#like I don’t think they’re sitting there making out waiting for the sims to load

[dnpbeats]

been thinking (dangerous thing for me to be doing) about the funniest possible hard launch. I’ve decided it would be for them to pay homage to all those “edit this bit out” headcanons/fics from like 2015. they post a video titled “???” and it’s a bunch of clips from various videos of them kissing during filming and then being like “need to edit that out” or whatever they’d say. HOWEVER the kicker is that they still edit out the actual kissing. So it’s like 15 clips of them leaning in, lips millimeters apart and then a jump cut to them away from each other again being like “anyway 😌” like it would be a ~hard launch and yet still we never see them kiss. absolute crack up

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

And Eat It, Too - Chapter Four: Mister Spider

In which Jon has a bad time thanks to a certain children's book, the Archives are briefly on fire, and Tim learns something that Makes Him Quite Cross...

>>> NOW ON AO3!

Jon has a panic attack. Pretty sure I would, too.

(Masterpost including playlist)

*

CHAPTER FOUR

It was the right thing to do.

It was the right thing to do.

What else could he have done? Call the police? Go hunting himself? None of that would end well.

Police controlled by the Slaughter, he thinks, and shudders.

Jon feels like he’s made of damp cotton. Refusing the bedroom, he slept on the settee, in his clothes, shoes on; and while Michael kept its promise and chased away the Circus dreams (did it drape itself over him as he slept? Did it sit on the floor next to him like an eager child?), it seems the Ceaseless Watcher was disappointed that two victims had died, and provided new traumas for Jon to stare at.

One of them is Georgie.

As always, when in this place, in this nightmaring, he cannot turn away, cannot blink, cannot even make a sound. He watches, puppetted, a lens through which his “patron” sees, though why it insists on the same damn stories over and over again, he does not know.

He used to think it wanted new information, but that isn’t it. Statements a hundred years old can feed it.

Then he thought it wanted to experience the statements through his eyes, just for the unique flavor it gave them. That may be true, but it keeps repeating them. Over and over, revisiting those souls.

Georgie has no fear; it was burned out of her, so these remembered traumas don’t affect her sleep at all. It isn’t her fear the Eye is feeding on.

Maybe Jon’s horror is what it’s truly after. But why?

She could see him. Their eyes met last night, and Georgie looked sad—pitying.

Jon woke crying.

Michael was not there. Jon was glad. He didn’t want anyone to witness this.

He ignores the breakfast Michael left for him (some kind of pastry baked in a twist with a twist into a twist with twists on its twist) because it makes him dizzy to look at, and inspects the kitchen like a proper squatter should.

There is bread and an oven, and that will have to do.

He checks his shoulder. The wound isn’t healed, but it is healing; it looks weeks old, rather than hours.

Michael’s stitches are just as awful, so he doesn’t look very long.

Maybe there’s a towel. Maybe he can at least rinse off before leaving today—though the blood on his shirt is impossible to hide.

Another item of clothing, in the garbage. “Owes me a new wardrobe,” he mutters at the world in general, and goes to check the bedrooms.

The larger one is loaded with clothes, and they’re close to Jon’s size.

They’re even his taste, at least for work—button down shirts, cardigans, charcoal or black trousers.

He sighs. Rubs his face. Accepting this gift is unwise.

Not accepting it means walking around London with a bloodied shirt that he’d have to fish out of the trash.

If he’d soaked it in cold water last night, the stain might have come out. Instead, he’d slept in it. Michael was right; he’d been more out of it than he’d realized.

He’ll have to trust Michael to lock up, because he doesn’t have a key.

Jon’s phone is dead by the time he reaches the Institute (he just charged it, though maybe it wasn’t full like he’d thought? Damned Distortion), but he saw the missed calls before it shuttered dark —Georgie, Basira, Georgie, Basira, Melanie, Georgie again.

He’ll listen to the voicemails in his office where he’s—

Safe?

Not safe. Really not.

But it feels safe. It feels like home.

Unfortunately, he’s late; Michael’s crash-pad is further from the Institute than Georgie’s, and he arrives at the same time as Tim.

They stare at each other through the Institute’s open door, Jon preemptively flinching, Tim preemptively bristling, and they are saved by Rosie’s appearance.

“There you are!” she says, chipper as always. “Mister Bouchard is waiting. You’re already late! Come on, Mister Sims.”

Jon allows himself to be led away, but watches Tim while he goes. Pleading. Challenging. Maybe more of the latter.

Tim just stands there glaring hate until Jon is out of sight and says absolutely nothing.

It hurts.

At least we weren’t yelling this time, Jon thinks, and then he has to deal with Elias.

The glass of his door has not been replaced. Jon hesitates.

“Come in, Jon.” Elias looks exactly like a man who wasn’t here at eight o'clock at night, driving a woman insane. “Close the door. Don’t worry—we won’t be overheard.”

Why not? Weirder things have happened here. Jon closes the door.

He perches on the wooden chair in front of the desk, uncomfortable, too tired to be angry at Elias for watching him bleed out, too tired to be angry at himself for not listening about Melanie. “Did you know?”

“Know what, Jon?”

“The Slaughter. That she was infected.”

“Of course. She came back from India already symptomatic. Ah—but I wasn’t planning to release her into the night, if that’s what you’re wondering. That was entirely your idea.”

Jon sighs, rubs his face. “What do you want?”

“Where did it take you last night?”

He means Michael, not Melanie.

“Some… place.” Jon waves his hand. “Belonged to a follower, or something. I don’t know. Couldn’t you see?”

“Not well. It hid you—which is not a good thing, Jon. Nevermind that now. Show me the wound.”

It hid him.

From Elias.

Jon tries not to show that this is amazing news as he walks over and tugs his shirt and cardigan enough to display the wound.

Elias winces at the stitches. “How… enterprising.”

“Better than bleeding out.”

“You wouldn’t have, Jon.” Elias is chiding. “Our patron would hardly have let you die.”

“Unlike you.”

Elias sighs. “Must you be so contrary? Everything I allow to happen to you is necessary for your growth.”

“Or maybe you’re running a sacrifice game like Gertrude used to,” snaps Jon, and might have continued, but Elias’ gray eyes have gone to steel.

Somehow, though Jon is the one standing, Elias… looms. “You know very well I am not.”

 “I don’t know that. Actually.” Jon crosses his arms. Fights the urge to back down, to sit, to make himself small.

Elias’s lips twitch. “Smaller, I think you mean.”

“Oh, good lord,” Jon snarls, and marches back to his seat.

“That’s much better. Now—take this.” Elias slides a folder toward him.

Jon takes it. “Receipts?”

“While I have been unable to trace Gertrude’s activities beyond a certain point, I will say she was quite faithful about her expense reports.”

“Good for her,” he mutters, then peers.

This was a receipt for a beer purchased in Wellington International Airport.

He knows she didn’t buy it.

“We do have a budget for such things,” says Elias, picking up his pen. “Quite a substantial one, thanks to our donors. If you feel the need to travel, expense it. I’ll see you reimbursed in full.”

Jon didn’t think he was ever going to get used to bureaucracy tangled with cosmic horror, but that was his life now. “What did she do there?”

“I haven’t the foggiest—but the date is important. She was focused on stopping the Circus by this time; we both knew the Stranger’s ritual was likely to happen within the next ten years.”

Jon sighs. “Pity we can’t ask Gerard.”

And he feels Elias’ attention snap onto him like an undersized rubber band. “What did you say?”

“I… I just. I mean, he was traveling with her and this was his beer, but it doesn’t matter because—”

“How did you know that?” Elias is standing, coming around, moving at him with an absolutely uncanny speed, and if Jon’s chair did not have a back, he would have gone right over and landed on his head.

“Who told you Gerard was working with Gertrude?” Elias demands, hands on the chair-back on either side of him, and oh, he looks delighted, he looks thrilled, he looks like some devil that got the soul it always wanted, he looks—

“No one, I… I just read it in one of the statements,” Jon stammers.

“I don’t think you did,” Elias beams.

“I, ah—”

“You just knew it!”

Yes, he had just known it, but what did that matter, he’d been knowing things for months now, why would this—

Elias grips his shoulders. “This is a promising development. It gives me hope, with all we’re facing, that you will be ready.”

Jon tries to brush Elias’s hands off. This intensity is new and startling, and he does not like it. “It’s just guesswork. I didn’t—”

“Do you see more? Is this the first time it’s happened with such detail?”

Jon is saved by the bell.

An alarm, actually, a fire alarm, ringing through the building like it had during Prentiss’ attack.

“Shit,” says Jon, shoves Elias off him, and races for the door.

#

He knows it’s stupid to run deeper into the place when there could be a fire. He knows.

But Gertrude’s laptop is down there, and all the pertinent statements, and—

He runs smack into Tim, coming the other way. “What—the hell, boss, you’re going in?”

“Out of my way!” Jon declares.

“You know, I’m tempted,” Tim growls, grabbing him like a sack of meal, “but no. I’m not the asshole here,” and then he’s dragging Jon, literally physically dragging him back through the hall, ignoring his shouts, utterly unmoved by all of Jon’s struggles.

That’s what I get for reading instead of doing push-ups, Jon thinks blearily, and then they’re outside.

Smoke pours through the windows of the second story. The library—the public library, not the archive—is aflame.

Jon tries to go back in again.

Tim throws his hands up, surrendering him to damnation.

It’s Martin who tackles him this time, flattening him right to the ground on top of the steps, holding him down with weight and a gentle grip that Jon cannot squirm out from under.

“No!” Jon shouts, the statements, the knowledge, the tapes— "Let me go!”

“No, Jon!” Martin hugs him, still pinning him to the ground, arms around him and cheek to the back of his head. “No! Jon, breathe! Calm down! Calm down. They can’t even fight the fire if they’re busy looking for you, okay? Calm down!”

And suddenly the madness is gone, and Jon is panting, trembling, feeling as dazed as if he’d sleep-walked out here, and increasingly horrified at what he almost did.

What was wrong with him?

Elias stands by them, silent. Watching. His face is pinched. Every once in a while, he flinches, as though something is hurting him.

Why did I do that? Jon thinks. The place should damn well burn. Maybe we’d all be free, then. Why did I do that?

Elias sighs. “They’ve put it out,” he says.

“What, already?” Martin looks up. Jon can feel him scowling, even though his own cheek is still on the stairs. “Is everyone okay? I don’t care about the books, Elias!”

See, that’s the correct approach, Jon thinks dizzily, more and more horrified at his behavior, wondering if the Eye drove him to do that, or something else.

Elias doesn’t answer.

Michael does.

“Well, we have had an unexpected visitor today,” it says, making Martin and Jon both jump, and Tim shout profanity from further down the stairs.

Michael crouches, smiles brightly at Martin, and taps the back of Jon’s left shoulder with its sharp, sharp finger. “It’s all right. You can let him up now. I’ve cut the strings.”

“The… what?” says Martin.

Jon shudders. “You mean webs? There were webs?”

“That is a word.”

Jon can’t seem to breathe right. “Up, Martin. Please.”

Martin obeys with grave suspicion, clearly ready to resume his tackle.

It’s the bread-knife incident all over again, Jon thinks, but says, “What happened?”

“There was a present waiting for you,” Michael says with a huge grin, and tosses something onto the pavement.

They all step back.

It’s a book.

A children’s book, stabbed right through the center of the sketched, bulbous spider on the front cover.

Fear, old and rancid, fills Jon so badly that he can’t feel his limbs. “Wh… how…”

Michael makes a snipping motion. Then he laughs.

Martin staggers away, clutching his ears; Tim just sits down, both arms over his head.

Elias does nothing.

Jon… flinches.

“How interesting,” says Elias, and toes the book. “You seem to have incapacitated it.”

“Oh, I just made it quiet for now,” says Michael, beaming at everybody. “They’ll sew new pages and shape new words from web and blood in no time.”

Jon sinks to his knees and can’t move.

He can’t look away.

He hasn’t seen that book since he was eight. Since it was taken with his bully into Mister  Spider’s house, taken in his place, taken by thin, black legs covered in bristling hairs and long, thin webbing wrapped around its victim’s limbs.

He can’t feel his fingers or his toes or his knees or his tongue or his—

“Jon,” says Elias, near his ear. “Breathe.”

Jon does, but makes a bad sound while doing it.

“What is that thing?” says Tim from a few safe steps away, and at first, it’s unclear if he means Michael or the book. “Wait—you’re that monster!”

“Mister Stoker, if you please,” says Elias like the sternest headmaster who ever existed. “We are trying to have a conversation.”

Tim stares at him, flushing. “That thing trapped us in tunnels!”

“I did let you out again,” says Michael, affronted.

Jon has not moved.

“Jon,” says Elias.

“No,” says Jon, meaning anything, meaning nothing.

Elias sighs. “Michael… could I impose upon you to remove that, please? I don’t believe it’s safe for any of us to touch, even incapacitated as it is.”

“That is a question,” says Michael.

“Please,” whispers Jon. “Please make it go away.”

Michael laughs again, stabs the book with one long finger, and marches it through the painted yellow door that sits beside the Institute’s respectable brown one.

Jon makes another sound and slumps forward.

Martin is there. “Jon. Talk to me, Jon.”

Jon can’t. He swears he feels web around his arms, cutting into his skin, disrupting circulation.

“He has had a fright, Martin. Would you be good enough to fetch us some tea?” says Elias. “It won’t be as good as yours, of course, but we can hardly go back into the building until it’s clear.”

Martin gives him an absolutely poisonous look, which dissipates as he looks at Jon. He steels himself; sets his jaw. Goes trotting down the street toward the nearest shop.

Tim looks mutinous. “I think I’ll go get some tea too, shall I?”

“Don’t get too drunk, Tim. There are still several hours of work left, and I’d hate to have to dock your pay for unapproved absences.”

Tim gives him exactly the look he deserves for that and hunches down the street, a handsome man scowling like a gargoyle, so furious that—for once—he doesn’t gather any second looks.

Elias crouches beside Jon, careful not to let his knees touch the stair. “Jon.”

Jon is shaking. Time passes before he can answer; it’s as though his thoughts have adopted  glacial speed. “Why was it here?”

“I don’t know.” Elias hesitates. “But I have to apologize. I didn’t… see it happening, and I should have.”

Jon is breathing too fast, takes a long, long moment to answer, still staring at the spot where the book lay.  “Didn’t see it down there earlier. Didn’t see it at all. Was it waiting for me? Were they? Did Mister Spider—” He claps his hand over his mouth, staring at his own past.

“I think they may have set all this up when Melanie came to kill me. The fire, then, and your… reaction… would have ensured you were isolated with this book.” Elias sighs. “This is unlike them. It’s not subtle.”

“I don’t know why I was running down there, into the fire—”

“That was our patron,” Elias says. “This is its temple, a place of power; information burned is a grave injustice.”

“Didn’t know it was there,” Jon whispers.

“Jon.”

Jon makes a high, pained sound.

“It’s not as though I would have let them take you,” Elias says.

“Yes, you would!” Jon snaps, finally looking at him.

“There you are,” murmurs Elias.

“Here,” puffs Martin, returning with a little cardboard carrier and five paper cups of tea. “They only had jasmine, if you can believe that, but I thought… oh. Where did everybody go?”

“You got a tea for Michael?” says Jon.

“Well, he was here, wasn’t he and he helped you, so I,” stammers Martin, and trails off, eyes huge.

A line Tim read to Jon eons ago, when they were still friends, scrolls through his mind, unbeckoned: beautiful cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure, and Jon has to fight not to make that high noise again.

“Well played,” says Elias. “I almost believe you.”

Martin ignores him.

“Uh, Mister Booshard?” calls the firefighter from the door. “We’ve got it all under control. Wasn’t too bad. But you better come up here. Police’re on their way. They’ll have some questions.”

“My insurance agent is nearly arrived, as well,” says Elias, checking his phone. “But I will be relieved to join you. I must say, that was a surprisingly quick arrival.”

“That’s part of the problem, Mister Booshard. We got the call before your fire started. Pretty sure it was arson.”

“Oh, no,” says Elias with appropriate horror, and Jon is left alone with Martin.

“Are you all right?” says Martin quietly.

Somehow, it’s different from the fumbling sweetness he exuded a moment before with the tea. Jon doesn’t know what to make of it—but it feels real. “No.” He takes a deep breath. “But I have to be. The Circus won’t wait just because I’m traumatized, you know?”

“The fucking what?” bellows Tim from behind them, and Jon drops his tea.

(part five)

[voiceless-terror]

#21 and #46 for kiss prompts, maybe? I can't get enough your writing tbf

kiss on a dare- a little jonmartin season one fluff <3 All in all, this is one of Tim’s better Friday nights.

It’s been ages since Jon’s hung out with them, and never with Martin along for the ride. The Archives had been off to a messy start after the Dog Incident and Jon’s subsequent panic over the state of the place. What used to be an ‘every couple of weeks’ tradition turned into an almost-never one as the newly-assembled team got buried under more and more boxes of dusty statements. He’s pretty astounded that Jon agreed to dinner and drinks- although it’s a Friday night, Jon’s been apt to stay weekends more often than not. He figured if he arranged for it at one of theirs instead of a pub, Jon would be more likely to come. He always preferred less crowded settings.

No, the real feat was getting him to come knowing Martin was invited.

Jon’s been getting...better around him, that’s true. He was perfectly fine at his birthday party, going off about emulsifiers for a solid fifteen minutes. Tim’s always been rather fond of Jon’s infodumping, and if he’s comfortable enough to do it around Martin that must be a good sign. Despite an initial freeze-out, he now thanks Martin for his tea and saves his most pointed comments for Martin’s more egregious screw-ups (and even those have less bite than usual). Still, a colleague does not a friend make, and Jon’s never been good at opening up to people he doesn’t know all that well. However, Jon just nodded at the Martin caveat, seemingly not giving it a second thought. And Martin didn’t seem all that worried either.

Whatever, Tim’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s just happy they’re all here, having a good time. It’s late and Jon’s had enough wine to keep a smile on his face. He missed that. It’s nice how easily they slot together, even with all of the upheaval and a new addition. Martin himself isn’t so shy after a drink or two, more willing to engage in banter and keep the conversation going. This is what it should be like all the time, Tim thinks. Shitty archive job or not. 

It’s when they retire to the living room, drinks in hand, that he finally notices the little grin on Sasha’s face. And Tim, knowing exactly what that means, is both a little afraid and excited. Four-drink-Sasha has always been a host unto herself.

“Why don’t,” she begins, a hiccup interrupting her as she slumps into an armchair. Tim snickers and ignores the glare this earns him. “Why don’t we play one of our old games-”

Tim raises a glass in agreement as Jon, predictably, groans. Martin looks quizzically between them. Ah yes, time for your initiation, Marto! Not that they’ve played this in about a year or so, of course, but it's always fun to revisit the good old days.

“Seriously? We’re not children-”

Tim gives Jon a playful slap on the back that sends him flying forward on the couch, spilling a bit of wine on Sasha’s rug. He hopes she doesn’t notice. “C’mon, it’ll be fun, boss! Nothing like it to break the ice, and there’s definitely some ice that needs breaking.”

Martin blinks, hand tightening on his glass. He looks nervous, like he always does when he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on. Which is a shame, because he’s been so nice and open all night. Even chatting with Jon. “Sorry, what are you talking about?”

Jon rolls his eyes, giving Martin a commiserating look. “Truth or dare.”

Martin lets out a disbelieving laugh, relaxing minutely. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.” Jon’s foot reaches out to shove at Tim’s leg. “Tim loves pulling ridiculous stunts-”

“-Hey, you loved the karaoke idea-”

“You sing?”

“No.” Tim would dispute that, but the look on Jon’s face declares it a bad idea. “And Sasha likes to ask probing questions.”

Sasha preens, though the remark was certainly not meant as a compliment. “What can I say, I’m the Queen of Truth-”

Tim snorts. “Hacking and blackmail more like-”

“Anyway-” Sasha sings out as Tim dodges a pillow to the face. “Tim….truth or-”

“Dare, always dare.”

“You’re absolutely no fun,” Sasha pouts, though it doesn’t take long for her eyes to narrow in thought. There’s very little Tim won’t do, but that’s a dangerous look. “I dare you...to text…”

“Text? You can do better than that, Sash.”

“Text...Elias.” That’s more like it. 

Jon immediately scowls. “Tim, no-”

“I don’t have his number-”

“I do-”

“Sasha!”

“Jon, it’ll be fine! He’ll just say ‘oops, wrong number’ afterwards, no harm, no foul-”

Tim takes this time to snatch at Sasha’s phone, sitting precariously on the arm of her chair. She doesn’t notice, too busy gesturing at Jon empathically. He scrolls through her contact list.

“And then it’ll come down on me-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “How is he going to connect it to you? It’s not like he knows we’re all together-”

“Done!” Tim tosses the phone back onto the couch with a little grin. Sasha blinks, looking down in confusion.

“Wait, that’s mine-”

The screech and smack on the arm at Tim’s hastily fired off ‘u up? ;)’ to Elias Bouchard were definitely deserved. He’s sure he’ll face consequences for that in the near future, but Jon and Martin’s immediate laughter had been well worth it. Shouldn’t dish it if you can’t take it, that’s Tim’s motto.

In the next round, Tim manages to get Martin to confess to his poetry-writing habit, an admission that has him turning an attractive shade of red. Jon just giggles quietly to himself as Martin reads through one of his poorer attempts at rhyme saved to the notes of his mobile. Tim watches the two of them; Martin keeps looking up at Jon throughout it all like he’s the only one in the room and god, his crush is so evident and yet Jon is oblivious, smiling at him like he’s not on the receiving end of some of the most loaded glances of all time. 

Martin gets Sasha to admit to her most recent perusal through confidential institute records, which turned out to be previous archival expenses (solely to find out what Elias would cover with their new jobs, of course). At first glance, there wasn’t much in the way of extravagant meals or supplies, but a bit more digging had her finding Gertrude’s extensive travel budget. For an old woman, she certainly was a globe-trotter.

“All I’m saying, Jon, is that we could definitely do with a trip to China-”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to ask Elias about Gertrude’s trip to China, something I certainly shouldn’t know about, and he’ll have to let us go.”

“Refill?” Martin’s on his feet, taking Jon’s wine glass in his hand and Tim watches as their fingers brush- go Martin!- and yet Jon just nods his thanks, completely oblivious to the seduction taking place before him. Tim’s given it some thought and honestly, he thinks they’d make a cute couple. An odd pair, for sure, but Jon’s so soft once you get to know him, and Martin’s one of the funniest, sweetest guys he knows. They could be good for each other.

“Well, I still think it’s worth a try.” Sasha’s eyes are starting to blink heavily - she’ll be out for the count tonight, for sure. “Anyway, it’s your turn. I dare you-”

“I didn’t even pick!” Jon says, though he doesn’t seem too put out by it. This is the Jon Martin should know, the easy-humored, smiling man sprawled out before him. He’s even taken his little sweater vest and tie off, looking more like the familiar friend from research Tim knows so well. It warms his heart.

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Dare, I suppose. Seeing as how you already have one queued up.”

“I dare you to...to...to give a little kiss to someone in this room.” She waves her glass around imperiously. “Anyone you like.”

Silence. Tim gives Sasha a warning look that she ignores. She’s well in her cups, and he supposes any sense of propriety has gone out the window along with her sobriety. He’s actually seen Jon give quite a few kisses on a particularly memorable New Years Eve, but that was a different time. He doesn’t want him to feel pressured, not when he’s just starting to open back up.

 “Jon doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, you remember-”

“It doesn’t matter- Jon, you can skip this one if you like, we can think of something else-”

“Tim, it’s alright.” Jon puts a hand on his arm to stop the argument, and there’s a strange look in his eyes that can’t be attributed to liquor. It’s mock-serious, almost playful paired with his little sly smile. He thinks for a moment that Jon’s going to lean in and kiss him but instead he gets up from the sofa in a smooth motion and walks across the room to Martin, who’s just turned around with two glasses in hand. He freezes in place as Jon gets on his very tippy toes, takes his face in both hands, and kisses him. 

Jonathan Sims. Kissing Martin Blackwood. Against a kitchen counter. Martin Blackwood, who, once he’s over his surprise, puts the drinks down behind him and kisses right the hell back, arms winding around Jon’s waist like they belong there.

What. The. Fuck.

_____

“The leg bit was a nice touch.”

“Hmm?” Jon’s in Martin’s lap, sprawled out on his couch back at his own flat, eyes closed in contentment as he leans back against the other man’s chest. Martin’s got one hand in his hair, and the other entwined with Jon’s, twirling the black ring on his finger. It’s heavenly.

“Thought you were trying to climb me.”

“Well, you usually pick me up at that point, make it easier.”

“Sorry, next time.” Kissing Jon’s always fun but kissing him out in the open, in front of their friends? Was that something they could do now? “Should we tell them we’ve been dating for two months?” 

Two whole months since that night in Document Storage when Jon had finally let his guard down. When Martin had held him in his arms. Jon was very particular about keeping up appearances, though that all seemed to have crumbled tonight. Sasha rather fashioned herself a matchmaker, and Jon didn’t do anything to dissuade the fact. It’d been nice, having their relationship to themselves, the secret of it, the obliviousness of their friends who still thought Jon only tolerated him. It’s not that he wanted to keep it that way, of course, but it was nice while they were still figuring it out. 

“If you’d like. Maybe it’s time.” Jon tilts his head back, giving Martin a fond look. “Though I know how much you enjoy playing the lovesick fool-”

“There’s something so poetic about unrequited love, yknow?”

“All the more when it’s requited, I’d say.” Martin couldn’t argue with that. He leans down to give Jon’s forehead a peck. 

“Hmm. Give it a few more weeks. Act out the honeymoon phase for a bit, it’ll be fun.”

And when Jon squeezes his hand and smiles back, Martin thinks he won’t need to do much acting at all.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31318724

[devilrainbunnie]

Gamer Boy Shigaraki // Headcannons

a/n: i wrote this last night because i saw @itzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzdamy ‘s comment on one of my posts about gamer shiggy and i just know he would be exactly like this. also wanted to include soft tomu baby, i just want to goof around with him in animal crossing so bad.

cw: mentions of p*rn, swearing (sorry hehe)

-

-

GENERAL HEADCANNONS:

Definitely is addicted to energy drinks, probably Bang, or Monster. He drinks that shit like it’s water, man doesn’t care for his health properly. I literally think that’s cannon, man doesn’t have a proper sleep schedule. He’s a villain for crying out loud, the man sleeps like 3 hours every day.

Really likes eating things with cheese or cheese flavored. Fucking cannon too I swear, the man is a gamer. He probably plays CSGO, Apex, COD, GTA etc. Of course he eats cheese balls and makes microwave nachos at 3 am. Man lives off of it, he just plays round after round and in between loading screen downs whatever kind of chip is near him. I swear.

Has a VR set. And no, it is not just for gaming if you catch my drift there. He definitely watches some VR hentai or hardcore porn using his headset. I’m not wrong. I’m just not.

Most definitely is the meanest person during a match. He will bully the fuck out of you, no questions asked. He’s ruthless, don’t piss him off.

(S/O headcannons below the cut)

WITH HIS S/O:

Definitely wants to play games with his s/o. Having them sit on his lap while they play depending on the game sometimes he prefers the distance so he doesn’t accidentally jerk his body and smack them. But more often than not, he’s touch starved. Let him hold you.

He loves to talk about recent games with his s/o. Absolutely loves going on, and on about games he’s passionate about. Telling you everything you’d ever need to know about it, even if it’s not your style— you listen anyways, because god is it not the cutest thing ever when Tomura gets giddy about a subject he doesn’t get to talk about too often.

Will not allow you to speak to any of the people he plays with. He knows these guys, and some of them are fucking mean. He doesn’t want anyone to hurt your feelings, or any of the guys in his server/team to flirt with you. The few times they heard the two of you talking, there were horrendous comments that caused Shiggy to scream at them in the mic to shut their traps. But not a loss, they’re probably all creeps anyways.

Most definitely calls you player two more than your actual name. He thinks it’s a cute nickname, even if other people think it’s cringe, he’s gonna squish your cheeks and call you that randomly. You’re his favorite person. Partner in crime, you're literally his player two in real life.

If you play Sims, he forces you to make him a Sim that is married or dating your sim. He gets very jealous for some reason over it, if another male sim is even talking to your sim he tells you to stop playing. Usually you just ignore him and tell him to shut up. He does so.

If you play Animal Crossing, he gives you cute gifts all the time. Anything you’d like really, if you check your mail you’ll find something in there waiting for you. He really likes leaving you flowers for your island, doing cute emotes of love sick faces and bashfulness whenever he visits you. If you ignore him in the game he’ll follow you and keep doing that stupid fucking heart break emote. Or the shocked one with the piano noise JUST to annoy you. Even if he’s literally in the room with you. Damned brat. Sometimes he’ll start swatting you randomly or running laps around your character. Sometimes even trampling your flowers. DAMNED. BRAT.

If you like playing Mario Kart, he becomes a little gentleman. Oh, you want to get a specific character? He’ll let you decide whichever one to choose first, anything for his little monarch/king/queen. But when you play, he becomes ruthless. He is going to try to make you fail, whether that’s biting your neck, kissing your lips and pinching your sides, or throwing things specifically at you, ramming you off the road, and even once smacking his controller on top of yours when you kept winning— he’s gonna be an annoying little shit. He’s so goddamn competitive. He is such an Aries bye.

He likes playing games with you he doesn’t have to take too seriously, and can just goof off at with you. He wants to have fun, be cheeky and do things that only he might find funny. This is the only time you get to see him super playful, child-like, and just so free. Perhaps that’s why you beg him to play games with you all the time.

Overall though, you make the gaming experience better. He loves every moment he spends with you when you’re doing something fun together, he just hopes you appreciate it just as much. Which you obviously do.

[equalseleventhirds]

Pilgrimage

I made a fun & friendly post about considering all the fates worse than death for a tragedy, and I got to talking to myself about it. Self, I said, if you were asked to write a terrible fate worse than death for these boys, what would it be? Well about that…

 - - -

Georgie hasn’t been to visit Jon since the apocalypse ended. Or, before that probably, she certainly hadn’t been popping in for a cuppa when she was trying to cut him out of her life. But then the world ended, and then unended, and Melanie has been insisting on having him around for dinner, or to go on a shopping trip, or just to visit the Admiral. Because they’re friends. Because this is what friends do: meet up, talk, and make sure their other friends aren’t alone.

Melanie’s been to visit Jon. Georgie hadn’t gone with her.

The… place where he lives is too creepy, she thinks. It was probably creepy back when Smirke built it, it was extra creepy when it was some impossible tower, and it’s still creepy now, even if it’s fallen down to earth. The Eye’s tower.

-

“So this is it? The Panopticon, or whatever?” Georgie felt Melanie’s hand shaking, and tightened her grip.

“…yes. I’m afraid so.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “See what I said about him being ominous?”

-

Jon opens the door before she knocks. It’s either some remnant of power in him, or he’d been watching out the window after Melanie called him. Georgie doesn’t ask.

“Hey, Jon.”

“Georgie. Hi.”

She steps inside, then stops. “Shoes on or off?”

“Oh, er… on. I haven’t quite finished cleaning all the… Shoes are probably better on.”

-

Jon was panting, standing over the nearly-empty chair where Jonah Magnus once sat. Martin laid a hand on his arm. “You did it, Jon. He’s gone.”

“That’s it? All done? You killed the big bad guy, so the apocalypse ends?”

He barely even winced at her tone. “It’s—I don’t think it’s going to be quite that simple—”

“Then why are we here—”

-

“Melanie sends her love, by the way.”

“Does she?”

“Yes.” She holds his gaze as levelly as she can. He just grins at her, holding his hand palm-out until she rolls her eyes and reaches into her bag. “Fine, and she sends her latest batch of halwa.”

“Thank you,” he says, plucking the container out of her hand and immediately popping it open to try a piece. “Mm… you can tell her she’s almost as good as my grandmother now.”

Georgie can’t hold back her laugh at that, short and disbelieving and a laugh, which she wasn’t sure she’d ever accomplish here. “Your grandmother always bought halwa at the store, you told me so—”

“Ah, yes. But I haven’t told Melanie, have I?”

“Jonathan Sims!”

-

It hurt. She’d thought she was immune to fear, to the fears, and maybe she was, to smaller ones. Normal ones. Real ones. But every ounce of impossible, enormous Fear that had clawed its way into their universe was bearing down on the tower at once, and Georgie wasn’t afraid, but it hurt.

“What now? What do we do? Jon, Jon, what happened, what do we do?”

“I…” She could see a trickle of blood coming from his nose… his eye… Hadn’t Martin said Jon couldn’t See anything about the Fears? Was that what he was trying to do? “I think… we can still stop it, maybe, but it’s… the tower, Jonah’s throne…”

“What do we have to do?”

-

They make it through about an hour, sharing out the halwa between them and chatting, about the books Jon finally has time to read, about the podcasts Georgie’s gotten Melanie into, about the really huge rug Jon’s planning to order when he gets everything cleaned up enough. It’s… it isn’t normal, but nothing’s really ever going to be normal again, is it? But it’s almost nice.

Except then she has to go and say the halwa’s made her thirsty (and it is sweet and dense and perfect, Melanie did an amazing job and she’s going to rat Jon out as soon as she gets home, and Georgie really cannot eat something that sweet at her age without something to wash it down). And then Jon gets up to make tea. And stops at the cupboard, and pulls out three mugs.

He doesn’t look at her, keeps his eyes on the kettle, on the mugs, on the tea bags, on his hands. But eventually he says, low but clear: “Whenever I make tea, I. Um. Bring some to him. He can’t really drink it, but it helps me feel better.”

And what can she say to that?

-

Jon stared at the seat, the throne, horror dawning on his face. She could tell—they all could tell—that he Knew what to do. He just had to tell them.

Martin grabbed his arm, shook him, spun him around to look at them. “Jon. I know this is—hard, for you. But what do we need to do?”

“Not us. Me. What I need to do. Someone touched by the eye, and who more than me?” He was biting at his lips, and she recognized the rhythm, from when he was stressed from essay after essay and trying to calm himself. “I have to take his seat. There has to be a king.”

“If there’s a king—” Melanie’s voice was strained, from the fear or the Fear, and Georgie tightened her grip again “—then wouldn’t it just be the same? Someone ruling over this, this ‘ruined world’?”

Jon was already shaking his head. “No, not if it’s now. Not if it’s someone who wants to stop it. Dream logic, remember? Except.”

“Except?” Melanie prompted.

“Except they won’t be able to leave. They’ll be—be trapped in the fear forever. In everyone’s fears, forever. Like I was, with the dreams, but for seven billion people—”

Georgie couldn’t help the gasp at that. “The dreams like we—with you watching all the time—”

“—or, more like our journey here, when we went through all those domains,” he continued, as if he couldn’t hear her. Maybe he couldn’t, with all his attention locked on Martin, drinking him in like it would be the last time he ever saw his face. “Because, because it’s here, and I said—Martin, I told you at the beginning, the eye can’t see inside itself, so I’d be—”

“Alone,” Martin whispered. “Always watching, and alone.”

-

She goes with him. Of course she goes with him. On some level, that’s what this visit has been about—seeing Jon, sure, but also seeing… Martin.

Martin is the whole reason Jon’s here, after all. Living in the ruins of the Panopticon. Living at all.

Georgie doesn’t look away. Doesn’t wait in the other room (the little living space Jon had made with curtains and boxes and a folding divider Melanie found for him), safe and ignorant. She knows Jon wouldn’t blame her. Might encourage her, if she brought it up, even if she said she had to go.

She thinks she might blame herself if she did.

It’s still difficult to stand there and watch without some kind of distraction, though, so she does bring her tea with her.  Bobs the bag up and down (Jon remembers she likes to leave it in even after she adds sugar and milk, like some kind of monster, he’d teased back in uni, before that word became so damn loaded), clinks the spoon against the side.

She’s trying not to stare, but there’s not a lot else to look at, besides… there’s not a lot else to look at. He must have brought that little end table in here pretty soon after moving in, set it up next to the chair with a lamp and a book and… a pillow on the floor next to it.

She doesn’t ask.

Now Jon sets the third mug down and carefully, carefully pries Martin’s hand off the arm of the chair, pushes his fingers to curl around the mug, guides them down together to the table. He keeps one hand on the mug, like he’s afraid Martin will move suddenly and spill it. Maybe it’s happened before.

There’s only so long she can avoid looking, of course. And Martin looks… a lot like the last time she saw him, just after the end of the end of the world. Very, very still, sitting upright, although Jon’s gotten him some cushions and a blanket since then. His eyes are still wide, too wide, and staring at nothing. At everything. At everything but what matters.

And his lips are slowly, slowly moving.

-

“But why does it have to be you! It’s always you! The whole world is touched by the Eye now, isn’t it? Can’t it be—I wanted you to—”

“I’m—I ended the world, Martin, it’s only right I fix it.” He was pleading now. “I just—Martin, please.” Jon reached up, curling his hand around the back of Martin’s neck, and pulled him down until their lips just brushed.

He closed his eyes, and Georgie wanted to look away, leave them this one last moment together. She’d be glad, later, that she didn’t, that she kept watching, watched them kiss, watched their tears, watched Jon break away and head towards the chair. Watched Martin grab him and push him away, taking the seat himself.

“Martin, no—”

Martin turned his head, slow, so slow, smiling one last time at Jon. “When are you going to stop blaming yourself?”

-

“Is he… talking?” She moves closer, squinting. “What… what’s he saying?”

Jon smiles, brushing his thumb over Martin’s slow-moving lips. “The same things he said to people in the apocalypse, of course. No matter how many times I told him they couldn’t hear him.”

And Georgie can see it now, the minute shapes, forming words as familiar as any casual conversation.

Excuse me… Sorry about this… How are you?… You’ll get through this… Just hang on… Hi there…

- - -

End notes: Every once in a while (not every night, bcos he has 7 billion ppl to get through), if someone were to look at the unchanging body of Martin Blackwood, and if they were good at reading lips, that someone might be able to see him talking one Jonathan Sims through his fear dreams. Of course, no one does see that; the only person who’s close enough would be asleep at the time.

[rosy-cheekx]

Make A Wish

Book passage:  Elfriede Jelinek, The Piano Teacher

Me? Posting an unprompted fic? 2021 is starting off wild!

AO3 Link here

Summary: Martin knows just how to celebrate Jon’s 35th birthday. It’s soft and beautiful and speaks of a bright future. 

Martin doesn’t know how to shop for Jon. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t really want trinkets or the little gifts Martin would think to buy for a significant other. (If he does want them, at least, he doesn’t say it.) Things he needs, like clothes, he buys himself, doesn’t wait for an occasion. Overall, Martin would not describe Jon as materialistic.

Books are the exception. Books are always the exception for Jon. While Jon is not materialistic, he is usually sentimental. He keeps things for as long as he can, letting them wear and wear til they’re no longer usable, like his shoes. Especially pictures. Jon never throws away pictures. (Martin knows why and snaps as many Polaroids as he can of his partner, himself, their friends, even their cat, hanging them around the house in tiny frames as reminders.) But his books are in and out of the shelves like they run a bookshop of their own. Martin has heard the stories of his partner’s reading habits as a youth, knows that Jon’s reading habits are challenging, to say the least. Before they’d moved in together, though, he hadn’t realized that every time he was at Jon’s the bookshelves were almost entirely unique to the last visit. New titles, rarely the same authors, with no seeming organization to the assemblance. Martin knows this now, knows that once a fortnight Jon packs up all the books he’s read and takes them to their local charity shop. It’s his little ritual, and the bug-eyed look of confusion Martin had received when he had asked him about it the first time was priceless.

“I just--don’t need them anymore?” He says, like it’s a question. “I’m not going to read them again.”

“Really?” Martin raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I took you to be a bit of a hoarder when it comes to books, if the statements in your office were any indication. And it’s our flat, so they’re our books. What if I want to read them?”

“Please.” Jon scoffs. “That’s entirely different. I don’t enjoy­- well. They’re work, these are not.”

Still, after this, Jon includes Martin in his ritual, giving him synopses from books he thinks Martin might enjoy and adding the Blackwood-Approved books to the other bookshelf. Martin is quite proud of his bookshelf, identical in structure to Jon’s but entirely more organized: books ordered by genre, then by author, with figurines, photos, and plants acting as weights and decor. Jon’s deviates between sparse and overflowing, books stacked however they will fit, with no rhyme or reason to their order.

Martin doesn’t know how to shop for Jon, but he’s learned quickly that Jon isn’t a Things person. Jon is an Experiences person. The moments he treasures are the ones where he and Martin are happy to be in each other’s presence and experiencing new things together. Ice skating, picnics, hiking, cinemas, all the quintessential cheesy dates, the ones he would’ve guessed, way back when, before he knew the real Jon, this Jon, he would have snubbed his nose at.

Jon’s birthday is coming up. He’s turning 35 and is all too self-conscious about the fact. Martin ribs him a little; he’s older by seven months, after all, “you’re making me feel old, Jon!” Their ritual has become to call off work and spend a day together on Jon’s birthday. No gifts, no fanfare, just a day doing an activity Martin has planned. It’s perfect usually, Jon’s delighted smile and bright eyes when he thanks Martin with a kiss is all the satisfaction he needs. But this is 35, it needs to be special. It needs to be perfect.

---

Martin blinks awake to the steady, calming drum of rain on their bedroom window. He pats out blindly for his glasses, haphazardly set on his bedside table, and pushes them on his face, before rolling back onto his side and tucking an arm around Jon’s waist and nuzzling into his neck. “Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs, carding his other hand through Jon’s tangled curls. He smiles softly as he watches his partner; Jon always grumbles that he looks so much older than he is, but when he’s sleeping, Martin swears he looks timeless, a specimen of perfect beauty against the crisp black sheets. Jon shifts in his arms, turning to face him, and squints blearily at Martin. Jon, for all his sleepless nights back at the archives, is not a morning person.

“Hm-mar’in?” he mumbles, irises stained forever green. He clears his throat and scrubs at his eyes. God, he looks just like a cat. “G’mornin’,” he says, a little more comprehensible, voice rough-hewn from sleep.

“Morning, love.” Martin kisses his forehead, between his eyebrows. “Happy birthday,” His nose, cold from a chilly autumn night. “Ready for a good day?” His lips now, soft and warm. Jon sighs underneath him, presses himself into the kiss, slots himself into the Jon-shaped space in Martin’s arms.

When Martin shifts away to sit up, Jon audibly whines, grabbing at Martin’s hand to pull him back. “You’re so warm, don’t go,” he pleads. Martin chuckles and squeezes his hand.

“It’s half nine. You want breakfast, don’t you? We have an agenda to follow, don’t forget.” But Jon shakes his head and tugs again.

“Birthday Ruling,” he cites solemnly, stretching as he says it. (Again, like a cat, the way he arches his back. Is that on purpose? Martin is pretty sure he’s seen Reggie—Her Regency—do the exact same thing.) “By royal decree, you have to stay here until I’m awake enough to help you with breakfast.”

“Well,” Martin chuckles, shaking his head to himself and tucking himself around Jon’s thin form. “I can’t refuse a royal decree, now, can I?”

Breakfast becomes brunch, and once the pair are awake tea, cut fruit, and omelets are prepared and eaten on the couch. Jon being left-handed and Martin right, they sit on their perspective sides so they can hold hands and not inhibit the other from eating.

“So,” Jon prompts, eyeing Martin from his peripheral as he watches him wash dishes. “What are your secret plans? Am I allowed to know yet?”

“Hmm.” Martin considers his question, running a plate through his hands as he dried it, solemn contemplation on his face. “No.”

“Mar-tiiin,” Martin is almost worn down by that plea, a sound he doesn’t think anyone else who has ever met Jonathan Sims could fathom coming from him. A bloom of warmth in his chest; a reminder he will never feel lonely again.

“But I think you’ll figure it out,” he compromises, grinning to himself. His plan had come to him in a sudden realization at work and Martin did think it was some of his best work yet. “Here’s your hint: you may want to bring a canvas.”

Jon’s face is a measured calm. “We’re going shopping?” Martin just shrugs, winking.

-

They take a cab and the rain pounds down on the roof, the repetitive noise a balm against the cold and wet.  Martin really got lucky today; the sound of rain is one of Jon’s favorites. He sighs inwardly as Jon rests his curls, slightly damp from their wait for the cab, on his shoulder and closes his eyes, basking in the warmth of his boyfriend and the pleasant drumming.

Jon’s eyes opened when he felt the cab pull to a stop, and he took their surroundings in with the quick analytical eye of an ex-Archivist. Martin felt his cheeks growing warm with excitement as they stepped out of the cab and paid. The building before them, like most Scottish buildings, was made of uneven stone. There was a little garden, mostly rocks with some shrubbery dotted between, and the pathway, also stone, though a flatter smoother variety, led to the door, which read The Watermill in blue and white lettering. “Martin?” Jon threaded his fingers through Martin’s, eyes wide.

“It’s a bookshop, Jon. It’s got reading nooks, and a café, and I swear I’ll buy you any books you want. We can stay as long as we like. We can read as much as we want.”

Three short squeezes to Martin’s hand. Oh. He was starting to ramble. He returns the answering four. “Martin, love, it sounds perfect. But it’s raining.” Right. A drop of rain rolls down Martin’s nose, and he shivers.  “Let’s get inside.”

Martin is glad he brought a tote, a canvas bag with the name of Jon’s university emblazoned on the sides. He follows Jon through every aisle as Jon analyzes every book like their dogs in show. He scans the titles, covers and authors with precision, sometimes returning them with delicate hands, sometimes reading descriptions or thumbing through the pages, before deciding their worth and either reshelving it or handing it to Martin. Martin is distinctly reminded of being an Archival Assistant, helping Jon prioritize case files, except the expression on Jon’s face isn’t furrowed and grim, it’s near-rapturous awe as he selects and examines the books. There is no evident consistency to the books Jon picks, ranging from YA fiction to historical documentation to travel books of places he knew they’d probably never visit, though he always takes Martin’s suggested reads, nodding dutifully and running his hand down the spine before placing it in the ever-weighing bag on Martin’s arm.

They spend nearly an hour and a half roaming shelves before Jon is satisfied with this first load. Martin is grateful. His shoulder is starting to hurt from the nearly full canvas he’s hoisted on his shoulder. Martin leads his partner to a small corner, something that can only be described as a nook. There’s a small, well-worn sofa, a table with coasters, and a coffee table in front of the sofa. The whole space is cast in warm orange-yellow light, courtesy of the standing lamps, and Martin can imagine this is a great place to curl up and fall asleep.

Curl up they do, Martin sitting with a few books of his own beside him and Jon leaning against Jon’s side, sprawling over the majority of the couch. Martin tucks an arm over Jon’s chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of the space where collarbone meets rib, and they read. They read in silence for most of the morning, Jon flipping through his books at a truly astounding pace (Jon thinks its left over from his Archival Spooky Powers, Martin thinks he’s just a nerd), pausing occasionally to read Martin a line he finds interesting. It’s a yellow paperback now, something about psychopathy, and he begins to read out an interview the author had with a man who claims he should not have been diagnosed as a psychopath.

“D’you think Jonah was a psychopath?” Jon asks, brow furrowed as he reads the qualifying characteristics. “He had the ‘grandiose sense of self-worth’ and ‘cunning/manipulation’ down pat.”

Martin hums, glancing over Jon’s shoulder to read the rest of the Psychopath Test. “Lack of remorse,” he points. “Lack of empathy for sure. Someone with empathy doesn’t implant visions of their dead father into the head of their employee. Speaking of, we should have Melanie and Georgie over soon.” Jon nods against his chest. “I’d call him charming, too, actually,” nudging Jon gently. “Especially with new employees. Remember how he—”

“Called me into his office nonstop and ‘checked in?’ Yeah, I remember.” Jon sighed and smoothed the page down. “Can you call it ‘a parasitic lifestyle’ when your employees are bound under your servitude for eternity or until they die?” Jon scoffs. “I don’t think the DSM is ready for Smirke’s Fourteen.”

“Maybe not. Maybe the sixth edition will be.” Martin presses a kiss to the top of Jon’s head and turns back to his own book.

-

“Hungry?” Martin asks, nudging Jon as his stomach gurgles for the third time in as many minutes. Jon jumps a little, likely having forgotten Martin was there.

“Erm-I mean, a little.” Even after being together for so long, Jon still hesitates to let Martin buy him food. (“Martin, I have money. You don’t- you don’t have to-” but whatever offending muffin or cone of chips would be pressed into his hand and he would thank Martin, sheepish, and take a bite.)

“Chai latte? Something sweet?” Martin asks, nudging Jon out of his side and feeling the cold spot left in his wake. “Its your birthday, come on.” Jon sighs and relents, and Martin swear he can hear him roll his eyes as he walks away.

Martin orders two chais and a few cupcakes (chocolate for Jon, carrot cake for him) from the café in the front of the bookshop and joins an ever-growing queue of patrons waiting to get their own warm treats. The rain must have driven people in in droves. Never mind it, though, their corner feels empty enough. He thinks he sees a spider on the back of a woman’s shirt in front of him, and flinches before realizing, oh, it’s just a bit of string. He takes a slight step back anyways. He didn’t used to do that.

“Order for Martin?” An American voice, uni student probably. He thanks her and makes a point to drop a few quid in the tip jar, seeing it frustratingly empty for such a busy café.  

Martin takes a small porcelain plate in each hand, a mug and pastry balanced on each, and makes his way carefully back to the sofa where he had left Jon. Only, he couldn’t see his curly hair, tied up in his half-bun, over the back of the sofa. Did he go to the loo?

It’s when Martin steps over to the side of the couch to set the plates down that he bursts into laughter. Jon is sprawled in a way that seems completely unconducive to reading: his knees are hooked over the sofa, so his socked feet (shoes neatly deposited next to his hips) are on the cushion itself. His torso is stretched on the warm, well-swept wood floor and his head (and his book) are tucked under the coffee table; arms locked over his head so he can read on his back. It looks ridiculous, he cannot fathom what possessed Jon to sit like this and not on his back on the couch.

Jon hears his laughter and arcs his neck, trying to see Martin’s face. “It was…comfortable?” he tries helplessly, giggling awkwardly. “Oh, piss off,” he sighed, inelegantly worming his way out from under the seat.

“Come on, old man.” Martin grins, handing him the cupcake he’d bought for him, with a single purple candle pressed into it. “Make a wish!”

“It’s not even lit,” Jon protested, cheeks flushing.

“Want me to sing instead? I can.” Martin took a deep breath. “Happy Bir-”

“N-no! Martin, no!” Jon pressed a hand over his mouth, though he was giggling madly at Martin’s wild expression. “I’ll blow it out. Just hush.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and then let out a breath in a sigh. His eyes were soft, smile to match. “I…I don’t have anything to wish for.”

Martin’s turn to blush. “Just-just shut up and eat your cake,” he mumbled, hiding his smile in a sip of his tea.

-

Maybe its how at-peace he feels, maybe it’s his ADHD (its definitely the ADHD), but Martin has no idea how long he’s been reading. He’s brought out of his reverie, his copy of In Cold Blood almost finished (he’s read it before, but god he loves this book so much), by a low noise he can’t pick out at first. It’s quiet, soothing, its right next to him.

Oh. Oh. It’s Jon. This one, a real compulsion left over from his time as an Archivist, Jon is reading aloud to himself, his voice the sonorous, resonant tone of a man performing for himself. Martin puts his book down carefully, trying not to alert Jon to his awareness, and listens, letting the words wash over him. Jon’s voice has always been able to capture Martin’s attention, even before the Eldritch Spooky Magic that eventually attached itself to it.

“Klemmer stands there, gazing at her.   “Erika doesn’t want a silence to develop, so she utters a platitude. Art is platitudinous for Erika because she lives off art. How much easier it is for the artist, says the woman, to hurl feelings or passions out of himself. When an artist resorts to dramatic devices, which you so greatly esteem, Klemmer, he is simply utilizing bogus methods while neglecting authentic ones. She talks to prevent the eruption of silence. I, as a teacher, favor undramatic art – Schumann, for instance. Drama is always easier! Feelings and passions are always merely a substitute, a surrogate for spirituality. The teacher yearns for an earthquake, for a roaring, raging tempest to pounce upon her. That wild Klemmer is so angry that he almost drills his head into the wall. The clarinet class next door, which he, the owner of a second instrument, has been frequenting twice a week, would certainly be astonished if Klemmer’s angry head suddenly emerged from the wall, next to Beethoven’s death mask. Oh, that Erika, that Erika. She doesn’t sense that he is actually talking about her, and naturally about himself as well! He is connecting Erika and himself in a sensual context, ejecting the spirit, that enemy of the senses, that primal foe of the flesh. She thinks he is referring to Schubert, but he really means himself, just as he always means himself whenever he speaks.   “He suddenly ventures to adopt a familiar tone with Erika; using a formal tone, she advises him to remain objective! Her mouth puckers, willy-nilly, into a wrinkly rosette; she cannot control it. She controls what the mouth says, but she cannot control the way it presents itself to the outside world. She gets goosebumps all over.”

Martin closes his eyes against the words, a shiver running down his spine, starting at the top of his skull. It’s a feeling he gets so rarely now, the feeling of being so absolutely content in the presence of another person that any fog he may have is physically expunged from him. Not that there is any, but it’s a safeguard; a reminder to himself that he is not Lonely anymore and will never be lonely again. It can’t get him, not here, not with Jon sprawled, almost in his lap, reading and sipping tea and letting the only thing they worry about be whether they fed the cat this morning (Jon did, of course, Reggie is not one to let them forget her morning meal).

“Martin?” Jon’s voice cuts through his quiet contemplation. “You alright?” He’s tilting his head back, almost upside down to look at Martin’s face. “I felt you shudder.” Of course, even deep in his trance of this story he had felt Martin shift.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he smiles reassuringly, carding the hair off Jon’s forehead. “I’m not feeling lonely, not even a little bit.” He used to do it a lot in the safehouse, and fog would roll off him in droves. Jon would hold him through it all. “I think it just happens now like part of an immune system, just checking in when I’m feeling emotional.”

“Emotional?” Jon looks a little relieved, but not entirely. He sits up, glancing down at his page number (Martin could never figure out how Jon did that, remembered his page number instead of using a bookmark) and cups Martin’s face gently, searching it. “What’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing, Jon, I promise. That was why I was emotional,” he admits, feeling a little sheepish. “It’s just good to feel happy. It feels good to be with you, to be at peace, to not worry about what is going to happen tomorrow and whether we’re going to die.”

Martin blushes, feeling heat spread through his face. It feels good to say it out loud. “Happy birthday, Jon. I love you.”

-

They leave with bags full of books, smiles on their faces and the moon casting a faint light on their backs. Martin falls asleep in the cab on the way home, his head lilting onto Jon’s shoulder. When Jon wakes him up, leading his sleepy partner up the stairs, 

Jon thinks 35 maybe won’t be so bad, after all.

[schrijverr]

What’s up with that Sims guy?

After the Apocalypse Jon becomes an uni teacher, three students take in interest in what’s up with this weird new professor.

On AO3.

Ships: JonMartin

Warnings: none, but tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag something!

~~~~~~~~

Time and space moves differently around the Fears, something that could be confusing and strange, but also pretty handy as Jon and Martin had discovered during the Apocalypse. It meant that when they’d turned the world back to normal, banishing the Fears far away, no one had even noticed it had happened.

With Elias, uhm Jonah, gone their ties to the Institute had lessened. However, Jon was still depended on statements, but Martin had decided that being away from it all would be better for him, so Jon was now working part time, while Martin kept an eye on the place.

Which is how Jon had ended up as a professor at a university. He was filling in, because the current professor had gotten pregnant and they hadn’t been able to find someone more suitable than Jon to replace her temporarily.

Jon knew he didn’t have the credentials necessary, but he Knew everything with the help of the Beholding, so he hoped that would be enough to get him through the year.

So here he was, standing in front of a big hall that was slowly filling up with students, who were eyeing him with a mix of curiosity, confusion and uneasiness.

Once everyone had settled down he took a deep breath and started: “Hello everyone, I’m Jonathan Sims and I’m replacing your previous professor until she returns from her maternity leave. I have an oversight of what you all need to know and do this semester, so lets get started with that right away.”

~

Jane looked down at their new professor and shifted in her seat uneasily. He was strange, or at least had a strange aura surrounding him. Jane wasn’t once for judging on appearances, but it was hard not to wonder what the Hell had let a man such at him to this.

He was short, sure, but he wasn’t small and he had a big presence to make up for it. His black hair was streaked with gray, but he had a youthful face that didn’t quite match up, although the tiredness that hung around him seemed old.

Beside that he was also littered with scars. It was hard not to notice the white circles that contrasted with his dark skin, it could be acne scars if they hadn’t been on his exposed forearms as well and so perfectly round. And those weren’t even his only scars, the entire palm on his right had was covered with a burn mark and the open buttons on the top of his shirt exposed a white thin scar across his throat.

So, yeah, strange.

He started to introduce himself and his voice was posh and low, but overall pleasant to listen to, she supposed. This didn’t stop her from exchanging a small look with Jesse, her best friend. Jesse raised her brows at her and the message was received, they were so going to talk about this later.

Later came as soon as they were out the door. Jesse leaned over and said: “Tell me I wasn’t the only one who got a weird vibe from that guy.”

Jane laughed and shook her head and answered: “You weren’t, I mean, this who building is filled with stuffy academics and suddenly this random dude walks in with the scars of a thug? That’s weird.”

Jesse nodded and asked: “What do you think happened to him?”

“I don’t know.” Jane shrugged, “But it seems pretty rude to just ask.”

Jesse sighed, then perked up with a realization: “We could plant a seed in Sams head.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Jane said, mischief bubbling up inside her eyes. They had known Sam since their first year and were pretty close with the guy. Sam was also known for not being the most delicate or observant and unafraid to ask personal questions. If he was curious, he would ask.

“I would.” Jesse grinned back, she tugged her along through the crowd with an: “Come on!”

They found Sam easy enough and Jesse plopped down next to him and started: “Hey, Sam. What did you think of our new professor?”

Sam shrugged and scratched his forehead as he said: “Dressed like every other pretentious asshole in here, posh accent. But seemed to know his stuff. Normal teacher if you ask me. Why?”

Jesse inflated: “Come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t even noticed!”

“Noticed what?” Sam asked with a frown.

“The scars.” Jane said.

“Oh, were they scars.” Sam said, “I thought he had weird freckles.”

“Weird fr-” Jesse began before cutting herself off and asking: “Aren’t you curious why they’re there? I’ve never seen scars like that.”

“And the burnt hand and the scar on his neck.” Jane continued, “Those don’t appear randomly.”

Both looked at her now, heads to the side in confusion. Jane said: “Oh, didn’t see those?”

Jesse and Sam shook their heads. “Well,” Jane explained, “He has this burn on his hand like he gripped a hot burning coal or something and this line here,” she drew on her neck with her finger to signal where it was, “like someone tried to slit his throat. Makes me wonder what he did before this job.”

The three of them fell silent. Lost in thought to what could’ve happened to their new mysterious professor before all of this.

~

The next lesson didn’t clear anything up in the slightest. While they were discussing the 17th century literature circles Sam had raised his hand signaling he had a question. Jane and Jesse, who had decided to sit behind him tensed up. He got called on and asked: “Dr. Sims, what did you do before this?”

Dr. Sims frowned and pushed up his glasses, before saying: “You don’t have to call me doctor, it wouldn’t be deserved. Just Sims is fine, or Mr. Sims if that feels better. And I’m the A- an archivist.”

“Am?” Sam blurted out.

Sims laughed humorlessly and said: “Yeah, part time now.”

Then he went back to the lesson and didn’t acknowledge any more questions about his life. Jane didn’t know how he did it, but he seemed to just know which people had questions about the lesson and which about him.

She walked out the hall with Sam and Jesse, who said: “That wasn’t insightful at all.”

Jane agreed: “Yeah, in what danger would an archivist be that leaves that kind of scarring?”

Sam shrugged and pulled out his phone as he said: “I can Google it.” the he muttered more to himself: “What kind of danger experiences an archivist, cool yeah.”

Jesse strained her neck to look on his screen and asked: ‘Well, what does it say?”

“Nothing much actually. Just a bunch of online archives and stuff.” Sam said.

Jane had a bit of a light bulb moment and suggested: “What if you type in Jonathan Sims?”

“Jonathan?” Jesse asked.

Jane shrugged and said: “It’s how he introduced himself during the first lecture.”

Sam typed in the name and his eyebrows crept further up to his hairline as he read the results of his search. Jesse couldn’t take it anymore and ripped the phone out of his hand, quickly scanning the page and gasping. Jane was now also curious and asked: “Well, tell me.”

She showed her the screen and Jane read the headlines. ‘Explosion at the Wax Museum, two survivors.’ The small excerpt reads: Last night there was an explosion at the wax museum, cause is still unknown, but suspected attack. Two survivors were found on the scene. Basira Hussain and Jonathan Sims, the latter of which is in a coma…

Underneath that is another headline. ‘Attack at the Magnus Institute unearths body of former archivist Gertrude Robinson’ with a picture of a big fire brigade, some police and an ambulance under it, she can vaguely make out Sims getting loaded into the back of one of them.

And lastly a small report into the murder of Gertrude Robinson, listing Jonathan Sims as one of the suspects along with one about an older guy, who was apparently found dead in Sims office.

Jane leaned back and whispered: “What the actual fuck.”

After that the rumors spread over the campus and by the time the next lecture rolled around the whole room was buzzing with nervous energy. Sims took one look around the room and sighed: “You are probably not going to let this go in favor of learning something that will actually be useful. Correct?”

A murmur went through the crowd, they had realized that the rumors had most likely reached Sims, but they hadn’t realized he’d be so straightforward about it.

“Okay.” Sims said, “I am willing to sacrifice ten minutes of my lecture for inquiries, but I will not promise to answer.”

Then he waited. Sam was the first to raise his hand and when called upon he asked: “How did you get the scars?”

Sims thought about it, the class thought he was thinking about how to bring it delicately and thoughtful, but inside Jons mind he heard Martin laugh at him and tell him he was an idiot after Jon had told someone the round scars had come from tripping. In hindsight it hadn’t been a good excuse, so Jon decided that vague was probably the safest way to go and said: “A workplace incident.”

Without raising his hand this time Sam asked: “Did it happen during the attack on your workplace? Why would anyone even attack archives?”

“The Archives are a small place in a big organization.” Jon began to explain, ignoring the fact that the Archives had been the target, “And in the end it turned out to be an aggressive infestation, just an accident.”

“Why your institute then?” Sam asked.

“Depends on if you believe in the paranormal, but you have to excuse me, Mr. Jacobs. It seems you are not the only one with questions.” Sims replied, then he turned to the other side and said: “Yes, Ms. Hendrickson?”

“Did you murder anyone?” she asked, clapping her hand over her mouth afterwards in shame of the question that she had blurted out.

Sims didn’t react to the harsh and accusatory question, just said: “If I murdered anyone, I wouldn’t be here, but in prison, don’t you agree?” then he smiled, but somehow Jane didn’t feel comforted by it.

Jesse spoke up, causing Jane to duck into herself in the hope that she wouldn’t be noticed in her seat next to Jesse. She asked: “Then who murdered them?”

Sims huffed a breath, blowing a strand of hair out of his face in the process and answered: “That would’ve been my former boss, I have to say I’m happy to see him gone and his replacement is more than capable.” he looked at the clock and clapped his hands, making more than a few people flinch. Then he stated: “That’s enough questions, time’s up. Lets get back to the symbolism in poetry during the Renaissance.”

And so life continued with Sims as their professor. There was still something uneasy about him, like he was just a sliver off in a way you couldn’t pinpoint, but felt in your bones.

But he was actually quite nice. Which was weird in itself, since he could be pretty prickly and snappy if he found your reasoning or answer particularly stupid or ignorant and he was generally grumpy, but that changed completely if you actually had a problem and needed help. He would listen and then explain with the things you could understand, it was as if he could look at you and know what you needed to understand. That was also strange, but it was nice to have someone explain so correctly.

He was also a walking encyclopedia. He had fun fact about everything and when they said everything they meant everything. When he noticed Mary had died her hair he said: “I like your hair, did you know hair dye contains over 5.000 chemicals.”

Then when Jamie asked what kind of tea he was drinking he answered: “Lady Grey, it was created by Twinings in the early 1990s to appeal to the Nordic market, which found Earl Grey too strong.”

While discussing Oscar Wilde he commented: “Funny how important this guy is, since he has only published one novel in his life.”

When Kyra stumbled in late telling him the taxi had broken, he replied with: “Well cars have about 30.000 parts, so it isn’t far fetched that something broke.”

The funniest part about it was that it just happened to slip out it seemed. He was also just as surprised as them when something like that tumbled out of his mouth and he always covered it up with a small cough, before ignoring it had happened and moving on with his lesson.

It had become a bit of a game among students to make him say a fun fact. Sims had caught on to it, but he didn’t seem to mind all that much, his lips only tightening the littlest amount and his eyes tiring slightly.

So all in all, after two moths of lessons they felt like they knew the guy. He was nice in a grumpy way, could tear you apart verbally if he wanted to, had a lot of facts and worked part time as an archivist, which was apparently a pretty dangerous job.

Jane, Jesse and Sam had become pretty close to him, often staying after class to ask a few questions about the subject, help clean up, try to pry into his private life. The last thing never seemed to work, but it was fun to try and Sims had never let on that he minded it. He even seemed to enjoy their little chats.

Then one time after class, he suddenly looked up, frowned and stalked out of the hall. Quickly sharing glances the three followed after him, curious what had gotten his attention so suddenly.

They walked through a bunch of the main halls, then through a few quiet corridors until they were much further than hearing range, making them slightly uncomfortable. There was a kid, first year probably, barely an adult still very much baby faced, crying on the floor, knees drawn tight to his chest.

Cautiously Sims approached him and gently lowered himself to the ground. The kid looked up at him with a startled face, but Sims shushed him and gently asked: “What’s wrong?”

There was something off about the words, something compelling. The kid starts to speak, he had a slightly northern accent: “It’s all so different here with the big buildings and large crowds with loads of people everywhere, still I’m all by myself. No one want to talk to the dumbass from north, who has trouble with the tubes, you know.” he sniffled a sad chuckle, “And everything is just so overwhelming and I have no one to guide me or to talk to and I hate it. Then I saw everyone just talking about a party and I know it’s dumb, but I heard them say they were going to invite everyone and someone asked even me, but then they laughed and said of course not and I just couldn’t anymore, so I went here and I cried.”

It seemed he was finished and went back to small sniffles and silent tears. Sims gently put a hand on the kids knee and said: “Did that help?”

“Yeah,” the kid looked at him, “bit cathartic, honestly. Sorry for the trouble.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, Edward.” Sims said.

The kid didn’t seem to realize it, but the three silent watchers noticed the kid had never mentioned his name.

Sims went on: “If you like, you can come over to my lecture hall. There are a few older years there, nice people, who I’m sure will want to help you. And a cup of tea.”

Edward rubbed his eyes and said: “They wouldn’t want to talk to me, I’m a loser and I don’t want the to think I’m even more one by telling them what happened.”

“I’m sure you won’t have. They’ve been where you are.” Sims responded, there was a bit of an edge to his voice and they realized he knew they were there and he was right. Jesse had been too brash, Jane too shy and Sam too blunt, it’s what had made them flock together. It was much better now, but they all remembered those awful first weeks. Without saying a word they hurried back to Sims hall.

When he came back they were making tea and lounging around. Jesse greeted him: “Hey, Sims. Where were you suddenly off to?”

Jane pushed her slightly and said: “Don’t pry.” then she turned back, “Want a cuppa, we just put on the kettle?”

Sims smiled and said: “I’d like that, could you make one for my friend, Edward here, as well. I had forgotten I was going to meet him, he’s curious about the Minor course and I thought maybe you could tell him a bit about it. If it isn’t any trouble, of course.”

“Of course not.” Jane smiled, then gestured to a chair: “Here, come sit with us.”

Edward did and later left feeling much better with a few new friends.

Friends, who were beginning to be suspicious about their teacher. They had a lengthy discussion about his knowing stuff and his spooky vibe. But no certain conclusion could be made and they decided that the mission for this year was finding out at least one personal fact about their teacher to prove he was at least somewhat normal.

They didn’t have to wait long. Their classes had been thrown around due to an unfortunate miscommunication. So two classes were switched, causing Sims to teach on Wednesday instead of Thursday for just one week. He looked a bit pale that day, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was the season, so no one spared it a second thought. Until a larger man came through the door after a gentle knock.

He was tall, about 6ft2, and chubby with a crème sweater and jeans. His face was freckled and he wore a gentle smile like it was second nature. His hair was curly and looked very soft, he in his entirety looked soft, you know, like the kind of person you know gives good hugs the moment you see them.

Sims was the only one who didn’t seem startled by his knock, just looked at the man and frowned as he said: “Martin, what are you doing here?”

“Sorry, sorry, Jon.” the man, Martin, said apologetically, “I know you said not to come and such, but I saw you had forgotten your statement and I know how you can get without them, so I thought I’d bring them to you.”

“I was going to read it tomorrow.” Sims said, “It can wait for one day. It’s not like it used to be.”

“Yeah, I know that as well, but we agreed that a rhythm would be good for you and your body to get used to.” Martin replied, holding out a folder.

Sims grabbed the folder and sighed: “You’re probably right, annoying as that may be, but couldn’t it wait till after I was done?”

“No, I’m meeting Daisy to discuss the proper storage of a Hunt artifact and you know how Daisy can be.” he answered.

“Yeah, I know.” Sims chuckled, absentmindedly touching the scar on his neck.

“Besides, I wanted to see you.” Martin said, then he brushed a lock of hair, that had freed itself from Sims’ messy bun, behind Sims ear and pecked him on the cheek. Turning to leave immediately after calling out over his shoulder: “Read it, Jon! And don’t forget to pick up milk on the way back if you want any good tea.”

Martin opened the door and Sims smiled, like a real and soft and dopey smile, as he touched his cheek and yelled back: “I will, say hi to Daisy from me.”

Then Martin was gone and the silence that had fallen over the hall with Martins entrance was broken. Multiple people called out questions and it was a bit of a chaos. It took a few minutes to get everyone settled down again and Sims returned to his lecture as if nothing happened. Sam called out from the second row: “Really, Sims? Nothing?”

Sims shoulders sagged, he had clearly hoped he could get away with it and was sad that it hadn’t worked. He said: “Mr. Jacobs, although I appreciate your interest in my personal life, I hope that I don’t have to explain how normal it is for my husband to come bring me something I forgot at home.”

The hall exploded again, but Sims ignored it all again telling them there were more important things to talk about, for example the lecture, which will be on the exam.

For Jane, Jesse and Sam it was enough. Their teacher was weird and off, but he was nice enough and if someone as soft looking as the Martin figure was willing to marry him, then he was good enough in their opinion and not worth the detective work.

[twilightprince101]

It’s been a while since I’ve drawn, much less created a new OC! But recently I’ve succumbed to Bugsnax brainrot, so introducing Brandy Brittleshoot!

Brandy is a freelance writer and editor, working on several different projects at once before coming to Snaktooth Island. Alongside decently good hearing he has an intense curiosity for the world, often experimenting with different Snakified limbs to get inspiration for his latest story! (Just be prepared if you ask them about it, you’ll be stuck there ‘till nightfall).

I also filled out an interview prompt of him under the cut from @cosmicheartz , so check that out if you’re interested and feel free to shoot any asks about them! I’d love to talk a bit more about my newest character!

Who are you?

I’m Brandy Brittleshoot, I’m a freelance writer! Editing articles, typing out scripts, writing for dating sims, I’ve done a lot!

( How long have you been writing for? )

How long? Hehe, honestly I can’t even remember. One of my earliest memories was me writing an alternate ending to a book that had a crummy finale. I was so upset and whined so loud at a last minute plot twist that my dad sat me down in front of a notebook with a pencil so he could focus on his work. Though, I don’t think he expected me to actually write something decent! Never underestimate the power of an upset fan!!

( Anything in particular you’re writing now? )

Oh a handful of things! I have like, a million story ideas sitting on the backburn, but right now? I’m outlining a story idea I got for my latest novel! The details are a little hazy right now, but it’s all about an island of shapeshifters who can change into whatever they want. But of course, in a world like that there’d be lots of chaos if there were just like, a bunch of dragons flying around everywhere (who wouldn’t want to be a dragon) so there’s the government trying to limit it somewhat and there’s this one girl who-! Oh, grump! Sorry, um, still working on that.

Why come to Snacktooth island?

Oh Lizbert’s to thank for that! A while back I helped with putting out her story about Grumplantis! She saw a bit of the work I was doing at the time and, for some reason, decided I should help her out! Still have no idea why she chose me to help edit especially considering I was writing Grumpus Croft fan fiction at the time, but to think I’d get to help publish official findings about a lost civilization!!! I didn’t even care about the money, just the thought of working together with an explorer like that is just-!

( *Ahem…* But, what about Snacktooth? )

Oh right, that! Well, long story short she thought the work I did was good and invited me to come along as a way to say thanks since she didn’t exactly have the funds to pay for my work. Obviously I couldn’t pass up an opportunity that big, getting firsthand experience with an actual adventurer! So I dropped what I was doing, packed up and came right along with her!

Thoughts on bugsnax?

Duuude, okay. So imagine me, a writer who absolutely loves fantasy, lands on this island and finds out that fantasy actually exists! And is edible!!! I get to know what fantasy tastes like!!! This whole island is walking through one big fantasy novel and I have gotten nothing but inspiration since I’ve gotten here, it’s amazing!

( What does fantasy taste like? )

Okay, it’s like--actually, hang on, it would be faster if I just read this excerpt I wrote down a bit ago instead of trying to explain. *ahem.* ‘Upon the first bite of the plump and crispy Bunger, a dazzling fireworks show of flavor cascades into my mouth and paints a nova onto my taste buds. Each crunch a new explosion, a new flavor, a new color streaming across the sky’s canvas and dazzling me like a nova-’ oop, put nova twice there… ‘-Dazzling me like a child’s first glimpse at the night sky’s expanse! A symphony of crackles for me to experience alone, and by the time the last stream of light fizzled out, I’m ready to light the fuse for an encore.’ And that was just for the Bungers!

Why did you leave town?

Hoooh boy okay, bit of a loaded question there… After Lizbert and Batternugget vanished I tried to keep calm and keep doing what I was doing, wait for them to get back. But as the Bugsnax ran out and people got hungry, it was a bit hard to keep doing that… especially with all the noise...

( You’re referring to the fight? )

More or less yeah. I could hear pretty much everything from inside my cabin: Everyone ganging up against Cromdo, Chandlo calming down Snorpy from a panic attack, Filbo doing his best to keep everything together (can’t blame the guy for trying). Good hearing is both a blessing and a curse I guess… but the worst no doubt was Wiggle.

( What was up with Wiggle? )

Well, I do like her music, don’t get me wrong. But since coming to the island I can’t exactly handle being in the same room with her. She tried getting me to write her some song lyrics for exposure, kept peeking at my writing notes to steal my ideas, and worst of all, she stress yodels. And around the time the two vanished, she certainly had a lot of time to practice. I already couldn’t handle the fighting, but her singing was the last straw, so I slipped out in the middle of the night before I had to hear another note. Erm... you don't think she'll sue me for defamation if you put this in your story, will she?

Any info on Lizbert?

Duuude, Lizbert is no doubt the coolest person I know--probably ever! It’s like she jumped right out of an action movie and I could actually talk with her! She was really nice, telling me about a lot of her previous adventures in her free time and supporting me when I was going through writer’s block. Of course, she wasn’t around too much when she was out hunting snax, but Doctor Batternugget was around!

( Did you and Doctor B.N. get along? )

Yeah Miss Nugget was really nice! She was usually quiet when Lizbert wasn’t around, but after keeping her company one day and helping her sort supplies we got to talk a lot. She even volunteered to read some of my story drafts in her downtime--without me asking first too!! Plus, she also was a good resource to go to when I was writing about… more graphic details regarding Grumpus anatomy. I know a lot of people say that they might not come back, but I know they’re out there somewhere I know it! I mean come on, an adventurous explorer and her nurse girlfriend? That just SCREAMS main character plot armor! Plus, it would seriously suck if I finally find people eager to read my work on their own, then they just vanish from my life altogether… Please be okay Miss Batternugget…

Tape’s almost dry Brandy, gotta wrap this up soon!

Oh thanks for the interview! First one I’ve ever gotten, certainly a learning experience! (Maybe I could make a story entirely using interviews, that could be cool). I’m just sorry for talking your ear off. Hey, I know you’re kind of a solo worker from watching you run around, but if you’d like I can try and help with editing this story when you head back to the mainland. Free of charge too, I know you guys at GNN aren’t exactly treated the best. Not to mention it would look really good on both our resumes if we collaborated for this kinda story!

[weaselle]

Sims 4 Build

OK. So. I started a new play through a while back and I wanted my sims to go out to eat and if you aren’t familiar with the Sims there are only bar/lounges and of course that ridiculous place in the faux Hollywood world. So I went to the Gallery and downloaded a couple of restaurants and...

Because I have worked for 25 years in the F&B service industry, I immediately became salty about a number of things.

And that’s why I built this restaurant, full of all the things people leave out of their restaurant builds.

See, it’s not a house. Stop building house shaped restaurants. And, nobody includes parking lots, but since I did, I made sure the handicap spots are the two closest to an entrance and have a loading zone adjacent.

I’m detail oriented in my sims builds.

If you’ve worked in restaurants, you’ll identify with all the commonalities I’ve found missing in most gallery builds that I’ve applied to this restaurant, even if you don’t play Sims.

If you haven’t worked in restaurants but you do build them in Sims 4, you could view this as a tutorial

FOH - The Floor

First of all, idk what people are looking at when they go out to eat, but evidently it isn’t the seating arrangements -- I kept finding restaurant after restaurant that seemed to have no ideal how to set up a dining area with tables. Like, the tables would be so crammed together the sims couldn’t actually walk between them, or they’d have a white cloth establishment with almost all 6 and/or 8 tops (a six-top is a table with six chairs) and almost no 2 or 4 tops; sometimes there would be like, mostly 10 or 12 tops!

Or they’d put chairs on every side of every table even though this makes everything cramped, or they’d jigsaw a bunch of different table sizes into a giant crowded square filling most of the restaurant. But mostly I saw people... doing all of these things at once they were all just doing all of this all the time omg. 

(Though I did see a couple builds where they had a huuge restaurant and then like, five small tables) Nobody seemed to know how many people a space should comfortably seat, or how many tables/seats a restaurant might need, or how to set them up

look

some things to notice: 

This seats 46. That’s good. When we move into the bar the bar tables and seating at the bar are going to bring it up to 63. Depending on your restaurant you’ll usually have between 40 and 80 seats, so I’m hitting my target perfectly. 

more than half the tables are 2 tops, but more than half the chairs are at larger tables; this isn’t like, a rule, but does mean there is probably close to the right mix of table sizes, especially for a white table cloth kinda place. There are only two “large” tables, which is about right.

The layout is easy to comprehend and section out. This floor easily lends itself to a two-server or four-server shift, and three servers isn’t hard to figure out. Like, I know exactly which tables each server would have as a four-server shift transitioned down to the closer over the evening.

It’s nearly symmetrical but not quite 100% which is what you usually see in a restaurant.

The lights are not placed randomly. You might think this doesn’t need to be pointed out. You’d be surprised.

There is plenty of room to move between the tables and have guests feel like they have their own area, with like, lanes to walk down, but there is no wasted space. It’s very full, but not at all crowded.

There’s a defined entrance, with a waiting area. The game tells you that you have to include this host station

which, yeah, some places just have a simple podium, but I built it out to help define the entrance, which has a menu stand and some seating for a wait list and the host stand has clutter like extra table tent menus and a condiment caddy. 

Similarly, the game says you need this server station

but I turned it into this

Now THAT’s a server station, with a drinks fridge, extra menus, plates, condiment shelves, and a coffee pot, which is orange for decaf because theres a regular coffee station that includes an espresso machine behind the bar. See?

Lastly, you can’t really tell from the pics so far, but the dining room and bar seating is only about half of the total space in the building, which is about right.

Here’s the bar tops

and the bar, which has a pass window right to the kitchen line, under the TV (don’t worry, there’s a proper pass for the servers and an expeditor through that door to the right) 

But once I addressed these issues with the Front of House, I realized: there is so much more missing from most restaurants on the gallery.

Like the back office.

BOH - Office

I didn’t find a single restaurant on the gallery that included one, but just about every restaurant has a shitty little back office crammed into what should be, like, a small closet. They all tend to look a little something like this

I had to hunt through debug for most of this clutter - it’s hard to tell in this pic, but that’s a couple stacks of money just sitting out on the desk to the right of the computer. That’s, shall we say, not super unusual to see in one of these crappy little paperwork prisons. And of course the mess of files and mail and shit.

You know what else every restaurant has but I never saw in any on the gallery?

Dish Pit

The game is not set up to allow you to make a proper dish pit. Like, there isn’t an industrial dishwasher or anything. Bu tI made one anyway. From the floor sinks, to the dish racks, to the horrible, heavy-ass red rubber mat that’s such a pain to clean at the end of the shift, I think you’ll recognize this room right away

I really had to fiddle to get this one -- those dish racks? they’re actually overlapped home counter racks that look like this

they were super hard to line up right. The “floor sinks” are actually a drain that’s supposed to go on the bottom of a pool, the dishwasher is actually three floor models raised to the right hight and overlapped facing different directions, and I added the little drain panels on either side by shrinking and raising floor vents to the height of the counters, which are actually overlapping tables. The floor I lucked out on, the Sims 4 has a tile floor pattern that comes in both grungy and clean, so I placed the clean ones on the outside edge of the dish pit floor in half-tiles along an irregular pattern with the edges matched to the lines of grout and added a couple of my own floor smudges so there wouldn’t be a straight line of dirty versus clean tile. Then I put some water stains over the whole thing to mask it better, overlapping some of the water stains to create the illusion of a flow of water going down the floor drain. 

Speaking of the dish pit, most restaurants have this cousin to the dish pit, that I don’t know what to call except maybe a 

Mop Closet

The Sims doesn’t have one of the yellow industrial mop buckets with the squeezy thing attachment, but I did pretty good here. Wish I could have erased the shower head, but I for sure needed the wall spigot handles and the hose. Managed to size up a bucket with water to the right dimensions and trick the game into letting me stick in a mop that’s supposed to hang on a wall. Added some cleaning supplies and stuff to the shelves.

Speaking of shelves, nobody ever includes dry storage when they do a Sims 4 restaurant. You know, with the empty beer kegs and those metal rack shelves full of, like, rows of little bottles and the restock items like six packs of soda and sacks of dry ingredients and way up on the top is the shit that never ever gets used but somehow you have to get up there every other week anyway?

See that door, the one with a light over it and a light next to it and a little temperature gauge? Yeah, you know what else I never see in gallery restaurants builds? 

Walk In

this was a pain, not only did I have to meticulously place every bottle on top of that fridge unit, but those kegs are actually tiny soda cans with no labels that I had to pull out of the vast un-tagged and un organized debug menu. I don’t even think they got placed by the devs anywhere in game, I think they are some kind of frame that gets a label/skin before it gets placed, usually. And see that fan up top in the middle of the wall? That’s actually two separate pieces of nonsense -- like, the center part isn’t a fan at all, its a stone wall decoration. But the design looks like a fan, so I shrank it and shoved it most of the way back into the wall til it was nearly flat and found that other thing that had a circle the right size in the middle. and viola. Oh, and it and those other vents next to it don’t just go to nothing, oh no, they match up perfectly on the outside to these

Okay, now, everybody building restaurants in the Sims DOES include a

Kitchen

And they often do a fine job, so I’m not going to spend much time here, but they do tend to skimp on prep space

(hey, see those shelves on the top right? Those are shelves full of dishes. I never see shelves full of dishes in gallery restaurant builds, but like, you need a bunch of shelves full of dishes. And off in the corner to the far left of the top wall? Prep sink tucked away back there.) 

Dude, let me just say... that prep counter?I placed every vegetable on that counter individually, AND I had to trick the game into letting me put more than the like, three items each counter space usually has slots for. What a pain. Worth it tho. It’s hard to tell, but there’s a knife next to the cutting board.

And lastly, no restaurant would be complete without 

“out back”

okay this post is long enough, but I just want to point out the stack of empty pallets, the discolored liquid and debris under the dumpsters along with a rat trap, and a little smoke break area with shitty chairs and a garbage table with some kind of bowl or something being used as an ashtray.

There’s more to this restaurant, employee lockers, bathrooms, etc, but this post is long enough, and I covered the most important stuff. 

In conclusion, I’m getting pretty good at sims builds, and other builders should ask me for tips on restaurant builds or read this post, because I swear none of them have ever worked in food service

[countessofbiscuit]

Suppressive Fire

(Sev/Scorch, E, 3.9k words)

Two bros, chillin' on a top bunk no feet apart 'cause they're vode. . . .

Fleet Support, Ord Mantell, barrack block 7 Alpha, six standard weeks after Geonosis

She’d be built like a tank. That was Requirement the First.

She’d be humanoid, or near enough. Her arms would number ... four. Yes, four arms, each of them doing something clever. Two to open my ass, two to pinch my nipples, her long tongue going to crazy town on my cock, burning off my pubes with her caustic breath—

Sergeant Draka. The near-human-tank was Sergeant Draka, sure as day.

Scorch grabbed this realization with one firm hand and tugged.

Her species was shab-if-I-know: some unhappy hybrid who’d washed up on the far edge of the Outer Rim and been scraped into one of those fringe clans that never removed their helmets. Her folks developed a reputation for ritualized kidnapping that didn’t sit right with Jango. He’d ripped Draka’s helmet off in a duel, apparently, and spending ten years training the spawn of her enemy was the price she’d agreed to pay to regain her honor. All those kids and nowhere to run: a bitter form of torture for both parties. Her trainees were an insular, silent bunch with a tendency to tactically acquire your shit when you weren’t looking, but they got the job done.

Scorch had first seen Draka at a parade for the prime minister when he was three. He’d never forgotten it: she had fangs and yellow eyes and ears that twitched at the tips like they were catching your current of fear. No wonder they’d encouraged her to keep a lid on.

Then Scorch was six and change and he’d stumbled upon her in a hallway. She’d had a cadet upside down, smoking him good for something. “What are you gawping at, Six-Two?” she’d snarled, her generous chest heaving, three spare arms tensing in his direction. “Shift it. Unless you want your balls torn off next.”

Scorch had been a little scared and a lot turned on.

Sergeant Vau didn’t have to use many words to put the fear of Fett under your skin. He was a conservative man. Sergeant Draka regarded a shebs-chewing as the highest form of oratory and her calling in life. Whenever Scorch stood downwind of her in the combat hall, he could feel his eyebrows being singed off a second time.

Sweating a little, Scorch’s core tensed as this fantasy tightened vividly in his holographic mind.

She puts two hands around my cock, one hand on my nipple, one hand clawing under my balls—

Scorch flipped her on her back.

She uses all four arms to spread her trunky legs, hairy as a man’s, wide in invitation—

“Knock it off,” barked Sev.

She was gone. In her place was the knowledge that his brother was clued in to what Scorch was doing on the bottom bunk and determined to make it stop.

But the pressure under Scorch’s balls held firm and his erection stood fast. Sev was an oaf with shit timing. There was a reason they gave Scorch the fiddly wires and det controls. He stretched his fingers and reset his grip. “Not happening, vod.”

“Do you have to be so loud about it?”

“Loud?” Had he said something? Lost control of his breathing?

“Yes. Loud. Like you’re slugging a hamm sandwich.”

Scorch frowned. “Have you ever had a hamm sandwich?”

“I don’t want one now.”

There was some improvement to technique needed there: Scorch was always open to feedback—to the challenge of reducing the marginal noise of a wank. “You embarrassed?” he found himself asking, strokes resuming. Less hamm-fistedly. His orgasm had slumped a little and he'd have to tenderly call it back up.

“I’m embarrassed for you,” Sev said.

Scorch closed his eyes, picturing something ...

Sergeant Draka was back, and now she was holding him and Sev upside down. The arrival of RC-1207 into the sim wasn’t throwing Scorch off. In fact, it was encouraging. Exciting. He even leaked a little at the idea. What was a commando without his squad? Chafed, apparently. He should’ve brought Sev into the game two nights ago, after they’d been rudely pulled from stasis in preparation for some op known only to Boss.

Scorch didn’t remember decant. But Sergeant Vau, who'd wasted no time rocking up to his watery exile when Jango had put out the word, said they’d been ugly, annoyed, and ornery. The nursery techs had given them mock, miniature Deeces to keep their fussy hands and mouths occupied.

Coming out of stasis had to be worse—they were issued Deeces again, but they weren’t left alone to soothe themselves to sleep with weapons. Now their waking moments belonged entirely to some Jedi named Zey. They’d been forced to run a gamut of proprioception and endurance tests, cleaned their spanking new Katarn and cleaned it once more for luck on Boss’s orders, and told to familiarize themselves with their upgraded HUD systems.

Scorch had and he'd found it wanting: no pre-loaded heavy-isotope bangers or high-definition tailhead reference holos. Did he have to do everything himself in this shabla army?

After submitting to all this with only mild complaint—Fixer had sworn in full sentences—the op order was still not forthcoming. Classic hurry up and fekkin' wait. Wait for instructions they didn’t even need. Coordinates, intel support, and a broad objective would have sufficed for a commando tasking: top brass still had a lot to learn. It had left Delta with more downtime than they liked and had left Scorch wanting nothing more than to take care of that perennial need in his groin. And each time, he had to get a little more creative.

“What’re you thinking ‘bout, Sev?” he teased, poking the boundaries of this sim. Longnecks hated that: it’s why they let the commandos have off-world field trips to forsaken places where they couldn’t peel back the corners without dying. “Something profane? Something a little non-regulation?”

“The shab is wrong with you.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking ... ” The opportunity for candor—without Fixer on the opposite bunk telling him to pipe down or Boss around to make it happen—was interesting. And as far as Scorch knew, this slap-dash prefab of a support base didn’t have surveillance bugs like their dorms on Kamino. The range and assault course here weren't even specced for lasers; they had to waste live rounds on discs and be honest about getting locked onto. Not likely.

With nothing left to hide, Scorch rolled away from the wall and relaxed onto his back, his cock stiff and spry. He pulled his hood up and over his wet glans and back down again, as far as he could take it, skin smarting nicely at the stretch. He went on, “I’m thinking about Sergeant Draka.”

“Stop,” Sev said.

“Her thick thighs in my face—”

“Stop.”

Scorch spat in his hand and throttled his shaft. “Biting our balls … ” Okay, maybe that was a little weird. But if Fixer’s quick work of the base pyrowall in the anxious hours before chill-down was anything to go by, weird could be good. Better than good.

“Don’t make me come down there,” Sev growled. Not unlike Sergeant Draka, actually.

Scorch couldn’t help himself. “Oh yeah, do come down here ... ” He bucked into his fist, as if to jerk out that ball of bliss from behind his sack. The mass of him tensed rigid under one fixed goal. His fumbled around for something in the sheets with his free hand. “Come down her thick legs ... ”

If anything could singe Draka’s hairs, it’d be Sev’s spunk. Scorch loved a blast, but Sev would sprinkle baradium on his Oaties every morning if he could. Sev would spill like a gutted aiwha, animalistic and uncontrolled, and Draka would hiss and gnash her teeth and—

And suddenly, Scorch was over the line. His base clenched hard, choking his groan of release. He convulsed and came thickly into one of yesterday’s socks.

“Shab,” he croaked, his vision returning, his limbs pooling with pituitary pleasure. “Blew up real good.”

Somewhere above him, Sev huffed. “Three nights in a row. You’re disgusting—you know that, right?”

“Stasis, my shebs. I’ve never had such busy balls in my short life.” Scorch twisted languidly to the edge of the mattress and sat up, squeezing his cock clean. “Cooking blanks like they might get lucky.” The knotted sock got buried in tomorrow’s laundry and Scorch borrowed some of Boss’s wet wipes for the cleanup. Sarge wouldn’t miss them.

“The rest of us are fine,” Sev countered.

Scorch glanced at Sev over his shoulder. His brother looked like a corpse who’d taken up reading in the afterlife. Base bunks weren’t much cosier than a stasis pod, but something else was keeping Sev’s spine stiff. Something that might affect squad performance if it wasn’t addressed: a bad case of self-inflicted blue balls.

Scorch pulled up his pants and ambled over. “You know ... you say that. But this says something else.” He grabbed Sev’s perky junk.

Happily for his brother, Scorch’s grip was light. So when Sev knocked Scorch backwards at the throat, he didn’t take Sev’s sack with him. A scuffle ensued, half-hearted on Scorch’s side, though Sev was obviously in one of his fuck-off moods. He always was crankiest after a nap; it’d take him days to shake off stasis. And he was still pissed about Procurement’s theft of his helmet, with its authentic Gamma blood enshrined in red paint. That di’kutla squad had been shipped to Triple Zero, and until Sev butted heads with them again, he’d be as scratchy as a flea-bitten akk.

Using the shallow bunkrail, Scorch flung himself up and collapsed onto his brother, asking the cantilevered cot to bear the weight of two commandos. He was a trusting soul. The tussle continued until Scorch allowed Sev to secure a headlock, rather than drag them both onto the floor. They’d just gotten out of one unnatural bath and he didn’t fancy a dunk in bacta.

Scorch tapped Sev’s thigh. “Alright, alright,” he said hoarsely. Sev’s hold loosened a fraction and Scorch scooted out from it. Sitting up, he grabbed the holozine that had gotten pinned against the wall: some monthly edition of erudition that called itself Lasers & Blasters. “Didn’t know you could, Oh-Seven.”

Sev snatched the ‘zine to stuff it under his pillow. “It’s above your cadet-grade.”

“I think everyone knows you’re the knuckle-dragger around here, not me.”

“I think everyone knows I’m the hero of Geonosis, Killer of Sun Fac.”

Scorch made a theatrical noise that sounded like a broken, wet bes’bev. “Woo-hoo! You hit the broad side of a bantha!”

Now Sev really tried to catapult him onto the floor. But Scorch’s close-combat situational awareness noticed that his brother’s cockstand was holding strong.

“Sev,” he said, panting a little when they’d reached another stalemate, “the only people who know Sun Fac’s name are us, some spooks, and that random forward air controller.”

“Shove off.” Sev kicked him with his boot. He wore them to bed like an animal.

Scorch shook his head. “Not until you take care of yourself.”

“You have some shabla nerve, vod.”

“Rule 45: there should be no happier union than that between a commando and his weapon. But you’ve neglected yours.” He cast a judgemental eye at Sev’s tented pants. They’d been sleeping, shooting, and shitting cheek-by-jowl for their entire lives: Scorch didn’t know why one more bodily function would be that much worse. In that moment, he had more sympathy for his brother’s dick than his brother’s karked-up dignity. Or his own.

He glanced at the chrono. Boss and Fixer still had half an hour at the range and they’d probably hit the mess on the way back. Time enough for a little more equipment maintenance; Scorch believed he was being supremely generous offering what remained of his. He flopped over into a plank above his brother, who was still lying deathly prone. “If you’re not gonna help yourself ...”

“What?” Sev sneered. “You’ll do the honors?”

“Maybe I will. I am better than you, after all,” Scorch grinned. Suddenly, he sensed a game that he wanted to win. They were all like that. Competitive. Not so much against each other, but with each other. Getting screwy Sev off would be the ultimate victory: no one would lose and everyone would leave happy.

“You can’t.” Sev’s disinterest was as threadbare as his pillowcase.

“Alright, vod. I’ll take that bet.” Scorch dug the heel of his hand into his brother’s persistent erection. Sev’s eyelids fluttered. No greater tell in the book. “I bet I can get you off before Boss and Fixer get back. Just this once.”

Sev circled his hands around Scorch’s throat, hissing through perfect teeth bared tight, “You—can’t—Sergeant—Vau—would—”

Scorch scoffed. “You see Sarge here? He’s fucked off to his castle with his kaminii retirement fund.”

Vau had never promised he’d be there on the other side, but ... did he know they’d done a good job? That they’d been singled out for the assassination of the bugs’ chief lieutenant? That they’d survived—no, that they'd excelled, when hundreds of other squads hadn’t? Did he even care? Scorch had to wonder.

He shoved those thoughts aside with conscious effort; they wouldn’t do him any good. Better that Vau wasn't here anyway: he would sniff mightily at this interpretation of no brother left behind. “Hells, he’s probably rubbing one out to a portrait of the dead missus right now,” Scorch continued.

Sev’s grip tightened for their sergeant’s honor. “He wouldn’t—”

“He would. Stars love the old chakaar, Sev, but he’s only flesh and blood.” Actually, that’s all Vau was: cragged skin and blue blood twisted ‘round a frame that seemed to boast a few more bones than average. There must have been a heart in there, too—see: Mird—but Delta had spent their entire cadethood seeking it out to little good. Especially Sev, though he’d slot you for saying so.

Oh, Sev’ika: flesh and blood, plus a lot of bile and bad humor. He stank out the backend when he’d scarfed down too many ration packs, but what would splatter out the front? Scorch was beyond curious now, as he palmed his brother’s package through his clothes.

Sev’s hands held firm, but it was half-hearted, his thumbs only tickling his brother’s trachea. His nostrils flared. He was afraid. No, even better—he was desperate.

It was all the vindication Scorch needed. “That’s right—breathe. Relax. Six-Two’s got you.” He tugged Sev’s fatigues down, hitching the elasticene band behind his balls. Sev grimaced. Yeah, it might not be comfortable yet, but just wait; a little pressure there goes a long way.

“That hurts,” growled Sev.

“Gonna hand me the game?” If Sev had lost sight of his mission objective, he really was gummed up. “Jerking off through a fly feels like doing it in formation,” Scorch said.

Sev turned his head to the wall. If he’d done it at all, that was clearly how.

Scorch took his theoretically-identical brother in hand and felt the heft and heat of a dick that was still an inch left of familiar, however many times he'd seen it. Sev was throbbing. His hands fell away, as deliberately limp as the rest of him, like he was trying to absent himself from his body.

“So ... Sergeant Draka—” Scorch began, realizing he’d just been staring at his brother’s kad for longer than was right. He mentally constructed the fantasy again, deliberately this time, while he warmed up to the idea of working someone else’s shaft. Sev’s shaft. He imagined what Sev might like to hear, because Scorch sure as shab wasn’t keen on hardening up between his brother’s legs himself. That would just be strange. “She’s got you under two hands and a squawking bug under the other, honkin' great tits ready to smother the both of you ...”

Up until he’d found his brother’s cock in his hand, Scorch had fancied himself an honest commando. He really did. Then he had to close the dissonance between his not-insignificant-interest in Sev’s pink tip and, well, Sev: that awkward grump-a-lump who couldn’t look at a sapient or sentient, droid or organic, without scaring them away.

Scorch did it by telling himself this was just his own his cock in a mirror. A learning experience, if nothing else. And his tongue loosened to remember the bet. He began rubbing with intent. “She snaps its neck. Crunch. And isn’t that just your favoritest sound, Sev, ol’ boy?”

“Not her,” Sev said hoarsely.

Manda, he really was giving this to Scorch in the bag. “Who?”

“—don’t know—I don’t shabla know.”

“Easy, vod. You got a lifetime to find out. Well, half of one.”

“Shut. Up.”

Scorch changed the program and flicked a thumbnail right under Sev’s hood. Scratched out whatever dream Sev had building behind his scrunched eyes. It was irrelevant, whatever cleaned the pipes. If his brother didn’t want to say, who was Scorch to ask? The silky give of his hard-on and his nasally gasps vouched that Sev was having an a-okay time. Scorch wouldn’t have a hand, otherwise.

Sev bubbled from his tip. Scorch felt himself flush, but he was more intrigued than anything. It really was like watching a holo of himself. Obviously, Scorch was more handsome, mostly because he wasn’t a fucking psycho ... but a cock was a cock. He lengthened his movement with the slick aid of precome, fisting all the way down to Sev’s slightly lighter curls.

Suddenly, Sev’s fingers wrapped around his. For an alarming half-second, Scorch feared his wrist was about to be snapped. Goodbye dominant hand and superhuman reaction times.

But Sev just held on, eyes pinched shut, arm as unyielding as a barrel.

The situation became more straightforward. Emboldened by the team effort, Scorch stroked faster. Harder. He read the lines in Sev’s fierce face like a manual for a weapon he’d been handed five years ago. A clone lifetime. A batcher’s intuition. He shucked Sev’s sheath down as hard as he could. Twisted his wrist at the top further than Sev’s delicate skin wanted to go. Scorch figured his brother liked the bite of pain. “You feelin’ the heat? You gonna spill all over my fingers, Sev’ika?” he teased.

Sev heaved like he might throw up, and he coughed out only two words. “Do. Not.”

Yeah, he hates that kind of chummy osik and yakking. It was almost sad how much Sev knew what he didn’t want, but couldn’t voice what he did. Even Fixer grunted in approval when something wriggled across the ‘pad’s screen; at least he had some idea what kind of parts he fancied. It was a very broad pool.

Sev just looked embarrassed to be asked.

“Someone’s gonna love your shit, Sev,” Scorch encouraged, coming at it again from a different vector. If he didn’t show his wacky brother some love, who would?

Vau hadn’t been there to bestow that curt nod. They didn’t want to be spoiled. Scorch and his brothers weren’t Skirata’s pups: they’d survived Geonosis because they weren’t. But ... Delta was here and Theta wasn’t and Vau had no karkin’ clue what a close-run thing it’d been. Didn’t know how the knife-edge of his training had probably made all the difference and how chuffed they all were about it.

Or how Sev had made that one-in-a-million shot to Sun Fac’s fighter with half his visor splattered in bug spray. Scorch would remember that for the rest of his short life: angry tendrils of smoke rising behind Sev as he turned contemptuously away from his kill, his helmet gooey with Geonosian.

There were brothers, and there were your brothers: the ones who’d made you better just by being there beside you. Sev was one of those.

Scorch didn’t have to improv osik, now. The words came as easy as his muscle memory as he pistoned his palm along Sev’s angry cock. “Fuckin’ proud of you, Sev: bane of bugs and sniper extraordinaire. Wish Vau could’ve seen it, I really do. I’ll have CLONINT’s guts for rappelling lines for wiping Boss’s cache.”

Sev’s free hand had bunched into the sheet, his knuckles whitening. He stilled suddenly, tense as the second before the opening salvo. Here it comes.

“Ooh, so that’s how Sev breaks. Result!” Scorch had imagined Sev’s orgasm would be like squeezing blood from a stone. Not at all: it came as surely and naturally as his own. Scorch watched intently. Who knew their balls became one in the moment of triumph like that? As Sev’s practically disappeared into his taut body, Scorch had to think on his feet to save his brother’s freshly-laundered fatigues—or, on his knees and elbows, as the case was.

Thunking his other arm across his face, Sev lost the bet with a violent shudder—and without a sound, probably so he couldn’t say he’d enjoyed it. He squirted fully but cleanly onto the open spread of the ‘zine, thanks to Scorch’s management and direction. A long, messy line of cloudy white right across the cross-sectioned barrel of a Magna-Caster-100. Thank fuck for flimsi.

Shaking off Sev's hand, Scorch dropped the wilting cock. It was not attractive, and he prayed the ladies wouldn't think the same, warring with himself about whether he could succumb to the mortification of going limp in someone’s mouth. Maybe it was better to pull out and stripe them? It merited further research on Fixer’s ‘pad, just in case.

“Target softened. Should make things easier for you. Hope you took notes,” Scorch said, oddly transfixed by the description of the ‘Caster’s invisible quarrels he’d spotted on the page. He was growing itchy for a time-sensitive rummage—Scorch would wager his lower left nut that Delta could now go toe-to-toe with any of Draka’s squads for acquisition. With any luck, this mysterious upcoming op would net them some exotic toys.

He shifted his weight, feeling the need to move before that idea made him stiff again and everyone got the wrong impression.

“‘m not soft, di’kut,” Sev mumbled from underneath his arm.

Scorch patted his thigh. “Sure you’re not.”

“Getting soft will get us popped.”

Scorch was halfway off the bunk, but he stopped to squeeze Sev’s fucked-up head. “Hey, ner vod. Look at me—look at me,” he demanded. Sev let his arm fall behind his curls but he kept his gaze elsewhere. “No need to quote Sarge to me. Or go grey over stupid stuff like him.”

Stuff like distraction—a dirty word in Vau’s lexicon. What did they have to get distracted by, anyhow? Grainy holovids? They had enough room in their over-engineered skulls for a few of those, and if they ever got to touch the real thing, Scorch figured they wouldn’t lose their heads. Right? Civvies were so unexceptional, after all. Probably couldn’t tell a maranium blast from a benign xenon light sculpture. Brothers, especially your fellow commandos, were the only company worth keeping—even Vau said so, and Skirata had said Vau had wined and dined New Mando aristos and had bedded a fekkin’ princess in a past life.

Eventually, Sev’s sour mug puckered in something like thought. “If you fucked up my range scores, I’m going to piss in your pack.”

Scorch laughed, dumping his feet onto the floor and wandering in the direction of Boss’s ration bars. Mess was a whole two hours away and Scorch had a month’s eating to make up for. “Sev’ika, no one could fuck up your range scores. You just pregamed with Lasers & Blasters.”

The ‘zine smacked the back of Scorch’s head, wet side flat.

Yeah, we're still good, Scorch thought, as he finally manhandled his stroppy brother onto the floor. And we always will be.

(also on Ao3)

[neocity-sarai]

Redemption [PART 3]

❃ pairing: reader x mark lee, reader x haechan (divergent! au)

❃ alerts: making out, suggestive content, language, violence/ injuries, death, blood, angst, light smut

❃ song rec: beating heart by ellie goulding

When morning comes, the sun that streams through the windows of Haechan’s suite seems taunting rather than comforting. You sit up on the bed, beginning to get dressed in the protective gear that Evelyn gave you a few nights ago. You shudder from the memory of last night’s events: the way Rex was injured and the way Haechan made you feel when his lips were pressed on the hollow of your neck. You ghost your fingers over your lips, almost wishing what it would be like if you didn’t hold yourself back. 

Like on cue, Haechan opens the door before making his way over to you. Somehow, he looks different. His hair is gelled up, exposing his forehead while he’s dressed in black vests and black arm bands that wrap around his wrists. Daggers sit securely in the sheathes that are tied to the side of his pants. 

“Y/n?”

“Haechan.”

Haechan looks concerned, judging by the way his lips are pressed into a thin line and the way his brows are furrowed. 

He pauses before continuing, “Hear me out. I think you should stay.”

You huff with impatience, hitting the bed, “How many times have we been over this? I already told you that I’m not staying. I’m not letting you fight my battles.”

“But what if you get hurt? What do I do then? What if you end up dead?”

“Then let me. Isn’t that what you said? Taking the system down is what you're made to do? Prepared to die for?”

Haechan’s eyes darken, flashed with hurt, “I said that but you’re different- they didn’t take your family.”

“God! Haechan, it’s no different! They took away my family, the only faction I’ve ever considered a home, they even took Mark away! They’re probably all dead now!”

The room is too silent, too still. You don’t even register the moisture in your nose, tears running from your eyes.

You stare down to the ground, Haechan standing a few feet away from you. He doesn’t know what to say either. He turns around, his back facing you as he forms fists with his hands.

His voice is quiet but stern, “Who’s Mark?”

Sitting on the bed, you grip the comforter tightly. You mutter back at him, “He’s just- He- that’s not even important. My point is you’re not the only one who lost people. I did too. Now, it’s time to go home. I can’t stay here any longer.”

“So, what you’re saying is that there was someone else? All along?”

You flick your eyes to Haechan’s figure, anger burning through your heart, “Are you really going to start right now?”

Haechan’s voice cracks, choking a bit, “Y/N, do you even care about me?”

You’re beyond shocked at this point. You stare at him, tears hot and fast down your cheeks. Your voice squeaks- you hate how it makes you sound weak, “You’re standing there and asking me that? Of course, I care about you. If I didn’t, do you think I would’ve stayed? I would’ve helped you and Rex? After we almost-”

Haechan cuts you off coldly, “I don’t know, it seems convenient that you stayed, it’s not like you could’ve gone anywhere else. Were you just using me for food and a warm bed?”

Haechan’s words break the dam entirely. Your chest hurts as if he has pressed his dagger into the axis of your heart. You can’t believe you’re hearing such words that come from Haechan’s mouth. You can’t bring yourself to say anything else. Haechan steps towards the door, not even sparing a glance to look back at you, “I’ll be waiting by the weaponry with Evelyn. The choice is yours. I can’t force you to do anything.”

With a slam, Haechan leaves you alone in the brightly-lit suite. Breaking down, you don’t even try to suppress any of your sobs. It wracks your whole body, shaking from the lack of air in your lungs. When you seem to get a hold of yourself, your eyes turn angry despite being swollen and red from the tears. You feel the rim of your nails against your palm, your heart beating fast. You decide right then and there, you’re ready to come home. You shouldn’t have stayed as long as you did even if you loved Haechan. Even if your family and Mark aren’t alive, there isn’t a point to living a life at the Arms peacefully knowing Jeanine took everything from you. You’re prepared to take back your home, even if it means dying there.

[11 AM]

Like Haechan had said, the rest of the Arms are by the weaponry. You spot Haechan and Evelyn conversing ahead of the pack as they’re both loaded with rifles and guns of all sorts. A burly man looks down at your small figure, “You coming with us?”

You try to straighten your back to seem larger than you are, “I am. Give me a hefty one.”

He chuckles at you, “Guns aren’t toys little girl.”

Without any hesitation, you grab at the handgun that is in a holster at your belt- pointing the gun straight at the man, “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

The man freezes, his eyes widened and his hands put up at you, “Alright- I’ll get you one, jesus fuck.”

The other members of the Arms have their hawk eyes on you, glares shot in your direction. When the burly man hands you a gun fit for a sniper, you smile at him daintily, “Thanks Reg.” before putting your handgun back in it’s holster. You are not in the mood to show any mercy at this point.

Slinging your larger gun over your shoulder, you see Evelyn standing on one of the tables in the warehouse-like room as the crowd of soldiers gathers around her. Her voice is bellowing, “Arms of Arson! You have come to be with me today for the moment we have waited all our lives for. We’re going to take back what’s rightfully ours!”

The crowd cheers wildly, weapons hoisted to the air in pledging allegiance to Evelyn. She sweeps a hair out of her face, a wicked grin slashed on her face. You take note of the smear of lipstick under her lip. Next to her, Haechan stares down at the ground as he clutches his gun tightly, eyes sharpened and glaring. 

Evelyn continues, “When I started the Arms, I knew I wanted to take down the system. I knew they took your families and your homes. This is our time! The moment we’ve been waiting for! Know that this might cost you your life, though, it will never be in vain when we reach the new world! A world ruled by us!”

The cheers are ear-deafening, people stomping on the ground and people hooting Evelyn’s name. Still, no matter how many people surround you, your eyes always land on Haechan. Part of you still wants to talk to him. It’s the first time you’ve admitted it to yourself: You love Mark, but you also love Haechan. You love them in different ways.

Another woman by Evelyn points to the exit, “Move out!”

Like an army of soldiers, everyone marches together in unison towards the path that leads through the forest. You take the time to decide what you’ll do when you get there. Will you try to head for your family first? Will you try to find Mark? Could he help? If you find Mark, he can help you find your family. It’s worth a shot, he has to be alive.

By the time the army of Evelyn’s soldiers makes it out of the forest, you find yourself in a familiar spot. Even in an ocean of people, the wall still looks as melancholy as ever. As always, there’s no one guarding the wall- it makes things easier. Evelyn turns back to the crowd, barking orders, “We’re splitting up. The plan is to be smart about this. Most likely, Erudite, Dauntless, and Candor are the most guarded. Smaller groups will head to Amity and Abnegation. My team, we’re going directly for Jeanine. Kill anyone who defends her.”

Without a second thought, you step forward as you wave your hands around, “Evelyn, everyone in dauntless is under a sim- how can we just kill them?”

Haechan doesn’t look shocked. In fact, he scoffs at you and it makes you wince. Evelyn’s expression is stern, “Dauntless soldiers killed my sister, we show them no mercy.”

“So one life for so many? How is that fair?”

You feel isolated the moment the crowd steps away from you, parting like two oceans as Evelyn makes her way to you. Evelyn towers over you, her eyes lit with fire, “My sister was my whole world. They murdered her for being more than one thing- uncontrollable. It’s an injustice. They all deserve to burn.”

You bite your lip, stepping back from her a bit. You can't bring yourself to say anything else. Evelyn runs her index finger along your chin, “Keep up y/n. You can fight with us or do your own thing. It doesn’t matter.”

She turns back, the surrounding soldiers muttering curses and insults at you. Everyone starts to march after Evelyn, passing you as you stand in your place. You can’t save Dauntless. But maybe, you can reach people who can.

Getting past the wall isn’t a difficult feat. There’s so many soldiers in the Arms that any guards stationed are gunned down in a matter of seconds. You manage to catch up to Evelyn, Haechan, and her entourage of elites. Haechan notices that you’re next to him, moving a bit away from you with indifference. 

“What do you want y/n?”

“Haechan, please.”

“Don’t make this hard on me.”

“Just tell Evelyn that this isn’t right. Killing everyone won’t solve anything! What’s a world of rule when there aren't innocents? Why kill the people who have nothing to do with her sister’s death?”

For a moment, Haechan stops walking. People whisper as they pass you both, their eyes lurking on you. Haechan looks angry, “You really don’t understand do you? I won’t convince Evelyn so you can run back to whoever. It’s the faction system that’s the injustice, not just the people who brutally murdered her sister and my parents. I mean, look at you- you can’t even admit you’re one of us.”

You stare at him, venom on your tongue, you remember his words. “You’re divergent y/n.” They echo in your mind. Shaking your head, “Fine. I knew you wouldn’t help me, I thought that if you cared about me- you would at least try. You’re so blind to see that there are innocent lives on the line. I’m sorry Evelyn and you have suffered. Making others suffer won’t solve that. It can’t bring them back.”

You turn away from Haechan, advancing beyond Evelyn and her troop. Haechan calls your name, his hands curled into fists. Evelyn stops him firmly, “Let her go. She’s gone awol. She won’t stand with us, we don’t need her.”

Though Haechan shuts his mouth, he wants nothing more but to chase after you and tell you he’s sorry. He wants to tell you that he doesn’t want to doubt your care for him, he just wants to protect you is all. He’s done a bad job of showing it.

Tears prick at your eyes, your legs aching for running so hard. When you manage to make it into the Dauntless sector- the first thing you do is make your way to your family’s home. So far, the sector looks empty, almost like a ghost town. No Dauntless children play on the street and no elderly sit on their lawns. You hide behind one of the houses, your gun pressed against your chest as you spot some Dauntless guards patrolling some of the homes. You manage to maneuver your way through the allies to get your house, pulling on the handle of the side door that leads into your home. Expecting it to be locked, you jut the butt of your gun onto the rusty lock, making sure not to make too much noise. You quietly slip in, the comfort of your home enveloping you. Everything’s the same. The family photos on the wall in your living room, the furniture, and all. Everything is in the same place as your family left it. Though, there’s no sign of them. You call out, “Mom? Dad?”

There’s no answer. You walk upstairs, your fingers tracing the grey wallpaper that’s starting to peel. When you make it into your loft, there’s a familiar feeling that encases your heart. You feel safe in this house. You call out for them again, “Mom? Dad? You here?”

You step into your old bedroom, the one that you grew up in as a little girl. It’s still the same. Your bed is made, pictures and drawings hang above your desk as a string of crystals hangs on the frame of your window. You smile down at your pile of journals and books that your uncle gave you in the past. Flipping the pages, you take note of all the doodles you made in your notebook- how it was your dream to become one of the dauntless leaders. Then, that’s when you feel a presence against your neck. You feel someone’s body press up against yours, lips barely brushing past your ear, “Well, hi, y/n.”

You recognize that voice. You drop your journal, turning around so that your back is pressed to the rim of your cedar-wood desk. 

“Mark?”

You’re met with the view of Mark. He looks mostly the same as when you first got separated. His cheeks are still prominent, muscles carved out more, and features slightly more darkened. His skin looks tanner. His hair is now a darker black color, his lips pink and smooth. You’re not sure if you should hug him or cry. Though, there is something that sticks out to you. You gaze into his eyes, his hands trapping you by the desk- fingers grasping the rim. They seem changed. You notice the amethyst ring that encircles his pupils. It glows when he stares back at you. His tone isn’t as warm as it was before, “So you decided to come back.”

You gulp back the lump in your throat, “I was figuring out a way to come back. What happened to you?”

Mark gives you a smirk, his eyes sharp, “Nothing, y/n. I’ve been here. You left, Jeanine’s been taking care of everyone. We’ve been better than ever.”

You frown at his response, “I left? Do you remember what happened that day?”

The boy in front of you chuckles, a hand running through his jet black hair. The crystals cast light onto the strands, causing them to look a shade of hazel. 

“I remember that you abandoned me and Jeanine took me under her wing, she taught me the ways of the system. Society isn’t fair to people, only the strongest get the choice.”

It’s hard to fathom the Mark you knew has disappeared. The warm innocence that wrapped his personality seems to be absent. 

“You don’t really believe that do you? What did they do to you? I didn’t abandon you, Mark, I didn’t.”

Mark comes as close as he can to you, his eyes unwavering from yours. His whisper comes out in a husky tone, “You did, you left me and I-”

For a moment, Mark pauses. It looks like he’s fighting something inside of him, the way he starts to grit his teeth and tighten his grip until his knuckles turn white. Mark grimaces, pressing his fingers to his temples. 

You take it upon yourself to get Mark to remember. He has to remember. You place your hand over his, causing him to freeze. He stares back at your hand and back to you, eyes widened and lips parted.

“Just close your eyes.” you say.

Hesitantly, he follows your orders. In a small, swift motion you stop before your lips land on his, watching Mark hold still. Then, when you crash your lips onto his, Mark whimpers from the sudden impact. He’s stiff before relaxing into it, gliding his lips along yours. You grip his hand as your other hand moves to cup his cheek. Small noises come out of Mark’s lips, yearning for your taste. You missed him. Though you were apart, you never stopped thinking about Mark. He bumps his nose against yours as your teeth knack together from the lyrical, syncopated movement. Mark thinks you taste sweet, plush and soft. Pulling away, your voice barely comes out in a whisper, “Do you remember now?”

Eyes half-lidded, he blinks slowly, “Y/n?”

You clutch his arms, hands squeezing tighter, “Mark? Do you remember?”

“Oh my god.”

Mark collapses into your arms, his figure heaving in your grasp. You realize he’s crying when you feel tears on your shoulder, sniffles apparent from the boy resting his chin on yours. 

“Hey. Hey, I’m here now. I’m sorry I left you alone.”

Mark lifts his head up, eye-level to you, “I missed you.”

You reach up to touch Mark’s face, “I missed you more than you know. What happened?”

Mark shakes his head somberly, “It’s no good. Jeanine and Erudite have taken over all of the factions and now it’s just some messed up slave system. She made me one of her pawns- I had to do her dirty work, things I would never-”

You intertwine your fingers with Mark’s. He looks down to his feet, tears trailing down his cheeks. His doe, brown eyes replace the robotic, violet eyes he had a few short moments ago. You sigh at the sight. 

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to help you.”

Mark nods, yanking down the collar of his black sweater. Your heart stops from the sight of so many puncture marks. They must be from injected syringes that cause Mark to be under Jeanine’s simulation.

“Jeanine did this to you?”

Mark doesn’t say another word. You can tell by his frown and his warm eyes that he would never hurt anyone. Instantly your blood boils with anger, “I’m going to kill Jeanine.”

He snaps his head back up, “You will?”

Nodding, you place your hand on your gun that sits on your desk, “I brought some friends along with me. They’re here to bring the system down.”

Mark is shocked, his jaw completely open, “That’s why you were gone?”

“Yes. It’s the resistance. They’re real Mark. They’re real.”

Instantly, Mark presses his forehead against yours, “Your family is safe too, you know. My family is hiding out with them in Amity. I was able to get to them in time before you know-”

You lean to kiss him again, his words in between his kisses, “Just.” his lips on yours, “In. Case.” 

You part from him, “What is it?”

He slowly nods, “Just in case we don’t make it, I just want to spend some time with you. The simulation controls me within intervals. I’m not safe y/n. I’m a danger to you.”

“No, you’re not. We’ll handle it together.”

Immediately, Mark smashes his lips onto yours once more. You feel the temperature of your bodies rise, Mark more passionate than the last. It ignites a burning sensation in the pit of your stomach. It makes your toes curl, Mark’s teeth sinking into your bottom lip as he makes a groaning noise. Mark picks you up, forcibly wrapping your legs on his waist- it causes you to yelp. He places you on top of your desk, back against the wall. Pulling back on Mark’s hair, you allow him to find purchase on your waist, kissing burning marks on your neck. Your chests are heaving from colliding, Mark hastily ripping his sweater off of him. You do the same, lust filling the air suffocatingly. You let Mark undo your protective layers and the belt of your pants- leaving you naked from him. Your body shakes from the sight of Mark discarding his pants and under layers, his calloused hands tracing around your thighs. You’re sure his nails make crescents in your skin. Before Mark continues, he proceeds to carry you like a koala to your bed, setting you down as delicately as he can. Mark relishes the face you make, showing him how much you want him. He chuckles, “Did you miss me that much?”

You huff out, “Of course I-”

Suddenly, you feel a force sink further and deeper into you, it causes tears to gloss your eyes and for you to gasp. Mark tosses his head back, enjoying the pleasure when he shuts his eyes. When he begins to move back and forth, you grip the fabric of your blanket as hard as you can, “Oh my god, M-Mark, please-”

“Say it, y/n.”

You shut your eyes too, your skin hot as flames, M-“Mark, I-I love y-you.”

“I know that y/n. I know, and I love you too.”

When you’re both tired, Mark collapses onto the bed next to you- both of you still high on ecstasy of feeling each other’s touch, each other’s closeness. After that, you spend an hour admiring Mark under the sunset lighting, sweeping his hair out of his eyes and kissing his cheeks. 

“We should get going, it’s time.”

You nod, proceeding to get dressed. Still, you blush at the sight of being unclothed in front of Mark. Slipping your pants on, Mark presses a kiss to the base of your nape- teeth grazing the spot. You laugh at him, “You still want more?”

“I can never get enough of you y/n.”

“There’s time for that later.”

“I’m taking you up on that.”

Both of you exit your home, guns in hand and alert for any soldiers that might come your way. Mark whispers in your ear as both of you crouch behind a wall, “If the time comes, I go too far under during the sim- you know what to do.”

You glare ahead of you, “It won’t come to that. I’ll make sure of it.”

[Erudite: 7PM]

“There it is.”

You allow Mark to lead you to Erudite’s headquarters, something he’s grown to know like the back of his hand. 

You whisper, “What’s the plan?”

Mark crouches beside you in the shadows, “Jeanine is on the 10th floor of the tower. All we have to do is get up there without being seen.”

You gaze around the tower and the glass pyramid structure that is Erudite’s main sector. People dressed in blue and white suits breeze through the glass tunnels and floors of the tower, eyes down at their electronic devices. 

“I got it. I know what to do.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, Jeanine doesn’t know I’m here. She also doesn’t know you’re helping me. You can just walk in there and not be suspected. For me, I’ll take out an Erudite member and wear the uniform. I don’t think anyone knows my face.”

“Except Jeanine?”

“Right, except her.”

Mark nods, “Let’s go then.”

“Cover for me.”

Mark swivels his head back and forth, aiming his gun around any exposed areas where enemies might attack from. You hide by a silver sculpture before waiting for anyone to walk out of the double doors. On cue, an Erudite man exits out onto the street as you slam the edge of your gun to the back of his head- his body falling in time for Mark to catch him. You retreat back into an alley nearby as you strip the man of his uniform. Once you’re dressed, you grab the man’s tablet before nodding at Mark, “Let’s go.”

Once you’re in Erudite, it’s everything you’ve imagined it to be. It’s a wide space with high, reflective ceilings. Long, silver tables hold different devices of liquids bubbling are round-shaped glasses and twisty tubes that tangle in a network. Some are dressed in lab gear, recording their discoveries with every second they glance at the lab equipment. Mark whispers to you, “Don’t stare too long, people will catch on.”

Thankfully, no one recognizes you yet. You and Mark take the first elevator that you see up to the 10th floor. Though some people enter your elevator, you put on the best fake smile that has ever graced your lips. Arriving at the upper deck, walking past Erudite council members and science students, you finally make it to Jeanine’s office. Her name is spelled out on a gold plaque, marking her as the leader of Erudite. You eye Mark for a little longer, “I have to get her to stop the simulations. This isn’t right.”

“Are you ready to do this if she refuses?”

“I have to be.”

Mark opens the door first, telling you to stay behind him for a bit. 

“Who’s there?” Jeanine sits at her desk, pressing buttons on a floating, virtual screen that glows white. 

“It’s Mark.”

“Ah- what brings you in?”

When you step out from behind Mark, you pull out the handgun that you hid under the navy blue trench coat before aiming it right at Jeanine. Jeanine freezes in her spot, eyes unmoving.

“I found you Jeanine! Shut down the sim, now!”

You press your finger dangerously on the trigger, “I’m not asking twice Jeanine!”

At first, Jeanine’s gears turn in her mind, “If it isn’t y/n? Long time no see?”

“Quit the games! Less talking!”

Before you can move to press the barrel to Jeanine’s head, she bursts out into laughter. She starts to cackle maniacally. Now, you understand why. You feel another gun press on the fabric that covers your back. No. No. This can’t be real. 

Jeanine speaks, “Thank you for bringing her to me Mark. You’re very useful.”

You turn your head to look back at him, Mark’s eyes the same warm brown. Was he under another sim? It can’t be, his irises aren’t violet. 

“Mark? What is she- what?”

Mark gives you an egotistical, arrogant smirk, “You just got yourself fooled y/n.”

By now, your jaw is wide open. You tear your eyes away from Mark to Jeanine, “I don’t understand.”

Jeanine walks over to you, stooping to your level from her heels, “I was one step ahead y/n. That’s all there is to it.”

Craning your head to look at Mark, he still keeps his gun on you. You pray this is some sort of act- some sort of play in Mark’s plan. When he doesn’t waver, you begin to raise your voice, “Were you planning to turn me in this whole time? I don’t even recognize you anymore!”

He looks to the ground, not wanting to meet your eyes. You’re appalled. You’re even disgusted. In normal circumstances, you’d try to give Mark the benefit of the doubt rather than jumping to conclusions. Even if Mark had an explanation, he’s still here- threatening to kill you in the command of Jeanine. 

A virtual screen becomes projected into the air from a button Jeanine had just pressed. You feel your heart sink when many camera views show what’s happening in other sections. Evelyn leads a whole squadron of a hundred soldiers into Dauntless, the other elites leading their troops in Erudite and Candor. They all move like pre-programmed robots, slashing down and killing everyone in their path: dauntless innocents under a sim, erudite members, and others. It’s a mass slaughter. Neither side would stop for anything. Jeanine chuckles, “See, y/n. This is human nature. We fight for control and we kill each other to get it. No matter the side, everyone wants power.”

Biting your lip, blood sits on your tongue. You curl your fingers around your gun, gripping the handle of it. “Jeanine, I’m not asking you again. Shut down the sim!”

Jeanine smooths her hair back, not one out of place, “You’re in no place to make demands y/n. Mark?”

In a flash second, Mark puts you on your knees as he presses his gun to your back still. You question whether or not you should run for it and take Jeanine out first but Mark would have the advantage since you’re kneeling right in front of him. Mark walks in front of you, purple swirls clouding his vision before he pins you to the ground. One hand holds your wrist and the other points his gun at you, “I’m sorry y/n.”

Jeanine doesn’t even spare a second glance. She just faces the window, watching the faction system and the Arms bring the world into destruction. Clamping your eyes shut, you feel the cool metal of the barrel on your forehead. You pray that your family gets out safe and that your friends do too- even Haechan, the boy you wish you could talk to one last time. You even pray for Mark, the person who will end your life here and now. Surely, this is as far as you can go. When Mark is close to releasing the trigger, you hear the door swing wide open. A voice screams, tackling Mark to the ground and off of you as Jeanine watches in shock.

Haechan struggles to hold Mark down. 

The mahogany haired boy screams at you, “Y/n! The syringe!” 

You look to the metal stand next to Jeanine’s desk, a violet-colored syringe sits in a canister. Making no hesitation to grab it, you point your gun at a stiff Jeanine who presses her back against the wall. She doesn’t look so tough anymore. You amble to her,shooting one precise bullet into her foot. It causes her to scream while she falls to the ground, blood staining her prim-proper white socks. She grunts in pain which is enough to make you laugh, “Not so high and mighty now huh Jeanine? You underestimate me, don’t you know I’m divergent?”

You stab the syringe into the juncture of her neck, causing her to lose consciousness for a few moments. Then, like an instantaneous reaction, Jeanine lights up before blinking her eyes several times- stuck in a  daze from the simulation you’ve induced on her. You grab her by her hair, not caring how painful it is, “Shut the sim down! That’s an order!”

“As you wish.”

Like a man made invention, Jeanine nimbly moves her fingers across the virtual screen as you hold her figure up so she doesn’t collapse. The screen reads: “Cancel operation: Simulation Dauntless?”

“Proceed cancellation.”

When Jeanine presses a glowing red button, the people on the screens seem to pause their fire and bloodshed. Various dauntless soldiers, initiates, and leaders stop where they are- their faces riddled with confusion. Same with the other faction members- they beg Evelyn and her troops to spare their lives. For a moment, Evelyn looks around as if she’s checking to see if anyone is watching. Immediately, she resumes as she had before. Like no spare thoughts exchanged, she continues to gun down the dauntless soldiers in front of her despite their release of the simulation- bodies falling like dominoes. Jeanine still stands entranced, staring at the virtual screen.

“A little help here!”

You swivel around to see Haechan trying to force back Mark’s ravaging hands in an attempt to choke him. Looking back at the screen and back to Mark, the simulation should have stopped. Once Jeanine put the exit code, Mark should’ve gone back to normal. No, she gave him a different kind of sim- a stronger one. You shake Jeanine violently, “Where the fuck is the antidote to Mark’s sim?!”

Stiffly, Jeanine points to an amber-colored cylinder in the same compartment as the violet ones. Your fingers fumble trying to slide the tube of liquid into an injection gun before stabbing it into Mark’s neck vein. He lets out a pained groan as he collapses and falls on top of Haechan. It doesn’t take much time for Haechan to push him off, a grimacing smirk on his face, “I always gotta save your ass don’t I?”

You launch yourself into Haechan’s figure, arms wrapping around him, “Thank you. Thank you for saving my life.”

Haechan shakes his head, “I’m still mad at you. Don’t forget that.”

Next to you both, Mark rises from the floor as he wipes his face with his hands, “What happened?”

He adjusts his blurry vision as he sees you hugging Haechan, “Y/n?”

Awkwardly, you detach from Haechan and crawl over to Mark, cupping your hand to his cheek, “Are you normal Mark now?”

He raises an eyebrow, “I was under sim again- wasn’t I?”

Slowly you nod, “You almost killed both of us.”

Mark freezes in his place, eyes widened with shock, “I-what?”

“It’s over now. At least, I think it is. Jeanine gave you a sim that disguised you. She made you seem like you weren’t under one when you were. I was scared.”

Mark looks like he’s about to burst into tears when he places his head in his hands, “I’m so sorry. I would never want to hurt you. I would never. I can’t.”

You hold his hand gingerly, “Let’s talk about this later.”

You hear Haechan speak from behind you, “This is a nice reunion but we should really get going- there’s a war going on out there.”

Once you gather your things and you’re ready to leave, Haechan motions a hand at Jeanine, “Should we just leave her?”

You reply to him, “What else can we do with her? Take her to Evelyn?”

“I think that’s the only option we have.”

With that, you, Mark, Haechan, and Jeanine hurry off to find Evelyn. Near the headquarters entrance, you spot staggering figures emerging from the foggy mist of gun smoke and bloodlust. You recognize it to be Evelyn’s body as well as a couple of her entourage next to her. They’re gnashed with the blood of war and soot from fighting, hands dirty with red. Evelyn bellows loudly, “Traitors!”

Haechan holds up his hands, “Evelyn, it’s not what you think alright! Just listen!”

Evelyn still stands where she is as she holds her bleeding wound from her arm, her gun still pointed at you. You’re all surrounded. Haechan tries his best to explain, “Evelyn, hear me out! Y/n stopped the sim! There’s no more reason to kill any more innocents!”

Evelyn stifffens, her teeth grit out of burning fury, “Is this your way of defending her? I’ll have her head for killing my sister.”

Without a second thought, Evelyn fires a Jeanine causing Jeanine to crash to the ground. Though you’ve never liked Jeanine, she had more use than to be killed off so quickly. You could’ve used her to sway the faction system- to gain information. Evelyn and her soldiers make their way closer to you, her eyes blazing with animosity, “I should’ve known you would interfere. You lowly girl- you should’ve stayed out of it! If I acquired control over the sim, the Arms would have ruled Chicago! But you had to screw up our plans!”

You scream back at her, “Who even are you?! How are you any different than Jeanine?!”

“Don’t compare me to that bitch!”

Like an immediate reaction, Evelyn fires her gun at you- it’s so fast that you don’t have time to react. It’s all happening too fast, too sudden. There’s not enough time to think. Before you can even move your feet, you witness Haechan’s body come crashing down in front of you- a silver bullet piercing the flesh of his heart.

“HAECHAN! NO!”

You dive to the ground, cradling Haechan’s fallen body. Blood starts to spread like wildfire across the fabric of his vest, blood trailing down his lips, “Haechan- listen to me. Stay with me okay?”

Haechan can’t even answer you, his eyes are squeezed shut from the pain. Blood stains your hands red. Evelyn aims her gun at you once again, “You two better stay out of my way!”

In another quick second, Mark leaps towards you in one big stride before firing at Evelyn. The sound of the whining noise makes your head dizzy. You feel dehydrated and exhausted, you almost might collapse right there. But, you can’t. 

With a thud, Evelyn sinks to her knees as she clutches her chest- eyeing the crimson that comes from her wound. Falling to the ground, her body shakes from the coughs that slip out of her throat. You press your hands down on Haechan’s flowing wound, your chest heaving from aches. “Stay with me! Haechan, don’t shut your eyes!”

Haechan’s eyes are fluttering, his breath turning shallower and shallower by the second. Mark drops next to you, setting down his gun. You don’t even realize the tears that start running down your cheeks, your nose running too. Haechan manages to gather every last bit of strength in him, “Y/n?”

You gaze down at him, clutching his hand in yours. Lifting his arm, he touches your face- blood smearing your cheek. You can’t even care. Your voice is extremely shaky and frail, “I’m here. We’re going to get you out of here! Just stay-”

Haechan swipes his thumb across your cheek, “P-princess, there’s n-no time.”

You shudder at the memory of Haechan’s pet name he gave to you when you first met. You choke on your own saliva, “Don’t say that! We can-”

Haechan blinks slowly, “I’m s-sorry for e-earlier, I n-never meant to hurt y-you.”

You place your hand on his, molding into his touch, “I know. You’d never hurt me, I know.”

Sobbing, you cry harder. Haechan looks to Mark, his mind becoming loose and disoriented, “You’re the g-guy who-o saved me back then.”

You look at Haechan and back to Mark. Mark’s eyes are glossy with tears, leaning closer to Haechan’s body, “You were that kid I found in that closet that day?”

When you look back to Haechan for his answer, his eyes are wide open and bereft of life. His skin feels cold and dark, his soul disappearing into nothing. That’s when you break down. You practically scream into Haechan’s chest, clutching his cold hand in yours. Your hair is matted with sweat, your hands are covered with Haechan’s blood. Thankfully, Mark doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t judge you. He lets you cry it out and lets you collapse into his chest, holding you until there are no more tears left. By the end, you’re sure that no matter where you go or how long you live, you’ll always remember the boy who smiled at your playful jokes. The one who would let his dog lead him into the forest. The boy who saved your life. The boy who caught you from a tree. 

It’s imperative to say that the day the faction system fell was a painful memory. All the lives that were lost and the amount of destruction to Chicago was a result of humans trying to control all other humans. The plan was never to fight for anyone’s freedom, not for the good of the people. The goal was always power. Revenge. It killed them. So, in Haechan’s name, you and Mark decided to do something for the people that day. Climbing to the top of Erudite’s broadcasting tower, you blared your voice onto the streets, within the neighborhoods, and through every building in between Chicago. Though your hands were shaking, you tried your best to sound strong. At least Mark was by your side, his hand on your shoulder comfortingly.You began, “I am sure most of you must feel lost. You must feel hurt. You must feel afraid. These are all things I am feeling right now. Though, right now- what we need is unity. We don’t need to kill any more lives that can be salvaged. We need not injure those that can be healed. This is a time of rebuilding and we’re going to start from the ground up. Not only will the faction system be abolished, but the Arms of Arson are welcome to stay if you abide by our rules. Not the rules that give one person power but a democracy that gives us order and peace for the good of the people. The choice is yours.”

[7 months later]

After the war, some of the members of the Arms chose to stay. Though they joined the resistance, not all of them wanted revenge. Not all of them wanted to serve under Evelyn. Weeks later, you and Mark had brought together council members from each of the factions and settled on a peace treaty that abolished any chance of one person becoming a ruler over Chicago. Over time, people got used to coexisting without labels or categories. They didn’t let their group name define who they were, rather, the people they would become. What was left of Dauntless was announced to be top of security in Chicago in which you and Mark headed as former Dauntless leaders. Accomplices of Jeanine and corrupt members of all factions were put on trial by Candor, Abnegation and Candor voting democratically on their punishments. You made sure no Divergents would be touched. No matter the age, no matter how big the percentage of divergence, Mark built a security branch that was solely meant for protecting Divergents. Everything seemed to fall into place after you and Mark reunited with your families- your parents praising you for how proud they were. For once, you embraced it. You held onto the fact you didn’t fit in one place. You wanted to be strong but also kind, intelligent, honest, and selfless without being ostracized.

 Not long after, Mark asked you to marry him. It wasn’t all that romantic but it was sweet. You had been on security detail on a Wednesday evening but he had gotten your friends Lucas, Selene, Taeyong, and your other colleagues to be in on a candle-lit ceremony that he set up in his old dauntless suite. You said yes, kissing the cheek of the boy who lived next door. 

Looking back, throughout all the hardship comes prosperity. This was something that was encompassed by many people in your life: Mark, your friends, your family, and even Haechan. They’d all be engraved in your memory for as long as you lived, no matter where you went or how Chicago would change. There was one thing that stuck to you though. A mantra that was repeated during the days of the faction system: “faction before blood.”

Mark rests his chin on your shoulder, gazing out into the skyline of his suite balcony, leaning in to kiss you deeply- lips dancing on lips. You hold up your obsidian colored band on your ring finger, “How did I get this lucky?”

He pulls you tighter to him, arms wrapped around your waist, “I don’t know, how did I?”

You knew then, it wasn’t factions nor divergence that prevailed. It would always be love that would set you free.

[PART 1: Simulations] [PART 2: Borderlands]

[haberdashing]

i want you to straighten out my tomorrow (3/?)

The last thing Jon remembers is working into the night in the Archives in early 2016. Now he’s in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, Scotland, with Martin Blackwood as his only companion. Obviously Jon’s missed something along the way here…

Inspired by beloved of jon, though it can be read separately.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

on AO3

Martin took a deep breath and released it slowly before speaking again.

“So.” Martin tapped his fork against his plate, which made a noise that got on Jon’s nerves a bit, but he’d just taken a big bite of his pancake to show his following through on his part of their makeshift deal so he couldn’t exactly complain about it. “I guess I’ll start from here, and from what brought us here, and sort of, er, work backwards? I mean, I imagine you’ve got enough questions about what’s going on now without me bringing up a load of other weird things for you to wonder about.”

Jon nodded silently. Martin certainly wasn’t wrong about that bit; Jon had plenty of questions waiting to be asked already.

“Daisy didn’t actually give us the key to this place; I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any. There were hunters at the Institute when we left, and she was busy, er, fighting them off, so we didn’t get to say goodbye or anything--though I don’t know if I would have, I never really knew Daisy that well. But Basira--she works for the Institute now too, but before all that she and Daisy were cops together, they’re, they’re close--she was able to give us the keys, said she thought Daisy would approve.”

There was a lot to process there, unsurprisingly. Now there were two Institute employees Martin had brought up that Jon didn’t know rather than just one; the use of “hunters” seemed a bit odd, made Jon wonder what they were hunting for, whether Hunt was a fear to be capitalized like Eye and Web; all sorts of interpersonal relationship stuff could be teased out there, if one had a mind to do so, which Jon didn’t especially at the moment.

What was at the front of Jon’s mind, though, was that evidently there had been some danger at the Institute, whether because of these “hunters” (”Hunters”?) or for some other reason, and of the three other people working there that Jon cared about, the only one whose safety was assured was the one sitting in front of him.

(Elias didn’t count. Jon tolerated Elias well enough, and he was glad the man had trusted him with an opportunity by promoting him to Head Archivist even if he felt like he was just flailing around playing pretend half the time, but he didn’t care about Elias, not like he did about the rest of his crew.)

Jon swallowed the last of his current bite of food before Martin could start up again. “What about Tim and Sasha?”

Martin furrowed his brow, confusion evident on his face--the word “adorable” sprung to Jon’s mind, unbidden--so Jon elaborated further.

“You haven’t mentioned what happened to Tim and Sasha during all of this. Are they alright?”

And then Jon watched Martin’s face slowly fall, could practically see the gears turning as Martin tried to figure out a tactful response, and he wasn’t the best at reading facial expressions but figuring out this one wasn’t exactly rocket science.

“Were they together in the end, at least?”

Martin shook his head, loose curls flying everywhere as he did so, one of them settling in between his eyes in a place that didn’t look like it’d be comfortable or even easy to ignore, but Martin made no attempt to brush it away. “Sorry?”

“I just... they were always so close to each other. If they’re... gone... I just hope they were side by side when their time came.”

“Oh.” Martin bit his lip for a moment. “No, uh, they- it wasn’t just now, during that attack on the Institute--we lost Tim a little over a year ago, now, and Sasha... was about a year before that.”

Jon let out a long breath as he felt his insides turn cold. Two of his closest companions were dead and gone, and he didn’t even remember it happening.

“Actually, this- this may sound weird, but can you... describe Sasha for me?”

Jon let out a huff. “You work more closely with her than I do.”

“Humor me, please?”

Martin’s request did sound weird, but... but not as weird as Jon would have expected, when he thought about it. It was a piece of this massive puzzle, that much was clear, and Jon had a feeling that somewhere, just out of his reach, was the rest of it, and he’d be able to put all the pieces together eventually.

“She’s... short. Shorter than me. Blonde hair, usually in a bob, sometimes with a headband. Has a thing for costume jewelry...”

Martin let out a soft sigh and shook his head again, though that one strand of curly hair remained in place between his eyes. (Some distant part of Jon wanted to reach out and brush it away; the more rational part of Jon didn’t dare, wouldn’t even mention the loose curl unless it came up naturally.) “Yeah, that’s, that’s about what I figured... still, it was worth a shot.”

“What was worth a shot?”

Martin bit down on his bottom lip again, hard, enough that Jon wondered if it would leave a mark.

“Why did you ask about Sasha? Were you hoping I’d say something different?”

“I... yes, I did, it’s just... Jon, eat.”

Jon stared down at his half-full plate, huffing a little before going along with Martin’s request and having another bite.

“Okay, so, with Sasha... when she died-” And Martin paused for a brief moment there, looking away from Jon, and his voice sounded a little shakier when he started up again. “She was, was replaced by the thing that killed her. It took her place and changed all of our memories so we thought she was always like that, that nothing was wrong. I thought maybe since you forgot all that, your memories might still be of the real Sasha, but... no, that’s the one I remember too, and that’s not her. That’s the thing that took her place.”

“It changed our memories, and we couldn’t even tell.” Jon’s voice was calm, but his mind was anything but as he contemplated the implications of that statement.

“Yeah, we didn’t even know she was dead until- until the thing that replaced her went after you. I still don’t know what she actually looked like. I think Melanie remembered the real Sasha, but we never really got a chance to sit down and talk about it...”

A third name Jon didn’t recognize there--good Lord, how much turnover did Institute staff have these days?--but that wasn’t what caught Jon’s attention most.

“So there’s no way to know if our memories are real or just, just changed or made up by supernatural beings messing with us?”

“Well, apparently tape recorders are just old enough that they don’t change, something about the difference between analog and digital? Think that’s why the statements record fine on them, too. The, the real ones, I mean.”

Jon let out a long sight. “And I don’t suppose you’ve got tape recording of all or... any of the things you’ve been talking about?”

“No, Jon, I wasn’t exactly able to bring the whole Archives with us when we went on the run, sorry.”

The phrase “on the run” caught Jon attention briefly--that sounded like it was more than two hunters they had to worry about, like they were hiding from the authorities on top of all that--but again, Jon’s thoughts drifted elsewhere.

“So there’s no proof. No proof of any of this, even the parts I think I remember. We can’t prove that you’re who you say you are-”

Jon gestured with his butter knife at Martin, and Martin threw his hands up in mock surrender in response. “H-hang on now-”

“Or, or even that I’m who I think I am. For all I know I’m not even Jonathan Sims, for all I know my, my whole life never happened and I just had fake memories that it did implanted because that’s what some supernatural creature wanted-”

Jon’s rambling only trailed off when he noticed that Martin was quietly giggling to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, really, I- sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing, I know this is serious-”

“It is, yes.”

“It’s just- I don’t think this is the first time you’ve had this particular existential crisis before? I, uh, I think the way you put it in one of your tapes was ‘How do you know that you’re the same person who went to sleep?’“

Martin’s impression of Jon’s voice was more accurate than Jon would have expected, though he wasn’t going to actually comment as much out loud.

“Something I said on a tape that I don’t have, that I don’t remember ever making... forgive me if I’m not terribly reassured.”

“A-alright, fair enough. Maybe just- just think of it this way. How much does all of this actually change?”

Jon wrinkled his brow. “I don’t think I follow.”

“Look, I know you know your philosophy well enough. Losing memories of a chunk of your life, finding out that the supernatural can mess with your mind... it’s horrible, I know, believe me, but it doesn’t really open up any new possibilities about the state of the world. It was always possible that- that the world was just some elaborate simulation, or that life just started five seconds ago and all your memories before then are fake, or that everybody besides you is just an object pretending to be a person, or whatever. If you didn’t buy into that kind of thing before, why does this change all that?”

That... was actually a good point, now that Martin brought it up, and Jon thought about it for a moment in silence.

“Please don’t tell me you do buy into that kind of thing regardless-”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Good.”

“So, will you at least try to take the world at face value for a bit unless you’ve got an actual reason to do otherwise?”

“Except for Sasha, of course.”

“Yeah, except for Sasha, I suppose, though I don’t know that she’d come up that much anyway, it’s...” Martin let out a soft sigh. “It’s been a while.”

“...fine. Alright. Until I’ve got a reason to do otherwise, I’ll...” Jon massaged his temple with one hand. “Try to trust my own mind, at least.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The smile on Martin’s face looked a bit thin, a bit forced, but it was better than nothing, Jon supposed.

“So if that’s what happened to Sasha, what about Tim? Please don’t tell me I’m remembering him wrong, too...”

“No, it wasn’t that. The, the not-Sasha thing went missing around when you went on the run for murder, only popped up again just before we came here.”

“So what happened to Tim, then?”

“Oh, he, uh, blew up a circus to stop it from ending the world.”

Taking a sip of tea while waiting for Martin to respond had definitely been a mistake. Jon gulped his mouthful of tea down fast, the heat making his throat ache, but at least he could respond, and better drinking too fast than choking on the stuff.

“What, and the circus killed him for doing it?”

“No, he... he was inside it when he blew it up.”

Jon didn’t know what to say to that, so he just took another bite of now-lukewarm pancake and let Martin keep speaking.

“You were too, actually. It’s a- it’s complicated, I think I get how you came out the other side now, but I’m surprised you don’t have more scars from that at least...”

“Speaking of which. Where did all these scars come from?”

“Well. Er.” Martin set his silverware aside and scooted his chair closer in to Jon. “A bunch of places, really, but I can go over them one by one...”

First, Martin gestured broadly across Jon’s whole body. “The little- the worm scars. That’s what those are, all over. That’s... Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute--you do know that name, at least?”

“I’m familiar with the files on her, yes.”

“I wish all I knew about her was from those files...” Martin let out a soft but surprisingly sharp laugh before continuing. “So, the worms got to you- you and Tim both, actually. We got rid of them, but not before they dug in enough to leave those scars on the two of you.”

Jon still didn’t remember the incident in question, but even that vague description of it was enough to make him shudder a bit. Worms had dug into his skin. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to hear, but it... it hadn’t been that, certainly. “What about you? Obviously you didn’t get the same scars...”

“No, I, I got lost in the tunnels when they attacked-”

“The tunnels?”

“Yeah, there’s a whole secret maze of tunnels under the Institute, turns out. That’s where, uh, I found Gertrude’s body. And Michael. And you found Leitner in there, I think? And the, the Panopticon is down there too.”

...there were entirely too many things going on in that statement for Jon to be able to process them all at once. His predecessor’s body, another name he didn’t recognize, a name he knew all too well, and something he knew best as a philosophical concept but apparently was in fact a physical thing somewhere under the Institute?

Jon took a deep breath and slowly let it out before speaking again.

“Alright, that’s one scar then. The hand--you said I ‘sort of’ stuck it in a fireplace?”

“Well it’s, it’s not an entirely accurate description, but...” Martin’s arm darted out, hovering over the scarred hand in question before slowly falling back to his side; Jon’s heartbeat raced as he watched Martin’s arm approach his, and he wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or anxiety or something else. “I wasn’t there for this one but you apparently, uh, shook hands with someone in with the Lightless Flame, someone who’s basically made of molten wax. Jude Perry, is the name.”

The name meant nothing to Jon, but he vaguely remembered reading something about the Lightless Flame before, and he wrinkled his brow in confusion. “Why would I do that?”

Martin’s laugh was a bit fuller this time, less bitter and more genuine. “That is an excellent question."

“...so you don’t know, then.”

“No, but- it’s hard to see, but there’s actually another scar on that same hand? At the time you told us some ridiculous story about cutting yourself on a bread knife, but I heard the truth later. That, that Michael I mentioned, he stabbed you. Didn’t like that you tried to stop him from taking Helen, I think.”

“This being the same Michael that you found in the tunnels.” Jon had half-assumed this Michael was one of the apparently ever-changing archival staff in the Institute that he didn’t remember, but evidently that assumption was a faulty one.

“Yeah, but he’s not just in the tunnels, that time he was in your office--he could go anywhere, just pop out of a yellow door. Still can, sort of, but it’s not Michael now, it’s Helen.”

“The same Helen I tried to stop this Michael from taking?”

“Yeah... well, yes and no. Helen’s not exactly the same as she was...”

Jon sighed. “Alright. Moving on, then. Shoulder scar?” Jon tugged his oversized shirt down a bit, made it so the scar would poke out a bit more.

“Oh that, uh, that was Melanie’s doing-”

“The, the Melanie who remembered the real Sasha?”

“Yeah, that’s the one!”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. Either he really needed to stop assuming every name Martin dropped was an Institute employee, or Institute employees seemed to have a nasty habit of injuring him badly enough to give him scars. Or both. With his luck, probably both.

“So what exactly did Melanie do?”

“She stabbed you with, with a scalpel? See, you and Basira were doing surgery on her-”

“I thought you said Basira used to be a cop.” Jon considered adding and not a doctor out loud, but he figured the implication was clear enough.

“Yeah, that’s right. Why?”

“...so, I was doing surgery on Melanie, with a former cop as my assistant-”

“Yeah, to get a ghost bullet out of her leg. But she woke up and freaked out and stabbed you with a nearby scalpel. Honestly, I don’t entirely blame her for that bit, though she definitely took it too far.”

If Martin was telling the truth, he’d been doing amateur surgery, with a fellow non-surgeon as his only assistant, to retrieve a “ghost bullet,” whatever that was... and the patient had woken up mid-surgery and stabbed him?

He’d known these scars would have stories of some kind behind them, but that... God, what could he even say to that?

Well. Only one scar that he knew of left. Might as well wrap things up, see if that left him with any more pieces with which to put together this very strange puzzle.

“So that just leaves the scar on my throat, then, I believe.”

“Er. Right.” Martin looked down at his plate of food; a quick glance revealed that he’d actually eaten less than Jon had at this point, though Jon certainly wasn’t going to nag him about it. “About that.”

“Yes?”

“Just, uh, don’t take this the wrong way...”

“Did you stab me, too?”

“What? No!” Martin’s face flushed at the accusation. “Jesus, Jon, no, I would never...”

“Then who... or what... did?”

“...Daisy did. I don’t know all the details, I don’t think I want to, but I know she brought you somewhere to kill you, and while she obviously didn’t do that, she got far enough to leave that on your neck.”

“...the Daisy whose house we’re staying in.”

“This is one of her safehouses, yeah. I think Basira said she’s got a few of them?”

“And you’re sure we’re safe here.” Half statement, half question.

“...I really hope we’re safe here. Can’t honestly say I’m sure about that, though...”

Jon dropped his silverware, letting it clatter against the plate and the table as he covered his head in his hands.

“Wonderful. Just... just wonderful.”

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #380

“so tear me open, but beware: there’s things inside without a care”

What do you want more than anything else? Good health, on both fronts. Have you ever tried coconut water? No, but I've heard it's gross. Who was your first love? My first "real" boyfriend, Jason. Have you ever been to a convention? (comic, YouTube, etc.) I've been to a reptile convention. Have you ever done a first aid course? No. What internet browser do you use? Well, I typically use Google Chrome, but because it hasn't been loading webpages for me, I've been using Microsoft Edge lately. Are you addicted to any energy drinks? No; I don't like energy drinks. How often do you see your mother? Every day, because I live with her. Do you like croutons in your salad? No. Are you the one who vacuums your house? Mom and I both do it. When was the last time your living room furniture was rearranged? It hasn't been rearranged in this house, but arranged when we moved in. What company do you get your internet through? Suddenlink. When you were little, did you like watching Cartoon Network, Disney, or Nickelodeon more? Disney tops 'em. I didn't watch very much Cartoon Network. If you have siblings, when was the last time you saw them? I see Nicole usually every Wednesday because she eats dinner with us. I haven't seen Ash in a little while. Misty and Katie both visited the house pretty recently, and I haven't seen Bobby for a few years. I really miss him and his son. How many cars does your household own? One. What’s your favourite meat? Chicken or pork. What’s the best amusement park you’ve ever visited? Disney World. How old were you when you got your first car? I've never had my own car. What colour is your shampoo? White. Are you listening to music right now? If so, what’s the theme of the lyrics? "Pet" by A Perfect Circle. Manipulation of a child would be my guess. What was the last thing you had to eat? I had cookies 'n cream yogurt. Are you picky about brand name for anything? Probably for some things, but nothing's coming to me right now. Do elevators freak you out? Yes. The idea of getting stuck freaks me out. Are you still in touch with your best friend from high school? No. Have you ever visited any celebrity gravesites? No. How do you feel about archaeology? I think it's very fascinating. How do you find new music to listen to when you want it? YouTube recommendations, usually. What is your favorite thing to do on The Sims? I only played the animals one, in which case I loved breeding them to see the babies, haha. Do you have any tattoos? Ye boiiiii If yes, is there any meaning behind them? All of them. If no, do you want any? What would you like? N/A Have you dyed your hair more than once (and different colors)? Oh yeah. Which hair color you’ve had has been your favorite? Red. Your favorite place to be aside from your home? Sara's house, haha. If you were stupid-rich, would you ever actually want a mansion? Nah, I don't need that much space. And I'm not really into hiring a maid or something to clean the place. Did you ever sit alone at lunch in school? Yes. I was usually too shy to "force" (as I saw it) my way into other's space, so I really only sat down with friends or acquaintances if I was asked. What is your least favorite beverage? Probably cranberry juice. Do you shave up past your knees (if you shave your legs)? If I shave, yes. Any old home remedies you use when you’re sick? Just sipping ginger ale. Do you like fruits or vegetables more? Fruit, definitely. Who was your last text message from? Sara. What was your first job? Sales associate at GameStop. Do you live near any volcanoes? Nope. Where does your best friend live? Illinois. How many people have you truly fallen IN love with? Two. Has anybody ever called you a tease? Yes, but only by my then-boyfriend, and he only meant it playfully. What about kinky? No. What’s your favorite bird? Probably barn owls. Have you ever been high? No. Who did you last confide in? My mom. How many keys are on your keychain? One. Where was your mom born? New York. Do you know how to tap dance? I took many years of clogging classes, which is very, very similar; the shoes are just a bit different to create a unique sound. Have you ever seen your siblings naked? My little sister and I used to bathe and take showers together as little kids, plus she is literally shameless and has walked into the living room looking for a towel after a shower on many occasions, haha. I actually don't think I've seen my older sister naked. When eating string cheese, do you dive right in or just peel it? I don't like string cheese. Do you have your own personal water jug? If so, where did you buy it? No. Well, Mom bought me one, but... we did NOT realize it was HUGE. We returned it, so now I don't have one. How do you get rid of your hiccups? Just wait it out and suffer. I've tried every trick in the book, and none work for me. Do you know how to take screen shots on your computer? Yes. When you sneeze, do you sneeze into your hand or the inside of your elbow? Into the crook of my elbow. What’s your ultimate favorite bagel? I really just enjoy a plain 'ole bagel with cream cheese. When you have chocolate, do you eat it room temperature? Or are you like me and stick the bar into the fridge first? I like it at room temperature. Are there any constellations you recognize just by looking at them? Well, I know either the Little or Big Dipper when I see 'em, but idk which is which. I just know one's upside-down. Which insect do you find the most beautiful? Butterflies. Moths can be gorgeous, too. What was the last thing you got very excited about? Someone is FINALLY adopting the dog this weekend. Mom and I have lost every ounce of patience with her. The family that wants her though came to visit, and they all adore her. Which Disney villain is your favorite? Probably Scar. I think he was pretty sly, plus he had a bangin' song, lol. Have you ever had a bedroom with a specific theme? Not really. Just filled with stuff I like. If you had to design a room with a theme, what theme would you choose? I would love to make a like, woodsy sort of room, if that makes any sense. Maybe like pine green walls with wooden accents and realistic decor. It'd be SUPER cool if I could build like one of those catwalk things along the walls that look like branches for my cat to maneuver along. Have you ever given money to a homeless person? No, I'm too distrustful. Have you ever designed your own Facebook timeline cover? Yeah. What is one site that closed down that you wish would come back? I used to really enjoy Dragons of Atlantis on Kabam! or whatever it was called. It transferred to a phone app that I have, but it's just not as fun. The dragons were super cool, and the artwork in general was just dope. If you have a partner, have you ever had to sleep in separate beds? If you don’t, how would you feel if a future partner wanted separate beds? I sometimes worry my future partner and I will have to have separate beds because of my nightmares/terrors that frequently cause me to lash out and basically attack the air. Sleeping separately would feel weird to me, but I'd far rather not hurt my partner. Hopefully, getting a CPAP mask really will help me. Though I don't imagine cuddling with one is comfortable. ;-; Or does having a partner even matter to you? I mean I want a partner someday, so I wouldn't say it "doesn't matter" to me, but it's not something I'm currently pitching a fit over not having one. How many languages can you count to a hundred in? Two. What is something you are skeptical about? The government lmao. What is something you find absolutely unethical? The meat industry, honestly. You look into it and it's just... disgusting, what they do to animals. I wish I could go without meat, I really do. What is something unethical you would not mind doing? Uhhhh? Is there a murder case you find absolutely fascinating? Okay so have you ever heard about or seen that video of a woman acting all strange inside an elevator at some hotel? Well, she disappeared after leaving that elevator, and some time later, residents complained about the water quality. They found her fucking body in one of the water tanks (I think that's what they're called?), and no one could explain how someone could have 1.) gotten up there and 2.) gotten the tank open to put her corpse inside. It's fuckin weird and creepy. What is an unusual item somebody you know owns? No idea. What’s the oldest TV-show you like? When was it made? Uhhh I don't know which is older, but I love I Love Lucy and The Munsters. Have you ever won a trophy for something? If so, what was it for? Yeah, sports and academic stuff. Have you ever been interviewed to a newspaper? If so, what was it about? No. Do you have a mug with your name/initials on it? No. Have you ever designed your own mug? No. Have you ever gone mud riding? No, that is not my definition of fun. I don't like being dirty. Have you met somebody that you want to spend the rest of your life with? Yes. Who was the last male you talked to? Does he have facial hair? My psychiatrist, and he does. Have you ever dressed up as a Disney character? Which one? Not to my recollection. Have you ever played chess? If so, are you good at it? No. If I wanted to buy you a chocolate bar, what kind should I NOT get? Don't get anything with coconut.

[hoardcloneheadcanons]

The Season 1 Villain: Mr. Blackwood

Summary [ A time travelling Martin Blackwood accidentally bullies his past counterpart and a young Jonathan Sims into getting together in order to gang-up on him]

 Yesterday Is Here is a time-travel fix-it fic of the Magnus Archives by CirrusGrey found on AO3 that I highly recommend. It helps emotionally cope with the tragedy of the actual series and it’s very well written.

I have my own ideas on what would happen in the fic if the time travel went slightly different and Martin showed up first, which now lives rent-free in my head as an AU to an AU. I’m hoping by writing it down I can free myself of it’s grip over me. If you don’t want spoilers for the fic, or seasons 1-4 of the Magnus Archives, stop here.

 In the fic Jon and Martin from the Archives have been married and survived the apocalypse together. Both use the Helen’s doors to travel back in time to season 1 of the Magnus Archives and prevent most of the tragedies from happening. Jon uses his spooky Archivist Powers to threaten Elias, extorting him for money and preventing the appocolypse. And both Martin and Jon dispose of the main villains of season 1 and 2.

But some shenanigans happened in Helen’s doors that make it so Jon shows up first and Martin doesn’t show up until two months later. Here’s my idea of what would happen if those positons got reversed.

-The Archival Staff call Future Martin Mr. Blackwood to differentiate him from their present-day Martin. I will also be doing so, from here on out.

-Jon is, of course, skeptical, and keeps insisting that this must be some long lost brother of Martin’s who is trying to scam them (Or even his father, despite Mr. Blackwood not looking much older than Martin). Mr. Blackwood proceeds to list small intimate details about each of them (how they take their tea, things that happened their last birthday. Stuff that would be very essentially Martin to know) but also sounds very impatient the entire time. He does not have time for Jon’s feigned skepticism and denial and does not hide it.

-It becomes clear very quickly to the Archival staff that Mr. Blackwood is a lot meaner than Martin. He doesn’t make tea for people unless he’s trying to corner them to talk to them, He’s willing to kill spiders rather than release them. Murder doesn’t seem that out of the question for him. And while both Martin and Blackwood are big people, Matrin Hunches and keeps his voice soft and tries to seem smaller. Blackwood does none of that and will push his way through people and/or loom sometimes.

-As a result Tim starts jokingly referring to him as the Anti-Martin. When Mr. Blackwood starts mentioning that there should be a Mr. Sims showing up, Tim insists on making a list of traits that he bets  Mr. Sims will have based on him being an “Anti-Jon”. The traits include: Wearing only bright colors, not-giving a fig about archive policy, believing all the statements (even the dumb ones), smiling, being nice to Martin, being social and (on a day where Jon was being particularly annoying) being cool.

-A few of them are totally off the mark, but many of them are actually frighteningly close to the truth.

-He ropes Sasha into it too. They decide together that Sims and Blackwood have a one-sided relationship where Sims is absolutely besotted and Blackwood either barely tollerates him or is seducing him for his Head Archivist pay.

(It’s funny because Jon isn’t making much more than any of the Archival Staff)

-Blackwood is fairly nice to Sasha who is reasonable and listens to relevant threats. Tim appreciates him for confirming and advancing the research he’s done on Robert Smirke and the Circus. But Martin and Jon hate him. He bullies them both in different ways.

-Blackwood keeps trying to convince his younger self to grow a spine, make some boundaries. He keeps trying to tell him that he can’t fix things by being nice to everyone. Martin does not appreciate it.

-Mr. Blackwood will occasionally talk like Martin’s Mum and it makes it hurt more. Not exact sentiments or sentiments but familiar phrasing and tones. Blackwood doesn’t know he’s doing it.

-Meanwhile Blackwood takes away all the “real” statements from Jon (the ones that won’t record on the computer) and spreading them out amongst the archive staff. He insists that reading them will turn Jon into an eldritch creature that feeds on human trauma and gives people nightmares. Jon thinks this is a load of absolute bull. (If you must read them, Jon, at least don’t read them outloud. Type them up or something. Don’t be stupid.)

-Jon’s the type of person who needs to know and asks all the uncomfortable questions, so having someone take away the only real information bothers him. Even if Tim, Sasha and Martin have the information it still bothers him to not know.

-Jon is also really insecure about deserving his job, and desperately trying to prove himself. So having a man burst in and tell him how to do his job stings.

-Mr. Blackwood also isn’t delicate when pointing out Jon’s skepticism is dumb. He says all the things Martin thinks but is too polite to say.

(”I’m sure there’s a very natural reason for Carlos Vittery to be wrapped up in spider webs upon his death”

“Are you serious? Jon, if you keep up this ridiculous denial you’re going to walk yourself right into something’s mouth just to prove a point. Or worse, send someone else into it. And you of all people should know supernatural spiders are dangerous.

“What do you mean, I of all people?”

“I think you know what I mean, Jon.”)

-Jon and Martin actually end up hanging out because they bond over their mutual dislike of Mr. Blackwood.

-Jon defends Martin agains Mr. Blackwood and vice-versa.

-The first time it happens, it’s Jon defending Martin and Mr. Blackwood acts surprised.

-(I don’t know why we should trust you. Even if all this supernatural nonsense is true there’s no reason we should take you’re word on how it works! You barge into the archives telling everyone what to do, fear mongering with tales of secret societies trying to cause the apocalypse, you upset Martin all the time “for his own good, you-”

“-wait, wait wait- Martin?” “When did you start caring about Martin?”

“What do you mean? He’s one of my archival assistants, of course I care about him.”

“Jon, you bully him more often than I do.”

“I-No I don’t.”

“You make it very clear what you think of his work and competence, Jon. And you send him to all the worst assignments. He let’s it happen because he knows he’s not the best at research, and he knows you’re under pressure from Elias, and he really tries not to take it personally, but it hurts him Jon. It builds up and it hurts him, even if he never says it does. So yes, forgive me if I think you’re being a bit hypocritical.”)

-Jon apologizes to Martin after that and really tries to be nicer because he does not like the idea that he’s as bad as Mr. Blackwood. He watches what he says around Martin a lot more closely after that, and keeps an eye on Martin’s reactions.

-Jon will tell Martin that he thinks he’s nothing he’s like Mr. Blackwood. He doesn’t see how they could be the same person. Martin is so caring, and helpful, and kind, and warm, and Blackwood isn’t. Jon is so wrapped up in his frustration that he does not know Martin is blushing as he says this. Martin suddenly has to go make a cup of tea. Right then.

-The next time it’s Martin defending Jon against Blackwood. Blackwood is happy that Martin is starting to assert himself but is exasperated that it’s only occuring because of his own failed attempts to get the archive staff to trust him. He suddenly wants his own Jon to come back so badly so he can tell him how ridiculous this entire situation is. So they can laugh together at how Blackwood advanced their younger counterparts’ relationship progress by at least 3 years by accidentally becoming the villain of their story, so Jon can tease him about it.

-The third time it’s Jon once again defending Martin, saying that Blackwood went too far, that he sounds like Martin’s mother and he made him cry. Mr. Blackwood realizes that, yeah he does absolutely sound like his mum and he has to leave and reasses his actions. He hadn’t realized he was picking up her specific way of critisizing-well-himself. It’s just how he talked to himself in his own head- which- well- which wasn’t great.

-Jon is so surprised that he managed to actually get one-up on Mr. Blackwood that he takes everyone out for drinks and insists on paying. Which is a nice distraction for Martin. 

-It also, Blackwood notices, means Jon is getting closer to his archive staff and hanging out with them. It gives him a bittersweet hapiness. He’s so happy that they’re all closer in this timeline, that he managed to force Jon into socializing and Martin and Jon to get close. But he realizes he did it by being the outsider and interloper that they’re defending against, and he’s not quite part of this new group of the archive staff. He’s happy for them, just lonely. Even Sasha and Tim, who he gets along with more than Jon or Martin, are wary to trust him. He’s not telling them everything. He has to fight against Elias without the aid of spooky Eye powers and he’s unsure of when Elias is listening, so he’s not mentioning everything. He’s not telling them who killed Gertrude Robinson. He’s being evasive on the reasons he does not trust Elias, and about what power succeded at causing the apocalypse.

-As the days go by with no sign of His Jon/ Mr. Sim’s coming back his old connection to The Lonely intensifies and he becomes able to turn invisible and go by unnoticed again. The archive staff notice that he becomes spookier and sadder and- slightly less human and it decreases their trust in him.

[Check My Blog for a Part 2. I am writing this in one sitting, but this particular document has become long enough.]

[thenonbinarydetective]

Puppy Love

Forgive me, but I combined two request into one. It happened on accident, cause I realized the prompt could fit the situation I get Frank and Joe into, but don’t worry @ladylindaaa it’s a fun fluffy situation. Also based off of my sims game. This is also an apology for those I hurt after posting Catch of the Day

Warning: Cute dogs and cute boys

Word Count: 2,340

Prompt: “Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

Summary: After a stakeout, The Hardy Boys convince their family to adopt two dogs. The responsibility ends up a lot greater than Frank and Joe originally thought. 

Enjoy!

Joe Hardy sat slumped in the seat of their car. Chin in hand, his bored stare remained fixed on a very interesting brick wall.

Frank on the other hand was taking the stakeout much more seriously, His gazed remained fixed on the jewelry store. “Would you pay attention?” He smacked his brother’s arm.

“To what? Nothing’s happening!” Joe defended himself, sitting up.

“We promised Dad.” Frank reminded his younger brother. Earlier that same evening Fenton Hardy had asked his sons to take his place in watching Alyssa’s Jewels for a few hours until he could take over. They had nothing better to do, so they agreed. Joe just didn’t expect for time to move so slow. Usually, the brothers wait for a few minutes, have a quick conversation, and then boom! They get attacked by the criminal. They either win or knocked out (or both). They probably shouldn’t be used to that.

“It’s not like you’re the perfect watchmen.” Joe snapped back. He reached out to grab Frank’s phone, “Who are you texting?” Frank contorted his body away from him. They glared at each other, both knew that his brother wouldn’t back down. Within seconds they started wrestling.

Joe, being the stronger Hardy Boy, soon overpowered his brother. He laughed triumphantly, waving the phone away from his brother, who had pressed against the other door with his foot. “Now let’s see who you’ve been texting.” His joy vanished after he looked at the notifications and saw practically all of their friends. “You’re in a group chat with Nancy, Bess, and George! Since when did you group chat anyway?”

“Since tonight, and they’re on a stake-out too.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know that because SOMEONE didn’t invite me!”

“I’m sorry. I’ll add you to it.” Frank apologized. The street lamp illuminating the hurt look on Joe’s face made him look pathetic.

“You made me sit in silence for 45 minutes, while you texted our friends. Some brother you are.”

“Stop yelling.” He rubbed his temples, “I invited you isn’t that- Wait what’s that?” He looked past his brother into an alleyway next to the store. There was movement behind the garbage can. Joe saw it too. The brothers leaped out of the car, but quietly as they could so they wouldn’t draw attention to themselves. They pressed themselves to side of the nearest building.

A man dressed in all black approached the store, entering the alley. The boys looked at one another, someone else was in the alley. Would they catch the criminal before they did? The brothers asked each other without saying a word. They bolted forward, not willing to risk it. As they came closer, they heard a deep growl.

The man came shooting out, chased by a black blur. It shocked Frank and Joe as the chase ignored them. The man ducked into the next alley. The blur nipped at his heels. When the boys entered the scene, the man pressed himself against the wall, a large black dog snarled at him. A bag overflowing with jewelry spilled on the ground.

“Get this crazy mutt away from me! I’ll turn myself in, I swear!” The man pleaded. He looked seconds away from wetting his pants. The Hardy Boys both tried to hide their laughter and failed. “Hey it’s not funny! This dog is crazy.”

While the brothers knew how serious dog attacks could be, the sight of the nervous thief was a little funny. Frank moved forward, keeping the vicious dog in sight as he walked so he’d be prepared if the dog changed targets. Strangely enough, it didn’t. He felt more at ease and walked closer. The thief let Frank tie up his hands with his belt.

At that, the black dog stopped and left the alley. Joe checked to see if his brother was as confused as he was about the dog’s behavior. Frank was. Joe left in time to see the dog return to the other alley. Cautiously, the younger Hardy followed.

He had lost the dog when he entered. “Hey.” He gently called, pairing that with a whistle. The dog poked his head out from behind a dumpster. So did another dog. The other is white with brown splotches of varying sizes. The black dog didn’t seem as scary now. His big brown eyes searched Joe adorably. He was trying to figure out why this human was looking down at him.

“I’m a friend, don’t worry.” He promised, kneeling a few feet away. He put out his hand for the dogs to sniff. The dogs stood still, as if they were deciding if they should trust him. “C’mon. Come here.” His voice raised a few octaves when he said this. The brown and white dog walked towards him. Sniffing then nuzzling his hand, it looks like Joe had made a new friend. The black dog came closer, but wasn’t as friendly.

A couple minutes later, Joe exited the alley with two furry friends. An officer loaded the thief into the back of a police car, while Frank watched. He must have seen his brother out of the corner of his eye, because when he left the alley he immediately broke off. “Who are they?”

“Well, this is the dog that chased that guy, and this is his friend.” Joe smiled.

“Joe we can’t keep them.”

“Why not? This guy can chase criminals better than we can. Dad will love him.” He patted the black dog’s head. He accepted this praise with a strong, determined look. It was oddly human for a dog, Frank didn’t know if he liked it or was freaked out by it. “And this little sweetheart is so adorable.” Joe bent down and hugged the second dog. “She’s perfect for mom.”

“I don’t know Joe.” Frank shrugged. He knew their aunt wasn’t very fond of dogs, even if their parents were. It would take a lot of convincing to let her keep them. His heart melted at the sight of them. They were making it very difficult to say no. In the back of his mind, he started listing the chore he would promise to do for his aunt for the dogs.

Joe laughed, he realized just how weak his brother was in the presence of these two spectacular mutts. His broad, lopsided grin hid how much he wanted to jump for joy. He was finally getting the dog he’s always wanted.

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

———————————————————————————————————

“This is the worst that can happen.” He answered a month later. He knew he shouldn’t have said that. He always regrets it when he says that.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Dude, Aunt Trudy’s gonna kill us.” Joe raked his fingers through his blond curls.

“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?” Frank raised an eyebrow at his younger brother.

“No, it’s not extreme at all. That the good tablecloth, Frank! The good tablecloth!” He was shaking his brother by the shoulders. Who then shrugged off his brother’s grasp.

They looked down at what Joe was being dramatic about. The brown and white dog, now named Laika, had made a nest in the hall closet with the dreaded good tablecloth. Along with that, Frank saw his dad’s old coat, two of his mother’s dresses, a few of his brother’s shirts, and some of his own. He didn’t understand why the dog used clothes and a tablecloth for her puppies, but Frank wasn’t a mother.

Laika continued to press the various items together until she decided it was comfortable enough. She laid down and glanced up at her owners. Completely wrapped up in the joy of impending motherhood, she didn’t realize the stress she was causing them.

“Aunty only takes it out for special occasions and this is pretty special.” Frank chuckled quietly, squeezing himself into the small closet so he could comfort Laika. He stoked her head, which she thanked him for by licking his hand. Eventually, he couldn’t ignore the feeling of the daggers that Joe was glaring at him with. “What?”

“I’m stressed and you’re making jokes.” Joe threw up his arms in frustration. “I never agreed to the Freaky Friday switch.” He slid down the wall, utterly defeated.

“Neither did the characters in Freaky Friday.” The brunet brother reminded, pointing at his brother. “Switch with me, I’m gonna go call the vet.” He eased himself out of the closet and walked into the kitchen.

Joe took his brother’s place as a doggy midwife. As he traced little shapes in her fur, he thought back to only three hours before when he promised his parents that they would have a boring night so they could have some alone time. Unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Hardy rarely got the time for a date night. Right about now they were probably rushing home from that really fancy restaurant after getting the text about Laika.

Ranger, the black dog and probably Laika’s baby daddy, howled from Laura’s office. The boys put him in there once they realized Laika was in labor. He continued to be vocal about how much he hated the situation he was in. Joe didn’t like it much either.

Laika whined, Joe felt bad for her. She knew that. She nuzzled Joe, trying to comfort him even though she felt so terrible. He tried to do the same for her. Trapping them in an endless cycle of love and sadness.

“I’m sorry girl, I don’t know what’s taking the vet so long.” He said as an effort to make her feel better.

Frank returned, “Dr. Cohen said he’s having car trouble and just to keep her comfortable.” He sat against the opposite wall. The brothers sat in silence. Laika let out an occasional whine while Ranger yelled things that were probably uncomplimentary in dog. This lasted for a few minutes.

“Tonight blows.” Joe sighed, “First you cooked dinner, then the washing machine explode, I forgot to write that essay, and now Laika.” He pulled his knees to his chest and by the end of his sadness list, his head was buried in his arms.

Frank ignored the jab at his cooking skills and the fact that it was Joe who broke the washing machine. He enjoyed teasing his brother like every other sibling in existence, but it was hard to see him so upset. “I’m sorry about dinner, we fixed the washing machine, you can write the essay later, and Laika will be fine.”

The doorbell rang, causing both brothers to jump to their feet. Frank reached the door first and opened it. Outside stood Dr. Cohen with his vet bag in hand. Behind him was his son and close friend of the Hardys, Phil.

“She’s in the closet, Dr. Cohen.” Frank gestured. The vet nodded and followed him over. Joe and Phil lagged a bit, neither wanted to crowd the patient.

“Is that your Aunt’s good tablecloth?” Phil asked, peering into the nest.

“Don’t remind me.” Joe grumbled.

“You remember that?” Frank raised his brow at his short friend.

“Of course, she takes it out for every party.” Phil said as a matter-of-factly.

“Well, this party already has another guest.” Dr. Cohen announced. The three boys noticed the little puppy that had been born while they were distracted. “Still waiting on a few others.”

They heard a car door slam from the driveway, followed by the rushing tap of high heels on stone. Laura Hardy threw open the door, “Is she alright? Did we miss anything?” She asked breathlessly.

“Only one mom. Another’s coming any minute.” Frank shuffled over and gave his mother a quick hug, his brother did the same.

“Oh, good.” She smiled, then pushed past her sons to see her dog. They weren’t surprised, Laura and Laika formed a close bond over the past month. Frank and Joe found it a little unnerving that so much of their mother’s attention wasn’t on them. They had no doubt that she was fretting the whole way home. When their father finally joined them, his tired face only confirmed their theory.

“Oh this one looks like Ranger.” She cooed.

It was a long night, but by the end of it Ranger and Laika were the proud parents of seven puppies. Dr. Cohen and Phil said their goodbyes and left the family. Ranger sat by Fenton, finally freed from Laura’s office. He watched his children curiously.

“I’m not telling Gertrude.” Fenton spoke up.

“Coward.” Laura teased.

“Why can’t we just let her find out for herself when she comes home from her vacation?” Joe asked. The rest of his family considered this.

“It’s gonna be pretty obvious when she opens her craft room and finds them.” Frank added. They laughed before falling into a happy lull. The family felt exhausted, but the puppies were too cute to ignore.

“We’re not gonna get rid of all of them, right?” Joe piped up. They had a big house, but it wasn’t big enough for nine dogs and five people. “Because I really like this one, and I think he likes me. Isn’t that right, Bear?” He held up a puppy with a similar coloring to Laika.

“I kinda like this one.” Frank quietly referred to the black puppy sleeping on his lap. “I’m gonna call him Scout.”

Laura smiled at her husband and wrapped her arms around his waist. She sweetly looked up at him and said, “I think we should keep two. Ranger and Laika would be so upset if we gave all their babies away.” The boys knew their father was too weak to resist. She knew how to get what she wanted from him.

“You’re right.” He conceded. His wife and sons cheered. Fenton raised his hand, signaling that he had more to say. He met his wife’s eyes and said, “But only if you, my dear, tell Gertrude about the puppies and the tablecloth.”

Laura begrudgingly agreed to these terms. Mentally, she prepared herself for the ranting and raving she would have to endure. Her sons were happy. That’s all that mattered.

[bumblekscript]

from BlueTidalGamer to Kyle: Do you have any favourite games that you'd consider a guilty pleasure?

Questions answered by Ian Flynn and Kyle Crouse

Episode link

Kyle: Well, I don’t really feel guilty about them, like

Ian: [laughs]

Kyle: is that a thing? Like, I understand that maybe I should guilty about them but I don’t

Ian: Close enough

Kyle: Sure, I mean, I don’t feel guilty about liking Sonic Heroes [laughs] I will acknowledge that it has massive problems, but I still like it and that’s fine, I’m fine with it, and so, I think a lot of it has to do with the music, but I also do find it kinda fun, it’s a bit repetitive having to play through the same stages with similar character multiple times in order to finish it, but on that same token, it’s actually kind of relaxing in a way, in that way, there’s definitely frustrating points, the special stages are hot garbage, they’re not good, they’re not good, they are not well done, the final battle against Metal Overlord as Super Sonic, no. It’s completely broken, I still don’t understand how it’s even supposed to work, because there’s so many like, invisible walls everywhere and it’s just, that’s completely broken, but I don’t know there’s still something about it that’s appealing to me, I like it better than Sonic Adventure 2, which is probably going to make people very mad to which I say

Ian: Sacrilege

Kyle: To which I say, come at me bros. I also love me some Warriors slash Musou game oh ho, they are so fun, just slaughtering down complete armies as a freaking like god, is awesome, it is so awesome, it is so cool I love them, especially Hyrule Warriors, which is funny, because I’m not like a huge Zelda fan, I like Zelda games but I’ve never been like super into them, and I’ve not played all of them, but for some reason Hyrule Warriors just hits me right perfectly, because even though I haven’t played many Zelda games, I’ve seen and played enough of them to know a lot of what they are referencing, so I can still appreciate it for the references, and because I like Zelda character, Zelda characters are great, I just you know, the games I don’t necessarily sit down and play all that often, so

Ian: I think the magic balance with Hyrule Warriors is that it’s indulgent in all the right ways, you are playing with the world’s best written fanfic, and you are given the power of a god to just lay waste to all the bad guys, until you are given the power of a god to lay waste to the good guys, so that you can lay waste to the bad guys again, as the good guys again, and it’s so good

Kyle: The fact that almost everybody is playable in some form or another, whether they’re good or evil is brilliant, it’s perfect, I can’t wait for the next one, I can’t wait for the age of calamity it’s gonna to be so

Ian: We’re not gonna get into that topic, or we’re nor going to finish the show, because I’m gonna go on and on and on and on and on

Kyle: Yep, that might be something we have to break out the actual episode numbers for, to talk about at some point

Both: [laugh]

Kyle: I also do have a soft spot for the Dead or Alive series, the fighting game specifically, I’ve not played the dating sims, but the fighting games, I like them, they’re silly, it’s a very just kinda stupid, fanservice-y game, but it actually has some pretty good fighting mechanics too, so it’s not all just silliness, I still stand by Super Princess Peach, I think it’s a pretty good, fun little platformer, people criticize it because it’s a game staring a woman focused on emotions, but here’s the thing, the whole point of the game is that Peach is the only one who can control her emotions, no one else can, Mario and everybody else is overcome with emotional strife, and she has to go out and be the one to, who actually has control over her emotions and be the one to save the kingdom, so, I think that’s a nice kinda twist of an old school formula, Golden Axe: Beast Rider, I like just because it’s stupid, I like stupid games, that’s my thing, apparently, same with Lollipop Chainsaw, it’s completely stupid, Metal Wolf Chaos is the same way, they’re just dumb, they’re just dumb fun, and that’s all I want in video games a lot of the time, just something to turn your brain off and have completely stupid things happening, that’s really all I want in life, really, because I’m sick of my brain [laughs] so, those are some of my guilty pleasures, I suppose, I’m not guilty about them, but you know. What about you Ian? what are some games you might, you enjoy but not necessarily

Ian: Going to admit to it?

Kyle: Going to admit it, I suppose

Ian: Ah shoot, I haven’t really thought about it because the question was posed to you, I didn’t think about it

Kyle: [laughs] Well, you know I always turn it around back on you sometimes

Ian:  [laughs] I guess I feel a little dirty with just how much time I’ve spent on Tales of Crestoria, which is a very buggy gacha, and I mean, gachas in and of themselves kinda feel dirty because it’s a thinly veiled attempt to get your money, some of them are better about the gameplay than others, but you know that down at the bottom of it, they want you to spend money to get thing, I like getting the thing, I’ve never been suckered into spending money on it, and crestoria itself is, the bugginess aside, Kyle, the game wouldn’t load half the time when they launched because of a bug in the chat system

Kyle: [laughs]

Ian: You literally couldn’t go to the guild management screen because it would try to load the guild chat and break the game, it was, anyway

Kyle: Sounds like a mobile game to me, especially newly launched mobile game

Ian: And the drop rates are just atrocious, but I’m a fan of the tales of series, I’m really fond of the design aesthetic, the localization on the story is top notch, the music is solid, and who cares if most of the game is running on auto as I, you know, do something else, and just hit the button so I can get the thing, so I can level up the characters, so I can hit auto, so I can hit the thing and it’s completely a skinner box, but darn it, it’s a nice skinner box, I like the box, I press button, people do swingy anime thing, explosion, yay

Kyle: Sometimes you just need a nice boost of

Ian: Endorphins

Kyle: Yeah, sometimes, you just need a nice endorphin boost sometime you do, it’s fine, why do you think I like stupid games with dumb or no stories that are just button mash action, it’s the same kinda thing

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