The Slow Hours of the Day

Movieverse. Victor/Logan. NC-17. ~5000 words.
For years and years they’ve fought and fucked together, trusted in a single constant as the world changed around them, and somehow Logan had forgotten a time when Victor had watched him the way he watches now.

In a choice between the Pacific and Atlantic, Logan prefers the west coast. Far north of the border the summers are temperate, the rocky shoreline dotted with islands and coves and plentiful with fish and game. News reaches them at a snail’s pace and that suits Logan fine. The less Victor hears of the war, the less likely Logan is to end up slogging through a bug-infested jungle.

If he were to find himself missing the cities, it would be now, with a couple dozen pages of Naked Lunch under his belt. Victor’s taste in literature hasn’t changed much over the years. To be fair, neither have the offerings. Every new generation that comes along seems to forget that depravity has been around as long as people have.

Sunlight streams honey-warm through the thin windowpane. Rather than trudge through another page of stimulating excess, Logan closes his eyes, tips his face to the light. The rough-hewn floorboards don’t make for the most comfortable of seats, even with the thick blanket swiped from the mess of their bed, though it’s hard to care. He’s slept on worse and laziness weighs leaden in his limbs.

The back door of the old house bangs shut, startling Logan from his doze. It isn’t peacetime that makes him careless, it’s Victor’s familiar scent wafting in on the breeze, the smell of freshly-chopped wood wound through it now. Logan traces his path through the kitchen to the bath by the quiet sound of his footsteps. The place they’ve claimed as their own was probably once a hunting lodge, or a young family’s summer escape from the city, and it holds only three rooms. The largest serves as the main living space, a few wooden chairs and a low table cordoned off from the bed by a latticework screen. For them, it’s more than enough.

Water tumbles into an old porcelain basin. Logan begins to drift again, conscious of Victor’s easy approach, impossible to ignore it even if he’d tried. They’ve been away from the distracting bustle of everyone else for so long that Logan’s grown hyper-aware of his brother, everything, even the air he breathes, saturated with Victor. His nerves spark like live wires whenever Victor’s nearby.

Logan looks up at Victor’s quiet laugh. Settling down beside him, Victor slides the book from his lax grasp, flips it over to scan the page. “Not to the part with the fancy club yet then, hm?”

“As riveting as it is,” Logan says. He lets his eyes slide shut and his head fall back, surprised to find Victor’s arm draping about his shoulders. The book hits the floor with a dull thump–his page lost, and that’s no tragedy–and the backs of Victor’s knuckles graze his forearm. The warmth of Victor’s breath seeping through the cotton of his shirt prompts him to reopen his eyes, find the sunlight shining through the lowered fan of Victor’s eyelashes, brightening the dark brown of his whiskers, his mouth pressed to Logan’s shoulder. “What?”

Victor’s gaze flicks up, hint of fang to his smile. “What do you think?” His lips touch Logan’s neck, barely-there in a chaste kiss before they part. The light touch of his tongue brings a tight curl of anticipation to Logan’s gut, along with something else not entirely new.

In the midst of civilisation or not, Victor never changes. Logan expects the press of Victor’s teeth and he gets it after a fashion, a soft bite that’s more a nibble between even softer kisses. His skin tingles in Victor’s wake, the bit of wet left behind from the sweet drag of Victor’s tongue hardly cooling before Victor’s back for another taste. He’d only be lying to himself if he claimed it didn’t feel good, and yet.


The hot push of Victor’s breath along his jaw sends a shiver rippling down Logan’s spine. It stumbles over itself on the way back up as Victor lightly nips, the quick sting soothed by the slow rippling press of his tongue. “You like it rough all the time?”

Logan glances down at a tug on the buttons of his shirt, Victor’s claws idly flicking them open one after the other. For years during the wars Victor’s claws had grown near black with dirt and old blood. Unlike Logan’s, always coated with his own blood if not someone else’s, now Victor’s are clean, more white than yellow.

He knows what those claws can do as well as Victor does, took them in his mouth to learn their sharpness with his tongue, and his breath catches at the memory of how Victor had gone blind with lust as he’d sucked them. Victor had been the one who’d licked them clean afterwards, Logan flat on his back gulping breath as the ragged furrows Victor had clawed in his sides while they fucked slowly healed.

Belatedly, Logan says, “It’s not that.”

Logan’s shirt falls open. Victor nudges it off Logan’s shoulder with his chin, bristly scrape of whiskers before soft, sucking kisses. “So what is it then?” Victor murmurs, distracted by the pound of Logan’s heart beneath his palm. Clawtips scratch near Logan’s nipple and his spine snaps straight as the pads of Victor’s fingers pass over it, tease it tight as tension sings through Logan’s muscles.

Victor’s mouth finds the flutter of Logan’s pulse. His teeth frame it, dig in just shy of pain and then ease off again, leave the need for more rattling uncomfortably under Logan’s skin. “It’s easier,” Logan growls, the weird jangle of his nerves shortening his temper.

Victor says, “Harder is easier?” and his claws dig in, slice four neat, hot lines across the centre of Logan’s chest. The spark of hurt settles the worst twist of Logan’s insides, too brief a respite before Victor’s touch gentles, backs of his knuckles stroking away the sting as if they’re children again. Another kiss, close to the curve of Logan’s underarm, and Victor’s fingers begin to wander, stroke as if to soothe the quivering jump of muscle and doing everything but. “You read too much of that book, little brother. You’re not making any sense.”

The snarl bubbling up the back of Logan’s throat trickles from between clenched teeth. He shoves Victor’s hand away, ducks out from under the arm circling his shoulders. Victor grabs his chin before he can gain his feet. The sharp twist of his spine as he’s jerked back wrenches the snarl free right into Victor’s face. A lick to the bared line of his teeth turns to a nip at his lips, melts like spring snow into a kiss he doesn’t return no matter how loud the urge to taste Victor’s mouth roars in his head.

As soon as Victor releases him, he rolls to his feet and stalks the length of the room. Restlessness he sees more often in Victor eats at him, the ease he’d felt earlier chased away by Victor’s soft touch. For years and years they’ve fought and fucked together, trusted in a single constant as the world changed around them, and somehow Logan had forgotten a time when Victor had watched him the way he watches now.

“Going to be a tease and run?” Victor pushes up from the floor, closes the distance between them in a lazy swagger while Logan just stands there. On the battlefield, Victor relied so often on brute strength to see them through the day that it was easy to forget how smoothly he could move when he chose. “Force me to hunt you down and drag you into the dirt for a hard fuck?” The look in his eyes, the curve of his mouth, they say he knows the answer to that question, and the trip of Logan’s pulse has already given him away. Victor can scent his want and will lend more weight to that than anything that comes out of Logan’s mouth.

Fingers more suited to snapping fragile bones curl under Logan’s chin, tilt his face up. Victor’s gaze slides over features already committed to memory, mapped out a thousand times before with hands and mouth, and comes to rest on the slight part of Logan’s lips. Logan almost manages to convince himself the uneasy lurch in his gut means he doesn’t want Victor to kiss him again, exactly as before. Softness should be the last thing he wants from Victor’s hands.

Victor’s other hand reaches past him to push the old screen out of the way. The bed is maybe three, four feet away, and when Victor steps forward Logan grudgingly gives ground. The backs of his legs hit the edge and he lets Victor push him down, inching back to give Victor the space to kneel. Victor crawls over him, everything in the fluid shift of muscle saying, I win. Mine. The thin sliver of space between them quickly heats, the warmth of Victor so close pinning him down as solidly as if it were his brother’s full weight. Lust tries to occupy the same space as the urge to kick Victor off.

The lazy kisses come then, first a slow brush of Victor’s lips. Claws push delicately through the hair at his nape, angle his head just so to fit the slant of Victor’s mouth to his. Air thick as molasses, drenched in Victor’s scent, fills Logan’s lungs. He closes his eyes to fight off the wave of dizziness that hits as Victor’s tongue traces the shape of his mouth, slips inside to taste. Teeth catch his lip, tug sweet and tender, and Logan can’t help the moan that builds low in his chest. Victor’s palm presses harder to Logan’s ribs as if he can feel it.

“See,” Victor says, nuzzling his way under Logan’s chin as easily as he slips under Logan’s skin. “Not so hard now, is it?”

Logan huffs out a breath instead of the answer Victor wants to hear. He manages to get Victor’s pants open before Victor says, “Not so fast,” and catches his hands, pushes them to the bed. His frustrated growl earns him a sharper nip to his throat, a command as clear as if Victor had barked, Stay.

Victor’s smile curves against the side of his neck. “Wasn’t so hard twenty years ago, was it?” A slow, sucking kiss brings a rush of heat to the surface. Victor lingers long enough for a bruise to form, rubs his whiskers against tender flesh as it fades. “When you’d just open your legs whenever I’d ask. Be like a woman for me, wet and waiting.” He flicks open the button of Logan’s jeans, pushes his hand inside to cup cock and balls both. “So what changed, Jimmy?”

“Nothing changed,” Logan growls. “You want to fuck me slow, fuck me slow,” and even as he says it, he knows it’s pointless. The only time lies work on Victor is when he doesn’t care about the truth.

Victor gives him a languid squeeze, blunt curve of his claws pressed tightly to Logan’s belly. “What if I want you to fuck me slow?” He grins at the hard jerk of Logan’s hips, licks at the side of Logan’s face. “If you’re sick of taking it so often, you could just say so.”

Logan barely hears the rumble of Victor’s laugh over the pounding rush of blood in his head. That isn’t what he meant and Victor knows it. Any real thought given to asking Victor to spread for him, stretch out on his belly like he lays Logan out so often, gets lost in the rush as Victor just takes what he wants. It’s not as if Victor hasn’t offered from time to time, though it’s Victor’s way to invite it by letting Logan win the occasional scuffle than by words. All Logan really has are adrenaline-blur memories with Victor twisting beneath him, fangs bared and claws tearing at Logan’s arms, bloodlust edged just that little bit over the line for them to fuck instead of fight.

And those memories are more than enough to make his cock throb in Victor’s grasp, bring a halt to what was almost another kiss. Drawing back just enough to catch Logan’s gaze, hold it, his voice little more than a smug murmur, Victor says, “Does that turn you on, Jimmy? Thinking about fucking me?” He kneads at Logan’s cock, not enough space with Logan’s jeans still zipped to jack it properly, and he wouldn’t anyway, dark glint to his eyes as Logan strains for more. “You like having me under you?” Another sharp squeeze, then, “You jack off to it?”

A ragged moan spills out of Logan before he can even think to check it. Victor huffs a quiet laugh against the side of his face, hand pulling free and Logan moans again, frustrated by the loss. Most of the time Victor doesn’t have the patience to be a fucking tease.

Victor says, “Because I do,” and rears up, flash of his teeth the only warning offered before Logan’s belly hits the mattress. He growls a curse into the threadbare sheets, pissed off for letting Victor’s toying distract him so easily. Always the same god damn story. He knows Victor wants him just as badly, gets just as caught up in the way his scent bleeds into Logan’s, and still Logan’s the one that ends up with his face shoved in the dirt.

Logan pushes up on his hands, loses his balance again with an irritated grunt that’s mostly for show from the rough tug on his jeans. If Victor’s losing patience with this game, the better for the both of them. Relief rises up with the thought that slow isn’t what either of them prefers.

But that’s the pace Victor keeps, big hands cupping Logan’s bare ass, thumbs stroking all the way down to his thighs and back up, following the dip of his spine and rucking his shirt up on the way. Fingers fan wide, gently sweep down Logan’s sides, so light it almost tickles. Logan fights off the need to shiver, manages just fine until Victor leans close, light graze of mouth and nose as he scents the thin layer of sweat all his playing’s worked up. He tastes it with an open-mouthed kiss, tongue pressed like a brand to flesh. His hands go down as he licks his way up, paints a cooling trail from the centre of Logan’s tailbone to the peak of one shoulder blade.

Logan’s skin buzzes with the expectation of a bite that doesn’t come. All Victor does it keep touching him, not even like the first time he put hands to Logan’s bare skin, when it had been just as fast and vicious as the scuffle that’d preceded it. Fingers trace and retrace the line of his back all the way to the curve of his ass and linger there possessively, petting him like he’s something owned.

“Up on your knees for me,” Victor says, familiar want roughening his voice.

Logan turns his face to the sheets, his hot panting breaths shunted back into his lungs. Without a word he gathers his legs under him, muscles jumping at the sound of Victor’s knees hitting hardwood. He’s braced for the rasp of whiskers against the inside of his thigh and still it shocks a noise out of him. Victor’s laugh scrapes like sandpaper on nerves already hyper-aware of everything Victor could do, let alone the reality of his hands spreading the cheeks of Logan’s ass wide.

For a minute, there’s nothing. Victor just watches, thicker and thicker waves of pleasure congealing in the air until it feels like his lungs can’t pull it in. The fluttering anticipation in his gut turns razor-edged, snakes out along his limbs in an electric sizzle, a network of crackling cobwebs he can’t brush away.

Victor nuzzles at his sac, grip tightening briefly at Logan’s soft hiss. His tongue is warm and wet, so fucking wet, as he licks his way up to the tight clench of Logan’s hole, and Logan can’t even think straight as his brother nuzzles at him again. Sweet, tiny little licks coax him bit by bit to spread his legs wider, sink from hands to elbows to resting his forehead on his folded arms. Victor’s quietly pleased hum as muscle loosens, opens to the press of his tongue, drills its way into the marrow of Logan’s bones.

The backs of Victor’s fingers skim up the inside of Logan’s thigh. His pulse kicks, the soft shushing noise Victor breathes rushing warm then cool over his hole, doing so much more to wind him up than settle him down. There are times Victor is anything but careful, times when they’re both gone savage, ripping and tearing at one another and the one thing Logan has never forgotten is that no matter what he does, Victor will heal. Nothing Logan can do will ever really harm his brother. Hurt him, but not harm.

When it’s Victor’s knuckle that presses against slick, vulnerable flesh, it doesn’t do a damn thing to ease the iron clutch of a fist in Logan’s chest. This is the catch, then. Why Victor’s been playing with him. More often than he can count he’s felt the deliberate bite of claws in his belly as Victor’s had him on his knees, but whenever Victor’s eyes had gone dark and lustful seeing Logan finger himself open, it’s never been like this. All Victor’s been aiming to do is get him off guard, work him up until the only thing he can think about is finally being split open on Victor’s cock, and Victor’s going to bleed him instead.

Victor rests his cheek against Logan’s ass, knuckle stroking slowly, over and over. He rasps a curse, says, “Tell me what you’re thinking. You smell so fucking good, Jimmy, you want me to fuck you that bad?” He licks at Logan again, moans shamelessly at the reflexive twitch of muscle and kisses it, long and slow.

“That what you’re waiting for?” Logan rubs his mouth dry on the back of his arm. “Want to hear me say hurry up, fuck me already?”

The mattress dips under Victor’s weight. Victor strokes a hand down his arm and curls close, mouth pressing briefly to the bend of his elbow. “You sure?” Victor asks, thumb tracing idle circles on his bicep, nuzzling up under his throat like no matter how hard Victor tries, he can’t get enough. “Because if you ask, you can.”

Logan closes his eyes, breathes deep. Victor doesn’t smell quite like Victor anymore, he smells like Logan. And Logan doesn’t even fucking know what he wants right now, he’s open and ready, craving being filled, fucked. He wants Victor’s scent all over him again, misses it as much as his own covering Victor makes his head spin; wants it inside him so the next time they fuck it’ll drive Victor as crazy as Logan is right now.

Victor says, “Better make up your mind soon,” and Logan rises up on his knees, shrugs off his shirt. When Victor curls up to do the same, Logan shoves him back down, rougher than he’d meant to. A smirk crooks Victor’s mouth. “Thought we were playing nice.”

Logan smoothes his hands down Victor’s arms, a mirror image of how Victor’s been touching him all this time. The shirt’s in the way, the feel of bare skin beneath his palms teasingly close, but he holds back, says, “I am.” He frames Victor’s face in his hands, hesitating again. This isn’t what they do, feels like they never have, never would’ve. Victor watches, waits, fingers hooked loosely over Logan’s wrist, stroking the thin, delicate skin of it.

He’s thought of kissing Victor like this before, soft and slow and sweet, the same as he’s kissed women, their lush bodies so welcoming beneath his. Victor is none of those things and yet, here Victor is, his lips moving easily against Logan’s, his eyes never quite closing, sound like a purr rumbling low in his chest as it drags on.

After Logan nudges his mouth to Victor’s one last time, he pulls back to see Victor’s lips a little red, wet and slack. Victor blinks lazily, slant of his mouth chasing off the dazed look in his eyes, and says, “The side of you I never see,” turning his head just a little to rub his face against Logan’s palm.

Anger flares, nearly slips free in a snarl. He should be used to Victor fucking with him by now, let it run like water off a duck’s back like Victor does, but it never seems to flow that way.

“Well, you’re seeing it now,” Logan tells him, and starts slipping open the buttons of Victor’s shirt. “So shut it.” It’d be so easy to just tear through Victor’s clothes to get at the warm skin beneath, so tempting as Logan’s patience thins to a hair. Victor doesn’t help, content to lick at Logan’s skin whenever he’s close enough, quick flick on his arm, longer, lazier almost-kiss to his chest as he stretches up to pull Victor’s undershirt off over his head.

Victor lifts his hips as Logan’s fingers curl over his jeans to pull them off, and that’s when it finally hits Logan. His brother’s lax, pliable, letting Logan strip him down as Logan likes. Victor’s flat on his back, belly exposed, and enjoying it. Logan presses his face into Victor’s stomach, short curls of hair always so surprisingly soft against his lips, and leaves Victor’s jeans caught around his thighs to take his mouth, smear his purring laugh to nothing.

Fresh impatience gnawing at him, Logan drags the rest of Victor’s clothes off, gives himself a moment to watch the play of muscle as the easy spread of his legs invites Logan to crawl right on in between them.

“Going to return the favour?” Victor asks, his knee grazing Logan’s side as he draws it up. “Open me up as nicely as I did you?”

Logan spits on his thumb, presses it right up against Victor’s hole. Never the one to hold back, and as shameless now as ever, Victor looses the hungry moan Logan would’ve tried to swallow. “Maybe I want you tighter,” he says, and counters Victor’s smirk with one of his own and, “but we’ll save that for next time.”

Catching Victor’s legs behind the knee, Logan shoves them up, dips down for one wide, messy lick from balls to asshole that has Victor losing a sharp breath. So hard to be patient at first when he knows Victor can take him, would moan just as loud for the hard shove of his cock. The quiver of Victor’s legs at the push of his tongue distracts him and he licks again, as lazy as Victor had, to feel another shiver ripple through Victor’s body. Victor is so tight, muscle so small and soft and giving grudging way to his tongue, that if it weren’t for his brother’s scent, the familiar sound of his voice, Logan would think he’s with someone else and foolishly convinced himself otherwise.

An eager hunger for more twists like razorwire up Logan’s spine, burrows blazing hot in his brain. Letting go of Victor’s legs, slight pause before Victor catches them, he pries the cheeks of Victor’s ass apart to push his tongue deep, curl and lick and fuck it inside again. The muscles of Victor’s stomach bunch as Logan lifts his hips higher, rubs delicate flesh with rough whiskers, and Victor jerks, moans for it. More than enough spit slicking Victor’s insides for it and Logan sinks a couple fingers in him, watches how easily they slip in to his knuckles. He flicks his tongue at the stretched bit of muscle, the pulse of pleasure at the noise Victor makes forcing a thick string of precome from Logan’s dick to smear wetly on his own skin.

Victor’s claws tear into the bedsheets. His mouth is slack, the rasp of his short, shallow breaths loud in Logan’s ears, urging him to ignore the strain, keep going, more, harder. The low sound of Victor’s growls fill the air as his hips twist, fuck nothing. Logan’s seen him wanting before, worked up and strung out and starving for it, but not like this. Never like this. How the fuck had he gone so long blind to it?

Logan rubs his mouth dry on the inside of Victor’s thigh, strokes rough hands up Victor’s sides, presses them to the pound of his heart. His mouth opens for Logan’s kiss without hesitation or the punishing scrape of teeth. Even now, reeking of the same greedy, vicious lust that puts Logan on his belly more often than not, he’s pliant, shuddering into the brush of Logan’s cock at his hole, opening so easily for it.

And still Victor is tight, slick heat. Logan licks the moans straight off his tongue, his own body screaming at him to take more, take it all because Victor’s done more than offer. The urge banks to a smoulder as Victor arches, legs sliding up, and Logan fights to keep his strokes long and slow at the feel of Victor wrapped so tightly around him.

More than worth the effort when Victor moans for him. Victor does everything for him; quivers at the ghost of Logan’s knuckles along his side, bares his throat for Logan’s mouth, knows Logan wants to breathe in the blood-thick scent of his lust and turns his head to offer it, pulse fluttering against Logan’s lips. Logan hits the peak of a thrust hard just for the grunt it jolts out of Victor before lapsing back to the sweet, slow fucking Victor wanted so badly.

At the touch of Victor’s hand to his face, Logan turns without thinking to lick his palm, fill his mouth with the fresh taste of Victor’s skin. Claws lightly scratch at his scalp, the weight of Victor’s hands framing his face enough to bring his gaze up from the press of his hips keeping Victor’s legs spread wide. Victor watches him the same as before and something dark and selfish and wicked twines its way through the pleasure humming warm in his blood. This is only happening because Victor’s let it, somehow knew Logan would want it as much as he would never take it on his own, and he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse this way. Victor’s willingly his and his stomach gives a lurch at the pure, animal pleasure in it.

Logan slides his hand up Victor’s arm to pull it from his face and Victor’s grip shifts, becomes their fingers laced together. The easy rhythm Logan’s set falters but it’s Logan who links their other hands together, claws pricking at the backs of his and Victor’s pressed to the sheets. Still it’s sweet and slow and gentle as Victor’s eyes slide shut, his mouth falling slack. Finally, Victor’s not watching him anymore and Logan licks the softness of his lips, the harder line of his teeth. It’s so strange to fuck without the taste of blood thick between them, but good. So very good, pleasure building as natural and inevitable as sunrise, sweeping him shuddering, gasping instead of snarling over the edge and like a domino fall Victor follows, his moans as thick as warm honey, and his grip on Logan’s hands goes tight, skin still unbroken by his claws.

His pulse fluttering and lungs tight, Logan rubs his face in Victor’s chest, drowning in the urge to mark him though he already reeks of sex. He lets lethargy bring him down and pulls one of his hands free from Victor’s to push an arm beneath him, fingers curled over his shoulder, lightly stroking.

Victor’s legs loosen, slip down, the shift forcing Logan to slip almost free of his body. Logan growls softly, not a warning or a threat, and his cock is softening but Victor’s still fucked loose, slippery with spit and come. The pleased noise Victor makes as Logan pushes back into him and the hand sweeping low over his back helps soothe the need Victor’s stirred up in him, and eventually the judder of his nerves settles, bleeds away to nothing.

Long after the hard kick of his heart has eased, Victor says, “We should go into town. Find something else for you to read.” His hand follows the slope of Logan’s spine up to curve over the back of his neck, thumb brushing idly beneath his ear.

While it’s not much of a town, it’s still more than Logan could care for now. “Suppose you’d like to catch up on the news,” he says, loathe to lose the press of Victor’s body against his own but rolling away just the same. He doesn’t much like the muddy waters Victor’s churned up inside him, needs the time and space for them to clear, and the riot of war is no place for that. The sinking feeling in his gut says even without, this unease won’t fade.

Victor’s arm settles heavily across his chest, possessive and easy and as close to asking instead of making Logan stay as Victor will ever come. “Eat at the diner for once,” he goes on, as if Logan hadn’t spoken.

Logan risks a glance down to see the look in Victor’s eyes hasn’t changed. Whatever this is, it isn’t over by his score. “Tired of beans already?”

“Tired of hearing you complain about my cooking them.”

This mood of Victor’s will never last and he’ll tire of playing at something they’re not, leave off these gentle touches that breed like thorns through Logan’s insides. “Town then,” he concedes, looking to rise.

“Stay down,” Victor says, as much warning as invitation in it as when he purrs it during a fight. It means much the same. “We have time.”

Lifetimes between them, and if it is foolishness for Logan to take the lazy kisses Victor’s face tilts up to offer, he’ll suffer the consequences.


3 Responses to “The Slow Hours of the Day”

  1. Wirtleberg Says:

    Loved this! Started reading your Supernatural fic and delighted to have found this too. Are you still writing Sup stuff? Don’t seem to see much recent writing.

  2. Wirtleberg Says:

    Loved this, wonderful characterisation.. Started reading your SPN fic and came here looking for more recent writing. Are you still doing SPN?

  3. Wirtleberg Says:

    Loved this! Started reading your Supernatural fic and delighted to have found this too. Are you still writing Sup stuff? Don’t seem to see much recent writing. Not sure if this comment is posted or not btw!

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