#and joy has been so hard to find lately?? so like?? idk

[beetlethebug]

getting back into bandori and man,,,hello, happy world! really just makes me tear up every time. happy tears obviously because their joy is just! so infectious! idk something about this band in particular always makes me want to go out and do something fun! i’ve been working on trying to bring more joy into my life and they’re just a fun little reminder, especially with this event (With Hello Happy World and Friends!). as long as you’re doing what is most fun for you, then it’s totally worth it! 

[crescentfool]

beaming everyone on the dashh with good brain day vibes!!! i hope that you all can remember to extend self-compassion to yourself whenever you're feeling down about something 💙

[indulgentia]

Adding to the plethora of videos of me and my dear @wildrift in cosplay to celebrate this munday ~♡

[girltomboy]

Taking better care of myself

I am a bit disappointed with how I've been treating myself lately. Like, I care for myself and everything in terms of hygiene, nutrition, rest, etc., but I honestly could be more responsible and conscious. For example, I'm very very behind on my chores, and they keep piling up and I'm extremely overwhelmed because I don't know where to start now. There's something to pick up and fix in every single corner of my apartment, but after I finish work I just want to savor my few hours of freedom and I start doing something else or I go out. I could maybe ask my bf to help me clean one weekend, but then again... the number of hours we have together is actually not so large, etc. Plus I'm bad at chore distribution because I'm too used to doing everything myself. But I should perhaps not overthink this.

Another issue is MY BODY! I'm staying up late, my posture is abysmal while I work, I don't stretch and other than trying to take a walk every evening I don't move much either. I try to eat balanced and healthy but I feel I've been overdoing fast food; I used to have it like once a week and lately I've been having it more often than that. I also eat snacks and sweets, and I'm noticing some weight gain that's not significant but to me it's noticeable because I'm not used to it and it's kind of throwing me off. I'm trying not to make a thing out of it and slip back into my old habits. And smoking is another enemy I'm making, although I'm trying to be aware of that and not let it grow. I used to smoke 🍃 only on weekends and maybe days off last year, but I've started to do it on weekdays now and then, and I really don't like how it's making me feel. I've been cutting back on that. Other than that there's the occasional social cigarette which I guess existed in the past too, but now that I go out more and everyone I hang out with smokes, I've started to feel the need to do it just to have something to do with my hands, or if I have a drink. AND I've also been drinking which I never do. Nothing wild, like once a week 1-2 glasses of wine, or a beer, or 1-2 shots. I only have my coworkers to blame for this because they're really heavy on the pressure, and I used to be adamant about my boundaries, but recently I feel like I won't have fun if I don't drink. Which is completely asinine. I think I need to get back into having stronger boundaries and discipline.

Some more poison I torture my body with is constant screen time. If I'm not working in front of the laptop I'm on my phone, and if I'm not on my phone I'm on my personal laptop, like right now (it's so nice to type on lol). I miss those days where I'm so caught up in stuff that I forget or don't need to check my phone all day. I haven't had one of those in a long time, but I'm planning to. Being with my boyfriend helps too. I also want to get back into reading, I've even managed to arrange all of the books I have here on a shelf on my balcony. Very soon it's going to be a whole year since I started reading a book and never finished it lmao. That saddens me a lot, but I'm determined to finish it before its 1 year anniversary.

On the positive side, the weather is getting nicer and warmer everyday, days are getting longer and I wish I could be outside all day long! I try to avoid thinking about that because I get extremely hopeless at having zero time for myself because of my job. I seriously believe it's at the root of most of the issues I described here. But I live for the warm evenings, the weekends, and summer plans!

[if-loves]

reverence

// Yandere Capitano

sum: when a man stands in front of an altar, is it a god he prays to?

wc: 822

warnings: probably OOC capitano

a/n: capitano + worship is everything to me / also i didn’t really go so hard on the yan i think?? maybe it’s been too long or maybe idk what im talking about

likes & reblogs are appreciated :)

Capitano has never been one to pray. He respects the Tsaritsa, he is thankful to her even, but he is merely not the kind of man to worship, to pray. He is a righteous man, yes, and he does not need to rely on a higher being to be that.

Capitano has seen war. He knows war, far better than most, but he has never found the need to make desperate pleas to a god, an archon that can do nothing. He’s far more content in placing those bets on himself.

Yet he finds himself in a dilapidated church, hidden deep in the woods, the cold Snezhnayan wind seeping through the cracks and holes of the building, the ends of his coat fluttering along with it. With calm steps, he walks towards the crumbling statue on the broken altar, noting the vague resemblance to the Tsaritsa.

With a gentleness unbefitting of him, he closes his eyes and kneels with his head lowered, a hand on his heart. He does not know how to pray, so he hopes this will suffice.

Capitano rarely kneels, for there are very few he deems worthy of his respect. But when he kneels in front of this altar, he does not kneel only to show respect; he kneels to worship, to adore, and most importantly, to love, and none of it is for the Tsaritsa or anyone else for that matter - because in his heart, there is only room for you.

In his mind, thoughts of you never cease, not even for a moment. They always exist, whether in the front or back of his mind, like a stream of water. He wishes, silently, that you would never have to part from him, that he could bring you along to all his expeditions. He wants so desperately for you to always be by his side, to always be able to hold you in his arms, but he of all people knows that there is no point. He is lovesick, yes, but he is not so mad as to place your life in danger when the safer, safest, option is right in front of him.

And so, when Capitano prays, he prays not to a god nor an archon, but to you. He has no need nor desire to pray to superficial beings who do not care for a human like him. You, you, on the other hand?

You need him, and he needs you. You are the blood that flows through his veins, the air he breathes, the heart that pumps in his chest and most of all, his soul. You are his savior, the singular person in this harsh world that deserves his utmost devotion; if it would please you, if it would satisfy you, he would single-handedly raze Teyvat into cinders, and bring you the ashes.

Capitano doesn’t know how long he’s stayed kneeling, a gloved hand on his heart, eyes shut. Perhaps it has been minutes, maybe even hours, but the wind outside has calmed. When he rises, the metal of his chains screech against the floor, and it reminds him of war. Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes and turns his back against the altar and its statue.

Perhaps he should build a shrine for you at home. A glorious statue of you, sculpted by only the finest of sculptors, with every single detail no matter how big or small engraved into it. It will have only the things you enjoy, whether it be food or candles or flowers, no demand of yours unmet, lest it be leaving the estate; if there is one wish he cannot grant, it is that.

The wind softly blows his hair and the fur of his coat as he makes his way back to the estate. It is late, he muses. The sun has set.

He wonders if you’ve already fallen asleep, if you dream of him. He wanted to surprise you with his return, purposely telling you in his letter that the journey would take a week longer than expected. He wonders if you’ll be happy to see him, if you will leap with joy or hug him with longing. He imagines each potential reaction with fondness, until the mansion is in sight, guards stationed at every corner, bowing their heads at his arrival.

It is silent, eerily so, when he walks in. Without conscious effort, he finds himself on the way to your shared bedroom, his heart pounding in his chest. Gently, he opens the door, a small streak of moonlight his guide.

There you lay, ethereally so, asleep in the warmth of the covers. Upon reaching your sleeping self, he kneels once again, taking your hand in his. Once more, he prays.

“I love you.” He murmurs, the warmth of your palm against his cheek. Perhaps what he loves most about you is the humanity you make him feel. “I love you.”

[milkpup]

｡⋆ʚ♡ like father, like son

nsfw 18+ ongoing multi-chapter fic!

art creds: https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/113712140

♡ next chapter ♡

ʚ ao3 ɞ / ʚ kofi ɞ / ʚ fic masterlist ɞ

›› toji fushiguro x reader ›› megumi fushiguro x reader ›› toji x reader x megumi (mfm) ›› 18+ f!reader ›› started: 12/6/23 : updated: 1/29/24 : status: ongoing

‹𝟹 summary: You and Megumi are best friends. You've known eachother for almost your whole life. His home has become your second home. As time passes and life happens, Megumi slowly develops feelings for you, even though he's unaware of it. To complicate things further, you're now living with him and his father, who has also taken a liking to you.

‹𝟹 fandom: jjk, jujutsu kaisen

‹𝟹 genres / warnings: au - no powers, college au, power imbalance, pseudo-incest (they both want y/n, nothing w/ eachother), dubious consent

‹𝟹 tags: good cop bad cop, fluff, smut, angst, toji has a big dick, dilf toji, toji is his own warning, toji tries to be a good parent, toji is an asshole, toji is trying okay?, daddy dom toji, daddy kink, porn with feelings, porn with plot, friends to lovers, spit / spitting, spit kink, spit as lube, breeding, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, double vaginal pen, double pen, anal, making out, making love, love triangles, praise kink, degradation, light masochism, light sadism, emotional sex, cuckolding, jealousy, jealousy kink, smoking, smoking kink, emotional manipulation, manipulation, polyamory?, father and son share you, protective megumi fushiguro, megumi needs a hug, megumi has a big dick, aged up characters, dead dove: do not eat, finger sucking, large cock, cum swallowing, blow jobs, first time blow jobs, under desk blow jobs, fingerfucking, face sitting, face riding, 69, mutual masturbation, threesome mfm, lots of smut, loss of virginity

‹𝟹 notes: this story is originally posted on ao3! this will have dark themes, if you do not like, DO NOT INTERACT! this is a multi chapter fic that is still in progress as of posting on tumblr (1/9/24). it will be updated as i write more :) i will add links to the next chapters as i post them on this thread or smthn (idk how to use tumblr lol)

!! - again, PLEASE READ TAGS BEFORE CONTINUING - !!

! - ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+ - !

Like Father, Like Son by milkpup

Chapter 1: Promises

--

“When we get older, let’s get married!” you exclaimed to Megumi, who was sitting next to you on the park bench. “We know each other best, so if we find no one else by the time we go to college, let’s get together!”

You were both in middle school still. You’ve been extremely close friends since you were young children. Megumi and his father lived in the same neighborhood as you. As a natural result of your home life being chaotic and dysfunctional, you spent most of your childhood at Megumi’s.

You were still girly and feminine, but having a guy best friend meant that you had interests more like his. You both grew up playing games together, sitting in front of the tv into late hours into the night. You were a sore loser. He was always better at any games you two played, like mario kart, fighting games, whatever it was, he was better. This meant you constantly tried to improve your skills; you wanted the satisfaction of making him lose, but you also wanted him to be impressed.

You didn’t quite understand it at the time. Why did you want to impress Megumi? It’s just a game. You brushed it off. Friendly competition never hurt, right?

--

Years pass, the same old routine. You coming over to Megumi’s house after school, staying late or sometimes spending the night. His father, Toji, saw you as his own. A daughter he never had.

It was hard after Megumi’s mother passed. Toji was more reserved, more monotonous. It seemed like the vibrancy and color of his soul was dulled. His wife was the one person he truly cared for, who he loved, and who gave meaning to his life. Being a single father of a young boy was rough. He appreciated that you brought joy to his son’s life. He appreciated that, as you grew older, you would help around at his house. Cooking, cleaning, whatever it was, you would help lessen the load on Toji.

--

In the middle of your senior year of highschool, tragedy struck the community. Your parents were killed by a drunk driver. It all happened so fast. You feel selfish and would never admit this, but you were sort of relieved. You rarely spent time at home. Your father was an abusive drunk and would target you and your mother. Your mother tried to protect you the best she could. She wanted you to be safe. She was always relieved when you would text or call her saying you were staying at Megumi’s. She trusted that boy and knew he would never be like your father.

You were sad your mother was gone. But at least she now knew peace. A tragic end, yes, but better than watching her be abused by your father.

You started living with Megumi full time. It was already basically your home in the first place, just more official now. You appreciated Toji welcoming you into his home with open arms, letting you live there full time. He was more of a father than your sperm donor parent was.

In return, you cooked and cleaned almost exclusively. You didn’t necessarily mind. You didn’t see it as demeaning, but rather as a way to show your gratitude. Cooking was also a cathartic release for you; it allowed you to remove yourself from tough emotions and focus on the task on hand. And you absolutely loved when people would praise your cooking. Thus, you were constantly trying new recipes and techniques, chasing new flavors.

Toji appreciated you basically taking on the household responsibilities while he worked long hours. He has a provider mindset. He wants to fulfill his role of providing while a woman in his life would take care of the home and enrich his life.

A few times he caught himself being reminded of his wife whenever you would do something for him. Your cooking tasted like home. Your smile and laugh were intoxicating. You had a gentle and kind soul, willing to look past anything for the right person. He felt almost uncomfortable, as if he should not be having thoughts of his late wife when looking at his pseudo-daughter. But he couldn’t help it. He’s a simple man.

--

“Good morning, Toji!” You say while something is sizzling in the pan. “I hope you’re feeling something sweet this morning!”

Toji smiles lightly. “What are you making today, little miss chef?”

“French toast!” You turn around to face him, wearing a cute apron and holding the spatula in your hand.

Toji notices the cooking must’ve gotten a bit messy, there was flour on your apron and some powdered on your cheeks. He thought it was insanely adorable.

“I’m excited to try it. Your food never ceases to amaze me.”

Good thing you had already turned back toward the stove, otherwise Toji would have saw the bright red blush creep across your face. “T-thank you… I’m glad you like it. It’s almost done.”

You could feel him watching you from behind. It was different than usual, you felt nervous? You couldn’t possibly know this at the time, but Toji was eyeing you down. Noticing the way your apron is tied around your waist, your ass in your cute shorts, messy hair, it was all perfect to him.

“All done!” You say as you start plating the French toast. “I’m going to go wake Megumi, but please try it while it’s still hot!!” You move to untie your apron, Toji never breaking his gaze on your form.

You walk towards Megumi’s room, approaching the door and knocking. “Heyyy Megs! Breakfast is ready! I know you like sweet food, so I made French toast! Come get it while it’s still hot!”

You don’t hear much behind the door, but your stomach rumbling forces you to go back to the table. You were practically drooling the whole time thinking about how delicious this food was going to be.

You re-enter the dining room and sit across Toji. He’s already started eating, and he looks like he’s enjoying it. You didn’t take him for a sweets for breakfast type of guy, so you ask him “Is it good?”

He looks up at you, and it sends shivers down your spine. “It’s delicious, sweetheart. I’ll eat anything you give me. Anything.” He smirks. He figures that isn’t crossing any lines, just playful banter and teasing. He watches your face turn a bit red as you try and hide it while eating.

--

Back in Megumi’s room, he’s slowly waking up. He doesn’t feel well-rested. “Probably due to that weird dream last night”, he thinks to himself. He doesn’t know why his brain chose now of all times to remember the promise you two made to eachother all those years ago. He figures you probably forgot about it; but for him, he can’t get it out his mind.

He shakes his head. “Whatever, I need to get ready.” He will deal with his feelings and emotions later. He remembers you mentioning sweet food and he’s already out the door. His hair is still messy, his pajamas still on.

As Toji moves to pick up his keys and leave for work, Megumi sits down next to you. He takes in the sweet aroma of French toast covered in powdered sugar and fruit. His stomach is painfully growling at this point. He serves himself and takes a bite, absolutely melting in bliss. You always make the best food, and this is no exception.

You watch as he seems excited to eat. He looks absolutely adorable, his emotions on full display as easily as a book can be read. You can tell he’s happy in this moment, and you find yourself smiling, knowing it was you that brought this.

“This is amazing. Thank you, Y/N. Seriously!”

You blush. Compliments and praise feel different from Megumi. They feel genuine and sincere, full of warmth and love.

You finish up and start cleaning. You and Megumi have the same major and a bunch of the same classes, you both need to get ready soon. Megumi gets up to help you clean.

As he stands next to your side, drying dishes as you wash them, he tells you his thoughts. He doesn’t know how to best bring it up. He’s a shy guy, so he goes for the most direct route to get it out as fast as possible. “Y/N, do you remember the promise we made in middle school?” He’s looking down at the sink, awaiting your response.

“Of course Gumi, how could I forget?” You’re slightly teasing him at this point. You were actually surprised that HE would remember that. You wonder why he’s bringing it up, and ask him. “Why?”

Silence follows your question for a few moments. “I’m not sure…. I was just thinking about it.”

Hearing his response makes you blush and your heart beat faster. What does he mean he was thinking about it? He can’t be serious?

“We can talk more about it later. We need to get ready, Y/N.” You’re thankful he gave you an opening to escape this awkward situation. It wasn’t a weird awkward, but more embarrassing than anything.

You keep asking yourself why he would be thinking about it, now of all times. You are starting college now, so you figure now would be the timeframe of the promise in question. But you didn’t think he would be serious about it. You return your room, trying to distract yourself by getting ready.

--

Megumi waits for you to finish getting ready in the living room. You exit your room, wearing simple yet cute clothes. Megumi finds it adorable how you can look good in literally anything. Even wearing the simplest outfits, leggings and a t-shirt, and you still look breathtaking. He feels weird again, thinking about his best-friend like this. He’s just simply observing and appreciating good style, right? That’s what he will tell himself.

You and Megumi carpool to campus together. You both say it’s for the environment, but you both know it’s because you absolutely hate driving.

The car ride there is always the same, listening to music together and talking. Since you both have the same classes, you are already study buddies. You’re both excited to keep going to school together.

Megumi listens as you talk about your newest fictional crush obsession. He thinks it’s so adorable how you could talk forever and ever about the things you like. He listens and observes, not wanting to interrupt your sweet voice.

--

‹𝟹 notes: i have 4 chapters written for this fic so far. i'll start migrating them from ao3 to here! lmk what y'all think! feedback is always appreciated :3! check out my ao3 if you want to read what else i have posted! thanks! <3

♡︎ next chapter ♡︎

‹𝟹 notifs: @vvxxccaa @arylaa @starshipxoxo

ʚ join my notifs ɞ

(･ω･)つ divider creds to @/cafekitsune and @/eloquentreverie

[frankiensteinsmonster]

ID in Alt Text!

Hey, sorry I haven't been doing my daily outfit posts lately-- I guess I never mentioned why I started them, but it's this personal project that I'm working on where I take a picture (though, in all honesty, it's a lot of pictures lol) in whatever I'm wearing and I feature my cane to promote awareness and give representation to other cane users and members of the cpunk and Physically Disabled community. I'm working on building up the courage to take these pictures outside as well, because I do them on campus, but we deserve to see ourselves outside as well!

The reason I haven't been keeping up with it is because my partner and I have really been really struggling financially as well as with our mental health (and me with my physical health as well, obviously lol) we moved across the country to go to school and it is So Hard-- I had to drop three out of five of my classes because the course work was just too much in volume and I need a job really bad (which is going to be Hard to do since we don't even know why I'm in such chronic pain yet 🙃 it's hard not to feel defeated!)

Either way, I think going to start posting them with the tag #TheVainCanes and #MobilityAidVainity but I'm also going to host a poll for some options bc I want this to be a widespread community thing!

I'm choosing these names because I've seen from both ableds and disabled elitists this idea that we and our mobility aides need to look like they're fresh out the hospital for us to be Believed and deserving of respect, and anything beyond that voids our suffering and invalidates our experiences-- and I think that's reductive, harmful, and just plain wrong! Our mobility aides are an extension of ourselves and we deserve to dress them up however we want. We deserve representation, and the normalization of Joy and Having Personality While Disabled.

This will be intersectional as well (bc. I mean look at me. Also I don't need a reason!) , people from all identities are welcomed and encouraged to join! This is meant to be a celebration of Us, Disabled, BIPOC, LGBTQIA2S+, and All That Jazz! (If you use a mobility aid, you're in!) We're beautiful gorgeous handsome devils and I think we'd do good seeing how good we all look in a designated tag

Also my cash app and Venmo are @/cherubpunque 👀 if anyone has some spare change I could have that would be an amazing help towards feeding me, my partner, and our two cats!!

To kick things off, I am a 2S, Afroindigenous person (Gullah and Kanien'kehá:ka!) who experiences chronic pain and fatigue. I have PTSD and a few other brain things going on, less than perfect eyesight, and a great passion for Art, Music, Subculture, and Helping Others whenever and however I can! I'm majoring in art and am working towards becoming a published graphic novelist. Idk I just have a lot of love and support to give, and a big need for love and support for myself as well, and I'm hoping to offer us a good opportunity for us to connect in a space that's just for us! We're already living outside of society's expectations for health, so why should we let these folks decide the way we look while doing it? Express yourself! (I'll also be tagging myself in future as #mothie so you can find me in the tags! Anyways, I gotta go lay down. My back hurts.)

[justamessedupdisneyprincess]

I need help, my life is now a living hell. (TW suicide attempt mention)

I know this is gonna annoy a lot of you for bitching and whining again but as of late my life has been really hard. I had to sell my soul and my life to a demon against my will. There is a toxic parasite I want to cut ties with but can’t. I am talking about a toxic family member who has no respect for boundaries and loves to judge and be rude to everyone around her.

I just really need some help rn guys because at this rate it really feels like I can either endure and sacrifice my sanity for as long as she lives or I could only ever end it via suicide. I have tried to do it twice while she was down and my mother has to hide away medication so I don’t overdose and sharp things such as knives and scissors when her new favourite person ever, her karen on steroids sister is here.

To paint a picture there is a story about when I was a baby with my cousin and toxic aunt. My toxic aunt would use grandma ( her mother) as a slave whenever she came to visit her grandson. “Now that you’re here I want you to do EVERYTHING for him while I go and bitch and whine about coffee and ask to see managers (I’m not joking. She literally does that. Saw it multiple times when she stays with us.). Whilst my Mom would offer to do fun activities with her and us, like go to the beach, etc. Because of this she enjoyed our company more than my toxic aunt who threw a tantrum over it. “You love my sister’s daughters more than my son!”. She got so pissed that she moved out of our place during a vacation. Mother offered to have my cousin and grandma to play in the pool with me and my sister whilst she helped my toxic aunt pack. She EXPLODED over that! Why? Idk. She then stormed into the house screaming and it woke baby me up and I was sobbing. Dad got mad and told her to get out and we had nothing to do with her until grandma died.

She hasn’t changed at all. Very toxic, always complaining and saying horrible things behind our backs. I had multiple extreme meltdowns when she came. She stayed for four whole months last year. One summer, one spring, one for every season. She has this rule too where only she is allowed to talk, all she does to complain and she gets weirdly excited when someone else is struggling…she loves to happily talk about others misfortunes and then she finds no joy in going to the beach and going out for lunch. Instead she complains constantly and it ruins the whole day. Mother told me she says the most horrible things about me behind my back too…which gets her upset but she puts up with it because she is going through a divorce. We put up with her rude behaviour out of pity. I understand how hard getting divorced is but it shouldn’t excuse…whatever the fuck she is doing to us. Mother and I got into extreme arguments because of her as well and we rarely fight. My toxic aunt turns my parents against me. I’m freaking out because she is going to come down again.

Last time she claimed to be more respectful of our boundaries. “We don’t have to do something every day, I’m ok to hang out by myself every now and then.” Then she guilt trips us by saying “I don’t know why I bother coming down here if I’m going to be alone.” Over me wanting to spend ONE fucking weekend alone with my mom out of an ENTIRE month of her hovering around us and never shutting up. She also loves to interrupt. I would be in the middle of saying something and she cuts in as if I’m worth nothing! Then I can’t even say anything because she never shuts up ever! Then when I am blessed with a moment of talking (usually because mother says Izzy has something to say) I get nervous about saying something she will judge me for!

She belittles every trigger of mine too. Once I used to like this cafe and she has this huge obsession with their muffins. I don’t go there anymore though because some mean teenage girls work there now and they have been openly rude to me two times when I visited. So rude I ended up crying once. I didn’t want to go back (keep in mind I have been bullied a lot as well, I have a huge fear of mean girls) My aunt gave me this huge lecture about it and tried to force me to go in just so she can get her muffins. I felt completely shattered as she gave me a hard time over it. In the end mother figured out her angle and just dropped her off there whilst I waited in the car…for her to do that though about my own experiences and my triggers and not wanting to return to a cafe with rude service…it was just so insensitive.

She used to say rude things to me because of me displaying typical autistic traits like my weird eating habits and my special obsessions. Mother made her stop saying things to my face but she told me she just says judgemental things behind my back now and she gives me this god awful judgemental stare when we go out to eat…She also shows no respect for mental illnesses such as anxiety, saying it’s not real. She also once made fun of someone who committed suicide…which shows how she isn’t really a good person. She picks at Mom and gives her a hard time and openly judges her and says rude things to her and mother always bottles it and takes it out on me in the end because the one who HAD been rude to her is going through a divorce.

I never want to have to endure her abusive behaviour again but I’m completely powerless. I feel so hopeless. Idk what to do..

[fernlessbastard]

first time using this ask thing heh and i don’t rly know what to say, but, as a casual tntduo lover to another tntduo lover, i desperately kindly ask what are your favourite fics? dont rly mind if its suggestive/smut, id still like to show dem authors love and support. as a trade offer, ill leave some fic recs on my next ask hehe :]

anyways been following u for a while now (on insta) and id like to say ur art brings me immense joy and never fails to inspire me. hope u and your partner have a nice day! bubye !

i know this aint a prompt or idea or concept but u just seem like a cool person that i want to interact with :]

Hiiiiii

My guy, I am so sorry, but I hardly have any recommendations...

Why? Well, I went to my AO3 account, and like a solid 1/3 of my history was completely deleted - as in the works were deleted. Additionally, I haven't been reading much lately, so I have no newer titles, unfortunately. But here's the couple I have:

there's always this thing that we're becoming. Brilliantly written, genuinely gorgeous, in character, etc - it is smut though (top notch smut, though)

I'm pretty sure I enjoyed TntDuo Content I Don't Want To Attach My Username To too - also smut lmao

Agape - NOT smut, for once, but never finished lmao

There's also this fic I am completely not connected to ha ha it's called Losing Face and while it is unfinished I heard that the author is doing this like kinda rewrite kinda reimagining sort of thing where tldr it's the same concept just executed better ha haa👀👀👀

Another one is real life au - it's VERY heavy though. Like, I had to stop reading it at some point cause it was legitimately just hitting too hard. It is well written, and it's supposed to evoke those emotions, but just be VERY careful with it. VERY tldr is that it's about Schlatt - Q's abusive ex - becoming Wilbur's sugar daddy. It is VERY dead dove do not eat, and deals with SA and s-cidal ideation. The fic is called Sugar Lips, but I won't put the link here cause seriously, it's fucking heavy - and in a very realistic way, not the fantasy "eating someone's heart while they're alive" type of thing, but in a "this happens to real people in real life" type of way. Idk if you still want to read it dm me for the link but yeah, just please stay safe, guys

And then there's one work which I cannot find for the life of me - I don't know if it got deleted or something but if it wasn't, tntblr please help me find it It was about Wilbur coming to Quackity when his stitches break. Once the guy stitches him up, there's a whole scene when Wilbur has a breakdown and Quackity helps him through it. Then I believe it's kinda this sort of "montage" of how Wilbur and Q kinda grow closer, and (spoiler alert) it ends with some event during which Sapnap and Karl show up and there's arguing and at some point Wilbur and Sapnap start fighting (physically) and Wilbur ends up beating Sapnap to death. It was so well written, and it was one of the earliest fics i've read, and i haven't been able to find it for a long, long time now

Anyway send me asks about absolutely anything, don't worry about it being "right" or anything - all asks are welcome, be it HCs, prompts, ideas, or just some appreciation, sharing something you like, a question to me, etc :]

[emmaswanned]

I started watching Lost in 2007, so I’ve only been here 17 years, not 20 (ha, only). But I would not be here without it.

I don’t mean that to say Lost saved my life or anything that dramatic, I just think my life would’ve gone in an entirely different direction if I hadn’t watched it. I literally don’t know if I’d have gone to the same college and ended up in the career I’m in right now. Or even if my journey through online fandom would’ve looked the same. I guess maybe I’d have found my way to Tumblr, given as it’s uniquely designed for people with my particular kind of brain worms, but who knows when or how.

Anyway, the community around Lost in the late 00’s when it was airing was a delight and it was a joy and a privilege to watch each episode weekly on that forum (iykyk). I’m very grateful I’m still friends with so many of those people years later. 🥲 (please check out our Lost tribute vid, im so proud of how it turned out!)

Lost is often imitated, never replicated, and I literally think about it every day. The way it approached storytelling was like it was designed for me and idk if I’d encountered that before. I’ve rarely encountered it since. It’s a mystery. It’s a character study. It’s a parable of good and evil. It’s a metaphor. It’s entirely literal. It had dialogue that no human being in reality would ever say but I’m still thinking about two decades later.

Is this your destiny? All roads lead here?

Why do you find it so hard to believe?

It just had that intangible thing that’s impossible to put your finger on, but every piece of media I’ve really loved since then has had it. It’s not hard to connect the dots between Lost and uhhh that video game I’m currently obsessed with

This is far more sentimental, I fear, than I ever like to be, but Lost is too important to me not to say something on its anniversary. 🥲 I love you forever Lost.

[hollybell51]

In this timeline

Navigation

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)

[whchenlvr]

hi!! so english is not my first language so idk if i'm writing it right, can i request a eunjang + union boys reacting to reader having a panic attack?

when you’re having a panic attack ;

weak hero x gn!reader

gray yeon

➤ you’d never had a panic attack. he has

➤ when your breathing picks up to the point where you’re hyperventilating, panicked tears begin to stream down your face

➤ gray was supposed to meet you at your house to study at 3, and you watch in agony as the clock ticks to 6. he was never late, and you wouldn’t have worried so much if not for your friend spam-texting you that the union is coming for your school

➤ there’s a knock on your door, but you’re limbs feeling like they’re prickling with sleep. you can’t stand from your spot on the floor no matter how hard you try

➤ thankfully for you, gray knows your lock code

➤ your vision is dotted with black spots, and when gray appears before you, part of you thinks he’s a hallucination

➤ “c-can’t.. breathe…” you manage to choke out, desperation clear in your voice

➤ “okay, sweetheart, it’s okay now. i’m here. you’re going to be okay.” he says in an extremely calm voice, carefully patting your hair down in an attempt to soothe you

➤ it works, and you can feel your pulse calming beneath your skin. you breathe, focusing solely on the feeling of his hand in your hair

➤ “i’ll stay with you tonight, okay? i’m not going anywhere.”

donald na

➤ you’d just gotten off the phone with your neighbor, and they told you that the mailman left your gate open, and your dog got loose

➤ you started to panic immediately, knowing your dog was still young and liked to slip out of his collar. sure enough, you found the fabric on the floor when returning home

➤ you searched until it was dark out, and then you searched some more. everyone you asked said they hadn't seen him, and your anxiety was reaching an all-time high

➤ after the failed search, you had enough sense to make your way to donald's apartment, hoping he might be able to help

➤ donald opened his arms for you the minute he saw your shaking self, and tried to soothe you as your tears stained his shirt

➤ “can you take a breath with me? that’s good, darling.”

➤ it took some more time in his arms for you to calm down enough to speak, and when you told him what happened, donald flashed you an assuring smile

➤ "my guys have gotten lazy. i'm sure they'll appreciate a good game of hide and seek."

➤ sure enough, your dog was returned to you, and you nearly cried with joy as donald hugged you again. "don't hesitate to come to my first next time, alright?"

ben park

➤ when ben finds you curled up in the school bathroom one evening, hunched in on yourself and struggling to breathe, his mind instantly goes to the worst scenarios

➤ he would cup your face in his hands and force you to keep your eyes on him as he breaths with you

➤ “when you’re ready, i want you to tell me what happened.”

➤ once you managed to catch your breath, you told ben all about how you failed a test and dropped nearly a dozen ranks. it shouldn’t have been a huge deal, but this could cost you your chance at a scholarship

➤ you could tell ben was trying to come up with comforting words, but he didn’t care for school as much as you do, so he wasn’t sure what to say to comfort you

➤ “okay, uh, are there retakes available? extra credit?” “no” “then… i’ll help you study for the next one!”

➤ you found yourself smiling, surprised at how quickly ben managed to cheer you up

➤ “are you sure? i know how much you hate this stuff…”

➤ “yeah, but you need me. we will study until our fingers fall off and you’ll get your perfect score. so please don’t worry, okay? i love you.”

jake ji

➤ you never liked to appear weak in front of jake. it wasn’t that you were afraid, you just liked being his pillar. you didn’t want him to ever worry about you

➤ but when news broke about the war between the union and eunjang, you couldn't help it

➤ "jake?" you called, afraid to disturb him but very scared at how hard your heart was beating against your ribs. your stomach felt hollow and useless in your body

➤ he didn't look up, and you were about to leave when you accidentally knocked a bowl off of the counter. it shattered against the floor, and you dropped into a panicked crouch

➤ "don't move, are you o—" he saw your trembling hands and stopped. "y/n, are you okay?"

➤ "i'm sorry, i, it's just a bowl, i'm..." you didn't stop stuttering out nonsense until jake carefully took your hands in his before you accidentally hurt yourself

➤ "what's going on, lovely?" and you broke into sobs

➤ you fell forward into jake's chest and he wrapped his arms around you as you told him your concerns for his safety. "this isn't like the other fights, jake. you could get hurt. you could get killed."

➤ "that's not going to happen," he soothed gently, "you know that's not going to happen." but you didn't stop crying or trembling until you were out of the room and completely in your boyfriend's arms

➤ "y/n, listen. you're going to be fine. i'm going to be fine. so please, don't scare me like that again, okay? we're going to be fine."

gerard jin

➤ you’d just been told by your parents that you were moving across the country for your dad’s job

➤ since your bedroom is on the first floor, gerard has a habit of tapping on your window to visit. when you don’t answer your phone, he decides to go over

➤ he sees you sitting on your bed, back turned to him, and doesn’t think much of it until he hears your quiet sobs slipping between your fingers

➤ “y/n?” he called into the quiet, and you felt yourself break. “they’re taking me away from you, from everything! i can’t—i can’t—“

➤ gerard was by your side in seconds, taking you in his arms and pulling you tight against his chest

➤ “didn’t…” you gasped out, fingers digging into his biceps as you try to calm yourself. “didn’t.. wanna leave.. you,”

➤ “i know, honey, i know.” he kissed your head, letting his lips linger against your hair as you forced yourself to slow your sobs. “but i’m not going anywhere. not now, not ever.”

wolf keum

➤ there was no reason for you to panic, so you weren’t sure why you woke with your heart beating a million miles a second, your cheeks sticky with tears

➤ checking the time, you realized it was only 2 am. you didn’t want to disturb your boyfriend, but your limbs tingled as your breathing sped up

➤ not even five minutes after receiving your jumbled text for help, wolf was in your bedroom and at your side

➤ “what happened. who did this?”

➤ “no, i’m—“ you hit your chest with a flat hand, “panic attack.”

➤ honestly, wolf wasn’t quite sure what to do or how to treat a panic attack

➤ worried you might pass out, he squished your face between his hands to meet your eyes. “slow down.”

➤ you think just having him there with you helped, because the fact that his two rather blunt words were able to calm you surprised you both

➤ you were still shaky, but wolf didn’t make any attempt to smother you. he pulled his hands from your face to instead hold yours and laced your fingers together

➤ “better?” “better.”

[drunkdumbfucker]

Legolas suffering from sea-longing | Ao3 fic recs

Hello, under the read more you'll find a masterlist of fics where Legolas goes through the ordeal of sea-longing! 99% of them will include the pairing Gimli/Legolas, this list exists to be edited and nourished as long as I keep ruining my happiness with their existence :))))

"Legolas Greenleaf long under tree In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea! If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore, Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more." Galadriel

root and stone, song and sea, by @coveredinsun | words 13k+, post-canon, fluff and angst & Gimleaf

Summary: "[...] Or: A few looks into Legolas' sea-longing, and the joyous things that make it more bearable." [this one broke me I cried and smiled and every sentence deserves to be cherished, and everything this author writes is gold]

rebuil your seawall (brick by brick), by @deheerkonijn | words 30k+, modernAU & Gimleaf

Summary: "For weeks and months, Legolas has felt a pull - and dares not name it, does not heed its stormy-sky warnings, does not track the ebb and flow on the shoreline of his life. Here’s the thing about the tide, though: it rises whether one wills it or not." [this one made me lose my shit it was so well thought and the universe in which it's set is immense and dear, such a great series]

Across the sea (a pale moon rises), by loving_rat_314 | words 10k (unfinished), post-canon & old age & Gimleaf

Summary: "After Aragorn`s death, Legolas and Gimli brave an uncertain journey into the West." [don't talk to me don't look at me]

On the Cold Hill Side, by @mcvices | words 24k, missing scene & Gimleaf

Summary: "In the end, Gimli thinks, Legolas will steal his heart and sail away with it, and even the wonders of the Glittering Caves are not enough consolation for that loss. But when Aragorn calls for Gimli’s help in dismantling the hidden traps of Orthanc, everything changes." [I don't even know what to say, fell in love with the writing, adored it all, really great dialogues]

The Undying, by Angela | words 20k, old age & pining & slow-burn Gimleaf

Summary: “I was wondering,” Gimli had said at the beginning of it. “Isn't it about time you get started on that boat of yours?” It has been over one hundred years since the War of the Ring. Gimli and a dwarf girl named Mâglah help Legolas build his ship to sail into the west. While they are working, Legolas realizes that there are a lot of things that have been long unexpressed between him and his dearest friend, things that must be said and done before it is too late." [so complete, precious OC, heart-wrenching details and moments]

Seasick, by Longyan | words 3k, growing old & Gimleaf

Summary: "The pull has existed for a long time. It has always been there, just at the back of his mind ― a mere childish curiosity, to see waves break against the shore, to feel fresh breeze in his hair. Still, it was never more than a passing thought, something that would always be drowned out by other, more interesting things. Nothing more, nothing less. The world is bright. Sauron is gone. And Legolas is sure, as long he has Gimli by his side, the water has no power over him. And he is intent on staying forever." [short but strong, like Gimli. Will fuck you up, I kid you not, very powerful shit right here]

what a thing to choose, by coverdinsun (again) | words 4k, post-canon & Arwen stan account & Gimleaf

Summary: "[...] Or: As time appears to be slipping out of his grasp, Legolas must grapple with his fear." [idk I love your little short summaries in the end. another masterpiece, trule wonderful dialogue, some of my fave characterizations in here]

To the sea, by @roselightfairy | words 13k, so much angst & Gimleaf

Summary: "A few decades into their shared lives, Legolas seems to be losing his battle against the sea-longing. The only solution that he can think of is to go to the sea. Of course, Gimli will not let him go alone." [this one hits really really hard, a slap to the face. so much angst yet so beautiful, pay attention to all the tags, prepare your tissues beforehand <3]

Go west, by undomiel (dolcewrites) | words 8k, angst++++ & Gimleaf

Summary: "The Sea has never left Legolas' mind since he first heard the cry of the gulls at Pelargir. As time catches up to the elf, he has to make a choice: to sail to the West, or to stay with his companion, Gimli the dwarf." [Maybe even more angsty than the last one because it touches all the despair and loss and pain]

To be continued!

[daisyvramien]

Idk who needs to hear this but-

I know you've been wrestling with doubts and uncertainties about your writing lately, but I want you to know something: You've got this. It may look or sound like you don't, but really, you've got this. You have all the talent, creativity, and passion needed to bring your stories to life, and I believe in you with every fiber of my being.

I know there's that spark in your eyes when you talk about your ideas, the way your face lights up with excitement when you envision the worlds you want to create. That spark ? It's magic. It's the same magic that has fueled storytellers throughout history, the same magic that has shaped our world in ways both big and small.

So, when those doubts creep in, when you find yourself questioning whether your words matter or if anyone will even care about your stories, remember this: Your voice is unique, and it deserves to be heard. Your stories have the power to inspire, to comfort, to challenge, and to change lives. And that's not something to be taken lightly. People will find you, relate with you and your work and you will become someone's fav.

I want you to write with all the passion and conviction you can muster. Write because your stories are a part of you, because they deserve to be told, because the world needs your voice now more than ever.

And yes, it's going to be hard. There will be days when the words feel like they're stuck in molasses, when self-doubt threatens to drown out your creativity. But even on those days, I want you to keep going. Write through the fear, write through the uncertainty, write until your fingers ache and your heart sings with joy.

Because you are a writer. It's not just what you do, it's who you are. And no matter what obstacles come your way, no matter how many rejection letters pile up, never forget that you are a force to be reckoned with. You have the power to create worlds out of thin air, to breathe life into characters that feel like old friends, to craft stories that resonate with readers long after they've turned the final page.

So, my writer friend, write the book. Write the stories that only you can tell. And we'll be right here.

From a stranger and with all my love, Daisy.

[thesherrinfordfacility]

six months on (albeit, a bit late) part 1/3

part one | part two | epilogue (at some point)

hello would you like a stupid-length run down of the final fifteen?

idk about anyone else, but i kinda find myself regularly in a position where i don't know what to think about the final fifteen. i flit from one explanation or opinion to another; there have been so many facets of this sequence discussed that ive even found myself turned around on what i actually think was going on... was aziraphale threatened? did he do a complete 180 on his character development throughout both seasons? does he genuinely buy what metatron is telling him? how does he take crowley's rejection to return to heaven with him?

so back to basics, and because im itching to stretch the meta-writing legs that isn't solely an ask response or a purely batshit speculation - and because throughout writing this, i anticipate that i might surprise myself on how, overall, i interpret the whole scene... going back to basics and simply rewatching the scene (and making copious notes) is in order! just don't expect this to be anything you've necessarily not seen before - there are no revelations in this post.

please also note that this is an incredibly long, winding, and abhorrently lengthy post. no im not actually sorry about it, i needed to write it all out for my own bloody sanity

shall we begin?

so first thing's first: metatron saying his first line as he did indicates that aziraphale has expressed some hesitation. might be his body language, or possibly he's even said as such - something along the lines of, 'id need to discuss it with crowley', or something as simple as, 'im not sure, i need to think'. either way, aziraphale certainly responds to the metatron in a way that would suggest he is excited... but definitely incredulous and nervous.

and as for the metatron terming it as 'good news'; he seems to think that he and aziraphale are on the same page, that they hold the same opinion on whatever they've talked about. given what he later says about crowley, however - plus the borderline-disparaging remarks about going his own way, the Evil Glare™, and how quickly he just accepts that crowley isn't going - suggest that he a) doesn't want crowley in heaven, and b) that he anticipates that crowley will, in fact, consider the offer to return to heaven as very much Bad News Bears, and summarily reject it.

aziraphale starts making his way back to the bookshop, and boy do those expressions tell a story. that is not a happy angel. as soon as he steps off the pavement, his face falls, and his brow tightens in nerves, worry, and possibly even confusion; that to me is a, 'how the fuck am i going to explain this, how am i even going to word it?'. there's a quick, fortifying breath, and he's squaring the shoulders just as he moves out of frame. getting fanciful, that is an angel that is practically steeling himself to do battle; he knows crowley isn't going to like this, knows that it's going to be a hard sell. but what is key is that he does all of this walking away from the metatron, where he can't see - if nothing else, it's a very different expression to the 'excitement' he showed just seconds earlier.

but then he gets into the bookshop, and that expression is gone. for whatever reason, he doesn't want crowley to see it either. he doesn't want crowley to see anything less than joy, confidence, or excitement - he doesn't want to let crowley see that something is wrong/amiss. we then see the metatron, after establishing that muriel might be an adequate replacement to look after the bookshop, look across the street and presumably have a clear view of the two of them in the shop itself.

now, let's talk about crowley for a sec. crowley is equally nervous, and we can presume that it stems from the conversation with nina and maggie - that he needs to start opening communication with aziraphale, especially if anything is to move forward... and the best place to start, we presume (because, ultimately, we don't know for certain what he was going to say or how he was going to word it in this moment) is to propose that he and aziraphale - if nothing else - truly become an 'us'. maybe there's a love confession in there, maybe not. regardless, he's fidgety, but resolute; he even swipes off his glasses to show how committed he is to diving headfirst into this vulnerability that he otherwise keeps under wraps.

aziraphale, whilst crowley is word-vomiting, is immediately starting off with hand movements to get him to slow down, to quieten down, or stop talking altogether. as he does so, he's looking right back out of the shop window, as if he's aware of metatron's reciprocal gaze in. he's doing so with a pretty sincere smile on his face, and that to me is saying a couple of things:

aziraphale, i think, from the moment he set foot in the shop and saw nina and maggie coming back out, possibly already knew where crowley was going with the conversation. he's just watched as crowley practically offered up alpha centauri to gabriel and beelzebub as a refuge, somewhere he's already expressed that he and aziraphale could go to escape the apocalypse. so; to aziraphale's mind, in crowley doing so, a) crowley has chosen to remain on earth come what may - otherwise he'd have kept his chosen prospective bolthole quiet, and b) in the context where crowley offers it to them, as a safe place for two hereditary enemies just like them to love each other in peace, aziraphale recognises that that might have been what crowley wanted for them too. ergo, to my mind, crowley's confession is not necessarily a surprise to aziraphale - i daresay he likely saw it coming

aziraphale does not jump in straight away to interrupt crowley, and nor does he do it with any harsh or abrupt language. he wants to revisit this conversation - literally the meaning of 'hold that thought' - but what he has to say takes precedence. and to be fair, depending on how we interpret the preceding scene with the metatron (and what is revealed in the flashback conversation), it is arguably a more pressing matter to discuss, especially if it concerns their respective safeties... but it's a conversation he wants to return to

that being said, if aziraphale does know that the confession is inbound, the fact that he would treat it as somewhat of a joking matter - especially given how uncomfortable and fervent crowley's own demeanour is - is a bit... nasty? aziraphale has definitely, on previous occasions, expressed flashes of superiority over crowley, but i don't think this is a situation where he does feel superior... not at all. instead, again, considering how he quickly cheers up his expression when he enters the shop, this to me is aziraphale trying to mask his own discomfort, panic, and worry. he's keeping this whole thing as light and airy as he possibly can.

we then move on to aziraphale telling crowley he has some "incredibly good news" to give him... which, okay, sure, it might be that aziraphale is anticipating it to be good news. but again, the expression outside the shop? if he was that confident that crowley would be jumping for joy at the merest suggestion of returning to heaven, the conflicted expressions of worry and trepidation would, presumably, not have happened. so, i once again can only take this line to be aziraphale trying to dress it up with excitement. and i say dress it up because... we've seen aziraphale beside himself with excitement, right? and this is not it. this (first two snips) is aziraphale being giddy with excitement, or at least a job well done, not the latter clip:

aziraphale is barely able to get the words out properly after this point, he's nigh incoherent, and his hand movements indicate he's practically frantic... someone who normally, even when nervous or uncomfortable, keeps his hands quite close to his body, clasped comfortingly in front of him or stiff at his sides. we then furthermore have what he seems to mouth in the midst of this flurry of movement and mumbling, which, yes, is speculation but i rather much stand by it so far... and as such, seems to match his expression outside of the bookshop of, 'what the fuck am i going to say'.

also worth noting, to his credit, that crowley is being remarkably patient throughout all of this - i think he potentially does recognise that something is amiss? the 'somethings wrong' voice? recognises that despite himself being interrupted from something really quite important, aziraphale is evidently... not himself.

what intrigues me however, before we get into the meat of aziraphale and metatron's conversation, is how aziraphale words this particular bit:

because aziraphale catches himself before he says something potentially rather offensive, and then turns it back on himself. for example: "i don't think he's as bad a fellow as he came across", or "-as we thought he was", compared to aziraphale then backtracking and owning that it was his fault, "i think i might have misjudged him!".

what does it matter if he calls out the metatron for having been an arse in s1? it was a perfectly fair assessment to make, by all accounts, and presumably one that he and crowley had a laugh/bitch over post-s1... why would he recount that particular line? it wouldn't change the sentiment, ultimately - that aziraphale is trying to convey to crowley that the metatron 'is actually kind of alright!' - and it's not like crowley would be offended either way... so, are we to assume that even if the metatron can't hear what he's saying (although i have further speculation on this too, by the by, but this is a little more tentative) aziraphale perhaps fears that he can? in much the same way that he only let his expression truly slip once his back was turned, out on the street?

but then we move onto the offer itself, and the conversation between him and the metatron. aziraphale starts getting into his stride, probably because now he's just simply recounting what actually happened, all supported by the flashbacks we get. aziraphale isn't having to lie, as far as we can tell - he's simply going over the conversation he had. let's break that down:

aziraphale initially seems quite relaxed to be sat opposite metatron, insomuch that he doesnt look overly tense. frankly, he just looks bored, wanting to get this over and done with, likely so he can head back to the bookshop and be left in peace. as he said before they left; he has made his position clear, he wants nothing to do with heaven (at least as it currently is), and this is just a courtesy, to hear out whatever the voice of god has to say. of course, metatron then blindsides aziraphale by saying that - of course - the only option to replace gabriel must be aziraphale.

what is noteworthy is how aziraphale says, "and i said... "me?!"... and he said-". because when we cut back to the flashback, aziraphale's expression has not changed at all. there's no excitement, but more just bafflement and shock... and not one that indicates he's in any way enthusiastic about the idea. the fact that aziraphale chooses to recount that particular 'me?!' the way he does to crowley suggests that he's, quite possibly, putting it on, playing the part, and deliberately overstating his initial reaction - almost like he's trying to hype crowley up in turn. furthermore - aside from all the handwaving and nervous huffs of laughter - aziraphale does not even blink throughout this whole spiel to crowley. just an observation.

metatron gives his bullshit rationalisation for choosing aziraphale - and i say bullshit because from their last interaction in s1, aziraphale arguably did not display much of the qualities that metatron purports he has... if any at all - and aziraphale visibly starts to subtly panic. there's the glance away, his shoulders stiffen, he swallows nervously, breathes heavily. when aziraphale does speak, it's immediately to declare that he doesn't want the position, doesn't want to go back to heaven full stop (very reminiscent of his reaction to the promotion offer in the cut 1800 scene), and gives the excuse of the coffee.

metatron then brings out Les Big Guns. before the metatron says anything else, and without so much as a hint from aziraphale, metatron oh so casually remarks that aziraphale would have the final say on who he works with. he already anticipates that aziraphale's hang-up about going back to heaven may not be in fact the coffee, and tbh may not in fact be anything to do with earth itself, but everything to do with crowley remaining on earth. crowley is however a demon, and in his current form would not be able to go to heaven (which in turn begs another observation - does metatron not know that crowley infiltrated heavily pretty easily earlier in the episode?... hmm).

as such, the obvious solution for the metatron is to drop the fact that he probably knows a lot more about aziraphale and crowley's historic dealings with each other than would otherwise be anticipated. he mentions that he has had the chance to peruse over... recordings? reports? photos? that show the span of aziraphale's relationship with crowley - and unspokenly suggests that he knows everything. and then he offers a very neat, tidy solution to that small 'hes a demon' snag. he tells aziraphale he would have the authority to restore crowley, so he could come with him.

aziraphale, whilst metatron is revealing the scope of his intelligence gathering, looks like he's about to burst into tears. to me? that is horror, and fear - like a frightened animal being suddenly backed into a corner. his eyes start darting everywhere, his face - especially his jaw - tenses, and he looks like he's about to leg it out of his chair at any given moment. and namely, once metatron tells him he could restore crowley to being an angel, we don't see aziraphale's resultant expression at all. it immediately cuts back to the bookshop.

why would aziraphale fear metatron knowing everything about him and crowley? this isn't clear. it may simply be residue fear, muscle memory, from years gone by where their association has had to exist in utmost secret. alternatively, it might be that aziraphale is not comfortable in the knowledge that not only does metatron want something from him (to return to heaven), but that metatron has very accurately landed on aziraphale's pressure point (crowley). this is what i mean when i say, as i have in previous posts, that i don't think there's a missing, overt threat from the metatron that we've not been shown, but that aziraphale feels threatened.

compare this to nearly every spy movie you've ever seen - you want someone to do something for you, but they're resistant? just casually drop that you know that their partner has just had a new haircut, or that their child looked happy going into school that morning, or that their parent is struggling to pay for their medical bills... it's sufficient information enough to instill a sense of peril without being an unclassy, hamfisted, overt threat.

my last thought on the flashbacks; as was said brilliantly in this post (@fearandhatred), i don't think the flashbacks were disingenuous, and i don't believe that there are gaps missing that will be revealed in s3. but i do think that there are some key things that aziraphale might not have actually told crowley in his recount of the conversation. crowley responds in his next line specifically to the offer of restoration... so, did aziraphale even tell him about the metatron knowing all about them? their "de facto partnership", their "previous exploits"? because personally, i don't think he did. once again - the narrative irony that we as the audience have the full story, but crowley potentially does not.

but anyway; back to the bookshop.

...okay, aziraphale. right. i mean, first of all, crowley is just as taken aback, shocked, and incredulous as aziraphale seems to have been during the flashbacks. but aziraphale? everything has slowed down, almost calmed, like the eye of the storm has passed over. he almost looks less manic, less (frankly) deranged, and seems to actually be settling in the fact that the offer itself might actually be a good thing - something that crowley might in fact want. it's still not quite right, he's still not quite acting in a way that makes me think aziraphale's being entirely forthcoming with crowley.

the way he says that crowley could "come back" is soft and gentle, as if he's granting the most amazing, positively astounding opportunity - that heaven is doing something that it has never (as far as we or aziraphale, presumably, is aware) done before, and welcoming crowley back... like it's equal parts forgiveness towards crowley for having done whatever he did (im deliberately trying to keep this concept very vague and objective), and apology to crowley for a punishment that far outweighed any possible 'crime' he could have committed... like heaven is attempting to make reparations for what they did to him in the fall.

putting this outside the main body because it's another slight tangent. we know that crowley being good, nice, and/or kind is not necessarily indicative that crowley should or ought to be an angel. there are shades of grey. however, i do think aziraphale... still has issues with that. still has issues with aligning what he thinks good is, how intrinsically important being good is to him, and then where crowley sits in the midst of all of it - almost like aziraphale accepts that he himself may be in the grey, accepts his shortcomings, but where crowley is concerned aziraphale readily glosses over a number of his... not-so-nice bits. this might stem from aziraphale believing that it's more palatable to love crowley if he believes him to essentially be an angel in all but name, but i don't think it's quite that. more that aziraphale maybe thinks that 'good' is the ideal to hold, that heaven is the place that was meant to be good, and that crowley himself is good... so... well, isn't it the logical conclusion that crowley would want to return to heaven?

so going back to this bit of the scene: i don't think aziraphale ever wanted crowley to revert back to factory settings, never even considered the notion, nor necessarily thought that crowley would be better as an angel... but instead perhaps that being an angel again is what crowley would want. that it would be nothing more, really, than a rubber stamp in his personnel file. i think aziraphale was simply remembering the angel that was joyful in creating, surrounded himself in the exaltation of imagining new and wonderful things, bringing them to life; why wouldn't, in its most basic essence, aziraphale want that for crowley again? for crowley to be back where - as far as aziraphale likely remembers - he was at his happiest? and if he has the power to give it, like the metatron said, isn't that the greatest gift aziraphale could ever bestow upon him?

if we accept, as the whole final fifteen scene is intimating pretty strongly thus far, that aziraphale is trying to keep his panic and fear about the whole situation under wraps from crowley, it simultaneously makes sense that he would offer this to crowley as if he's saying:

'here's a wonderful thing that im pretty certain you've always wanted; please, just this once, don't ask questions about anything else, please just concentrate on this, i can handle everything else. just please say yes to coming back with me, i need you to come back. you can be happy, and i can sort out heaven, so that one day we can just simply walk away and never have to look over our shoulders. i'm scared, but i don't really have a choice, and tbh im even more scared what might happen if i leave you behind.'

but as metatron, i think, clearly anticipates, and as i think aziraphale truthfully does too as he first heads into the bookshop, this was never going to be something that crowley would accept. it's not something crowley wants. crowley - for whatever reason (again, in the absence of knowing anything concrete about the fall, keeping this deliberately vague) - was rejected by heaven in the most literal sense possible. slapping him with an angel stamp and dressing him in a white suit means nothing of value to him, and is the furthest from what he wants; in fact, actually, if anything, it's the biggest insult he could be afforded. because what has suddenly made him redeemable, palatable, 'forgiveable', in the eyes of heaven? nothing; just that he's a pawn in whatever bargain the metatron is trying to strike with aziraphale... and from crowley's pov, aziraphale has agreed to using him as a game piece. it doesn't confer value onto crowley, if anything it reduces it; in this equation, even if he were to accept the offer, he'd essentially be nothing more than a negotiated benefit for aziraphale to take the job.

(and that's all assuming that restoration would in fact mean crowley gets to continue being him, albeit in fancy white clothes - when there's the very real possibility that, if restoration as a concept even exists at all, heaven would just wipe him and set him off from ground zero all over again. aziraphale seems to have taken the metatron's word for it; that restoration even exists, that aziraphale would have the power to do it, and that it would mean he gets to keep crowley exactly as he is).

at which point... crowley knows that aziraphale didn't turn down the offer in the metaphorical room - "and you told him just where he could stick it, then?"... he's hopeful, possibly, but his expression suggests that he fully anticipates that aziraphale has bought into the crock of shit that metatron has spun him. that aziraphale took the job on the provision that crowley could join him, which crowley points out to be beneath the both of them, "oh, we're better than that- you're better than that, angel!".

aziraphale however, as explained above, sees it as being the best, safest, most opportune option for them both to take; "not at all", said with the tone of surprise that it is, suggests that aziraphale didn't ever consider the possibility of saying no, maybe because he feels that he can't, and never thought that crowley would say no, either. along with the surprise tone however, he says it with a very tense expression - the smile has frozen, and his tense are gritted. it might be that he genuinely thought that crowley would say yes, or because - again, if he's in fear of being overheard - he's worried about the implications of what crowley has just said.

crowley goes on to rant that he turned down hell when beelzebub made a very similar offer to crowley in ep1 (which, by the by, he... didn't. for whatever reason, crowley did not say no, nor any variant of a refusal, to beelzebub), and aziraphale remarks that that's a given, as "you're the bad guys".

now... i wince at this particular line every time i watch the final fifteen, as im sure everyone else does, but i don't think it's - at all - meant in the way that crowley likely receives it. certainly not in the way that the majority of the audience seems to have received it.

im not set to diminish or invalidate, on crowley's part, how it must feel to hear aziraphale still consider him a 'bad guy', simply because he's a demon. but from aziraphale's perspective, crowley is a demon, and demons are of hell. hell are not the good guys, as a collective - as has been proven time and time again - and, well, if heaven are meant to be the good guys, hell are by process of elimination the bad guys. once again, aziraphale arrives a rather binary conclusion of good vs. evil.

but equally consider that this is also the aziraphale that regularly compliments crowley on his niceness and his good deeds. that same aziraphale does not think of crowley as 'a bad guy'. he is blunt that crowley is of hell, who are the collective bad guys, because hell is the bad side to the heaven that was meant to be the good side. and as said above - crowley is good! he's a good person! he might be a demon, of hell, but he belongs on the side of good! which leads to this lovely little number:

throughout this whole part of their discussion, aziraphale has presented as more and more sure, less panicky and nervous - because i think this is something that he absolutely believes. he might have initially not wanted anything to do with heaven, but now? with the possibility that crowley could join him? suddenly then it's viable... lucrative, even - that he could fix heaven, that crowley could help him do it, they'd be together, and they'd get their happy, safe ending. his expression on "good" would suggest his confusion that crowley doesn't appear to share the same opinion - sure, heaven is shit now, but it was always meant to be good, right?* doesn't crowley see that?

crowley, however, justifiably illustrates that, the way he sees it (and has been demonstrated by the narrative), both sides are as flawed and redundant as each other; aziraphale can be as optimistic as he likes that heaven is redeemable, is fixable, but all crowley can see is that both are so inherently awful, so rotten to the very foundation, that there is no saving them... heaven least of all, for being the side that purports itself to be good. hell, at least, is aware of its very nature; heaven is insidious, and doesn't even have the good grace to acknowledge it, instead chalking it up to being god's will, and therefore whatever they do must be good.

and with that, i think crowley simultaneously starts to really panic - knowing that he's losing aziraphale - and yet hopes against all hope that he's gotten through to him, changed his mind, and begins pleading with him to tell him the exact thing he wants to hear; 'this is a bad idea, please don't do this, please-'

aziraphale is visibly struggling to even collect his thoughts, to even find the words to summarise why he's going to do this. simultaneously, aziraphale is dumbfounded. i think part of that is because he recognises the truth in what crowley is saying, but i also think that he's now in a position where his plan to get crowley to come with him has failed, and he's at a loss for what to do - what to say - next. he looks from crowley, looks out the window, his mouth is working to try and say something, even looks down at his feet, before coming up with the best way he can to explain why he's doing this. "if im in charge... i can make a difference."

*because once again (i'll die on this hill), i don't think aziraphale thinks that heaven as it currently is, is something that is good, light, or truth... but that heaven's intended purpose was to be those things, and is what heaven in essence stands for... irrespective of whoever is in charge. aziraphale has no allegiance to heaven as it currently is. michael, uriel, sandalphon, gabriel when he was supreme archangel - all of them have corrupted heaven to be something that it was never meant to be. but aziraphale has to believe that heaven itself is redeemable, has to believe that there is something salvageable; if it weren't, does that mean that aziraphale in turn is not either of those things too? does that mean that aziraphale is not good? heaven is capable of great things, that could benefit everyone involved; so couldn't aziraphale, from all of the experience he's gained, do something to make heaven exactly that?

it doesn't mean that aziraphale is any more correct for this more nuanced assumption, but i think it poses there is a very fine line in aziraphale's thinking. to my mind, aziraphale is not backtracking on the entirety of what he's learnt since the beginning, he's not suddenly heaven's man again - but instead is recognising that heaven is broken as it currently is... and that he could potentially fix it. if anything, that recognition that what he thought was faultless actually needs fixing, and that he may be able to do it, because it's the right thing to do... is exactly the character development i was expecting? an angel who has himself been rejected time and time again for being who he is, without even the finality of falling, could actually be the key to making heaven something worthy of the name.

he has to take that opportunity, to be that change, but he doesn't want to leave crowley to do so. not only because, of course, he simply loves crowley and wants both, but if he does leave crowley, what could happen to crowley without aziraphale being in a position to protect him? what, for me, it all boils down to is that aziraphale thinks going to heaven is the right thing to do, but only entertained it seriously when a) crowley's name, and their relationship, was casually mentioned in a way that felt like metatron would use it as leverage, and b) crowley could potentially come with him. ultimately, the fact remains that crowley more important to him than heaven is.

let's return to the specific wording of 'make a difference'. it's... fairly neutral, right? make a difference for whom? what kind of difference? the difference that metatron was talking about, or the difference that, in the most idealistic scenario possible, aziraphale and crowley both would probably want to happen? it's carefully worded - and coupled with eeeeverything that i've said about how aziraphale acts with the metatron, how he was hiding his expression as he entered the shop, and then how aziraphale seems to backtrack on bitch-talking the metatron... look, i don't necessarily buy that aziraphale is trying to speak in a riddle or code that he knows crowley would understand, but i do wonder if he's now hoping that crowley will read between the lines. he can't outright tell crowley his suspicions, and was possibly trying to get crowley to come with him in a way that wouldn't alert crowley to anything amiss whatsoever... but now? now that crowley is resisting? he has to edge slightly closer towards transparency.

in the hypothetical scenario that aziraphale is fearful that they may be overheard, or observed, aziraphale has to be careful. he has to word whatever he says in such a way that he appears to be heaven's man, that he genuinely wants to take the opportunity to run heaven and the 'enormous projects' that are in planning, in a way that doesn't disclose to the metatron that aziraphale is in any way suspicious of him. to crowley, however, he has to convey that he isn't heaven's man, that he wants to change things that would mean that it be for the better, and do all of that whilst not alerting crowley that there may be danger. 'make a difference' suddenly has a double-meaning, because for whose benefit does aziraphale truly want to change things?

crowley then, bless his heart, bravely launches into his confession that he tried to start at the beginning, and i think he does so in an effort to be completely transparent on why he needs aziraphale to stay - an effort to convince him to remain with crowley for no other reason than that he wants to be with him... and now? now he's not even sure it'll work. he's tried demonstrating where heaven isn't worth the effort, to no avail, so now he's going for full vulnerability mode. honestly, what a trooper, he was so so brave

aziraphale throughout the confession is practically motionless. the manic energy has disappeared, and from the subtle flickers in his expression, i think he saw this coming - saw it coming from the moment that he saw crowley offer up alpha centauri to gabriel and beelzebub, and saw nina and maggie very surreptitiously leave the bookshop. i think to some degree, aziraphale knew at least the nature of what crowley was going to say, and as a result, he gets very nervous:

at the sheer mention of "group", aziraphale pointedly (to me, anyway) looks out of the window. generally, he looks shifty - avoiding eye contact, eyes flickering, heavy breathing - but it's so deliberate that he looks out of the window where, we can surmise, is the general environs of where the metatron is still waiting. again - the metatron saying "de facto partnership", and all of his allusions to knowing the true nature and extent of aziraphale's association with crowley, seems all the more sinister if this line - "a team- a group!" - is specifically when aziraphale's eyes betray his concern. i don't think he's necessarily scared that the metatron will overhear this bit, because ultimately the metatron has intimated that he already knows this, but crowley is, potentially, and very much unknowingly, placing them in even more danger by vocalising the exact nature of what he and aziraphale feel for each other.

i also want to remark on aziraphale's look of confusion when crowley says, "spent our existence pretending that we aren't". ive had many a thought on why aziraphale would look so perplexed, and only one kind of makes sense to me - that actually, within the last few years, aziraphale... wasn't pretending at all. crowley told him that they were on their own side in tadfield, something that may have taken a while, but ultimately aziraphale in the "so did i" demonstrates that he was fully on board with, and he's now spent a good portion of s2 trying to make 'their side' all the more meaningful... crowley was no longer going too fast for him, but instead he was trying to show crowley that he had caught up - felt free enough to match his speed.

that, for me, would make sense with crowley's next line, where he himself clarifies that actually, no - the last couple of years they weren't pretending like they were before. something changed after armageddon, and that was that they both were removed enough from heaven and hell that they could finally explore what 'us' might mean for them. crowley is consistently taken aback by what aziraphale intended to be overtures of closeness and adoration - the frequent touching, the bentley, the ball - because aziraphale was trying to demonstrate it with actions, rather than words. crowley previously showed aziraphale how he felt about him - the rescues, the dinners, the books - and aziraphale was trying to speak to him in a language that he thought crowley would understand.

but crowley then plays the card that he played before, and that even under better circumstances aziraphale would never accept; "if gabriel and beelzebub can do it, go off together, then we can!". aziraphale didn't accept it - however much he might have selfishly, privately wanted to - in s1 under threat of armageddon, and it's certainly not an option now when the metatron is literally outside the door. again, if we accept that aziraphale has read the conversation he had with the metatron as some kind of subtle threat, legging it is absolutely not an option he can take. on one hand, he might not want to; aziraphale typically chooses, when his back is against the wall, to fight his way out, to push back. on the other... it's the same as the bandstand; where could they possibly go where heaven won't find them? if they even got that far, how long would they have to keep running? they would constantly have to look over their shoulders, and exist together as if it's something that should be hidden out of fear, and guilt, and shame.

it then makes sense that aziraphale suddenly finds movement as crowley in turn grows more frantic in them being "an 'us'!"; aziraphale starts quickly shaking his head, tearing up, at what crowley is saying. crowley tries stoicly to cajole aziraphale into agreeing, because surely this time he will. aziraphale however strides right up to him, and counters again that he and crowley can be together, can be an 'us', but why can't it be in heaven? neither of them are denying what they want from the other. aziraphale then goes on to lay out exactly how it could work, that he could "run it, [crowley'll] be [his] second-in-command".

i know that a lot of people take issue with this line, because it suggests that aziraphale is claiming superiority, and relegating crowley to the oh-so-lowly deputy position... but tbh, i just can't see it like that. i have no doubt that crowley might see it like that (re: what i said above about crowley potentially seeing the restoration as an insult, because it's only offered not in recognition of crowley himself, but instead as a consolatory benefit of aziraphale taking the offer) but i just simply cannot fathom that aziraphale would ever mean it like that. because look - they haven't even gotten out the door, and already aziraphale has it all planned out. he'd bypass the other archangels not only to take the top position himself, at the metatron's behest, but he'd immediately use that power to install crowley right by his side. he's not offering crowley to just return to his lab/office cubicle as an angel, and once-in-a-blue-moon see aziraphale when he maybe had the time; he's already scheming to give crowley one of the most powerful positions he possibly can. he wants to place crowley in a position not only where aziraphale can always protect him, but it also shows that he trusts crowley more implicitly than any other being, and is frankly offering to fix heaven to be one that crowley would want to see. that crowley could have direct input in building. one that is good enough to have him.

aziraphale solidifies this with "we can make a difference". note the pronoun shift from before? and how he half-whispers it to crowley, fervent and desperate for crowley to see exactly what they could do together? notice how aziraphale isn't scanning around him at the windows anymore? to me, this is the real motivation, right here. metatron is giving both of them an opportunity for them to play their own game; aziraphale is prepared to take it, but wants crowley by side - as a team - when he does... why wouldn't crowley?

okay im going to cheat here slightly and direct you to this, because my thoughts on this are pretty much still the same. it's apt that this is the nail in the coffin as far as this conversation goes, because for me it's the main (only?) instance in which the two of them are both entirely candid in what they're saying, hoping the other understands, and yet the two meanings miss each other completely. everything else has been a conflict in beliefs or ideals, but this? this is The miscommunication.

crowley is saying: 'this bookshop means so much to you, and it means so much to me too. you even said it was ours, not just yours; it represents where we both felt most safe, where we could be entirely ourselves and not fear or worry about anything going on outside it. you gave me a home in this place, with you - you can't just leave it like it's nothing, you can't just leave 'us' like it's nothing, you can't just leave me like im nothing.'

aziraphale is saying: 'this bookshop means so much to me, it's true, but in a thousand years - even maybe a hundred years - it will be little more than rubble. it represents what i used to treasure more than anything, because it was what i took pleasure in, and i could be myself. it was ours, but really all it is, is little more than paper, glass, and brick. you are my home, and you are more important than a building with windows and a creaky front door. being together, being safe, is all i want, and is all that matters.'

all of that is summed up nicely in crowley just... letting all the fight drain out of his body. tilts his head back, in that famous nod of, 'oh right okay, i see what you're saying'. wills the tears not to fall; to him, aziraphale has just rejected everything that crowley thought aziraphale held dear - including himself. nothing lasts forever, including them... when what aziraphale is saying is that nothing lasts forever, but they could.

crowley puts his shield back on, the sunglasses back in their usual place. aziraphale sees him do so, and has the faintest, hopeful smile on his face; because he thinks that crowley has finally gotten what aziraphale was trying to convey to him - and so, now, they're going to leave the shop together, go to heaven together, and work together to fix heaven into what it always should have been... and along the way, grant them the freedom to do whatever the hell they want to do, and do it in peace. crowley however shatters that; he steps out from around aziraphale, and wishes him luck... and aziraphale realises that they are not in fact on the same page, and actually now whatever was holding on by a thread might have finally snapped.

*

okay look if you've made it this far - first of all how and why, you madman, this was stupidly long and convoluted... but also many kisses of gratitude unto you for sticking it out this long. i'm planning (if the dopamine gods remain with me) on doing a part 2 where i look at the last bit of the domestic, and the kiss, again - to see what i unearth there too, but thoughts so far:

aziraphale feels under threat from the metatron, and has to prioritise acquiescing to his request on pain of [redacted]

but he also knows that if the metatron knows that crowley is his pressure point, his only option is to try to a) convince the metatron that he (aziraphale) is completely on board, and docile, and b) convince crowley to come back with him, not only for his safety but also so they can be together, and because actually, to aziraphale's mind, the offer is a good thing, possibly something crowley has always secretly wanted, and crowley deserves it

alongside feeling threatened, aziraphale is wary that the metatron may be able to observe/hear their conversation. he therefore cannot say anything that would antagonise the metatron, cannot say anything that would suggest that aziraphale knows that the metatron is a Big Bad, and cannot let crowley in on the truth because crowley would question it too hard and endanger them both

aziraphale knows that crowley is about to confess his feelings, or something of a similar sentiment. aziraphale wants to hear it, but only when he can be sure that crowley will come back to heaven with him, where he can be safe in a position of power, right by aziraphale's side

when crowley begins to resist the idea, and battles back with a plan of this own for them to be together, aziraphale a) has to impress upon him that going back to heaven, and potentially fixing it in their image (lmao god complex much, aziraphale?) is the right thing to do, especially if they are to have any kind of future together, and b) has to do so, again, in a way that won't alert crowley that something more nefarious might be going on. regardless, they both operate on the understanding that they want to be together

however. the one major miscommunication in the entire part of the first sequence is "nothing lasts forever" - this particular part is practically the repeat of the different exactlies from episode 1

ok bye

[soracities]

hi! today the results of an extremely important examination (to me) was announced and uh, I came first in my country. I've worked so very hard for this and I effectively got into my dream college (there's another round left which is an interview but I've heard they're easy on you if you do well on the written test) but all I feel is empty inside, because I thought this would make me feel like I'm good enough, and it's not. do you have any poetry recs that can comfort me? or idk, just words of advice

(I'm sorry if this comes across as venting or ranting. please dont feel pressured to answer this ask)

i'm sorry to only get to this now, anon. i'm sorry for how much this feeling must have come out of nowhere for you, and i'm sorry too, that you're not able to fully enjoy the result of all your work in the way that you thought you would.

i can only speak from my own experience in this, so i don't know if it will speak to you, too but i hope you get something from it: i think sometimes, especially when it comes to academics, it can be very easy to internalise other people's expectations of us into our own: we make our goals in their image, which is not to say that these goals may not be important to us, but i think we build them on a kind of validation that is rooted in other people's opinions, and not so much our own. and when you finally get there the achievement is lacking because it was not entirely ours to begin with, if that makes sense? we've been more invested in others' hopes and taken those for our own.

this will depend on what's available to you and, again, i don't know how much help this will be (this is one of those things where i'm not sure if poems are something i can offer) but i think, if you have the time and are able to, then it may help to identify an activity that you have always wanted to do, or means a lot to you, and try your best to pursue this: it could be a hobby you have not picked up in a while, or a new one you've always wanted to experiment with, it could be volunteering with an organisation that is close to your heart, or maybe any organisation close to you that is in need of help (it could even be something in your dream college: a particular course or club, for example). the point is to find something--anything--that speaks to YOU, solely, to you, and to get involved in something that you have chosen for yourself, purely because it interested you. it's about building some kind of goal and going after that to allow you to feel some kind of achievement that has come on your terms and no one else's. i don't know if it will make what you feel right now go away, but i think it may help to alleviate the sadness surrounding it by allowing you to grow and develop and become a part of something for your own sake, and slowly build your own idea of who you are and who you can become.

again, i'm sorry this is late, and for whatever it's worth i'm amazed at you for being able to put so much work into something and reach such an achievement. it may not be making you feel the way you wanted to feel, but i believe that if you can so much effort into something like this, there's no limit to the countless other things awaiting you that WILL bring you joy and happiness when you choose them for yourself, however this may be 💕