#after some days of being sick of the sims i managed to put something together lol

[redrumdream]

Rosie wonders why the L is this empty today...

[lightsovermonaco]

His Good Sweater: Chapter 13

Masterlist

Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit​ for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤ Make sure you read Roman Profile, set in the same universe!

Word Count: 6.7k

Recommended song: "Cupid’s Chokehold/Breakfast in America” by Gym Class Heroes

"I have to go."

"Can't you stay five more minutes?"

"I wish."

"Come on, just a few more minutes to cuddle." Pierre flings back the fluffy duvet and holds out a hand. "Please?"

"I have an exam," you say with a sigh but bend to press a kiss to his upturned palm. "I can't skip."

Pierre groans and slings an arm over his eyes. "What am I supposed to do all day?"

"I don't have a sim but I have an old PlayStation you're more than welcome to use. I think I still have one or two games."

"That won't keep me busy."

"I'm sure you'll find something. Just stay out of trouble okay? I'd like to get my security deposit back when I finally move out of this hellhole."

"Okay," Pierre grumbles, sitting up to give you a quick kiss. "What time are you getting back?"

"Four. We can go out to dinner or something." You smooth a hand over his hair, smiling lightly. "Or we can go for a picnic and take a walk through Saint James Park."

"Sounds like a plan." He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I'll be counting down the minutes."

You roll your eyes but your smile contradicts the sass. "I'll be home before you know it. Love you, champion."

"I love you too, mon coeur."

He was endlessly grateful for how easily the two of you had fallen back into each other. When he had shown up at your doorstep he had expected there to be awkward pauses and minutes of tense silence, but there had been blissfully little of either. As the days bleed into each other, your relationship only gets steadier, closer and closer to what it used to be. Maybe it was because you had been the one to break the silence or maybe it was because he had thrown himself into his career into someone's bed- whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. He was simply grateful to be welcomed back into your life. He didn't plan on leaving any time soon.

Pierre allows himself a half hour of lounging in bed before forcing himself to get up and shower. Off weeks were hard; all he wanted to do was rest and recharge but he still had to follow his workout regimen and sleep schedule or he risked falling out of the habit, making it that much harder to get back in the groove come race week.

First order of business: clean the clutter you had shoved in closets and the spare room prior to his arrival the day before. Folding the three baskets of clean laundry took an hour, washing dishes another thirty minutes, and vacuuming the entire flat took twenty. Once the counters are spotless and there isn’t a stray sock to be found, he takes stock of your pantry and notes what staples you were running low on.

Two hours later he trudges back up the three flights of stairs to your apartment, arms laden with reusable bags packed to the gills with food. His legs burn and he's slightly winded from the excursion; at least that could count as his work out for the day.

He's just about to start slicing vegetables for dinner when his phone chimes with a text from his PR agent, Sylvie.

You're supposed to be in an interview now. Where are you?

"Oh shit." He scrambles for his laptop which of course was dead. He manages to plug it in at the dining room table and angle it so the background is mostly neutral, just a band poster framed behind him. He checks his hair before logging into the interview.

"There's the star," the interviewer says, far too chipper to be entirely genuine.

"Sorry, I was having connection issues." He queues up his signature sweetheart smile that gets him out of any squabbles. It works, the woman's irritation melting into a more easy expression.

"Let's just get right into it. Since we're low on time I'll jump right in, if you don't mind."

Pierre leans back. He had an inkling where this was headed. "By all means, please."

"We just saw news of your deal with Christian Horner- if you take seventh in this year's drivers championship, it looks like you're at Red Bull Racing next year. How does that feel after being publicly demoted mid-season in 2019?"

A smirk tugs at Pierre's lips. He had known this exact question was coming. He had debated how to answer it without starting waves and still remaining truthful. If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his ability to be diplomatic when others may have let their egos get in the way.

"Obviously I'm grateful that Red Bull has recognized the hard work I've been putting in at Alpha Tauri," he starts. "I think I've been able to push the car as far as I can but I still have pace in me, personally. So moving into the Red Bull would let me loose, so to speak, and give me a chance to prove that Red Bull is where I belong."

"Right, you have had quite a spectacular season so far with a race win under your belt and a few podiums for good measure. What do you attribute that success to? Why is it so different now in an Alpha Tauri versus that coveted second Red Bull seat?"

Pierre purses his lips. The answer he was expected to give wasn't one he was willing to voice. Instead he opts for neutral. "I've been able to focus and hone my driving this season. I've found a groove that works for me and with it has come an insane amount of confidence, which is something I struggled with for awhile after going back to Torro Rosso. I think it's really just that I'm finally comfortable in the car and with my team and that makes a huge difference."

"Thank you for that," the journalist says and Pierre nods. "Shifting gears, I have a few questions about your personal life if you don't mind."

This was the part he always dreads. Questions were often prying and he had to subtly skirt around them in a way that offered a satisfying answer without giving away too much. It was an art he liked to think he had perfected over the years but still didn't enjoy.

"As long as you don't mind me staying silent if I don't want to answer."

The woman laughs, the sound sharp and grating. "Of course. Unless I can bribe you into giving me an exclusive."

"Likely not. But you ask the right questions and we'll see."

"You've been seen hanging around a certain London neighborhood lately- that wouldn't have anything to do with you and your lovely lady, would it?"

He had been waiting for that one, too. When the two of you had returned from Red Bull headquarters he had noticed the man taking pictures across the street. He hadn't said anything to you at the time because really, there was no point in getting you worked up when he had a plan to handle it.

The question played right into his hand, in fact. 

Pierre sits forward, folding his hands in front of him. "Actually yes. We recently got back together and if you'll let me, I would like to make a request."

The woman leans back and checks her notes. "Well it's not quite what I had planned but please," she gives a flourish with a hand, "you have the floor."

"I know driver's personal lives are something that a lot of people are interested in and that's great. I don't mind sharing things with my fans or letting them get the inside scoop, but there's some things I would rather be left alone. My relationship is one of them. I know you all took note that she hasn't been around the past couple months and if I'm being honest, it's because of comments and press coverage that invaded her privacy. I think some people forgot she was more than just a name on a screen."

Pen poised to take notes, the interviewer prompts, "You said you had a request?"

He doesn’t stop to assess the damage he had already undoubtedly done. Sylvie was probably already on the phone doing damage control with every news outlet she could get her hands on, if her muted and black square at the bottom of the screen was an indication. 

"All I'm asking is that you leave her alone. If you have questions or comments you have to make, just direct them at me. Don't follow her around asking about me. Don't comment on her posts unless you're capable of being a decent human. Just… let her live her life in peace."

Maybe he was a love sick fool, but honestly he didn't care if he lost some support from fans. If they had such strong opinions on his personal life, he would be better off without them anyway. And his team could cut him and even if he was unable to secure a seat in Formula 1 after next season, he would survive. 

But if he lost you again, he would be broken. It had taken being apart from you for him to realize it and he'd be damned if he was ever disconnected from you like that again.

"That's quite the speech."

Pierre shrugs. "It was. She's the most important thing in my life, right up there with racing.” Now that he had started down the road of truth, he found it impossible to hold his tongue. “I lost her once because people couldn't be bothered to remember that their words have consequences. I won't let it happen again."

"So you see yourself with her for a long time then?" The woman's eyes glitter with the potential of getting an even juicer tidbit from him.

Pierre’s jaw sets, muscles feathering. "That's not something I'm prepared to discuss."

The woman purses her lips and tips her head to the side. There was clearly more she wanted to say. "Well, I have to thank you for what you've given me here. My boss is gonna love the exclusive. I won't push any further. Thanks for your comments, Pierre."

"Thanks for actually being respectful."

“We aren’t all monsters.” The woman shrugs. “I can’t say I haven’t had my moments but I try to be straightforward.”

“Right, yeah. I get that you have a job to do.”

“Anyway. I look forward to seeing what you can do the rest of this season. Good luck.”

He signs off and instantly anxiety washes over him. If she twisted his words he was screwed. Sylvie would be on the phone as soon as the article was printed, no doubt trying to soothe sponsors and investors. She'd give him an earful about being respectful and not poking the bear but he'd tune it out like he always did.

The sooner he got away from Red Bull, the better.

Instead of dwelling on it he busies himself with cooking. It was one of his guilty pleasures. He always requested a full kitchen when he was staying anywhere more than a few days so that if he had the chance to make a home-cooked meal, he had the option. For tonight he had selected his favorite recipe. Parmesan-Cesar chicken wasn't normally something you would ever touch with a ten foot pole but as long as he was making it, Pierre knew you'd at least give it a try.

Music blasting in the background, Pierre sings along quietly as he unpacks the rest of the ingredients and gets to work. He does a little spin between the island and the sink, rinsing the dishes and putting them right in the dishwasher as he uses them. A clean kitchen is the mark of a great chef, his mom had told him, drilling the phrase into him when he was young.

In the middle of cutting potatoes Pierre gets a call. He only has an hour until you're home so he doesn't bother stopping, just puts it on speaker and continues measuring spices.

"Hey Daniel."

"Heard you're in London," Daniel says, Australian accent thick. "And a little birdie told me you and your lady got back together."

"We did," Pierre says, a smile splitting his face. "Finally."

"Thank god, now I don't have to listen to your drunk woe-is-me rambling anymore."

Pierre laughs and sets aside the measuring spoons. "It's not that bad."

"Oh please." Pierre could practically hear the eyes rolling. "The number of times I had to send an uber to a bar after a grand prix is insane. Charles and I should be entitled to financial compensation with the amount of babysitting we've been doing."

"I can handle myself!"

"Not after a martini you can't."

He was right there. "Is there a point to this conversation?"

"Oh right- I'm actually in town today too, got some stuff to shoot for McLaren before we head to Austria for the race next week. You guys wanna come out with us tonight? We're heading to a bar or two."

"I actually had something planned-"

"She already said she's coming!" Dan's girlfriend shouts in the background.

“Well then why even ask me?”

“To be polite,” Daniel offers with a laugh. “We’re meeting at the rooftop bar at the Trafalgar hotel at seven. That give you enough time to do whatever you had planned that’s apparently more important than seeing your best mates?”

“We’ll be there,” Pierre says and hangs up. He finishes seasoning the potatoes and pops them in the oven, finally getting a chance to sit while they cook alongside the main course.

He's on his feet a few minutes later, decluttering the last bits of mess around your flat. It was clear it hadn't had a decent cleaning in quite awhile- hopefully you'd keep it tidy now that the effort had been made. The guys would tease him endlessly if they found out he was acting like a housewife.

You arrive home just as he’s setting the table. “God, it smells amazing in here.”

“Salut, mon amour.” Hands full with hot dishes, he settles for a kiss to your cheek. “I made dinner.”

“And you cleaned,” you observe. “You were a busy boy.”

“Pyry would kill me if he found out I was laying around all day. I had to do something.” 

You hang your backpack on the hook behind the door and take a seat at the table. “Well remind me to thank him again when I see him. This looks delicious.”

Pierre grins over his shoulder at you. “Me or the food?”

You throw your head back and laugh, loud and unrestrained. “The food, you goof.”

Pierre quirks a brow. "Is that the honest answer?"

"Okay, maybe both." 

The meal is filled with your ramblings about your exam and your new hobby- this month it was hiking. You went into detail about all the few trails in the city you’d been on as well as the more challenging ones that dotted the countryside. Pierre just nods along as you talk, already planning on staying up late to learn what he could about the topic so he could be a better conversation partner.

The pair of you work together to tidy the kitchen and put away any leftovers. “Did you bring something semi nice to wear tonight or do we have to make a quick trip to the store?”

“I’ve got some Tauri stuff I can wear. And not just team gear,” he adds when you groan. “You know that cream sweater you love? The one with the logo debossed on the front? I’ve got that.”

“Oh,” you say before biting your lip. Your eyes trail down his frame and back up like you’re imagining it on him. A tingle travels up his spine under your assessing gaze. If you kept that up, neither of you would make it out of the apartment tonight. “My favorite. Yeah, wear that. It’ll be on my floor by the end of the night.”

Pierre places his hands on your waist and grins. “Will it? And what will be on the floor from your closet, hm?”

“Your favorite dress.”

“The orange one?” He realizes half a second too late that you would never know how much he adored that dress from the gala. It had hugged your curves in all the right places and left your back exposed, which would leave him free to trace patterns on your soft skin whenever he pleased. He had missed out on worshipping you in it that night and he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to do so now.

You roll your eyes. “I can’t wear that to a bar.”

“Says who?” Pierre nuzzles his face against your neck, breathing you in. A light undercurrent of sweat from your walk home from classes mingles with the usual bright scent of you, only serving to rile him up further. Never in a million years would he have guessed that a simple scent could do him in, and yet here he was, completely wrapped up in yours. 

“Says me.” You sigh, tipping your head to the side when Pierre’s nose grazes your skin.

His lips follow until he reaches your jaw before he pulls back. “What one are you wearing then?”

“Does it matter?” You cross your arms, the smirk playing on your kissable lips tempting him.

“I have to mentally prepare myself.” And if whatever you chose was too sexy, he would need to get his handsiness out of his system before the pair of you met up with Daniel and his girlfriend. The last thing he needed was to be on the front of some seedy gossip column when his plan was to ease back into it. 

You smile up at him, broad and unrestrained as if knowing your answer would affect him greatly. “The cobalt blue one that makes you stutter.”

The dress in question was just as form fitting as the orange one, but shorter and decidedly more distracting. It fell mid thigh and the spaghetti straps left your shoulders exposed, which coupled with the low back displayed a downright sinful amount of skin. You had worn it at a Torro Rosso event a couple years back and he had scarcely been able to get a full sentence out around you all night. 

“That one’s a close second.” He follows you to your room, leaving you to hunt through the closet while he digs through his suitcase, thankful that he had the foresight to check out of his hotel on the way back from Red Bull and bring his things here.

Because there was no way in hell he was missing a second of being by your side while he was in town. Every moment had to count when he had no idea when he would be able to sleep next to you again, not when the season was nearly over and there were two double headers between now and winter break. When so many variables stood between him and you, he had no problem prioritizing you over a routine workout or a full night’s rest.

Pierre changes into the sweater and a pair of dark skinny jeans well before you emerge from the bathroom. He doesn’t bother responding to Dan’s text that includes an address and reminds him to be on time, instead opting to scroll through his instagram feed. He likes a handful of posts from his fellow drivers, including one of Max actually smiling at something off camera.

“Well?”

Pierre’s head snaps up at the sound of your voice. The phone falls from his hand when he drags his eyes over your body, head to toe and back again. 

Oh, he was so fucked. 

Maybe it was selfish, but with your hair done like that, the barest brush of makeup lining your eyes and in that stunningly blue dress, he didn’t want any other man to have the privilege of laying their eyes on you. 

No, you were all his.

The moment you’re within reach, Pierre places his hands on the back of your thighs, just beneath the curve of your barely covered ass. You chuckle and tap your fingers under his chin. “Close your mouth; you’ll catch flies.”

“Just so you know, if you wear that dress I can’t be held liable for my actions.” Up to and including scaring off anyone that wasn’t Daniel or his girlfriend. No one else deserved to be blessed with your radiance. Hell, he didn’t deserve it, and yet here you stood. 

“We’ll see about that.”

**********

Daniel and his girlfriend had already made their way through a round of drinks by the time you arrive. It wasn’t Pierre’s fault he couldn’t keep his hands off you and wound up getting distracted on the drive over.

"Late as always," she greets, kissing your cheek. "Dan got us here fifteen minutes early because he wanted the table with the best view."

"Like our names wouldn't have gotten us the table if we asked," Pierre says, wrapping Daniel in a one-armed hug before kissing his girl’s cheek in a traditional French greeting. "The view is pretty great though."

You were already leaning on the glass partition, hands curled over the edge and undoubtedly leaving behind fingerprints on the pristine surface, completely unfazed by the fact that the other patrons were staring. You had eyes only for the London skyline and Trafalgar square lit up below. The bar with its white marble tabletops and strict dress code was absolutely not a place that you should be standing on your tiptoes for a better view, but there was no way he could condemn you when your face lit up like that.

Pierre just places a hand on the small of your back and shoots a look at the bartender currently glaring in your direction, daring the smartly dressed man to say anything. He only raises a brow and resumes filling drink orders.

"You guys know how to pick a place," you say, "I could stand here all night."

"Right," Daniel's girlfriend says, rolling her eyes at Pierre who shrugs as if to say what do you want me to do? He was powerless to deny you anything that brought you a semblance of joy; your smile was everything to him. “Love, why don’t you come tell us about uni? You’re the only one of us currently enrolled, and I’m sure the boys would love to hear about all the drama.”

You and Pierre share a secret grin. You shake your head but allow him to guide you back to the cocktail table. “Drama? I’m an engineering major. The closest thing we have to drama is someone grossly miscalculating a structural load.”

Dan shoots Pierre a mischievous grin. “I heard Stroll might be moving next year-”

Both you and Daniel’s girlfriend groan at the same time. “No racing talk when we’re around tonight,” she says. “I’ve heard enough lately.”

“What’s new in the publishing world?” You ask, leaning into Pierre when he wraps an arm around you. He only half listens to her explain the so-called “top secret” project she’s currently working on, instead opting to get drunk on you. 

The light breeze filtering through the surrounding buildings ruffles your hair. You lift a hand absentmindedly to tuck it behind your ear in an attempt to keep it out of your face. Everything you do is amazing to him, snagging his attention even when he should be listening to whatever it was his friends were saying. Your gravity was simply too strong to bother resisting.

“Enough talk,” Daniel’s girlfriend says, waving a hand. “You need a drink, and I want to dance. Let’s go.” Before Pierre can protest, she’s dragging you away to the glass top bar. You throw an apologetic glance over your shoulder and Pierre just winks. He was fine watching you from afar for now.

Pierre’s gaze drops to your perky ass when you lean in to let the bartender know what you want, likely shouting to be heard over the music, your dress riding up a bit with the movement. For having such a strict dress code, this place sure did feel like an upper class club.

You hook your thumb over a shoulder, the bartender’s gaze darting to Pierre before the man nods. The only explanation you offer is a wink, followed by a note on a cocktail napkin and a beer delivered a few minutes later by a server.

This is supposed to be the best beer they have. Just try it.

Leave it to you to constantly push him outside his comfort zone. Pierre tentatively sniffs the foamy glass and shrugs before taking a sip. Not bad, but he still preferred his usual whiskey. 

Setting the glass down, Pierre turns back to Daniel. “Congrats on extending your contract with McLaren by the way. Should give you a decent shot at keeping up with the big boys and landing some serious points.”

“Seems like most of us are moving around, doesn’t it? Sainz to Ferrari, Seb to Aston Martin... The only one with any sort of long term commitment is Max and now me I guess.”

“And Charles,” Pierre adds. “He’s stuck in that red monstrosity for the foreseeable future.”

Daniel laughs, taking a swig from his glass. “And you’re moving too, huh? Austria should be interesting,” Daniel remarks, watching the girls at the bar nursing their own drinks. “What with the news of your new contract breaking and all.”

“Potential contract,” Pierre corrects. “Not for sure yet.”

Daniel scoffs. “Come on mate. You won’t have any problem getting up to seventh by the end of the season. Perez is slipping and the news that his seat is in jeopardy will only help your cause.”

Pierre takes a sip of his amber beer and nods. “I’m sure Perez doesn’t appreciate it, but he’s always been a good sport.” You catch Pierre’s eye and lift your fresh flute of champagne in a mock salute. Dan’s girlfriend drags you out on the dancefloor and immediately spins you. Your laugh is nearly audible, the memory of it fresh in Pierre’s mind as he watches you.

“Mate, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Daniel shakes his head and drains his drink. “I really don’t know how it took you two this long to come together. You’ve been dancing around each other for years but neither of you would admit it.”

“I could say the same about you two.”

Daniel shrugs. “Fair point. At least we got it all worked out in a weekend though.”

Pierre rolls his eyes and shoves his friend’s shoulder. “Whatever. Not all of us can have a perfect love story.” 

The grin Daniel shoots Pierre is pure sunshine. “How long are you planning on waiting before you ask her to marry you?”

“What?” Pierre sputters, nearly choking on air. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“Oh come on,” Dan says, rolling his eyes. “We all know it’s coming eventually.”

Pierre would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. But he wasn’t sure if it was the time for a proposal, not when you had just gotten back together. The last thing he wanted to do was go through the pain of losing you again because he was too forward.

“One day at a time,” Pierre says finally, dragging himself back to earth. “I just got her back a few days ago. I don't want to scare her off by proposing just yet.”

“Right. Well you might want to get a ring on that hand sooner rather than later,” Daniel notes, gesturing to the two men who had approached the girls. “How long are we gonna let that go on before we step in?” Neither of you paid the men any attention, instead enjoying each other’s company, but the men’s eyes roaming over your body sets Pierre on edge.

“They can handle themselves,” Pierre remarks, shifting on his feet. The weak attempt at self assurance didn’t do much to negate the red tinting his vision. “They’re fine.”

“Her sharp tongue will hold them at bay,” Daniel says, winking at his girlfriend. “For a while at least.” Props to Daniel for possessing inhuman amounts of restraint, but Pierre’s muscles were coiled and ready to interject at the first sign of trouble. 

He has to pause to remind himself he doesn't own you. You could make your own decisions about who you spoke with and who you entertained as long as he was the one to take you home. He didn't care if you wanted to flirt; he knew it meant nothing and if you got a free drink out if it then so be it. But those were the rules: flirting, no touching. He'd step in if need be if someone took it too far.

But that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

Pierre watches tight lipped as you politely chat with the man, your body language closed off and dismissive. Pierre hates that you even speak a word to him. He knows it shouldn’t bother him because he trusts you, but the stranger is a wild card. Pierre watches like a hawk as the man inches ever closer, slowly interesting himself into your personal space. He waits for you to take a step back, to grant him that silent permission to come over and insert himself in the conversation and get his hands on you, this proving you weren't on the market.

One of the men shouts something at you over the music and you leer back at him, clearly disgusted at whatever he had said. Whirling on him, you open your mouth, likely to snap out a profanity lined retort, when his hand latches onto your arm.

"Oh, fuck no."

Half a second later, Pierre is stalking across the dance floor, no thoughts other than teaching the asshole a lesson. His hands are already curled into fists, ready to swing if the man hadn't moved by the time he arrived. Tolerating someone hitting on you was one thing, but blatantly ignoring the clear dismissals and laying a hand on you? No way in hell was he standing by and letting that happen.

The resounding crack of your open hand hitting the man’s face has pride swelling in Pierre’s chest. That’s my girl. You’d solved the problem before he’d even arrived. You jab a finger in the man’s face, Daniel’s girlfriend right there with you to back you up.

“Fuck off,” you were saying as Pierre approached, “or do you need to go back to kindergarten and learn to keep your hands to yourself? Maybe next time you’ll think twice before laying a hand on a taken woman- or any woman, for that matter.”

Driving your point home, Pierre slips an arm around your waist and pulls you in until your back is flush to his chest. You crane your neck up, the tense muscles beneath his fingertips and the fury contorting your features confirming just how rattled you are.

The lines creasing your brow are soothed away when you realize who holds you. You open your mouth to say something but Pierre places a hand on your throat, thumb and forefinger framing your jaw as he cuts you off with a kiss, his eyes locked on the guy still standing off to the side holding his cheek. 

You taste like the champagne you’d been sipping all night. It’s the only thought in his head outside of the jealousy licking through his veins like wildfire as he claims you then and there in front of the crowd. Mine, his heart sings. He flexes his fingers, taking advantage of your surprised gasp to slide his tongue against yours. Mine, mine, mine.

Pierre lets you be the one to break away, lips curling in a smug, kiss-swollen smile as you address the men. “In case you still don’t get the picture, I’m not interested. And neither is she.” You jerk your chin, indicating your friend and Daniel, who had indeed followed Pierre and since mirrored his possessive stance, one arm wrapped tightly around his own girlfriend.

The two men reluctantly slink away after mumbling something unintelligible but undoubtedly indecent. It had been a week and a half since he had been on track and he had plenty of pent up aggression to get out. He didn’t normally opt for using someone’s face as a punching back as a stress reliever, but rulers were made to be broken. Your hand splayed on Pierre’s chest is all that stops him from following and asking them to repeat themselves.

“Just let me hit him,” Pierre says, voice far more level and put together than he had expected it to be. “Just one punch. That’s all I would need.” His knuckles smart like he had already connected them to the man’s face. 

“And let you throw away your contract? I don’t think so. The last thing you need is a blurry photo of you knocking someone’s teeth in hitting the front page of every gossip mag in the country. I’m fine, so you can cut the bravado.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” 

“I was wondering how long you were gonna leave us out here,” you say, trying to regain Pierre’s attention. When it doesn’t work, you grasp his stubbled chin and force him to look at you. “I didn’t expect to be stranded for so long.”

The eye contact is what finally calms his racing thoughts. Seeing the trust reflected in your face is enough to have his grip on your waist loosening to allow you to face him. “Someone convinced me you could fend for yourself. And while it seems that’s true, I couldn’t stand it anymore.” 

Your satisfied hum is swallowed by the pounding bass but Pierre feels it rumble in his chest. “Sometimes even a queen needs saving.”

Though his point had long since been proven, Pierre’s hand slides down your back to rest on your ass nonetheless. “I knew you going out looking like this would cause trouble.”

You tip your head to the side, feigning innocence as you press your hips to his. You grin, noticing the hard on that had been bothering him all night. “Looking like what?”

“Drop dead fucking gorgeous,” he says, accentuating his point by sliding his hand up your thigh and under the hem of your dress. “You know I’m tearing this off you the second we get home, right?”

“Why do you think I wore it?”

The sound that escapes him is primal and possessive. The presence of bystanders does nothing to prevent him from palming your ass and kneading the flesh. He presses his lips to your neck and mumbles between kisses, “To torture me.”

You push lightly at his chest, laughing although your eyes dart around the space in search of cameras. Old habits were hard to break. “That may have been part of my motivation. But you’ll have to wait. I haven’t seen Dan in forever and I would actually like to have a conversation with him before we sneak off somewhere.”

At least you knew he wouldn’t be able to wait until you got home to get between your legs. “Fine,” he grumbles, hands settling on your hips. “Only because I love you.”

You beam up at him. “Love you too.”

Arm still slung around your waist, Pierre nods at Daniel and follows the other couple back to the table.

After two more drinks, you and Daniel's girlfriend are singing along to the music in lilting, off key voices, simply enjoying the night air. A stray breeze catches your hair just as you turn to look at Pierre and his heart damn near leaps out of his chest.

To his credit, Pierre’s cheeks are rosy from more than just the charged glances you throw at him as the night wears on. He was on his fourth beer, far more than he usually drank these days, and the buzzing in his head was becoming increasingly hard to ignore. When he has to squint to tell the time on his watch, he figured that was enough.

"I should probably get going mate," Pierre says, turning to Daniel. "Early flight."

Daniel laughs and beacons for the girls. He kisses his girlfriend's cheek when she returns with you in tow. "Are we leaving already?" You pout, and Pierre had half a mind to stay simply have your smile make an encore appearance.

"Car coming," he murmurs, dipping his head to give you a proper kiss. God, you were stunning in that dress- he might not be able to string together words coherently, but he knew that much. 

"Fine." You cross your arms for a split second to convey your feelings on the matter before wrapping your friends in a hug and saying your goodbyes.

Pierre's hand is already on your ass before you're in the uber. Get a few drinks in the boy and he let his guard down. You laugh and pull out of his embrace to usher him into the sleek black suv. If he had been coherent, he probably would have chatted with the driver about the specs of the engine or maybe even racing if he was a fan. Instead the ride is filled with stolen touches and sloppy, wet kisses to your neck.

"I can't wait till we're home," he mumbles. "You're gorgeous. How did I snag you? You're so far out of my league. No way should you be with me."

"I have a thing for guys that go fast in circles on the weekends." 

"Really?" Pierre frowns. "Should I be worried?"

"No. You're the only one I have eyes for." His head is fuzzier than when you left the bar but your laugh breaks through, his stomach flipping at the melody of it. "And we are home."

Pierre blinks, realizing he does indeed stand in your kitchen, with no recollection of climbing the three flights of stairs between the street and your flat. "Oh. When did that happen?"

"After I half dragged you up the stairs." You bend over to undo the straps of your heels, giving him the perfect view. He lets out a whistle that ends in a hiccup.

"Take me to bed, lover," he says in what he thinks is a husky voice. It should be impossible for you to resist.

You roll your eyes and wrap an arm around his middle. "That's the plan. I'll take you to bed, strip you out of that sweater, and you'll be asleep before your head hits the pillow."

"Nnnnnno," he protests, hand sliding down your exposed back to settle at the base of your spine. "I wanna make the most of tonight. I leave tomorrow."

"You don't leave until noon," you point out. "Plenty of time to nurse your hangover and have fun before then, after you drink some water and get some sleep."

"But baby-"

"No buts. Do as I say or I'll send you off tomorrow without a goodbye kiss."

Even in his half drunken state he knew it was a swiss cheese lie, spotted with holes and completely stale. You'd never let him leave without a kiss goodbye because neither of you knew if it would be the last time. He was a race car driver after all, and that came with risks. 

But he sighs anyways and slips off the cream sweater, letting it fall to the floor. At least one of you kept their promises. 

After confirming he was settled into bed, you retreat to the bathroom. His heart aches at the absence, even though you're mere feet away with nothing but a thin door separating the two of you. He registers the sound of the tap turning on and your soft, off key humming of the last song he remembered hearing before getting out of the uber.

"Mon amour," he croons when you re-emerge in a set of silk pajamas. He reaches out his hands for you and you slide under the covers, immediately slotting your body against his. A leg hitches over his hip, tugging him closer until your middles touch.

"Mmm," he mumbles, nuzzling into your neck. "Je t'aime. Tu es l'amour de ma vie et nous vivons d'amour et d'eau fraîche."

"I have no idea what you're saying," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. "But I like it. Feel free to keep going."

"Tes baisers sont du feu et je fond à ton toucher." He presses his lips to your neck before resuming his mumbled French. "Je pense toujours à toi. Je veux être avec toi pour toujours. Tu as mon cœur et je ne voudrais pas qu'il en soit autrement."

"I like the sound of that." You press a soft, sweet kiss to his forehead. God, that tenderness was why he loved you. That, and your personality, and your eyes, and your… everything. "Dormir, my love. I'll be here to listen to your pretty words in the morning."

The single word of his mother tongue on your lips has him smiling. "Oui, tu le feras. Parce que tu es à moi et je suis à toi."

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max​ @sunshinesewis @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval @0forgottenparadise0 @evie-pr @avsensio @ninuffi @lu-morningstar @ggaslyp1 @swiftyhowlz

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future updates!

[mia-ugly]

Breakable Things

Martin is big.

Not in a strapping film-star kind of way. Not tall or broad-shouldered, not a ‘mountain of a man’ or a ‘tall drink of water’ or anything like that.

Just big (a dumb, blunt, smack of a word.)

He was big as a lad, he’s bigger now. He always had the kind of body that inspired too many teachers to push him toward wrestling, football, rugby even (apparently his dad had been involved with the clubs. Apparently he’d been a fair tighthead back in the day, before he left Martin’s mum, and left Martin to gather up the pieces, cutting his fingertips on every one.)

It didn’t take Martin’s teachers or schoolmates long to realize that Martin’s size did not equate to any sort of athletic skill. And once the - inevitable rumours started circulating around Year Seven, well. Any motivation he might have had to be ‘part of a team’ was drained out of him like a tire going flat (that metaphor needs work. Doesn’t really convey the violence, try again.)  His motivation left him like the air being knocked from his lungs, shove after hard shove against the lockers.

Martin is strong.

Physically. He doesn’t know why - got it from his father, didn’t he - his wide back, his thick fingers, his solid legs. He took a cricket bat to the face once - ought to have broken his nose, blackened his eyes, but it didn’t. Got in a car accident when he was seventeen, didn’t even crack a rib. Flipped the whole thing into the ditch, and his mum screamed herself hoarse when she found out, but Martin walked away from it. Physically. He walked away.

He doesn’t bruise easily. If he cuts his hand chopping vegetables, it heals quickly. He doesn’t have any scars (he has stretch marks though, all over his stomach and thighs, and for all that he is strong, he’s soft. He’s soft and he knows it, all pudding and poetry and fear, oh, fear most of all. It's pathetic how easy he is, how quickly he caves, rolls over and does whatever's asked of him.

In most situations, anyway. With most people.)

“Why don’t you want me coming with you?”

Jon is in his office, seated in front of that bloody tape recorder as always. The sight of him there is so familiar, like the negatives from a film camera. Like even if Jon wasn’t there, the imprint of him would still linger, white as a ghost against the darkness.

He doesn’t seem surprised to hear Martin’s voice. Neither does he glance up from the desk where he’s shuffling papers, gathering up books. His hands move constantly, restless and bird-boned and Martin is always looking at them, even when he tries not to.

“I don’t want you getting hurt.” Jon’s voice is low, rough with exhaustion, and it makes Martin wince. Makes him want to fuss (when is the last time the man got a decent night's sleep? Someone should bring him a cup of tea, someone should rub his shoulders, someone should do something -

He knows he has a caretaking thing. He knows it’s not - good. And the sharp ones get to him like anything, he wants to win them over in a pathetic, salivating way. It’s a sickness, but - 

- but there was a point when it suddenly stopped being about Martin’s Whole Thing, and just started being about Jon.

He’ll talk to someone about it, swear. A professional, even. If the world doesn’t end.)

“It’s fine if you get hurt, though, is it?”

Jon does look up now, and Martin forces himself not to take a step back under the dark-lashed scrutiny. The heavy eyebrows, the shimmer of scars.  Sometimes Jon’s skin reminds Martin of the surface of a planet, a rough and distant moon. He wonders how it is that Jon can be so narrow, so small, and still take up so much room in the Archives, and in the world, and in Martin’s big (and soft and so so stupid ) heart.

“It is my job.”

“No. This - this is not your job.” Martin struggles to put the words together in the face of this vast, ridiculous injustice. “Going off to - what? Do battle with some sort of evil, circussy death-cult, that’s not your job . You don’t get paid for that.”

Jon snorts, derisive, and Martin wishes he could be angry. It’d be easier if he was angry with Jon.

But he isn’t.

“Melanie needs you here. And I can’t be - there, thinking about -“ Jon stops. He swallows and looks back down at the scattered papers on his desk. A snowfall of horror stories, laid out neatly on Hammermill Bright White. “Worrying about you.”

(“Leave it, Martin, I’m fine just - leave me alone -” Mum smacks him away with a vein-bruised hand.)

“Because I’ll make a mess of things - is that what you think? I can help you, I want to help you-”

“I will feel better knowing you’re here.”

“And how do you think I’ll feel? Knowing you -  you and, um Tim and Daisy - are out risking your lives while I’m sat on my hands, drinking tea, being useless -”

“You aren’t.” Jon’s voice is suddenly loud, as if he’s in pain. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “And I don’t - I can’t - you’ll be helpful here. The Institute needs you, and Melanie needs you, and I -”

-don’t, Martin hears.

Though Jon doesn’t say it, Martin hears it.

“Right,” he manages. “All right.”

He should go. He’s going to go. But he lingers for a moment more, committing as much of Jonathan Sims to memory as he can. The angles of him, compact and rigid with anxiety. The fall of hair across his forehead, ink black shot through with grey. Thin pink lines that a blade left below his jaw, a ripple of lacy scar tissue on his hand (and Martin mostly, mostly doesn’t wonder what those scars would feel like against his own skin. On his shoulder or - or sliding down the length of his throat. At the back of his neck, tugging him into a kiss.)

Come back, come back, come fucking back. Martin isn’t religious, never one for church, but it’s as much of a prayer as he’s ever said.

“Is there something else you want?” Jon asks, terse and tired and - for one thoughtless moment he is the Archivist and only the Archivist, and Martin can’t help but gasp out a shocked, “yes.”

Jon knocks a book off the desk. It slams to the floor loud as a gunshot, and Martin flinches.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, “I’m sorry, I -”

“No, I’m - I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking -”

“It’s fine - I know you didn’t -”

“I would never -”

“But you can.”

There’s a horrible silence, like the moment after the tape recorder shuts off, statement ends. Martin feels sick to his stomach and Jon looks like - like -

He doesn’t know what Jon looks like. Maybe that’s why he keeps talking.

“You can ask me. What I - what I want.” Heat is rushing to his face, a blush that feels like thorns. Jon just stares at him, and this was a bad, bad idea. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Jon doesn’t even need to ask the question, probably knows the whole awful story just by looking at him. “If you wanted.”

When Jon says nothing, just keeps staring, Martin tries desperately to double back.

“Never mind, that was -” He flaps his hands a bit, moving towards the door. His shoulders hunch, an old defense mechanism, useless body trying to make itself look as harmless as possible. Trying to make itself so small it’s beyond notice (it never works.) “I shouldn’t have. I can’t believe I -  just - be safe. All right? That’s all I -”

“Martin -”

“That was - stupid, such a - I’m sorry, I only -”

“-what do you want?”

The words are spoken quietly. Barely above a whisper. But Martin doesn’t need to hear them - his whole body hears them, and suddenly every syllable feels golden in his mouth. Saying it out loud isn’t frightening or humiliating, it’s easy. Answering the Archivist is like falling asleep in a patch of sun-warmed grass, or gasping for air after holding your breath underwater.

“I want you to come back.” It’s honey dripping off his tongue. “I want you to come back for me. And I want the world not to end, and I want to know what your hair feels like, whether it’s soft or coarse and whether I can tell the difference between the black parts and the silvery parts just by touching them.”

Jon is absolutely frozen behind his desk. He might not even be breathing, but that’s okay; Martin can’t remember why anyone needs to breathe.

“And I want to help you. And the others. I want to matter. And I want Sasha to be okay, and I want Tim to be okay, and I want Elias to finally face some fucking consequences for once. I want to take you on holiday and - and watch you while you sleep so you know you don’t have to be afraid. I want to wake you up if you have nightmares and make you tea in the morning and bake things for you, and - and I want to kiss you, even if it’s just once. Only once, just so I know, and only if you want me to. That’s what I want.”

The sweetness ends the moment the last word leaves his mouth. Suddenly the honey is cloying and acrid, suddenly his heart is unsteady with embarrassment, skipping beats like he’s just had a shot of adrenaline. Martin chokes on a breath and slams his eyes shut against the spinning room.

“Fuck.” His voice cracks on the word, insult to injury, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh God - I’m - oh God. That was -” He barely remembers what he said, which is the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. He just knows it was soft, pathetically soft. Even his fantasies are as weak as his jawline. “I’m going to - go, I’ll go. I shouldn’t have -”

“W-wait.”

Martin doesn’t want to open his eyes. But he does. Just in time to see Jonathan Sims stand up. Start to walk around the desk.

And Jon is not big. Or strong, physically. Martin knows a bit about anatomy, took a couple art classes, was always fascinated by the bones of things. As Jon steps closer, Martin can only see the breakable things about him. Collarbones, fingers, bridge of his nose. What’s that bone in the arm that everyone’s always breaking?

Humerus.

Ulna.

Jon is not strong, and he is scarred, and he is small and fragile and God he is the bravest person Martin’s ever met.

“Martin, you -” Jon stops in front of him and Martin looks down, gaze almost level with the top of Jon’s head. “You can ask me. What - what I want.”

He’s shaking, Martin can see it - and it makes him realize that he’s shaking too. He barely manages the “What -” before he forgets how to say the rest, forgets how words work (but Jon, Jon is brave.)

“I think - I would like -” Jon reaches for Martin’s hand, and lifts it to his mouth. Presses a dry kiss right in the centre of Martin’s palm.

It’s a ruining sort of softness, and Martin’s big (physically) and strong (physically) but somehow Jon knows where his weaknesses are - the loose dragonscale, the slipped disc.

(And of course, after this the world will almost end (but not quite.)  After this, there will be Elias and Martin’s humiliating tears over a statement he knew damn well, a beholding that came as no surprise to anyone.

After this Jon will die.

Almost. Not quite.)

But now: Jon is murmuring, “I think -” as he leans up to kiss Martin (and his warm mouth is shocking and brief, a knife sliding home.)

But now: Jon is still shaking when their lips part, and Martin’s hands are on either side of his face, tips of his fingers settled lightly in Jon's hair (it’s softer than anything, as it turns out, and the silvery parts are softest of all.)

Their foreheads press together, both of them breathing harder than one kiss should warrant. And Martin doesn’t say any of those other things he wants, any of the white-hot words he’s scratched down on paper or typed into the notes app. He doesn’t say anything about the shape of Jon’s shoulder-blades through that thin grey t-shirt he wears, doesn’t bring up any metaphors about fading light or seaglass or breakable things that are also strangely beautiful.

Because what good is poetry at the end of the world?

“Be careful,” Martin says instead (and Jon won’t be.)

“Come back,” he says (and Jon isn’t going to. Not for a long, long time).

And hours later, standing in that empty office, Martin will see the lighter that Jon left on his desk. He will notice the black handful of ashes in the rubbish bin, and wonder what Jon was burning.

And Martin is soft. People-pleasing and pathetic and terribly, terribly in love.

But Jonathan Sims kissed him once (once) and for a moment, in that office, with a small blue flame leaping in his hand -

Martin is not afraid.

[bluejayblueskies]

ten to one

Words: 2.8k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Tim Stoker/Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Sasha James

Characters: Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, Sasha James

Additional Tags: Fluff, Kissing, Alcohol, New Year’s Eve, tim is a sore loser, sasha has cats, martin hates chestnuts, jon just wishes they could drink something other than champagne

Summary:

“You’re going to be sick,” Jon comments, taking a small sip of champagne from his glass and ignoring the way Tim’s lips curl into a pout. He’d said, when Sasha had poured him a glass of champagne, that he’d thought it was meant to be drunk at midnight; she’d assured him that this bottle was one of their pre-countdown bottles.

Given the number of bottles lining her kitchen countertop, he was inclined to believe her.

----

The archival staff counts down to the new year with cupcakes, champagne, and cats.

Read on Ao3

Or read below:

10

.

That’s how many little cupcakes Tim’s eaten, by Jon’s count. When Tim grins at him, his sharp-toothed smile is stained black from the frosting.

 “You’re going to be sick,” Jon comments, taking a small sip of champagne from his glass and ignoring the way Tim’s lips curl into a pout. He’d said, when Sasha had poured him a glass of champagne, that he’d thought it was meant to be drunk at midnight; she’d assured him that this bottle was one of their pre-countdown bottles.

 Given the number of bottles lining her kitchen countertop, he was inclined to believe her.

 “I’ll have you know,” Tim says, sliding closer to Jon on the couch and snagging his glass out of his hand, “that I have a stomach of steel. It’s sick-free!”

 He takes a long sip of champagne as if to prove his point. His lips stain the rim of the glass black.

 “Tim,” Jon says flatly. “That’s disgusting.”

 Tim looks at the glass, noticing the discolouration. “Huh.” Then, a wide grin splits his mouth nearly in two, and before Jon can pull back, Tim presses a quick kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough that Jon can taste the sugar on Tim’s mouth.

 It’s nice, and for a moment, Jon’s irritation melts a bit, softened by the champagne in his stomach and the feeling of Tim’s lips on his.

 Then, Tim pulls back too-quick and squints at Jon’s mouth. “Huh,” he repeats. “Looks like black food dye really does stain everything.”

 Jon looks at the glass, still in Tim’s hand, and then at Tim’s lips, tinged ever so slightly with black. His own still taste of sugar.

 “Tim!”

.

9

.

That’s how old Martin was the last time he spent New Year’s Eve with someone. It had been the first time his parents had let him stay up until midnight, and they’d given him a champagne flute of sparkling apple juice so that when the clock hit midnight he could toast the new year just like they did. He’d barely made it, his eyes fighting a losing battle against exhaustion as the new year inched closer and closer, but he’d done it.

 That had been a long time ago, though. After a while, Martin had taken to treating New Year’s Eve like any other day. No point in forcing himself to stay up late for something that was bound to be disappointing in the end.

 Now, though, Martin’s sat on the couch at Sasha’s house with Tim’s legs across his lap and Sasha tucked into his side, a large container of cheesy popcorn balanced between the three of them. Jon’s somewhere in the kitchen, having squirmed out from underneath Tim long enough to take the chestnuts out of the oven. From the little frustrated noises Martin can hear coming from the kitchen, Jon’s struggling to extract them from their shells.

 Martin’s really not a fan of chestnuts. But he’d rather die than tell Jon that right now.

 So when Jon finally returns to the living room, a steaming bowl of shucked chestnuts in his hand, Martin accepts one with a smile. And maybe it’s something about that night or the way that Jon’s smiling at him, but when he bites into the chestnut, he doesn’t hate it.

 He doesn’t hate it at all.

.

8

.

That’s what time Jon appears at Sasha’s front door, on time to the minute. He’s a good fifteen minutes ahead of Martin, who had sent Sasha a running late! text with a string of apologetic emojis attached to it, and at least an hour ahead of Tim, who has being fashionably late down to a science. Jon seems nervous, shifting back and forth on Sasha’s threshold with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a large bag of raw chestnuts in the other.

 Sasha lets him in with a warm greeting and a smile (and, once she’s taken the bottle out of his hands so he won’t drop it, a quick kiss on his cheek). He sets the chestnuts on the counter, his eyes going to her living room couch, then the kitchen, before finding her again.

 “Am I too early?” he says, eyes wide and unsure, and Sasha wonders briefly how he’d ever managed to convince them that he was stuffy and closed-off. Particularly when he’s standing in her living room, clutching a bag of chestnuts in his arms like a lifeline.

 “Nope,” Sasha says, extracting the chestnuts from his arms with a smile. “You’re right on time.”

.

7

.

That’s how many times Sasha’s caught Tim trying to open the bottle of special midnight champagne, tucked away on the far corner of the counter and labelled with a bright blue sticky note to avoid being accidentally opened. She supposes if she’d wanted to Tim-proof it, she probably should have put it in a locked safe. Though he knows her so well, he’d probably be able to guess the passcode.

 It should be irritating. Somehow, it’s hopelessly endearing instead.

 “Tim,” Sasha says, snatching the champagne out of his hands as his thumbnail begins to pick at the gold foil covering the cork. There’s a rip in it when she extracts it from him, revealing a small strip of cork underneath. “That’s for later!” Her eyes slide to the left, where there’s a half-full, open bottle of champagne sitting on the counter next to them. “What’s wrong with that champagne?”

 Tim gives her the saddest set of puppy dog eyes he has in his arsenal. “Sasha, I have been waiting months to drink that champagne. Months! I don’t want to wait until later!”

 A weaker woman would have folded under the impressive weight of Timothy Stoker’s big brown eyes and pouting lips. Sasha just grabs the open bottle of champagne and presses it into Tim’s hands with a smile and a quick kiss on those same lips. “Later,” she repeats, before taking the bottle to hide it somewhere Tim won’t be able to find it.

 She hopes.

.

6

.

That’s how many letters are in Martin’s name, Tim thinks idly as he runs his hands through Martin’s hair, scratching his nails lightly against Martin’s scalp. Somehow, in the rearranging of the four of them on Sasha’s obscenely long couch, Tim had ended up with Martin’s head on his lap, and he certainly isn’t going to complain.

 Sasha and Jon are bickering about some small detail in the movie they’ve put on, Tim thinks, like they always do—is it pronounced this way or that way, would a wide shot or a close-up be better here, would that specific piece of clothing have been period-typical at the time (yes, if it were dyed with indigo flowers, Jon had said primly, which had then been followed by a hey as Sasha’s elbow connected with his side)—and so he’s got Martin all to himself. Which is such a lovely place to be, he thinks as he continues to massage Martin’s scalp with his fingers.

 “Tim,” Martin says, his voice pinched slightly in that way it always gets when he’s receiving affection—like he’s always surprised by it, half-expecting it to be taken away without warning. “I have to tell you something.”

 Tim hums, a soothing noise, and says, “Okay, but I should warn you—I’m currently seeing someone. Several someones, actually. In fact, I believe it would technically be three—”

 “Okay, okay,” Martin says, one hand coming up to swat at Tim’s. His mouth is curled into a small, amused smile. “No need to be so…” He waves a hand in the air vaguely.

 “Handsome?” Tim suggests with a sharp grin.

 “Cheeky.”

 Tim puts on a comically large expression of shock. “No. Me? Couldn’t be.”

 Martin laughs, a small and breathy thing, and Tim loves him for it. His expression slips into something warmer and real, and he resumes running his hands through Martin’s hair. “Fine, fine, I’m listening. Go ahead, Martin.”

 “Thank you.” Martin closes his eyes, hums gently, and says, without opening his eyes, “You have frosting on your nose.”

.

5

.

That’s how many fingers are on Jon’s left hand as it finds Martin’s on the couch, those same fingers threading through Martin’s with an ease that could be practised had it not been just a few months since working together had turned into getting lunch together had turned into pining had turned into… everything else. Martin had spent a lot of time looking at Jon’s hands, before; the way that his knuckles are wider than the rest of the finger, or the way that he drums his fingers on his desk when he’s bored, or the way that his hands look wrapped around a mug of tea, black and over-steeped just like Jon likes it.

 They’d looked soft, Martin had thought.

 He’d been right.

 The kiss Martin places over the top of Jon’s knuckles is quick and impulsive, his lips still wearing the smile from something Tim had said and his other hand clasped with Sasha’s (her grip is impressively tight, like she’s afraid she’s going to drop him). The soft, surprised smile that Jon gives him is worth the entire world.

.

4

.

That’s how many cards Tim has to draw when Martin plays the Draw 4 Uno card, giving him an apologetic smile that does nothing to alleviate the fact that Tim had one card left and was about to win, goddammit!

 “Martin,” Tim says as he draws painstaking card after painstaking card. “Dearest Martin.” He draws another card. “Lovely, kind Martin.” He draws the final card and gives Martin his best solemn expression. “This is how you ruin relationships, Martin. This, right here.”

 Martin’s face is flushed pink, but his voice is casual when he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tim. I’m just playing the game.”

 Tim points at Martin, looking back and forth between Jon and Sasha for support. “Do you hear that? Nothing but disrespect. Treachery. A fatal blow!”

 Sasha looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Jon just looks bemused. “I mean, he is just playing the game,” Jon says with a small shrug. “And I believe he’s winning.”

 Tim looks over at the single card Martin’s holding, and before his brain can process the situation fast enough to call Martin out for not declaring it, Martin says quickly, “Uno!”

 “Jon!” Tim says, kind of wishing it hadn’t come out so whiny but feeling altogether too slighted to do anything about it.

 “My turn,” Jon says, and plays a reverse card.

 “Oh, I hate you all.”

.

3

.

That’s how many glasses of champagne Martin has had, which is a lot for him since he doesn’t really make a habit of drinking, especially wine, which tends to give him a headache even if he drinks white. But Jon had assured him that champagne is essentially tannin-free, having minimal skin and oak contact, so the only thing Martin had to worry about was his own terrible alcohol tolerance.

 Well, Jon hadn’t said that last part. That was just Martin.

 Three glasses, it seems, is enough to activate Martin’s least-favourite part about drinking—the complete inability of his brain to keep every single thing that comes across his mind from spilling out into the open. He’s already told Sasha that he accidentally stole the cardigan she keeps in her desk at work and, by the time he realized a week later, was too embarrassed to give it back. (“So that’s where that went!” Sasha had said with an accusatory tone.) He interrupted Tim mid-sentence to tell him, quite abruptly, that whenever Tim wore that black-and-white patterned shirt to work—which was just a bit smaller on him than the others and which he usually wore with the top two buttons unbuttoned—he could never stop staring at it. (“Really?” Tim had said with a smirk. “I suppose I’ll have to wear it more often then.”)

 And now, when Jon shoots Tim a very impressive glare and says, in his best professional voice, “I don’t think that’s quite work-appropriate, Tim,” Martin isn’t able to keep himself from blurting out that he finds Jon’s “archivist” voice really, really hot.

 The silence that blankets the room at that is deafening. Tim looks delighted; Sasha looks amused. And the flush that spreads over Jon’s face is really quite impressive, visible even in the low light of Sasha’s living room.

 Martin really shouldn’t have had that third glass of champagne.

.

2

.

That’s how many cats Sasha has, until now shut away in her bedroom to avoid being overwhelmed by the loud noise or being stepped on. At Tim’s insistence (and Jon’s not-so-subtle glances toward her closed door), Sasha finally relents, but not before pointing a stern finger at Tim and telling him to behave.

 (“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Tim says innocently, like he doesn’t always end up getting himself bitten or scratched.)

 Now, one cat—an orange-and-white shorthair named Darwin—is curled up in front of the television, currently being assaulted by Tim and Martin as they spoil him with pets and treats and the little feather on a string that he likes. The other—a midnight-black longhair named Emily with wide yellow eyes—is sprawled across Jon’s lap, her purring loud enough that Sasha can hear it from the kitchen where she’s subtly retrieving the bottle of midnight champagne from its hiding place. Sasha’s pretty sure she’s never seen Jon look at anything like that—with eyes full of love and wonder and the corners of his mouth pulled up into what looks like an involuntary smile.

 Sasha’s suddenly so very in love with him—with all of them—that she can barely breathe. It’s not an emotion she’s very comfortable with—she’s never gotten crushes easily, and the ones she’s had tended to ruin year-long friendships when they sprung up almost overnight, when her brain finally decided that it wanted more. Jon, she’s known for ages, their desks in research being directly across from one another and her persistence knowing no bounds. Martin longer still, having met him when he worked in the library and she worked in artifact storage. Tim is the most recent, technically, but god, it feels like she’s known him her whole life.

 There’s a small shriek from the living room, and when Sasha looks back, she sees Tim with his hand buried in the fur of Darwin’s stomach, Darwin’s teeth nipping at the flesh of Tim’s thumb. “Ow ow ow, sharp,” Tim says, but he’s laughing, and he continues to rub at Darwin’s belly with a smile on his face.

 Really, Sasha thinks as she turns back to the kitchen with a smile of her own, there’s nowhere she’d rather be.

.

1

.

That’s how many minutes there are until midnight. The glass of champagne in Jon’s hand looks exactly the same as all the others, but Sasha had insisted that it was better, Jon, it’ll taste heavenly, I promise, so he holds it and watches the numbers on the television screen begin to count down.

 It strikes Jon, as the seconds pass and midnight draws closer, that he’s never really felt any need to celebrate the new year. The two days—New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day—were technically indistinguishable from one other, delineated only by the human decision to make them so, and therefore what was the point really of staying up so late just to drink bad wine and stare at a clock? He’d gone to a New Year’s Eve party once with Georgie in uni, and it had been fine, but once they broke up he really didn’t see any reason to attend another. He disliked everything about New Year’s celebrations—the bad champagne, the resolutions nobody kept, the way he always wrote the date wrong for a few weeks afterwards.

 He doesn’t dislike this, though, he realizes, sitting with Tim pressed up against one side and Martin against the other and Sasha on the end of the couch next to Tim, all of them watching the countdown with rapt attention. Maybe the champagne is terrible and the resolutions are silly and having to constantly erase the last number of the year will be frustrating, but this—being together, celebrating together—really isn’t so bad at all.

 The countdown reaches ten, and Tim begins to vocalize the numbers along with it as they flash across the screen, altogether too loudly for this time of night. Sasha and Martin join in at eight, and Jon finally makes up his mind as the counter hits one, his lips shaping the word along with the rest of them.

 Glasses clink and champagne is drunk (not heavenly, Jon thinks, but more palatable than the rest) and kisses are shared as Happy New Year! flashes across the television screen. And, Jon thinks, it’s really quite lovely after all. To bring in the new year with the people you love.

.

0.

That’s how many of them wake up the next morning without mouths full of cotton and pounding headaches, the several empty bottles of champagne making themselves known.

 “Ughhhhh,” Tim groans eloquently, and falls back asleep.

[xxhaleycarterxx]

Sims 4 Zodiac Challenge!

I know that there are many zodiac challenges out there, but I wanted to make my own! Also, if you do not have a color scheme in mind, there are optional color suggestions that you can use! Have fun!

Gen 1: Aries (optional color: red)

Description:

You’re competitive and hard working, and can sometimes come across as a bit arrogant. However, you have a bit of an inferiority complex, so every time your sibling or a friend succeeds, you aren’t too happy about it and always try to one up them. But after a while, you realize that you acting this way is pushing away the people you care about. Can you salvage these relationships before it’s too late and the damage is done?

Traits:

Ambitious

Hot-Headed

Jealous

Aspiration:

Academic

Requirements:

Must make at least 3 enemies in lifetime, but at least become acquaintances with one of them by the time of death

Must master the business career and enter the management branch

Must have only one child

Must master the Research & Debate skill

Must master the Charisma skill

Must complete the aspiration

Gen 2: Taurus (optional color: brown)

Description:

You grew up truly appreciating food and what it meant. You were amazed how a simple meal could bring a family together, and how many memories were made because of that. You were close to your parents and were taught to always stand your ground and share your opinions. However, this caused you to become a little bull-headed (pun intended). You’re super stubborn and don’t like to be wrong, and won’t admit that you are ever wrong. This makes romance hard for you, but you keep trying because you are a hopeless romantic at heart. And once you find that special someone, you are loyal ‘til the end.

Traits:

Foodie

Self-Assured

Romantic

Aspiration:

Soulmate

Requirements:

Must master the cooking skill and one other of your choice

Must have at least 3 failed relationships, then one final, never cheating once with them

Must master the culinary career

Must have only one set of twins

Must complete the aspiration

Gen 3: Gemini (Optional color: any two toned or just black or white)

Description:

Growing up, you had the “perfect life”: two parents who loved each other, lots of friends, good grades, and a beautiful house. You were living the good life, so why did you always feel like you wanted more? You decide to take a step on your own, leaving your family behind to pursue your dreams in the big city. However, you quickly realize that life is harder than it seems. You can’t find a job you’re comfortable in, you can’t hold down a relationship, but you find solace in entertaining people and throwing parties. Something about being a host really makes you feel happy.

Traits:

Erratic

Noncommittal

Dance Machine

Aspiration:

Party Animal

Requirements:

Must throw a party at least once a season (or once a week if you do not have the pack)

Must join and quit numerous careers, ending up with no job

Must live in the city

Must fail multiple relationships, one resulting in a child/children

Must graduate school with A grades

Must make at least 5 friends through childhood

Must complete the aspiration

Gen 4: Cancer (optional color: teal)

Description:

In another life you would have become a doctor, but in this one you are content with looking after your family and making sure your children grow up the best they can. You’re a loving but strict parent, and just want what’s best for your children. However, will you push them away by being too overbearing?

Traits:

Family-oriented

Neat

Proper

Aspiration:

Super Parent

Requirements:

Must Master the Parenting Skill

Can join a freelancer career, but never one that has to go in to work. If you choose one, you must work from home every day.

Must have only 2 children

Must complete the aspiration

Gen 5: Leo (optional color: orange)

Description:

Your parents were so overbearing to you and your sibling growing up that in your teenage years you began to rebel. Staying out late, skipping class, whatever you could think of. Your parent made sure you got good grades, but you didn’t care about school. All you cared about was the spotlight. You were going to make it big, and you didn’t need calculus to help you rock out on your guitar or make the crowds feel emotions from your acting. You’re arrogant and stubborn, but determined to succeed no matter what the cost. Unfortunately, that means that you can miss out on things that are most important in life.

Traits:

Music Lover

Snob

Jealous

Aspiration:

World-Famous Celebrity

Requirements:

Must master either the actor or entertainer career (musician branch)

Must master the acting, guitar, and singing skills

Must reach global superstar fame

Must break curfew and skip school multiple times in childhood and as a teen

Must complete the aspiration

Gen 6: Virgo (optional color: sage green)

Description:

You grew up without a strong parental figure in your life, which made it hard for you to trust other people. How do you know that they would be there for you when you truly needed them? You’re cautious and shy, but curious about the world. You truly enjoy learning and collecting things, and through this passion is how you meet the love of your life. They are the only person you can trust, but they can tell you’re always holding yourself back and hiding parts of yourself away from them. Can a relationship last with this kind of distrust?

Traits:

Loner

Bookworm

Perfectionist

Aspiration:

Nerd Brain

Requirements:

Must complete the aspiration

Must master 3 skills of your choice

Must master the education career

Must only have one friend and marry them

Gen 7: Libra (optional color: purple)

Description:

You thrive on socialization. Your parents are kind of shy homebodies, but you crave constant company and cannot stand to be by yourself. This can come across as quite overbearing to some people, so sometimes it’s hard for you to make friends. And, despite being such a sociable person, you are kind of oblivious when it comes to romance. You are very childish in the best possible way, and are the kind of parent to get down in the dirt and play with your children. You are a very supportive parent and you strive to make your family as happy as they can be, through whatever means.

Traits:

Outgoing

Childish

Family-oriented

Aspiration:

Big Happy Family

Requirements:

Must complete the aspiration

Must have 5 children throughout the lifetime

Must have high relationships with all family members

Must master the parenting and charisma skills

Must not join a career - can do odd jobs

Must have at least 10 friends by the time of death

Gen 8: Scorpio (optinal color: black)

Description:

You grew up watching true crime television shows and superhero movies and decided that’s what you wanted to do with your life: bring justice and fight evil. Unfortunately you can’t become a superhero, but you can become a police officer/detective. You want to make the world a better place than it was before, and you want your legacy to be something of legend. Hardworking and dedicated to your craft, you tend to focus too much on work and it puts a strain on your relationship.

Traits:

Good

Romantic

Ambitious

Aspiration:

Friend of the world

Requirements:

Must complete the aspiration

Must master the detective career

Must master the logic and fitness skills - you gotta be in tip-top shape

Must only have one child, as you will be too focused on your job to care for many more

Gen 9: Sagittarius (optional color: dark green)

Description:

You love travel and learning new things. You want to experience as much as you can in your lifetime, which means meeting people different from yourself. You heard that one of your ancestors (generation three) was a big traveler too, so you decide to follow in their footsteps.

Traits:

Adventurous

Loves the outdoors

Active

Aspiration:

Archaeology scholar/jungle explorer

Requirements:

Must master the archaeology and selvadorian culture skills

Must complete the jungle adventure

Must never marry, but have one child

Must live in 3 different worlds throughout lifetime

Gen 10: Capricorn (optional color: gray)

Description:

You hated how free spirited and laid back your parent was, and craved structure and discipline. Since a teen, you had a schedule every day after school: do homework, practice your skills for an hour, eat dinner, go to bed. Moving around so often meant that you didn’t make many friends, so you chose to devote all of your time to mastering as many skills as you could. But focusing in on one detail of life made you miss out on the bigger picture.

Traits:

Perfectionist

Neat

Loner

Aspiration:

Renaissance Sim

Requirements:

Must complete the aspiration

Must master 5 skills of your choice

Must master a career of your choice

Gen 11: Aquarius (optional color: dark blue)

Description:

Who ever said eccentricity was a bad thing? You are a little out there and can be pretty spacey sometimes, but overall you are very passionate about your morals and strive to make other people’s lives better. Just be careful not to become a pushover.

Traits:

Good

Outgoing

Erratic

Aspiration:

Friend of the world (again, because I cannot think of a better one)

Requirements:

Must complete the aspiration

Must master the doctor career (I think that the best way to make people’s lives better is to save their lives or treat their sicknesses)

Must master any skills of your choosing

Must have high relationships with your child/children

Must have numerous friends

Gen 12 (FINAL GEN): Pisces (optional color: aqua)

Description:

You love to socialize and surround yourself with all different kinds of people. Your parents loved you and raised you to be kind and perhaps a bit sensitive. You can be insecure at times, especially when it comes to your significant other. For some reason, you can’t seem to stay in a relationship for very long. Is there a way to fix this?

Traits:

Noncommittal

Outgoing

Jealous

Aspiration:

Any is fine

Requirements:

Must complete the aspiration

Must master the charisma and comedy skills (to help make more friends!)

You can have children if you want, but you don’t have to as this is the last generation

Must have multiple failed relationships

Must never marry

Must master a job of your choosing

And there you are! You completed the challenge! Congrats!

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 5

Chapters: 5/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can't help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4]

Gerry has always thought it was very appropriate that his first kiss (with Jon, and overall) happened in the forgotten stacks of a local library. The scents of books and ink had surrounded them, something he still associates with Jon and youthful adoration to this day.

He was seventeen and desperately trying to pass his A-levels in the crumbling ruins of his fucked up life. Jon was nineteen and ready to have a breakdown and drop out of second-year uni. Their messes had conveniently lined up enough to give them space to fall in love. It was a messy, chaotic type of relationship, but that was who they were and it suited them just fine.

They somehow ended up as unlikely study partners after trying to check out the same book for their respective English classes, and then, almost without even noticing, they were inseparable.

Gerry was drawn to Jon because he was steady but in a frenetic, rebellious kind of way. His eyebrow piercing and painted nails also helped.

Jon was enamored with Gerry because he flirted and held his hand and accepted him for exactly what he was and nothing else mattered.

One night, after admittedly too little sleep and too much caffeine, Jon decided he wanted to try something new. It was impulsive. He should have asked first, but instead, he moved without thinking, and somehow Gerry was pushed back against a bookshelf, their lips pressed together in a rather forceful way.

Gerry laughed at him.

"Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for," Jon pouted, drawing away, but not so far that Gerry wasn't able to draw him back with his hands on Jon's hips. Jon's hands, previously bracketing Gerry's face, slipped up to tangle in Gerry's soft, badly dyed black hair.

Fortunately for Gerry, Jon was exactly the right height for Gerry to draw him close and press a kiss to his temple. "You just surprised me, is all. I wasn't expecting you to do that. Like, maybe ever?" He laughed softly, again, an incredulous well of hot affection opening in his chest.

"I was curious," he replied, shrugging. His face burned, with both embarrassment and sappy pleasure. "I thought maybe it would be nice."

"Oooooh." Gerry grinned wickedly, "We'll have to keep trying, then. You know, for investigative purposes. We can't leave a hypothesis improperly explored."

Jon silenced his nonsense by drawing their lips back together, and Gerry happily obliged him. At that moment, Gerry decided to make every kiss better than the one before, so Jon would always feel the need to come back for more.

It turned out they enjoyed kissing one another very, very much. Gerry still appreciated everything Jon offered him and never pressured him for anything more, or extra, or too much. Jon was still steady but wild. Gerry always seemed to end up shirtless. Young infatuation was a beautiful thing, both to behold and to endure.

*******

By the time Jon meets Martin, he's kissed a few more people.

Georgie, for two dizzy years in grad school. Tim, on one memorable and drunken misadventure. A few others sprinkled here and there.

But he couldn't remember ever feeling that same reckless drive to push himself into someone else's space and live in their gravity, the way it had been during those breathless months with Gerry.

As soon as he lets his unfounded anger for Martin's mere presence in his orbit fade, Jon feels himself drawn to Martin's magnetism. His kindness, his gentleness, his constant awareness of Jon's mood and wellbeing.

The way he brings him tea even though he would have insisted he didn't like it and didn't want it. Martin did it anyway because Jon could let it cool or drink it, but the gesture behind it stood all the same.

Jon doesn't imagine that Martin could ever forgive his months of snide remarks and cold disregard, but he does, and Martin somehow manages to like him anyway. Because that's just who Martin is, always finding something to love in even the most desolate places.

"Let me get you a taxi." Martin presses after a dinner date.

"Let me get you a taxi." Jon presses back.

"I live one block away!" Martin laughs and can't resist pulling Jon towards him by the elbows. Jon grabs his lapels with sloppy confidence born of laughter and wine.

The air is full of gentle moisture, not quite raining, just blanketing the world enough that they feel locked away in their own world for the moment. Nevermind that they live in one of the most populous cities in the world. At that moment there is nothing but Jon and Martin and the warmth between them, forging an intoxicating attachment to rattle the stars.

"I want to kiss you," Martin whispers the confession into the space between them, pressing their foreheads together and breathing Jon's air.

"I really wish you would," Jon offers him in return.

Their lips press together gently, deliberately. Martin is taller than Jon by enough that he gets the supreme satisfaction of dragging him slightly up towards him, crowding into his normally sacred personal space.

For a moment, they feel airborne, standing in their huddle of space and time. Their lips move together, dragging and drugging them.

Martin gasps softly as they pull apart to breathe, all their emotion pouring out into the space between them.

"Come home with me," Martin pleads softly. "Just- for time together. I don't want this to end."

"Yes," Jon whispers back, "I think I would like that very much."

It is only one block away, and they walk hand in hand, pausing occasionally to press soft lips together again and again.

*******

Gerry tries to keep a balance of spending time with both Martin and Jon and seeing them separately. He also makes sure to give them space to be together on their own, and never inserts himself between them.

Even after several months, he feels like a guest in their relationship, and for the time being, he doesn't mind existing in that space. He finally knows he wants to keep them both, and he is willing to wait for the natural progression of their relationship to carry them along.

He is still willing to do his part in it, of course.

Gerry likes to go into the bookstore, get flirted with by Tim, flirt with Martin in return. Drink tea or coffee and read books on the comfortable couch in the corner, all the while watching Martin brew drinks and care for his customers.

Martin works 5 or 6 days most weeks, often helping man the counter himself, between the admin of running the place and herding Tim and various baristas. So Gerry is quite taken aback when he goes in early one Monday afternoon to find Martin nowhere in sight.

After a quick check with Jon to make sure it's not a normal absence, Gerry makes his way the short walk to Martin's flat.

At first, there's no answer to his knock. He knocks again. He texts Martin's cell. He calls it too. A pit settles into his stomach, although he knows it's far too early to panic.

He knocks one more time and even calls out for Martin through the door, before going quiet to listen.

After a few nerve-wracking moments, Martin does actually open the door a crack, peering out at Gerry with red, tear-stained eyes.

"Martin? Are you okay, love?" Gerry tries to push forward, but the door doesn't open any further. "I brought you tea. From the shop, even, so it's definitely good."

"Why?" Martin asks in such a bleak voice that Gerry is taken aback.

"I-" He starts, mouth gaping at Martin's completely alien manner. "I thought you might like it. That it would bring you some comfort if you were sick or something."

"Or something," Martin says, the total blank sadness in his voice filling Gerry with biting concern.

"Please let me in." He presses his hand more firmly into the door, and Martin eventually yields, although Gerry knows from unfortunate personal experience that it's more from lack of caring than anything.

"Make yourself at home, I guess." Martin offers the space ahead of him as he moves further into his flat. He collapses on the couch, curling into a fetal position on the cushions.

Gerry's heart burns, both with sympathy and empathy. He has an idea of what might be causing such a bad relapse of Martin's depression, although the topic of mothers is always carefully danced around between the three of them. He puts the tea down in grabbing distance and he goes to Martin's wardrobe to fetch his favorite fluffy blanket.

"You don't have to tell me what's wrong. But I want to be here for you." Gerry tells him firmly as he wraps Martin up in it. "Is there anything specific I can do for you or do you want me to suggest some stuff?"

Martin blinks up at him. "I don't know…"

"I can put the TV on and sit nearby. I know I don't have Jon's voice, but I could read to you. Put on a podcast?" Gerry throws out the suggestions, keeping his tone gentle and neutral. He doesn't want Martin to sense that this is difficult for him in any way. He can process his own emotions later.

"Anything." Martin shifts over onto his side as silent tears resume a steady trail down his face. Gerry walks over to the bookcase and selects a book he has seen Martin reading a dozen times, the spine well broken and the pages yellowing.

He sits on the floor in front of Martin, near enough for him to hopefully be able to absorb some of the goth's errant body heat. He starts reading, keeping his cadence slow and steady, hoping to provide comfort and grounding.

He reads for almost an hour, and he thinks Martin actually sleeps through most of it. He drinks the tea, although it's already cold.

Eventually, he slows to a stop and closes the book, but doesn't move, hoping Martin will stay sleeping.

"I'm sorry." Gerry is startled by Martin's croaky voice and turns to look at him.

"You have nothing to apologize for."

"I do," Martin starts, rubbing at his checks and sitting up against the armrest. "I'm a disaster and you had to come all this way and waste all this time just because I can't get my shit together."

Gerry's eyes narrow at this nonsense, but his tone remains gentle. "None of the time I spend with you is ever wasted. I care about you and I want to be here for you. I wish you had called me or Jon so that we could have come sooner."

Martin's face falls at the mention of their mutual boyfriend's name. "Of course. You came for Jon. It would have been pretty bad if he had seen this mess."

"That is not what I said, and it's not what I meant." Gerry's voice rises, from hurt at Martin's words, at the way his mental state twists Gerry's heart in his chest. He pulls himself up onto his knees, putting himself firmly in Martin's personal space and leaning in close so Martin can't avoid his eyes or his words. "Martin, allow me to make myself completely clear. Because I won't allow you for one second longer to believe that you are some kind of consolation prize for me, that I tolerate your presence because I feel like you and Jon are a package deal. That anything I do to show you affection or effort is for Jon's benefit. You are a gift to me. The way I feel for you is completely independent of my feelings for Jon. I love us all together, but you. You fill me with hope and laughter and the warmth of a perfectly brewed cup of tea. I want you just as much as I want Jon, and my heart will never be the same if you were to walk away from me. Please don't push me away because you think I only feel this way about Jon. Because that is the furthest thing from my truth."

His declaration sits heavy in the air between them for a moment, almost shimmering where Gerry can practically see it hanging in the air.

"But, I-"

"No, no buts. I'll accept 'thank you, Gerry, you light up my life too, Gerry.' No arguments. No buts. This is a space where we can accept that people love us."

"Thank you, Gerry," Martin says slowly, pulling Gerry closer to hold the sides of their faces together. Gerry wraps his arms around Martin and rocks them gently. "You fill life with colour, my Gerry."

"Much better, love. I'd really like to kiss you now, if you-" Gerry breaks off as Martin pulls him closer and slots their lips together. The kiss is full of desperate desire to bring Martin closer to Gerry and further from his forsaken loneliness.

Gerry slides himself up off the floor, not breaking contact, and sits astride Martin's lap. Martin sneaks his hands up the back of his shirt, hands confident and familiar from months of tactile flirting and easy affection.

Gerry anchors himself to Martin, and Martin anchors himself to Gerry, and at that moment they feel the nexus of their relationship, both with each other and with Jon, lock firmly into place.

[haberdashing]

One Step Behind Your Memory

TMA fic building off the AU established in Yesterday Is Here by @cirrus-grey, in which a post-season-5, married Jon and Martin go back in time to the pre-season-1 Archives to prevent the worst of the future from happening as it did in canon.

October 2017: Martin’s mother dies, the second time around.

on AO3

Jon could tell that something was bothering Martin today. Martin wasn’t as able to focus on their shared research, to stay engaged with what the two of them still had left to do to help fix things, to avoid being distracted by anything and everything around them. Despite it otherwise seeming like a perfectly ordinary day--well, ordinary by their standards, at least--Martin was... off, slightly, and thinking of it made Jon’s heart ache.

Jon wanted to know what was on Martin’s mind, wanted to know what he could do to help, but he knew better than to outright ask.

Instead, when Martin started trailing off his speech in the middle of a sentence for the third time that hour (not that Jon was counting), Jon simply pressed his hand against Martin’s and said, softly, “Martin?”

“Sorry, I got distracted again, uh-”

“No need to apologize, love.” Jon squeezed Martin’s hand gently. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“Yeah, today’s just... well, today. Makes it extra hard, I suppose.”

Without looking at the chart that he and Martin had compiled together of when everything had went to hell the first time around, Jon couldn’t remember what, if anything, had happened on today’s date before. He’d been in his coma at the time, though, that much he knew, so it could well be something he’d missed when it had happened.

“I can’t remember what happened today.” Jon confessed.

“You know, I’m not sure I ever told you.” Martin’s face was growing redder by the moment. “It probably shouldn’t bother me this much-”

“But it still does.” Jon finished.

“Right, yeah.”

A moment passed where neither of them spoke, Jon staring down at their intertwined hands as he waited silently.

Then, finally, Martin’s voice, hardly louder than a breath, after a furtive glance at his younger counterpart: “Mum dies today.”

“Oh.” Jon’s voice was as hushed as his husband’s, and the arm that wasn’t already partly on top of Martin’s wrapped around him in a tight half-hug. “Oh, Martin, I’m so sorry.”

Martin just shrugged, but when Jon looked him in the eyes, he could see that Martin was trying to hold back tears.

“I don’t think that’s on the chart, we could have-”

Martin shook his head as he interrupted Jon. “No, no, we couldn’t have. Out of all the-” Martin let out a soft, bitter laugh. “-the supernatural boogie monsters that took over our lives, her dying is the one thing that was, well, normal. I mean, she was sick for a long time before she died; hell, there were times I didn’t think she’d last as long as she did.”

“...right.” Jon gently massaged Martin’s shoulder with his free hand. “But still.”

“But still.” Martin echoed, letting out a soft sigh before looking at his younger counterpart, careful to keep his voice low enough that they were unlikely to be overheard. “At 3:37 PM, he’s going to get a call from the nursing home... you know, the first time around, I actually let it go to voicemail.”

“Really.” Jon couldn’t imagine that. For all the time he’d known Martin in the Archives, he’d had his phone on him (except when he hadn’t had a phone), occasionally on vibrate but usually with the ringer on, scrambling to answer it whenever it rang, because few people had his number and those that did rarely called for innocuous reasons. There had been a time when he’d found it annoying, and a time when he’d found it endearing, and a time when he’d accepted that was just part of what made Martin Martin.

“Yeah, I was, was talking to Peter Lukas-”

Jon’s face must have revealed some of how he felt about Peter Lukas, because Martin interrupted his own explanation to add a quick “I know, I know,” before continuing.

“So, my phone was in my pocket and I could feel it vibrating, but I knew if I answered it he’d chew me out for it later, so I just... let it go. Wasn’t until a bit after that I thought to check who called, and they just. Left that in the voicemail. Waiting for me.”

“Oh, Martin. I’m so sorry.”

“‘s not your fault.” Martin tilted his head to gesture towards his younger counterpart before adding, “Don’t think he’ll let it go to voicemail, though.”

Jon had thought they’d managed to keep their voices low enough that the others wouldn’t notice, but either he was wrong on that count or that particular gesture was unsubtle enough to be noticed regardless, because at that moment younger Martin squinted at them and said, “Are you two talking about me over there?”

Martin’s face went red, and Jon could feel his own face heating up.

“Only nice things, we promise!” Martin--his Martin, Jon’s Martin--replied.

Sasha glanced over at them before adding, “Nice things don’t usually need to be said in whispers.”

Jon jumped in this time. “They’re complicated nice things.”

“Everything’s complicated with you two, isn’t it?” Tim said.

Jon and Martin snorted with amusement in sync at that one.

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Martin replied.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Jon waited for a long moment for the others to go back to their work before saying in a near-whisper, “We could tell him, you know. Before he gets the call.”

“What, and have him start grieving early? Have her death get wrapped up in all the rest of this?” Martin shook his head. “That sounds like a bad idea to me.”

“There has to be something we can do, though. We can’t just... just sit here and wait for it to happen.”

“I mean, we can, but...” Martin bit his bottom lip the way he did when he was trying to concentrate, and Jon stayed silent, not wanting to interrupt Martin’s train of thought, until Martin squeezed Jon’s hand and spoke up again. “Actually, you’re right, there is something we can do.”

“A-”

Jon’s half-formed thought was interrupted by Martin shoving him over so that he could use their shared computer. Jon was pinned between Martin and the wall now, which might have been uncomfortable if it wasn’t Martin there, if it wasn’t his husband’s body pressed against his, soft and warm and right. He’d take that kind of uncomfortable any day.

Martin opened the Internet and entered a search term before looking back at Jon, who gave him a silent, tentative nod of approval.

They spent their time planning without speaking, thoughts shared with meaningful glances and with judicious use of the shared keyboard, and before long their plan was put into place.

3:37 came, and younger Martin’s phone rang, and he answered it on the second ring. Jon and Martin glanced at one another before eavesdropping on him mumbling through responses before ending the call and staring at his desk, eyes wide and unfocused.

Younger Jon was the first of the younger archival staff to approach Martin after the call ended; unsurprising, perhaps, given that those two were quickly growing almost as close as their older counterparts. (Though Jon and Martin would insist on that “almost”’ being there; there were certain connections only surviving an apocalypse together could bring about, after all.)

“Who was that on the phone?”

“The... home. My- my mom’s nursing home.” Young Martin’s hands shook along with his words, and he stopped to take a deep breath before adding, “She’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry, Martin.” Younger Jon wrapped his arms around younger Martin in a tight bear hug.

“I mean, it was always just a matter of time... and now she’s not, not suffering at least...”

“It’s still a loss, though.” Younger Jon’s head was sitting on younger Martin’s shoulder, muffling his voice a bit. “You still deserve to grieve.”

“...thank you.”

Tim and Sasha exchanged a look before heading over to younger Martin’s desk and joining in the hug, wrapping their arms around younger Martin. Jon and Martin exchanged a look of their own before Tim waved them over, saying, “Get over here, it’s not a group hug without everyone joining in!” and they went along with his instructions.

“You guys, you don’t need to...” Younger Martin let his sentence trail off, and as Jon got closer, it became clear that his face was covered in tears.

“But we want to.” Sasha said in a tone of voice that left no room for argument.

A long minute passed in silence with five pairs of arms all wrapped around Martin and each other, intermingled to the point where it was hard to tell whose limbs were whose, the silence only breached by younger Martin’s soft sniffles.

Then younger Martin looked up at Jon and Martin and said quietly, “You two, you, you knew-”

Mercifully, that was when the deliveryman arrived in the archives, approaching the mass of hugging people with a bemused look on his face as he asked, “Delivery for one Martin Blackwood?”

Martin and younger Martin looked at one another before Jon pointed at the latter and said, “That’d be him.”

“Right, well, here you are. Just sign here.”

The group wordlessly took a collective step back, giving younger Martin the space needed to reach out and sign the receipt, though his signature was noticeably messier than normal, his hands shaking as he held the pen.

The bouquet was every bit as magnificent as Jon had hoped it would be. It was primarily blue and white, filled with bluebells because they were always Martin’s favorite flower and carnations because they were her favorite, with a few other flowers mixed in, some for meaning and others just because they looked nice. Jon had known it would be big, by the price tag (charged to the Institute’s credit card, thankfully) if nothing else, but it was one thing to know it and another to actually see the thing. The bouquet was comically huge, and when the deliveryman set it down before hurrying away, it took up a good half of younger Martin’s desk.

Younger Martin opened the card attached to it, a fairly generic “Sorry for your loss” card with the writing within revealing it to be from Blackwood and Sims, though he likely could have figured that much out regardless.

Then younger Martin pressed his hands against his face and made a noise that was half sob, half laugh, his body shaking with the sound that emerged.

Jon looked over at Martin and gave a slight nod of approval. Maybe the gesture wasn’t perfect, but it felt right just the same.

[fabfrnkie]

The big forum interview with My Chemical Romance [2005]

Reporters: Imre (poison amy) and Lisette (Lica) Band members: Frank, Bob and Mikey Place: The Melkweg (Milkyway), Amsterdam, the Netherlands Date: Wednesday August 31st, 2005, 3.30pm After a lot of stress and the prospect that the interview might be cancelled, it was finally time to go upstairs and meet the band. Two hours later than scheduled, but hey, they were there so we’re not complaining! Our palms were sweaty and our hearts were racing, but we managed to remain calm and behave like proper journalists instead of squealing fangirls.

LINK or keep reading below

Of course the first thing we asked after introducing ourselves was if they knew and had ever been on the forum.

Frank: I’ve been shown it by friends, but we’re not really able to go online when we’re touring, unfortunately.

Lisette: Ok, what we did was we invited all the users on the forum to post questions they had for you guys and we will ask the best of those today.

F: Oh man, that’s really cool!

L: We brought a book with us with all the questions.

F: You did? *takes book from Imre* Geez! 

L: If you’re bored on the tourbus you’ll have something to read.

F: I can’t believe how big this is! Alright, cool. I’ll tell you what, in addition to your questions, we’ll just like flip through this and do two more.

Imre: Great idea! I have just one question before we start off with the list: did you guys have an official messageboard?

F: We did! We used to have an official messageboard on our site, but it got to the point where it wasn’t really a community, it was more like people talking down to other people that were coming later… It was hard to police it and you know, to take down certain things that maybe were offensive to other people and it just got to this point where we said; if they’re not gonna treat it as just a forum for everybody to be accepted and everybody to be a fan of music in general, than we don’t wanna have it.

I: We don’t accept everybody, we have an age restriction of 15.

F: Gotcha.

L: There are some really sensitive issues also on the board and we don’t want teenies to be influenced by other people who maybe do it…

F: I understand. I mean, it’s hard to keep some people out and you know it’s a fulltime job, it really is.

I & L: We know!

F: And for us it’s too much, we can’t really…

I: Yeah. We have a team of seven moderators who help us out.

F: Oh wow. Well thank you very much, you’re doing a great job! L: Let’s start with our list! We’re already talking about messageboards so lets continue on that. Some people sometimes claim to be one of you when they are on forums or other websites, what do you think of that?

F: I don’t understand it really, to me it’s kind of like that game the Sims, they’re spending so much time leading this fake life while they could be doing their own thing, and if your dream is to be in a band you should go out and practise instead of playing a video game or pretend you’re somebody else. It gets really creepy when those people do that and put out pictures of you and say a loved one or your dog. When they do that and then talk to other people on your behalf, that really angers me because we don’t know what they’re saying to other people and they might give advise and others might believe it. Internet can be a great thing, but it can also be a really evil thing.

I: We have a rule against talking about your private life.

F: Thank you. I appreciate that.

Mikey: That’s a big problem with MySpace, because some of my friends actually are on MySpace and they get messages, I don’t know how they knew that my friends are on there, but these are people that aren’t even in bands and they would get messages from ‘me’ on MySpace. It’s really weird.

I: They know everything. Trust me.

Bob: That’s ridiculous.

F: I’m still a huge fan of music, but when I was a fan of a band I would never ever be that intrusive. You know what I mean, to go as far as walk on someone’s bus and sit down and go through someone’s things, or try to steal something…

I: There was one girl last week, she was at one of the shows in London and she was proud that she ripped something off your arm!

F: [sad tone] Yeah, yeah…

I: She was bragging about it all over the internet.

F: I know…

L: How do you feel about these things?

F: You know, it’s weird. *thinks* I don’t know how I feel about that. I definitely know that when I was at shows I would bring a souvenir home, but it wasn’t someone’s personal property, it was a flyer or something like that. It’s weird if you wanna go into the crowd thinking ‘am I gonna come out with everything?’

L: Are you nervous when you see a large crowd? Are you worried then?

F: No! Well, no, I mean, it depends. There’s a bunch of different type of fans. You know, there’s people who just wanna say I love you, love your show, and that’s awesome. They respect the music and the art form. And then there’s some people that need to have that souvenir, that need a signature or a picture and there’s some that just scream and try to pull your hair out and that’s ridiculous and then there’s the drunk fan that wants to be the one that punched you. Unfortunately for the people that just wanna say hi or the people that just want an autograph, sometimes they get flooded because the bad apples are so loud or with so many. It sucks to make people wait outside for hours before you leave because I don’t wanna weed out the bullshit, you know what I mean, the teenie ‘oh wow the new N’Sync is an actual band’ you know that’s a terrible thing, but you try to do more good than bad. L: How was it for you Bob, when you joined the band they were already on their way to become very successful, how was it for you to step into a band that was already on their way?

Bob: When I first started it wasn’t really sure that… Well, I don’t think anybody thought that it was gonna be this successful. When I first started it was still in the van, playing shows for like a hundred people. It wasn’t like this when I first started. As far as the kids being crazy, obviously they *nods towards Frank and Mikey* get it a lot more, but it’s just strange for me.

L: Well, you’re completely accepted on the forum, everybody loves Bob, they have it in their signatures. *grins*

F: How could you not love Bob?!

I: When you started out, did you ever imagine being nominated for 4 VMA’s against Green Day?

F: No, not at all!

I: How crazy is that?!

F: Pfff! It’s flattering.

M: It was a great experience. The whole thing.

F: I’m still reeling from it. I’m really glad it’s over.

I: Were you nervous?

F: Oh god, yeah. I definitely threw up before.

M: You can see me biting my nails on camera. Every time they were showing Jamie Fox you can see me right behind him biting my nails a lot. I was really freaked out.

F: It’s one of those things where.. Growing up I didn’t get to watch them all the time, but I saw bands like Nirvana play it and Guns’n’Roses. So just to be there and think of all the things that happened on that show and to actually play it, it was ridiculous.

I: Because of the MTV awards you had to do the two festivals in England on the same day, how was that? Were you nervous doing those shows?

B: It was tiring really.

F: It was very tiring, yeah. And again, we kept like thinking of people that played it before. You know what I mean. I’m definitely keeping the two passes and I’m gonna frame them. It was rad. To do Reading and Leeds and especially on the same day, it was crazy!

B: We were supposed to fly to Leeds and we couldn’t get on a bus and go to Reading, because we wouldn’t have enough time to set up, so we were supposed to take three helicopters and I was so psyched about that! I was so excited! It would have been so awesome to fly on a helicopter! But then something happened with the weather at Reading and they wouldn’t let the helicopters get that close to so many people, so we just took a plane.

L: So the helicopter experience still has to take place.

B: Yeah. We’re gonna do it one of these days. I don’t care, even if it’s on a day off, we’re taking a helicopter ride!

L: Are you a thrill seeker?

B: I … *thinks* Kind of. I guess so.

F: As long as it’s got something to do with helicopters or motorcycles or black vans, that kind of stuff.

I: You wouldn’t go horseriding on the beach.

F: *laughs* I don’t think he’s that horseriding-on-the-beach type of guy.

B: No. I wanna go skydiving one of these days.

F: I’m not!!!

I: Why not?

F: If you’d asked me a couple of years ago to do it, I’d go ‘yeah, fuck it!’ but now I’m just too happy. You know what I mean?

I: You don’t need that.

F: Yeah! I don’t need to do that. Then suddenly Bob exclaims: What is wrong with these people?! *reads from book* What would happen if you saw Mikey walk into the bathroom with another toaster? Signed: Bob Bryar’s official bitch.

M: It wasn’t a toaster, it was a heater. I was putting a space heater in the bathroom when I was sick or something. I brought this heater into the shower so it was warm when I got out. It’s not the smartest thing in the world to do, but I was like ‘whatever, I’m fucking freezing’, but apparently they turned it into a toaster..

L: But you were fine.

M: Yeah, I’m here right now.

*all laugh* L: For the video from The Ghost of You, you guys have your hair really smooth. We understand how you get your hair like that, but we were wondering how did they get Ray’s hair totally smooth? How much stuff did they put in there?

F: You’ll see it on the making of the video, he has like these two little buns.

B: Did they flat iron his hair too?

F: They did something. It was all flattened out. It was all bundled together in this little fist of a bulb, so they could only shoot him from the front and part of the side. It was crazy. He was gonna cut his hair and we were all like ‘no don’t do that!!’.

I: Did he ever tried to hide objects in his hair? To smuggle them inside?

F: Hide objects in it? He might.

B: *thinks* I don’t think so.

*All giggle* I: Another question they asked is: if your tourbus driver got ill, who would you trust to drive it?

F: Bob.

I: Yeah? Why?

F: Cos he’s done it before.

B: It happens a lot when you have to move a bus. When I used to tour with other bands, our drivers would just be like ‘hey, you wanna drive?’ and then I’d drive for like 1000 miles.

L: It’s cool to drive something that big, isn’t it.

B: Yeah, I like to drive and being on tour you never get to drive anywhere. If you’re not in a bus you’re in a cab or if you’re not in a cab you have somebody else driving you, so you know I take every opportunity I get to drive. L: If you could describe your life so far in 5 words, what words would you choose?

M: Tiring, wonderful…

F: Surprising, uhm, definitely tiring…

B: Red Bull.

I: Hey, that’s two words!

B: Oh sorry! *laughs*

F: Coffee.

B: There you go, coffee. Fun!

(All at the same time): Proud.

F: Prun! *grins*

M: Yeah.

B: How about proud-fun?

I: We’ll make that a new forum-word!

B: Prun. I: Have you ever read any of the fanfictions people write about you? *guys laugh*

M: My friends sent me one once. It was creepy! My friends are interested in all that stuff, so they all sit online and send it to each other and laugh. And then one of them emailed one to me and it was something really fucking out of hand.

F: I heard Mikey’s hot for me.

I: The hottest couple is you and Gerard actually.

F: Oh really? We’re the hottest couple?

B: That’s amazing.

I: That’s actually one of the most active parts of the forum, the fanfiction section.

F: Wow! That’s crazy. My god… (kind of unsure) Well, if that’s what gets you hot, go for it. L: Do you have something with you when you go out on stage, like a lucky thing?

B: High fives.

F: Yeah we do, like high fives before we go on stage. I don’t think there’s any charm I have.. I think it changes like I’ll have something for a time that I feel is lucky, but then it’ll probably break or something and you get something new… Like these shoes *everyone looks at Frank’s feet* are lucky I think. None of it’s really lucky at all of course. *thinks* I have these dogtags that I wear a lot, but I can’t wear them on stage because it hurts my neck.

I: Yeah and someone might steal them!

F: Yeah that’s it, but I wear them all the time, except when I’m playing.

L: Yeah, you go crazy on stage and sometimes you’re lying on the floor, how are you able to play like that?

F: You get used to it, like with anything. When we’re playing a new song, like right now we’re playing a new song. Well, not new new, but new for us because we haven’t played it in so long, so ah, we’ll play eh *looks at Bob* should we tell them? *Bob nods* Alright, we’re playing Jetset tonight and I’m not used to playing that song, so I’ll just stand there and make sure I hit every chord.

L: So you’re not going crazy.

F: *laughs* No, but you know what I mean like it’s hard because I get into it and I would do it, but at the same time if it’s so new I can’t. Once I’m comfortable with it I can do whatever I want.

I: Is there a favourite song when you play?

All: Prison!

F: Yeah, Prison is like a band favourite.

B: Yeah we like to play that. It’s become the song that when we need to play something for a soundcheck we pick that. I really like playing Jetset too though.

I: Why didn’t you put it in the set before?

F: We’ve never played certain songs, I mean like never ever played them. I think Jetset was one of those until we were like ‘yeah lets finally get this out’. We had about five songs to pick from for the headline tour, some older stuff that we haven’t played in a really long time and there’s this song called Cubicles that we’ve never played. I think you guys played it (to Mikey)…

M: Yeah we’ve played it on a couple of shows.

F: But I’ve never actually played it.

I: It must be nice to do a different set.

F: Yeah! You know it’s fun to be doing something that you haven’t played in a really long time because it puts a spin on things and it kind of challenges you. L: Most places have a very active local music scene, do you ever go to a band of the local music scene when you’re in a city?

F: I would love to if we had a second off, but we never do.

L: And back home in New Jersey, do you go there to local shows?

F: Yeah, if we’re home for a while and there’s a show going on, I’ll go see it. But it’s hard because we do this for a living and I mean we love what we do and we love music, but sometimes the last thing we wanna do is go to a show. It has to be a really good show, you know what I mean.

I: Yah, but it must also be part of your job to keep up to date about new bands.

F: Yeah, well we tour so much and we hear so many things from different people, I mean I found out about a lot of different bands from just kids. It kind of keeps you in your favourite scene, you know. And we get demos all the time.

I: A few weeks ago I interviewed the singer from HIM, Ville, and he told me he had been talking to you guys about maybe touring together.

F: That would be cool. Yeah. He’s a great guy. He’s really nice.

I: I know! *grins*

F: I think that would rule. To me, HIM are kind of like the European Bon Jovi. That’s what I get when I listen to them. Sadly the girl from the record company interrupted us by saying it was nearly time and we could ask one last question. Lica asked it.

L: About the second I’m Not Okay video; it starts off with Ray and Gerard sitting there and Gerard says: I don’t wanna make it, I just wanna… What does he wanna do?

F: Ok, the original line was: I don’t wanna make it, I just wanna rock! And we didn’t like it. If you keep an open end you can make it whatever you want it to be, you know. The rest of that, the whole opening scene, was written out. It was scripted and we were like ‘this isn’t really working’ so Ray actually re-wrote everything. Everything you hear in the video, other then ‘I just wanna’ is something that Ray wrote maybe ten minutes before we shot it! Then the girl from the record company came back inside to tell us we really needed to wrap it up and Frank practically begged her to do two more from the book, like he suggested when we started out. Bob flips through the book.

B: Bam! *points* All time favourite sad song?

M: the Smiths – Asleep. That’s the fucking saddest song ever.

B: That Jimmy Eat World song off of that show..

F: Angel song?

B: Yeah.

F: Oh yeah. Ah, geez, Angel Angel. Oh, right, ready?

*flips through book again*

F: When you guys stop and think about how you ended up where you are now, do you feel really lucky and jump for joy, or do you don’t give a damn at all? *laughs* I think we are the luckiest people in the whole fucking world.

B: We’re very proud of ourselves!

F: To be able to say that, you know, you’ve accomplished goals, that you set for yourself so long ago and this is awesome you know, like to be on tv or on the radio – fuck the radio and tv! To hear kids in different countries or different states sing along to songs that you wrote in your basement is the most surreal experience that you’ll ever have. And to have it mean something to people you never thought you would ever meet. That right there is the most amazing thing. We had a minute to go on a picture with them and say goodbye. 

Frank told us that he really appreciated what we are doing for the band and thanked us for everything by giving us both a very tight hug. As you can probably imagine, we high on adrenaline for the rest of the day. The guys were lovely and very happy to see that all of you had posted so many questions for them. Thank you forum members, and thanks My Chemical Romance for making this all happen!

[the-magnus-archives-archiver]

Anatomy Class

Case: 0161207

Name: Lionel Elliott Subject: A series of events that took place during his class, Introduction to Human Anatomy and Physiology, at King’s College, London, in early 2016.  Date: July 12th, 2016 Recorded by: direct from Dr. Lionel Elliott, under the supervision of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

[Archivist (John): Apologies for the somewhat archaic—

Dr. Elliott: No need to worry, I understand. Some things you just can’t trust to computers. It’s like I always say about those robotic surgery machines. It’s just not the same. If I’m going to be operating on a man’s pancreas, I want to feel that pancreas. Fiddling with a joystick just won’t cut it. As it were.

Archivist: I didn’t think you still performed surgery?

Dr. Elliott: I keep up with the developments. And I remember the feel of a pancreas.

Archivist: Well... quite. Now, if you’d be so good as to—

Dr. Elliott: You know you have an infestation, don’t you?

Archivist: Excuse me? I’m not sure—

Dr. Elliott:  Yes, little, grey, maggot things. I saw a few on the way in. Don’t recognise the species, but I’d say you need to get the exterminators in here. Gas the little blighters.

Archivist: You saw them? You weren’t bitten were you?

Dr. Elliott: Bitten? They’re worms. Still, I’ll admit I didn’t like the look of them. I reckon the sooner you get someone in to kill them dead, the better.

Archivist: We’ve tried, believe me. Now, shall we?

Dr. Elliott: Oh, certainly. Where do want me to start? The bones? The blood? The... uh... the fruit?

Archivist: Right from the beginning. One second. Statement of Dr. Lionel Elliott, regarding a series of events that took place during his class...

Dr. Elliott: Introduction to Human Anatomy and Physiology

Archivist: At King’s College, London, in early 2016. Statement recorded direct from subject 12th July 2016.

Statement begins.

Dr. Elliott: Now?

Archivist: Yes, just start from the beginning.]

Right. Well, I shouldn’t even have been teaching the class, really. As far as I knew, I wasn’t going to be needed for any teaching on the Biomedical Engineering course this year. I can’t say I was particularly upset. The Human Anatomy module is where a lot of the engineers discover just how messy the human body is, and while the human heart is a phenomenal piece of machinery in terms of design and function, most of the students would be more comfortable holding a transistor. Not to put too fine a point on it, I get tired of... squeamish students, and was glad that I could avoid it this year. 

You can perhaps imagine, then, that I was not best pleased when Elena Bower, the admissions officer, emailed me last November to say that there had been a mistake, and I was needed to take a ‘spillover class’. Apparently the system had accepted more students for the course than there were places, and they were trying to organise an additional class for the seven who were unassigned. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me, Anatomy class wasn’t until the second term, so surely this mistake should have emerged earlier, but Elena just kept saying she didn’t know, she just had seven students who needed tutorials. I won’t pretend I took the news gracefully. I have a lot of research due shortly and, well, you know academia – never enough hours in the day. Still, I was the only staff member both qualified to teach the class and technically free when it had to be scheduled. So I agreed, although that really makes it sound like I had more of a choice than I actually did.

I didn’t meet the students until the module started this January. I wasn’t responsible for any of the lectures, so the first time I saw them was in our initial class tutorial. They all sat there, all seven, staring at me, and I felt... oddly uncomfortable. There, there was nothing wrong with them, of course, nothing strange to see or to look at, just... well, this is going to sound stupid to say out loud, but I don’t remember what they look like. Any of them. I remember that each wore blue jeans and a white shirt, though they were all different makes and styles; I think one of the girls had a skirt, instead. I must have noticed that they were wearing the same outfits, but it didn’t strike me as odd. They all just looked so... normal. Unremarkable. I remember their names, though, from the register. They stuck with me – maybe because they were such an international group. There was Erika Mustermann, Jan Novak, Piotr and Pavel Petrov, who I think were brothers, maybe twins, John Doe, Fulan al-Fulani and Juan Pérez.

I greeted them when I entered the room, and was met with silence. Not a malicious or angry silence, just silence. I’ve never been self-conscious when teaching, but walking to my seat with those fourteen eyes just... watching me... it made ever so slightly uncomfortable. I got the oddest feeling they were judging my walk. 

[NERVOUS LAUGH]

The class began, and we started going over some of the basics of anatomy and how the body works. They started to talk then, and some of my unease left me. I don’t remember exactly what was said, after doing it long enough most tutorials just kind of blur together a bit, but I recall being struck by just how basic some of their questions were. The composition of blood, where in the body the various organs sat, the sort of thing that anyone who’s done a science GCSE should know. I was almost tempted to ask where they went to school. At the time, I didn’t question the fact that they must have all gone to the same school.

Aside from that it was mostly normal, except... about halfway through the tutorial, we discussed the lungs and respiration. Inhalation, alveoli, et cetera. As I said, basic stuff, but I paused afterwards, just to have a think about where to go next, and I heard the sound of them breathing. That’s not abnormal, I know, but it seemed to fill the silence so suddenly, and all at once. I could... I could have sworn that I didn’t actually hear it before that moment. Like they’d only just then started breathing. [Nervous laugh] Which is, which is absurd, obviously. I was probably just listening out for it because we’d been discussing the lungs. Even so, it was disconcerting, and I don’t mind telling you that I breathed quite a sigh of relief myself when the tutorial was over and I could get out of there.

Now, I consider myself a conscientious worker, and in all my years at King’s I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve called in sick, but when the time came for the next tutorial with this class, I had to stay home with a migraine. It wasn’t a lie, exactly, the thought of sitting there for another two hours with those staring, placid eyes gave me such a spell of anxiety that my brain felt like it was being stabbed with a shard of ice. I did have to teach them eventually, of course. I couldn’t avoid it forever. Re-entering that room, though... All of them were sat in the exact same positions, in the exact same clothes, their breathing deliberate and almost pointed. When Erika Mustermann – or was it Jan Novak? – said ‘Good morning’, the others followed suit, one by one, and I had to fight the urge to run. It struck me then that, despite how diverse their names were, none of them seemed to have any noticeable accent. Not that it did anything to reassure me.

There was no-one else who could take the tutorials. Believe me, I did everything I could to try and find a replacement. Still, once I got used to their stares, their silence, and the fact that their questions were both specific and oddly basic – one of the Petrovs once asked me “How sharp are the knees meant to be” – I swear, it was just about tolerable. I’m a bit ashamed to admit it, but I came to terms with the fact that I didn’t care if they passed any exams, and that actually made the whole affair more manageable. I just did my best to stop caring.

And then came our first of two sessions in the dissection room. We were looking at the skeleton. I had been dreading this. Given exactly how creepy and unsettling the students were just sat in a classroom, the idea of what they could do when given access to human remains made me feel quite nauseous. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave them there alone, so I went.

It was even worse than I’d feared, seeing them stood there over the bits of cadaver. Their faces, normally so neutral, were alive with... what was it I saw? Excitement? Curiosity? Hunger? Whatever it was, it didn’t reach their eyes, still staring and blank. I went through the procedures with them and tried my best to keep the trembling out of my voice. When Fulan reached for a scalpel and started cutting into our samples, I felt faint.

I was trying to keep an eye on everyone, but the dissection tables were arranged in a semi-circle around the lab, and each time I turned to face one of the students, I began to hear this cracking sound from whichever tables I wasn’t looking at. Like a snapping bone, or a ribcage being forced open. I’d turn back and see nothing untoward, just John or Erika or Juan or whoever it was, looking at me quizzically over distinctly unbroken bones. But it kept happening. Whenever I wasn’t looking, I heard the crunch and the crack of bone. I couldn’t ask about it. I knew the dead-eyed, mute stare they’d give me if I did, and I just couldn’t face that.

Finally, I managed to position myself so that I could see what was happening behind me in the reflective edge of the metal table. It wasn’t much, but I could see a slightly warped image. It was Pavel, in this case. I saw him pick up a bone – a radius I believe, from the forearm. He held it up next to his own arm, and then there came that snapping, crunching noise. I swear I saw his arm distend itself, the skin shifting as something inside changed and rearranged, until it matched the length of bone he was holding up to it.

I tried not to react, not to make a noise at this mad impossibility that I saw. I couldn’t help it, though, and my legs gave out. I collapsed on the floor with a whimpering cry. None of them looked at me, none of them offered to help me up, none of them gave any reaction at all. I shut my eyes tight as that cracking sound began to come from every direction, as all seven of them began to change themselves. It went on for almost half an hour, until our allotted time in the lab ended. And then they left, walking past me, still sat helpless on the floor. As they did, each of them thanked me for the lesson as though nothing had happened. And I swear that every single one of them was taller than when they started.

I started taking more sick leave after that. I avoided their tutorials as often as possible, and when I did go we largely just sat there in silence until one of them asked a question about human anatomy, which I would reluctantly answer. I know I should have just abandoned them entirely. If they were going to complain to anyone they would have done it already. But even then I was worried my colleagues might notice, and I really didn’t want to get a reputation as some absentee tutor. It didn’t help that a colleague of mine, Dr Laura Gill, once expressed surprise on learning I’d been absent the day before, as apparently she’d passed by my teaching room and my anatomy class had just been sat there, waiting quietly. The thought of them politely filing into every tutorial, just sat there, blank and staring, whether I was there or not, just waiting... To be quite frank I think that bothered me almost more than being sat there with them.

Still, I managed to largely avoid them until the 21st of March, when they had their second lab dissection. Hearts. I’m not an idiot. I was well aware of the sort of sinister nonsense that was likely to happen if I went, but I also knew by now that they would attend whether or not I was there. And to leave them in the lab unsupervised would be the sort of thing that would get me actually fired from my position.

It was a rainy morning. I remember that, because I deliberately didn’t put up an umbrella. Something inside me was so dreading what was going to happen that the very act of opening umbrellas seemed pointless, as though my being dry couldn’t stop what was coming, then there was no reason not to get soaked. So I was dripping wet when I entered the lab, and my glasses had steamed up to the point where I could no longer see through them. When I wiped them clean, they revealed those seven blank faces, utterly unconcerned with my sodden state. Each had somehow got the heart laid out in from them on the dissection tray. I decided not to prolong it, and waved them to start.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I thought they’d descend into some sort of feeding frenzy, but they didn’t. They just began to dissect the hearts, as any other class would, occasionally asking me polite questions. I was so taken aback at how normal the whole situation seemed to be that it took me some time to actually answer them. I did, though, and the first hour of the class almost put me at least a little bit at ease. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Maybe they were doing weird things to their insides, but if it was the heart, then I couldn’t see it and I couldn’t hear it. And I’d long since decided with this class, that if I couldn’t see or hear it, I didn’t care. 

Then Erika Mustermann held up her heart and looked at me. I began to get that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as she asked me “How does the heart pump blood?” I started to explain the biological mechanisms of the heart pumping, when she shook her head slowly and said, “What does it look like?” And then, when I didn’t answer, “Is it like this?” 

The heart in her hand began to spasm. Not like the regular, rhythmic pulse of a heartbeat, but like a balloon being rapidly squeezed at one end. Bits of it swelled and stretched and distorted seemingly at random, and blood began to flow haphazardly from the ventricles, dripping down Erika’s forearm and dribbling onto the floor.

I stood there speechless, staring at this horrible miracle, from when behind her I see Fulan raise his heart, saying, “That’s not what it’s like.” And blood starts to gush from all over his heart in tiny geysers, shooting in every direction. Soon each of them is holding a heart up, each pumping and throbbing differently, blood leaking, spurting out of them in a different way, a different nightmare. They wanted me to tell them which was right. 

[NERVOUS LAUGH] 

I don’t know how long I stared before I finally raised my hand to point at Jan Novak, who seemed to have the closest to an accurate impression of a regular human heartbeat. Then I turned and walked out of the lab.

I spent the rest of the day sat in the staffroom, waiting for someone to come running in, screaming about the lab being full of blood. I expected questions I couldn’t answer and immediate termination. But nothing happened. No-one came. When I returned to the lab several hours later, there was no sign of any blood, except for the tiniest speck, dried into a tile crack in the corner. Unless that, that had been there before? I don’t know. My shoes were still speckled with blood, though, so I know I wasn’t hallucinating it. I checked with Dr. Gill, who confirmed that she could see the spots, though I neglected to tell her it was blood. I had no intention of inviting further questions.

I missed the next three tutorials. I just stayed at home. But something wouldn’t let me just simply let it go. Finally, I made a decision. I wanted to see where they lived. I felt like I needed to, for some reason. Needed to see if they existed outside of my class, outside of my mind. I asked Elena and, irregular as it was, she gave me the address. It didn’t surprise me to find out they all lived in the same place. A semi-detached house on Kingsland Road in Newham. I’m afraid I don’t remember the number, and the details have disappeared from the college systems.

The house itself was run down, as might have been expected, and I must have spent a good fifteen minutes just stood in front of it, waiting for the courage to approach. Finally, I knocked on the door. The wood was old and dry, and some flaked off under my knuckles. It opened immediately, and there stood Jan Novak. When she saw me, her mouth twisted into something I think was meant to be a smile.

“Hello,” she said, “have you come to give us more lessons? We would like to learn about the liver.” Her eyes locked onto my abdomen. 

I was about to reply when a muffled scream of pain came from somewhere deep inside the house. It sounded ragged, like whoever was crying out had been gagged. I looked to Jan Novak, who showed no indication she had heard it, still staring at where I had taught her my liver would be. I ran, and she watched me go without moving.

I did call the police, but they just told me that the house was currently unoccupied, and they’d found no evidence that there had been anyone present. I took great pains never to see the class again. I avoided all tutorials, and simply waited until the end of term. I haven’t seen them since.

[Archivist: That’s it?

Dr. Elliott: Not quite. There was one other thing. When I went to the classroom shortly after what should have been their final tutorial, I found something on the desk. It was an apple. Next to it was a handwritten note that said “Thank you for teaching us the insides”. I burned the note, just in case.

Archivist: And the apple, did you... eat it?

Dr. Elliott: Do I look like an idiot? Of course not! I cut it in half, first, to check if it was... off.

Archivist: And?

Dr. Elliott: Human teeth. Inside were human teeth arranged in a smile. Here, I brought you the two halvesto see for yourselves.

Archivist: Oh good lord! That’s...

Dr. Elliott: Deeply unpleasant, yes. You can keep it, if you want. As proof.

Archivist: We do not want it. I’m afraid it isn’t really proof. Someone could have stuck those teeth in after the apple had been cut.

Dr. Elliott: [Somewhat distressed] You think I would do that?!

Archivist: I didn’t say you would, I just said it was enough of a possibility that I don’t think your... tooth apple has a place in our artefact storage. Also, it is technically medical waste.

Dr. Elliott: Fine. I’ll dispose of it myself. Now, is there anything else you want me?

Archivist: No, this should do. We’ll investigate and get back to you if we find anything.

Statement ends.]

Archivist Notes:

The first thing about this statement that makes me dubious is that it comes from a fellow academic. Historic and prestigious as the Magnus Institute is, there are still many within the sphere of higher education that do not grant it the respect it deserves, and some have been known to make false statements as ill-conceived jokes.

Another mark against the veracity of the statement is the names of the students. A quick Internet search reveals ‘Erika Mustermann’ as the official German placeholder name, similar to the English, well, the English name ‘John Doe’. The same is true the other names, ‘Juan Pérez’ is the generic name of choice in most Spanish speaking countries, ‘Fulan al-Fulani’ in the Middle East, et cetera. It seems strange to me that Dr. Elliott would fail to take note of this.

Still, Tim made contact with Elena Bower in the King’s administration office, and while she couldn’t find any actual records of them in the system, she does remember them being there, and confirms that she assigned them to Dr. Elliott last year. She could be in on it, of course, but Tim seems to believe her.

There’s also the matter of the teeth. I stand by my assessment that there is no evidence they were placed there by supernatural means, but it does seem an awfully long way to go for a bad joke. In the end we did send them off to a dental specialist, but they weren’t able to tell us much beyond the fact that they all seemed like healthy adult teeth, and most of them appeared to come from different people.

There’s not much more we can do to follow this up, without dedicating additional time we can’t afford. The only other lead was Sasha’s discovery that, early last year, Dr. Rashid Sadana took his own life. There’s no direct connection, except that he taught the Anatomy, Physiology and Pathology for Complementary Therapies course at St Mary’s University, and the only note found near the body simply read “NOT TO BE USED FOR TEACHING”.

[ofphcenixes]

THE PHOENIX || BLUE HAWTHORNE.

ok i won’t lie i stole this intro from veritas 2 kdJKDGF BUT ! if you want to get to know this guy definitely hit the readmore below *shaky eye emoji*. also hi i’m lilac i’m an admin and also a sims enthusiast anyways, back onto what’s important here, this lil bean called red blue !

personality

THANK YOU FOR SUBSCRIBING TO BLUE FACTS. PLEASE TEXT ‘STOPBLUE’ TO CANCEL YOUR SUBSCRIPTION.

but if you have seen blue’s blog sidebar and title, i feel like you will gather a LOT about his personality lmfao

he is playful, jocular, and honestly? immature

always looking for the childhood he never got to have, y’know?

he is secretly very insecure and always has a need to please. if someone doesn’t like him, he’ll tear himself apart to figure out why.

he’s always telling jokes and always laughing. he’s known for his Memes and is always a good time to be around… if you know what i mean ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

but also Anti-( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) because ya boi has commitment issues so high they’re past the inevitable spaghetti monster that’s probably floating out there in space

he can also be very maternal when the need arises. he is not good at talking about emotions but he’ll give you a meme or a plate of cookies to Heal You

honestly? the human embodiment of a puppy. cannot be alone for very long, has a short attention span, and craves validation lmfao. give him a squeaky toy and he will be Contented

as a footballer he can be Tough on field when he needs to be but he’s also v sensitive and talks to birds he passes on his morning runs like he’s a disney princess djkgfdk

he struggles academically as he has a short attention span most of the time and thinks too little of himself. however, he’s a lot brighter than most people give him credit for. he’s incredibly creative and a lateral thinker. maths makes him want to die, tho.

also what’s money? blue does not know

to many, blue’s known as the troubled kid who turned his life around. to others, he’s known as the local Meme Dealer. but to a lucky few, he’s known as a friend who would do anything for you.

most just know him as the moron named after a colour tho.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

history. (trigger warning: illness, death, drugs, depression)

WHO’S READY FOR SOME CHROMATIC CONTENT

blue hawthorne, who never goes by his birthname bc he hates it dfkjgdgdf ( what is his birthname ? he’ll never tell ┌( ಠ‿ಠ)┘ ) was born right here in ashmont.

despite not having a lot - he grew up with just him and his mum ( his father left before he was born, never knew a thing about him ), in a tiny trailer park on the outskirts of town. a far cry from the opulent manors peppered all throughout town, and the very lifestyle blue’s mother was accustomed to as a child. however, the pair were content as long as they were together.

despite not having much, blue loved every second of his childhood. he wore his mischief like a crown, smiling wherever he went. he’d always resonated with a love of music and dance, and like his mother before him, danced. ballet was his passion growing up, and started as young as 5.

as a child blue was often teased for this, and the fact that he was so close with his mother. he was also very outspoken and strong-willed, and never let his peers get the best of him. he danced, he laughed, he bruised his knees at any given opportunity. what he lacked in possessions he gained in the abundance of joy he felt in his heart growing up. his mother and a few of his close friends were his world.

when blue turned ten, everything changed.

the jubilant, mischievous, but altogether kind-hearted boy was given the heart-breaking news that his mother had been diagnosed with cancer. margarette hawthorne, much like her son, was a fighter - and didn’t let such a diagnosis keep her down. despite their dwindling lack of funds now going towards medical bills, and the fact blue began sacrificing his own childhood as he took to the role of a caretaker of sorts for his mother, he never took his time with her for granted.

things were okay for a while. there was a point where the doctors were convinced that she was going to make it. blue was a fool. blue believed them.

at the age of thirteen, blue lost everything. he lost his place to live, he lost his childhood and lust for life, and he lost the person he loved most in the world. he lost his best friend.

it wasn’t long before the overbearing sympathy from those around him soured blue. he was sick of being bullied, people not liking him, and altogether not being in control. so what did this boy do ? he quit ballet (the thing he’d loved since he was able to stand), he started drinking, he got involved in a very bad crowd and became a frequenter of the local ashmont police station. blue became a certified Bad Boy™

blue was sent to live with the grandparents that despised him and never acknowledged his existence before that moment. righteous and conservative in their views, they had cast aside their daughter when she had blue out of wedlock, and only reached out to her in her final months. for this reason, blue despised these people (he refused to call them family). he tried his best to be appreciative of a house and food ( which was much better than anything he had growing up ). but he was cold. always cold.

as a teenager, blue fell into a rapid succession of bad decisions. still small, still frail in stature, he found himself at a dissonance with his image and began growing insecure about his looks, the years of torment weighing on him. he found anesthetic in the party scene outside of school, taking to alcohol and drugs as a sedative from the life he felt forced to lead. his grandparents were pigeon-holing him into a preppy, studious boy who’d go on to be a banker or a lawyer, when all blue had wanted to do was be himself. he couldn’t decide if he hated himself or he hated the world more.

at the age of 16, his rap sheet seemed to grow with each rising of the sun. he’d fallen in with a bad crowd, hardly ever heading ‘home’ and couch surfed. at the age of 16 he’d gotten his own car and lived more out of that than the stuffy house on top of the hill where he was supposed to stay. his grades were sinking towards the bottom of the barrel, he was always looking for validation from the bad kids he hung around with and made some very poor decisions in the hopes he’d be liked. in the hopes he’d find a new family.

the partying, the stream of hook ups, his criminal record (mainly with traffic offences, a few write ups for public intoxication and fighting), sobriety, the instability of his living situation and his future all came to boil just before he turned 17. physically he’d started to fill out, and look more like the man people know today. he was no longer frail and no longer weak, and when asked, he used to his fists to forge that path he thought he wanted.

after a dark night, it became apparent to blue that his path of self destruction was hurting no one but himself. whether by choice or by accident, he knew he wasn’t ready to see his mother again. so… he’d hit rock bottom with a spectacular thud. but blue knew the only way to go from there was up.

through nothing short than a McMiracle (sponsored by Ronald McDonald, bc no one else is rich enough to pull it off lmfao) blue managed to scrape by and complete high school.

blue had no doubt his family name (that of his grandparents) helped him secure an athletic scholarship to st etienne. in his year of transformation from 17 to 18 his grandmother had softened to the boy she’d always hated and was riddled with guilt for the years of mistreatment, and promised to pay for his education (that wasn’t covered by his scholarship) as long as he promised to make something of himself. his first year of college, things really started looking up for blue. he was finally back on track.

then woops, grim came a-knocking again

bidding farewell to the grandmother he was only beginning to know, his grandfather had no reason to extend her kindnesses, and cut blue off. at the age of 18 he was homeless, with nothing but a car and a handful of pokemon cards he’d had as a kid. not worth anything or even particularly sentimental, he just likes pokemond kgfjfd.

living in his car for a while before eventually crashing with a close friend, blue managed to absorb his days in study and in work. he quickly found his passion in helping kids, and giving them the childhoods that he never got. going into teaching seemed like a no-brainer.

although blue’s wild days are behind him, there are some things locked in his past that still haunt him. there are doors he never hopes to open again. but he got his fresh start, and is determined to live the life a young blue would have wanted for him, and one his mother could be proud of.

then the grim reaper came back a third time, his scythe begging for daisey rutherford.

the investigation.

blue’s connection to daisey is that they danced in ballet classes together… as you can imagine, daisey had to put on her Evil Training Wheels somewhere and unfortunately, blue was one of her earliest victims. teased constantly for his appearance, his love of ballet, his lack of wealth, and on awful days, his single parent household.

for the most part blue had grown resilient in ignoring these comments. but he never forgot how daisey mistreated him, and sparked a wave of similar comments from people in their year when they were only children.

hey now im not gonna rEVEAL (bc what if he is ??? :o ) anything relating to the crime if he was the murderer, but know he is Lorge and Strong and could probably push daisey over with his finger lmfao

it’s also worth noting that one of daisey’s parents, a beloved surgeon, treated blue’s mother whilst she was in hospital with cancer. the late detection of its return is what caused her death, and blue has been vocal in his blame in the rutherford family for the loss of the person closest to him ever since.

now i’m not saying blue did anything… but if he did, his ‘eye for an eye’ motive ? maybe not as crazy as you may think. especially when you consider your boi already has a criminal record. ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

plots.

atm i am still working on blue’s blob and getting his stats/connections page up BUT !! here are a few fun lil plots beyond his skeleton connections that i’d absolutely love to explore. also here’s his current connections page for further ideas ! 

CHILDHOOD FRIENDS  - blue grew up in ashmont, and didn’t have a lot of friends kfgjfd. if your muse would have been down for a Young Memey Mess that’s fond of a pirouette, blue is your Man. on the flip side, if your muse is one of the Cool Kids and is looking for potential animosity, i’d love someone who tried to squash blue like a bug in their youth (~:

FLIRTATIONSHIP - blue is currently in a (hidden) relationship, and for the first time in his life, gasp, might have feelings. but he’s a fucking walnut and refuses to admit that, so a plot of someone with an unrequited crush, a fun flirtationship, or even someone that just wants to be his wingman would not only be fun, but also incredibly painful - which is what we deserve. 8) (also note, blue is bisexual so any muse would work. <3)

COWORKERS - blue works as a trainer at the ashmont fitness centre ( …. dont @ maaria for the page not being done fgjdgkdf  WE ARE IN THE PROCESS OF UPDATING THE PAGES NOW KDFJGDKFJ). but i’d always be down for plots in the workplace !!

UBER - sorry for the lame ass name lmao but dkjfgfkd blue is not about the party scene anymore ( lowkey bc he’s afraid to get addicted again and throw away everything he’s worked so hard for). but he does care a lot about people, and a pal of his is v much still hooked to that lifestyle and he very dkfgjdf determinedly drives them home every time to ensure they’re safe. could be former party friends, could be current friends in some capacity. maybe there was an incident in their past that blue feels guilt over ( a fight perhaps, trigger warning - maybe an overdose?) and so now he looks after them. or even just having a sibling-like bond, which (as blue is an only child) i’d also love something like that!

STUDY BUDDY - blue is a moron and needs someone to help him not fail kdfjgdf. he may not be naturally adept at getting good grades, but unlike many, he’s trying his absolute hardest. in return, he’s more than happy to be your Meme Dealer. bonus points if it’s unlikely friends, or if they didn’t exactly get along at first. :D

FELLOW FOOTBALLERS - 2 bros sitting in a hot tub five feet apart bc they’re not gay. dkjgdgdf but for REAL. exploring the team dynamic of the football team would be so fun, especially with blue’s reputation and the fact he only started taking up the sport when he was about 15-16, which may be a lot later than other guys in the team.

RIVALS - god they’re probably rivals about memes and i hate that but that’s just what it is :/

ok i have nothing else to say other than thank you for being a sweetheart and reading through this ??? i know it was a McMess but, if you’d like to plot with said mcmess definitely hit me up - or wait it out a lil bc i plan to do some starter stuff and plotting later today. (~: love you all, and viva la daisey ! 

[dissonants-13]

Prompt 25: “If I leave now, I won’t come back.” For any ILITW character that inspires you

Thank you for playing non! I hope you like it xx

If anyone would like to make a request, prompt list is here: break yo heart

Story Details: Angst, angst, angst. Lucas x MC, Lucas x Stacy if you squint. I’ve used the generic name Devon for MC, but I’ve used they/them as dear nonny didn’t specify a gender. Dark themes, mental health issues. 

‘I Wont Come Back’

Before

“Devon!” Lucas says, for the fourth time,raising his voice a little now. It’s halftime, the last game of the regularseason, and the cheerleaders are doing a routine - but nothing so interestingthat Devon would be that engrossed. Dan is standing on the side line,open-mouthed beneath a stream of Gatorade, and when he’s satisfied, he wipeshis mouth on the back of his sleeve and tosses the bottle back to the waterboy, before leading his team down the race to the locker rooms.

“What?” Devon finally says, turning to look atLucas.

“Finally! What planet are you on?” Lucas asks, tappingDevon’s forehead and half-expecting to hear a hollow sound. “Do you want somefood?”

Devon shakes their head absently, wrapping theirarms around themselves as if to hold all their pieces together. Lucas isfamiliar with the posture. He’s also familiar with Devon’s standard ‘no’ answerto food, and, eyeing their jutting collarbone, resolves to get an extra dim simanyway. 

He pushes and shoulders his way through themilling crowd to the food trucks, and he lines up, his mind still on Devon.They’ve been together for quite a while now, since before Noah; a relationshipforged in the fire of the whole Redfield issue. Over the last year, everyonehad scattered; Lucas and Stacy to college, Andy and Dan repeating senior year,Lily working as a teacher’s aide, and Ava working at the library and running ahealing herbs business out of Pritch’s old place. Devon stuck aroundWestchester to heal and take stock, but since the one year memorial, that wholeprocess had seemed to crash a little.

Lucas pays and takes his food back to thebleachers, where Devon is still staring into space. More often than not thesedays, this is how Devon is, even when Lucas is home from college. The weightloss, the clear depression - which Devon does not want to talk about -the distraction, all of that Lucas can deal with. What he’s struggling with isthe abyss of distance that’s opened up between them; Lucas feels like he’salways reaching to Devon across the darkness, and getting absolutely nothing inreturn.

He’s tried to say how it all makes him feel, butDevon just doesn’t really get it. All the guilt and sadness in the wake ofNoah’s betrayal and sacrifice is enough to deal with - Devon just doesn’t seemto comprehend how all the little manifestations of pain in their life harmsLucas and their relationship. How it feels like Devon doesn’t care, becausethey never ask how Lucas’ day was, when he always asks after Devon’s.How much it hurts when Devon doesn’t even notice Lucas anymore, not even whenhe strolls in, naked as the day he was born and gleaming after a shower. Howdevastating it is when Lucas is always trying to help, and Devon gives himnothing back. They can’t talk about Devon’s feelings. They can’t talk aboutwhat happened. Every day just feels like mounting moments of things leftunsaid, and Lucas is worried about Devon coping, but he’s also exhausted fromfeeling like he’s the only one putting all the effort in.

After the game, the gang wants to hang outbecause everyone is back in town, and the Wolves won, and they so rarely get tobe together for the happy moments now that everyone is doing their own thing.Devon doesn’t want to go; Lucas watches their lips press together and theirhead shake slowly, firmly shutting down Stacy and Lily’s pleading.

So Lucas goes out with the gang alone, and forthe first time in a while, it’s kind of like a weight is off his shoulders.

After

“It’s like guilt, warring with a sense offreedom,” Lucas sighs, rubbing his tired eyes and stirring his coffee.

Stacy hums an agreeable noise and eyes Lucasclosely. “But how are you doing?” She carefully avoids the ‘are you okay?’ lineof questioning, and Lucas both blames and thanks her Intro to AbnormalPsychology class for making her so good at interrogating him. He has absolutelyno doubt that Stacy will be literally the worlds best criminal psychologist,and it’s only partly because she already has an innate ability to see straightthrough everyone’s bullshit.

“It’s hard,” Lucas admits. “Every day is hard.But..” he stops, breathing deeply, and the words die in his throat.

“But what?” Stacy asks, lacing their fingerstogether. There’s no hesitation. No doubt or space between them. It’s easy.

Lucas pushes his glasses up the bridge of hisnose with his free hand and eyes her. “But…I haven’t shut everyone out atleast.”

Before

The night that finally breaks Lucas is hisbirthday. It’s not just that Devon seems to have forgotten all day and onlysays happy birthday when Lucas’ phone dings with a steady stream of birthdaymessages over dinner (which he picked up and bought with him to Devon’s house).It’s not just that it’s painfully obvious immediately that Devon didn’t get hima present. It’s not just that for weeks Devon has been noncommittal to allLucas’s ideas; movies, bowling, dinner at a nice restaurant, none of it. Andit’s not just that when the gang arrives, ready to take Lucas out, that Devonflat refuses to go. It’s all of that, and more.

It’s the missing affection, which he givesDevon, but he doesn’t get in return.

It’s the fact that Devon won’t even tryto let him in.

It’s the fact that Lucas is putting in allthe effort and getting a brick wall in return.

It’s that Devon would rather write letters toNoah that never get sent, because he’s dead, than talk to Lucas, wholoves Devon and wants to help.

And Lucas is sick of it. The guilt isoverwhelming, but Lucas is just so exhausted of the whole thing. He can’t holdDevon and himself up anymore, he can’t drag Devon out of the darkness without anyhelp. He doesn’t want to end things, but he can’t ignore how he feels anymore.He needs to take care of himself.

And so, with all their friends watching and hot,prickling tears in his eyes, he says; “Are you really not going to come?”

Devon curls up on the couch, in that samehugged, defensive position. “No. I don’t want to.”

Lucas feels someone, maybe Lily, touch hisshoulder gently, but he shrugs them off. “Then you know this is it?” he says, alittle harsher than intended. “If I leave now, I won’t come back.”

Devon slowly meets his eye, lips pressedtogether. It strikes Lucas then that all the warmth is gone from Devon’s browneyes. There’s nothing left but emptiness and maybe the slightest hint ofregret.

“Then go,” Devon says, with an air of finalitythat makes even Andy suck in a shocked breath.

By the time they get to Dan’s car, Lucas knowshe’s crying openly, but it still hurts and he can’t hide that. He gaveeverything to someone who was lost to a dead man, and forces none of them couldcontrol.

“We don’t have to go out,” Ava says gently, andif Ava Cunningham thought the situation didn’t need any snark then things weredire indeed.

“No, we do,” Lucas snaps, getting into the frontseat. “The last thing I need is to turn into Devon.”

They pile in behind him, half in Dan’s car, andthe other half in Lily’s. Stacy sits behind Lucas, and halfway into town, hefeels her squeeze his shoulder gently. He lowers the window, and, for the firsttime in months, he can breathe again.

After

It’s after midnight, and his suite is quiet andstill when Lucas gets the call. It’s Andy, full of panic and grief, and Lucasalready knows what’s happened before the news even comes.

“It’s Devon - parents found - nothing - just getto the hospital-”

Lucas drives there in a stupor, through thenight, to the hospital at Westchester, but Dan intercepts him in the lobby.Lucas melts into Dan’s strong arms and vice-like hold, letting Dan take all theweight of his world for a moment. Curiously, he finds he cannot cry; his jaw istight and his eyes burn, like he should be crying, but nothing comes.

“Devon’s gone mate,” Dan murmurs, in the mostDan-like of voices; deep, calming, like music you don’t hear, but feelin your soul. “It was over before the medics even got to the house.”  

“No suffering?” Lucas manages to ask, throughhis sandpaper throat.

“Like going to sleep, the doctors said,” Dananswers, holding Lucas tighter. And then, without even looking at Lucas’ faceto know, Dan says, “This is not your fault. Devon had demons none of uscould understand.”

Even still, Lucas knows the guilt and the painwill live with him forever.

After

In the years since, he’s asked for signs. He’sdowned oceans of booze, slept with scores of easy conquests, driven too fast,and purposefully listened to songs that make him cry, just to feel something.But no sign has ever come. He tries to move on, but he never goes for what hereally wants because he doesn’t want to destroy that too.

Maybe it’s a curse, he thinks. Noah had it afterJane, and Devon after Noah. The curse of being unable to let go. Redfield’slast gift.

It’s like a ball of lead that sits in his chest,weighing him down no matter how good he feels. Lucas wonders if he’ll ever notfeel the weight of what Devon did. 

He wonders right up until the moment that Lilylooks up at him, her newborn son cradled in her arms, and says, “Uncle Lucas,there’s someone here who wants to meet you.” Stacy holds his hand, and the roomis so full of emotion from all their friends, that it feels like the warmestand softest of blankets shrouding them all. Even Ava is misty-eyed, and she’smore stoic than any of them.

And he hopes again.

[emmelfish]

Alright team, we’re in this mess together. 

So last time on The Only Way is Pleasantview, we found out that Darren had impregnated Brandi with her fifth and sixth bebs around the 20 second mark of entering her trailer (NOT A EUPHEMISM), and they hadn’t even spoken yet, let alone kissed or anything. Any number of things may have happened – they’re that attracted to one another, they both lost their respective spouses to pretty awful deaths as deaths go and that kind of raw grief makes you hella horny, they’re not getting any younger and don’t want to die alone, the LTW of 6 married children fills Brandi with determination, or any and all of the above.

And now they dance in their underwear, which, I’m not gonna lie, is toothachey sweet. I think I like these two.

Beau: Hello. I thought you hated painting.

Dustin: Can you not tell by my face that I do? I need a stupid creativity skill point to get a stupid promotion in my stupid career.

Huh, what on earth is that in their bedroom?

Why, it’s teenage townie royalty Sophie Miguel and Princess of Strangetown Erin Beaker in her gardening gear having a dance-off! I don’t even remember anyone inviting them in. Probably because I was too busy fixing pasties for Brandi’s nekkid bewbs.

Beau: Yippity hoooo, now THIS is what I call a party! Come on Dusty, you know you want to!

Dustin: I don’t want to want to, but I sure do! It goes against every fibre of my being, and yet that smustle is infectious!

Suse has that Worried Broke Eyebrows thing down to a tee, yet she somehow manages to make even that look menacing.

Susie: Hello, Mother. Where have you been? Finding me a new stepfather I hope?

Susie: TELL ME WOMAN! Don’t sugarcoat it! Is he pretty? Rich? It’s Armand DeBateau isn’t it, OH I CAN’T TAKE IT!

Brandi: Armand DeBateau? Yeah in a parallel universe seven years ago maybe, Watcher’s long over that ship.

Brandi: Presenting Queen Susie, as she gracefully glides through the ornate castle arches to greet her grateful subjects!

Darren: And what a beautiful sight she is to behold, some say her face has launched ships and triggered wars!

Susie: ... Yes. Yes.

Skip Jr. on the other hand couldn’t give a shit less about Operation Stepdaddy and proceeds to throw blocks all over the activity table.

Skip Jr: CHAOS! ANARCHY! YAAAAEEEERRRGGHHHH!

(Seriously Bran, are you sure you and Loki Beaker didn’t meet in a club one night and make the beast with two backs in a toilet cubicle? Because I’d wholly rename your twins Atom and Ceres if so. Oh who am I kidding. Loki in a club?)

Susie: YOU! What do you do for a living? How much money do you have? How many days until you become an elder? What are your prospects? Are your intentions with my mother honorable?

I learned something today, and it’s that if Dustin sits on the floor and does his homework in the doorway of the bathroom, Brandi has to hold in her vomit and it never actually comes out. 

(Note to self: use this trick on Circe Beaker, the most morning sickness prone sim I’ve ever encountered. Seriously, at one point I thought she’d glitched because every time she sat down she ran to the toilet again.)

Oh they look so happy. They have not yet spoken a single word to one another, but the couple that does autonomous romantic interactions together every three seconds, stays together. Just look at the Burbs!

Beau: You. What do you do for a living? How much mo –

Susie already covered all that, Beau. The answer to said questions was... inconclusive.

Oh hey! Whatcha doing, Suse?

Susie: Being Godzilla. I eatin all th’people.

Sure, that’s normal completely standard dollhouse behavior. Good. Do carry on. *Calls child psychologist*

Darren you’re about five hours late for the bedroom dance-off.

Darren: And I’m furious about it too!

Dustin rolled a want to purchase an mp3 player, and so took Beau out of what had become a somewhat unwholesome environment dominated by Darren walking around in his boxers. However, there were no mp3 players to be found on this particular lot. TRAVESTY

There was townie Komei Tellerman of Extreme Jawdom judging Veronaville’s Cornwall Capp though, so not a totally pointless experience.

Komei: I have a glandular problem. What’s your excuse?

Cornwall: Excuse for what? Existing? I’ve never been sure, really.

More importantly, why the hell is the cash register outdoors?

Beau: Achhh Dustin! This car smells of booze, dashed hopes and crime.

Dustin: Be grateful that I took you anywhere at all – hopefully by now he’s put some pants on. Speaking of which, did you not get the memo about switching into your summer getup?

Beau: ON IT LIKE GIN AND TONIC

Beau: You there! Random fellow kid! That shirt... where did you get it? I must have it, despite it being outside my limited wardrobe boundaries of white, beige and blue.

(Beau’s cassette tape T-shirt to represent his love of music & dance FOR THE WIN)

Benedick: Oh, I must be in a place where nobody knows who I am. Not my choice actually – I’m from Veronaville, and we’re going with the whole Baz Luhrmann aesthetic. Quite frankly I kind of envy the Capps with their sharp suits.

Beau: Wow, I’m sure what you’re talking about is super interesting but DO YOU LIKE TOMATO SOUP?

Benedick: I DO like tomato soup!

Beau: Frieeeeeeend!

Brandi: Lookin’ good Dusty! Hey the family that creates art together stays togeth –

Dustin: Chill out, I am so sick of telling people I just need a creativity point before work and am loathing every minute of this.

Brandi: Son, when you and I open our art gallery together, you do all the economics, ’kay?

Dustin: Mom, did you not hear – *sigh*. Can you at least get him to put some pants on?

Darren: Lovely leaffffffs 🍃

Beau: See, when the truth walks away, everybody stays ’cause the truth about the world is that crime does pay. Our bills at least. But that’s what’s wrong with the universe, right?

Beau: Oh hey Dustin I wasn’t talking about you I was talking about a totally different criminal have a lovely time at work make sure you eat healthy snacks like almonds and dates love you byeeeee

Dustin: Pfft.

Beau: HEY BENNY LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!

Benedick: That’s impressive! I mean I live in the same town as actual fairies, and my family’s mortal enemies are friends with like a clan of vampires or something, NBD... but aw yis!

Benedick: You do you, Beau!

The walk-bys are getting better all the time here. It’s Cassandra Goth’s parallel universe Riverblossom Hills opposite, Sandra Roth, in her speed-racing suit!

Sandra: ... I’ve never experienced summer. It’s new. It’s interesting. It’s different. My polyester is chafing me suddenly.

Oh my good grief autonomous child huggling. I can’t take it. It’s so pure. They’ve known each other for like three minutes. Beau, is it inappropriate to start shipping you off yet?

Beau: Never!

Whatever on Watcher’s green sim earth is going on here, I’m all for it.

Benedick’s face! Protect these boys. PROTECT THEM

Like from supernatural wolves that might savage them.

Hardimos: This house has many children and foliage, my pack will do well here.

Dustin: What the hell is going on here? Why are you still out on the sidewalk after three hours? Why is there a wolf here? Who’s the enthusiastic chick in the nylon suit? Where is our mother?

Beau: Never mind all that, did your creativity point get you a promotion?

Dustin: It did! Bestowed upon me now is the honor of lifting people’s belongings directly from their person.

Meanwhile inside, Skip Jr. is finally getting on the Find a New Stepdad train. And he didn’t even have to do anything, he didn’t ask for attention, Darren simply picked him up autonomously. Hey Daz, you have a hidden Family aspiration token?

Darren: Nope!

Family secondary?

Darren: Possibly? Seemingly you can never remember what you give us.

Enough of the sass mister, I remembered giving Nina Caliente a freaking grilled (Daiya or Violife) cheese secondary didn’t I?

Well you’re great with kids... let’s hope you don’t have a nervous breakdown at the prospect of dealing with baby twins just when you thought you’d be settling down to focus on your art with your firstborn off to college soon.

Darren: Well, I was all set to try to steal Cassandra away and she’s got baby fever so I’ve been preparing myself for my second fatherhood for years. Plus they’re easy aren’t they, they just fall right asleep.

Yes but firstly, Cassie wasn’t already saddled with four. Secondly, I’m not sure you’re remembering early parenthood correctly. Or maybe you are, Dirk’s pretty much the perfect sim all-round, he was probably a dreamy baby.

C’mon Brandi, right all those wrongs you did Beau and get your toddlers all trained up long before their childhood transition! Although frankly, the prospect of a kid with Susie’s personality up on her feet is terrifying.

Susie: It’s okay Mommy, I’d never murder YOU in your sleep. You’re my best friend.

I want still that paternity test because I’m pretty sure that’s what Loki Beaker said to Vidcund Curious before he metaphorically stabbed him in the back by stealing Circe Beaker. Never have those green smileys looked creepier.

Next time, we’ll head to the Dreamers’ pad for a little look at how Darren – thanks to time standing still when you’re not on a lot – essentially woke up with two kids on the way. Imagine that!

[nardaviel]

Part 4 / ?, now with pets and vampire stalkers.

Once again this is a long and image-heavy post, but at least this time some of the images are of a cute Sim kitten. I finally bought all the updates for Sims 4 so goodbye to all my spending money for this month, but now I can play it again.

I was super excited about getting Kinatsuen a cat, but I wanted them to have the exact cat I picture when I imagine them having a cat so I couldn't adopt any of the stray kitties or any of the ones on the computer. So I just made her as a kitten in Create A Sim from the Manage Households option, since there was no other way to do it... but we can say, for story purposes, that they went out and adopted her.

Their new gallery portrait. En looks like he's about to pass out. She's too cute for him to handle.

I also changed Atsushi's aspiration to Master Chef and Kinshirou's to Soulmate, because I felt bad having En make progress on his aspiration while they were stuck longing for a family. (Also they weren't getting all the useful satisfaction points you get for doing aspiration things.) Once they've finished these aspirations, I'll give them the original ones back.

I start playing the household and

this is what I find. Don’t abandon Hou-chan like this, she’s just a kitten ;-;

She’s so adorable, though. She is an affectionate, clever, and friendly kitty!

Atsushi admires her cuteness. This seems like a place for a Lion King joke, but I don’t want to detract from the cute.

It's late so they all go to sleep. Hou-chan follows Atsushi into the room to sleep near him even though she has her own bed al;sdkf I'm just... really charmed... I love her...

She's so needy... wow. My other Sims' pets aren't like this at all. The affectionate trait is powerful. (But it's cute!)

Kinshirou fixed a broken sink, and now he's rummaging through the discarded bits for useful parts. I took this screenshot just because it's such a strange sight.

He’s pissed off that he had to do something so disgusting. Poor baby.

There’s a big market for Kinshirou’s thoughts on etiquette.

I wish I'd bothered to come up with custom names for the other two books now because it's funny to see things like this but oh well, I guess. He was still learning! His titles weren't very good yet.

This painting perturbs me. Hou-chan is the only saving grace of this screenshot.

Fuck. I hate chance cards. H a t e. ...All my legacy Sims and my City Living girl would set up in the street (if they were in the painter career), because they're all that type. But I think En just wants to give up... An excuse not to work, what could be better...

En's laziness worked out for the best this time. It's a shame about the money, though. They're a bit broke.

Before work, Atsushi makes a bunch of quick salads so his boyfriends don’t have to cook. (That is to say, I’m working on his new aspiration.)

Kinshirou and En have a date scheduled, but En comes home tense from work (even though he earned his salary, despite what that chance card result said). So he goes to join Kinshirou in meditating the tension away before they leave.

Sadly, Kinshirou gets bored, and the TV bores him even more because the action channel just isn’t cultured enough for him. You can’t make this stuff up, I swear... And by the time he’s over it, En is asleep. So their date is postponed. There are no screenshots because I was hoping they'd get it together and I wouldn't have to go into so much detail lol

But Atsushi gets promoted! So the night isn't a total waste. He's a mixologist now.

Yes, darling, we’re all very proud.

I don't know why he doesn't have glasses in his work outfit, by the way. I didn't design it.

His hours are even worse than before, from 6pm to 2am. But he gets three days off now instead of just two, which is a relief.

Meanwhile, Hou-chan loves her little toy bird so much that she wants to take it with her everywhere, even if that means she has to glitch and walk around stuck in it.

Atsushi, savior of kittens.

Atsushi wants to play with her with the wand, since that seems safer, but she wants to use the litter box. So he follows her into the bathroom... Let her have some privacy, Atsushi...

Meanwhile, En paints a masterpiece-quality painting! Aside from being necessary for his aspiration, that's just really cool!! I'm proud. Not sure whether to keep it because it's pretty or sell it because it'll sell for a lot...

Nothing really to say here. This is where the camera ended up when I exited screenshot mode, and I thought it looked pretty so I took another screenshot.

I put it in Atsushi’s bedroom because his bedroom is a bit bare. It can live with the Enatsu painting.

Gross, Hou-chan.

Okay, well, En is off to work, but Kinshirou and Atsushi can go on a date, at least. They decide on a nice, classy dinner date at a restaurant I built for them. It’s as boringly built as everything else I’ve done before now (I’ve learned how to build cooler things but it came too late for some of the buildings in their save...) which is why I didn’t take a screenshot but it looks okayish on the inside, I suppose.

LMAO... I forgot I gave him that suit... oh my god... he looks so proud. Atsushi is politely keeping his thoughts to himself.

They're shown to the one semi-private table in the establishment. Probably because Kinshirou is from a good family, even if they themselves don’t have much money.

Gosh, they’re cute.

(I am really, really sorry for those little lightbulbs and plus signs and sparkles. They signify that a lot trait is having an effect on a skill that a Sim is building. They’re incredibly annoying in screenshots, but there’s no way to turn them off. It eventually occurred to me to get a mod for it, but only after the end of this post...)

It takes their food some time to arrive, but at least it gets there, which is more than I can say of the last time I tried to go on a restaurant date in TS4. They don’t mind. It gives them lots of time to talk! Something about Kinshirou’s drink puts him in a flirty mood...

En comes home from work while they’re out. He got a promotion, so he’s in that bizarre outfit again. Luckily, I don't have to see it except in his little portrait at the bottom left.

To put the finishing touch on an incredible date, they kiss passionately on the top floor of the restaurant.

Kinshirou makes this face when Atsushi first grabs him, but he gets into it.

Looks like I spoke too soon.

Kinshirou got sick on his date, and now he's itchy. Hm.

Their reward for such a good date! It’s just decor, not actually drinkable. If all goes well, they'll have these littered around the house eventually.

Kinatsuen receive an evening visitor, a friend of Atsushi’s in another save where I recreated demon AU but emphatically not his friend in this one. Fortunately, they're smart! They know not to invite a vampire into the house.

Less fortunately, Kinshirou is outside expanding Atsushi's garden. Maybe, he thinks, if he stays off to the side of the house, his dazzling gold suit won't catch Vlad's eye.

But the medicine has made him energized, and he needs to get all that energy out somehow. Kin-chan, sweetheart, not in your nice suit... although maybe ruining that suit would be for the best.

En and Hou-chan just became friends! She must have been giving him advice on his painting. ...Also I forgot to change him out of his promotion clothes.

Now that the vampire has left, Kinshirou is free to return to his kitten.

She is honestly unbelievably cute.

Atsushi comes home from work, exhausted and reeking from a night behind the bar, only to find that he can't even sleep in his own bed. His boyfriends missed him so much, they went to sleep there themselves.

En's bedroom may be messy, and he may not ever put the condoms and lube away, but it's closer than Kinshirou's.

Must have been a rough night. En still thinks he looks hot, though. Sometimes having a slob for a boyfriend is a plus.

Enatsu and Hou-chan morning domesticity. En is addicted to painting, I swear. Mixologists and bars aren’t as bad as En and his easel.

His second masterpiece is even prettier than his first. They're both impressionist paintings so I suppose Sim En is an impressionist painter. That suits him, I think. Unfortunately, painting a masterpiece means he'll go to work in a confident mood when he'd be better off inspired, but you can't have everything.

Again... Why is it always En who gets in trouble at work...

My headcanon is actually that En wouldn't judge, but, since that's not an option here, he would want to talk about his passion. En is always ready to share his thoughts.

THAT'S RIGHT. Although it's a bit sad because I still think En would defend her, if anything.

Atsushi needs to improve his mixology for work. Instead of making yet another drink for himself or wastefully practicing and then throwing out the results, he makes a pet drink for Hou-chan. :D

The window for Kinshirou to sell his books to a publisher. A screenplay about the magical boys’ revenge will definitely fly off the shelves, I agree.

No story value, just cute.

With Atsushi at work, En and Kinshirou decide to check out a community lot (not as a date). I actually made it for Atsushi, but... he'll get here someday. Basically, one of the expansions introduced all these food stalls and a bunch of recipes (honestly like 20+ in total) that you can learn how to cook only after tasting them. But it's hard to track them all down in the places the game initially put them because they rotate, so I just made a foot stall lot.

Unfortunately you can only have so many stall vendors on a lot at a time, so it'll always look like half of them are closed... But I'm still proud of it? I think it's a cute lot with nice Kinatsuen colors, and it'll help Atsushi to have this one place to go to. I'm proud of all the lots I built for them, actually, even if they’re often not very interesting-looking.

The moment they arrive, Kinshirou goes straight to the Japanese food stall without the least bit of prompting from me. En chooses some spicy Vietnamese food, but by the time he gets to the table, Kinshirou is already halfway done with his dango. I want En to get used to spicy food ASAP because it's out of character for him not to be able to tolerate it. It wasn’t until I started watching them eat that I remembered Sims also have to learn how to use chopsticks... En, I don’t think that’s now they work.

Getting used to spicy food.

En: Kinshirou, help! Help me, it hurts! My mouth is on fire!! Kinshirou: Ahh, that was so good... such delicate, mild flavors... :’D

En is grumpy because he wants a vacation, even though they literally got back from one like a week ago. I think this is one of my all-time favorite screenshots just because it's the opposite of what would be IC for them.

Luckily, I put some bubble blowers on this lot, so he can relax a little. Don't make that face at me, En. This is for your own good.

...En put in the flirty flavor that makes you angry if you choke, and Kinshirou choked on his very first blow. I guess it's not such a surprise, though. The bubble blowers are basically just game stand-ins for drugs, and Kinshirou would be the absolute worst person to get high with.

Kinshirou: Ow ow ow ow ow! That hurts! En: Yeah, how's it feel, asshole?

En: Wait, shit, ow! Kinshirou: You deserve no better for taunting me.

Kinshirou’s face is adorably pinched and angry here. But En is angry now, too, so they go home and go to sleep, after losing some friendship points. That didn’t quite go according to plan. Tomorrow night will be better.

A Hou-chan’s-eye view. Kinshirou was in the middle of eating breakfast, but she was too cute to resist.

En took some pictures of Hou-chan and put them up on Simstagram (lol) and !!! I've never had a pet get so many followers immediately like this. Everyone loves Hou-chan.

I shouldn't have complained about En always getting in trouble. Now it's happening to Atsushi too.

Atsushi is annoyed that his coworker would steal and put him in this position, but he would rather just keep quiet to avoid a confrontation. Maybe someone else will handle it...

Still better than causing a scene.

They're finally out on a date! Making identical pleased expressions. Kinshirou's taken En out to a museum because he's a cutie deep down and he knows En will like it. I didn't build this one orz I meant to make them a museum but I turned it into an arts center instead. En will enjoy that more, but he needs to look at things in a museum right now for his aspiration, so...

Their animations continue to be creepily in sync as they admire the artwork.

It looks for all the world like Kinshirou's just made a dirty joke about the painting they're looking at, but...

...this isn’t the sort of work that would make Kinshirou think naughty thoughts. It would take even En several seconds to make an innuendo out of this.

But then Kinshirou autonomously offers En a public massage... Maybe he's just in a mood.

They spend the rest of the date in that room, mostly on that couch, sitting and talking. So there’s not much to say about it. But it’s awfully cute.

Sadly. they have to go home early, because En has to work the next morning. He would rather just quit his job, but Kinshirou won't let him.

He doesn't want to let on to En, which is why he's walking behind him, but he’s ready for the date to end. He’s exhausted.

The collection grows.

(I know one is more forward on the bar than the other. It's not my fault. I don't understand the rationale behind slot placement in TS4.)

Guys! Guys! stop eating! Pay attention to Hou-chan! She's just a little kitten and she's lonely!

Kinshirou is writing my fanfiction for me so that I don't have to. Although I suppose that means he's writing about an alternate world where he and his boyfriends live in a fantasy setting with some dude named Arima, and this Arima guy gets romantically involved with them all.

(I don't actually intend to have a sequel to Veil named Kidosen. I just wanted him to write a sequel and that's the title that came to mind.)

Their house, the most boring-looking house in the world, but now with two boring stories! I promise, when they move onto a bigger lot, I’ll do better.

The triad decided to spend some of their hard-earned money on a home addition. Their bedrooms are on the second story now and they have a bathroom with an actual bath in it (this was half the purpose of the remodeling; it’s a tragedy for them not to have a bath). Atsushi's kitchen is slightly nicer as well, with a better fridge and some aesthetic improvements. But the household now has exactly §301 to its name. No interior screenshots because the only really new thing is the bathroom and it's not exciting enough to be worth a screenshot. The bedrooms are almost exactly the same and the upstairs landing is completely empty because they ran out of money. The most interesting things here are the sad, neglected plants...

Atsushi, savior of plants (as well as kittens). He still needs to work on his herbalism. He’ll get to that at some point.

This is the problem with the goddamn bar. You tell a Sim to start mixing drinks and suddenly it's all they want to do. As soon as he stops needing to level mixology for his career, that thing is getting sold.

Even Atsushi himself dreams of a day when he can rid himself of the bar. He is trapped.

At least Hou-chan is proud of him. Or maybe she just wants another one of those pet drinks.

Atsushi suffers from a moment of self-doubt. Is he doing the right thing, encouraging Hou-chan to drink? She's only a kitten...

But she looks so happy.

Yeah. He made the right choice.

...no story value, just cute.

She reached 250 Simstagram followers with this very stylish pose. Her charms are irresistible!

But her love is reserved for Kinatsuen, and for this toy. She can’t stand to be parted from it.

LMAO

Not only does Atsushi barely even know his name, but he's also already married?? Nah, dude, if you want to cheat don't drag Atsushi into it.

Atsushi: Eheheh... *nervously ignores phone*

Atsushi doesn't have work for a couple of days, so he has time to relax and chat with Kinshirou while Hou-chan communes with her ball and takes a nap.

Atsushi: (Okay, time to try that pickup line I read...) So, Kin-chan... what underwear are you wearing? Kinshirou: Atchan. Please, spare us both.

Meanwhile, that lady who makes weird art bothers En at work again, and he comes out on top again. Maybe she should give up. Luckily for her, he should get promoted today.

Atsushi is sick. :C He's trying to meet his death with brave stoicism and honestly judging from how he looks I don't blame him for thinking the worst.

But all he has to do is take some medicine! All better. Time to go find Kinshirou and celebrate his return to good health, if Kinshirou has forgiven him for that pickup line.

Why is he making that face in the middle of WooHoo... Dare I even ask... Kinshirou, I would have thought you'd be more experienced by now...

Then again, Atsushi is completely satisfied afterwards. So maybe he liked it.

I feel like I go on about how cute Atsushi's Sim is but honestly they're all adorable. Also, this screenshot made me realize they just WooHooed with a window wide open looking down onto their street.

Like... he doesn't even go to work in those clothes. I don't get it.

But as you can see he got promoted! He's now an Imaginative Imagist, whatever that means. The painter career doesn't have the most informative job titles.

He honestly doesn't even want to be in the official painter career. He can't wait to get given a super nice easel so he can work from home like Kinshirou, who, by the way, is making the most money by far out of the three of them right now. I suppose that's fitting.

...He and Atsushi wanted to have a date tomorrow, but now that he's been promoted, he has to work. :\ Atsushi's due for a promotion too, so I guess they’ll see in a couple of days what his new schedule is like.

On the other hand, En gets off work an hour earlier now, and Atsushi still doesn't work at all tomorrow, so maybe they can have their date anyway. They were just planning to hang out at home anyway, in true Enatsu fashion.

It was at this point that the My First Pet stuff pack was released, and, well, long story short, they have a hedgehog now. Guess what its name is?

Don't do it, Kinshirou. Don't fall for it again...

orz.

But he goes to find Atsushi afterwards, just so that Atsushi knows he still cherishes his friendship more than he does a hedgehog.

Hou-chan has something to say, loudly enough that Kinshirou is startled.

Kinshirou: What's wrong, Hou-chan? What is it? Hm? Hou-chan: *sad meowing ;-;*

She needs attention, it turns out. Kinshirou is happy to oblige her whenever she wants. Unfortunately, En is lost in his art and barely even noticed her meowing.

Atsushi has made his first foray into gourmet cooking! He's pleased with the results, but he wishes his boyfriends were here to enjoy it with him.

Better late than never. Look how happy he is! It's like in episode 11 when he's feeding the defense club his curry.

I didn't quite manage to get a screenshot of Lilith at the door, but why do vampires keep knocking on the front door after dark?? It's scary. Maybe the boys just smell delicious or something? At least there hasn't been a vampire break-in, I suppose.

Hou-chan is suspicious of Zundar...

...and WISELY SO what the fuck??? What did they do to Zundar? What does this mean???? I have literally no idea. It popped up just as I left the home lot, so if he did something to trigger it, I'll never know...

While En is at work (orz), Atsushi is taking a trip to the newly-opened Arima Community Garden. They need some people to help do some preliminary work like planting before anything can be harvested.

(This is my way of explaining away gameplay limitations in terms of storyline. I made this lot so that Atsushi didn't have to run around the world finding things to plant, and also so that I had a place to put my modded insect spawners. You need insects for herbalism, but I didn't want to fill their home lot with bugs. But you have to have your Sims plant things on community lots, even if you put the seeds there with a cheat.)

While Atsushi works on the garden, Kinshirou learns chess from a very red individual named Kengo Fujita who's a member of what is essentially a chess club. Maybe they'll become friends! Atsushi wants to hold a dinner party soon to show off his cooking, so the three of them need friends, or at least people who'll accept an invitation.

Atsushi is working hard, but it’s a big task.

Eventually, Kinshirou resigns himself to getting dirt stains on his clothes and steps in to help.

Gardening boyfriends! Kinshirou looks like he's ready to stab himself with that spade. The light has changed and the shadows are longer. They’ve been here for a while. En is home by now, hopefully having a nice nap.

It’s late by the time they’re done. For dinner, they have hamburgers from a plate some stranger left on the table. That’s not what I would do myself, in their place, but they both survive it.

A solid day’s work! But it’s past midnight now and they just want to go home. Don’t judge me for the terrain paint, I did my best.

En is a sweetheart and waited up for them. In the background, Hou-chan remains vigilant.

That painting right there is a masterpiece worth almost two thousand Simoleons. En has an amazing talent.

These are, hands down, the best screenshots in the post.

At work, Atsushi once again refused to report that the cash in the register was low, and it once again got taken out of everyone's tips. Whoever did it the first time must have learned that they could get away with it.

Wtf he's back

They know they're being hunted.

Kinshirou: Perhaps he'll go away if we pretend that we didn't hear the bell. If he has no hope of getting inside... we need to act as though we think we're alone. En: Sure. But how do we do that?

En: Oh, I get it... I like the way you think.

Vladislaus: *watching through the door* They're completely oblivious to my presence. Amazing.

En: We might as well make it convincing, right? Right? Kinshirou: Is this something that interests you, then? Being watched? En: What if it is? Vladislaus: I can't believe they haven't noticed me. Their front door even has windows.

En: What are you into, then? Boyfriends should talk about stuff like this, right? Kinshirou: Oh, well... there are a few things, I suppose... Vladislaus: This is absurd.

En: Mm. Actually, why don't you tell me later? Kinshirou: Wh— oh... Vladislaus: *peers through the door, trying to get a better view*

Vlad is a pervert. Wow. I never knew. No wonder he and demon AU Atsushi are friends.

It worked!

Kinshirou: Oh, thank goodness. Maybe we should invest in some garlic braids. En: We can talk about it later.

This is such a sweet screenshot. Kinshirou can already tell that En is planning some sort of mischief, but he's so relieved that the vampire left before Atsushi got back that he's just amused and indulgent.

Oh, no... with all the vampire scariness and relieved WooHoo, they forgot to refill Hou-chan's food bowl...

(Don’t worry, Kinshirou came downstairs and did it. I just forgot to take a screenshot.)

Atsushi is a line cook now! Look at his fancy clothes! He must wear contacts at work. (That's my excuse for why he doesn't have glasses in his work outfits, and I'm sticking to it...)

His work days haven't changed, although he starts and leaves work four hours earlier now, so he won't be getting home at 2am anymore. He and En won't have a day off in common for a few more days, assuming En doesn't get promoted again in the meantime and get another schedule change. But they'll get their date. They’re determined, and so am I. If all else fails, Atsushi can take a vacation day and En can call in fake sick, and they can hang out with Kinshirou all disapproving in the background.

With the day's salary and his promotion bonus, they're able to expand their house again!

A boring deck to go with their boring house.This is the real reason for making a second story. More than the bath, I wanted to have room for a deck so that they could have a hot tub. :D They now have a grand total of §10 so it's a good thing they have lots of leftover food.

When will they move into a new, less ugly house? When will En get to quit his job? Will En and Atsushi ever get to go on a date? Will there ever come a day when I don’t end one of these posts with a question about En and Atsushi? What in God’s name did that notification about Zundar mean? I don’t know the answer to any of these questions, but we can find out together next time.

[corvid-knight]

How To Deal With Murder

For everyone who read Being A Brother Is Hard As Hell and wondered what the fuck Bro and D did...here's your answer.

(Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13697835)

TT: Yo. D. TT: Tell me you're home right now, big bro.

TG: its your lucky day

TT: Ha. TT: It's really not. TT: I'm in the elevator. I'll be up in a minute. TT: You need to get out the first aid kit.

TG: bro whatd you get into this time?

TT: You'll see.

TG: not reassuring

TT: Yeah.

You stare at your phone and shake your head, rolling off the couch. Your brother isn't usually this cryptic, unless he's done something he really doesn't want you to know about. That fact, when taken with the fact that he started out by asking for help, means that something's really fucked up right now.

TG: dude come on whats going on

No answer. Damn it.

You have the first aid kit—the heavy-duty one that you put together, not the standard one that's just good for cuts and scrapes—laid out on the coffee table when he comes in. He doesn't slam the door, but carefully shuts it and locks it before coming to sit down.

"Hey. What happened?" you ask, leaning back to look your bro over. His shades are gone, but he's acquired a leather jacket that you don't recognize. The expression on his face is completely fucking neutral, a calmly blank look that makes him seem a hell of a lot older than nineteen.

"Hmm." It's a purely noncommittal noise, and it's all the answer you get as he unzips the jacket and gingerly strips it off. Now you see why he's wearing it—his white shirt's ripped at the collar, stained deep muddy red in two spots, one around his shoulder and one closer to his stomach than his chest.

Shit. Shit. Shit. That's a lot of blood.

"Derrick, we're going to the hospital."

"Nah. They report gunshot wounds to the cops." He shrugs and hisses quietly at the movement, pulling the fabric of his shirt away from his skin before shaking his head. "And don't fucking call me Derrick...it's ruined anyway; cut the fucker off."

"Gunshot wounds. What the fucking hell? Dude, I can't take a bullet out of you—"

"There's an entry and an exit, so you won't have to." He sighs impatiently and grabs the scissors off the table, clumsily cutting at the front of his shirt until you take them out of his hands. "Help me bandage this up. That's all you need to do."

"Derrick."

"I'll kick your ass, D," he warns, and you can tell from the flash of anger in his orange-gold eyes that he means it. He's always hated his name, way more than you dislike yours—you just shortened yours down to its first letter; he'll throw a fit if anyone uses his at all. Something about how pissed he's always been at the parents that foisted him off on you.

"You wish you could." The wound in his shoulder is a cut, deeper than you're comfortable with handling but not life-threatening. Probably not, anyway. "I'm perfectly capable of knocking you out and dragging your ass to the ER if you don't give me a reason not to. As in, tell me who the fuck I have to kill for doing this to you."

He laughs at that, one short sharp angry noise that almost scares you into dropping the scissors. "Nobody, trust me."

"What?"

Your brother shakes his head again, leans back and closes his eyes as you start wiping blood off his skin. He wasn't exactly accurate when he said there was both an entry and an exit wound; it's more like a furrow cut into his skin, something that's messy and ugly and is definitely going to leave a scar. When you touch it wrong he groans, but he doesn't try to pull back, doesn't even flinch.

"Bro. Hey. What happened?" you ask again, not even really expecting any more of an answer.

And sure enough, he just shakes his head. But after a second, he sighs and rolls his head to one side. "Mama...just killed a man..."

You weren't expecting softly-spoken song lyrics, either.

As a result, it takes you a moment to process them.

When you do, though? "You didn't. You fucking didn't, Derrick, what kind of sick joke—"

"Jesus, D, be gentle." He grimaces and shoves your hands away from his chest, and you actually feel a pang of guilt under the confused horror that's currently doing its best to throw your mind into a blind panic-loop. "It's not a joke. There's a corpse in the back of my truck, wrapped up nice and safe in a tarp, got some trash and shit piled up over it." He sighs and lets his head fall back, hands dropping to his sides. "And a tape from the security system in my jacket pocket. Need to get rid of that."

"...I don't understand any of this."

"Good. You don't need to. Just patch me up, I'll handle it all, and you can forget this ever happened."

"Oh hell no."

"D, please." He finally opens his eyes to look at you, and for a second that blank mask slips to show that he's in pain, upset, and maybe more than a little scared. It's only a second, but he lets you see it. "I'm tired, this shit hurts like hell—"

"There's a body in your truck!"

"It's hidden. It's okay for the moment."

"How is any of this okay?"

"It'll be okay."

"Derrick fucking Strider—"

You know that you probably shouldn't've used his name again as soon as you say it. His mouth sets into a thin, angry line, and he shakes his head, closing his eyes and hunching up.

"Shit," you mutter, and start hunting through the stuff on the table for what you need to clean him up.

He doesn't say anything as you disinfect the cut on his shoulder, but halfway through cleaning out the bullet wound he makes a soft, distressed sound. When you look up you see that his eyes are half-open, rolled back so only the whites show. The fact that he's passed out is actually relieving, once you make sure he isn't choking or anything, because you need to try and sew up the giant fucking hole in his skin.

Which you manage to do. And you only throw up once. This is why you weren't meant to be a doctor.

He's still out when you finish, so you pick up the leather jacket he was wearing and go through the pockets. The search reveals three plastic baggies—two with a couple dozen pills apiece, and one with some kind of powder that you don't intend to let come in contact with your skin, at all—a folding knife, a cracked flip phone that isn't your brother's and won't turn on, and a tape.

After a second of thought, you put everything except the phone and the tape back in the jacket's pockets. You pop the back off the former, separating the battery and the sim card before putting all three pieces back in the pocket—that might prevent anyone from tracking the thing or it might not, but no one can say you're not doing your best here.

Once that's done, you take the tape into the other room, put it in the player, and rewind it. Not all the way—you don't intend to sit through the whole damn thing.

It's from a security camera, all right. Not much else the black-and-white, low-quality footage could be. All it shows is an empty parking lot somewhere, with a time stamp of three hours ago.

You fast forward until you see your bro's truck, then hit play again. He's still alone onscreen at this point, parking and getting out, walking in slow circles and very obviously scanning for cameras. You can see the exact second that he sees this one, stopping and looking directly into it for a good ten seconds.

"Damn, bro," you hear yourself whisper. He planned this, didn't he?

Onscreen, he nods and gives the damn camera a small smile and a wave. (Cocky lil' asshole, you think, ignoring the thought under that, the one that wants to ask what you're going to do about this shit.) He moves back to his truck, takes the tailgate down and pulls something you can't see closer to the very back, and boosts himself up to sit in the back, crossing his arms and settling down to wait.

You fast forward the tape again.

The time stamp advances half an hour before another car pulls in. This one's small and expensive-looking; anybody who actually gave a fuck about cars could probably tell you a lot about it, but you're willing to bet that it's worth more than what you got paid for any two of the screenplays you've co-written. The guy that gets out isn't anyone you know (thank god) but he's a type that you're pretty damn familiar—confident, angry, thinks he owns the fucking world.

Drug dealer, is your first thought. The baggies from the jacket influence that assumption, but even without that little piece of evidence you probably would've ended up at the same guess. It's just something about that kind of guy.

You know how to lip-read, a little bit, but the angle here sucks and you can't see the faces of either of the two onscreen. You see your brother shake his head and slide off the tailgate, though. The dealer's hand goes down to his pocket, and you wince and close your eyes.

When you look again your bro's bleeding, but he's got a goddamn sword. The other guy's on the pavement, his whole face covered in what looks like chocolate sauce and most definitely is not.

"Fuck." You almost want to rewind and see what the hell your bro did. You're actually reaching for the remote when the guy on the ground twists and reaches to pull something out of the waistband of his jeans.

The muzzle flash shows up white and grainy, and you hiss as your bro staggers back. There's the gunshot wound, yeah.

It only slows him down for a second, though. Then he's standing over the dealer, katana coming down in a strike that you can tell is calculated. You count four swings, and he's pulling back for another when you hit the button to eject the tape.

"Goddamnit, bro."

"You didn't have to watch that, you know," he says from behind you. When you turn around, he's standing there in the doorway, leaning against it and watching you. "You could've had plausible deniability, dumbass."

"You told me you killed a guy. Call me Pandora, but I kinda wanted to see if you were serious."

He rolls his eyes and holds out his hand for the tape. "Great. Now you know I was."

You don't hand it over. "Who was he?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Fucking tell me, asshole. I just got to see you commit pre-fucking-meditated murder, Derrick—you can do me the itty-bitty service of telling me why the hell you did it." Fuck. He really is going to smack you if you keep using his name.

He stares at you for maybe half a minute, then nods and looks down. "Fine. He's an asshole who fucked with the wrong person, sent a couple people to the hospital and expected he was getting away with it because his daddy's got connections."

"So you killed someone who's going to end up getting you killed." Fear's rising in your chest again. Dammit, bro.

"Nah. His old man doesn't give a fuck; isn't going to look too hard for him, unless I'm stupid enough to let somebody find his body." Your brother gives you a smile that's utterly humorless and terrifyingly confident. "And I don't intend to leave anything to be found."

Fuck.

"Where's the katana?"

"Wiped down with bleach, snapped in half, the two pieces in dumpsters a couple miles apart." He crosses his arms, mostly keeping the pain that movement causes off his face. "No prints on it."

"The guy's car?"

"Right where he left it. I wasn't about to leave evidence in it, and it's not like anybody can place me anywhere near it."

"How much blood is there in the truck?"

"None. I brought two tarps, wrapped the bastard in them before I loaded him up." He sighs and straightens up, nodding at the tape in your hands. "I need to go get rid of him, though. Get rid of that for me, alright? Burn the damn thing—I don't want any evidence."

"You need me to come help you?" If he says yes, you'll do it. You know you will. Your brother's just done literally the worst thing you could've imagined him doing, and you're ready and willing to help him cover it up.

But he shakes his head and turns away. "Nah. I'll call you if I need you; otherwise I'll be back at some point tonight or tomorrow, alright?"

That is not, in fact, all right.

"Yeah. Fine. Be careful, bro."

He fucking laughs.

A minute later you hear the door shut, and you sigh and look down at the tape you're still holding. "...fuck."

You don't know why you do what you do next. He asked you (told you) to burn the tape, but what you do is set it by the TV, find one of your tapes and take it into the kitchen, snapping the casing in half and pulling out the innards of the thing. Out takes a minute to find a metal bowl, set it in the sink and dump half a bottle of rubbing alcohol over it.

Flares up nicely when you drop a lit match in there, though. Even if it does smell fucking horrible.

Amazingly, the smoke alarm doesn't go off. You probably need to change the batteries.

When there's just a homogeneous mass of melted plastic, you turn on the sink and run water onto the mess until there's no more flames. There's absolutely no way to tell which tape you destroyed, just that you did destroy one.

Unlike most twenty-somethings, you have a safety deposit box. The bank's still open at this point, thankfully, and that's where you go. The tape gets tucked down under a box of papers, and you're back home long before your brother shows up again, the next morning.

When he does, he goes into the kitchen and comes back to the main room almost immediately, flopping down on the couch and closing his eyes. "Thanks, D."

"Didn't do anything. And neither did you, right?"

"Yeah. Exactly."

"Your stitches aren't bleeding, are they?"

"I'd tell you if they were. You can check that shit out when I wake up, though, alright?"

"...yeah. Fair enough."

That's literally all that's said about the whole thing, for the next decade and a half. Contrary to your expectations, it never comes back to bite you in the ass. No one ever shows up to accuse him of anything, he doesn't die from an infection from your amateur doctoring skills. Nothing.

Like he said, it's all okay.

Except you have a tape of your brother murdering a man.

Which is...still okay.

He's your fucking brother. That means you'll do what you have to to keep him safe. All in all, this isn't that big of a deal.

(Well. That's what you tell yourself. Makes it easier to mostly forget it ever happened.)

(Mostly.)

[georgiabread]

was i made from a broken mold?

summary: Somewhere, Phil feels his gratitude and pride. He tries hard to latch onto those positive emotions, sick of all the grey. But tonight, he’s so lost in the shade he can’t find any colours.

word count: 2.6k

trigger warnings: anxiety, mild panic attacks, insecurity

a/n: (disclaimer) this is a work of fiction and i don't cast aspersions towards or claim to know anything about phil's life and experiences. the story is based off my own emotions and imagination.

They’re a quarter of the way into the tour, and that’s when Phil senses it brooding behind his rib cage. The beginnings of a thunderstorm, grey and heavy and cumbersome. Expanding, stretching, forcing him to take longer, deeper breaths, more than usual. Demanding trips to the bathroom to close his eyes. Slipping a quiver into his fingers. If he’s honest, it’s daunting. He really thought he could escape it for a while, as if this road trip-adventure would be his ‘safe haven’ for a month or two.

Obviously, he got ahead of himself.

Anxiety knows no boundaries. You can’t give it a call and tell it to stay away for a bit while you’re busy (despite how much Phil wishes it worked like that). But he sort of assumed, and maybe hoped, this tour would take up so much of his mind and body, there’d be no room for a mental illness. As it turned out, the busyness of the tour was more of a breeding ground.

A List of Aspects Which Contributed to the Festering of Phil Lester’s Nerves:

1. Having to confirm extra dates with venues, under the pressure of not disappointing and angering their audience.

2. Constant rehearsals and the stress of fucking up everything they’d worked hard for.

3. The risk of anything about his and Dan’s personal life revealing itself at any point on tour.

4. Figuring out how to pay rent and other bills while they were gone.

5. Overwhelming insecurity and fear of interaction.

It sounds stupid. But it’s all that and more, piling against his brain, until something insignificant breaks the storm.

The convoy’s first official stop is Boston, and everyone is granted the gift of hotel rooms for a couple of nights. On the first day, some of the crew join Dan and Phil to grab coffee. The rest stay behind at Wang Theatre, constructing the set and testing light systems for tomorrow’s performance. Normally, Phil would be eager to do a bit of exploration while buying some drinks as a thank-you to the guys working tirelessly on the show. But today – today Phil is so out of it he might be glued in place as the world continues to move forward.

He’s buried deep. The jostling of city sounds – restaurant murmurs, the hiss of a bus, a dog’s bark – are muffled, as if he’s underwater. His brain is unable to form the words to a sentence. He only manages a monotone smile at the banter thrown between his co-workers. And Dan hasn’t noticed yet.

They stop at a Starbucks on the corner (Phil swears Dan mentioned something about a capitalist agenda once again, but he can’t remember hearing it). Orders are taken, someone pays, and Phil finds himself holding his and Dan’s cups.

Phil takes another deep breath; that’s all he can do in these situations, but his senses kick back in and there are voices in the cafe and people are looking at him and his lungs are frozen solid.

He makes it outside. Someone in the group calls his name, and Phil turns a little too fast, coffee loose in unstable fingers. Unstable footing. Unstable balance. Phil grasps a streetlamp before he can fall, but when he looks down, there’s vanilla iced coffee and chocolate mocha spilt all over the concrete. Dammit. And then –

“Awh, good one, Phil!”

“Dude, how’d you manage that?”

“You clumsy bastard.”

“What the – Phil, you just dropped our drinks. You fucking idiot.” That’s Dan, and those are the words that hurt the most.

And it’s a joke – really, everyone is treating it like one and their words don’t mean anything – but the teasing takes on a scathing filter in his ears. Especially Dan’s.

It takes a while for his mouth to catch up with his brain. “Oh – oh god, I’m sorry. I don’t know what...I’m sorry. Sorry Dan, I’ll just run in and buy you – buy you another one. Sorry.” He scuttles back inside, avoiding everyone’s gaze. If there’s a shift of emotion in Dan’s eyes, Phil doesn’t notice.

On their way back to the theatre, Phil zones out while his thoughts clamber over one another like the zombies in World War Z. His fears, doubts and second-guesses seem to have an agenda of their own, one which involves engulfing him in panic. Does Dan actually think I’m an idiot? Everyone saw that. Why do I always make a fool of myself? God, what if Dan hates me?  He tries to find calm in the suggestions collected from mental health organisations, like drinking water and grounding himself with his senses. Nothing works. The thoughts stick around until bedtime; Dan is asleep, back turned, and Phil can’t hear his own heartbeat over the loudness in his brain, but the organ is heavy enough to feel its drum.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, but in the back of his mind is the reminder that he’ll feel this grey and tight-chested for two more days at least.

*

On show day, Phil’s brain is wading through claggy mud. He feels empty, and at the same time so, so crammed with anguish and fear. Because he’s performing tonight. He’s meeting the people who look up to him, he’s putting on a show that demands energy and happiness. And he’s drained of it.

Dan doesn’t say anything, but one look and Phil knows that he knows. Or, knows some of it. He makes Phil tea and does the talking with Ed and Marianne. He keeps a comforting hand on the small of Phil’s back wherever they go, a reassurance that he’s there. When they sit on the lounge in the dressing room, laptops open on thighs, Phil slouches against Dan’s shoulder and Dan massages his scalp. It doesn’t cure him, but it’s enough to keep him afloat for a while.

The crew is buzzing today – setting up merch stalls, preparing for weird-kid stories and seven-second-challenges, doing more lighting checks. It’s another one of those days where Phil feels absolutely useless, watching everyone organise and work while he steams his voice and gets his face powdered. But it’s not like he has the vitality to work anyway.

“Are you sure you’re alright to do this?” Dan asks him ten minutes before the meet and greet, resting his fingers on Phil’s elbow.

Phil stares at the metal door ahead of them. On the other side are a hundred or so of his audience, waiting with anticipation just to see him. He knows how this works. They grin and hug and stumble over their words, expecting so much in the space of a minute. They want recognition and connection, they want to be known. And Phil can’t blame them because he was in their shoes once, but he can’t give them what they want.

His mind is overflowing. His body is vacant. Everything they say, he won’t hear. Phil turns his head and flashes a weak smile at Dan. “I’m sure,” he says. “You know we can’t call it off, though.”

“I mean…we could? If you really wanted.”

Phil shakes his head. “I can’t do that. I can’t disappoint them.”

Dan stares at him a moment longer, before nodding, squeezing his elbow and threading their fingers together in the few minutes they have left.

The meet up passes by like a fog. When it’s over, Phil can’t recall any names. The conversations and stories are vague and unimportant, yet he finds himself overthinking every word he said, every hug he gave.

And the show? Well, he does good. He remembers all his lines, he finds energy in the adrenalin of being on stage, the audience laughs when he wants them to laugh. For an hour and a half, Phil can jam his mind with nothing but the performance, while his anxiety simmers beneath. But when he speaks, the words don’t belong to him. When their Sim voices his insecurities, he feels more vulnerable than encouraged, especially when the crowds shout their dissent at his feelings.

But the night is still a success. The crew congratulate them with pats on the back and raised wine glasses. Their audience tweets about how hilarious the show was and how lovely Dan and Phil were. Somewhere, Phil feels his gratitude and pride. He tries hard to latch onto those positive emotions, sick of all the grey.

But tonight, he’s so lost in the shade he can’t find any colours.

*

Eventually, the storm thins.

It happens in the hotel room. The door to their suite clicks shut, a metaphorical breakwater against the swell of everything that wants to drown him. Phil’s feet sink into the carpet. He stares at Boston through the balcony windows; the city blinks back at him, a chorus of silver and gold, and he fills his lungs with air that feels weightless for the first time in days.

Dan was carrying their shared backpack. It hits the floor, and along with it, the pressure on Phil’s shoulders. He closes his eyes. The breakwater shudders. And the waves are crashing over his head, a collision of relief and misery and paralysis, washing away the tendrils of anxiety but leaving a heavy emptiness behind. He murmurs a half-choked, “Dan–” but Dan is already there, knowing exactly what he needs in times like these.

There is safety in the way Dan holds him, warmth in the fingertips trailing across his back, love in the lips hushing him and kissing his temple. Phil sags against him, takes a deep breath against his skin. It trembles, but it’s okay, because the worst is over and he’s here and he’s alone with the one person it isn’t an effort to be around.

In the shelter of Dan’s collarbone, he lets himself cry, just a little.

Then, a shower. He peels off his clothes and steps under the hot spray after shaking his head at Dan’s offer to join him. Dan understands. He needs this, a way to wash off the day and gather himself into something more solid.

After two shampoos and a quick body wash, Phil relaxes his shoulders. He lifts his head and sticks his whole face under the jets. It feels heavenly on his cheeks and silences the world for a moment, as he listens to nothing but the rush of water and his muscles loosen. Several more tears dribble out and join the shower droplets, but Phil reminds himself it’s okay and it’s healthy. And it makes him feel a little better – he climbs out and catches his reflection in the mirror, red eyes and all, and laughs stupidly at himself.

Dan’s buried to his neck in the duvet, staring at his phone, when Phil emerges wrapped in two towels. He slips on a pair of boxers and doesn’t bother with the rest, while Dan dumps his phone on the nightstand and pulls back the covers. Phil crawls underneath, small and needy as he clutches Dan’s waist and pushes his face into his shoulder.

Dan kisses his hair. “Feeling better?” he whispers.

There’s a pause, and a shrug.

“Out of ten?”

Phil whines in the back of his throat, turns his face to the side. “Five, I think.”

“Were you okay during the show?”

“I guess,” Phil mumbles. “I was, like, high on adrenalin but you know what it’s like.”

Dan does know. There were times during the UK tour when his own depression would mute his surroundings and isolate him from his own body. It made it hard to connect with everyone around him. But Phil would be there to hold his hand and keep him upright when he could.

They’re different in the way they deal with their illnesses, Phil had noticed. Dan prefers solitude, where he can beat down his thoughts in private, and finds comfort in the silence shared with another person. Phil needs physical contact and someone to listen to him, someone to remind him he is loved and valued.

Phil shifts so his head is pillowed by Dan’s chest, and Dan’s fingers wind through his damp hair. Usually, Phil would smile. Playing with his hair is always something Dan does when they cuddle. But now, ease makes way for insecurity. He wonders if he really deserves being held like this; if Dan is only comforting him because he feels obligated; if underneath it all, Dan hates him and his whining and his burdens and his dependency and–

“Do you know what triggered it?” Dan asks softly.

Phil breathes, examining the baby hairs on Dan’s chest. “Everything,” he says eventually. “But there was this time when – um. Actually. No, it’s – never mind.”

Silence.

“Phil.”

“Yeah.”

“You can tell me, if you want. Whatever leaves that mouth, I’m not gonna judge it.”

Phil shuts his eyes. He hates this. He hates it because Dan triggered it, really. Dan and the crew but mostly Dan, his words the tipping point. He hates it because it’s not Dan’s fault, per se, but Dan will still feel guilty even though he doesn’t deserve to feel guilty when it’s just Phil’s brain fucking up again. Maybe he won’t even feel guilty, just angry at being blamed, angry that Phil is making such a big deal out of harmless teasing.

But he won’t; he never has, Phil tells himself desperately. He’ll understand.

Phil opens his eyes and his mouth, waiting for the words. One thing he has to work on is cutting off the fear before it magnifies, and he does that now. He focuses on the way Dan’s thumb caresses the back of his hand. He’ll understand.

“We were – we were getting coffee,” he starts, peering up at Dan. His partner only nods, urging him to continue. “Yesterday, at Starbucks. We were leaving, and I had both our drinks and someone said my name and I turned and – and spilt the – the coffee and everyone started shouting and – I was in the, you know, the sad zone, a few days before, and yesterday I was feeling a bit spacey.” Phil wipes the dampness from his eyes. “So when everyone yelled at me – and I know it was a joke and stuff, but it kind of sent me over the edge and that’s why I’ve been such a disaster today. I don’t know.”

Again, silence. Phil can’t bring himself to look at Dan. Vines slink towards his lungs as the quiet lingers, and his mind twists, turns, overthinks.

Then Dan murmurs, “I shouted at you, didn’t I?”

Phil shrugs. “Yeah. But – but everyone did, it’s not like–”

“Phil.” There’s a hand on his cheek, stroking the skin. “I know it might not seem like it, but everything you’re thinking up there is wrong. It’s not your fault. I should’ve noticed sooner what was going on – I’m sorry I was so rude to you, about coffee of all things.”

Phil sniffs and drops his gaze. He feels Dan kiss his forehead.

“Love you,” Dan whispers.

After a few seconds, Phil recognises a calm that settles over him. And then – he laughs. It’s wet and pitiful and there’s nothing really funny about the situation, but he laughs and holds Dan a little tighter. “Love you too. God. I’m the worst.”

“You’re not. You’re Phil, and Phil is allowed to feel like this.”

He should probably say something snarky in reply with an undercurrent of thankfulness, but Phil ends up ditching the first part and smiles softly at Dan, and Dan understands the words without having to hear them.

It’s not over. Anxiety will link its pinkie finger with Phil’s and cling to him for two more days, more or less. But it’s not always unshakeable; beneath the doubts and the worries and the blame, Phil knows he can rise above the clouds and he knows Dan is always willing to pull him up some of the way. For now, Phil presses a kiss to Dan’s chest and lets sleep overtake him, safe in the arms of a love that will always be there to guide him through the fog.

phanfics

[kaythejay]

Wedding Day

Here is fic number 4, like normal, if you haven’t read the others first, I suggest you do that. 

Neither Dan or Phil could sleep the night before their big day. It had been just about seven years since they’d slept separately (their friends had insisted that they be apart, just like with any traditional wedding) the night before. They were both so used to sharing the bed that they just couldn’t get comfortable without the other person being there.

Their alarms had been set to go off at exactly the same time, six am. This was so that they could bother each other until they both got up. Phil was the first to reach for his phone and text Dan. They normally weren’t morning people, but this was the most exciting day of their lives. The day they would officially have their soulmate tied to them, in sickness and in health, for the rest of their lives.

It had been a long and stressful last few months of arguing over the smallest things that, in the end would not matter. It was the most that they had ever fought in such a short time that wasn’t joking banter. They were both glad that it was over. Well, very nearly. Dan was still afraid that Phil would abandon him at the altar, despite being reassured many, many times through the last few months that if Phil wanted to leave, he would have left a long time ago. He wouldn’t have said yes to the proposal in the first place.

Neither Dan or Phil ate very much that morning, due to pure excitement of finally being married. This date had been on their calendar since the day they met. Actually, since before the day they met. Neither one of them could imagine getting married on a day other than October nineteenth. The anniversary of the day they met in person for the first time. However, they had somehow kept the secret of the date from their fans this entire time. No one on the internet knew they were going to be married that day until they both would tweet something later that night, after the ceremony had taken place.

That had been the plan since they’d started planning the wedding.

Once they both had gotten to a point where they figured it would be safe to put their suits on (of course they’d decided to wear their obnoxious ones they’d gotten for the BONCAS back in 2016, ironically of course). This meant that they were both in their suits just five minutes before they had to leave because they didn’t want to get anything at all on the suits. The didn’t want to ruin the big day by explaining the big stain on the front of it. Sure, they had chosen to have a very small wedding, only the closest friends and family that would know and understand the stains before they even knew the story. Small enough that they were saving money by having the reception back at their own apartment. A big party full of drunk relatives didn’t sound all that appealing anyway.

Even though they’d both obviously seen each other in their suits, Phil’s mum insisted on keeping the two separate until they were walking to the altar. She insisted that the reaction of seeing each other for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours was exactly what this wedding needed. Of course, Kath is always right, so Dan and Phil both listened to her.

An hour passed and it was time for their wedding to begin.

It started with Phil standing by the altar under the arch that had been put up (with permission) just for their wedding. They’d decided that Dil and Tabitha’s wedding was so perfect that they wanted one similar, no matter how cheesy it was. Of course, no one knew that was the reason Dan and Phil decided to get married in the park. They could never admit to their family and friends that they only wanted this wedding because of their virtual son on The Sims.

They’d decided to skip the tradition of having a flower girl throwing flower petals everywhere. It just didn’t feel right to them. They also didn’t have any groomsmen besides their brothers. They didn’t want to have an argument, not only with each other, but with their friends as well, as to who was who’s groomsman. The only person in the world that they couldn’t really argue over, their brothers, whom their parents had conveniently given them.

Then it was Dan’s turn to walk down the aisle. Phil choked down a giggle. He looked like the most ridiculous “bride” he had ever seen, but he was also the best looking bride he had ever seen. Phil probably only saw his “bride” as stunning because he was Phil’s. If he’d gone to anyone else’s wedding and they showed up looking like buffoons like they did, well he would probably be laughing. He didn’t see how their family was holding it together.

Phil had a hard time not saying anything to Dan. This was a formal event. It didn’t feel right for it to be so formal, but Dan’s mum had insisted. Of course they listened to her as well. Mum knows best, as the saying goes.

Their ‘pastor’ that they had chosen wasn’t even actually a pastor. He wasn’t even a christian. They both knew that he would probably lighten it and make it less formal. He said some long speech about love and commitment and things. Lies about caring about Dan and Phil so much (as they’d literally picked him less than a month before the wedding). When he finally said that it was time for wedding vows, he turned to Dan first. Dan pulled out three whole pages full of his words.

Dan looked out to their family and friends who were sitting down before beginning his vows.

“Y’all know I’m a terrible procrastinator. And I’m bad about . . . um. . . losing important papers.” Dan looked at Phil. “This is so important to me that I have been working on them since before I even proposed to you. Just little things here and there. When you wouldn’t be able to see. I didn’t want to propose until after I had them done because I wanted a lot of time to be able to look them over. I did not lose or misplace this stack of papers,” he waved them a bit too close to Phil’s face and Phil backed up a little bit, “at all. Not even once. I always knew exactly where it was.” Dan paused for a second, looked at the paper, folded them, and put them back in his pocket. “I worked so hard at them that I memorized everything that I wanted to say. I kind of did that on purpose though because I wanted to be lookin into your eyes as I say them.” Dan took a deep breath. “I love you Phil. I have pretty much since the day I started watching your videos. Of course, back in those days, I said love even though it wasn’t really actually love. I was your biggest fan. I still am. If this,” he motioned around at the wedding decorations, “doesn’t prove that I’m Phil trash number one, I don’t know what will.”

Phil felt himself starting to tear up. He didn’t want to say anything though, didn’t want to ruin Dan’s concentration or his beautiful speech.

“Phil, I promise that I will forever be your biggest fan. I promise that I will forever be with you, and you alone. I promise that I will pick up your stupid socks when you don’t put them away.” With that, Phil got a glare. “And I will start letting go of the fact that you eat my cereal.” Another glare. “Or that you leave your contact lense pot on the tap.” He turned back to their friends and family, “This guy.” Dan laughed. Apparently Phil didn’t need to ruin Dan’s speech, he did it himself. Phil still remained quiet. “I love you in spite, no, not in spite, because of all of these little things that you do. Of course there are a million, less annoying, reasons that I love you. I discover a new reason every single day that I’ve known you and I hope to discover even more new ones until the day that I die.” Dan smiled that smile that was the reason Phil first fell for the eighteen-year-old boy that Dan was when they’d met. “I love you Phil, and I’ll continue loving you forever. Thank you for agreeing to marry me.” The officiant looked to Phil and nodded.

“How am I supposed to follow that!” He exclaimed as he began trying to find where he’d put his own vows. After a few moments of searching, a sinking feeling came over him. He’d left them at home. Just when he was going to give up and tell everyone that he’d left them (of course, they all probably knew it anyway), Martyn handed him a slip of paper that had “My vows” written across the top. Phil sighed in relief and silently thanked his older brother, making a mental note to properly thank him later. Phil looked over his paper. The vows on it weren’t nearly as good as Dan’s, but he knew he couldn’t just pocket them and come up with some on the spot. “Dan, I promise to be yours and only yours forever,” Phil read, not daring to look up at Dan. “I promise to love you forever and take care of you when you need it.” He felt his face heating up because his vows were completely lame. “And I promise that I’ll stop doing all of the annoying things that you tell me are annoying.”

“No you won’t,” Dan replied. Phil rolled his eyes. Dan looked at him fondly, as if the vows he’d just read out loud, in front of everyone close to them, were just as perfect as the ones Dan had said. With that, Dan pulled Phil’s ring out of his pocket, and Phil did the same. Their officiant first looked at Dan.

“Ok, take Phil’s left hand,” Phil held out his right hand.

“Phil,” was all Dan said, and Phil switched hands.

“Now, repeat after me,” the officiant said. Dan nodded.

“With this ring, I promise to be your number one forever.” Dan repeated until the officiant told Dan to put the ring on Phil’s finger. Then it was Phil’s turn, who didn’t actually manage to mess up. “I now pronounce you husband and husband, you may kiss your groom.” With that, Dan passionately kissed Phil, and Phil kissed him back. “I am proud to introduce you all to Mr. and Mr. Howlester,” the officiant said once they pulled apart. They walked down the aisle, followed by their brothers, ready for whatever comes next.