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cabensonsgirly · 3 months ago

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I'm Gonna Pack My Things and Leave You Behind. (18+)

Content: Angst, mentions of ptsd, happy ending dw, mentions of smut, religion

Word Count: 7944

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He hadn’t fled, not really. He had said his goodbyes, sealed with a tender, lingering kiss to her forehead and a silent I love you. That was enough, wasn’t it? Why stay when all that would happen is their hearts would ache, the cracks splitting into canyons that could never be filled? His heart was not a vase nor a piece of porcelain that could be repaired with kintsugi. He had seen what happens when Band-Aids cover wounds that haven’t been treated; they fester, the infection spreads, and soon everything is sick, and the only cure is radical treatment. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes he’d seen so many times before. So, he left.

When he closes his eyes, he still remembers how soft and warm her skin felt under his lips. But of course, with remembering such tenderness, he too remembers the way her eyes glistened with tears, the way her hand reached out for him in a silent plea for him to stay- to change his mind, to try just one more time. Why couldn’t he stay? He had seen her grow so much, blossom into such an incredible leader and advocate, a privilege he was so lucky to obtain. But he too had changed, although as he kneels at the altar of his new local church, his rosary clasped tightly in his hands, he wonders if he had turned into some kind of invasive moth, not the butterfly he so desperately tried to be. A moth and a butterfly could never work. A saint and a sinner could never work. Everyone knows what would happen, the saint would pay for the sinner’s deviance and then too fall from grace. Jesus paid the ultimate sacrifice as payment for sinners, he did not want his love to suffer the same way.

He presses the beads to his lips before standing up, bowing his head once more then turning to leave the place he often sought refuge when his apartment felt too much like prison. He returns his beads to his coat pocket, his thumb running over them as he walks the pavement back home. His heart aches at that. He calls it home when talking to his mami, but it isn’t really home, is it? His heart does not feel content there. The walls, although adorned with tasteful pieces of art, shelves full of books he’s collected and awards and knick-knacks he’d kept after his abuela passed, felt lifeless. The plants, although thriving, seemed plastic, like he’d gone to the dollar store and picked out the cheapest ones he could instead of what he actually did, which was spending months researching which ones would improve the air quality of his apartment. No matter how long he spends there, it would never feel like home.

He hangs his coat up on the hook in the hallway, smoothing it out with his hands before stepping out of his shoes then heading through to the lounge where he goes to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a scotch. It wasn’t his favorite brand; he couldn’t bring himself to drink that anymore as it reminded him too much of her. Even now when he thinks about it, he can picture them sitting next to one another on the couch with her feet in his lap with a drink in one hand, his other resting gently on her leg as his thumb brushes softly against it. The way the alcohol always tasted sweeter when close to her, her laugh filling him with a warmth that nothing else could replicate, not even his mami’s tamales could hit the spot but he wouldn’t dare say such a thing to her face. He sucks back a mouthful of liquor, closing his eyes as he wills the tears to stay in his tear-ducts and not spill onto his cheeks to travel the same path they had many times before. He didn’t want them to find home in his beard because he knew he couldn’t find it in himself to wash away the reminder as each tear contained his love for this woman, a memory of how things used to be, how things could have been had he chosen to do something different. He runs his hand over his beard, smoothing down the bristles that stick out- he only trims when it becomes unmanageable, and even then, he has to force himself not to think about what he was getting rid of. The last hairs falling into his sink that his love had touched, it was too painful to think of.

He refills his glass, returning the stopper to his decanter before taking his glass with him to the lounge. His stomach rumbles as he sits on the couch, another sound he has grown to ignore most of the time. He reaches for the remote and turns his tv on, flicking through the channels until she appears, doing what she does best- advocating. Her voice is powerful, he can feel the hairs on his arms stand to attention, and he even leans forward so he can hear her better. A small smile tugs at his lips, “Look at you soar,” he whispers, the corners of his eyes creasing with adoration, “Look at you fly.”

He rests his hand against his heart, feeling a warmth spread through him as he sees her again. Love never really goes away. No distance has changed that, nor time. He picks his glass up and drinks the liquor, and of course- of course it tastes sweeter, he can pick up on the undertones, the subtle vanilla notes, the sweetness of toffee on the tip of his tongue, and fig coming through, all erasing the usual burn as it works its way down his throat. His eye catches a glimmer when a camera flashes so he pauses the news and gets up, moving closer to the screen so he can get a better look. The air gets sucked from his lungs, the glass nearly falling from his fingertips when he sees it, the necklace sitting on her chest front and center. It had been months, why hadn’t she taken it off? Why didn’t she take it off? His grip on the glass tightens, his hand shaking through sheer force. He clenches his jaw, hating how tears fall freely onto his tan cheeks, running their way through the paths they’d carved previous times, “Why didn’t you take it off?” He almost pleads. “Why couldn’t you make this easier?”

That wasn’t fair of him to say, and he regrets it as soon as the words leave his lips, his features dropping as he shakes his head, “Why didn’t I stay,” he adds, going back to the couch where he resumes the news, it quickly catches up to where she was now answering questions posited by the reporters. He watches her skillfully answer questions and deflect others that were borderline inappropriate, the muscle in her jaw tensing briefly- a sign she was trying hard to remain calm and not give a well-deserved tongue lashing to the journalist. Then a question comes truly from left field, “Are you still close with disgraced former ADA Rafael Barba?” His love falters, a flicker of pain washes over her face, her lips turning down slightly. She sucks in a breath, blinking rapidly as to force the tears to remain in her now glistening eyes as she ends the press conference, thanking them for their time as she heads off stage.

He reaches for his cellphone, unlocking it and going to his contacts before pausing, his thumb hovering over her number. It wasn’t his place anymore. It wasn’t his place to check in with her, to make sure she’s doing okay. He sits back, brings his glass to his lips as he finishes his drink, his eyes still lingering on her profile picture. He should have deleted her number when he moved because he often found himself late at night, laying in bed just staring at the picture of her, wishing she was there with him in his arms.

He sighs and turns the screen off, getting up before he makes his way through the apartment to his bedroom where he’ll bury himself under his thick sheets in an attempt to escape the reality he had made for himself. At least in the darkness he wasn’t at risk of reaching out to her, instead, he was trapped with pictures of her seared into his eyelids, haunting him. To be loved by her, though, wasn’t to be haunted. To be loved by her was to know how free Ikarus felt flying so high, so close to the sun. To know what beauty Michelangelo felt as he painted the ceiling on the Sistine Chapel, how close to heaven he was in that moment. He removes his clothes, leaving them discarded near the laundry basket before climbing into bed, pulling the covers over his head. Now he knows that flying too high, too close to the sun only means your wings will fail and you will fall.

He turns his phone on under the covers, checking her Instagram as he did on long nights. She was only posting pictures of meals she had eaten, flowers she found beautiful, and silly poses with friends. She seemed happy in those photos, a smile was on her face as she laughs, but he knew better. Of course he did. He knew that when she truly smiles, she gets crinkles on her nose, and the creases on the corners of her eyes become more pronounced. He had spent so much of his time tracing her features softly with his fingers, following the curve of her smile lines, the dip of her cupid’s bow, the scar she has on her upper lip after an accident as a child, all such subtle things that most people would overlook. Like her exes had overlooked in favor of just treating her like a piece of meat who was only as good as her tits and ass. Even thinking about her like that made his skin crawl because she was- is so much more than that. Yet whenever he would stop by her office and catch her explaining the case, he would notice the way her male colleagues would only stare at her breasts, excluding Odafin. It always infuriated him because how dare they do that? How dare they treat her that way when she has worked so hard to become Captain? He knew they’d say, “Oh I can’t help it, you know how us men are.” Because he knew he was nothing like that, so he was vehemently against being lumped in with the rest of the group. He would rather take the claims he was a little twink than puff his chest out and go “Yeah! I love staring at my boss’s tits!”

He takes a breath to calm his rising anger before resuming scrolling through her Instagram. He comes across a photo of the view from a yacht with a candle-lit dinner, a vase on the table with flowers. He remembers that night, and if he closes his eyes, he could still feel the weight of the box containing the necklace in his pocket against his thigh. He had called his friend the week before to see if he could use his yacht, and after a few back-and-forth things where he was mainly bribing his friend with a particularly expensive bottle of wine, his friend agreed to let him use the yacht for the weekend. He had gone into planning overdrive after that, any spare moment he was going to markets to order the finest produce so he could pick it up Friday evening after work on his way to get her. He hadn’t felt so nervous since sitting his Bar exam, and even then, he didn’t feel like throwing up. He had called his mom on the drive in hopes she would help calm his nerves, and she did. “If you’re this nervous, Rafi, it means you are worried about doing a good job. You will make her night, I’m sure. You know how much she likes these gestures. Take a deep breath, and try to enjoy yourself, okay?”

And of course, like the good boy he is, he did what his mom said. He thanked her before hanging up just as he pulled out front of her apartment. He parked the car then raced around to the other side to open the door for her, “You look beautiful,” he complimented and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. He shut the door after making sure her clothes wouldn’t get caught in the door before getting in the driver’s side after putting her bag in the back.

The drive was long as the boat was docked in the Hamptons, but neither of them minded. Rafael had held her hand the whole time, both of them just listening to music that played on the radio. A comfortable silence with the occasional, “Oh look at the sunset,” from her. He would always reply with, “It really is beautiful,” but his eyes were only looking at her. The cotton candy sky made her skin glow, dancing across her tan cheeks, catching in the golden streaks in her brown eyes making it look like God himself had carefully weaved in only the finest of gold threads. “Dios mio,” he muttered, a smile on his face as he looked back at the road. His heart had been pounding in his chest, a sensation that one could only describe as having made him feel giddy.

When they had finally made it onto the boat, he had poured her a glass of wine, “You sit and relax, okay? Leave the cooking to me. Put your feet up, admire the view, relax.” He had stroked her cheek affectionately, sealed it with a kiss before he pulled back and tied an apron around his waist. His mami had made sure he knew how to cook because she wasn’t about to let him treat a woman as just a kitchen-maid. As he cooked, he would make sure she would get a taste of the dishes too, along with providing her a little charcuterie board to nibble on while she waited. He loved cooking for people, and he loved cooking for her even more, especially because she appreciated food just as much as he did. She would tell him if he needed to add a little more salt or a touch more acidity, and he would agree. He felt incredibly in tune with her, every suggestion they would say it almost at the same time resulting in the two of them laughing. Rafael would add, “Does that mean you owe me a soda when we get back?” To which she would reply, “I’ll get you the finest bottle of Jarritos, Rafi.”

He had served their dinner on the deck, pulled her seat out for her before he pushed her back in. He sat opposite her, clinked his wine glass with hers, “To a wonderful evening in a beautiful place with beautiful company.” He smiled and sipped his wine before returning the glass to the table. He struggled to take his eyes off her as they ate, the setting sun danced across the surface of the still water and kissed her skin was just such a glorious sight to him. If he knew how to take better photographs on his phone, he would, he would gladly have filled his phone storage with pictures of her in beautiful lighting, and even more candid moments. Now, that wasn’t to say he didn’t have any photos of her at all, but certainly not the amount he wanted. He didn’t want to take a photo of her and have it fail to capture how he sees her. He longed for the ability to paint her like art gods of old, to see the texture of her soft skin like Van Gogh and his swirls, to see the Holy beauty and power that radiates off her like the artwork that adorns so many churches. He saw it every time he looked at the stained glass in his church, while the sun made the images glow brilliantly, there was still a softness to the art- conveying such tenderness, the way Mother Mary cradled her son’s face just reminded him of how compassionate she is with victims.

While they did enjoy their meal, and she had loved the necklace he gifted her, there was a heaviness that weighed on the two of them. Neither had spoken much about the case, about whether it was wrong or right to want to end the life of a baby who would never know true freedom, never have the ability to play or exist without pain. He could see it in her eyes, the conflict, the pain, and she could see it in his. He had laid some blankets and pillows on the deck so they could lay there and watch the stars twinkle in the sky above, she cuddled in as close to him as she could without climbing into his ribs. He idly drew patterns on her side, “I don’t know if I can continue to do this case, mi amour,” he started, taking a steadying breath so his voice didn’t crack like he knew it would, like it always did when it involved a child, a baby. “I can’t prosecute someone who- who is going through so much pain, so much turmoil. It doesn’t seem fair. We- we are supposed to do real crimes, assaults, rapes, murders. Not this. Not parents fighting over whether to continue watching their little baby suffer or let it pass.”

She had looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed slightly before she returned her gaze to the sky, “It isn’t our decision to make, Rafi. The baby is not a pet, we can’t just put it to sleep when it is suffering. No matter how tough things may be, it is our job, our duty to persevere and ensure justice is served.” She took a breath, “If they had known when she was still pregnant, if the tests had been available, there would have been options they could have taken. But to do so now is- Tantamount to murder, no matter how-“ She shook her head, “It’s- It’s not our decision to make. It is a burden to the parents, an unfair one, one that hurts everyone but hurts them the most. All we can do is make sure they have the support they need no matter the outcome of the trial. I know that whatever you choose to do will be the right decision.”

Rafael looked at her with tears in his eyes, “Mi amour,” he whispered, “Will you still love me if I made the wrong one?” She cupped his cheek softly, her thumb had brushed lightly across the swell of it as she reassured him that she would. They had shared a soft kiss, while she wiped away the tears that fell onto his cheeks. They returned their gaze to the stars above, she told him which constellations were which, sometimes making them up just to see if he would catch on, but of course, when he is so in love, he never felt the need to correct or interject because why would he? Why would he when any sound that fell from her lips was like music to his hears? When any word or string of sentences felt as though Shakespeare himself was speaking to him, or Sylvia Plath or Dickenson. To be loved and to be so thoroughly in love was such a privilege to him. At church he would confess how much he loved her, how it felt almost sinful to be this in love, only to be told by the priest on the other side that a love as pure and deep as his was so far from sin that the angels in Heaven could even hear his words. That they too would play their harps and sing songs about this mortal love.

“I hope,” she said, “That this feeling, this- grief, this darkness does not become too much for you.” Truth be told, it hadn’t become too much for him, but for both of them. The grief that came with the decision he made sent shockwaves through them both that no amount of prayer and penance could fix.

That first night apart, the emptiness in the bed beside him was palpable, it felt as though there was an anchor weighing that side down just to accentuate the fact that he was alone and it was his own doing. He would rest his hand where she had laid and if he held his breath, he could almost trick himself into feeling her hand gently wrap around his and press a soft kiss to his knuckles. He could still hear her voice, in the evenings there was always a slight roughness to it that made him shiver, and she would talk about where they would go on holiday when they were forced to take leave. Italy, Paris, Cuba, Mexico, but it did not matter truly, as long as they had each other that is all that mattered. They would talk about how they hope that one day, there wouldn’t be such a hard battle for victims to be believed, and sometimes they would just talk about the stupid reality programs that were plaguing the tv. Everything she said or did was holy to him. And although it was blasphemous to say such a thing, he would gladly worship at the alter of her, saying prayers between her golden thighs as though she were a God herself.

He always thought he had left to protect her, to save her from further anguish, but perhaps he was too caught up in his own heartache to realize that she had also done it to protect him. She had always done that. Looked out for others when she should have been focusing on herself too. And maybe… Maybe things had just become too much even for her.

That’s what he thought until he saw the pictures of her, but he could tell things weren’t right. He knew that when she was truly happy, the captions to the photos would reflect that, whether it be a flood of emojis or a quote that resonated with her, but now it was nothing like that. Just simple, “Fun with friends,” and maybe she was having fun, but he knew that wasn’t true. Her true joy was unbridled, outshining the sun itself, making grey clouds go away on stormy days. Her love- No, Olivia’s love was something that was uncontained, addictive, pure, Holy. Even on the last night they had spent together, they had assured one another that they would do everything they can to support each other no matter what. It was laying there on the deck of the yacht that he realised now was their way of saying goodbye to one another despite the kiss he would press to her skin the next day.

Now here he was, curled up under the covers like a dejected dog that had been told no to a treat. The alcohol made his head hurt, and on an empty stomach, he knew that any sudden movement would surely make his head spin. While church did fill him with a sense of belonging and community that he had missed since moving, it still did not fill the void he now had within him. He still returned to a lifeless apartment, he couldn’t bring himself to adopt a rescue animal in fear he would make it depressed with his moping, or worse, it would get critically ill and he could not bear to make that decision again. Every time he returned home, he actually prayed for Olivia to be there waiting for him. To see her suitcase by his bedroom door, her shoes tucked in next to his by the front door, and her coat hanging up beside his. He couldn’t stop thinking about her even though every time it hurt him so deeply, filled him with a grief he can’t help but compare to when Holy Mary was grieving the loss of her beloved son.

Olivia. Olivia. Always Olivia. The brunette whose laugh revitalized him, whose eyes he would gladly drown in, whose tongue skillfully empowered everyone around her, or soothed the worries and fears one might have. Olivia, who even on her worst days, was still the most wonderful person to be around. Olivia whose lips felt so soft against his own. Olivia whom he loved.

He wipes his eyes, his cheek feeling cold due to the tears that had cooled on his sheets before startling when his doorbell goes off. He knew it wouldn’t be his mami because she always called him when she was coming over. He pulls himself out of bed, begrudgingly putting at least some pants and a shirt on before going to answer the door. He scratches his beard as he looks through the peephole, feeling what color he had on his cheeks fade instantly. He blinks a few times, his mind going blank as he forgets how to open a door. The bell rings again, the woman worrying her lip between her teeth before she starts to turn to leave. Rafael fumbles with the locks on his door before pulling it open, one word leaving his lips, “Olivia?” What was she doing here? He did send her a text months ago about his new address, but she had never replied. Why would she? Why would she come when that is how they had left things there on the streets of New York City? “Olivia- What- What are you doing here?”

The brunette turns to look at him, almost surprised he answered the door; she looks so tired, her eyes sunken in the way they used to when she was particularly troubled by a case, barely holding on to the life-raft she had crafted herself- a flicker of a smile spreads across her face, a ghost of how she used to be, “I- It’s the anniversary of when you passed the Bar exam,” she says softly, “I couldn’t miss it. I could never miss it.” But she had. She did. But he couldn’t blame her for that, it was a mutual break-up, they were both at fault for missing important events.

“Olivia…” Rafael wanted to push her away because how could they go through all that pain just for her to come back? Without saying anything? How could he let her in when he had hurt her just as much as she had him? His eyes dart to her neck, she was still wearing the necklace, but it was tarnished, like she had never taken it off, not even to shower or polish it. He rubs his bear again, the sharp bristles scratching against the soft skin of his palm as he debates what to do. But at the end of the day, it was Olivia, his Olivia, so, he steps to the side to let her in, closing and locking the door behind her, “I-“

“I know I missed a lot of things,” Olivia says after a while of thick silence, the space between the two of them felt endless but realistically they were only a foot apart. They both made a mistake, they both screwed up by walking away from one another when really they needed that support that the relationship provided. “I’m sorry I didn’t fight more- I’m sorry I didn’t fight more for you, for us. I thought it would have saved us both some grief. I thought- I thought we were both going to drown, and I didn’t want you to sink with me. I didn’t realize in doing that, I’d cast you away.” She looks down at the bag containing a gift for him, a Band-Aid to loosely stick over the wounds she had caused him, but once again, like she had so many times before, she saw something and thought of him. Oh God, God how she thought of Rafael, every moment of every day was filled with thoughts of him. Every time she went to church to pray, he was the first name to leave her lips as she asked for God to watch over those she loved.

When she lay awake at night she thought of him, when she turned on her side to stare at the wall, she would watch the way the lights from the city would glide through the sheer curtains and skate across the wall and remember how it looked as it kissed his skin, catching the silver hairs that adorned him. She couldn’t bare it any longer. “I got you this- I saw it and thought of you,” Olivia says quietly, handing Rafael the bag, “I know- I know it’s late, but- Happy Bar Anniversary.”

Rafael takes the bag, it felt remarkably heavy, weighed down by the time the two had spent apart, the aching in his chest that was left in her absence, the loneliness that had settled in his bones and often anchored him down to his bed for days on end. He goes over to the couch and sits down, Olivia sitting a distance away as he removes the crepe paper from the bag before taking out the small box at the bottom. Inside the box was a pair of cufflinks, the Scales of Justice in platinum, he had always wanted a pair like this but often felt like it was too arrogant for him to get. He carefully removes them from the box and examines them, he loved it, he knew he would because he always loved anything Olivia had given him, “They’re perfect,” Rafael says quietly, “Really nice, Olivia. Thank you.” He returns them to the box, not wanting to try them on right now. He closes the box then just stares at it, it felt weighty in his hands. The room was quiet, all he could hear was the steady breathing coming from himself and Olivia.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry for everything, Rafael. I thought- I thought if I agreed to the break-up, that things would be easier. That I would be happy. I- I tried dating, there were some nice men, but you know- You know how they get when they find out what I do,” she smiles a bit, “Always wanting to know too much about work, about cases, some even- They always got so mad when I ended things. So angry. Said of course a stuck-up bitch like me would do that and wrongly persecute men because that’s all we’re good for. They’d push drinks on me, get pissed I’d turn them down because heaven forbid I want to avoid becoming like my mother. And all I could think whenever I came home was what it would have been like if it had been you on those dates. Those dates gave me flashbacks- triggered my PTSD and made me wonder if the medication even helps because I always feel like clawing my skin off to try and get out of it. That maybe we should have gone to therapy together and talked about what happened, but I was so scared that it would just make things worse. I know that makes me a coward and a fool, but I couldn’t bare the thought of losing you for good. Now I know that isn’t fair for me to say, but it’s the truth, and you deserve the truth after so long of nothing.” Olivia takes a breath, blinking back tears, “All I’m reminded of is all that could have been. That I could have continued winning cases because of you. That I could have been with you. I could have been truly happy, but now- now all I know is grief and heartache, surrounded by sharks that love to see me panic and scared. This darkness that seems to want to suck me in, and the only light that comes through those cracks are when I think of you.”

“Olivia,” Rafael puts the gift to the side, tentatively reaching out to hold his hand in hers, and oh its embarrassing how his heart soars upon feeling her hand in his own once more, “When I think of you, I think of warmth and hope. Nothing about you is dark. You are the sun on the first day of spring, radiant and a beacon. Those men- I’m sorry they did that to you, and I’m sorry it gave you flashbacks. But the meds- Do you feel like they’re helping? You’re still here, you’re still you, so they must be doing something, right?”

“Oh Rafael, you’re so sweet,” Olivia whispers, gently squeezing his hand, and there- there it is, that spark, that little ball of hope coming back to life in the very depths of her soul, the little ball trying to bloom into a beautiful flower that was him. “You’ve always been so sweet to me. You say you’re not romantic, yet you are, you always know what to say to me.” Olivia bites her lip, and he could tell she had been doing it more often due to the scarring on them, “Sometimes- Sometimes I think I’m getting better, and everything feels manageable, but then- then it all comes crashing down around me. There I am in the corner of my room clutching my pistol to my chest as I will the person banging at the front door to go away. It just- Feels like a battle I’ll never win, and the pills, the therapy, are just covering a wound that will keep festering.”

Rafael rubs circles lightly on the back of her hand, running his thumb lightly over her knuckles, “You’re still here, Olivia- You’re still here, so you’re still winning your fight. I know it’s hard, believe me I do. I don’t know how many times I have been to church and prayed and confessed and done penance in hopes it eases the turmoil inside me, but it helps even if it is just for the night. You can get through this.” He smiles a bit, an idea forming in his mind, “I think I’ve got some ice-cream in my freezer, how about we make some banana splits like we used to? Come on-“ He gets up and heads through to the kitchen where he starts rummaging through his freezer for the Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream. He still brought a pint of her favourite flavor because he hoped that one day they would see each other again. He lost count of how many evenings the two of them had made banana splits, saying it was a healthy meal because of the banana even though it was drenched in chocolate syrup and caramel.

“Oh- I don’t-“ Olivia lets out a quiet, nervous giggle as she follows him to the kitchen so she could help. She tried doing this with a friend who stayed the night and they weren’t interested in it, saying it was too unhealthy for them instead of just enjoying it as a treat. “You’ll mush the banana if you keep that up, honey,” the term of endearment slips from her tongue before she could stop herself, but neither of them cared, it felt like things were like they used to be and that is what they both needed right now. She shows him how to cut the banana in the peel before handing him the other so he could do it himself, “We have done this so many times, and every time you would still squish the banana.”

Rafael didn’t have the heart to tell her that he did know how to do it, he just loved whenever she would do it because that meant she was closer to him, close enough for him to smell the faint perfume on her skin, the shampoo in her hair, and the laundry detergent on her clothes, “Silly me,” he chuckles softly, cutting the banana correctly this time. When he’s done, he places it in the bowl, a smile on his face, “Perfect.” And in that moment, the way the evening sun shone through the windows and flooded the space with a heavenly glow made her skin look like gold, and he remembered that was how he had always looked at her- like she was crafted from natures finest gold, and that the sun glimmered in the sky just for him. His Olivia always looks so beautiful, even on the days where she struggled to get up with her mused hair, and slight smile, she still made butterflies come to life in his stomach.

“What?” Olivia asks, doubt returning to her eyes, “What is it? Do I have something on my face?” She brings her hands up to cover herself, but Rafael stops her, gently holding her hands in his, “Seriously, Rafi, what is it? Please- I-“

“Olivia,” he says softly, “There’s nothing on your face. There’s nothing wrong. Just in this lighting- the sun makes your skin look like God himself carved you out of Earth’s finest gold, and it’s so beautiful. You are so beautiful. You always have been.” He brings a hand up to tenderly stroke her cheek, his thumb brushing against it lightly, “They never once said that, did they?”

Olivia dips her head, still leaning against his hand but avoiding eye-contact, she couldn’t, “No- Well- Not as nicely as you did. Just whenever they wanted something. I never believed them when they said it because of the look in their eyes, just this real sleezy look- Like those men we would put in prison.” She worries her lip between her teeth once more, it had been so long since she had felt beautiful and not like a piece of meat, and while she always had with Rafael, she still couldn’t help but doubt it this time because what if he didn’t mean it? What if he was just saying it to make her feel better?

“That was my favorite thing to do, doing that with you. It was always so satisfying seeing them get mad,” he chuckles softly. “Remember when we made one cry because he turned down the plea deal and got sentenced to life? That was great,” Rafael gently tilts her head up, looking into her water-color eyes. “You know, even though you’re likely doubting what I have said, I assure you that I would never lie to you about anything, Liv, never. You know my mami would know, and God would be the one to tell her, then I’d never hear the end of it. So, when I say you’re beautiful and that you always have been, just know that I mean every word of it.”

“I know- I know that deep down, I do, I promise I do, but it’s still hard when the only people who have said that to me lately were just saying it after staring at my breasts. It’s like how you struggle to think you’re a good lawyer- I still remember when you lost a case… You spent so long going through the evidence and your notes as though it would somehow change the decision the jury made, that you’d find some smoking gun and the bullets and be able to bring it to them and tell them they were wrong. I told you- I tried telling you that you are good at what you do, and that I know you did your best, you snapped at me with tears in your eyes because how could I think you were good when the jury had let him off his charge?” Olivia traces his features lightly with her finger, “You hid away in your office as you willed yourself to somehow be better, to will the outcome to change. You refused to eat anything, even when your mom came with tamales. You spent so long in there, and all I could do was ensure you drank, make sure the windows were open, so you’d get some fresh air, and ate at least one tamal.”

It took days before he came out of the hovel he had built, sure he went to the bathroom, but that was it. He didn’t speak a word. The night he came out, she had left the curtains open so he could see the city lights and watch the sunset kiss the sides of the buildings and flood the streets. She had come in with some horchata and fresh churros, and she saw him in all his glory. Olivia had put the food and drink down on the table by the windows before sitting down near him, her fingers idly drawing patterns on his arm, “Hey,” is all she had said with that silly little smile on her face. She knew he would be famished but knew he wouldn’t be interested in eating tamales, so churros and horchata was the safest option that he rarely turned down. Rafael had reached for one of the churros, his hand shaking slightly from the lack of food, and slowly made his way through them, dipping them in the rich chocolate sauce.

“How can you still look at me that way?” He had asked her, “With stars in your eyes, like I’m a good person. I don’t understand how you can do that.”

“Because you are. I will always look at you that way, nothing will change that. That court case won’t change that either,” Olivia replied, sipping her own drink she had brought. “I know you see yourself differently, just like how I don’t see myself the way you do, but please let me tell you what I think of when my eyes land on you, Rafi. I find myself thinking of statues that people carved as offerings to their gods, the stained glass murals that are in the churches we love, and even then, they still wouldn’t capture you. I see caramel skin that chefs couldn’t even make after years of practice, emerald eyes like beautiful lakes left untouched by man because you- Oh you are a rarity, a limited-edition print that stars could only dream of collecting, and you- you are all mine. Your hair is kissed by the stars with flecks of silver scattered throughout that so many look to in the skies above in hopes of finding some guidance. Then your smile, how it makes me feel like the only woman in the world, dazzling me like when we see the gorgeous paintings on the church ceiling. The fire you have in the court room is enough to keep me warm for days after. Never have I met a more passionate, handsome man than you. No matter the outcome, I know, and so do the victims, that you have done everything you can to win. A loss does not detract from that because all it does is show you did all you could.”

Rafael couldn’t breathe, staring at Olivia in shock and surprise that after all these years, she still remembered what she had said to him word for word, and how she managed to seem so serious despite the mess they were making while in the kitchen. Rafael, himself, had remembered that poem too, word for word, and tried reciting it to himself on the days where not even church could lift his spirits, but it never moved him the way it did when she said it. “You remembered,” he said after a while of silence, a small smile tugging at his lips, “You remembered it word for word. God, and does it still fill me with butterflies too.”

Olivia laughs lightly, her true laugh when she was happy, the one that came from deep within her stomach and bubbled out of her throat like the tune of a songbird, “Of course I did. I remember everything when it comes to you: How one of your favorite foods is your abuela’s tamales but you say your mom’s so you don’t get a clip round the ear, how you like peace lilies and begonias, how when you’re craving something you like really greasy tacos from the taco-truck under the bridge near the Bronx, although sometimes you just want a taco bowl from Chipotle and vow I don’t tell anyone you committed such a sin. I remember how you always wanted to adopt a rescue dog from the shelter, how you absolutely hate driving and would rather catch public transport.”

Rafael’s cheeks flush a deep red and his smile grows, “Oh Liv,” he whispers, feeling that little red thread pulling the two of them together once more, just like it had when they first met, although back then he didn’t believe in such a thing, “It’s always been you, hasn’t it?”

“And it has always been you, Rafi. Always.” Olivia cups his cheeks and leans in, their breath intermingling in the small gap between the two of them, she smelled off coffee and peppermint gum she always chewed when anxious.

“Liv,” he whispers, wanting nothing more than to feel her soft lips upon his own once again, “Are you sure?”

“I always am when it involves you,” she replies before kissing him softly, and in that moment, magic felt real again- the spark that travels from her lips to his then through his body, electrifying every single nerve ending in his body. It was cliché, but cliches are only that way because they are true. His hands return to her cheeks, tilting his head slightly so that their lips could fit together better, two puzzle-pieces after being separated for so long still fitting together as though they had just joined- perfection.

Olivia is the first to pull back, her cheeks rosy, "You still using the lip scrub and beard oil? It’s really like kissing a marshmallow and being tickled by candy-floss, your lips and beard are so soft.” She giggles and steals another kiss before putting a dab of chocolate syrup on his nose, her eyes twinkling once more, “Now we match.”

“I do, you know me, Liv, skin-care and beard-care are important.” Rafael chuckles and bites his lip, gently pulling the brunette closer, “Now we match. I think- I think you just gave me a reason to look forward to things again, Liv. Tell me, please, will you stay?”

“I don’t- I didn’t bring any clothes- I only have my bag,” she admits, looking at his hands holding hers, “I don’t want to leave NYC, Rafi-“

“That’s okay, Liv. I just- For tonight at least. You can wear one of my shirts tomorrow, and I-“ His cheeks color, “Have a few of your things you left in my old apartment. Then- If you want, we can- I can come visit you, we can take turns until we feel ready to move in again. We’ll be okay, Liv. You and I- Will make it work, we always will.”

Olivia looks at him, “We will be, won’t we? I- Would like that, a lot, Rafi. Thank you.” She leans in and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow I’ll show you around the place, I know it like the back of my hand, oh and the church- Dios mio, it’s beautiful. Oh Liv, I have so much to tell you.”

“And now, Rafi, we have all the time in the world. I’m not going to walk away from us again. Not this time. Not again. I promise.”

“I promise you too, Liv.”

#Barson #Olivia Benson x Rafael Barba #Rafael Barba x Olivia Benson #Olivia Benson #Rafael Barba #Law and Order svu

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kolyasupremanxy · 2 years ago

Note

Hiii !!!! :DDD I'm the one who requested Kolya with death!reader :))) I rlly like it so I'm gonna ask again but this time w chuuya and dazai :D (idk if u do poly relationship, if you don't you can separate them!! :D)

Reader was in the mafia even before dazai both joined so like, they're have been considered dangerous enought to no one even speak w them (their mentor encouraged ppl to not interact with them) so one day they meet the double black and begins to work w them extremely silent and unhinged at the same time.

Some links to how reader is!! :D (dw they ain't a furry but like how they act and the whistle + their eyes are like black w red pupils :D)

https://youtu.be/YRly68v1nCQ

https://youtu.be/HP7D3DPVjKc

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐲! 𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐮𝐮𝐲𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬/𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬+ 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : fluff(?) , Romance

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : Mentions if finishing someone(?)

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 0.84k

𝐀/𝐧 : Sorry for the wait, anon. I'm glad you liked the results of your other request T^T To be honest, I appreciate your effort of putting the links in your request. <3 Thank you, anon! ♡♡ Also, a polyamorous relationship with Dazai and Chuuya? wbaisgwkshjs I really love the idea of being in a poly with them<33

Despite their differences, Dazai and Chuuya both have a deep respect and affection for each other, and they're both equally devoted to you.

You initially met Dazai and Chuuya while working for the mafia, and your reputation preceded you as someone to be feared and respected.

Because of your dangerous reputation, it took some time for you to open up to Dazai and Chuuya, but once you did, you found that they were the only people who truly understood and accepted you for who you are.

Dazai is always teasing you, flirting with you, and trying to make you laugh, while Chuuya is more reserved and quiet, but he always has your back and is fiercely protective of you.

You have your own unique dynamic with each of them: with Dazai, you share a deep intellectual connection and love of mischief, while with Chuuya, you share a more emotional, intense bond.

Communication is key in this relationship, and you make an effort to check in with each other regularly to ensure that everyone is happy and comfortable.

Jealousy occasionally arises in the relationship, especially on Chuuya's part, but you always make sure to address it and reassure him of your love for him and for Dazai.

You have a special whistle that you use when you're about to finish someone off in battle, and both Dazai and Chuuya find it simultaneously terrifying and arousing.

You all have a deep appreciation for the macabre, and you often spend nights discussing death, the afterlife, and the meaning of existence.

Despite the fact that you're all involved in the dangerous world of the mafia, you find solace and safety in each other's company, and you know that as long as you have each other, you can handle anything that comes your way.

𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨 :

You, Dazai, and Chuuya had been working together for a few weeks now, and while you were still hesitant to open up to them completely, you found yourself slowly letting your guard down. You had always been considered dangerous enough to warrant others keeping their distance from you, but with Dazai and Chuuya, you felt like you could finally be yourself.

One night, the three of you were out on a mission for the mafia. You were all dressed in black and carrying out your tasks with the same silent efficiency you always did. It wasn't until you were finishing off the last of your targets that you let out a whistle, a terrifying sound that echoed through the empty warehouse.

Dazai and Chuuya looked at you with a mix of awe and fear in their eyes. "What was that?" Dazai asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"That's her way of signaling that she's about to finish someone off," Chuuya explained, his eyes never leaving you.

You could feel their eyes on you, but you didn't feel self-conscious. Instead, you felt powerful, knowing that you had the ability to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies. You turned to face Dazai and Chuuya, and they both looked at you expectantly.

"You're something else, you know that?" Dazai said, a smirk on his face. "I think I'm starting to understand why people are so afraid of you."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his comment, and you could see the relief in Chuuya's eyes that you weren't angry with Dazai's teasing.

"Let's get out of here," Chuuya said, breaking the tension. "I don't want to stick around any longer than we have to."

The three of you made your way out of the warehouse, and as you walked side by side, you could feel the closeness between you growing. It was as if your bond was strengthening with each mission you completed together.

When you arrived back at your safehouse, you all collapsed onto the couch in the living room, exhausted but elated at a job well done. You found yourself sandwiched between Dazai and Chuuya, and you couldn't help but feel a warmth spreading through your chest at the sight.

"Hey, I have an idea," Dazai said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen over the three of you. "Why don't we all do something together tomorrow? Like a date, but for the three of us?"

Chuuya rolled his eyes at Dazai's suggestion, but you could see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "What kind of date?" he asked, his voice teasing.

Dazai shrugged. "I don't know, we could go to the amusement park or something. Or we could just hang out here and watch a movie. The point is, we'll do it together."

You felt a flutter in your stomach at Dazai's words, and you knew that this was the start of something special. It wasn't just about the mission anymore. It was about the three of you, together, as a team. As something more.

As you settled in between Dazai and Chuuya, ready to fall asleep, you knew that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. With them, by your side.

Do Not Copy or Plagiarize Any of My Works. Reblogs Are Very Appreciated.

#dazai osamu x reader #dazai x reader #dazai x you #bsd imagines #chuuya imagines #dazai imagines #nakahara chuuya x reader #chuuya x you #chuuya x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd #bsd x reader

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reikunrei · 5 months ago

Text

I'm not gonna make as in-depth a post about it as my other DW analyses, but a month or so ago I watched the season 1 episode "Dalek" and now I'm thinking about it in relation to what Vecna's ending might look like.

A lot of people complain when they hear folks (such as myself and my friends) say they want Vecna's end to be tragic in some way. They interpret it as us saying we want him to be redeemed, or forgiven, or be made into a "good guy" who actually did nothing wrong, or whatever. Which (setting aside all the Henry/Edward stuff, which I'd argue is a separate discussion anyway) isn't the case at all. Not necessarily, at least. Vecna has done a lot of heinous things that can't be overlooked.

However, that doesn't mean he's entirely unsympathetic. He's very relatable in his motives and is a fun way to explore revenge and justice in the extremes. He's an example of the cracks in the Capital S System. However, I would agree that Vecna as a person and as a concept shouldn't be given a full pass on everything he's done just because his reasoning has a strong foundation.

"Dalek" offers a really interesting alternative where the Dalek in the episode is given multiple chances to "redeem" itself or is shown sympathy, only to constantly push back against it and refuse the kindness offered to it up until the very end. Even so, its eventual self-destruction is still tragic.

This is for multiple reasons, but the one I want to introduce here first to set the tone is: It's tragic because there's no changing what's been done to the Dalek, what the Dalek has done, and the general circumstances of what a Dalek is and their history. Rose wants to help the Dalek, but it's simply not feasible given the circumstances.

So, let's get into some of this episode.

We open on the Doctor and Rose landing in an underground bunker in Utah, USA, having followed a signal "calling for help." Inside this bunker are rows and rows of glass cases containing extraterrestrial artifacts, owned and collected by a man named Henry van Statten. We learn that one of these is a live specimen, which van Statten keeps in "The Cage," where they've been attempting to get it to speak for some time, often resorting to physically harming it and making it scream. Okay, NINA silo.

The Doctor goes in to speak to it, since van Statten wants to know what it is, and we get this exchange:

Some abridged Doctor Who history to explain this interaction: The Daleks are an alien race that's been around for the entire run of the show, first introduced in the original series. As it pertains to the 2005 reboot, early in the show we learn that the Doctor is the last Time Lord in existence because all of them died in the Last Great Time War. The Last Great Time War was fought between the Time Lords and the Daleks, and it was ultimately ended by the Doctor themself killing (or sealing away) both the Time Lords and the Daleks to stop the conflict and save the universe(s).

The Daleks and the Time Lords have had beef for... basically forever, as far as I know. The Daleks also make multiple returns throughout the rest of the series and still remain a recurring antagonist, though I don't know what's been going on with them past like... season 7 or so. We even get a few more sympathetic portrayals of them, but we don't need to talk about that today.

I should also briefly explain here that the Daleks were bred and evolved to hate. They exist only to kill things that aren't Daleks because they see anything that isn't a Dalek as "wrong." They have such a strong will to live in order to push this regimen that they almost don't die, as their bodies will simply refuse to do so, unless ordered or killed by force. Okay, Vecna. In short: they basically only know hatred and anger, and anything else simply isn't part of their genetics. There's some nuance to this in the greater lore, but I won't touch on that here because it's not introduced in this episode.

Anyway, back to the episode!

Once the Doctor realizes that the Dalek is damaged and can't actually kill him, he starts laying into it, circling it and asking "What are you good for?" and "What's the point of you? You're nothing." The Dalek says it's awaiting orders (something it's bred for), and the Doctor breaks the news that all the other Daleks have been destroyed by him and it won't be getting any orders.

Admitting to his own self-hatred, the Doctor switches on the chains holding the Dalek, electrocuting it. The Dalek begs for pity, and the Doctor says, "Why should I [have pity]? You never did." Then, van Statten enters The Cage with guards and pulls the Doctor out, at which point the Dalek returns to refusing to speak.

The Doctor speaks to van Statten more, telling him about the Time War, learning how the Dalek fell from the sky "like a meteorite" and surmising that it must have fallen through time as the only survivor. And at this point, van Statten smugly eyes up the Doctor, now knowing that he, too, is an alien not of this Earth, and chains him up to be studied and tortured just like the Dalek. There's honestly so much I could say about van Statten and his similarities to Brenner, so I might do that some other time.

Meanwhile, Rose, who's been tagging along with van Statten's assistant, unaware of what's happened thus far, sees security footage of the Dalek being tortured by one of van Statten's scientists and goes to The Cage to investigate and try to help.

She talks to the Dalek, asking if it's in pain, saying that she can help because she has her friend, the Doctor, with her. The Dalek says yes, it is in pain.

Rose continues to insist they help, but the Dalek says that its race is dead and it will simply die alone. Rose places a gentle hand against its "head," which burns her, and as she pulls away, that Dalek shouts, "Genetic material extrapolated. Initiate cellular reconstruction."

Having gotten DNA from Rose, a time traveler, the Dalek is able to regenerate, fixing all of its damage and breaking free of its chains before hacking out of The Cage and gaining access to the entire bunker. In short, it starts killing people indiscriminately and drains all power from the bunker, from Utah, and from the entire west coast of the USA, also downloading all of the information from the internet at the same time.

Most of the rest of the episode is an extended chase scene, where Rose and the assistant, Adam, are trying to get up to a higher level of the bunker, though are often relegated to stairwells and detours in an attempt to keep the Dalek locked away as deep as possible. At one point, Rose and Adam are being escorted by an armed guard when they come face to face with the Dalek in a stairwell, and the armed guard starts trying to talk it down:

Martin "but but but I locked you kids up because I loved you" Brenner, over here.

The first major hint that we start to see something is awry with the Dalek is it and Rose making eye contact, and Rose leaving the interaction feeling like the Dalek saw her as more than just a target for extermination, and rather that "it knows [her]."

Then, after some more chasing and some more mass murder, the Dalek addresses the Doctor. It says that, now with no place to get orders from, it will follow "the Primary Order," or the "Dalek instinct to destroy" and conquer. The Doctor asks why, though. What's the point of doing that at this point when it's the only Dalek left? The Dalek can't answer that and just asks what it should do, wherein we get this impeccable line that aired on public television in the year 2005:

He rips into the Dalek again, really showing his anger as he screams, "Why don't you just die!?" at which point the Dalek responds with, "You would make a good Dalek" before ceasing communication. Mic drop of the goddamn century!!! That scene still drives me absolutely batshit. Anyway.

Rose and Adam are rushing to try and escape the vault portion of the bunker, but they're running out of time. Adam makes it through the final door as it's shutting, but Rose doesn't and is now trapped with the Dalek. Rose talks to the Doctor over her cellphone, telling him that it wasn't his fault and she wouldn't have missed any of this for the world. The Dalek fires its laser, the call drops, and the Doctor reluctantly accepts that she's dead.

However, unbeknownst to him, the Dalek didn't actually kill Rose.

They have a brief back-and-forth, and Rose questions the Dalek's hesitation to kill her.

The Dalek speaks to the Doctor again, revealing that Rose is actually alive and uses her as leverage to get him to open the bulkhead and let the two of them out. Rose pleads with the Doctor to not open the door, but the Dalek uses the Doctor's emotions against him, saying, "What use are emotions, if you will not save the woman you love?"

Rose and the Dalek take an elevator up to where the Doctor and van Statten & co. are hanging out, with the Dalek all the while continuing to act strangely.

The Dalek approaches van Statten, threatening to kill him for torturing it, but Rose tells it not to do it, and it listens. She asks it what else it could want that doesn't involve killing, and the Dalek answers with "freedom." Vecna when...

Rose takes the Dalek ahead, closer to the surface. It blasts a hole in the roof, bringing in a ray of sunlight. Rose says she thought she'd never feel it again, at which point the Dalek asks what it feels like before opening its metal casing to expose the actual Dalek inside. It feels the sun on its skin and reaches out toward the light.

In this moment of vulnerability, the Doctor appears, having grabbed one of the alien-made guns that van Statten has in a feeble attempt to actually kill the Dalek. He yells at Rose to get out of the line of fire, but she refuses, even when he tries to justify it with the number of people the Dalek killed that day, or the fact that it was the Dalek race that created the downfall of the Time Lords. She urges the Doctor to pause and just look at what the Dalek is doing.

Love a good TFS word.

The Dalek asks, "Why do we survive?" and the Doctor doesn't have an answer. When the Dalek once again says that it's the last of its kind, the Doctor explains that it no longer is a Dalek. Having absorbed Rose's DNA for its regeneration, it's begun mutating into something new. Rose asks why that wouldn't be a good thing, but, as I explained earlier, it's because Daleks view themselves as superior, so if they're no longer a Dalek, then they're not worth living.

The Dalek is experiencing human thoughts and emotions, ones that it can't, nor wants, to comprehend, and it asks Rose to order it to die, saying that "This is not life. This is sickness. I shall not be like you!" With some more pushing, Rose finally relents, quietly saying, "Do it."

Guy who says he's not gonna go as in-depth before proceeding to do so anyway. But trust me, I could say a lot more about this episode, I just wanna keep this brief and explore this one concept without the plethora of off-topic potential references.

I hope you can see some of the bones of what I'm getting at in how this could potentially be applied as inspiration for ST5, but let's get into some of my thoughts.

1) Paralleling the Doctor and the Dalek

This is something I've talked about in a lot of my other DW posts so I won't rehash it too much, but it's incredibly telling to me that we, once again, get this emphasis on muddying the waters between "good guy" and "bad guy."

Through the season, we've seen the Doctor grieving his people, constantly saying he's the last Time Lord in the universe and being generally depressed about it. We're very frequently reminded of how sad he is about it, and we're meant to be sad about it, too. More often than not, it's meant as a way to show a deeper bond between him and his companion whenever he shares that information.

Then, we meet this Dalek who is also the last of its kind in the universe, and who is also suddenly made to grieve the loss of its people. From the get-go, it's framed as a sympathetic creature begging for help as it's tortured, and only once the Doctor's bias is brought to light do we get any sort of inkling of an opposing stance.

Then, almost right away, we see their roles essentially swapped. Sure, the Dalek is a formidable opponent with an innate desire to kill everything it sees and perhaps maybe should be eliminated for the sake of the greater good. However, the Dalek is weak and vulnerable, with no way to defend itself, and the Doctor does the objectively shitty thing and tries to kill it while it's cornered. The entire episode has a bad ick about it. Even if the Doctor is technically justified, you still feel bad watching him take advantage of a situation to harm a defenseless creature.

The Dalek says it itself: the Doctor would make a good Dalek, allowing his hatred to drive him to make some morally fucked up decisions. He encourages his fear and rage to guide his hand, and it's not until he has an outside perspective - specifically from someone he cares about the opinion of immensely - that he backs down. If and when we get a similar scenario with Will and someone else having to talk him down... I'm seated.

In the end, it's hard to have sympathy for the Doctor without also extending that to the Dalek.

It very much makes me think of the larger fandom's perspective on Henry in ST, and how they'll dish out heaps of sympathy and empathy for the other characters, and even encourage them to do shitty things for the sake of "revenge" or "taking what they deserve," but then turn around and look at Henry's objectively worse situation and claim that he doesn't deserve that same courtesy simply because of a slightly less appealing past.

To specifically tie it to comparing the Doctor and the Dalek, I'm looking at how we're meant to compare Henry and Will to one another. We see two sensitive boys who come from imperfect households with a desire to be loved and accepted for who they are. We see them go through hardships beyond our imaginations and, the key here, is how their situations during and thereafter are different.

We see the perspective of the Doctor first, and we feel bad for him! When he attacks the Dalek, it feels justified given the history between their races. In ST, we see the perspective of Will first, learning everything he's been through, and thus when he says "we have to kill [Vecna]," it makes sense! We've been led to believe that everything that's happened to Will has been enabled by this one guy, so of course it's justified to want to put a stop to him, and we cheer on the other characters when they come to Will's aid.

But then we get the perspective of the Dalek. We see it admit that it's in pain, that it's sad, that it yearns for freedom and an end to its torture. In ST, we learn more about Vecna, about his (alleged) past, and the trials he's been through to shape him into who he is today, and his desire to make things better. It, then, also makes sense for these characters to react the way they do, even if it's not ideal, and even if their methods and motives aren't the most morally clean.

(I'd also be remiss if I didn't at least briefly tap in on the whole "perspective" thing with what James is discussing in his upcoming big thesis post about TFS. Definitely keep an eye out for it, because it's a super interesting exploration of perspective and how that paints certain behaviors/scenes in different lights than we may have initially been led to believe.)

When I first watched ST4, I wasn't in the fandom at all. I was entirely unaware of the vitriol being slung at Vecna and Henry. I watched him do all these inexcusable things, but then... we have NINA Henry explain what (allegedly) happened and why he is where he is, and I thought... oh.

We're told that this guy had a good reason for doing everything he did. Even if everything he's done is reprehensible, I still sat there thinking "wow, he didn't deserve any of that, everything could have been avoided if he was just treated with decency."

With the Dalek, even after we see what it's done, we're meant to feel bad for it. Should it be forgiven? Perhaps not, but it was just doing the only thing it knew how to do after being put in a situation by someone else (van Statten) that allowed it to do the damage that it did, much like Brenner essentially enabling the creation of Vecna by cornering a child into the lab and forcing his hand.

All in all, it really pushes you to accept that someone who is "good" can do bad things because they think it's what should be done, and someone who is "bad" can be offered a chance to change and become better, and it doesn't even have to be detraction if they refuse that help. And, ultimately, I wouldn't be surprised if Vecna is offered help, but refuses it because it's too late. Not because he's being petulant and stubborn, but because there's genuinely no point, much like with the Dalek (even if the Dalek is being more petulant and stubborn than anything).

2) Vecna and the Daleks

By no means do I want it to come off like I'm directly correlating Vecna to the Daleks. There's too many key differences, particularly in what they are, for me to do that with a straight face.

I already explained that Daleks are born and evolved to hate. That's the only emotion they feel, because anything else would give them doubt in their Primary Order. Meanwhile, Vecna very much is a person. Even if he's not fully human, there's a human core there that allows him to hesitate and feel something other than disdain for humanity (I will always and forever stare at the way he kept El alive. Sir, I know you're not that cocky. Just kill her. Unless she....... means something to you......?).

Throughout ST, everything that comes out of the UD is distinctly nonhuman. I remember very early on in ST4 thinking it was weird that they made something from the UD so close to human. So, even if we're led into the story believing that Vecna is something purely monstrous, by the end we're shown that he is, in fact, still a human and always has been a human.

It's similar, if not slightly inverted, to what happens with the Dalek in this episode: We open on this strange alien creature and learn it was the reason for the downfall of the Time Lords, but by the end, it's been infused with enough human DNA that it becomes even harder to treat it with cruelty.

And I know I said I wasn't going to get into the deeper lore of the Daleks, but I have to just mention one of the myths of their creation from the short story "We are the Daleks!" published in 1973:

So like... um... anyway... just chew on that a little bit, I guess!!

As a final note for this thought, I do also find it interesting that even their motives could be considered similar. The Daleks kill everything that isn't a Dalek. And, yes, it is because of hatred, but it's also specifically about guaranteeing their own survival and making the universe fit for them. Not too far off from that, we have Vecna wanting to reshape the world into what he wants it to be so that he can exist freely. It's not exactly one-to-one, especially given that Vecna's motives are more of a commentary on the flaws of society while the Daleks are committing a "racial cleansing" (the Doctor's words, not mine), but I'd be remiss to not at least touch on it.

3) Objective Perspective

Rose gives us a very stark show of what bias can do in this episode. She showed sympathy before she knew anything about the Dalek, and while she does become frightened and tries to flee from it, by the end of the episode she's managed to either fight against or accept her fear and continue to try and help the Dalek and show it kindness.

It reminds me a lot of what we see with D'art in ST2, to the point that Rose's experience is almost beat for beat what happens with Dustin:

Finding the demoslug and growing fond of it because he doesn't know what it is.

Becoming frightened when he learns it's a "baby demogorgon" and tries to trap it.

Learning that he can have a connection and cooperate with it even if he's still scared.

Even Will manages to fight against his fear, understanding that D'art is just in a vulnerable position and needs help more than anything.

On top of Rose's demeanor with the Dalek, we also get to study how she reacts to the Doctor as the episode progresses. By and large, she's disgusted with the way the Doctor is behaving, calling him out multiple times and begging him to see the bigger picture. He's hurt, of course, but he can't continue to resort to violence under the guise of being afraid when this Dalek is no longer the same as the Daleks he hates. She doesn't even fully understand that until the very end, and still she can see that it's changing and it's been deserving of compassion this whole time.

The Doctor and the Dalek both hate each other and hate themselves, and Rose is the only one who can cut in, generally understanding both sides of the argument, to get everyone to back down. She's viewed both the Doctor and the Dalek with a clean, unbiased lens, which allows her to take in all the information she's given without any sort of judgement clouding her decisions.

Sure, her fear does take over a few times, but it's almost exclusively when her life is in immediate danger and she never takes it out directly on the Dalek. As soon as the Dalek refuses to kill her, she can wrangle herself into at least trying to approach things calmly and objectively and attempt to talk the Dalek down rather than resorting to brute force.

It makes me wonder just how, exactly, this is going to go down for Vecna. We've been given a lot of information thus far, but everyone has a different set of pieces without a way to combine them correctly just yet, and there's so many personal stakes involved that it becomes hard to parse out what's really an objective reading.

Will has been personally affected by the UD and the MF, which also affected his immediate family and friends.

El lived in the lab for her whole life and knew Henry personally, and potentially was the catalyst for finally creating Vecna.

Brenner has a desire to make himself look good as he works for his own selfish gains, and puts others in harm's way to get there.

Multiple people have had their lives directly altered by something Vecna did.

Vecna himself has a mess of wrongs against him that he's desperate to "fix."

etc. etc...

It's really just a whole big mess, and it's going to take a lot of work for someone to break out of the personal feelings involved in order to get everyone on all sides to step back and do some self-reflecting.

It's interesting to me that "Dalek" is not only a lesson in sympathy for others, but a lesson in sympathy for oneself. It's a large part of the Doctor's arc in this first season, and sympathy in general has been a huge part of ST throughout the whole show (which I know I've talked about endlessly irt these comparisons to DW), and it's a sentiment becoming increasingly pushed on our "villain" characters.

Like how the Doctor is "brought down" to the Dalek's level of cruelty and the Dalek is "brought up" to the Doctor's level of deserving sympathy, our "villain" characters in ST are being brought up to the protagonists' level of deserving sympathy, and our protagonists...? Well, we've already been blessed with loads of imperfect "good" characters in this show thus far, so I will not be surprised when that gets taken to the extreme.

It's already in line with El's monster vs superhero internal debate: a good character can do something morally reprehensible, with or without "proper" motive, and they will still be deserving of compassion.

In conclusion, while obviously I don't think it'll be a one-to-one, I do think that this DW episode offers an interesting route for Vecna's arc to take, specifically in regard to his demise. While a character such as Henry or Edward, who were dragged into this situation against their will, might be deserving of forgiveness/clearing their names and may still be able to be "saved," in whatever form that may be, someone like Vecna might simply be too far gone. There's no going back at this point, and it just has to be accepted.

I was talking to James about this, and I agree when he said it wouldn't be surprising if Vecna was offered help, he earnestly thanked them for it, but then had to refuse it anyway. I wouldn't be shocked if El wants to help him so badly but ultimately has to accept that sometimes things can't be undone, and they simply have to run their course, even if it has an unsatisfactory outcome. Especially if that outcome was one that could have been avoided had they gotten to the problem sooner. That is the tragedy.

The Dalek is a bit more complicated than that, obviously, given what it is as a species and its refusal for help being because it sees no point in existing now that it's "contaminated," but I think you can pick up what I'm putting down. The Dalek could have accepted the help and could have striven to change like Rose thought it could, but it simply wasn't in the cards and would have caused more pain than not.

The Daleks come up again in future episodes, which I might talk about someday, but I felt like this one was a good exploration of what you can do with an established villain and flip the narrative until they're almost entirely sympathetic while our "good guy" seems ridiculous for behaving the way he does. It is not a stretch to apply that sentiment to ST, especially because we have even more of a foundation for compassion toward our "villains" in that show than the Dalek got in this episode.

I could talk a lot more about this episode, too. There's so many trains of thought that this inspired, but, again, I want to just talk about this topic for now, so all the weird "why is this so ST" bits can stay in the vault (or you can go watch the episode yourself, which I highly recommend! It's a good one).

Overall, just knowing that DW was some level of inspiration for ST makes me excited to see what the Duffers took from that classic series and how they'll use it to inform their own final season, and specifically how they'll further the "no one is special/better/worse" message they have going on. We'll see!

#i say things #st dw #stranger things #vecna

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fizzy-blood · 7 months ago

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do you have any Nina hcs? I love her :3

AHHH NINA!! so real for liking her (I'm a sucker for the yandere trope and scene queens)

✮ Nina the Killer🔪💜headcanons ✮

[Sfw] these are general and platonic so if u want romantic or sexual (don't know if I have any for her tho) headcanons then feel free to ask!!

General!!

So, it's widely agreed throughout the fandom that she's a scene queen and honestly? You go girly!!

Definitely stands out a bit because of it but I doubt she cares

Apparently she was originally gonna be obsessed with EJ instead of Jeff (real tbh) but in my au she only considered that idea for a short amount of time, didn't really appeal to her enough to cause in obsession

Speaking of her obsession! Her infatuation w Jeff has died down a bit! Don't get me wrong, she still likes him and all but she's much more calm about it (she suspects he might be gay sooo)

On an unrelated note- she's probably one of the only creeps who actually takes any care of herself?

Like, a good chunk of the people in the mansion shower once a month (and sometimes that just means bathing in the nearby lake).

But no. She'll randomly break into people's houses or befriend random people she was going to kill so she can use their shower or bath!

Also, if she's out here befriending her victims then she's probably got much better social skills then most ppl in the mansion.

As a result of this, she's normally the first person people talk to when they join the group.

✧∘˙Room headcanons time!!˙∘✧ (I love wondering what she'd use to decorate so I had to add this).

90% sure that she'll just randomly loot her victims of any change or cash they had on them and put on a mask (like the ones from covid) and just walk into random shops she likes-

Idk why, just seems like smt she'd do?

Anywayssss

She's probably got a large collection of plushies and toys (she's got a hoard of Domo plushies and you can't tell me otherwise, also hello kitty)

Probably owns one or two of those super soft Invader Zim blankets you can get at Spencers

STRING LIGHTS STRING LIGHTS STRING LIGHTS STRING LI-

Back to general headcanons!!

She probably has a couple different weapons (including her og knife) that she'll rotate between. Also one time just brought back a whole ass chainsaw?

Like, came back with a chainsaw that was in a shed she was hiding in and put it in her room?

She's only used it once or twice but still has it just in case someone new enters the mansion and doesn't have a weapon (she just gives people random shit she has so I felt that would be fitting)

Platonic headcanons

As I said earlier, she's probably the first person you would have talked to once you got to the mansion so befriending her would be super easy compared to the others!

Would probably try to host a girls night with you and the others (if ur not a girl ur still getting invited. Dw, u probably wouldn't be the only guy)

Sleepovers too!

She's also probably the only person that you could go to for romantic advice (as mentioned in my EJ x Zombie!reader thing)

If you liked Jeff she might be a bit salty around you for a bit though- but if he doesn't like you back then you'd probably just talk about him w her

If he did like you back? Then you might wanna sleep w one eye open for the rest of your time at the mansion...

Anyways.. If it was someone else she'd probably try to talk w them more often to see if she could get you two together (also would stalk them for you if you wanted, would even give you tips for how to get away with that yourself)

The point is that shes the only one who won't judge you when you come for romantic advice.. Trust!

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ 𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝑊𝐸𝑅𝐸 𝐷𝑂𝑁𝐸!! (𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑤)!!˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

That was kind of a long one but I've got a lot of headcanons about her, I left out some of them cuz some of them are super common soooo yk-

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it!! -Fizz

#creepypasta #creepypasta headcanon #nina the killer #nina the killer headcanons #headcanons #creepypasta x reader #nina the killer x reader #(sorta)#platonic #general headcanons #AHHHH I LOVE HER #the og fangirl

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hollybell51 · 11 months ago

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In this timeline

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Trevor Holden (0115) x Philip Pearson (3326)

Travelers (2016)

Word count: 11.5K

Summary: Philip has made some bad decisions. This isn't one of them.

Content: Smut, hurt/comfort, bit of fluff (I guess?), Philip is horrendously down bad, Trevor is too, making out, hickeys, hand jobs, blow jobs, anal, fingering, dirty talk (like a tiny bit dw), Trevor calls Philip "man" during sex, top Trevor/bottom Philip in an attempt to avoid Trevor's accidental twinkification (I fear this may have backfired), (there are honestly switchy moments too so idk if I'd label it as anything other than a healthy flexible dynamic), Philip's hallucinations, the age gape is mentioned but just in passing, implied/referenced drug use (guys c'mon it's Philip), everything canon typical. This takes place after s3 e3. I may have missed some things so lemme know if I should add anything xx

Notes: Happy valentines day! What even was season 3 honestly these two are so fucking whipped for each other it's stupid. How can anyone look at them and see anything but a married couple who are deeply, disgustingly in love with each other. Honestly. I'm so upset that this got cancelled (even though I lowkey liked the ending) so my insufferable ass is probably gonna deal with that through taking matters into my own hands. Also side note this is the first time I've posted m/m so don't be too mean I actually don't really know how men work so... yeah. Shit's been rough lately, breakup and car crash in the space of two days so I actually haven't proofread this sorry (there might be mistakes but that's ok because to err to be human <3) and also I’m literally a (queer) girl and I know nothing about gay (man) sex and it shows. You have been warned.

Philip had woken that morning (morning? Or afternoon? He can’t remember. It doesn’t feel like it had been morning when he’d finally swum up out of Marcy’s sedative) with Trevor in his bed. Well, it wasn’t Trevor, not really, but it was still nice. Not Trevor was smiling at him, wriggling closer, his hand finding Philip’s and pulling it towards his chest. Philip had blinked and he had shimmered, dispersed into light, reformed. He’d blinked again and Not Trevor was gone, and then the real world was flooding in and he half wished he hadn’t woken up at all.

It’s been happening more and more often lately. Philip looks up from the computer screens and Not Trevor is already smiling at him. Not Trevor interrupts him with a kiss as he walks past. Not Trevor pads barefoot with a towel wrapped around his waist out of the bathroom and winks as Philip watches him go. Philip kneels next to the couch to pick up a ball bearing he’d knocked off the table from under its edge and when he looks up Not Trevor’s legs are either side of him and he has his head tilted back, shirt discarded and he’s panting hard. Philip has no doubt what that particular version of himself had just been doing. On the flip side, he pushes his chair back to take a break and Not Trevor grins up at him from between his legs, he leans over Philip from behind and slides his hand down his front, braces himself against the shower wall, tells Philip to turn around and get on his hands and knees and a million other things and Philip curses the update because none of those images are ever going to leave his head.

Philip’s not too proud to admit when he likes someone. He’s human, after all, even if some days he doesn’t feel it, and Trevor is beautiful. It’s not just his host, either, although it probably helps to have been blessed looking like that, but there’s something about what 0115 and Trevor Holden have become — Philip’s Trevor, the team’s Trevor, 0115’s own Trevor — that pulls Philip in like a magnet. His joy is addictive. His enthusiasm for life, while it sometimes grates on Philip’s considerably less enthusiastic nerves, is infectious and maybe what people say about opposites attracting each other is right. Not even opposites, really — Philip doesn’t think they’re opposites, but he knows they’re not so-called twin flames — but something about Trevor balancing Philip. Pulling him out of those particularly dark little holes he knows it’s all too easy to get stuck in. Hell, he fell into one last night.

So Philip’s been peeking into other timelines and it’s been fueling the Trevor thing and now he’s waking up and half wishing that what he’s seeing is real. He wants to reach out and grab Trevor and never let go. He wants to stay in this bed with him and never have to do another mission again and just be and let humanity save itself. But, he tells himself firmly as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress and pauses, letting his body stabilise and adjust, that is not going to happen. No amount of wishing will make it.

Carly and Marcy have explained, as best they can, and he really does feel bad for pulling that kind of shit when they’re all under stress, when nothing feels like it’s going right for anyone and they all have their own bullshit to deal with (he knows all about that, thanks to the update), but Aleksander’s face is still on the computer screens and Philip also knows Mac and Trevor will follow through. And that is where his brain snags for the second time today. Trevor, who found him on the floor and called Marcy over, “panicked” is the word the medic used, and then took off to kill a kid — to help Mac kill a kid. Trevor has faith in the Director, in the Grand Plan, Philip knows that as well as anyone, but he still cringes at the thought of what his roommate — because calling Trevor friend doesn’t quite feel right when he’s seen what he looks like when Philip is not going to complete that thought, they’re past coworkers, and he doesn’t feel like the other guy’s teammate anymore — must be thinking and feeling and doing right now.

But then, after a few hours of Marcy and Carly doing their best to help him and Philip doing his best not to scream or break something or walk out the door and never come back, the Messenger comes through and just like that it’s all ok again. Marcy and Carly are relieved. Philip is relieved. A massive weight has been lifted off all their shoulders, so why does he still feel so heavy?

He walks through erasing Mac’s memory like he’s walking through a dream, manages not to stare too long at the insubstantial vision of Trevor’s hand on his knee as they take their leader back to his house and (not uncarefully) deposit him in his bed. They leave. They drive back to ops. Marcy asks if he’s alright and he nods, doesn’t miss the way she says something too quiet to make out to Trevor as she heads back to David. Carly stays for longer, cleans a gun, then makes her exit with a firm hand on Philip’s shoulder and a tight smile. Then they’re alone, and Philip is staring at the screen with a cup of something (he thinks it might be tea, but it’s not hot anymore) he doesn’t remember getting in his hand.

He doesn’t even hear Trevor approach until the engineer sighs, settling himself next to Philip’s shoulder.

“The mother even speaks Romanian,” he says, steaming mug cradled in his hands.

Philip glances at him and he shrugs. “Well that’s great, I’m obviously happy about that.” And he is, he really is. The woman smiling in the photograph looks like a kind person. She doesn’t have the sharpness about her eyes that Aleksander’s previous foster parents did, and maybe the familiarity of the language will help. He knows it did when they rescued the boy in the first place. The word rescue, even just in his mind, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He could have avoided the whole mission — putting Trevor and Mac through that — if he’d just stuck to what he was supposed to. There’s no way that this wasn’t some sick lesson. But still… “Why didn’t we start there?”

Trevor pauses before he answers, eyes still locked on the computer screen, brow furrowed. “That wasn’t the path he was on.”

Sometimes Philip forgets how old Trevor — 0115 — is. He doesn’t act like an old man, as much as the others (Philip included) call him that and joke about it, as much as Trevor himself is open and just as willing to talk about the fact. But there are moments like these when Philip can see 0115’s plural lifetimes of experience and knowledge and wisdom poking through that barely adult face, and it catches him off guard. He’s not put off by Trevor’s age, Truth be told, he’s not sure if anything could put him off Trevor, but it can still be a little unnerving.

“You don’t need to explain that part to me.” Philip tries not to sound annoyed, because he isn’t. Not really. “What I'm asking you is why we didn’t get a mission to change his path in the first place.”

Again, Trevor shrugs, and on anyone else the gesture would look flippant. Not him, though. Nothing’s ever flippant with Trevor unless he wants it to be. “Maybe we did. The Director has to thread the needle on billions of possibilities happening to billions of people in a billion different places all over the world. If it seems hard to understand the steps that lead to a particular outcome, it’s because it’s literally impossible for any of us to understand that.”

Philip can feel Trevor’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t look up. “I hate that.”

There’s a pause, and he feels Trevor shift infinitesimally closer. “Yeah,” he says. “But you can’t argue with the results.”

This time Philip does raise his eyes from the screen, turning in his chair to face his roommate. The other guy is perched on a filing cabinet, and Philip has the distinct urge to tell him to just get a chair. He looks a little ridiculous; elbows on his knees, feet resting against the desk (he really wants to tell him to get a chair), cup in his hands and that look that’s so sincere he’d laugh if he saw it on anyone else. It’s so… him and Philip can’t look away.

Trevor sighs, leans forward and sets down his cup, his feet slipping off the desk as he twists to face Philip. “It wasn’t your fault,” he tells him.

Philip shakes his head, looking away. He wishes he could believe Trevor, wishes he had just an ounce of his conviction. “It was. By definition, Trevor.”

“You were trying to save him.”

“And I made things worse. The Director was teaching me a lesson, I know it was. I know… I know I shouldn’t have tried to interfere.”

“Hey, hey.” Trevor’s hand is firm and warm on Philip’s shoulder. “You tried to do what you thought was right. And yeah, it didn’t really work out, but it’s in the past. We can’t change that.” He stops, as if realising the irony of his words, then, “Nobody blames you, Philip.”

“They should.” I do.

Trevor is close enough that Philip can see the evening sun gilding the tips of his eyelashes, and his voice is so gentle it hurts. “What good is it gonna do now, huh? How is holding onto all that shit and dishing out blame and responsibility gonna help anyone?”

Philip doesn’t have an answer for that, but he’s not sure if that matters. Not sure if he could speak even if he wanted to, because Trevor is still touching him and Philip must have slid his chair closer because he doesn’t remember the gap between them being this small. Trevor is searching Philip’s face, and he can practically see the cogs ticking behind his eyes — which, up close, never fail to suck Philip’s focus like a vacuum.

“It’s not your fault. It was never going to be your fault, Philip.”

Philip swallows hard, tongue darting out over his lips. It’s too quiet and too loud all at once, and he wants to look away and he never wants the moment to end. The world is blurry, all he can see is Trevor, his skin is too tight and Trevor’s simultaneously too close and not close enough and then he is leaning the last few inches and all Philip can think is that this has to be another timeline. Things like this don’t happen to him, at least not this him, and—

Oh. Oh.

Trevor’s lips are soft against his own, the hand that had been resting on his shoulder sliding up to hover almost hesitantly at his jaw. Philip can feel his own heart beating at a million mph, his blood rushing in his ears, and without even realising it he’s kissing Trevor back, tilting his head and pressing closer, Trevor’s skin so warm against his.

The thing about what Philip sees — hallucinations, illusions, visions, whatever he calls them — is that he doesn’t feel it. He didn’t process the warmth of Not Trevor’s hand when it had been resting on his leg in the car or against his own that morning. He hadn’t felt the press of Not Trevor’s shoulders between his thighs, hadn’t felt the rush of breath over his skin when Not Trevor had laughed and kissed his cheek. And he certainly hadn’t felt the slick softness of Not Trevor’s tongue brushing over his lip.

Oh, is all Philip can think again as he lets Trevor part his lips, the barest hint of his tongue sliding against his. A question. A warning. A test. Of course, the answer is yes. Philip knows in his soul that the answer will always be yes for Trevor, no matter what timeline they’re in. He feels himself sinking, floating, and when he pushes back against Trevor and slips his own tongue into his mouth, he can taste the tea he was drinking. Trevor is warm and sweet and Philip has never tasted anything so good and now his hand is moving, fingers tangling in Philip’s hair and if it weren’t for the rushing in his ears he could have sworn that Trevor gives a pleased little hum.

Philip wants to stand, wants to crowd closer and take Trevor’s face between his hands, stand between his legs and feel the press of his body against his own. He wants to feel Trevor’s skin on his, wants him under him and on top of him and everywhere he can think of. He’s pretty sure that Trevor’s knee is blocking him from getting any closer, that and the fact that he’s still sitting in his chair.

So, as much as it pains him to do so, Philip pulls back from Trevor’s mouth and pauses, heart still thundering, breathing hard, and looks at him. Trevor’s lips are kiss swollen and still parted, his eyes dark and locked on Philip and Philip alone. His hand doesn’t leave Philip’s hair, thumb moving in a tiny arc over the skin under his ear and he knows that even if he wasn’t a Historian, even if he wasn’t hardwired to remember everything, this moment would be ingrained in his brain forever.

“Are you…?” Trevor starts, watching as Philip pushes himself to stand, his eyes following his every move, head tipping back. He wavers, and for a moment he’s shirtless and sweaty and his cheeks are flushed pink. Not Trevor tilts his head to the side, teeth digging into his bottom lip, and Philip blinks. His Trevor is still watching him, a hint of concern marring his face.

Philip just nods, watching Trevor’s hand trail down over his chest, coming to rest right over his heart. He wonders if he can feel how hard it’s beating. He looks so serious and sincere, and Philip still can’t believe that this isn’t just because of the update. This is real. This is happening here and now.

“Philip,” Trevor murmurs, voice thick. God, Philip could listen to that all day.

He dips his head, and he’s sure that Trevor is smiling as their lips meet again. Philip is painfully aware of where his legs aren’t quite touching him, just resting either side of his hips, but that doesn’t matter because Trevor’s hand is sliding down his torso to sit feather light on his hip, not quite on the waistband of his pants but close enough that Philip feels blood rushing quickly downwards. He places his own hands firmly either side of Trevor’s face, feels the muscle there twitch momentarily, the mechanism of Trevor’s neck and jaw sliding smoothly like well oiled machinery as he kisses him deeper, harder. His fingers curve perfectly around the back of Trevor’s neck, and this time he’s sure when he hears the little sound slip from the engineer, muffled by his own tongue. It is going to drive Philip insane. Trevor is going to drive him insane. He already is.

“Philip,” Trevor says again, and Philip really can’t help but push closer. The edge of the filing cabinet is hard against his thighs, the metal cold through his jeans and somehow that is what brings Philip’s spiralling, out of control, too-much-too-fast brain back to the present. And then it clicks, and a stone sinks deep in his stomach. Trevor is distracting him, taking his mind off a truly terrible day because Philip did something stupid last night and Trevor found him this morning. He breaks away, breathing hard for an entirely different reason now.

Trevor’s hands stop him from going far, his eyebrows furrowing into that familiar concerned frown. “You alright?”

“I…” Philip stops, takes a breath, swallows. Yes, he’s alright. He’s more than alright with Trevor kissing him, with kissing Trevor. But here and now… Philip isn’t sure how to voice that. He knows Trevor wouldn’t judge him, not after Jenny. Trevor isn’t someone from the 21st, where sex is currency and intimacy is a completely separate thing. Trevor, like most from their time, knows that there’s more to it than that, he knows about Jenny because Philip has told him about Jenny and that whole mess and he trusts Trevor not to ignore all that. But…

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Trevor says, and Philip unfreezes. “I didn’t think it through. I know it’s been rough, and I don’t wanna rush you or—”

“Are you trying to distract me?”

Trevor stops, his frown deepens and he shakes his head. “Not really. Maybe a little.” He sighs. “I mean, I didn’t kiss you to distract you. But if I am… is that a bad thing?” He takes a deep breath, his fingers curling on Philip’s hip. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I don’t…” He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to make of that. It’s not what he wants to hear, but it's not what he doesn’t want to hear either. Truth be told, he doesn’t even know what that is. All he knows is that Trevor means more than 21st century sex and he is in way too deep here.

Philip does not consider himself brave. He knows people in the future who would say he is just for being here now, but the truth is, they don’t know what they’re talking about. He is not brave, he simply exists. He is a piece in a machine and there is nothing brave about that. But this is different. This is Trevor, and Trevor has always made Philip feel like more than that. Like he’s a person, and more importantly, like that person is worth something. And no, Philip doesn’t want Trevor to stop. He would be happy to live in this moment forever, and that’s the problem. Philip swallows. He will be brave.

“I don’t want you to be a distraction.”

Trevor draws back, a tiny wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “What do you want me to be?”

Philip almost curses, swallows again, looks at his hands. “I want you to be you. You… You mean something to me, Trevor. I want this to mean something.”

Philip isn’t brave enough to look back at Trevor, but he doesn’t have to be. The other guy’s hand is on his cheek, tilting his face back towards his, and when their eyes meet all Philip can see is the familiar warmth and understanding and joy that Trevor somehow carries within himself no matter what. “It does,” Trevor whispers, and kisses Philip again.

This kiss tastes different. It has to, Philip supposes as Trevor inches forward on his perch, gripping his shoulders, his arms, his waist, his hips. Trevor really does mean something to Philip, more than he ever would have guessed he could. It’s not because of the visions, and it’s not because Trevor is kissing him now. It’s everything else. It’s Trevor bringing Philip a fastfood meal after he’d been shot. It’s the wordless hands on his shoulders when he’s the first to arrive at the garage and the last to leave. It’s the undiluted wonder and awe in his face when he looks outside. It’s the insistence that he’ll come with Philip, even if it’s because he doesn’t fully trust him — because whatever the reason, Philip likes that he doesn’t feel alone. The reminders that Philip is human, just as human as Trevor, because sometimes that is the hardest thing to remember.

And Philip really does feel like shit for this morning. For last night, when he’d seen the mission come through and he’d sat there, frozen, and debated calling out Trevor’s name just to see another face and hear his voice, feel another person touch him and remember. But he hadn’t been brave last night. He’d run, and had left Trevor to find and clean up the mess he’d made. He feels his chest tearing apart, ripping violently right down the middle.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, tearing himself away from Trevor’s mouth.

“What for?” Trevor frowns.

Philip swallows. “Last night. This morning. All of… that.”

The understanding is so clear in Trevor’s eyes, followed quickly by sadness that hits Philip like a punch. It resolves and shifts, and Trevor’s lips twitch into something that could be called a smile. “You scared me,” he says.

“I know. I didn’t mean to.” An eyebrow raise at this, and Philip goes on, “I wasn’t trying to. I just… I don’t even know. I was going to tell you when it first came through but I just… I just couldn’t. You know?”

Trevor nods, and Philip knows he means it. This is the guy who interrupted Grace Day’s TELL, for God’s sake. He doesn’t blame Philip for Aleksander. Things might get murky and complicated sometimes, but at the end of the day Trevor understands when it matters. “I wish you had,” he tells him. There’s no blame or resentment in it, just a statement of fact. “We could have worked something out together.”

Now it’s Philip’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Worked something out?”

“Ok,” Trevor concedes, “maybe not work something out. But you didn’t have to be alone. You don’t have to be alone, Philip. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

It’s so much. It’s too much, and Philip is too heavy for this. So he just nods, watches as Trevor slides off the filing cabinet and stands before him. Philip lets him put his hands on his face and can’t stop himself from leaning into the touch. It doesn’t matter how small it makes him feel. Doesn’t matter that Trevor’s breath hitches in his chest when Philip keeps going and kisses him again, doesn’t matter that he can’t even begin to express what’s swirling in his update-addled, over-full and under-nourished brain right now. They’ve got time. Philip can untangle it all later.

He pulls Trevor closer, so close he wonders if he can feel the beating of his heart against his own. He can feel his breathing, the expansion and contraction of his lungs and the rush of air on his cheek, the heat of his body and oh, yeah, ok, Trevor’s hard. The thought of that alone has Philip aching, hips pressing into Trevor’s, their jeans hard and rough between them. Something just this side of a moan slips from Philip as Trevor presses back, his hands once more finding Philip’s hair and commanding him to kiss him harder, kiss him longer, kiss him deeper. Philip is only too happy to oblige.

Trevor hums into his mouth as Philip reaches between them, fingers skirting the hem of his shirt. Trevor gives him an insistent nudge and that’s all Philip needs to slide his hand under the fabric, run it over the hot skin of his hip and the planes of his stomach, bunching his shirt up like it’s nothing. Philip wants to map out every cell of Trevor’s body, commit every curve and dip and hollow to memory like he’s memorised every TELL and candidate and major event. He passes his hand over Trevor’s ribs, up the centre of his abdomen, higher to his sternum and back down again to grip his waist. Touching him isn’t enough. Philip needs this man.

Trevor’s grip on his hair tightens momentarily when Philip’s lips move from his own to his jaw, down the column of his neck. These kisses are wet, open mouthed, not quite careless but hardly neat, and if he goes any harder he’s going to leave marks. He isn’t sure if that’s something Trevor wants, but the other man’s head is tilted to let Philip continue, so he sucks — oh so lightly — at the spot where neck and shoulder meet.

“Fuck,” Trevor hisses, fingers curling, hips grinding against Philip’s. Philip can literally feel his brain emptying of all thought except that he needs to make Trevor do that again.

“Hm?” he asks, just in case (just in case what? He doesn’t know), and Trevor nods. So Philip does the only rational thing and sucks again, moves his head and does it to another spot, and now that he can see the darker patches of skin on Trevor’s neck, he never wants to stop.

“Philip,” Trevor whispers, voice cracking. His throat moves as he swallows, hard, and Philip pointedly grazes the spot with his teeth. He tastes like the cheap soap they keep in the bathroom, and even though it’s the same one Philip uses day in day out, on Trevor’s skin and up this close it is somehow more. It’s Trevor, and Philip isn’t sure he’s ever going to be able to casually use the stuff again without this moment flooding his overly accurate historian brain. As desperate and insane as he knows the thought is, even as he has it, Philip wants to lick every trace of that soap off Trevor. But his shirt is still bunched around his chest and Philip can only reach so much of his skin around it.

“Off,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to see Trevor’s tongue dart over his lip, his eyes dark.

His voice is husky and raw when he speaks. “You too.”

“Here?” The realisation that they’re still at the desk seems to strike Trevor the same moment that Philip fully processes it, eyes darting around the room.

After a moment, Trevor shakes his head. “No,” he says, untangling himself from Philip enough to take his hand. “No, come on.”

Philip has never been led into his own bedroom. He’s never watched someone else’s hand pull at his, met someone else’s eyes over their shoulder, stumbled to keep up with someone else through his own door. Never been pulled onto his bed by someone else. He’s been pushed, which was exciting and fun and hot at the time, and he’s done the leading, and the looking back and the steadying at the inevitable stumble, but this is new. If Philip is completely honest, it’s a little unnerving.

But then Trevor is facing him, reaching for his shirt and pulling it over his head and all Philip can think is holy shit because all that football pays off. Trevor’s mouth curves as he steps towards him, like he knows exactly what Philip is thinking. Which wouldn’t be that hard, since Philip isn’t exactly trying to keep a straight face.

“You tryna catch flies, Philip?” Trevor asks him, and Philip feels his cheeks heat. He hadn’t even realised his mouth was open.

“Sorry,” he mutters, eyes locked firmly on Trevor’s face. His smile. The collection of red marks dotting his neck.

Trevor just shakes his head, stepping closer. “Don’t be.” His hands settle on the hem of Philip’s own shirt, his fingers barely brushing Philip’s skin. “But,” he goes on, “this isn’t fair.”

“Oh, fair,” Philip echoes, raising his eyebrows. But he’s already taking over from Trevor, shrugging off the shirt and dropping it like it’s nothing (and it isn’t really, not when he has Trevor standing before him like this). “Better?” he asks.

Trevor looks away from his face, and Philip can almost physically feel his eyes sliding over his torso, stopping at his chest, lifting back to his face and gleaming with something that he can only describe as incredulous excitement. “What’s that?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.

“Piercing.” Because that’s what Trevor’s looking at, and if Philip’s completely honest, he feels a little… proud? He’d had his doubts when he’d first discovered the ring through his nipple, and had been more confused by it than he had by the ear and nose piercings. He can understand jewellery where people are going to see it. He’d done his research on piercings and tattoos outside of the training on 21st century behaviour they’d all taken, at the same time as he’d taken a deep dive into tattoo symbolism (he’d been suddenly consumed by the fear that his host’s tattoos meant something he should know about, which hadn’t really been the case but Philip still thought that it was better to know than not). He hadn’t found much to convince him that the solitary ring through his nipple of all places was a particularly groundbreaking way to modify the body, but now… Now he thinks he might get it.

Trevor is shaking his head, eyes still glued to the little piece of metal. “That’s so…”

“Weird?”

“No, it’s—” He stops, laughs, grins at Philip. “It’s really hot.”

Philip can feel his eyebrows shooting up his face. “You think?”

“Yeah, I… I don’t know why.”

“Oh, ok.” That’s… unexpected. Philip knows that his host isn’t bad to look at, and he knows that some of the reasoning behind piercings is for attractiveness. He’s studied the face that he now calls his in the mirror a thousand times, he sees the body that he now inhabits every day and as far as 21st century guys in their late twenties go, it’s really not bad. Of course, there are the track marks and the occasional (lately more frequent) shadows under his eyes, stubble if it’s been a particularly rough few days (Trevor’s newly almost-permanent presence helps with that, even if he doesn’t know it), but hey, if Trevor’s standing here right now he knows he’s got something going for him. But the look in the engineer’s eyes when they meet Philip’s again makes him feel like a damn artwork.

Trevor’s grin broadens, and before Philip can even begin to reconcile what that’s doing to him Trevor’s lips are on his once more and he’s being pulled hard against him, skin to skin, heart to heart, Trevor’s hands roaming over his shoulders and his back and his waist and his ribs and his chest and Philip is moaning into the kiss like… he doesn’t even know what.

They’re moving, almost tripping over each other and it’s a miracle either of them can keep their balance, but then Trevor’s knees hit the edge of the bed and they’re half falling onto it, a little uncoordinated but does that really matter when Trevor is still pulling Philip close, smiling even as his tongue dances alongside Philip’s? He’s all too aware of where his body is, where his leg presses between Trevor’s and his arm is locked, holding his weight off the other man.

Trevor, however, has both hands free. Gooseflesh prickles across Philip’s chest and stomach as he trails his hands over his body, electricity sparking when his fingers skirt the waistband of his pants. He feels Trevor smile again, and his breath hitches in his throat. Shit, he’s never going to be able to kiss anyone else again. He doesn’t even want to kiss anyone else. Ever.

“Do you want this?” Trevor murmurs against his lips, the tips of his fingers just dipping below his waistband and oh fuck he hadn’t realised just how badly he wanted that.

Philip nods, then groans when Trevor palms him because even through his pants his hand is a million times better than his own. The other guy curses, does it again, and Philip’s teeth dig into his bottom lip. His eyes are dark and sincere, flicking between Philip’s own and where his fingers are curling gently around his clothed cock.

“Can I?” Trevor asks. Philip has never nodded faster. He’s not even entirely sure what Trevor’s getting at, but he’s happy to let him touch him however he wants, wherever he wants, and he trusts him completely. Of course he already knew that — you kind of have to trust your team, after all — but he’s only just realising that he’s trusted Trevor as more than a team member for quite some time. Probably right alongside everything else that’s become more than a team member with Trevor.

Philip isn’t wasting time philosophising, his attention fixed firmly on Trevor’s hand which is back at his pants and oh that’s what he meant. He helps out, shoving his pants down and off with less grace than he’d like, underwear following suit. The air is cool on his hot skin, and for a moment he feels oddly exposed. Then Trevor is pushing at his hip, tongue darting over his lips again and there’s almost an urgency to his movements.

“C’mon, just— Hold on a second—” he says, still attempting to manoeuvre Philip.

He almost laughs at his eagerness. “Trev, give me a second, man. What’re you tryna do?”

Trevor pauses, his thumb running in a tiny arc over Philip’s hip bone — he’s not sure if he’s even doing it consciously. “Swap.” He nods to the mattress, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is and Philip’s just lagging behind.

“Oh, ok.” He shrugs, half climbing and half rolling sideways. “You could’ve just said that.”

“Yeah, I know, I…” He sighs, rubs a hand over his forehead. “I keep getting caught up. Sorry.”

Trevor getting caught up in him? In Philip? He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, so he just shrugs again. “I’m that irresistible, huh?”

The look Trevor shoots him is anything but joking. “You have no idea.”

Philip opens his mouth, shuts it, shakes his head in awe. Who would have thought? “C’mere,” he tells Trevor softly, and the gravity is lifted as he smiles and practically bounces down beside him, pressing his lips to Philip’s. They’re getting better at this. Not that they were bad, of course, but they fall into the easy rhythm of each other much more quickly now. There’s no fumbling or searching or exploring, it’s familiar and Philip never wants that to end.

Trevor’s hand is resting on Philip’s chest, warm and firm and now Philip is sure he can feel how hard his heart is beating. He stretches up, chasing Trevor as the other guy pulls away, but he can only do so much. Trevor smiles and gives him another quick kiss, almost chaste, the kind that Philip definitely doesn’t imagine he’d give him when their day to day paths cross in the garage. When he leaves to get food. When he comes back again.

But that thought is wiped away before Philip’s mind can snag on it, because Trevor is spitting into his palm and wrapping his fingers around Philip’s dick, gentle and slick and warm and Philip curses softly. It’s almost almost perfect.

“Like this?” Trevor asks, eyes fixed on his face.

Philip swallows. His voice sounds odd even to his own ears, husky and strangled. “Uh, little harder.”

Trevor squeezes, and it’s all Philip can do not to fall apart right there as his grip tightens and his hand moves. “This?”

He feels the breath catch in his throat. “Yeah. Fuck Trev, that’s perfect.” And it is. It really is. There’s only so much his mind can come up with, he thinks as he takes in Trevor’s strong arm and large hand moving rhythmically over him, feels the heat of his body where it presses against his own and listens to Trevor’s breathing and soft hum of appreciation in response to his own moan. No matter what the update lets him see, no matter what he manages to dream up by himself, it won’t compare to this.

Trevor is leaning closer, and Philip shivers as his breath hushes over the skin of his shoulder, his neck, then practically gasps as Trevor kisses the hollow under his jaw. He makes to turn his head, meet the other guy half way, but Trevor doesn’t let him. He kisses his jaw again, nudging him away and Philip just lets him. He even turns his face, just a little, but Trevor notices and his chuckle sends molten heat shooting straight down his spine. Trevor’s lips are moving, up over the muscle of his neck, tongue darting out to taste his skin. Philip gets it now, and then Trevor is whispering “this ok?” and he’s nodding (how could it not be?).

“Fuck,” he breathes as Trevor sucks at the spot, and Philip really gets it. It’s not like hickeys are foreign to him, but this is something else altogether. Trevor’s hand is still moving firmly on his cock, maybe a little slower than he himself would go but damn is it good, and now he’s working his way down Philip’s neck to his chest. The tiny burst of almost-pain followed by the soft heat of Trevor’s tongue has Philip arching towards him, hips jutting shamelessly into his hand as he does his best to stop the embarrassingly desperate sounds he’s on the verge of making from escaping him.

“Philip,” Trevor murmurs to his clavicle.

“Hm?” Philip answers, lifting his head enough to meet his gaze. He half wishes he didn’t, another blazing hot spark of pure need rushing through him.

Trevor either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He presses his lips to Philip’s skin yet again, gentle and oddly tender given that he’s still jerking him off, looking at him through his lashes (Philip wonders if he’s doing that deliberately. If he knows what it’s doing to him). “You don’t have to be quiet,” he says softly, and there’s another kiss. Lower this time, on his pectoral.

“I’m— I’m not—” Philip breaks off in a rush of air when he feels Trevor’s teeth graze his skin.

“Not what?”

Philip doesn’t even know what he’d been getting at, but it sure isn’t important. “Doesn’t matter,” he breathes.

“You sure?”

“Mhm.” Then, as Trevor’s thumb slides over the sensitive head of his cock, “Fucking hell, Trev.”

“Is that—”

“Yes. Yes, oh my— Fuck—”

Trevor’s mouth has found his nipple. Maybe it’s a little weird, but Philip is hardly in any condition to be thinkin about that. Trevor’s tongue is flicking over the ring cautiously, gently, and it feels really good. Better than it has any right to.

“Ok?” Trevor asks, kissing the sensitive spot.

“Yeah.” Philip swallows, bites down on a moan and then remembers Trevor’s words. You don’t have to be quiet.

This time, when Trevor’s hand tightens and moves over his aching cock, he groans, and feels Trevor’s body shudder against his. Philip brings his hand up to run across Trevor’s strong shoulders, down over his spine and back up again. He hums, and his hand speeds up every so slightly.

“Oh fuck,” Philip moans, “fuck, Trev, keep doing that.”

“Yeah, don’t worry.” Trevor’s voice is low and rough, his chuckle little more than a breath of air. “I’m not… I’m not stopping.” The engineer raises his head, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he studies Philip’s face like he’s trying to memorise it. Philip is torn between holding his gaze and looking away, heat coiling low inside him, and again he jerks in Trevor’s hand. Trevor laughs again, moving hard and fast and if he keeps that up Philip isn’t sure he’ll last another minute.

“Trev,” he gasps, gripping his shoulder hard enough that he almost feels bad. “Fuck, fuck.” Yeah. Philip’s really articulate when he chooses to be. He wants Trevor inside him, wants to be inside Trevor. He doesn’t care where, exactly, he just knows that he needs to be closer, deeper, needs to feel their bodies blur into one, but right now he isn’t spending particularly long dissecting that thought. He’s got time.

“‘Salright,” Trevor murmurs, as if he knows exactly what Philip’s thinking. “I got you, man.”

Philip feels himself tremble and tip, bliss rolling up through his spine. He might be saying Trevor’s name, might be cursing, or the sounds might be just that; wordless and primal and torn from deep within him. Trevor works him through the high, and as the electricity coursing through Philip cools to static, his hand slows and finally withdraws to rest on his stomach. They don’t speak for a moment, their breathing and the ticking of the clock the only sounds in the room. Philip doesn’t look down, he knows his stomach is a mess, and chooses instead to turn towards Trevor.

The engineer grins, then drops his eyes pointedly to Philip’s stomach. He feels his cheeks heat, but before he can say or do anything Trevor is bending and sliding down the mattress and Philip thinks he knows what he’s about to do but he doesn’t know what he thinks about what Trevor is about to do. Then his tongue is flicking over Philip’s abdomen and his skin is twitching, a small sound that’s half shock and half pleasure catching in his throat. Problem solved, he supposes.

“Alright?” Trevor asks as he withdraws.

Philip just nods, pushing himself to sit up. Trevor smiles and leans closer, his lips soft and gentle against Philip’s. This kiss is almost chaste, reassurance and a kind of confirmation (of what, Philip isn’t sure) all at once. He’s only too happy to reciprocate, his body pleasantly warm and heavy and buzzing with Trevor, Trevor, Trevor, whose chest is pressing against his own.

Philip pulls him closer, hands sliding over the smooth muscle of his arms and shoulders, cupping the back of his neck as he slips his tongue into Trevor’s mouth. He can taste himself on the other guy’s tongue, a thought that has his brain spinning excitedly out of control and his stomach launching into an olympic level acrobatics routine. Does Trevor like the warm saltiness still clinging to his tongue? Is that what Trevor would taste like? God, Philip wants to find that out.

Gently, he shifts and nudges at Trevor’s shoulder until he gets the message (faster than Philip had earlier) and lets him push him onto the mattress. His legs fall apart easily when Philip pushes his own between them, and when he moves and his thigh comes into contact with Trevor’s crotch he practically arches off the bed. Philip stifles a laugh.

“Something funny?” Trevor asks, eyebrow raised when he ceases his assault on his mouth to look at him. But he’s smiling. Flushed, eyes dark and shining, lips swollen and pink and still parted as he breathes hard, but smiling. Philip can feel his brain going into overdrive to store that image perfectly.

“No,” Philip shrugs, letting his eyes trail lower over Trevor’s torso (the guy has actual abs, which Philip is going to be thinking about for a long time).

“No? What’s that look for?”

He debates it for a moment, then, “I’m memorising.”

Trevor frowns. “Memorising what?”

Philip presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “You.” He pushes his leg firmly in between Trevor’s, basking in the breathy little moan it draws from him, “That.”

“Fuck, Philip,” he whispers as Philip moves his hand down his side to his hip, across the faint V under his belly button to skirt the waistband of his pants (why the fuck is he still wearing pants?). Philip isn’t even sure if he means to do it, but Trevor’s grinding against his leg and looking up at him like he’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. He thinks he might just cum again, right here right now.

“Can I?” he asks, already dipping his fingers below the line of fabric.

“Yeah, yeah sure.” Trevor seems almost surprised by the suggestion, as if it’s the last thing he expected.

Philip pauses, frowns. “You sure?”

This time, Trevor’s voice is firmer. “I’m sure, Philip.”

Philip nods, breath hitching in his throat. Trevor’s eyes are fixed on his hands, but he can’t look away from the engineer’s face. He gets Trevor’s pants undone, pulls them down, finally tears his gaze from Trevor’s flushed cheeks and wide eyes and parted lips and—

“Jesus, Trev.” There’s a sizeable wet spot on Trevor’s underpants, the outline of his cock clear and hard and fuck, the dude is big. Philip’s mouth waters.

Trevor doesn’t seem to know what to say to that (which is doing things for Philip that he doesn’t want to even begin to address), but it doesn’t matter. Philip eases his underwear off, and, softly and with plenty of opportunity for Trevor to stop him, wraps his fingers around his length.

“This ok?” he asks, watching Trevor’s face carefully.

“Yeah—” Trevor’s voice cracks, and he tries again. “Yeah, that’s… that’s good.”

“This?” Philip moves his hand, ignoring the little thrill that goes through him as his fingers come into contact with the moisture already gathered on Trevor’s tip.

“Yeah.”

“How about this?” Philip squeezes, watching Trevor’s teeth sink into his bottom lip and his head fall back as he whispers something that sounds like a “yes”, and holy shit has he got a jawline. He’d almost be jealous if he wasn’t so caught up admiring Trevor like this. If he wasn’t so far gone on him. If he wasn’t busy sliding down Trevor’s body, his face now level with his hand.

“This?”

“F—fuck,” Trevor gasps as Philip licks the tip of his dick, head whipping up to stare at him.

He pauses, waiting. “Ok?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s… that’s fine.” Trevor’s throat moves as he swallows. “You don’t have to, though.”

“I want to,” he shrugs. “Do you want me to?”

Trevor nods fast enough that in any other situation it would be comical, and Philip can’t help but smile. He bends, places a soft kiss at the junction of Trevor’s hip, then licks him again.

Trevor moans, his hand drifting up to wind through Philip’s hair.

Philip just smiles and flicks his tongue over the sensitive slit.

“Stop teasing,” Trevor whispers.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he protests. “It’s not fair.”

“Fine,” Philip shrugs, and before Trevor can say anything else he’s opening his mouth, relaxing his tongue and taking Trevor as deep as he can.

“Oh fuck,” he says, his fingers tightening momentarily in Philip’s hair. “Oh, you— Jesus.”

The room could collapse right now and Philip wouldn’t notice. His senses are narrowed and focussed to the hot weight of Trevor’s cock in his mouth, the smell of his sweat and skin and his own spit (not pleasant, not exactly, but addictive nonetheless), his half stifled moan and the faint saltiness of precum. His hand works what doesn’t fit in his mouth, slow and firm and sliding easily with his makeshift spit-lube. His tongue swirls around Trevor’s cock, mapping every curve and ridge and vein.

Philip raises his eyes as he hollows his cheeks and sucks, relishing the almost-whine that slips from Trevor. Again, he sees the engineer as he had been on the couch — chest heaving, gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, head tipped back and eyes closed. But this is better, because this Trevor — his Trevor — is already looking down at him, biting his lip, the unfairly defined muscles of his stomach tense and moving in time with his rapid breathing. A groan reverberates through his chest, and it’s all Philip can do not to smile.

“Wish you could see yourself,” Trevor whispers, the hand that isn’t tangled in Philip’s hair twisting the sheets.

In lieu of speech, he raises an eyebrow.

“You’re a fucking wet dream, Philip,” he pants, and that is not what he expected to hear. It catches him off guard enough that he falters, his own surprised half moan making Trevor’s hips stutter up against his hand. His mouth.

“Shit, sorry,” he says quickly, but Philip is shaking his head. Don’t worry. It’s ok. He gives what he thinks is a reassuring suck, his free hand settling on Trevor’s hip — as if he’d be able to do anything if he decided to face fuck him. As if he’d want to.

Trevor curses again, softly, his eyes not leaving Philip’s face. He’s trying to be gentle, Philip can tell, and he feels something inside him melt because of course he would. Even as he whispers “fuck” like that and moans like that he’s still trying not to hurt him — as if he ever could. Philip doesn’t even know if he’d really care at this point.

“Hm?” He doesn’t stop, moisture pricking behind his eyes as he relaxes his throat even further and practically swallows Trevor’s dick. His hand is sliding so easily now, slick and a bit messy and maybe it should be gross but nothing is gross with Trevor, who was licking Philip’s cum off his stomach just before and has seen him at his worst and has clasped his shoulder and pushed him through. He moves faster, a little harder, and Trevor’s hips buck up again. Before he can apologise, Philip’s thumb moves in a tiny arc over his hip. He hopes Trevor understands.

“Fuck, fuck, yes,” he gasps. “Please, Philip, I—”

He can’t stop himself from moaning, an embarrassingly desperate sound. He could listen to Trevor forever, feel him like this forever, replay the movement of his body and the rough crack of his voice and the delicious tension of his fingers still gripping his hair until the Earth stops spinning. He wants to, future be damned. It’s a feedback loop, Trevor’s body jolting towards him as he tips his head back, Philip’s own need surging hot inside him, and he’s gripping Trevor tighter and taking him deeper, revelling in Trevor’s moans and gasps.

“Hold on,” he says suddenly, and Philip freezes.

“You alright?” he asks, withdrawing with a wet “pop,” his hand still resting on Trevor’s hip.

He nods quickly, his hand slipping from Philip’s hair to rest against his jaw. “Yeah, I’m fine. Better than fine.”

“Ok,” he frowns, “then what’s…?”

“Do you…” He pauses, thinks, swallows. Tries again. “Do you want to go… further?”

Philip feels his heartbeat quicken, mind racing with the possibilities. He’s never taken that particular step, but if he wants to with anyone, it’s Trevor. And hell yes he wants to, wants to go as far as is humanly possible and never come back. He’s seen so many variations of further now, he can’t pick what this could possibly be, and not knowing is oddly thrilling.

“We don’t have to,” Trevor is adding hastily, his hand sliding down to clasp Philip’s shoulder. “It’s ok if you don’t—”

“I do,” Philip interrupts. “I really, really do, Trev.”

Trevor nods, shuffles backwards before pushing himself to his knees. Philip follows suit, steadying himself against Trevor’s shoulder. His hair is falling into his face now that Trevor’s not holding it back, and he half wishes he had an elastic band with him. Even if Trevor seems to like putting his hands in it.

“It’s hot when you do that,” the engineer says as Philip pushes his hair out of his face.

He arches an eyebrow. “I think you’re biassed.”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugs, “but I’m not wrong.”

Philip really needs to learn how to respond to this kind of thing, because at some point simply kissing Trevor isn’t going to be sufficient. But it’s working for now, so he’s got time. Trevor hums softly when he pushes closer, his skin hot in all the places it’s touching Philip’s. Philip cups Trevor’s neck gently but firmly, his tongue sliding easily between Trevor’s parted lips and he wonders if Trevor can still taste himself in Philip’s mouth the way Philip can. He shifts, electric heat surging through him when he feels Trevor’s hardness press against his hip, blood rushing downwards in sympathy.

Trevor moans, grinding lightly against Philip, the kisses rapidly descending into something too messy to be called a kiss at all by any stringent definition. It’s more like Philip licking into Trevor’s mouth, Trevor licking into his, a whirl of tongues and teeth and lips that somehow has Philip moaning too, striving to get closer to Trevor in any way he can. He knows exactly what he wants now, and, as if Trevor is reading his mind, his hand is sliding down his side and around his hip to rest on his ass.

“Is—?”

“Mhm.” Philip gasps as Trevor squeezes, just gently, but God he wants his hands everywhere. If Trevor touches every inch of his skin, he thinks, it still won’t be enough. But damn, this is a good start.

“Turn around,” Trevor murmurs against his lips, drawing back enough to make eye contact with Philip.

He doesn’t waste time, as much as it pains him to break away, but when Trevor’s voice is that low, that husky, that raw with want, it’s worth it. Trevor’s hand doesn’t leave his hip, half guiding him as he faces the headboard.

“Holy shit,” Trevor says, and Philip glances over his shoulder to see the other guy’s eyes locked on the tattoo sprawling across his shoulder blades. “I didn’t know there was more.”

“Uh, yeah,” he laughs. “Neither did I at first.” He shivers as Trevor runs his hand across the inked skin, tracing the points and whorls of the design. He’d actually forgotten about it, as he does most of the time (until he has to do a double take when he catches sight of it in the mirror), but something about the awe and fascination tingeing Trevor’s expression makes him think that that’s not going to be a problem in the future.

“Fucking hot,” he proclaims, bending to kiss right between Philip’s shoulder blades. He does it again at Philip’s sigh, then again, then lower. He traces the line of his spine with kisses, fingers curling over his hip, and Philip’s not sure who it is who moves close enough that Trevor’s erection presses against him. Either way, it doesn’t matter because Philip is definitely the one who pushes further back against him, and Trevor is the one who pulls him to do it again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, because now that he’s feeling the hot hardness and the size of him against his ass, Philip isn’t sure if the spit still coating Trevor’s dick — copious though it may be — will actually be enough.

“You alright?” Trevor asks.

“Yeah.”

“Philip.” Trevor rubs his shoulder, gentle but insistent. “Why’re you so tense?”

Philip sighs, rolls his shoulders, forces them to relax. This is Trevor, who is not going to hurt him, and who he trusts with his life. More than his life. “I’m fine,” he says, “I just… haven’t done this bit before. And you’re kinda big.”

Trevor chuckles at that, shuffling around so he can see Philip’s face. “That’s ok,” he assures him. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

“Then I’ll go slow.”

That… is actually really reassuring. The tension leaks from Philip, and he offers Trevor a smile. “Ok. Thanks.”

“You’ll tell me if you wanna stop, yeah?”

Philip just nods, then Trevor is moving again and he has to twist over his shoulder to catch his smile. He leans into Trevor’s touch as the engineer’s hand skims his arm, his shoulder, his back, up his side and down again to his ass. They move together, slowly and carefully, and Philip feels the last vestiges of his nervousness slide away.

“Can I?” Trevor asks, fingers slipping lower. His voice is soft, but Philip doesn’t miss the way his breath catches when he nods. Trevor’s fingers are wet with spit, and when he pushes one inside Philip there's only a little resistance. “Ok?”

Philip nods. It’s an odd sensation, and he isn’t entirely sure if he likes it yet, but he trusts Trevor. He makes himself relax, focusses on Trevor’s free hand where it rests on his hip because he knows he likes that, and lets him move. He doesn’t mind it, he decides, especially when Trevor bends and kisses his shoulder. There’s a bit of pressure, a slight burn and stretch, and now there are two fingers inside him.

“Ok?” Trevor asks again, and again Philip nods. He’s starting to think that he might like this, and Trevor’s still going slow but now his fingers are curled and yeah, Philip likes this.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s good.”

“You sure?” Trevor whispers against his skin, and this time when he pushes into Philip it really is good.

“Mhm,” he breathes, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Almost involuntarily he rocks his hips back onto Trevor’s hand, and feels the other guy smile.

“Alright.” He continues for a moment, and Philip’s more than happy with that, but then when his fingers withdraw they go all the way and Philip actually misses the feeling. Misses Trevor inside him, even if it’s just his fingers. He hears Trevor spit, another sound he’s all too familiar with, then something bigger than a finger is poking him and his heart skips a beat.

“Ready?” Trevor asks.

Philip swallows and nods for what feels like the millionth time today. “Yeah.”

Trevor pauses. “Ok, bend over a bit? And maybe…” He pauses, then, “Do you wanna, uh, hold onto something?”

That’s probably not intended to turn Philip on this much, but it does. He does as Trevor says and leans forward, bracing his hands on the wall, spreading his legs when he feels the pressure of Trevor’s hand between his thighs. “Like this?” he asks.

Trevor’s voice is husky when he answers. “Yeah, perfect.” Then he’s pushing gently into Philip, who presses his lips together because Trevor feels bigger than he looks. It’s not really painful, and he’s going slow, and the spit lube helps, but it’s still more than his fingers and Philip can’t help the way his breath catches in his throat.

“I’m alright,” he assures Trevor before he can ask.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, just… gimme a second.”

“Tell me when.”

Half of Philip wants to turn around and kiss Trevor for that, the other half wants to shove himself backwards and just take it from there. But he’s got enough of his brain left in his head to know that that would be a terrible idea, so he breathes deeply and waits until the faint burn fades and all that’s left is the pleasant stretch and fullness. “Ok,” he says after a moment, “you can, uh, keep going.”

He half expects Trevor to do just that and push deeper, but instead he feels him pull out. He spits again, and this time the slide is easier, softer, further. Trevor curses softly, does it again, and now they have a rhythm. It’s slow and measured, careful, and Philip finds that it’s easy to relax into the movement of their bodies, to let Trevor rock into him and just brace against the wall — which is not even bracing anymore, more like stabilising.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Trevor murmurs, the words sending Philip’s mind spinning.

“So do you,” he replies and revels in the tightening of Trevor’s hand on his hip. This time, when Trevor thrusts into him, he does push back and meets him halfway, something between a gasp and groan falling from his lips.

“Alright?” Trevor slows just a little, concern clear in his voice.

Philip thinks he might melt on the spot, but instead he smiles. “I’m fine, Trev. you don’t have to be so… careful.”

“You sure? Cause I don’t mind. I said I'd go slow.”

“Well…” Philip pauses, glances over his shoulder. “Can you go a bit harder?”

“Yeah,” Trevor answers, and maybe it’s Philip’s imagination but he sounds a bit breathless. “Sure. Tell me what feels good.”

Then he’s moving again, pushing deeper than before, and Philip is telling him that that feels good and Trevor is doing it again. It’s not much faster, but it’s somehow more, and Trevor’s gripping his hip damn hard now. Philip hopes he’ll have bruises.

“Fuck, Trev,” he moans, arching into it, dimly aware of the bedframe squeaking faintly. “Fuck, that’s— that’s fucking great.”

“Yeah? Not too — ah — fast?”

“No,” Philip assures him. Then, “Faster?”

“Shit, ok.” Trevor speeds up, and now he’s hitting something deep inside Philip that has him stumbling over Trevor’s name and pulsing with need. Before he can do anything about that Trevor’s strong arm is sliding around his torso, pulling him back against his chest and his hand is wrapping around Philip’s dick for the second time today as he continues to rearrange his guts. Philip knows he isn’t going to last long.

“Fucking hell, Trev,” he gasps, because that’s really all he can do. He’s surrounded by Trevor, the engineer’s mouth warm and wet on the skin of his shoulder, his hand firm — just how Philip likes it — around his cock, Trevor’s own cock stroking what feels like every inch of his insides, his warm chest damp with sweat and pressed to Philip’s back. If he died right now he’d go out with a smile on his face, because he’s pretty sure it doesn’t get better than this.

“Oh God,” Trevor groans. “You feel like fucking Heaven, you know that? You’re Heaven.”

Philip didn’t know that, but he probably could have guessed from the desperation of Trevor’s combined fist and hips. He feels the words against his shoulder, feels Trevor’s warm breath stirring his hair and it must be all that damned football because he hasn’t faltered once. Philip can’t wait to make him. “You’re talking,” he manages, but any impact it might have had is lost in the unsteadiness of his voice. Maybe he’s still sensitive from his earlier orgasm, maybe it’s just that this is so much more intense, but he can already feel the tight coil of pleasure building low inside him.

“Yeah, I’m — fuck, Philip — I’m talking.” He gives a particularly hard thrust, and it’s all Philip can do not to collapse right then and there. Trevor is going to be the death of him, and he’s going to say thank you when it happens.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads — fucking pleads. “Shit, Trev, don’t stop.”

“‘M not,” Trevor pants. “Don’t worry, I’m not fucking stopping.” And he isn’t. If anything, he’s going harder. “I’m— shit, fuck, fuck, Philip I’m gonna— Philip, where do I—?”

Oh, is all Philip can think. “In me,” he blurts, because protocol 4 isn’t going to be a problem and this is the 21st century.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Fuck, Trevor I’m so— I’m gonna—”

Trevor is groaning deeply, spilling hot and thick inside Philip and with that, white hot bliss explodes through his body. He’s dimly aware of Trevor’s chest heaving against his back, his own name being chanted like a prayer, an incantation, and Philip’s never loved the sound of it more than he does right now. Right now it really is his name, and he knows he’s never coming back from this, and that he doesn’t want to. He thinks he says Trevor’s, too, over and over and punctuated with curses, but how is he supposed to do anything else when it feels like this?

Trevor’s movements slow eventually until they stop altogether, the only sound in the room their ragged breathing and the rustle of the sheets and Trevor pulls out and flops onto the mattress. Philip mourns the loss of the feeling of fullness for a moment as he adjusts to the sudden emptiness, forcing his arms to unlock and relax, his legs to shift — he hadn’t realised they were shaking, but now that he has he can’t stop it — and collapses next to Trevor.

“God, Philip,” he whispers to the ceiling, then raises his head and smiles.

“You alright?” Philip asks. Idly, he traces a circle over Trevor’s heart.

“I am so alright,” he sighs, breathes a laugh, turns to lie on his stomach and looks at Philip over the muscle of his arm. “You?”

Philip smiles too, his whole body heavy and satisfied. “So alright,” he echoes softly, and if he wasn’t so completely boneless he’d lean over, press his lips to Trevor’s, soft and careful. Instead, he stretches out alongside Trevor. He can feel his cum leaking out of him, and the rational part of his brain says that’s gross and he should clean it up — along with the mess on his stomach. The irrational part of his brain that had his heart speeding up when he watched Trevor lick him clean earlier says it’s hot. Either way, Philip is not getting out of this bed any time soon.

“What?”

He blinks, jerks out of his thoughts. Trevor is frowning, still turned towards him and close enough that when Philip extends his pinkie finger it meets warm skin. “Nothing,” he says. Then, because he’s not brave enough to say what he really means, “Do you wanna stay?”

The wrinkle disappears from between Trevor’s brows and he pretends to think. “Do I wanna get up, get dressed, walk up the loft stairs and try to go to sleep by myself while I know you’re down here?” He scoffs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and maybe to him it is. But he still asks, “Do you want me to?”

“I just want you,” Philip breathes. It doesn’t quite sound right and he’s not even sure if it’s really what he wants to say, but it’s close enough.

“You just had me.”

“No,” he sighs, “I mean this. I want this.”

“Oh.” Trevor’s face softens. “Right. Well, you’ve got it, Philip.” Slowly, he wriggles his hand close enough to lace his fingers with Philip’s and pulls their hands towards himself, lips brushing his knuckles. Philip thinks his heart is going to burst, and since when is he such a sap? Must be something about Trevor that makes his brain fly out the window.

He slips his hand from Trevor’s to run it down the curve of his spine like he’d wished he could this morning, mapping every vertebrae as if the world is depending on it. And maybe his is. He watches the smooth motion of muscle and bone and ligaments and skin as Trevor shifts infinitesimally closer, mesmerised by the simultaneous complexity and simplicity of the movement. The dying light cascades over Trevor’s back and neck, glancing off his hair, pooling on his cheek, catching on his eyelashes as he blinks and suddenly he understands artists.

Philip has always appreciated art in a practical sense (if there is one), as a historian, admired the richness and depth of the maker’s mark on the world, their cry to be seen and remembered. But in that moment Philip understands the need to capture and render, share, immortalise. For the first time, he doesn’t know if his memory is enough to hold Trevor as he is now, smiling softly and extending his arm, his own hand sliding over Philip's torso. He blinks and the feeling fades enough that he can move to accommodate the engineer as he shuffles across the space between them and drapes his body over Philip’s, lips pressing oh so gently to his pulse point before he lays his head over his heart. Philip knows he’ll never be able to capture this, and for a moment he wonders if how much is lost is equal to how much is preserved. If it’s greater. If it’s less. He swallows, turns and kisses Trevor’s temple, decides it doesn’t matter. He has this now, and he is determined to take it for all that it’s worth.

“Memorising?”

“What?”

Trevor shrugs, shifting closer still. “Are you memorising me again?”

Philip can’t begin to explain, but Trevor’s on the right track so just smiles and says, “yeah,” sliding his arm around his shoulders and holding him close.

“Me too.” The engineer's body jerks with a soft chuckle, but he presses against Philip anyway, his breathing deep and even and his arm heavy across Philip’s chest. Then, “Can’t believe you’ve just been walking around with this.”

Philip cranes his neck, looking down at where Trevor is staring at his chest. Or rather, his piercing. He almost laughs because of course that’s what Trevor’s stuck on.

“Doing missions with a ring through your nipple,” he goes on. “I can’t believe I didn’t know.”

“That’d be a weird conversation,” he snorts. “‘Hey Trev, wanna see this random bit of metal through my fucking nipple?’” Because Philip is aware that it’s weird, and that’s part of the reason he hadn’t exactly shown it off. Not that he would have had any excuse to, or wanted to, but still.

Trevor tsks. “Yeah, but… I don’t know. Does it hurt?”

“Uh… no?” He thinks for a minute, frowns. “Sometimes, a little. Sometimes I forget it’s there and it gets stuck on stuff.”

“Jesus. 21st century, man, I’m telling you.”

“Yeah. I know.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Trevor’s lips are pressing against his chest and he’s whispering, “I still think it’s hot as fuck,” and Philip, despite himself, is smiling. Whatever he sees in other timelines, and whatever else happens, he’s glad he exists here and now. He’s glad he woke up, and he’s glad he’ll wake up tomorrow — and this time it won’t be to an illusion.

Note: guys I'll be real for a sec I have no idea if this is any good. It feels ok right up until butt stuff gets involved so maybe this is a sign that gay porn specifically isn't my calling and I should just stick to YN shit (which is so sad cause I wanna write destiel smut and I wanna write more about these two silly little dudes). I wrote this originally where Philip just sucked Trevor off and they called it a day but it just genuinely did not feel right and it would not leave me alone and it just kept playing out in my head (something) like this so I wrote it and I'm not feeling the itch anymore but what I am feeling is really unsure. Any feedback at all would be so so appreciated (I feel like that ant with the bindle)

#fanfiction #fanfic #travelers netflix #philip pearson #travelers #trevor holden #philip x trevor #trevor x philip #smut #gay stuff

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