Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dirt clumps beneath Philza's fingernails as he tends to the potato fields, the muddy earth staining the knees of his pants as he pats the soil over a new sprout. The sun shines high, heat radiating down, the breeze from the height of the wall and shade of the avocado trees the only relief as sore muscles work to plant numerous potatoes.

Wiping his brow of sweat, he sighs, looking over to where Chayanne runs back and forth along the wall, Tallulah tailing him with a whimsical tune from her flute. He smiles tiredly at the sight, picking himself up and dusting his clothes off. Stretching his arms up, wings flaring out wide, he sighs in discomfort yet relief as he feels strained muscles shift and joints pop one-by-one.

Honestly, as much as he loves the two eggs, it’d been an exhausting few months without Missa around to help. The reaper's absence was noticeable in the quiet moments between taking care of Chayanne and Tallulah, the silence of the house bearing down on him as he tried in earnest to relax. Chayanne asked for Missa constantly, and having to patiently explain to the disappointed little warrior that his dad was away doing important work was disheartening to say the least. He knew Chayanne missed his gentle lullabies and fishing trips just as much as Phil missed his camaraderie and clumsy antics.

He missed Missa not just for the emotional toil either, but physical too. Tending the expansive potato fields, fending off both Quackity and Forever in turn, and battling it out with an entity hellbent on hunting the kids had taken its toll on him. He didn't blame Missa for leaving; the reaper's job was important, and the vast river of the void called to fulfil his duty. But things would have been so much easier with another pair of hands around, and a kind voice to help soothe the horrors of the island...

In all, Philza is tired, right down to his bones. The stress even caught him a nasty cold at one point, but with things so dire there was no time to rest and heal properly - not after fighting the code in that condition. His head hurts, eyes feeling strained with limited sleep; limbs heavy from grinding levels, forging equipment, and fighting monsters. The constant paranoia and heavy armour had left him with tight shoulders, a sore back, and little relief.

He hadn't even had time lately to preen his wings properly, and the feeling of misplaced feathers and grime on top of everything else had made sleep an almost impossible task. He couldn’t even fly to clear his mind of his worries, the feathers having been mysteriously clipped as he came to awareness on the train. Who knew when his next moult would even be, and knowing the Federation, they’d likely find a way to clip them again anyway - the bastards.

How he misses the open skies, the wind carrying him strong beneath beating wings…

So yes, Philza is exhausted. But these kids need him, and he would sooner collapse on the spot than see them harmed or unhappy.

Not again. Not after Tallulah.

If all of his efforts can save them, how he feels is no matter to him. He can deal with whatever this island has to throw at him, even if he has to bite and claw and scream on his way down. Even if his bones break and muscles tear and rage burns him up, he'll protect this little family he's been gifted with, or die trying. 

The sound of the warpstone draws him from his musings, snapping to attention out of his tired haze. His fingers hover to summon his axe, waiting with baited breath to see who will appear from over the tall andesite barrier.

Fit maybe? Although the man likes to startle Philza, usually his entrances are a lot more boisterous by now. Quackity? Forever? His fingers twitch again at the thought, brow furrowing. Perhaps just Cellbit or Max, wanting more information? Or even Bad, simply dropping by for a visit.

Or - he thinks, axe grip squeaking under the force of his hand - or, it could be Cucurucho.

It's a tense moment or two for Phil, the moment seeming to stretch on infinitely. His feathers slowly puff out, ruffling anxiously. 

Reality snaps back in an instant with the sound of a fluttering cloak, and a familiar voice calling out joyfully.

"I'm home! Chayanne, Philza - mi familia! Dónde están?"

Philza's world goes still. 

Until a blur of yellow rockets past him, jolting him from his surprise and back into the present. Chayanne hops the wall in record time, and judging from the delighted laughter and childish shrieking, has barrelled into his dad without stopping.

A gentle tug to his leg halts Phil before he can take a step to follow. Blinking down, he meets Tallulah's hesitant gaze. 

"Who is that...?" she signs slowly, nerves making her fingers clumsy in their movements. Phil gets down to kneel in front of her, brushing her fringe aside comfortingly.

"Oh, Tallulah, don't worry, don't worry. That's just Missa, he's my-" his tongue freezes on the right words to explain. His egg partner? Platonic husband? Federation assigned roommate? For some reason, none of them fit quite right with the swirl of emotions he feels at Missa's return.

"... your step-abuelo," he settles on, smiling at his granddaughter and standing. He holds a hand out for her to take, relieved at the sight of her smiling again. She seems excited now, eager to meet this new family member she's heard so much about. 

Holding her small fingers in his palm, he guides her carefully over, and is greeted with the sight of Missa swinging Chayanne upside down over his back, the boy screeching with laughter as Missa grins mischievously.

Phil feels an instant warmth bloom in his chest at the sight. His tattered emotions feel soothed over by a comforting balm, if only for the moment. 

"Philza!" Missa greets, catching sight of him after a moment of spinning himself and Chayanne around. He drops his son onto the nearby trampoline, the boy laughing as he bounces a few times. Phil feels Tallulah giggle against his side, and remembers how much explaining he has ahead of him as Missa stalls in his excited steps towards him, drifting a curious gaze in her direction as his arms lower from their reach towards him.

"Hiya Missa, it's good to see you again mate," he replies with a sigh, bracing for the confused shouts from the reaper at his newfound grandfatherhood.

"So, this is Tallulah..." he begins, coaxing the girl from his side to say hello.

==========

The small family ends up going for a fishing trip together along one of the island's many coastlines. Chayanne and Philza had built a beach house for the exact purpose, Tallulah’s being built right alongside it with the help of ‘tio Bad.’ It’s a beautiful location for a family outing, with the blossoms slowly falling overhead as they fish and talk the hours away. 

Fishing seems to be a common interest between the four. Missa took Chayanne previously for some father-son bonding, teaching him all he knew from his job; Philza had hazy memories of long hours spent fishing in peace, surrounded by beautiful scenery; and even Wilbur had bonded with Tallulah, fishing together on their small dock by the riverside.

It’s the perfect activity for Missa's first day home. The kids are certainly enjoying themselves, wading into the shallows and shrieking with laughter as they splash each other with water. A large amount of fish was tucked away into Phil’s food backpack, evidence of the successful haul they’d managed to catch. 

The two adults were now sitting side-by-side under the shade of a cherry tree, watching the kids play in quiet contentment. 

Missa smiles softly to himself, watching Chayanne show Tallulah an interesting shell he’d found in one of the rock pools. It feels like his son had changed in many ways since he’d been gone. Chayanne seems older, wiser, and stronger than ever. His eyes hold a sort of determination that had been just a spark before, his protective nature stronger than ever. Missa had missed so much. He wonders what had happened to change his son in only a month. He’d not intended to leave for so long, but he’d thought of Chayanne every day while he was away. Now that he’s back, he simply has to make up for lost time. He’d make it up to him, even if his son didn’t seem to want his apologies. 

As for Tallulah, he’d instantly become enamoured with the young girl. Their shared love for music formed an instant bond as they spoke more, and he almost cried as she nicknamed him Senor Calaverita.

Looking up at the canopy of pink leaves above, he lets out a sigh of contentment.

“Glad to be back, mate?”

He glances over to Philza, the other leaning back on his hands, smiling. Initially, he smiles back, nodding as he trails his gaze over the other. Slowly though, his expression shifts, brows coming together as Phil looks back towards the kids. Small details about the other stick out to him, now that he has the chance to simply sit and look. Details he hadn’t noticed previously, caught up in the excitement of their family reunion. His eyes dart about, picking out each one.

Slumped wings, hanging looser than usual, seeming to struggle under their own weight. Feathers shining dully, sticking out in odd places rather than laying neat and flat. Dark circles framing tired eyes. Unkempt hair and rumpled clothes. A tense line to the other’s back, shoulders tight, posture guarded. Alert.

It was subtle, but Missa noticed these things about his loved ones. Philza hadn’t even taken his armour off to relax with them all… 

“Querido, how have things been for you then?” he asks, smoothing his features to hide his concern. He’d been so busy reuniting with his son and getting to know Tallulah, he hadn’t had a chance to check up on his partner yet.

“Hm? Oh, fine, for the most part!” Philza answers jovially, turning back to face him. “I’ve got quite a few stories to tell you,” he giggles. Missa nods encouragingly, gesturing for him to continue. As Philza talks, perhaps that will give him ample room to steer the conversation towards his concerns. For now though, learning more about the antics he’d missed would be nice. He has a lot to catch up on!

Philza ends up telling him many tales, hands waving expressively as he rambles. As he leans his cheek against his knees, arms hugging his legs, Missa thinks to himself that Phil is a wonderful storyteller. He could listen to the man talk for hours. Only interjecting occasionally to clarify something, Missa otherwise simply hums, and laughs, and admires.

“ - and Panchito is just wailing on us, dude! I back off - Quackity is yelling, I think Will goes to hide in the house - and then the stupidest shit happens, I swear,” Phil cackles, truly sounding like the crow he is. “Tallulah plays her flute, ‘cause she does that when she’s scared, y’know? And Panchito just fucking teleports to her!”

“Como!? ” Missa bursts out, laughing in disbelief. He was not expecting that punchline.

“I know, right!? She’s like the Pied Piper of dragons!” Philza laughs, slapping a hand against the ground next to him, leaning over under the weight of his own joy. It’s infectious. Missa can’t help but laugh along, quieter but no less delighted. 

Observing Phil through happily squinted eyes, he can’t stop thinking how expressive the other is when he gets going. He finds he doesn’t want to look away, though he knows his staring is bound to be noticed. It’s just that he’d missed this; missed Philza - his humour, his laughter, his company. Everything. From the first day they’d been paired, Missa had been enamoured. Philza had just been so kind, and capable, and so willing to help and give and share without expecting anything in return. It was so new to Missa, so different from the vague impressions he had of his past. A life of living and dying and resurrecting , all alone, until he’d found a few tentative friends at least. Friends who had to imprison him for his own protection, carrying the weight of fighting that he couldn’t handle himself. Philza was a very welcome change of pace; friendly and accepting of him right away, never regarding him as a burden; even complimenting his drawing, singing, and music, despite the lack of practical use for such skills. It was hard not to become so attached after experiencing such genuine warmth, like stepping into the sun after years trapped underground. Like taking your first breath after fighting your way out of Limbo. 

It also didn’t hurt that Philza was, admittedly, rather handsome. 

“Missa? Hello, you listening?” A hand waves in front of his face, snapping Missa to attention.

"Ah, so, Chayanne's new hobby is impressive! That is a lot of potatoes," Missa flusters, quickly looking away from Phil’s bemused expression. He’s glad for the mask that covers the redness in his cheeks.

"Yeah…” Phil replies slowly, smiling, eyebrow raised. “I told him a story of an old friend and I guess it really inspired him. He wants to reach 100,000 of them. We’re getting pretty close!"

"Wow... our son has become so ambitious - strong too! He's so sweet with Tallulah. Look at them," Missa coos, glad for the out Phil has given him. Philza follows his gaze with a nod, smiling genuinely at their son.

"Yeah, he loves her a lot. Wants to protect her and all the eggs, especially after all that's happened," Phil sighs. That gives Missa pause, his concerns rearing their head again.

"Happened?" he inquires, gently probing.

"Hm? Oh, um, it’s nothing. Well, no, it's something, but not for right now, okay?”

If Phil doesn't want to speak on it just yet, then alright, Missa can wait. He's sure his partner won't keep anything from him. Philza had more than earned that kind of trust.

“...Okay - alright, mi amor,”

Philza chokes quietly on his breath, turning aside to cough as Missa tilts his head in confusion. 

“Did- Did you just call me your ‘love’?” 

Huh?

“Yes? That’s what you are, no?”

They were partners with a child. They shared the same bed. From day one, Missa had referred to Philza with pet names and affection, and he could have sworn the other had reciprocated.

“When was this decided!?”

Apparently not…?

“For a while? You call me ‘mate’ all the time?”

“Yeah, so?”

"That word - it means ‘romantic partner,’ right? The translator-"

"It means friend! Ah fuck, Missa,"

A tight, agonising ball pulses somewhere beneath Missa's ribs. Friend.

"Oh,"

"Sorry, yeah-"

"Oh, I thought- I mean, I thought we both-"

"It’s fine, I’m sorry-"

“- felt the same…” Missa trails off, swallowing heavily around the lump in his throat.

There’s silence for a long moment, embarrassment flooding through them both, though for entirely different reasons. 

"I’ve… been calling you ‘darling’ this whole time,” Missa admits, his tone apologetic.

Philza’s breath catches in his throat. He thankfully avoids a coughing fit this time.

“I thought you knew. Should I… not call you such things?” Missa continues, sounding almost mournful. It’s all too quiet, and saddening to hear, and Phil decides he very much does not like that. Though, the question itself leaves him flailing for an answer, confused and put on the spot. 

“I- I mean, maybe? I don’t know, I…” he says, not even sure where he’s going with it, his mind a jumble of thoughts. Was Missa just joking around, hurt that his playful nicknames had been taken poorly? It was strictly platonic, as he’d assured himself all this time, right? Surely Missa doesn’t - can’t - feel like… 

He searches Missa for answers; examines what little he can see of his expression beneath the mask; observes his body language. The only conclusion he manages to draw is that Missa resembles a very sad, rejected, wounded animal. Like a kicked puppy. Or a wet cat.

He can’t stand this. He can’t do this to the other man - to his partner. Not over something so silly and simple.

Taking a calming breath, he makes an impulsive decision. One that will surely bite him in the ass, but he was used to his leniency towards his loved-ones doing so. His entire relationship with Wilbur was a prime example. The man had a knack for annoying and embarrassing the fuck out of him, but it was always in jest. His interactions with Forever, too. The things he lets the Brazilian get away with because they’re funny… 

“Y’know what Missa… call me whatever you like, okay?”

Missa perks up, looking over hesitantly.

"Are you sure? You don’t have to-"

"No, yeah, mate. Don't worry about it. Whatever makes you happy, I don’t mind," 

It’s a lie and the truth and entirely unsure all in one, but Philza doesn’t let it show. Simply smiles, reassuring and understanding, as his confusing thoughts and feelings swirl under the surface.

"Okay? If you’re sure… mi amor," Missa teases, leaning close, trying to break the odd tension that had fallen over them. His hand grazes Philza’s against the sandy dune they sit on, gloved fingers accidentally coming to rest over the other’s just-so. 

"Oh my- stop-" Philza bursts, laughing - blushing - pushing a hand into Missa’s shoulder to gently nudge him away. Missa had never seen this before; Philza blushing - flustered. Flushed and happy from laughter, yes - but not this. Is it so strange that he wants to see it more? To catch up on missed time, to see every moment from now on; every expression? He’s certain he knows what his feelings for the other are, having pined during his lonely sail through the void. What’s uncertain is Philza’s feelings in return though, especially now. Had this been a rejection or not? He’s not sure, but he’ll take what he can get until told to stop, greedy and starved for the easy affection Philza radiates.

Missa’s efforts of distraction are a success though, the spell broken, even if the strange feeling settled in his chest still lingers. Drawing his hand back, he tries to rub the feeling away, fingertips working in small circles against his sternum. 

Their time alone is finally, thankfully interrupted as Chayanne and Tallulah come running over, Chayanne excitedly holding up a crab to show Philza. Tallulah huffs in effort as she trails behind, but is no less excited to show off her brother’s catch once she reaches them.

“Oh, good job Chayanne! Good job. You gonna cook that?” Philza says, a little too fast, seeming eager to move on from the previous moment. Missa is thankful as well, the distraction of the kids needed as they both push their feelings aside to be examined later.

Chayanne nods rapidly, hands too full of live crab to sign a response. Tallulah though, quiet and observant, looks between the two adults with a thoughtful squint. Did they fight? Abuelito looks even more tense than usual, and Senor Calaverita looks downright uncomfortable. She doesn’t like the thought of conflict in her family, but on the other hand, if there was gossip involved… 

She toots her flute for attention, interrupting the discussion between the three about what to cook with the crab.

“Has Abuelito told you about all our new friends yet?” she signs to Missa, curious if the source of their discomfort had been discussion of a certain blonde, braided Brazilian. 

A shake of the head from Missa is her answer.

“Tallulah, don’t you dare,” Philza warns lightly, already cottoning on to what she’s up to. It’s too late though, Chayanne looking with interest after putting the crab away into his backpack. Against the two of them, Philza stands no chance of stopping what’s coming. He can only hope to have some input, and clarify some things to the poor confused reaper. This is not the kind of conversation he wants to have after such a strange moment with him.

“There’s a weird naked guy trying to steal dad away!” Chayanne’s hands fly over the words, gesturing wide in his enthusiasm. He aims a mischievous grin at his dad’s groan of misery, muffled as he buries his face in his palms. 

“Steal him away…?” Missa mimics, blinking at his son. The uncomfortable knot in his chest tightens again. He absently brings a hand up to rest his palm over it. 

"He's very strange, but very nice!" Tallulah pipes in. “He and the other Brazillians crashed here on a boat. Then he got really rich to try and impress Abuelito, but now he uses it all to protect us!”

“I put him in a cage once,” Chayanne grins devilishly. 

“He built us a hotel with custom rooms and reinforced walls!”

“When dad rejected him he cried, threw himself off the wall, and nearly died,”

Tallulah gently thumps her fists into Chayanne’s shoulder repeatedly, the boy snickering to himself and waving her off, pacifying. Missa sits in stunned silence at the information given, digesting it quietly.

“Yeah, he’s a real pain in my arse,” Philza sighs, leaning his cheek into his palm. “But he’s pretty reliable when he gets serious. Just wish he’d take no for an answer. I’ve rejected him repeatedly, but he keeps trying,” he tries to reassure Missa, but Chayanne bounces forward between his two dads.

“You flirted back one time!”

“Chayanne! It- I gave him a chance, okay? But it was just to cheer him up!”

“You made kisses at each other through the windows!”

“Chayanne!” Phil flusters, glancing nervously at the tight line Missa’s mouth sets into. “Look, you’re upsetting your dad Missa, okay?” he scolds, the boy instantly deflating and nodding apologetically. “I- I’m sorry, Missa. Y’know what kids are like,” he sighs.

“You kissed him…?” Is all Missa says, fingers curling into tight fists in his lap, eyes shadowed in the hollows of his mask.

“No! No, just - it was a joke, alright? Nothing happened,” Phil insists, not sure why his heart quickens at the tense vibe Missa gives off. “Look, he only likes me because I remind him of his ex. I was just humouring him to cheer him up, okay? I promise,” 

His partner nods slowly, seeming to gradually untense, fingers uncurling to rest on his folded legs in careful movements. Phil relaxes too, unsure why he was trying so hard to convince the other; unsure why Missa was even having such an adverse reaction. He finds himself a little flushed, but puts it down to the awkward conversation. 

Tallulah glances between the two curiously, a small, scheming smile on her face. Interesting. Not quite together, not quite exclusive - but certainly her Abuelos had something going on here. That much was obvious.

“That’s, um… Well, I will be sure to look out for him then,” Missa laughs things off, trying his best to sound unaffected. Philza nods, a small giggle humming in his throat. 

“There’s also tio Bad! He’s my favourite tio,” Tallulah signs, letting the topic go for now as well. Now she simply wants for her Abuelo to be caught up to speed. “He’s rich too - probably the richest on the island! He’s so kind, and brings us so many pretty things,”

“Yeah! He gives us armour and tools and weapons and books and food and totems and-!”

“Okay Chayanne, slow down, you’re gonna poke Tallulah’s eye out,” Philza laughs, his son grinning sheepishly at him. “Yeah, man is pretty cracked. He and his kid Dapper have got literally everything. He’s given us so much shit, I swear. Pretty sure he’s babysat for all of the kids a bajillion times too. It’s been a big help while you’ve been away, honestly,” he sighs.

Missa shifts in place where he sits, the lump in his throat growing, his chest and stomach turning over in knots. So there are multiple strange, rich men that have been hanging around his partner while he’s been gone? Oh, and this Bad has been a ‘big help,’ huh? Showering his kid and his partner with gifts and affection? A burning heat fizzes through him at the knowledge, shaking his nerves as he tries not to overreact. 

It’s not just anger he feels though. It’s a swirling concoction of jealousy, shame, and guilt. He wasn’t here to provide for his family, and while he was gone, someone else has swooped in to do so. But even if he was here, could he have done what Bad has? His skills had never been that great, more adapted for the whimsical side of life than the warrior or survivalist. More often than not, Philza and Chayanne had to protect and provide for him. What could he have even done, realistically? A blanket of sadness settles over him at the thought, dousing his rage.

He takes a deep breath, letting it go slowly, and swallows before he speaks. 

“He sounds nice,” Missa says mildly. Philza blinks at the odd tone, nodding hesitantly.

“Yeah, he is,” he agrees, sensing that Missa might perhaps be done with this line of conversation, as well as the kids’ teasing.

As Philza speaks softly to the kids, essentially shooing them away to go play some more, Missa wallows to himself. So many options for Philza have cropped up since he left - many smarter, richer, and more capable than he could ever hope to be. Will he be replaced? Would Philza choose someone else? Missa doesn’t want to go - doesn’t want to let his family go - but he would respect Philza’s decision in the end. Is there some way he can be useful to them? Some way he can make things up, not just to Chayanne now, but to them all? He’s not sure he knows. Maybe he can figure something out though? He’s not going to let his family go without a fight at least.

He zones back into the conversation to hear Phil utter a soft “Okay, go go, Tallulah wants a starfish,” while making shoo-ing motions towards the kids. 

They both look between the adults for a moment, Chayanne frowning, Tallulah’s brow wrinkled with concern. 

“... Tio Fit calls dad Philza ‘babygirl.’ Gross,” Chayanne blows a raspberry, nose wrinkled in disgust, then runs off with Tallulah in tow, childish giggles following in his wake.

“Chayanne!” Phil cries after him, turning a bright pink. He whips back to face Missa, hands raised placatingly. “It’s just a joke between friends, Missa. I’ve known Fit since before the island, for a long long time, so…” 

Missa stares at the pink in his cheeks, eyes trailing over the desperation on his face. His mouth curls into an unhappy frown, but he nods, letting it go with a sigh through his nose. No matter Missa’s feelings, he knows Philza is an honest and loyal man. He hopes he’s stayed true to those values, at least. 

“Okay, Philza - but may we have a moment to talk in privacy later? There are some worries that I have, mainly about other things,” 

“Ah, yeah… I guess? There’s some important stuff I’ve been meaning to tell you. Didn’t want to ruin the family bonding moment though, y’know?” Phil shrugs, flush calming down.

Missa nods, his mind a swirl of possibilities. What more could there be? Has Phil actually moved on? Will he be left behind for someone more his equal? Is it about the injuries the kids have? The haunted look in their eyes; the caution they walk with even while playing? The bedraggled state that Philza exists in?

He can’t stand to wait for answers, but has to.

“We’ll talk when we get back. Promise,” Phil murmurs, placing a reassuring palm to his shoulder.

Missa agrees, but is left with a sense of foreboding. They both return to watching the kids playing amongst the crashing waves, the sun glinting off the water’s surface. 

I hope I’m wrong, Missa thinks, the ocean breeze ruffling his hair and hood of his cloak as he gazes across the horizon. 

==========

It's much later - when the kids are down for the night, exhausted from running after Missa and catching up on each other's adventures - that Philza finally has a moment to talk properly with him. 

The two sit across from one another on their shared bed, the cramped room seeming even smaller than usual without the bustle of kids around them. A lantern lit dimly in the corner offers a warm light to their meeting, flickering occasionally and bathing them both in an orange glow. 

“So…” Philza begins, slumping in place, letting down some of the walls he’d been keeping up around the kids. He was honest with them, practical about what he could and couldn’t do to protect them, and never lied to them about their circumstances, but they didn’t need to be around for this conversation. It would just be a recounting of all their worst moments - nightmares, trauma, and bloodshed - that wasn’t worth upsetting them with for no reason. Besides, Phil thinks that Missa probably deserves some privacy and space to digest everything, and to let out his feelings if needed. He knows the reaper is a sensitive soul; a poetic musician who cares deeply for his family. The news he has is probably going to devastate him, and he can tell that Missa was restraining himself earlier for the sake of the kids. 

“So…?” Missa prompts gently, a patient yet worried air to him. 

“Where to start…” Phil mutters, thinking back, trying to put things in order. So much had happened in such little time. And yet that time had also felt like aeons. 

“How about… their injuries, Philza?” Missa suggests, offering one of his many concerns. 

“Yeah, alright. That’ll work. Um, so…” Phil pauses, putting his hands together. “You know the Federation that runs this island, right?” Missa nods in response. “Right, so, they sent out this announcement video a while back, with this dramatic shit about how all our kids were gonna die in like, 6 days,”

Wait, huh?

“On that day though, we woke up to all of their beds missing, and the kids nowhere to be found.”

The kids were kidnapped?

“On the same day, the Brazillians arrived, crashing their huge fucking shipping container at the train station. We go through a buncha shit, rescue them all, introduce them to the island, as you do. Then, the Federation puts out another announcement saying that they’ve returned the kids to the adoption centre ‘safely’ - which, bullshit, by the way. They all had damage, and were too weak to even wear armour! The only reason they felt better eventually is ‘cause I got both Chayanne and Tallulah to eat some golden apples,” Phil huffs, slapping his hands down in frustration against his thighs.

Missa gapes at the story he’s been told.

“And this is just one of the things you need to tell me?” he asks, voice high and strained.

Philza nods sympathetically. 

“Yeah, unfortunately. It’s not even top of the list of worse things to happen though. I mean, it certainly didn’t help the kids’ nightmare problems, but yeah, definitely not the worst of it,”

“Nightmares?”

As in plural? As in continuous?

“Yeah, nightmares. Tallulah has a lot of her dad leaving for good, and Chayanne of him not being able to protect everyone. There was even this one that- It was the weirdest thing, y’know? We all had it on the same night-”

“The same nightmare?”

Curious.

“Yup, all at once, all three of us. It was bizarre, but honestly as much as I tell the kids not to worry about it anymore, I still think about it a lot. It was so real,” Phil trails off, lost in thought for a moment, his gaze staring off at something unseen - something haunting.

“What was it about, if you don’t mind…?” Missa asks quietly, bringing his partner back.

“Nah… Nah, it’s okay, I can talk about it,” Philza clears his throat, shakes it off, shifting in place to get comfortable before starting in on his next harrowing tale. “In the dream, we were just going out for a family trip; some task for the day or something. We were in the boat, and it was getting dark, and I remember feeling this real unease. I know I’m paranoid at the best of times, but it was even more so than usual,”

Oh shit, that bad, huh?

“So, I start looking for some light, or a village to land at to sleep, yeah? Eventually, I spot one in a desert, so we pull up to the shoreline and all hop out. It all seemed safe at first. The village was well-lit and there was literally nothing in sight - no mobs or villagers or anything. I thought I was being smart about it. My judgement is usually right on these things,”

You are smart. You are right. Missa wants to say it, but simply hums, not wanting to distract from the story, needing to hear the rest as soon as possible.

“But then, out of nowhere, we’re attacked. Something invisible and strong as shit starts clawing at us. Tallulah goes down, and me and Chayanne both race over to help her. Something hits me like a fucking train and I go down too, even with the armour I was wearing. I beg Chayanne to lead it away, to get me up so I can get Tallulah. He manages, for a moment, but I get swiped again and I’m just left to watch Chayanne get chased by this thing into the water. I can see its eyes at this point - these little white specks that we had no chance of noticing. It manages to get him, and he goes down too. I crawl over to Tallulah. Chayanne crawls over to me. The only thing I can do is apologise to them both. Tallulah goes first, right in my arms. Then Chayanne, in front of me. Then finally, me. And then we wake up,” Phil shrugs. 

Missa looks on in horrified silence, lips parted, face pale.

Philza can still remember each detail so vividly, but had left them out for Missa’s sake. The sharp, burning ache of claws raking through his side, like a knife through butter. The crunch of the sand as their bodies hit the floor in three dull thumps, one after another. The choked screams of pain, too high, too young to be experiencing such a thing. His own begging, muffled through the pounding beat of his heart in his ears. The blood pooling warm beneath his hands, soaking his clothes and feathers, mixing together until he couldn’t tell his own apart from Talullah’s. Chayanne’s expression as he clawed his way towards him, mouthing ‘dad’ over and over in desperation. Tallulah’s breaths, coming thinner and fainter beneath him as time slowly ran out. The light leaving Chayanne’s eyes as all he could do was watch helplessly, useless apologies to his son on his lips. The cold and darkness creeping into his vision as everything went quiet.

And then he woke, limbs flailing in a cold and empty bed. Far too big for one person. Screams rang out not long after, muffled through the floor below him as the kids awoke too. He had no time to think - to process - just threw himself out of bed, down the hatch, as quickly as he could.

They spent a long time that night, all three of them, holding each other close. Phil doesn’t remember what he’d said to them - voice cracking with rage, grief, and sorrow - but he remembers the wracking sobs from the kids easing over time. His murmurs of comfort were soon the only noise filling the room, his two kids huddled close under his wings. They stayed down in that bunker long until after the sun rose.

“Wanna know the worst part? Tallulah was mid-signing ‘abuelito’ to me before she was downed…” Phil murmurs, blinking, eyes dry from staring ahead numbly.

“That’s… That’s awful. I’m so sorry, querido,” Missa says, bereft. He should have been there when Phil woke, to comfort him, to comfort the kids… 

“Yeah,” Philza sighs, long and heavy, letting it all go. It was just a dream, afterall. Just a dream…

“It’s alright though. I tell them plenty of stories before bed to try and help with it all. Maybe help them dream of nicer things instead of all that, y’know? They seem to like the ones about dragons a lot, and I’ve got plenty of those!”

His sorrow wasn’t meant just for the children. Missa takes a breath through his nose to stop himself from shaking his partner by the shoulders.

“... Anything else I should know?” he says, letting it out slowly, trying to prepare.

“Ah, yeah,”

He finds his heart skips anyway. There’s still more? When Missa had thought about how he enjoys Phil’s storytelling, this was not what he’d meant. But no wonder Philza looks so haggard; no wonder the kids seem so jumpy, if they’d been through so much together.

“I’m guessing no one’s told you about the binary codes yet, right?” Philza asks, wings fluffing out in sharp movements, shaking off the nightmare still clinging to him. Sometimes, he can still feel the blood in his feathers.

“No…?” 

“Yeah, I thought that would be the case. Okay, so, y’know the hotel Tallulah mentioned?”

“The one built by Forever?” Missa replies evenly, careful to hide the disdain from his expression.

“That’s the one. So, it has an important purpose actually. A while ago, kinda close to when we first arrived on the island, I got hunted down by this weird green thing for ‘acquiring’ some illegal shit. Long story short, I met up with Fit who blew it up with a bomb and saved my ass. The important things though are that one; it could fly, two; it was made of binary code, and three; it couldn’t die,” Phil counts off on his fingers, stressing the importance of each point. Missa nods along, following as best he can.

“A while later, after the kids were given to us, this thing starts appearing again. Attacking the kids. Starts flying around, hunting them down, spawning mobs to help it like a coward,” he spits. It’s the most venom Missa has ever heard from Philza, and it honestly rattles him for a moment. But then Phil sighs, drawing Missa in again with concern. “After that first time, I honestly hadn’t encountered it again, until Cellbit - another one of the Brazillians - Maxo, Bad, and Foolish asked me to take care of their kids while they went investigating for a way off the island. Not even a minute after they’d left, that fucking thing swooped in and started attacking us,”

“Just you? None of them stayed behind?”

“Nah, fuck, man it was just me. Me, and these three kids all on one life. I could barely fucking see at the time too, I was so tired,” 

“From the nightmares?”

“Nah, I was sick - had a cold or something,”

“You were sick and they left you with three kids!?”

“Yeah, kinda bullshit, right? But, oh well, they had investigation shit to do, I guess,”

Very much not ‘oh well’, but Missa holds his tongue, nodding for Philza to continue.

“I couldn’t breathe, I was weak as shit, and that thing went right for Chayanne. I swear I just went into panic mode - started swinging, and got the kids to fight back too. I think Chayanne actually shot me in all the confusion…”

“Que!?”

“Yeah, after we scared that thing off I had to dig some bullets out of my side later. I barely fucking remember, it was a blur of adrenaline honestly - the scars are there though. I passed out as soon as the kids were safe and down for the night. Lucky I have experience with patching myself up, huh?” 

Missa casts his eyes down, raking over Philza despite the layers of clothing in the way, his heart rate skyrocketing. He was shot? He was fucking shot? His son was attacked and his partner was fucking shot? Where were people on this island even getting guns from!?

“Oh, fuck, and Tallulah…” Phil heaves a frustrated sigh, rage clouding his gaze. “This one time, we were all just trying to visit Vegetta’s place. Me n’ Fit with the kids - and Forever tagged along on the way too,”

Missa frowns, teeth gritting as he tries to control his breathing, still reeling from the previous bombshell. Honestly, he can’t believe that Philza is still fucking going. What the hell is wrong with this island!?

“Honestly, I'd say I was thankful for the help, but a fat lot of good it did in the end. We weren't meant to win, Missa. Seven minutes of solid fighting. Countless mobs spawned on us. It didn't let Tallulah breathe for a moment…" Phil whistles a frustrated noise through his teeth, dragging hands down his face. “She lost a life that day. Rattled Forever so badly that he went nuts building that hotel. Now it’s a haven to rescue the kids with teleporters if anything goes wrong again,” he shrugs, voice muffled behind his hands.

Missa's frown deepens. Though the invention of the hotel is admittedly good, the events that Philza describes to him are horrors beyond horrors. Nightmares, entities, kidnappings, deaths, all under the watch of the Federation…

The thought of his family out there, fighting for their lives, makes his heart cinch painfully. The man was exceedingly capable, and Chayanne was a force of his own, but Missa had left Philza to deal with everything. 

Alone.

As a father and a partner, it was shameful.

And the disregard that Phil seems to have towards his own suffering is painful to listen to .

Missa feels sick to his stomach.

"I'm sorry, Philza. I shouldn't have left-"

"No, no," Phil cuts him off, lowering his hands and heaving a sigh. Missa reels back, face pale, a little dizzy, having been fully prepared to grovel for forgiveness. "It's fine, mate. I'm a big boy n' all, I handled it. You had shit to do, which is no fault of your own. It happens," Philza shrugs. 

Like it's as simple as that.

Missa stares.

"No."

"No?" Phil laughs, confused.

Missa purses his lips for a moment, then continues. "No," he repeats, slower, thoughtful. "I left you to care for two children by yourself-"

"Mate, you couldn't have known about Tallulah-"

"That's not the point! The point is that I wasn't here but I should have been,"

"You had important work to do! I get it, it's fine," Philza insists, flippant. Laughing it off, like most things. Until today, Missa had thought this habit showed Philza’s strength - his ability to breeze through things without a care and bounce back brighter every time. Now he sees it for what it truly is: a coping mechanism. A deflection, a distraction, and a way to distance himself from the things that hurt him. It makes something unpleasant curl through his stomach.

"It's not! I- ugh," Missa trails off into muttered Spanish, too fast and low for the translator to catch. He's frustrated. The words for how he feels aren't coming to him fast enough in English. All this information has been overwhelming, to say the least, and Philza wants to say it’s just fine?

The man in question just seems confused, sitting across from him with a patient, if perturbed, expression. It just serves to frustrate him more.

"I should have been here," Missa repeats, palm pressed to his aching chest as he leans towards the other man, desperate for him to understand. "For Chayanne. To meet Tallulah, and Wilbur. To help. To fight-"

"Missa-"

"To take care of you!"

The small room goes still, almost claustrophobic. 

Philza blinks at Missa, processing his words. They both register them at the same time, talking over one another.

"N-Not that you aren't strong, you are-!"

"To take care of me? What?" 

"I just meant, like, support! Emotional, y'know?"

"I'm fine, Missa!"

"You're not!"

Phil's teeth snap together with a click. He looks halfway between offence and complete bafflement.

Missa waves his hands rapidly, speaking fast, trying to explain himself.

"Ever since I got back, I've seen it! Seen you," he says, voice wavering, heart beating wildly. They'd never spoken like this before. He's glad the kids are away for this; he's not good at confrontation. "You’re tired , Philza. You're stiff, and tense, and I know you try to hide it but I see you,"

That silences Philza's protests, his words dying before they ever see fruition. He frowns, considering.

"Yeah…? I'm a little tired Missa, but I'll be fine," he repeats eventually, shaking his head. Missa does the same.

"No, no," he says quickly, hands pausing midway through a gesture as he once again thinks. This would be so much easier in Spanish-!

He lets out a garbled noise of annoyance, grasping at the air. Philza lets out a small "pfft" of a laugh, which Missa promptly pouts about.

"You aren't taking me seriously," he complains, deflating.

"I am! I am, just… I'm fine, man. It's okay," Philza smiles, reassuring. Missa observes the tired slope to it, the dark circles under his partner's eyes.

It saddens him.

Phil tilts his head, patiently waiting once again as Missa murmurs something in Spanish, fast and pained. His partner looks so despairingly at him as he speaks that Philza almost apologises. For what though, he doesn't know.

Until the translation pops up.

"You run yourself into the ground to support us all, but spare none of that same energy for yourself. Do you ever stop? Have you rested once since I’ve been away? Have you even had a single second to breathe during all this mess? Do you know  how  much this hurts me - how guilty I feel? I was away while you were fighting so hard, and I know others picked up the slack to help you, but it should have been me!"  

After a long moment of reading, Philza responds. 

"Oh…" he hums lowly, an uncomfortable understanding dawning on him. Missa gives a small nod, looking away.

It's quiet for a while after his outburst. 

Missa worries he’s offended him, leaning back to give him space to think. He doesn’t regret what he’d said though - Philza needs to understand, and more importantly, rest.

Philza himself simply doesn’t know how to feel, magnified under such a concerned spotlight. Cornered. As far as he can recall, it’s always been this way for him. Grinding, enchanting, fighting, surviving - hours of time and energy, sleepless nights and endless days - all by his lonesome. It’s second nature to him. 

But he has a partner now. One who shares his hopes and worries. One who seems to be in genuine distress over (by his own impossible standards) his ordinary habits. Does he really seem so worse for wear? Sure, he doesn’t feel great, but he’s had worse, he’s sure. He could manage!

As for the guilt Missa is feeling, Phil has no clue how to express that it’s unnecessary without diminishing the other’s feelings. He doesn’t hold any blame or grudge for Missa being gone, or for the effort he’d put into things during his absence; the slack he’d had to pick up. It was Phil’s decision to do so, afterall. He’s just glad Missa is home. He’d missed him. 

The silence ends up broken by Missa, an idea occurring to him after careful thought.

"I’d like to help you, however I can,"

"No, Missa really, you don't have to-"

"I want to. You do so much for the family. I can't fight. I can’t solve the Federation problems, heal what’s been hurt, or go back and fix things. Maybe I can at least help you relax?"

"Relax?"

"Yeah, like… I was thinking, massage, y'know? If you'd want,"

…

Huh?

"Uh- massage? What…?"

Where on earth had that idea come from?

"It's just, you’re so tense, and hold your wings like it hurts, y'know?"

Phil feels his wings twitch, a twinge of pain shooting through his shoulders and spine.

"Well, yeah, but I dunno ‘bout that…" he protests, regardless.

"Please, Philza. It must be uncomfortable, and I can help," Missa insists. Seeing the remaining hesitance on Phil’s face, he slumps. “For once, I can help,” he repeats, soft.

"Okay, no- enough of that, mate, stop. Fuck, you’re making it sound like you’re a burden or something,” Phil sighs out, uncomfortable at the self flagellation. This is all entirely too serious for his tastes. Missa has no comment, simply nodding quietly as Phil continues. “But… alright. Alright! Fine. If I smack you with a wing, it’s your own fault though," he concedes, pointing sharply at him.

If this will ease Missa’s anxieties, relieve his mental anguish, then alright. Phil can sit through a little awkward massage session. Besides, his shoulders could probably benefit from it, regardless of his masseurs’ skill level. 

“And be careful, please," he adds quickly, holding up a finger. His poor wings have been through enough, thanks. 

"Of course! Always, with you," Missa perks up, smiling easier for the first time all evening. Phil clears his throat at the sentiment, shifting in place, warming slightly. 

Upon thought, Missa pauses, glancing down to his hands. 

"Ah, one thing though; this will be easier without gloves, but…" he bites his lip, gaze darting between tangled fingers and a curious face. "Promise not to freak out?"

"Missa, whatever it is, I can guarantee I’ve seen weirder. So yeah, I promise," Phil laughs, nodding.

His easy-going giggles set Missa more at ease. As always.

Taking a steadying breath, he returns Philza’s smile.

Hesitantly, he peels off his gloves. Long, skeletal fingers, stained a deep black by the touch of the void, are slowly unveiled. Bare ulna and radius peek out from the cuffs of his shirt, and as Missa pushes his sleeves up, it’s clear that the blackened bones fade into perfectly healthy skin at his elbows. Phil can't quite describe the emotion that the sight stirs. His eyes widen as his mind flashes to sparkling inky depths, echoing feminine laughter, and the feeling of wings settling heavy across his back. 

He shakes himself of the images.

“Those joints aren't gonna snag on my feathers, are they?" he jokes, ever the wordsmith.

Missa laughs in surprise at the response, shaking his head. He lowers his hands, settling them in his lap and squeezing his gloves between nervous palms.

"No, no - I'll be careful, Philza! Trust," he smiles. Honestly, he shouldn't have expected anything different from the kind, carefree man in front of him. Of course he wouldn't judge. Of course he wouldn't fear.

"You have been, um... favoured by Death too, right?" Missa says, gesturing to the man in front of him.

"I have?" Philza replies, a brow raised. Lightning quick, he frowns, realisation rippling through him. "I have..." he murmurs thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder at clipped feathers.

Vague recollection dances just at the edge of his grasp. That same echoing laughter, only a whisper of a whisper, tugs at his chest. He feels he's missing something important here. Something precious. Irreplaceable. 

Damn this island…

"You don't remember, huh?" Missa says, pulling him from brooding thoughts 

Phil shakes his head, lips bitten in a mournful expression. He remembers a lot, but the gaps that elude him are so frustrating .

"No, my memory…" he trails off, blinking once, twice. He picks back up again after a moment. "But it's okay. I'll get it back. We'll find a way to get everyone's back," he says, tone firm, gaze steadfast as he meets Missa's own. If the Federation thinks they can steal his memories - parts of his life - away, they have another thing coming. 

Missa nods, fingers twisting together in his lap. Not even he could recall everything. He’s a reaper, that much he knew. Plus, more concerningly, he couldn't move freely to the mortal world anymore. Every time, upon return from the void, he would end up right back where he’d left. Back on the island. 

With his power, he would have gotten everyone out in a heartbeat. If only he could. Only his access to the void remained, where he guided safe passage to weary souls onto their next destination.

He and Philza had discussed this, back during the first days of their partnership. Back when they were first made aware of their imprisonment. Missa had tried, pushing against the veil with everything he had. There was only so much he could do though. A reaper and a ferryman of souls he may be, but he was still just a reaper. He had limits. Besides, a trip through the void would kill most mortals anyway. 

It had been a nice idea all the same.

"Hopefully we can get back more than memories, too…" Missa responds quietly, flexing finger joints together.

Even his connection to Her had been severed...

There was something truly wrong with this place for that to be so. Though, with reality-warping entities running the island, evidently anything was possible. It was a frightening thing to face.

Philza hums in agreement, glancing over his shoulder again. "Yeah, if we're lucky," he jokes dryly.

The bed creaks a little, and Phil turns back to see Missa leaning over, a hand reaching for his shoulder. “Would you like some help with your armour then, Phil?” he asks, fingers brushing the buckles holding his chest piece together. Phil considers it, feeling uneasy. Normally, he’d protest at such an offer. After all, he was more than capable of undressing himself, thank you very much. However, looking at Missa’s soft, pleading expression, and with all that the man had said…

“Yeah… Yeah, alright. Go on then,” he sighs, nodding as he turns himself for better access. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been helped out of his armour, but at least then he’d been severely injured. As it was now, he was just tired, but that seemed reason enough for Missa.

“Thank you!” Missa says, jumping forward to begin gently prying at the straps around his wings. Phil flinches, just a little, both at the absurd thanks and the feeling of someone brushing against his feathers. Honestly, he’s a little nervous about letting someone new touch him while so vulnerable. It’s only Missa though, he reasons, and forces himself to breathe through it, relaxing.

Clicks and creaking leather are the only sounds heard for a while. Strap after strap is gently pried loose, armour losing its suffocating hold as Missa works. Phil lifts his arms as poked and prodded by the other, turning this-way-and-that to let the man work. He tries helping, uncomfortable to be doing nothing to assist, but is batted away and tsk-ed at in response. 

Lucky this is tense and strange to Philza, or the boredom may have killed him from lack of distraction.

Eventually, Phil takes a deep breath as gentle touches help the armour fall away from his torso. He grunts softly, arching his back with arms over his head, feeling joints click and vertebrae pop. It feels good to stretch his muscles, though he tries not to flare his wings too much, careful not to hit the one sitting beside him.

“Good?” Missa inquires, observing for a moment, eyes trailing, before taking Phil’s arm in hand to move onto his bracers.

“Better…” Philza hums, watching the other man work. He’s sticking his tongue out slightly between his lips, fiddling with the buckles between long, slender fingers. Phil looks away again, warm. 

While Missa holds one arm, Phil reaches up with his other hand to remove his hat. If he can’t help, then he can at least get things moving elsewhere. He tries not to move his arm out of Missa’s reach, but leans over to the nightstand to place his hat down safely. Once done, he sits back up, and finds himself turned gently by hands on his shoulders. Startling a little, he sees Missa place his bracer aside on the bed, already reaching for the other.

Now that they’re facing one another, Philza feels he has no choice but to look at his partner. He notes the concentrated pout, and the careful hold he has on his arm. The deep purple of his cloak, the soft inky locks poking out from under. The carefully applied facepaint. The bone-white mask. 

Philza has barely seen the other without it, skull-shaped and semi-permanently affixed to Missa’s face. The rare times Missa has taken it off, it had been for brief moments, pushed up into his hair to wipe his brow or rub his eyes, before being slid back into place again. Phil has respected his privacy about it, never bringing it up, but with how close they are now, and with the removal of Missa’s gloves, he can’t help but be a little curious. What does Missa look like without it? Without the hood? The facepaint? Expressions fully exposed, bare to see.

He has a feeling Missa’s earlier concern and pleading would have broken him much faster, weak as he is to puppy-dog eyes. 

Philza startles as Missa raises his head, their faces entirely too close for his liking now. He glances away, hesitating to lean back in case Missa finds offence, and finds his cheeks heating, feathered ears fluffing as his partner leans even closer. 

“These now,” Missa taps his pauldrons, fingers sliding down from shoulder to bicep to begin working at the straps there. He tosses the bracer aside onto the bed to join its pair, an afterthought.

“Can I at least do my own leg armour, Missa?” Phil asks as the pauldrons are pried loose, wriggled down over his arms, and put aside with the bracers.

“Nope,” Missa replies, lifting his face up to smile at him good-naturedly. From this close, Philza can see the way his eyes squint within the shadows of his mask. Still not the colour of them though, just their eerie dim glow. He glances away again.

“Fine,” he sighs, long-suffering, and sags as Missa finally gets to his feet, leaving his personal space. Only, Missa takes his arm as he goes, tugging him up as well with gentle, insistent fingers. It’s at that moment that Philza notices, not for the first time, the height difference between them. He’s by no means a short man, but Missa towers over Phil by a good few inches. Normally, he wouldn't mind or even take note of such a thing, but being pressed almost chest-to-chest with someone in a confined, dark room as they level focused, determined stares at you makes you notice a thing or two. He can’t help the small shiver that ruffles his feathers as the glow of Missa’s eyes bare down on him from above, cloaked and looming. He would cut an imposing figure if Philza wasn't already aware of his clumsy and kindhearted demeanour. 

Fingers dance around Phil's waist, seeming careful not to linger too long. The light touches are ticklish, raising goosebumps along his skin, making him shudder. Missa’s eyes flickering to his face, checking in on him and his reactions, aren’t helping. It would be easier if he just focused on his task, though Phil is unsure if further contact would be more or less welcome. Missa eventually gets the straps of his tasset loose, and turns around to place it on the floor next to the breastplate. Then, in a surprisingly bold move, Missa gives him an answer to his previous wondering. Turning back, he holds onto Phil's hips, moving into his space to guide him into sitting back on the bed. 

“Y‘could just ask…” Philza murmurs in flustered protest, lowering himself down, swallowing as the press of fingertips trail away. 

“Sorry…” Missa replies quietly, sounding apologetic and absolutely not at the same time. He lowers himself to the ground in front of Phil, kneeling before him, which surprises the older man. He swallows dryly as Missa reaches for his leg, fingers circling his ankle and resting at the back of his calf to lift and access the armour bucklings. Eyes once more meet his through the shadow of hollow sockets, Missa’s head bowed. It seems like an ask for permission, another check-in that Philza honestly does appreciate, and he finds himself nodding without thinking. 

It’s quiet once more as Missa gets to work, but Philza can't take his focus off the pressure surrounding his ankle, supporting his leg - holding him exactly where Missa wants him. His skin tingles, all too aware of where he’s touched. He sucks in a quiet, short breath as careful hands move upward, aiming for the straps holding the armour to his thighs. It’s all he can do to remain still, oddly tense and shaking, as he endures Missa fiddling with the bindings there. Knuckles brush the insides of his thighs through the fabric of his pants, forcing him to shut his eyes and purse his lips against the drag of friction, unusually sensitive. As if that wasn’t torture enough, Missa grips a steadying hand onto Phil’s knee, bracing himself, as he leans to place the first half of cuisses and grieves aside. They clank quietly against Phil's other armour pieces as Missa turns back, moving onto the other leg to repeat the same agonising process.

Philza holds steady throughout, breathing soft and shaky through his nose as he lets Missa do as he wishes. There’s a small, satisfied smile on Missa’s face as he works, which Phil can’t tell if is from happiness at getting his way, or the guy just being a cheeky fuck, teasing him on purpose.

“Okay, done!” Missa eventually announces after what feels like an eternity, the tension snapping with a weak fizzle. He stands, reaching for the armour pieces on the bed, and places them all off to the side onto the neat pile on the floor. Philza flexes his hands, rubbing his wrists and arms where the straps had dug in, if only for something to do; to focus on. That had been… interesting, to say the least. He lets his guard down for a second, only to jolt at yet another touch to his waist. 

“Woah!”

Missa snatches his hands back as though burned. 

“Whatcha doing there?” Phil laughs, looking down at himself, already flustered beyond belief.

“Sorry, sorry! Um, your shirts, for the massage,” Missa clarifies, reaching out again to touch the edge of Phil’s clothes. He eyes him carefully, worried of overstepping. Philza seems to calm though, wings settling from their flared position over his shoulders.

“I, uh… I can do that myself-” he begins to say, but stops at Missa’s steady gaze, fingertips now holding the hem of his outer shirt gently. Of course he’s still refusing, those glowing eyes still burning intently.

“... Okay,” Philza says, swallowing dryly, and releases a shaky breath as Missa leans in, grabbing the hem more firmly and tugging. 

Up and over the shirt goes, getting caught briefly in his wings before being tugged free. He shakes his hair back into place, eyes catching Missa staring at him before the other starts to work on his next layer of clothing. Heat collects on Phil’s cheeks, but he moves with the other, helping him to take it off. 

There’s a slight draft coming from somewhere, chilling Philza’s skin as he watches Missa fold his clothes, placing them neatly beside his armour on the floor. Missa then turns back to him, and their gazes meet for a moment in pause. 

“... Guess I’ll assume the position then?” Philza jokes, and leans back on his hands, scooching towards the pillows, escaping. The heat from his cheeks remains, and he feels the need to create space between them, for his own sanity. His nerves feel like they’re about to burst out of his skin. Missa simply follows him though, crawling over with a nod and a quiet swallow, visibly looking him over.

“Lay on your front, please? I’ll try to find some kind of oil,” he says, opening his inventory. “Surely something in here from Chayanne, maybe in a backpack…?” he murmurs in Spanish, though Phil doesn’t understand, moving to turn, kick his boots off, and settle himself as comfortably as possible.

“Mhmm…” Philza hums absently in reply anyway, mind racing. Why was he so nervous? So warm? Close contact between friends wasn’t new to him. Many had patted, poked, touched, and prodded him in the past, when patching him up after fights or simply playing around. A caring massage was different in many ways to a necessary, cursory medical procedure or playful slap to the back though. He refuses to acknowledge the thought, the explanation for it too close to something dying to claw its way out of his ribcage. A simple truth that had been haunting him since Missa left. Perhaps even since they were partnered.

“Ah, would this work?”

He turns his head, looking over his shoulder at the bottle Missa holds.

“What is it?”

“Olive oil, I think,”

“Hm, best we got, I guess,”

Missa nods, and Phil turns his face back into the pillows, gathering them into his arms to hide in. 

Wait, no, not hiding. Just… getting comfortable. That’s all.

“Thank you for letting me do this, Philza,"

"You don't need to thank me, man…" 

Missa is doing him a favour yet he's the one getting thanked? He really needs to have a proper discussion with the other man about all this. Perhaps tomorrow, though. Missa had been given plenty of dramatic news for one day. Now, apparently, is the time to help him feel better by… receiving a massage? This really is backwards. 

The bed dips beside him as Missa kneels nearby, the sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle squeaking in his ear, making it twitch. Missa pours the oil into his palm, setting the bottle onto the table beside the bed, next to Philza’s hat. He warms the liquid between his hands as he looks down at the other, across the expanse of his exposed back and spread wings, and flushes as he realises what exactly he’s about to do. Somehow, he’d convinced Philza to actually let him do this. Honestly, it was a miracle he wasn’t going to waste time thinking about, or the other may change his mind. 

“I’m going to start now, okay querido?” he warns, swallowing thickly, and reaches for Phil’s shoulders.

With the first touch of bone to the skin of his back, Philza expects to jolt at a freezing touch, Missa's hands as cold as the death he serves. Instead, he's pleasantly surprised. Warmth pressing down on his shoulders shocks him, wings twitching in response. Whatever magic holds Missa's arms together - whether that be his soul, aura, or something unknown - seems to radiate a heat that mimics real human touch. There also feels like a barrier surrounding his digits, a gentle give that could almost be mistaken for the cushion of flesh, if not for the feeling of hard bone just beneath and the buzz of something otherworldly coursing throughout. 

It's a strange sensation, but not at all unpleasant. It certainly doesn't feel natural, but as Philza had said, he's experienced much stranger in his long life. Nothing much phases him anymore. Aside from flirtatious Brazillians, he supposes - perhaps not the time to be thinking of that though.

“Is that okay?” Missa checks in, moving no further.

“Hm, yeah, it’s good mate, go ahead,” Phil hums in response, his cheek sinking against his arms, actually getting comfortable now. 

“May I sit across you? For better reach,” Missa requests.

Nevermind.

Philza freezes on an answer, considering, but quietly nods his assent. It does make more sense for Missa to sit above him if this is going to happen. It’s difficult to reach across the bed and it would just be awkward for Missa to move around the cramped space, especially with Phil’s wings in the way. 

With permission granted, Missa moves, stretching his leg over to straddle either side of Phil's hips and sit himself down, settling on his lower back. Phil tenses, the warmth and weight of Missa against his rear leading him to brief, inappropriate thoughts that he quickly wrangles into submission, burying his face within the pillows once more.

Hands slide up over his shoulders as he stills, thumbs digging into his neck and dragging firmly towards the base of his skull. It hurts a little, and he hisses a muffled noise of discomfort, but it’s a good ache after a while, like pressing on a bruise and revelling in the burn. Tenderly, as if apologising, Missa cups his palms over the sides of Phil’s neck, pushing fingers up into his hair and around his hairline, making Phil sink further into the cushions as he rubs around the base of his ears. He feels a headache he wasn't even aware of dying down, his brow unfurrowing as he sighs deeply, letting out a pleased hum that vibrates through his chest.

Smiling at the noise, Missa’s hands then glide back down over his skin, dragging warm oil as they go. He rubs soothing circles over his shoulders, kneading muscle and digging thumbs in where he feels resistance. Small noises and hums come from Phil, wings twitching as Missa moves onto his shoulder blades, switching to use the heels of his hands to loosen knots and soothe sore muscles.

Eyes lidded, Missa admires his partner as he trails his gaze along exposed skin, thankful and delighted at the noises he’s able to pull from him. It’s proof that his actions are appreciated and enjoyed; something he really needs right now. He smooths fingertips over scars, old and healed and faded by time, along with pinker, raised skin from more recent incidents. There are slashes, claw marks, old burns from fire and explosives, bite marks from wild beasts and undead monsters, among so many more. The scars range wildly in size and severity, and the visible history decorating Phil’s skin just makes him wonder further about the man’s self-preservation, and the kind of life he’d lived before the island. 

Trailing fingers down Phil’s side and enjoying the ticklish shudders that it draws from him, Missa pauses on a rough mark, small and circular and jagged around the edges. A bullet wound, he realises, heart sinking further as he finds more along Phil’s back. He traces the wounds gently. They look gnarled and barely healed, like the kind of injury a soldier would have taken care of quickly mid-battle. It was one thing to have been told about the injuries, but it’s another to see them up close. The thought of Phil having to dig deep into his own flesh, with nothing but improvised tools or even his own fingers, barely awake through the exhaustion of sickness, makes Missa’s stomach churn with queasiness. Philza was clearly a hardened veteran to be able to do such a thing, and Missa respects him greatly for it, but still… he finds himself wishing that Phil never has to do it again. Had never had to do it in the first place. He wants to hold the man close and keep him safe, just like how Phil makes him feel, but recognises the foolishness of the sentiment. Philza is far stronger than he’ll ever be, and more than capable of protecting himself. But, even still. 

Even still…

Missa sighs, moving on, hands continuing their roaming journey before Phil questions his pause. He tries to return to his previous headspace, squeezing his hands on strong arms, firm from years of battle. He rubs over the planes of Phil's shoulders and back, drawing soft noises of content from him, and notes the muscle hidden beneath soft skin, powerful in order to generate enough lift with his wings.

Speaking of, Missa shifts his attention to them. Not daring to touch for now, he simply looks them over, fingers running in soothing patterns over Philza's skin. Twin blankets of void spill over Phil's back like ink, reaching out to span the width of the bed and beyond. The feathers shine iridescent in the dim lighting in hues of blues, greens, and purples, much like an oil spill or the sheen of a soap bubble.  His wings look strong, large and powerful, yet so soft and sleek that the temptation to bury his fingers into them has almost won him over many times. Only now, there are feathers out of place, dirt and grime tainting them in spots. Missa so badly wants to help clean them, to set them straight and see them shine healthily again. He'd also like to see their full form someday, to see Philza flying up where he belongs among the clouds. He's seen the looks of longing the man shoots skywards, his heart aching in sympathy for him.

“Am… Am I okay to touch your wings?” Missa asks, wanting so badly to, but more than aware of what a sensitive subject it might be. Philza always seemed to be aware of where his wings were at all times, keeping them out of people’s way and only allowing the briefest of touches to them, such as if Chayanne or Tallulah were to pat the feathers for attention. Plus, the clipped flight feathers were probably a point of annoyance and grief, and he didn’t want to accidentally poke at a fresh wound like that. Luckily though, Phil lifts his head, seeming to consider it. 

“M- Maybe? I mean, they do kinda need a groom, uh…” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the splayed limbs. He catches a glimpse of Missa, straddling his lower back, thighs barricading him in, and quickly turns back to the pillows.

“I’ll be careful. Tell me if I do something wrong?” Missa says, placing a hand on the downy feathers that decorate Phil’s spine, running his fingers through the soft valley between his shoulder blades. 

“Yeah, okay… Just, don’t pull too hard, and if something isn’t coming loose, just lay it flat,” Phil advises, shivering at the pleasant scratch under his feathers from curious fingers.

“Got it. Gracias, mi amor,”

“Yup, no problem,” Phil responds, awkward and strangled. He’s still not quite used to the pet names and how they make him feel. It’s not unwanted nor uncomfortable, but it’s certainly strange to him.

He’s also not had anyone touch his wings in a while, especially not someone new. Wilbur had helped a little with the grooming before his disappearance, but he’s mostly done it by himself ever since, despite the awkward positions needed to reach every spot, and the strained back in consequence. 

He startles, feathers puffing then smoothing as hands begin to pat at his wings. Missa murmurs a small comfort as he gets to work, settling Phil again with gentle fingers that begin to carefully pluck at the loose downy feathers poking out sporadically. 

Honestly, Missa has to struggle to contain his excitement, disbelieving that Phil had agreed to let him touch his wings; clearly a private and beloved part of himself, gifted to him by divine forces and treasured above most. Not wanting to mess this chance up, Missa presses his lips together, taking careful breaths through his nose, his hands shaking as he cards them through the delicate feathers. It’s a nerve wracking task ahead of him.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he pulls loose feathers out and places them aside, carefully smoothing crooked ones back into place, following Philza’s quiet guidance and commentary as he goes.

"Not too fast, y'gotta wiggle 'em a little first,"

"Of course, naturalmente, cariño…"

He runs fingers beneath rows of feathers, flicking out dust and dander, sweeping it away as he pats dirt off from the outer primaries. It’s a slow process, but as he gets into the rhythm of it (with a few corrections from Phil here and there) he finds himself relaxing into the repetitive motions. Once or twice, Philza hisses, shifting in discomfort, but a quiet and hurried apology and a hum of forgiveness is all it takes to get back on track. It’s nice, Missa thinks, watching his partner sink deeper into the cushions, visibly melting from all the attention. It's vindicating. He knew this is what Philza needed, and seeing the stress and tension drain out of him is just proving him exactly right.

Feeling brave at the positive response, Missa presses carefully at the joints of the wings, working small circles into the intricate tendons and muscle beneath the feathers, moving the limbs back and forth to loosen them up. Phil shifts beneath him, flexing in his grip, before making a choked noise and slumping as Missa moves his attention to the base of his wings instead. Interested, Missa takes both wings in hand, pressing fingers down firmly where the joints meet Phil's back, and works small circles into the muscles there. Another choked noise escapes his partner, trailing off into a relieved groan as his wings relax. Seems he'd done something very right there, Missa notes to himself, proud of his own efforts.

Working out the last of the tension he can feel, Missa relaxes and trails his hands back up, combing his hands through much cleaner plumage. Small coos and warbles sound from Phil, who tries to muffle it as best he can. Missa still hears though, flushed with delight. He's not the only one either, he notes, eyes focusing in on the pink creeping up along Phil's shoulders, trailing higher.

After hearing such noises and touching so much of his bare skin, the pale line at the back of Philza's neck tempts Missa. He thinks of Fit, of Bad - of Forever - and has a rush of protectiveness surge through him. 

No, more like possession. 

No one else should see Phil like this. No one else should even think of it. The sight is for Missa's eyes only: the one Philza clearly trusts most on this island. His partner.

Leaning down, Missa carefully noses aside soft strands of gold, Philza tensing beneath his palms as warm breaths puff over his skin. Goosebumps raise along his arms at the sensation.

"Missa…?" he murmurs sleepily, opening an eye. 

Missa brushes cool lips against oil-slick and warmed skin, then presses a kiss to the juncture between shoulder and neck. He stays for a moment, breathing in, before parting trembling lips, teeth bared.

"... Miss- ah!?" Philza gasps, body warming in shock and interest as he feels teeth dig into him. The threatening scrape of sharp canines has him shuddering as Missa pulls back, nibbling at the mark, before parting with another lingering kiss. "W-what the fuck, man?" Phil stammers, raising a hand to cover the now pulsing, aching area. Spit slicks his palm along with streaks of facepaint as he pulls his hand back to see. He looks over his shoulder at Missa, expression dazed. He is way too out of it for this shit, loose and wobbly from careful fingers that tore down his walls, patient and slow, brick by brick.

"I couldn't help it, sorry," Missa says, shoulders hunching in reproach as he leans over him. "Just… I kept thinking about what was said. About those men - about Forever," he says, nose wrinkling, a sour curl to his mouth.

He then shakes his head, correcting himself. No excuses.

"I wanted to. I need them to see that-" he cuts himself off, biting his lip, but steels himself to continue. “I need them to see that you were mine first,”

Phil blinks slowly, heart thumping rapidly in his throat. He swallows dryly, briefly squinting his eyes closed, brow furrowed, trying to focus.

"You don't need to, like, 'stake a claim' or whatever. I'm- I'm not going anywhere. You're my partner, Missa," he replies, baffled out of his mind. Missa just fucking bit him. No, not even that actually. He gave him a hickey; a mark with very particular connotations. Phil feels his cheeks burning, body warming in a decidedly different way than the massage caused.

"Not… in the way I want. In the way they want," Missa says, confusing Phil further.

"The way that you want?" he parrots, mind clearing gradually. He'd thought Missa was happy with their arrangement - their partnership. Evidently not.

Missa just nods, somehow looking confident and two seconds away from crying at the same time.

"So that's why I needed to. Want to," he says, voice wavering a little. He clears his throat, ducking his head. "If you’ll have me. If you'll let me…" he says, quiet, unsure now even after all his boldness and bravado.

Philza had always been weak to the feelings of those close to him. He bites his lip, confused feelings warring, blindsided by this confession. Could he really reject the poor man? A cruel part of him says 'yes, easily' - the dormant side of himself that rarely shows, that has and will commit atrocities with nothing but a shit-eating smile and hearty cackle. But, at his core, Philza is nothing if not a family man. He would never do anything to hurt Missa; to divide their little family, or cause Chayanne distress. Though, he’s already let Missa get away with so much in regards to his comfort and personal space…

Though, is he really, actually bothered about that? Or just pretending? Pretending to the protesting little voice in his head that tells him he can’t - shouldn’t allow this. Enjoy this. Explore this strange new turn in his relationship with Missa. Honestly, the little voice in his head is getting quieter by the moment, strangled into silence by the warm, syrupy atmosphere surrounding the two. There’s still an internal struggle for him, but he’s finding it easier and easier to give in to things he never would have considered before. To perhaps let that little secret behind his ribcage find its voice.

“I don’t know, Missa…” he says slowly, just as unsure as his partner. “I…" he pauses, wavers, then continues with a nervous lilt. "I suppose I’m willing to give it a try, I guess?”

Missa’s snaps to attention, eyes wide.

“Don’t look so excited!” Philza flusters, raising a hand to push Missa’s face away, sitting up and making space for himself. “If- If I say stop, you stop, alright? Otherwise I’ll beat the shit outta you,” he threatens, but the effect is a little ruined by the warble in his voice. Luckily, Missa takes him seriously, nodding vigorously behind Phil’s palm. He takes Phil's wrist in a loose hold, lowering it from his face, then shifts his grip to hold onto him properly. Reaching for his other hand as well, he gently clutches Phil’s fingers between his own.

"I'll be gentle, cariño," Missa vows, brushing a kiss over his knuckles.

With a steady burn beginning to bridge the span of his cheeks and nose, Philza realises that Missa had pressed gentle lips to where a wedding ring should wrap his finger. An echo of warmth lays upon the spot, an invisible brand that makes his skin buzz faintly and fingertips tingle. It seems as loving as it does possessive, just like the bite still throbbing steadily at his neck. 

He can't tell if he wants to snatch his hands away, or hold on so tight that his bones creak with the pressure.

Strong fingers then tilt his hands up, thumbs pressing into palms as Missa leans carefully into Philza's space, coaxing him to lay back down without words. 

Philza flusters, feathers puffing then smoothing as his wings are sandwiched between himself and the bed. The oil from his back sticks to the sheets, but there's nothing to be done about it for now. They can be cleaned later. His head hits the pillow, his wrists pinned soon after beside his ears. Not trapping, nor restraining. Simply holding - a suggestion to stay in place. Philza finds himself obeying with only slight hesitance, his instinctive urge to fight and flee and survive reduced to a quiet thrum at the back of his mind.

Missa is… warm. Safe. A gentle soul, despite his recent outbursts.

Thumbs smooth against his pulse points, and Philza feels goosebumps raise along his arms.

Missa hovers above him, something close to admiration in his expression, but decidedly more... intense. It kind of makes Phil want to squirm away, to hide under his wings, but he has more pride than that. Instead, he gazes back steadily, unsure breaths escaping him in silent, shaky puffs. 

It's been an age since he's done anything like this (he assumes, at least) but he's no naive, blushing virgin. Being with another man is perhaps a little different to his past experiences though...

His eyes dart from point to point across Missa's hidden features, whose expression seems to intensify the longer their gazes linger.

Philza swallows as Missa speaks.

"Philza... let me help you?" he says, echoing his earlier sentiments, thumbs pressing into Phils wrists with gentle insistence.

Phil flexes his fingers into loose fists, his pseudo-son's words ringing in his ears suddenly, unwelcome and mildly humiliating.

"I see you as a bottom, Phil."

Could he argue though? Pinned beneath the other man, he couldn’t deny the nervous thrill churning its way through his stomach. It might be nice to be taken care of, for once. To let go a little. To turn his overactive brain off, and be relieved of the constant paranoia and unease.

Missa had maybe been on the nose with the earlier assessments of his well being… 

Shoulders slowly untense, lowering from around his ears. His gaze slides away from Missa's, silently conceding a battle that really only he was fighting. 

Perhaps he did want this. Perhaps.

"... Okay," he murmurs, then clears his throat with a small cough. 

"Okay…?" Missa questions softly, leaning closer to catch Philza's words.

"Yes, okay!" Phil flusters, turning his face aside, feathered ears flaring out. Missa simply laughs, a soft sound, as he murmurs “okay, okay”, giving Philza back some space. 

They’d been toeing the line before, a gentle dance of maybe-so’s, but Philza isn’t sure he can deny this as romantic anymore. He’d have to be completely dense to try, though his brain still tries to find excuses for him.

That protesting little voice in his head gets promptly strangled and silenced into a wheezing cough as Missa reaches up, fingers tracing the edge of his mask. Excitement thrums through Philza, unashamedly staring as Missa finally tugs the bone away from his face, pushing it up fully onto his forehead and knocking his hood down in the process.

“Woah… Pretty,” Phil blurts quietly, then presses his lips together, eyes widening. The two stare at each other, equally stunned.

“Th-Thank you,” Missa stammers, raising a hand to cover the lower half of his face. 

Well, Phil couldn’t have that now. He hadn’t meant to make Missa self-conscious, and he’d only just taken the mask off.

“Hey,” he says, reaching up to gently pry Missa’s hand away. “I, uh- I mean it, y’know? So, like - don’t?” he giggles, a short, nervous sound. What the fuck am I even saying, he thinks. It’s the truth though. Perhaps it’s only surface deep as far as his real thoughts go, but he does think Missa is a very attractive man. He’d thought that since first being partnered, even if such thoughts had only been a passing musing at the time. Now though, he can finally admire the features he’d noticed in full, without the barrier of his repressed feelings or Missa’s mask getting in the way. Missa gazes down at him, lips pressed together, and Phil finds himself reaching up to cup his cheek without thinking. Whether it’s to comfort Missa or simply hold him in place, who can say. 

Philza examines his partner, admiring dark, fluffy hair framing his face; wide, ethereal eyes that shine with affection, glowing from a soft inner light; long eyelashes fluttering against soft cheekbones as Missa sinks into his palm; and soft, ample lips, parted with stuttered breaths, and tinged pink after white face paint had been smeared away onto Philza’s skin. Raising his other hand to join the first, Phil traces his fingertips lightly over Missa’s features. If Missa had been allowed to touch and pet and palm at Philza, then surely he’s allowed this now in return. He runs a fingertip down the long slope of Missa’s nose, down to the curve of his cupid’s bow where he pushes gently at the top of his lip, which Missa puffs a laugh over his skin at. Moving back up, he traces thumbs over the space beneath Missa’s eyes, admiring the length and volume of his eyelashes once more. Finally, he can see the colour of his irises, no longer blocked by shadow and glow. They’re gold. A breathtaking, shimmering colour. 

“Darling…” Missa says, soft and whining, closing his eyes and smiling bashfully.

“Shush,” Philza tuts, fingers playing with the length of hair at the back of Missa’s neck, pink dusting his cheeks at the pet name. Missa feels warm beneath his palms, probably burning from the same emotions as himself. 

Glowing eyes slowly open, meeting Phil’s again as he brushes hair from Missa’s forehead, tracing a thumb over his eyebrow. Those eyes trail down, landing somewhere low on Philza’s face.

“Mi amor…” Missa says, leaning closer, cheeks squishing into Phil’s palms. “May… May I kiss you?” he asks, glancing back up, flighty and brimming with energy.

Phil’s eyes widen, fingers stilling in place. He wets his lips, flushing as Missa snaps his eyes to follow the motion.

“... Yeah,” he breathes, heartbeat in his throat. Yeah, why not? If they were doing this- if he was allowing Missa to do this, allowing himself to enjoy this, then… yeah. Why not?

Besides, Missa’s mouth was right there, pretty and pink and smeared with paint.

Those lips smile in gentle excitement as Missa leans in closer still. Resting his forehead against Philza’s, he reaches up, taking Phil’s hands from his face and pinning them to the pillows once more. They breathe each other’s air, noses bumping gently, Phil’s eyes fluttering with nerves as the quiet tension builds. It’s not clear who moves first - Missa closing the gap; Phil tilting his head up, neck craning - but the butterflies in their stomachs burst as they finally meet in the middle.

It’s a gentle press at first, warm and soft, with heartbeats fluttering in their throats. Philza’s lips are a little chapped, Missa notes, likely from anxious biting, whereas Missa’s are just as soft as Phil had expected. Soft breaths puff against each other’s cheeks as they move together, slow and cautious, lips pressing soft, parting, then pressing close again. Honestly, it’s not as frightening as Phil had thought. If anything, it’s familiar; someone he cares for, pressed warm and close, sharing space and breath. Missa’s weight against him is comforting, like a thick blanket on a winter night, and the hands around his wrists feel grounding rather than restrictive. It soothes him, and he slowly finds himself relaxing into the kiss. 

Not scary. Not scary at all. What had ever frightened him so much about this?

As for Missa, it’s everything he had been wanting and more. He’d fantasised about this, out there on his boat, bored between guiding souls and fishing up ghostly catches from the river of void. He’d missed his partner, longed to hear his voice and feel his presence, and had dreamed of the day he’d return to hold him close and finally kiss him. Now, it’s finally happening, his partner solid and warm beneath him. Real. Tangible; better than any of his daydreams. With eagerness, he presses firmer, tilts his head, lips slotting against Phil’s easier, making the man hum a soft note against him. He takes the encouragement, wanting more. So much more - as much as Phil will allow him.

Philza tries to reach for Missa (to touch, to hold, to card his fingers through silky black hair) but the fingers around his wrists constrict, pushing harder, holding down, a silent message to stay put. To stay right where he is as Missa parts his lips, warm breath fanning over his chin as a slick tongue prods at the seam of his mouth. A brief bolt of shock, hesitation, passes through Phil before fading. Slowly, he reciprocates, parting his lips and allowing Missa in. For a moment he thinks they’ll continue their gentle back and forth, but Missa cuts through that with a desperate groan. He moves to straddle Phil, never breaking contact as his tongue delves into his mouth, licking into his parted lips, pushing deeper. A hand releases one of Phil’s wrists to cup his face, fingers gently gripping at his jaw to hold him there, to open his mouth wider.

Phil can feel drool at the corner of his mouth, face burning at the slick noises of Missa licking greedily into the kiss. Shit, shit, holy shit, he thinks, struggling to get a breath in as Missa parts, gasps, and dives back in. Over and over, he devours him, licking at his teeth and sucking at his tongue as he tangles them together. It’s overwhelming, Missa bearing down on him, their shared body heat beginning to make him sweat. Too much, too much, his mind races, a high whine lodging in his throat, unwilling to let it out.

Missa lets go of Phil’s chin then, giving brief attention to one of his ears instead, playing with the little feathers and inwardly cooing as the small limb twitches and flicks. Moving on, he grips the back of Phil's hair, tugging, forcing his head back and groaning desperately at the new angle it gives him to kiss his partner. 

Face burning from the intensity and shortage of breath, Phil finally squeaks a noise, a realisation burning through him; Missa is practically fucking his mouth with his tongue. In and out, over and over, slick noises loud in his ears. Phil lifts his freed hand to clutch onto Missa, shaky fingers snagging at the edge of his cloak. It’s beginning to be more than he can take - not that he doesn’t enjoy this kind of thing, but it’s a lot to handle for a first kiss. He’d just begun to let himself want after Missa, emotions confused and shaky, and as much as he kind of likes this, he’d prefer to be led in a little slower. So, tightening his grip, he shoves at Missa, pushing him away just enough to get some space and some much needed air.

“Missa, fucking- chill!” he gasps, panting towards the ceiling, body burning up far too fast. Fucking hell, it’s like Missa threw a match into a goddamn fuel tank. Is he trying to kill him? Smothered with kisses, what a way to go.

“Pero te quiero, querido,” Missa whines, breaths coming just as fast, just as heavy. Spit is slicked around his mouth, face paint almost entirely stripped away. There’s a wild, infatuated look to him that Phil isn't quite sure what to put a name to. Until suddenly it clicks; Missa looks starved, attacking his mouth like a man would his last meal. At the very least, even as enthused as he is, he respects the distance Philza puts between them. Phil can feel the way his body shivers under his hand, straining not to push towards him again. The fingers in his hair shift and clench restlessly, tugging at his scalp. Phil places his free hand to Missa’s cheek, cupping the burning skin in his palm.

“Mate, you gotta slow down. Fucking hell, gimme a second to breathe at least,” Philza pants, swallows again, mouth filled with spit not entirely his own, and groans as he watches Missa fixate on the movement of his throat. “No- no,” he scolds, patting the man’s face, seeing those eyes clear slightly. “Slower Missa, alright? Fuck, this is my first-” he stumbles over his words, Missa’s eyes clearing fully, staring in rapt interest at what he has to say next. “I mean, with a guy, I… I’ve not…”

Missa’s eyes widen, lips parting.

“Don’t, just- It’s new, alright?” Phil whines, taking his hand back to cover his face.

It’s quiet for a moment, aside from their soft panting.

“S-Sorry, I got carried away,” Missa says, releasing the firm grip on his wrist. Phil peeks through his fingers and sees Missa smiling, apologetic. “Slower?” he says, nodding. Philza lowers his hand, huffing a laugh, and nods back.

“Yeah, slower,” he agrees, thankful, then raises his arms to hug Missa’s shoulders. “This is supposed to be relaxing, huh?” he says, quirking his brow and tugging Missa’s hair gently, admonishing.

“Lo siento,” Missa says, long and whining. That pries a giggle from his partner, which he joins in on, pressing their foreheads together again as Phil releases his hair, instead petting gentle fingers through the silky strands. As Phil’s fingers bump the mask still atop Missa’s head, he takes it in hand, tossing it aside and out of the way. It clatters somewhere along the floor. "Can I then…?" Missa asks, turning up the puppy-dog eyes as he lowers himself, pressing them chest to chest. He bumps his head into the hand carding through his hair, eyes squinting happily and humming a pleased note.

"Yeah, go on then," Phil rolls his eyes, sighing in faux exasperation. His following giggles are muffled by the return of gentle lips pressed to his own. Much less intense, much better - at least for now. Perhaps next time can be… That is to say, if there's a next time. If he enjoys this (which so far he is), maybe Missa can… 

Maybe next time he'll let Missa just… go. Maybe. Maybe.

He ignores the hot flush warming his ears, focusing instead on the kisses Missa pecks over his lips, the corners of his mouth, his cheeks, his chin.

"Missa," he giggles, soft as he tilts his head accordingly. He can feel lips smile against his skin. Streaks of face-paint are left behind along the path Missa takes, rubbing off from the reaper, but oh well. Phil can just wash off later. 

“Mi cuervito,” Missa replies, teasing. He shifts, moving down, lips trailing over Phil’s chin, jaw, then throat as Phil laughs, confused.

“What? What’s that one mean?” he questions, breath stuttering as he feels teeth nip the skin of his neck. He rests his hands on Missa’s shoulders as the other lowers himself, thumbs rubbing a self-soothing back-and-forth along his collarbones. 

“My little crow,” Missa murmurs against him in reply, lips pressed warm to the column of his throat, trailing open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach. These pet names just get stranger, Phil thinks fondly, then takes in a shuddering gasp as Missa latches onto him, sucking heat into his skin. Sharp teeth bite down into his flesh, a warm tongue lathing over the spot. Phil chokes on a groan, Missa humming a noise of interest in response, the scrape of his canines digging in harder. It feels close to puncturing, which shouldn’t excite Phil as much as it does. 

“What are you, a vampire?” he tries to joke, voice strained, then tenses, gasping sharply as Missa clamps down, sucking hard. “Missa-!” Phil cries, in protest; in delight. Regardless, he clings to Missa, fingers shaking as he holds onto his cloak. Teeth grit, he tries not to whine as Missa nibbles at the bruised skin, sucking gently and licking over the mark. Missa pulls away with a lingering peck, blowing a puff of air over the damp patch, sending a shiver through him.

“Twice, now,” Philza complains, feeling the ache in his neck burn, dull and throbbing. 

“They need to see,” Missa mutters, kissing his way along Phil's jugular, down towards his collarbones, nipping along them with sharp canines. 

“What…? Who the fuck is they? ” Philza sighs, thumping his head back against the pillows. He cards shaking fingers through Missa’s hair, tugging gently at each sharp bite of pain. Missa hesitates on an answer, then huffs a response against Phil's shoulder.

“Forever…” he mutters, petulant, grabbing at Phil's sides and squeezing. Phil shivers as fingers brush his ribs.

“Missa, c’mon man. I told you, it’s nothing,” he says, patting Missa’s head before tugging at his ear, scolding.

“It’s not nothing to him though,” Missa replies, looking up along Philza's chest, eyes burning with something dark. Phil swallows, understanding his meaning. Yeah, Forever may go a little bonkers if he ever sees the marks now decorating his skin. He's sure the other man would combust on the spot, or even throw himself off the wall again in a jealous fit.

“He’s not going to see them though, because I’m not going to show them, Missa,” he huffs, tugging sharply at dark hair. He’s sure his usual shirt has a high enough collar to cover them. Well, enough at least. Missa whines in complaint, frowning unhappily as he follows Phil's hand with a tilt of his head.

“Fine, but at least I will know of them,” he sighs, resuming his kissing, wriggling down to mouth at Phil's chest. Rolling his eyes at the pettiness, Philza resumes petting Missa’s hair, but raises an eyebrow as he bites at his pec. He’s not sure he’s particularly sensitive around his-

“Ahn-!”

Phil slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. Missa’s head shoots up to stare down at him, equally shocked, yet smiling in delight.

“Sensitive, querido?” he teases, smoothing a hand up over Phil’s side to cup his chest, squeezing gently.

“Shut,” Phil complains, muffled through his palm. He flushes brightly, turning his face away from Missa’s gaze. “You just surprised me. Didn’t know you were gonna do that shit,” he says, shuddering as a thumb grazes his nipple. 

Laughing softly, Missa leans back down, kneading the flesh in his grip, and parts his lips to take the pebbled bud into his mouth. Missa smiles as he feels Phil tense under his hands, arching slightly, a strained breath escaping him. His other hand joins the first, massaging at his chest as he swirls his tongue, biting gently at the raised flesh. He alternates between the two buds; twisting, plucking, and pulling at the one not currently occupying his mouth, rubbing his thumb over the spit-slicked skin and pressing down firmly. He lathes his tongue over the other, sucking dark marks around the outside, biting the sensitive bud between his teeth and tugging. The small noises Philza lets slip are music to his ears, breathy and strained. He can feel the other shaking beneath him, pressed as close as they are. Lifting his face, he admires the puffy chest in front of him, smeared with paint, dark bruises blooming over the reddened skin; decorative, like wreaths of flowers. A slight sheen of sweat covers Phil's chest. Impulsively, Missa licks up his sternum, meeting his eyes as he places a kiss at the centre, covering his heart. 

“Fucking hell, man,” Phil chokes out. Where the fuck had this come from? Where was the mild-mannered, silly man he knew? If he’d known Missa would be this intense - would practically be trying to eat him - he’d have had a few more reservations about letting this happen. But, he’s here now, burning up and aching, and like fuck he’s going to tell Missa to stop when it feels this good.

Missa just chuckles, ducking his head, almost bashful with the way his shoulders bunch towards his ears. He continues anyway, moving on from Phil's chest with a final squeeze to the soft muscle. Hands smooth down over Philza’s sides, stopping at his waist to hold on, fingers pressing divots into the skin. Missa noses along his stomach, trailing soft lips as he goes, and stops at his happy trail to press a kiss to his belly button, the pale hairs tickling his cheek. That pulls a giggle from Philza, stomach jumping with each note. Missa smiles at the sound, pressing firmer, breathing in against Phil's skin and squeezing his waist to hold him close. He loves the sound of Phil's laughter; from his small giggles, to his mischievous cackle, to his breathless squeaking. It’s a comfort to know the other is relaxed enough to laugh during this. It’s a delightful noise.

Ducking his head, Missa continues his journey along Philza's stomach. He stops at the scars littering his skin, pressing kisses to the marks and idly pondering the origin of each. His hands squeeze at plush skin, his lips parting to nip and suck at the softness of his stomach, feeling the muscles beneath jump and twitch against him. He traces a path lower and lower until a hand in his hair tugs gently, halting him. He stops, looking up at Phil and meeting his curious, flustered gaze. A silent conversation occurs between them, spoken through raised brows and meaningful looks. Phil is entirely certain this can’t be explained as platonic anymore. Sure, some people may have those kinds of arrangements, but not himself. He’s not so stupid as to lie to himself about his feelings when they’re this ‘in your face’ either. Missa tugs at Phil's waistband with his fingertips, staring with a silent question until Phil lets out a stuttered sigh, nodding once, face turning red as he accepts what he wants. What they both want.

"Okay…" he murmurs, twisting Missa's hair through his fingers. Missa nods against his stomach, eyes dropping to admire the spattering of small marks and bruises he’d bitten into him. He wants more. He wants to litter every inch of him with them. He wants to put his mouth to use in other places too; to help Phil relax in a much more desirable way. His mouth floods with saliva thinking about it. 

Swallowing thickly, Missa begins to work Philza's pants and boxers down over his hips. He can feel Phil's fingers nervously tangle with his hair, tugging at the strands, his other hand gripping and twisting at his shoulder, his cloak. 

“Wait…”

Missa freezes, looking up, and meets the gaze of a determined, if flushed, Philza.

“You just gonna stay dressed?” Phil mutters, tugging again at Missa’s cloak.

Missa blinks.

In a flash, he sits up, fumbling with the clasp. The speed of his actions draws a laugh from Philza, watching as Missa flings it from himself, the cloth landing in a dull thump somewhere on the floor. Smiling sheepishly, Missa leans in, planting a kiss on Phil and smothering his laughter into muffled giggles before he returns to his previous place, to Phil's displeasure.

“Really? Just the cloak?” Philza huffs. He rolls his eyes as Missa nods rapidly, nipping at his stomach again and shuffling down to nose at the line above his waistband. 

“Can’t wait,” Missa says distractedly, breath hot against his skin, pushing a hand beneath him to encourage his hips up as he works his bottoms the rest of the way off. The fabric drags down over his hips, his thighs, and Phil closes his eyes as the cool air of the room washes over his bared legs. The sound of more fabric dropping to the floor hits his ears as warm palms settle against his hips. Opening his eyes again, he peeks at Missa, preening as the other looks him over with adoring eyes. Honestly, he feels extremely exposed, goosebumps rising along his body. However, he trusts Missa - he wouldn’t have ever allowed things to get here if he didn’t. It’s just nerves talking, shivering through him as he wonders what his partner is thinking. He doesn’t have to wonder for long.

Missa dives back in, pressing a warm mouth to Phil’s hips, open-mouthed kisses leading into further marks bitten into his hip bones. It makes Phil jump, warmth pooling in his stomach as Missa hovers near his crotch. Not much attention had been paid to it, by himself or Missa, but his length lays against his thigh, lonely and obvious, half-hard since Missa’s devouring kiss. Out of the corner of his eye, Missa spots it, watching curiously as it twitches with each nip of teeth against flesh. His goal is in sight; no longer a far-off dream, kept between himself and his hand during lonely evenings.

“I want to blow you,” he says, plain in his desires, spoken between sucking wet marks into Phil's hip bones. A choked groan leading into a quiet, reedy whine is his answer, Phil shifting beneath him, pressing his thighs together. 

“Missa… you can’t just say shit,” Phil huffs, arms folded over his face, wings thumping gently into Missa’s sides.

“Is that a no, cariño?” Missa questions, a teasing smile on his face.

“No, yeah- I mean-” 

“Habla claro por favor, mi cuervito, I can’t understand-”

“Yes, please- fuck me, man,” Phil hisses, taking his arms from his face to aim a pouting frown at Missa. Despite the typical exclamation from Phil, Missa’s pupils blow wide, black smothering gold until only a slim ring remains around the edge.

“Okay, gladly…” 

“Shut. I didn’t mean it like that,” 

“I know,” Missa shrugs, laughing a soft noise, and moves to his hands to hold onto Phil's thighs. The plush skin gives easily beneath his fingertips, the muscles firm, pale hairs downy and soft. Moving to cup the backs of his knees, Missa lifts Phil's legs, settling them to hook over his shoulders as he positions himself further down the bed. Phil holds onto the covers, eyes wide, but doesn’t protest. If anything, he looks curious - eager. The warm length perking to life near Missa’s cheek tells him as much. 

Ducking his head, Missa presses a kiss to the inside of Phil's thigh, nipping gently at the sensitive skin. Looking through his fringe, he checks in once more.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Y-yeah,” Phil responds, legs flexing around Missa’s ears.

“Alright,” Missa nods.

Rather than diving straight in, he nuzzles into the crease between hip and thigh, smiling as Philza gives a quiet huff. Lips parted, he kisses around where Philza obviously wants his attention, finding quiet joy in the way he shifts impatiently as he inches closer, pubic hairs tickling against his nose. With Phil's thighs supported by his shoulders, Missa lets go of one to finally close a gentle grip around him, fingers loose as he gives a stroke from root to tip. The careful touch draws a shaky sigh and full-body shudder from Phil, with each pass gradually coaxing him to full hardness, sitting hot and full in Missa’s palm. Missa knows what would make the glide a little easier though, and gently taps Philza's hip, gaining his attention. He points to the vial of oil. Phil passes it over wordlessly, nodding, seeming to want Missa to get on with it. Uncorking the bottle, Missa pours a little into his palm, then sets the bottle next to Phil's hip as he puts his hands back on him. He works his hand over Phil's cock, tugging in long, smooth strokes that have his thighs shaking around his head. 

As Philza shifts impatiently beneath him, hips stuttering against the desire to push up, Missa finally decides to stop teasing. He ducks his head, mouthing along the length of his dick, licking a hot trail over the underside before delivering a wet kiss to the damp tip. Parting pretty pink lips, he takes Phil into his mouth and sinks down, feeling it thick and warm against his tongue, and watches with pleasure as Phil grips at the sheets and squirms.  

Try to see anyone else do this, he thinks, proud and greedy of his accomplishment. Try to see anyone even get close. 

Mouth filling with spit, Missa sucks wetly, bobbing his head back and forth, taking Phil in deeper each time. He tries not to go too far, knowing that Philza would only panic and worry if he were to choke, ruining the mood. Though, choking on his dick does appeal to Missa. Perhaps he can convince Phil to let him in the future…

Pulling back, he carefully grazes teeth over the length, pausing to hold just the tip in his mouth. Swirling his tongue against the slit, he strokes his oil-slicked hand over the rest, listening to the wet click of skin against skin. Phil twitches in his mouth, and he soon tastes precum, dripping steadily against his tongue, his mouth and nose filling with musk. Swallowing down the bitter taste, he groans as he pushes back down, taking Phil in deeply. He grinds his hips into the bed below him, his own burning erection purposefully neglected in favour of pleasing his partner. Looking up along Phil's Body, he drinks in the sight of him, and the absolute mess he’d made of his torso. Bites, marks, and bruises litter Philza’s skin between smears of greasepaint and shining streaks of saliva. Missa wants to burn the image into his brain permanently; wants to hold the throbbing length in his mouth and hear Philza’s soft noises forever.

Overwhelmed by Missa’s talented mouth, Phil tilts his head up against the pillows, chest heaving, breaths hissing between his teeth as hot waves of pleasure roll through his stomach. He tries his absolute best not to thrust up into the velvety heat, forcing his hips to still against the bed. Sweaty fingers twist into the sheets, knuckles turning white. He can feel spit leaking out from between Missa’s lips, dripping down his length and along his balls. Wet slurps and swallows sound from between his legs, Missa taking in shaky breaths through his nose. The noises make his ears burn, driving him closer and closer to the edge as Missa hums and moans around him. He’s not had a handjob, let alone a blowjob, in so long - nor enjoyed himself like this either. Since coming to the island, he’d simply taken care of things in a cursory and practised manner, hurrying through his own release just to get it out of the way. There was always something more important to do; some task or project that was more urgent than his own pleasure. Now though, Missa seems determined to wring every ounce from him, slow and methodical. Where Missa had learned to do this was a mystery to Phil, but he was beyond caring enough to ask, the blood thrumming in his ears drowning out any thoughts.

Missa works his hand down then, briefly rolling Phil's balls in hand, before passing lower and brushing a hesitant thumb over his entrance. Philza startles, tensing up, and pushes himself onto shaking arms to look down at Missa. If it weren’t for the sudden shock, he may have come on the spot at the sight of the other between his legs, lips pursed around his cock, blown-out eyes shining up at him.

“Woah, Missa,” he pants between heaving breaths. “I don’t know if that’s, uh, something I’d like?”

Missa blinks, then pulls back, sucking along Phil’s dick until the tip leaves his mouth, a strand of saliva and precum connecting it to his lips. He pokes his tongue out, licking it away, and almost laughs as he meets Phil's wide-eyed stare, his face flushed beet-red.

“If you don’t want to, I won’t, mi amor. It does feel good though,” Missa shrugs, gently stroking Phil as he speaks, enjoying the way his stomach tenses in response.

“... You’ve done it?” Phil asks quietly. At Missa’s bashful nod, he glances away, swallowing as he thinks.

“... I promised to be gentle, no?” Missa says, seeing the indecision on Philza's face, feeling the spit on his fingers beginning to cool. He doesn't want to coerce or convince Phil of anything, fully willing to respect his limits, but he has to admit that watching Phil come apart on his fingers has been a weeks-long fantasy of his. Besides, as if he could convince Phil of something he truly didn’t want. As if anyone could. The man’s stubbornness was infamous.

“... Okay. Okay, I’ll- I’ll give it a go. Remember what I said about saying ‘stop’ though,” Philza warns, settling down against the pillows again. 

“I remember, of course. I won’t hurt you,” Missa promises, nodding, cheek pressed to Phil's thigh. He wants to help Philza, not harm him. That would be entirely counterproductive to being a better partner.

Continuing where he left off, Missa returns his attention to Phil’s dick, leaning down and parting his lips to take him in again. Humming around him, he sucks gently as he focuses elsewhere, his hands drifting to cup Phil's ass, thumbs gently pressing his cheeks apart. Feeling him tense again, Missa bobs his head, hoping to distract Philza from any discomfort. He reaches out blindly, searching, until his fingers bump into the oil bottle laying on the bed. Once retrieved, he pours more oil into his hand, taking a moment to warm it as best he can. Slowly, to avoid startling Phil again, he brushes a slick fingertip against his entrance. Philza squeezes his eyes shut, cheeks burning as he braces himself. He can’t believe he’s letting Missa do this, but… he has always been curious. Just not brave enough to do it alone, afraid of injuring something.

The fingertip against his rim rubs in small circles, pressing gently, back and forth, until slowly pushing in, breaching the tight ring. Philza can feel his body react, tensing up, rejecting the sensation. The shock of it doesn’t allow him to feel much, so he takes a moment to just breathe quietly, forcing himself to relax. After a moment or two, he calms, settling into the bedsheets and actually registering what he feels. It's not bad, per-se, but not good either. It's just odd; an intrusion - uncomfortable and unfamiliar. 

Basically, it feels like there's a finger in his asshole. Not terrible though, as he'd feared. No pain at all.

Finally, he opens his eyes, braving a look at Missa. The reaper gazes back at him, eyes lidded, holding his cock in his mouth as he waits for Phil's verdict. He gives a small nod, giving the go-ahead, his dick twitching with interest. In response, Missa pushes in deeper, slick and slow, until the knuckles of his hand brush against his rim. Okay, that feels different. Fuller, he supposes; hitting nerves he wasn't aware of, lighting up within him. Missa can feel his walls twitch and tense around his digit, and as promising as it is, he yet again waits for Philza to let out a shaky sigh, giving a nod before he continues.

Eager now at the permission, Missa swallows around him, tongue rubbing along the underside of his dick as he works him open. He stretches him gradually, pressing carefully, aware of Phil's inexperience and not wanting any discomfort for him. With the help of a little more oil he slowly pushes a second finger in, sliding it in snug against the first. Phil can feel each knuckle enter him, pressing one after the other against his rim, dragging as they slide inward. He muffles a noise behind tightly pressed lips, shifting at the stretch of a new intrusion, pressing up into the wet heat of Missa's mouth involuntarily. 

Twisting and scissoring his fingers in practised motions, Missa searches for the spot that will prove that this is worth it; that will bring his partner a pleasure previously unknown. He knows he's succeeded as Philza clenches down on his fingers, a quiet, keening noise bubbling from his chest, wings fluttering and thumping into the bed. 

Found it, Missa thinks, rather smug. He tries not to feel too giddy at being the first to do this for him. To him.

Focusing, he massages that spot, rubbing small circles in between scissoring his fingers apart, stretching Phil out further. His partner squirms, choking down muffled noises as Missa amps up his attention. He starts thrusting his fingers, in and out, slow and careful. His motions are unhurried, taking the time to build up the speed and pleasure for Philza. It would be a bit much to pile it on him all at once, though the temptation is certainly there. Gradually, he picks up the pace, the motion making a wet, sucking noise that burns through his ears. Crooking his fingers, he aims at that spot over and over, making stars burst behind Phil’s eyes. The cock in his mouth leaks steadily at the stimulation, which he licks up and swallows down gladly. Phil’s hips start bucking in confused motions, seeming unsure whether to push deeper into Missa’s mouth, or press down onto the fingers fucking him open. Not wanting to choke, Missa holds him still with his free hand, fingers digging into the soft flesh at his sides. He takes Phil in deeper, throat spasming around him but holding strong, thrusting his fingers faster with slick noises of suction. 

Phil starts to cry out in small stuttering noises as his thighs close around Missa’s head. His stomach burns with pleasure, zipping like electricity up his spine and shaking through his legs. Each motion from Missa’s fingers punches a breath from him, the tongue swirling around his cock and sucking him down rhythmically making him gasp and whine. Missa’s ears ring pleasantly at the noise, memorising each one he manages to wring from Philza, until the legs around his ears fully snap shut, muffling everything. He feels Phil throb in his mouth, and sucks in an excited breath through his nose, doubling down on his actions. 

“Mi-Missa- ah!” Philza tries to choke out a warning, but fails. He bucks against Missa’s hold, head throwing back as the burning knot of pleasure in his stomach snaps. Sparks dance behind his eyes, vision going white as he loses control of himself. He can feel himself making noise, vibrating rough in his throat, crying out as he releases into Missa’s mouth. He clenches down on the fingers pressed deep inside him, still thrusting against that same spot, massaging him through wave after wave of pleasure. His thoughts, usually loud, rapid, and overunning each other, are scattered and blown away. 

Missa swallows down each spurt of cum that hits his throat, satisfaction purring in his chest with each roll of Phil’s hips. Eventually, Philza's legs relax enough to rest against Missa’s shoulders again, shaking. Only then does Missa realise how loud he’d made Phil become, the other’s cries filling every space of the small room. At first, Missa’s satisfaction grows, until a bolt of panic shoots through him. The basement is partially soundproofed; Chayanne is a deep sleeper and Tallulah has her earplugs in, but any loud noise could still wake them. 

Missa wipes at his mouth as he quickly pulls off of Philza, swallowing excess spit and cum. He clears his throat as he pushes himself up, letting Phil’s legs drop from his shoulders.

“Philza, too loud! Tranquilo, tesoro!” Missa exclaims in a hushed whisper, slapping a hand over Phil’s mouth. He watches him arch, back bowing off the bed, whining a shaky moan into the palm of his hand while struggling to open his eyes. He makes a pretty picture, flushed and sweating and teary-eyed, but while Missa very much enjoys the view, he needs a way to keep him quiet. Deciding quickly, he darts in, replacing his hand with his mouth, licking into parted lips and swallowing down desperate noises. Phil can taste himself on Missa’s tongue, and while bitter and unpleasant, he can’t deny the shudder of pleasure it adds to the aftershocks wracking his body. He can feel spit cooling on his dick, twitching weakly against his stomach as Missa fingers him through it, thrusting absently.

Eventually, Missa stills his fingers, pulling them slowly from his loose hole. Philza shudders, feeling the drag, and cringing as he twitches down there, clenching on nothing. It feels strange and empty now. 

“Good, mi amor?” Missa asks gently, parting from Phil’s lips and letting him catch his breath. Warm palms settle on Phil’s sides, squeezing reassuringly, then stroking soothing paths up and down his skin. Phil sighs out shakily, swallowing to wet his dry throat, and blinks rapidly to meet Missa’s caring gaze. Was it good? He wonders to himself, collecting his scattered thoughts. 

“Y-yeah,” he replies, as shaky as his legs now feel. Seriously, it’s like his muscles are made of jelly now. “Where the fuck did you learn to do that?” he huffs a tired laugh, closing his eyes again as he settles his head against the pillows.

“Not important,” Missa shrugs, raising a hand to pet over Phil’s heated cheek. 

The two share a moment of quiet, Missa allowing Phil to digest what just happened while admiring the sight of the other man. That was insane, Philza thinks to himself, his usual thoughts beginning to creep their way back in. He turns them over, examining how he feels; how things might change between him and Missa now, and how this changes things for himself. What does this make him? What does this make them?  

Missa can see the crease beginning to settle between Phil’s eyebrows once more. That won’t do, he frowns to himself. Obviously, he’d not done a good enough job. Obviously, there’s more to be done. 

Also, he’s tried his best to ignore it, he really has, but eventually the burning ache in his own pelvis gets the best of him. Subtly, he grinds his hips into Philza’s leg as he leans down, speaking quietly into his ear.

“I can hear you think, Philza - not good. You can go another round, no?” he says, fingers trailing down his partner’s body. He passes by his crotch entirely, instead lifting one of Phil’s legs to reach around, prodding gently at his entrance again. Sucking in a breath, Phil tenses, opening his eyes to meet Missa’s. Another!?  Wait, was Missa still hard? Had he not…?

“... I’m-I’m not sure I can? I’ve not really tried, uh, multiple before,” he mumbles, thoughts bouncing wildly. Could he even manage such a thing? But Missa was still hard, and after all the attention, he did feel a little bad leaving his partner high and dry like that. “I guess I can try,” he concedes, considering the bulge in Missa’s pants with nervous trepidation. He’s not sure how to reciprocate, but he can give it a go, he supposes.

Before he can reach for Missa’s belt though, his wrists are gathered into a gentle hold and raised above his head. 

“Missa, what…?” he says, confused. Was that not what Missa meant?

“I’m not done with you yet, querido,” Missa coos, shifting his grip to hold onto him one-handed.

“That’s cheesy as fuck,” Phil scoffs, but blushes all the same, feathers fluffing. He twists his wrists, testing Missa’s hold, and is surprised at the strength behind his bones as Missa tightens his grip.

“Maybe,” Missa laughs, reaching back down with his free hand to circle his fingertips over Philza’s entrance. “Lift your legs, mi amor?” he asks, nudging at a thigh. Heart fluttering, Phil does as asked, lifting his legs to give space for Missa to reach easier. “Spread them?” Missa requests further, a small smirk on his lips.

“Oh-kay!” Phil flusters, knocking his leg into Missa in admonishment. Giggling, sheepish, Missa smiles at Phil, nosing against his cheek and pressing a kiss to his temple. Phil just huffs, rolling his eyes, but can’t stop the smile pulling at his mouth. “Alright…” he sighs, slowly opening his legs wider, feeling exposed but comfortable with Missa against him.

Happy, Missa ducks to nip at Philza’s jaw, then kisses along until their lips meet again. Phil hums into the kiss, then huffs a soft breath through his nose, feeling two fingers prod at his entrance. Slowly, the digits sink back into him, slick and smooth. Phil flushes at the ease, at how wet and stretched he is down there. Still, it’s better that it be easy than painful. 

Missa’s wrist brushes against his dick, sparking dull tingles of arousal as the reaper begins to rock his fingers in and out of him. Again, Phil isn’t sure he can manage another round, but he’s at least willing to let Missa try. For whatever reason, the reaper seems happy smothering him with attention, which he’d normally find suffocating, but from Missa it’s just… nice. He likes making Missa happy in turn, so if he wants to do this, then Phil will indulge him. 

At least until it gets awkward, or uncomfortable.

After a moment of careful thrusting, he feels another fingertip begin to prod at his rim. It’s a little daunting, already feeling so full with just the two, but he trusts Missa to stop or pull back at the first sign of discomfort. So, he allows it, feeling pressure, then a slick digit slide in to join the others. For the first time, there’s a slight burn to the stretch, his entrance fluttering. It’s a pleasant burn though. Phil shifts his hips, adjusting to it, and sighs against Missa’s cheek as the feeling settles through him. 

Missa fingers him slow and steady, pressing in deep as he aims once more for his prostate. It aches pleasantly, overstimulating pleasure zipping through his stomach, his legs shaking with each thrust. Gradually, Missa picks up the pace, knuckles catching at his rim as he jerks his fingers in firm motions. In contrast, his kisses are soft, biting at swollen lips with a pleased hum. Phil can feel Missa rut against him in time to the thrust of his fingers, his length hot against his side through his pants. The evidence of Missa’s own arousal makes him hum of soft noise, preening inwardly that his partner feels so affected without having been touched himself. 

Despite Philza’s doubts, slowly the pleasure builds. Sharp and aching, Missa begins to fuck his fingers into him harshly, almost bruising. Phil arches, bucking against the hands holding him down by the wrists, thighs tense and shaking. With each push, he can feel his soft dick twitch, beginning to harden again through force. He whines into Missa’s mouth, moans muffled, then sucks in a sharp breath as he feels something strange. It almost feels like he’s going to piss, which alarms him. He almost pushes Missa off, but another twitch from his dick surprises him, feeling something pulse from him shortly, dribbling warm against his hip. Then again. And again, with each thrust, pushing warmth from him, forcing his cock to throb and leak as it steadily hardens.

“Missa, wait-” he gasps, turning his face away from the other, breaking their kiss. Missa whines, chasing for a moment, before he pauses. Phil looks alarmed yet beet-red with arousal, staring down at himself. Missa follows his gaze curiously, and gapes at what meets him.

“So wet…” Missa murmurs, amazed, eyeing the precum weeping steadily from Phil's cock, gathering into a small pool on his stomach. “So wet, mi amor. Asombroso. Eres asombroso,” 

“Missa- ' Phil whines in complaint, face burning. He’s cut off as Missa claims his mouth once more, biting at his lips and sucking at his tongue. Those talented fingers slip out of him for a moment, leaving him bereft and moaning a complaint against Missa’s lips. He feels Missa shift against him, rocking the bed, and hears fabric rustling. The fingers then slip back inside, deep and snug, while Phil feels something burning hot and firm press against his side. He’s at a loss until Missa rocks against him, damp spreading over his skin, Missa moaning into his mouth and biting at his lips. 

Ah. Missa got his cock out. 

The thought should not be affecting him as badly as it does.

He whines anyway, high and needy, shaking in Missa’s hold. His hole sucks Missa’s fingers in, squishing lewdly as he fucks them into him, firm and rough. A mounting pressure builds in his stomach, growing with each stab to his prostate.

“W-Wait, fuck-” he gasps against Missa’s lips.

It’s different. Building sharper, more intense, curling tight and low and aching in his gut.

“It’s okay, cuervito, let it go,”

“Fuck- it’s feels-?”

“I know, darling. Let go,”

“Fuck-!” Phil gasps, eyes watering, throwing his head back as the burning ache reaches its peak. His stomach flutters, walls pulsing around Missa’s fingers as his cock spurts over his stomach, warm and dripping, adding to the mess he’d already made of himself. Missa is ready for it, darting in to smother Phil’s cries, muffling and swallowing them between kisses. He fingers him roughly through it, walls clenching and sucking at his digits, milking him through every pulse. He can feel Philza shaking harshly against him, pressed close and rutting against his side, his own precum smearing Phil’s skin. As the last drops weep from Phil’s cock, Missa pulls his fingers free, scrabbling at Phil’s sides and smearing damp patches of oil over his feathers accidentally.

It’s too much, all at once. He’s burning up, having watched his beloved come apart over and over, the rutting friction against his cock riling him up further. He wants- he needs-

“Please, Philza, my love- I’ve been good. Please let me, por- por favor déjame hacerlo-!” Missa begs, gasping wetly against Phil’s shoulder, hips thrusting along his stomach, cockhead dragging through the puddle of cum. “Puedo ponerlo? Por favor? Please, puedo correrme dentro?” 

The translator is lost somewhere in his clothes, far away, strewn on the floor, but Phil can gather what Missa wants from his sheer desperation. Loose, fucked-out, and floating as he is, Philza thinks he can manage it. For Missa, at least. The man has been more than good to him. Time to return the favour.

Besides, after the pleasure wrung from him with just his fingers, Philza can admit he’s curious what having Missa inside him properly will feel like. The thought no longer scares him; no longer seems so daunting. 

Shakily, he nods, turning his head to press a kiss to Missa’s burning cheek. Hands freed, he lowers them to hug around Missa’s shoulders, grounding himself. His hole twitches, feeling empty without Missa inside.

“Thank you! Thank you - gracias, te amo-!” Missa gasps, pressing his open mouth to Phil’s desperately, barely a kiss. He rushes to sit up, hunching over and palming at his own crotch, pushing his pants further down his hips. Philza spies dark curls framing a painfully red and weeping cock, before Missa’s hand covers it, curling wet fingers around himself as he shuffles closer to Phil’s hips.

Dazed and shaking, Phil barely registers what was said to him, blinking overwhelmed tears from his eyes. His chest squeezes as he realises, brain short-circuiting, lips numb as he tries to form words. Feelings get caught in his throat, his brain stumbling on what to say; on how to respond. He finds he can’t. Not right now, at least. It’s all too new; too sudden. It’s all he can manage to shift his hips, part his thighs wider, welcoming Missa towards him. To enter him.

“C’mon…” he murmurs, lifting weak legs to hook his thighs loosely around Missa’s hips. 

Missa thumbs the head of his dick, pressing it to the slick gape of Philza's hole. He pushes - once, twice - slipping, before catching properly, sliding in slow and steady, a groan vibrating lowly through his chest. As he sinks into that tight heat, he leans down, curling himself around Philza, arms locking around his chest to hold him tight. So warm, so good, Missa thinks, rocking his hips and enjoying the small moans the motion draws out of Phil. 

Their hearts beat wildly, thrumming steady between their chests. Phil finds his breaths coming short, the previous release still shivering through him. Missa wheezes in his ear as he pulses around his length. He gasps, shuddering, as Missa bottoms out. Hips pressed against the backs of his thighs, a firm weight against his rear, it feels so deep within him. It’s so thick, so much thicker than fingers, settling hot and heavy in his gut.

“Mi amor, can I…?” Missa grits out, shuddering against him with paper-thin restraint.

“Yeah, go for it,” he responds, quiet, voice rough.

A shallow thrust rocks into him. Then another. Then another. Phil huffs with each movement, little punched-out breaths that steadily grow in volume as Missa picks up the pace. Soon, he’s groaning behind grit teeth, trying to stay as quiet as he can while he’s stretched out, over and over, by the thick length drilling into him. Missa pauses, groaning roughly as he readjusts his position, shifting his knees wider, lowering his hips. He thrusts in then, long and deep, enjoying the choked moan from Philza before he resumes his previous speed, pistoning his hips into him. The slap of skin-on-skin joins the creaking of the bed throughout the room, punctuated by muffled noises of pleasure.

As Missa ruts into Phil, hugging him tight, panting open-mouthed and hot into his shoulder, his thoughts fog over with one train of thought. Don’t replace me. Don’t abandon me. Love me. Love me. 

“Te amo, Philza, te amo-!”

Phil can barely think straight, let alone respond. He hugs Missa back tightly instead, eyes squeezed shut against the absolute overstimulation assaulting his nerves. His insides ache, burning and sparking on the edge of discomfort, a wave of pleasure rolling sickeningly through his gut with each thrust against that oversensitive spot inside him. He’s certain he’s not even hard anymore; couldn’t possibly be. His dick lays soft against his stomach, leaking slowly. He doesn’t want Missa to stop though. It feels awful. It feels amazing.

He bites his lip, sealing away any potentially embarrassing noises. Shaky breaths still escape his nose unbidden though, choked little huffs that stutter and shiver with each thrust into him. His eyes well with tears, spilling beneath closed lids onto heated cheeks as the sharp pressure builds and builds and builds. The feeling is dreadful in its overwhelming pleasure, sharp jolts that almost hurt with their intensity as they zip through his gut. 

It's like nothing he's ever felt before. 

It's nauseating. It's heat and warmth and friction and fullness-

Until Missa suddenly stops.

Phil lets out a wounded noise, a wretched little gasp as he releases his lip, tasting blood, and sobs, tears spilling over faster. They feel almost cool against his heated skin. Hands cup his cheeks as he hiccups, Missa's worried gaze filling his clouded vision as thumbs gently wipe his tears away.

"Philza- mi amor? Are you okay? I'm not hurting you, am I...?" Missa asks, breaths heaving, eyes wild with lust, yet his brow creased with concern. 

It’s appreciated, and his stomach swoops with affection, but-

"No- fuck, why did you stop-!?" he gasps roughly, hands reflexively reaching out to clutch at Missa's arms, his shirt - anything in reach - tugging insistently with aching fingers.

Missa's eyes widen in shock, staring brazenly at the sight below him. Flushed features framed by a halo of golden hair; hazy eyes pleading through overwhelmed tears; lips bitten, swollen, puffy, and slowly oozing blood.

With the intimidating figure Philza usually poses, it would be difficult to imagine the man as anything but collected and composed at all times. But Missa had done this; had gotten the other to this point. The rare, privileged sight he witnesses below him has him unable to think of much more than one word.

Cute.

Cute cute cute cute cute-

Missa swallows, feeling Phil's walls squeeze around him as he hiccups and shifts his hips, trying to get the other to move again. Wet and warm and tight and pulsing-  

“Como desees, querido,” he mutters roughly, diving back in, clutching Philza tight against him.

Fingernails drag burning lines across his shoulderblades as he resumes fucking into his partner, reckless and drowning in the feeling of him. The slide just gets wetter with each thrust, his cock dripping precum inside his beloved. Phil whines high in his ear, burning through his skull, driving him to move harder, faster . The tight passage sucks at his cock, pulling him back in as he pulls out. Phil can feel Missa twitch inside him, throbbing, his hips beginning to stutter as he races to his own finish. Sharp teeth graze his shoulder, hot breath coating his skin as Missa moans.

“I-Inside or out-?” Missa chokes out, staving off the release he can feel rushing to greet him.

“Fuck it- in. In!”

“Are you sure-?”

“Yes, Missa-!” Phil cries, pain bursting along his neck as teeth sink into him. Hips slap against his own, jerking, as he feels warmth spurt inside him. Missa drives his cock in deep, filling his partner, coating his insides. He grinds his hips against Phil, drawing it out, whining as blood fills his mouth. Phil can feel wave after wave of cum spurt inside him; a new and interesting sensation, to be sure. The thought of Missa claiming him so fully - covering him with bites and bruises and seed - sends him over the edge one final time. He shivers through another orgasm, Missa’s cock grinding deep inside him, pushing a weak dribble of cum from his cock as he moans brokenly.

Latched onto his shoulder, Missa sucks at the wound he’d bitten into him. He rocks his hips gently, milking his cock into Philza as he comes down from his high. Slowly, he pulls his teeth free, lapping his tongue over the blood apologetically as Phil hisses a soft noise. For a moment, he stays buried there, enjoying the warmth and closeness. Eventually, he backs away though, pulling out of his partner.

Or, he tries to, at least.

Shaking fingers clutch at him, drawing him back into a warm embrace, shaking thighs holding their hips together. Meeting Phil’s gaze, he’s greeted with tired eyes staring him down, swimming with quiet affection. He sinks into the hold, circling his arms around Philza tighter. Settling down, they both sigh out, breathing quietly into each other’s space. Missa wipes the remaining tears from Phil’s eyes, murmuring an apology, only to be met with a soft don’t be daft. They exchange careful kisses, brushing swollen lips together as their actions settle into place in their minds, and their bodies recover from their high.

“Missed you…” Philza admits, his chest tight with too many emotions to voice. He’s unaware just how much relief that one simple phrase brings to his partner.

“Missed you,” Missa parrots back, resting their foreheads together, rubbing his nose against Philza’s. He pets gentle palms over Phil’s sides - his arms, his thighs - comforting and grounding for the other man. Phil shivers, sighing out the adrenaline, his heartbeat slowing by the minute. He pets through Missa’s mess of hair, offering the same comfort.

Eventually, he pats at Missa, nodding for him to move back. Missa pulls away slowly, his softened length sliding free. He sits for a moment, fingers pulling at Phil’s entrance, admiring his seed dripping steadily from his puffy entrance. He’s tempted to push his fingers through it, to stuff it back inside and plug Phil full of it, but an unimpressed gaze stops him. He settles for the purr of satisfaction in his chest from marking him up and claiming him in the first place.

Patting a thigh, Missa stands, turning to start pulling his shirt over his head. Philza watches quietly, eyelids drooping. He feels boneless, somehow sinking into the bed yet weightless at the same time. Everything aches pleasantly, his thoughts calm and silent. The sound of rustling fabric makes him aware his eyes fell shut, but he can’t find the energy to open them again. A warm palm returns to his thigh, the touch gentle. He hums a questioning note, but is shushed, the bed creaking with Missa’s movements. Missa’s presence returns between his legs, soft fabric following him, tickling against his skin. Philza shudders as it brushes against his entrance, Missa gently cleaning him off. Continuing up his body, Missa wipes away the sticky fluids clinging to his skin. Cracking his eyes open, Phil notes that Missa is using his own cloak for the task. His heart swells, finding it strangely endearing.

The sounds of fabric hitting the floor follows Missa throwing the cloak aside, job finished. He then crawls back over to Phil’s side, tucking the other against him, curling his limbs around him comfortingly. Protectively. Philza sighs, content, and presses into the warmth of Missa’s chest. A blanket is drawn over the both of them by the reaper, who then settles down, nuzzling into the top of Phil’s head, breathing softly into his hair.

It doesn’t take long for them both to drift off, out like a light.

======

The distant sound of a crow cawing slowly rouses Philza from sleep. It almost sounds like laughter, mocking in tone, which Phil wrinkles his nose at as he pushes further into the warmth under his cheek.

The previous night’s activities slowly return to him, seeping in slowly like molasses. His eyes shoot open, feathers puffing in embarrassment, until he catches sight of Missa. The reaper breaths softly next to him, features still and peaceful. Phil stares, looking over the smeared face paint, long eyelashes, and mussed hair. Eventually, he calms, his racing heart beginning to slow as he settles back down. In his sleep, Missa hums, arms hugging around him tighter. Phil can’t help the soft huff that escapes him, amused and comforted. It’s just Missa. After everything, it’s just Missa. No matter what happens to their relationship now, or what sort of internal crisis this causes, he has a feeling they’ll be okay in the end. Though, they have much to discuss.

For now, he curls a wing over them both, intent on enjoying a lazy morning spent in bed. His body is loose and relaxed, aching only in certain areas that makes him flush. Otherwise, Missa had worked wonders to his sore muscles. He hasn’t woken so rested in ages.

“Philza…?” comes a sleepy mumble, the reaper rubbing at his eye with a small smile. Phil thinks for a moment, staring at that smile, at the soft image of the other waking. He hesitates, breath hitching, before his decision solidifies.

“... G’morning, sweetheart,” he replies.

Those golden eyes widen up at him, shining bright.