#i need to get a better stylus though. done a good job at holding onto the one it comes with but GOD it's small and not comfortable to hold

[moonsidesong]

ppl tagging my post with save and ref makes me so happy :-) get out there and hit the high seas fellas woo yeah woo yeah!!!!!!!! <3

[lifblogs]

Whumpay 2021: Day 12 - Hiding Injury

Anakin's an Idiot (According to Ahsoka)

read on ao3 1863 words tw: graphic depictions of violence, star wars, the clone wars, blaster wound, burns, internal bleeding, first aid, field medicine, hurt!anakin skywalker

Anakin was back on his quarters aboard his ship. The trip from there to the hangar had been one filled with aggravations and annoyances. It seemed everyone wanted to talk to him and discuss his heroics during the battle. But what he really wanted was privacy. So he let everyone know he was going to get as much rest as possible before he was called in to active duty again.

Not totally a lie. He was tired. Exhausted, even, but he didn’t want anyone to know about his injury. He’d managed to cover the torn fabric of his tunic with his tabard, making it look haphazard from the battle, and thankfully blood didn’t seep into leather as fast. It helped that he wore black, too.

Breathing heavy, everything spinning around him, Anakin had nearly collapsed when he’d made it to his quarters.

He let out a groan, and, pressing hard against his wound, he started making his way over to where he had a medkit. Using the bulkhead to remain upright, he eventually made it. Once grabbing it he all but collapsed onto his bunk.

Anakin knew he’d have to undress from the waist up to get a better look at the wound, and he would eventually have to change seeing as blood was slowly seeping into his pants, but kriffing hell, that would hurt!

Maybe he should get Ahsoka to help him.

Bad idea, he told himself. She has her own stuff to worry about.

And he didn’t want to seem weak in front of his apprentice, didn’t want her to feel like she had to take care of him.

Obi-Wan, maybe?

No, no. He was busy getting ready for his deployment for the next faze of the planetary bombardment.

Taking his belt off, letting it fall to the bunk and then slide onto the deck with a loud clunk, Anakin tried to undress. That left him doubling over, feeling like he was going to be sick, pain stabbing all the way down to his hip, and up into his left pectoral. Kriff!

Sweat that had beaded on his forehead dripped off of his face into his clothing.

Okay, so not going to do it that way.

Forcing himself to take deep breaths—though they were going in and out too quickly to do much good—he took his hand off the wound, and lifted his clothing up.

Somehow revealing the injury seemed to make it hurt more. Instinct told him to cover it again, but he fought it down, and started searching through the medkit with one hand.

Fingers shaking, he grabbed a syringe of symoxin, and put it near the bloody and slightly burnt hole in his side. Anakin tilted his head back, and winced, biting his lip against a cry as he injected himself with it.

Thankfully, the medicine was starting to work quickly, but everything still burned to all the Sith hells and back, and the deep soreness was still steadily throbbing away. At least the area of pain seemed to be shrinking, if not entirely the depth.

Okay, okay. Next. What was next?

Right, bacta spray.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The bacta spray burned, yet he still got as much of it into the injury as he could. Eventually though, it began to feel soothing, and, working in tandem with the pain medicine, he could breathe a little easier. The bacta spray would slow the bleeding, but that didn’t stop the fact that there was a hole blasted in him. He could tell from the darkness of the blood though that vital organs hadn’t been hit. If so, the blood would’ve been a bright red. Even with that though he was sure he had what might be internal bleeding. The pain in his chest and head, and the throbbing in his back said enough about that.

Hopefully the bacta could help with that; after all, it did help with clotting.

After using a hemosponge to mop up some of the blood, he applied a burn salve around the edges of the wound, wincing and doing his best to not cry out. He ended up stamping his right foot from the pain.

Okay, alright. What now? What now!

Close the wound. Yes, that’s what he had to do. Mechnosutures would probably come in handy, but for that he’d have to actually go to the medical bay and have a droid work on him.

Not going to happen.

So, holding a hemosponge to the wound, and doing his best to hold it closed, he searched through the kit for a field cauterizer. When he found the long metal stylus, he tried to control his breathing.

Think about something else. Anything else.

Padmé. His mind settle on his wife. How radiant she was when she smiled, as if she were brighter than all the suns in the galaxy. How it felt to have her soft hands caressing his face, and running through his hair. He imagined her scent, all warm and sweet-smelling.

With Padmé fixed heavily in his mind, he got to work with the field cauterizer.

In seconds, Anakin declared himself an idiot. He was an idiot! Why hadn’t he thought to put anything in his mouth to bite down on? He was lucky he hadn’t bitten his tongue, but his teeth and jaw were aching.

Kriffing idiot, he admonished himself.

Alone in his quarters, he whimpered, and dropped the field cauterizer to the deck.

At least that was over with. He leaned against the side of his bunk, hanging his head low. Stars, he couldn’t get enough air in. He couldn’t see straight.

“Padmé…” he moaned out.

Almost done. You’re almost there.

Screaming through gritted teeth, and then letting out an unintentional sob, Anakin found a bacta patch, and covered his handiwork.

Force, he’d only been grazed by a droid blast before. This was something else entirely. For a brief moment, rage flared in him, but it was instantly drowned out by exhaustion.

Barely holding it together, Anakin tore the kit apart, looking for one last thing. Finding it, he slapped it onto his chest. He leaned back, feeling the adrenaline from the newly-applied patch kick into his system, giving him energy, though not necessarily focus. He’d have to meditate for that, which was… not one of his strong suits.

At least his need to collapse washed away, and he could finally strip his clothes off, and head to the fresher to clean up.

After he was cleaned up and in clothes that didn’t smell like the kriffing battlefield, he lay down on his bunk for a bit with a chill pac against his back, and another over his side.

His commlink blinked green, and feeling better with the drugs and medicine flowing through his system, Anakin answered, “General Skywalker here.”

“Skyguy, Master Obi-Wan ran into trouble trying to get to the ground. We’re being redeployed.”

Getting up, he asked, “Why wasn’t I notified first?”

“You needed your rest. Besides, I was with Captain Rex when Admiral Yularen got word from Obi-Wan.”

“Alright, Snips. I’ll meet you and the guys in the hangar.”

Mind now fully focused on the job at hand, Anakin left his quarters, and rushed to meet up with his men.

~~~

Anakin was alright until he got into action. Suddenly, nothing made sense anymore. Not the ships and the droids flying all around him, or the blasts whizzing every which way.

His fighter was hit, and began to spin out of control. R2-D2 was screeching.

“Come on, get control of it, Artoo,” Anakin said, though he knew as the pilot he should be doing something. But what?

He couldn’t think.

“Master? Master, you’ve been hit. Are you alright?”

Anakin tried to answer, but he couldn’t seem to find the commlink.

“General,” one of the clones said, “you’re heading towards a Seppie ship.”

“Artoo,” Ahsoka called, “get control of the piloting. Get him on one of our ships. Matchstick, Broadside, you cover him. Make sure he gets there in one piece.”

“Yes, sir,” both said.

Ahsoka opened up the private channel she and Anakin had on their wrist comms, and he heard her voice again, “Skyguy, are you there?”

He groaned, and managed to respond, “I’m here… Ahsoka.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Anakin’s vision blurred, and all he saw were lights streaking past. The ship seemed to have stabilized itself and it was on a specific course. If he tried hard enough, he could see a fighter on either side of him, keeping droids off his ass. Another ship flew in beneath him. Was that Ahsoka?

“Ahsoka, get back to the fight,” he ordered.

“Not until you’re grounded. Artoo, prepare to land.”

Artoo let out a series of beeps.

The cockpit was growing too hot, and the ship began to shudder. Then there was a hard impact, and Anakin was slammed against the controls. The fighter was sliding across the hangar, and oh Force, when would it stop?

Finally, the ship stilled. Anakin tried to raise his head up, and blood dripped down from his brow. He collapsed, eyes closed, though he tried to fight to keep them open.

In seconds his fighter was swarmed with clones sent to his aid. Some were putting out the fires that had almost made it to the cockpit, and the rest were getting Anakin out.

He was placed on a stretcher, and the medics that hadn’t been deployed were scanning him for damage.

Voices blurred together, and the darkness that had been seeping in won. Anakin faded into unconsciousness.

~~~

Ahsoka was holding his hand when he woke up. When he managed to blink open his eyes and focus on her, she offered him a smile.

“What… What happened?” he asked.

“You’re an idiot, Master. That’s what happened.” He frowned at her, and she went on, “Internal bleeding from a blaster shot that you must’ve received on the ground. Kix was surprised to find it. I probably should’ve noticed though.”

Anakin shook his head. “No, no. I was trying to hide it, Snips.”

“Why? Master, that’s just dumb.”

“Hey,” he reprimanded.

“No, you listen to me, Anakin Skywalker. You can’t just hide your injuries like that, and expect everything to be okay! And before you get all self-sacrificing, let me tell you, this isn’t just about you. We needed your command out there, but you were practically unresponsive. What if something really bad happened? What if another Separatist ship showed up and we were ambushed, or Obi-Wan’s ship started going down? You can’t just hide things like that, and think there won’t be consequences. Your men need you. I need you.”

By now there were tears in Ahsoka’s eyes, tears that nearly mirrored the ones Anakin felt building up in his own.

“You’re right,” he told her, voice soft. “It was irresponsible of me. I’m sorry, Ahsoka. It won’t happen again.”

She nodded, and wiped her tears away.

Then, something must’ve came to mind because she let out a laugh.

“Kix said you did a horrible job patching yourself up.”

Anakin rested his head back, and rolled his eyes in amusement. “Oh, everyone’s a critic.”

[dvp95]

seen but not heard

pairing: dan howell/phil lester

rating: mature

warnings: none

tags: memory loss, amnesia, hurt/comfort, introspection, established relationship, domestic, an annoying amount of communication

word count: 7,070

sequel to still the best, more or less (which you can read on ao3 or here on tumblr) and so easy to come back into you (on ao3 and tumblr) and is that as good as it gets? (on ao3 and tumblr)

Bingo squares: forever home + breakfast bar + advocacy + emergency contact + instagram stories + frottage + picnic + movie plot au (yep. you read that right.)

read on ao3 or here!

Phil's hair is getting so long. The somewhat damaged ends curve around his ears, pieces of fringe falling into his eyes several times a day before being impatiently brushed away. It's soft, lazily pushed off his forehead, because he hasn't quite gotten the hang of quiff styling just yet. Dan almost wishes he'd helped Phil with it, Before, so that he could be more useful now.

There's a lot of things he wishes he'd done Before. He's dealing with one of them now, watching Phil run his hand over the cool, diamond tiles of an island counter that doesn't belong to them.

"It's nice," he says, noncommittal, but Dan isn't going to be polite for their real estate agent's sake.

"It's ugly," says Dan. "We don't want tile, we want granite. Or marble."

Phil blinks over at him with that carefully neutral face that Dan hates. "I mean, it's fine. It's just the counters. The rest of the kitchen is still nice."

It isn't. Dan can spot at least a dozen details that would have had Phil catching his eye with a sardonic little smile just a handful of months ago. The drawer handles are the knobby kind that Phil tends to knock his shins into, the hanging lights over the island counter are downright tacky, and everything's a little bit dated in the way that screams time and money spent renovating.

Their agent is nodding, though, because she had already gotten very familiar with their weird mish-mash of a wishlist before she needed to be reintroduced to Phil.

"I know that this room isn't ideal for you," Ellie is saying, tapping on her phone with a little stylus pen. "But the rest of the house has some great features, and the outside space was too good to ignore it altogether."

While she isn't looking, Phil lets some of his mask slip. It isn't what Dan wants to see, it's his 'why are you making a scene' eyebrows, but he still feels a slight comfort at being able to clock it. Sometimes Phil is impossible to read, on purpose, and Dan wants to tear his hair out from the root whenever that happens.

Dan crosses his arms over his chest and pulls his mouth in a way that he's sure has one of his dimples out, because he can feel the muscles in his cheek hugging the corner of his lips.

Phil rolls his eyes and taps at the tile countertop once, twice. Dan knows what that means, too, and he's still not thrilled about it.

They used to be on the same page, is the thing. They'd spent so many years arguing over the smallest of details for a home that had been purely hypothetical, watching renovation shows and saying, when we get our place, that now Dan feels wrongfooted.

"Alright, let's see the outside, then," Dan says, unable to hold back his irritation. Phil frowns at him again, but the mask is back up the moment that Ellie looks at them.

"Great! Just follow me."

Phil does so easily, following Ellie out of the kitchen and into the conservatory, but Dan has to take a moment.

He takes a couple deep breaths and runs his fingers over the ugly tile, wondering if Phil's tastes have actually changed so drastically or if he just doesn't care as much, being more or less a uni student. Neither of them had cared much about that sort of thing back then.

That was before they settled into themselves, into each other, before they'd formed opinions on things like the types of handles they'd have in their kitchen someday.

Maybe it would have been better if they'd done this last year, when they first started properly looking. Except they'd been too busy, always too busy, and Dan had been on an emotional rollercoaster of his own creation, and Phil had been so stressed he was passing out in bathrooms.

So maybe it would have gone even worse. Maybe they'd be stretched too thin and talking to each other too sharply instead. But the uncertainty is killing Dan, making him wonder, wonder, wonder.

Dan taps the tile once, twice, just like Phil had done, even though nobody is in the room to see it. We'll talk about this later.

The garden is nice enough. So is the rest of the house, really, but it isn't theirs, isn't going to be theirs. Dan can't see himself in it, can't see Phil in it, and he gives Ellie an apologetic little shrug on their way back to her car.

"That's alright, Daniel," she's saying in that briskly cheerful way of hers. "I've got a couple more places I can show you boys today. Nothing checks off all your items just yet, but I'm keeping my eyes and ears open for you - and, of course, you might still fall in love with a home that seems imperfect on paper!"

At the L word, Phil reaches for him. Dan has to fight not to pull his hand back, muscle memory, but he keeps his flinching internal and allows Phil to tangle their fingers together.

They're outside on the pavement in the late hours of the morning, December frost allowing them to see glimpses of their breath in the air. They listen to Ellie chatter as she digs around her purse for her keys and Dan doesn't freak out about holding his boyfriend's hand in public.

"That sounds nice," Phil says, squeezing Dan's hand a bit too tightly to be entirely reassuring.

Dan already knows how this conversation is going to go. Phil is going to ask him why he was being rude, Dan is going to try not to blame the memory loss for his frustration, and they'll probably end up more annoyed than when they started. They've still got a couple more places to look at before then, though, and Dan isn't sure how he feels about being the only one vetoing these places.

Scratch that. He knows exactly how he feels about it, and that's alone. He feels very, very alone when Phil isn't backing him up the way he used to.

They have to let go of each other to clamber in the car, Phil claiming shotgun easily, and Dan already misses the feeling of Phil's hand in his own. Phil's hands are always so soft, the weight of them so reassuring even when he's using them to tell Dan to stop being dramatic.

Dan links his own fingers together in his lap and zones out from the polite small talk happening in the front seat, watching the unfamiliar borough pass by through the window.

--

Sure enough, they're alone for five seconds in their building's swanky lift when Phil says, "You were being a dick."

Dan exhales slowly and keeps his eyes on the mindless app game he's playing. "And?"

"And, why?" Phil asks, and Dan doesn't need to look at him to know he's rolling his eyes. He does that a lot when he's frustrated with Dan, and sometimes it gets under Dan's skin in a way that leads to an argument, but he's not in that defensive type of mood today.

"Because we weren't going to buy any of those places," Dan says, "so why should I pretend like I was interested in them?"

"Well, of course we weren't," says Phil.

That surprises Dan into glancing up. His phone vibrates as he loses the level, but he doesn't actually care. He feels the corners of his mouth twitching and tries not to let them curve upwards, because he's still a little annoyed with Phil for not being on his side all day. He wonders if Phil can tell he's trying not to smile.

Probably. Phil grins at him, and Dan loses the battle.

"If you know that," Dan laughs and leads the way out of the lift, down their winding hallway. "Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I've got manners, Daniel," Phil sniffs. He's patting down his jacket and jeans, looking for the keys that Dan's actually got. Dan lets him search for longer than strictly necessary before he pulls out his keys and lets them in.

Phil snorts and shoves lightly at Dan's shoulder, but the tension between them has relaxed into something that Dan can handle. Over the past few months, Phil has learned how to argue with Dan in a way that isn't so pointed, is more conducive to actual change, but Dan still doesn't like arguing with Phil. He'd much rather bicker, all the honesty without the sharp edges of real insults.

"I just don't think it's necessary to pretend like we're interested in places we aren't going to buy," Dan says, shrugging out of his jacket. "It's Ellie's job to find us the right place."

"Do you think the right place exists?"

The question stumps Dan for a moment. Of course the right place exists, they just have to find it, and probably rework parts of it to be perfect for them. He's not usually the one pulling out blind optimism in casual conversation, but it just seems so unlikely that they'll be searching forever.

"I do," says Dan. "I do think the right place is out there. And so do you."

It's always a little risky these days, stating Phil's feelings like they're fact. Sometimes it makes Phil bristle.

This time, Phil just smiles at him. He reaches for Dan and Dan doesn't flinch, going easily into Phil's arms and accepting the slow kiss with a smile of his own. They haven't even left the entryway.

The cold outside has seeped into Phil, making his fingers and lips chilly with it, and Dan presses closer to try and chase it away. Phil giggles into the kiss and presses his cold hands to the sides of Dan's neck.

"Awful!" Dan yelps, smacking his hands away.

Phil giggles again, pushing his tongue between his teeth as he does so, and Dan almost isn't able to keep a straight face. His cheeks are tinted pink from the wind and his crow's feet are deep with unabashed joy. He's beautiful, and happy, and Dan only hangs onto his scowl by a thread.

"What?" Phil asks, all performatively wide eyes. He has long lost the ability to use the innocent act on Dan.

"Your hands are fucking frozen, mate," says Dan. "Keep them away from me."

"Thought you liked it when I touch you," Phil laughs, seemingly oblivious to the way Dan's stomach twists at the joke. He wiggles his fingers at Dan threateningly. "What're you gonna do?"

"Make you sleep on the sofa."

It's a laughably empty threat, and Phil knows that at this point. He grins wider and reaches for Dan's face with both hands.

Dan shrieks a protest and ducks away, bounding up the stairs and only sparing a moment's thought to worry when he hears Phil curse and bang his knee on a step in chase. He feels like a kid again, playing a weird sort of tag, and the tension from the day is melting out of Dan as they shout nonsense at each other and do fake-outs around the sofa.

This is better. Better than the arguing that Dan had expected and even better than the bickering that he'd settle for. He lets himself get caught in the kitchen, laughing like a hyena when Phil sticks his cold hands up his shirt and holds him against their breakfast bar, which has no ugly tile in sight for them to get fixated on.

Phil presses their open mouths together and Dan, for once, is thankful that he doesn't know this Phil as well as he thinks he does.

--

There was a time in Dan's life, not all that long ago, where the concept of permission to touch was almost an afterthought. In the privacy of their own home, where there were never prying eyes or judgements from strangers, they would put their hands, their lips, their entire selves, anywhere on each other and it would be more than okay with the other. Sure, there were always days where they didn't want to be touched, but they knew each other's moods and body language well enough that it stopped needing to be verbalized.

Now, it is no longer a given that what they want is each other's touch at all times.

Is this okay?, Dan will ask, wrapping his arms around Phil, kissing his forehead, heart pounding as he waits to hear if the soft affection is all too much for Phil today.

Is this okay?, Phil will ask in return, his hesitant fingers skimming over Dan's bare skin like he isn't sure if he's allowed, because sometimes he is not.

The boundaries have shifted, and sometimes Dan worries that this is permanent, that he and Phil will never again be able to read each other so well that the question is only confirmation, not permission.

Sometimes, Dan is scared that things between the two of them will never be the same again. He'd held onto some kind of hope for a while that Phil would one day wake up and be himself again, but that was in September. Now, their box of Christmas decorations is out and ready to be unpacked, but Phil still feels... different. Slightly off. Uncanny Valley.

--

"Maybe this is just who he is, now," Dan says quietly. "Maybe we're already past the point of this thing affecting us forever."

"Maybe," says Robin. Her volume matches his, but her tone is full of warmth. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward a bit, tucking a stray thin braid behind her ear. "Would knowing that be better or worse than the uncertainty?"

That's a good question. Dan chews his lip a little bit and glances at his old friend, the fern in the corner. He's impressed by her ability to keep it alive.

"I don't know. Better, maybe, because at least I won't be waiting for something that might never come."

"What are you waiting for?" Robin asks. When Dan can only shrug, she tries again. "Let me rephrase that. If you woke up tomorrow and things between you and Phil were, as you've put it in past sessions, 'back to normal', how would you know? What would the indicators of change be?"

Dan doesn't really like to think about it, if he's honest, but he supposes that's kind of the whole point of this therapy thing.

He sighs and looks down at his own hands. "We would just... know. I wouldn't need to teach him things about me, he wouldn't get that look in his eyes I don't understand anymore. We'd just know each other again."

There's a long moment of quiet, then. Dan can't tell if it's because Robin is processing his words or because she's giving him space to keep talking, but it doesn't really matter in the end. He doesn't mind the stretches of silence that happen a few times every session, broken only by the low hum of the office space heater, because he understands the purpose of them.

"You know," she says, still so soft, "that's the way most relationships work, Daniel."

Dan blinks, his long fingers curling into his palms. "What do you mean?" he asks, even though he's pretty sure he knows the answer already.

"I mean that all relationships are based on communication," says Robin. "And from what you've told me since we started seeing each other, it seems to me like you and Phil became most comfortable using non-verbal communication. Am I right in thinking that?"

The one-two tap to the island counter that didn't belong to them: We'll talk about this later. The tentative brush of fingers over Dan's waist while they kiss: Is this okay?

"I think we still are," Dan says, slow. "But it isn't as... seamless, I guess, as it used to be."

"People grow and change," Robin reminds him. "They'll do that even without the trauma the two of you have been through. I know that change is scary, but maybe it's an opportunity for you and Phil to grow together."

Dan looks up and gives her a sardonic little smile. "You're saying that talking is good, actually."

"Of course it is." Robin laughs, and Dan feels that weird sense of pride that he always gets when his therapist thinks he's funny. "I'm not here to tell you what to do or how to live your life, but, yes. Talking is very good, actually."

"Ugh," Dan jokes, relaxing into his chair a bit more.

The lighter mood is a welcome shift, but Dan knows that the undercurrent of anxiety won't go away unless he addresses it. He looks over at the fern, its leaves more or less stationary now that it's too cold for Robin's fan to be running.

"I'm scared," he says, "that if we alter parts of our relationship, it's like we're giving up altogether on the way things were."

"And that's a bad thing?" Robin asks. Dan likes the way she manages to keep her tone level - like she's clarifying, not judging. He wonders if it's a skill he would ever be able to emulate.

"I guess it's more of a different thing than a bad thing," Dan admits. "Because, like. I love him and I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him either way. And I'm always going to wish this didn't happen, because it's not fair and it sucks, but I don't, like, hold it against him or anything. I just can't help... hoping."

It makes guilt settle in Dan's gut every time he voices that, no matter how much Robin - and Phil - assure him that it's a totally reasonable thing for him to be feeling.

He can't shake the niggling doubt that Phil wouldn't be so hung up on the past if the situation was reversed. At first, yeah, sure, he'd have freaked out probably more than Dan had, but Dan can't imagine him being anything but excited about small memories coming back, while Dan still has to hold back waves of disappointment. He knows Phil, every version of Phil, and yet he isn't sure if these doubts are pure paranoia about his own reactions or if they're accurate. It doesn't really matter. He's never going to know for sure.

What he does know, and what he reminds himself of often, is that Phil loves him. They love each other, and they can get through this even if it's scary, if it hurts, if Phil never remembers a single thing again. They'll still be okay. What they've built together is solid, no matter what fleeting worries they might have.

"I think it's very normal to hope," Robin says. She's predictable in her platitudes, but Dan is still glad to hear it. "It does sound scary to come back and rework things in a relationship you thought would stay the same forever. Have there been times in the past that the two of you needed to come back to a boundary or behaviour for whatever reason and say, 'hey, this isn't working for me anymore'?"

"Yeah," Dan says, slowly. He's struggling to think of an example that isn't kink-based. He hates his brain sometimes. "Uh..."

Blessedly, Robin waves a hand in his general direction. "You don't have to tell me. I just want you to think about those times, okay? Remember that you needed to talk this sort of thing through Before, too, just not as often."

Dan can hear the emphasis, the same way he hears it in his own mind. The way he thinks that the fans have probably been using it, if Dan could stomach looking at comments anymore.

"Phil might never be the way he was Before," says Dan. His voice sounds too loud in the soft atmosphere, his heart pounding in his ears the way it does every time he says something like this out loud. "Because. He's different forever now, isn't he. This affected him to his core, temporary or not."

Robin nods, more of a prompt to continue than an agreement, but Dan can't speak past the lump in his throat.

"That may be so," she says. "And the same is true for you, Dan, isn't it?"

It is. Dan wishes it weren't, but it is.

He looks at the leaves of the fern again, admires its healthy hue, as he tries to hold back the wetness threatening to surge uncontrollably to his eyes.

Most of the time, Robin gives him a moment to collect himself. Sometimes, though, she gently pushes.

"So if you don't hold that against Phil, why do you hold it against yourself?"

--

Phil is on the sofa, wrapped in a quilt and concentrating hard on the Crash Bandicoot level he's been trying to beat without Dan's help for the past few days. There are two mugs on the coffee table, bits of steam twisting from them, the weak sun is low in the sky - a downside of winter that Dan forgets about every year until it comes around again - and Phil's got a candle lit.

This place isn't theirs, not really, but the scene looks and smells and feels so much like home that Dan has to steady himself on the doorframe.

The ugly tile, they could have lived with. This, Phil making a cozy nest for them while he waits for Dan because he knows that Dan's always drained after therapy, is something that Dan will never allow himself to live without.

"Hey, you," Dan says when it is clear that Phil is too engaged in the game to notice him.

Crash dies as Phil jumps. An apology is on Dan's lips, but Phil beams up at him and it gets lost somewhere on the way out.

"Jeez, you scared me," Phil laughs. He holds the quilt cocoon open in invitation. That's not something Dan thinks he could ever turn his nose up at. He comes close and settles into the warm space under Phil's arm, pressing a soft kiss to Phil's chest as he does. Phil folds the quilt around them both and kisses Dan's curls. "Hi, love. How was therapy?"

"Hard," Dan rasps out. He snuggles closer, presses himself as close to Phil as he can possibly get in this position. "Don't wanna talk about it yet."

"Okay," says Phil. He squeezes Dan's shoulder. "I made you hot chocolate, when you want it."

Dan closes his eyes and nods, lets the sensation of being loved curl through his body and warm him from the inside.

--

There's a routine. There always has been.

They'll take turns making food for each other, tidy up the flat half-heartedly, work on projects - or, in Dan's current case, spiral over not working on projects - until they start to go cross-eyed, and then they curl up with an episode or four of something they both like until one of them starts to yawn.

It's a good routine, and it works for them, but today Dan stops Phil from opening his laptop with a hand on his wrist.

"I'm not going to stop being picky about our house."

"What?" Phil asks, brow furrowed adorably.

Dan smiles and shifts his grip so that he's holding Phil's hand. "I'm going to be really annoying about it. I'm a perfectionist, and I'm almost as stubborn as you are, and I care about what our forever home looks like."

"Okay," says Phil. He's blinking at Dan like Dan is out of focus, even though his glasses are on. His coffee clearly hasn't kicked in yet.

"And I would appreciate it," Dan continues, "if you would back me up. We're a team, yeah? I'm not asking you to be rude to anyone, just don't, like... contradict me when you don't mean it. I know you knew that kitchen was ugly as fuck."

The corners of Phil's lips curve upwards, and he shrugs. "Yeah. It really was. What the hell were those lights? We're too tall for hanging lights, Dan."

Dan laughs. Maybe talking isn't so bad after all. He rests his chin on Phil's shoulder and noses into his neck, annoying on purpose so he can hear Phil's little huff of laughter as he gets pushed away.

"We are too tall for hanging lights," Dan agrees, warm. "And did you see the showerhead in the third place? It would spray me in the fucking eye."

"But the right place is out there," Phil reminds him, still smiling.

"It's out there," says Dan. He dimples at Phil, leans in for a slow, simple kiss. "We aren't in any rush."

The way Phil grins at him, so uninhibited and happy, makes Dan wish he'd never doubted this. There are moments, there are always moments, when it is harder, but. Dan is so in love with the Phil beside him right now that he can't even conjure up that disappointment if he wanted to.

"We aren't?" Phil checks, teasing. He wraps both arms around Dan instead of reaching for his laptop again.

Dan likes that Phil isn't so focused on work now, hasn't had the lived experience of settling into such a never-ending schedule of videos, tweets, Instagram stories, liveshows. He still does all those things now, despite Dan's worries, it's just not as all-consuming as it used to be.

"No," says Dan. He knows he's smiling, he can feel it.

"I'm glad your biological clock isn't ticking," Phil teases, tickling Dan's sides, and Dan laughs to cover the pang he feels.

That's a conversation he doesn't know how to have, now. They'd never made solid plans, always a 'someday', after the house and the dog and the telling Dan's family.

They're halfway through that list, but Dan can't imagine bringing that up to Phil at this point. He knows damn well that Phil hadn't wanted kids at the mental age he's at now, and he really doesn't want to see the meerkat face of pure panic.

Instead, Dan pushes that worry down and crawls into Phil's lap. "Mm, not yet," he says, deflecting easily. "You wanna do something today?"

"I've got some work to do," Phil says, apologetic. He squeezes Dan's hips. "Maybe later?"

"Overworking yourself is a habit I really wish you wouldn't fall into again," Dan murmurs, brushing his thumbs over the sharp angles of Phil's cheeks to soften the harshness of his words. "It's not good for you."

It would be easy for Phil to wave off the concern like it's no big deal or to coolly point out that one of them ought to be working, but he just smiles at Dan.

"Okay," he agrees, far more easily than he ever would have Before. "Have you got something in mind?"

Dan doesn't, but he can make decisions on the fly a lot easier than Phil can. "Dunno. Let's get out of the house for a bit, yeah? There's that vegan cafe I've been wanting to try."

To Phil's credit, he barely pulls a face.

"Vegan cafe?"

"Yeah," Dan laughs, presses his open mouth against Phil's jaw for a moment. "I mean, Adrian recommended it - my brother, Adrian - and he's, like, way better about the vegan thing than I am, so. Figured he probably knows what he's talking about."

Phil's eyes light up the tiniest bit. "You've been talking to your brother?"

No. Dan's been stalking Adrian's Instagrams every day since his brother came back to England for Christmas, watching the stories about food and marathons and yeah, maybe wondering what it would be like to be told about all of it firsthand. It's always worst in the weeks leading up to Christmas, the way Dan's goblin brain likes to compare his tenuous relationships with his family to other people - to the Lesters, specifically.

It's hard to be jealous of a thing you've been invited into with open arms, and yet Dan's mind has managed it.

He doesn't know how to explain that to Phil, not when he knows exactly how unreasonable it is, so he just shrugs. "No, saw it on his Insta story the other day."

Phil is too good at that carefully neutral expression, but Dan doesn't mind this time. He doesn't want to see the judgement that he's sure is just under the surface, not when he's still trying to shake the joke about kids.

"Okay," Phil says. "You'll have to get off me so we can get dressed, though."

--

The sun is beating down on Dan's skin, making him feel hot all over and lazy with it. He stretches out on the blanket underneath him and hums, contentment seeping all the way to his bones.

Lips are pressed to the back of his neck, across his shoulders, down his spine, and he feels his toes curl.

"Feels nice," he murmurs.

"Yeah?" When Phil laughs, the hot exhale of breath against Dan's bare skin makes him shiver despite the heat. "This was your idea, you little rat, don't fall asleep on me."

Dan can't remember his line. He supposes it doesn't really matter, in this hazy dream of a memory. He just wiggles in invitation and makes a low, happy noise when Phil's weight settles properly on top of him.

In reality, he'd gotten sunscreen rubbed into his shoulders and a trail of feather-light kisses in the wake of Phil's hands before Phil made him sit up and eat the sandwiches Dan had brought with them. The beach was private, but so was Phil, and Dan couldn't say no to a picnic he'd been the one to insist on, in any case.

This time, Dan's subconscious wants a different ending. The kisses on his back turn to bites, and he arches into the phantom feeling with a soft groan.

"Dan," Phil says in his ear. He sounds strained in a way Dan didn't expect. "Bear, wake up."

Dan doesn't want to wake up. He wants to chase the warm feelings of pleasure that his dream is promising him. He huffs unhappily and shakes his head, burying his face further into his own arms.

"Seriously, Dan," says Phil, and the tinge of panic is enough to pull Dan completely out of the dream.

Grumbling a bit, Dan blinks his eyes open and takes stock of the situation. He's got his face buried in Phil's chest, not his pillow, and an arm and a leg draped over him carelessly. It's not that unusual of a cuddle to wake up in, but when Dan shifts to get more comfortable, he realises the problem. He's managed to press his dream-induced arousal into the dip of Phil's hip, and he's probably been grinding against it in his sleep.

"Aw, fuck," he groans, rolling onto his back and tossing an arm over his face to hide his blush. "Christ, sorry, I didn't mean to, fucking - sorry."

"I mean, I don't mind." Phil laughs, low and rough from sleep. That fucking laugh. It doesn't help Dan's situation. He also sounds relieved, now that Dan isn't trapping him against the mattress. "But you were sleeping. I didn't want you to be upset when you woke up."

"This is humiliating," Dan informs him.

He feels Phil shrug, their shoulders brushing together. "Not really. I mean, it's fine, you're just a deeper sleeper than me."

"It's stupid," Dan insists, "that we aren't having sex. This is the longest we've ever gone without having sex, and it's my stupid fault, and -"

"Hey," says Phil. His soft, steady hands pull Dan's arm off his face. He props himself up on his side and smiles at Dan, unfocused gaze somewhere around Dan's eyebrows. "Stop that. I don't care."

"How do you not care?" Dan huffs. "All I cared about when I was twenty was getting fucked."

Phil laughs. "Yeah, okay, maybe being in my thirties has caught up to me."

"It has not," says Dan. "Trust me."

"Okay, but you don't want to," Phil says, and Dan feels guilt settle in his gut despite Phil's easy tone. "And I know that. D'you think I've just been sitting here resenting you for it?"

Yes.

Even though Phil doesn't have his glasses on to see Dan, something about Dan's silence must give him away. Phil furrows his brow, humour dropping, and puts his palm over Dan's chest.

"I haven't," Phil says, so earnest with it that Dan wants to cry. "I get why you don't want to, and even if I didn't get it, I'd still be fine with it."

"I should be able to fuck my boyfriend," Dan informs the ceiling, unable to keep looking at Phil while he's exuding pure sincerity. "Hell, I should be able to snog my boyfriend, and I can't even do that without freaking the fuck out. What if it doesn't go away? What if I'm always like this, now? What if you always feel like a stranger, Phil, what then?"

The room is quiet for a couple of beats while Dan tries not to cry while he's got a semi. Phil's hand over his heart is the only thing grounding him from going into a proper spiral.

"First of all, I'm your fiancé," says Phil.

That isn't a response Dan expected. He looks back at Phil, expecting to see a teasing lilt to his mouth, but Phil is still all wide-eyed genuineness. Dan's heart aches.

"I think that makes it worse, probably," Dan whispers.

"Second of all," Phil says like Dan hasn't spoken, "I'm not a dickhead. If you don't want to snog me, we won't snog. If you do, we will. I get that you feel guilty, but like... so do I, babe. Neither of us are the same people anymore, yeah? It's not anyone's fault."

"I guess..."

Phil rolls his eyes. "I love you, not your cock, you absolute idiot."

Giggles burst past Dan's lips before he can stop them, and Phil snorts. They're both laughing softly, then, Phil's forehead pressed to Dan's shoulder and Dan's fingers covering his own mouth.

"D'you even remember my cock?" Dan teases. He yelps when Phil pinches his side, squirming away from it.

"Remember your mum's cock," Phil grumbles.

It's crude and it makes no goddamn sense and both of them are wheezing before long as they trade stupid, sleepy banter and roll around, poking and pinching and tickling.

The guilt is still there, simmering on a low boil in Dan's stomach, but he can work that out in therapy. He's got no reason not to believe Phil except his own paranoia, so. He's going to try.

--

Dan pushes and pulls at the boundaries while Phil follows his lead, ever patient about the experimentation. Is this okay?, Dan asks when he starts getting changed in the same room as Phil again, his fingers under the waistband of his pants and his teeth working at his lower lip. Is this okay?, Phil asks in response when his mouth finds the underside of Dan's jaw, the curve of Dan's ear, the sensitive pulse point of Dan's neck that makes him gasp.

It isn't always. But they're working on it, they're asking, they're a team even in this, and Dan starts to feel that hope again.

--

Normally, Dan doesn't answer his phone to unknown numbers. He's a proper millennial - if someone wants to get ahold of him, they can text him, leave a voicemail, or call Phil.

But he's bored, idly cleaning the house while Phil runs errands, and he's all too happy to distract himself from watching Phil's Instagram story from Starbucks for the umpteenth time since it was posted. So he answers it, expecting to tell a telemarketer to fuck off.

"Hullo?" he says, rearranging the mugs in their too-full cupboard by colour.

"May I speak to Daniel Howell?"

Dan gives up on sorting their alarmingly large collection of mugs and takes one out to start making himself a coffee instead. "Speaking. Who's this?"

"Hi, Daniel," the woman on the line says, kindly professional and clipped like she's in a bit of a rush. "I'm calling from St. Joseph's. You're listed as the emergency contact for -"

"Phil," Dan breathes, his blood rushing to his ears and making him dizzy. He barely hangs on to the mug, gripping tight enough to hurt his palm so it doesn't shatter on the tile. "Phil Lester, right? What happened? Is he hurt?"

"He has no serious injuries," she assures him quickly. "Mr. Lester fainted in a public place and was brought in by a member of the public."

Fuck. Fuck, not again.

Dan puts the mug down and starts searching for keys, socks, a jacket. "Fuck," he says out loud, not concerned at all about swearing at a stranger. He's sure she's lovely. "Fuck, alright, St. Joseph's? In A&E, right? I'll be there in, like, fucking. Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Is he awake?"

"He's awake, but he’s confused. Come to the front desk at A&E and we'll get you sorted."

Before she can say anything else, Dan hangs up on her. He's going to hyperventilate if he has to listen to this any more. It takes him a moment to collect himself, remember that it doesn't help anybody for him to fall apart right now, and then he's grabbing his things and rushing out the door.

--

"I'm fine," Phil is insisting blearily, trying to wave the nurse away from inspecting the small cut on his forehead.

"You hit the pavement," the nurse says, patient, and Dan wants to strangle himself for not joining Phil when he left the flat this morning. "I need to clean this, Philip, so we can see if you need any stitches."

"I don't," says Phil. He's slurring a bit, and that fucking terrifies Dan. "Don't need em."

The nurse, admirably, does not roll his eyes. "I'll be the judge of that, alright? Please stay still for me."

Phil opens his mouth to protest again, and Dan has to step in before Phil's stubbornness gets the better of all of them. His heart is in his fucking throat as he steps closer to Phil's bed, hands shoved in his pockets so nobody can see them shaking.

"Phil, c'mon, let him do his job," Dan says, quiet out of respect for the people around them.

He's practically frozen when Phil looks at him and blinks, confused. Dan hasn't thrown an actual temper tantrum since he was a kid, but this is the kind of thing that could make him scream and break shit. He watches Phil's eyes, round and bewildered behind his broken glasses, and he holds his breath as he waits for the moment of truth.

"Dan," Phil says, and Dan could fucking pass out himself from how relieved he is. "What're you doing here? They're saying I fainted, did I faint?"

"You did," says Dan. He makes eye contact with the nurse before carefully sitting at the foot of Phil's bed. The nurse doesn't ask him to move, so he doesn't. "I wasn't with you, the hospital called me. D'you... do you remember what happened?"

It's more of a loaded question than Dan really wants it to be. Phil still looks confused, and he's trying to wave away the nurse's hand again, so Dan takes both of Phil's hands in his own and squeezes them reassuringly.

Dan is tempted to glance up at the nurse, to look around at all the strangers who might be staring at them, but he honestly couldn't give a toss right now if someone wants to give them a dirty look. Anyway it's unlikely that, in this particular room, anybody cares about two men holding hands.

"You don't need stitches," the nurse announces after a moment. Dan still doesn't let go of Phil's hands. "I'll be back in a moment, okay, Philip? We're going to need to get you a CT scan as soon as possible."

"I don't wanna," Phil groans.

"Well, tough," the nurse says easily enough, and Dan is surprised into laughing. He catches the small smile on the nurse's face before he moves away from the bed, and Dan wonders how Phil can still be so charming to strangers when he's acting like a drunk, pigheaded toddler.

"You know who I am?" Dan checks once they're left more or less alone, brushing his thumbs over the back of Phil's hands.

"Yeah, there's," Phil says, frowning like he doesn't know what comes next. After a moment, he shrugs. "I dunno. Doesn't feel like anything else is, er, gone? Feel the same. Just, like. Confused."

He's less coherent than he'd been in their kitchen all those months ago, and that scares the shit out of Dan. He tries not to let that show, because the last thing he needs is to add to Phil's confusion and anxiety or exacerbate his own.

"I'm glad," Dan jokes weakly instead. "Don't know what I'd do if you forgot me again, mate."

"I'd still love you," Phil says, a little nonsensical.

Dan laughs wetly, his eyes welling up despite himself. "Yeah. I'd make you fall in love with me over and over like, fucking, that Adam Sandler movie or something."

"I dunno that one."

"That's okay. I would."

"Good." Phil smiles at him, a little goofily, and raises Dan's hands to kiss his knuckles. That's a little more intimate than Dan usually cares to be in public, but. Whatever. He's fighting a losing battle with his emotions already. "Mm. Marry me?"

A traitorous tear slips out and Dan huffs a laugh, taking one of his hands back to wipe at his eyes. "I already said yes."

"You said yes but not right now," Phil reminds him, and Dan's heart swells with the confirmation that Phil is still in there. "Yes but later. Well, it's later, isn't it?"

"Is this really the best time?" Dan asks, but he can feel the grin stretching his face.

"Yes, it is." Phil reaches up and pokes Dan's cheek, right in his dimple. "Boop," he stage-whispers.

Dan's laughing then, and crying, everything bubbling up and making him a bit hysterical with it. He presses his lips to the corner of Phil's mouth, because he doesn't care. He doesn't care who sees, he's going to kiss his fiancé. He does remember where they are, though, so he pulls back and giggles at Phil's pout.

He taps once, twice, on Phil's knee. We'll talk about this later.

[lazulia-fics]

Numbers (Starlight Express fanfiction, Purse/Krupp, NSFW)

Purse has been up for hours handling the finances, and Krupp thinks it’s about time for a break. 

Contains very little plot, a lot of sex, improper use of a desk, a cheeky playful Krupp, and Purse wearing glasses (yes hello how come we’ve never discussed Purse wearing sexy glasses while doing some accounting work?) No real kinks here, just typical friskiness. 

A silly, plotless, racy little Prupp thing for @karack1871​. Enjoy, luv. :3

Purse sighed and slid his glasses off, rubbing his temple. He knew he’d been at this too long when the numbers and formulas on the spreadsheet began to dance and turn into ancient hieroglyphics. A headache was looming dangerously close. A break would probably be in order, but Purse hated leaving any work unfinished, especially when it came to the delicate task of balancing the monthly budget.

Starlight only knew why Electra needed $700 worth of organic body glitter, but apparently he needed it to live, and of course Purse was the one who needed to sort out the receipts, one of which was still missing before he could balance his books. He slid his glasses back on, bringing up a second document with a purchase history, and tried to make the numbers turn into numbers again.

“Busy?”

“What the f--!” Purse jumped, sending a stylus clattering to the floor. Whirling around in his chair, he gave Krupp a suitably affronted look as he clasped his chest. If that happened again, Electra wasn’t going to be the only one with a heart monitor on his chest. “How? How do you do that?”

“Do what?” Krupp asked, the very picture of innocence. The armaments truck had rolled up right behind Purse’s chair and stood with his arms crossed, dark shades perched on his nose. He looked expressionless, but Purse didn’t miss the tiny quirk on the side of his mouth.

Purse huffed and collected the stylus from the floor. “You’re the hugest truck of us all and you still somehow manage to sneak up on me. All the time. How do you roll so quietly when you probably weigh twice as much as I do?”

Krupp pressed a hand to his own chest, his innocence intensifying. “Are you saying you expect me to be clumsy? What kind of bodyguard would I be if I tripped over my own wheels all the time?”

“One who wouldn’t give me a heart attack? And shouldn’t you be off bodyguarding instead of interrupting my work?”

“Guarding who? It’s almost two in the morning. Everyone’s asleep.”

Purse frowned, blinked, and finally glanced at the wall clock. Wait, had he really been working on that spreadsheet for four hours? He felt a little vexed that he’d likely missed any pre-bedtime sex with Electra and the others. Was Krupp here to gloat about his absence?

“I didn’t realize it was so late. How come you’re still awake?”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Right,” Purse deadpanned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess, Electra kicked you out of bed?”

“Wrench did, actually. She was asleep, but she can still deliver a nice shove when she stretches.”

Electra’s bed generally had no problem accommodating all six of them, but that didn’t account for some of the Components’ tendency to sprawl out. Purse had gotten booted out by a sleepy kick or an arse to the face on more than one occasion.

“And you decided to come sleep here?”

“I sleep standing up,” Krupp said grandly. “Always on alert.” He rolled forward and closed the distance between himself and Purse’s chair, delicately taking Purse’s glasses off and placing them on the desk. “As for you, it’s time for bed.” 

“I’m not going to sleep until I finish my numbers,” Purse said, though he made no move to stop Krupp from taking his glasses. Nor to stop Krupp as he slipped off his own shades and tossed them on the desk. When the shades came off, it only meant one thing, and Purse rarely said no to that. Not when he had the handsome, hefty armaments truck all to himself.  

“I said nothing about sleep. We missed you tonight. I missed you tonight.” 

He thought about putting up a token protest when Krupp kissed him. He really did need to balance this budget, but what could he do when a pair of strong hands was suddenly lifting him out of his chair, kneading his rear and pressing him to grind against the other truck? He was helpless, Purse reasoned as he anchored himself on Krupp’s broad shoulders and added tongue and a moan to the kiss.

Krupp backed him into the desk, pressing into the welcoming juncture of Purse’s body, and it was only when Purse felt one of the big hands leave his body and start to reach for his carefully-arranged papers and receipts on the desk that he broke the kiss.

“If you sweep everything off my desk, I swear to the Starlight Express I’m going to have Joule set you on fire.”

Krupp hesitated, and carefully stacked the ledgers and papers out of the way before grabbing Purse’s thighs, lifting him and setting him on the edge of the desk. The firm hands then released their grip, gently trailing up and down Purse’s thighs, sending thrilling little shocks of pleasure up and down his supple body.

“I’d better not be sitting on my glasses,” Purse panted, firmly taking Krupp’s face between his hands and pulling him in for another kiss, heat and lust heavy on his breath as they pulled apart. “I’ve still got numbers to—mmm.”

Krupp’s hands were maddeningly gentle on his thighs, drawing little circles higher and higher until his thumbs brushed the scalding-hot metal between Purse’s legs. “I knew you liked your job but I didn’t realize numbers got you that excited.”

A sassy retort ended up devolving into a sassy moan as Krupp drew teasing little circles around the latches of his plating until a rather insistent hip thrust made him hurry up, removing the plating and releasing Purse’s hard spike. 

Two long, slow strokes and suddenly the bulk of Krupp’s body was gone, and it took Purse a hazy second to realize the armaments truck was now on his knees in front of the desk. Purse’s smug smile turned into an open-mouthed groan as Krupp gently bit the inside of his thigh before taking the hot, slick spike into his mouth.

It was the sight as much as the sensation that made Purse moan and twitch. Krupp submissive, on his knees, mouth full of spike, bobbing gently. The spell was slightly broken when Krupp glanced up at him with an insufferably cheeky look in his eyes—and now Purse remembered why the shades were a staple of the other truck’s appearance. Krupp was strong, and Krupp was stoic, but when Krupp got into a teasing mood, only the sturdiest and darkest eyewear could contain his playful expression.

Purse groaned breathily, balancing himself on the edge of the desk with one hand and holding onto Krupp’s head with the other, encouraging the motion as his spike hit the back of Krupp’s throat with every bob. “I could… hmm, I could almost balance a ledger right here,” he said, caressing the top of Krupp’s head, taking pleasure in the way Krupp’s eyes lost the sparkle of playfulness and went dark with affront. “Get a bit of work done while you’re so busy down there…”

It didn’t take much to get Krupp worked up, nor to kindle the fire of dominance. He wasn’t planning on being second best to some accounting work. He worked his mouth for a few more seconds as his hand travelled up Purse’s thigh and pressed at his slick entrance, earning a breathy moan.

Krupp let the spike slip from his mouth before he straightened up, towering over Purse while his fingers pressed in abruptly, making Purse yelp in pleasure as though shocked, scrabbling for leverage on the desk. His hand landed on a calculator and he flicked it out of the way as Krupp leaned right in.

“Turn around and bend over,” he growled, unclipping his plating. “I’ll show you how to get some work done.”

The innuendo didn’t quite make sense but Purse was too polite, and much too aroused, to point it out. He hurriedly obeyed and rolled over, laying his chest out against his desk and balancing on the tips of his wheels, swaying his hips to make things a little more alluring, as though it was somehow necessary to encourage Krupp to run his large hands along the perfect curve of Purse’s back, to rest it against the equally perfect curve of his ass. Purse had no qualms about his body; he was alluring, and he knew it.

The large hands pulled his thighs apart an inch wider, settled on his hips, and Purse made a strangled sort of huff as Krupp entered him. Ooh, Starlight, he sometimes forgot to really take a moment and appreciate how big Krupp was. That initial burning stretch was always so good and it wasn’t long before the room was filled with the soft wet sounds of Krupp slamming into him. “Oh yessss….”

The rough thrusts left Purse shivering, alive with sensation, his cheek pressed tight to the wooden surface of the desk. Krupp’s hand moved and found a sensitive spot right by Purse’s hip joint, a move that was always guaranteed to leave him moaning and panting shamelessly, and as he did his breaths sent a small pile of receipts scattering.

Was that…? Purse peeled one hand away from the desk to pick up one of the wayward receipts. Wait a minute, it was! $210 for pineapple-scented body glitter. In between the hard, rocking thrusts, Purse reached for his ledger and flipped it open.  

“Seriously?” Krupp said between halting breaths. “Are you actually doing work?”

“I was looking for this earlier,” Purse said, his cheek still pressed to the desk, holding up the receipt as though it would somehow sway Krupp. “Hand me my glasses?”

A low growl was his answer, followed by the abrupt pulling out of the spike from inside him. All of a sudden he was lifted, turned around, and slammed flat on his back on the desk in a motion that made the breath, and the thought of work, rush from his body. Krupp spread his thighs, grabbed his hips, and in a moment they were connected again, and Purse moaned wantonly as the spike slammed to the hilt inside him. “If you so much as think about numbers…”

Okay, so Purse did take the time to put the wayward receipt down so it wouldn’t fly away, but the moment his hands were free, he used them to grab Krupp’s neck struts and pull him down into a bruising kiss as his legs wrapped around the armament truck’s hips, goading him into movement. When Krupp got a little rough, things always got a little better, and all of a sudden the thought of numbers was replaced by the delicious electric shock of pleasure as Krupp pressed hard and deep inside him.

“Harder!”

The desk rattled, pounded against the wall, and something clattered to the ground—and the fact that Purse didn’t care what it was a testament to how good this was. Krupp’s breath was hot on his face, coupled with a tiny, self-satisfied smile as one of those big, strong hands went searching between their bodies and teased Purse’s spike.

“Oh Starlight! Oh yes--”

That was all he needed, arching back on the desk and crushing Krupp’s hips between his thighs as he came hotly between their bodies. The desk continued to rattle until a low, growling groan and a glowing heat inside his body signaled Krupp’s climax.

Purse relaxed, a smile of pure satisfaction on his face as he tucked one hand behind his head, gratefully stroking Krupp’s back with the other. This was exactly what he needed. He tried not to make a sound of disappointment as Krupp raised himself up, gently pulling out of the money truck’s body and reaching for his shades.

“Should I leave you to your numbers now?” Krupp said, leaning in for a tender parting kiss.

That was as far as he got before Purse threw his arms around Krupp’s neck, leapt off the desk, and spun them around. The desk creaked for mercy under the weight of the armaments truck as Purse pushed him down onto his back and straddled his hips. With a lascivious grin, he took the shades from Krupp’s hands and tossed them back on the desk, brushing their lips together.

“I think the budget can wait until tomorrow.”

[delphicoracle-queen]

Numbers (Starlight Express fanfiction, Purse/Krupp, NSFW)

Purse has been up for hours handling the finances, and Krupp thinks it’s about time for a break.

Contains very little plot, a lot of sex, improper use of a desk, a cheeky playful Krupp, and Purse wearing glasses (yes hello how come we’ve never discussed Purse wearing sexy glasses while doing some accounting work?) No real kinks here, just typical friskiness.

Purse sighed and slid his glasses off, rubbing his temple. He knew he’d been at this too long when the numbers and formulas on the spreadsheet began to dance and turn into ancient hieroglyphics. A headache was looming dangerously close. A break would probably be in order, but Purse hated leaving any work unfinished, especially when it came to the delicate task of balancing the monthly budget.

Starlight only knew why Electra needed $700 worth of organic body glitter, but apparently he needed it to live, and of course Purse was the one who needed to sort out the receipts, one of which was still missing before he could balance his books. He slid his glasses back on, bringing up a second document with a purchase history, and tried to make the numbers turn into numbers again.

“Busy?”

“What the f–!” Purse jumped, sending a stylus clattering to the floor. Whirling around in his chair, he gave Krupp a suitably affronted look as he clasped his chest. If that happened again, Electra wasn’t going to be the only one with a heart monitor on his chest. “How? How do you do that?”

“Do what?” Krupp asked, the very picture of innocence. The armaments truck had rolled up right behind Purse’s chair and stood with his arms crossed, dark shades perched on his nose. He looked expressionless, but Purse didn’t miss the tiny quirk on the side of his mouth.

Purse huffed and collected the stylus from the floor. “You’re the hugest truck of us all and you still somehow manage to sneak up on me. All the time. How do you roll so quietly when you probably weigh twice as much as I do?”

Krupp pressed a hand to his own chest, his innocence intensifying. “Are you saying you expect me to be clumsy? What kind of bodyguard would I be if I tripped over my own wheels all the time?”

“One who wouldn’t give me a heart attack? And shouldn’t you be off bodyguarding instead of interrupting my work?”

“Guarding who? It’s almost two in the morning. Everyone’s asleep.”

Purse frowned, blinked, and finally glanced at the wall clock. Wait, had he really been working on that spreadsheet for four hours? He felt a little vexed that he’d likely missed any pre-bedtime sex with Electra and the others. Was Krupp here to gloat about his absence?

“I didn’t realize it was so late. How come you’re still awake?”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Right,” Purse deadpanned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess, Electra kicked you out of bed?”

“Wrench did, actually. She was asleep, but she can still deliver a nice shove when she stretches.”

Electra’s bed generally had no problem accommodating all six of them, but that didn’t account for some of the Components’ tendency to sprawl out. Purse had gotten booted out by a sleepy kick or an arse to the face on more than one occasion.

“And you decided to come sleep here?”

“I sleep standing up,” Krupp said grandly. “Always on alert.” He rolled forward and closed the distance between himself and Purse’s chair, delicately taking Purse’s glasses off and placing them on the desk. “As for you, it’s time for bed.”

“I’m not going to sleep until I finish my numbers,” Purse said, though he made no move to stop Krupp from taking his glasses. Nor to stop Krupp as he slipped off his own shades and tossed them on the desk. When the shades came off, it only meant one thing, and Purse rarely said no to that. Not when he had the handsome, hefty armaments truck all to himself.  

“I said nothing about sleep. We missed you tonight. I missed you tonight.”

He thought about putting up a token protest when Krupp kissed him. He really did need to balance this budget, but what could he do when a pair of strong hands was suddenly lifting him out of his chair, kneading his rear and pressing him to grind against the other truck? He was helpless, Purse reasoned as he anchored himself on Krupp’s broad shoulders and added tongue and a moan to the kiss.

Krupp backed him into the desk, pressing into the welcoming juncture of Purse’s body, and it was only when Purse felt one of the big hands leave his body and start to reach for his carefully-arranged papers and receipts on the desk that he broke the kiss.

“If you sweep everything off my desk, I swear to the Starlight Express I’m going to have Joule set you on fire.”

Krupp hesitated, and carefully stacked the ledgers and papers out of the way before grabbing Purse’s thighs, lifting him and setting him on the edge of the desk. The firm hands then released their grip, gently trailing up and down Purse’s thighs, sending thrilling little shocks of pleasure up and down his supple body.

“I’d better not be sitting on my glasses,” Purse panted, firmly taking Krupp’s face between his hands and pulling him in for another kiss, heat and lust heavy on his breath as they pulled apart. “I’ve still got numbers to—mmm.”

Krupp’s hands were maddeningly gentle on his thighs, drawing little circles higher and higher until his thumbs brushed the scalding-hot metal between Purse’s legs. “I knew you liked your job but I didn’t realize numbers got you that excited.”

A sassy retort ended up devolving into a sassy moan as Krupp drew teasing little circles around the latches of his plating until a rather insistent hip thrust made him hurry up, removing the plating and releasing Purse’s hard spike.

Two long, slow strokes and suddenly the bulk of Krupp’s body was gone, and it took Purse a hazy second to realize the armaments truck was now on his knees in front of the desk. Purse’s smug smile turned into an open-mouthed groan as Krupp gently bit the inside of his thigh before taking the hot, slick spike into his mouth.

It was the sight as much as the sensation that made Purse moan and twitch. Krupp submissive, on his knees, mouth full of spike, bobbing gently. The spell was slightly broken when Krupp glanced up at him with an insufferably cheeky look in his eyes—and now Purse remembered why the shades were a staple of the other truck’s appearance. Krupp was strong, and Krupp was stoic, but when Krupp got into a teasing mood, only the sturdiest and darkest eyewear could contain his playful expression.

Purse groaned breathily, balancing himself on the edge of the desk with one hand and holding onto Krupp’s head with the other, encouraging the motion as his spike hit the back of Krupp’s throat with every bob. “I could… hmm, I could almost balance a ledger right here,” he said, caressing the top of Krupp’s head, taking pleasure in the way Krupp’s eyes lost the sparkle of playfulness and went dark with affront. “Get a bit of work done while you’re so busy down there…”

It didn’t take much to get Krupp worked up, nor to kindle the fire of dominance. He wasn’t planning on being second best to some accounting work. He worked his mouth for a few more seconds as his hand travelled up Purse’s thigh and pressed at his slick entrance, earning a breathy moan.

Krupp let the spike slip from his mouth before he straightened up, towering over Purse while his fingers pressed in abruptly, making Purse yelp in pleasure as though shocked, scrabbling for leverage on the desk. His hand landed on a calculator and he flicked it out of the way as Krupp leaned right in.

“Turn around and bend over,” he growled, unclipping his plating. “I’ll show you how to get some work done.”

The innuendo didn’t quite make sense but Purse was too polite, and much too aroused, to point it out. He hurriedly obeyed and rolled over, laying his chest out against his desk and balancing on the tips of his wheels, swaying his hips to make things a little more alluring, as though it was somehow necessary to encourage Krupp to run his large hands along the perfect curve of Purse’s back, to rest it against the equally perfect curve of his ass. Purse had no qualms about his body; he was alluring, and he knew it.

The large hands pulled his thighs apart an inch wider, settled on his hips, and Purse made a strangled sort of huff as Krupp entered him. Ooh, Starlight, he sometimes forgot to really take a moment and appreciate how big Krupp was. That initial burning stretch was always so good and it wasn’t long before the room was filled with the soft wet sounds of Krupp slamming into him. “Oh yessss….”

The rough thrusts left Purse shivering, alive with sensation, his cheek pressed tight to the wooden surface of the desk. Krupp’s hand moved and found a sensitive spot right by Purse’s hip joint, a move that was always guaranteed to leave him moaning and panting shamelessly, and as he did his breaths sent a small pile of receipts scattering.

Was that…? Purse peeled one hand away from the desk to pick up one of the wayward receipts. Wait a minute, it was! $210 for pineapple-scented body glitter. In between the hard, rocking thrusts, Purse reached for his ledger and flipped it open.  

“Seriously?” Krupp said between halting breaths. “Are you actually doing work?”

“I was looking for this earlier,” Purse said, his cheek still pressed to the desk, holding up the receipt as though it would somehow sway Krupp. “Hand me my glasses?”

A low growl was his answer, followed by the abrupt pulling out of the spike from inside him. All of a sudden he was lifted, turned around, and slammed flat on his back on the desk in a motion that made the breath, and the thought of work, rush from his body. Krupp spread his thighs, grabbed his hips, and in a moment they were connected again, and Purse moaned wantonly as the spike slammed to the hilt inside him. “If you so much as think about numbers…”

Okay, so Purse did take the time to put the wayward receipt down so it wouldn’t fly away, but the moment his hands were free, he used them to grab Krupp’s neck struts and pull him down into a bruising kiss as his legs wrapped around the armament truck’s hips, goading him into movement. When Krupp got a little rough, things always got a little better, and all of a sudden the thought of numbers was replaced by the delicious electric shock of pleasure as Krupp pressed hard and deep inside him.

“Harder!”

The desk rattled, pounded against the wall, and something clattered to the ground—and the fact that Purse didn’t care what it was a testament to how good this was. Krupp’s breath was hot on his face, coupled with a tiny, self-satisfied smile as one of those big, strong hands went searching between their bodies and teased Purse’s spike.

“Oh Starlight! Oh yes–”

That was all he needed, arching back on the desk and crushing Krupp’s hips between his thighs as he came hotly between their bodies. The desk continued to rattle until a low, growling groan and a glowing heat inside his body signaled Krupp’s climax.

Purse relaxed, a smile of pure satisfaction on his face as he tucked one hand behind his head, gratefully stroking Krupp’s back with the other. This was exactly what he needed. He tried not to make a sound of disappointment as Krupp raised himself up, gently pulling out of the money truck’s body and reaching for his shades.

“Should I leave you to your numbers now?” Krupp said, leaning in for a tender parting kiss.

That was as far as he got before Purse threw his arms around Krupp’s neck, leapt off the desk, and spun them around. The desk creaked for mercy under the weight of the armaments truck as Purse pushed him down onto his back and straddled his hips. With a lascivious grin, he took the shades from Krupp’s hands and tossed them back on the desk, brushing their lips together.

“I think the budget can wait until tomorrow.”