#phil's mind is just too strong

[momhowell]

dan desperately trying to give phil an existential crisis by quoting camus at him -- unstoppable force meets immovable object

[anarchy-and-piglins]

So, concept for a dark SBI au with that trope I mentioned about SBI literally 'humanizing' Techno.

All of SBI are superheroes. They work for the hero association.

Phil is the oldest on the team. He joined the hero association very early on, wanting to be part of something genuinely exciting and new. And he got to witness firsthand how the association started out with such good intentions, but quickly went the way of all operations that have government and money involved. Despite this, he stays on. Because he wants to make a difference.

Wilbur, his only son, followed in Phil's footsteps. He's a bit of a 'the ends justify the means' guy and does the hero work mostly because he thinks it's fun, but Phil is just proud his son is having a good time while also helping people.

Tommy, youngest on the team, is a real hero. He wants to save people. He's excitable and eager and quick on his feet, and was put in the team because he needs more experienced heroes to balance him out and learn.

And then there's Techno.

Techno is a little different, in that he never chose to become a hero willingly like the other three did. He was raised to be one (think baby experimented on by the association to give him powers, or perhaps just an orphan who was taken in by them when he showed potential). Techno doesn't mind being a hero, he's good at it. He has a strong sense of justice, he's competitive, he likes the hero work itself. It's just that being a hero is also all he's ever known.

The association raised him to be their strongest weapon, their greatest asset.

SBI is pretty insubordinate at times, and cut corners when it comes to the association's protocol. While they deliver good work they also like to do it their way. The association places Techno in their team as the fourth member, hoping that Techno's general sense of duty and calm-under-pressure attitude will do SBI some good.

They will come to regret this decision.

All four of them grow close, and over the span of a few years turn into more of a found family than coworkers. And as this happens, it becomes impossible for SBI not to notice how the association treats Techno differently. He's often pushed harder, and reprimanded worse when things do go wrong. He overworks himself and has been taught to never ask for help, preferring to deal with stuff by himself, even when injured or sick. He's stubborn as a mule too, so he'd never admit this was an issue. When Techno isn't working with them, he's either doing other stuff for the association or training. Techno has no life outside of hero work.

Techno does admit sometimes in conversation that there's other stuff he'd like to do. Maybe in another world where he does not have these powers, he'd be a history or English major. He'd like to try fencing, or gardening, or the violin. He'd read more.

But it is what it is.

SBI disagrees, and try to push Techno (unsuccessfully) into thinking about himself more. The more they start to see Techno as a person, the more it seems like the association doesn't.

Eventually, Phil even goes all the way to the top, complaining to the higher-ups about Techno's situation. They smile wryly, and suggest that maybe Phil has reached an age where hero work isn't for him anymore. He should take their offer of early retirement, before an incident happens and forces Phil to be dishonorably fired.

Phil is outraged, but he does take the offer because he has no choice. Wilbur and Tommy quit on the spot, equally pissed. They want to find Techno and convince him to do the same, but there's a small issue.

Techno doesn't have the same type of contract as them.

While SBI can leave, Techno can't. The hero association owns him in all ways that matter.

Obviously, the association is also quick to kick SBI out and cut off all contact. They tell Techno that Phil asked them to retire because he didn't want to be a hero anymore. And that Tommy and Wilbur chose to quit, not wanting to be on the same team as Techno without Phil around. Techno is very confused. Especially as not long after, SBI returns... as villains.

Now Techno feels confused AND betrayed.

Meanwhile, SBI will stop at nothing to get Techno back, even if it means gradually slipping further and further into villainy. They're completely disillusioned with the hero association anyway. Techno is strong, outpowering even all three of them. It takes a lot for them to finally kidnap Techno after several failed attempts. And when they do, Techno is going to fight them every step of the way. Not to mention the hero association is not going to let them take their treasured weapon easily.

Techno keeps insisting that they're in the wrong, that he'll get away from them, that being a hero is all he's good for, all he's made for. As long as he has these powers, he has an obligation to use them and be a hero.

SBI agrees.

As long as Techno has these powers, he will never be free. He'll never stop seeing them as a duty, and the association will never stop trying to take Techno from them.

Good thing that they've been working on a little something. A serum that will nullify Techno's powers forever. And then he doesn't have to worry about a thing anymore. SBI will take care of him.

Losing his powers is the only way Techno will be happy, even if he doesn't realize that himself.

As they prepare to inject him, they tell Techno what they're about to do. Techno is angry and horrified, and tells them that if they do this, he will never forgive them.

Phil just smiles and says that's a risk they're willing to take.

[isa-ghost]

Can we please keep in mind that given what we know, there's a strong chance plenty of Wilbur's friends were blindsided by this, and could very well be grieving that someone so close to them turned out to be this horrific?

Given we KNOW Wilbur meticulously kept up a facade socially and publicly, there's a strong chance they had little to no idea he was that way unless they personally witnessed the behaviors. That's horrifying.

I personally know what it's like to have someone you talked to and hung out with near-daily for YEARS to turn out to be a disgusting, lying, fake and awful person. You feel betrayed, sick, angry, confused, devastated. You need time to emotionally process that. ESPECIALLY before doing something like making a public statement about "your stance" on the matter. Some of the people we know felt like family to Wilbur, genuinely, even despite all the jokes that got old so fast within the community. And they could've gone the whole time not knowing all this.

That's not something you get over instantly. That's not something you can think clearly through right away. Anyone demanding a nuanced and well-thought out statement rejecting and condemning Wilbur ASAP for their own satisfaction are stupid as hell. You don't care about the situation, you're fishing for internet points by being ready to pull the trigger on anyone who doesn't say something the moment you expect them to. You care more about Looking like you have humanity by attacking abusers and abuse apologists, instead of Actually having humanity in realizing this has a real impact on real people with real emotions.

They're fucking grieving. And we've seen from plenty of them who thought of him as a friend that Have said something already that they are also ANGRY.

Those who have yet to speak up are likely still processing their emotions. Or processing what they want to say. Or perhaps are even personally affected by the situation as victims of abuse themselves, and therefore NEED to step back before they say anything, if they say anything at all.

They could also be saying something where we can't see. They don't owe the public shit, anything they'd say wouldn't be for us. We aren't entitled to their thoughts or their explicit rejection of Wilbur. Which is Also why anyone demanding instant statements from anyone is a fucking moron. They don't need to "prove" to us that they don't support Wilbur anymore. That's not what anything to do with this situation is about. That's not what matters here.

What matters is they've personally given Shelby their support; which is 10x more meaningful given directly to her rather than in public where it's also largely to please anyone scrutinizing them. What matters is they've stopped engaging with Wilbur, removed his presence from their personal content (ex: Phil removed his point redemption audios that had Wilbur in them), etc. Actions speak louder than words.

Some of you are just fucking lazy and don't want to look deeper, you want convenient and perfectly crafted statements for your satisfaction and comfort right away.

TLDR: think fucking harder before you open your mouth about any cc's reaction to Wilbur or his statement. These people were friends with him (many are also friends with Shelby!), trusted him, etc. There's nuance to situations like these whether you like it or not, and ccs saying anything where you can see it at the exact moment you want them to is not something any of us are owed.

Fuck Wilbur. Fuck his garbage statement. But if you're more focused on hounding every cc who ever knew him publicly to cater to you for one reason or another the second you want them to, fuck you too.

[kuroi-kotoba]

I swear sometimes it is phil with his fucking lines that throws me deeper into sugarduo hell

"nothing you should really like care about-"

"I'm gonna care about it, I'm gonna worry about it. What happened?"

And forever goes quiet and the way he says 'nothing' high pitched and leaves?? He wants to tell phil so badly you can tell

"do you need help with anything? Cause you've seemed stressed, you've seemed scared. I'm gonna want to know what happened man, I'm gonna need to know"

And "i mean this is quite worrying but okay. I understand" the trust??????

And forever just, "you know that if i need anything you would be the first person i would ask?" And phil again just???

"okay. I trust you"

AND THAT WAYSTONE

"do you mind if i grab this waystone in case i need to come help you?"

"no, no, feel free"

THE WAYSTONE ONLY FOREVER AND RICHAS HAVE??? AND NOW PHIL TOO??? NO HESITATION

And saying goodbyes man-

"Well phil, thank you so much my friend. I think I'll see you... maybe"

"Yeah let me know if you need anything, I'll be there (...). I'll talk to you later alright?

And as phil is going away forever says "i hope i will see you again"

"yeah I'll see you soon!"

Forever's obvious uncertainty vs Phil's clear certainty. The way Phil later could put into words the 'sadness and strong resolve' he saw in Forever and still left, trusting him

[thesmpisonfire]

Ever since yesterday when Richas saw everything Pac did in the time he was one, I've been thinking about a sign he put "You did all of this alone, pai?" and Pac just sadly smiled and said "Yeah, Richas. I had to keep going somehow, even if it was starting something brand new all alone just so I could show you later"

Bc just. Fuck dude. Loneliness isn't anything new in Quesadilla. Cellbit has been alone most of his life, Bagi has been alone ever since Cellbit was missing, Fit had to be alone in the Wasteland, Phil only had his goddess as company, Bad spent more time alone than with Skeppy. Loneliness isn't special, it's something all of them dealt during their whole lives

Everyone but Pac and Mike

They have always been together, ever since they were kids. Their souls are connected, they're chosen soulmates. There has never been Pac without Mike or Mike without Pac

Until it did. When Mike first lost Pac and almost went insane all by himself and only sustained by Fit and Richas, it was only a week but felt like eternity for Mike, to the point he let his patron goddess Mine take over for a day because he couldn't handle the pain of being alone in his own mind

Meanwhile, Pac didn't have that. He had to drown alone, he was locked away alone, he had to listen to others being tortured for days all alone in his mind. And even when he got back, he barely had time to heal before Mike was taken too

And to screw the knife deeper in his chest, Richas was gone just a couple of days after. And then right after that, Pac saw Forever lose himself. Pac didn't know he could go for Fit for help as Fit was also grieving, he never felt more alone

For the first time in 16 years he was alone again. It crushed him so badly his passive suicidal tendencies became active. He wasn't built for loneliness, he only had nightmares and a gut terror when trying to remember how it was to be by himself

All he needed was a single reassurance, all he needed was Fit saying "I'm right here, I'm not letting you go" to be able to get back on his feet and push through all that pain. He had to get back up, he needed to save Forever, he had to keep going somehow. All alone

Pushed through months of crushing loneliness and guilt and addiction, managing to never break more than he could handle to heal again, to not go back to his worst version of himself. It would be so easy to just go. But he didn't. He's so fucking strong and he doesn't even knows it. He makes me insane

[justmeinadaze]

Date Night: Roleplay (Steve X You)

A/N: I was watching Modern Family and that episode with Claire and Phil doing the role-play at the hotel gave me this idea lol

Warning: Married couple Steve Harrington and Fem Reader, SMUT, role-play, daddy kink, slight choking, dirty talk. FLUFF, these two are high school sweethearts with playful banter who love each other.

Word Count: 2748

Steve sat at the hotel bar after a long day at work slowly sipping on the drink the bartender gave him. His suit felt like it was sticking to him but the last thing he wanted to do at that moment was go home to change and go to bed. The strong smell of perfume filled the air and as he turned to see where it was coming from you sat down beside him ordering a drink with a confidence that made him swoon. 

He couldn’t help but stare as you patiently waited. The little black dress you had on hugged your curves in a way that had Steve salivating. Your gorgeous high heeled foot swung as you crossed your legs together. 

“Are you trying to be subtle? Because if you are, you are failing.”, you giggle as you flash him a sultry smile. 

“I’m…shit. I’m so sorry. I’ve just never seen a more beautiful woman.”

The bartender hands you your martini as your smile grows. “I’ll tell my husband you said that.”

He blinks, silently giving himself a pep talk as he makes his move. “Well if you don’t mind me saying, your husband must be a moron.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

Steve leans in a bit closer to you and you try to control your eyes from rolling back at the sexy scent of his cologne and aftershave. 

“Because if you were my wife, you’d never make it out of the house dressed like that because I’d rip it off your body and fuck you till you were screaming my name.”

His honey brown eyes watched you with amusement as your sexy smirk faltered a bit at his confession. 

“Hm. Well someone is cocky. What IS your name?”

“Steve. Steve Harrington.” He reaches out to shake your hand and you provide him your own telling him your name as well. 

“I knew a Steve Harrington in high school. He was a bit of an asshole.”

He chuckled and it comforted your nerves as a bit of his personality fell through. “Most Harringtons are, I’m afraid. Even I was a bit of a fucker in school.”

“What made you change?”

“My wife.” You blushed and he playfully craned his neck to follow your eye line as you tried to look away. “Uh huh. She was so beautiful inside and out. I knew after our first conversation I would do anything for her.”

“Then what are you doing at a hotel bar, Mr. Harrington?”

Steve obnoxiously sighs as he turns around and leans his elbows on the counter. “Oh, ya know. She’s too busy at home taking care of our three rotten children.”

“Oh, oh, okay.”, you laugh and he beams widely in your direction. “I’m sure they aren’t that bad.”

“What about you? Where’s your husband?”

“Probably at home fixing his hair in the mirror while our three ADORABLE children run around the house causing havoc.” 

“I’m sure his hair is fabulous.”

He scoots his chair closer to you till his slack covered knees are pressed against yours. You both talk about trivial things as you continue to sip your drinks and exchange the occasional flirty touch. The urge to reach out and caress his face or run your manicured nails down his button-up shirt covered chest was killing you.

Steve knew you were struggling and it was making the bulge in his pants get bigger every time you readjusted your legs to rub your thighs together. A man in the lobby sat at the hotel’s piano and began playing a slow song that had you slightly swaying in your chair. 

“Do you want to dance with me, Y/N?”

You smile as you nod and he tenderly takes your hand, helping you out of your chair, and leads you to the makeshift dance floor. As he placed his hands on your waist, you clasped your hands around his neck. 

“What are you thinking about?”

“Just how glad I am that I met you.”, you answer. “What about you?”

“Same. I’m also…no. I shouldn’t say. I’m a respectful gentleman.”

“Uh huh.”, you giggle as he smirks. “How about we make a deal Mr. Harrington? How about from this point forward…” You pull him closer till feel his groin press against your body. “…you’re allowed to be completely disrespectful.”

Steve groaned slightly as his forehead leaned against yours. “I was thinking how sweet you probably taste between your legs. How bad I want to make you cum on my tongue in that sexy dress. I want to show a naughty girl like you things that your husband never could.”

 Your hands almost roughly tug his lips to yours. “I have…a room…if you want to…”

He hastily nods and you grab his hand powerwalking with him towards the elevator. As soon as the doors close and you press the button for your floor, you jump into his arms, kissing his lips before he trails them to your neck and sucks on the flesh making you moan. 

All too quickly, the elevator dings open and you both pry apart as you lead him towards your room. 

As soon as the key clicks it open, you’re both tumbling through as your mouths mingle together. Pushing you against the wall, you tear at his shirt as his palm reaches between your legs to yank down your silky, lace underwear. 

“I half expected you not to have any panties on.”, he chuckled, throwing them to the side. 

“I have to make a bit of a challenge, Mr. Harrington.” Your hands fumble with his belt as he continues to kiss on your neck, letting out a humid breath against your skin when your palm makes it through the waistband of his boxers and rubs against his cock. “Fuck…so big.”

Steve grunts in pleasure as he takes a hold of your hips and lifts you onto a table near the front entrance. 

“Are you sure you still want to taste me in this dress? Because I’m dying to feel your mouth on my body.”

“I’m a man of my word, honey, but how about we meet in the middle?” His lips attach to your throat again as his fingers yank down the top half of the fabric exposing your tits to his to tongue as it glides down your chest and plays with the erect nub. “Fuck, baby. The sounds you make are so fucking sexy.”

Steve descends to his knees, teasing you as he tenderly kisses along the inside of your thighs. 

“C-Can I ask you something?” He responds with a gravelly hm as he gets closer to your core. “What’s your fantasy?” The man freezes as his beautiful eyes look up at you with confusion. “I mean…is there something you’ve always wanted to do with your wife that you felt like you couldn’t?”

Rising to his full height, he leans his hands on either side of you and you see the game you two are playing begin to recede from his gaze. “No, no, no Mr. Harrington. Come back to me.”, you coo in a loving tone. “I meant…for example…when my husband and I make love he whispers sexily in my ear all these dirty things and I just fucking love it.” Steve grins when you giggle. “I just sometimes wish…he’d take it a bit further. Not all the time but…just be a little…rougher with me. Fuck me. You know?”

He nods, his eyes looking past you for a moment before coming back to yours with a smile on his face that could make the devil blush. After kissing your lips again, he brings two of his fingers to your mouth and without hesitation you eagerly suck on them, running your tongue over the pads and around his knuckles. 

“I love making love to my wife. She’s always so open minded about everything that I’m surprised sometimes. But…there is one thing…I’ve always kind of wanted to hear her say but I was nervous she’d think I was weird.” Sliding his fingers out of your mouth, he uses his other hand to grip the back of your neck as he thrust his two saliva coated digits into your entrance.

“Sometimes when I’m jacking off, I imagine her saying it and I just—fuck—I cum so hard.”

“What is it? Tell me, baby.”

You panted against his lips as his pace quickened ever so slightly. “I can fuck you the way you want to be fucked. I can give you want you need, sweetheart. Let Daddy take care of you.”

“Fuck me.”

His fingers moved so fast the sound of your slick echoed off the walls. Reaching for his wrist, you futilely tried to push his hand away as he made you cum. Your nails clawed at his chest as you tried to catch your breath.

“Please. Please, Daddy. I want to feel your mouth on my pussy. Please.”, you beg. 

Steve practically growled at the name as he lifted you again and carried you to bed. “Mmm—come here, honey.” He positioned you till you were straddling his face and you mewled when his tongue licked a stripe through your folds up to your clit. “Fuck, Y/N. You taste so fucking good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as he got lost in you, his tongue lapping at every part of your sex before wrapping his lips around your nub. Leaning back, your hand tried to reach for his cock but his pants were in the way. Steve felt you struggle and released his grip on your thighs to shuffle down his slacks enough to spring his length free without him having to stop devouring you. 

Licking your palm, you stroked him as best you could from the angle you were in causing his moans to vibrate through your core. 

“Y-yes, D-Daddy—fuck—don’t stop.”

His hips rutted up into your fist as his face pressed further inside of you. As the coil began to wind, your hands flew forward to pull on hair as your hips grinded against his lips. His long, muscular arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you to him as your body trembled and you came. 

“Fuck…good girl, baby. Coming hard like that.” 

You twitched on top of him as he placed tender pecks against your nub, carefully licking at your arousal as he continued to taste you. 

When you finally let you go, you glided down his frame and pressed your lips to his. 

“Fuck me…please…I need to feel you inside me.”

“Keep begging me like that, baby. I kind of like it.”

You both whimpered as your grinded your dripping pussy lips along his now extremely hard and leaking cock.

“Please, Daddy. Please fuck me. I need you to make me cum again with your dick. Please…”

Abruptly, he flipped you on to your back and lifted one of your legs over his shoulders. You whined as he continued to tease you, dragging his mushroom tip over your clit.

“You need Daddy’s cock, baby?” When you only nod, he abruptly leans forward and wraps his massive palm around your throat. His eyes continuously scan your face, fearing he may have taken it too far but when you moan and bite your bottom lip, it takes every fiber of his being to remain in control and not just cum right now. “Say it, honey.”

“I need your cock, Daddy. Please. I need you to stretch me open. Please—ahh my god…”

As you were talking, Steve gradually guided himself into your core, grunting at the feeling as your cunt clung to him and pulled him in. With a vigor you had never seen before, he roughly dropped your legs and wrapped them both around his waist as his entire body fell against you and he slammed his hips into yours.

Your fingers raked through his hair and down his back as he hid his face to the side of your own, whispering and groaning in your ear as his cock punched into every sensitive spot inside of you. 

“Fuck, Y/N…your so fucking warm and wet…just leaking all over Daddy’s cock, baby. Yeah? That it? Is that the right spot? Mmm—Jesus—I love the sounds you make. You’re mine, honey. No one can take my cock like you can. No one feels as good as you do. I love you so much. Fuck…”

Your eyes rolled back as your pussy began clenching around him. Steve knew…he knew your body like one else, pushing up on his hands as he watched your face, pounding his hips into yours as he watched you come undone. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Cum all over Daddy’s cock.” His lips quickly cut off your scream as came hard underneath him, swallowing your moan as he thrust into you faster trying to make your orgasm last. “I know, baby. I know. I know. It feels so fucking good. You’re doing so well.”

“C-cum, Daddy.”, you whimper as you ran your tongue along his bottom lip. “Please. I need to feel you cum inside of me.” Steve’s forehead fell on yours as he chased his high, his heavy breathes fanning your face. “Look at me, Daddy. I want to watch your face as you cum.”

As your fingers reached to pull his hair, his hands gripped your wrists and held them against the mattress as he did what you asked. His beautiful brown eyes were incredibly glassy with want but you saw something else that made you breathily chuckle. 

“Steve…you…I can’t cum again, baby.”

He smirked as if to say he accepted the challenge, his gaze never leaving yours as he thrust into you so hard the bed shook. You pushed against his grip but he knew you weren’t trying to escape or in pain. You desperately wanted to touch him like you always did. Your cunt gripped him again and he grunted at the feeling as his smile grew.

“Keep your eyes on, Daddy, baby.”

As his face began to contort with pleasure, it was enough to push you one final time as you repeatedly moaned his name as you came. After getting what he craved, his eyes flicked to yours before squeezing shut and with a few more sloppy thrusts he released ropes of his seed deep inside of you. 

Steve’s body collapsed on yours and your arms promptly wrapped around him as he released you from his hold. He doesn’t remember when he fell asleep but when he woke up again, you were steadily breathing as your fingers played with his hair and your lips occasionally kissed his forehead. 

“Shit. Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s ok, old man.”, you giggle as he leaned up on his elbows to kiss your nose and move some of your damp hair out of your face. “You only slept for 20minutes. Now normally I wouldn’t complain but can you pull out please, Daddy.”

He chuckles to himself as he lifts his hips, mumbling apologies as your face scrunches in pain. 

“That wasn’t…I wasn’t too rough right?”

“No, baby. I’m just sore.” Your fingers reach up gently caress his cheek. “I like it though…feeling you through out my day.” Steve grins as he rests his chin on your tummy, looking up at you with nothing but admiration. “You could have told me, you know? About the Daddy thing.”

“I know. I just…I don’t know. I didn’t want you think I was a pervert or something.”

“Well, you’ve always been a pervert but not because of this.”, you laugh when he jokingly rolls his eyes. “Do…do you want me to incorporate it? I don’t mind.”

“Jesus Christ. How did I get so lucky to marry the coolest fucking woman?” He grins as he watches you blush. “No, we don’t have to do it every time. I like hearing you whimper my name.”

“Same. With the rough stuff, I mean. I’m definitely down for more roleplay, Mr. Harrington.”

“Speaking of you looked really beautiful in that dress. If I had known I would have bought a nicer suit or something. That was just my work outfit.”

“I still think you looked handsome.”

When you sigh, he climbs up the bed and lays on his back, yanking you to his side as he holds you tightly. 

“What are you thinking about now?”

You beam up at him as you tenderly kiss his lips before laying your head on his chest. 

“How lucky I am that I met you.”

####### Date Night Series

[enderwoah]

im so unwell about q!pac no its not even funny anymore i need to put him in a terrarium up on a shelf and keep him safe up there. he doesn't deserve any bad thing, ever. i don't even care about "having a good story" or "giving your character a conflict" anymore, nah, no, if ONE (1) MORE BAD THING HAPPENS TO HIM IM GONNA LOSE IT!! IM GONNA START BREAKING THINGS!!!

he's so. sad. hes such a sad character. his insecurities about being useless to everyone are so real and so painful because he's not, all of us know that he's not, but we also completely understand why he feels that way because he's had everyone he loves ripped away from him and he hasn't been able to lift a finger to stop any of it. he's just left to sit in the ruins without any help. he's collateral to all the tragedy surrounding him and the favela 5 in general and he's. tired. not in the way that cellbit is tired (though that works, too). he's exhausted of feeling sad all the time. of crying all the time. of feeling that loneliness that gnaws holes into his bones and settles in the marrow and never leaves, not when richas' bed is empty, not when mike's bedroom has started to collect dust, not when he can't see a real, tangible presence in forever's dilated eyes. the only person he has is cellbit, and he could never ask cellbit to give up what he still has when pac has nothing to lose (and god, how selfless, how kind is that?), so when he figures the only way to get an antidote to the drug is to have the drug itself, why wouldn't he offer himself up? and if that wasn't the only reason he tried to get his hands on it, who could blame him?

maybe he took it first to just feel the effects and understand the angle it took in affecting his mind. maybe he just took it for research. do you think he had slipped by the second time? do you think he took it once and, for a short thirty minutes, found that he could forget about all the sorrow lining his lungs and breathe? do you think reality crashed back onto him after that first try? do you think he was scrambling to take it again, to go back to that...maybe it wasn't blissful ignorance, per se, but willful disregard? do you think he couldn't wait to be submerged so deep that he couldn't think one more time? do you think he was hesitant? do you think he kept promising himself, one more, one more, one more...

god he is so. so sad. i was watching phil's pov, so everything was like a neat little movie for me, and just. cellbit and forever arguing while pac was just sobbing in the background was AWFUL. just. awful. it hurt. (cc!pac was damn good at acting, too, and that DID NOT HELP.) the moment he stepped on the trap i felt like i was hit with a brick. like no, of COURSE we should NOT be putting PAC in a CONFINED JAIL CELL. ALONE. and i know it was for his own good but i still felt so so so sick. the way he immediately curled up in the corner. the way he was crying to himself. the way he instantly answered richas' birthday the moment bad asked for it. the way he got visibly more upset and terrified when cellbit started shouting at forever. what the hell. no seriously what the HELL.

and, like, oh my god, making him the one to solve the antidote? proving that even though he may have fallen to the drug (the drug which was basically created by GODS, by the way, lets be real, the federation is nawt normal), he's still so useful. he's still such an asset. he's smart and he's kind and he's charismatic and he's trusting and he's so so selfless and so so brave and so strong. tubbo put it perfectly. the fact that he's gone through all the horrible awful stuff he's gone through and he's still standing just proves how capable he is. how tough he is. cellbit calling him "my dear." pointing out the fact that he sacrificed himself without knowing he was going to come back. "i'm only afraid of being sad again." "you will be sad again. but you won't be alone." he's so. he's just. he's. im frothing at the mouth. he gave himself up to save the rest of the island from this plague that took one of his best friends and might've taken the entire island if he didn't do anything. under that stress. experiencing that level of loss.

pac is one of the toughest goddamn people on the island and if anyone on that server even dares try to imply otherwise i will do heinous heinous things, mark my WORDS.

[flame-cat]

Part 1 (you are here) / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7

Read on Ao3

The thing is, Phil is actually doing alright.

He knows he's trapped, knows most likely no one will come looking for him for a few days at least. He knows he was tricked with the stupidest setup that he should've seen from a mile away (did see and didn't care about the consequences, is never above throwing himself on a sword if it's to save his kids). He knows he has limited food aside from golden apples, that this tiny home was built specifically to taunt him in every way, that he won't be able to tell how much time has passed or if his kids are okay or if anyone is even looking for him.

He knows. And that's exactly why he's doing alright.

Because the thing about torture is that it's scientifically proven not to work. That once you know someone's goal is to break you, it becomes that much easier to resist breaking. He knows what the federation wants- they want him to break down, crying and begging to see his kids again, just so that they can make an offer he won't refuse, so they can use him.

Phil is not only smarter than that, but bigger than that.

He's spent eons with no one but his crows for company. Eons spent idling, no goal in mind except what he gives himself, finding new ways to keep himself occupied. This? This is nothing. Phil is strong. Phil is resilient. Phil is the Angel of Death.

Phil is laying curled up on his side in front of the door.

Moving would take energy. Energy he needs to conserve and use for planning, for keeping sane, for not breaking. He can do all of that from the ground, in the spot the walls are thinnest and he has the greatest chance of hearing any changes from the other side.

(He can't hear anything. Hasn't for the past however long. It's probably been less than an hour, right? He can't have been laying here for hours.)

Phil is listening. He's on his side, breathing evenly, not moving a muscle, because he's listening.

(Just the birds and his own breaths. They still come a little wet, a little hoarse.)

He knows what he's listening for. Fit's smooth baritone, Toby's post-pubescent rasp, Missa's soft worry, even Forever's booming shouts. He can picture them clearly in his mind- picture isn't the right word, but the point is he can practically hear them, sharp and real, right there on the other side of this wall.

They aren't. He knows that. But they will be.

(No one was before, those eons alone. He didn't listen then. He could fly then. Could create. Could explore. Had only himself to worry about besides.)

Phil has his eyes closed. He doesn't sleep, doesn't dream. He's listening.

He's listening.

He-

"Phil? Phil, are you in there? Phil!"

He can hear them!

Of course. Of course, all he had to do was wait, he can open his mouth and shout to them now, he...

Phil is...

Phil is not opening his mouth.

Why? Why isn't he shouting? Why isn't he moving?

"Phil...?"

He's here. He's right here. Please, come on, he's right here!

"Did you find something?"

"No... I don't think so, sorry."

HE'S RIGHT HERE! PHIL IS HERE, PLEASE, LISTEN! HE'S HERE!

"Let's move on."

Phil is jolting awake.

His heart is beating. His lungs are heaving. His eyes are open. His mouth too.

Ah. Better stop screaming.

Better breathe slower too.

He is. Phil is breathing slower. He is. He is.

(Phil is sobbing.)

Phil is doing alright.

(Phil is being stupid. Has been nothing but stupid for the past two weeks- the first when he left, the second when he didn't find his children faster.)

He's alright.

(He's useless.)

He's alright.

(He's weak.)

He's alright.

(He's breaking.)

[wolfythewitch]

GIVE US THE DETAILS!!!!! THE ONES YOU MENTIONED IN THE TAGS OF YOUR RECENT ZOMBIE COMIC GIVE GIVE 🙏🙏🙏🙏

THANK YOU okokokok

First is that Wilbur got bit multiple times! There's a few scrapes here and there too but the definite bites are on his hand, knee, and elbow like Phil.

Even though Wilbur is touch averse, he still leans in against Kristin's hand when she hesitates because in his mind, this is the last time he'll ever get to see her. I decided not to add speech bubbles, but he was supposed to whisper "mama"

They didn't lock Phil in with him, Phil followed in after Wilbur. What I really like about that one frame where he stands over Wilbur is like. I mentioned Phil being somewhat of a symbol of Wilbur's guilt and blame, so that fact he follows him into the room and stands watch is like!! It's just a cool nod to that. Because him saving tommy, while an act of good, was also done out of guilt.

The most you can see from Kristin is either tears beading up at the corners of her eyes, or a tearstain. She's not crying because she's trying to be strong for Wilbur and the others.

Also Wilbur and Kristin mirroring each other's poses somewhat I thought would be a cool thing to draw out

These next ones aren't really details, but more of things I couldn't include or make apparent. One is when Techno squeezes her hand, it's a silent apology before he goes to pick up tommy. That he gets to hold his little brother and sleep next to him, and Kristin can't even be with her son in his final moments.

And techno is also holding tommy tight cause this, because he is what Wilbur is "dying" (I put this in quotes cause he isn't dying but they don't know that) for. And it's a bunch of conflicted emotions. Devastation that this teen is dying for your brother, and the relief that it's him in that room and not tommy.

It's why in the og ask I said that techno was praying to a god he didn't believe in.

Because he's praying to hell and back that Wilbur lives

That Kristin won't lose her only other family

That tommy won't have to live with the guilt of someone dying for him

That Wilbur, this 14 year old kid he just met, won't die as broken and as haunted as he is now. No kid deserves that

[okie-dokie-wo]

Excerpts from Phil Dunster on Andy Cohen Live, June 15, 2023

Andy Cohen: “You’re talking about Brett Goldstein, and you know, I gotta tell you something. It seems like your love interest this season - I mean, I don’t want to push this too hard - but I mean, you guys have a great bromance - Jamie and Roy Kent have like a very sweet bromance this season.”

Phil Dunster: “Well, I mean, you’re pushing it pretty hard, and I don’t mind it. But there’s a pretty strong…I mean, it’s just romance - just straight up romance. But I think that, you know, I think that any, like, intimate relationship that Jamie has, seems to be pretty intense. That he has with Keeley. That he has with his mum. That he has with - I was going to say with Brett, that I have with Brett. And that Jamie has with Roy. But. Yeah. I think that he really doesn’t know how to do, like, chill relationships, friendships. With Sam Obisanya, he’s, like, giving political statements, with [Roy], he’s either kicking and punching him or he’s hugging him, crying with him. So it’s pretty intense.”  

—From Andy Cohen Live, June 15, 2023

(now with audio)

[becauseplot]

Anyway for entirely justifiable reasons (<-is a glutton for angst) I need Chayanne and Tallulah to be present when the hummingbirds come around or a note about the 'wise old crow' appears in their house, causing qPhil to have one of his derealization/reality-questioning episodes. I need it. I need it to happen SO bad. Because they’ve seen Phil get roughed up in a fight, they’ve seen him angry, they’ve seen him wary and even nervous, but they have NEVER seen him doubt like that.

People have already made posts talking about how the cage-for-a-cage/child-of-the-sky stuff has been particularly rough on qPhil, who relies heavily on his constant vigilance, keen senses, and hyper-awareness of his surroundings for reassurance. He's the kind of guy who walks into a room and has already charted at minimum two escape routes by the time he takes a seat, you know? He sees and processes and stores information on everything, at all times, and he uses this to act in the best interest of his and his loved ones' collective survival.

His kids see this side of him too, most significantly in the ways that he looks after them: always keeping an eye on the back of the group, never far from Tallulah, and constantly analyzing Chayanne's fighting style to give helpful critique to optimize his attacks. Chayanne and Tallulah know that everything he's ever done was to protect them. Also, he's always there to offer them advice when they're feeling lost, and even if he doesn't have all the answers they need, he gives enough reassurances and promises to put their minds at ease. Phil is confident in what he knows. In their eyes, he is strong. He is a fortress, safe and impenetrable.

You could say that about a lot of children's perceptions of their parents/guardians/mentors. The older, guiding forces in our lives always seemed strong and infallible to us as kids. That's why it was always unnerving to see them get sick, or get stressed, or cry. Observing weakness in those people felt so, so wrong because we never considered the fact that they were capable of it; it was just impossible.

So, the situation: Phil is suffering in a way that makes him question the very same reality that he was a master of not too long ago. Whenever it happens, he goes quiet, looks around, mutters to himself, breathes shakily, fidgets. He is visibly unnerved and uncertain.

If Chayanne and Tallulah are there, they're gonna notice---they're perceptive, just like him. I'd imagine they'd try to ask him if he's okay, and he'd reassure them that he's fine, and maybe that's enough the first time. But, as more incidents arise, and as time goes on, they start to see more of this out-of-nowhere uneasiness, fear, from him, which is worrying, especially because he won't tell them why.

NOW. Phil has been upfront about a lot of things with Chayanne and Tallulah in the past. For example, during the height of the code attacks, Phil told them everything he ever learned about the codes, every single new development, to ensure that his kids were well informed and prepared. He was frank about the threat on their lives because to sugar-coat anything would be doing them a disservice. It was important they knew all of the cold, hard facts, even if it took away even more of their precious childhood innocence. He values their happiness, but safety comes first. It has always come first.

But this is different. It's not cold hard facts. Phil doesn't know what to believe anymore. When the hummingbirds come around and his reality comes into question, he doesn't know what is real, what he can trust, what is fact. His senses have been compromised. Hell, he's still trying to convince himself that he's not going crazy when all evidence seems to suggest that he's losing his goddamn mind. He doesn't know what to tell his kids, so he tells them nothing.

So now here stands Chayanne and Tallulah. There is something that is scaring their dad, and he won't tell them what is, so on top of the knowledge that their unwavering father is, in fact, capable of true, genuine fear, he's suddenly keeping things from them. Their dad is keeping things from them because he is scared. And I can't imagine a realization more terrifying than that.

[anarchy-and-piglins]

The painful thing is that what saves the fledgling's life is that he looks like Wilbur.

Not when you give it more than a cursory look. Long pink hair, red eyes, a face so pale it reminds Phil of the morgues they visit for their investigations sometimes. The ones where a coroner swears they ended the day with one less corpse than they started with. All of those things are starkly different in this boy than they are in Phil's son.

And yet, for one fleeting moment when he entered the room and saw the teen cowering in the corner, he seemed so similar to Wilbur that it took Phil's breath away.

Something about the shape of his cheeks and nose, the lanky frame, or the way he folds his arms around himself in fright.

"Shit," Phil mutters to himself. Because there are no other words to describe the situation. Sometimes he has nightmares about one of his boys being turned. Comes with the territory really. You deal with the most fucked up creatures the darkness has made, and you start to fear losing yourself or a loved one the same way. 

But Phil has a plan.

It's deranged, and dangerous, and he knows he could be killed by the other hunters for it. But years ago he already came up with what he would do, should the curse ever strike one of his sons.

Phil could never kill them.

And looking into the eyes of this fledgling, snarling and hissing and one second away from throwing himself at Phil's throat if it weren't for the silver cross Phil holds out in front of him, makes him feel so deeply that he can't kill him either.

"What the fuck!" Tommy gasps behind him when he enters the room. Phil doesn't know if he can see it too.

"Give me a muzzle," Phil says.

"What?" Tommy asks, taking a step back. "Dad, we need to kill it, we-" He's pulling out his bow, the tips made of that same metal that will burn any vampire to ash, soaked in garlic.

"Give me a muzzle," Phil repeats, firmer.

Tommy might be his son, but when they're on the job Phil is his superior. He is a senior hunter and Tommy is a fourteen-year-old in training, he will do as Phil says. Slowly - as if hoping he'll change his mind - Tommy unclips the leather muzzle from his belt. It's one made especially based on Phil's design, for the rare occasions they need to apprehend a vampire for interrogation rather than outright killing it. Taking it, he shoves the cross into Tommy's hands instead. He starts to walk toward the fledgling.

"It's okay," Phil says, getting ahead of Tommy's questions. And maybe also partly in the hopes of calming the fledgling down a bit. He won't be able to move with a strong source of holy silver so nearby. "He was very recently turned, no more than a day ago. And there's no sire."

A sire would never leave their fledgling alone like this. Maybe even more than looking like Wilbur, the fact that he was abandoned has saved this little one's life. Phil pulls a knife from his pocket, drawing it over his own wrist. Tommy gasps. Phil ignores it. He allows a small trickle of blood to flow into the frozen fledgling's mouth.

Phil watches as the teen swallows it automatically, licking at his own lips. How he tastes it and savors it and instinctually feels drawn to it. And then Phil watches as the fledgling's eyes catch his own.

The fledgling relaxes instantly, going pliant. He chuffs, looking for comfort.

"How did you do that?" Tommy asks, perplexed.

Reaching forward to slip the muzzle onto the fledgling just to be sure, Phil smiles, helping him stand up. The fledgling leans on him, clings to them.

"When they're this young, they need a sire to function," Phil says. "Somebody to feed them and keep them safe."

Nobody ever said that sire had to be another vampire.

"Let's go before somebody catches us," Phil says. "We need to bring him home."

[isa-ghost]

do you have hc's about how the Polycule would save q!Phil from EK's possession?? Would they work on their own or work together?? these hc's are so good btw!!

I didn't at first but now that I sat down and thought about it, I have exploded. Enjoy.

Edit: This exploded so hard I'm now planning a 5+ chapter fic about it. Here's a link to the fic.

Previous qPhil headcanons

Ender King possessed Phil headcanons

Since you specified polycule, these will be Missa/Fit/Etoiles centric. However, the fic I'm writing will have guest appearances from Chayanne, Lullah, Pac, and potentially some others. We'll see where it goes.

It seems impossible at first. He's. So. Strong. So merciless. So overwhelming. They know Phil would never forgive himself if it was his hands that hurt any of them. They can't afford to get close. They can't afford to be poisoned by the clouds of dragon's breath. They can't afford to be struck by his scythe or sword. They can't afford to be sniped by those eagle eyes. Phil would never forgive himself, and he's already so hard on himself.

They don't know what to do, they don't know what they CAN do. They have no choice but to back off, and let EK escape with Phil's body off to wherever the hell it is he'll hide out while he readjusts to having a physical form again and continues to further wrestle Phil into submission. Missa's absolutely inconsolable over it, Fit & Etoiles have to restrain him while EK dips for the sake of making sure Missa doesn't get himself killed. Fit is LIVID. Etoiles is equally pissed, but it comes out more as distress rather than rage.

Missa is overwhelmed by the idea of caring for Chayanne & Lullah alone. Chayanne comes in clutch, he somehow snagged the stock of cookies from Phil's bag before EK took full control of him. Fit offers to look after them too, he just can't feed them. Ramon is already pulling out all the stops in an effort to comfort the two & is more than willing to let them sleep in his house. They all know Phil will be mortified that the two witnessed any of what happened.

Phil is missing for at least a week, maybe more. No one knows what EK is doing with his body. Their only solace is that Cucurucho & presumably the higher ranking feds are strong enough to prevent him from leaving the island. At least they know he's findable.

That doesn't make it easier. Knowing he's out there somewhere, trapped in his own mind, living his greatest fear every second they aren't helping him claw his way back into control of himself, potentially hurting people he cares about or doing things he'd never do with his own hands. It's unbearable.

Whenever it is that they finally find Phil, he's a shell. Thinner, paler, as gaunt as a corpse. Eyes purple and cruel, dark circles under them. Features sharper, somewhere between skeletal and draconic. Patches of his skin have blackened like char, some spots have cracked and look like they're bleeding purple. He looks like he's slowly becoming corrupted by crying obsidian. His wings are raised at all times, threatening. But they shake, unmistakably and visibly so. It's clear they're in so much pain, under so much strain. Has the Ender King been flying with Phil's damaged wings? Missa, Fit and Etoiles feel like they're staring at a ghost of their long-dead friend.

Phil's body is weak but the Ender King isn't. The fight, while more feasible now, is still hellish to pull off. It takes more gapples, potions, rezzing each other, and enough sets of armor broken for Etoiles to lament for a month, but eventually, after near-constant bombardment from three people (& a little "help" from a handful of mobs as things go on into the night. Which EK gets stronger during btw), the trio finally downs Ender King. Fit and Etoiles keep him pinned on his stomach while Missa desperately shoves potions and gapples down his throat like you would to cure a zombie villager. They have no idea if that's actually helping let alone doing anything at all. But how the fuck do you exorcise an evil deity from a mortal body?? They're grasping at straws.

Somehow, after trying every last thing that comes to mind (which is. A lot of desperate half-baked ideas bc they're pretty sure they're on a time limit & this is not the time to be elaborately plotting a solution), it turns out that soaking Phil in water like a drowned rat & forcing him to drink more water than any crow could dream of via hydrochecks is enough to overwhelm Ender King into giving up control of Phil's body.

During their scrambling for solutions, Etoiles very smoothly quips about how if only they had "Potion of Purge Ender King" btw, it gets a laugh out of Fit. And Missa, even through his hysterical crying because he is So Scared And Guilty about potentially hurting Phil right now. They needed the palette cleanser while doing something so grim and stressful.

Phil goes limp like a noodle as soon as EK gives him up. Missa fully panics thinking his husband just fucking died in all their arms until Reaper Brain kicks in and he realizes Phil's soul is still working, it's just extremely weak. Another witty remark from Etoiles about getting his shit together re-centers his focus.

Surprise! Phil's not unconscious though, just Extremely weak. And Ender King still isn't going down without a fight. Water hurts like a bitch but it isn't deadly. Not unless they risk drowning Phil. But now EK has been weakened enough that Phil starts to fight for control of himself for the first time in ages. It gets ugly.

Fit, arguably the physically strongest of them all, holds Phil hostage by the underarms while Missa and Etoiles keep desperately trying everything they can think of to keep making Phil purge EK from his system like an illness. Whatever is coming up is a disgusting viscous purple. Phil won't stop screaming. They can tell it's simultaneously Phil's pain and Ender King's rage.

And god is the process a long, torturous ordeal for everyone involved. Phil is very palpably in agony, Missa is a wreck, all 3 of them feel horribly guilty they're subjecting him to so much but it Has to be done. Fit's seen so much after living in the 2b2t Wastelands and even he's finding it hard to watch this.

By the end of it all, blood, sweat, tears, and vomit have been shed, and not just by Phil, in an effort to bring him back to his senses. They're all miserable, exhausted, and overwhelmed. They're not even entirely sure that EK has been "exorcised" completely, nor do they know how the Fuck to confirm that. And purging EK from Phil's body isn't where this stops either, but none of them can even think about what the recovery from this will be like.

Getting this far is only possible because they put all their strength together. No one would have stood a chance against the Ender King alone. Despite barely being conscious and looking convincingly half-dead, Phil is terrified he's hurt or killed someone he cares about as it is. Honestly, Missa, Fit & Etoiles are shocked it seemingly only took 3 people to take on an apparent god. This very much doesn't feel legit, Etoiles doesn't feel right saying gf yet. It feels like the fight isn't over.

[zenscrypt]

"on feathers and dreams"

read it on ao3!

Rated: T (Teen and Up Audiences)

Content Warnings: possession, brief self-harm (ender king hurts purposefully hurts phil's body), drowning, brief vomiting

Summary:

“This is what happens when mortals steal from gods, crow,” the King snides, narrowing his eyes as he clenches the fist tight. “Now, quiet down. I think it’s about time I’ve rested, now that you’re out of the picture.”

Somewhere in his monologue, the King doesn’t pick up footsteps somewhere behind them -- but Phil does. His ear feathers twitch.

A soft voice calls out, “Phil?”

-- A self-imposed exile leads to a reunion.

You.

His skin writhes with an intruder's presence.

“What about me?” he rasps, aching eyes watching the ocean underneath him. The sun had set moments ago -- maybe hours, but he’s stopped counting -- and now, the waves lap at the cliff walls with a hypnotic motion. How long has it been now? Weeks? When was the last time he slept? Ate? Did anything besides stare vacantly at the endless horizon and entertain that nagging voice in his head.

Every part of his body aches since that moment in the forest -- he had to wrench the control away at each second, demanding the movement of his own body. His eggs had run from it. His body remained frozen so he wouldn’t chase after them with the dagger in his hand. The backpack is gone. He’s powerless.

Even his voice comes out wrong. His vocal chords are wrung from two warring voices fighting over them, a deep snarl so unlike what his body is used to, and his normal voice. It’s all… wrong.

Let me out.

The voice hisses, sharp and ringing in his head. It has no face, but he still raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Is that the best you can do?” he scoffs. “No. You’ll have to beg harder than that if you want to escape so badly.”

A quiet sea breeze rustles through his feathers. It all feels still, peaceful, static. Normally, he would be lulled to sleep by this, but something in his body refuses to let him sleep.

When he looks up, the void stares back at him.

What a familiar face. Distantly, he thinks of it as home. The night sky, free of twinkling stars and suffocating clouds, just a vast emptiness for him to soar through. This island was nice, but it was only a vacation.

The End was where he belonged.

Let me out.

“You can keep demanding that,” he sighs, disappointed. It’s like he isn’t even trying. He’s bored by each attempt because it hasn’t changed. Has it been days? “I won’t give it back so easily at your request.”

You will pay for this.

“Will I, now?”

Give me back my body.

The voice rumbles now, deep in the back of his head -- and his wings flare. “Your body?” he hisses sharply. Indignation rushes through him. His body? Does he even hear what he’s saying? “What makes you think this body is yours? It’s always belonged to me. Has your greed gotten to your head?”

You are so full of shit.

There it is.

His lips twist into a grin that stretches too thin on his cheeks. “Oh, crow,” he croons, “do you really think your insults will do anything to you like this?”

Fuck. You. Ender.

He laughs, louder, booming off the cliff face. “Face it, Philza. You’re useless like this.” The King taps his claws — his claws, not flimsy talons, dripping with the tears of the void — against stone and rolls his neck back, spreading out his wings. His wings. “Be patient. I haven’t had my fun with you yet.”

Do not hurt my kids.

“And what will you do about it?”

The King’s mind falls silent.

He hums. Typical. All bark and no bite from this little pest. “Try to take your body back. Speak for yourself if you think you’re strong enough,” he goads, returning his gaze to the void.

Die.

A laugh erupts from The King’s chest again. That really is the furthest he could do, isn’t it? How pathetic. “I will repeat this until it finally sticks to your feeble little brain, Philza: we are one and the same. You conquer every new land you’ve traveled across and steal every last piece of valuable treasure from its habitat -- and you say it’s for protection. For your safety. For your eggs. Do you really believe that fantasy that you’ve made up? Do you really think I would believe these lies you tell yourself? We both know the real reason you claim all of these things for yourself. Right?”

I didn’t take them.

The audacity. The King’s wings flare out again, feathers standing on end with rage and the pulsing amethyst light branding into his skin. “Do not lie to me, Philza.”

I didn’t take your fucking wings.

“Do not lie to me!” he roars. His fist slams into the ground, knuckles first -- and the King hears bones snap and break with a grotesque pop. This mortal body is just a puppet for the King to control, so Philza is the only one to feel the pain receptors firing. He hears a sharp, pained cry in his head and Philza’s pitiful voice finally quiets. Insolent brat.

The King lifts the damaged appendage with a flat stare. The stone underneath his first had cracked under the force, but Philza had a fast metabolism, so the hand slowly began to repair itself before the King’s eyes. It was hardly fascinating. Dragons could regrow heads.

Once it fixes itself entirely, the King rolls the wrist to test it out. It must still feel tender or sore, because he feels an involuntary flinch in his wings. He has to bite back a snarl. Of course Philza picked his wings for that.

“This is what happens when mortals steal from gods, crow,” the King snides, narrowing his eyes as he clenches the fist tight. “Now, quiet down. I think it’s about time I’ve rested, now that you’re out of the picture.”

Somewhere in his monologue, the King doesn’t pick up footsteps somewhere behind them -- but Phil does. His ear feathers twitch.

A soft voice calls out, “Phil?”

---

He didn’t hide his location on the map. It had to be a sign.

Missa had to believe that.

He told Phil he would protect him. As best as he can, with all of his willpower. Sure, he isn’t the strongest and he can barely hold his sword right sometimes, but he made that promise to Phil and he intends on keeping it.

“Tallulah… Tallulah told me,” he says to the black wings shadowing Phil’s seated form. The moon sits high in the clouds and against his back as Missa takes a step forward. It’s almost eerie, how still Phil’s body went at the sound of his voice. Just moments before, it was bellowing with a voice so unlike Phil’s, Missa was convinced somebody else -- something else -- was here.

Rose-weaved signs flash in his head. [ he… he hurt me ] [ but papa is still in there ] [ i know he is ] [ i dont know what to do apa ]

Chayanne had disappeared too. Part of Missa hoped he would find his little egg here too, along with Phil, bantering as they farmed in a new location or sparring with Phil’s cawing laughter and Chayanne’s adorable quacks. It was… wishful thinking at best. He couldn’t just ignore Tallulah’s fears.

There’s no response, so he continues cautiously, “You don’t have to say anything. I just… want to know if you’re alright. I don’t think you should be alone.”

Phil’s head lifts. Blond strands roll over his shoulder, but he doesn’t look completely over to meet Missa’s eyes. “How did you find me?”

He… sounds fine. Maybe too fine — it comes out flat, lacking any of his usual inflections, and cold. If Missa hadn’t known any better, he would’ve taken that answer the second he heard it.

But he doesn’t. “I came as soon as I heard,” he murmurs, trying to see past the shadows of Phil’s face. There’s the faintest glow of something violet illuminating his face from a downward angle. Underneath his black feathers, a pattern of light pulses slowly, like a heartbeat. Missa doesn’t tell him -- them? -- how long it took. They don’t need to know that; as long as they-- Phil knows that Missa was looking for him, that’s enough.

“You’re too late.”

“Maybe I am,” Missa says without missing a beat, confident as he takes another step forward. Phil’s wings begin to spread and, despite the warning signs, Missa advances. “I’m always late, aren’t I? Phil-- I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t respect my promise like I told you I would. I woke up for Tallulah, spent as much time with Chayanne as I could, but-- I couldn’t do it for you. I’m sorry.”

The Ender King scoffs. Missa shoves aside the queasiness rising inside his empty ribcage, because they’re using Phil’s voice but it sounds nothing like him. He knows better. “Your apologies mean nothing to me. He’s too far gone to hear this. Leave me, or else.”

Or else. Or else what? Missa’s resolve burns through the dread that tries to freeze him in place. “Tallulah wanted me to tell you, if I found you,” he continues with another step, and another dangerous twitch of those obsidian wings, “that she forgives you for attacking her. You’ve always looked out for her and Chayanne -- that’s why you’re doing this now, right? You just want to protect them. She knows. She forgives you.”

Tallulah doesn’t.

That’s the thing. She was terrified at the thought of following after Chayanne to try and find her papa, conflicted because of the fear this deity instilled into her and her love for her father. She didn’t take to any of Missa’s reassurances -- she was as stubborn as her feathered parent, albeit so much more intune with her emotions.

More importantly though, Tallulah told him that Phil knows she wouldn’t forgive so easily. It takes time for her to recover from her wounds, no matter how fresh they are. Phil would know this.

When Phil’s body finally turns to look at Missa, his eyes are wide. “She does?” he whispers, in utter disbelief.

Missa nods. “I missed you,” he adds quietly.

…There’s truth to that one, unfortunately. It feels too easy, and he hates that it works. Phil’s body sways as they stand up -- and Missa rushes to close the gap between them, reaching for Phil’s hands. They’re almost unrecognizable now, covered with black scales and nails sharpened into something far stronger than this sharper-than-average, black-painted nails.

He’s always loved Phil’s hands. The few nights where they were under the same roof, he asked if he could paint Phil’s nails for him. It was something that brought unnamed nostalgia to Missa, a memory from his past life he couldn’t exactly grasp, and it was a fun night where they learned they could paint Chayanne’s nubby paws as well. Phil’s hands were always nice and well-kept.

Like this, they’re completely gone. Not to mention the black mass pulsating on Phil’s shoulders with that violet glow he spotted earlier. His nonexistent stomach twists into knots. He rubs his thumbs along gnarled knuckles and, holding eye contact, asks Phil, “Are you okay?”

Phil’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The wind lets his hair sway, his wings ruffle, and the act is laughable. Missa almost feels insulted. “I’m fine,” they reassure Missa with no reassuring inflection. “Now, what did th-- Tallulah tell you?”

Missa glances away. “She… everything, Phil. It- it freaked me out a little bit, but-- are you sure you’re okay? I just wanted to come here to make sure everything was fine. I’ll leave if you want.”

Phil’s wings twitch again -- Missa’s starting to realize this must be an involuntary twitch, because the sigh they let out sounds… aggravated, and the wings tense against Phil’s back again. Missa tries not to let his surprise show. He’s still in there.

Behind Phil’s body, past his wings, the edge of the ocean meets the starry sky. It’s an impressive sight. They’re fairly high up.

“I told her not to tell any more people,” Phil’s voice says with another displeased sigh. His eyes lift back to Missa’s. Gone are the beautiful azure he loved so much, replaced with a cold, amethyst purple. When they look at Missa, it’s like they’re looking through him. “How much do you know? The King won’t be happy when he hears about this.”

You don’t seem like it, Missa thinks, unimpressed. He swallows and glances away from Phil’s changed eyes. “I- I mean, I can pretend I don’t know anything? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t snoop.”

He’s still in there somewhere. Missa needs to get him back.

He… isn’t a fan of the idea he’s come up with though.

Phil’s eyes soften. He reaches up carefully with his unbroken hand, cupping the underside of Missa’s cheek in his black, clawed hand delicately, as if he were a flower. His touch is ice-cold against Missa’s wispy skin. “I’m sorry, my love,” he whispers, violet eyes searching his. “This is all my fault.”

Alright. That’s enough.

Missa slams his hands into Phil’s chest.

Lo siento, querido.

The cliff’s edge drops off directly into the ocean. Missa saw it as he paddled his boat to the island and worried, for the longest moment, that Phil’s distant figure was going to jump. Would he have flown, if he did? Did the deity Rose heal his wings like Chayanne told him? Would it be Phil that finally gets to spread his wings -- or somebody else?

Phil doesn’t fall. His only tether to stability beside his feet, desperately scrambling against the stony edge, is Missa’s hand, clenched around the collar of his kimono.

“What--” The King snarls -- his voice booms suddenly, unnaturally deep in Phil’s light voice and echoing over the cliffside.

Missa holds firm, staring down violet eyes stretched wide as saucers. He can’t hold this for long, but he keeps his stance balanced. There’s a chance this might not even work. Missa could be wasting his time.

Better him than Chayanne.

Phil’s wings pump through the air for his own balance. The flaps are stilted and uneven, strangely enough -- it’s not instincts trying to keep him upright. Something is holding them back. Is something trying to… keep them closed? Hope wells inside Missa’s chest.

The loud, thunderous voice quiets back to Phil’s as if nothing happened. “What do you think you’re doing?” they say incredulously, feigning innocence.

“Let me talk to him,” Missa says firmly.

They bat his eyes. “Talk to who? I’m right here, love.”

It’s all wrong. How smart does this thing think they are? Missa’s arm starts to shake with the strain of holding Phil’s weight -- so he gives the thief a thin, weak smile. “Philza never calls me love.”

Cloth slips from his hands, and Phil’s body plummets.

Without missing a beat, Missa dives after him.

(He really hopes the Ender King is allergic to water.)

There’s barely enough time for Phil’s body to rotate and catch the airs in his wings for flight. Those huge, black shadows billow in the wind as the thing controlling his body thrashes, suddenly out of his element, eyes stretched wide and fear in their grimace. Those wings have been broken for so long. Maybe, if they had the chance, they could’ve flipped around and taken control of his flailing body as they fall.

Missa can’t let that happen.

It’s a horrible feeling, taking hold of Phil’s wings in the air. Claws flash, but Missa grits his teeth through the pain and the cold drip of his blood down his face to hold Phil’s body as tightly as he can. Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento, lo siento.

Faintly, as the ocean below swallows them whole, Missa wonders… if Phil could fly, would he take Missa with him?

The water around them makes everything go blurry, sluggish, heavy. Missa is naturally weightless, but the armor he’s wearing lets him sink further down. More claws swipe at him until their squirming gets to be too much -- they break free with a sharp knock against Missa’s jaw and shove him away.

The Ender King’s eyes are terrified. They’re holding their breath, eyes wide and furious when they glare at Missa, but quickly, they look back up to the surface above them and try to swim for it. They kick Phil’s legs and pump his wings frantically -- Missa panics, thinking they’ll manage to escape the second they break free from the ocean’s grasp -- but then, Phil’s wings stiffen up. Their eyes shrink even further.

“No!” they screech, and all of the air rushes out of them in large, globe-like bubbles. As loud as the voice once was, the water muffles the booming effect, as if trying to silence his cries. “Stop-- give me back my body, you--”

All of Phil’s limbs freeze in their scramble. Missa watches as they try to suck in another breath and only take in the seawater, sputtering and seizing. It’s horrific, trying to watch somebody you love try to fight for control with no room to breathe. What is he supposed to do? What can he do?

The King continues babbling, voice growing shrill without any oxygen in his lungs, “Not again! Not again, I can’t-- No--”

Missa counts the bubbles rushing from his lips until there’s no more. The ocean grows still. Quiet. Phil’s body sinks.

Limp.

He’s going to die.

The realization spurs Missa into action immediately. He went unconscious, but Missa only has a minute until Phil dies and respawns somewhere else.

Hurried, frantic Spanish spills out of him as he takes Phil’s body in his arms and swims up to the surface -- Phil’s head lulls onto his shoulder the second they both break free. Land- land-- where--

There! Where Missa left his boat, a small shore under the cliff roof, but far away. Too far for Missa to reach with Phil’s -- heavy -- body in tow. Hastily, he searches his inventory.

It’s cluttered with random items he picked up along the journey after Phil’s map marker, but a singular enderpearl catches his eye. Thank the gods he decided to take it with him for some reason, as if he could’ve spoken with the Ender King through it or some shit-- it doesn’t matter. Missa grabs it and, without missing a beat, launches it in the direction of the beach.

As it flies, Missa wraps his arms around Phil’s body and squeezes him as tight as possible against his chest. Please teleport with me, please teleport with me, please--

Pop! Missa hits sand with a heavy weight in his arms.

It worked. He has no time to celebrate. Carefully, he adjusts Phil onto his back, taking as much care as possible with his wings, laying them out flat and not kneeling over sodden feathers, and his trembling hands hover over Phil’s body. The death counter ticks in his eyes. Fourty seconds.

And counting down.

Dios mio. What does he do?

Breathing-- is Phil breathing? He peels off his gloves and throws them somewhere in the sand, bones rattling in the dark wisps that make up his skin and making it nearly impossible to stay still to check for air. He hates how pale Phil looks, and the dark circles around his eyes, and the way his face is too slack -- is he breathing? If Missa’s hands would stop shaking--

Twenty-five seconds. Phil still hasn’t moved. Tears well in Missa’s eye sockets. Why hasn’t he moved?

Pulse-- check for a pulse-- please, why isn’t he-- it’s the best thing Missa can do, carefully pressing against Phil’s neck, trying to remember where the pulse point is. Twenty seconds. He bites his tongue to hold back a whimper. Phil, please--

Thmp. He can barely feel it. Thmp… thmp… thmp…

Is that--?

Water gurgles.

Immediately, Phil’s body seizes and water splatters from his open mouth -- Phil’s eyes shoot open as coughs rip from his throat. Missa retracts his hands with a surprised squeak, eyes stretching so wide it hurts but-- Phil?

He rolls to his side to dry heave, a painful, guttural noise that Missa hates, oh, Gods, please let him be fine. His whole body shakes with each retch. Missa, twitchy, anxious -- needing to do something because is it Phil, is he okay, how can he help -- finally gives into his urges and reaches over to brush Phil’s long hair out of the way as he vomits the seawater out.

When he finishes, Phil lets out a shaking breath and slowly, on shaking limbs, pushes himself up into a sitting position. Missa’s hands follow him carefully for support.

As he catches his breath, Missa hovers still. The silence wanes on. He can’t see his face -- his eyes, Missa just wants to check, dreading the sight of that same purple glow that’s still stuck under his feathers.

“Phil?”

His wings shift. Weakly, Phil’s head lifts to meet Missa’s seeking eyes.

Blue.

“Hey, mate,” Phil croaks, looking exhausted.

It’s-- Missa can’t help it -- an overjoyed sob escapes him, tears finally bursting from his eyes. “Philza!”

“Mis-- ouff--”

He doesn’t have time to return Missa’s exclamation the way they normally do before Missa collides into him all at once. A caw startles out of him -- so crowlike Missa is swarmed with adoration and endearment and relief. Phil’s okay, he’s alive, he’s back -- Missa has to bend down and shower his face in loud, blubbering kisses, vocalizing each with an exaggerated, “MWAH!” that makes Phil burst out into breathless laughter. It’s the only distraction Missa can give himself, trying so hard to keep his trembling bottom lip shut.

For Phil. For Phil.

“Okay, okay!” Phil laughs, craning his neck away for space but Missa only takes the opportunity to press his lips underneath his jawline and blow a raspberry against his skin. “What the fuck-- Missa! Chill out!”

His words are meant to be sharp, but he’s giggling like he’s drunk and Missa feels like it. It’s infectious; he feels silly laughing into Phil’s neck, needing to cling onto every inch of Phil’s skin he can reach, relieved and happy and so, so, so-- scared--

A sob tears out of him.

Missa has never been the strong one here.

“Oh, mate,” comes Phil’s achingly sweet murmur into his hair. Missa curls in on himself, into Phil’s embrace, letting the terror finally sweep over him.

Gods above, he almost killed Philza. He knows how painful death is for him, even if they respawn-- but if he respawned, he would be with Chayanne and Tallulah. He would’ve put them directly in harm’s way if he didn’t save Phil in time. They could’ve died because of him.

Missa wants to be strong for his family. He tells them, over and over again, he wants to protect them the way they protect him. He wants to be there for them when they need it. He wants to love them as much as he can.

But he can’t. He’s gone so often, and he can’t help it -- can’t help it when Death calls back to him in his sleep and he loses himself in his past again -- no matter how much he tries. If this plan of his failed, his kids would’ve been through the same thing. Gone, except, unlike him, they won’t be able to escape.

How can a protector do that? How can a father do that to his kids? He doesn’t deserve the title of a husband, much less a parent. All he does is sleep and dream, and-- and--

“I’m sorry.”

Missa hiccups. Phil’s voice vibrates against where he’s buried himself against his throat, his hands loose where they’re wrapped around Missa’s back. He leans just as heavily onto Missa, muttering, “This is all my fault.”

What?

Phil sucks in a breath -- and Missa hates that it sounds shaky like his sobs, which can’t be right. “I should’ve- I should’ve known he was coming after me. All of the warning signs were there. I took that stupid backpack without even thinking about it, and look where that fuckin’ got me. I’m-- god, I’m fucking stupid. The worst fucking dad.”

What? No, no, no-- Missa lifts his head away with his eyebrows knitted together, finding Phil staring resolutely away from him, his teeth gritted and eyes glimmering in the moonlight. That doesn’t make any sense. Why is he blaming himself? What is he blaming himself for? A deity possessing him? Is he being ridiculous?

“Phil, what are you talking about?” he whispers.

He watches Phil grind his teeth and give a very forced, controlled exhale through his nose. His eyes shift down to the sand underneath him, the space on his opposite side where Missa isn’t is, down into his lap. When he opens his mouth, his jaw trembles as he laughs something harsh and bitter, spitting, “I’m fucking terrified, Missa. I don’t know how to get myself out of this.”

His voice cracks in the middle of his words, and the second he finishes, Phil shatters.

Missa watches his face crumple in dismay. “No, no, no, querido,” he moves quickly and shushes him gently, gathering Phil in his arms. A strangled noise, torn between a sob and wail, gets muffled into Missa’s cloak and Missa cradles Phil’s head closer, pressing his lips to the golden crown of his hair. Skeletal fingers run through his scalp as delicately as he can.

How long has this been going on? How much has Phil been holding this all in?

Has he told anyone this?

Everybody must think of Philza as the most collected person on the island -- even Missa thought that, because who couldn’t? He held himself together well, kept to himself, and offered kindness whenever somebody needed help. He’s always been the one protecting -- because he never let anybody else do it for him.

He grew up so alone. Of course he would expect to manage on his own, but--

Missa screws his eyes shut, feeling more tears drip from his sockets. He can’t handle this problem by himself. And now…

Taking in a shaking breath to calm himself, Missa pulls away from Phil’s embrace. His face is red and splotchy, eyes swollen, and he makes another strangled grunt, covering his face with his hands to wipe away the tears and mucus. His shoulders still shake with labored breath and the occasional hiccup. He looks miserable.

Distantly, he wonders if he’s the only person that’s seen Phil like this.

Missa’s hands gently sweep away his to cup his jawline, tilting his face up. Tears stain his cheeks -- wet streaks that replace the sticky, dried-out marks from the seawater that was on his skin -- and Phil still can’t look him in the eye. He doesn’t seem like he’s used to this attention. This kind of vulnerability.

That’s fine. Missa brushes away the fresh tears that bead from his long eyelashes. He holds Phil, just like this, taking him in. He doesn’t want Phil to hide this from him, not when he’s here.

When blue irises finally focus on him, it’s shy. Missa’s chest flutters. Even like this, he can’t help but feel enamored by the crow in his arms. He had no idea someone so strong could look so bashful at someone like Missa.

Love is a strange thing, he thinks as he leans down and fits his lips over Phil’s.

It’s a simple message, a reminder. Phil tastes like seawater, but Missa drags him deeper, willing to drown himself in it for him.

Phil pulls away first -- his breathing still isn’t steady, and the kissing probably isn’t helping, but he stretches to meet Missa’s lips again anyway. It feels like a response -- Missa was fine as long as Phil heard, but he wants to return it-- him-- his head spins.

He doesn’t care if his feelings are reciprocated or if Phil even knows how far Missa is willing to go for him, always. Relief pours over him like honey and he sighs into the kiss, letting Phil take the lead.

There’s a bit of a challenge, namely Phil needing to breathe. He parts long enough to take in a breath before diving back in, and it’s-- endearing, tickles Missa in a way that makes him giddy, but he knows he should probably put a stop to this if Phil wasn’t going to, for Phil’s sake. He’s not the one with lungs here after all.

(He also wasn’t the one to almost drown.)

Despite this though, Phil chases after him the second he starts to pull away. His nose knocks into Missa’s skull, the edges of his nasal cavity -- and still, that doesn’t deter him. Missa’s endeared laugh gets muffled by Phil’s smiling lips; he can’t help but give into his fluttering chest and Phil’s touch.

Eventually, they part, just not very far. Missa rests his skull against Phil’s forehead -- at his insistence -- to listen to him steady his breath. Behind them, the waves lap at the sand. They’ve gradually dried over time thanks to the enchanted armor they wear, but Missa feels ready to collapse like he’s weighed down by bricks.

He can’t imagine how Phil must be feeling.

“Missa…?”

He blinks, sitting back on his (hurting) knees (ow, he’s been on them too long), peering at Phil. The crow looks like a mess still, but under the moonlight, Missa doesn’t care. Phil gazes at him, hesitant -- an expression Missa’s never seen on him before.

They… have a lot to talk about, don’t they? If Phil even feels comfortable enough to talk to him about it. Something nags in the back of Missa’s mind -- a horrible voice in his head that usually points out all of his insecurities -- that this feels too perfect. The Ender King disappeared too fast. They’re too happy.

Chayanne is still missing. Tallulah is no doubt worrying about him, and Phil, and now Missa. The sand underneath them is bathed in that eerie purple glow from the mass on Phil’s back -- he said something about a backpack? -- and Missa still feels the edges of his fears still gnawing at his bones. Phil isn’t okay, and there’s no telling the next time Missa may wake up.

Phil’s voice carries in the breeze. “Can… can you stay here tonight? With me?”

Oh.

A warmth, fuzzy and like the sun, coils in his ribcage. Missa nods, maybe a bit too aggressively, with, “Sí, sí, si me quieres aquí. Anything, Philza.”

Phil’s smile crinkles the edges of his eyes, his crow’s feet, in a way Missa thinks only he’s seen before. “Thank you. Th- thank you, Missa.” It sounds as if the world is lifted from his wings. Maybe it has.

It isn’t much, but it’s something. They find a spot underneath a tree, far from the beach or the stony cliff, and Phil lights up the area as much as he can despite his exhaustion. As they work together, they talk. This isn’t the end of it. The water scared Ender off, but it didn’t get rid of the mass on Phil’s back, or the darkened claws that were Phil’s hands.

It was enough for tonight. Phil hadn’t slept as a punishment to himself, afraid Ender would take control in his sleep -- but that ended in his downfall the moment his consciousness lapsed with the sleep deprivation. Ender swooped in, and Phil was too exhausted to try and fight back.

So it comes to no surprise that Phil’s asleep the second his head hits Missa’s lap.

Blond hair weaves through Missa’s skeletal hands as he chuckles quietly. With two fingers, he picks up a lock of his hair and presses his lips to it, murmuring to Phil’s sleeping face, “Buenas noches, querido. Que descanses.”

The moon above them wanes into something full, bright, whole -- a lunar eclipse just ending. It watches Missa slowly drift to sleep as well, hearing Death’s distant call.

For the first time in his existence, Missa fights against the natural calling of his undead body. Maybe it’s a pointless fight. Maybe Death will still claim him in the end. Maybe he’ll give into the urge with his fears too heavy and pressing in his mind and submit himself to the void.

He fights because he wants to wake up next to Phil. He can’t leave him alone after tonight. He wants to help him with this, in any way he can.

Just like he promised.

[acetheabnormal]

Okay I know. I said I wouldn't reveal how I think my version of Q!Slime would die but I have been thinking about it a little too much to let it go unsaid. I don't think he ever finds out himself, and for good reason, since him dying is supposed to be his way of moving on from his life; that includes his final death. Mariana wasn't lying, he deserves NOT to know.

So here we are. Now, what makes a character in QSMP die permanently? It's the choice of the creator's for what happens, but it's usually the character being lost/their body getting destroyed somehow, like Dan going missing or Maxo getting blown to smithereens or Jaiden being lost to Purgatory.

Slime's death is a bit different however and is directly because of the code. Remember that little animatic I made a while back, about Phil confronting him and Codeflippa?

If you didn't see it it's basically just Phil trying to show Slime how his daughter isn't real, how it's just a code monster (I should emphasize this wasn't my original thought. I distinctly remember an even better animatic enacting this scene from way back when), and tries to finish off Codeflippa to prove his point.

Anyways, Slime obviously freaks out at this, wanting to protect his daughter; in doing so he loses full control of himself, becoming quickly consumed by the code. He turns into a code monster and loses his mind.

His body is destroyed in the process, and whatever happens afterwards is probably not very pretty (Doubtful Phil or Codeflippa dies in this instance but I don't think a fully coded-Slime would fare very well even with his added strength)

This is also the reason why he can't remember how he died, because he lost every part of himself before he actually did. His memories in the afterlife become jumbled a bit.

Mariana, I imagine, witnesses all of this, horrified by it and unable to really stop it. The code infection is just too strong to stop at this point, and once whatever is left of Slime is gone entirely, he decides it would be better to try finding his soul instead (gay god powers activate)

And since the code infection was just that deadly, even Slime's soul wasn't left untouched; the scars of his infection can still be seen on his body even after death. It was very traumatic on his physical and mental state.

So yeah ! Bad for Slime but it ends up good for the most part ! HE CAN BE HAPPY AFTER DEATH DAMN IT!!!

[appocalipse]

BEGGING for lipstick from the prompt list with Steve. I’ve been binging all of your blurbs and then read that prompt and died thinking about it.

you're so sweet, thank you. ♥ honestly i was hoping someone would pick this prompt cause it was my favorite | steve + fake dating ♥

[LIPSTICK; Brushing lipstick off their cheek after the other/someone kisses them. ]

—

You find Steve sitting on a sun lounger beside the pool, watching the water thoughtfully. Probably bored out of his mind, you think, feeling a little guilty.

He doesn't hear you approaching. The sun lounger is big enough for you to sit next to him, though there's only a tiny gap between your bare thigh and his. 

"Sorry," you say, handing him one of the two glasses you brought with you and offering an apologetic smile. 

Steve stares suspiciously at the red liquid, frowning at the small bright yellow umbrella decorating the glass. "For what?" he asks. His tone is soft, his expression even softer when his eyes meet yours.

"For dragging you to the world's most boring party."

"Oh, you should see my parents' parties," he beams, fiddling with the small umbrella absentmindedly. "Those were three times worse than this. And at least I have you here."

He lightly bumps your shoulder with his and you try to keep the smile on your face from looking too silly, too needy. You don't think you succeed. The solution is lowering your head and pretending to be interested in the drink in your hand — which, by the way, you don't even know what it's called, let alone what it's made of.

And Steve looks too pretty in the dim moonlight. 

"And you didn't drag me here, I volunteered," he adds when you don't say anything, taking a careful sip of his own drink. "But what is this? Jesus," he frowns at the glass as if it has offended him deeply.

Then, Steve laughs.

As always, his laugh is contagious. A giggle escapes you in no time. "I have no idea. Some fancy drink May is making for everyone."

Steve braves another sip, then decidedly puts the glass down on the ground next to your legs…your legs, which he's now looking intently at. It's subtle but definitely there, a gaze that lingers a second too long before he's straightening up and clearing his throat, once again the picture of a great, respectful friend. It happened, you tell yourself. And yet, your mind desperately tries to convince you that you're reading too much into this, into him, into this relationship.

You take a big sip of your drink. It's far from being your favorite, but it's also not bad. A little sweet, a little strong. You're not sure whether you're hoping it boosts your courage or completely erases it along with all of your thoughts about the boy beside you. It doesn't seem to be working either way.

Coming to this high school reunion — a pathetic excuse of a party with your classmates from your old school in Indianapolis, more like — was probably not your best decision. Bringing Steve along as your fake boyfriend wasn't your brightest idea either, because even though he'd been pretty convincing all night and made everyone basically fall in love with him, now you can't stop thinking about what it would be like if he really was your boyfriend.

"So," Steve starts, sighing. You look up, hoping to catch a glimpse of a star, a distraction, but the sky is clear tonight. "That guy- Philip."

Steve doesn't look at you. He tries very hard to appear almost distracted, like he's just making small talk. You bite back a smile.

"Phil," you correct him. 

"Phil," Steve repeats, as if the name leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "He looked really upset when you introduced me as your boyfriend, you know."

There's potential in the way this conversation is going, you think, although you also hate how this is the first thing that comes to your mind.

"He's with May," you inform.

"Why do I feel like there's a story there?"

You set your glass down carefully next to Steve's and take a deep breath. "There is. A very short one: we dated the year before I moved to Hawkins, tried long distance, and then he cheated on me with May and they started dating. The end."

Steve stares at you for a long moment before answering.

"Wow, what an idiot. I was going to say I'm sorry, but you can do so much better than him. Honestly."

You exhale a nervous laugh. "So much better that I had to ask a friend to pretend to be my boyfriend just so I wouldn't feel like such a loser."

"You are not a loser."

The look you give him seems to ask 'really?' Steve stares back at you as if you've just cursed him profusely, although you can see the offended expression is entirely false.

"You are not a loser," he repeats seriously, holding your gaze. 

You can read the request implied in the sentence, and you see little option but to comply with it, smiling.

"Okay, I'm not a loser," you concede, feigning annoyance. You look down at your shoes, certain that this is not the time for self-pity but unable to stop. "I just can't make anyone love me."

"I love you," Steve says easily.

You use all your willpower not to blush, even though you're positive it's not even possible to contain such a thing. It's not the first time Steve has said those words and you know there's nothing romantic about them. And yet every time you hear those three words — which happened only a couple of times during the span of your friendship, (usually caused by emotional hugs on holidays) — you still feel an inexplicable tingling in the back of your neck, a shiver down your spine.

"I love you too," you say, and it's not the first time either. Getting the words out without letting the real extent of the feeling behind them show is still quite hard for you. "But I meant, you know… as more than friends."

Steve looks at you differently, or maybe it's just the faint moonlight tricking your eyes, but for a moment you think he's actually going to say something. 

And then the moment passes and he leans forward, resting his palms on his knees in silence. 

You let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"Thank you."

Steve turns his face to look at you. 

"What for?"

"For coming here with me. And for keeping up the loyal boyfriend facade even in front of a bunch of gorgeous girls drooling over you."

You chuckle in hopes of sounding more relaxed. All Steve does is smile.

"It wasn't hard, you now," he says, and you don't think you'd be able to wipe the smile from your face if you tried. "It was actually pretty easy. And you're way prettier than all of them."

Your smile grows into a giggle. "Steve-"

"And way funnier and kinder too. And nicer. You're really nice, you know that? And your perfume is-"

You put your hand over his mouth, laughing. "Fine, fine! Stop!" you chide, even though this is the last thing you want him to do.

You can see the smile in his eyes.

And that's it; it's the soft look on his face, his infuriating perfect hair, his sweet words...those are the things you blame when you lean forward and impulsively kiss him on the cheek, leaving a red mark on his skin almost perfectly the shape of your lips.

"Thank you," you say before pulling away, sounding surprisingly firm despite what you've just done.

You can't be imagining it. The expression of confusion on his face, half disbelieving and half dreamy, definitely a little satisfied. It can't be just you imagining it.

Did I cause this?

Your thumb touches the lipstick stain on Steve's cheek and you rub it gently, using your other hand to gently cup his chin. "Shit, I'm sorry, Steve," you whisper. "I got lipstick on your face."

He smiles. You know he's smiling because you're looking at his mouth right now.

And he's looking at yours.

Oh my God.

The pad of your thumb is red because of the lipstick and his cheek is still slightly colored by the traces of it, but now your attention has dissipated like a puff of smoke and you are unable to grasp it again.

Steve grabs your wrist, mumbles your name. With his free hand, he touches your lips with his fingertips and states, "Your lipstick is smudged."

"Is it?" you ask.

"It is," he assures. And kisses you.

Steve's lips are soft and he tastes like May's drink, sweet as he moves against you slowly, perhaps hesitant or perhaps wanting to enjoy every second, you think, wishing it was the last option. His arm curls around your waist and you sigh against his mouth, pulling away just for a brief moment. But his lips chase yours and capture them in another kiss and another and another until there's no option but to pull away for air.

He rests his forehead against yours and smiles between heavy breaths. "I lied," Steve whispers. "Your lipstick wasn't smudged before."