#the skull on Phil’s backpack is just missas mask

[katescribblesabit]

I just thought of a cute headcanon for the ones that like Missa with a skull mask instead of being full skeleton

He is still a reaper here, and missa wears the skull mask in the overworld/living world and all that. But when he goes to the afterlife/death dimension he doesn’t need the mask there ( for reasons, idk maybe there are some affects he has in the living world without the mask, and in death everyone is already dead so no unwanted side effects)

And every time missa goes to the afterlife for reaper business he leaves his mask with Phil for safekeeping! And Phil attached it to his backpack so he always has it around.

And missa always joins late so Phil would be home already meaning the backpack would be there to and just eueue

[thanotaphobia]

alas

i'm brainrotted over these two and their dumb little relationship

crossposted to ao3

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Missa doesn’t even know Phil has wings until eight days in.

Yesterday, they received a son. Missa is kind of choosing to think of it as “received” rather than “had” or “adopted,” because honestly the circumstances were and are kind of weird. That said, he loves his son, because Chayanne is the cutest little thing on this planet earth and Missa would move mountains for him.

He’d also move mountains for Phil, but Phil would probably get there first and move them first. The man works hard. Missa watches him stay awake for nearly thirty hours before he finally crashes, descending into the house they’re supposedly sharing now with a yawn and a wave. Missa lets him be, for a while– takes care of Chayanne, puts Chayanne to bed. Works on some farm stuff, collects resources, nearly dies by a skeleton once but doesn’t. Dies to a creeper. Oops. At least he can harvest the skeleton’s face for another skull mask, because his was kind of getting dinged up.

Before he knows it, almost a full day has passed since he’d last seen Philza. 

He’s not concerned, he’s just– well, he’s worried. He has no idea when Phil last ate, and food at least is something Missa can provide instead of something like physical protection. He cooks for himself and Chayanne and then makes up a plate of steaming hot potatoes with cheese and sliced pork and goes to find Phil. He thinks he knows where his bed is, so after opening and closing a couple doors, Missa opens one and finds Phil, in bed, asleep–

–shirtless. He nearly drops the plate. Sure, they’re raising a child together and yes, Missa isn’t going to deny the fact that Phil is handsome, in a weird, kind of DILF-y way, so sue him for being surprised. He stands in the doorway for a moment, chest rising and falling in rapid succession as he pretends his cheeks aren’t on fire. 

He also takes a closer look, because Phil is… very much still sleeping. One arm thrown wide, the other tucked under the pillow, mouth half-open and eyes shut tight. He might be snoring.

(Missa is smitten.)

He lets himself look, taking a few near-silent steps into the room and glancing down at the plate of food. Maybe he’ll just… leave it. Phil looks so peaceful. And he deserves the rest, after everything he’s done for Missa and for Chayanne so far. He moves to put the plate on the nightstand, eyes dragging from Phil’s face to his chest to his arms to the place where his skin meets the hastily-stitched bed sheets, back to his arms– when he stops.

There, just above his shoulders is a puff of inky darkness. Rising from the awkward slab of his shoulder blade, sitting fluffy and light on his (admirably strong) deltoids and spread out over the covers behind him are wings.

They’re not big. That’s what surprises Missa. It feels like they should be big, somehow. Phil sleeps as though there should be something grand and sprawling behind him, leaving enough room on the rest of the bed that he’s nearly falling off the side of it. But instead of huge wings, they’re small, small enough to easily be tucked under a jacket or a backpack. Where Missa expects feathers, he finds a smooth edge of cut quills, and some bare skin where it’s been plucked raw.

He stands there for a long, long time, looking at Phil. Tracing the edges of his wings with his eyes and wishing he could do it with his hands instead. Would the feathers feel soft? Could he soothe some of the aching that surely comes with the plucking? He imagines it– imagines a Phil who lets him, who wants him to. 

That idea is the one that sends him spiraling. His hands put the plate of food down before his brain catches up, still stuck skipping like a broken record over that thought; that image of Phil smiling at him over a bare shoulder, hair unbraided and loose in his eyes. Telling Missa it’s okay, he wants him to touch. How warm Phil would be in the morning sun, streaming in and making the bedroom golden. Hearing the sound of his breathing up close. 

Missa already has the privilege of seeing this, though. Phil allowing him unguarded access to his bedroom, and not so much as making a peep at his entry. Missa might be a coward, but he’s no fool– he’s not going to risk losing that over something so small as a mouthwatering want to touch Phil’s mysterious, clipped wings.

He puts the plate of food down on the bedside table, and he makes his strategic retreat into the kitchen, where it takes one cup of hastily-brewed coffee and forty minutes of staring at nothing to calm his racing heart. He’s almost calmed down completely when the door leading in the direction of the bedroom opens again and he jumps halfway out of his seat in surprise.

It’s Phil– awake, and dressed, and looking at Missa.

For a second, Missa imagines Phil accusing him of peeking. Of seeing. But instead, Phil just shuffles past with a yawn and a smile. Then Missa realizes he’s holding an empty plate, scraped clean.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Phil says from behind him. Missa does not dare to turn around. There’s the sound of running water and cutlery clinking, then Phil comes around his other side and stops. “You alright, mate?” Phil asks, leaning on the counter. Missa is… impressed by how well he hides it, honestly. There’s not even a bump on the back of his jacket, and for a second Missa thinks maybe he imagined it all. Maybe Phil doesn’t have wings, and it was just a weird hallucination. Wouldn’t be the first time something had gone whacky on this island.

“Good,” Missa says, forcing a smile. He’s probably just going crazy. “Just tired.”

“Why don’t I take this,” Phil says with a grin and a little laugh, reaching out to slide Missa’ half-empty mug away from him and hitch a thumb over his shoulder at the bedroom door, “and you go take a nap, yeah?”

It takes a minute for his words to process, and Missa wonders about the phrase lost in translation. Could there be a way to say I need you without actually saying it? It might be the coward’s way out, but he’s fine with that.

“Okay,” he says, a second too late. Phil is already herding him towards the door he’d just come out of. “Okay, okay, I will go to bed, okay! Tell– tell Chayanne I love him when he wakes up.”

“I will,” Phil says warmly. Missa wants to crumple onto the floor and die, but instead he just smiles at Phil again and then turns away before he does something stupid, like kiss him. Instead he heads back into the bedroom where Phil had gestured, closing the door behind him with a sigh. He’s just tired, and definitely going crazy, he’s decided, shedding his outerwear and tugging off his boots. He sits on the edge of the bed, sheets crisply made and tucked in at the corners, and digs his hand underneath them. Missa’s tired and a little loopy and, when he pulls back the covers to crawl in– frozen in quiet shock.

There, lying so perfectly in the center of the bed it might have well been planted there, is a single dark feather.