#nothing untoward in this perfectly normal post

[notrobinsomethingworse]

Damian Wayne appreciation post 💕

[the-final-sif]

(Screenshot anon)

ok so that might've been a classic move for an alpha in like 2003 but times have changed and literally no alpha acts like that nowadays. even if he WAS trying to court Dream he wouldn't have done in a video like that - his reputation is entirely at stake.

taking care of someone when they're sick literally isn't posessive though???? Like ok Jimmy's head alpha of the pack and has to kind of fight to assert dominance because al of them (except Nolan) are also alphas but that has nothing to do with Dream??? if anything he was being a good friend and taking care of someone who was sick. they shared a tent so he could keep an eye on him. that's literally just normal friend behavior - he probably discussed it with SNF earlier and had Karl hang with them so they could enjoy antarctica without having to constantly take care of Dream.

He's literally just doing regular pack leader behavior - and he appears to be really good at it - taking care of a sick member, making sure everyone's not freaking out because a member of the pack is sick, keeping an eye on everything. Dude sucks sometimes but at least he's a good alpha.

As SC Anon (sorry, are we good to use nicknames ?) said, the video was HEAVILY edited. Like, we see Dream and Mr Beast going in for a hug when they get back from the moutain but it cuts ; Nolan sleeping in between the two so that the proper space and third party rule is respected (and like. SC anon said it themselves, Nolan is the only non alpha aka the only one not "threatening" ?? I don't think that is a coincidence) ; at the start of the video they're always next to each others ; that comment Dream makes about knowing MrBeast is pantless ?? Like how ?. We could even see in Dream's longer version (bless its soul) how close the two were originaly. There were definitely some moves made. And I'm pretty sure it's intentionnal Karl was so much with Sapnap and George, to distract them from their newly reunited pack mate. Also I disagree with the "terrible public move" bc nothing untoward happened, Mr Beast was a gentleman on all regards. But 1) he made it clear to Dream in survival conditions he was reliable and a good option 2) he showed it to the world ? Like call that neon flash of "Omega gets sick in Antartica, I manage to keep them perfectly healthy", that was a good boost for his reputation as a carer (not that should matter for alphas, and it pushes bad stereotypes, but that's how traditionnal - and they represent à good part of Mr Beast's audience - saw it). So it was a win for him on every point

And it appears a third anon has entered the fray,

(I'm third completely unrelated anon in the MrBeast saga) FUCK THE BEAST, OKAY. Look we all cringed and laughed about that freak over here who posted the Dream clone switcharoo bullshit in the main tags but now I'm seeing that shit from another angle! How the fuck else would you explain him switching secondary genders that fast?! That shit takes time, no meds or surgery is that good already. Beast did something I'm 100% sure of it, he already dabled in curing the blind, what if he asked Dream to test out a new drug or procedure? I wouldn't put it past him to use guilt tripping tactics, he just went oh please please do it for the poor people that can't have the way more complicated and way more expensive procedures done and Dream agreed. The beast having drolo moments, him staying close to Dream during Antarctica, him talking to George during the football charity match???? That shit confirms it. Motherfucker was keeping tabs on the process and how Dream was reacting to the change, if there were any side effects or complications. He wasn't seducing a sick omega or being a leading alpha or trying to find a partner, he was looking out for his bottom line! And some of you might try to refute it because its been a century since the omega testing facilities have been abolished but guess what, Omegan Healthcare Regulations, Section 14 Subsection 8 clearly states that its LEGAL to use omegas for testing specific substances and or procedures if the omega gives informed consent before any substances or procedures are administered. Even if the Beast got caught, and he will because Dream's immune system is weak as shit and will reject whatever the fuck was done to him pretty soon, he would still get no legal backlash because Dream the idiot would for sure back him up in saying it was fully consensual and that he was informed on all sides and still took the risk. This is a lose-lose situation and I fucking hate it so much!

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs “Psychopath”

*Reader Discression is Advised. Contains Violent content* 

The Journal of Mechanics and Biology

The human brain is designed to run based on a set of complex backup systems. For example, All aspects of visual perception are not located in the same area. If you are to destroy one aspect of the visual system they may be able to retain other aspects of that same system. For this reason it is rather difficult to fully remove the functioning of a single sensory aspect by damaging cortical tissue. However, due to the complexity of these backup systems within a human brain, the slightest malfunction can also cause a mass ripple affect throughout the entire brain.

An imbalance in their neurotransmission chemicals can cause system wide catastrophic failure which can lead to any number of problems including, depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, etc.. Additionally, improper neural connections can also cause ripple effects in behavior. A defective connection between the prefrontal cortex and the amygdala is, perhaps, one of the most unsettling.

Though we know little about the subject, human studies have connected this to Antisocial Personality which can be further broken down into Sociopathy and Psychopathy. Specifically focusing on Psychopathy we find that a disconnect between the frontal lobe and the amygdala demonstrate a lack of empathy and the absence of fear. A human Psychopath often participants in extreme risky and criminal activity because they feel no fear worry or guilt, sensations which keep normal Humans within the bounds of their social law. 

While many psychopaths do not become violent and prefer to work high risk business jobs, when they do get a taste for criminality, the results can be catastrophic. With a lack of fear and empathy, a human psychopath may see no issue with violent crimes against his own species.

As far as we know, there is no reasonable way to detect a human psychopath on short notice, but those who have had experience have indicated that, because of their heightened animalistic instincts, another human may feel uneasy when confronted with one. Though this way of telling is not always accurate, it should be taken under advisement that if a number of humans are uneasy around one of their own species, than it is best to stay clear. 

Krill stood silently next to Captain Vir, as the ship’s cargo ramp was lowered towards the dusty ground below. A cloud of red dust plumbed into the air before dispersing to show a wide expanse of flat, red rock broken, only distantly, by the occasional hill, and a windswept concrete structure surrounded on all sides by security fences and posted with guards. 

Just below them, a dusty red jeep, a human vehicle, sat sides covered in a thick layering of red dust. 

“Remind me again why we would take on such a risky mission.” Krill asked quietly glancing nervously at the group of four guards and one prisoner standing quietly outside the vehicle.

Captain Vir gave a short laugh, and with a clank he took his first step forward onto the cargo ramp prosthetic foot clattering against the metal below him.

“It can’t be that risky.” He began, “It’s just a prisoner transport.’ Krill clattered onto the ramp after him making sure to stay behind the safety of the captain’s larger form.

“Besides.” The captain muttered, “No one else is willing to risk dealing with a human prisoner, so the galactic assembly contacted us personally.”

Krill didn’t much like that explanation, but he gave up trying to understand it as they made their way to the bottom of the ramp.

The captain showed no such worry making his way straight up to the group of guards as a few of the crew members clattered down the stairs behind them.

As was order by the galactic assembly, the human prisoner was bound with the proper human restraints including ankle chains wrist manacles and a belly chain all connected together to reduce his movement. Additionally, his mouth and nose were covered by a clear plastic spit-shield. The human didn’t appear worried or agitated in the slightest. In fact, his posture was rather relaxed as he waited in the scorching desert sun.

Odd though, looking at the human guards, Krill noted the stiffness of their bodies, and the watchfulness of their eyes. They were agitated, while the prisoner was not. Krill didn’t see why, the human was perfectly calm.

Captain Vir ignored the signs as well making his way to the guard in charge to exchange a few words before the man handed over a cream colored file. The captain appeared perplexed by something the man said, but brushed it off a moment later and motion the group of men towards the ship.

The  guards complied, and marched the prisoner up the ramp and into the cargo bay. Krill followed captain Vir on their way back up pleased to be out of the heat, which had already drained much of his energy. 

“We leave him in your capable hands.” The guard captain said, “Just remember what I told you, and you should have no problems.”

Captain Vir gave a short nod, and the man backed out of the cargo bay. As soon as he did so Krill noted the man’s posture straighten as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. By the look on his face, you would have thought he had just returned from battle. 

Captain Vir barked an order, and the ramp gave a metallic hiss closing behind them finally blocking the oppressive heat radiating inwards from the desert moon.

Captain vir turned just then giving off a sharp hiss of surprise. Krill turned and paused to find that the other human, the prisoner, had moved silently forward so the two men were now nose to nose.

The entire cargo bay had gone quiet, and Krill watched in confusion as all the blood drained from the captain’s face.

The prisoner gave a chuckle and stepped back wide smile visible through the spit shield.

The white was replaced suddenly by a wash of red, and the captain stepped forward again right into the prisoner’s space. 

Krill stepped back in shock. He had never seen such a primitively overt manifestation of dominance from the captain. Whatever just happened, had caused an almost primal reaction.

“Threaten me again, and that chain goes around your neck.” The captain hissed looming a good two inches over the prisoner. 

Despite the show of dominance, the prisoner remained smiling posture relaxed. There was no fear in his eyes.

Despite this, the captain stood his ground as the man was dragged towards the brig by a group of four other humans.

As soon as the man left the room, the captain’s face drained again and he stepped back looking almost sick. One hand moved to rub the opposite arm. That hand was shaking. 

Krill stepped forward.

“Captain, are you alright?”

The man gave a confused shake of his head, “Yeah I.... think so... I don’t know that man just. Uh, makes my skin crawl.”

Krill glanced down at the captain’s dermal layer but found nothing untoward.

The captain must have noticed, “A figure of speech, Krill. He bothers me.... the look in his eyes... uh.”

As it turned out, the captain wasn’t the only one to be so affected. Other members of the crew reported similar, though varying, levels of uneasiness. Krill found the idea both fascinating and chilling. What about such a diminutive human could create such a visceral reaction in the crew. While the captain had responded to the man with increased dominance, a few of the other humans refused to be in the same room with him. Others, left his presence shaking and one or more of the crew members demanded that the captain release him immediately for someone else to take care of.

Though the captain looked inclined to agree, he was forced to admit there were no other options.

Krill tried to understand it, but the answers he received were mostly the same. There was something about the prisoner that caused the other humans to respond as if they were in close proximity to one of their own earth predators. As far as Krill knew, there wasn’t much that could scare a human, but this was something all together different.

A few times he took to watching the prisoner through the cameras in his cell, but As far as krill could tell, there was nothing so different about him. He seemed relatively calm and well behaved for a human. He barely talked, and aside from his first interaction with the captain, he had not made any overtly dominant attempts. 

Chained only with the handcuffs, the human switched between sleeping and resting with his back to the floor staring up at the ceiling.

Once accompanying the captain to feed the prisoner, Krill learned just how unnerving the new human could be.

The captain had just slid the trey through the bars when, suddenly, the man was right there. The captain took a step back in shock. The look on the other human’s face was unnaturally focused eyes narrowed in concentration mouth turned in a wide grin.

“Good morning, Captain.” The man began. The tone of his voice was pleasant enough, though Krill noted the same visceral reaction of the captain whose mouth twitched in disgust hands balling defensively into fists.

“What do you want.” He snapped

“Oh come now, captain. I just wanted to make a friendly greeting to someone who has graciously taken care of me.” Krill watched as the man eyed the captaining up and down expression almost hungry as he did so.

“You can take your thanks and shove them up your ass.” The captain growled.

The man frowned, “Such an aversion to someone you know nothing about.”

“I know your a psycho. Don’t need a degree to tell you that.”He growled quietly, “Come on, Krill.”The captain snapped marching them out into the hall and slamming the door behind him.

Captain Vir must have seen the reaction on his face for he stopped and gave a sigh, “Sometimes people just make you feel wrong. It’s like Evil becomes a physical sensation crawling around inside you like a bucket of maggots.”

Krill shook his head in disgust, no wonder they were so averse to the stranger,

Vir Sighed, “I read the man’s file about a day ago... should never have agreed to this mission. Wouldn’t’ve if I had know what he’d done.”

“And what did he do?”

The captain eyed Krill for a long moment before sighing, “You know humans are a very aggressive race.... we are a species of extremes, and while there is good there is evil, and that man broke one of the two greatest taboos in human society.”

“And what are those?” Krill asked nervously.

“The two are Cannibalism and Incest.”

Krill gave a little squeak of horror upon hearing the definition of the two words. He even gave a little step back from the captain horrified that a species could even be capable of such behavior.

The captain held out a hand, “I said it’s Taboo, Krill. Meaning NORMAL people are disgusted by it.”

Krill swallowed hard, “And which one did he do.”

Vir gave a short hiss, “When they caught him, they also found the remains of at least five separate people. When they couldn’t find the rest he admitted to cooking them up and eating them.”

If Krill could have been sick he would have.

Psychopathy was a new word for Krill, and he quickly learned the meaning just a day out from the last station when accompanying the captain to move the prisoner. Despite their distrust, they shouldn’t have grown so complacent. 

They should have left on the proper restraints.

Instead they had chained him by one hand to the bars, while they cleared his cell.

The captain was replacing the bedding when it happened. A loud snap and a roar of pain. Krill turned to find the prisoner rushing towards him. One of his hands had been mangled beyond recognition. The man had broken his own thumb in order to slip it from the cuffs.

Krill was knocked out of the way, thrown violently against the wall where he lay dazed and confused.

The thing that had knocked him aside barreled past and slammed into the prisoner. 

The captain and the prisoner were tossed to the ground in a heap of thrashing limbs and fists. Krill curled back in terror.

The captain gave a scream and Krill turned away mortified as the prisoner came up for air, Grin dripping with blood.

More solid striking noises. A desperate fight.

Krill peered out from behind his cowering limbs just in time to see the captain demonstrate a human phenomenon he had heard about but never seen. He lifted the prisoner from his chest and hurled him back. So powerful was the throw, that the other man slammed into the wall feet away. He was up in seconds pinning the man back against the wall as teeth snapped inches from his neck.

Krill could hear voices from the other side of the door.

But it was too late, the captain had already made his decision. The knife appeared in his hand a moment later. 

Krill had never seen a human fight before much less death. But he watched the knife vanish and then reappear covered in blood first once and then twice then three times. Blood gurgled from the prisoner’s mouth in a sputtering laugh.

He collapsed to the floor, and the captain staggered away hands covered in blood. He eyed the corpse long after the heart had failed. 

The door was thrown open moments later.

Men rushed in.

They moved towards the captain and the fallen corpse.

Trying to get close, the captain jerked away hands over his face slowly backing away from the other humans.

He backed over to the wall next to krill and slid down. HIs face was pale eyes wide, nothing like his attacker. His skin appeared clammy and cold.

A lot of species are afraid of humans, but oddly enough Krill knew the truth. Humans weren’t scary in general. They were protective and aggressive, but they were honest and friendly. Humans were made to adapt well in a social environments, they were good companions to have. Humans that couldn’t preform socially were immediately ostracized and rejected by other humans. This is why psychopathy is so profoundly disturbing. The intentional rejection of proper social action makes other humans uncomfortable and even aggressive. It’s a primitive response, but useful when you want to know who is and is not dangerous. 

[holmesoverture]

The Christmas Party - Chapter 4

lol see this is why I never post fic, because I’m lousy at updating

First chapter be here Previous chapter be here More info on my fics in general

Warnings: Holmes is kinda stupid in this chapter and I’m too lazy to go back and fix it

Time for exposition woooo

*

“Eight months ago, I was hired to locate some Egyptian artifacts that had gone missing from the home of Sir Gideon Hibbert.  I am sure you all are familiar with the details, so I won’t waste your time by reciting them now.  So far as the Yard was concerned, the case concluded with Sir Gideon declining to bring any charge against young Harvey, but I was greatly dissatisfied with the product of my labour.  I knew that Harvey must have had an accomplice, as he was thoroughly ignorant of archaeology and yet he had managed to steal only the most valuable items in his father’s collection.  Due to the nature of Sir Gideon’s work, Harvey knew a great many people who possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the subject, but none of them had particularly compelling motives beyond a potential desire for wealth, a desire so generic as to be useless to an investigator.  And so, in the absence of other clues, I had little choice but to put the case aside until such time as a fresh lead presented itself.

“That lead arrived to me this afternoon in the form of a letter from Lilly Archer, a parlour-maid in the employ of the Hibbert family.  In her epistle she expressed concern for her mistress’s plans for the Christmas party. But here, it will be much simpler for you to hear it in her own words.  Dr Watson will be delighted to read them out loud to you.”

He abstracted an envelope from his sleeve and pressed it to my chest with rather more force than I thought necessary.  I nevertheless accepted the missive, which ran as follows.

To Mr Sherlock Holmes,

I hope this letter reaches you in time to be of some service.  I should have sent it sooner but I allowed fear to stay my hand.  Now, at last, a sense of integrity has overcome my qualms about telling you the cause of my uneasiness.

I am a parlour-maid in the service of the Hibbert family of Belgravia.  You made the acquaintance of my employers during one of your previous cases, so I’ll not bore you with lengthy accounts of their characters and habits.  In the three years I have been in this position, I have been satisfied and content in every respect, excepting of course for the incident to which I previously alluded. The entire household was dismayed by Harvey Hibbert’s betrayal of his father’s love and trust, but we have learned to find a new, happy equilibrium following this loss.  Life seemed quite normal again until this past Saturday when Philomena Hibbert told me of her plans for her Christmas party, the same affair to which your friend Dr John Watson has been invited.  It all seemed perfectly routine until she said my services would not be required the night of the party, as she intended to hire outside help especially for the occasion.  I cannot tell you how disconcerted I was by this statement. During my time with the Hibberts I have served at many a party, even at very large ones, so despite Miss Hibbert’s assurances that her decision was in no way a reflection upon my capabilities, I could not but take the news personally.

This alone would not have been enough to arouse in me more than hurt feelings, but on the next night, I bore witness to Miss Hibbert engaging in a most curious ritual. It was very late, and I had bid Sir Gideon a good-night.  As I walked the hall toward the stair, the door to Sir Gideon’s study suddenly opened and Miss Hibbert stepped out.

“Oh good evening,” she greeted me very calmly, though I thought I noticed her jump when first she saw me.  “Going up to bed, I assume?”

“That’s right.  Do you need anything before I retire?”

“Not a thing.  I was just finishing some letters before the party tomorrow.  Sleep well, Lilly.”

“You as well, Miss Hibbert.”

Her presence in her father’s study was not itself suspicious, as she frequently makes use of it when Sir Gideon is not there.  Yet I could not forget her insistence upon hiring new maids for the Christmas party, nor her surprise upon seeing me in the hall.  Her excuse about why she had been in Sir Gideon’s study also lacked the ring of truth.  I had never known her to write letters so late in the day, and even if she had altered her routine, she could not have altered her skill with a pen.  Upon writing a letter, she always emerged with fresh ink stains upon her hands or her cuffs, but when I saw her last night skin and cloth alike were perfectly spotless.

When I reached my room I spent a great deal of time considering these very trivial matters and decided that they were, perhaps, not so trivial after all.  I began to suspect Miss Hibbert did not want new parlour-maids for the sake of the party as she claimed, but rather because she feared I might see something untoward if I were present.  I cannot begin to guess at what that something could be, and so I place the matter in your hands with the sincere hope that the only response I receive will be a firm chastisement for libelling such kind employers with my overzealous imaginings.

Very truly yours,

Lilly Archer

“A very observant girl, your Miss Lilly Archer,” Holmes said as he took back the letter.  “By the time I received her letter I had mere hours to prepare myself for the party, so I dressed in the only raiment which I knew was guaranteed to grant me access to the Hibberts’ home and left my rooms at once.”

I had closely watched Holmes’ door before I departed and seen nothing.  I could only conclude that he had left by his bedroom window, gown and all.

“It is very brave of you, exposing your source’s name,” said Professor Angues.

“Surely you are not implying that she is in any danger from you or Miss Hibbert, you who were too indolent to do anything more than nudge her brother in the direction of your dirty work?  I think Miss Archer is quite safe from you, though given Sir Gideon’s propensity for laying the blame for his misfortunes at the feet of the innocent, she may find herself at the employment agency come morning. Given the events of the past year that may be a relief to her.”

Sir Gideon said nothing, but I was heartened by Miss Linwood’s look of resolute concern.  I could only hope she would intervene on behalf of the upright Miss Lilly Archer, should such action become necessary.  In the days that followed Holmes and I had several long discussions on the importance of protecting the anonymity of his clients regardless of how little harm he believed such an action would cause, or how much better his explanations would be received with the inclusion of such information.  I cannot speak to whether or not he truly understood my arguments, but at the very least he has not revealed another client in such a fashion since that day.

“Miss Hibbert, you’ve been very quiet,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you would care to share with us the history of your association with the distinguished Professor Angues, and he can check you if he remembers differently.”

Miss Hibbert raised an eyebrow and I thought for a moment that she would refuse to speak.  She must have realised, however, the futility of her situation and that nothing she said could make it any worse for her.

“I have known Rodrick since I was a small child. He and my father often spent their days working away in Dad’s study, and Rodrick spent more dinners here than anywhere else.  For years he seemed to me a jovial man, forever sending my siblings and myself on small errands and paying us in sweets.  But as the years passed, maturity opened my eyes and I saw that his good humour concealed a most resentful soul, jealous of the heights to which my father’s career had risen over his own.”

“You do me an injustice,” Professor Angues interjected. “I was not always the bitter creature you describe.  When I thought of Sir Gideon and myself as equals I was both content in my work and proud to be his associate.  But after he accepted his knighthood I reflected upon my own professional achievements and accolades and found them miserably deficient when compared with those of my colleague.  For forty years I devoted myself to my career, foregoing the comforts of marriage and family in order to better serve my chosen field, and to what end?  To see my accomplishments overshadowed by a man who had not sacrificed so much as a quarter of what I had?  It was too much, too much for me.”

“It would be most uncharitable of me to begrudge him such sentiments,” said Miss Hibbert.  “Dad encouraged my interest in Egyptology and sent me to the finest women’s colleges, for all the good it’s done me.  The only expeditions I went on were those in which my father invited me to participate and I derived no pleasure from them, harassed and belittled as I was by the very men whom I had hoped would welcome me as their peer.  I should have been very happy indeed to be an equal to them, but their mockery ignited within me the desire to prove myself their better.”

She paused for a sip of wine.  I thought, with no small regret, how tragic it was that so many brilliant sparks should be snuffed out by the world’s unfair and uneducated expectations.

“Without ever giving voice to our grievances we bonded over them.  With every tribute that came Dad’s way, our admiration for him and our acrimony towards everyone else grew in tandem.  Finally, one clear April night, we aired our mutual complaints to each other and made a fateful decision: if our knowledge and our experience could not earn us true greatness, we would settle for notoriety.  My brother Harvey was always something of a misfit, flitting from occupation to occupation with an incurable restlessness.  He was unemployed at the time and we thought he might be receptive to the idea of any method by which he might gain wealth and excitement.  Upon securing his cooperation, we agreed to move forward with our plans.

“The night before we acted, I was seized by piercing doubt.  After all, every reputable Egypt enthusiast had snubbed me, so why would the disreputable ones behave differently?  I said as much to Harvey, who quickly put me to rights.

“‘I very much doubt anyone willing to illegally buy Egyptian artifacts is going to quibble over the sex or the rank of his suppliers, so long as the merchandise is of a good quality,’ said he.  I took his words to heart and have never doubted myself since.”

“How lovely it must be to have such a supportive brother,” said I, and Miss Hibbert ignored me.

“Our first attempt was unsuccessful, as you well know. Poor Harvey bore the brunt of our failure but loyalty sealed his lips and shielded us from your efforts to identify us.  Rodrick escaped to the States without the treasures he had hoped to sell there, Harvey was evicted, and I was left alone to brood for six long, lonely, infuriating months.  Even if I had conceived of a new plan during this period I would not have had the courage to implement it so soon after such a devastating blow.  Was this my destiny, to never accomplish a thing no matter how diligently I devoted myself?

“On the day Rodrick Angues returned from his lecture tour, I paid him a visit at his home in Surrey and found him in a joyous mood.

“‘I have always believed that even the gravest misfortunes serve a higher purpose,’ he said. ‘But it is only now that I realise what the reason for our failure was.  During my time in America, I was approached by many a gentleman who expressed the heartiest enthusiasm at the idea of owning a piece of Egyptian history. They were so enthusiastic, in fact, that most dropped subtle hints to indicate the method by which certain objects were obtained for them was of no consequence.  I have here a list of the items they specified.’  He handed me a slip of paper containing a lengthy list of artifacts.  ‘Now that we know precisely which artifacts are in demand and how much my contacts are willing to pay to obtain them, we can take from your father those for which we can guarantee a buyer rather than assuming that the most valuable are the most desired.’

“As I perused Rodrick’s list, I became more and more certain that his plan was a solid one and that he and Harvey and I should have little trouble in making a success of it.  Although my father wanted no association with my prodigal brother, I have remained as close to him as before, and Dad never begrudged a sister’s love for her brother.  I was certain that Harvey, cut off as he was, would be keener than ever to lay his hand upon our father’s treasures.  When I later consulted with him I would be proven correct, but in that moment, I felt compelled to warn Rodrick of a probable obstacle to our success.

“‘This thing won’t be as simple as it was last time,’ said I.  ‘Dad has grown paranoid since the incident with Harvey and locked his Egyptian valuables away where no-one can see or get at them.  The only time he displays them anymore is when he is expecting company.’

“‘Has he not told you where they are and how to access them?’

“‘Of course, but that is a problem.  It is only me he has told.  If anything of his were to suddenly go missing, he would know I have betrayed him.’

“‘Then we must plan accordingly,’ said Rodrick. ‘If he only exhibits his collection at social gatherings, then we will raid it during a social gathering.’

“I reminded him of the Christmas party Dad liked to have every year, and thus the date of our undertaking was decided.

“I had intended to hire an additional parlour-maid for the night of the dinner-party to help Lilly in her duties.  Now, however, I made up my mind to give Lilly the night off, and to tell Dad that I would hire two parlour-maids who had special experience in serving at such events to see if it was worth the extra cost or if our regular parlour-maid was good enough.  He agreed at once, never suspecting that one of the supposed servants was his own son, and the other an associate of his whose true identity I would not divulge even if I had such information.”

“I won’t say anything either!” cried Harvey Hibbert, in what turned out to be his first and last contribution to our conversation.

“But Mr Holmes was the other maid,” said Miss Linwood.

“I could hardly be expected to know that,” Miss Hibbert replied, lips thinning with irritation.  “I had never met the woman Harvey employed to help him in this endeavour, so I had no reason to suspect that ‘Chastity Page’ was anyone other than who she said she was.  Harvey did appear to me somewhat anxious when he arrived but I blamed this on simple nerves, and as we never had a moment alone together, there was no opportunity for him to warn me of the unlucky turn of events.”

“I believe I might shed some light upon this matter,” said Holmes, cheerfully.  “It was mid-afternoon when I arrived at Lowndes Square, and I waited at the corner until I saw two women approach this house.  I intercepted the pair and begged them to allow me to replace one of them at the party.  They were at first resistant, so I told a most extravagant lie about my violent drunkard husband and starving babe.  Oh, it was an exquisite performance!  I wish you all could have seen it.  I carried on until one of the women acquiesced and hurried away without so much as a ‘good-day.’  It would seem that even thieves are not without some heart.  The woman who remained, whom we now know to be Harvey Hibbert, seemed very uneasy about the whole business but said nothing as we ascended the stair together.

“Harvey, who had identified himself as Miss Mildred Myers, and I spent most of the afternoon preparing for the party, and I am sure you will agree that we executed our duties most efficaciously, with two notable exceptions.  The first, as you saw, was when I fainted in the middle of the second course.  I was a bit overzealous with the corset, I suppose. The second was instigated by Harvey himself.  As soon as we served dessert he excused himself from the kitchen, giving a pretext that I could not quite hear.  By this time I had already deduced that Miss Myers was not who she appeared to be, so I followed him through the conservatory and into the parlour.  There I found him checking the bottom of each artifact and, if they met some standard that was quite unknown to me, he loaded them into a satchel he had procured from somewhere.  I confronted him and we came to blows.  But I’m afraid I am monopolising the conversation.  Do continue, Miss Hibbert.”

“There is not much to tell that has not already been told.  The reason for Harvey’s disguise was simple.  Everyone knows he is no longer welcome in this house, so were any witnesses to see him coming or going, suspicion would be cast in his direction. But if the parlour-maids perpetrated the crime, then not only would the police have no reason to suspect Harvey, they would spend all their energies trying to locate the sticky-fingered women while Harvey rested easily and Rodrick arranged for the shipment of the stolen goods to America.  We all would be completely safe and free of suspicion.

“As for the supposed letters I was writing last night, Lilly was quite right to distrust my excuse.  I was using pen and ink to place a small mark upon the underside of each artifact Harvey was to remove from our father’s possession. Harvey had complained of having to memorise which items to take and which to leave during our first attempt, so I thought this would make his task all the simpler.  I could not but feel tense and anxious as I hurried to finish my assignment before Dad caught me, hence my surprise upon seeing Lilly just outside the door to the study.”

“But why did you do it, Philomena?” cried Sir Gideon.  “Have I been such a horrible father that I deserve such mistreatment from not one but two of my children?  And you, Rodrick!  How many hours did we spend studying together at university?  How many adventures have we had?  We have known each other these thirty-seven years!  Did all of that time and work and amity mean nothing to you? To either of you?”

“Not everything is about you,” Miss Hibbert crisply replied.  For the world I could not remember what about her had so captured my fancy mere hours before.  “Our feelings towards you are unchanged.  It is only that our feelings towards personal glory have grown enough to overtake all other sentiments.  Now that those feelings are laid bare and our plans brought to ruin a second time, I will pack my belongings and leave this house to seek my fortunes elsewhere.”

Sir Gideon made no move to stop Miss Hibbert as she swept from the dining-room, straight-backed and stone-faced.  She was followed moments later by Rodrick Angues and Harvey Hibbert, who withdrew with neither a look nor a word to the man whose heart they had so casually shattered, and that was the last Holmes and I ever saw of Sir Gideon’s cold-blooded friend and his even more cold-blooded children.

The party could not survive such a loss, and Sir Gideon bid us an awkward, tremulous good-night shortly thereafter.  The other guests, including myself, did not loiter, dispersing into the raw frigid night in a decidedly less than merry humour.  Holmes and I hailed a cab that offered only nominal shelter from winter’s biting chill.

“I fear that whatever gratitude I earned from saving the life of Sir Gideon’s son has been outbalanced,” said I, “and that his disinclination towards you has redoubled.”

Holmes lit a cigarette and made no reply.  I really had hoped the challenge and the exhilaration of the case would have superseded that afternoon’s dispute in his mind. Perhaps such had been true during the investigation, but now that it was all ended, enough space in his brain-attic was freed for him to remember that he was justly angry with me.  I took a breath and allowed myself one minute, no more, of private hysteria over the impending conversation.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” I said.

“Then we are in agreement.”

“I was wrong to dismiss you as I did.  Although we were introduced only months ago I like to think that we have come to know and to trust one another, and you had every right to expect better of me.  You are as always correct: one’s appetites are no reflection of intelligence, as my own actions this morning ably demonstrate.  I pray you will afford me the opportunity to mend whatever damage my thoughtlessness has inflicted upon our friendship.”

His face was turned toward the window and away from me, making it impossible for me to gauge his reaction.  The molokheyyah threatened to make an unpleasant and unwelcome reappearance, but then Holmes looked at me.  The shadows from the cab and the light from the streetlamps combined in his thin face to great and enigmatic effect, but the smile, though small, was unambiguous.  I smiled as well, and without a word all the tension that filled the cab dissolved.

“Where did you learn to be a parlour-maid?” I asked after a brief but comfortable silence.

“How does one learn to be or to do anything?  I practised,” Holmes replied.  It was unsatisfactory, so far as answers go, but I thought it best to not press the issue.  “Now it is my turn to pose a question.  It is one to which I have not been able to deduce a definitive answer, and I thought perhaps you would be willing to provide some insight into the matter?”

“I should be glad to assist you in any way I can, though I don’t see how I could solve any aspect of this case that has puzzled you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing to do with the case.  I have already put the matter from my mind.  This difficulty relates to the quarrel which we have since happily resolved.  Why did it affect you so?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Your reaction to the knowledge that I hold that sort of intimacy in such low regard and am unlikely to ever change my opinion seemed rather more intense than the occasion warranted.  I simply wish to know why.”

For the second time that day he had rendered me speechless.  Everything seemed so clear that afternoon, but now it was as though a thick London fog had obscured my innermost thoughts.

“I cannot say,” I confessed at last.  “I suppose it was the novelty of the idea.  I have never before met a man who was so vehemently opposed to such activities, at least not one who felt comfortable enough to share his inclinations with me.”

Holmes regarded me with keen, steady eyes.

“I suppose I must believe you for now,” he said as he flicked his cigarette out of the window.

[misssophiachase]

NikMik: prompt - "you're bad for me in every way but i still want to be with you." this is a quote from The Office. I know I asked for human KC...but write whatever inspires you.

Hey luv, apologies for the delay. Hope this is okay : ) 

Star NFL Quarterback Klaus Mikaelson is a well-known womaniser but then he meets team cheerleader Caroline Forbes and everything changes.

U Got It Bad

I’m your man, you’re mygirl…

“That game was off thechain, Mikaelson.” It had taken a while to get used to American terminology butKlaus knew that meant he’d done well. Of course he had, he was Klaus bloodyMikaelson.

The locker room wasbuzzing with tired but excited players, coaching staff and journalists millingaround. It wasn’t unusual to hear such praise or feel one of his teammatesslapping him on the back post-game for Klaus Mikaelson but this time it wasdifferent. They’d made the playoffs with that win and were set to face the NewYork Jets in the first round.  

For an English guy who’dgrown up with a different kind of football altogether, being drafted to the SanFrancisco 49ers and becoming the star quarterback and a national sensationpractically overnight was a surreal experience. 

First, there’d been theconstant media attention then the flurry of female admirers he’d taken fulladvantage of at the time. That was until he’d met her.

She was unlike anyoneKlaus had ever known.

Beautiful.

Smart.

Feisty. She didn’t carewho he was and she made that clear on a daily basis with the way she rolledthose expressive, blue eyes whenever he attempted to make conversation.

Caroline Forbes was vice captainof the team’s cheerleading squad. There was no denying she met all the strictrequirements. 

Beautiful. 

Athletic.

Perky. Although only whenshe wasn’t conversing with him.  

Klaus wanted to pretend hedidn’t care, but he did. Way more than he was willing to admit. He shook hishead determined to remove her from his thoughts as he had to do more often thannormal.

“Mikaelson,” his coachbarked, gesturing to the treatment room down the hall. His shoulder had beenplaying up and they weren’t taking any chances on him heading into the finals.

Klaus made his way towardsthe door, pushing it open familiarly, not expecting what met him on the other side.

I’m your girl, you’re my man…

Of course she knew he was coming but it didn’t stop her heart from skipping a beat as the knowing player entered in all his post-match glory. 

Most people looked average after exercise, especially those playing at such an elite level, but from what she could tell the dark blonde curls (albeit damp) were still perfectly in place, his lips that sinful shade of crimson and those dimples annoyingly disarming. 

Bastard.

It was the only description that seemed to calm the tingling he was causing below. She was a professional and wasn’t going to let him mess with the job at hand. 

“On the bed.” He baulked at her unexpected demand, Caroline only realising just how untoward her request sounded. She decided to blame it on the fact he was basically naked bar the shorts leaving not much to the imagination. 

“If you say so,” he murmured, lying on the bed face down as requested. “Not to ruin the moment but last time I checked you’re not George or possibly qualified…” 

Before he could finish, Caroline had administered the requisite amount of oil which she was slowly working into his injured shoulder. “You think they’d let me do this if I wasn’t? I’m a fifth year physiotherapy student.”

“And you choose right now to tell me that fact?”

“I didn’t think it was important,” she muttered. “But if you must know, the team let me do work experience in exchange for cheering. As much as you think it’s the case, cheerleader isn’t my only role here.”

Caroline had nothing but respect for cheerleaders given the physical toll it took on them and their bodies but Klaus Mikaelson was a conceited ass and she had no intention of falling at his feet like his groupies did.

He’d made multiple efforts to speak to her but given his womanising reputation, Caroline had no intention of being just another notch on his belt, she had her pride after all. 

“I didn’t mean…” he faltered.

“I’m not one of your groupies,” she muttered, realising she’d blurted it out before thinking. 

“And that’s why I like you,” he breathed. “But given you have a death grip on my injured shoulder, I hope you know I’m sincere.”

She loosened her grip, albeit slowly, allowing him to turn over and face her curiously. “It’s supposed to go towards my credit this semester.”

“What for? Bedside manner?” 

“Cute,” she growled, trying to ignore just how annoying he sounded. “You realise I could kill your arrogant ass with my Darth Vader death grip from this angle?”

“A Star Wars fan too? Although, as much as I’d love to see that, the team’s management might not take too kindly to that given the whole play-off thing,” he offered.

“Fair enough,” Caroline said, her hands leaving his skin prematurely. “So no need to massage your lazy self further then?”

“I deserved that, right?”

“You bet your ass,” she growled.

Asshole. 

“Any chance you’d like to maybe talk instead?” 

“I’m too smart to be seduced by you, Mikaelson.” 

“That’s why I like you,” he murmured. “Now, any chance I could get something to cover up, I’m suddenly feeling extremely self conscious.” 

“That cold air not doing you any favours?” She teased looking below, knowing it was just another excuse but that it would mean so much more than expected.

“I was going to say this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship but it’s going to take longer to convince you of my intentions I’m assuming, right?”

“You’re right on that point,” she noted before leaving,not bothering to provide him with any assurances or extra clothing for that matter. She figured he’d be the first person waiting for her services next time.  

[blindingechoes]

Hey hun! i'm totally all for the tumblr boycott, but your latest babs nsfw work post just showed up on my dash, surprising both me and my 12yo sister 😕 (i have the nsfw tag blocked) I know you usually tag things well and I get that this was censored but the subject matter is still what it is, is there any chance you could go back to tagging your nsfw please? I know tumblr sucks rn and trust me i don't want anything to happen to you or your blog but ik lots of people may not want to see that

Firstly I want to apologize for taking a few days to reply to you message, I usually reply much quicker, especially when I’ve upset or offended someone. But I’ll be honest with you, I’ve not been in the best mental state right now and knew my knee jerk first response to your message when I read it after waking up that day of ‘No’ was both rude and wrong, which is why I took a couple days off of Tumblr to decompress (from other things, not you nonny, you did nothing wrong). 

Anyways, I want to apologize for you little sister having seen something that she shouldn’t have, yes while technically there was no nudity in the pictures, there was no mistaking what was happening in them. I do normally mark all my NSFW posts properly and had honestly thought I had tagged it with ‘Sims NSFW’. I clearly was mistaken, which was my own oversight. I usually set up my queue late at night and that weekend my internet was cutting in and out due to a snowstorm so I was trying to get things ready to post as quickly as possibly. I also was admittedly fighting off my medication which makes me, well to be completely honest, totally stoned out of my mind. Neither of those things are excuses for my oversight, simply reasons for why it happened. I will make sure to double check that anything like that is tagged with ‘Sims NSFW’ from this point on, although there is nothing like that at all coming up in the queue for the next few days, so no need to worry. 

But also, I would like to tell you for future reference, I won’t be using the basic NSFW tag anymore because that will just instantly get my blog flagged, I will however be using the ‘Sims NSFW’ tag in it’s place. Which I previously used in addition to the basic NSFW tag, but now I’m discontinuing the use of that since Tumblr is clumping perfectly innocent artists, gamers and photographers in with porn bots and other untoward blogs simply for being decent enough to use a warning tag for their followers. So please make sure Sims NSFW is also blocked, because I know myself and other Simmers who might be posting things out of frustration of Tumblr’s new rules change don’t want to upset anyone who really doesn’t want to see that sort of thing. 

Thank you for being understanding about my mistake and once again, I am sorry it happened. I’ve gone back and added the proper tags to that post, just in case. ♥

[ineverhadmyinternetphase]

Keep It Down

AO3 Link

Genre: Oneshot, fluff, getting together

Summary: Fiction. Phil wants a quiet life. That's all he's asked for. He doesn't want the new neighbour to blast music at him at 2 in the morning, so if he would kindly stop then that's all Phil needs

Warnings: no angst, just fluff

Word Count: 13k

A/N: Writing this because I’ve been stuck ill in bed for over a month, my arms ache from blood tests, I can’t focus on my ongoing projects, and my neighbours won’t stop blaring music. I am in need of fluff.

So I wrote it for myself xDThank you to @agingphangirl and as ever my wonderful @charlottekath for both letting me ramble about this as I wrote it

Originally, I wanted to have In My Way finished before the New Year. But it is proving more difficult than I thought, and I wanted to post something for Phil’s birthday, so here we have this instead ^_^

Reminder that I don’t know Dan or Phil at all and I’m not suggesting this in any way reflects reality. This is a work of fiction

---

A quiet life. That’s all Phil wants. A quiet life tucked away in his simple little flat, not too big, not too small, though he’s lucky to be able to afford London at all, he knows. Simple bedroom and lounge with an open-plan kitchen, bathroom tucked away around a corner, nothing fancy, but not too shabby either. His laptop open, editing a file his boss sent him earlier that day but Phil hadn’t bothered to look at until now.

And the walls shaking around him with the blare of the bass from above.

Phil groans, hands falling away from his mouse to instead massage his temples. It’s been hours. Hours of endless music throbbing through his flat, thick and loud and ceaseless. Annoying barely covers it. It isn’t even late, and it’s a Thursday. Who parties on a Thursday?

Phil tries to be a nice neighbour, he really tries. He brings in the mail if it’s been left outside, he helps people with their shopping bags if he sees them struggling, and he’s been known to carry heavy books up the endless flights of stairs for his friend across the hall when the lift in their building was out of service. He’s friendly to everyone he meets, largely because he doesn’t really know anyone else living here, not a local from this city. Plus, Phil doesn’t like to leave people in a worse mood than when he meets them.

But there is a line. And his line is turning out to be blasting music at 8pm on a Thursday.

Phil gets to his feet, saving his progress, and turns to grab his keys before making his way solidly out of his flat, the door shutting firmly behind him.

The flat above him only became occupied a couple of weeks ago. Phil saw the removal van and heard the sound of footsteps above his head for the first time, but beyond that he has no idea who is now living above him. So as he takes the stairs up one floor, nervously counting doors as he wanders down the corridor, he really has no idea what to expect.

He ends up counting the doors three times over, just to make absolutely sure he’s going to knock at the right flat. He can’t imagine anything much more mortifying than complaining to the wrong person. Phil finds it hard enough to complain in the first place.

Gathering his courage, and drawing in a slow breath, Phil raises his fist and knocks three times, politely.

It takes a few moments for there to be a response. Phil counts the seconds nervously, reminding himself that he’s perfectly within his rights to be there, that noisy neighbours are a legitimate problem. Just a problem he’s never specifically had to face before, despite his 27 years.

The door finally flies open, and there’s a man leaning against the doorframe. Oh, a man as tall as Phil. Taller than Phil. Dark eyes, hair swept under a black beanie, a couple of freckles dotted on one cheek.

Phil can’t help but notice that the man is very, very cute.

“Yeah?” He says, almost tiredly. His eyes bore into Phil’s without interest, looking straight through him, glassy and sharp.

Phil swallows and hopes it doesn’t sound like a gulp. There is no doubt in his mind that he’s got the right flat – now the door is open he can hear the music again, a dull thumping in the background, still intangible. It helps, reminds Phil why he’s there in the first place.

He draws himself up and looks the man dead in the eyes. “Hi, yeah, sorry. I live below you, and—”

“You do?” The man’s eyes gain slightly more interest.

“Yeah,” Phil acknowledges before stumbling on quickly. “And I hate to be that guy, really, but – your music. I’m working, you know?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “My music.”

“Yeah.”

“What about my music?”

“It’s, well,” Phil grimaces, “A little loud?”

The man simply looks at him.

Phil looks back, determinedly.

“Loud,” the man finally relents, his tone flat. “You think this is loud?”

“My walls are literally shaking,” Phil says, weakly.

The man’s lips twitch in the slightest hint of a smirk. The look suits him. “Well, that’s not my problem.”

Phil bristles, his brow furrowing at the blatant rudeness coming in waves from this stranger. His lip pulls down. “Oh. Right. Well, in any case – could you at least turn it down a little? My work, you know.”

“It’s late,” the stranger shrugs. “Probably about time to stop working, I’d say.”

Phil pauses in astonishment. Really? Phil is a friendly guy, he doesn’t think he’s had a first conversation go this badly in his life. He decides that it’s time to stop being polite, no matter how cute this stranger may look with the hint of a curl peeking out from beneath that beanie. “Yes, well, some of us don’t have that luxury, so if you could please deign to turn your music down I would really, really appreciate it.”

His sarcasm isn’t exactly cutting, but it’s still enough to make the man back off a little. With the curve of a smirk touching his lips, and the hint of something sharp in his eyes, the man simply jerks his head in what might have been a nod. “Duly noted. See you around.”

And with that, the door slams shut in Phil’s face.

Well. Phil bites back his bristling anger, the odd tingling burning sensation that he doesn’t often feel bubbling up in his chest. It takes a lot to get him riled, honestly, he considers himself fairly laid back, but something about that stranger’s smirk just sets Phil on edge.

He returns to his room with a stab of resentment, only mildly appreciative when the music shuts off half an hour later, too late for him to think through editing anymore that evening.

---

The next time Phil runs into the man occupying the apartment above him is a breezy Tuesday. Phil’s standing in the lobby of their building, attempting to brush the clump of autumnal leaves that had decided to follow him back inside after his quick run to the shops. He wouldn’t have gone, but he was almost out of milk and the thought of waking up to no coffee in the morning was enough to drive him out of the house, even if he had to walk ten minutes further to get the kind of almond milk that he liked.

He’s leaning against the wall, hopping on one foot, when there is a clatter on the stairs followed by a low screech, and the man who lives above him comes tumbling down the stairs in a rush, just catching himself on the bannister and scarcely avoiding a fall.

Phil raises his eyebrows, biting back a smirk. “You alright over there?”

“Just fine,” comes the sharp response. The man barely glances at him, eyes quickly darting back to the floor as he brushes off his jacket. Black, like the rest of his clothes. No beanie today though, and his hair falls perfectly straight. Strange. Phil could have sworn he’d caught the hint of a curl last time they met.

Speaking of, Phil isn’t sure how he should feel about seeing the man again. He supposes it’s difficult to completely avoid someone living in the same building as him, but still, the man had radiated rudeness last time they met. Phil isn’t exactly jumping for joy at seeing him again.

Still. The man is still brushing his coat down and concertedly ignoring Phil’s gaze, and for lack of a better word he looks cute, obviously trying to brush off a near fall.

Phil bites both his lips, looking away as he says, “Might want to check your balance.”

“Yes, thank you,” comes the sardonic reply, and when Phil looks over again he sees the man sending him a sharp glare. His eyes are narrowed, dark, but much to Phil’s surprise he finds he quite likes being under the man’s gaze again.

“Just saying,” Phil shrugs, putting on his most innocent expression. “It’s dangerous to fall down, like – how many did you just fall down? Seven steps? – might want to watch yourself.”

“What are you, the stairs police?” The man snaps, stepping further into the lobby. Despite himself, Phil shrinks back a little – he isn’t used to being around people taller than him. Not that this man looks any more built than Phil himself is, too pasty to spend much time outside. “Besides, you’re not much better. Hanging onto the wall for dear life.”

Phil quickly retracts his hand from the wall, and then wobbles until he sets both feet firmly back down on the ground. He’s pretty sure there’s still a leaf attached to his heel, but he ignores it as he faces the stranger again. “At least I have gravity on my side. And anyway, I’m used to injuring myself in weird ways. I’ve got, like, three bruises that I don’t remember appearing.”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitches. “Vital information, that.”

“It’ll brighten your life knowing it,” Phil promises.

The man just shakes his head, but there’s a warmer tint to his tone as he says, “We’ll see about that.” Or, at least, Phil wants to pretend there’s a warmer tone behind his words.

He watches the man leave, wondering where he’s headed to on a cold autumnal night when it’s already dark, but then he remembers that it isn’t really any of his business.

---

The music is playing again.

It’s been a few weeks of blissful quiet, or at least normal levels of noise – the odd laugh from the hall as someone climbed the staircase, but nothing untoward. Nothing so annoying. But here it is again, the constant thump of a bass so loud that the coffee in the mug Phil has precariously balanced on the arm of his sofa is shaking.

He grits his teeth, debating going up again. Up to the level above him, but there is something about the music today. Something a little bit off. It’s the same heavy mass of noise as before, undiscernible in genre, just a loud quick tempo, but something else is hidden behind it. Phil sits for probably too long, trying to figure out what it is, his unedited work sitting open on his laptop.

Behind the thumping music, there is something softer. Something he barely catches in the occasional gaps between songs. A hum, a note, something pure, something that doesn’t belong.

It bothers him so much that he sits and listens until the music stops again, and the silence that floods his flat is no longer peaceful.

He returns to his editing with a heavy heart, only getting through a few scenes before he calls it a night. It’s late anyway, his boss can wait until the morning. Too late to be working, after all. About time to stop.

---

When Phil collects his post from the mailbox down in the lobby, there is something not addressed to him that’s somehow found its way into his pile. He recognises the number straight away. Flat 302. He lives in 202. 302 is directly above his flat.

He briefly considers the name. Daniel Howell. The man from the flat above him, with the dark eyes and the soft-looking hair, looks like a Daniel, he decides. The name suits his sharp eyes and witty tongue.

Phil contemplates the letter for several moments, standing in the lobby, his own post shoved forgotten under his arm. It looks inconspicuous, a simple plain white envelope, typed address, not handwritten. Nothing personal about it at all. Phil gleans nothing from it other than the man’s name.

He could just put it back in the correct mailbox. He probably should do exactly that. But something about the memory of the man’s smirk makes Phil turn, envelope in hand, and make for the staircase (the lift is broken, again. Just because Phil can afford to live in London doesn’t mean he can afford to live somewhere nice).

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that. Phil isn’t exactly sure what he expects to get from this experience, but he’s interested enough to follow it through, and what’s the worst that can happen, really? He gets his head bitten off again? Phil’s dealt with worse.

He drops his own post in his bag, but doesn’t stop at his floor. Instead goes straight up to the third and walks along the corridor, counting doors again until he comes to the right one.

This time, it is eerily quiet.

Still, Phil knocks, and waits patiently a few moments. Then knocks again.

Eventually, there is the soft sound of rustling and muffled footsteps, and then the door is being pulled open and the man – Daniel, presumably – is standing there all wrapped up in a hoody (still black) and what looks like jogging bottoms, black beanie pulled down over his hair. His nose is a little red, and he doesn’t hide the surprise that flits across his face at seeing Phil on the other side of the door. “Oh. Uh – hi?”

“Hi,” Phil answers, and bites his lip at the awkwardness radiating from the man before him. He holds up the letter, clutching at his reason for being here. “Sorry, I just – this was in my mailbox.”

The man frowns a little, reaching out. Phil hands over the letter reluctantly.

“Oh.” The man turns it over, studying it with an adorable little crease in his forehead. “Thanks, I guess? Don’t know how it ended up with yours, doesn’t look like much tbh.”

“Yeah,” Phil agrees, tilting his head. Who says tbh out loud? The man’s voice sounds sniffly, and his nose is still red. “Sorry, just – are you sick?”

The man glances up at him briefly, eyes puffy. There is the shadow of a dark circle underneath them, and Phil’s heart pulls. “Oh, you are sick. You poor thing. Have you got medicine?”

The man arches a brow, pulling back just a bit, and Phil remembers to rein in his instinct to poke his nose into anyone and everyone’s business just because he happens to be in slight proximity. He still doesn’t know this man, after all, and honestly hasn’t had the best of encounters with him so far. He should back off. Probably.

Instead, Phil says, “Sorry, I don’t mean to presume. It’s just. My mum always said you have to treat autumn colds quickly or they’ll linger, and I know you only moved in a few weeks ago, figured you might not have had time to stock up yet –”

“It’s fine,” the man interrupts him, and his voice is definitely thicker than normal. He waves an airy hand. “You’re just more perceptive than I thought you’d be.”

Phil’s brow crinkles. “Rude.”

“Come on, last time I saw you you had foliage leaking from your feet,” the man responds, and is that a teasing lilt to his tone? Phil thinks it might be. He tries to tie down the small flare of hope it incites in his chest.

“At least I didn’t almost land flat on my face in the lobby,” he points out.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the man answers wryly, and pauses to sneeze.

Phil’s heart tugs insistently at him, and he gives easily, saying, “Ok, I’m going to, like, get you medicine? Ok? Is there anything you like in particular?”

Phil is given a tense, long look in response. The man’s – Daniel’s, Phil wants to start calling him Daniel – forehead is creased, his eyes unblinking as they look calmly into Phil’s. It might be intimidating, if it weren’t for the redness of his nose and the slight flushed patch on his left cheek.

“Why?” Daniel asks finally.

Phil lifts a brow. “Why what?”

“Why are you standing on my doorstep offering to get me medicine?” Daniel flaps a half-hearted hand at him. “We’ve had, like, two conversations max, and for one of those you were shouting at me.”

“I wasn’t shouting,” Phil disagrees quickly.

“You were.”

“No, I was just – loudly voicing my opinion. Asking you to be quiet, actually.”

The corner of Daniel’s mouth twitches up. “And in thanks for my annoying bad neighbourly habits, you’re offering to get me medicine?”

Phil stands still for a moment, but then his expression tightens. He nods once, firmly. “Yes. Because even rude bystanders deserve to avoid weeks-long illness. I’m gonna go to Boots, be back in like, ten minutes.”

“I can’t swallow tablets.”

Phil blinks, already half-turned away. “Excuse me?”

“Tablets,” Daniel adds, gaze fixed firmly on the floor when Phil turns back to look at him. “Can’t swallow them. Choke every time, it’s a pain in the arse.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment, in which Phil feels something settle between them, the tension not dissipating exactly, just… shifting.

“Right,” Phil says finally. “So no tablets then. Got it. Anything else?”

Daniel bites his lip, glances away. “I’m nearly out of milk.”

“What am I, your personal shopper now?”

“You asked!” Daniel’s voice goes adorably high-pitched, a croaky squeak that he instantly looks embarrassed about. “It’s not like you have to do any of this shit for me, you just – you offered, so—”

“So milk,” Phil cuts in, “Right. Now I’m going to leave before you pile any more of your shopping list onto me.”

“You offered,” Daniel replies indignantly, and stays in the doorway watching as Phil heads back towards the stairs.

Phil ends up buying him two cartons of milk, along with those sachets you can put into drinks to help with colds, both the day and night kinds, and a couple of chocolate bars as well because he knows what makes him feel better when he’s sick. And he figures Daniel must be really quite sick, because there had hardly been a sarcastic word out of him earlier. Which is unusual, going on what little Phil has gathered about him.

He traipses all the way up three flights of stairs with the heavy shopping bag and his own rucksack still slung on his back, panting more heavily than he’d like to admit when he finally reaches Daniel’s door again. He takes a moment to catch his breath, standing alone in the dim corridor that’s identical to the one outside his own flat.

When he knocks, there’s something like a crash from the other side of the door before it opens and Daniel’s stood there again, cheeks flushed, beanie slipping a little to the side. A curl makes itself known, curling just above Daniel’s ear. It’s adorable, he looks adorable, all bundled up and sniffling, nose still red.

Phil holds up the bag, leaning against the doorframe. “Right. No tablets, just those sachet things, my mum swears by them, only make sure you drink enough water too. And got your damn milk, lugged it all the way up the stairs for you too.”

“You didn’t have to,” Daniel snivels, taking the bag from Phil and stepping back. He leaves the door open as he heads further inside, but Phil still teeters in the doorway, peeking just barely inside. It smells like must and cleaning liquid, lemon scented. He can spot a scented candle burning away in a corner.

“You coming in or what? I’ve got the coffee machine on.” Daniel’s voice comes from the direction of the kitchen, so Phil steps hesitantly inside, shuts the door behind him, follows Daniel over to the counter.

“Ok, but you can’t have coffee,” Phil reprimands, stepping over and watching Daniel fetch two mugs down from a cupboard (one is minions, which has Phil seriously reconsidering having anything to do with this man at all, but the other one has an adorable photo of a dog that looks more personal, so he’ll hold on for now). “It’s dehydrating.”

“Yes, mum,” Daniel snorts. He’s poking around in the bag Phil brought him, depositing the milk in the fridge, pausing over the chocolate. He sends Phil a look.

“What?” Phil says defensively. “It always helps me feel better.”

Daniel just shakes his head, but there’s a small smile touching his lips as he slips the chocolate into a cupboard. He takes out the medicine packets next, studying them with apparent detail. Then he says, “I’m Dan, by the way.”

“Oh.” Phil reconsiders what he’d been calling him in his head. “Hi. Hi, Dan.”

Dan glances up at him, lips twitching.

“I’m Phil,” Phil says belatedly. “Live directly beneath you. Which is why I know where you live. Sorry. Bit weird, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Dan agrees, flicking the kettle on. “If by weird you mean incredibly rude, coming up here telling me to turn my music down.”

A frown creases Phil’s brow. “Hey, no, it was so loud. I couldn’t think straight.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother anyone else.”

“No one else lives directly below you,” Phil points out. “I appreciate having my walls intact, thank you very much.”

Dan shakes his head, his beanie slipping a little further to the side, more curls tumbling out. “You’re exaggerating a fuck ton, mate.”

“You wouldn’t know,” Phil mutters. “Don’t know how you stand it, anyway, being right in the middle of a racket like that.”

“I’ll have you know it’s art,” Dan disagrees, picking up the kettle. “Sugar?”

“Two,” Phil confirms, “And no coffee for you.”

“It’s decaf—”

“Still dehydrating, take the medicine I so dutifully went out and bought you.” Phil watches with a stern gaze as Dan sighs dramatically and picks up the medicine packet. “And I fail to see how whatever noise you thud through my flat is in any way art.”

“You haven’t lived,” Dan snaps back, pouring out the water. He makes a face at his lemon-scented medicine drink, peering over it. “Are you sure this is worth it?”

“Trust me, that stuff works,” Phil reassures. He won’t admit it, but he enjoys the way Dan’s eyes crinkle up when he peers with suspicion at his drink, the corners creasing, his lips pulling into just a hint of a pout. It’s undeniably cute, and Phil would be lying if he didn’t at least acknowledge the slight pull of attraction to Dan tugging insistently at his insides.

“You’d better be right, Phil.” Dan makes a face, but he lifts the mug and takes a tentative, scalding sip. He looks distinctly displeased when he lowers the mug again.

Phil can’t help it – he emits a low laugh. “Sorry. Promise it’ll be worth it when your cold goes away, though.”

“Fucking better,” Dan mumbles, wiping his mouth. He passes the second mug, now full of coffee, over to Phil, looks at it with a distinct yearning.

Phil laughs again, accepting the mug. He’ll even forgive the minions, what with how undeniably cute Dan is being, and Phil doesn’t know if it’s the fact that he’s sick or if he just happened to catch Dan at bad times the past couple of times they’d met. Either way, he likes this Dan. Slightly pouty, slightly messy, but a bit of a delight, if Phil’s insides are to be believed.

He takes a sip of his coffee, takes a moment to glance around – Dan’s flat is laid out in almost the exact same way as Phil’s, open plan kitchen and lounge, small hallway leading to darkness but where presumably the bedroom and bathroom are. It’s weird, being in a place so similar to his own and yet not – none of the furniture is familiar, and yet he still feels at home.

“So do you just make a habit of looking after any lost strays you happen across?” Dan asks out of the blue, and when Phil turns back he finds Dan looking straight at him. “Or am I a special case?”

“I’m a fan of strays,” Phil answers ambiguously. “Though you’re particularly waif-y at the moment. All bambi eyes and sad sniffles. Maybe it’s that.”

“Oi,” Dan grumbles half-heartedly. “I’d kick you out if I had any fucks to give right now.”

Phil snorts. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But, like,” he looks up, meets Dan’s gaze with sincerity for a moment, “I’ll get out of your hair if you want. I know it sucks having company when you feel crappy, and I don’t think I’m exactly your favourite person at the best of times.”

“Can say that again, fucking noise police,” Dan grumbles, but Phil thinks it’s good-natured. Dan is smiling at him, at least, a small smile that only just touches his eyes, but a smile all the same. “But seriously, it’s fine. Invited you in, didn’t I? Least I can do is give you coffee.”

“Well. Thanks.” Phil shifts a bit under Dan’s intense gaze, glances down, unsure how to take the invitation. He hadn’t expected this, honestly. But he’s enjoying himself, enjoying the odd tension he feels every time he meets Dan’s gaze, senses eyes on him when he isn’t looking, feels himself drawn to stealing glances at Dan whenever given the opportunity. It’s been a while since he’s felt drawn to someone.

He takes a sip. Dan’s coffee is more expensive than Phil’s, some fancy blend that Phil doesn’t normally bother with, actually doesn’t like as much as the cheap stuff. But he still has manners, so he smiles and glances back over at Dan, who is still making a face at his mug.

“Stop that,” Phil reprimands, “And drink up. Do you not want to get any sleep tonight?”

“Wouldn’t make much of a difference,” Dan snorts, but obediently sips anyway under Phil’s stern gaze. “Fuck. You’re worse than my actual mother.”

“Just making sure my money doesn’t go to waste,” Phil answers, but it’s softer than he intends it to be.

Dan meets his gaze again, and although he isn’t smiling exactly, there’s a sort of warmth dancing away in his eyes, hidden somewhere deep. Phil likes it. More accurately, he likes the way it feels when Dan’s eyes are on him.

Phil stays until his coffee is completely gone and Dan has had at least half of his medicine, and he learns that Dan is a writer, freelance, stays at home most of the time, that he likes Muse (“Well why don’t you play that instead of whatever crap you shake my walls with?” “It’s art, Phil, art, and Muse is mostly for special occasions.”) and that he’s incredulous over Phil’s admittance to preferring cheap coffee over expensive blends.

He also learns that Dan smells like coconut body wash and has rough, calloused fingers when he leans close to take the mug back off Phil.

Phil returns to his room with conflicted feelings. He’s still annoyed about the music thing, but Dan turned out to be much nicer than Phil was expecting, funny and sharp but also soft. But then again, that could have just been the sickness.

Phil pushes all thoughts of him from his mind, or at least, he tries to, and gets back to his editing.

---

He passes Dan on the stairway three days later, on his way out to a meeting. Dan is headed back upstairs, wrapped up in a long black coat (does he own anything in another colour?), still sniffling. His hair is straight again, falling across his forehead in a style very similar to Phil’s own, actually, now that Phil thinks about it.

Dan pauses when he sees him, stopping short with one foot in the air, eyes wide.

Phil looks back, feels the same rabbit-in-the-headlights caught feeling tighten in his chest. Last time they spoke, things ended well, but not with any degree of finality. Phil really isn’t sure where they stand, exactly, not quite sure what they are. Friends? Friendly acquaintances?

No, none of that quite adequately describes the odd tension he could feel every time he catches Dan’s gaze on his.

“Hey,” Dan says finally, breaking the silence.

“Hey,” Phil answers, and then, because he can’t help himself, “Might want to put your foot down. Don’t want a repeat of you falling down the stairs.”

Dan huffs out a laugh, planting his feet on the step. “If I did, I’d fully expect you to scoop me off the floor.”

“Hey, I don’t wanna get my hands bloody,” Phil disagrees with a soft laugh.

“Gonna leave me to just bleed out then? Rude.”

“I mean, I’d feel bad for the porter. I might clean up a bit.”

“Rude,” Dan laughs, reaching out to prod Phil’s arm. It tingles where Dan touched it, the most cliché thing ever. Phil refuses to be part of a scene out of a romcom.

“Anyway,” Dan says, stepping back quickly and retracting his hand, “I should, uh. Stop delaying you, probably.”

“Probably,” Phil agrees. He hates being late, and he does have a meeting, but he still pauses on the stairs, glancing back up at Dan. “But, uh. I don’t. I don’t mind the delay?”

Dan pauses again, fumbles against the bannister, and for a fleeting moment Phil is genuinely worried that he actually will fall.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steadies himself and looks Phil right in the eyes, and there’s the hint of a smirk on his face, something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “Well. I’ll delay you some more in the future, then.”

“Please do,” Phil says all in a rush, quickly, mortified.

Dan’s lifts his brows. His smirk grows.

“Shut up,” Phil mutters, and then turns to head on down the stairs. “I actually have a meeting. Shut up.”

“Sure thing, Phil,” he hears Dan call from behind him, but he doesn’t turn.

He can feel Dan’s laughing gaze on his back all the way out of the door.

---

One night, a couple of days later, Phil comes home to the rumble of music thudding through the walls of his flat again. He sighs, exasperated, and collapses on his sofa, wondering distantly if this is some twisted kind of summons. Dan could just come and knock on his door like any normal person, he doesn’t have to incite Phil into making a complaint.

But Phil is tired, he’s had a long day of meetings and actually had to go into the office for once rather than just working from home, so he splays out on his sofa and just listens for once, letting the loud thud of the bass echo in his skull.

He still doesn’t understand whatever music Dan is playing, but there’s something behind it again – something purer, something distant. Quiet. Slippery, like Phil can never quite catch it, even though he listens hard.

Eventually, the music stops, and Phil stays just contemplatively staring at his ceiling, thinking of Dan up there, in the flat that is like his and yet not, pacing about where Phil can hear footsteps. So close, and yet somehow still unreachable.

The silence is deafening.

---

One night, a week or so later, Phil has pizza in the oven and American Horror Story on the TV when there’s a knock at the door.

He is surprised, briefly, he hardly ever gets visitors, and the surprise grows when he opens it to find Dan standing on the other side.

“This is totally cliché,” Dan says, fiddling with his fingers in his pockets, “But, uh. I’m locked out, and you’re literally the only person I know in this building, so…”

Phil arches a brow, folding his arms. He leans against the doorframe, looking Dan up and down, and Dan shifts under his gaze. His hair is under a beanie again, long black jumper sleeves covering his hands, jeans so skinny they look painful.

The silence holds for a moment until Phil says, “You know, if you wanted to come see me, you could have come up with a better excuse.”

“I swear,” Dan mutters, fixing Phil with a staunch gaze, “I know what it sounds like, but – literally, I just walked out of the door thinking my keys were in my wallet but then I remembered I put them on the table yesterday for fuck knows what reason –”

“Sure,” Phil drawls, stretching out the syllable.

Dan looks at him plaintively. “I promise. I’d come up with a better excuse if I was lying. Not that I would, uh. Lie. To come and see you.”

“You wouldn’t?” Phil puts his hand on his chest as he steps out of the way, letting Dan into his flat. “I’m hurt, Daniel.”

“Well, I probably would, actually,” Dan mumbles, too fast to catch properly. Phil blinks for a moment before assuming he heard wrong. He must have. Even if his thrumming heartbeat disagrees. “Anyway,” Dan continues, stepping into Phil’s lounge, “I really don’t know anyone else, and I don’t want to admit to a random stranger that I’m literally dumb enough to lock my keys inside my own flat, so.”

“So you decided an almost-stranger is better than a random one?” Phil answers with a raised brow.

Dan just looks back at him so plaintively that Phil feels his heart tug. Ridiculous. But he gives, with a small shake of his head, waving Dan over to the kitchen where he flicks the kettle on. “Alright, fine, you can stay here while you wait for your landlord.”

“Right, yeah,” Dan mumbles, “Landlord. Yeah.”

Phil glances at him over the counter. “Or whoever has your spare key.”

“Didn’t get around to giving it to anyone,” Dan shrugs, coming round the counter to join Phil. He leans his hip against the side of the oven, watching Phil get out two mugs. The proximity makes Phil’s head cloud, slows his thinking a little. “Don’t even know where it is. Probably still in the drawer, in my flat, which I’m locked out of. Not the most helpful, you know?”

“No,” Phil chuckles in soft agreement. “Landlord it is, then.”

Dan doesn’t reply straight away, instead shuffling on his feet. When Phil looks up, his head is cast down, eyes fixed on a spot on Phil’s (slightly grubby) tiles. “Yeah. Uh. My landlord will… have a spare set, then?”

Phil blinks at him. Then tilts his head. “I mean, yeah? Usually. Not that I’m claiming to know your arrangement, or anything, just—”

“No, yeah, of course,” Dan interrupts hastily. “Makes sense. I just, uh. Hasn’t really happened to me before, you know.”

Phil looks at him contemplatively mid-spooning out coffee. Dan looks young, and his height could be deceiving Phil into thinking he’s older than he really is. His face is smooth, unlined aside from the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs. He decides to question. “Not lived alone for long, then?”

Dan makes a face. “No, I have. Like. I lived alone at uni, I just – it’s different.”

“Recent graduate?” Phil guesses, studying Dan’s expression. He’s staring at the floor still, eyes creased, and there’s a hint of a pout on his lips.

“Not exactly,” Dan disagrees, glancing up briefly to meet Phil’s gaze. Phil tries to ignore the sharp little squeeze in his chest that accompanies it. “I’m 23. Graduated a couple of years ago, moved back home for a bit. Then I came here.”

“Ah.” That makes a lot of sense. Phil is strangely grateful for the increasing picture of Dan growing before him, starting to make sense of the bits and pieces he knows. He wonders what makes him play such loud music, why he paces sometimes late at night when Phil is working and can hear the footsteps creaking above him.

“What about you?” Dan asks, and Phil turns to find him fixing Phil with a curious gaze.

Phil arches a brow. “What about me what? Also, do you take sugar with your coffee?”

“Nah,” Dan answers, “Just milk. And I mean, how old are you, did you graduate, all that stuff.”

“You wanna get to know me,” Phil says, biting back a smile as he adds milk to their coffees and sugar for him.

“Fuck off,” Dan tells him, but takes the mug Phil hands him with a soft smile.

Phil just grins back. “I’m 27. Got a masters, now I work from home. Spend most of my time here.”

“Freelance?”

“Yeah, but not writing. Editing. Short films, music videos, stuff like that.”

“Really?” Dan’s eyes light up a little in interest. Phil is a bit overwhelmed at having him here, his presence in Phil’s kitchen. “Sounds fun.”

“It is, when I’m not having music blasted in my ears when I’m trying to work,” Phil says a little pointedly.

Dan snorts. “Smooth. And I only play at like, 2am now, you shouldn’t be working then.”

“Needs must, sometimes,” Phil complains. “I’m a night owl. You keep ruining it.”

“Sorry,” Dan smirks, not sounding very sorry at all.

Phil rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. It’s difficult for him not to smile around Dan. He finds his smirk infectious, the mirth often hiding in his eyes enticing. He tries not to dwell too much on what that might mean, and ignores the thudding tug of his heart every time Dan is in close proximity to him.

Dan stays long enough to call his landlord and watch a couple of episodes of American Horror Story with Phil (turns out he’s been following it too, but is more caught up than Phil. He says he doesn’t mind watching the episodes again though). At some point Phil remembers his dinner and rushes to rescue it from the oven, and he shares the slightly burnt slices with Dan until his landlord shows up.

Dan turns out to be a good watching companion. He doesn’t talk through the good bits, and uses the slower moments to whisper opinions to Phil, often sharp-witted and well thought out. Phil comments as much, and Dan admits that his freelance writing includes reviewing films, sometimes.

Phil makes a mental note to look him up later.

All in all, it’s a nice evening, and when Phil waves Dan off to greet his landlord, it’s with a warm feeling settling comfortably in his stomach.

---

The next time music echoes loudly through Phil’s flat, he actually has company. Jimmy’s around, sitting with him to reminisce about uni days over drinks and a board game, one of the few that’s actually good for 2 players. They’ve got cards scattered all around his table and Phil’s actually inching towards winning when the bass starts up, loud enough to shake their glasses on the table.

“Woah,” Jimmy comments, “Someone’s having a party.”

“I highly doubt he is, actually,” Phil snorts. Dan is solitary, he knows him well enough to know that, and in fact it’s difficult to imagine Dan in a room full of other people. In Phil’s mind, Dan is always solitary, not existing outside the confines of their building. He wonders what Dan would look like in a crowd.

Jimmy eyes him in confusion. “You know what’s going on?”

“It’s just Dan,” Phil says with a shrug.

“Dan?”

“Guy who lives above me. He does this, sometimes.”

Jimmy huffs, scanning his hand before placing a card deliberately down on the table. “Must drive you mad.”

“You get used to it,” Phil shrugs, and wonders at how true that is. He’s grown accustomed to the odd nights of shaking walls and blaring bass, still none the wiser as to what Dan actually sees in this kind of music. But there is still that sweeter tone behind it that Phil hears sometimes, tugging at his ears, inviting him in further. It didn’t fit with the pounding bass, wasn’t even in time with it sometimes, at least not to Phil’s untrained ears. It nagged at him.

Jimmy is still fixing Phil with an unrelenting gaze. “So what, you just put up with it?”

“No,” Phil says, defensively. “I went up to complain, actually, the first time.”

“And?”

“He was a bit rude,” Phil admits, “But then he got better.”

Jimmy arches a brow. “Still plays the music, though. Doesn’t sound so great to me.”

“Well, no.” Phil furrows his brow. Thinks for a moment, wonders, objectively, why it bothers him to hear Dan spoken ill of when really he hasn’t done very much good at all.

But Phil remembers what Dan looked like when he was sniffly and sick, and when he was standing in Phil’s kitchen looking a little lost, and his heart tugs again. He can feel his lips curving up into a small smile, and for once he doesn’t stop it.

“Woah,” Jimmy laughs, and Phil jolts out of himself to see Jimmy giving him a knowing look.

“What?” Phil asks, a little too late.

“I know that look,” Jimmy hums, his eyes bright as he takes Phil in. “This Dan. He hot?”

Phil chokes and fumbles with his hand of cards, suddenly becoming very interested in studying the small print.

He can feel Jimmy’s gaze burning into him.

Finally, after a long moment, Phil mumbles, “Maybe.”

Jimmy laughs, shaking his head so his hair falls flat over his eyes. He sweeps it back with an easy hand. “Well. Must be quite a sight, if you’re putting up with this.” He gestures to the table where their drinks are still wobbling with the thrum of the bass.

“Yeah,” Phil mumbles, tips of his ears burning as he puts his card down, barely even focusing. “Whatever. Can we just play, please?”

“Haven’t seen you like this since second year at uni,” Jimmy chuckles, but he obediently goes on with the game. They both pretend not to see the way the back of Phil’s neck has turned a glowing red.

---

It’s raining, the kind of unpleasant rain that hangs like mist in the air and clings to every patch of exposed skin. Phil is shivering, ducked low under his hood, relieved for once that he heeds his mum’s words closely and has invested in a good long raincoat. He’s almost back at his building after a meeting with his boss, his laptop safely tucked away in his rucksack.

He turns the corner and walks head-first into someone, colliding with a crash.

Phil gives a startled exclamation, stumbling back instantly. He hears a muttered shit from in front of him and looks up to see none other than Dan, dripping in a hoody with a mug of coffee held in front of him.

“Crap, sorry!” Phil exclaims, eyes wide. “Did I manage to spill that on you?”

Dan looks over and sees him, his expression relaxing with recognition. “Oh, it’s you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Phil huffs. “Oh, it’s you, thanks.”

“Sorry.” Dan bites his lip, hiding a smile if the dimple that appears in his cheek is anything to go by. Phil feels his heart tug again, steps in a little closer.

“You didn’t spill my coffee,” Dan continues, holding out his mug. “Saved by the green stick.”

Phil frowns, confused, but takes a closer look and sees that Dan’s mug is stoppered shut by one of the sticks they have at Starbucks, keeping his drink from spilling. He smiles, relaxing. “Oh, good. Was worried I’d burned you by accident then.”

“Nope, safe for today,” Dan answers, his tone warm. He holds up the cup towards Phil. “Would totally have made you buy me a new one if you had spilt it, though, I paid good money for this.”

Phil snorts. “There are easier ways to ask me to buy you a coffee.”

It comes out flirtier than he expected, and Phil has a heart-stopping moment of terror that he’s accidentally pushed too far.

But then Dan’s smile becomes a smirk, and he gives Phil a quick, blatant once-over, eyes flickering up and down his body. “I dunno. Not a hundred percent sure you’re my type.”

Phil huffs again. He feels himself draw up under Dan’s gaze, making himself taller, almost matching Dan even if Dan may have an inch or two on him. He arches a brow. “Rude. And here I was thinking I stood a chance.”

“Maybe.” Dan’s eyes are sparkling as he meets Phil’s. “If you get lucky.”

“The arrogance.” Phil shakes his head, but he’s smiling. There is the start of some impossible hope building in his chest, but as much as it hurts he squashes it down straight away. He doesn’t need to get tangled up in anything, especially not when Dan is doing nothing more than some innocent flirting.

Probably. But the dangerous smirk still playing about Dan’s lips has Phil doubting himself all over again.

“Anyway,” Dan delicately sidesteps Phil, coffee still in hand. “I actually was on my way to something – but rain check on that coffee?”

Phil blinks at him, silent for a beat too long. “Oh – yeah – yeah! Sure, I mean – not like I can exactly avoid you, you know where I live.”

“Ditto.” The smirk on Dan’s face clears into a smile, just for a second, but long enough for Phil to notice the crinkles around his eyes, the way his eyes soften. Phil’s chest tugs, hard.

He takes a breath.

“See you around.” Dan lifts his coffee in acknowledgment, then turns and continues on his way down the pavement, head bobbing above the crowds.

Phil watches him for probably too long, until he’s far down the pavement and about to turn a corner, before he heads back inside.

---

Phil is decidedly not having a good day.

He woke from a bad sleep in a rough mood, the lights too chafing on his eyes, his movements sluggish and reluctant as he got ready. He had another meeting at the office today; they were working on a big project for a client they hoped would become a repeat customer, and Phil was leading the editing team. An honour, but also a lot of hard work.

He heads to work through a downpour of rain, and on the way a strap of his rucksack breaks. A rare curse escapes his lips, and he’s forced to walk the rest of the way hugging his bag to his chest in hopes of protecting his laptop and folders.

He suffers through the meeting and leaves with a hell of a lot more responsibility on his back, a headache building at his temples, something like nerves or stress coiling tightly in his stomach.

His lack of sleep makes itself known when he gets back to his flat and curls up on his sofa to attempt some actual editing. The scenes all blur together, the images refusing to join up neatly. Phil chugs through two coffees in record speed and clicks and clicks away, barely making any progress but at least getting somewhere.

And then it starts again.

Throbbing, deep bass music rocking the walls of his flat, throbbing through the air, making the last dregs of his coffee jump in his mug. The noise joins the pounding in Phil’s head. He can’t think.

With a loud groan, Phil gives up on his editing and slams the lid of his laptop down, leaning his head back against his sofa cushions. The music doesn’t relent. He presses his palms to his face, fingers digging in, seeking some relief, but the bass continues to pound and his irritation and exhaustion continues to grow.

His muscles ache as he stands, and he only pauses to grab his keys before determinedly pacing to the door.

The walk up to Dan’s flat is a blur of avoiding people, keeping his head down and hands tucked into his pockets. When he gets to Dan’s door, he can hear the music still going, but there’s that tantalising quieter noise behind it – something Phil can’t quite place his finger on. Normally, he’d make an effort to search it out, but right now all he wants is for it to stop.

He knocks on the door loud enough to be heard over the racket, fists pounding, and then waits the few seconds it takes for the door to open.

When Dan appears on the other side, Phil sags, shoulders bowing, and simply begs, “Please.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then: “Shit, Phil, are you alright?”

Phil flicks a glance up and sees Dan peering at him, a worried crease to his forehead. He’s dressed in a black-and-white stripy shirt, the first splash of colour Phil’s seen him wear (if white can really count as a colour). It suits him.

“Phil?” Dan steps in closer, worry clearly colouring his tone. He reaches out and grasps Phil’s elbow, and Phil’s heart does something funny.

Phil swallows, gets himself together, and tries to level a frown Dan’s way. It comes out weaker than he means when he says, “Dan, the music, please.”

“I thought you didn’t mind it.” Dan’s tone is level, but there’s a crack behind his words. He tugs on Phil’s elbow. “Come inside.”

Phil follows, reluctantly, his head still throbbing, but he won’t refuse another peek into Dan’s life. The music is louder from inside the flat, pacing through the walls, the sound thick enough that Phil felt like he had to physically move through it to enter the room. The lighter, softer sound Phil sometimes hears isn’t there at all anymore. He feels a pang of disappointment.

“Hang on.” Dan disappears for a moment somewhere to the left, and then the music stops and Phil is surrounded in beautiful, forgiving, gentle silence.

He takes a moment to breathe.

“Phil?” There’s a touch at his elbow, and Dan’s back in his vision again, eyes narrowed. He isn’t wearing his beanie today, curls falling freely down his forehead.

Phil looks back at him, straightening a little as he realises he can think straight again. He glances around, realises he’s been brought further into Dan’s flat than he realised, into a new, different room, some kind of study. There’s a desk and a computer, and two enormous speakers proudly on display. And in the corner sits a white piano, stool pulled out, keys on display, a tablet displaying chords balanced precariously on the music stand.

Phil blinks at it. A piano?

“Phil?” Dan tugs on his elbow, and Phil returns his attention to him. Dan looks worried still, tone concerned as he continues, “I’m sorry, I really didn’t think it bothered you anymore. You haven’t said anything the last few times.”

“Yeah,” Phil says, and his voice croaks. He coughs into his fist. “Yeah, sorry. I just. I don’t normally mind it, but…”

Dan bites his lip, surveys Phil closely. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“No.” The word slips out before Phil has a chance to catch himself. He closes his eyes for a moment, just breathes again.

There is a touch at his elbow, gentle, almost nervous. He opens his eyes again and Dan is levelling a sincere look at him, something like concern furrowing his brow.

“I just,” Phil tries to explain himself, “Hard day at work? And, like, my head feels a bit like a fairy spent most of the night stuffing cotton wool through my ears.”

Despite himself, Dan snorts, the sound surprising in the still air between them. “Rude fairy, that.”

“Tell me about it.” Phil shakes his head, moves unconsciously closer. The touch at his elbow has become firmer, Dan’s thumb rubbing gentle circles into his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Dan says, then points imperiously at the door. “Go sit on the couch.”

Phil blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Go sit on the couch.” Dan shuffles his feet, avoiding Phil’s eyes.

Phil arches a brow, his head still thrumming even with the blessed silence now filling the flat. But it still takes him a while to process. “What?”

“The couch, Phil.” Dan sighs loudly. “Go sit. Don’t fight me on this, you took care of me when I was sick, so. Returning the favour?”

Oh. Ok, that makes a little more sense. Something funny is burning at Phil’s insides, something he doesn’t feel very often, a strange mix bubbling away in his stomach. He tries to ignore it as he takes one last glance around the room, eyes lingering on the white piano for a moment, before he turns and moves in the direction of the lounge. It helps that this flat is laid out just like his, except where his study is Dan has set up the speakers.

Dan’s couches are white leather. Not the most comfortable, not like Phil’s ratty old things, but they fit the general look of the place, everything minimalist black and white with the odd streak of grey. It’s stylish, though Phil thinks there definitely isn’t enough colour.

“Stay there,” Dan says from behind him, waving haphazardly at the sofa cushions. “I think I’ve still got those gross drink sachet things you bought me before.”

Phil settles happily enough, listening to Dan clattering in the round somehow therapeutic. The knot of stress that had been tightening in his stomach the entire day so far is somehow unwinding, loosening his limbs. He actually finds himself relaxing.

Dan returns soon enough, placing the medicinal drink down in front of Phil before settling on the cushions beside him, hugging his own mug to his chest. The smell of coffee is heavy in the air.

Phil makes a face, curling up in the corner. “It’s too late to be having caffeine.”

“Good job you’re not my mother, then,” Dan says back playfully, and takes a long, purposeful sip.

Phil just rolls his eyes.

The medicinal drink tastes kind of awful, but Phil appreciates the gesture from Dan and thinks he may actually be coming down with something, so he makes sure to drink it all with the appropriate pathetic snuffling to garner sympathy.

It works, but only to some degree. Dan just rolls his eyes at him and calls him a wimp, all while fetching him a blanket and offering to put something calming on the tv. Phil appreciates all of it, but even more he likes the fond crinkles at the corners of Dan’s eyes when he smiles.

The knot in Phil’s stomach suddenly tightens again, but not from stress this time.

Dan chatters away while Phil drinks, telling him all about the latest pieces he’s written, one arsehole of an editor who keeps rejecting his ideas over passive-aggressive emails, the most recent being that morning. That is the culprit for Dan blasting the music, Phil finds out.

“I dunno, it just helps,” Dan shrugs, a slightly self-defensive edge to his tone. “Stop me thinking too much, helps me relax. I dunno.”

“Music that loud helps you relax?”

“Shut up,” Dan tells him determinedly. “’Sides, it’s not just the music.”

Phil arches a brow at him. “No?”

“No. I, uh.” Dan stops for a moment, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “I, uh, I play, actually.”

Phil sends him a confused look.

“The music hides it,” Dan adds, like it’s a confession. “So I can play without, like, worrying that someone will hear.”

“Play what?” Phil asks, his thoughts still slow and sluggish despite the drink.

Dan gestures vaguely towards the other room. “Piano. Uh, not much. But it helps, too, with the stopping me thinking too much.”

Phil’s eyes widen. He thinks back to the music, remembers the slightly sweeter, slightly softer tone that sometimes bleeds through, too quiet to catch. He makes a mental note to listen out for it next time.

“Beats just sitting around writing in silence, anyway,” Dan adds in a rush. “Freelance is great, but it’s a little lonely.”

“Tell me about it,” Phil agrees glumly. “The number of times I’ve had a conversation with my pillow when I’m trying to fix a particularly disagreeable scene.”

“My sofa cushions have heard many drafts of reviews,” Dan agrees.

“And having to constantly make your own hot drinks, no one else to do the rounds.”

“Yeah. Like, I genuinely hate office environments, but at least there you don’t have to pay for your own heating.”

“Or forget to stop working and take a lunch break.”

“Yeah.” Dan smiles briefly to himself. “That’s one I forget a lot, too.”

“We should take them together, then,” Phil says unthinkingly.

Dan looks at him, expression instantly becoming unreadable.

Phil swallows. Suddenly, his heart feels like it swells in his chest. “I mean, like. We’re both freelance. We should work together – like, in the same room. Make our own little office.”

For a tense moment, silence sits heavily between them. Phil’s heart is in his mouth.

But then Dan’s face breaks into a soft smile, and he lifts his fingers to flick his fringe out of his eyes. “Yeah, ok.”

“Ok?”

“At least this way we can poke each other to take proper lunch breaks,” Dan shrugs. “I’ll come to yours for, what, 11ish?”

Phil manages a small laugh. “Most offices start at 9, I think.”

“Yeah, but I know for a fact you’re just as much of a night owl as me,” Dan argues, “Which means you can’t be a morning person as well, that would just be unfair to the rest of humanity.”

Phil lets out a huff of laughter.

“I mean,” Dan adds quickly, eyes sliding away from Phil’s, “You’ve already got an unfair advantage, looking like that and yet still being all nice and shit.”

Phil’s back straightens in surprise. He chooses not to comment, however, and instead goes back to sipping at his drink. There is a warm fluttering in his chest, though.

---

After that, it becomes fairly normal for Dan to show up at Phil’s flat with his laptop under his arm, firmly claiming a place on Phil’s sofa. They work across from each other, often silently, sometimes filling the silences with noncommittal chattering and the odd coffee break. Phil buys some of the more expensive stuff when Dan makes a face at his mug one too many times, and Dan replaces the lactose-free milk he keeps using up from Phil’s supply.

It’s nice, and Phil thinks he may have gained a new friend.

At least, he thinks Dan’s a friend. And yet Phil can’t deny the tugs of attraction he feels every time he looks across and sees Dan buried in his laptop, a small furrow in his forehead when he works, or the cute dimple that he sports when he’s holding back a smile, or the curls that he hides with a hat on the days he hasn’t straightened his hair.

Phil doesn’t know what to do with these feelings. They’re a little overwhelming – he hasn’t had a crush in years, and wow does that phrase sound juvenile – so he just sort of tucks them away in his chest and folds himself around them, not exactly pushing them away, just not doing anything about them.

Dan, for his part, does nothing to suggest that he’s aware of what Phil’s feeling. His gaze sometimes lingers a little long, catching on Phil’s, and sometimes he’ll shuffle in close when Phil’s sitting next to him, their laptops adjacent but Dan just gently resting against Phil’s side, but they don’t talk about it. Phil likes the warm soft weight of Dan, so he doesn’t say anything for fear of making it go away. Dan, if he notices, seems content enough to let things pass.

They fall into a routine, and it’s nice. Phil learns some more about Dan, that he works at a furious rate once he gets going but actually getting to the process of writing is a long, difficult affair that occasionally leaves him with a dark look on his face. Phil doesn’t intrude, just makes him a warm drink and leaves it there in front of him, and then goes back to his laptop. Dan usually flashes him a grateful smile, but some days he just wordlessly reaches for the mug and curls his whole body around it, like he’s trying to make himself disappear.

Phil spends the times Dan isn’t around still going about his life, buying his groceries and going to meetings and spending time with his family. He’s headed back from dinner with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend (which he spent mostly dodging questions about who was taking up so much more of his time lately) when he stumbles in the porch of his apartment building, eyes falling on the shadow huddled up on the steps.

It’s dark, the streetlights casting a harsh orange glow, but Phil can still make out enough of the figure to know it’s Dan. Sitting out alone on the cold stone steps of their building, shivering and curled in on himself so tight it’s like he wants to disappear.

Phil doesn’t hesitate once he realises who is there. He heads straight over to Dan’s side and sits down next to him.

Dan rouses himself slightly, lifting his head, just the corner of one eye showing from the depths of his black scarf, beanie pulled firmly down over his head. He’s shivering, not wearing a coat, just a thin hoody.

Phil levels a frown at him. “You’re going to get a cold again if you stay out here like this.”

“Don’t.” Dan’s voice is muffled, cracked. He retreats back into the depths of his scarf. “Just, don’t even try it, Phil.”

Phil purses his lips, but doesn’t ask. He just settles in beside Dan, pushing the tips of his fingers between his squeezed-together legs, bunching his shoulders. He’d forgotten his gloves in his haste to meet Martyn earlier, and the tips of his ears are starting to ache with the cold. He leans a little into Dan’s side, grateful for the warmth but feeling him shivering.

Eventually, Dan’s muffled voice speaks up. “It’s stupid sitting out here, Phil, you should go inside.”

Phil raises a brow at him.

Dan rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know. But I’m allowed to be stupid.”

“And I’m not?” Phil huffs, knocking his knee gently against Dan’s. “Didn’t realise you had all the rights to stupidity.”

“Shut up,” Dan mumbles half-heartedly. “And go inside, it’s freezing.”

“I can tell from the amount of goosebumps on your face right now.” Phil leans forward, ignoring Dan, and instead shrugging out of his coat.

Dan watches with wide eyes as he gently drapes it around Dan’s shoulders. A crease appears in Dan’s brow, or what Phil can see of it, but at least Dan makes no move to pull the coat off.

“Did you just,” Dan says blankly.

“Yes,” Phil says firmly, and leans back into the step behind him, the tips of his ears going red. From the cold, Phil can pass it off as the cold if need be. The chill nips at his thin jumper, making his shivers increase.

Dan bites both his lips beneath the scarf, eyeing Phil closely. Then he gets to his feet.

Phil arches a brow at him.

“C’mon,” Dan mutters, pulling Phil’s coat on properly before making for the door. “If you’re going to be like that, let’s just go inside.”

Phil bites back his victory smile, following after Dan without a word. He also doesn’t comment when Dan leads them straight to Phil’s flat, waiting for Phil to unlock the door before striding in like he owns the place. Phil likes it more than he should probably admit, watching Dan be so comfortable in his space.

Dan still doesn’t take Phil’s coat off, not even once Phil’s switched his heating on and got them both settled on the sofa with mugs of hot chocolate to tide them over. Instead he curls up in a corner, legs on the cushion, cold toes digging into Phil’s leg. Phil doesn’t complain, just watches him. “So, are you going to tell me why you felt the need to sit outside in below freezing temperatures?”

“I’m an adult, I can make bad decisions if I want,” Dan replies without missing a beat, He sips at his drink, avoids Phil’s determined gaze.

“Are you really going to leave it at that?” Phil asks flatly.

Dan shrugs.

“Dan.” Phil leans closer for a minute, close to exasperated, but then he sits back instead and sighs, “Honestly, if I haven’t managed to show you by now that it’s ok to talk to me, then maybe we’ll just never get there.”

Dan frowns at him. “What, expecting something from me, Lester?”

“No, except for you to get it into your thick skull that I actually care about what happens to you,” Phil says in a moment of bravery. He regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

Dan draws back for a moment, surprise covering his expression before it shifts into something more wicked. “Oh, you care about me, huh?”

“Shut up.” Phil buries himself behind a cushion. “I’m not looking at you.”

“Sure, avoid the person you care about, that seems like a sensible course of action.”

“I hate you.”

“I didn’t want to be in my flat.”

Phil peers out from behind the cushion, confused. “Huh?”

“Why I was sat outside,” Dan explains, for once not avoiding Phil’s gaze. His dark eyes are steady on Phil’s. “Stayed inside too long, I think. The walls felt like they were closing around me.”

“So go to a coffee shop, or something,” Phil replies after a beat.

“Too many people.”

“Are people that bad?”

“Most people,” Dan agrees with a pointed look at Phil. “Most people are that bad. Not all, though.”

Phil desperately tries to stem the heat flooding the back of his neck. He coughs, but doesn’t twist away as he says, “Well, still doesn’t excuse why you’d feel the need to sit out in the cold.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Your lips have a blue tinge, Dan.”

“You’re exaggerating.” Dan rolls his eyes. “Besides, forget that, I want to hear more about how you supposedly care about me.”

“Brat.” Phil throws the cushion at Dan and sits up, reaching for his drink, ignoring the way his heart is picking up its pace in his chest. “Thought you’d have figured that out by now.”

“I had an inkling,” Dan admits, looking away. “Wishful thinking, mostly. Therapist says I should be careful and manage my expectations, so.”

“Yeah, well, nothing to manage here.”

“Nothing?”

Phil looks over, meets Dan’s eyes, sees the question on his face. He bites his lip and pulls himself together, pulls himself together because his brother asked him questions all evening and he needs to stop this cycle of Dan Dan Dan somehow and because he doesn’t ever want to find Dan sitting out alone in the cold ever again. “Nothing. I care about you, Dan, ok? I care about you.”

Dan looks over at him, eyes glittering, and Phil braces himself for the witty retort.

What he gets instead is Dan sliding over closer to him, knocking their elbows together affectionately, and murmuring, “Well, good job I care about you too, then, isn’t it?”

Phil almost chokes on his hot chocolate.

---

Dan keeps coming over for their work sessions, which soon devolve into general hang-out sessions and then competitive shouting matches when Dan spots his collection of board games and the Nintendo switch that’s sticking out from under a pile of DVDs by his tv.

Dan is ferociously competitive, and annoyingly good at Mario Kart. It leads to a lot of colourful language late into the night, and Phil is sure that for once he’ll be the one getting noise complaints from his neighbours. He wonders briefly if anyone else ever complained to Dan about the noise from his speakers – although that had calmed down a bit recently. Phil’s sleep had been peacefully uninterrupted for several nights in a row.

Dan swears like a sailor, inventing new curses that Phil is sure would make his grandma’s toes curl, but to Phil it’s almost ridiculously endearing. The way Dan’s hair curls as he flops his head around, throwing his hands in the air when he’s overtaken by some other online player (probably from Japan) and finishes in seconds.

“Fucking ridiculous,” Dan finishes his tirade with a mumble, and then flops directly over so his head lands in Phil’s lap.

Phil freezes for a moment. They’ve slowly grown more tactile as they’ve known each other, but it’s usually Phil initiating touches, scratching at Dan’s arm when he isn’t getting enough attention or affectionately poking at his dimple, which he’d finally found the nerve to do two days ago.

Now, with Dan’s head in his lap, Phil is suddenly unsure what to do. His heart clenches in his chest before picking up speed at a ferocious rate.

“It’s unfaaair,” Dan whines. “I totally had him up until the last mushroom.”

“Yeah, well now you’ve made me finish last,” Phil reprimands half-heartedly, watching as his character zooms in at a sad last place. He places his controller down, and spends half-a-second just watching Dan curled up in his lap.

Then he reaches down and gently curls his fingers in Dan’s hair.

Dan doesn’t react straightaway, so Phil carefully runs his hand through Dan’s hair, watching the curls bounce back into place when he tugs at them. Dan’s hair is softer to touch than it looks.

Dan makes a noise of discontent when Phil pauses, and nudges his head rather determinedly back against Phil’s hand.

Phil makes a soft noise that might have been a coo, and runs his hair through Dan’s fringe.

“It’s probably rigged anyway,” Dan huffs, tossing his (well, Phil’s) controller across the living room. Phil watches it bounce on the carpet with a wince.

“It isn’t,” Phil disagrees mildly, “You’re just bitter that you actually lost for once.”

“Unfairly.”

“What, 29 out of 30 isn’t enough for Mr Perfectionist?”

“No, it isn’t,” Dan sniffs, “And I’m going to continue to be bratty about it. Just to forewarn you.”

Phil snorts. “Sounds like you expect me to keep putting up with your crap.”

“Well,” Dan twists in his lap to look up at him, sending Phil a winning smile, “I had hoped.”

Phil just makes a face back at him, but continues running his fingers through Dan’s hair. They haven’t defined what they are to each other, haven’t done much of anything the past few days really apart from work and play and gripe at each other, same as always. Just, Phil didn’t fight so hard to hide the fond looks he sent Dan’s way, and Dan didn’t hesitate as much to reciprocate them, either.

Glancing down at Dan curled up in his lap, Phil could only describe the feeling in his chest as warm. It tugged at him, almost suffocating, his heartbeat not exactly pounding but racing just enough to make itself known.

When Dan leans so far into his touches that he basically crawls into Phil’s lap, Phil squawks and swats at him. “You’re a bit big for this, Dan.”

“Shush your mouth,” Dan grumbles back, adjusting himself until he’s settled comfortably (and determinedly squashing Phil’s elbow). “I’ll sit where I want.”

“You’re a brat.” Phil tosses his head back against his sofa cushion in defeat. If he’s completely honest with himself, the warm weight of Dan in his lap is not actually entirely unwelcome. He enjoys knowing Dan is right there, enjoys running his fingers through Dan’s soft curls, especially enjoys the way Dan curls up into him so close it’s like he’s pressing himself against Phil in every possible way.

Dan’s still wearing Phil’s coat, and the fluff around the hood keeps tickling Phil’s nose (because Dan really is a bit too big for this) so Phil moves his head back off the sofa rest, grumbling in the back of his throat.

Dan turns to send him a smirk, and then his face is much, much closer than Phil expected.

His heart contracts, and then races faster than before. His breath hitches before he can catch himself, but Dan doesn’t seem to notice, pausing in whatever he was going to say as his gaze catches onto Phil’s.

Dan, precariously balanced in his lap, face just inches away, and Phil’s just… stuck.

Dan nervously licks his lower lip, tongue darting out for barely a second, but it’s enough to catch Phil’s attention and he swallows. Dammit. There goes any chance of playing this cool.

This time, Dan does notice, his gaze flicking up to Phil’s before dropping lower, and then, before Phil can catch his breath, Dan is leaning in.

The first press of his mouth against Phil’s is soft, questioning. Phil answers with a hastily let out breath and the tightening of his hold on the sleeve of Dan’s jumper, steadying him in place as he leans in slowly, eyes falling shut, mouth slowly finding Dan’s.

Dan’s a good kisser. That much is obvious, even as they keep things slow, gentle, and mostly chaste. (Well, mostly. Phil might nip at Dan’s lower lip, and Dan might make a soft noise that has Phil’s thoughts spiralling, but he reigns himself in and keeps things soft and careful, at least for this first time). Dan’s fingers on his chest, clinging at the material of his shirt, the weight of him as he leans into Phil in danger of unseating himself, all remind Phil that this is real, happening now and not just in his head.

He pulls back after a moment, but Dan chases him and whines until he relents and leans back in, pressing another soft kiss to Dan’s lips.

Dan makes a pleased noise and leans in, in danger of actually unbalancing them, so Phil pulls back again and reaches for Dan’s hips.

Dan whines pitifully.

“Shush,” Phil huffs, but there’s a soft fond warmth hiding obviously behind his tone. “Hold still, I’m just making sure you don’t fall off.”

“I’m not going to fall,” Dan scoffs, but he still sits still enough for Phil to adjust them until he’s lying back against the armrest with Dan sprawled across him. Dan rolls his eyes and leans down close, biting his lip and looking Phil in the eyes. “Happy now?”

“So happy,” Phil answers, and tugs Dan back against him.

They kiss until Phil loses track of time, until Dan melts against him completely and the weight should probably be suffocating and is a little bit uncomfortable if he’s honest, his foot went to sleep what feels like hours ago and his neck is sore from the awkward angle, but he wouldn’t move for the world. Not when Dan is warm and making happy little contented sounds with every new press of their lips.

Eventually, they stop kissing and Dan simply tucks his face into Phil’s chest and makes himself comfortable. Phil lets out a low chuckle and winds his arms around Dan, holding him close, allowing himself this moment of warmth. He hasn’t had something go this smoothly in goodness knew how long, hardly dared to expect this one to continue. Something is going to go wrong. Something always does, eventually.

But still, lying here holding Dan, it’s hard to pay attention to any negative thought that might flick through his brain.

Dan shifts after a moment, sitting up slightly. This time it’s Phil that chases after him, making a low noise of discontent and pulling Dan in again.

“Phil,” Dan chuckles, the first time they’ve spoken in too long. He presses his palm flat against Phil’s chest. “It’s getting late, I should – I don’t live here.”

“Well observed,” Phil says, and tugs Dan down to him again.

Dan rolls his eyes, pressing more firmly. “I’ll come back. In the morning. I just – it’s late.”

“You’ll come back?”

“Of course.” Dan’s tone is steady. “As long as I’m welcome.”

Phil sends him a pointed glance, but softens when Dan avoids meeting his eyes. He lets out a soft huff, smiling. “What, do you think I’m gonna kiss you and then kick you out?”

“I mean,” Dan glances at him finally, biting his lip. “I hope not?”

“Of course not, you insecure idiot.” Phil brings him in close again, kisses him softly. “Come back tomorrow. We can – I mean, we could get coffee? Or just. I don’t know.”

Dan snorts. “That’s the worst getting asked out I’ve ever heard.”

“Are you saying no?”

“Well—”

“Are you saying no, Dan.”

“No, of course not.”

“Well then,” Phil says smugly, “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Insufferable prick.” Dan smacks him on the chest before standing up.

Phil gets up too, follows him to the door. Just before Dan goes to step out, Phil catches his hand and pulls him in again. “You’re still wearing my coat.”

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow.” Dan turns to him with a glint in his eye, leans in and kisses him. Phil’s eyes flutter closed, and he chases Dan’s mouth when Dan pulls away again.

“Tomorrow,” Dan laughs, but his words are a promise. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Phil lets him go with his pulse still racing, but a warm feeling settled in his chest.

That night, the music doesn’t rumble through his walls. Instead, Phil hears the high, clear notes of a piano being played, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

---

Phil wakes up the next morning with his heart in his mouth and his nerves all wired. He isn’t one hundred percent sure if everything that happened the night before is even real, or if his mind managed to concoct one hell of a realistic dream. He doesn’t have any proof of it, his phone is silent, there is no trace of Dan on his sofa when he checks.

But then Phil glances at his coat-rack and realises his coat is still missing.

Warmth floods him from head-to-toe. He finds himself biting back a ridiculous smile as he goes to the kitchen and fills up the kettle, reaching for the coffee (and some of Dan’s expensive blend, making it just how Dan likes). He waits for the water to boil with thoughts of warm lips and soft curls.

He has two steaming mugs ready when there is a knock at the door.

Ridiculously, Phil straightens his shirt and pats down his hair before going to answer, despite already checking his outfit three times. Dan had just said tomorrow, not what time, and it’s still morning, early for both of them, but Phil couldn’t be happier that he’s here now. At least, he presumes this will be Dan.

Phil answers the door with his heart in his mouth and his pulse racing, but it calms the instant he sees Dan’s nervous face on the other side.

Dan swallows, shifting, and his hands are behind his back.

Phil tilts his head. “What have you got there?”

“Nothing,” Dan blurts, and then shoves Phil’s coat at him as he strides through the door. “Is one of those for me?”

“Yeah,” Phil answers distractedly, looking up to see Dan headed straight for the coffee mugs. He glances back down at his coat and goes to hang it on the rack when something falls out of it onto the floor.

Phil blinks, looking down at the bundle by his feet. “Flowers?”

“Yeah,” Dan replies, obviously trying his best to sound nonchalant.

Phil bites back a smile as he bends down to scoop them up. “You bought me flowers?”

“Shitty supermarket ones because I had to run out this morning,” Dan says all in a rush, “And normally I’d spend way more, but – well, you kind of surprise me last night.”

Phil huffs out a laugh. “You aren’t the only one.” He turns the bundle over, smiling at the small notecard that simply says from Dan and nothing else. “You bought me flowers.”

“Yeah, well,” Dan mumbles, and when Phil looks over he’s twisting his fingers together nervously. “I figured one of us should do this whole dating thing properly.”

Phil laughs, the sound bright, and he reaches over to drag Dan in and give him a kiss. Dan makes a soft contented noise and Phil is very pleased that he didn’t imagine that happening.

He pulls away after a moment and heads to the kitchen. “Hang on, I think I’ve got a glass big enough to fit them in.”

“That isn’t a glass, it’s a vase,” Dan says flatly when he watches Phil get it out of the cupboard.

“No, it’s a glass.”

“It’s clearly a vase. Why is there a vase in your glass cupboard?”

“Shut up.” Phil sets the flowers on the side after filling the vase (glass) with water. “And you were doing so well with bringing me these.”

Dan pouts in the corner. “Does that mean I don’t get that date?”

Phil rolls his eyes and scoops up his mug. “Drink your coffee and we’ll see.”

Dan makes a show of taking a long gulp.

Phil laughs, but sets his mug down too and reaches for Dan’s hand. “Ok then. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I don’t mind,” Phil answers honestly, “As long as it’s with you.”

Dan looks at him, the moment holding for a second, before he snorts. “That was cheesy as fuck.”

“Watch it, you.” Phil entwines their fingers and heads for his coat rack. “Still date pending until we reach the door, so best behaviour.”

“Well.” Dan tightens his grip around Phil’s hand and smiles softly. “Good job I plan on sticking around, then, isn’t it?”

Phil doesn’t answer, but his heart hums happily in response. He’s secretly hoping that Dan sticks around for a long, long while yet.

[ghostmartyr]

Obsession and Fandom

2018 being a year of doing better, apparently I’ve decided that being overly honest about fandom and my interactions with it is an A+ idea.

I think most people on the internet these days have no idea what OCD is. Even the people who know enough to understand that it’s a serious problem don’t often examine it past that. Something to do with washing hands and perfectionism, only damaging and crazy.

OCD is built on doubt.

Pick a thing, any thing, that you believe to be true. You turned off the lights. You didn’t run anyone over on your way home. You would never hurt a child. Your God is real. You love your significant other. Your house is not currently on fire. You don’t live on a fault line. Your hands are clean.

Where OCD starts is in the anxiety of uncertainty. In panic loudly suggesting in your own voice, “what if?” You can’t just remember that you turned off the lights. What if you were wrong? Human memories are so fallible. What if your electricity bill spikes and you can’t pay it and you get kicked out and you don’t have enough money left to eat?

Go check.

Twenty times at four in the morning.

Then one more time, to be certain.

Always one more time.

The cycle itself is very simple. Something makes you anxious. You react with compulsions to wave off the anxiety. The compulsions upgrade the importance of whatever made you anxious. The next time the source of anxiety hits, it’s worse, and the compulsions just keep digging into the rut.

Part of what makes that cycle so hard to shake is the obsession aspect.

The general rule of treating OCD is that you need to cut out compulsive behavior. That’s the component that’s keeping everything running. Understandably, this is harder than it sounds.

OCD is a broken coping mechanism. The compulsions put distance between you and the anxiety. Every time you check, and it’s all okay, your brain rewards you with relief sweet enough that you don’t draw the link between that compulsive behavior and the terror that spawned it. The compulsions are how you’re fighting the anxiety, and not fighting means that this great threat will certainly kill you.

Enter the importance of the obsession.

Someone once made a chart about tumblr, and how it treated emotional response. I don’t remember the specifics, and can’t find it, so I’m kind of just hoping I’m not grossly misrepresenting the example, but it was a simple bar chart, illustrating how tumblr did away with a balanced range of highs and lows. Every bar went through the roof.

Obsession is a time-honored way of describing passionate interests. You don’t just like a movie; you’re obsessed with it. It makes your heart beat faster and consumes all your waking thoughts, because that’s just how much it means to you. It is The Thing for you.

In fan circles, this is perfectly normal. We all show up because we love a thing (or hate how we should have loved a thing), and are willing to devote hours and hours of our loves luxuriating in it. This thing, which is just a movie or a comic book or a band, has intense value to us. It matters. Fiction matters to our reality.

What happens with obsession is that you lose the ability to correctly perceive something’s importance. Because whatever it is you’re obsessed with is The Most Important.

Fannish obsessions are, ideally, about enriching your life. They add joy, or some other sense of fulfillment. OCD obsessions impede life. Things that may or may not be inconsequential become so Important that it’s impossible to think that chilling out about them is even advisable.

It matters that you know the lights aren’t on. How could your brain think otherwise? Worse, it’s dangerous to think otherwise. A clear threat to your livelihood is presented in knowing whether the lights are on or not. Are you really going to be so careless as to disregard that?

It matters.

No, you can’t just shut up about this and go about your life, because it matters.

One of the fascinating things about psychological disorders is how quite a few orderly humans have usually brushed against symptoms. Most people don’t have depression. Many people understand feeling depressed. Most people don’t have anxiety. Pretty much everyone has felt anxious.

Plenty of people have superstitions and rituals.

Plenty of people get obsessed with things.

Unfortunately, that can make it hard to communicate the problem. People relate to other people through their own experiences. If you tell them something that sounds like something they’re familiar with, they’re going to assume that it’s that thing they’re familiar with, not something different. Going with depression, since I think that narrative’s the most common to hear nowadays, many people have had terrible days, and felt really broken, and sad, and like the world is ending.

Then a good night’s sleep happened, or the next day, or the next week, and the trauma was over, so it passed, and it was all good.

So don’t let a few bad days get you down! :) :)

It’s well-meaning, but frustrating. Sounding the same does not equal being the same.

I'm trying to be extra careful about that here, because OCD is misunderstood frequently enough without my help. Discussing behaviors I’m more aware of thanks to an anxiety disorder is not the same as saying those behaviors only ever belong to that thing.

Not every rectangle is a square.

So. Let’s talk why I’m bringing all of this up.

Humans like labeling things. That means that nearly everyone with OCD who has gone and investigated themselves on the internet is familiar with very specific ways to denote how their OCD presents.

Disaster OCD. POCD. ROCD. Harm OCD. Pure O.

To be as clear as I possibly can, all of those extra unique titles are just a fancy way of saying, “I obsess about X.” It is all OCD. They are useful categories when it comes to explaining your personal experience, but the diagnosis remains OCD. The extra fluff of other letters or words is just shorthand.

What I have would be called Pure O. It stands for “pure obsessional.” Like several bits of naming vernacular OCD communities adopt, that’s a misnomer. It gets the name because with Pure O, the compulsion is obsession. All of the compulsions are relatively invisible because they happen internally.

To be even more specific, one of my themes is moral scrupulosity.

An obsession with being moral.

If I’m angry over something, my mind wants five hours of pacing and detailed thought analysis explaining why, in order for it to judge if it is acceptable to have those feelings.

If something hurts me, my mind wants five hours of pacing and detailed thought analysis explaining why, in order for it to judge if it is acceptable to have those feelings.

If I like something untoward, my mind wants five hours of pacing and detailed thought analysis explaining why, in order for it to judge if it is acceptable to have those feelings.

It isn’t enough to have feelings. Those feelings have to be Right. They have to be justified. If I can’t justify them, they shouldn’t be there, because I need to be right. I can’t just dislike something. I can’t just be angry. I definitely can’t like things.

There have to be Reasons.

Before I went to therapy, that was my entire life. Not letting any of my emotional responses go, because the most Important thing in the world was being a good person, and the only way to know that I’m being a good person is to have a solid copy of every argument that I can come up with that’s even slightly to related to whatever it was I was thinking about.

Usually, the end result (using ‘end’ loosely) was a bunch of exhausted, dizzy thoughts, and deep emotional unrest. Along with hours of my life that I’d spent entirely inside my own head, contributing nothing to the outside world.

Fandom right now is such a trip for me, because it’s full of people validating my worst moments. They dance with the rhetoric that the hell inside my head invented for me, and that’s considered right and proper.

Everyone gets so worked up over whether or not something is problematic. Everyone gets so worked up over whether or not it’s okay to ship a thing. Everyone gets so worked up over there only ever being five ways to ethically enjoy a problematic thing. Everyone gets so worked up disagreeing.

Everyone gets so worked up over proving their point.

Because it’s all so important.

When I was first seeking treatment specifically for my OCD troubles, I talked to my therapist about its qualification as an anxiety disorder. Yes, I told her, I spend hours and hours and hours turning things over in my head, it makes me miserable, and it is a problem, but... I don’t feel, like, anxious about it.

She asks me what happens if I stop. I stare at her blankly. ...Stop? ??? What do you mean... stop? There wasn’t any answer to that. Not following through on my compulsions was such an impossibility that I couldn’t even figure out why it was so important to do them.

The compulsions are a broken coping mechanism to keep the anxiety at a distance.

Put in the terms of standard human interaction, it’s a layer of crap meant to distract from the real issue.

The real issue is the feelings, and the refusal to let yourself have them.

You treat OCD by cutting out the compulsions and letting the anxiety happen. Instead of prolonging it, you let all of the torment wash over you. You don’t engage. You just allow it to exist.

Slowly, you ease out of the rut the compulsions dug. Are the feelings fun? No. Does every part of your soul want to kick and scream and defend yourself? Yes.

Will that ultimately make the pain worse?

Hell yes.

There are so many different ways to look at my mental history, look at fandom, and start going off about how damaging certain things can be. I honestly wouldn’t know where to start if I wanted to get through them all. I began this post without a clue where I’d end up.

The thing about making stuff Important is that then you can borrow from other Important things to illustrate your point. After all, it’s all on the same level of importance. This creates a loop of intensity, where the Importance keeps growing, and growing, and any threat to the Important thing is worthy of unholy wrath for the sake of all that is good in the world.

Very, very quickly, rival ships aren’t just an unpleasant thing. They’re dangerous. They caused you discomfort, pain even, and here’s ten thousand reasons that make an ironclad case for destroying every trace of the evil.

Borrowing rhetoric feels good. It turns your uneasy feelings into something bigger than yourself; something righteous. You aren’t just a tired human who wishes fandom liked what you like more, you’re a crusader against injustice.

We’re all tired humans.

Whatever you’re feeling, however awful or good it is, one of the most destructive things you can do to yourself (or others) is demand a reason for it. Humans are emotional idiots capable of feeling more for people who don’t exist than for each other.

It’s okay to have feelings just because you have feelings. They don’t need to be right or wrong. You are allowed to exist without reason. You can read a book or listen to a song and take it however you want.

The people around you can, too.

Obsession steals away perception. It makes small things feel more important than anything else. Shouting at other people for doing things wrong becomes more obviously meaningful than building up what you find to be right.

The most important thing in your fandom experience should be yourself. It is not supposed to hurt you. Pain is the universal sign that something is wrong. Experiencing it during something that should be enriching your life is a problem, and just because other people can set it off doesn’t mean that they’re the cause.

Whenever someone brings up fandom and its purity kick, I remember what it’s like to be trapped in that type of thinking. It’s still something I struggle with. Daily. People diving into it blindly because the train tracks are all set up and ready to go is distressing.

I don’t really know what I’m trying to get at with all of this, so I can’t wrap it up very neatly. I just wanted to share, on the off chance that someone might find something valuable in it.

[eratoschild]

Throwing Caution to the....Wall

Now posted on my new ao3 account! http://archiveofourown.org/works/13105944

The bill was paid, a generous tip discretely left. Let it not be said that the Prince and his advisor were stingy restaurant patrons, let it not be said that they drew untoward attention to themselves as they finished their dinner and made their way to the exit. Ignis hoped no one noticed that their dining was a bit rushed, hoped that no one noticed that they didn't speak much. If he avoided Noct's gaze, it was only to curb the risk of unabashed- and unquestionably inappropriate- eye fucking. It had started as a normal dinner out, a table in a quiet corner of a new restaurant. They had barely been seated when Noct, taking advantage of the long table cloth, slipped a foot out of his shoe and right up his advisor’s inseam, wearing a small but shameless smirk as he did. To the less familiar observer, Ignis would not even have appeared to have done so much as bat an eyelash. But Noct had caught the almost imperceptible nostril twitch, the barest narrowing of one eye. And of course no one would ever have known about the muscle tension shifting as his toes slid upwards from ankle to knee to inner thigh. The maître d’ had come to their table, made some pretty speech about being honored to host His Highness this fine night and please do not hesitate to let him know if there is aught that might improve their visit. The prince had thanked him perfectly pleasantly, if cursorily. Ignis, a bit more graciously before asking the house’s recommendations for the evening. From the corner of his eye, Ignis had seen Noct's smirk twist slightly at this request, unequivocal signal between them that time was not to be wasted with the perusal of menus and making up of minds. Their unspoken agreement: when the question was asked, the responding recommendation was heeded. “...and a wine pairing, if I may offer a suggestion?” They had gone along with it, a glass apiece. Dinner was served with surprising quickness, as if the staff had sensed that they were on borrowed time before the air in their dining room ignited. Noct, who hadn’t even complained about vegetables, quickly fixed his shoe under the table. Thank you, but they would pass on dessert this time. “Highness?” Ignis, finally, breaking his self-imposed moratorium on eye contact, rose from the table, catching the Prince’s attention with a slightly arched brow. Side by side, but not touching (carefully on his part, at least), they made their way to the exit. A few steps outside the restaurant, obfuscated in a nondescript but surprisingly clean alley in the business district, Ignis stopped and quickly surveyed their surroundings. Not an exhibitionist, but at times less patient than some might guess, he was not entirely above putting some of his tactical skills to more personal use. “Specs?” He could hear the implied hurry in Noct's voice to get to the car. Turning to the Prince, a wicked curl to his lips, Ignis tipped his head wordlessly down the alley. Noct half-laughed, half-scoffed. “Impatient tonight?” “And you're not?” countered Ignis in a controlled voice as they started walking. About halfway down the alley, Noct realized that Ignis was no longer beside him, but slightly behind him. No sooner had he noticed this when there was a hand on the back of his neck, steering him purposely towards a shadowy alcove, tension in those fingers a bare hint of what was forthcoming. When they reached it, he was pushed, in a way that only Ignis could, against the wall- just enough to be certain that he felt it, carefully enough to ensure no true injury. He let himself go limp on the brick surface, sandwiched from behind by the advisor’s taller form. One gloved hand moved to pin his wrists over his head, the other held over his mouth. He tried to speak but couldn't, though he did manage to bite a finger. Ignis swore and rolled his hips, forcing Noct more sharply against the wall, a muffled moan escaping in response to the rough friction against his cock. “I don’t know about you, Highness, but I’ve no interest in being heard,” he muttered in Noct's ear, his voice the sound of velvet and malice. Fuck. He laughed, as much as he could, against the hand that pressed even more firmly at his mouth and pushed back, as much as he could, against the lean, hard body behind him. He shivered at the sensation of the cock against his ass, then struggled and fought until one wrist broke free, falling down to meet Ignis’s hair, his fingers twisting into the silken strands, eliciting a soft, inarticulate sound. He fought further, writhing and shoving until he was able to turn himself around, back to the wall now. “Hypocrite,” said Noct with a soundless laugh, his head falling back against the brick to expose a pale throat. “Begging your pardon?” Ignis replied as he leaned down to rake his teeth over the vulnerable skin. Noct shuddered under his mouth as he did. “You’re a hypocrite. You talk such a good game about propriety. You’re the one who could use that lecture right now,” elaborated the prince in a raspy whisper. Six, the things that voice was doing to him right now rivaled the physical sensations created by the body writhing against him. The look in his eyes, partially shrouded by soot-dark lashes, directly contradicted the words he spoke “Would you prefer I drop you off at your apartment with a spoken “Good night’ and a cordial handshake in the name of propriety? We can leave now and have you at your front door in ten minutes.” “Don’t even think about it.” By now, Noct had snaked his arms around his waist, dug his hands into Ignis’s back pockets and pulled him in so they were grinding together roughly. He was painfully aroused. His eyes fell closed as Ignis wedged a knee between his thighs and pressed upwards. “Astr-“. Ignis clamped a hand back over the prince’s mouth before easing the knee away slightly and pressing in again. Noct was near the breaking point, he could hear it in his uneven breath, see it in his face: deep pink flush across his cheekbones, eyelashes fluttering erratically. He leaned and planted his free forearm on the wall just above Noct’s shoulder, bringing them into tighter contact. Noct was still grabbing his ass through the thin fabric of his pockets, fingernails digging into his skin. He held onto Ignis, vaguely aware that he was probably going to leave marks, and not really caring at the moment. He was pinned by two points: the hard muscled thigh pressing into his groin and the hand over his mouth, he couldn’t speak, his movement was limited. He had provoked Ignis in the restaurant- he knew exactly what he was doing at the time and gotten the desired result, though he didn’t actually expect to be pushed against a wall halfway down the alley; usually, they made it back to whomever’s apartment was closest. He certainly wasn’t complaining though, he just wanted to ride it out. Pulling Ignis against him more insistently, Noctis arched his back and tipped his head to one side, the invitation to more licking and biting at his neck readily accepted, the heat of the tongue and scraping of teeth firing darts along his nerves straight to his cock. He moaned, louder this time. The hand on his mouth only muffled so much. He threaded his fingers into Ignis’s hair again, a sharp tug as they closed in a fist. He nearly came when he heard the answering moan: his own name, the single syllable drawn out and low, as if being dragged from Ignis's throat in that beautiful accent of his. So much for not wanting to be heard if anyone should pass by. “You're close?” Ignis hissed through clenched teeth. A weak nod was the only response. He was just about at the edge himself and while he briefly wished that he'd had the presence of mind to not let them get carried away here, it was too late to dwell on that now. The car wasn't parked far away but neither of them would make it back in the state they'd gotten themselves into in the few minutes they had been here. The only thing to do now was finish this. He took one of Noct's nipples through his shirt and rolled it between his fingers for a few seconds as they ground together before giving it a sudden pinch, drawing a hitched inhale. Two more quick pinches and Noct briefly stiffened against him, fist in his hair tightening again, nails of the hand still on his ass and digging in with increased demand. A few staccato jerks of his hips, and there was a sudden wet heat between them. The rush of added sensations pulled Ignis along with it, and within moments, he collapsed against Noct, with a shuddering gasp. As they came back to their senses, Noctis straightened himself as Ignis turned to lean momentarily on the wall beside him. He studied his advisor. Normally perfect hair was a mess, eyes closed and lips parted, regaining control of his breath and composure. “Six. You need to forget propriety more often.” “One of us needs to keep his wits about him,” Ignis replied, turning to return Noct’s stare, expression turning into one of mild regret. “I apologize, this was unwise. Improprieties aside, it left you vulnerable-“ “Specs?” “Yes?” “Shut up. I’m fine. Worry about risk management later.” “Fine. We should make our way home anyway now that we’ve gotten it out of our system for the night.” “I don’t know about you but nothing’s “out of my system”. Anyway, it's my turn to get you against a wall.” “Oh, do you think so, darling?” “Yeah.” He should have seen it coming but he was taken by surprise when Ignis turned and, with his typical lethal grace and speed, had him pinned to the wall again. This time kissing him- hard enough to stop his breath, then biting his lip before pulling back with a long, controlled inhale and a stare that lanced straight through him, making it crystal clear to Noct that it wasn’t “out of his system” either. “We’ll see about that.”

[xoxoladyclara]

“Valkyrie Rising”, on AO3 now!

Hello Tumblr! I’m so excited to share with you the first chapter of my newest fic series, “Valkyrie Rising”, an MCU/DCEU crossover fic. I’m posting the text of the first chapter here, as well as the link to the story on AO3! Make sure to swing by to check out the other two chapters I have published so far, the author’s note, and to get notifications of when new chapters are posted. I’m super excited about this one, and I can’t wait to share it with you!

Wayne Tech Enterprises AI manufacturing system online. System operations: 120 petabytes/sec. Project A.L.F.R.E.D., Mach 23 rendering. Estimated wait time: 134 minutes.

Barbara let out a soft groan as the time slowly ticked down on the computer screen in front of her.  She rested her head on her desk and began drumming her fingers to the beat of the system rendering beeps.

She heard her colleague/friend/former roommate Frankie chuckle from behind her computer screen. "Things going that well, huh?"

Barbara groaned again in reply.

"Come on sweetie, what's wrong?" Frankie's singsong-y voice floated back towards her.

"This program! It was perfectly fine the first time, but no! 'The voice isn't right, Barbara.' 'You need to be able to fool me AND Alfred, Barbara.' 'The A.I. needs to be fully functioning but not homicidally inclined, Barbara.' I cannot WAIT for this to be done."

"You think Mach 23 is the one?"

Barbara stood up, grabbed her empty coffee mug, and walked over to the coffee-maker in the corner of their office. With a few quick taps of her fingers, the machine roared to life, and Barbara began to tap her foot impatiently. "It better be," she muttered darkly.

"Finally!" Frankie wheeled herself away from her desk, the computer dinging its goodbye.

"You're done already?"

Frankie smiled at Barbara and shook her head. "Hey, I'm just the IT girl on hourly. I don't get paid the big bucks to move us one step closer to Skynet."

"Aww Frank, can't you stay? Don't you love me anymore?"

"And miss the Wayne Enterprises gala tonight? I love you, girl, but I love a free night on the town just as much."

Barbara sighed pitifully, but hugged her friend tight anyways. "I hope you have a great time tonight, Frankie."

Frankie released her arms from the hug and rubbed Barbara's back. "You going to be okay?"

"What? Of course!" Barbara quickly turned back towards the coffee machine and grabbed the newly filled mug of liquid energy. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Frankie looked at her sadly; Barbara ignored her, walking back to her desk. "You know, ten years ago - "

"It's in the past," Barbara answered before Frankie could finish. "Besides, what sort of mother would I be if I left my child in this time of need?"

"Well, are you sure you're fine with missing the big shindig?"

Barbara rolled her eyes, turning back towards her concerned friend. "First of all, if I never have to be on display at another Wayne function, it will be too soon. Secondly, you know my father would rather lock me in Arkham then let me go anywhere with a population exceeding ten people. And lastly, if I did get to go, I'd have to deal with a hovering dad, a pained looking boss man, and the likelihood of getting arrested for punching Dick Grayson in the face. Trust me, this is much better."

Frankie rolled her eyes, but smiled at Barbara nonetheless. "If you're sure - "

"Of course! And you need to go. Someone has to represent the best department in the building."

"Best-looking, that's for sure. Sure you won't be too freaked out all alone down here? Tessa from HR said everyone is going."

Barbara snorted "She's paid to say that. Now, get going before I forcibly eject you from my fortress of solitude!"

Frankie grinned and made her way towards the slowly opening door. "See you later, Gordon."

"Have fun! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Barbara called after her and grinned as Frankie returned a one-fingered salute of her own. The door, with their names emblazoned on it, followed by "Information Technology Specialists", swung shut after Frankie.

Information Technology Specialists, my ass, Barbara thought to herself. She had to give credit where credit was due, however; it was a good cover. In fact, if it hadn't been for that stupid cover, she would still be under constant surveillance at her apartment. Bruce, for all his flaws, was perhaps the best business man she knew, and he had somehow managed to convince her father that she would be totally safe working at Wayne Enterprises. Barbara would have been relieved, but she saw his intentions for what they were: a place for her to work and be of use, but as far removed from the "family" as possible. And as annoyed as it made her, she was grateful; it was better than being under house arrest at her dad's.

It hadn't always been like this. Life had been normal once. School, dinner with Dad, fighting crime, doing homework, weapons building with Bruce, etiquette lessons with Alfred – she had been normal. It all turned to shit the day she lost her legs.

Sighing, she pulled out her personal laptop, grabbed her leftovers from lunch out of the fridge, and turned her attention to the news coverage at the Wayne Enterprises Annual Gala.

"-Welcome back to our evening coverage of the Wayne Enterprises gala. My name is Lois Lane, and I am live at the largest Gotham event of the year. We just spoke to the man of the hour himself, accompanied by Diana Prince, known United Nations correspondent.

The screen flicked to an earlier interview. "Mr. Wayne, if you could remind our viewers, what is the purpose of the annual Wayne Enterprises Gala?"

Bruce shot Lois his most winning smile. "It would be my pleasure, Ms. Lane. The Wayne Enterprises Gala was created for the sole purpose of raising money to give back to the community. Gotham has had a, uh, difficult past, but I truly believe that its darkest hour has passed. The time has begun to turn Gotham back into the shining beacon of progress it once was, and you can be certain that Wayne Enterprises will be leading the charge." With a quick kiss goodbye to the camera, Bruce and Diana walked away.

Barbara snorted as she took a giant bite of her pasta. "You should change your name to Sharkbait," she muttered under her breath.

Her phone buzzed on her desk. She grabbed hold of it, shoved some more pasta in her mouth, and read the text messages as they appeared.

Barry Allen: Hey Babs! You coming tonight?

Barry Allen: I can pick you up if you'd like!

Barry Allen: Iris can't make it, so I need a date!

Barry Allen: I'll even bring you some flowers or something!

Barbara Gordon: BARRY. This isn't prom. You don't need to bring me flowers. Also, I'm not going.

Barry Allen: WHAT? WHY NOT?

Barbara Gordon: I'm working late tonight, finishing up on a project.

Barry Allen: : (

Barry Allen: All you do is work nowadays.

Barbara Gordon: Well, it's either work or house arrest.

Barry Allen: : (

Barry Allen: Still a bummer though. Everyone else is stopping by! Even Dinah and Oliver, and you know how impossible it is to have them in the same room right now.

Barbara Gordon: Are they still fighting?

Barry Allen: Dinah cut the heads off ALL of Ollie's arrows and replaced them with butt plugs.

Barbara Gordon: Damn.

Barry Allen: Tell me about it.

Barry Allen: Are you sure that project can't wait?

Barry Allen: We all really miss you!

Barbara Gordon: Hardly.

Barry Allen: They do! I miss you the most though.

Barbara Gordon: You know, you could run over here some time! It's not like you have a long commute anywhere.

Barry Allen: Are you sure you can’t come out?

Barbara Gordon: Positive.

Barry Allen: Well, let me know if you need anything. If you do, I'll be over in -

Barbara Gordon: DON'T YOU SAY IT

Barry Allen: A FLASH.

Barbara Gordon: …..

Barbara Gordon: …...

Barbara Gordon: Sometimes I hate you.

Barry Allen: : )

Barry Allen: You know you love me.

Barbara Gordon: … That I do. Have fun tonight, Allen.

Barbara smiled to herself as she grabbed hold of the pasta. Barry always, always had her back. Even considering Kara and Dinah, he was the closest friend she had. Funny, how things work like that. She never in a million years would have thought that after all this time, it would just be Barry Allen left standing. Well, Barry Allen and the ever-suffering Alfred Pennyworth, but still.

"Look who has just arrived! Ladies and gentlemen, Dick Grayson, with – can it be? Supermodel Kory Anders!"

Barbara stilled, staring at the screen, as Dick Grayson strode into view, wearing a dark purple suit, perfectly tailored to show off his assets. At his side was "Kory Anders" - Starfire's public persona – in a fitted black dress that left very little to the imagination. Her bottle-red hair hung down to her waist, the Farrah Fawcett curls taking up a decent amount of the screen.

"Mr. Grayson, great to see you!"

Dick winked at Lois. "A pleasure to see you as always, Ms. Lane."

Lois laughed brightly. "How does it feel to be the beneficiary of the Wayne legacy on nights like tonight?"

"Lois – if I may call you Lois – Bruce taking me under his wing after I lost my family was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. I am incredibly proud to be a part of his generous legacy. To be here, surrounded by all my friends and loved ones, with the most beautiful girl in the world at my side – there's nothing more I can ask for."

Lois thanked Dick and Starfire, and as they walked away she turned to face the camera. "Truly a triumphant night for Gotham's royal family - "

Barbara closed the computer window with a click. Feeling sick to her stomach, she pushed her pasta away, and breathed deeply, hoping to chase away any untoward thoughts. She suddenly heard a ding coming from her computer station.

Project A.L.F.R.E.D., Mach 23 rendered. Please insert chip before commencing download.

Barbara raced over to her station. Grabbing her prototype communicator watch, she removed the empty chip, inserted it into the docking station, and commenced the download. The watch was fairly inconspicuous; it had a pale pink leather band, a medium-sized cream-colored face, with two small gold hands that showed the time. Underneath the leather were several laced graphene threads that held the operating system dock in place under the watch face. The glass on top of the watch face was made of several layers of metallic glass, meaning it could withstand bullets and weight that was fifteen times the normal capacity of a steal beam of the same size. The A.I. chip, once inserted, could only be removed by the person who inserted it into the watch in the first place, as sort of a failsafe. It was, without a doubt, both the most expensive and impressive piece of Wayne Tech ever created.

Total program download in 3 minutes.

Barbara sighed again, watching the countdown. At this rate, she would be ahead of schedule. She might even be able to leave earlier than -

BOOM! The sound of splintering glass and crashing cement echoed throughout the corridor.

"What the - " Barbara muttered. She peered through the blinds on her office window and saw several masked men heading down the corridor, towards the sound of the explosion. The private Wayne Security detail, that usually patrolled Wayne Enterprises after hours, was nowhere to be seen.

"Shit," Barbara gasped. Whirling around, she opened up a hidden compartment of prototype guns – one of her many side projects; as long as she was incarcerated at Wayne Enterprises with total access to Bruce's credit card, she might as well have a hobby – and tapped her foot impatiently while the program finished downloading.

A.L.F.R.E.D., Mach 23, downloaded. Please insert into device for immediate testing.

Barbara grabbed the chip and stuck it into the watch. As she slid the watch onto her slender wrist, she could feel the small gears in the docking system adjusting so that the watch was snugly attached. The watch began to glow softly as the AI came online.

"Program intializing," a deep British voice said. The light on the watch face glowed with each syllable the AI spoke. "A.L.F.R.E.D. online. Who is the primary controller?"

"Barbara Gordon," she spoke slowly, still tapping her foot.

"Body scan initializing. Retinal scan initializing. All individual markers catalogued, approved and secured. Personnel file pulled. Hello, Barbara Gordon. How may I be of service?"

Barbara shoved some magazines into her pocket. "Set me as sole executor of your system and its programming, initialize all security protocols, begin downloading of Wayne Enterprises database. Sync data from my cellular device, laptop, and console to system storage."

"Yes, Ms. Gordon. All items in progress."

"Please, call me Barbara." Barbara grabbed the gun, loaded it, and moved over towards the door.

"Of course, Ms. Gordon," A.L.F.R.E.D. replied.

So far, so good on the personality front, Barbara thought as she crouched behind the door.

"Information downloaded, processed, and synced to my servers. Security protocols updated."

"Great. I need you to get an eye on the situation in the Weapons Division once you've finished."

A few seconds passed while A.L.F.R.E.D. processed the information. Still crouched behind the door, Barbara heard several more footsteps running down the hallway.

" - faster we get the load, the faster we get paid, so keep those feet moving quickly - " The voice barking out commands disappeared down the hallway, quickly drowned out by the sounds of boots slamming down on the floor.

"There has been a breach in the Weapons Division," A.L.F.R.E.D. began. "It appears that the innermost laboratory area has been compromised."

Barbara drew in a sharp breath. "Why? And how?"

"My scans of Mr. Wayne's messages to Mr. Pennyworth indicate some sort of alien byproduct was delivered this morning to Wayne Enterprises. I would assume that is the cause of this commotion. As to the who, I am scanning the security footage as we speak and running all faces through the Gotham City Police Department database."

"SHIT. What was Bruce thinking, bringing something like that here?"

"I have identified some of the intruders, Ms. Gordon. Frank Legetti, former SEAL, wanted for illegal weapons racketeering on the black market. Clyde and Wilson Marchette, thugs-for-hire, recently paroled. There are several other men in masks that appear to be guns for hire. However, I believe I have identified the leader."

Barbara nodded, beginning to brace herself for a fight. "Lay it on me."

"A Jerome Napier, convicted felon, who recently escaped from Arkham Asylum."

The blood drained from Barbara's face. "It can't be."

"I'm afraid so, Ms. Gordon. The Joker is in the building."

Check out the rest of the story on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12645348/chapters/28816497