"I think I met someone," John says at his next therapist's appointment. "A friend." "Really?" Ella asks. She sounds pleased, and also surprised. "What's his name?" John nods. "Really. His name's Sherlock. He -- he plays the same game as me, the online one. We party together."

Growing up in the Mafia isn't necessarily an easy or kind thing. The earth spins, life moves on, and Tsuna finds himself taking slow steps forward, back and forward again. (Or, ten times that Tsuna remembers it being easier to have sex with Xanxus rather than dealing with the insanity of the world around him)

He was completely unfazed by Ryuji’s doubt. “I can be very charming,” Akira assured him magnanimously. “I’ll have you know I’m a man of many talents. I’m sure any number of my skills will help me win him over.” Ryuji raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. “‘Talents?’ What, you mean like breaking and entering, assault, and hostage negotiation?” A blank, glasses-blocked stare. “You don’t think those will help?”

It happened like this: Jin Ling was a sect leader now, which was, and Jingyi really meant this, fucking hilarious. There were few things funnier, in his honest opinion. Because he was young, and inexperienced, and also — it had to be said — a real shithead, there was apparently some belief amongst his advisors that the best way forward, to promote the picture of a stable, mature sect leader who absolutely did not cry at the drop of a hat, was for Jin Ling to get married. - OR: Jin Ling and Jingyi get engaged. Things spiral from there.

Malkin’s table stays until closing time, still lingering over that bottle of Beluga when Sid comes out of the kitchen to start his nightly closing routine. He goes through the same checklist of jobs he does every night after the kitchen closes but before the bar does, tries to keep his mind on the tasks at hand, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t notice Malkin’s gaze tracking his movements, if he pretended that he can’t feel the heat of Malkin’s eyes on him as he moves around behind the bar. Sid tells himself to keep his head down, but when he does look up, just to test his theory, Malkin doesn’t even bother to look away, just holds Sid’s gaze, direct and unblinking with just the tiniest hint of a smile. The thing is, Sid’s notoriously bad at this stuff. He’s never had any working gaydar that he’s aware of, and he’s been wrong – very wrong – about this kind of thing probably more often, in his life, than he’s been right. So he assures himself this is just another one of those occasions where he’s definitely reading something incorrectly, imagining things, because there’s no way the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins is, whatever – checking him out. That would be ridiculous.

Nolan’s body has never been his friend.

Despite his best efforts, Andrew finds himself a family.