#nothing happens on screen but it it's referenced/implied

[yarn-dragon]

Whumptober Day 26! Sil takes first watch, she will come to regret it

[alfredsmanor]

Here’s another short fic I posted on AO3.

The basic premise of this AU is that Emily’s second attempt to escape the Golden Cat, after she found out about the VIP exit and before Prudence locked it, completely succeeded instead of being foiled at the last minute. She traded her princess outfit to Griff for some old clothes and coin, and after the coin ran out Griff introduced Emily to Slackjaw and a 16 year old Bottle Street Gang member named Giles. Slackjaw offered Emily a job working as a mudlark for the Bottle Street Gang. Slackjaw is the Bottle Street Gang’s CEO, but Giles is the person who’s in charge of the mudlarks from day to day. Emily has co-workers who are more or less her age, their names are Gill, Caleb, Tom, Anne, and Tracey. Emily goes by Alice, Al for short. She deliberately chose to use a girls name as her full alias, but then a boy's nickname.

I am working on a long multichapter fic in this AU but this conversation was in my head fully formed and I needed to get it out. I hope by posting it I can generate some enthusiasm for the bigger project and find a beta for the long fic. I will probably take this fic down if I ever reach the point where the two scenes in this fic are incorporated into the longer work.

[currently-becoming-potatoes]

List of words for the computer:

LONG POST- more under the cut

STANFORD- Pulls up a file on Stanford Pines, written by an unknown scientist. It discusses his extra finger and praises his intelligence, as well as calling him the “next evolution in the human species”.

BILL CIPHER- Takes you to the Wikipedia page for the Eye of Providence. Also took me to a Sesame Street video about a Jazzy Triangle and a Square. Not sure what prompted the change.

STANLEY PINES: Takes you to a list of EBay listings for brass knuckles.

FIDDLEFORD: Takes you to the music video for Cotton Eye Joe by Rednex.

SHERMIE: Nothing. I sure do wish we got some lore about Grandpa Pines.

GRAVITY FALLS: The text on the computer reads “never heard of it” and the red light on the bottom turns green.

ALEX HIRSCH: Leads to Google Images for “flannel”. Huh.

WEIRDMAGEDDON: Pulls up an article from the Gravity Falls Gossiper about how nothing happened at all and there was no apocalypse.

DISNEY: Screen reads “rat.gif censored for your protection”

SOOS: Leads to a page of writing from Soos himself, referencing many things (including Tad Strange being gay and madly in love with Woodpecker Guy. Love wins!!!)

DIPPER: Leads to a creepy yellow parchment with a message from Bill Cipher himself trying to trick Dipper into blinding himself by staring at the sun for 13 hours straight! Silly! (Also if you keep clicking on it, the page gets darker and blurrier until it implies we've gone blind)

MABEL: Causes stickers to appear on every available surface. Clicking it enough times leads to message “lab now fully Mabelized”.

WENDY: Leads to a note from Wendy that mentions a way to ward off evil triangles written in the bottom corner of the book.

GIDEON: Makes a web recording of Gideon scatting play. It ends with “I love you forever Mabel”. Please shut the fuck up you little creep.

TAD STRANGE: Plays a video of bread with smooth jazz in the background.

TOBY DETERMINED: Leads to a Google search for a restraining order. Holyyyyy shittttttt

WHO ARE YOU: “I could ask you the same question”

SEASON 3: “Season Two”. I guess that’s that lol

This was about all I could find. Please reblog with anything else you can discover! Thank you, fellow Gravity Falls enjoyers!

And make sure to give some love to all the wonderful folks down in the comments! Many of these answers and tips come from what they've found. I can't list everyone, unfortunately- I didn't expect this post to get popular- but, to everyone who's helped out, THANK YOU.

FURTHER EDITS:

BLIND EYE: Pulls up an optometrist’s eye exam. Each line reads “WKHBOOVHH”. Too lazy to translate atm.

PIÑATA: Bill Cipher getting beaten to death /hj

MASON: A note from Dipper listing several anagrams of Gravity Falls characters’ names. You can check in the comments for the answers.

AXOLOTL: “You ask alotl questions”. Thanks for the pun, Alex, but I’m kind of losing my mind rn

MYSTERY SHACK: Leads to a Google search for Confusion Hill, the real-life Mystery Shack!

MYSTERY: “?”

MONSTER: Leads to several YouTube videos for “There’s a Monster at the End of this Book.”

VALLIS CINERIS: Leads to an analog-horror-esque video of Baby Bill and his parents, who have been blotted out by static, and a voice repeating “WHY DID YOU DO IT” over and over again until you stop the video.

PORTAL: “Portal.exe has been deleted. I bet you could build a new one.”

GIFFANY: You need to put it in multiple times. Several warnings about breaching firewall, followed by a message from GIFFANY saying “SOOS! I still love you!” or smth like that, and then GIFFANY herself briefly appearing onscreen. Trying again after that summons her more. Also lets you download some ZIP files.

DORITO: Summons an image of a spinning Dorito, followed by the most cursed image of Bill Cipher I have ever seen.

GOD: A short video of an axolotl in a tank with a Bill Cipher statue plays. This is Alex’s axolotl, shown in the Book of Bill countdown.

REALITY: “Is an illusion”

FILBRICK: “I’m not impressed”

CARYN: “I knew you were gonna write that”

GLASS SHARD BEACH: Leads to an image of the New Jersey Hell Hole.

ANY CUSS WORD: Pulls up a paper reading “NOT S&P APPROVED. WASH YOUR MOUTH OUT WITH SOAP” with an image of soap below.

MATPAT: Leads to a video of MatPat next to a conspiracy board, holding the Book of Bill. He tells us we’re on our own.

BABBA: Plays an audio recording of Dipper singing BABBA. Not Disco Girl, a different song.

CRAZ: Leads to the Jem and the Holograms theme.

XYLER: See above.

AD ASTRA PER ASPERA: Shows us two new journal pages from Ford and Mabel, studying the Cipher statue. They’re definitely worth the read, I teared up looking at them.

ANSWER: “Question”

QUESTION: “Answer”

SEASON ONE: “Season -1: Antigravity Falls”

SEASON TWO: “Season 1” …maybe scratch what I said about Season 3. Or don’t. Things are starting to damage my brain.

CURSED (got from @slimslamflimflam decoding the candle! Thanks!): Shows two pages talking about the dangers of drawing triangles, with the bottom of the second page showing several drawings of Bill and the words “HE IS COMING, RUN”

THE UNIVERSE: “Hologram”

RIZZ: “Life privileges revoked. Now releasing poison gas.” This response is repeated if you type in SKIBIDI or FORTNITE.

BABY: Shows an ultrasound of a fetus Bill Cipher, captioned “Look at what’s growing inside you! See you in nine months, papa!”

JOURNAL 3: “The Journal for Me”

PACIFICA: Leads to a note from Pacifica calling Bill Cipher “ick” and telling us to follow her on social media under “Platinum Paz”

PLATINUM PAZ: Pulls up an image of Northwest Manor with the llama symbol overlaid and a “NW” logo beneath. There's also a short story beneath!

LOVE: Leads to an audiobook of “The Love Triangle”. Need to read later.

BLENDIN: “The time agent lost and presumed incompetent”. Uh…?

SCARY: Leads to another audiobook of a cheesy Goosebumps-esque horror novel written by Bill himself, apparently.

DIVORCE: Shows you the logo of the bar Bill went to after his fight with Ford… Billford bitter exes confirmed

ROBBIE: Leads to the cringiest messages ever. He’s such a failure I love him

CONSPIRACY: Leads to a video of a man losing his mind over the countdown counting up. I feel so seen. (I have been informed that his name is Charlie Day, he's an actor from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and that one meme, he had a quote on the back of the Book of Bill, thanks to everyone who explained that to me, I'm sorry, I'm uncultured)

RAT: “Thurburt’s number?”

BLANCHIN: Leads to a YouTube video on how to blanch vegetables.

TJ ECKLEBURG: “Never mention that name again.”

NOTHING: “Something”

SOMETHING: “Nothing”

BURNSIDE: “Burned inside.” Well… at least we know what happened…

WADDLES: Leads to the pig placement network!

THERAPRISM: Pulls up a sign from the theraprism regarding an emergency situation. The code reads "THE OLD ONE".

SHAPE: Pulls up an article on Plato, triangles, and Ancient Greece. This article is presumably written by Bill.

LLIB and BILL: THIS leads to the Sesame Street video every time.

WEIRD: Shows a video of a frightened Weird Al panicking about being trapped in a computer. Sorry, man...

CLONE: Pulls up an image of Paper Jam Dipper, a warning about not getting him too close to liquids, and an option to print.

TRIANGLE: ")" or "Tri harder."

THEYLLSEE: "Is seeing believing?"

DEER TEETH: "For you, kid!"

LIFE: "Life: 72% complete. Now loading: death."

DEATH: "Life's goth cousin."

PINES: "A good family tree."

OWL TROWEL: A slab of hieroglyphs, translating to an ancient ad for an owl trowel.

SCALENE: "Life form not found." EUCLID has the same outcome.

WELL WELL WELL BEING: Some assorted notes from Bill's Theraprism file. These include his greatest love and fear, his art therapy notes, and notes on his phobias. Three clicks is required to read them all.

BOO BERRY: Offers a poem on the meaning of life! Wow! I feel so enlightened!

LOVE YA BRO: Shows us a doodle from Stan of one of his and Ford's Sea Grunks adventures, and another code on the back. It translates to "Kings of New Jersey." I've been told it lets you download the code as a font.

SORRY: Reveals the repaired Backupsmore photo, with a note from Fiddleford about his and Ford's growing friendship. Fiddauthor fans, we are eating well tonight!

HORROR: Pulls up an image and report on The Always Garden, which is essentially a cheap Italian restaurant hidden in the backrooms.

HOLOGRAM: "Universe."

NAITSUAF: Pulls up a page that looks like it would be from the Book of Bill, in which Bill tries to convince us to sell us his soul. Clicking "ARE YOU READY?" pulls up a contract where we can sell our soul to Bill (with an alarming amount of coded fine print. Will need to translate later). You can print this document out, back out, or sign it right there on the web. Hitting "SIGN" causes the words "PLEASURE DOING BUSINESS WITH YOU!" to appear, and the document to close. In other words, I no longer have a soul.

IMSTILLONYOURMIND: Plays a recording of the ocean, with Stan faintly talking in the background. Poor Ford ain't quite over the divorce yet...

HOTXOLOTL: Pulls up a "MOST WANTED" doc on the henchmaniacs.

SEVENEYES: Pulls up a faded polaroid of The Oracle with text on the back that reads "LEAVE HIM. Escape to dimension *blurred out*. It's against the rules but it's the only reality where you'll be safe from him." The code at the bottom (once again decoded by the powerhouse that is @slimslamflimflam) reads "Set a course for Dimension: R34LITY." Is another Cipher Hunt in the makes? Only time will tell, hehehe.

JUST FIT IN: Plays an old commercial with a few moments of speech in the glitches at the end.

EVEN HIS LIES ARE LIES: Shows a transcript from a therapy session at the Theraprism. Bill discusses his relationship with Ford and cuts off the session when someone brings up his parents.

NOT A PHASE: Shows a Google search for "black hair dye stained an entire bathroom."

PAPER IS BOOK SKIN: Instantly downloads a page of fleshy pink paper with the word "ENJOY" written on it!

SHAVE YOUR GRANDMA: Pulls up a few more pages about the human life cycle.

LIES: Pulls up an image of "The Game of Lies" board game, with a long stretch of text from (I assume) Bill, ending with "LIE UNTIL YOU ARE NOT LYING ANYMORE." Someone has some issues...

SAY BAAAA: Pulls up a neat little rhyme about being Bill Cipher's obedient flock of sheep. The code at the end translates to "Black Sheep."

ONE EYED KING: Plays a video of a hypnotist's spiral, with Bill proclaiming "YOU WANT TO PLEDGE YOUR SOUL TO BILL CIPHER" in the background. There is also morse code that translates to "NAITSUAF", leading to a previous discovery- the soul contract.

TANTRUM: Pulls up a transcript of a spat between Bill and Time Baby.

TITANS BLOOD: "HOOT HOOT! Password please!"

CURSE WITTEBANE: Pulls up an image of a Bill Cipher ouija board.

FORDTRAMARINE: Pulls up several rejected files from Ford trying to convince us Fordtramarine exists.

SUCK IT MERLIN: Pulls up a tapestry of Bill riding a unicorn. The code at the top reads "DAY MARE VS NIGHTMARE."

HEY NERD: Plays a commercial advertising things such as a Bill Cipher calendar, the Scrubba-Bill, a severed hand, and the entire Cygnus-XIII galaxy. Half of the image can be found in the Book of Bill.

DESTRUCTION IS THE FORM OF CREATION: Pulls up a frantic page of notes from post-portal-shit Fiddleford. A sticky note at the bottom has a code that reads "Unreality."

RUBBERHOSE: Plays "The World is Small Ever After for All."

IRREGULAR: Shows us Bill's mugshot in color. The code below reads "No prison or attention span can hold him."

UNREALITY: Offers a guide by Bill on how to become immortal.

GUN: "Oh yes oh yes oh yes they both."

ABUELITA: Leads to a video on vacuuming the walls.

YES: "What's McGucket's favorite soda?"

NO: "Your loss..."

REPEATEDLY CLICKING STAN: This stuff deserves a section of its own, away from the OG Stan stuff. It takes you through several Ebay listings on various Stan-ish items until you get to a page written by Bill about Stan's secret shames. "Ex-wives" further confirms our theory on Stan and Eda's relationship, as well as revealing many other bits of lore. "Fears" is somewhat goofy to be honest. "Secret Shames" reveals that Stan is a fanfiction writer and that his mother is the only member of his family who truly loves him outside of Ford and the kids. "Unreported Crimes" is somewhat goofy as well. "Failed Products" basically confirms that Stan is that world's Alex. "Lowest Moments" is genuinely depressing, and "Darkest Thought". Well. I'm not spoiling it lol. And the bit on "How He Beat Me" causes Bill to get more and more frantic/angry the more you click it! Comedy GOLD!

DIPPY FRESH: Leads to a Reddit post of the Burger King Kids Club.

MEOW: Leads to a TikTok of a man playing the Gravity Falls theme on that cap keyboard.

HELP ME: Pulls up another video of Alex's axolotl and the tiny statue. Rip Bill ig :/

R34LITY: Pulls up several photos of the henchmaniacs in live-action, captioned "They found a new home."

JOURNAL 1: "The journal of fun."

JOURNAL 2: "The journal for you."

FBI: "Your webcam is on. We are watching."

BURNED INSIDE: Shows an image of a charred Oregon Parks badge and nametag on the ground.

HECTORING: Plays a silly little country song!

OROBOROUS: Pulls up two journal pages about Fiddleford buying Ford an axolotl to keep him company, and Bill subsequently telling Ford to get rid of him. There's also some code on the first page that reads "CHONKY BOY." Ford, you wonderful dork.

[hynzsn]

★ SAFE HAVEN ★

☆ johnny suh x male reader

-> boyfriend!johnny x depressed!reader

꩜ .ᐟ hurt/comfort, fluff

contents: caring!johnny, established relationship, reader has daddy issues, unhealthy coping mechanisms (not eating, isolating), implied/referenced emotional abuse (from reader’s father), swearing, hugs, pet names (babe, baby), reassurance from johnny

wc: 2.7k

summary: you’ve been mia for weeks - ghosting calls, barely eating, and basically becoming one with your bed. the voice in your head, it sounds a lot like your father, and it keeps telling you you’re worthless. good thing johnny’s voice - one that whispers sweet nothings and promises of forever - is even louder.

♡︎♡︎♡︎ likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ♡︎♡︎♡︎

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

[8:37 PM] 📱-> johnny 💝: yo, babe wtf?! you alive over there?? it’s been a minute…

[8:37 PM]📱-> johnny 💝: okay, jokes aside… please text me back. i’m worried about you 😔

[8:41 PM]📱-> johnny 💝: …

[8:45PM]📱-> johnny 💝: i’m coming over.

the messages sat unread, another three little gray bubbles added to the ever-growing count on your lock screen. you didn’t even bother to glance at them before letting your phone clatter back onto the mattress.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this. you were supposed to be the strong one, the one who always had it together, the one who could handle anything life threw at you with a smirk and a sarcastic quip. but lately, the mask had been feeling heavier, the edges digging into your skin, the forced smile making your cheeks ache.

you’d been spiraling for a while now, the familiar darkness creeping in like a fog, suffocating the joy out of everything. it started subtly – skipping meals, pushing deadlines, letting texts go unanswered. then it escalated, the isolation becoming a comforting cocoon as you withdrew further and further into yourself.

your phone buzzed again, the insistent vibration making you flinch. you knew it was johnny. he was the only one who still bothered, who saw through the carefully constructed facade you presented to the world.

he’d seen you at your worst – the breakdowns, the insecurities, the ugly crying sessions fueled by cheap instant ramen and self-loathing. and through it all, he never judged, never wavered. he was your rock, your anchor in the storm that raged within you.

but even rocks could crumble under enough pressure, and you couldn’t bear the thought of dragging him down with you. so, you did what you always did – you pushed everyone away, retreating into the fortress of your own making.

[9:36 PM]

a sharp knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts. you froze, heart hammering in your chest. you weren’t expecting anyone, hadn’t spoken to another soul in days.

the knocking came again, more insistent this time.

“fuck,” you muttered, dragging yourself out of bed. your reflection in the darkened tv screen made you wince. you looked like a ghost – pale, gaunt, with dark circles etched beneath your eyes.

“i’m coming, hold on!” you called out, your voice raspy from disuse.

as you fumbled with the multiple locks on your door, a wave of dizziness washed over you. you leaned against the wall for support, taking a deep breath to steady yourself.

the door swung open, revealing johnny standing in the hallway, his face a mixture of relief and concern.

“hey,” he said softly, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in your disheveled appearance.

“hey,” you mumbled back, avoiding his eyes.

“can i come in?” he asked, his voice gentle.

you hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, allowing him to enter.

the moment he stepped inside, johnny’s face fell. the air was thick with the smell of unwashed laundry and stale takeout containers littered the coffee table. the curtains were drawn, casting the apartment in a perpetual twilight.

“jesus, babe,” he breathed, running a hand through his hair. “what the fuck happened?”

you shrugged, unable to meet his gaze. “nothing. just… tired.”

he didn’t buy it for a second. he crossed the room in a few strides, pulling you into a hug. you stiffened initially, surprised by the sudden contact, but then you melted into his embrace, the warmth of his body a balm to your aching soul.

“don’t lie to me,” he murmured into your hair. “i know something’s wrong. you’ve been mia for weeks.”

you buried your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne – a comforting mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice muffled by his shirt. “i didn’t mean to worry you.”

“worry me?” he chuckled humorlessly. “you scared the shit out of me, you know that? i thought something had happened to you.”

“i’m sorry,” you repeated, the words catching in your throat.

he pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hands and forcing you to look at him. his eyes, usually so full of warmth and humor, were filled with concern.

“talk to me,” he pleaded. “what’s going on in that head of yours?”

you hesitated, unsure of where to begin. how could you possibly explain the tangled mess of emotions that had taken root in your mind, choking the life out of you?

“it’s just…” you started, your voice cracking. “everything feels… pointless. like i’m just going through the motions, you know?”

he nodded slowly, encouraging you to continue.

“i feel like i’m drowning, johnny,” you confessed, tears welling up in your eyes. “and the worst part is, i don’t even know why. i have no reason to feel this way. i have a good life, a great boyfriend…”

“hey, hey,” he interrupted, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “it’s okay to not be okay. you don’t need a reason to feel the way you do. sometimes life just throws you a curveball, and you just gotta roll with it.”

his words, so simple yet profound, struck a chord within you. you had always felt the pressure to be strong, to have it all figured out. but maybe it was okay to not be okay. maybe it was okay to ask for help.

“i hate that you’re right,” you said, managing a weak smile.

he chuckled, the sound warming you from the inside out. “that’s my boy.”

he pulled you back into a hug, this time tighter than before. you clung to him, letting his strength seep into you, chasing away the shadows that had been haunting you for so long.

“you know i’m here for you, right?” he murmured against your hair. “always.”

you nodded, burying your face in his chest, unwilling to let go. in his arms, you felt safe, protected from the storm raging within you.

“always,” you echoed, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down your cheek.

johnny didn’t let you go for a long time, holding you close as if he were afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip. the steady beat of his heart against your ear, the warmth of his body pressed against yours – it was a lifeline, pulling you back from the brink.

when he finally pulled away, his expression was serious. “okay, enough of this moping around,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “first things first, we’re getting some real food in you. and i’m not talking about that instant ramen crap.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a look. “don’t even try it,” he said, a playful glint in his eye. “i know your eating habits have been shit lately. i can practically see your ribs.”

he was right, of course. you hadn’t had a proper meal in days, surviving on a steady diet of instant noodles and self-pity. but the thought of food made your stomach churn.

“i’m not really hungry,” you mumbled, averting your gaze.

he raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “right, and i’m the tooth fairy. come on, babe, humor me.”

he didn’t wait for a response, instead taking your hand and pulling you towards the door. you stumbled after him, your legs shaky from disuse.

“where are we going?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“my place,” he replied over his shoulder. “my fridge is stocked with enough food to feed a small army. and before you protest, you need a shower and a change of clothes, sweetheart. you reek of despair and instant ramen.”

he said it with so much affection, you couldn’t even be embarrassed. he was right, though. a shower did sound amazing.

the drive to johnny’s apartment was a blur. you sat in the passenger seat, watching the city lights stream by, your mind racing with a million thoughts per minute.

as he pulled into his parking spot, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of envy. his life seemed so…put together. he had his dream job as an idol, a spacious apartment with a view, and everyone adores him.

you, on the other hand, felt like you were constantly playing catch-up, like you were always one step behind everyone else. your dead-end job at the call center barely paid the bills, your apartment was a testament to your inability to adult properly, and theres the fact that… well, you feel completely lonely. sometimes, you couldn’t help but feel like you were holding johnny back, embarrassing him. you and johnny have been together for a while now, but the thought of what he actually see’s in you still lingers in the back of your mind…

“you coming?” johnny’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. he was already out of the car, holding the passenger door open for you.

you forced a smile, hoping it reached your eyes. “yeah, sorry. just lost in thought.”

he gave you a knowing look, but he didn’t press further. he knew better than to push you when you were like this.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

his apartment was everything yours wasn’t – bright, spacious, and impeccably decorated. you felt a pang of guilt, realizing you hadn’t even bothered to tidy up before he came over.

“go on, shower’s in there,” he said, gesturing down the hallway. “towels are in the linen closet. i’ll find you something to wear.”

you almost protested, but the feel of johnny’s softest t-shirt in your hands stopped you. it even smelled like him. you quickly showered, washing away the grime and the lingering sadness that clung to you like a bad cologne.

stepping out, you found the promised clothes on the counter. you pulled on the soft t-shirt, the scent of him enveloping you like a warm hug. it was comforting, familiar. safe.

you found johnny in the kitchen, already dicing vegetables with practiced ease. he looked up as you entered, a soft smile gracing his lips.

“there’s my boy,” he murmured, his gaze lingering for a moment on how his shirt hung on you. “feeling a little more human?”

you nodded, unable to stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. “yeah,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “yeah, i think i am.”

he was right. a shower, his clothes, his presence – it was already working its magic.

“good,” he said, his smile widening. “make yourself comfortable, baby,” he said, gesturing towards the plush sofa. “it’ll be ready soon.”

you sank onto the sofa, sinking into the soft cushions. you closed your eyes, letting out a sigh of contentment. you had forgotten how good it felt to be here.

“so,” he said, his voice coming from the kitchen. “talk to me. what’s got you so down?”

you opened your eyes, watching as he moved around the kitchen with an ease that never failed to amaze you. he was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, his hair tousled from running his fingers through it a million times.

you sighed, running a hand through your damp hair. “it’s just…everything,” you mumbled, not wanting to burden him with your problems.

he stopped what he was doing, turning to face you, his expression serious. “don’t do that,” he said, his voice firm. “don’t shut me out. talk to me.”

you hesitated, unsure of where to begin. how could you possibly explain the suffocating weight of your father’s expectations, the constant feeling of never being good enough, the fear that you were destined to end up alone and miserable just like him?

“it’s stupid,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“nothing you say is stupid,” he reassured you, walking over and sitting down beside you on the sofa.

you took a deep breath, steeling yourself. “it’s just…my dad called.”

johnny’s face hardened. he knew how much your father’s words could cut you, how deeply his disapproval ran.

“what did he say?” he asked, his voice tight.

you closed your eyes, the memory of your father’s condescending tone, his thinly veiled insults, sending a shiver down your spine.

“the usual,” you mumbled. “disappointment. failure. you know the drill.”

you opened your eyes to find johnny watching you, his expression a mixture of anger and concern.

“he’s an asshole, you know that right?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “you’re worth ten of him, and don’t you ever forget that.”

you wanted to believe him, you really did. but the truth was, his words, as much as they stung, had a way of burrowing under your skin, planting seeds of doubt that were hard to shake off.

“it’s not that easy, johnny,” you said, your voice laced with frustration. “it’s like…it’s like his voice is always in my head, telling me i’m not good enough, that i’ll never amount to anything.”

johnny wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. you could hear the steady thump of his heart, a comforting rhythm against the chaos of your own thoughts.

“then we fight back,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “we drown out his voice with other voices – voices that love you, voices that support you, voices that remind you of your worth.”

he tilted your chin up with his finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. his eyes, usually so full of warmth and humor, were blazing with a fierce intensity that took your breath away.

“you are not your father,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “you are kind, you are talented, you are worthy of love. don’t ever let anyone, not even your own blood, tell you otherwise.”

his words, spoken with such conviction, such unwavering belief, pierced through the darkness that had settled over you. for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a glimmer of hope, a tiny spark igniting within the ashes of your despair.

“what would i do without you?” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

he chuckled, the sound a balm to your soul. “probably starve to death in a pile of dirty laundry,” he teased, his tone light despite the seriousness of the moment.

you swatted his arm playfully, a genuine smile finally reaching your lips. “hey, i’ll have you know i did laundry last week,” you retorted, even though you both knew it was a blatant lie.

he laughed, the sound echoing through the apartment, chasing away the last vestiges of darkness.

“alright, alright, i believe you,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “now, how about that food i promised you? i’m starving.”

he stood up, pulling you along with him. you followed him into the kitchen, your heart feeling lighter than it had in days.

as he moved around the kitchen, preparing a simple but delicious meal of kimchi fried rice and bulgogi, you watched him with a newfound appreciation. he wasn’t just your boyfriend; he was your best friend, your confidante, your rock. he was the one person who never gave up on you, even when you had given up on yourself.

you ate in comfortable silence, the only sound the clinking of chopsticks and the occasional contented sigh. it was amazing how something as simple as a good meal and good company could make the world seem a little less bleak.

after dinner, you helped johnny wash the dishes, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm as you worked side-by-side. as you scrubbed a particularly stubborn pot, you felt his gaze on you.

“what?” you asked, looking up at him with a questioning smile.

“nothing,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s just… i’m glad you’re here.”

you knew what he meant. he wasn’t just talking about being physically present in his apartment; he was talking about letting him in, letting him see the real you, the broken, messy parts that you usually kept hidden from the world.

“me too,” you whispered, leaning against him, seeking his warmth, his strength.

he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

“you’re safe here, you know,” he murmured against your hair. “safe with me.”

you closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you, soothing the ache in your heart. In his arms, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t realized you were craving. he was your safe haven, your refuge from the storm.

and as you stood there, wrapped in his embrace, you knew that no matter what life threw your way, you’d be alright, with him by your side.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

after your post about malleus i finally said to myself “yeah i can’t force myself to pretend like i like any of the dormheads”. not like i hate them, but after their blots were over i felt like nothing in particular has ever changed about them. the only person who made me think yeah he’s a changed guy is vil. i was really surprised when in chapter 6(if it wasn’t the end of 5th? can’t remember) he apologised to the boys, his acceptance of his own mistakes and awful doings made him skyrocket in my mental tier list

[Referencing this post!]

Mmmm, I'm in a similar boat when it comes to the dorm leaders but for my own reasons; I like the vice dorm leaders a lot better simply because I tend to enjoy characters who play "supportive" roles (butler, bodyguard, knight, older sibling, etc.).

I don't know if I agree with the idea that the dorm leaders (well, + Jamil instead of Kalim) didn't change after their OBs. I believe that we miss out on seeing a lot of their development because it happens off-screen and we the players don't spend every waking moment checking up on the OB boys--but they definitely do change. More specifically, right after their OBs and sometimes upon their returns in the subsequent books. Just because we do not personally witness every step of their development doesn't mean it didn't happen.

Let's look at one example with the first dorm leader. After his defeat, Riddle cries and confesses he doesn't care about the silly rules, he just wants to enjoy his time with everyone. During the unbirthday party that follows his OB, Riddle sees some roses that are not entirely red and his peers expect him to lose his temper again. Instead, he laughs and says he can overlook it, then invites everyone to help him paint them properly. Riddle expresses similar restraint with his anger in book 2; he adopts a policy of strictly chastising and then trying to fix the problem instead of immediately collaring rule transgressors. (The exceptions being with, of course, the wrongdoers of book 2, like Leona.) Then, in book 6, we see Riddle struggling with his character change, as he is shown to still heavily rely on absolute rules and laws to govern his actions, and relies on himself to be the judge of them while shunting out others. It's only when he butts heads with Azul that he's able to be a little more flexible and recognize his peers' strengths. This makes sense, because the time period between book 1 and book 6 is only about 6 months; a complete shift in one's character and worldview won't happen that quickly, nor completely. Riddle must have been working on himself a lot and consciously trying to repress his anger--and he's imperfect at it. This is fine!! Character growth can be messy, slow, and non-linear--and this is true of how the dorm leaders change over time.

As for Vil (since he was specifically cited in your ask!), I'm of the opinion that his early book 6 apology was not the result of a character change. Vil was already very mature and self-aware prior to OBing; I think he would have still apologized if he thought something going wrong was genuinely his fault, as he holds himself to high standards and would acknowledge when he has fallen short of them (even in regards to morals). This is implied in his behavior before he overblotted too; in book 5, Vil repeatedly claims he will defeat Neige using his own power, fair and square. When he falls into despair and resorts to dirty methods to take his rival out, VIl is appalled by the "ugliness" of his actions and begs his classmates to "not look at [him]" because "[he's] so ugly" (referring to his ugly character/morals). This means he was aware of the cruelty of his actions and how they poorly reflect on him (ie he would have felt guilty and apologized afterwards about it anyway). Vil typically comes off as harsh, but he's truly noble when it comes to accepting when he has fucked up. I feel the real change in Vil is something that Rook highlights: the importance of loving oneself, regardless of what others may think of you. This development is made more apparent in book 6, which is the follow-up book to Vil's and allows him a time to shine. Whereas in book 5 Vil was obsessed with being a "hero" and public opinion, book 6 Vil declares to Idia "there are no heroes or villains" and that he is still "fairest of them all" (echoing a line Rook says in book 5), even as a withered old man.

I don’t want to ramble on for too long!! If you’re interested in reading about how the dorm leaders (+ Jamil) are grappling with their character arcs following their books, I’d recommend this post. It only goes up to Vil since the analysis is very book 6 heavy. I’d recommend this one for Idia, but be warned it does not take into account book 7 events since it was not out at the time of writing.

[vidavalor]

"You love trains": Crowley & Aziraphale inspired 'North by Northwest'

Putting my film studies background to good use here with some film history & historical context under the cut.

The "what does the J stand for?" exchange in The Blitz, Part 1 and the inability for the audience to initially understand what Aziraphale is mouthing in The Blitz, Part 2 are both references to Hitchcock's classic spy thriller, 'North by Northwest'. I didn't link the clip that goes along with The Blitz, Part 2 in case some of you have never seen this film because it would ruin your experience of it. (Definitely watch it if you have not as it's a masterpiece.) Since The Blitz scenes are taking place in 1941 and 'North by Northwest' was released 18 years later in 1959, Crowley and Aziraphale aren't referencing the film in the dialogue but, instead, could be presumed to be the source *of* the dialogue in the film... just like how Shakespeare lifted Crowley's love poetry for 'Antony & Cleopatra'... and the 'North by Northwest'-referencing part of The Blitz, Part 1 *is referencing* the 'Antony and Cleopatra' reference because it's the reveal of Crowley's first name. But... it gets even better...

The writer of 'North by Northwest' was legendary Hollywood screenwriter Ernest Lehman, whom we're now presuming to have been a friend of probably at least Aziraphale's. Lehman wrote a dozen or so classic films and, outside of 'North by Northwest', is most famous for writing adaptations of several famous musicals, including the adapted screenplay for... 'The Sound of Music.' But, no, somehow, we aren't done yet with how amazing this is lol.

The thing that makes this all even funnier is that 'North by Northwest' is responsible for probably the most famous train metaphor in cinema. I'll spoil just this bit as it won't really ruin the overall movie for you if you haven't seen it but don't go any further than here if you don't want to be spoiled at all. If you've already seen it, you totally know what I mean. *laughs*

In 1959, when this film was released, you still couldn't really show sex on screen in a mainstream film. If you showed two people in a bedroom at all, they were cisgender, heterosexual and married and they slept in two separate beds. The level of sex happening in the above clip was *wild* for the era and the fact that it was put into the film the way it is-- that an unmarried woman picks up a hot guy on a train and they sleep together and she's still the heroine of the film and all of that-- was really nothing short of feminist revolution in a film in this era.

The film has a famous "love scene" of sorts that follows not long after the one I linked above, where the two of them are in a cabin on the train and starting to get it on but constraints of cinema coding at the time limited how far it could go. So, to imply that the main characters do, in fact, sleep together, the film famously cuts away to a shot of the train entering a tunnel-- making the train itself symbolic of sex. Because of how famous the film overall--and this scene in particular--became, it became a thing to use trains euphemistically for sex in other cinematic works following it. There is literally no way that Crowley and Aziraphale have not seen this movie so while Aziraphale was happy to make The Bentley into a sexual metaphor while angling for the car keys, Crowley is half-heartedly griping in flirty response by continually referencing trains, another sexual mode of transportation-- the one that that they inspired lol. Hence Aziraphale's bemused little lololol-but-won't-give-him-the-satisfaction-of-seeing-my-amusement face here:

Sunglassed!Cary Grant is Crowley and the old movie chemistry and the semi-coded flirty banter and someone please, please write a fic where Aziraphale says "I don't particularly like the book I've started"-- I will pay you lol.

[sinofwriting]

Whatever You Need - Daniel Ricciardo

Words: 3,517 Summary: After a shit one night stand, this was the last thing she expected to happen. Note(s)/Warnings(s): Angst with a happy ending, Best Friends to Lovers. Panic/Anxiety Attack, Near Throwing Up, Implied/Referenced/Mentioned Sex, Pregnancy, Discussion of Abortions, Off Screen Abortion. I promise that this has a happy ending. Reader goes by the nickname Kola (call-uh)

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Sitting down beside Daniel, she practically buries her face in the mug of coffee he had made for her. It’s near scalding hot making her hiss, but she still takes another drink before setting it down and slumping in the booth, a frown on her face, eyes screwed shut as she wills the caffeine to kick in.

“Y’alright, Kola?” Daniel asks, giving her a gentle nudge to the ribs. She has to smile at the nickname he gave her when they were barely five, mispronouncing the word Koala. Now nearly thirty years later it was a name she’s heard more than her actual name. “I’m never having a one night stand again or just having sex in general.” “Oh?” And she can hear his eyebrows raise. Her eyes flutter open as he presses her coffee back into her hands. “He told me not to cum.” Daniel’s eyebrows raise higher, “what?” She nods, smiling though it’s fake. “Yep.” She pops the p. “Best part? I wasn't even close to finishing.” He lets out a low whistle. “Did he at least?” She sends him a look, cutting him off. “Really? Of course not. He gave a few more strokes, came in me, then practically collapsed on top of me. I didn’t even have an interest in getting myself off after.”

Daniel wraps an arm around her, pulling her into his side and she gladly pushes closer, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Kola.” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her head. “Anything I could do for you?” His voice pitches lower and it makes her breath hitch, want simmering inside of her. The words, the request is on the tip of her tongue. Because she knows if she said it that Daniel would. He’d gladly take her to his hotel room and take her apart. But the irrational fear of something going wrong and losing him forever because they finally cross the line from friends to lovers makes it way to the forefront of her mind and she shakes her head. “No, Danny.” She murmurs, and she can feel him slump a bit in disappointment. “Just need this.” “Of course, Kola. Whatever you need.”

—

She stares numbly at the test results open on her laptop screen. Because they couldn’t be right, shouldn’t be right. But when she screws her eyes shut, rubs at them and then opens them, nothing has changed. The same thing is there. A hand flies up to her mouth as a sob starts to come out, tears leaving her eyes, because this isn’t what was supposed to happen.

Her other hand joins in covering her mouth as more sobs leave. And her brain is just repeating the word no as she tries to keep quiet not wanting to wake Daniel in the other room. The thought of Daniel has her stomach turning and she’s scrambling for the bathroom, nearly slamming the door shut behind her before her knees hit the hard tile in front of the toilet as she dry heaves into the bowl.

Her hands clutch at the toilet as nothing comes up, the sounds of sobs and heaving intermixing.

Eight weeks pregnant, eight fucking weeks. And she hadn’t sex with anyone in a year except for that stupid guy that couldn’t even make her cum. She shudders at the reminder of that night. And now she was pregnant with his baby. His baby and not Daniel’s. Her heart clenches painfully inside of her chest.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She had always wanted it to be Daniel’s baby that she had. She wanted that with him, a family. She wanted the slow, sensual sex with him as they tried for a baby. She wanted the weekly progress pics as her belly grew, Daniel surely smiling behind the camera as he took every single one. She wanted his hand resting over her belly, where her womb was, as they tried. She wanted a ring on her finger, the day they met engraved on the inside. She wanted Daniel. All of that was supposed to happen. Her first baby was supposed to be with him. All of her babies were supposed to be with him. And now that was ripped from her. All because she stupidly decided to have a one night stand, wanting the edge taken off by something that wasn’t her own hands or vibrator. And instead she had only gotten more frustrated and pregnant.

She’s no longer heaving but there’s still a sick feeling in her stomach as she lets go of the toilet and curls up in the corner of the bathroom, arms wrapping around her knees as she presses her face against them. Tears still run down her face as she takes short, stuttering breaths.

She was alone and pregnant. She had no partner to share the weight with. It was just going to be her. The somewhat tentative progress she had started making in getting over her irrational fear of losing Daniel once they crossed the line into more, vanishing.

Her breath catches in her throat, her chest constricting, panic fully settling in and taking a hold of her body. She digs her nails into her legs hoping the pain will restart her breathing like it has before, but it doesn’t and her mind is starting to panic. She feels numb and she’s starting to lose the feeling of her bare skin underneath her fingers and nails.

Then there’s hands on her own, pulling them away, pulling her nails out of her skin. There’s a voice bouncing off the bathroom walls but she can’t hear any of the words, can’t lift her head to see it. But then her head is being lifted away from knees, a single finger she thinks lifting her chin.

Daniel’s face is blurry and she doesn’t know if it’s from the tears or how she still hasn’t taken a breath.

“Kola. Kola.” Her name is faint in her ears and Daniel’s face comes a bit into focus. “Breath, Kola. Breath for me.” And then one of her hands is placed on his bare chest, just over the heated skin where his heart lays underneath. “C’mon, Kola. Breath.” Her intake of air is sharp, stinging, makes her cough at the force of it. Eyes closing at the pain.

“That’s my girl.” He murmurs, a hand now rubbing her back. Her next few breaths are just as sharp, but slowly they transition into shaky breaths until finally her breathing is matching his. “Danny.” “You alright, Kola? You haven’t had an attack that bad in a long time.” “I’m okay.” Her voice is quiet with exhaustion and she tilts her head back, letting it rest against the wall, eyes still closed. She can feel him looking at her disbelief, but he doesn’t say anything. Just stays crouched next to her.

Slowly opening her eyes, they focus on the patterned ceiling before she finally looks at Daniel, worry and care on his face. “Help me up?” He nods immediately standing, her hand that had still been resting on his chest at the quick movement. And then he’s grabbing both of her hands, hauling her up. When she stumbles, he’s quick to wrap an arm around her. “Let’s get you to bed, ya?” She nods, leaning into him.

Kola isn’t even surprised when instead of taking her to her room in the large hotel suite, he guides her into his. He helps her under the covers, adjusts the pillows for her before climbing in next to her. The two of them both turned on their sides to face each other.

His heart is thundering in his chest as he looks at her. Terror still somewhat grips him from waking up to the sound of sobs and then seeing her on the bathroom floor in the midst of one of the worst panic attacks he’s ever seen her have.

“Did something happen?” He asks, hand reaching out to intertwine their fingers, needing her touch. “I got my test results back from my check up.” His eyebrows furrow, remembering her going to the doctor for her yearly physical just a few days ago. “Did they find something?” He’s holding his breath as he waits for her answer, hoping, praying, that she isn’t sick. Doesn’t know what he’d do with himself if his girl, his world, was so sick that it sent her into a panic attack. “Yeah.” The slow answered breath, makes his heart clench as he takes a shaky breath. “What was it?” His voice is shaky. “I mean, is it serious?” The question makes something strange cross her face, something like heartbreak and suddenly his hand is cold, fingers no longer intertwined with hers. And she’s withdrawn into herself, even scooted back a little, like she’s prepared for a blow. “I’m pregnant.”

He stares at her, mind scrambling, the words struggling to process. But when they do the terror that had been gripping him, the worry vanishes, replaced by joy and he’s cradling her face in his hands, pressing his lips to her forehead in a kiss that doesn’t work because he’s smiling too wide.

Because she’s pregnant. There’s going to be a little Kola in the world. Hopefully a little boy that will be just like her but with his pension for chaos. He doesn’t think his heart could take her having a girl first, a little girl that looks just like her, he’d never be able to say no to her, just like he can’t say no to her mum. Though he doubts he’d be able to say no to a little boy either. But then again a little boy first means that when they do have a girl, he’ll have help protecting her from stupid boys who can only think with their dicks and are dumber than a box of bricks.

“Really?” He questions, “I mean, fuck.” He pulls back a little, still holding her face as he gives a breathless laugh. “How far along?” She stares at him, silence lingering between them for a moment. “Eight weeks. I’m eight weeks.” Her words are quiet and the look on her face, the way she had pulled away from him finally registers.

And his own joy, joy that he had let come over him without thinking about her, is gone. “I,” he opens then closes his mouth. “Do I,” he can’t make the words come out of his mouth, so he doesn’t. “Are we upset?” She gives a hesitant nod and he watches as the fingers that had been intertwined with his, curl into her palm.

He struggles to find why she is. She wants kids, they want kids. It had always been something they talked about in the future. He had held her hand nearly three years ago when she got tested to make sure she could have kids after finding out about a friend having fertility issues. She had held his when he also got tested just to get all their ducks in a row.

Was she upset just because it was unexpected? Eight weeks meant it was from that dickhead that couldn’t even get her halfway there. Was it that? Because it was the result of a one night stand. A shit one at that. The memory of that morning still makes him angry. She rarely gave into the odd temptation of a one night stand and he hates that it wasn’t good for her. It’s easy to ignore the jealousy there that it was someone else she fell into bed with. It didn’t matter who they were with before, as soon as they crossed the line that would be it, it would just be them for the rest of their lives.

His hand slips from her face to the bed, but he keeps his one that’s between the pillow and her cheek. “Why are we upset?” “It’s just me, Dan.” His brows furrowed in confusion. “I’m alone.” He opens his mouth to protest, because what the fuck? She wasn’t alone, he was here, right here, but he can’t because she’s continuing, a heart wrenching broken look on her face. “And it’s not yours. It’s supposed to be yours.” Understanding and a little sorrow of his own fills him. “Oh, Kola.” He breathes, then gathers her in his arms, holding her close.

“You aren’t alone.” He murmurs. “Never alone.” He punctuates it by kissing the top of her head. Holding her this close and understanding her upset makes the question that he wanted to ask earlier come easier even if he still dances around it a little. “If and I do mean if you want this baby it will be mine. Maybe not biologically, but we know that doesn’t matter really.” She tries pushing away, but his hold is too strong. “You don’t get it Daniel.” “What don’t I get?” Frustration leaks into voice, hating that she’s trying to pull away from him after having already done so once tonight. “What don’t I get?” He asks again and uses her name, her actual name. “It’s just,” her breathing has picked up a little, he can feel her legs move against his, and he realizes she’s flustered. “It was supposed to happen a certain way.”

He doesn’t say anything and she groans, pressing her head into his chest, trying to hide and he lets her for all of five seconds, wanting to see her face, needing to see it as arousal starts to burn inside him. “How was it supposed to happen?” He asks, voice low. She stares at the bare skin of his chest, feeling more blood rush to her cheeks. “I,” she opens and closes her mouth, licking her lips. “We were supposed to be married.” Her voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat, the hand on her hip tightening at the thought. “My ring would have the day we met engraved on the inside.” She hesitantly rests her dominant hand over his heart and is emboldened by the way she can feel it racing. “It would be slow, not so slow that its torture but close. You’d barely pull out the whole time, wanting to make sure that when you do finish it would be as deep as it can get inside of me.” His nostrils flair and he can feel his hardened cock twitch. Her eyes flicker down to where he’s somewhat pressing against her and then she’s taking his hand off her hip, ignoring the noise of protest he makes and she slips them under her shirt before pressing his where her uterus is. “You’d have your hand here nearly the whole time. Just wanting to feel, imagining me getting bigger.” “Kola,” he breathes. Finally she lifts her head and their eyes meet, the need and desire in his eyes making her gasp. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and he snaps.

His lips are on hers, his hand on her lower belly moving to grip at her hip as his other hand rests on the nape of her neck. She eagerly returns the kiss, just about moaning when he rolls onto his back and settles her on top of him, not breaking the kiss except for a brief moment when his lips catch more the corner of her mouth.

“Wanted this, wanted you for so long.” He tells her when they break apart. “Me too.” He grins at her and she finds herself grinning back. He presses a sweet, small kiss to her lips before looking at her slightly serious. “I meant what I said. Whatever you do want, I’m here, it’s your choice. This baby will still be mine if you want it.” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she thinks. “I don’t know.” She thinks to earlier in the bathroom when she was sure that she was going to have the baby despite it just being her. To now with her and Daniel having crossed the line finally and she’s unsure. She knows that despite it not being Daniel biologically she’d love just as much as if it was so, but it also sits wrong, heavy inside of her that it’s not his. She thinks to his joy of finding out and feels her heart sink a little, because what if he changed his mind after and it wasn’t okay, which is unfair to Daniel because he rarely if ever changes his mind. It’s then she realizes as she finally gives it some thought that she’s already made her decision.

“I want an abortion.” She tells him, watching his face closely but nothing changes. He doesn’t even blink. “Okay.” He nods and there’s a strange mixture of emotions in his chest, a little sorrow and a little glee, he pushes them both away. “I’m worried though.” His brows press together and he’s taking her hands in his, intertwining their fingers in an all too familiar gesture. “About what?” “This isn’t fair to you and I know it’s not true.” She prefaces, because she doesn’t want Daniel to think she doesn’t believe him or have faith in him. “I’m just worried that after it’s all said and done, you won’t be okay with it.” He breathes in through his nose. “Sometimes Kola, I’d like to kick your brain’s ass for making you think things like that.” The seriousness in voice makes her laugh and she squeezes his hand. “Me too.” “I won’t change my mind.” He promises her, before taking a deep breath, because if she could be honest with him about this, he could be honest about how he was feeling. “Truthfully, I’m a little sad about it.” She nods, there was a part of her that was too. Overwhelmingly however it felt wrong to her. “But also, and this might make me a bad person, I’m a little happy about it, that you don’t want a baby that’s not mine.” He gives a dark chuckle, taking one of his hands away from her to run it over his face. “God, that’s fucked. I’m fucked.” “No.” She shakes her head, grabbing his hand back. “No, Daniel. I want an abortion because it feels wrong, that it’s not yours. I know that I would love it no matter what, wouldn’t love it less than the rest of our kids.” They both share a smile at that. “But, I don’t think I could go seven months of this with that feeling.” “Okay.” He swallows a bit harshly. “Do you want me to go with you?” “Please?” “Of course.” He smiles, “Whatever you need.”

Six Months Later

“Daniel.” He groans at the sound of his name. “Daniel.” And this time there’s a shake to his shoulder. “No.” He groans again. “It’s sleep time, Kola.” He mumbles, trying to pat her but patting the bed. It’s silent for a moment and he can feel the sleep already trying to drag him under when suddenly there’s a thigh on either side of his hips and a weight on pelvis that has his eyes opening, blinking as they try to adjust to the darkness in the room. “Oh.” He mumbles, sleepily smiling at his wife and the slight pulse of lust that had stirred in his body from her straddling him turns to a small steady thrum as he remembers she’s his wife. “You want a midnight romp?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

His hands are already creeping under his shirt she had put on ready to pull it off when she shakes her head, something he can just barely see, and his hands go back to rest on her hips, thumbs rubbing at the warm skin, letting her take her time for whatever she needs from it at, he risks a glance at the clock and nearly groans as 3:19am shows.

“Daniel.” She finally says after a few minutes pass by. “Hmm.” He hums, eyes fighting to stay open. “I’m pregnant.” His eyes fly open, left hand jerking away from her hip to turn on his nightstand filling the room with some light. “What?” He asks, staring at her. She smiles down at him. “I’m pregnant.” “Fuck off.” She laughs, a few tears slipping down her face. “Uh huh. Afraid you're really stuck with me now.” “Really?” “Yeah, really.”

He’s surging up, hands moving quickly to cradle her face as he presses their lips together, tears of his own falling. “Thank you.” He mumbles, pulling away before pressing kisses all over her face, murmuring it over and over again.

“How far along are you?” He asks, a hand going down to her stomach, resting where a bump will eventually be. “Eleven weeks.” His eyes widened. “Eleven?” She nods, smiling. “You work fast, Mr. Ricciardo. Only a week after we started having sex and you knocked me up.” “Damn, I’m good.” She laughs, but nods. “Apparently so.” She cards a hand through his curls, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Thank you, Daniel.” “Of course, Mrs. Ricciardo. Whatever you need.”

---

Taglist: @ireadthensuetheauthors @cixrosie @gemofthenight @topguncultleader @peachiicherries @lpab @copper-boom

[sugoi-and-spice]

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Honeymoon

Summary: Tomura Shigaraki was her dad’s boss’s son. He was the creep that stole girls’ underwear and tried to grope her in his room. But it’s not like he could get her Dad fired just because she wouldn’t sleep with him, right? …right?

CW: Quirkless!AU, Explicit Smut, Dub-Con, Coercion, Blackmail, Cheating, Sexual Guilt, Humiliation, Unhealthy Relationships, Virginity Kink, Groping, Power Play, Hate to Love, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Animal Death, Slow Burn, Misogyny

Read Full Chapter on AO3

[excerpt]

The elevator in Shigaraki’s building was a fast one. Fast, but even. She could probably time down to the millisecond the pace that those floor numbers changed, they were so metronomic. The best that money could buy she was sure. Like clockwork, each floor number passed, ticking in her head more like a countdown. 

She was nervous about going to Shigaraki’s house today, if that wasn’t obvious. And truth be told, there were a lot of very legitimate reasons for her to be nervous about it. The fact that this was the first time she’d been at his place since their most recent night together. The fact that the company Christmas Party was just a few hours away and she really didn’t have enough time to be coming over here in the first place. The fact that going to his house always felt a bit like entering the lion’s den — she never knew just what was going to happen when she was there. 

Yes, these were all great reasons to be nervous, but to be honest, she wasn’t considering any of them. Her real reason was downright stupid in comparison. She was nervous because she was bringing Tomura Shigaraki a Christmas present.

And a stupid Christmas present at that.

It was a jacket. A stupid fucking jacket that she’d thought would be so great for him at the time. She assumed that he didn’t really own any nice jackets since all she’d ever seen him wear were hoodies. And she’d been so unable to get the image of him in red out of her head, that when she saw this stupidly expensive (but fantastic quality) red peacoat with the faux-fur collar at the department store, she knew she had to jump on it. 

But then two days shy of Christmas, he gave her a tour of Todai and just what had he been wearing? A fucking trench coat. Not the exact same thing, but pretty close enough.

She’d facetimed Spinner the second she got home in a panic over it.

“I think you’re in the clear. I’ve never seen anything like that in his closet.” he assured her.

“Ugh maybe there’s a reason for that though,” she agonized, “Like, maybe it’s not really his style after all…”

He shrugged, “I think it looks nice.”

“Really?” she pressed.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll like it.”

But she wasn’t going to take such blanket assurance lying down.

“I need you to be honest with me here, Spinner. If I’m making an idiot out of myself, I’d rather know now then on Christmas.”

Spinner sighed, looking through the camera at the jacket with more genuine scrutiny. She really wasn’t going to give up on this after all… 

“I don’t know, I think it looks fine. Maybe the fluffy part might be a bit much though?” Spinner finally relented.

“It’s removable!” she announced proudly, unclipping the first part to demonstrate this asset.

Spinner chuckled, “Well then you’re fine.”

“Are you sure? You don’t think red’s too gaudy for him?”

“He wears red shoes.”

“What about the material though? I know the really good peacoats are full wool, but I could only afford the blend. It’s still a good blend though, so it should be okay, right?”

Spinner didn’t say anything, immediately adding fuel to the flames of her worries. She turned the screen back to her so she could see that hesitant expression of his head on.

“What? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just,” he sighed and then offered her a sympathetic smile, “I think you’re thinking too much into this.”

“What? No way! This is the first thing I’ve ever gotten him,” she insisted, “It needs to be great!”

“Look, I just don’t want you to get your hopes up or anything.”

She cocked her head at him. He continued.

“Like, don’t think you’re setting a precedent here. Because he probably hasn’t gotten you anything,” he mumbled then, “Two of us have been friends for years, and he still only buys me shit when when he wants something.”

“Oh…”

Was that all his reservations were, for real? She almost laughed a little, relief finally settling throughout her.

“Well yeah. I assumed he wouldn’t.”

Spinner gave her a dumbfounded look, “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I know he doesn’t really think of stuff like that. I just wanted to get him something because… Well, I just wanted to. I saw this and thought he might like it,” self-consciousness started to flood her body once again, “...Do you think he’ll like it?”

Spinner smiled, happy she knew what she was getting into. Happy that Shigaraki had someone like her in his life now. Just happy for his friends.

“Yeah. I think he will.”

The elevator dinged, snapping her out of her thoughts. She made her way out of the elevator, down the hall to the single flat on this floor.

Continue on AO3

[juana-the-iguana]

Sometimes I just think of fan interpretations of the cut-away between Zuko telling Katara that he knows where the man who killed her mother is and her packing things and getting ready to leave, and Aang and Katara having their last in-person interactions on screen (when they are lone together in EIP and when they are in a group in the finale) be fights to them kissing at the end.

People who support Kat-aang and do not like Zutara (and specifically comment in the Zutara tag about this) often say that Zuko had to convince Katara to go after her mother's killer. A lot of those people also assume that Aang must have apologized to Katara off-screen for the EIP kiss.

I have had a lot of people who share these interpretations accuse me and other people of not having "media literacy" because we can't clearly understand he must have apologized off screen. The irony is that is the exact opposite of the truth.

The cut away between Zuko telling Katara he knew how to find her mother's killer and her getting ready to leave signifies swiftness. Her response to this knowledge is so clear that showing her reaction would actually take away from conveying it. Things are moving fast, her mind was made up right away and she kept moving so the scene did too. And because she is moving so quickly, the audience can fill in the fact that any conversation she may have had with Zuko about this (How do you know this? When did you find out? etc.) did not play a role in her decision to find her mother's killer.

We know from both her past actions (being haunted by her mother's death, her righteous fury) and her future ones (trying to take Appa without talking to Aang or anyone else, telling Sokka that he didn't love their mother like she did, bloodbending) there is nothing Zuko could have said in a period of time that would have been a few hours, tops, that could have made her that angry or driven if those emotions were not already there. Zuko telling Katara he knows where her mother is isn't actually the completion of that narrative moment: her affirming that she needs to confront said killer when her actions are questions is. (I should note that part of the cut away could have been to leave room for a commercial break - I can't remember if that was the case when this aired on television - which would break up the viewing, but does not take away from the fact that Katara's shown response to this knowledge is to leave as quickly as possible).

Now compare that with the EIP kiss. We see the full moment play out, from Aang meeting Katara on the balcony to pressuring her to commit to him to kissing her when her eyes are close to her getting upset to her running away to him reflecting on what happened... Set up, action, response, reflection. This is an emotional scene, Katara is clearly distressed and this is one of the few times we actually see her mad at Aang. Their kiss at the end is another emotional moment, as it marks the culmination of Aang's journey as an Avatar. There needs to be a bridge between these intense scenes for them to make sense. Kat-aangers will argue that the EIP kiss is A and the ending kiss is C, so B must be the implied apology. But if A and C both matter a lot, and there needs to be a connection between the two things, then B should matter a lot too. C is the last scene in the show! This bridge should be shown, or at the very least referenced!

Unlike the TSR scenes, there is so much time between EIP and the finale that there is no clear flow between these moments. To the contrary, there are moments that break up this romantic sub-subplot, from them playing at the beach together again to them fighting again over how to deal with the Fire Lord and Aang running away (something worth noting is that Katara is the last person who is talking when he runs away - he literally left her - and she lets him go after a light touch on the shoulder from Zuko). Fight, friends, fight, love.

Since that B scene, the thing that bridges together Katara and Aang's relationship, is not there, then it either isn't important or did not happen.

Now let's get into media literacy. Media literacy isn't filling in gaps to make things make sense. Media literacy is understanding the messages that a piece of media is sending, intentionally or unintentionally. Even, in theory, if Zuko did have some conversation with Katara convincing her to seek out Yon Ra, it isn't shown and it isn't alluded to, so it doesn't matter. What we are supposed to take away from that episode is that Katara was ready to hunt down Yon Ra, she needed closure and got it, and that Zuko helped her. The same can be said for an apology after EIP. It doesn't matter if one happened off-screen, if it wasn't shown or referenced to, so it isn't important to the narrative. And if Aang making amends for hurting Katara isn't important to the narrative, but her kissing him after he fulfills his duty as the Avatar is, that is a huge statement about their relationship. Katara only rejected Aang because he wasn't an Avatar yet, so the only thing that matters in their relationship is him being the Avatar.

But the thing about media literacy is it isn't just about what is shown on the screen itself. It is about the bigger picture, what this is trying to convey as a message to the viewers.

So what does the gap in time in TSR tell us? Katara is this caring, nurturing friend who, in her brother's words, doesn't hate anyone except the people who took her mother. If she doesn't hate anyone except for the people who took her mother away from her, and she was immediately able to act on that hate when she got the chance to seek closure, then that hurt must have been closer to the surface than anyone thought. She acted fine, but her trauma was still there.

So what does this mean? She was able to address the anger conveyed in the scene in the episode and by the end of it, even though she was still conflicted about Yon Ra, she made peace with Zuko. Zuko whose mere presence caused her distress for weeks, not only because of his betrayal, but because he reminded her of her mother's death. Zuko who became her good friend and saved her life later on. Confronting her demons not only brought her peace, it improved her life tremendously.

So what is the "media literate" message from the lack of apology? The absence conveys is that the most important thing needed for Katara to like Aang was for him to fulfill his role as the Avatar, because that is the only thing that changed in between those two scenes. He didn't treat her any differently, he didn't apologize for hurting her, in fact its vague that he even acknowledged that what he did was wrong because it hurt her (the "I'm so stupid!" could easily mean he blew his chance, not that he cared). And Katara never went through the process of forgiving him or making peace with him wronging her. She never even acknowledged that he underwent a significant change as a person in the last episode either (Aang, who ran away from his duties at the start of the series, faces them head on in the last episode. YMMV on how good that was developed) - if it's not shown, it doesn't matter.

So what does this mean? It doesn't matter when Katara is hurt, conflict resolution doesn't matter, and apparently Aang's personality doesn't matter either. Their interpersonal relationship and emotional connection mean very little. Men do great things and women love them for it, how they act or are treated does not matter.

And before anyone comments "they're kids, it's not a big deal," this is a direct response to accusations about media literacy which, by definition, is a big deal - it's about the messages being made to viewers and its commentary on how society works and how things should be.

[superlarva]

"You've got a mustache."

Hey guys! Sorry, my art style is like the least consistent thing on this planet... I just like trying new things out :)

Anyways, continuing on our Rex parenting journey we have Chapter 4 - Pancakes and Apologies.

Prologue: 00 Previous chapter: 03 Next chapter: 05

Summary: Rex gets some news on Echo, pancakes are made, tantrums are thrown.

CW: Implied/referenced child abuse, talk about injuries from landmines (nothing too in depth)

Chapter 4 – Pancakes and Apologies

Rex sunk down into his couch with a sigh, leaning his head against the armrest. Fives had been tucked in and the hallway light was left on. One kid taken care of, one to go.

Rex pulled out his phone and opened a text from Cody: I have some more info. Call me when you’re ready.

The phone only rang once before it was picked up.

“Cody, is he okay?” Rex tried to keep his voice down so he would not wake the boy sleeping in the next room.

“He’s…” Cody trailed off and Rex could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“What? He’s what?” Don’t say dead. Please, don’t say dead.

“He just got out of surgery. They had to amputate both legs and an arm,” Cody was trying to keep if voice calm and leveled, but the words came out a little choked. “I’m so sorry.”

Rex stared across the living room and into the kitchen, he’d know the boy’s injuries would be bad if he had landed himself in the ICU, but the loss of three limbs? That was too much.

Cody continued, “Echo’s okay for now. He hasn’t woken up yet, so there could still be some complications, but they are optimistic about how the surgery went.”

“Both legs and an arm?” Rex asked, still processing his brother’s statement.

“Yes,” Rex heard Cody take a deep breath on the other side of the line, “He stepped on a landmine.”

“Wh- How?”

“I don’t know. No one told the hospital how it happened either.”

Rex was silent, but his mind screamed.

Screamed in anger.

In sadness.

In pain.

In guilt.

It was his fault. His.

“Rex? You still there?” Cody’s voice cut through the phone.

“Yeah,” Rex said a little absently. “Yeah, I’m still here.”

“Alright,” Cody said, tone laced with worry. “You should get some rest. I’ll text you any developments, but don’t stay up for them.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?”

“I- I’m not sure.”

“Try, okay?”

“I will.”

“I love you, Rex’ika.”

“Love you too, Codes,” Rex dropped the phone from his ear as he disconnected the call.

He rolled onto his side and curled up on the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest and letting the world melt around him as tears spilled down his cheeks.

Rex woke, panicked from a dream he couldn’t remember and drenched in a cold sweat. From what he could tell it was early morning, the living room was washed in a dim warm light. He was not sure when he had fallen asleep, but he could not have gotten more than four hours.

He reached for his phone on the coffee table and found it, bringing the screen close to his bleary eyes. He had some texts from Cody from around 3 am:

Just found out Kix is Echo’s doctor!

He came into the waiting room to tell me that Echo seems to be responding well to the surgeries.

He’s sleeping now, but he woke up for a bit while I was in there and asked for Fives.

Kix said he thinks you guys should be able to visit today.

Rex felt a surge of relief, Echo was going to be okay. He was going to be alright. Not only that, but Rex had known Kix since he’d been in a group home with him and he knew the boy was in capable hands.

Rex swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up to type out a reply, thanking his brother profusely.

“M-mister police officer, sir?”

A small voice cut through Rex’s thoughts, and he jerked his head up. Fives stood stiffly on the other side of the coffee table. Rex was taken aback, when had the boy slipped into the room? At least the kid looked like he had slept well, “Yes? And Rex is fine.”

“Would you like me to make you breakfast?”

Rex was initially going to deny the request and insist that he make breakfast for Fives instead, but realized he could not assume Fives was only offering because it was something required of him previously. Perhaps the boy really enjoyed cooking. Rex wouldn’t know so instead he put down his phone and smiled, “Why don’t we make ourselves some breakfast together?”

Fives’s eyes widened a bit before he nodded consent.

Rex stood and stretched, “What should we have? I’ve got eggs, pancakes, oatmeal, cereal, or bread for toast.”

Fives seemed to debate something before looking up at Rex, “What are pancakes?”

“Pancakes?” Rex parroted, a little shocked.

Fives blushed and turned away, muttering a quiet apology.

“No, it’s okay, it’s good to ask questions,” Rex tried to amend quickly. He hurried over to his pantry and grabbed his box of pancake mix, showing the box to the boy, “This is what they look like. They’re really good and you get to put maple syrup on them.”

Fives whipped his head around to Rex at the mention of maple syrup, an excited grin plastered onto his face, “Maple syrup is from Canada.”

“Uh, yeah?” Rex said taken aback by the random fact.

Fives turned back to the pancake box, “Echo had a book about flags. Canada’s is a maple leaf because of all the maple trees there and maple syrup comes from the maple trees.”

“Do you and Echo like to read a lot?” Rex asked.

“Echo does,” Fives said, shoulder’s tensing. “He tried to teach me, but I’m no good.”

Rex didn’t like the boy’s defeated tone, “You know, I didn’t learn how to read until I was a little older than you.”

“Really?” Fives asked. “Because Echo learned when we were little.”

Rex wondered what “little” meant to the boy because in his eyes the twins were still very much just little boys. “Different people learn different things at different times, it’s not a contest.” Rex shrugged, taking the pancake mix from Fives, “Do pancakes sound yummy? They’re one of my favorites.”

Fives nodded, then shrugged, “But I don’t know how to make them.”

“That’s okay,” Rex said grinning. “I can teach you.”

Fives had been a surprisingly competent chef for a seven-year-old boy. He knew how to measure ingredients and pour things without spilling, and, once Rex had helped him up onto the counter, had proved that he could work a stovetop. Rex made sure the boy was aware he was not to be climbing on things or using the stove without permission first.

Rex watched as Fives took his first bite of pancake. The boy chewed slowly and then grinned up at Rex.

“Good?” Rex asked, taking his first bite as well.

Fives nodded enthusiastically and began shoving the rest of the plate into his mouth as fast as he could. He was finished before Rex had swallowed his third bite.

Rex pushed the glass of milk he’d poured the boy closer to him, “milk first, and then you can have more.”

Fives eyed the glass suspiciously before carefully taking it in both hands and downing it, seemingly without stopping for breath. When he put the glass down, he had a little milk mustache. Rex couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“What?” Fives asked, looking down at his plate, searching for whatever was so funny.

“You-” Rex broke out into another chuckle, “You’ve got a mustache.”

“No, I don’t,” Fives said, folding his arms.

“Yes, you do. Go look in the mirror.”

Fives gave Rex a confused look before heading off to the bathroom.

Rex shook his head and finished up his breakfast, smiling to himself.

Fives emerged from the bathroom a minute later with a clean, smiling face.

“It was from the milk,” the boy explained, as if Rex didn’t already know.

Rex nodded as Fives joined him in the kitchen, “Do you want some more pancakes?”

Fives shook his head as he sat back down in his chair, then he looked up a Rex, “Could we bring them for Echo?”

Rex shook his head, giving himself a few seconds to figure out the best way to explain to Fives, “Right now Echo’s in the ICU. Do you know what the ICU is?”

“Like the hospital?”

“Yeah, it’s a part of the hospital where they put the people who need a little extra help to get better. It stands for intensive care unit.”

“Is he going to die?” Fives had clearly picked up on the fact that someone already in the hospital needing extra help was bad. His voice was so small.

“We think he got through the worst part. He woke up last night and asked for you, which is a really good sign, but we can’t bring him anything from outside the hospital because he had to have some really big surgeries and we don’t want him to get infected.”

“Oh,” Fives’s eyes darted back and forth before they made their way back to Rex’s. “Can- can we still-? Are we allowed to see him?”

Rex nodded, “We can head on over after we get dressed and brush our teeth.”

Fives jumped up out of his chair in excitement and made a beeline for Rex’s bedroom. Rex marveled in the boy’s ability to switch his emotions so quickly, and his inability to hide any of them.

As Fives got dressed, Rex washed all the dishes as quickly as he could so he wouldn’t have to keep the boy waiting for long. Not surprisingly, Fives finished getting ready before Rex put the last dish on the drying rack. The boy bounded into the kitchen, bouncing on his toes and grinning.

Rex couldn’t help but match his grin, “Alright, get your shoes and coat on while I get dressed.”

Fives nodded and hopped over to the entry way where his tiny set of shoes sat next to Rex’s boots.

Rex threw on his clothes and swished some mouthwash around in his mouth (brushing took too long) before joining Fives in the entry way. The boy was practically exploding with energy and Rex had to tell him multiple times that his shoes were on the wrong feet before he stopped jumping up and down and sat so Rex could fix them.

As soon as they got onto the road Fives asked how long it would take to get to Echo, and not wanting the entire 45 minute car ride to consist of 45 “are we there yet?”s, Rex made Fives his navigator. He knew the way to Kamino General well enough that he would tell Fives to remind him to turn right when they got to the next intersection or get off the highway when he saw a green sign with the number 79 on it. It kept the boy surprisingly occupied as he seemed to take his role very seriously.

As they neared the hospital and sat waiting in city traffic, Rex glanced at Fives in the mirror, “Fives, there’s something I need to tell you about Echo before we see him.”

Fives twisted forward to look at Rex from his position analyzing the city outside his window.

“He got really hurt and he- his-” Rex started to explain, struggling to find the right words.

“His legs were gone,” Fives interrupted, eyes wide.

Rex stared at the boy in his mirror, “You saw?”

Fives nodded, “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Rex didn’t know what else to say.

Fives shrugged, “Green light.”

“Huh?” Rex gaped before he realized what Fives was referring to as the car behind him honked, “Shi-oot!”

Rex slammed on the gas and turned into the hospital’s visitor parking lot, “Sorry about that.”

“S’okay,” Fives mumbled. Then his head shot up with excitement, “Are we here?”

“Yep,” Rex said, pulling into a spot.

Before Rex came to a complete stop, Fives unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door, ready to leap out. Rex stomped on the breaks and lunged back to grab the boy’s wrist, lest he fall out of the car, “Fives!”

The boy yelped as Rex dragged him back away from the door.

“No!” Rex yanked the boy towards his face, “No. You do not get out of the car until it’s stopped moving! Do you understand?”

“I’m s-sorry,” Fives stared at Rex, face going pale.

“Do you understand?”

Fives tried to yank his arm away, but Rex had him in an iron grip.

“Do. You. Understand?”

Fives’s tiny fist came up from where it was clenched at his side and struck Rex on the cheek. Rex was so surprised he almost let go of the boy as Fives began screaming “sorry” repeatedly, flailed his captive wrist around, trying to bash Rex’s hand down into the console, and used his free hand to hit Rex’s arm with as much force as he was capable of.

Rex caught Fives’s other arm to prevent any further damage to either of them and held him still while he struggled. Even though Fives’s eyes were screwed shut, Rex tried to soften his expression from the angry one he was sure it held a few moments earlier to one as neutral as possible.

Eventually Fives’s struggles grew weaker, and his apologies died down to a faint whisper. Rex realized the boy was crying, tears leaking out the corners of his shut lids.

“Fives?” Rex said softly, loosening his grip on the boy so if he wanted to remove his arms he could.

Fives opened his eyes and tears gushed down his cheeks, “’m ssssorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m not mad, see?” Rex held up his hands.

Fives stared up at Rex with big watery eyes before slowly reaching out one of his own hands and placing it against Rex’s opposing palm.

Rex curled down his fingers so his hand enveloped Fives’s, “Are you okay?”

In response Fives pulled his and Rex’s hand towards his chest.

“Hug?” Rex asked, remembering last night.

“Please?”

“Alright, come here,” Rex said, hoisting the boy up over the console and into his lap.

Fives held Rex’s hand to his chest as Rex held him to his and they sat just breathing in silence together until Fives shifted to look up at Rex, “Are- are you very mad at me?”

Rex squeezed Fives a little tighter and smiled sadly, “I’m not very mad at you.”

They sat together for a few more moments and this time it was Rex who broke the silence, “Can I explain why I got upset?”

Rex felt Fives nod against his chest.

“Cars can be very dangerous if we aren’t careful in them or around them,” He felt Fives nod in understanding and continued, “One of the rules when you’re in the car is that you always keep your seatbelt on and you never open the door unless we are parked in a driveway or in a parking lot, does that make sense?”

Again, Rex felt Fives nod against him.

He continued, “When you opened the door, I was scared that you might get hurt, so I got upset. But I was more upset that you might get hurt than I was upset at you.” Rex rubbed Fives’s arm, “I’m sorry for yelling at you and for grabbing you.”

“I’m sorry, too. For- for breaking the rules.”

“It’s alright. You were excited, I get it. But next time we don’t jump out of moving cars.”

Fives nodded, sniffling.

Rex grabbed a tissue and handed it to the boy, “Ready to go see Echo?”

Fives smiled, blowing into the tissue, “Ready.”

@marierg @stressed-cherry @ffdemon @renton6echo @bambambunny @tearfulsolace @rndmpeep @brokenphoenix99 @xylionet @tazmbc1

[risingchaos]

CONTINGENCY PLAN

-

Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Rating: Teen and Up

Relationship: Dick Grayson & Justice League

Characters: Dick Grayson, Clark Kent, Diana (Wonder Woman), Oliver Queen, Dinah Lance, Barry Allen, J’onn J’onzz (mentioned), Arthur Curry (mentioned)

Additional Tags: Dick Grayson is Batman, Bruce Wayne is not Batman, he’s dead, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Oliver Queen is So Done, Humor, No beta we die like Jason, Not angst or fluff but a secret third thing

Language: English

Words: 1,793

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: After Batman’s death, the League is at a loss on how to proceed. Fortunately, Batman had a plan for that. Unfortunately, he’s bad at letting his co-workers in on his plans.

-

Batman had contingency plans upon contingency plans upon contingency plans. He had safety nets and backups and hidden files. He had a thing in place for every possible scenario that could, would, might, or won’t happen, and he was prepared.

So when they finally found the folder ‘In Case of Death’, they were morbidly relieved.

They were less relieved however, when the only thing in the file was a document saying that a plan would have already gone in motion, and to just trust his plans.

The next twelve days following Batman’s death were some of the hardest in the League. Everyone had handled death before, the team had handled death before, but not this kind. Not this level of loss. One of their founding members, one of their most determined and gritty members, gone overnight. He was the major planner, the one with the ideas and the gadgets and the backups. The brain and reason when no one else was, and he was always willing to take the hit if it meant getting the job done.

He was a friend. He was Bruce, to the most trusted members. He had a rare smile he’d share and a deep laugh you could celebrate if you got it out of him. He was protective and almost motherly, always making sure everyone was okay. Almost always. He helped out and cared and teased. He was loved, and he loved them all back.

It hurt. It hurt everyone.

And most of them didn’t even know his name.

On the thirteenth day after Batman’s death, Oliver came into the building fuming. No mask, no uniform, in a smart suit like he had just come from work. He pushed past Barry and J’onn who tried to stop him and ask questions, and marched right up to the computer. At that point, other members in the common room had directed their attention to it, and were horrified as he opened an email from himself and drew up blurry images and half corrupted videos of Batman. Fighting. In Gotham. Yesterday. The man they had all watched die, breathing and fighting like nothing had happened. Whatever was under the cowl fought like Batman, moved like Batman, had the same gadgets and suit as Batman. On one of the videos, there was a small clip of audio, and it even sounded like Batman.

“It showed up two days ago. I just got news of it while looking through some cameras in the area. I shouldn’t have been able to, Batman always protected the cameras. We couldn’t access them if we tried, and we have tried. Whatever it is, we need to find it.”

Oliver turned, jaw clenched and fists by his sides, to the rest of the JLA.

Clark was pale, staring at the screen. He was listening, trying to find the familiar heartbeat again. Just in case. He didn’t find it.

Diana glanced around at her friends, worried for them specifically.

Dinah’s eyes were set, hard and mad as she watched Oliver. They needed to fix it.

Arthur, contrary to everyone else, just looked defeated. His arms crossed, shoulders sagged, tire written across his face.

Barry shifted back and forth on his feet. He wanted to speed off, to find this guy, to either beat the shit out of him or bring him back for the others to beat the shit out of.

J’onn’s face was set in a line, cool and collected. Only the slight furrow of his brow gave away his feelings.

“We have to go to Gotham.” Clark spoke up, glancing around at his friends. “If he’s the plan Batman talked about, he should know about us. If he’s not, we need to stop him. Can you still access cameras?”

He shook his head, working his jaw a little before speaking. “No. After I pulled these, I tried to find more but it locked me out. Whatever this is wanted me to see, and probably wanted me to show you.”

The group all exchanged looks, glancing between each other. Diana spoke next.

“Let’s go to Gotham.”

______

Barry arrived first. He was supposed to be a lookout, a warning, but when he arrived at the regular place Batman used to meet the League, whoever was parading around as Batman was already waiting. In person he could see the differences between Batman and this imposter. The man in front of him was tanner in complexion, a different chin. Different scowl. He wasn’t as tanky as Bruce had been, more on the leaner side. The armor added bulk the man didn’t have, but it fit like it was made for him. However, to someone who didn’t spend at least one day a week with him for years, who didn’t watch Batman die, this man could pass off as Batman without a problem.

They both stared at each other, Barry’s angry blue eyes staring into the emotionless white covering on the cowl. Before Barry could even open his mouth to comment, to yell or taunt or anything, the imposter raised his hand in faux placating and spoke in a near perfect imitation of Batman’s gruff voice. “Wait for the others. I’ll explain then.”

Within a few minutes of tense silence, before Barry lost it and just started asking questions, the rest of the League arrived. Clark’s eyes widened once he saw the imposter, picking up the heartbeat inside. He was too distracted and lightly horrified by the realization to pick up on his friend’s movement. On Oliver’s movement.

The archer ran up to the imposter the moment he saw him, but no one really knew what his plan was. Or got to see. He was on the ground with a fluid movement from the imposter within seconds. Oliver went from in front of “Batman”, moving at near inhuman speeds, to thrown on to the grimy Gotham floor. “Batman” was on him in an instant, pinning him to the asphalt. One hand and a knee restricted Oliver’s arms, the other hand steading them on the ground and using the weight of his other leg and body to keep the rest of Oliver in line.

“Calm do-“

“Who are you?? What are you?? What did you-“

“Take a br-“

“You fucking-“

“Arrow-“

“Coward!”

“Oliver!”

The imposter hissed the archer’s name, low enough that only the man below him and those with superhearing could understand. It stilled the man in green and drew a collective breath from those who heard, Oliver’s chest heaving and eyes wide behind his domino mask. Shit.

“If I let you go, will you attack me again, or will you let me explain before trying to kill me again?” The gruff tone was back. When Oliver didn’t respond instantly, the imposter tightened his hold and pressed his knee a little harder into Oliver’s arm. That got a gasped ‘fine’ and “Batman” got off of him.

He turned to everyone else, giving a sweeping glare (they somehow knew) as Oliver got up and grumbled to himself about ‘damn bats’.

“Zeta back to the Hall. I’ll meet you there and explain.” He paused, deciding on if to give any kind of explanation. “Too many ears.” He gestured around vaguely before doing the incredibly bat-like thing of zipping away and disappearing before anyone could ask a question.

______

As expected, “Batman” was already waiting for them when they got back. He stood by the computer, tapping away. He was pulling up some kind of files from a flash drive, not even glancing over when the Zeta announced them. Instead, he got right into it.

“I’m the contingency plan Batman mentioned in his ‘In Case of Death’ folder. Of course he didn’t specify what, because why would he..” The man trailed off, sighing as he turned to the rest of the League. The gruff imitation was gone, replaced by an upbeat Gothamite accent and a lighter tone. “When we got the news he had- died, we gave ourselves some time to grieve before I put on the suit. It’s not easy losing a family member, as I’m sure you’ve all felt the last week and a half. Almost two weeks.”

He finally turned to face everyone, checking all their faces before continuing on. He took a small breather, reached up, and pulled down the cowl. The domino underneath remained firmly planted on his face, but the few who knew him drew in a sharp breath.

“I’m Nightwing. Batman’s.. Son. I was the first Robin, if any of you remember me like that.”

He gave a tentative smile and little jazz hands, as if to say ‘surprise’.

“Jesus Christ.”

Oliver shook his head, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Nightwing? Really? I got my ass pinned by you?”

Dick just gave a wide smile back, very pleased with himself. “I learned it from Batman. And Arsenal. Both liked making sure I could pin someone bigger than me. The armor helped, adds weight.” He shrugged his shoulders to show. “A lot bulkier than I’m used to, but this was the plan. In Case of Death. When his vitals went down, A alerted me. The next confirmation came from you guys opening the folder.” He pointed a thumb back at the screen. “I can show you guys proof this really was the plan, or you can just believe me. I’m not here to take Batman’s spot. I’ve denied being in the League before, I’ve got too much on my plate with Blüdhaven, my day job, my personal life, and now Gotham and Batman and all the shit with my family. I’m dealing with the loss of him in our lives, but we can’t let Gotham underground know Batman’s-, dead.”

Dick’s facade didn’t drop, not truly, but the smile dimmed a little. It would seem natural to anyone else, just the way a smile ran its course, if not for the fact that this group was trained to find things like that.

“I’m doing rounds as Batman back in Gotham. Give me a call if you guys have a League thing, need Batman there. Promise I can be useful.” He patted the console twice, reached back to pull on the cowl, and hesitated. His smile fixed itself, more cheeky this time.

“I am one hell of a tactician. My dad says so.”

He fixed the cowl back on, dropping the smile properly once he did. It was a little unnerving, how fast the switch happened.

The League watched as Batman, Nightwing, exited the room and soon enough they heard the Zeta whir to life. Nobody spoke for a minute, just letting the information sink in.

Barry spoke first.

“Nightwing, huh?”

He turned, looking at the door they had just watched the man leave through.

“I’ve heard good things.”

[nipotazzi]

Symphony in Fortissimo Agitando - Chapter 4

The screen went black. Nothing happened for a few seconds, until a series of statics from her speakers started building up, and a wide array of complex isonometries appeared. It looked like something straight out of one of those old CGI movies... but what mattered most is that it vaguely looked like a face, a small, octopus-like face. 

“...etor?”

Marina gasped, and stood still. 

“--etor? cre…ator? ca… hear… me?”

At this point she didn’t care about how mad Pearlie would have been if she had found her now, all that mattered to Marina right now was that…

“I-I hear you… I hear you…! I hear you!!”

The figure didn’t get any clearer, or better for that matter, but she saw him. She finally saw her child from the other side of the screen, and started tearing up.

“Creator… alive…”

She touched the screen with her whole palm, the only way she had to physically interact with him. They had so much to talk about... so much…

“...mother?”

And from then on, things could only have gotten better… and worse.

Fandom: Splatoon

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Marina/Pearl (Splatoon), Agent 3/Agent 8 (Splatoon)

Characters: Pearl (Splatoon), Marina (Splatoon), Dedf1sh | Acht (Splatoon), Agent 8 (Splatoon), Order | Smollusk (Splatoon), Parallel Canon (Splatoon) - Character, The Heavenly Melody (Splatoon)

Additional Tags: Splatoon 3: Side Order, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, References to Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, I think that they had it too nice in canon, Nightmare Fuel, Female Agent 8 (Splatoon), Traumatized Agent 8 (Splatoon), Marina and Pearl Adopt Agent 8 (Splatoon), Smollusk has been adopted, Suicidal Thoughts, failed, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempts by immortal character, Slow To Update, But won't give up on it for sure, So Please Be Patient, Existential Angst

Summary:

Marina Ida doesn't remember anything about her time as The Agitando. Quietly giving a look at the recorded logs of her simulation might finally explain this lapse in her memory… and possibly answer why everyone in the memverse insists so sternly on calling her a goddess.

Forgot to upload this one lol As always, comments, reblogs, and feedback are always appreciated. Have a good day!

[irldiancie]

All Kagehina “proof” I know of

Ok i wasnt gonna post this but ive been told by a friend to explain why some might ship Kagehina so... try me. i dont exactly ship this myself but lets just say im a pro when it comes to this topic also it's not as bad as i thought it was there are worse ships idk why i was a hater also i lowkey got some of this from shipping wiki but most of it i knew already, plus NOT ALL OF THIS IS NECESSARILY REFERENCES TO THE SHIP it kinda just adds on to it anyways lets just get into it

ok so starting with common knowledge i think everyone knows that Hinata is the protagonist followed with Kageyama being the deuteragonist, they get the most screen time together and are pretty much paired MOST of the series, we get a lot of content with them together while also getting content of them on their own, they're known as the "freak duo," the "greatest teammates" and like 100 other names they've been called I've seen a lot of people intemperate their relationship wrong, I've seen a few say Kageyama was downright "abusive" to Hinata which I think is a little farfetched, but to each their own! They genuinely do care for each other and it shows, even at the end of the manga you can tell how far their relationship has come, even if they consider themselves rivals, they are without a doubt still friends Now a lot of people have said "well they're not gay they're just friends", while this is true, it has been referenced/implied officially in many places, including manga panels and english dubs, so while it isn't canon there is a few cute things about it which we know are official which is why I'm sharing this, I myself know it isn't canon, plus I didn't really make this to prove anything it was kinda for fun sorry if that made little to no sense but I'll start getting into more interesting stuff 1. at the tip of the iceberg we have the fact they're in so much official art together

theres like a 1000 more of these btw theyre often put near eachother even in official arts not based off them

I have like 1k more of these but i have more proof than this but i think you get my point some of this is probably promo art but that's also considered official art so 2. moving on i think another known one is that Ukai calls them lovebirds ONE TIME in English dub and I have no idea who approved that but I think it's funny and obviously this probably meant nothing but take it as you want video of it here 3. this is kinda randomly thrown in but the fact that they also trust eachother, they've mentioned it a couple times but I think it's nice to know 4. i dont remember when this was or what chapter or something but kageyamas grandfather said "somebody even better will come for you", which just happened to be Hinata of course 5. ALSO after that whole fight scene back in season two, Hinata says this

he didnt really consider kageyama as a friend, but he considered him a partner which i believe is more important to hinata. teammates/partners were always something Hinata wanted, as before he went to Karasuno, he didn't feel like his friends in Junior high were necessarily teammates. Meaning he valued Kageyama more because he was his partner.

(credits to triananero for these images) and when him and Kageyama started working together, they most definitely were perfect together, as they balanced each-other out, which made them become an unstoppable duo or whatever they called them 6. the fact that they have matching jersey numbers 9 and 10 moving on to less canon stuff, there is a light novel of Haikyuu called Haikyū!! Shōsetsuban!! which probably isnt close to canon but Furudate was a part of it even though it wasn't written by him, so it's at least somewhat official 7. anyway according to shipping wiki there is a chapter where Kageyama feels "fluttery feelings at the bottom of his stomach" when Hinata texts him, it's on volume 8 chapter 1, I REALLY WANTED TO SHOW YOU GUYS BUT I COULDNT FIND IT ANYWHERE ONLINE. i searched countless tumblr posts and websites but i could only find chapter five and chapter three so im fully convinced this is lost media LMAOOOO 8. also in Haikyū!! Shōsetsuban!! apparently there's a part where Hinata daydreams about him and Kageyama eating under cherry blossom trees i just found that cute AS MUCH AS I WANNA SHOW YOU GUYS I LITERALLY CANNOT FIND ANYTHING OF THIS LIGHT NOVEL ANYWHERE i just know it's real, if I ever get my hands on it which I doubt, I'll share proof it exists btw AND THIS IS REALLY RANDOM AND SOMEONE WANTED ME TO INCLUDE THIS BUT 9. Basically there was a ad for deodorant a couple years back, collabing with Haikyuu, where you could buy deodorants to “smell like them” or whatever, some shippers believe it’s a Kagehina reference as they also advertised Kageyama and Hinatas scents together as some like matching couple thing

and then there's this

And I think I've said enough, there's way more you can find out about this ship, but I hope with this post you've learned something new or whatever... I MIGHT MAKE THIS A SERIES should i do kenhina next or kuroken ANYWAYS DISCLAIMER I didnt look too much into most of these things but I can gaurentee this stuff is true also this was just for fun and not serious but i hope you liked my little post!

[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)

[the-force-awakens]

strange birds

Summary: Following a skirmish with a version of Kraven, you tend to Miguel's injuries.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Word Count: 2k.

Warnings: referenced canon typical violence, mild descriptions of injuries, implied/referenced past bad relationships (nothing explicit, nor is the kind of relationship defined), hurt/comfort because it's my speciality.

A/N: I really thought I was done writing reader fic, but I got attached to miguel and I opened docs and this accidentally fell out, whoops. This has been cross-posted to ao3 on my pseud there.

Every spider-person has their own canon event (or sequence of them) that they have in common, but another similarity between most of them is their sense of humor, the ability to fire off a quip at the same speed it takes them to spin a web. It helps stave off the fear; enough bravado and you start to believe in your own confidence, that you’re not fighting against forces that could easily smear you off the face of the earth. Sometimes the jokes aren’t enough: sometimes the threat is so severe that the ability to summon any jocularity or wit vanishes entirely.

Since you joined the Spider-Society (one of the first recruits, you're proud to note), you've seen more than one of your fellow vigilantes sent to the medbay after a knock out, drag down fight with an anomaly. Ben was there for almost a week after pissing off the wrong Hobgoblin.

Today, you'd been tasked with helping Miguel, Kaine and Peter B with seeking out a displaced Kraven the Hunter and the results weren't exactly pretty. Most of you'd wound up briefly visiting the medbay (except Miguel, because of course he was willing to blow off his own injuries), with the exception of Kaine who'd been ordered to stay overnight for Lyla to keep an eye on him.

Once you’re officially cleared with a clean bill of health and wish Peter B farewell – the air crackling and thrumming around you both as you trade a hug, him having already opened a portal to home – you make your way to Miguel’s lab.

Compared to the rest of HQ, the lab offers something seldom found elsewhere on Earth-928B: the illusion of peace and quiet. It’s dark compared to the rest of the building to accommodate Miguel's light sensitivity, and it’s chillier here too, making it one of your favorite places to spend your free time. The fact that Miguel’s also there just happens to be a bonus, and since he hasn’t thrown you out yet, you’d like to think that he does more than tolerate your presence – that maybe, just maybe, he might even see you as a friend.

He doesn’t have enough of those, not here. You know that he has a brother, who had been this world’s Goblin and that he’d died sometime before Miguel had saved you from imminent death when he showed up in your universe to recruit you, but outside of that, you don’t know much at all about what Miguel’s life was like before the Collider incident, before he’d gone on that fateful journey through the multiverse, before his daughter – 

As you step further into the laboratory, you see her face now: another video, recorded by Lyla, plays of her and Miguel on a loop on one of the many, many screens that encircle the platform that Miguel tends to hide away on, hunkering down for days at a time to observe the web of universes, on the off chance that one might snap and the whole thing fall apart again.

In the video, you can make out Gabriella laughing and running away from Miguel, who chases her, pretending to growl menacingly even though he’s grinning so much that the twinkle in his eyes are visible through the screen; he eventually catches her around the waist, spinning them both around as peels of laughter filter softly through the speakers, an echo of another life - another universe - that Miguel can’t ever touch again filling up the room.

“Lyla, shut it off.”

The soft glow of the video vanishes, taking with it the comforting orange glow and laughter, and filling the space with even more shadows and gloom. Distantly, you can hear Lyla trying to coax Miguel into something, which he doesn’t initially respond well to until she scolds him so thoroughly that you can make out a chastised Miguel conceding, “Fine”, and with a whir, the platform slowly begins to lower itself.

In the next second, Lyla appears in front of you, glitching out briefly before gaining a stronger connection. “He needed to stay in the medbay, but he’s insistent on doing things himself, so if you could do something about that, babydoll, I’d appreciate it!” With a wink, she vanishes again, and you blink to get rid of the afterimage of her fur coat and heart shaped sunglasses.

When the platform touches ground, you finally get a glimpse at the man himself: he’s slouched in a rolly chair that neither looks comfortable or like it should be able to hold his weight, and the accents of red on his suit look darker than they should: he’d taken more of a hit than he’d let on (another constant between Spiders, but outside of Peter Parkers, few were as obstinate about accepting help as Miguel was).

“Did Lyla go get you?” Miguel asks as you approach. His eyes aren’t open, but you know his senses are heightened - even more so than yours, what with his dna having so much spider in it - enough that he’d be able to keep track of you even with them shut. It’s uncanny and sometimes unnerving, knowing he can do things like hear your heartbeat, but it’s probably the easiest thing to accept of the turn your life has taken since the concept of multiversal travel entered it. 

“Believe it or not, I actually have a vested interest in whether or not you come home in one piece, O’Hara,” you tell him, stepping in front of him and surveying the damage - it’s hard to tell, when his suit is holographic but the illusion of fabric is a good one: it automatically shifts the shade of colors to adapt to injuries on his person, even if the suit never adjusts to include actual tears. 

“Why’s that?” Miguel asks, obliging you as you tilt his head back, searching his face for cuts and bruises, even as he points out, “If you’re looking for signs of a concussion, you could’ve just asked if I hit my head.”

“Right, because you’ve got such a long history of informing people of your injuries, I forgot,” you reply dully, flicking him in the sternum with your finger. “And I came here because you’re my friend, dunno how many times I’m going to have to tell you that before you get it through your thick skull.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, watches you as you go and grab a first aid kit from elsewhere in the room and as you return, the faint blue light from the ceiling far, far above you both turns your suit a deeper tone of purple. Once you step in between his legs and affix him with a pointed stare, Miguel exhales in capitulation, and a second later the top half of his suit flickers out of existence, revealing a gash in his side.

“And you didn’t have this looked at in the medbay because…?” you demand, looking considerably more ill at the sight of his blood, although you quickly get to work in cracking open the medkit and selecting the supplies you need.

“Ben and Peter B needed the resources. I didn’t, as evidenced by the fact that you’re using – what the shock is Neosporin?” 

“It’s a miracle worker is what it is, especially when you’re a kid who has a bad habit of skinning up her knees,” you answer, slathering the now clean injury up with the medicine. It feels like the medical equivalent of splashing a cup of water onto a blazing inferno, but you know from experience that it helps until the accelerated healing can take effect and do the rest of the job for it.

Miguel grunts at that but doesn’t say more, letting you work in silence until you pull out some gauze to wrap him up with and he finally says, “I don’t make it easy.”

“Patching you up? I’ve noticed.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I meant – you said I’m your friend. I don’t make that easy, so - why.”

You straighten back up, assessing your work for a moment before looking up at Miguel; it’s not tidy by any means, but it’ll keep him from bleeding anymore until he can start healing on his own. Judging from the look of bafflement in his crimson eyes, you know that he wants something concise and logical, that he won’t accept any other kind of explanation for why you might possibly want to spend any amount of time with him, let alone consider him a friend.

(You decide to spare him from the knowledge that he’s probably the closest friend you have in the Spider Society, if just knowing you consider him one at all is enough to throw him for a loop.)

And with that in mind, you remain quiet for a minute, mulling over how best to answer him and summoning the words to do so. “You’re direct. I know when I’m talking to you, you’re never going to bullshit me on something, and I –” you scoff, lowering your gaze from his heavy, inquisitive one - “I’ve dealt with enough people bullshitting me, making me think…think I mattered more to them than I did, or making me question everything because they didn’t want to own up to something or - or they just didn’t want to tell me the truth.”

You never had to doubt with Miguel. Maybe you weren’t sure of how far his presumed affection for you ran, but you knew that he liked having you around. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have put up with you chilling in his laboratory and catching up on your reading while he worked, nor would he have allowed you to help him now. That was more certainty than you’d had in a long time when it came to your social circle, or what remained of it.

“Most people here say that’s what makes me a jackass,” Miguel points out dryly, but when you glance back up at him, his mouth has twitched into the ghost of a smile. “And it usually deters them from sticking around.”

“I’m not most people, and we both know you deter them on purpose.”

His mouth twinges up even further, revealing one of his canines. “How else am I supposed to keep this lab quiet?”

You can’t help but laugh outright at that, the sound bouncing off the walls and echoing throughout the voluminous space. “Too bad it doesn’t have any effect on me.”

“You’re not noisy - and even when you are, I don’t - it’s not -” Miguel briefly raises one hand helplessly, before finally getting out - “the noise isn’t bad when it's from…from a friend.”

You don’t throw your arms around him in a bear hug like you want, because you know he likes his personal space, but you do beam at him and squeeze his hand with yours. 

Miguel O’Hara doesn’t have many friends, outside of Lyla and Peter B and Jessica, and from what you know of his past, you don’t blame him – better than anyone, you understand, you really do. The fact that he counts you as a friend, as someone he can rely on, is overwhelming. 

Perhaps more than you realized, because Miguel reaches up suddenly and gently – always so conscious of his talons – wipes away a stray tear from the corner of your eye. “You alright?” 

You nod a couple times. “Yeah, just - not used to hearing that, anymore.”

Miguel hums, the noise rumbling with its disapproval, but he doesn’t say more on the matter, just jerks his head in the direction of his screens and says, like he’s pulling teeth, “Could use some help here, if you’re up for it.”

You know he’s only asking for help to give you a distraction, but that small sacrifice has something warm blooming in your chest, that he’d swallow his pride to help you. ”Yeah, I’m up for it. You got any popcorn?”

The side-eye you get tells you all you need to know, but within an hour, you’ve got a bucket of it from the cafeteria plopped between the both of you as you watch, and you can only hope that your presence takes some of the burden off Miguel’s shoulders, in the way that being near him has that yawning mouth of raw wanting and loneliness inside you dulling into an almost bearable white noise.

You think, when he smiles for a third time at one of your anecdotes, that it just might.

[weirdmollusk]

Noblesse Oblige

Chapter 1: The Pale Elf and the Dark Elf

Previously: First

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. NSFW, 

Trauma Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD Past Abuse Explicit Sexual Content Blood Drinking Hurt/Comfort Religious Imagery & Symbolism Post-Canon Vampire Sex Angst Seldarine Drow Tav (Baldur's Gate) Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence Consent Past Sexual Abuse Work In Progress Sex Work Slavery Blood and Violence Implied/Referenced Torture Fantasy Racism Fluff and Humor Fluff and Smut 

Word count: 21.2K

Status: Ongoing

Author's note: Astarion and his formidable lover Rhaenyra have established an armed camp in the Underdark, securing safe haven for thousands of vampire spawn. After two years of hiding their community from the many terrors of the tunnels, their unfriendly neighbours finally come calling.

AO3

Entire Story Link on AO3

Chapter 1: The Pale Elf and the Dark Elf

Noblesse oblige: Nobility extends beyond mere entitlement. There is an inherent requirement for those who hold status and power to fulfill social responsibilities for the good of their subjects.

~+*+~ . ~+*+~ . ~+*+~

Rhaenyra tilted her head back and let out an exhausted sigh as she folded herself into a small wooden bathtub. The cramped space didn’t offer much in the way of comfort, but the hot water was at least effective in soothing the sore muscles of her overworked sword arm.

Being a drow of impressive height was useful when it came to combat, and quite handy for intimidating someone, but it made bathing in a smaller tub fairly awkward. Thus, she had to drape her legs out and over the edge just to soak the stiffness in her shoulders away.

Rhaenyra had the privilege of occupying the largest of suites that made up the top floor of the Great Hall building. This one, set aside formally as the “Lord’s Chambers”, was large enough to house two individuals, even if one of them happened to own a rather excessive wardrobe. 

Despite the lack of luxuries one had access to in this part of the Underdark, the room around her was well furnished with bookcases, an impressively stocked wine rack, and a large woven rug spread across the floor. A wide, comfortable-looking bed sat against the wall, just a few paces from the door.

The corner of the room where Rhaenyra bathed was separated from the main living-space by a large fabric privacy screen, shielding her from prying eyes. 

A single candle burned atop a wooden vanity only a few paces away, providing her with the sole source of light and visual entertainment. As a distraction from her busy thoughts, she watched the flame at the tip flicker and dance while melted wax rolled its way down to pool on the base. 

The exercise was boring, but relaxing.

She didn't recall falling into a trance, nor for how long she'd been out, but the sound of the door opening from across the room roused her suddenly back to her senses. The candle had already spent itself, leaving the room still and comfortingly devoid of light.

“Hey, I’m over here,” Rhaenyra called out hoarsely into the stillness. In response, she heard whisper-soft footsteps approach, stopping on the other side of the privacy screen.

“May I join you?” Astarion asked as he slipped a pale hand around the edge, offering a polite little wave in greeting.

“Yeah, sure…if you can fit.” 

When he stepped into view, with a guarded little furrow in his brow, she realized how pleased she was to see him. When seen through darkvision, the pallor of his skin seemed to make him glow, and the absence of light revealed details that were normally washed out from brightness. It was hard for her to take her eyes off of him. 

He wore a white linen dress shirt and a pair of form-fitting leather trousers. It was one of his more modest outfits, but he had a tendency to ensure his clothes were always extremely well tailored. 

Rhaenyra, on the other hand, wore nothing in particular but a strategically placed sponge.

Astarion took the opportunity to observe her quietly as she lay there supine. After a moment, his focus slipped from her face, tracing down and settling between her legs. He let his attention linger there, with a notable interest in that particular sponge. 

“I’ve been looking for you, you know.” His tone was carefully passive. 

“Have you? Well, congratulations. You’ve found me.” Rhaenyra raised a hand from her tepid bathwater, waving her pruney fingers coyly from groin-level. 

He smirked, then lifted his chin and turned away. “Oh, thank you. It was quite the feat, actually.” 

Astarion rounded the tub, going about replacing the finished candle with a fresh one. Once the flame on the tip flickered to life, he began to rummage through the drawers of the vanity, gathering up a clean towel, and a small wooden hairbrush. 

Rhaenyra turned to watch him as he moved about, then resigned to lean back when he pulled out a stool to sit on behind her. Although her bath water was cold, and her shoulders were starting to cramp, she was loath to deny him an opportunity to pamper her. 

“First, I went to the barracks,” Astarion began, “The Captain in charge told me you’d gone to the North Gate with the shift change to conduct inspections. When I arrived at the North Gate, the sentries there said you’d left for the South Gate already with another party. By the time I got to the South Gate, the Captain said she wasn’t expecting you to arrive at all.” 

As he spoke, he ran the little wooden brush through her black hair, carefully unraveling the thin braids that kept it out of the battle-scarred side of her face. 

“So, I returned to the barracks, where I was told that you’d departed shortly after sending three new trainees to the infirmary with head injuries. I went to visit them, hoping they might be able to enlighten me as to your whereabouts.

The fellow with the broken jaw wasn’t very talkative. And the other two had no idea where you were. They also begged me to reassign them to administrative duties, citing ‘inhumane working conditions’. Which, while impressive to hear, is an irony I’d prefer not to dwell on.”

He paused, leaning forward to look down from above now that he’d finished brushing out her hair completely. His smile was tense, leaving her unclear whether he was relieved to finally have found her, or if he was considering drowning her in her own bathwater. 

“So I thought,” Astarion held her gaze and continued, “Where could my beloved Rhaenyra possibly be? Not our quarters, surely? No, I don’t think I’ve seen her here for three bloody days.”

As his story concluded, Astarion’s tone grew irate, and his mask of politeness faded away, causing Rhaenyra to wonder how long she could hold her breath underwater.

Mildly unsettled by his scolding, she tried to deflect: “Okay, well, first of all, Theo hit himself in the face with that practice sword, and the other two… I don’t think they’re cut out for my line of work, honestly. Go ahead and reassign them, if you want.”

“I’m not here to talk about work.” Astarion replied curtly. Without warning, he slid his cool fingers up the length of her ear. As she jumped at his touch, he slid the back of the wooden comb up the length of her other ear.  

The skin of Rhaenyra’s neck and shoulders tingled delightfully as she flushed with goosebumps, making it difficult for her to mask the excited tremor in her voice. “No? In that case, I hope you have a pretty compelling reason to barge in here and interrupt my private bathing time. I’m pretty busy, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Astarion curled his fingers into her damp hair, gently pulling back her head to expose the length of her throat. Without a hint of irony, he declared: 

“I have urgent needs.” 

Rhaenyra tensed and gripped the edges of the little wooden tub in her pruned hands. She swallowed, hoping to buy some additional time to come up with an appropriately witty response. Under the pressure of a rapidly increasing heart rate, she mustered an impressive:

“Yeah?”

“Indeed. I’ve missed you very much, and I’m starting to feel neglected. I order you to take a break from your duties and attend to me.” While making his flippant and selfish demand, Astarion relaxed his grip on her hair and leaned down to press a cool kiss to her forehead.

“Next time you forget to return to our quarters for an extended period without warning, I’ll pay a bounty to have you apprehended. Believe me, darling, you’ll miss the comfort of our bed after spending some time in a cell.” 

“You wouldn’t!” Rhaenyra sat up aghast, and turned as much as her stiff neck would allow her to look upon him. After observing his devious little smirk, and considering his threat for a moment longer, she determined it was an empty one.

“I’m not convinced locking me up would solve your problems of missing me, or feeling neglected.”

“Oh, but it would. You see, I’d know exactly where you are if I’m feeling peckish, and I could ravish you while bound in shackles whenever I wish!”

“Until I choke you out with my chains, you mean?”

“A tempting thought. Alas, my sweet, I don’t need to breathe while we’re fucking.”

“...Ah.”

He always had a knack for leaving her flustered and speechless. Rhaenyra smiled wide, flashing her teeth in amusement as she relaxed back against her folded washcloth pillow. Taking her smile as an invitation, Astarion reached down into her bathwater, only to recoil the moment his fingers hit the tepid liquid in which she lay. 

“Gods below! This water’s freezing! How long have you been laying here?”

“Hah. Funny you should ask. It’s probably best if I don't answer that question.” There was no chance she’d admit to passing out only hours before he arrived.

“You’re not stuck in there, are you?” Astarion asked incredulously. It was a reasonable assumption, given the compromising position she’d twisted herself into in the attempt to soak a stiff neck and shoulders.

Rhaenyra frowned in thought as she attempted to fabricate some kind of excuse that might preserve her dignity. But before she had a chance to respond, Astarion seemingly took her silence as an admission, and began to laugh.

Her frown turned to a scowl. She waited in silence until his jeering died down to a more reasonable chuckle, and then she offered him a pruned hand.

“If you’re not going to help me up, you can leave.” 

“Oh, darling! ” He gasped, ceasing his mockery abruptly in favor of dramatic pearl clutching, “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you stranded and vulnerable in a chilly bath.” 

Astarion rose from his stool and moved around the edge of the tub to take her hand in his own. As soon as he tensed to brace her, she clenched her grip and yanked down, seeking to pull him into the tiny bathtub atop of her. 

“I’ll show you vulnerable!” Rhaenyra snarled in her treachery. 

Astarion’s reaction was immediate, and not unlike that of a cat being dunked into a washbasin. 

Perfumed water erupted over the edge of the tub as he thrashed against her warrior’s grip, attempting in vain to break free. Rhaenyra cackled as he struggled, up until the point he headbutted her in the mouth. 

“Agh! You cur!” 

She released him on reflex, cupping her hands to the lower half of her face, and he flung himself backwards, soaking wet and furious. 

Astarion’s wet linen shirt clung alluringly to his ivory skin, and Rhaenyra might have taken a moment to admire the chiseled sculpting of his chest and abdomen, had he not been seething as though he was ready to flay her alive. 

Rather than stand and fight, she chose to scramble out of the little wooden bathtub as quickly as her naked legs would allow. The vessel rocked as she lept from it, and water splattered in a trail across the wooden floorboards as she made a hasty escape to the other side of the room.

Astarion whipped the waterlogged sponge at her back as she retreated. It was more out of luck than skill that she dodged, and it hit the wall with a soggy splat before sliding to the floor. 

There was a perfectly good adamantine longsword propped against the wall beside the night stand, but Rhaenyra instead reached for a large quilted pillow. When Astarion bolted across the room and lunged for her, she swung it at him, but he dodged the attack with ease. She tried to hit him again with a backswing, but he ducked low and the pillow passed uselessly over his head. 

Seeking the high ground, Rhaenyra leapt up upon their shared bed. As she prepared to strike a third time, he grabbed her by the ankle and pulled, causing her to tip backward onto the mattress most gracelessly. 

Upon landing, Astarion began to drag Rhaenyra by the leg towards the edge of the bed. She abandoned her pillow to claw uselessly at the blankets while howling with laughter. There were plenty of opportunities to kick him in the face as he manhandled her, but she preferred not to resist as he tugged her forward until her hips met the edge, and he positioned himself to stand between her knees. 

They spent the next several heartbeats in tense silence, locked in each other’s eyes; his piercing crimson staring down into her deep, shadowy red.  

“Feed me,” Astarion demanded.

There were many things she could say in this playful moment to mock him, or demean his request. But striking at his dignity about this subject was never something she’d seriously consider. There was no desire to make him beg, either. That didn’t necessarily mean that playtime was over, though. 

Rhaenyra smiled with adoration and stretched back onto the mattress with the languid laziness of a feline. Hooking her foot around his calf, she pulled him closer. 

“Go ahead,” she invited him, “Eat me right up.”

Astarion sighed softly, dropping his shoulders as his posture relaxed. He lifted his hands off her knees so he could pull free the hem of his shirt and peel the waterlogged fabric up and over his head. 

He turned, wringing the garment out on the floor, and frowning lightly as the perfumed water streamed from the twisted cloth. As he laid out his damp shirt on the corner of the bed, Rhaenyra pushed herself up onto her elbows and watched him patiently. 

There was no need to rush things. She was plenty entertained by the way the candlelight highlighted the perfect lines of his chest and shoulders, and highlighted his silvery hair like a halo. She enjoyed the way he teased her like this. Sometimes, he'd do it for what felt like hours– disrobing agonizingly slowly until she felt like she might leer holes through the scars on his back. 

Once his shirt was set aside, Rhaenyra lay back once more to present herself to him as a delectable feast. Much to her surprise, he didn’t climb above her on the bed to sink his teeth into the flesh of her neck. Instead, he lowered himself to his knees. 

The silvery-white curls of his hair tickled her skin as he began to kiss and nibble a path up her inner thigh. She gasped, squirming under his ministrations and twitching gleefully as his teeth teased her tender flesh. 

When he was within reach, she took his head into her hands, pressing her thumbs to his earlobes and fanning her fingers up his eartips.

At her touch, he murmured with pleasure against her skin, which made her smile. However, the expression was short-lived the moment Astarion reached his destination. When his cool lips pressed to her vulva, and he began to slide his tongue between the folds of her outer labia, Rhaenyra sank back into the mattress with her eyes closed, and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. 

As Astarion began to tend to her with his lips, supping generously upon her cunt, she rewarded him with deep, puffing breaths. In her growing excitement, she rocked her hips into his mouth, and he responded by curling his arms around her thighs to try and steady her in place.

When Rhaenyra’s breathing quickened to growling gasps, Astarion shifted focus to shower attention upon her clitoris. With his tongue, he spread the lips of her vulva while massaging the swollen nub eagerly with his lips. 

Her gasps lengthened out into a throaty whine as Rhaenyra began to claw uselessly at the blankets beneath her. Encouraged by her wanton singing, Astarion worked her with a regular tempo, masterfully conducting an opera composed of her whimpers and moans.

He propped her leg on his shoulder, freeing his hand to tease his middle and ring fingers gently between the slickened lips of her vulva. Rhaenyra tensed her thigh, digging her heel between his scarred shoulders as he slid them inside her.

He paused for just a moment, giving her body time to adjust before he began to stroke rhythmically. Angling his touch upward, he knowingly caressed that magical little spot within until she started crying out hoarsely into the darkness of the room. 

Rhaenyra clapped her hand over her mouth, attempting to muffle her voice as she felt the warmth of an intense climax wash over her. At that very moment, Astarion sank his fangs deeply into the flesh of her inner thigh. She shrieked through her fingers, writhing from the clash of pain and bliss, and he tensed his arm around her leg to keep her firmly against him while he sucked greedily.

When she had finally stopped squirming, he released her, breaking the seal of his lips around the punctures in her flesh.

“My love,” Astarion leaned back, admiring his handiwork while blood dripped seductively from his chin, “You know how much it excites me when you scream like that.” He swallowed, wiping at his lip with his thumb and contemplating the crimson smear that came off on his hand. 

“How can I possibly enjoy my meal when all I want is to be buried inside of you, instead?”

“You can do both. Come up here to me.” Rhaenyra’s invitation was breathless and love-drunk. Without another word, Astarion rose from the floor while loosening the laces of his lust-tightened trousers.

And that's exactly when everything went horribly wrong. 

Whether or not they heard the yelling was uncertain. They were both quite preoccupied, after all. What they couldn't ignore was their chamber door bursting in, rattling on its hinges as the panicked form of Pale Petras suddenly appeared. 

“Lord Astarion! Lor- Oh, Gods!”  

Before he could utter another word, Rhaenyra had rolled off the bed in an impressive display of athleticism. As soon as her bare feet hit the floor, she’d taken up the adamantine longsword, and by the time Petras’ two functional brain cells managed to rub together enough for him to figure out what he'd just barged in on, she was poised and ready to cut him in half. 

Astarion made absolutely no move to stop her. If looks could kill, his glower would have reduced his brother to a fine pink mist. Sneering, he slid his dagger smoothly back home in his boot sheath when Rhaenyra flashed him the familiar and unsatisfying hand signal to stand down. 

“Petras!” Rhaenyra bellowed at him, loud enough to snap the stunned vampire spawn back to his senses. But only briefly. 

“D-dr..uhhm..” One could hardly blame him. The room was thick with an air of fresh blood and potent arousal. Petras seemingly lost his ability to speak again once he spotted the wound on the inside of Rhaenyra’s naked thigh. His words trailed off to nothingness as his wide eyes followed the crimson line oozing down her leg, bloody droplets steadily tapping to the floor.

“Hey! Eyes up here!” Rhaenyra hollered again, one hand gesturing to her face as the other to flicked her blade’s point perilously close to Petra’s stunned face, causing him to stagger back a step. 

Astarion ripped the blanket off the bed and swiftly draped it around her strong shoulders in an attempt to preserve what was left of her modesty. She nodded her thanks to him distractedly. “Quickly, now, what is it?” 

“There's party of four armed drow a-at the North Gate.” Petras finally stammered, his eyes now locked upon her features as she’d ordered. “They've demanded an audience with you, Commander Rhaenyra.”

The weight of the news caused her shoulders to sag, and Rhaenyra raised a tired hand, dismissing Petras with a curt waive. He backtracked without hesitation, shoving the door shut behind him, and returning the stolen privacy back to the pair of elves.

“Well! This is exciting!” Astarion exclaimed suddenly, using a thick layer of sarcasm to lighten the mood, “I suppose we should get dressed and go see what they want. 

What do you say, Commander?” 

Rhaenyra smirked, but the expression didn’t meet her eyes. 

Instead of responding to his quip, she looked down to the floor, unable to wrestle a coherent thought past the rushing sound of her heartbeat in her ears. Her knuckles grew pale from the strangled grip she had on her longsword, and her mind began to race from the unwelcome reminder of her heavy responsibilities, and all that was at stake.

And the recollection of everything, and everyone, she'd already lost. 

The feel of a cool hand on her arm snapped her back. Rhaenyra jolted at the touch, startled to find Astarion standing close, and looking up at her with an expression of deepening concern. He was offering her a clean towel, of all things.

“Stop bleeding, it’s distracting.” He almost sounded like he was joking, but she still picked up the unease in his voice. 

Rhaenyra snatched the towel from him and pressed it to her skin to stem the trickle that ran down from the bite marks Astarion had left in her thigh. When she noticed him scrutinizing her behaviour anxiously, she waved him off with the point of her sword, and a scowl.

“I’m fine. Just surprised.” She told him the same lie she’d told him a thousand times before, whenever he looked at her like that.

This time, though, there was something in his eyes that made her question whether he actually believed her.