile as she noticed me staring. Y/N had always loved watching me encounter the mortal world’s traditions for the first time.

“Something interesting about the ceiling?” She asked, leaning against the doorway with a raised brow. I pointed up, giving her a slightly annoyed look, but I was simply annoyed by my lack of knowledge.

“This plant. Why do mortals insist on hanging random bits of greenery inside their homes?” She laughed, crossing her arms.

“Oh, that’s mistletoe. It’s not just a random decoration, it has a tradition behind it.”

“A tradition? It’s simply a plant.” I glanced between her and the mistletoe, skeptical.

“Not just any plant.” She teased, stepping closer.

“Mistletoe is special. In mortal tradition, if two people stand under it they’re supposed to kiss.” I raised a brow, a spark of intrigue lighting up my eyes.

“Is that so?” I smirked. She nodded, her cheeks warming as she met my gaze.

“It’s meant to bring good luck, or at least, that’s what people say.” A slow smile spread across my face and I stepped closer, the air between us tingling with anticipation.

“So, if I’m understanding correctly… since we’re standing under it now…” Y/N bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile.

“I mean, technically, yes. That’s what the tradition says.” I tilted my head, studying her.

“Mortals have some interesting customs, but I think I might like this one.” I said, my voice dropping to a warm murmur.

I leaned down, my lips brushing hers in a soft, lingering kiss. My hands rested gently on her shoulders, pulling her closer, and for a moment, all thoughts of Hell and Sabrina melted away. The kiss was warm and tender, a gentle reminder that even I could find peace in her presence. When we finally broke apart, she looked up at me with a playful smirk.

“So, do you approve of the mistletoe tradition?” I chuckled, my thumb tracing her cheek.

“I think I could get used to it. Maybe you’ll have to teach me about a few more of these mortal customs.” She smiled, leaning into my touch.

“I’d be happy to. Maybe we’ll make a mortal out of you yet.” She winked and I rolled my eyes.

Tag list: @les-bio-lie @tashy-bear @ashwarren32 @hollie-blogs-blog1 @lover-of-books-and-tea @nerdygaloresposts @teenwolfbitches28 @kmc1989 @drw0301bieber @lady-of-lies @ravenmoore14 @ravenempress101 @cillianchamp @rowanthomasknapp @rachelxwayne @ready-4-fanfiction @madammarvellous-blog1 @lover2448

#fanfic #prompt #the chilling adventures of sabrina #the chilling tales of sabrina #the chilling adventures of sabrina imagine #tcaos #tcaos imagine #caliban #caliban imagine #caliban tcaos #tcaos caliban #caliban x reader #caliban x fem!reader #fluff #fluffcember #fluffcember 2024 #fluffcember day 18 #mistletoe

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kisses4kaia · 10 months ago

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In your blurb about teaching art how to give head you wrote “[Patrick] wanted to push [Art] onto his chest and make him sob, let you watch, if you wanted” - any chance you would write that scene 👀 it sounds soo hot

was waiting for this one. and, why yes there is😁!!

(unprotected penetrative sex (m receiving), voyeurism, switch!art, switch!patrick. mega unproofread😴. MDNI.)

“are—are you serious?” art’s wide eyes flick over to his best friend’s matching nerve-wracked ones at your request. “as cancer,” you lean back, taking a drag of your cigarette through a mischievous grin.

patrick can feel the tension rising, and can’t help but chuckle nervously. “well… i mean—“

“i’m down.” art’s a little shocked at himself, the surety in his voice, but he lets his words simmer. somehow, you smile even wider, and patrick studies art’s face then yours, briefly flicking to the woman in the chair’s, secretly thinking this was a plot you guys to kid him.

he’s still skeptical even after you’ve gotten up and pulled art along with you, cigarette hanging from your lips. his cynicism is only soothed when you sit art down on his knees on the bed, sitting back on his heels and awaiting further instructions.

and tashi, she’s remained silent during this whole ordeal, leaning back on her chair in the corner of the room. the glare in her eyes, the one that’s catching every movement of every atom, lets patrick know that this may have very well been her own idea.

“you’re okay with this?” patrick asks art, approaching the bed and kneeling parallel to him. the question was already answered, but he needed to know he wasn’t dreaming of this… again. “yeah. are—are you?”

“yes! i mean, uh, yeah,” patrick flushes at his reply. too quick, he thinks. i must sound so stupid right now.

art just smiles smally, glancing over to you, whose now sitting atop tashi’s lap, back pressed to her chest with her arm wrapped around your waist. you’re both watching so tentatively, it makes shivers jolt through art’s vertebrae. you burn your cig out on the arm of the chair, prompting them to begin.

unsurely, art leans forward and presses his lips to patrick’s. the kiss begins slow, hesitant, but desire builds up quickly enough and it has them pushing tongue down the other’s throat and the kisses soon turn to open-mouthed smacking all over cheekbones, jaws, and necks. clothes shed, and hands find skin.

they seem to forget they’re two different entities as they begin to grow more and more greedy with what they can grab and keep of the warm body attached to them. the way patrick growls before pushing art onto his back pulls a curious, yet pleased hum out of you, and tashi presses a kiss to your shoulder.

it’s all a blur after art is flipped over onto his chest, patrick’s saliva dribbling disgustingly onto the blonde boy’s tight hole. the prep has art arching his back and whining, eliciting ‘shh’s and praises and kisses to his shoulder blade from the boy above him.

and when he finally sinks himself into the warm embrace of art’s tightness, patrick shudders and you can see the muscles in his back tense. he’s trying to hold himself back, you know, for the sake of art.

it’s nearly a minute before art whimpers out a ‘keep going’, and patrick can finally build up his pace.

it was so filthy. the way patrick’s arm snaked around art’s hips to tug on his cock in intervals, bringing him to the very brink of his orgasm before retracting it all and slowing the roll of his hips, all before speeding it up to the tens once more.

you learned very quickly that art was much more vocal with patrick than with you. not in volume—no, he was always loud—but in his words.

“c’mon, faster.” “you can go harder than that, i won’t break.” “you’re such a fucking dick, you know that?” “don’t give it to me nice, trick. you know how i like it.”

so many phrases he wouldn’t ever dare to utter when you’re so graciously pleasing him. he takes all you give him and makes no selfish request or protest to what he is gifted. tashi makes the same note, you can tell, because she tenses her thighs at every crass comment art throws at patrick.

he’s so close, everybody in the room knows it. patrick’s voice always raises in an octave or two when he’s about to start begging, and you’ve all had enough practice with him to know the rest of his tells. “where do you want it?” patrick just barely whispers into art’s ear, and you catch half of his signature toothy grin. “inside.”

“oh, g-od—!“ patrick voice breaks as he cums nearly immediately after the word is uttered, and tashi smiles against your skin. he’s still in a haze as he absentmindedly wraps his hands around art’s cock once more and drives him to a summit of euphoria, squirming as his tip weeped out pulses of white, hot, sticky, spend.

patrick regrettably must pull out now, and as he falls down next to art, breathless and dopey, you begin to clap.

it’s slow, at first, and then tashi joins in with hollers and laughs.

“that was incredible. thank you, boys. do you suppose it’s now our turn?” tashi knows what the answer will be, and her assumptions are proved correct at the pleads art and patrick meet her with.

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wisepuma23 · 6 years ago

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The Butterfly Shelter Chapter 4

Summary: Logan brings Virgil for a doctor's appointment and receives more insight than he asked for from the odd Dr. Picani. Reeling from the visit, he gets a phone call with some troubling news. Just wonderful! Logan is brought back down to Earth from Cloud Nine of paternal fatherhood, and must now confront his new reality with a son in his life.

Warnings: Mild Angst

Pairings: Slowburn Logicality, Parental Analogical, Parental Royality

Word count: 5,634

Notes: Puma: God this chapter is finally out!! I swear the universe was working against me. But woo!! It's here! Huge thanks to Tashi @fangirltothefullest for her AMAZING art and my betas, @sher-soc-the-famder and @my-happy-little-bean for being super patient!! So enjoy :D!

Tashi: I'm so happy it's here! We all worked s hard for this chapter!

Previous Chapter

Read on AO3

Logan stared at a stuffed bison with six legs instead of four. How inaccurate and strange. Most likely a new addition to Dr. Picani’s office. Logan bounced Virgil on his lap, his son gurgling. Probably hungry. He pictured the supermarket on the way home. The ever stinging smell of cleaning and sticky floors made him long for an alternative option.

You’re almost out of diapers a voice nagged him. And formula, no matter how much Virgil scrunched up his face at it. Aside from it being adorable, Virgil would get no coddling from him. Logan has read enough books on infant dietary needs of course. He also paid close attention for signs when Virgil was ready to try something new.

“Logan?”

He snapped out of his thoughts, “Yes, yes. I apologize.”

“It’s all good!” Dr. Picani beamed, “Like your little waterbender there!”

Logan tilted his head, “What?”

“Oh, there’s a cool neat-o test based on hand shape online that tells you about what bender you are,” Dr. Picani brightened even more (as if that was humanly possible), “And I remember Virgil here got waterbender! You know? From Avatar: the Last Airbender??”

Logan pinched his nose, “I meant the test results, doctor.”

“Oh,” Dr. Picani’s smile softened, “The good news is that he didn’t catch anything. Aside from his ongoing colic, your son is incredibly lucky.”

His eyes crinkled around his laughter lines, “Roman was vaccinated, but even then, there was still that chance. Bacteria and all that. Kids just being kids like eating dirt or something.”

“And the bad news?”

“Babies can heal quickly even without Katara’s spirit water!” Dr. Picani said, but then bit his lips for a few moments, “But it looks like a permanent scar. So keep an eye on that arm. It might be sore and bruised for a while. And also watch his little fingers,” The doctor adjusted his glasses, his voice lost all goofiness from earlier, “I’m sure you would’ve noticed by now, but if either the arm or the fingers don’t work correctly, you might have some severed muscle tendons from the force of the bite.”

Logan’s bouncing came to a stop. His three-hour power nap left him in an instant. Exhaustion weighed down his bones. Barely a month into having a son and he already had a scar or worse, a disfigurement that would alter his lifestyle.

“I’m a terrible father,” Logan sagged, glancing down at his son’s eyes still so full with spirit, “Oh, what am I doing?”

Laughter rang through the colorful office, “Welcome to fatherhood, Mr. Crofters! I’ve worked here twenty years in the maternity ward and I’ve seen every sort of father under the sun. And you? You aren’t a terrible father,” Dr. Picani said as he reached over and patted his white-knuckled fist, “You treated his wound, then called me immediately, and all the while you comforted him. In my totally expert opinion; you’re off to a good start.”

“What kind?” Logan whispered, trying (and failing) to hide the desperation in his voice, “What kind of father am I, if not a terrible one?”

Dr. Picani looked at him, silent for the first time since he entered his office. Logan squirmed in his seat as the doctor deliberate over the question. No doubt judging him like anyone else. Virgil burbled a soft noise and tugged on his tie, insistent as ever. For the split second Logan looked away from Dr. Picani to look at his son, the knot in his chest loosened. He never knew he could house so much love in his heart for a small thing.

He looked back up at Dr. Picani and instead of the biting glare he expected, he wore a fond smile with wrinkles around the edges. Logan blinked. He didn’t know how to fit that expression in his world. His world full of square shoulders and horizontal grimaces. Virgil pulled on his tie again.

“You, Logan, are not a terrible father,” Dr. Picani said, warmth in every word that had Logan reeling, “I want to say you’re good, heck you’re doing much better than most new fathers I’ve met! But a good father takes time, come back in twenty years, and let me know how you’re doing then!” Dr. Picani’s smile softened as Logan let the wise words wash over him, ‘But you? You’re well on your way to being a good father.”

Logan didn’t feel particularly comforted by the words. Not with the large bruise that still lingered under Virgil’s onesie. A permanent reminder of his failure for years to come. Virgil didn’t seem too fazed, but Logan couldn’t understand. He knew logically resilience came with childhood and kids often bounced back. Yet, yet, he couldn’t help but think he might’ve done something to prevent it. Virgil wouldn’t have a bite at all if he hadn’t visited Patton so soon.

If anything, this was one scar Logan wouldn’t bounce from.

“What would you do?” Logan whispered, his chest tight with anxiety clawing up his insides as he looked at his son, “If you were in my place?”

“Hmmm, well,” Dr. Picani tapped his chin then beamed, “I’d be completely inconsolable, to be honest! And hold back my wife, because she’s so much like Garnet! But….” Dr. Picani clasped his hands over his desk, “I know accidents happen and it hurts now, but one day it’ll stop hurting. It’ll find its place in your life.”

“Actual advice?” Logan raised an eyebrow, “I would’ve expected more cartoon references.”

Dr. Picani grinned with a hint of mischief around the edges, “Silly! I wasn’t done. Rafiki said that sometimes the past can hurt, but you can choose to either run from it...or learn from it. And have you learned something, Mufasa?”

Logan blinked, “Well–”

“Actually it’s Simba,” Dr. Picani cut in, “That Rafiki said it to, but since you’re a dad, I said Mufasa. Here’s hoping you don’t meet a tragic end from unseen forces that actively plotted your demise and die protecting your son from people closer to you than you think.”

“What?”

“Never mind!” Dr. Picani laughed, “Just one of my cartoon rants, don’t worry about it. Or complain to my superior...please. She’ll give me that disappointed look again. So did you learn something from this whole debacle?”

“...Yes,” Logan said, “I believe I’ve learned some valuable insights after all.”

Logan looked at his son, running a hand over his pudgy little cheek. Virgil moved immediately to grab for his fingers and pull on them. His grip strong as ever, so by Dr. Picani’s assessment, he would be fine. No disfigurement anytime soon.

“Wonderful!” Dr. Picani picked up the stuffed bison and waved it in front of Virgil, “I know for a fact he loves you very much already! He isn’t the miserable little boy I knew him,” Virgil giggled as his fingers reached for the toy, “Golly, he’s so happy. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

“I’m simply following the guide books.” Logan coughed.

Dr. Picani winked up at him, “You love him too, and there’s no book in the whole world that can teach you that. I don’t blame you. Virgil is the cutest water-bender I know!”

Logan’s face turned a hot pink as croaks fell out. Dr. Picani laughed as Virgil grabbed the hairs of the bison, the leg too fat for him to grasp, and swung it up and down as he giggled. Logan didn’t disagree with Dr. Picani’s statement. He loved his son. And no one could teach the warm encompassing feeling in his chest whenever he looked at him. Virgil Crofters, his family.

That very love was what contributed to his worries, Virgil deserved a good father. Someone to watch over him and be there for every recital and milestone. Be there for every bruise and breakdown. Every triumph and award. He didn’t want to miss a thing. Ever. Logan’s eyes prickled with the threat of tears again as his thoughts drifted to Roman.

He loved that boy from day he was born. So much energy in such a tiny frame and his smiles never ran out. Roman pushed and shoved at the world like he wanted everyone to know he was there. Logan couldn’t forget the tantrums he threw, the toys he’s broken in his enthusiasm, and how he ran. Ran far and fast despite his stubby little legs for his age. It didn’t matter that Roman was Patton’s kid, a detail that had lost importance as he loved him like his own.

And why the bite stung so much. Lashing out because he didn’t want anyone else to leave him. Patton didn’t quite get the hang of teaching nonviolent ways to express emotion, but then again what did he expect from a five-year-old who loved swords? No, no it wasn’t Roman’s fault. A heavy prickly ball sat in his chest, disappointment so deep that it hurt to breathe.

Logan swallowed thickly as Virgil’s giggles filled the air. Dr. Picani told him when to get vaccines and shots for Virgil in the upcoming weeks and months. Yet Logan couldn’t forget Roman’s tears. He let out an exhausted sigh as a migraine blossomed behind his eyes. Why did feelings always came with such adverse effects? Virgil tugged on his tie again and snapped him out of his thoughts. Logan shook his head and paid attention to the rest of the visit.

+++++

Logan slammed the car door as he got in. Then slumped over his car wheel. Virgil burst into tears in the backseat at the loud noise. His shoulders slumped even more. Whatever Dr. Picani said from his silly cartoons couldn’t be right. Him? A good father?

“You’re deluding yourself,” Logan hissed under his breath, “I can’t do this. I’ll be just like my father and–”

Logan muffled a sob.

Virgil cries joined his, and he wanted to drive away into the sunset. Something ugly pierced his heart at the way he failed Virgil’s cry for attention. Damn feelings hindering his care of his son. He could cry all he wanted when he was dead. He’d have all of eternity to cry his pain and failures away.

Logan wiped away his tears with his wrist, “Pull it together, you idiot.”

He took in a shuddering breath. Then he swiftly beat back the thorny emotions at the back of his throat. Back and back and squeezed down at the bottom of his stomach. Thrown into a bottomless pit for all he cared. Then he turned around in his seat to face Virgil.

“I’m sorry, your Dad didn’t mean to startle you,” Logan reached with an arm and wiped Virgil’s thick tears away, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You’re likely starving, here let me just–” He unclicked his seatbelt and wiggled into the backseat, “Join you.”

Logan took Virgil out of his car seat and into his arms. He bounced Virgil up and down on his knees, earning some giggles. No more tears for now. Logan reached for a bottle in his bag and immediately his son’s eyes sparkled.

Virgil sucked on the bottle as Logan cradled him. It almost felt private, in the back of his car in a crowded parking garage. The shadows hid them from the world. Logan curled up into his knees, an extra shield around Virgil. The grit in his eyes from exhaustion and the ache in his bones faded.

“I’m sorry,” Logan said again, the line of his mouth slanted down, “I suppose I learned something from this whole debacle, you are my top priority. I won’t let anything else distract me again,” Virgil blinked up at him with a coo, “It wasn’t Roman’s fault, he’s only a child who doesn’t know much better, but I’ll watch over you. You won’t get hurt anymore, I promise.”

The strains of the Imperial March startled him then pulled his phone out from his pocket. By the ringtone, it had to be his boss. Wonderful. Falsehood, he hissed in his mind. Logan sighed as he pushed the button and propped his phone between his ear and shoulder. Quietly shushing Virgil’s coos to listen.

“Logan!!! Whatcha up to?” A sugary sweet voice replied, “How are you enjoying life on the outside, haha?”

“I’m spending quality time with my son,” Logan said, his professionalism the only thing keeping his tongue in cheek, “But I noticed something off about my payments recently. It appeared that I got a 40% cut in my pay? Is it some error or?”

He heard the whirs of a printer in the background, “Yeah so listen, I gave you two months paid paternity leave. Other places would give you two weeks,” The creak of Mr. Magenta’s smile could be heard through the line, “So I’m rather generous even paying you at all. How does four-hour shifts work for you? More time with your son after all!”

“Sir, I’ve been one of your best workers for the past five years!” Logan’s temper burnt inside of him, the grip on Virgil’s bottle tightened, “Lowering my hours and docking my pay is unfair! You said I could have a six-month leave. You were fine with it a year ago–”

“Yeah I was...” Mr. Magenta said, the steady spurts of paper being printed in the background, “But you didn’t have a little demon a year ago,”

“What?”

“That’s right, you play by my rules now,” Mr. Magenta snarled, all false cheeriness gone, “You do as I say or you and your kid end up on the streets. And I’ll hire another desperate college dropout.”

“You sick sonva–”

The printer beeped.

“Oh! Looks like we’re out of ink,” Mr. Magenta giggled, “Want to try that again, Logan?”

“....What do you want? I’ll switch to the night shift, the whole shift if I have to, I need those hours. Please reconsider.”

“Hmmmmm….”

Virgil gurgled, signifying he was done drinking. Logan took the bottle out and wiped away the milk mustache with his bib. The crackling silence on the other end made the back of his hairs prickle. If he lost this job, he didn’t know what he’d do. Perhaps pick up odd jobs again but with a baby to boot? He just can’t–

“Alright!” Mr. Magenta said at last, “Night shifts for you and I better see you in two months. I rather like your manila folder, hate to shred all of that work. It’s not often to have one so thick with perfect quotas.”

“But my pay–”

“SHUT UP!” The call clicked to a stop.

Logan threw his phone down and swallowed down his yell. Not in front of Virgil. He needed to reevaluate his budget plans then. Damn it! As much as he wanted to curse and scream and cry; he didn’t want Virgil to feel like he’d done something wrong. Logan sighed, forcibly unlocking all tension from his body.

“Shush, it’s gonna be okay,” Logan said, raising Virgil over his shoulder to burp, “Let’s go home. I’ll read you something nice before you take your nap, okay? With lots of pictures. At least one of us will be happy today.”

Virgil cooed and reached up to pat his face. Those chubby fingers clumsily hanging onto his frames. The last of his anger faded away. Logan weakly smiled down at his son. He would find a way. For Virgil, he would do anything.

+++++

The camera clicked on, quietly whirring through the recording. It shook as Logan fumbled in his haste to capture the moment. The world blurred until the camera came to a stop. Focused from above onto Virgil, laying on his back in his crib. His eyes bright as he giggled as a large finger came down to tickle his stomach.

“Hello again,” Logan’s muffled giggles behind the camera, “Up from your nap already? Someone is excited about their first day of work with Daddy, huh?”

“Guah!” Virgil grabbed his finger and started to suck on it.

“I know, I know it’s third dinner already,” Logan said, the camera zooming closer until Virgil’s brown eyes took up the whole screen, “Do you want formula or formula? Or chef’s choice, formula?”

Virgil kicked at the air as the camera zoomed out again, bubbly giggles as his answer. This was the perfect shot to capture a monumental milestone. He flipped onto his stomach for the camera to see as Logan gasped. A huge step forward in his development! Virgil giggled as he pounded his little fists against his blankets.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” The camera shook again as loud clicks filled the air, “I need to tell everyone right now.”

Ping after ping, text sounds flooded the audio output, but the phone camera kept faithfully recording. Virgil reached for a mini bear toy and started to suck on its ear. So oblivious to the giggles and pings of internal screaming from his father.

The camera shook as the pings became more insistent and finally clicked to a stop. End of recording labeled “Virgil’s first rollover at 4 months”. Preserved in an abandoned phone’s memory by the owner, Logan Crofters.

++++

The red light of a security camera turned on as it detected movement. The time stamp only a few hours after the previous recording. A man stepped out of an ancient car with a dark bundle on his chest and a bag slung across his shoulder. In the lowlight of a flickering street lamp, prim and proper were the only words to describe the man.

[08:48 PM]

Logan resisted the urge to pull his navy trench coat tighter around himself in the night’s chill. Virgil slept soundly in a wrap against his chest, a dark beanie on his head to fend away the cold. Logan hurried a little faster to the doors of the building. Central heating so close! He slid his keycard without looking, so ingrained at this point, and the doors opened with a whoosh.

A lobby camera turned in its steady path to capture his entrance far below.

“Hey hey, look who’s back from vacation!” Keith whooped over his newspaper, “Really odd to see you at night, Mr. Crofters.”

“You’re telling me,” Logan replied as he walked up to the metal detectors that barred him from the elevators at the back, “I have opted to switch to the night shift so I don’t disrupt as many co-workers if Virgil cries or needs to be fed.”

“Virgil, huh?” Keith stood up, his dark curls falling in front of his face to look over his desk, “So who’s the cute little bug from? You got a girl?”

“No, and I’m not planning to get one,” Logan said tersely as he put a hand on Virgil’s back protectively, “He’s sleeping right now so I advise keeping your voice low. But it’s nice to see you again, Mr. Smith.”

“Alright, same too,” Keith sat back down again, still smiling brightly at the tiny bundle, “Have a good night, sir. And don’t work too late!”

Logan waved as he walked through the detectors. Small talk, he never quite got the hang of it. He could hear the rustle of the newspaper being snapped back open. Keith and one other guard, Ned Fulmer, always switched their shifts. One or the other. For a mid-sized accounting firm, they really should hire more staff. And more competent ones too.

Then again, he shouldn’t talk ill of them. They hired him after all when no one else did. If they gave him a steady paycheck and a crappy office, it was better than nothing. And the benefits couldn’t be understated enough. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have Virgil right now.

The elevator camera watched him fidget to some outdated tune. The strains of too peppy music despite the miserable air of the whole building circled like carrion birds in his head. The lenses whirred and clicked, catching every minuscule twitch. The grey lights flickered as he glanced down at the buttons with smudged numbers worn down over the years. Not a single one replaced like not even the buttons could escape this infernal place. The man checked his watch as the elevator slowly went up the floors, the second hand counting down like to a final curtain call rather than the start of his shift.

The doors opened and he stepped out of the oppressive metal coffin to a dark floor. Only a scant few fluorescent lights of computers were left on. It cast the cubicles into boxes of shadows and darkness. The red light of an exit sign shone at the back of it. Logan swallowed at the almost menacing and frightening air of what once was so familiar. The dull lights made him almost ill as he remembered the neon meadow of baby toys at home. Then he shook his head, primal instincts couldn’t override his reasoning.

“Good evening,” Logan said as he navigated through the corporate maze, “Good evening, fellow associates. I’ll be in my office if you need me.” No reaction from the mindless drones, their eyes glazed over as they scrolled through datasheets, “No need to welcome me back.”

The clack clack clack of keys rang against the silence, interrupted by the occasional yawn or creak. Logan straightened his shoulders, sharp angles of professionalism even if no one cared to notice or comment on. He held Virgil close to his chest like he protected a flame from a blustery wind. If the elevator was a coffin, the whole floor was a black hole of no escape. Not even light. Logan passed cubicles with no posters, pictures, or even a favorite novelty pen in sight. The night shift workers sat there glued to their screens like good little robots, click, clack, press enter, input, new row, the spreadsheets filled one by one.

Logan swallowed back the illogical instinct to retch at the display, instead of a sterile cubicle he saw the picked clean bones of a life. Of any hope. Mr. Magenta preferred his workers to have no distractions, and Logan braced his son closer at the thought. Why hadn’t he noticed the leeching effects of this monotony and fixed lifestyle before? Logan shook his head. He would stay for however long to support his son and perhaps find a better job. He ignored how long he’d been looking for a ‘better job’ for the past five years.

He hastily clicked the door of his office behind him. Away from the mechanical eyes and ears. The camera’s movement did not falter as it continued to sweep the office. Right to left, right to left, over and over, repetitive and consistent, just like the workers it monitored.

Logan slumped against the door. He made it. Stifling a sigh, he pulled out his chair from his nondescript desk and sat in it. The blinds behind him were drawn up to reveal the skyline, dull grey lines against an inky sky. Then again, not much different than the sickly smog that dirtied his view during his former day shift either. The only other lights came from his dreary coworkers, sterile white and colorless as the rest of this soul-sucking place.

He looked down at his sleeping son. Virgil squished his face deeper against his suit with a faint sigh. Right, he needed to change out of it immediately. No one would bother him for the next eight hours anyhow. He found that old sweatshirts were the preferred attire when taking care of babies. As wonderful Virgil was so far, he still drooled and spat like any other infant. Logan’s ever so present thin line softened into a smile as Virgil sniffled in his sleep.

He opened his satchel and pulled out seven different rolled up blankets from home. Budget-wise, it would’ve been smarter to opt for cheap scratchier blankets but in this rare instance he took the less logical choice and took the softer ones higher on the shelf. Spun out of clouds and dreams it advertised on the side. Logan had to take a moment to look at them. The folded blankets checkered his desk like a manicured garden of patterned dinosaurs and rainbows across it. A piece of home totally out of its element in the conditioned room where the stale air wasn’t the only thing that chilled him down to his bones.

He pulled out an empty filing cabinet, shallow but large enough, and buried it in the blankets. No cold metal would dare disturb his star darling’s sleep if he had anything to say about it. Logan fiddled with it for longer than necessary. It just–It had to be perfect. His fingers shoved and adjusted the blankets until it became a miniature nest. Hmm, good enough.

Now for the finishing touch. Logan carefully, oh so carefully, pulled Virgil out from his papoose wrap. His son whimpered and his heart skipped a beat, Logan rubbed a hand down his back and shushed him before he could fuss. Virgil’s face scrunched for a few moments then smoothed out as he rocked against Logan’s chest. Logan let out a breath. Thank Newton, he truly wouldn’t know what to do if his son woke up. He rocked Virgil to a soft hum of Mozart around the room, each step quiet as a mouse.

Virgil remained peaceful, slumping almost boneless in his hold.

Logan set him down in the makeshift bed of a cabinet. Logan leaned over to give the lightest of pecks to his son’s head and murmured a good night. He didn’t know how Virgil could be so gentle and peaceful when he’d heard horror stories from Patton about Roman keeping him up for months and months. Although Virgil did have his fair share of sleepless nights, they became less and less frequent. This seemed to be aided by the fact that his Colic had settled, which was a relief to them both. He hoped Virgil would sleep through the night soon. His books noted it was a possibility at the five-month stage.

Hmm, he didn’t want to accidentally shut close the cabinet, so he stuck several rulers in the hole between the desk and cabinet. Adequate risk minimization of injury and accident. Virgil snuffled in his sleep, his fingers clutching at empty air. His thoughts melted at the sight like butter and far sweeter than jam. No, he had to remember this wasn’t home and he couldn’t dally on his objectives.

Logan was quick to shirk off his suit jacket after that, and he laid it around his chair before rummaging through his satchel for his folded sweater at the bottom. He doubted Mr. Magenta would check up on him; it was a documented fact that the vile man never came down from his office on the top floor and certainly not on nights. Best not to mix with the henchmen of course. Logan pulled out his sweater, the smooth beige fabric soft and easier on the eyes than the stiff lines of his monochromatic suit. He rubbed his fingers through it for a moment, appreciating the faint stains of milk and spit on it. A reminder of home.

But he had more important things to focus on and he needed to complete them before Virgil’s scheduled feeding in three hours. Logan unbuttoned his white collared dress shirt with deft fingers and an eye on the door. The unforgiving conditioned air bit at his exposed arms and through the thin wall of his tank. He bit back a shiver. In one graceful movement, he pulled on his sweater with a sigh. It even smelled like home, the thought surprised him. When did he think of his apartment as home? He shook his head and pulled his chair closer to his computer.

Logan pulled up his work emails and clicked through the various databases on his computer. His eyes already started to ache at the sight of the long rows. So much he missed on his paid fraternal leave.

But first...Logan took out his phone and to take a snap of Virgil. Hmm, it seemed his son’s nest was still missing something. Logan pulled out Cow from the bottom of his bag and tucked it in next to Virgil. Perfect. Now adequate to capture this adorable moment in time.

First father-son day at work today!

The grainy photo had heart and stars stickers all over it. Patton sent back a simple thumbs up. Logan’s smile grew bigger as another text came through.

Roman doesn’t want to sleep yet, monsters in the closet again.

A slightly blurred selfie of Patton with a flyswatter and Roman peeking out from his blankets in the background appeared on his screen. Patton sat in the entrance of the closet from what he remembered of Roman’s room. Logan pressed a thumb onto the photo and saved it to his archive. Roman was so brave some days, but all kids had fears, including the ‘prince’ himself. But he had nothing to be afraid of when his Dad was there. Always ready to the rescue.

He only hoped he could be half of the great father Patton was.

+++++

Patton giggled as he turned on the old VHS camera recorder from his college days. He flipped open the screen, a blue screen flashes before it showed the adorable scene before him. He muffled his giggles as he pressed the zoom in.

[12:43 Jun 24 2019]

Roman laid on his stomach, eye to eye to his arch-nemesis, one Virgil Crofters. Six months old and full of life. Golly, he remembered when the poor kiddo was so quiet.

Virgil laid on his stomach for the required ‘tummy time’ that Logan talked about. His eyes watching Roman’s attentively like they were a pair of shiny keys.

Roman covered his eyes, “Oh no, where did I go?”

Virgil giggled.

“Peek a boo!” Roman said with a gummy grin, “Did I getcha?”

“Hehehehe, peka!” Virgil babbled, “Pepe, pepe, pee!!!”

“Logan is going to love this,” Patton said as he squealed with excitement, fiddling with the camera controls to capture every adorable giggle both of their sons had, “It’s going to be so fun to edit this for your first birthday, oh yes it will! Oh yes it will!!”

Roman groaned, “Daaaaaaddd!!! You’re so embarashing!”

“It’s embarr-assing, kiddo,” Patton said, then waved a hand in front of the camera, “You’re doing great, honey!! We can totally take care of little Virge for a bit.”

“ASS!” Virgil shouted with all the enthusiasm of a new discovery, “Ass, ash, shh!!”

“DAAAAD, HE SAID A BAD WORD!!” Roman snickered as he pointed at Virgil, “Look who’s in trooooubblleeeeeee!!!”

“N-no he didn’t say anything bad,” Patton said, his voice shaky behind the camera, “How ‘bout I give you ice cream tonight and watch some movies huh? I’ll give Logan this a little later after I figure out how to edit again…” Nervous laughter echoed, “Just to give the very best moments of his adorable son!”

The picture froze, the snickers cut off by the end of the recording.

+++++

“What are you doing?” Logan’s face squinted up into the camera, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“No, no, don’t let me stop you!” Nate said, his snicker deep and graveled, “Do you want me to hide behind the door again? Virgil seemed to like it! Come on, pleaaaaassseeee?”

Logan blushed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Virgil babbled at the mention of his name. Almost squirming in Logan’s hold until he had to kick off the rocking chair again to calm him down. Nate shoved his phone’s camera into Logan’s face, a rosy blush crawling up until–

“Fine fine,” Logan caved, then looked down at Virgil, “But for him. You’re right, he does seem to enjoy it. And he does require intellectual stimulation, especially at the six-month mark.”

“Yes!”

Nate held true to his hold and shuffled away to give him space. He propped his phone up to catch the picturesque image of a father cradling his son in the room, lit up by soft blue lamps. Toys laid scattered on the ground along with a playmat in one corner. Then Logan did that smile again, so private and reserved for Virgil only.

He couldn’t believe Logan was letting him catch it on camera! Forever bottled in time as a wonderful moment to the robotic man he once knew. The room hushed, even Virgil’s giggles quietened. Logan drew in a breath as his whole posture changed and the sharp lines around his figure smudged into something indiscernible. Almost like he was dropping his lifelong act as a boring square.

“ Baby mine, don’t you cry,” Logan’s voice gentle as raindrops and honey, “Baby mine, dry your tears, rest your head close to my heart, ” Virgil’s eyes slipped closed as Logan cradled him closer, rubbing his cheek gently, “ Never to part, oh baby mine…”

Logan kissed the top of his forehead. Virgil’s stubby little hands clutched at his blue sweatshirt, the wrinkles smoothing out on his face where they remained on his shirt. His tiny puffs of breath slowed into sleep, entering his second scheduled nap of the day. The rocking chair creaked to a stop as Logan hummed soft notes to his lullaby.

He stood up, still slowly rocking Virgil in his arms. Then walked over to his crib and set Virgil down. The camera strained to catch Logan’s whisper as he hovered over his son. His lips moved but Nate couldn’t decipher it at the moment.

The camera could:

“I’ll never leave you, Virgil. Not until the day I die. I love you so much.”

Logan turned around then a blush overtook his face again as he noticed the camera.

“Always so camera shy!” Nate giggled as Logan marched over. His hand reaching out toward the camera, his palm blotting out everything. And then–

The phone ran out of battery.

[Recording lost.]

taglist:

@poisonedapples @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2, @milomeepit, @k9cat, @my-happy-little-bean, @thesocialbookwormishere, @sher-soc-the-famder @thebrokenbluecrayon, @confinesofpersonalknowledge, @mariniacipher @finger-gunsss @peanut0303 @ilylogan @princeanxious @khadij-al-kubra @smokeyrutilequartz @pipapatton @ironwoman359 @celestial-firestorm @virge-of-a-breakdown @bunny222 @rosesisupposes @wildhorsewolf @sander-fander-sides @teacupfulofstarshine @ashrain5 @deafgirl-and-hercoven @moonfang03 @karmels-stuff @everythings-coming-up-aces @a-little-bit-of-ace @thekeytohappiness-is-you @larkiaquail @wundergirllovesyou @gemini-the-kitsune-rp @squishyturtle44 @alotofstupidstuff @pridefox @doing-my-demibest @coffee-fueled-art @tinashrader @pr0bablypr0crstinating @theunoriginaldaisy @fiive-second-cookies @anxiousangel121 @llamaavocado @ever-after-aaa

#sanders sides #logicality #sanders sides fanfic #logan sanders #virgil sanders #myfics #ITS OUT #GODDAMN!!!#this took forever pls appreciate it #sob #ALSO THE ART IS AMAZING AND I JUST LOVE IT SO MUCH

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news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Finstas make online dating so much more complicated

In our Love App-tually series, Mashable shines a light into the foggy world of online dating. It is cuffing season after all.

I will never again let someone I'm dating follow my finsta.

That's a sentiment that countless finsta users have when establishing emotional boundaries. In relationships built on intertwined online and in-person interactions, it's often a point of contention.

If you haven't been initiated into the bizarre world of niche memes and astrology tag posts, a finsta is a secondary, private Instagram account used to keep snarky screenshots, rant about your personal life, and post (mostly) risqué selfies that would leave the family members who follow your main account absolutely appalled. Finsta followers are usually a highly curated selection of close friends who wouldn't judge you for your bizarre one-night stands, validate you when you're feeling yourself, and support you when your mental health dips.

If a single group text represented only one circle of friends, then a finsta would be the overlapping portion of a Venn diagram. Friend groups don't always overlap, but on your finsta, you can access all of their unrelenting support on one platform.

Finsta really does teach you a lot. You find out who cheating, who hoeing, who got played and who depressed etc. Need help making a life decision? Ask your finsta, need help on an outfit?? FINSTA

— Tashie🌻 (@_NatashaMarie_) January 31, 2019

But when it comes to romance, deciding whose follow requests to approve can get hairy.

I personally have had a finsta for longer than any relationship I've been in and allowing a partner to follow it ended in disaster. In my case, I forgot to block the now ex from my finsta after we broke up. I posted a screenshot from a funny Tinder conversation with someone else weeks later. I woke up to a seething late night call from the ex, who was furious that I was on a dating app and even more enraged that I posted about it on the not quite public, but not quite private platform.

SEE ALSO: Which dating app is right for you? Use this guide to figure it out.

The whole debacle made me wonder if anyone should ever let their significant other follow their finstas. When I put out a call for thoughts on it, people were passionate about maintaining boundaries between the person they're dating and the content they post in private.

Caroline Long, a college student in Boston, said she rejected her boyfriend's follow request about a month into their relationship.

"If there's life news or drama I'm posting about, he's usually the first to hear about it anyway," she said. "And I've had my finsta for a while so there's some old, old posts about former boyfriends and issues that I'm sure wouldn't be fun for him to peruse."

my finsta b like -here’s a picture of my ass -let me expose my mental illness -now ima broadcast my depression episode -look @ my titties -this meme was funny

— 𝓒rybaby 𝓛ynn ✧ (@xbasedxgoddess) February 6, 2019

Online dating expert Julie Spira says couples with finstas don't necessarily need to share the accounts with each other for a healthy relationship. As long as you're not going out of your way to hide anything, Spira believes having a private space to vent is fine.

"When you're in a relationship, there are always things that you share with your close friends that you just might not share with your partner," she said during a phone call.

Finstas are appealing because they allow for vulnerability when there's an insurmountable pressure to be perfect on social media. Sydney Smalls calls her finsta a "little safe space," which is why she's hesitant to approve her boyfriend's follow request.

"It's where I'm the most honest version of myself online so I only trust a few people with what I write about," the New York-based production assistant explained. "Even though I trust my boyfriend it would just be an added level of pressure for some reason."

Many share her view; although they feel supported by their partners, the finsta users who shared their stories with me said that they would censor their posts if their partners followed them.

When I was convinced someone was ghosting me, for example, I turned to my finsta to talk through it. An army of close friends analyzed screenshots down to the timestamp and deliberated in the comments, concluding that although ghosting was a possibility, I should suck up my pride and double text. In the end, I had nothing to worry about — the support network I had through my finsta convinced me not to sabotage a new relationship, and all I had to do was literally communicate. But if I had let that person follow me, would I have asked for advice in the first place, or would I still be wallowing in my own anxiety?

Overheard in bar last night: Girl 1: I let him see my finsta so we're basically never gonna date Girl 2: oh ya that’s the kiss of death

— PAZ (@pazpaz) February 24, 2018

Finstas are like a semi-public diary for soliciting advice and rationalization and inviting someone you're actively dating into it might make you less inclined to seek out that advice. The private accounts are a valuable space to talk out issues beforehand so you can approach your partner with a reasonable level-headedness.

"Having a space for myself ensures that I'm being honest about what's upsetting me," Long said, elaborating on why she doesn't let her boyfriend follow her. "And how I'm getting from Point A to Point B. Not that I'm dishonest with my boyfriend, but I don't feel as obliged to cater or censor finsta posts for a certain audience."

For Danika Frank, a writer in Los Angeles, using a finsta to separate herself from the people she dates keeps her codependence in check.

"So it was good to have a space, a place where I could dissect my own thoughts away from them," she said. "Even if I was stressed about something relationship-wise, I could break it down on there before bringing it up to them."

Philadelphia college student Mal Sary, who went through a break up while she and her ex were still living together, said having a non-physical space to get away helped her through it until she could find somewhere else to live.

"Instead of yelling at my ex, I just used my finsta to channel a lot of my anger," Sary said.

In addition to having a defined place to put their thoughts in order, the people who don't let their significant other follow their finsta felt like they didn't have to because their relationships were already healthy enough. Although Smalls' boyfriend doesn't follow her private account, she doesn't turn to her finsta to complain about him when they have issues in their relationship.

"When I'd have problems with my ex, I'd just post about it and hide it from him and let it build," she said. "This time, I just talk directly to [my boyfriend]. It kinda feels disrespectful now. I don't want to talk about him behind his back [because] I know he wouldn't do that to me."

Jeung Bok Holmquist, an artist in Madison, Wisconsin, adds that their partner doesn't follow their finsta, but that doesn't give them a pass to complain about him.

"I guess I only wouldn't [allow a finsta follow] if I was actively talking about my partner on there, but I also shouldn't be talking shit about my partner in private," they said. "So then that's just a clear sign of a bad relationship!"

𝓷𝓮𝔀 rules of dating: 1st base: liking and unliking someone’s post 2nd base: “nah u don’t have to venmo me” 3rd: get called an asshole on their finsta homerun: a retweet

— vinay (@mumblecomic) January 10, 2019

That doesn't mean that not allowing a romantic interest to follow you ensures smooth sailing. Nothing you post on social media is truly private. Anything can be screenshot, passed through the screen grapevine, and end up hurting everyone involved. But do people have an obligation to break the trust of following a friend's finsta to protect another friend's feelings?

Evy Oliverio, who works at the United Nations in Beirut, was seeing someone who encouraged her to follow his finsta, until she DM'd him and realized she was blocked. Their mutual friends still followed him and could see that he wasn't interested in her anymore, but didn't tell her. She later found out that he had promptly started dating someone else "for real" after "months" of telling her he "wasn't ready."

"We had enough mutual friends who knew about him dragging me through metaphorical dirt," Oliverio said. "And yet none of them would be like 'Ev, this is happening.'"

Spiro, the relationship consultant, is cautious about breaking that trust. Even though it may be hurtful to mutual friends, if someone invites you to their finsta then you have a "digital moral obligation" not to share what they post.

"Either you're in something that's private or you're not," Spiro said. "I love the fact that this is small and intimate, but I think there needs to be spoken and unspoken rules of what you do and don't share."

Despite the moral obligations, Oliverio notes that finstas are still public, even if your account is set to private, and she'd rather step in than see a mutual friend be hurt.

"You allow who you want to see it but the fact that someone else besides you 'sees' your truth, it's no longer private," she noted, acknowledging that it doesn't justify sharing secrets. "I do think that if you and I have a mutual friend and on their finsta, they start dragging you, I'd tell you. And secondly, hold them accountable."

At the end of the day, finstas are yet another aspect of how the internet muddles dating. But that doesn't mean that finsta users shut their partners out of their secret accounts entirely. For Valentine's Day last year, Holmquist made their boyfriend a zine with drawings from their finsta posts when the couple first started seeing each other. As long as there's open and honest communication between a couple, finstas shouldn't be an issue, they said.

Spiro says it's "almost distrusting" when someone insists on following their partner's finsta.

"I think trust and communication is something couples engage in every day but that doesn't mean that they're on a third-party text or phone call every time they're communicating with somebody else," she said. "You need to have your personal life, and they have their personal life, and you need to have your communication together."

I, for one, value the tightly knit support network in my finsta over any potential partner's insecurities. If a partner asked me to give it up, I'd probably dump them and immediately post about it on my finsta.

Even if it makes dating more complicated, I wouldn't trade it for anything.