#the relief when it was not phil was palpable

[air-conditioning-unit]

So I watched spy kids again recently(highly reccomend, a classic trilogy for a reason)

And I just saw a picture of Phil McGraw

AND WHEN I TELL YOU I THOUGHT FOR A SECOND-

I was genuinely *scared* for a moment that beloved childhood silly evil man was played by PHIL MCGRAW

^ Gave me stronger whiplash than the first time I saw this

[wolfythewitch]

ok so first of all I absolutely love the colors in the first one and the way the light falls across the picture it gives this like sense of hope as if you know this is the first light we’ve seen in a while and that’s just like visually so beautiful and I love it so much but then when it comes to the actual like photo The expression on Phils face like a longing and and surprise and joy and possibly a little bit of pain as he knows what’s to come but he’s happy. Looking at it you can feel like I’m seeing every beautiful memory before me just in that simple expression I’ve never seen someone expressed so much emotion in a still painting in all my years and I’m someone who used to frequent art museums and constantly longs to see beautiful emotion there’s so much complexity in that painting and the way the colors make you feel in the way you just know the passion the artist had and what the artist is trying to portray do you feel like you’re there do you feel like you want to see someone who you haven’t seen in a long time makes you miss those you’ve lost it makes you glad you have the ones you love It makes you want to love someone as much as this it’s beautiful it’s powerful and yet so simple it only took you a couple days to make but the impact it holds is stronger and more powerful and that feeling in surpasses and time space. It’s almost like you captured the human experience in a photo. Yeah it’s just been out for a server that has kind of died out and ended on a strange note but this is the only goodbye I ever want to see because it feels like a goodbye and it feels like a hello. And I’m gonna hold it forever and I’m gonna look at it probably save it on my phone and go back through my camera roll every so often just to give it a nice peek. I’m sending this anonymously because I’m embarrassed about it in fact if I didn’t send it anonymously you would probably recognize who I was because I love you art a lot and am always responding to it 😅 But I had to share this this made me feel super special and I couldn’t not share so thank you for your heart and for everything you do and for the passion you put into it and even your shit posts thank you never stop making art because there art you make it is absolutely beautiful

Awe man anon this made me smile so hard gssjdh I'm glad you like it AAAAA I'm glad the expression hits, I really like how the drawings turned out :DDD I reakly wanted the joy/relief to be palpable hehe

[at0micc0la]

A New Hairstylist in the Island

A/N: First of all guys I want to appologize beforehand my space bar is failing and sometimes

Chayanne was the one who gave Tallulah her first haircut, and who would blame her trusting the other kid, he is older AND her uncle and when he said "Trust me, I know what I'm doing" in the same tone he uses when he is going to protect her from mobs she truly believe her.

Phil was taking care of the potato farm when he suddenly came to notice that the house was really quiet, he started doing a small check list of what was out of place. The machine was working, there is no code nor Cucurucho near, Chayanne is helping with the potatos... wait... Chayanne is not even near the potatoes. The fear was palpable, throwing the potatoes to the side and screaming the kids names and running as fast ashe was able to, trying to fly if it's posible, once he was close to the house he saw Chayanne in front of the door, scissors on his hand and a fearful look, the kid ran inside, which made Philza ran faster, after living with 3 menaces to the world (all in different ways) he knew that look wasn't a good sign.

He opened the door slowly, preparing himself for the worst. The sigh of relief that left his mouth, he was expecting a broken arm or the house a mess just because of a playfight but right in front of him was Talullah in the middle of the room, teary eyes looking at him and a shy smile

"Do I look pretty, abuelito?"

Her hair was a complete mess, shorter strands and the hair all frizzy, she was touching with a hand a lonely braid that was longer than the rest of her hair

"The most beautiful girl in the room" he said while knealing down to the girl's level and hugging her, while throwing daggers to Chayanne, the moment the boy looked at his dad he threw the scissors to the ground and ran through the back door

"Let me send a picture to your dad so he can see your new style" Phil took his camera and tried not to laugh at the poor girl "Wait here I'll go outside to talk with your dad" The girl nodded and went to her room, where she started playing her flute

'Mate you will not believe this' read the message and the man added the picture, he couldn't help but laugh at the picture, maybe even a tornado would have left her less catastrophic than it is now, and the phone call made a minute later prove him right

"PHIL WHAT HAPPENED TO MY GIRL" the man voice was clear through the phone, Phil feared the kids where able to heat Wilbur rambling about how her hair was ruined and how much Tallulah loved her long hair

"C'mon man, you and Techno did way worse things than this"

"Yeah, but imagine I cut Techno's hair, I would no longer have a head" Ash's laugh was heard in the background while Wilbur keep on rambling possible scenarios in his hair

"Listen, is just hair it will grow out and I can ask someone here to cut her hair properly" Phil reasoned

"Don't ask Fit" the answer was so quick that the man wasn't able to process it in his brain til a few seconds laters just to laugh at the thought of a bald Tallulah

"Definetly not Fit, wait calm down, she is in her way here" Phil sat on the floor and handed the phone to the little girl, she sat next to him leaning into her grandpa

"Dad, did grandpa tell you?" Her voice was small, almost as if she sensed her father's disliked for her new haircut

"Yes darling, He sent me a picture and you look stunning, my love" the giggles were woth the lie to Wil

"I told uncle Chayanne I wanted my hair like you, dad" being away from eachother has been so hard the two of them "Miss you" tears touched the ground to become part of it

"Don't worry, I have a few night left here, you won't notice when I'm already there with you"

"Gotta go, we start in 3 minutes, love you Tallulah, take care of your grandpa Phil" he hanged before she was able to answer and there they sat, looking at the island.

[hermits-that-craft]

Read - A Dream SMP Fanfic

He opens his chests frantically, panic settling into his chest like a falling stone. It wasn’t at the hole he dug, nor at the spider spawner or the mine. Where could it be? 

That book has everything, his memories, his morals, what he did. How he betrayed L’Manburg and his new friends. His home. How he knew Tommy was alive the whole time. He can’t lose this book, he has to find it.

“It has to be somewhere in one of these.” Ranboo mumbles to himself, trying to keep the panic away. It doesn’t work, his voice shaking with fear. “Somewhere in one of these, c’mon.”

“Oh my god, you can’t do this. You can’t-” Ranboo cuts himself off as he looks through a barrel, shoving items around in it with a sinking feeling in his gut. “You can’t lose it. You can’t lose it.”

“Where did you put it, where?” Ranboo’s voice is desperate, fear creeping in. “Where could it have gone too.”

He’s panicking, flashes of his parents and pain and yelling are all he can picture. Were they real? Were they fake, imaginings of a past to make an excuse for why he left them? What’s real, whats fake anymore.

“Where could it have…” He trails off, climbing on top of a chest. “Where could it have been?”

“Well, there's nowhere else you went besides here, you went to the spider spawner and you went to there.” He reminds himself, trying to calm himself down as he climbs up the ladder. “I know, I know.”

He laughs breathlessly as he jumps off the ladder, opening the single chest on the floor. Ranboo mumbles a soft “Fuck” as it turns up useless. He was supposed to decorate the festival today. Instead, he’s chasing his memories. “This is not good, this is not good.”

“Oh,” Ranboo tears up, hurriedly brushing them out of his eyes as he searches through his home for that goddamn book. “C’mon its gotta be- Where did you put it?”

“Where did you put it?” He repeats to himself, anger following the despair. He stares angrily in a chest, as though the slime balls and worn leather boots will turn into the one thing he couldn’t lose. “Where did you keep it? Where did you keep it?”

“Can’t remember.” He feels himself tearing up again, ready to give up. He can’t remember, this isn’t fair. Why did he let it out of his inventory, when did he let it out? Desperation claws at his throat and Ranboo almost chokes as it threatens to consume him whole. “I can’t even remember where it is.”

“It’s gotta be somewhere. It’s gotta be somewhere.” Ranboo says, opening the double chest on the floor. It’s an awkwardly placed chest, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already checked it, but maybe a miracle will occur and it’ll be there. “Oh.”

There, sitting under some lily pads, is his book.  Do not read is carved carefully into the leather, a gift from Philza that Ranboo cherishes. Leather carving is not his strong suit, and when Phil saw his old book of memories he made him a new one just to see a better carving. Ranboo sinks to his knees in relief, holding the book in his hands. 

“That's good.” He mumbles, tears no longer welling in his eyes. “It’s all here. It’s all there, it’s all there.” Ranboo stands, flipping through the book to check for any damages. “Okay. It’s all there.” 

“You didn’t put it there.” He realises, horror setting in. “I know you didn’t put it there. You didn’t put it there -”

“You didn’t keep it in that chest,” he looks to the chest that only holds semi-useless garbage. “You didn’t keep it in that chest, that's not where you originally put it.” Horror, fear and confusion mix together in a sickening cocktail as he stares at the chest. “That's not where you originally put it. I know, cause I remember.”

“But how could it have moved?” He reasons with himself, trying to calm down. “There's no- there’s no way, how could it have moved?”

“How did it move?” The horror in his voice is palpable, fear eating at his chest. It’s not supposed to do that, books can’t do that, and this chest definitely did not have his memory book in it when he first searched his house. Blood roars in his ears, and then something sharp is forced into his neck.

A needle.

The contents of the needle are pushed into his veins as someone holds him down, and Ranboo struggles against them. He doesn’t feel any different as the needle is taken out of his neck, but he knows that it’s only a matter of time before whatever this is hurts him more. Ranboo flips over, shocking the man on top of him. Fundy. Fundy holds the needle in his hands, his tail swishing in long arcs. Ranboo stares at him with wide, horrified eyes.

“Why?” Ranboo’s voice is slurred, and his pupils dilate to the point where Fundy probably wouldn’t be able to see the colour in them. “Hurts.”

“You betrayed us, Ranboo.” Fundy says, and his voice softens. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I just have to get you to the little jail that Quackity built, okay?”

“Hurts.” Ranboo nearly slips into ender, the dull throb in his head beginning to feel as though it will split his head in two. “Hurts, ‘undy.”

“Just go to sleep.” Fundy’s tail stops swishing, and he kneels down, smiling darkly at the teenager. Then, the ground starts to spin as the world 

Goes

B

  L

   A

    C

      K

---

Ranboo shoots up, his hands chained together. His eyes scan the room around him, noting the purple shifting on the obsidian as light hits it from through the cracks in the iron door. The obsidian room is cold, and Ranboo opens his mouth to call for someone, before finding that he can’t. Panic, now an old friend, sets in as Ranboo struggles to force the muzzle off of his face. 

The door swings open, and Ranboo’s fear filled eyes meet Fundy’s cold ones. Tears prick in his eyes as Fundy gestures to someone outside the door, and Quackity enters with an axe. A whimper forces its way out of his throat as Ranboo spies the bloody aprons that the pair are wearing, though he can’t remember why he should be afraid. Why is he afraid, they’re his friends, right?

“Take the muzzle off him, Fundy.” Quackity says, the iron door screeching shut. Fundy nods, walking over to Ranboo without hesitation. He ignores the way that Ranboo flinches away from him, squeezing his eyes shut as the painful muzzle comes off. “Now, Ranboo, I expect you to answer us truthfully, why did you give Technoblade back his armour?”

“I don’t know.” Ranboo looks at the ground, a few stray tears burning his cheeks as they fall. “I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

The axe finds its home in his leg, and Ranboo lets out a strangled wail as the pain hits him. Quackity slams his head into the wall, and Ranboo sends a pleading look to an uncaring Fundy. Fundy said that he wasn’t going to be hurt, right? Why is he being hurt?

“Don’t lie to me!” Quackity yells, and Ranboo slams his eyes shut to avoid looking at his once-friend’s face. “We took you in, we gave you a home, and you betrayed us!”

“I don’t remember!” Ranboo pleas fall on deaf ears, but he still pleads his case. “Please, you have to believe me!”

“You wrote it down in your book!” Fundy protests. “If you don’t remember it, then why did you write it down?”

“So I would remember it, later!” Ranboo says, trying to fight down the panic. He’s injured and chained up, teleporting would do nothing to help him now. 

“Quackity, let him go.” Fundy’s voice is soft as he talks to the man, and Ranboo falls to the ground as his head is released. “Ranboo, you knew that Tommy was alive this whole time. Is there a reason that you didn’t tell us?”

Ranboo thinks for a moment, trying to gather his panicked mind into anything resembling a processable thought. Memories flit around the edges of his mind, dangerously close to being able to remember them, as though if he only reached out more he would be able to remember them completely. One comes to him, falling through his hands like sand, but he understands what past him had decided.

“I wanted to give him the ability to tell you all himself.” Ranboo says as he remembers. “I wanted to give him the choice, I think.”

“You aided Technoblade in making Tommy into his puppet!” Quackity growls, and Ranboo flinches away from the man.

“Isn’t Technoblade Tommy’s older brother?” Ranboo asks, the memory falling away like the tide. “They acted like brothers. I thought he would be happy there.”

“You’re a fool.” Quackity spits on Ranboo, who hisses at the water. “You and Dream will both have fun at the festival, you fucking bastard.”

And Quackity pulls the axe out of Ranboo’s leg, turning out of the cell as someone unknown opens the door to let him out. Green blood flows out of the wound, and Fundy winces, pouring a healing potion over the wound. Ranboo watches him, not knowing if he can fully trust the other hybrid.

“You said that I wasn’t going to get hurt.” Ranboo says quietly, trying to work out if Fundy had lied to him, or if he just didn’t know that Quackity was going to get violent.

“No, I said that I wouldn’t hurt you. I never spoke for the others.” Fundy sights, pushing his fluffy red hair out of his eyes. “I’m sorry he hurt you, but we had to find out information.”

“He threw an axe into my leg.” Ranboo feels sick, the feeling of bone shards finding their proper home in his legs not helping. “I thought we were friends.”

“We still are.” Fundy lies. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.” Ranboo leans against the wall, trying to ignore the world. Maybe this is all just a bad dream. Maybe he’s going to wake up soon.

“Did you lie to Quackity about not remembering why you gave Technoblade his armour back?”

“No.” Ranboo says immediately. “Why would I lie, he’s my friend. He was my friend.” Ranboo frowns. “Is he still my friend? I’m so confused.”

“Thank you.” Fundy says after a moment, scrutinising Ranboo. “I’ll make your case to Tubbo. I’m sure you’ll be pardoned - or at least put into house arrest or community service.”

Ranboo doesn’t quite believe Fundy, especially as he watches the fox hybrid leave. He believes Quackity’s prophecy far more than Fundy’s ideal.

Tagging @dark-angel1946 because they asked me to.

[since0202]

A monster lives here

Summary: Grace Alo is exiled to Forks, Washington after being kicked out of high school right before senior year. The recent passing of her father mixed with moving into a shared bedroom with her cousin was enough to shake up any teenager's life. But upon her return, a inevitable meeting forces her to confront who she's destined to become to protect the home and people she loves.

Status: Ongoing

Ao3; Fanfiction.net

Chapter 1: Move 

July

The summer before her senior year was when Principal Beeter officially signed off on Grace Alo's expulsion from Westmoore Highschool.

Probably for the best if she's being honest.

"Maybe I'll just get my GED and bounce off to the west coast and find something cool...there," Grace told her friend Margot between demolishing her second cherry slurpie.

"Right, because that totally works out for everyone," she mumbled back. "Imean, you didn't even do anything really. So what, one tiny trailer–"

"Can we not?" Grace interjected.

"Yeah, sorry." Margot cleared her throat and her eyes rolled up toward the sky.

"Mom's gonna kill me." Grace's eyes ran over the length of the highway. From below, she could just see the cars skirting the top of the overpass. She wished she was in one of those cars headed far from here.

Grace took one big deep breath and shook the nervous pain from her hands before grasping the handle and pushing open the front door.

Her mom was in the front hall, phone to her ear and back turned. This ought to be good. She could only make out the last bit of what she was saying:

"No, yeah, I really appreciate it. Thanks again, Charlie." Grace's mother hung up and held a hand to her eyes.

"Everything okay?"

She jumped and spun around to face her daughter, one hand still resting up on her forehead. At first, Grace thought she wasn't actually mad at her, but her body posture quickly tensed up, hackles raised, hands coming to rest firmly on her hips. Here it came.

"Grace, I have..no words," her anger was palpable. Grace had always been a little sensitive to those things, but this was new-her anger was rolling off of her in waves and making its way down the hall to crash over Grace.

"Mom, honestly, truly, I am so so sorry. I never thought-"

"No. You didn't. You never think." Harsh. Was she shaking or was that just a trick of the light?

"Mom, please. What can I do?" Grace was trembling now and a ringing sound was growing in her head. She could feel her fight or flight kicking in but had nowhere to run to. This was home.

She'd been in trouble before, but never like this. Sure, she'd never been kicked out of school before, but she was familiar with not having a plan. Not like this.

"Who was that on the phone?" she asked suddenly. Grace hadn't moved from her position from the door. The light backlit her mother's frame, the gold light washed over her, illuminating her auburn hair and pale skin. Her green eyes flashed up at me every so often with a look of determination and fatigue fazing through them. Her eyes were the only thing Grace inherited from her mother that she could place. her warm complexion, broad face, and silky black hair was reminiscent of her father. Every time her mom looked at her, she could see it and Grace would feel pain sweep through her all over again, even if it had lessened over time.

"That was your Uncle Charlie. You're moving to Forks." Her eyes were stern, but her lip quivered and she looked at Grace like it was the last time. They both knew it wasn't but her mom felt things harder than any person she'd known other than her dad. But, Grace could tell by the look on her face that she meant it.

"Wait, what?"

Charlie slammed the trunk shut as Grace settled into the front seat of his police cruiser. Sea-Tac was a bustling airport, but where she was headed was nowhere near this level of hopping. Even Oklahoma City blew Forks, Washington out of the water when it came to city centers.

Charlie settled into the driver seat and gave her a quick grin, which she tried to reciprocate quickly but it may have turned into a grimace. Grace turned her attention out the window as Charlie accelerated onto the road connecting to the highway.

"Bells is excited to see you." Charlie suddenly quipped. "And I got your registration at Forks High all squared away."

"Great, thanks." Grace kept her eyes on the deepening green protruding from the sidewalks, around bends, and over railings. They drove in uninterrupted silence for which she was thankful. Charlie was good that way-not too overbearing, didn't really hover, or force conversation. It was nice and she enjoyed the peace.

"Billy was asking about you." And just like that, the silence was gone. Grace cringed. "Billy Black. You remember him right?" A lump caught in her throat as she tried to keep her breathing even. Charlie waited a minute before continuing. "You know, he stopped by the house the day after I talked to your mom. Brought his son Jake with him, too. He's real excited that you're back in town."

Grace could feel him glance her way, mostly by the sound that his police blazer made as he looked over his extended right arm, but she didn't meet his gaze.

Billy Black.

She hadn't been back to the Quileute reservation in La Push in years. Even before dad died, Grace hadn't seen the familiar beach or sat in the quiet, dated homes, or sat around the communal fire at council meetings for awhile. But after her dad died, it became harder to go back. And once they moved to Oklahoma for his new job, her old life seemed to fade away. The reservation was always the same in her mind, like an old friend, waiting for her inevitable return. But it made her sad more than anything at this point. The comfort she once found there evaporated with her father's spirit. Going back now felt too hard.

Billy had called the house a bunch after we moved away. He was her dad's best friend. And then after her dad died, the cracks in his voice were too much to handle. So, she stopped picking up or taking the phone from her mom when he called and just let things dissipate-distance again, quiet.

The rain slicked roads sounded like a hushed whisper as we whizzed over the bridge and broke into the town of Forks. The small town was familiar too, but not home.

Charlie hadn't said much else on the drive in and once they pulled into the driveway of the Swan house, she breathed a sigh of relief and pushed the passenger door open, gulping in damp, warm air. The air was so much different here. It didn't feel like freedom, but possibility hung in the air more than in the dust of Oklahoma.

Grace hitched her backpack over her shoulder and trudged up the front steps—Charlie was close behind lugging her two heavy suitcases. She tried to reach for one but he shrugged her off with a chuckle and ushered her into the house.

When the door creaked open, Bella peeked her head around the corner in the kitchen, a warm smile breaking across her face.

"Grace!" she beamed and walked briskly across the small landing, lightly tripping over the threshold from the kitchen with a soft 'oh'. She wrapped her in a hug and Grace breathed a sigh of relief. This felt a little more like home. She smelled like soft lavender and some kind of sweet spice.

Bella and Grace grew close when she would visit the reservation and Charlie's during her two-week summers with him. When they weren't together, they wrote letters sporadically which evolved into weekly phone calls. Bella and Grace's mothers were still pretty close—they even road tripped through Oklahoma a few years ago and took them to the Phillbrooke Museum of Art. Grace hasn't laughed that much since then.

Grace had heard through her mom that Bella was moving to Forks so Renee could take off with Phil but Grace hadn't heard much aside from the occasional email here and there. Bella told her that she had met a guy and that things were "intense" but good. Grace had raised her eyebrows at that and vaguely remembered sending back something short in response. She did that a lot lately.

When they pulled back from the hug, Bella held onto the bottoms of Grace's elbows and smiled. Grace's thick plait had loosened on the flight and she felt scrubby.

"Come on, come upstairs." She clasped her hand in hers. Grace couldn't help but give a small smile as Bella tugged her up the narrow staircase and across the short hallway to her bedroom. Well, their shared bedroom now.

The size of the room wasn't bad. She had pushed her full bed up closer to the far window to make space and pushed her low dresser across from the foot of her bed. The small desk was shoved on the short wall directly to the right and Grace's bed sat under the large bay window that looked over the side yard and into the woods.

Her bed was covered in a soft, plush light green duvet with two fluffy pillows. her eyes rested on the black and white patterned blanket at the foot of the bed and her mouth drew into a hard line. Grace couldn't speak for a moment. "Is that…?"

"Yeah, Billy had Jake drop it off the last time he was here. A welcome home present, I guess. Hey, are you okay?" Bella pulled her hands from her back pockets and rested one on Grace's arm which prompted her to pull her face up and give a reassuring smile.

"Yeah, of course! This is great Bells, thanks." Charlie had been leaning against the doorframe, chaperoning her suitcases as Bella gave the tour.

She pulled open a little side closet that rested next to her bed. It held a small white chest of drawers that had little purple flowers painted on it.

"You can put your clothes in there." Bella gestured. Grace shot a look at Charlie.

"You painted those purple flowers yourself Charlie?" she teased. He held his hands up in surrender.

"Guilty." Bella and Grace laughed. She sat on the edge of her bed, fingers curling around the loose threads at the end of the blanket. Warmth rushed over her as she traced her fingers along the familiar pattern from her childhood.

This can work. She thought.

The next few days, Grace spent her time settling in, drawing, reading, and unpacking. Bella and Grace actually settled well into a routine together, sharing bathroom space, one showering while the other brushed their teeth, maximizing the bathroom space efficiently. Bella was a quiet sleeper, but Grace couldn't find it in her to sleep just yet, so she would stare up and above her head out the window trying to catch a side of the moon just waning out of sight.

Her third afternoon in Forks, Bella called from the bottom of the stairs.

"Come meet Edward!" she yelled. Grace skipped out of bed and shuffled down the steps, running a hand through her dark hair to try and tame it away from her face.

Bella had told her about Edward on her first night there. They'd stayed up too late, cross-legged on Bella's bed as she picked at pilling on her pajama pants and spoke in a hurried but elated voice about the Edward.

She had been right though, it sounded intense. While she winded her way through the last eight months, Grace couldn't help but feel bad that she hadn't been more engaged in her emails with her. Grace must have sounded pretty switched off to Bella. Faraway. She had picked up on none of this information about Edward in their email exchanges.

"He's really great. Unlike anyone I've ever met, honestly." she laughed a little at this and Grace tilted her head curiously.

"Oh yeah?" her eyes flitted onto her bed and back up toward Grace a couple times. She opened and closed her mouth as if to say something and landed on an exasperated sigh before smiling.

"Yeah, you're just going to have to meet him for yourself."

Color me interested, Bells. Grace thought.

When she landed on the bottom step, Grace looked to Bella who was standing next to a tall, pale, but generally handsome guy. Her brain hesitated over the word 'guy'. He seemed—felt—otherworldly somehow.

"Hey." she gave a tight lipped, but friendly smile. "I'm Grace, I've heard so much about you."

His eyes seemed incredibly kind and their golden hue was captivating but she still found herself tilting her head, as if she was trying to see around his eyes, golden orbs that wouldn't quite turn and reveal a hidden side. His eyes stayed focused on intently on Grace, undisturbed.

He dipped his head in response to her head tilt and smiled warmly (a hint of menace?) and held out a leather gloved hand.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Edward as Bella said. She's been very excited to have you here, so I've been really excited to meet you." Grace extended her hand to meet his.

As his hand closed around hers—light, but firm—Grace heard a low rumble, like thunder, building behind her left ear. The sound grew rapidly and felt like a building rush from a broken river coming up behind her to sweep her away. She was frozen in place thought and felt that rumble crowd into her head and start to vibrate violently.

From the top of her head, the rumble gained in speed and sound, pounding and pulling at her chest in a downward wave, crashing through her feet and rippling out around her. As the thunder left out of the bottom of her feet, the ripple manifested in a rolling wave under the floorboards, silent but moving away.

Grace audibly gasped but didn't pull her hand back, her eyes quickly scanning the floor for that outward ripple. The feeling had lasted less than 2 seconds.

"Did you see that?" her eyes shot up from the floor and landed on Edward. Grace thought she saw his lip curl ever so slightly. Bella looked unperturbed but her eyes widened in surprise.

"See what?" she looked around her. Grace took a beat and felt her heart settle as the aftershock of the ripple left her body, small vibrations smoothing into nothing.

"Nothing." she said shaking her head and letting her hand fall from Edwards. He looked nonplussed and raised his eyebrows comically at Bella.

"Well, Edward was gonna take me on a hike. Did you want to come?" Bella asked. Edward's face looked measured but somewhat surprised.

Something in Grace told her not to go.

"Nah, I'm going to check in with her mom and get some reading done." she replied, tucking some stray strands of hair behind her ear.

"Another bookworm. The likeness is growing." Edward said smoothly, a small smile peeling his mouth open and a glittering chuckle rolled out. Grace shrugged and wished them well and headed back upstairs to her room.

When she was safely behind the closed bedroom door, she let go of a full breath that caused her heart rate to spike. Her breathing became ragged and she felt an icy tingle snake slowly up her back. It felt like panic, but she wasn't sure why. Could it be what she felt when she shook Edward's hand? That was pretty weird, but it hadn't been followed by a sense of rising panic.

She put a hand over her chest and one on her stomach trying to take slow, smooth breaths like the counselor had told her. The one she'd seen when her dad died.

Focus on something still, calm your breath, calm your mind. In and out. In and out.

But every exhale came out as shuddering, then gasping breaths. Grace could feel her pulse quicken, beating against the skin of her wrist as if the blood was trying to burst through.

She collapsed onto her bed and her vision started to blur and go dark. It was over, this life, it had to be. This was it. But as the ceiling blurred in and out of focus, Grace wasn't upset or scared. As her vision faded, a warm coppery hand shimmered and reached out to her.

So she let go and reached back, relieved.

[dvp95]

quiet on widow’s peak (15)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, mystery, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.2k (this chapter), 49.6k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

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"So," Phil starts, and then pauses. He has no real idea how to say this.

His parents wait patiently for him to gather his thoughts and his mum mutes the telly. Having their undivided attention doesn't really help, it just makes Phil sweat a bit. He can't even bring himself to sit down, too wired with anxious energy as he is.

The video has only been live for a day, but it's already one of Phil's most popular. People are clamoring in the comments for more; demands for proof and simple curiosity about what could explain his experiences. He's already had a call from Martyn about the benefits of going back and doing an update, but PJ and Sophie have put their two cents in as 'absolutely not'. Chris offered a don't care and then asked for Phil's mum's lasagna recipe.

Phil wants to stay. It's not so much about the mystery, for him, but he's pretty sure his friends and maybe even his brother already know that. He's got his own reasons for not buying a train ticket the moment the video went live and asking his divisive audience what they wanted him to do. Yeah, he'd been sort of hoping for this outcome.

He's not sure if he wants to stay for himself, for the stagnation that being here allows him, or if he wants to stay for deep dimples and a nice laugh. Probably a bit of column A and a bit of column B, if he's honest with himself.

"I uploaded the video on this case," Phil tells his parents. "And there were a lot of, um, unanswered questions. Because of that whole thing with the footage."

"Phil," his dad says, exasperation in his voice already.

"And that means more money from one case," Phil presses on, "because I don't have many expenses here and the ad revenue was really good in comparison to my last five videos. Martyn really thinks I should look into this some more. I promise I won't be here for months or anything, I just - just give me another week. Please, I just need a week."

Money talk usually gets his parents to back down a bit, but they exchange a long look between them that convinces Phil it isn't going to work this time. His mind is already whirring quickly, trying to settle on arguments that it thinks might win him this battle. He considers telling them that this is more than just a video to him, that his whole future feels like it's resting on this one mystery, but he has a suspicion that they wouldn't be very impressed with that lack of foresight. He's ready to bring out specific numbers when their silent communication breaks and his mum gives him a small smile.

"Phil," she says, echoing his dad with a bit more warmth and a lot more pity. "You know we need to talk about this, dear, why don't you sit down?"

He shakes his head and shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets so they don't see the trembling. He's not scared, he's just anxious, and his brain and body are conspiring to make him feel like he's going to die if something unexpected happens.

Phil doesn't like change. He doesn't like seeing his childhood house like this, he doesn't like having his career up in the air, and he doesn't like the way his parents no longer trust him to do what's best for himself. The worst part is that he's not even sure they're wrong - Phil knows he isn't thinking logically right now, that Martyn is the one who even mentioned ad revenue while Phil was busy wondering how best to prove himself.

"I'm good," says Phil. He hopes that the nerves aren't as palpable as they feel to him.

"Okay, well," his mum says, briskly rearranging things on the coffee table like she has to be doing something with her hands while they talk about this. He's reminded a bit of Dan in the coffee shop, of Chris in the attic, and he wonders what it is about him that makes people need to split their focus like that. "Your dad and I have been talking."

"About how I need to grow up?" Phil offers, heart in his throat. It feels like he might laugh or cry at any moment. "Yeah. I've noticed."

"We're retiring, Phil," his dad says. That's not exactly news to Phil - he knows why they're selling the house, after all - but he bites his tongue and lets his dad speak. "We've understood the... unstable nature of your work for several years now, but we can't keep bailing you out whenever you have a bad month. You're a smart man and you've got a good degree, you should have something steadier under your belt."

"We love how creative you are," Phil's mum chimes in. It almost sounds like they've practiced this. Phil bites down harder. "And if you can channel that creativity in a way that isn't so dangerous, you'll have our full support."

Phil kind of wishes that he already had their full support, but he's already had this conversation with himself. The work isn't fun for him anymore, and the risk of getting arrested for trespassing isn't a low one. It's almost not worth it when he doesn't have that full-blown excitement about a case.

He doesn't need every haunt to have a nice ending wrapped up with a bow, but he does need to like the content he's producing. Otherwise there isn't any point to it.

Still. It sucks to hear.

Phil deflates a little bit. His automatic defensiveness that springs up whenever his parents start questioning his many bad decisions in life is fading to something that feels like bone-deep exhaustion. The anxiety is still there, thrumming under his skin, but there's nothing he can really do about that. The truth is that he's been feeling listless and defeated and trapped for a lot longer than he's been back in his parents' house. There's no real point in pretending otherwise.

"Give me a week," he repeats, quiet. "I want to finish this project either way, y'know? Just let me stay for the rest of this week and - and if it doesn't pan out, if I don't find anything new, then... then I'm done. I'll stop. I'll find something else."

"Are you sure, sweetheart?" his mum asks. The relief that pulls at her shoulders and her pursed lips is enough for Phil to be sure.

"Yeah," says Phil. He gives them a little shrug. "I'm comfortable with what I'm doing. I like making videos and exploring places with cool stories, and even talking to people has been getting better. But you're... you've got a point. I can't keep doing this forever. Not at the pace and quality I like to maintain. If this video goes well, it might help me break into a more diverse and less dangerous niche, which would make everyone happy, I think."

His dad nods at him. "Okay. You can stay until Sunday, because that's when we're going to the Isle. You can do whatever editing and post-production stuff you need to when you get back to Brighton. We'll expect a call when you know for sure what you're going to do, Phil."

Phil swallows, clenches his fists tighter in his pockets. "You'll be the first to know."

--

Nobody asks Phil to leave, but he can't stay in the aggressively neutral version of his parents' house and field their 'casual' questions about what sort of things he might want to do if YouTube doesn't work. He escapes to the city again, sending a message to Dan on the bus. Instead of asking if they want to hang out with him, he simply asks where he can meet them today. As if it's a given that they're going to be spending time together.

Maybe that's presumptuous of him, but Dan uses an exclamation mark when they reply, im at home!, so Phil thinks it's probably fine.

Dan meets him at the door this time, mid-ramble about the broken dishwasher in their flat as if social niceties are no longer expected of them. That suits Phil. He grins back at Dan and joins them in the small but tidy galley kitchen, letting Dan talk his ear off while they scrub at some discoloured Tupperware.

"Sorry," Dan interrupts themself, turning big and apologetic eyes on Phil like they've just registered that he's standing there. "I'm having a weird brain day. Bit all over the place, you know."

"That's fine," Phil says honestly. He smiles, because Dan doesn't look all that convinced by it. "No, really, I don't mind. I like listening to you talk."

The blush spreads across Dan's face too quickly for them to hide by turning away. They try, anyway, and Phil is left looking at their face in profile, turned down and rosy as it is. "Normally I at least break for breath. What's new with you?"

"Since two days ago?" Phil teases. Dan's dimple makes an appearance right before the smile splits their face, and Phil has to twist his own fingers together so he doesn't reach out and poke at it. He's still working through some stuff, still doesn't want to make any decisions about this without thinking it over carefully, but he's never been good at resisting temptation either. "Uh, not much. My parents are still on my case. I'm getting good feedback on the video, but you probably know that already."

"It was a good video," says Dan. They pause as they dry their big hands on an old tea towel. "I... appreciate you saying that stuff about me."

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true."

Dan meets his eyes again, almost stubbornly ignoring the colour in their own cheeks. "I can appreciate things that you think are true, dingus. Take the gratitude already."

Phil grins. "Never."

--

There are snacks after that and some video games that Phil loses spectacularly and some good ferret snuggles. As the afternoon turns to evening, Phil watches Dan rearrange some titles on the bookshelf as they chatter about one of their science-y classes, no longer self conscious about how much they're talking. He's sitting on Dan's soft, unmade bed with Pixel, who keeps rolling around in the sheets like she's trying to get comfortable.

Phil is already comfortable. It's hard for him to ignore that Dan's bedroom feels so much like a safe haven in the way that his old house no longer does.

At some point Dan gives up on whatever system they were trying to implement. They pick Tofu up off the floor and flop onto the bed with Phil, wiggling around in almost the exact same way Pixel had. Phil presses his lips together tightly so he doesn't laugh.

"I think that things can be improved," Dan is saying, and Phil tries to figure out if they're still talking about the environment or if Dan has picked up the loose thread from their earlier rant about Bethesda. Pixel and Tofu are both running around like Dan and Phil are just bony jungle gyms, and Dan barely even stutters when one of them steps on their nose. "Of course they can be improved, it's not something you just give up on when things get tough, but the problem is that the people in charge have to implement the changes that are necessary for improvement, and - ow, that's my ear, don't bite that - and, uh... where was I?"

"You were telling me about climate change," says Phil. "Or potentially Todd Howard's ambivalence towards a quote-unquote 'perfect game'. I honestly lost track."

For a moment, Dan is quiet. Phil's anxiety rears its head for the first time since he got here, but luckily he hasn't stuck his foot in his mouth this time - Dan starts laughing, more or less cackling, and they roll closer to Phil to bury their face in a pillow.

Phil grins and reaches out to tug at one of Dan's curls, fascinated by the way it just springs back into place. He's done this to PJ once or twice or six times, but he's usually had a couple drinks before he resorts to it. Dan comes out of hiding with tears of laughter welling up in their pretty brown eyes and their dimples in full force, grinning up at Phil like he's the funniest person in the world.

"Those are both really important issues," Dan says, trying their best to sound deadpan when they're so obviously gleeful.

They wiggle around again and Phil says, "You look exactly like Pixel when you do that."

He's pretty sure that Dan honks at that, but he's immediately distracted by a ferret trying to bite his eyebrow.

This is good. Phil likes this. He's trying to dig himself out of the mindset that he'd backed himself into when he first started noticing Dan, because PJ might have had a point. Okay, so PJ definitely had a point, and Phil has been a bit of an idiot.

He won't know for sure how Dan feels about him being gay and uncompromising about that fact unless he asks, and he doesn't think he's ready to do that just yet. But there's a rainbow flag on Dan's wall and they don't consider themselves not not a guy, so... Phil thinks that maybe he's been assigning a strictness to Dan's own relationship to gender and sexuality that isn't actually there.

Dan is talking again, to their ferrets this time, and Phil is almost overwhelmed by the force of affection that washes over him now that he isn't trying so hard to hold it back. Dan's leg is pressed against his own and they're holding Pixel up like they're playing airplane with her and Phil likes them so goddamn much.

"Did you want to," Phil starts, interrupting Dan's musing about what goes on in a ferret's tiny brain. Dan looks up at him with such genuine happiness on their face that Phil's words stick in his throat. He should be asking if Dan wants to go out for dinner again or if they've seen whatever blockbuster action film is playing in cinemas this week, but that's not what comes out of his mouth. When Dan raises their eyebrows quizzically, what Phil ends up asking is, "Uh, come spend the night in the haunted house with me?"

Great. Real romantic.

--

Dan doesn't make a secret about how much they hate this plan. They say it over and over, but they don't take any of the outs that Phil offers them.

"I hate this plan," Dan says as they make a bunch of sandwiches. It seems like way too much for just the two of them, but Phil isn't about to say no to having a near endless supply of peanut butter and bread when they're stuck in a dusty attic again. "This is stupid. You should have just left it at the first video, Phil, that was fine."

"You don't have to come with me," Phil reminds them for the umpteenth time.

Dan glares. "No, I'm coming."

"You're a very complicated person," says Phil.

With a heavy sort of sigh, like they've been dealing with Phil for years instead of a week, Dan finally sets the peanut butter down. "Look," they say, pointing the dull knife at Phil for emphasis. "I can hate this plan and still want to make sure you don't get fucking arrested or possessed or trip down the stairs or something. PJ knows where I live."

"I think he'd be in the camp of me deserving it if I died in the Wilkins place," Phil says, his lips tugging into a grin. "But thank you."

"Yeah, yeah," Dan mutters. "Will you at least tell me why we're going back? I know you're fucking stubborn and all, but I didn't figure you for someone who beats dead horses."

"Oh, that's a terrible idiom," Phil says, mostly to himself. He reaches out to squeeze Dan's shoulder when he sees them get all huffy at the apparent avoidance. The tension leaving Dan's body under his palm is frustrating to feel, because there's nothing Phil wants more than to lean into it. The problem, of course, is that he really does need to talk to Dan before he starts trying to hug them in their own kitchen. Phil lets his hand drop awkwardly between them and shrugs. "Well, uh. This is the first time in a long time I've actually been excited about a project. And that makes me think that maybe I've worn out my welcome here. Not... not here like Manchester here, but here like... my job, here."

Dan leans their hip against the counter and looks at Phil with their brow all furrowed. "This is an ultimatum," they say. "Like, to yourself."

"Yeah," says Phil. "I need to solve this - or at least find something else that I can show to people. Because if I don't, then I need to actually look at myself and admit I'm not doing something I like anymore."

"It sounds like you're already looking at yourself," Dan says quietly.

"I guess."

"No, you are," Dan insists, their voice stronger now that they can assert an opinion. "Trust me, I'm a pro at unproductive self-reflection and existentialism. Who am I, what does it all matter, I know the song and dance. And I don't think that getting more footage is going to erase what you're already thinking, Phil. Tell me if I'm out of line, whatever, but if you want to do something else with your life then just do something else with your life."

The automatic defensiveness threatens to make Phil snap back at Dan that this isn't any of their business, but he's had a lot of practice in keeping his negative thoughts to himself. He gives Dan a little humourless smile and shrugs his shoulders.

"You're twenty-one," Phil says. "And a student. I don't really expect you to get it."

Dan puts their hands on their hips like they're settling in for a proper row, but instead they just say, "I know. I don't know what you're going through, sure, I doubt anyone knows what anyone else is going through at any time. And, yeah, I've got another year before I have to worry about my career. But I've made some fucking tough decisions in my life, mate. I dropped out of my law course after two lectures. I don't talk to my family anymore. I've tried on so many different names and labels that it would make your head spin. You don't like your job anymore, and one video isn't going to change that."

"Yeah, probably not." Phil looks down at their little collection of sandwiches, feeling lost and stubborn and a bit scared about how much Dan sees him. "But I have to try, y'know? I can't just give up. I have to try."

There's a long moment of silence. Then, Dan sighs.

"Okay. Put these in a container, we don't use unnecessary plastic in this flat. Just whatever they fit in. I'll make some coffee for the road and find our Scrabble board."

[babbushka]

Two Doves (3/6)

Drafted into a war he didn’t want to fight, Flip Zimmerman comes home to a country that doesn’t want him. With your help, he works through it all.

Flip Zimmerman x Reader

(Word count: 6k Warnings: War, gun violence, angst, ptsd, blood, graphic descriptions of death, graphic descriptions of violence)

                                                      -----------------

After our war, the dismembered bits

—all those pierced eyes, ear slivers, jaw splinters,

gouged lips, odd tibias, skin flaps, and toes—

came squinting, wobbling, jabbering back.

-  John Balaban

                                                       -----------------

After weeks of trudging through the water, the rivers and marshes of the dense thick jungle, they’re in the sky. It’s an altogether different type of being vulnerable, Flip thinks.

They’re up in the helicopters, for whatever fucking reason. There’s solidarity in numbers, about a dozen helicopters flying next to them, all in a formation Flip doesn’t know, wasn’t told.

He wonders what it looks like, down on the ground. How it must look to see a dozen metal birds crossing the horizon. Flip clenches his fist around his gun, he sweats. 

He hates this.

All he wants is to listen to your tape, but he’s got big ear-muffs on, they all do. Pilots said best to wear them so they don’t get their eardrums blown out, best to avoid the tinnitus.

You might survive the war, they said, but the tinnitus would drive you crazy.

As much as he wants to listen to the tapes, he doesn’t want to risk it.

It’s loud, so loud, and the world below them is so small, green as far as the eye can see. It’s like some hell, some tropical hell made just for him. Even up in the sky it’s hot, humid. How the fuck did that work? The engine and the blades of the helicopter drown everything out, every thought that Flip might have had is reduced down to it’s so fucking loud.

There’s five guys crammed into the back of one Huey along with Flip, but none of them are really doing anything. The pilots don’t tell them what was going on, they just hover, hover and fly around and around, searching for something.

“What are we looking for?” Eric shouts over all the noise, is the first one to dare ask, because surely they can’t be looking for people.

They’re too high up for that, can’t see past the thick canopy of green green trees, palms blowing around from the wind generated by their own machine.

“Shut the fuck up!” One of the pilots shouts, and Flip grits his teeth.

“He only asked a fucking question.” Flip shouts back, voice hoarse.

There’s no reason to be jack asses, Flip thinks.

Everyone pretends they didn’t hear him, which was probably for the better. He doesn’t need getting into a fistfight, not on top of everything else.

In the distance, one of the helicopters drops a bomb and there’s a great plume of smoke.

The jungle cracks in half, orange litters the sky, and Eric has his answer.

                                                      -----------------

Flip doesn’t sleep that night.

You don’t sleep either, instead content to curl up against your husband on the couch as he shivers from cold that isn’t there. You make him hot chocolate, you put extra marshmallows in it and extra whipped cream and Flip drinks it even though he’s afraid it’ll make him sick.

So much sugar after none at all can’t be good, he thinks, but you made it for him, so it has to be good, he reasons.

It coats his throat and the roof of his mouth and it makes him calm in a way that makes him anxious.

When was the last time he didn’t have to worry? When was the last time he didn’t have to be so fucking on edge? It’s strange, not keeping one eye open, not looking over your shoulder, searching for enemies that are eight thousand miles away.

Is it going to be like this forever?

It’s pitch black outside and you’re both still awake, still on the couch as even the crickets have gone to sleep.

Flip sees the way you’re looking at him, but he can’t place the expression. It’s fear, it’s worry, it’s relief all in one, he doesn’t know how you do it. He can barely process one emotion, one feeling, one mindset – let alone three. He feels like he’s never had a very strong emotional threshold, but now…now it’s even more frayed, seams struggling around the edges.

He wants to tell you everything, wants to talk to you, wants to get it out.

He needs to get it out, he needs to.

He doesn’t know how.

“The brown walls look nice.” He says instead, says as you’re pressed so close against him, so close under the quilt his mother made, that he can feel the shudders that wrack through your body, “Lighter than I was thinking.”

You look to the dining room, to the brown walls. They’re the color of coffee diluted with cream, and Flip finds himself craving caffeine, real stuff, brewed stuff, not the instant shit he drank.

You look at the walls and you look at him, and Flip looks at nothing in particular.

“Do you want them darker? I’ll make them darker I was just – ” You start, but Flip shakes his head, pulls you impossibly closer, wants to crawl inside your skin and live there, he wants to live in you where he’s safe and warm.

He can’t, so he tries his best to get close, as close as possible, impossibly close.

“They’re perfect, really. They’re perfect.” He assures you, reassures you, and his heart breaks when even now there are tears in your eyes.

Your hand reaches up tentatively to caress his cheek, like he’s a dream, a ghost, something you’ve invented after so many nights alone.

You’re both so fucked, he thinks, fucked by this war in more ways than one.

“Kiss me?” You ask, you beg, desperate, and Flip accidentally jabs you in the face with his nose from how fast he ducks to capture your lips.

He sets the mug of cocoa down on the table, careful to place it on a coaster, careful not to fuck up the table like he’s fucked up everything else, and cups your face in his scarred hands. He pulls you into his lap and the two of you wetly cry against one another, kiss and kiss and kiss until your lips are puffy, swollen from it.

He kisses your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids. He kisses your nose and your forehead and your jaw and your neck, kisses every part of you that he can reach and hopes the kisses travel to the parts that he can’t; your heart, your lungs, your soul.

“I can’t…even start to explain how much I love you.” Flip is all choked up, he’s swallowing around hard lumps in his throat that have lived there for years, needing to try and unpack at least this small part of his brain, needing to at least get this part out of the dark pit in his mind.

“You don’t have to.” You rush to say, not wanting to force him, not wanting to make him do anything he doesn’t want to. He had been ordered around enough, you thought, “You don’t have to say anything Phil, you know I’m yours.”

He pinches his eyes shut, hot wet tears stinging stinging stinging, like acid and acrid smoke from fires that only exist in his head.

“I was worried…” He starts, but can’t finish, too afraid to speak the words, too afraid to confirm or deny.

That’s what he struggles with the most, he thinks, as he’s got you in his lap clinging to him, to every word he says, if he speaks the things on his mind they’ll become real, they’ll become things he has to confront. He doesn’t know if he has the strength to confront anyone, anything.

“What?” You ask, prompt him gently, not overbearing or forceful.

Flip wants to scream, but it’s too quiet, and he’ll scare you if he does, and the absolute last fucking thing he wants to do is scare you, now or ever.

“I was worried you wouldn’t want me – that you’d moved on.” And his pulse is racing racing racing, and he wants to run because you’re looking at him and he doesn’t know what you’re going to say, doesn’t know what you’re thinking, and the silence is palpable in the living room then.

You look at the brown walls of the dining room, look down at the scar along his palm, pink and shiny, freshly healed.

“You know, every night I would wait for you to come through the front door?” You say softly, so softly, and Flip can hear that you’ve got lumps in your throat too, you’ve got ghosts in your mind too.

“I’d lie awake in bed and listen for the front lock to unlatch, for you to drop your keys in the little dish in the hallway and then come up to bed and fall onto the mattress in all your clothes like you do sometimes when a case is long. Every single night, I’d wait, until I couldn’t wait any more and I’d fall asleep in your clothes.” You say, looking at him, really looking at him.

Flip looks back, sees the age in your eyes from being apart, sees how the two years have treated you.

He hates that they’ve not been kind, hates that they’ve treated you poorly.

“I played all your records and watched your favorite shows and I imagined you laughing along to them or singing terribly – ”

“Hey.” He interrupts with a soft laugh, and you laugh too just because you can, just because you can.

But then the laugh fades away and the softness around your eyes returns, and Flip’s stomach is twisted and churning because he’s terrified of the way your smile drops.

“…And then I’d cry because I didn’t know what you were doing, where you were, if you were alright. Jimmy came over like you told him to, came over every Tuesday and Thursday to help me with the house and my sanity, but then he would leave and I’d be sitting in this house alone, left with the ghost of you everywhere I looked. I’d think of something funny to tell you, and you wouldn’t be there, wouldn’t be coming home. I wrote them down, thinking I’d save them for when you got here, but then the first year came and you still weren’t.”

And you’re holding it together, but just barely, because if you lose it he’ll lose it, and then you’ll both be lost and neither of you can handle that right now, not right now, not so soon. He sees you shaking, and he’s shaking, and all you have is each other, and it’s more than enough; it’s more than enough but it can’t stop the shakes, the shivers.

“Can you tell me now?” He asks, and you smile at him sadly, shrug with one shoulder.

“I don’t think they’ll be funny now.” You reply, and for a moment, Flip wonders if anything will be funny again.

He can hear the same thought in your head.

“Tell me anyway?” Flip asks, begs, grasps your hands in his and brings them back to his cheeks, holding you, holding you as you’re holding him.

                                                      -----------------

They’re dropping bombs, on the jungle.

Flip doesn’t know why, it doesn’t look like there’s anything there, just trees.

Birds fly frantically, try not to get consumed by the flames or the smoke, and most of them fail. Flip watches as the thick dark plumes envelop them, hears the horrific squawking of terrified creatures. He doesn’t know if he actually can hear them, or if he’s imagining it.

“Zimmerman! Start firing!” Someone barks an order at him, and he hates it, hates that he has to obey.

There are machine guns mounted to the sides of the Huey, and Flip’s stomach swoops when he’s told to man one. Wasn’t it enough to drop bombs like rain? Wasn’t it enough to incinerate the jungle – they had to shoot at it too?

Flip was getting so fucking tired of shooting.

He’s the oldest in the platoon, oldest one in the helicopter. These fresh-faced kids have no idea what they’re doing, there was never any time to teach them. He has experience, so he’s the one who has to do it. It’s his second time in Vietnam, and between that and the work he did with the CSPD before coming back to this hell, he’s the man most qualified for the job – no matter how badly he doesn’t want to be.

He’s just thankful he’s not the one dropping the bombs.

“Now, Zimmerman!” They shout, and he grinds his jaw, thinks that if he’s going to have to do this, he’s going to do it his way.

Fuck it, he thinks as he puts the tape in anyway, slides it into the small cassette player in his pocket. He’s about to stick the earbuds in his ears when he sees Eric steeling himself, like he’s going to throw up.

It’s the kid’s first helicopter ride, and he’s terrified, Flip can see it in his face.

After thinking about it for a minute, he silently hands the kid the cassette player, shoves it against his chest. He’s heard your voice a million times, and this kid doesn’t have anyone. Not a single person back home, no one except his mother. If your voice can give him comfort for ten fucking minutes, he’ll be glad.

Flip puts the earmuffs back on his head, and fires into the blaze as the helicopter whips up the flames.

                                                        -----------------

You tell him as the sun starts to rise, as the purple light of dawn makes way for pinks and oranges and red. He listens and despite himself, he laughs, despite everything, it’s funny.

The way you tell the stories are funnier than the stories themselves, most of them belonging to the world of you had to be there. He tries not to dwell on the fact that he wasn’t – he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there.

But you tell him, and he listens, and he laughs, laughs like he hasn’t laughed in a long time, and suddenly it’s the next day wholly and completely. The birds chirp and that’s how Flip knows he’s home without a doubt, resolutely – Vietnam didn’t have these birds.

“I was thinking,” You say, pressed so close to him on the couch, cheeks hurting from laughing like you haven’t done in a long time, “Of visiting the station today. Letting the guys know you’re home.”

“Yes.” Flip responds right away, the realization of his friends hitting him like a ton of bricks. “Yes, I want to see them.”

“Can I make you breakfast?” You ask, and his stomach growls, grumbles and groans, and you smile, take that for a yes.

When you sit him at the table he feels like he’s in limbo, like he’s never left and has been gone for a hundred years. The table is the same as it’s always been, the counters and the fridge and the stove and the oven all the same. The sink is the same and the walls are the same and the window is the same.

So why does it feel so different?

He catches his reflection in the glass of a vase filled with fresh flowers, wildflowers from the garden.

He doesn’t like what he sees. He feels old.

His facial hair has kind of gotten out of control, he thinks, staring at his reflection, trying to avert his eyes from his own judgmental gaze. It’s wild, wiry, it’s not terribly attractive. He doesn’t know how you can look at him so lovingly, so happily, when he looks like a man crazed.

“Ketsl?” He asks, and you rush to face him, rush to give him whatever he might want, might need.

“Yeah honey?” You respond, abandoning the pan on the stovetop to kneel at his feet, not wanting to overwhelm him.

He’s already overwhelmed.

“Before we go to the station, could you clean me up?” He asks, runs a hand over his goatee and sighs real deep. “I’d do it but…”

He doesn’t need to tell you that he’s afraid of his hands shaking while he holds the razor, afraid of accidentally cutting himself and losing it. He’s so afraid of losing it.

Has he already lost?

“Of course I’ll do it.” You say, sincere and so in love, eager to help. “After breakfast, we’ll shower and I’ll trim you right up.”

He blushes, holds your hand, kisses the fingertips there, and you playfully scratch under his chin, playfully tug on his ears.

“Thank you.” He smiles softly, suddenly shy, but you’re not having it.

You kiss him all over, smooch the sides of his nose, big smacks that have him laughing.

“Of course,” You say over and over again, “Of course.”

Because it’s not something you would even think twice about doing, and he knows this. It’s second nature to you, wanting to be there for him.

His heart soars.

“I love you.” He says, can’t get enough of saying it, can’t can’t can’t, so he says it again.

“I love you more, my handsome man.” You tug on his ear and he blushes, “Even when you’re scruffy, you’re my handsome man.”

He smiles and you smile back, until the smell of something on the stovetop burning reaches his nostrils.

“What’s that smell?” He asks, before things go dark.

                                                      -----------------

Eric calms at the sound of your voice, and Flip wonders what you’re saying, what you’re talking about. The kid stares out into the jungle, has to squint from the heat of the fire.

Flip wonders. He knows he’ll listen later, listen as soon as they land – but then anxiety spikes.

What if he doesn’t land?

What if they’re another sitting duck in the sky, another bird that comes crashing down? So many helicopters have been shot down.

Flip has to resist the urge the rip the earbuds out of Eric’s head, suddenly so possessive of you – he doesn’t think he can bear it if he dies, and someone else gets to hear your voice.

But he doesn’t, he fires.

And the bombs drop, and the jungle burns.

A kid named Sam is the first one to notice it, the smell.

“Someone cookin’ bacon down there?” He asks in his thick Southern drawl, from Arkansas or Alabama, one of those. Flip didn’t bother keeping track anymore, so many kids kept coming and going.

He can’t possibly keep track, not with all of them dying.

Was it even worth getting attached, getting invested in any of them? He didn’t know.

But through all those thoughts Flip frowns, because he’s right, it does smell like bacon, like it’s been left on the stove too long, like it’s burning.

He looks in horror down at the bright orange sea beneath him, if he looks hard enough, he thinks he can see the tops of houses, straw things burned down to a crisp. If he looks hard enough, if he looks through the trees and the blazing roaring fires, he can see people running for their lives, can see them tiny like ants as he shoots and shoots the machine gun like he’s been told.

And dread washes down the back of his neck, freezes him, finger squeezed tight on the trigger when he realizes, when he figures it out.

If he looks hard enough, he can hear the screams of men and women and children burned alive. Scorched flesh and agony, smoke stinging, smell turning all of their stomachs at the abject horror of what they’re doing.

The smell hits their noses all at once as the helicopters pass by, and no amount of your soothing words can stop Eric from throwing up over the side of the Huey.

He’s not alone, they’re all like that, all except Flip, who doesn’t have the luxury of leaving the gun.

He hates himself for firing, hates the government for making him do it.

He has to close his eyes, screams too loud, too loud.

He can’t tell if they’re his or not.

                                                        -----------------  

He’s out of his seat, bolting for the bathroom before you know what’s happening.

It’s too much, it’s all at once, it’s all-consuming, the stench. That familiar stench, he’s sick, he’s retching into the toilet, heaving up nothing. He’s crying, all of a sudden he’s crying, and he wants to scream – he wants to scream and rage and throw a fucking fit as that smell curls into the back of his throat and stings his eyes and he’s surrounded by fire and rage and pain again.

You’re running in after him, latching yourself to his back, trying to ground him, trying to bring him off a brink of something, not knowing what. You didn’t know, didn’t know what went wrong, Flip isn’t telling you. He’s just hoarse and coughing and retching into the toilet, knees shattering underneath his frame as he clings to the porcelain bowl for dear life, as you cling to him.

There’s no words for this, to describe this, you don’t know, it kills you that you don’t know. It kills Flip that he can’t explain it, not when napalm explosions burn behind his eyelids, not when he’s coughing on smoke that isn’t there, not when he’s breathing in that smell that smell that smell.

“You’re okay, you’re safe.” You tell him, trying your best to remain calm, knowing he can’t handle any outbursts right now, knowing he can’t, “You’re home. You’re home with me, you’re safe.”

Maybe if you say it enough, he’ll believe it.

Everything is spinning, he can’t tell, doesn’t know where he is. He sees tile flooring and ferns at the same time, why is everything so green? He feels your hands on him and he knows that’s what’s real – but is it?

“I – I’m – ” Flip’s hyperventilating, and he’s crying, tears staining his face, staining the bowl of the toilet, and you hold him tight, wrap your arms around him.

He panics for a moment, afraid you’re the enemy, afraid you’re going to kill him, but the kisses on his back that you put there bring him back, pull him out. You’re the only one who would kiss his back, you’re the only one.

“You’re home. You’re not in the jungle, you’re in the bathroom. Our bathroom. You’re safe. You have to breathe.” You chant like it’s a prayer, repeat it over and over in a gentle tone, so gentle with him. “You have to breathe.”

He feels like he’s going to shatter, feels like he’s going to explode, like he’s going to burn burn burn. What’s that smell?

He knows that smell.

“I’m sorry,” He sobs, over and over, and you kiss his back now drenched with sweat. “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t know what he apologizes for, if it’s the killing, the burning, the fires, the destruction, or if it’s the fear can’t place, the outburst he can’t control. It’s got its claws in him deep, so deep.

You hold him tight, and bring him out. Pull him back out.

“You’re okay, you’re safe with me I promise. I promise.” You say, a steady anchor even though you’re scared shitless.

You can’t let him know that, can’t let him see how scared you are – you don’t want him to think you’re scared of him. You’re not, you’re not scared of him, you’re terrified for him.

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and turns to face you, buries his face in your neck.

You hold him and kiss his forehead, he’s drenched in sweat.

“We’re going to shower, okay? You need to shower.” You can’t have him sitting in his own sweat and sick, you won’t.

Flip nods, tries to get himself under control, tries tries tries.

When he nods, you nod too, stand up and turn the faucet on, pull the tab so the water sprays from the showerhead above. You open the window, turn on the exhaust fan, try to air out the room.

As he stands up on shaky legs and the water warms, you bolt into the kitchen, grab the pan that had the forgotten crisps of breakfast burning, the bacon and eggs and hashbrowns. That’s the smell, you realize, and suddenly you hate it, you hate the kitchen, hate yourself for being so stupid. You fling open the windows, take the whole pan and run it to the garbage outside, throw the whole fucking thing away.

You’ll buy a new pan, new spatula, you don’t give a shit. You never want to see that again, you’ll never cook bacon again.

Not if it does this to your man, to your Flip.

When you come back inside, Flip’s naked, has his clothes folded on the counter. He reaches for you but you hesitate, you pull your clothes off first and throw them in the corner of the room, afraid the smell has lingered on the fabric, has stained the fibers.

Only once you’re naked you embrace him, let him yank you into his arms. The water from the shower is steaming up the bathroom, and you reach over to draw a heart on the mirror, right around the reflection of Flip’s face.

“You’re safe.” You tell him one more time, and he nods, he believes you.

You search his eyes and you find them clear, he’s there, he believes you.

                                                      -----------------

The helicopters begin to descend, and Flip can’t help but think they’re crazy. They’re fucking crazy for going there, for being in this country.

The kids are all sitting down, legs swinging over the side of the helicopter as they fire their own machine guns unto the village below them, because it is a village, not just a jungle. It’s never just the jungle, it would seem.

They don’t belong here, how can they be winning? They can’t be, not like this.

You don’t fight wars like this.

The men in the platoon all get themselves ready to land. They load and reload their guns. Some pray out loud, some sit silently and stare at the sky. Everyone has their hand over their mouth, everyone is gagging at the stench.

The wind whips it up, carries it up into their faces, and Flip thinks he’s going to hell for this, they all are.

Eric sees, just as Flip saw. Eric can tell he’s losing his nerve, so he gives him an earbud.

He hands it to Flip with wide eyes, terrified eyes, eyes that ask questions Flip doesn’t have answers for.

Flip accepts it, his heart thudding wildly, and tries his best to block out everything but the sound of your voice. It’s soft and sweet and gentle and not at all like the chaos around him not at all like the death and destruction he causes, he takes part in. You’re so much more gentle and human than half these monsters, the pilots who laugh at the explosions, the ones who give the orders with glee in their smiles.

Flip doesn’t know how anyone can smile, like this.

Everyone is shouting, but no one can hear, not over all the noise, not through the roar of the engine and machine gun fire, not through the screams and the explosions and the sounds of trees cracking, bending over backwards too far until they snap.

He doesn’t even know what you’re saying, can’t really process the meaning of the words you’re speaking, even though they’re right in his ear.

He thinks he catches something, a fragment, through the chaos before they’re landing, thinks he hears an

‘I love you.’

                                                        -----------------

The shower is a blessing, hot water, scalding hot, scrubbing away the last legs of his fear.

“Come on, let’s clean up.” You say, and he feels like he could cry from the way you speak to him, the way you talk to him like he’s normal, like he’s not crazy. He didn’t know what he would do if you thought he was crazy, after everything else if you thought he had lost it.

It’s purifying, the water. He sighs as it darkens his hair, as it loosens the muscles in his shoulder.

When the water runs down his legs, it runs down clear. No pink, no red, no black of soot or brown dirt. No green.

Clear.

He now knows why so many faiths, religions, creeds all use water. He knows now.

He can’t remember the last time he showered in something other than a river, water that was truly clean, not just fresh.

Suddenly, it seems like the most important thing in the world to touch you, to cleanse you of his nightmares, of the tears he pressed into your skin. He washes your hair, takes his time. He did this for you every day, once upon a time. He did this for you now, and it was just like then.

His hands didn’t even shake, for once. The relief in his chest was almost enough to make him dizzy, when he realized his hands weren’t shaking.

He scrubs your scalp with shampoo, lathers and foams it up, laughs to himself about how you look. He breaths deeply, breaths in the orange and bergamot, a smell that is uniquely you. The perfume of it fills his lungs and he’s at peace again completely, once he has you rinse your hair.

You in turn, wash his body.

He lets his eyes close, lets himself simply feel the way your hands glide over his skin, the way the bath brush makes soothing circles across his chest and his back. He feels more and more like himself with every circle of the bristly brush, with every foamy sudsy pass of your hands.

He ducks to kiss you right under the spray, because he has to, has to show his thanks somehow.

You kiss him back, in in that kiss you tell him of course, of course you’ll do this for him.

You’ll do anything for him.

 When the hot water has run out and the shower is over, the two of you wrap yourselves in soft white towels. The fabric is soothing on his skin, and Flip revels in it.

You sit on the counter, spread your legs enough that he can stand in between them as you search the medicine cabinet for the shaving kit.

He only wants a trim, so that’s what he’ll get, you think with a smile as you fish out the small scissors and the tweezers. Flip’s goatee had a habit of growing kind of erratically, it always made you huff out a little laugh, random hairs popping up nowhere near the rest of them.  

Flip’s mesmerized by the way you look, the light coming in from the bathroom window that’s still open from earlier. It’s late enough in the morning now that the sky is a beautiful blue filled with white fluffy clouds. The light is buttery and warm, and catches on your skin making you glow in a way he was sure only existed in dreams.

When you pluck one of his hairs and he winces, he knows it’s real.

The thought makes him smile, which makes you smile.

“You gotta be careful,” You tell him with a grin as you pluck another one, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re so beautiful.” Flip sighs, and you blush.

God, how he missed that blush.

But it’s true, you’re gorgeous sitting there on the counter, your hair wrapped up in a towel in a way that Flip still doesn’t really understand. You’re gorgeous with those little silver scissors in your hand as you wait for him to relax his mouth so you can clip away some of the length of his mustache.

The corner of his mouth twitches from how it tickles, and you grin.

“You’re my favorite person, you know that?” You tell him, and he nods, crinkles his nose as you pluck another hair. “I’m sorry, I won’t ever make that again.”

He knows what you mean, and he nods. He sighs.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” he admits, and that truth scares him, makes him angry. “It’s frustrating, I don’t know what that was, what happened.”

You’re quiet for a little while as you trim the goatee, as you comb through the mustache and the beard, as you smooth in some oil so it doesn’t go all frizzy.

“I know you don’t want to tell me about it, but do you think maybe you might be comfortable talking to someone else?” You ask softly, carefully, not wanting to upset him.

He frowns, but you don’t see it because you’re putting the shaving kit away, rinsing the stuff down the sink.

“That’s not true.” He shakes his head, and you look at him with soft eyes.

“Hm?” You ask, lost in thought as water goes down the drain.

“I don’t not want to tell you.” He explains, fiddles with the star around your neck, “I want to tell you everything. I just don’t have the words, not right now. I don’t know how to say it, there’s so much.”

You’re thoughtful for a moment, always so thoughtful, and he looks just past you to the sight of him in the mirror.

Cleaned up and showered like this, he recognizes himself. Your hands did that to him, and he finds he just has to kiss them again, shower them with love and gratitude.

If he had the energy to sink to his knees then and there, he would, but he doesn’t, so he can’t.

He’s so exhausted, all of a sudden. A whole night of no sleep, and the smell of burnt bacon makes him exhausted. Go fucking figure.

“You don’t have to tell me anything all at once.” You say, reading his mind, because you have to be some kind of mind reader, he thinks, “But I need to know how to help you, how to avoid things like that. I don’t want you to ever have that again, if I can help it.”

“I don’t know what else there is, I don’t know.” He whispers, hating that he has to admit it, hating that he doesn’t know how to make this easier for either of you.

“Okay.” You nod, understanding, always so understanding. You let him kiss your fingertips and he could almost weep against them. He doesn’t, he doesn’t have any more tears, but you feel it anyway. “We don’t have to go to the station, if you don’t want. We can just stay in bed.”

“No, no I want to. I want to see everyone.” Flip says, and you smile, proud of him.

His heart soars at that smile.

“Let me remake breakfast? We’ll have something simple, cereal. I got the cereal you like, I’ve been eating it.” You blush, and Flip can’t help but tease you.

“Oh yeah?” He had always been fighting with you about his cereal, and you roll your eyes, already ready for an ‘I told you so.’

“Yeah – I have to add sugar though, it’s so bland!” You defend your tastes and he laughs, and you laugh, and he picks you off the counter and walks the both of you to the bedroom.

It doesn’t matter that his entire body is sore or that his legs are jello, it doesn’t matter. He’s got you in his arms, he’s going to visit his friends at his job that’s all still there, all waiting for him. Nothing matters anymore, at least he tries to tell himself that.

“It’s delicious just the way it is.” Flip says, and you throw a pair of underwear at him, blush crimson as he tosses it aside and tackles you instead.

“Gimme a kiss?” You ask, and this one is different, this one is hot and slow as he licks into your mouth, as he lets a hand sneak down between your legs.

You fall apart for him, and he takes everything you give him, gives it right back.

When you gasp into his mouth, he forgets about everything, just for a while.

But a while is enough, when it’s with you.

                                                        -----------------

Thank you all for reading! Tagging some pals (if you’d like to be added to the tag list or taken off of it, please just let me know!  @adamsnackdriver @dreamboatdriver @kylo-renne @callmehopeless @kyloxfem @formerly-anonhamster @thepilotanon @solotriplets   @fullofbees @spinebarrel @bourbonboredom @driverficarchive @rosalynbair @redhairedfeistynerd @glitzescape @adamsnacc-kler  @ladygrey03 @venusianmaiden marvelous-blog-221 @edwardseyelashes @softcrybabykid @tinyplanet-explorers

[doctortreklock]

AU-gust 28 - Fashion & Models AU

For this. On AO3.

Phil had tried to stop it. He really had. But then Tony Stark had walked into Fury’s office with a smirk and a swagger and Phil had known he’d lost the war before they’d even started the battle.

“You have all been volunteered for a PR event,” Phil told the Avengers, drawing from the deep well of patience he had been assured he had in order to keep his voice even.

Judging by the way Clint’s mouth quirked, Phil wasn’t sure he’d entirely managed it.

“I have been assured that you will all approach this opportunity with professionalism and dignity.” Which was such a lie. Phil wasn’t sure the Avengers had ever approached anything with professionalism and dignity.

They were in the Avengers conference room in HQ, two floors down from the Director’s office. It had once been a generic SHIELD conference room, but by now no one else would touch it. The cleaners had done their best, but at a certain point, there was just no way to get that amount of soot, blood, or cookie crumbs out of the carpet.

“C’mon, Agent. I’m not sure you could sound more bored if you tried.” Stark’s aura of smugness was palpable as he reclined lazily in his chair. “You gotta really go for it, you know? Jazz it up a bit.”

Phil shot him an icy glare, but it didn’t look like it phased the man at all. “As I was saying. You have been drafted for a new public relations event this winter. Proceeds will be directed to the New York Relief Fund.” He shuffled his papers.

“If I may, sir, what exactly is it that we’re going to be doing?” Captain Rogers asked after the silence had stretched for a couple beats too long.

Phil put on his best blank face. “The Avengers will be fashioning edible scale models of homes to be sold at auction this December.”

There was a moment of confused silence as the team tried to digest that, but apparently Stark had hit the limit of his patience.

“Gingerbread houses!” he cackled. “We’re making gingerbread houses for charity!”

Phil had to try very hard to keep his expression from becoming a very pointed scowl. “Yes, thank you for your input,” he said coolly.

Thor perked up. “Gingerbread?” he boomed. “Jane has shared with me this gingeriest of breads! It is most delicious!”

“Really, sir? We’re making gingerbread houses?” Clint’s skepticism was almost as easy to read as his amusement.

“I haven’t seen a proper gingerbread house in years,” Rogers said, with an air of wistfulness that only appeared when he was talking about his pre-war years.

At his words, Phil could see the faint flicker in Natasha’s expression, the quickly submerged pain of Clint’s, and the flash of grief over Banner’s that he knew heralded the discoveries of yet more missing childhood experiences.

“Yes, Barton,” he said, drawing the room’s attention back to himself. “Someone--” He pointed didn’t look at Stark“--decided that the next step in currying positive public opinion was to trap the six of you in a kitchen together for eight hours with cookies, frosting, and candy and sell whatever emerges from the chaos afterwards.”

“Seven of us.”

Phil blinked and looked over at the inventor. “Excuse me?”

Stark’s gaze was clear and serious. “There are seven of us, Agent. Or can’t you count?”

Taken aback, Phil glanced around the room, but everyone else on the team seemed to be in agreement. He’d known that the Avengers had insisted on him taking the liaison position, but he’d figured it was more of a “devil you know” situation.

He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the slight lump there. “Very well, then.”

After a beat, Clint rolled to his feet. “This meeting over yet, Coulson? I gotta start scoping out the competition if I’m going to win Most Amazingest Gingerbread House Ever this year.”

After the moment of realization he’d just had, Phil’s glare was familiar and comfortable on his face, resettling into a well-worn conversational pattern. “Sit back down, Specialist.”

He looked around the room. “On our last mission, I seem to recall asking for minimal property damage and ending up with...” he rifled through his reports, even though he had the figures memorized “thirty-seven claims for destruction of a motor vehicle, four buildings that will require major structural repair to be habitable again, and one apartment building that’s going to be condemned, as it’s too precarious for the property inspector to even think about venturing inside.”

He folded his hands over his report and smiled pleasantly at the team, his team. “Who would like to start?”

[maybeformepersonally]

Fic: you are the choice i'll keep making

Title: you are the choice i'll keep making Author: maybeformepersonally Rating: NC-17 / Explicit Summary: In a universe where soulmates travel forward in time once in their lifetime to be with their bonded and solidify their relationship, 23-year-old Phil jumps forward to 2019. Word Count: 13,271 Author’s Note: I wrote this for the @phandomreversebang. I want to thank the admins on the PBR for organising this. And a special thanks to my team, @jorzuela and @agathelight, for their support and patience with me. Thank you to @agathelight for betaing this fic and putting up with my terrible time management skills, any mistakes that remain are solely my fault; and to @jorzuela for making the beautiful art to accompany my fic!

                                             [art by @jorzuela]

Masterpost for the art

Read on AO3

 Dan is pondering the merits of getting up for a snack. They’re having a pajama week to unwind and recharge before they emerge from their little holiday, so they’ve been mostly lazing around the house and catching up with some tv shows.

 Now that Phil’s birthday week is over, they figured they’d take a few days for themselves, not their audience, not their friends and family, just the two of them in their shared home.

 Phil had insisted he needed to top off the bird feeders before they settled down to watch something, even though they had filled it to the brim less than 12 hours ago, but he shouldn’t take longer than a couple minutes, so Dan had rolled his eyes at him and let him go enable the overweight pigeons living off Phil’s soft spot for any and all animals.

 Dan decides not to get a snack, after all. He’s not that hungry and he doesn’t really feel like getting up. They can find something to eat later. Something to “put them on”, Dan thinks with a grin. Phil’s northern vernacular will never stop being charming, probably.

 Speaking of, where is he? Topping off the feeder shouldn’t take him this long.

 ***

  Soulmates are and have been a point of contention since the dawn of time. Religions the world over had tried to impose their own interpretation of what the jump meant, entire libraries could be filled with both fictional stories and philosophical speculation about the biological, social and cultural implications of the bonds. Academic circles are, to this day, firmly split into two camps: the metaphysical paradigm that asserts there’s such a thing as non-physical bonds that tie people who are destined to be together; and the agentic paradigm, which argues that what creates the bonds in the first place is our decisions to be with someone and the work we put into strengthening and maintaining such bonds. This interpretation would explain why there’s been reported cases of a single individual having more than one “soulmate” in the course of their life, whether consecutively or concurrently, as well as why the jumps normally happen after the pair have been together for a while. Anecdotal evidence and later systematic analysis of data both appear to confirm this thesis in that the jump never happens before the individual has “decided” to stay with the other person(s). However, despite the paradigm shift that has occurred in the modern age, many people still favour either the metaphysical interpretation or a fusion of both of them, and the idea that there is “someone out there made for every one of us” is still a ubiquitous trope in media.

 ***

  Dan sees him first. Phil. Phil as Dan had first met him, emo hair and plaid shirt and bony angles, looking around cautiously, everything from his posture to the tight expression on his face telegraphing his fear. Dan can read Phil better than anyone, but he thinks even a complete stranger would probably be able to see it. He looks so young. He is so beautiful. It makes Dan breathless.

 “Phil.” Dan tries to call his attention gently, but Phil still jumps and almost ends up on the floor. He puts his right hand to his chest and clings to the wall with the other one. They stare at each other for a few seconds, before Phil seems to deflate, worry seemingly evaporating and leaving him unsteady.

 “I wanted it to be you.” Phil lets out a small, wet, shaky laugh, and wipes the stray tears from his cheeks as soon as they start to fall. “I wanted it to be you so bad.”

 Before he realises he’s made the decision to move, Dan is in front of him, wrapping him in his arms and holding on tightly. Phil clings to him desperately and lets himself cry into Dan’s comforting shoulder. Dan’s broader shoulder. It’s a bit unsettling, but this is still Dan, and Phil is dizzy with relief at the concrete physical evidence that it was Dan, that he’d been right, that it had always been Dan.

 “I’ve got you,” Dan whispers into his ear, “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’m here. I love you. It’s okay to let it out. I love you so much, Phil. I’m here.”

 (Dan would say, “I knew it”, in an almost whisper, a shaky breath laced with a bone-deep certainty. The raw emotional delivery did nothing to conceal the conviction of the words. “I knew it was you.” Phil would ask him, later, much later, after the whole thing was over, how he’d been so sure. Dan couldn’t explain it to him, he just knew.

 “Remind me again how I’m the one who believes in fate of the two of us?”

 “It wasn’t fate that brought us together, Phil. It was luck, and effort on my part at first, and on both our parts later, to make it work. That’s what makes it so special. Not that it’d inevitably happen. But that it could have never happened, but it did. And we’re the ones who made it last.”

 Phil wouldn’t answer with words. He’d shake his head in wonder and bury his face in Dan’s neck, breathe him in, wrap his arms around this man who still made him weak in the knees, still made him giddy with excitement, still made him nervous, the good kind of nervous, the kind that came from hopeless infatuation, from the exhilaration of having your affections returned, from seeing the future stretch out before you and being eager rather than scared because you knew you’ll have your person beside you every step of the way. And he’d let it be.)

 ***

  Dan knew it'd be Phil for him because he never believed in fate. Dan knew it'd be Phil because Phil is the one Dan chose, and by the time the jump happened to him, he was comfortably three years into this relationship that was better than anything Dan could have dreamed of as a depressed, pessimistic teenager who didn’t even know what having a best friend was like. By the time it happened, he knew that he'd chosen well and that Phil wouldn't leave him, that Phil (impossibly) really did love him as fiercely as Dan loved him, that Phil was more than deserving of Dan's trust and devotion and love.

 ***

  Phil's jump happens shortly before their first year anniversary. Phil has made his decision, but no matter how right it feels, no matter how much and how obviously Dan loves him, Phil is still afraid.

 He's never felt this way before. This is what he’s been hoping for, what all the films and books and songs were about, he’s been craving this for years and finally it was here and there was a lot he hadn’t anticipated: the way Dan was on his mind all the time, all day, no matter what he was doing, like Dan had made his way under his skin and laid claim to his mind (Phil supposed that in a way he had); the painful clench in his chest when Dan had to say goodbye at the train platform and they’d have to be apart for days or weeks, sometimes without even knowing when they’d get to hold each other again; the knot in his throat as he made his way back home after watching Dan go into the train with heavy shoulders and sad eyes, and Phil knew that Dan would be miserable until they met again; the spike of excitement every time he got a message from Dan, or a tweet, or a call. But of all the things he hadn’t foreseen, the one that surprised him the most was the fear. The fear was always in the back of his mind, indistinct and amorphous. It changed shape and intensity, but it never quite left. When Phil was particularly happy, especially when Dan was within physical reach but sometimes when they were skyping too, the fear dissipated until Phil forgot about it, a nebulous mist that didn’t weigh on him at all. But then the call ended, or Dan had to go back home, and it resolidified into a more palpable form.

 What if meeting was a bad idea? What if Dan was disappointed when they met IRL? What if Phil couldn’t meet Dan’s expectations? Surely they’d talked enough through comments and DMs and Skype that Dan had got to know him beyond the Amazingphil persona? Did Dan really mean it when he flirted with Phil online? (And he did, constantly.) What if Dan wasn’t attracted to him in person? Phil couldn’t control what he looked like IRL like he could on the screen, couldn’t select the perfect angle, pick and choose and edit and filter. (It didn’t occur to him that Dan couldn’t either. It was irrelevant because Phil already knew he fancied him, would fancy him with bad lighting and from terrible angles, with eyebags and spots and his dreaded naturally curly hair that Dan hated so much and Phil not-so-secretly thought was really cute.)

 And then they’d met, finally, finally, and Dan was even more beautiful in the flesh, and more nervous too, but still just as interested in Phil, still just as keen on everything Phil had to say, and after the perfect first day together Dan had kissed him, and Phil felt his heart do something it had never done before in his chest. He’d been so happy at the time he didn’t notice the fear was still there until Dan was gone.

 Ultimately, what the fear came down to was: was Dan as serious about this as Phil was?

 Dan is younger than him; he's young and driven and talented and so lovely and sure, he wants Phil now, loves Phil now, but he's starting uni soon, and he's so young. Phil remembers being a teenager scared about the next step in his life (he’s still scared about that too, to be honest, but lately everything seems to be falling into place and Dan is a part of that,) it might only have been five years, but it feels like a lifetime. Phil feels like a different person, and it scares him to think that Dan might become a different person too, a person who doesn’t want him. Dan is still struggling to decide what he wants in life other than YouTube (and Phil) and who knows what he'll want a year from now, five, ten.

 The crux of the matter is: Phil wants it to be Dan, but Dan just turned nineteen, and Phil knows a lifetime commitment is too much to ask of a nineteen year old who feels so adrift and so desperate for a genuine connection that he agreed to take a three-hour-train to spend a long weekend in the house of a man he met on the internet. 

***

 The jumps propell the bonded forward in time to a point in their future when they are with their soulmate, but there seems to be no rhyme or reason to it. Some jumps cover decades, while others only go forward a few days. Some jumps last for a few minutes (the shortest on record spanned 13 minutes and 48 seconds), while some take days, with the longest known being over two weeks.

 ***

 Phil encases his face between his hands and holds him there, held him close. “Let me look at you.”

 Dan knows he’s flushed with emotion, knows his own eyes are taking in this younger Phil just as much as Phil’s are studying him.

 “God, you still look at me like that?” Phil sounds wrecked, and like he might start crying again any moment now. Dan wants to hold him tight, wants to kiss him, wants to shield him from any bad thing in the world. Wants, most of all, to make him happy.

 “Yeah,” Dan drawls, soft with overwhelming love for this young man. “I get teased about it all the time. Mostly by you.”

 Phil keeps staring at him in silence, looking dazed. He brings his left hand to Dan’s curls, pats them lightly to watch them spring back into place. From there he goes to Dan’s hoop earring, running a finger down his ear and following the motion with an amazed expression, down to Dan’s exposed collarbones and latching on to the denim jacket covering the white t-shirt that his own Phil, 32-year-old Phil, loves so much. Dan likes to joke it’s because you can make out his nipples through the thin fabric. He knows he isn’t entirely wrong.

 He spares a thought to be thankful that the cold prompted him to get dressed this morning. He likes that he’s looking good for this. For Phil.

 “Oh my god.” Phil is covering his mouth with one hand like he used to do back in the beginning, back when they first met. Back before Dan sweet talked him out of covering up his gorgeous smile which Dan loved so much. Back when some stupid teenage boys’ cutting words still resonated somewhere inside Phil’s head, making him self conscious about some of his best features. Dan’s always been a pacifist, but there’s been times he’s really wanted to cut a bitch.

 It’s still so cute. If Dan didn’t know why he used to do it, he would miss it more.

 “You look like the really cool bad boy protagonist from a movie. The kind I’d fantasize about but could never hope to get in real life.”

 The words hit Dan like a physical blow and wipe the smile he hadn’t even realised he’d settled on.. The sentiment is so backwards that it makes his chest tighten, makes his stomach swoop and a choked feeling to lodge in his throat. Dan knows Phil harbours some insecurities, that it’s only human to do so, but it doesn’t make him hate it any less. Phil should know how wonderful he is.

 “Phil…” his voice is soft and quiet. Somewhere between admonishing and pleading.

 Phil gives a little breathless laugh, eyes never straying from Dan’s face. “It’s true,” he insists. His smile belies his self-effacing words, and Dan is weak for that smile.

 “You got me.”

 Dan frames Phil’s face in his big hands and slowly draws him closer, closer still, maintaining eye contact that feels too intense, too wrought with emotion, but Phil doesn’t look away, doesn’t close his eyes until after their lips have connected.

 ***

 There is no definitive guide on the soulmate phenomenon, as no general consensus has been reached on the matter; but as expected from a topic that has fascinated and mystified humanity for as long as we can be considered such (i.e. for all of human history), there is a wealth of knowledge accrued on the subject.

 The highlights are as follows. ‘Soulmates’ share a strong connection, though it might take a long time for that connection to form. The bond requires a certain level of commitment before the jump can take place, and there is overwhelming evidence confirming that the jump will not occur unless both individuals involved have consciously committed to one another. The bond is often romantic in nature, but it needs not be. It can be consummated sexually, but this is not a requirement, and there are countless known instances of both romantic and platonic bonds that were never physically consummated. While rare, the bond does not require a physical meeting at all, there have been cases of soulmates who established their connection through correspondence and met for the first time during their jump. This has become less rare with the developments of technology and the advent of the internet, but it still represents a small percentage overall. People can have one soulmate in their lifetime, or they can have multiple ones, or none at all. Children can’t be part of such a bond, even a platonic one; our current understanding is that children lack the psychological maturity to knowingly and conscientiously decide to commit to someone at the required level. Teenagers can form this bond, very, very rarely. Statistics calculate that the number of teenagers to form this bond (i.e. younger than 18-years-old) is slightly less than 0.0003% of all bonds. The youngest recorded cases were of 15-year-olds, all of them bonded to older individuals. But soulmate bonds normally happen in adulthood, becoming more statistically likely the older the person gets, the mode (highest concentration of bonded cases) is 45, with a sustained number of cases from ages 32 to 56, until the curve starts to descend again around 57 years old.

 ***

 Phil keeps staring at him. It is actually worse than those first few months when they got together. Back then, he at least tried not to be too obvious, but now he doesn’t seem to care; perhaps due to the confirmation from the universe that Dan is here to stay, possibly because he can see this Dan isn’t shy about it at all, quite the contrary. Dan has always enjoyed Phil’s eyes on him, but a full decade of work on himself and his own insecurities, and the same amount of time of steadfast love and support to get used to the intensity of the emotions sparked by Phil’s stare on him… well, they’ve made a difference. He’s never quite shied away from Phil’s visibly appreciative eyes (well, not since they first met IRL, anyway), but he used to feel self-conscious. Like Phil’s focused attention might at any moment reveal Dan’s own shortcomings and Phil might change his mind. Of course, that never happened.

 Now, Dan preens a little under Phil’s attention, and, as always, he stares back.

 ***

 Dan was the one who brought it up first. It was on their postponed Portugal trip. They’d been markedly affectionate the whole trip, more so than usual even. Phil felt touch-starved, he couldn’t get enough of touching Dan. It had only been a week since he’d been with Dan before the trip, but Phil had been feeling the distance even more keenly than usual, and Dan had been just as affected if their skype calls were anything to go by.

 Phil kept expecting the gaping need he felt in his chest whenever Dan wasn’t within touching distance to abate, for this yearning to be assuaged and the longing to settle into something more manageable. It’s what everyone said would happen after he’d been with someone for a while. Except it’s been seven months and it’s only got worse. At least Dan seemed to be just as bad. And he was always so happy when Phil indulged himself by sitting too close or touching his arm or pretending to bite him. In fact, Dan had caught on pretty fast and he’d started being physically affectionate right back. (Phil especially liked it when Dan put his arm around him. He’d been the first person to do it, somehow, and Phil hadn’t expected he’d like it so much, but he did.)

 Phil had thought about it before that point, of course. Could not stop thinking about it, really, he loved Dan so much, was thinking about him all the time, of course he’d considered the possibility that Dan and he could be soulmates. But he didn’t know how to bring it up. They’d just celebrated their seven month anniversary, Dan had been with his ex-girlfriend for almost three years.

 They were drinking and lazing around on the beach when it happened, watching the sunset and babbling about whatever came to mind. Phil had flopped down at some point when the scenery started spinning a little, so he had his head on Dan’s lap. He was looking up at him, feeling warm and happy and in love (he was always feeling in love these days), and Dan had buried his fingers in Phil’s hair at some point and was gently scratching his scalp in a way that had Phil’s insides squirming happily. If Phil was a cat, he’d be purring right then and there.

 “Phil?”

 “Mmh?” Okay, maybe he wasn’t so far from purring all things considered.

 “If we’re soulmates, you’d be alright with me fucking the older version of you, right?”

 Phil was too comfortable and relaxed to do much more than chuckle from his place on the sand (and Dan’s lap). Of course that’s how he brought it up. Phil was too happy about it to mind, honestly, and he did raise a good question, to be fair.

 “Yeah,” Phil answered, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt a little. He’d been smiling so much lately, always did when he was with Dan. “That’s fine. I’d be worried if you didn’t want to, honestly.”

 “Cool.” Dan was smiling back just as wide. He looked gorgeous, flushed from the wine, with his hair tousled and his pretty collarbones fully on display in his sleeveless Howl shirt. His skin looked soft and extremely touchable in the sunlight. Phil raised his hand and poked his dimple.

 “I’m fucking older you too, by the way,” Phil told him.

 “Yeah, okay.” Dan said, then promptly turned his head and bit at Phil’s finger, which had them both giggling and poking each other for the next few minutes, until Dan blatantly cheated by tickling Phil’s sides until he surrendered.

 ***

 Dan had distractedly pushed Phil back while they kissed, until Phil bumped into the back of their sofa.

 Phil pulls back from the kiss breathing heavily, and seems content to look intently at Dan some more, idly rubbing Dan’s shoulders seemingly without noticing. “You’re so pretty. It’s unreal.”

 Dan huffs a fond laugh, pulls Phil a little closer by his grip on his waist. “Well, from my completely unbiased opinion as your soulmate, I can tell you, you are in fact the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

 “No, I’m not!” Phil protests, but he’s giggling and blushing brighter than before, and Dan can see the happiness practically radiating off him, so he just places a little kiss on Phil’s nose and smiles back really wide at Phil’s reaction.

 ***

 In many cultures, sexual contact during the jump was discouraged if the bonded pair were not already married at the time the bonded jumped forward, for fear of it resulting in a pregnancy that could not be justified to the spouse or the spouse’s family. While not very common, a lot of suspicious pregnancies were explained this way, leading social mores to frown upon the practise and, in some cases, to forbid it. While this wouldn’t matter for same-sex couples, the norm was considered universal, and romantic love being what it is, this rule was universally broken whenever bonded pairs had motive and opportunity.

  It is no longer viewed negatively, although some argue that couples should discuss the possibility ahead of time, as many people still feel uncomfortable with the thought of their partner being sexually involved with their future self.

***

 Dan guides Phil up the stairs to their room, squeezing his hand all the way there and only getting distracted by the vision of this younger Phil twice or thrice on the way.

 They kiss until Phil is breathless. Dan is keeping him flush against the wall and still Phil is grasping at Dan’s sweater and trying to pull him closer. Dan feels… firmer than he’s used to. His wandering hands have already confirmed that Dan must have taken up exercise at some point, if his arms and back are anything to go by. Phil is downright eager to do some further exploring.

 Before he can so much as catch his breath, however, Dan is running his hands down from where he’d been holding him by the hips, and without breaking eye contact he bends down to slide them down and around Phil’s thighs and grabs them firmly in those big, soft hands that Phil loves so much. The sensation is unexpectedly carnal, the trail left by Dan’s touch tingles and Phil is so hard he instinctually tries to grind against Dan, but Dan’s hold is strong enough to keep him in place. The combination of that thought and the feeling of Dan’s hands on him is enough to wring a soft moan from Phil’s throat. Then, in a practised move that makes Phil actually, in real life, honest to God fucking swoon, Dan rights himself and lifts Phil up with him, immediately trapping him between his own firm, wide chest and the even firmer wall. Phil can’t help a little scream of surprise, but he instinctively wraps his legs around Dan’s lower back anyway.

 Dan. Is holding him up against the wall. Dan is strong enough to pick him up and then continue to hold him up against the wall and that is so hot that Phil grabs his face in both hands and starts kissing him again, cock throbbing where it’s trapped against Dan’s chest.

 ***

 After Dan’s carried him to the bed and let him fall back on it carefully, he quickly finishes taking off his own clothes while Phil watches him intently. But he isn’t given much time to appreciate the sight before Dan is on him again, kissing the breath out of him, biting his shoulder in that way that’s so familiar, sucking on his nipples and dragging his tongue down his stomach, making Phil squirm.

 "What do you want?" Dan presses the words against the soft skin under his belly button.  Phil opens his mouth but the words stick in his throat, the barrage of different scenarios crashing together and causing a jam effectively prevent any one them from making it past his lips.  Dan looks up to him heatedly, his hands never stop their trek up and down the sensitive skin of his sides.

 When Phil doesn't speak, he drags his nails teasingly down his flanks, firm enough to have Phil's abs contracting at the unexpected jolt of pleasure and his hips lifting of their own accord. His erection rubs deliciously against Dan's collarbones, with only the fabric of his thin boxer briefs standing in the way.  "You can have everything you want, baby. There's nothing you could ask me that I wouldn't want to give you. You just need to decide what you want first." The words are low and soothing, punctuated by a firm kiss to the prominent freckle to the right of Phil's belly button.  "Fuck me," Phil blurts out. It wasn't so much a conscious decision as it was a gut feeling given a voice.  Dan's eyes don’t stray from him, the intensity of his gaze makes Phil shy, it makes him feel powerful, makes him want to preen and hide with equal intensity.

 Dan doesn’t move from between Phil’s thighs, however. He only shimmies down a little on the bed until his arms and shoulders are under Phil’s hips and his face is directly above the stretched fabric of Phil’s boxers. The sight fuels the electricity building up under Phil skin into something heavier.

 Dan holds himself up on his elbows and brings his hands up to grab handfuls of Phil’s outer thighs right where his boxer shorts end, while his thumbs rub the back of his thighs, dipping teasingly under the fabric. Before Phil can get the words together to ask, Dan dives his head down without an ounce of shame, rubs his nose and lips against Phil’s cock through the thin fabric, then turns to rub his cheek against it, eliciting a moan from Phil at the shockingly erotic image he makes. Phil is technically wearing pants, yeah, but he is hard enough that he’s started dripping precome and the thin stretchy fabric has molded around him in a way that only brings attention to his length, it looks almost more obscene than he would completely naked.

 Dan places his lips against the root again, but this time he opens his mouth to suck lightly at him through the fabric, causing more quiet moans to fall unbidden from Phil’s lips, and he moves his hands up from where he’s gripping Phil’s thighs firmly, until he’s grabbing the place where Phil’s thighs meet the curve of his ass. His palms are warm and solid on him, his fingers sink purposely under the fabric and into the tender skin right behind his balls. The sensation is so good that Phil can’t help trying to buck into it, but Dan’s hands keep his hips in place.

 “God, I love the sounds you make,” Dan pulls back just enough to be heard, and the sudden feeling of cold air where just a moment ago was Dan’s warmth mouth sucking at his cock through cloth has Phil whining and attempting another unsuccessful thrust. Dan sounds so wrecked already.

 “Okay, hand me the lube. I’m going to finger you until you’re open enough to take me.”

 “Fuck. Yeah, please,” Phil says breathlessly. “Where…?”

 “On the bedside table. To your left.” He doesn’t take his hands off Phil, but he does hold himself up to give him enough room to move. Phil reaches with shaky hands and is momentarily worried he might drop it, but the next second he has his hand around it and hands it over to Dan, who loosens his grip on Phil’s groin to take it.

 Dan places it to the side and moves to peel the snug fabric off of him, lifting his legs in the air and then back down with firm but gentle hands. Then, instead of resuming his previous position as Phil had expected, he sits up between Phil’s legs, with one knee bended and the other spread to the side, and he places a pillow under Phil’s hips for easier access. Phil feels wonderfully exposed laying down like this, cock hard and leaking on his stomach and legs spread and resting on Dan’s own, his whole body primed and begging for more, begging for Dan, for whatever Dan will give him. If he couldn’t see the desire so clearly evident on Dan’s face, the way his eyes go over every inch of Phil’s body greedily, possessively, he might have felt embarrassed. But he could see it, and so the flush of his cheeks and the swirling in his stomach took a different shape, felt thrilling rather than distressing.

 Dan slicks two fingers carefully, rubbing the lube to warm it up before reaching between Phil’s legs to rub them against his hole. Phil opens his legs a little bit wider in invitation.

 Dan teases him, of course, because he’s still the little shit Phil fell in love with, rubbing little circles on his perineum, dipping down to tease at the puckered flesh of his rim, then moving back up to squeeze his balls.

 “Daaaan,” he whined softly.

 It works, apparently. Next thing he knows, he can feel Dan’s middle finger slipping slowly inside, slicked up and finding no resistance.

 “Mmh... yes,” the drag as the finger pulls out and then back in faster feels wonderful, but not nearly enough. “Give me ‘nother,” he demands quietly.

 “Mmm, like this?” Dan says lowly.

 Phil moans and tries to spread his legs even wider as Dan carefully pushes two fingers in next, then rotates them slowly once they’re all the way inside. Then he starts thrusting them in and out with purpose, and the movements send sharp spikes of pleasure up his back and down his legs. His eyes have closed without is permission, and soon enough he’s planted his feet firmly on the bed to push back on the fingers, lifting his hips and fucking himself on them, too turned on to hold himself back.

 “Hngh, hnn, ah, aaahh, Dan. I’m ready, come on, give me another,” he moans out, northern accent coming out in full force as it often does during sex.

 Dan huffs, and Phil forces his eyes open to look at him. He’s flushed and his eyes look a bit crazy, his jaw is slack and he’s breathing heavily and he looks like Phil’s wildest fantasies come to life.

 “You want another already?” he asks hoarsely.

 “Yesssss…”

 Instead of complying, he moves back and drops to the bed, chest on the sheets between Phil’s legs again. Before Phil can complain, he’s reaching for the lube again and coats three fingers liberally, then settles back. The push inside is even slower this time, Dan being overly careful not to hurt him. It gives Phil the time to track every stab of pleasure radiating from his core as Dan skillfully fingers him open. The drag over his prostate is noticeably stronger with three fingers, Phil writhes on the sheets and lifts his hips to grind down on Dan’s gloriously big fingers, his hands clutch the sheets on each side.

 “Fuck,” he feels more than hears Dan breathe into his skin, then he feels his sharp teeth biting down on the tender skin of his inner thighs, just hard enough that Phil knows he’ll leave teethmarks. Fuck, Phil loves it when Dan leaves marks on him. Dan releases the skin and places a long lick over it, tongue flat and smooth and warm. Then he pulls his fingers out completely and thrusts them back in abruptly, at the same time that he puts his mouth on Phil’s unmarked thigh and starts sucking.

 Phil’s body riots.

 “Dan. Dan. Fuuuck… Mmhhhh...” Phil voice is so whiny and breathless that Dan knows he must be close. The knowledge eggs him on, and he twists his fingers in roughly, taking in how easily Phil’s body opens for him, how wet and tight and warm he is inside, how prettily he moans for him.

 “Dan, wait, I’m-hnnm. Fuck, I’m too close.” Phil whines.

 “Don’t hold yourself back,” Dan says against the hickies he’s worked into the pale skin of Phil’s thighs. Phil makes a little noise of protest that only serves to fuel Dan’s desire to make him come undone under his fingers. Decision made, Dan pulls back to watch it happen.

 “But...”

 “Phil, I know I can make you come three times in one night in your thirties, I doubt you’ll have a problem to get it up again at 23.”

 Phil raises his head to stare at him at that, seemingly shocked for a second, mouth hanging open a bit. It only takes two seconds for the surprise to turn into heat, and he nods, clearly relishing that tidbit of knowledge.

 “You want my mouth?”

 Phil doesn’t answer. He just keeps grinding down on Dan’s fingers and looking up at him, and he thinks Dan must realise it too. He won’t need it.

 Phil comes with three of Dan’s fingers inside him, Dan’s thumb pressed firmly on his perineum and Dan’s eyes on him feeling almost like a physical presence all on their own.

 Dan keeps thrusting his fingers into him until Phil relaxes into the bed, then pulls them out gently. He cursorily wipes his fingers and lays down next to Phil to be close to him as he comes down. Phil likes feeling Dan’s warmth next to him, likes their arms and legs brushing as he comes down. He’s told Dan that it anchors him.

 Dan wraps one arm loosely around him and uses the time to cool himself down.

 When Phil can mostly breathe normally again, he reaches for Dan’s hand and weakly turns on his side, silently demanding that Dan spoon him. Dan readily complies, scooting Phil even closer and holding him tight against his chest.

 Dan’s arm across his chest feels wider than he’s used to, and surprisingly strong, a stark contrast to Phil’s boneless state.

 Phil lies there and basks in the afterglow, revels in the feeling of being surrounded by Dan. He feels small, but in a good way. Warm and safe and surrounded by this man he loves. Shielded from the world. Dan slides a leg between his and holds him a little tighter, places a little kiss on the back of his neck that makes his skin tingle a little.

 Phil’s mind is all over the place, the phantom sensation of Dan stretching him open coupled with the solid weight of Dan’s erection resting on his lower back mean that the heat is already faintly swirling in his lower stomach, but he’s too worn out for it take the shape of arousal yet. The precious certainty that Dan is his soulmate, that he really does feel this thing between them as strongly as he says he does, as sharply as Phil does, is still making his head spin a little. The sensory difference between being held by his Dan and being enveloped by the tangibly stronger arms of this older version of his boyfriend is resonating on some base part of his brain where all the embarrassing teenage fantasies of his youth are stored, the ones that came after the realisation that he liked men too; the ones he would sometimes get off to once he figured out how much the idea of being ravished by an older, bigger man turned him on; the ones that had him rutting into his sheets and moaning into his pillow in desperation as he learned how good it felt to have something inside him, anything, even his own fingers, but always made him feel weirdly ashamed and empty afterwards. He got over the misplaced shame with time, especially once he started dating boys in uni, but those fantasies of being held in place by strong hands, of being manhandled like he weighed nothing, of being taken and taken care of, still felt oddly taboo somehow, like something he shouldn’t talk about or ask for. Having it now, from Dan of all people, his soulmate, makes him feel a little overwhelmed.

 But it’s good. It’s so good Phil is heady with it.

 ***

 It takes a while for Phil to fully come down from it, time feel suspended in place for him, but eventually he emerges from the haze.

 Dan is placing little kisses over his shoulders, an unexpected contrast to the unabashedly sexual slide of his hard cock where he’s idly rubbing against the soft skin of Phil’s asscheeks. Phil pushes back lazily, baring his long neck to entice Dan to move his mouth there next. Dan moves slowly, leaving butterfly kisses all the way there and seeming reluctant to leave his shoulders. Phil is reminded of the many times Dan’s told him he loves the little freckles there.

 “Daaan,” Phil complains softly, trying to get him to move on to the more exciting part. How he has the wherewithal to move this slowly with as hard as he feels pressed against him and with everything they’ve done already, Phil has no idea.

 Dan chuckles into his shoulder, but he finally moves his wonderful, tantalizing mouth to nip and suck on Phil’s neck, so Phil can’t bring himself to scold him. A measured bite makes him moan breathlessly and wow, Dan knew what he was talking about because Phil sure won’t be having any issues getting it up a second time with the way things are going.

 “God, I love it when you’re like this,” Dan breathes directly into his ear. “All soft and pliant and desperate in my hands. I love you all sweet like this.”

 It makes Phil flush darker with want, with pride that he can make Dan sound like that.

 “You know how soft you sound when you’re like this? It drives me crazy,” he punctuates the words with a thrust that brings his cock between Phil’s cheeks and wrests a low moan from him as it slides smoothly between his legs. He’s still slick there from Dan’s fingers, still sensitive enough that when Dan’s cock rubs up past his hole and against his perineum he mewls a little.

 Then Dan is pulling away, pushing him on his back and climbing on top of him, swallowing the sound they both make at the feeling of skin on skin when Dan pulls them flush against each other. Phil clings to his back and brings his legs around him to keep him in place. The position has their cocks lining up and rubbing together deliciously, and the idea of Dan manhandling him to wherever he wants him should probably not make Phil this hot, but it does, and he’s well beyond the point where he might feel embarrassed by it.

 “Dan. Come on. Fuck me already.”

 “Mm, you sure? I could come like this, just rubbing against you,” Dan pulls back to hover over him to say it, and another sharp spike of desire spears through him as he looks up at the gorgeous man above him, his biceps are bulging on each side of Phil’s head where he’s leaning on them to hold himself up, his lips look shiny and puffed up, the little rosy patch he loves so much is on full display and his hair is a mussed up mess; all in all he looks like a fucking wet dream come true. Fuck, Phil cannot get over the curls.

 “Don’t you fucking dare, Daniel. I want you to fuck me into the mattress and I want it right the fuck now.” Phil surges up to catch his full lower lip between his teeth and pulls teasingly without breaking eye contact in a way he’s learnt makes Dan give in to him almost every time.

 Dan shoves him back into the sheets with the force of a kiss, and Phil knows he’s won. He’s surprised when he feels Dan’s fingers teasing his rim again, then slowly dipping inside, and he lets out a sigh.

 “Dan, I’m ready. I’m so ready,” his words slur as Dan thrusts another finger in, speeding up a bit, “Please, I’m so open for you, I want you,” he breaks off into a needy moan. When he opens his eyes, it’s to see Dan staring down at him hungrily, panting slightly with obvious desire.

 Dan did always love it when he talks dirty.

 “Come on. I’m spread open for you, you’ve stretched me so well, you can slide right in...”

 “Fuck,” Dan exhales. He’s looking down at Phil like he can’t quite believe the sight in front of him. “Okay. Okay.” He pulls his fingers out belatedly and slicks himself up with trembling fingers. Phil feels like he’ll crawl out of his skin any moment now.

 “This position okay?” Dan asks, already positioning himself. He rubs the head of his cock deliciously around and over Phil’s stretched rim in a move that always makes Phil writhe a little in pleasure.

 “Yeah, I want to see you.” Phil likes looking at Dan and he likes the weight of Dan’s body pressing him into the bed. This is the position he’d have chosen if Dan had asked. He suspects Dan knows this.

 “Yeah,” Dan breathes out, then pushes in.

 The stretch is wider than three of his fingers, but Phil is so relaxed and so open that it doesn’t hurt at all. Instead, there’s only pleasure and emotion and intimacy.

 Dan stops once he bottoms out, by the way he’s breathing so heavily and biting his lip it looks like he’s trying to hold it together, and Phil suddenly feels so grateful that he’s come once already to take the edge off, because that means he gets to focus more on Dan now, he gets to watch him come apart without being distracted by his own pleasure. He runs his hands up Dan’s back soothingly and places a little kiss on his chin, rubbing one leg up and down Dan’s own in an intimate caress. The weight of Dan’s gaze on him feels disarming, it makes him feel known, and claimed. It makes him feel loved.

 Dan finally breaks the eye contact to kiss him, slow and deep and filthy, and that’s when he chooses to move. First a slow grind, slow circles of his hips that cause sparks to shoot off under Phil’s skin and his spine to curve in pleasure; then Dan is bracing himself on his forearms and he starts thrusting in and out in earnest, The shift in rhythm has Phil moaning and unlocking his legs from around Dan to spread them wider. He plants his feet on the mattress to gain enough leverage to move into the thrusts, but Dan’s solid weight on his chest means he doesn’t have much wiggle room, which of course is only setting his blood on fire faster. There’s no question that Dan knows what he’s doing here.

 Dan is letting out low, sustained moans with every thrust of his hips, and Phil can only clutch on to his shoulders and writhe with every slide of his cock, every sound from Dan’s lips. When Dan buries his face in his neck, his moans start reverberating on Phil’s jaw, adding to the mounting onslaught of near ecstasy. Dan’s shaking slightly, his moans start sounding more and more like the needy whines he makes when Phil gets him really worked up, it is the single hottest thing Phil’s ever heard bar none.

 “Dan,” Phil breathes out. “Are you close?” It’s not a real question, Phil knows he is.

 Dan whimpers, fucking whimpers, and Phil can feel his cock twitch where it’s pressed between their stomachs, fuck. “You feel so good,” Dan whispers into his neck desperately, hips never breaking their maddening pace. “Phil…”

 “Dan, come on, I want to feel you lose it. I want it. Please, come inside me.”

 The sounds Dan makes when he comes, the way he shakes in Phil’s arms and the intimate knowledge of what he’s feeling right now are nearly enough to tip him over the edge a second time. Nearly, but not quite. And so Dan comes, cock buried snugly inside him and body going rigid with almost overwhelming pleasure, and Phil holds him through it and through the aftershocks, until he’s too sensitive to stay inside. He pulls out, but he doesn’t move from where he’s laying on top of Phil, and he sighs contentedly when Phil starts petting his hair with one hand, the other wandering idly through his back.

 After a minute, Dan brings his head up to place a firm close-mouthed kiss straight on his lips, and he grins sleepily down at him, wide and dimpled and so beautiful Phil’s heart flips aggressively in his chest.

 He flops a bit to one side and reaches down to hold Phil in a loose fist, squeezing lightly to watch Phil buck into his hand with a moan.

 “Hmm, yeah,” Phil hums, turning to bury a hand in Dan’s hair and bring him closer for another kiss. “Just like this.”

 The second time he comes, it’s with Dan’s hand pumping his cock, Dan’s body pressed against him and Dan’s tongue inside his mouth.

 ***

 According to most religions, soulmates are divine will made manifest. In many cultures, reproduction is considered part of the natural cycle as well as the obligation of the proper citizen, and so individuals who discovered their soulmate to be of the same sex used to be encouraged to pursue a platonic relationship with their bonded and were historically often pressured either into heterosexual marriages or into monasteries and religious vows of celibacy.

The sexual revolution of the early 20th century put this harmful tradition to rest, and sex-same marriage has been legalised and is protected everywhere in the world by the turn of the millennia.

 ***

 Once they’ve worn themselves down, they settle down for some quality cuddling in bed. In their bed, Phil thinks, deliriously happy. In their house where they live in together. All the time.

 Phil wiggles a little, trying to snuggle even closer into Dan’s chest before subsiding. Without much thought, Dan drags his hand slowly up and down Phil’s naked back in a practised caress.

 “Hmm… that’s nice.” Phil mumbles into his neck.

 “Yeah, it is.” Dan answers softly. After a few comfy seconds of silence, he adds, “I like petting you”. He’s pushing it a little, but he thinks it’ll be fine. Good, even.

 Phil giggles a bit nervously. “That’s weird,” he says, but he doesn’t sound bothered. Dan knew he wouldn’t be.

 “You taught me to embrace weird, years ago.” He places a tiny kiss on Phil’s head. In gratitude.

 Phil just holds on tighter. At the love apparent in Dan’s soft voice, the adoration he engraves on Phil’s skin with every touch. At the reference he’d made, no doubt knowing Phil couldn’t, wouldn’t miss it.

 Phil is weird. He’d always been weird. He’d come to terms with it, had come to appreciate it, even. It is good for creative endeavours, and he’s aiming for a creative profession. On the really good days, with the really good people, he’s come to celebrate it.

 Dan is one of the good people. The best people. Person. Dan is the best person in the world.

 ***

 Phil inspects the toiletries, hair still damp from the shower. "Which one's mine?" He’s taken off his contacts to alleviate the strain on his eyes. It turns out keeping your contacts in through interdimensional time travel and then crying with them on several times in one afternoon tends to cause a slight irritation to the cornea. Who knew.

"The green one," Dan points it out in the line of products arranged neatly on the bathroom cabinet.

Phil sprays the cologne in front of his face so he can smell it. It smells fresh and summery, like freshly cut grass or the open air of the forest.

"And that blue one is yours?"

"Got it in one."

Phil smells that one as well. Still fresh but a tad heavier. Woodsy and with the hint of something fruity? It’s fresh but homier. It’s no contest, really. He likes the idea of smelling like Dan too much to resist picking his.

Dan watches him spray it with a little smile.

“You picked it for me.”

“Oh?”

Dan shakes his head amusedly. “You’re the one with the prodigious sense of smell. I can barely make out the scent, but you really liked it. Apparently, you think it suits me.”

Phil brings the little glass bottle back in front of his face to breathe it in again. He rather loves it. He wonders which came first: does he love it because he already recognises it as Dan’s scent, or did he pick it for Dan because he loved it?

As he applies some on himself, he decides it doesn’t really matter either way.

***

 The jump remains partly locked in the jumper's subconscious once they return to their present day. Whatever they learn stays with them as vague certainties, but if they should try to trace back their certainty to its source they will often not be able to access the memories in question. The entire experience remains, but only the most general outline and a few details will be easily accessible by the conscious mind. Often, the clearest memories will be sensory: a pungent smell, a surprising sound, the feeling of one’s soulmate’s touch on one’s skin; other than that, the prevailing memories are vague impressions: the feeling of comfort and of being loved are the most common.

***

 After basic hygiene is taken care of, Dan turns his attention to the next basic need on the list.

 “Come on, I’ll feed you.”

 He puts on an oversized sweater to brave the cold of the kitchen and gives Phil his Sexual Fantasies sweater, which has Phil raising an eyebrow at him, “What? You are a sexual fantasy,” Dan jokes.

 Phil snorts but begins to put it on anyway. “Only for you.”

 Dan shakes his head, amused. “For a lot of people, actually. I’m lucky I locked you in early on.”

 Phil looks at him, but doesn’t say anything about that. He seems to be processing the idea. Dan can’t imagine why he’d have trouble believing it, he remembers how many people were after him around the time they got together, and the number only kept growing with time.

 “This is yours, isn’t it?”

 “Yeah,” Dan confirms. “It’ll keep you warm. And I’ve always loved seeing you in my clothes.”

 Phil grins at him, tongue poking out between his teeth in that way of his that still makes Dan’s heart flutter in his chest. God, how did he get this lucky?

 “Still possessive, then?”

 “Always.” Dan grins back. “I got better with the jealousy thing, though.” He turns to the closet to look for something for their feet. The floor of the kitchen is cold af in early February. “Uh, took a while.”

 Phil is laughing at the confession. He’s never minded that. Thought it was cute so long as Dan didn’t become openly rude, which hardly ever happened, thankfully. Good manners and etiquette generally won out even in his worse jealous episodes. This meant that he seethed in silence, maybe glared a little, and later, when they were alone, Phil could indulge his possessive streak by acceding to having mindblowing sex and taking the initiative to remind Dan how much he loves him a bit more frequently than usual for the next few days. Win/win.

 Dan finds what he’s looking for and turns around, handing Phil a pair of the Dil bunny slippers, and dropping another for himself.

 “What are those?” Phil says when he sees them, and Dan trips on the completely unexpected meme and barely avoids falling flat on his face by holding on to Phil’s arm. He’s laughing so hard he can’t even catch his breath to explain why he’s laughing, and Phil’s adorably confused face only makes him laugh harder.

 Once he can speak again, Dan explains they’re Sims merch (and purposefully doesn’t say they’re their merch), which makes Phil huff and ask what’s so funny about that.

 “It’s not that, what you said - it’s a meme. An internet joke-”

 “I know what a meme is, Dan, I’m an internet person.”

 Dan laughs again at that. “Yeah, okay. It’s just, memes evolve a lot in ten years. I don’t know if I should show it to you, probably not.” There are rules in place, after all, and for good reason. “The phrase is from, like, a viral video. It was just really unexpected to hear that from you, since you don’t even know the original meme. It was funny.”

 Phil is smiling at him, which still, after all these years, makes Dan smile back at him automatically, but he’s also rolling his eyes and that makes Dan want to wrap his arms around him and squeeze. So he does. Phil squeezes back, as he always has, from that first time they hugged in a Manchester train station, roughly a decade ago. Well, a decade ago for Dan anyway.

 They eventually let go of each other, and Phil stares at him for a few seconds before breaking the silence.

 “Okay, I was promised food.”

                                              [art by @jorzuela]

***

 Phil laughs himself silly the first time he sees the ‘What are those?’ vine. His first instinct is to send it to Dan (who is upstairs), but he can’t quite stop laughing long enough to forward it. Dan follows the wheezing sound to find Phil doubled over on the computer chair, grabbing his sides which ache from the unrelenting laughter as actual tears fall from his eyes. He makes Dan watch the vine and, when asked, he can’t explain why he finds it so funny, he just does.

 Dan shakes his head at him, amused. He’s grinning wide enough that he’s got little crinkles around his eyes. The sight makes something in Phil’s chest clench. He loves that sight: Dan, unreservedly, unambiguously happy,

 Phil appears to be having one of those really sappy days, for some reason. Thankfully, going by the fondness in Dan’s expression when faced with Phil’s inexplicable whims, he seems happy enough to indulge him.

 Phil can’t believe he got so lucky sometimes.

 ***

 To accommodate for the jump, it is illegal to compel jumpers to fill in for their future self at work or work-related events.

 No one knows where people go for the duration of their younger self’s jump, but they disappear for that time and appear again when the jump is over with perfect memories of the event.

  Jumpers don’t lose any time, they go forward into the future, then come back to the point in time they left.

 ***

 Phil sits cross legged over the counter while Dan prepares a simple but filling meal for them both. “The better to watch you slave over for me,” he joked after hopping on. He’s wearing an old pair of his older counterpart’s glasses, since 2019 Phil’s prescription is too strong for him, and they keep slipping down his nose. Dan keeps getting distracted by him, this boy he fell in love with and built a life with; they keep staring at each other and smiling like idiots. It’s kind of ridiculous, but they’re alone in the safety of their home, so Dan doesn’t care if he’s a soft fool.

 Dan can see the second Phil starts gearing up to ask something, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s so familiar with all of this man’s inner workings, all his ticks and habits and thoughts, that he is not surprised when he turns off the heat, meal properly cooked, and hears Phil voice the question that’s been going around in his head probably since he arrived here.

 “We’re happy, aren’t we?”

 His voice is so soft, so hesitant... the question feels like a physical grip around Dan’s heart.

 Dan turns to face him with an expression that he knows their fans would deem a particularly soft Heart Eyes Howell. He can’t help it and frankly, he stopped trying many, many years ago.

 “Yeah…”

 Phil looks like he’ll start crying again any second, and Dan is not much better. Dan's the one with a reputation of crying easily, and not without cause. All things considered, he thinks he's done reasonably well with this whole experience. He takes a deep breath to smother the urge now; he wants to talk about this. He needs to tell Phil.

 “We’re actually the happiest we’ve ever been, and we’ve never been… it’s never been bad. There were things, external things, that put a damper on… things, sometimes. But nothing too bad, and it was never about us, as a couple, you know? External problems and personal problems unrelated to who we are together… And through all of it, we were happy together.”

 Phil bites his lip and nods. He’s losing the battle with his tears, so he pulls the glasses off to rest them on the counter. He looks so small in Dan’s enormous sweater, he’s dabbing at the tears with sweater paws, and Dan suddenly can’t stand to not be touching him. He crosses the space between them in two big strides and grabs Phil’s hips to gently scoot him to the edge of the counter, so that he can hold him properly, and Phil uncrosses his legs and clings to him the second Dan nestles between them, burying his face in Dan’s neck and his hands on his back.

 They stay like that for a long time, clinging to each other and running hands through hair, up and down each other’s back, sides, arms.

 After an insurmountable amount of time - neither one could have guessed how long it was - Phil straightens a bit where he sits but without letting go of where he’s wrapped all around Dan, and whispers into his neck, “I used to worry that I’d never find someone”. It makes Dan’s heart clench, makes him start crying again, and he squeezes Phil harder against his chest. “Before you. Before we met,” Phil continues, and he sounds calmer. Dan is anything but.

 He pulls back, gently, and waits until Dan loosens his grip enough so that he can move back to face him. Phil wipes Dan’s cheeks and the expression on his face is filled with so much love and devotion that Dan can’t help the tears that keep falling.

 “I love you so much,” Phil rasps, this time directly against his lips, hands framing Dan’s face. His thumbs are gently caressing his cheeks, moving with the line of his cheekbone and under his eyes, wiping the tears straight from the source. “I’m so glad you found me,” the whisper ends in a small choked laugh, strangled by the sheer understatement and the high emotions of the tender moment they’re sharing.

 It takes Dan a few minutes to calm down, he’s so filled with love for this man he feels he’s going to rupture from it. These feelings are surely too large, too momentous to be contained in a human body.

 By the time they disentangle - well, relatively, they still want to be as close as they can - they need to reheat their meal.

 ***

 People who had no soulmate used to be regarded with suspicion and mistrust once they reached a certain age, the assumption being that they must have a soulmate that they were concealing due to the match being socially disadvantageous or even disreputable.

  Patriarchal values being what they are, this suspicion was mostly levelled at women, but men had to be careful about keeping appearances as well, especially if they wanted to be in the public eye.

 ***

 After eating, they spend hours talking. They keep touching each other; in little ways, but there’s no single way they haven’t touched each other at some point in time throughout their history. It would feel unnatural not to do it now.

 The finally decide to call it a night when Dan catches Phil yawning for the fifth time in as many minutes. He opens his mouth wide in a big yawn, belatedly bringing his hand to cover it politely. The way he blinks after, as if the sleepiness crept up on him and caught him by surprise, is the cutest fucking thing and Dan wishes he had caught that on video. He really needs to start taking pictures for posterity.

 They go to bed for the night. It’s relatively early for what both of them are used to, but they are physically and emotionally drained and both of them want nothing more than to get some rest and some cuddles

 They mean to turn in immediately, maybe talk a bit more as they lay wrapped all over each other in their bed, but snuggling and talking turns into kissing turns into wandering hands turns into sucking into necks and rutting against each other and mutual blowjobs which finally tire them enough that they fall asleep loosely holding each other.

***

 The next morning they’re happy to wake up to each other. They don’t quite want this to be over yet.

 They sit down on the sofa to eat breakfast, legs entwined and far too close, and chat about nothing of importance for a bit.

 “-for... the… project we’re working on that I shouldn’t tell you about. Shit. I’m bad at keeping things from you.”

 Phil laughs and says nothing about all the little hints he keeps picking up on from Dan’s words, from his actions, from their home. They are small enough that it shouldn’t matter anyway, and he’s reassured by the abundant evidence that they are happy and successful, that they are working together and living together and have built a life together where they can be everything they once dreamed of.

 Once they’re finished, they put the dishes away to deal with later and lay back on the sofa to laze the rest of the morning away. Phil grins when Dan immediately pulls him in to lie on top of him as they flop down. Dan has always been warm and caring, but Phil has always been the one with the insatiable need for physical closeness, and so he is used to being the one to initiate it. Except when Dan is feeling amorous, or particularly sentimental. Or when he’s jealous. The thought puts a devious little smile on his face. Dan mentioned it the previous day, but he wants to hear more about it  

 “So you still get possessive?” Phil brings up the subject again in hopes of hearing more, lifting his head from where it was resting on the place where Dan’s chest meets his collarbones so that he can stare at Dan’s older face a bit more. He’s still so beautiful.

 “Look. I warned you about that very early on, before we physically met, even. You knew about that going in,” he sounds mock defensive, but the amusement shines through on his expression. He’s still feeling high on this whole experience. It’s like his brain decided to make up for all those years of serotonin deficiency by producing its entire accumulated deficit all at once on this single day. Or maybe Dan is so in love that he’s delirious with it and drawing weird metaphors in his head is the only way his brain can cope.

 Phil rests his chin exactly between Dan’s clavicles and hums.

 “It’s a character flaw, but it’s a character flaw you were aware of, and you never once discouraged it.”

 “Mmmhh… I may enjoy it slightly.”

 Dan laughs breathlessly.

 “I got better at it, though.” Phil is momentarily distracted by Dan’s big, soft hands running up his back and lingering, before retracing their path down to his ass. Phil loses his train of thought completely when he feels the hands cup his ass and squeeze. Phil pushes back and squirms a little.

Dan is looking straight at him, and Phil still isn’t used to it, to the intensity of Dan’s eyes on him, the open adoration he can read there. It makes him blush and squirm in an entirely different way, though not an unwelcome one.

 He still blushes when his Dan catches him off guard sometimes. Like that time Dan had been staying with him and Phil forgot to bring an extra towel when he took a shower, and he had to go back into his room with only one towel wrapped around his waist despite the cold. Dan had stared so intently at him Phil had felt stupidly self-conscious until Dan got up from where he’d been browsing Phil’s laptop on the bed, shoved him against the wall and kissed him until Phil forgot what self-consciousness felt like. When Dan dropped to his knees in front of him, Phil had had to lean against the wall for fear of falling down, he’d never felt weak with lust before. Not like that. Not like his entire being was going to vibrate out of his skin in excitement. Dan hadn’t believed him when he told him, afterwards, that he’d honestly just forgotten to replace the towels. He was convinced Phil had been seducing him. He’d rolled his eyes at Phil’s denial. “It worked.”

 Phil couldn’t believe it, sometimes. How much and how badly Dan wanted him. And that was his Dan; skinny, awkward, teenaged Dan, who was so breathtakingly beautiful that all Phil could do sometimes was bite him because he had to get rid of all the nervous energy somehow. Clever, articulate, 19-year-old Dan who seemed more of an adult than Phil sometimes; who would wonder about life’s big questions and their place in the universe one moment and would be matching Phil’s childlike delight at their shared nerdy interests the next. His Dan, who could talk up a storm, but who was always, always, so interested in anything Phil had to say, no matter how childish or weird or nerdy or silly. Phil was still coming to grips with being loved by that Dan, his Dan, so to be facing this older version was understandably wrecking his composure a little.

 This man who held him so tenderly, who still looked at him as if Phil was all he’d ever need, this man who still touched him like he was precious, like he was blessed just to be able to touch him; this man who looked grown and confident and self-assured in a way his Dan only sometimes managed. This man who was somehow the most beautiful person he’d ever seen yet not, because that was a description reserved for his Dan, but this was who his Dan would grow into, so it probably doesn’t matter that Phil can’t figure that out.

 Phil is still a bit awed that he’d ended up with this gorgeous, loving, lovely creature, that he had somehow built a home with him, and that a full decade later he’d still get to have this: these looks of wonder, this tenderness, this love. Phil can read his Dan on this man’s features, and that is the most awe-inspiring part of it all.

 ***

 “Oh, it’s snowing!” Phil exclaims, visibly excited.

 Dan turns to the window and, indeed, there’s snow falling down and getting stuck on the edge of their windowsill. “Huh. Let’s go outside,” Dan proposes spontaneously, an idea taking shape in his mind’s eye. “We can make hot cocoa. We have instant, so it’ll only take a couple minutes.”

 Phil takes his eyes off the window to turn a confused look to Dan. He has the cutest little frown, Dan can feel himself smiling like the besotted fool he is.

 “Shouldn’t we stay inside? Uh, avoid people and such?”

 “Oh, yeah. I meant outside as in ‘our own patio’, not outside as in ‘the street.’”

 “Oh, we have a patio?” He turns to watch the snow through their living room window again. “Let’s do it.”

 Dan takes his hand and drags him into the kitchen to heat the water and find the mixing powder. He points to their hall closet and tells Phil to pick a coat while he makes their drinks, and as soon as Phil is distracted perusing their selection of coats Dan is sneaking a bag of mini marshmallows into his sweater’s pocket.

 “The drinks are done,” he calls into the hall.

 Phil reappears wearing his blue winter coat and holding one of Dan’s. “I figured the black ones were yours,” his voice tilts at the end as if asking for confirmation, but his little smile tells Dan he already knows the answer.

 “Yeah,” Dan confirms anyway. He bundles up, takes the steaming mugs of chocolatey goodness in both hands, and leads the way to their patio doors.

***

 It’s still snowing by the time they make it outside, thankfully.

 Dan places the cups on the little round patio table that’s right under their balcony. That should keep them safe from the snow.

 “You want to take a picture?” Phil asks when he sees Dan open the camera app on his phone.

 “I want to take 12 billion pictures, are you kidding me?” Dan wraps his right arm around Phil’s waist and squeezes lightly. “If that’s okay with you? We don’t have to, I’d just like the physical reminder.”

 “Of course. Why would I mind?”

 Dan shrugs. No harm in making sure.

 They posed for a few selfies (a few dozen, really, but that was due to Dan taking so many in quick succession). Dan’s favourite photo would turn out to be from when Phil turned to kiss his cheek and the camera captured Dan’s mild surprise, which quickly turned into a wide smile.

 Of course, Phil had then licked Dan’s dimple, making Dan shriek and break out in giggles while Phil laughed into his cheek.

 Dan’s second favourite would be the one he snapped of Phil with his mouth open mid-exclamation and both hands wrapped firmly around his mug as Dan dropped a handful of the mini marshmallows he’d smuggled outside into Phil’s cup right before Phil took the first sip of his hot chocolate.

***

 Another detour to the bedroom leaves them boneless and sweaty and reminiscing on their first time together.

 “God, I was so nervous.”

 “Yeah,” Dan smiles impossibly wide at the memory. “It made me feel so much better.”

 Phil sputters out a laugh at the unexpected admission, “Better? If anything, it should have made you feel more nervous, too!”

 “Nope.” Dan flicks his glabella gently, an old habit. “It made me so much more confident.”

 “You are so weird,” Phil faux-complains, visibly fond. Dan rolls his eyes at him, but he isn’t any less enamoured.

 “You’d had sex with men before. You clearly knew what you were doing.” Dan shuffles a bit and resettles so that he can look Phil in the eye. “You touched me like you knew my body already.” A short pause when he seems to reconsider his words. “Well, that’s what it felt like, anyway. I know what that’s actually like now. But it felt like it; like you could play my body like a master violinist with a Tchaikovsky piece.” The reference gets Dan an eyeroll. God, Dan loves it when Phil gets sassy. It gets him hot and bothered at the most inappropriate times. It’s a problem.  

 “My point is: you weren’t nervous because of the sex, you had that down.”  His voice gets softer as he remembers a much younger Phil hovering over him, kissing him until Dan forgot to be nervous, or scared, or self-conscious. He remembers pulling back from the kiss to breathe, he’d never felt so wonderfully consumed by another person, he’d wanted to drown in this man. Then Phil had asked Dan if he was sure, again, told him to stop him if he changed his mind, or if he wanted to slow down, or if Phil did anything he didn’t like, and Dan realised for the first time since they’d kissed and officially become a thing that Phil was still nervous. He was babbling, and his hands were shaking, Dan had been too distracted by the feeling of Phil’s tongue in his mouth, Phil’s hands on him, Phil’s chest against him, pressing him against Phil’s bed, Phil on top of him holy shit, to notice that Phil was terrified.

 “Well, kind of, I guess. I was a little nervous about the sex, too. I wanted to make it good for you.”

 “You did,” Dan interjects.

 “But I was really nervous,” Phil mock glares at him, and Dan discreetly writhes against him a little. Phil’s eyes are laughing at him, so Dan guesses he wasn’t that discreet after all. Oh, well. Phil knows what those looks do to him, that was basically his fault.

 “I was nervous,” Phil continues with a softer voice, “because I was falling in love with you, and I had no idea how to deal with it. I’d never felt anything like that for anyone before. You know that.”

 “Yeah. That’s why.”

 “Hm?”

 “That’s why I felt better. It made me realise I wasn’t alone in that. So of course it made me more confident.”

 Phil shakes his head at him, smiling. “Did you seriously not know that already?”

 Dan bites his lip, but he‘s smiling; Phil stares at his dimples. He always stares at Dan’s dimples. He’d never get enough of them. Of Dan. “I’d hoped,” Dan says simply.

 “Who could resist you, Howell?”

 Dan actually chuckles at that. “Most people?”

 “Fools,” Phil declares with conviction. “Heathens.”

 “Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not interested in any of them,” Dan assures him, sneaking his hand under Phil’s arm to stroke his back.

 “Mmhhh…” Phil lays back against Dan’s chest and makes a triumphant, happy sound. “...damn right.”

***

 Ancestral knowledge has warned us about the dangers of disclosing too much information about the future, even with the built-in failsafes that nature has wisely provided us with (i.e. the temporary blurring of the memories). As some details can survive the jump back, it is strongly encouraged that the future half of the bonded pair resist the temptation to divulge too much. Anecdotal evidence from times immemorial consistently shows that instances where too much information about the future is retained by the jumper, said information will invariably lead to negative effects in the jumper's life whenever they try to use that information as guidance.

 ***

 “Don’t look!” Dan yelled from where he was apparently hiding a bunch of board games from Phil.

 “I already said I wouldn’t!” Phil, studiously looking the other way, rolled his eyes. He’d been excited when Dan proposed playing some board games, and even more excited when he saw the tall cabinet filled to the brim with so many of them. He’d been less impressed when Dan screeched and forcibly turned him around with wide eyes.

 “Wait. Shit. There’s a couple games you maybe shouldn’t see. To be safe.”

 Phil thought it was overkill, but Dan was the type to worry about things like that, and Phil didn’t really mind, so he went with it. Although he really couldn’t see how getting a sneak peek into the board games that would be coming out in the next few years might classify as too much information about the future.

 “Alright, crisis averted!” Dan pronounced like the utter drama queen he could be when the mood struck him, and Phil turned to face him again. “Now, which one of these perfectly familiar board games which totally exist in 2010 would you like to play?”

***

 “Do you want to film a video?” Dan finally asks on their second night together. He’s been turning the idea around in his head. “Not to upload, just for us, I mean. We could play a game, or ask each other questions, or… I don’t know, do whatever you want.”

 Phil lights up both at the suggestion and the information Dan’s let slip without even noticing. So they were still making videos to upload on the internet.

 “Yes! Let’s!”

 Dan grins back and him and leads him to their room to get the camera.

***

 The entirety of the jump experience is ‘unlocked’ upon the jumper naturally reaching the point in time to which they jumped. The memories cristallise at this time and can from this point forward be recalled with perfect clarity for the remainder of the person’s life.

*** 

 Dan only looks away for a moment, but that was enough. When he looks back, it’s over, and Dan turns to find the current version of Phil standing right where the 23-year-old had been a mere moment ago.

 Dan smiles, equally happy to see any version of Phil now that he has ample photographic and video evidence of Phil’s jump to relish and treasure forever. “Welcome back.”

 Phil grins brightly at him. “You were so good,” he says softly. His voice has taken that particular tender quality that Dan has only occasionally been able to bring out in him when he’s made really big or really dumb romantic gestures. Having just got through his jump probably justifies it coming out now.

 Dan bites his lip through his own grin. “Yeah?”

 “Did younger me tire you out? Because I have a mighty need, suddenly, to show you how much I appreciate how good you were...” He trails off and waggles his eyebrows with exaggerated vigor, like the absolute nerd he is. That makes them both laugh giddily, a bit drunk on the intensity of the whole experience.

 “I am pretty tired… but you’re worth the extra effort.”

 Phil giggles at his big, silly, wonderful dork of a partner, his soulmate, tongue poking out in that way that Dan has told him a million times is endearing don’t you dare stop doing it, Lester, don’t you fucking dare.

 “Sap,” Phil accuses with a sappy smile of his own.

 “Lies and slander, I am but the cold, empty reflection of the unfeeling void.”

 Phil laughs in his face, takes his hand in his, and leads him to their room.

                                              [art by @jorzuela]

[bie-lovers]

As We Grow

Title: As We Grow

Relationship: Dan/Phil

Word count: 1992

Summary: There is a small café a little down a side street from their old apartment. The older lady working there has always had a soft spot for the two young boys frequenting her café, and she has watched them go through ups and downs.

It’s Valentine’s Day and they haven’t been there since they moved.

a/n: Thank you to @phandomficfests for hosting this Valentine’s Day Fic Fest!

A very special thank you goes to my friend M who dedicated way too much of her time to beta this fic and to try to make my rambles make some kind of sense. I love you. A lot.

All remaining errors are definitely mine.

That said, Happy Valentine’s Day if you celebrate!

Excerpt: “Anything else, dear?” She asks.

“Can we get brunch, please?” Again a question. Out of the corner of her eye she sees brown curls bounce slightly as Dan laughs silently before abruptly wheezing and grumbling out an, “Ow, you fu— I mean,” his eyes growing wide when he looks at her and then narrowing again as he glares at Phil.

Phil just flashes his teeth in an innocent grin and says, “That’s all. Thank you.”

[Read on AO3]

The cool air carrying winter in its arms hits her as the door opens behind them, leaving goosebumps to trail down her arms. She almost doesn’t recognize them at first, they look so different, but then the taller one laughs at something the other one whispered, loudly and freely, a couple of customers turning their heads with frowning brows, and she can’t hold back the smile tugging on the corners of her lips.

They’ve been coming there for years. Sometimes together, hiding from view in a secluded booth in the back, talking as if the price of words could go up any minute, often times alone but always walking out of the door with two styrofoam cups of steaming coffee.

She hasn’t seen them in almost a year though, and the sight of them suddenly in her little café again feels strangely like dejá vu and then also nothing like that at all.

They’re different now. The taller one, Dan, curly-haired and happily carefree, the shorter one, Phil, confident and almost peaceful, as a halcyon day.

But it’s not just that, she thinks, as she watches them squeeze into a booth in the back, legs linked like it’s a secret and eyes locking like it’s a game of chicken, winner-take-all. She knows the games they play, though, has watched them play it for years, they’re expert levels now or maybe they just learned how to cheat. Happiness emanates between them in their smiles, scintillating through the interstices of their own little world.

It’s almost blinding, she thinks, smiles, and walks to their table. She has missed them.

She remembers the first time she saw them, young, so young compared to now. She remembers the two boys bursting into her café, hands held above their heads as makeshift umbrellas against the raging weather outside, water dripping from them, a cataract.

They’ve grown up so much and it’s only been almost a year since she last saw them, walking out of her café, bodies close together but not quite touching. They’re different now. It hits her again, it’s that apparent, shining like a diamond in a spotlight.

They both turn their heads to her as she stops at their table, notepad in hand. Two seconds, and then recognition glints in their smiles, and she’s suddenly overwhelmed because she really has missed these boys, her boys, and it’s been so long. She didn’t think she would get to see them again.

“Haven’t seen you boys in awhile,” she says, because she needs to push away this slow feeling of nostalgic longing.

“No, uh, we— we moved,” Dan says. They’re both sporting matching sheepish smiles.

“Oh.” She remembers years back when they told her with the same sheepish smiles that they had just moved here, she remembers the nervousness, the tension. “Well, what brings you back here now then?”

“A special occasion.” He’s not really talking to her anymore, his eyes having found home in the blue of the other boy’s eyes.

“Well, I’m glad to see your handsome faces around here again.”

“We both knew that we had to come see you here for this day, ma’am.” She feels overwhelmed when Phil directs his kind, blue eyes towards her.

Suddenly, she recalls a couple of years back, the memory startlingly clear in her elderly mind, when he had come in to her café alone one day, a hidden terror in those wide eyes and desperation wobbling on his lower lip.

She had immediately situated him in the booth in the back and made him a strong coffee with lots of sugar and put a little extra piece of chocolate on the saucer. He had looked exactly like one would define miserable, so she had decided that the other server could handle the tables for a bit and asked him if she may take a seat. He had looked surprised for a split second, but the tiredness had seemed to win out, and he had nodded, mumbling an almost silent, “Yes, of course, ma’am.”

First, she had just tried to talk to him, to pull him out of this dark place he seemed to have fallen into, those bright, bright eyes did not deserve such darkness. Then he had looked into her eyes, shyly, before stuttering, “It’s, ah, Dan, ma’am.” And she had been bewildered for all of one second before she had realized that ‘Dan’ was the boy he sometimes came in with. Of course it was, ‘Dan’ was his boy.

He hadn’t told her what had happened. She hadn’t asked. He had just swirled the coffee around with his spoon as he rushed out words, one after another. She had just listened, because she felt like he maybe just needed exactly that.

“I never meant for it to happen. I mean, he knows that, but I just… I feel so guilty? I feel exposed, and I know he does, too. And he keeps telling me, ‘it’s not your fault, Phil, you didn’t do anything’, and we pretend that everything is okay, normal, because it is— it should be, but it’s not. Everything is different now. I’m not sure I like it.” He had taken a deep breath, she knows he hadn’t ever meant to just babble about his personal life to essentially a stranger, so she had put her hand on his and squeezed, and he had blurted out, “We fight so much now. It hurts.”

Her heart had ached for him, for them, because she had seen how happy they had been around each other, she had seen the way they gravitated towards each other, magnets to metal.

Now, she just smiles fondly at him. “Oh, hush, you know there’s no need for such courtesies. What can I do for you boys?”

“He’ll have a matcha tea, and I’ll have a coffee, please?” His tone makes the order end in a question, and she nods dotingly, he always was too polite.

“Anything else, dear?” She asks.

“Can we get brunch, please?” Again a question. Out of the corner of her eye she sees brown curls bounce slightly as Dan laughs silently before abruptly wheezing and grumbling out an, “Ow, you fu— I mean,” his eyes growing wide when he looks at her and then narrowing again as he glares at Phil.

Phil just flashes his teeth in an innocent grin and says, “That’s all. Thank you.”

She smiles and winks at them, pretends she doesn’t hear Dan’s whispered “Fuck you, Phil, that hurt!” as she’s walking away, and she wonders if they realize the familiarity with which they navigate around each other, always moving as if the other is the North Pole and they’re a compass desperate for home.

She hadn’t seen either of them for a few weeks after Phil’s lone visit those years back. She had almost begun to fear that her words of encouragement had made things worse, that she shouldn’t have interfered, that Phil would have been better off figuring all of it out himself. But then, as she had been bussing tables a small twenty minutes before closing time one day, Dan had walked in.

When she places the brunch platters in front of them they each give her a genuine smile and an earnest, “Thank you!”, and they wait until she’s gone to the booth behind them before they begin to eat.

It feels almost surreal to have them in her café again, she keeps glancing back at them. Phil kicks Dan gently, and Dan says something, cheeks puffed with food, and then digs in again, eating with vigor, a starving man. Phil rolls his eyes but she sees warmth in the small smile on his lips.

She had noticed right away. As Dan had sat down at a table, his shoulders slumped and hair tousled, she had put the cloth back on the table deciding that she wouldn’t mind delaying closing up for a bit. She had brought him the last piece of blueberry pie they had, and watched him push it around on the plate for a few minutes, distressed and such sadness lingering in the air around him, almost palpable, and she had sat down opposite him, too.

It had hurt to hear his stinging words, because she had come to care for these two boys.

“I, uh…” He had paused, bit his swollen lip, then, “I don’t know what to do anymore. Everything is wrong, and every time I try to say something it comes out all wrong. We’ve tried to ignore it but they keep pushing, and it…” He had drawn in a sharp breath and closed his eyes. “He said he needed some time. What if I screwed it all up? I can’t— I need him.”

The single tear silently trickling down his cheek had seared itself permanently on her retinal, and she had taken his hand in hers just as she had with Phil’s. She had squeezed it and told him, “He’ll come back. I know he will. I might just be an old lady working in some café, but I know real love when I see it.”

She had been afraid it had been too much, because she had noticed how they would hold back. Dan had stared wide-eyed at her for a moment, she could see him vacillating, fear and something else gradually evaporating. Then he had looked down and taken a tentative bite of the pie.

It had been almost an hour later before she had locked up and turned to go home.

She remembers the relief she had felt washing over her as she had seen the two boys walk into her café almost a month later, still fidgety and still slightly awkward but together and with smiles in their eyes again.

It had been almost blinding, she thinks, smiles, and walks to their table. They’ve finished eating, empty platters reflecting the soft lighting in the café.

“You boys finished?” She asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” Phil says, and she tuts at his civility.

As she gathers their platters Dan clears his throat softly. She looks to him, and she notices his cheeks’ slight pink hue. “We, uh, we wanted to tell you something.” He hesitates, fiddles with the serviette, and Phil takes over, because that’s just how they work.

“Yeah, we wanted to thank you, ma’am. For, uh…” Phil smiles, and Dan finishes, “For everything.”

She doesn’t like to take too much credit, but she knows she helped them, somehow, back then. She knows there was something that ended up spiralling completely out of their control, something that meant something to them, privately, she doesn’t know what the ‘something’ is or was, but she knows that it hurt them. A lot. She also knows, looking at them putting on their coats now, that whatever had happened had made them grow closer. She knows, looking at the way they laugh, that all is good now.

And she feels something akin to pride bloom in her chest as she watches Dan deliberately poke Phil in the side, and Phil, without batting an eye, brushes his knuckles against Dan’s cheek, leaving a flustered Dan with a bright blush in their wake.

She glances at the pink heart balloons dancing from the ceiling, Happy Valentines Day printed on them in a font she supposes should be romantic, but really, all she sees is happiness playing in every loop of the white letters, dripping down on the boys, or maybe it came from them in the first place.

She smiles.

She smiles as she realizes that they’re still the two shy boys she saw running into her café years ago.

She smiles as they come up to the counter, telling her goodbye and she makes them promise to come visit again, soon.

Smiles still as she watches them walk out of the door, walking side by side, almost touching, and minds in their own slightly different world than the one around them.

[thefilmsimps]

The Beatles: Get Back (dir. Peter Jackson)

-Jere Pilapil-

Get Back is Peter Jackson’s Beatles documentary, using Michael Lindsay-Hogg’s footage of what would become the Beatles’s Let It Be film and album. There was, according to an intro before each episode, 50 hours of video and 150 hours of audio that Jackson pared down to 8 hours. It’s… an expansion? A correction? A revision?… of the earlier Let It Be movie, which has not been available for decades but presented the world’s biggest bands final hours in a contentious light (by reputation. I haven’t been interested enough to torrent it or however I’d see it).

Through this approach, we get to watch The Beatles work on new music, from zero to… well, not quite Let It Be, but the backbone. They had enough tapes for producer Glen Johns to make an album that they disagreed on and had Phil Spector do his thing with the tapes (not the thing he went to jail for, the one he was famous for first). It’s fascinating to see these songs take form as they jam on old material and workshop together. A lot of creative people will tell you to treat creative work like a job (“write every day” and other cliche advice), and it is kind of heartening to see that it’s true of The Beatles, too, decades after being christened legendary, almost mythological cultural icons.

At eight hours, this is asking a lot. But I think it works as background entertainment and as mindful, concentrated viewing experience. In the background, you might notice snippets of conversation or an interesting take on a familiar song. Paying attention, you see the band’s dynamics shift and change as people come in and out of their rehearsal and recording spaces. The tension that would send them drifting apart is palpable, but so are the years of being in a band together, the chemistry and in-jokes.

My attention flitted in and out, to be honest. My relationship with the Beatles’ music has settled into occasionally revisiting an album or two but not being quite a fanatic enough to stream, say, the Super Deluxe Editions of their later albums. I wasn’t too into the idea of this, but am pretty thrilled with what’s here. There are so many intersecting details in Get Back that you could just pick a detail and focus on that for all 8 hours. For me, this time, it was Yoko Ono, who is ever-present but rarely heard. I listen to her music now more than I do the Beatles’, and I understand that is a pretentious thing to say. Still, I wondered what she was thinking, sitting there, watching her husband and his three bandmates figure out these songs. For huge chunks of part one - the contentious Twickenham studio rehearsals - she’s just sitting in a chair staring off. Pre-cell phones, no social media to flip through when you’re bored. And listen, I’m old enough to remember what that was like, but young enough that the memory is hazy and the concept is borderline foreign to me. I gasped in relief when she started reading a newspaper.

And for the first 7 or so hours, it’s like that. You can pick and choose your favorite thing to watch for, like a Where’s Waldo of film, and enjoy it that way. Or you can just be immersed, be your own Yoko, sitting there feet away from one of the biggest bands in the world. But the final hour is the famous rooftop concert, presented in full, and it’s a hoot. Early in episode three, they worry that they don’t have enough material to record a full album in front of an audience as they had planned (after downsizing every plan previous), but the material they have is brilliant. It’s fun watching them play through it all (some songs twice) and it’s a blast watching them stall as cops try to shut down the concert. Various employees stall and lie for about 2/3 of the concert, while the police grouse about having received “30 complaints” within minutes. It’s by far the most lively part of this doc and a fitting climax to all the rehearsing and bickering and goofing off the band has done to this point.

I suspect that there are dozens, maybe even hundreds of albums where this kind of approach would be interesting to see as a documentary (every Wu-Tang album, the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street and Black and Blue, Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy). It’s just kismet that the Beatles, for whatever dumb reason, felt they could do this back-to-basics album/live performance/TV special/film and had a camera crew capturing all this footage. But it’s also the kind of thing where only hardcore fans are going to be interested in sitting through all of this shit, so I guess it might as well be the Biggest Band Ever that does it. They were lucky to fall into this, and we’re lucky it was they who were captured on film.

8/10

[stargazerdaisy]

Detective ot3 - the precinct finds out there will be babies. ❤

They decide that they have to tell Coulson & Garrett before any one else at the precinct, and they need to tell them together.  But they’re not sure of when or how to do it.  They don’t want to make a big deal, but…..it kind of is a big deal.  So the boys keep whispering back and forth and acting secretive and there’s this little paper that they keep tucking away whenever anyone gets near their desks.  Finally, John gets sick of their weirdness and yells at them to come in Phil’s office.  They’re both oddly smiling, but trying to cover it up.  Ward is fidgeting and Lincoln is stretching out like a cat.  

“Spill it, boys,” Garrett commands.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, boss,” Lincoln replies with a grin.

“Like hell you don’t, Sparky.  Out with it.  What is going on that has you two all twitchy and whispering?”

Grant and Lincoln look at each other.  Ward raises an eyebrow, Lincoln’s grin gets even bigger.  Ward nods to his phone and Lincoln actually chuckles.

“We’ll be happy to tell you, sir,” Ward begins.  “But I need to call Skye really quickly.  Hold on just a sec.”

“Ward, we really don’t have time-” Phil gets cut off by Ward placing the call and putting it on speakerphone.

Within two rings, a very irritated Skye answers.  “What?” she snaps.  “I am trying to grow two humans here and it’s very tiring and you’re interrupting my nap.  Plus, isn’t it the middle of the work day?  Why are you calling me when you’re on shift?  DAMMIT!  Did Lincoln get hurt again?  Or did you?  I swear, I’m going to wrap you two in bubble wrap.  How bad is it?  Where are you guys?  Should I have Kara come check on you?” 

He can start to hear the panic creeping into her voice, so he jumps in quickly.  “Skye, everything is fine.  Lincoln totally fine, I’m fine.  No one is hurt.  We’re both at the precinct, safe and sound.”

“Good.” Her relief is palpable.  “Don’t mess with me like that, Grant.  I’m not exactly full of patience these days.”

Lincoln snorts and mutters, “I’ll say.”

“Is that Lincoln?  Do you have me on speakerphone?” she screeches.

“Yes, you’re on speakerphone,” Lincoln chimes in.  “We’re actually in Coulson’s office right now.  Garrett called us in here.”

“Oh.   So, why exactly are you calling me?”

“Because they wanted to know what’s been going on with Grant and me lately.”

“Oh.  I see.  And did you tell them?”

“I think you just did,” Lincoln announces, with a smile that stretches from ear to ear.  Phil has been staring at them, with his jaw practically on the floor, since Skye first picked up.  He just keeps looking from Ward to Lincoln to the phone, gaping.

“Come on, Phil.  Use your words,” Garrett goads, then turns to the boys.  He slaps Ward on the shoulder.  “Congratulations, son.  That’s wonderful news.  You’re going to make a great father.  Not sure I can say the same for you, Campbell,” he adds with a wink.

“Hey!” Skye and Lincoln cry indignantly.

“Listen here,” Skye starts.  “Lincoln is going to be an amazing father.  Already he’s been-”

“Skye, honey,” Garrett breaks in.  “I’m just kidding. All of you are going to be amazing.  And you’re getting two in one shot?  Hot damn, that’s fantastic!  Congratulations, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, John,” comes Skye’s timid reply.  “Twins?” stammers Coulson.  “You’re having- She’s having-   Twins?!”Everyone laughs at his utter astonishment.  

Lincoln answers, “Yup, twins.  She’s about 12 weeks along right now.  So I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you, we’ll probably be taking some leave here in about 5-6 months.”“We’ll make sure our case loads are cleared or transferred to other detectives.  And we won’t be gone that long.  We won’t leave you high and dry,”  Ward quickly assures his boss.

The confusion and shock finally melt away from Coulson’s face and a genuine, warm smile appears.  “You take all the time you need.  Your girl and your babies are way more important.  Congratulations to you all.  Skye?”

“Yes, Phil?” she says.

“If these boys aren’t taking care of you in every way you need, you give me a call and I’ll make sure they straighten up.  Carrying a baby is no easy task, let alone two.  So it’s time for these two troublemakers to pull their weight.  You hear me?”Skye’s laugh is clear and loud.  “I hear you.  Don’t worry, they’ve been amazing.  But good to know I have backup if I need it.”  She pauses for a moment then continues.  “Now that the cat, or cats I guess, are out of the bag, can I go back to my nap?  I really was almost asleep.  And trust me, sleep is much preferable to wakefulness right now.”“Of course!” Coulson responds.  “Get some rest.”

“Thanks!  Linc, Grant?  I’ll see you guys when you get home, okay?  And do me a favor.  Try not to get killed in the meantime?”

“No promises,” Lincoln jokes.

“Oh yes, promises,” Garrett chimes in.  “You will make sure you get home to her safely.  That’s an order.”

“Thank you John,” Skye says.  “I knew I could count on you.”

“Of course, sweetheart.  Anything for you.”

“Alright, bye everyone!  Get back to all your important police work.”

“Bye, Skye!” 

[rilenerocks]

Dear Fern(or Phil if we’re using inside jokes,) 

May 14th. Another birthday. I start thinking about it in April, girding myself for the slog through all the events that are packed into May and early June. Now I have to contend with Michael’s absence too. I’m glad I didn’t have the vision to see the future, to know in advance that my biggest loves would be gone, leaving me here with memories so vivid and palpable, that processing your absence is still a challenge. Today I realized this 68th birthday of yours, and the anniversary of your death in October, will officially mark the sum total of the entire length of our relationship. We knew each other for 30 years and now it’s 31 years since you’ve been gone. It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around that fact. I’ve already spent more than half my life without you. The truth is, I still remember so much about what we meant to each other, what we shared, the good times and the awful times.

I can look straight into your eyes and see your expressions which I knew so well. I can feel you. I still mourn you and am angry that you were victimized to the point that death became a relief for you. I remember those harsh realities. But I also remember laughing.

I remember when we saw the Beatles at the Chicago Amphitheater.

I remember sitting in the Woods Theater all day watching “Help” when they just re-spooled it for hours. By the time we left we’d memorized most of the lines.

I remember our three sarcastic little novels which I still have in my nightstand drawer. I remember reading our diaries to each other every night.

I remember March 20th, the day we anointed to mark how we felt about our crushes. I remember when at 15, we were smart enough to realize that we’d need a special perfect childhood day to conjure when things got too hard as adults. The details of that day have always stayed with me. That day is still my retreat. I feel it, smell it and hear it, with you by my side. 

I remember photo day at Comiskey Park,  and ball games in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. I remember eating at the Shoreland Deli, Rib Hill and Seaway’s on 87th Street. I remember countless Black Hawks games, standing room only and all the songs we wrote to Beatles tunes, memorializing your passion for Bobby Hull. I liked Doug Mohns.

We were both lefties which seemed to mean something. I don’t know why we thought that made us special and inevitable.  I remember our disastrous attempt at being roommates as freshmen in college and how we fixed everything later, after I moved out.

I remember when you pledged a sorority as I stood watching, understanding your need to do that, while never wanting to join you.  I remember you coming to be with me as I tried acid for the first time. You didn’t need any drugs – you were already  naturally impaired. I remember so many of your emotional crises.

I’d get phone calls from strange people saying you needed me to come and get you, and I always came. I talked you down from your latest ceiling and tried hard to be the mom you never had.

I remember how we loved bowling. I remember your flying fingers at the typewriter, on the piano and eventually on your court-reporting machine. I remember how you came to rest your overworked brain when you hid out in the many houses I shared with Michael. I remember my visit with you in California, the year before I got married.

We hiked in Muir Woods and bolstered ourselves as we set off to live like grownups. I remember your life as an au pair in Europe and your marrying Omar and your not having babies. I remember taking a break from you after I felt you’d sucked all the life out of me.

And then I remember forgiving it all and finding you to be connected the night John Lennon died. I remember the first time you met my daughter. I have every letter you ever wrote me.

I have our class photos from elementary school and our high school yearbooks. I remember your life getting more challenging as mine was getting more solid. I wanted to make you better, to make you survive, and more than that. I remember our last conversation, when it felt like you might get back here from Utah, to come and stay with us so we could hold you up while you climbed the hardest internal mountains. I remember you saying that the worst part about contemplating suicide was realizing how hard it would be for the ones you left behind. I thought we were speaking rhetorically.  I didn’t understand that as you told me you loved me that Sunday night that you were saying goodbye. On Monday night, you were efficiently taking your life. As I slept. I woke that night from a terrible dream, a dream in which I was dying. I sobbed inconsolably in Michael’s arms as he tried to reassure me that I was alive and well. I know that was the moment you faded into the oblivion which had become your inviting sanctuary. It took two days for me to learn that. I learned everything I could from your Utah cohort. I couldn’t work or do anything for days. Eventually I rebounded from that torture. One night I dreamed of you, dressed in a red turtleneck sweater that made you look beautiful and exotic with your dark hair.

We went toward each other and when I put my arms out to embrace you, you went right through me and I knew that was a message. A message that you were where you needed to be and that was ok. I accepted whatever that dream was but I still miss you, always. I still think of what it would have been like to be old together. You were my family. I still can’t hear Beatles tunes on certain days when my wiring is in high gear and I dissolve into the familiar companionship of grief. And I go on. Who knows why? I’ve never been religious and I’m not the world’s most fanciful person. Still, I find myself wondering if somehow, you’ve bumped into Michael out there in the universe, who’s taking care of you like he used to help me do it when we were young. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Maybe one day I can find you and we’ll be together for so much more time than we lost. Happy birthday, my precious, oldest friend. I hope I’m long gone before I ever forget you.

Happy Birthday, Fern. Dear Fern(or Phil if we’re using inside jokes,)  May 14th. Another birthday. I start thinking about it in April, girding myself for the slog through all the events that are packed into May and early June.

[phanficminr]

Fifty shades of phan; chapter 2

Fifty shades of Phan A/N: I know Phil is 30 now but in this story he is 27, oh and they are not in London in this story

Chapter 2

My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not sprawling on to the immaculate sandstone floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and I’m free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of Seattle. Raising my face, I welcome the cool refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium. No man has ever affected me the way Phil Lester has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it his looks, his civility, wealth,power I don’t understand my irrational reaction.

I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven’s name was that all about leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. Holy crap - what was thatMy heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and I can breathe normally again. I head for the car. As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely, I’m over-reacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so he’s very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself - but on the flip side, he’s arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he’s autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be - he’s accomplished so much at such a young age. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but why should he again, I’m irritated that Luoise didn’t give me a brief biography. While cruising along the I-5, my mind continues to wander. I’m truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed. Some of his answers were so cryptic - as if he had a hidden agenda. And Luoise’s questions - ugh! The adoption and asking him if he was gay! I shudder. I can’t believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Damn Luoise Pentland!

I check the speedometer. I’m driving more cautiously than I would on any other occasion. And I know it’s the memory of two penetrating blue eyes gazing at me, and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that Lester’s more like a man double his age. Forget it, Dan,I scold myself. I decide that all in all, it’s been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn’t dwell on it . Put it behind you. I never have to see him again. I’m immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the MP3 player and turn the volume up loud, sit back, and listen to thumping indie rock music as I press down on the accelerator.

We live in a small community of duplex apartments in Vancouver, Washington, close to the Vancouver campus of WSU. I’m lucky - Luoise’s parents bought the place for her, and I pay peanuts for rent. It’s been home for four years now. As I pull up outside, I know luoise going to want a blow-by-blow account, and she is tenacious. Well, at least she has the mini-disc. Hopefully I won’t have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview.

“Dan! You’re back.” Luoise sits in our living area, surrounded by books. She’s clearly been studying for finals - though she’s still in her pink flannel pajamas decorated with cute little rabbits, the ones she reserves for the aftermath of breaking up with boyfriends, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. She bounds up to me and hugs me hard.

“I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner.”

“Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over.” I wave the mini-disc recorder at her.

“Dan, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it what was he like?” Oh no - here we go, the Luoise Pentland Inquisition.

I struggle to answer her question. What can I say?

“I’m glad it’s over, and I don’t have to see him again, you know.” I shrug. “He’s very focused,kind….and really intimidating .”

Luoise gazes innocently at me. I frown at her.

“Don’t you look so innocent. Why didn’t you give me a biography he made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on basic research.” Luoise clamps a hand to her mouth. “Jeez, Dan , I’m sorry - I didn’t think.” I huff. “Mostly he was courteous, formal, slightly stuffy - like he’s old before his time. He doesn’t talk like a man of twenty-something. How old is he anyway?” “Twenty-seven. Jeez, Dan,I’m sorry. I should have briefed you, but I was in such a panic. Let me have the mini-disc, and I’ll start transcribing the interview.” “You look better. Did you eat your soup?” I ask, keen to change the subject. “Yes, and it was delicious as usual. I’m feeling much better.” She smiles at me in gratitude. I check my watch. “I have to run. I can still make my shift at Clayton’s.” “Dan,you’ll be exhausted.” “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”

I’ve worked at Clayton’s since I started at WSU. It’s the largest independent hardware store in the Portland area, and over the four years I’ve worked here, I’ve come to know a little bit about most everything we sell - although ironically, I’m crap at any DIY. I leave all that to my dad. I’m much more of a curl-up-with-a-book-in-a-comfy-chair-by-the-fire kind of a boy. I’m glad I can make my shift as it gives me something to focus on that isn’t Phil Lester We’re busy - it’s the start of the summer season, and folks are redecorating their homes. Mrs. Clayton is pleased to see me.

“Dan! I thought you weren’t going to make it today.” “My appointment didn’t take as long as I thought. I can do a couple of hours.” “I’m real pleased to see you.” She sends me to the storeroom to start re-stocking shelves, and I’m soon absorbed in the task. When I arrive home later, Luoise is wearing headphones and working on her laptop. Her nose is still pink, but she has her teeth into a story, so she’s concentrating and typing furiously. I’m thoroughly drained - exhausted by the long drive, the grueling interview, and by being rushed off my feet at Clayton’s. I slump on to the couch, thinking about the essay I have to finish and all the studying I haven’t done today because I was holed up with … him.

“So what did you really think of him?” Damn, she’s inquisitive. Why can’t she just let this goThink of something - quick. “He’s very driven, controlling, arrogant - scary really, but very charismatic. I can understand the fascination,” I add truthfully, as I peer round the door at her hoping this will shut her up once and for all. “You, fascinated by a man that’s a first,” she snorts.

I start gathering the makings of a sandwich so she can’t see my face. “Why did you want to know if he was gay Incidentally, that was the most embarrassing question. I was mortified, and he was pissed to be asked too.” I scowl at the memory. “Whenever he’s in the society pages, he never has a date…and you also haven’t had a date in so long.” “It was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. I’m glad I’ll never have to lay eyes on him again.” “Oh, Dan it can’t have been that bad. I think he sounds quite taken with you.” Taken with me Now Luoise is being ridiculous. “Would you like a sandwich?” “Please.” We talk no more of Phil Lester that evening, much to my relief. Once we’ve eaten, I’m able to sit at the dining table with Luoise and, while she works on her article, I work on my essay on Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Damn, but that woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong century. By the time I finish, it’s midnight, and Luoise has long since gone to bed. I make my way to my room, exhausted, but pleased that I’ve accomplished so much for a Monday.

Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, John and Patrick - the two other part-timers.

“How are things with you, Ana?” For a moment, I hesitate, and I have Mom’s full attention.

“I’m fine.”

“Dan have you met someone?” Wow… how does she do that The excitement in her voice is palpable. “No, Mom, it’s nothing. You’ll be the first to know if I do.” “Dan,you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me.” “Mom,I’m fine. How’s Bob?” As ever, distraction is the best policy.

As I end the call I turn sharp round, Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on checking catalogue numbers against the items we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes flicking from the order book and back as I check the entries match. Then, for some reason, I turn around and glance up… and find myself locked in the bold blue gaze of Phil Lester who’s standing at the counter, staring at me intently. Heart failure. “Mister Howell What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering and intense.

Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here looking all tousled-hair and outdoorsy in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots I think my mouth has popped open, and I can’t locate my brain or my voice. “Mr. Lester,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he’s enjoying some private joke. “I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mister Howell .” His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something. I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for some reason I’m blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He’s not merely good-looking - he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he’s here. Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.

“Dan. My name’s Dan,” I mutter. “What can I help you with, Mr. Lester ?” He smiles, and again it’s like he’s privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I’ve-worked-in-this-shop-for-years face?. I can do this. “There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties,” he murmurs, his blue eyes cool but amused. Cable ties? “We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” I mutter, my voice soft and wavery. Get a grip, Howell . A slight frown mars Lester’s rather lovely brow. “Please. Lead the way, Mister Howell ,” he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet - my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I’m so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.

“They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he’s handsome. I blush. “After you,” he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.With my heart almost strangling me - because it’s in my throat trying to escape from my mouth - I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland? Why is he here at Clayton’s And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain - probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells - comes the thought: he’s here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me the idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.

He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton’s. What on Earth is he going to do with thoseI cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet. “These will do,” he says with his oh-so-secret smile, and I blush. “Is there anything else?” “I’d like some masking tape.” Masking tape? “Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate? “No, not redecorating,” he says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he’s laughing at me. Am I that funny looking? “This way,” I murmur embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.” I glance behind me as he follows.

“Have you worked here long?” His voice is low, and he’s gazing at me, blur eyes concentrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I’m fourteen years old - gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front Howell !

“Four years,” I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock. “I’ll take that one,” Grey says softly pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.

“Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly. “Some rope, I think.” His voice mirrors mine, husky. “This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.

cable cord… “ I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow. “I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope please.”

Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot blue gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.

“Were you a Boy Scout?” he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don’t look at his mouth! “Organized, group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Lester.” He arches a brow. “What is your thing, Daniel?” he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him unable to express myself. I’m on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Dan,my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee. “Books,” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station. “What kind of books?” He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested? “Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.”

He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer.

Or perhaps he’s just very bored and trying to hide it.

“Anything else you need?” I have to get off this subject - those fingers on that face are so beguiling. “I don’t know. What else would you recommend?” What would I recommendI don’t even know what you’re doing. “For a do-it-yourselfer?” He nods, blue eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to his snug jeans. “Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s coming out of my mouth. He raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again. “You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing,” I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans. “I could always take them off.” He smirks. “Um…okay then no clothes-I mean no coveralls….I can’t really think of anything else"I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of the communist manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.

“Do you need anything else?” I squeak . He ignores my inquiry. “How’s the article coming along?” He’s finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk… a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if were a life raft, and I go for honesty. “I’m not writing it, Luoise is. Miss Pentland . My roommate, she’s the writer. She’s very happy with it. She’s the editor of the magazine, and she was devastated that she couldn’t do the interview in person.” I feel like I’ve come up for air - at last, a normal topic of conversation. “Her only concern is that she doesn’t have any original photographs of you.” Lester raises an eyebrow. “What sort of photographs does she want?” Okay. I hadn’t factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don’t know.

“Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps… ” he trails off.

“You’d be willing to attend a photo shoot?” My voice is squeaky again. Luoise will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought - of all the silly, ridiculous… “Luoise will be delighted - if we can find a photographer.” I’m so pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he’s taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.

Oh my. Phil lester’s lost look.

“Let me know about tomorrow.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. “My card. It has my cell number on it. You’ll need to call before ten in the morning.” “Okay.” I grin up at him. Luoise is going to be thrilled.

“Dan!”

Caspar (lee) has materialized at other the end of the aisle. He’s Mr. Clayton’s youngest brother. I’d heard he was home from Africa, but I wasn’t expecting to see him today. “Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Lester.” Lester frowns as I turn away from him. Caspar has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I’m having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-scale attractive control-freak Lester, it’s great to talk to someone who’s normal. Caspar hugs me hard taking me by surprise. “Dan, hi, it’s so good to see you!” he gushes. “Hello Caspar , how are you, you home for your brother’s birthday?” “Yep. You’re looking well, Dan, really well.” He grins as he examines me at arm’s length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It’s good to see Caspar , but he’s always been over-familiar. When I glance up at Phil Lester , he’s watching us like a hawk, his blue eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard impassive line. He’s changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else - someone cold and distant.

“Caspar, I’m with a customer. Someone you should meet,” I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Lester’s eyes. I drag Caspar over to meet him, and they weigh each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic. “Er, Caspar, this is Phil Lester . Mr. Lester, this is Caspar Clayton. His brother owns the place.” And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more. “I’ve known Caspar ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often. He’s back from Africa where he’s studying business administration.” I’m babbling… Stop, now! “Mr. Clayton.” Phil holds his hand out, his look unreadable. “Mr. Lester,” Caspar returns his handshake. “Wait up - not the phil Lester of Lester Enterprises Holdings?” Caspar goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Lester gives him a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Wow - is there anything I can get you?“ "Daniel has it covered, Mr. Clayton. He’s been very attentive.” His expression is impassive, but his words… it’s like he’s saying something else entirely. It’s baffling. “Cool,” Caspar responds. “Catch you later, Dan.” “Sure, Caspar .” I watch him disappear toward the stock room.

“Anything else, Mr.lester?”

“Just these items.” His tone is clipped and cool. Damn… have I offended him taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the till. What is his problem I ring up the rope,masking tape, and cable ties at the till. “That will be forty-three dollars, please.” I glance up at Lester, and I wish I hadn’t. He’s watching me closely, his blue eyes intense and smoky. It’s unnerving. “Would you like a bag?” I ask as I take his credit card. “Please, Daniel.” His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic.

I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic carrier.

“You’ll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?” He’s all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card.

“Good. Until tomorrow perhaps.”

He turns to leave, then pauses. “Oh - and Daniel, I’m glad Miss Pentland couldn’t do the interview.” He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he’s just left before I return to planet Earth. Okay - I like him. There, I’ve admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I’ve never felt like this before. I find him attractive, very attractive. But it’s a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely no harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Luoise and organize a photo-shoot.

………………………………………………….

Character placement: https://phanficminr.tumblr.com/post/160124305810/fifty-shades-of-phan-character-placement

First chapter: https://phanficminr.tumblr.com/post/160150333965/fifty-shades-of-phan-chapter-1

[torentialtribute]

Burnley win for the first time since September against Brighton thanks to Tarkowski

Burnley 1-0 Brighton: the men of Sean Dyche win for the first time since SEPTEMBER James Tarkowski expel them from the relegation zone

James Tarkowski scored for the hosts after the ball rebounded to him back after a penalty area scramble

This victory was the first victory of Burnley since September when the Clarets Neil Warnock & # 39; s Cardiff beat 2-1

] Chris Hughton & # 39; s Brighton-side had their last two games, but slipped to victory on Saturday

There were 12 points between the hosts in the 19th and the visitors on the 10th for the kickoff on Turf Moor

By

Jack Gaughan For The Mail on Sunday

Published: 16:52 GMT, December 8, 2018 | Updated: 00:42 GMT, December 9, 2018

The result, only their third victory since April, lifted them from the bottom James Tarkowski – the final match winner – had a chance to win the match, but he was not the only one who had the chance to win the match. to defend a malignant cross heroically and to have overlooked Jurgen Locadia in some way if they were eight meters away.

James Tarkowski opened the score for the hosts after the ball rebounded to him after a penalty box scramble

The goal of Tarkowski meant that the home team jumped out of the relegation zone and the pressure on Sean Dyche & # 39; s side deposited

BURNLEY XI (4-4-2): Hart 6.5; Bardsley 6.5, Tarkowski 7.5, Mee 6.5, Taylor 6; Gudmundsson 7 (Lennon 72, 6), Cork 6, Westwood 6, Brady 6; Heaton, Lowton, Vokes, Vydra, Long

BRIGHTON XI (4-1-4-1): Ryan 6; Bruno 6, Balogun 6, Dunk 6, Bernardo 6; Propper 6.5; Knockaert 5 (Lacadia 63, 5.5), Gross 6 (Stephens 79), Bissouma 6.5, March 6; Andone 5.5 (Murray 63, 6)

Steele, Bong, Kayal, White

Referee: Martin Atkinson 7

Attendance:

<! –

Premier League

Premier League

Championship

League One

League Two

Scottish premiere

Scottish Div 1

Scottish Div 2

Scottish Div 3

League 1

Series A

The league

Bundesliga

James Tarkowski opened the score for the hosts after the ball rebounded to him after a penalty-box scramble. CLICK HERE to see more from the MATCH ZONE of Sportsmail.

But this was not a story about missed opportunities, but Burnley refused to bow to late nervousness.

De Dyche rightly claimed, there is a sense of Burnley's recapturing the

& # 39; We come back to where we should be & # 39 ;, Dyche said . We played better than we did today, but the base was well done. These characteristics come back and that is a basis to work on.

& # 39; There is a mix of joy but a bit of relief.

That relief was palpable at full-time, Hart pumped his fists to supporters who were not interested in the loss of time of Mat Ryan and the incompetence of their team in the midfield. Sometimes this felt like death by a thousand misplaced passes. They still play nowhere near their capabilities and the winner of the 40th minute summarized the game earlier.

Joe Hart has been part of the defense this season has assigned 32 goals – only Fulham has more than that admitted

routine set piece, fails to get enough distance on their headers, and was made to pay five minutes before the break. Jack Cork threw himself on the bouncing ball, drove toward goal, and Tarkowski – standing beside Ryan – cleverly maneuvered his chest around the corner. It was not beautiful. It did not work.

Half was miserable until that moment, the kind of afternoon when the mind wanders to two wind turbines that slowly wander around the hills surrounding Turf Moor, to the gloomy cloud formations.

Dyche's players are still scared on the ball and make elementary mistakes because they are overly cautious not to do so.

The Burnley manager complained that Martin Atkinson should have awarded them a punishment when Yves Bissouma's high boot caught Phil Bardsley. It would have been ridiculously hard. & # 39; We have to start to get our share, & # 39; said Dyche. & # 39; We did not have one in 58 games. & # 39;

Chris Hughton admitted that Brighton lived much too late but thought that Burnley's victory was unjust. & # 39; I thought we were the better team, & # 39; he said. & # 39; As the game progressed, we were more likely. & # 39;

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[londontheatre]

Victoria Willing

This Easter step into Omnibus to find the theatre entirely transformed, the audience sit as if inside the dining room of April’s Bed & Breakfast, in the midst of a surreal world where the action takes place over one Spring evening. Watch as April, accompanied by her two guests Pam and Tom, prepares for the imminent arrival of a band of young men looking for a place to stay.

We learn of Pam’s search for the grave of her great-grandfather and her love of taking photographs of cemeteries. We learn of Tom’s love of the army and his job as a peddler of helmet-shaped chocolates. And, we watch April, a sixty-year-old woman still wanting excitement, attention, vitality at the very age when she is deemed invisible.

Spring Offensive at the Omnibus in Clapham takes a wry look at the First World War Tourism industry and those making a buck from it. The soldiers’ DNA still lies in the soil, which to this day spews out shells and shrapnel. Inspired by her trips to the WW1 sites dotted across the Western Front, Victoria Willing was struck by the atmosphere and sparseness of the countryside, and how one hundred years had not been long enough to cover up the nightmare of total warfare. She felt moved to write about the legacy of war through a character-driven narrative, which in the aftermath of some of the more traditional commemorations of the centenary of WW1, seeks to tell the story of a pivotal moment in history in a different way.

Victoria Willing chats about her career and Spring Offensive:

Q: Your career spans tv, film and stage. Which three productions immediately spring to mind as being landmarks for you? Victoria: ‘The Inbetweeners’ was a real surprise. I’d auditioned for what at the time was two small scenes in a sit-com, and it became an ongoing relationship for about five years. It was amazing to be caught up in something that became such a massive success.

‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time’ was a very important job for me. The discipline of doing eight shows a week for a year was new to me and a challenge, but the audience loved it so much and the theatre felt charged with excitement every night. The National Theatre is an institution like no other – it really looks after its employees and you feel very much part of a team.

The job that I’m asked about most, though, is when I puppeteered on ‘A Muppet Christmas Carol’. I think I did a couple of dog puppets in a window, and some voices of naughty rats, but that’s the one that people are most curious about!

Q: In 2008 you commenced an MA in Writing for Performance. How tough was it to embark on the MA and what inspired the decision to study again? Victoria: I’d been an actress for a long time, but although I wanted to write, and had written a few comedy sketches with a friend, I’d had no formal training as a writer and felt it was important as a way of building confidence and skill, so I applied to do the MA. It’s not easy starting something new in your forties. I was older than the other students and the tutors, and sometimes felt a bit isolated. What was really good about it was that I was forced to come up with ideas – TV sit-com ideas, movie ideas, radio ideas. I’ve been able to elaborate on those ever since, and they’ve been the basis of a lot of my writing since.

Q: Looking back to your earliest writing – what can you tell us about the first play that you wrote? Victoria: I was fourteen and at an after school drama group in Islington, ‘Anna Scher’s’, which is still going. In those days it was in a hall in a council estate. You handed your ten pence over as you went in each time. My contemporaries included Phil Daniels and the Kemp brothers. I wrote a short comedy called ‘Goodnight Ladies’, in which a thirteen-year-old Martin Kemp played a petty thief who finds himself in a house of ill repute and has to hide from the cops by dragging up and then the policeman falls for him. It was pretty dreadful, and probably heavily influenced by my love for ‘Some Like it Hot’, but Anna praised it highly and I managed to put in plenty of David Bowie and Lou Reed music, so that was all that mattered. I didn’t write anything again for over thirty years though.

Q: And to the present – what can you tell us about Spring Offensive? And, how did the story come about and evolve? Victoria: When I met my husband seven years ago he took me on trips to various sites dotted along the Western Front a couple of times, as he has studied and researched the First World War extensively. I was struck by the bleakness of the landscape and by the cemeteries positioned all around the area. I initially wrote a monologue which was performed at the Landor Theatre in Clapham in 2012 as part of a new writing event. I then worked on making it a full-length play, and we held a rehearsed reading of an earlier draft at the Soho Theatre in January 2016, directed by Marie McCarthy, Omnibus’ artistic director, and starring the wonderful Alison Steadman, who gave up her time for free – she simply loved the script. The play explores the management of grief – on an individual and national level – and it’s funny. So far I can only do comedy, it seems.

Q: One of the central themes in Spring Offensive “shines a spotlight on women in middle age” – could you elaborate on this? Victoria: There’s a sort of vertigo you feel as you get older when you realise that although you still feel like the same person you were at thirty, but perhaps with a few aches and pains, the world appears to see you very differently if it sees you at all. Just when the world expects you to behave like a benign cozy presence, I think inside we are raging at the new mantle we have to wear. I’m not sure I buy the notion that getting old is a relief because you can say what you want and you don’t care what people think. Women care alright, but the disconnect is so palpable that there’s no point even trying to belong. I wanted to explore the truth – the schism between the low expectations and the high desires and needs that woman can have as they age.

Q: Omnibus, the South London theatre is championing work by women – since your career began, what has changed and what has stayed the same? What changes would you like to see in the industry? Victoria: When my career began the repertory theatre scene was already on its uppers, but Equity was still a union that you had to be part of to get work, and you had to be pretty canny and work really hard to get in. Privilege and money have always been an advantage, that hasn’t changed, but the erosion and demonisation of unions is partly behind people being forced to subsidise themselves and that has made it harder for working class actors to be on some sort of level playing field.

Q: Why should everyone get along to see Spring Offensive? Victoria: I write stories and situations that I really want to see on stage, and that I haven’t really seen before. It’s funny, it’s moving, and it’s wild.

Q: What next for you in 2017? Victoria: I’m starting to think about the next play, but mostly I’m thinking about the garden and what is going to come into bloom over spring. None of us really know what’s next.

*****

Victoria Willing grew up in London and Portugal. She staged her first play aged 14 (whist attending the Anna Scher children’s theatre), starring a 13-year-old Martin Kemp. As an actress Willing has performed extensively in theatre, film and television including regular roles in comedies such as The Inbetweeners and Him & Her. She returned to study in 2008 for an MA in Writing for Performance at the Central School of Speech and Drama. Her hit comedy play Could it be Forever? (co-written by Lucy Fitchett) received five star reviews at The Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2010. Her other plays include Short Crabs, which started out as a short play for Sorts New Writing (Landor Theatre). Willing wrote Spring Offensive whilst performing for a year in the West End in the cast of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. She is an Associate Writer at Omnibus.

Spring Offensive A dark comedy about war, lost boys and fighting for survival BY OMNIBUS ASSOCIATE WRITER VICTORIA WILLING Welcome to the best Bed and Breakfast on the Somme… Expat April runs a quality establishment on the site of some of the bloodiest battles of the First World War. Death surrounds it. And sheep, lots of sheep.

There’s dinner to be served and history to pay tribute to. The guests are coming, the sheep are closing in. The table is set for an evening they’ll all remember.

Spring Offensive Running Time: 75 mins Tue 18th – Sat 20th April Creative Team Writer – Victoria Willing Director – Marie McCarthy Producer – Juliet Clark Associate Producer – Michelle Owoo Designer – Grace Smart – (winner of Linbury Prize) http://ift.tt/1hReH0R

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