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stevebabey · 2 years

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part one. the same cw applies as part one (cw: past sexual coercion is implied) thank u for any & all kind comments <3 hopin to deliver on the angsty hurt/comfort front >:/

“I’m sorry.”

It’s not exactly how he planned to start his whole apology speech but it’s as good a start as any. Steve is glad he says it. Eddie’s entire character softens just a bit hearing it, his shoulders relaxing to sit a little lower, like maybe, he was afraid Steve had come by to argue some more.

For a moment, they stare at each other until Eddie seems to realise he’s blocking the entrance. He jolts just a bit and side steps, beckoning Steve to come inside.

Good start. Steve steps forward and the subsequent rustle from behind his back reminds him of what’s in his hands. He pulls them out from their hiding spot and offers them out with only a marginally awkward cough. “Uh, first, these are for you.”

In his hands are blue hydrangeas, 3 of them, and the bag containing a mixtape and a multitude of Eddie’s favourite candies.

Eddie’s reaction isn’t… quite the usual. He doesn’t swoon or snap up the gifts out of Steve’s hands like Tilly and other girlfriends had. He doesn’t smile either, just eyes then silently. Steve feels a roll of worry tangle up his stomach.

After a moment, Eddie takes them. Steve follows him, taking the trailer stairs two at a time to keep watch on what Eddie will do. It’s a surprise then to watch them get placed to the side, flowers and gift bag dumped down on the Munson’s cluttered dining table. Eddie doesn’t even attempt a peek into the bag, which, well, for Eddie says a lot.

Moving his gaze from their discarded state to Eddie, Steve finds himself pinned down by Eddie’s waiting stare, his arms crossed tight over his chest. He’s waiting for Steve to speak. Right, it’s time to face the music.

Steve chances a quick glance down at the smudged bullet points on his palm. It suddenly feels too wooden for what Steve really wants to say, too constructed, too much what he thought Eddie wanted to hear.

And besides, Eddie hadn’t reacted as expected in the first instance, the forgotten gifts put to the side. Steve shoves his hand deep in his pocket and goes instead with exactly what he’s feeling.

“Okay, um. Look, I didn’t mean what I said. I- I know that was, I— my parents came home that night.”

None of it is coming out right, stammers on every word. Steve curses himself under his breath and wills himself to continue. Knows if it was Eddie apologising it would be poetic and sweet, all the right words in all the right order.

“I’m not— It’s not an excuse,” Steve shakes his head, tries to string together one single coherent fucking sentence. “I’m sorry. Sorry that I didn’t pick you up. And- and I’m sorry for what I said, I didn’t mean it. Really, it’s- I don’t think that of you. I’m sorry if I made you think I did.”

Eddie nods, though his clenched jaw gives away he’s not entirely peachy just yet.

“Robin told me about your parents being home. And yeah, it wasn’t cool what you said.” He agrees and Steve’s stomach turns. “But I wasn’t exactly fair either, getting all up in your face about it, so I’m sorry for that.”

Steve blinks, surprised; an apology was the last thing he’d expected to come out of Eddie’s mouth.

“I’m still a bit hurt,” Eddie admits, arms folding across his chest in a defensive motion. Steve hates how he seems to be curling in on himself, so obviously hating to admit aloud that Steve’s words had cut so deep. “But y’know, I know now that you were wound up from your parents being home. So, you’re, like, forgiven I guess.”

...Huh, okay. Usually, forgiveness comes after the grovelling, Steve thinks. Not as easily granted as Eddie is seemingly giving him now.

“Okay, uh,” Steve says warily, not quite sure where to go from here. Eddie isn’t really moving, still standing a bit tense. Waiting for Steve to break the ice.

Steve’s eyes dart to the dining table — the resting hydrangeas and abandoned candy. Steve tries to put two and two together, sure, so sure he’s missing something. It’s never this easy.

Eddie hadn’t acknowledged the flowers, hadn’t wanted the gifts. Steve may be forgiven but he still hasn’t shown Eddie how sorry he is.

Steve steps closer and sinks to his knees.

Eddie’s eyes widen in an instant and he takes half a step back, his hands raising up. It doesn’t feel good to watch Eddie put distance between them. Something curls up in Steve’s stomach.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks. His voice is a bit scratchy and he clears his throat, not moving closer but not moving further away.

Fine. He wants Steve to spell it out. Steve wishes Eddie would just let him apologise in the way he knows — he was hoping Eddie wouldn’t make him drag out his apologies like his father did. But Eddie did love his theatrics so it’s not all that surprising.

“I’m… still apologising?” It’s not meant to come out as a question but half way through the sentence, Steve clocks Eddie’s body language. It’s giving very different vibes than expected. Steve’s confused.

The confusion only hikes up when anger flares in Eddie’s eyes, his jaw tightening just a bit. “You’re—? This isn’t gonna make what you said hurt any less, Steve. Is that what the…”

Eddie trails off, his own gaze tracking over to the dining table. He seems even more ticked off then, fixing his gaze back on to Steve.

“Are you trying to— Did you think you buying me stuff and sucking my dick is some completely fucked way to fast-track an apology?”

Steve feels his own eyes widen, each word twisting his confusion up so tightly it hurts in his chest. Eddie sounds angry.

“No,” Steve insists weakly, because he knows that’s what Eddie wants to hear. Even if that sort of is what he was expecting. He shakes his head, tries to get a read on Eddie’s body language beyond his annoyance. What does he want? “No, I just…”

Eddie’s anger seems to wane a little, seeing the confusion shudder across Steve’s features. Steve suddenly feels incredibly stupid being on his knees— but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say. Maybe Eddie doesn’t want him in this way right now.

“I was,” Steve starts, clearing his throat and willing away his flushed cheeks. “I’m proving it to you.” His voice is a little stronger now, more sure. “I want to prove that I’m sorry.”

Eddie stares at him for a long moment and just when Steve thinks he’ll concede and reach for his belt, he surprises Steve and sinks to his knees too. He sits atop his boots, now face to face with his boyfriend, and reaches out gingerly to place a hand on Steve’s knee.

Steve eyes it for a moment. Is this the come on?

“Steve,” Eddie says gently. It reminds Steve of the tone one might have with an easily spooked animal, all comforting and soothing. “Do you even… want this? To have sex right now?”

It’s a strange question, Steve thinks. He frowns. This blowjob isn’t about him. “I think I’m confused,” He admits, forcing a chuckle to make it a little more casual. Then repeats the sentiment from earlier again. “I want to apologise.”

Eddie nods, harsh enough a curl untucks itself from behind his ear. “Yeah, sweetheart, you already did that. You apologised and I forgave you.”

Eddie doesn’t mention that all these extra things, the gifts and flowers, made him question the genuineness in Steve’s apology at first. Something tells him to dig a little deeper. Steve isn’t smarmy or cocky, he’s not sure that’ll be forgiven, he’s… confused.

But Steve nods. He’s following Eddie’s words so far. Something glitters inside him that he’s already back to sweetheart so soon. He hesitantly lays his own hand atop of Eddie’s, resting them both on his knee. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even know what to say.

“So, I guess what I’m asking is… what is this?” Eddie waves his hand over Steve’s kneeled form.

The way he says it is still so concerned, which is so far from the usual eagerness Steve has come to know from him normally in these types of situations. Suddenly, knowing Eddie’s definitely not in the mood makes the whole thing a lot more embarrassing now.

“Christ, I wish I had known you wouldn’t want that now,” Steve forces another laugh, quiet, as he ducks his head down. Eddie doesn’t join in, just waits patiently.

“I was— y’know,” Steve waves a hand, gesturing to nothing. “Proving I was sorry. Making it up to you. Guess sex was the wrong idea there, sorry.”

He grimaces a bit, squeezes Eddie’s hand. Steve wonders how he’ll end up making it up to Eddie, if not this way. It’s always been this way.

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just stares at Steve with a perturbed expression on his face. If Steve had to guess, he’d say he almost— almost looks a bit sad.

“Stevie,” Eddie says, nudging closer. Both their knees are touching now. “You already apologised. I forgave you.”

He’s repeating things Steve already knows, so Steve nods. Then repeats the thing he’s heard a hundred times over, “Yeah, I know and now I need to prove how sorry I am.”

Eddie’s face crumples a bit, the frown line between his brows deepening. He seems to have hit some understanding, shuffling even closer to Steve. Any annoyance from a minute ago has leaked out of his body. He’s all comfort now, every soft part that Steve adores so much.

“No, you don’t.” Eddie says simply, words strong and sure. “I know that you’re sorry. You said so. That’s proof enough for me, sweetheart.”

Oh. That’s all there is to it, apparently.

Steve’s acutely aware that the emotion streaking through his chest is relief — relief that he doesn’t have to jump through hoops to gain anything back. Doesn’t have to open his mouth or spread his legs just to earn back his partners affections for a heat of the moment mistake.

He said he was sorry and Eddie forgave him. That’s it. That’s all it took. Like an ill-weighted scale, all the relief slides down into a strange hot shame. Oh god, he’s just come in and then— and Eddie hadn’t even— and Steve had thought—

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, that must’ve—“ Steve reels back, the embarrassment from earlier rearing up inside him close to pure mortification. He pulls his hand from Eddie’s grip, all of it suddenly wrong, so so wrong. “I’m sorry, that was so weird of me to offer—“

“Hey, hey, hey, no.” Eddie’s cutting in before Steve gets very far, firmly planting both hands onto Steve’s shoulders to keep him from receding any further. “Don’t apologise for that. That’s… Steve, will you look at me please?”

Nope, a small voice inside him answer, with a quiver. Looking at the trailer floor is so much easier than what Eddie’s asking.

There’s been many times where Steve has felt a bit dumb but this? This feels like a special kind of stupid. The word throbs in his chest painfully as he wonders how he’d got so turned around. He wants to apologise again.

“Stevie?” Eddie says his name again, a soft coo. One of the hands on Steve’s shoulders shifts, hesitating for a moment, before gingerly cradling his jaw. Steve lets Eddie tilt his face up, reluctantly dragging his gaze up to his boyfriend’s face.

Eddie is all sweetness, eyes soft and smile encouraging. It’s his tenderness that makes Steve exhale, a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding and he can’t help the way he sags just a bit and leans into Eddie’s hold.

Eddie gives a quiet hum. “No more apologies, okay?”

Steve nods, the motion a bit slow. It sort of feels as though it’s a little harder to move against gravity, like the air is thick molasses. He’s tired. Why is he so tired? He wonders if it’s the mountainous relief that’s still trickling out his body.

“We- we’ll need to talk about that later,” Eddie nods along to his words, voice all tender. The way he says it lets Steve know it’s not a bad thing. “But for now I think I’d just rather hold you. Can I do that?”

How backwards. Steve had come here to apologise, to make it up to Eddie, and now he’s the one being comforted. And yet, his nod comes much easier this time. It’s probably a bit too eager but Steve’s just about drowned in his embarrassment tonight so what’s some more?

Eddie’s hands move and grip Steve’s hands in his lap, giving a comforting squeeze— then waits, doesn’t move until Steve gives another squeeze back.

Then Eddie’s rising, standing up and pulling Steve up with him. It’s quiet, Steve hiding the tiny shake in his hands by squeezing Eddie’s hand so tight he won’t notice — til Eddie’s knees crack, terribly loud in the silence, and he whispers a loud, “Ow, fuck.”

Steve can’t help it, he laughs, the sound bursting out of him. Fuck, his boyfriend is an old man sometimes.

Then Eddie laughs too, that glorious sound that Steve could bottle and get drunk on and then they’re both laughing — and Eddie is tugging Steve into his bedroom, both of them collapsing into the creaky bed. The springs whine under their weight but it goes unheard.

Eddie does his best to bundle Steve in his arms, accidentally sticking his elbow into Steve’s side but it doesn’t even matter. Eddie cuddles are a fuckin’ delicacy as far Steve’s concerned— when he’s happy with the way he’s wrapped himself around Steve, full Koala style, he squeeezes.

It forces a pathetic sounding wheeze out from Steve, quickly spiralling into another laugh because who has ever loved him this way? This well? Between the threads of relief that pluck on his heartstrings is white hot love.

Steve already knows what’s coming next, what is always the second step in Eddie cuddles. Instead of hiding his face away into Eddie’s chest, like he’s done a thousand times before, he sticks his face out. Chin jutted out, face exposed, and ready for kisses.

Eddie doesn’t deny him. It’s a wet smush of quick kisses, on his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids — Eddie lets out little ‘mwahs’ as he goes, in a sickly sweet voice that Steve adores.

Faintly, inside his chest Steve’s heart sighs. Because no apology, no forgiveness, has ever been like this, this simple, this easy. Equal comfort — like Eddie was aware Steve had been suffering on the other end of the silent treatment, at regretting his own words.

Steve silently hopes it’ll always be this way, even though another part deeper down knows it’ll be. That arguments with Eddie might involve childish silent treatment, tongues poked out and boots stamped — but that apologies would never be a test. Never more than an honest admittance of regret in the form of words.

In the way Eddie presses a particularly slimy kiss against his cheek, hard enough it makes Steve’s cheek squish, he thinks he might not have to worry much at all.

tags: @disorganisedbee @estrellami-1 @moonshadows-13 @qubert18 @fxndom-hoe @nelotegreitic @justforthedead89 @avacrebs @yikes-a-bee @just-a-tiny-void @stevesbipanic @penny-lane-bitch @clarakeanen @weeennussy

#me: i love this character he's my guy #also me: yes i will inject angst into small aspects of canon and blow that shit UP #and make him MISERABLE #yet again.... gay ppl in my phone #this is for u <3 #ruby writes steddie #steve x eddie #steddie #steddie hurt/comfort #steve harrington whump #steddie fic #steddie ficlet

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bbunisre · 6 months

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19: GUILTY NOT BY TAEMIN (0.7k)

When you spot the ebony-haired boy sitting down at the back of the library, a smile comes to your face. A smile that comes up a little too naturally. Megumi hasn’t spotted you yet, deep into his homework. You walk over to the hidden table with a plastic bag containing snacks to accompany you during your study time together. You drag the chair out to get his attention.

Now, Megumi’s not known to be the most expressive but when he sees you but there’s a sparkle in his eye that you catch, “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” you confirm, “The line at the convenience store was super long.”

You unbox the multitudes of chips, chocolate and of course…

“Strawberry milk.”

You wish he’d smile like that for the rest of his existence. He looks completely different when he smiles, a certain charm exuding from it.

“Strawberry milk.” you confirm, passing him one.

Just like that, Megumi and you study together in the library, passing time together with little talking. Megumi would pipe up here and there to ask you a question about his homework that he very well knew the answer to but used it as an excuse to talk to you. You, knowing this fully, leaned in and helped with the explanation.

When the librarian kicks you out at six-thirty, you drive Megumi home.

With Tsumiki hot on both your radars, this is the only way you can hang out without her suspecting it.

“Will we tell her?” you eventually ask.

Megumi looks out the passenger window, “I…don’t know. We should as soon as possible. Do you think we should tell her?”

You shrug, “I’ve never dated my best friend’s brother before. However, I know Tsumiki would appreciate it if we tell her.”

“Let’s tell her now then.” Megumi turns to you.

Your breath catches in your throat, “You sure?”

“She should know.”

Pulling into the driveway, there’s a certain dread you feel. Megumi holds your hand as you walk towards the front door, “It’s okay.”

His words could be as reassuring as he wants them to be but he has to remember, he’s Tsumiki’s brother. She can forgive him the next day for his mistakes.

You’re her best friend.

A best friend’s betrayal is worse.

You don’t think you can live knowing you betrayed Tsumiki.

As the front door opens, you shake Megumi’s hand off.

He furrows his eyebrows at you, obviously confused.

“My two favourite people?” Tsumiki announces, a tone of questioning in her voice, “I thought you stayed back to study?”

“I did.” you answer, “Saw Megumi on the way out so I decided to give him a ride.”

“I see.” she nods, “What were you doing so late, Megs?”

Megumi stares at Tsumiki for a full second before answering, “I was also studying but you didn’t see me on—“

“Did you cook, Tsumi? The house smells so good.” you interrupt, walking inside past her.

Gojo waves his hand from the couch, “Y/N!”

“Gojo! Is that RuPaul?!”

“Yes! Come watch, come watch.” he invites you, looking back and stopping his gaze at Megumi, “Why are you so late?”

Megumi huffs hard, “Was studying. Y/N drove me home.”

If he was looking at you, you paid no mind, walking over to sit beside Gojo. You place your school bag beside you and turn to the TV but there’s an irritating gaze coming from your right.

At first you think it’s Megumi but when you twist your head, you find Gojo staring at you.

“Everything all good?”

Gojo nods, “Did you do a lot of studying today, Y/N?”

Tsumiki’s gone to the kitchen and Megumi’s gone upstairs for some reason.

“Yes?”

“Okay, Y/N.”

He says your name with a certain mischievousness.

“…what is it?”

“This is my favourite season by the way.” he dismisses, leaning back into the couch and pressing play on their high-definition flat-screen TV.

The whole time you’re over at their house, the smile continues to come back onto Gojo’s face when Tsumiki asks something or when you stand up to go get a snack or when Megumi walks past you.

By the end of the night, you come to a conclusion.

There has to be one and only reason why he’s acting like this.

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thefrogdalorian · 7 months

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Sanctuary

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Summary: It's one of those days when your emotions threaten to overwhelm you. Despite the horrible day you're having, you try your best to keep it together. A feat you manage, until a certain Mandalorian arrives home and takes you into his arms. Word Count: 1.2k ✯ Rating: General ✯ Content Warnings: Descriptions of anxiety/panic attack ✯ Author's Note: Seeing these gifs the other day broke something in my brain and this little fic was the result. I hope this gets you through a day when you really need a hug from Din Djarin 💕 ✯ My Masterlist ✯

On the days when your stomach churned and you were too upset to vocalise the war that waged within yourself, you were grateful to have someone in your life who seemed to know exactly what you needed. There was no doubt that Din understood you better than you understood yourself. It was unsurprising, given how meticulous and attentive he was in everything he turned his hand to.

You had been in each other's lives for some time, yet you still found yourself pleasantly surprised each time he shared such care towards you. You never doubted Din's kind heart once you got to know him, but you were nonetheless astonished by the multitudes he contained. It was astounding how tender and caring the man, who had gained such a fearsome reputation throughout the galaxy as a ruthless bounty hunter, actually was beneath his cold, hard beskar.

It was early in the morning when Din had left through the door and your stomach tied itself into knots as you heard his heavy footprints gradually fade into the distance. The sound indicated that you were now alone with your thoughts. Throughout the day, you had pushed your emotions to the deepest depths inside yourself. You had been trying to kid yourself, in his absence, that you could survive the day without breaking down. You told yourself over and over that if you could just make it until Din returned and then put on a brave face when he walked through the door, you would have survived the day without dissolving into pieces. The last thing you wanted was for Din to see how upset you were. The fear that you were weighing him down with your troubles or somehow holding him back from achieving greater things was omnipresent. Even though he had never given you a reason to fear such a thing, you were constantly terrified of being seen as a burden to him.

The familiar heavy footsteps grew louder; their rhythmic, even quality indicated they could belong to only one man. You took a deep breath and attempted to steady your racing heart, preparing yourself to keep it together upon Din's return.

The second you saw his figure in the doorway, you knew it was a lost cause. At the sight of the familiar outline of beskar shining in the entryway, you immediately knew that there was no way that you would be able to maintain your composure. You stood up immediately, rising off the chair you had been sitting on as you waited for him, to greet the man who owned your heart entirely. Instead of racing towards him as usual, you found yourself suddenly overcome with apprehension. Your steps faltered with uncertainty as you walked towards him on shaky legs, feeling your ability to stay strong evaporate just from laying eyes upon him.

Din held his arms out to you without hesitation, beckoning you to come close to him.

“Come here, cyare,” Din whispered as you stepped into his orbit, his voice gravelly, “Let me hold you.”

As you closed the distance between you and Din to rest your head in the crook of his neck, you caught a glimpse of his mudhorn pauldron, glinting despite the low light of the cabin. Despite how terrible you felt, the ghost of a smile passed across your lips as you noticed the signet was so distinctively Din. Stepping into his arms felt like you were returning to safety. To your home.

You rested your head in the crook of his neck and nuzzled into his rough cowl, enjoying his familiar scent. It was musky and masculine, but not overbearing. You detected a faint hint of perspiration mixed with the floral scent you knew lingered on his skin thanks to the bottle of liquid he lathered across his tan skin in the 'fresher each morning. Din’s chestplate was firm against your body. Initially, you recoiled at the slight chill from the beskar, discernible even through your layers of clothing. Once you had adjusted to the temperature and new sensation, though, you felt nothing but warmth when you were in his arms.

As Din held you close and his hands rubbed comforting circles into your back with one strong arm holding you tightly around the waist, you appreciated the way your bodies fit together. It was as you were admiring how you seemed to be made for each other that you noticed how Din had wrapped his cape around your shoulders to further cocoon you into him. As though he was protecting you from all of the hurt that lingered outside of the sanctuary of his arms. From whatever was troubling you. There was no intense questioning, no expectations for answers. Only safety, love and understanding from a man who wanted to help you through your very worst days.

Something about nuzzling into Din’s neck and the care he had taken to raise your spirits rendered you speechless. You were overcome with emotion, powerless to stop the tears which started falling down your cheeks. At first, it was a solitary droplet, but then you couldn’t help yourself as more and more tears slipped from your eyes.

At the first sound of your sniffles, Din pulled away from you. You felt your stomach drop in panic, momentarily afraid that you had upset him somehow. You looked up at him and felt the embarrassment settle somewhere low in your stomach, a physical symptom of the mortification you felt at your outburst. Then came the shame. You were dismayed that you had lost control of your emotions in such a way. Evidence of your loss of composure was evident in the reflection of your face in his helmet. You watched as your expression grew increasingly more distraught and felt your chest heaving as the panic rose within you, upset at your emotional state.

Fortunately, Din was nothing but understanding and caring. Before your thoughts could spiral anywhere darker, he began to use his soft leather gloves against your cheeks to dry the tears that were burning hot trails down your skin. It distracted you from your anguish, his tender touch providing instant comfort.

You relished the contact and melted into his embrace. Between his hand that lingered on your cheek, while the other rubbed your back and ensured his cape still swaddled you, your mood was instantly calmer. Din brought you back into his shoulder and returned his hands to your back, rubbing up and down as he held you close. You wrapped your arms around his waist, relishing the small contact you gained with the warmth of his flesh between the hard plates of his beskar. You stayed like that for a few more minutes, feeling your anguish dissipate with each second that Din held you.

Eventually, your breathing evened out and returned to a less frantic pace. Sensing that his embrace had had the intended effect on your fragile emotional state, Din pulled away once again and brought his hands to cup your jaw gently.

“How are you feeling now?” he rasped as he stroked your cheeks with his gloved thumbs.

“Being in your arms always makes me feel better,” you smiled.

“I’d hold you for the rest of my days if you only asked me to, cyare,” Din vowed with a nod of his helmet.

You smiled then, enjoying the way your face lit up with a smile and how your eyes had regained their sparkle thanks to the tight embrace of your attentive Mandalorian; your sanctuary.

#din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #din djarin fluff #my fics #maybe i cried when i finished this (had a bad meltdown tonight lol and i truly need a certain mandalorian to wrap me up in his cape)#also thats my gif in my delulu brain that moment really looks like he's opening his arms to you for a hug HEH

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prettyobsessed · 7 months

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Part 1: .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💫Constellations of Affection💖.˳·˖✶

☁︎/ pairings: Xavier / fem!reader

☾ / genre: romantic, fluff [sfw, safe for minors]

₊˚ / tags: safe for work, safe for minors, contains swear words, slight flirtations mentioned, fluff, romantic, sweet Xavier, angry Xavier, friendship blossoming, best friends to lovers, slow burn, continuation, fight scene, past relationship turmoil, self-improvement, drowning in work, hectic work life, kisses, hugs, super gentle

♡ / word count: 5.3k

₊⊹summary₊˚⊹

Amidst the whirlwind of a bustling life, I find solace in the unwavering presence of Xavier, my steadfast friend and protector. Despite harbouring feelings for him, I guard my heart, scarred by past relationships. As our bond deepens, I grapple with the desire to reveal my true feelings. Will I find the courage to confront my fears and express my love to Xavier?

﹌﹌﹌

As I pull away from the hug, Xavier's arms remain wrapped around me, holding me close with a tenderness that fills my heart with warmth. His gaze meets mine, and in those kind eyes, I see a reflection of the love and care he has always shown me. "Thank you for staying,” I whisper, my voice barely above a soft murmur, but the sincerity behind the words is unmistakable.

𓍢ִ໋୧🍵 ⋅₊˚*ੈ♡⸝⋆·˚ ༘ *🔭୧ ˙

In the bustling city of Linkon, where neon lights danced upon the urban landscape, I found solace amidst the chaos in the form of Xavier, my steadfast best friend and protector. Xavier, a Deepspace hunter dedicated to protecting civilians like myself from Wanderers, became my protector and confidant after our first encounter on a bridge near Linkon City four years ago.

Our friendship blossomed from then onwards, where we would escape the confines of our busy lives to gaze upon the stars, lost in the beauty of the night sky. Our nights are often spent together, stargazing from rooftops, sharing our hopes, dreams, and even secrets. Sometimes, Xavier would even take naps on my lap and give me gentle head pats, sending a flutter through my heart.

Amidst our shared reveries under the celestial canopy, Xavier would playfully bestow upon me various endearing nicknames, but none resonated with me as deeply as being called Princess. Whenever the word slipped from his lips, the sweet and sultry timbre of his voice carried a softness and affection that enveloped me like a comforting embrace—making me feel truly cherished.

His presence brought a sense of calm amidst the storm of my hectic life, a beacon of light in the darkness of uncertainty. I couldn't help but feel captivated by his mysterious aura, finding him irresistibly charming and attractive.

Yet, despite these intimate moments, our relationship never progresses beyond friendship.

Despite the blossoming of affection within me, I find myself paralysed by the fear of opening my heart once more. The scars of past relationships still linger, casting a shadow of doubt over my longing for something more with Xavier. I tread carefully, concealing the depth of my emotions beneath a carefully crafted facade, praying that Xavier won't decipher the hidden turmoil beneath the surface.

Every interaction with Xavier becomes a delicate balancing act, a choreographed dance of veiled glances and cautious words. I hold my breath, fearing that the slightest slip-up will betray the secret longing I harbor within.

Yet, with each passing moment in his presence, the yearning to unburden my heart grows stronger, the desire to lay bare my soul to him almost overwhelming.

But the spectre of past heartaches looms large, haunting my every thought and action. I am burdened by the fear of repeating past mistakes, trapped by the dread of disappointment and heartbreak. And so, I remain ensnared in a silent struggle, grappling with the conflicting desires to both reveal and conceal the depths of my heart.

As a dedicated professional in the fast-paced world of the fashion industry, I often find myself immersed in a multitude of responsibilities. My days are characterised by a constant juggle of tasks, from meeting deadlines to surpassing expectations set by clients and colleagues alike. The pace is relentless, with back-to-back meetings, creative brainstorming sessions, and meticulously planned photoshoots demanding my unwavering focus and dedication.

Despite the chaotic nature of my professional life, Xavier remains a steadfast and unwavering source of support. His presence serves as a calming anchor amidst the turbulent waters of my daily routine. Whether it's offering a sympathetic ear during moments of stress or providing a reassuring smile to lift my spirits, his unwavering support is a beacon of light in the midst of my busiest days.

Xavier often frequented my apartment, and during moments of respite, I eagerly seized the opportunity to unveil my creations to him, transforming our time together into impromptu fashion shows. With each meticulously crafted garment, I sensed a subtle tension electrifying the air between us, prompting me to ponder whether it was merely the allure of the dresses drawing us closer or the unspoken emotions simmering beneath the surface.

There was a particular allure about skirts that seemed to captivate Xavier's attention. I recall one instance when I slipped into a mini skirt, his eyes lighting up with unmistakable admiration.

His excitement was palpable, and he couldn't contain his enthusiasm, clapping his hands in delight. Even as I changed into another outfit, he couldn't seem to shake the image from his mind, insisting that I don the mini skirt again for a closer look.

A mischievous spark ignited within me, nudging me to flirt back with him. Succumbing to both his charm and my own playful inclinations, I obliged, slipping back into the mini skirt and performing a slow spin that allowed him to drink in every detail.

As I stood before him, adorned in the mini skirt, I could feel his gaze lingering on me, his breath caught in awe. It was as though in that moment, the fabric of the skirt became a conduit for unspoken desires, weaving a silent narrative of longing and admiration between us. With a coy smile, I couldn't resist teasing him, suggesting that perhaps he was too enamoured with the mini skirt.

The tension between us felt noticeable, and I sought refuge in the familiarity of casual attire, hoping to diffuse the charged atmosphere and regain a sense of normalcy—though deep down, I secretly relished the idea of indulging his request.

—

Sometimes, after particularly hectic days at the office, Xavier kindly offers to give me a lift, his bike a welcome respite from the chaos of my workday. Even on days when Xavier himself seems exhausted, he always maintains a vigilant watch on the road, ensuring our safety as we navigate the bustling city streets together.

Sensitive to my needs, Xavier never rides too fast, understanding my tendency to experience motion sickness. This consideration speaks volumes about his thoughtfulness and care, as he ensures our mode of transportation aligns with my comfort, sparing me the discomfort that often accompanies other forms of travel such as cars or taxis. Hence, I usually prefer taking the train—it offers a more stable and soothing journey, allowing me to arrive at our destination feeling relaxed and without any adverse effects.

Despite the occasional setbacks, our bond only grew stronger, anchored by shared moments of laughter and quiet contemplation beneath the twinkling city lights.

—

It was on one such evening, as we lay side by side on the rooftop of my apartment building, that Xavier posed a question that caught me off guard. He lay beside me, his thoughts growing louder with each passing moment.

"Can I ask you a question? What do you think of me?" His words hung in the air, laden with unspoken meaning, and I felt my heart race with uncertainty. His eyes danced in the moonlight, a shimmering reflection of his soul, seeking answers within the depths of mine. Caught off guard by his sudden inquiry, I searched for the right words to convey the depth of my feelings for him. But as I stumbled over my response, I found myself unable to articulate the truth that lay buried within my heart.

"Honestly?" I began, my voice tinged with uncertainty. “I think you're… amazing.” A nervous laugh escaped my lips as I struggled to find the right words. "Your selflessness, your love for animals, and your unwavering presence shines through in every action... whether it's kindness or lending a helping hand to a friend in need. You're a rare gem in a world full of ordinary stones, and I cherish every moment we spend together.

Everything about you is so ho-“ I stuttered, the word "hot" lingering on the tip of my tongue, before quickly correcting myself. "Cool. Everything about you is cool. It's one of the many reasons why I admire you so deeply and… I’m really proud to call you my best friend.”

As I awaited Xavier's response, a wave of apprehension washed over me, my mind swirling with doubts and insecurities. But before I could question his reaction, he deftly changed the subject. "Haha," he chuckled softly, his words masking the disappointment that flickered in his eyes. "Best friend... I see," he echoed, his tone carrying a hint of resignation. Confusion clouded my thoughts as I tried to make sense of his words.

What was that. What is going on? Was I simply reading too much into it—into his reaction? Before I could seek clarification, Xavier changed the subject, his bright facade masking turmoil within.

"Let's go! It's getting late. I’m getting sleepy already," he remarked with a fake yawn, his voice cheerful despite the underlying tension between us. I nodded, the faint rumble of approaching trains echoing through the station, heightening the urgency in his words. As we boarded the train together, the worn fabric seats welcomed us with a familiar embrace, their faded texture a testament to years of commuter traffic.

Xavier settled beside me, his presence comforting yet unnerving in the dimly lit carriage. I stole a glance at his reflection in the window, the soft hum of the train's engine creating a cocoon of sound around us. He rested his head on my shoulder, his breaths steady and rhythmic, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within me.

What did he mean by ‘Best friend…I see’? The question echoed in my mind, refusing to be silenced as I grappled with the uncertainty of our relationship. Did he also see me as more than just a friend? Or was I simply projecting my own desires onto a friendship that was never meant to be anything more?

The weight of my thoughts pressed heavily upon me as I journeyed home, the rhythmic sound of the train's wheels against the tracks serving as a backdrop to my inner turmoil. I wanted so desperately to reach out to Xavier, to confess the depth of my feelings for him, but the fear of rejection held me back, chaining me to the confines of my own insecurities.

And so, as the train rumbled onward into the night, I was left alone with my thoughts, grappling with the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring. For better or for worse, Xavier had become an indelible part of my life, his presence shaping my world in ways I had never imagined possible.

—

That night, as I lay on my bed, memories of my past relationship flooded my mind like an unwelcome torrent. Two years spent together, believing we were destined to be each other's forever, shattered in an instant when my ex-boyfriend cheated on me with my own best friend. Every whispered secret, every shared laugh, now tainted with the sting of betrayal—an irreparable fracture.

The bitter taste of betrayal tainted my perception of love, leaving me disillusioned and wary of entering another relationship.

My days became a relentless cycle of pushing myself to the limit, both physically and mentally. Yet, despite my outward transformation, the pain of betrayal lingered like a stubborn shadow, threatening to consume me at every turn. That day, I found myself unable to hold back the tears as they streamed down my face upon discovering the truth, each drop a poignant reflection of the depth of my heartache.

To escape the tormenting memories, I buried myself in work, immersing myself in tasks and projects with unwavering determination. I also poured my energy into crafting my own set of outfits as a hobby. But no matter how much I tried to distract myself, the ache of heartbreak remained a constant companion—a haunting reminder of the love lost and the trust shattered.

Yet, just when hope seemed all but lost, a flicker of light appeared on the horizon. That is, a year after the devastation of my past, I met Xavier. His presence breathed new life into my world, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness of my despair. Little did I know, he would become the beacon of love and healing that I had long believed to be lost.

As I pondered back to Xavier's words, my eyelids grew heavy with fatigue. Soon, I surrendered to the embrace of sleep, diving into its depths.

—

Ever since then, life became a whirlpool—sucking me into its chaotic currents. It's my typical coping mechanism to bury myself in work, a futile attempt to escape thoughts of Xavier. Days blurred into nights filled with endless work and overtime, a relentless cycle that offered temporary distraction. Then, amidst the hustle, a familiar ping broke through the monotony—a text from Xavier. ‘Princess. U busy? I’m craving for soba noodles suddenly. Wanna eat 2gt?' his messages popped up one by one. Again, his simple words stirred a flutter of emotions within me, and I couldn't help but blush.

Xavier's persistent attempts to meet up tugged at my heartstrings, but I resisted, afraid to deepen my feelings for him and disrupt the delicate balance of our relationship. ‘Kinda tired tonight. Another day okie? Sorry🤍’, I replied, my fingers tapping out the message with a weariness that mirrored my exhaustion. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me as I left the office well past midnight.

The city streets, usually bustling with life, now felt eerily deserted as I made my way to the train station. Boarding the train homeward, fatigue threatened to pull me into slumber. The train's bell-like chime jolted me awake as it announced my stop, piercing through the haze of fatigue that clouded my mind.

I alighted at my stop, the deserted train station casting eerie shadows in the late-night silence. Each step echoed off the empty walls, my weariness dragging me down like an anchor as I trudged wearily up the stairs. Thoughts raced through my mind, a tumultuous whirlwind of conflicting emotions swirling in the darkness of the night.

As I ascended to the top of the stairs, exhaustion bore down on my shoulders, threatening to engulf me. Abruptly, a figure emerged from the shadows, jolting me out of my reverie. Before I could react, we collided.

Nearly stumbling backward, my heart raced in my chest as I struggled to comprehend the situation. With a shaky hand, I reached out to steady myself against the railing. "Watch where you're going, dumbass.” The harshness of this rugged-looking stranger voice pierced the stillness, stirring a knot of anxiety in my stomach. It was a jarring encounter, snapping me out of my tired stupor and reminding me of the harsh realities of the world outside my bubble of work and avoidance.

“I’m so sor-“, my voice trailed off. As I strained to identify the source of the voice, a sense of dread crept over me. The intonation, the cadence—it all felt uncomfortably familiar. Oh no. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I peered closer, and there he was: Leon, his presence like a ghost from my past, haunting me in the dead of night.

For a moment, I was frozen in shock, unable to comprehend how our paths had crossed again after all these years. But then, as his words registered in my mind, I felt a surge of anger rising within me, pushing aside the fear that threatened to consume me. “Wait… (your name), is that you?” Leon's voice cut through the tension, his tone filled with surprise and a hint of uncertainty. "Leon," I replied, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief. Trying to ease the tension, I added, “I almost didn’t recognise you.”

But before he could answer, his demeanour shifted, his eyes softening with an emotion I couldn't quite place. “(Your name)…” he said, his voice tinged with regret. "I'm sorry." His unexpected apology caught me off guard, momentarily halting my rising fury. But as I struggled to process his sudden change in attitude, he reached out to grab both my arms, his presence, like a repulsive chill, sent waves of disgust through me.

“It’s been years and I still miss you,” he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can't we just talk?"

I recoiled at his touch, feeling repulsed by the memories of our tumultuous past flooding back. "No," I said firmly, my voice edged with apprehension. "We can't." But as I attempted to pull away, his grip tightened like a vice, his fingers digging into my skin with a disturbing intensity. "Please," he pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation and a hint of madness. "I really miss you."

In that moment, panic flooded through me, memories of past betrayal threatening to overwhelm once again as I attempted to break free from his touch. Leon's expression turned aggressive, his grip tightening on my arms as I struggled to break free. I attempted to flee from his grasp, but he wouldn’t relent.

Leon's voice erupted into a furious crescendo, each word dripping with venomous anger. "Bitch! You think you're hot shit now? Who are you fucking now, huh?” His aggressive tone sent shockwaves of fear coursing through me, urging me to escape his tightening grip. Desperation clawed at my mind as I screamed for help, the haunting memories of our tumultuous past intensifying the terror of the present moment.

Summoning a surge of determination, I gathered every ounce of resolve within me, channeling it into a fierce effort to break free from Leon's suffocating grip. With a desperate lunge, I wrenched myself from his grasp, feeling the weight of his hold relinquish as I staggered downward, my heart pounding with the urgency of escape.

The reverberation of my voice in the desolate station amplified the intensity of my fear. I struggled against Leon's vice-like grip, panic coursing through me as I frantically scanned the empty surroundings for any sign of assistance. Yet, the late hour rendered the station eerily deserted, devoid of any potential saviours. In the grip of terror, my thoughts instinctively turned to Xavier, the one person I yearned to have by my side in that moment. The memory of his unwavering strength and protective presence ignited a flicker of courage within me. Drawing upon every ounce of resolve, I broke free from Leon's grasp, staggering backward in a desperate bid for escape.

“Get away from me!" I cried out, my voice trembling with a potent mix of fear and fury. As I darted up the stairs to get to the street and find help, my heart pounding in my ears, Leon's menacing presence loomed behind me. With a sudden, forceful movement, he seized hold of my hair, his grip unyielding and merciless—anchoring me to the ground with a jolt of pain and terror.

I found myself sprawled on the unforgiving ground, my arms instinctively forming a feeble barrier against Leon's relentless assault. With every ounce of determination I could muster, I unleashed a powerful kick aimed squarely at his groin. The impact sent shockwaves of pain through his body, doubling him over in agony, his knees crashing to the ground as a guttural cry escaped his lips.

Despite the adrenaline-fueled panic coursing through my veins and the tremors that racked my body, I persisted in my struggle against him, each futile attempt to break free intensifying the sense of desperation and urgency in the air.

Leon's face contorted into a menacing snarl as he regained his composure. He lunged towards me once more, but before he could reach me, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Xavier. With his imposing presence and determined stance, Xavier swiftly intercepted, closing the distance between us and Leon with remarkable speed. Without hesitation, he delivered a powerful punch to my attacker—his silhouette blurring with the force of his strike.

His usually gentle gaze now burned with an intense darkness as he confronted Leon, ready to protect me at all costs.

“Fucking coward,” Xavier spat, his eyes blazing with anger as he delivered another forceful blow to Leon's face. “Don’t you fucking dare lay a finger on her again.” With each punch, Xavier's resolve only seemed to strengthen, his determination to defend me evident in the unwavering force behind his blows.

Xavier subdued Leon with practiced ease, pinning him to the ground. The weight of his authority was palpable in the air.

As Xavier continued to rain down blows upon Leon, the sound of fists meeting flesh echoed in the dimly lit space. It punctuated the tension with each impactful strike. It was a visceral dance of justice against brutality, a raw display of Xavier's resolve to protect me. The sight of Leon, bloodied and bruised, bore witness to Xavier's unwavering commitment to my safety.

Never before had I seen Xavier so consumed by rage. It was as though he had transformed into an entirely different person, his usual calm demeanour replaced by a ferocity that I had never witnessed before.

Leon, now all bloodied up, stared up at Xavier in shock and disbelief. His bravado shattered by the force of Xavier's righteous fury.

“If you’re anywhere near her or touch her again, I’m gonna make sure you won’t see the daylight,” Xavier warned, his voice carrying the weight of his conviction, leaving no room for doubt or negotiation.

With fear etched on his face, Leon scrambled to his feet and bolted in the opposite direction as fast as his legs could carry him.

With Leon's retreat, the tension in the air began to dissipate, replaced by a heavy silence broken only by the faint sounds of the night. Xavier's gaze lingered on the spot where Leon had stood, his expression a mix of resolve and concern.

Turning towards me, his face a portrait of pure concern, I could still see the remnants of his earlier anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Are you hurt?" Xavier's voice softened with genuine concern as he focused his attention on me, his hand reaching out to gently cradle my cheek. His touch was warm against my skin, a soothing balm to the chaos that had unfolded moments before. I shook my head, my breaths ragged as I leaned against the solid cement pillar for support. As I attempted to rise, Xavier's reassuring presence steadied me, his strong arms providing stability. Gratitude flooded through me, knowing that once again, Xavier had rushed to my aid, much like that pivotal night at the bridge.

"Thank you… Xav," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling with emotion as I met his gaze. "How did you know where I was?" I asked, my heart still racing from the intensity of the moment. Xavier's expression softened, his eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and concern. "I was worried about you," he replied, his voice gentle yet firm, a comforting hand supporting my back. “I just had a feeling something wasn't right, so I wanted to check on you. I'm relieved I found you when I did."

Despite the lingering rush of adrenaline, I found solace in Xavier's protective presence and his timely intervention.

Xavier's eyes scanned my face, his brow furrowed with genuine worry as he assessed my injuries. "We need to make sure you're alright," he insisted softly, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. Taking my hand in his, he effortlessly hoisted me onto his back, his actions speaking volumes about his commitment to my well-being. As we hurried through the quiet night together, Xavier bearing my weight, a sense of security enveloped me in his embrace. Despite the lingering fear and uncertainty, I found solace in relying on him for support, grateful for his unwavering strength and care.

"I can walk just fine, you know... You don’t have to carry me," I admitted sheepishly, a blush tinting my cheeks as I acknowledged my dependency, my face nestled between his shoulder and neck. Xavier's gaze shifted slightly as he turned his head, locking eyes with me in a reassuring manner. "I want to make sure you receive proper care. We're heading to the hospital to have your injuries checked," he explained calmly, his voice filled with determination to ensure my well-being.

“You’re so dramatic, it’s just a scratch!” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Xavier sighed and replied, "Ok fine, but let’s at least go to the nearby clinic?" I nodded in agreement, grateful for his compromise and his insistence on ensuring my well-being.

With each step, his purposeful stride conveyed his unwavering resolve to take care of me, easing my apprehension about seeking medical attention. The cool night air enveloped us as we moved forward, Xavier's presence providing a comforting shield against the uncertainty that lingered in the darkness.

—

After receiving care and ointments from the clinic, Xavier accompanies me all the way back to my apartment, ensuring my safety with his tender manner and attentive care. With each step, his strength supports me, his presence a comforting anchor amidst the swirling storm of emotions within me. As he guides me through the door, his touch is reassuring, grounding me in the reality of his protective embrace.

Once inside, Xavier assists me in removing my shoes and leads me to my bedroom with a confident, fluid grace. As he settles me onto the bed, his expression shifts between concern and determination, evident in the focused way he prepares to apply the ointment to my scratch.

"Wait," I interject, sitting up. "I'd like to shower first. I don't feel comfortable resting on my bed in my outside clothes."

Xavier nods understandingly, his eyes reflecting his unwavering support. "Of course. Would you like me to leave then?" he asks, gesturing towards the door with a gentle motion.

I pause, considering how to express my desire for his company. However, honesty prevails in my mind. “No, please stay," I reply, grateful for his presence. "Could you help me blow dry my hair after?" Xavier's surprise is evident, but a soft smile graces his lips as he realises I trust him enough to ask for his assistance. "Of course," he says, his voice warm with reassurance.

Stepping into the shower, the warm water envelops me in a comforting embrace. Thoughts of Xavier flood my mind, his timely arrival a beacon of hope in my darkest moment. Gratitude swells within me for his unwavering support, though questions about how he found me linger in the recesses of my mind.

Once refreshed and renewed, I search for Xavier and find him peacefully asleep on my couch. Bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, his expression is serene, imbuing the room with a sense of calm. Drawing closer, I marvel at the tranquility that surrounds him, his steady breathing a comforting rhythm in the stillness of the night.

Studying his features, I notice the gentle fall of his hair and the subtle curve of his lips softened in slumber. A small leaf rests atop his head, a whimsical detail that brings a smile to my lips. As I reach out to remove it, a droplet of water from my hair lands on his chest, causing him to stir and awaken.

Xavier blinks sleepily, his gaze softening with warmth as he focuses on me. “I-I’m sorry!” I stammer, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up my cheeks. "I didn't mean to disturb your sleep. There was a leaf on your head, and I simply wanted to remove it. Look!” I explain, holding up the leaf as evidence. He chuckles softly, the sound carrying a warmth that melts away any lingering tension.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his voice a gentle caress, softened by the lingering tendrils of sleep, yet resonating with a sincerity that soothes my unease. As he unfurls from his slumber-induced cocoon, the fabric of his shirt tautens, tracing the contours of his toned abdomen with a subtle grace. A delicate flush of warmth blossoms across my cheeks, suffusing them with a soft, ethereal glow, like the first blush of dawn.

With a quiet determination, Xavier rises to his feet, a stalwart figure against the backdrop of uncertainty. The ointment, a healing elixir, already nestled in his hand, ready to tend to the tender wounds etched upon my skin. His touch is gentle yet purposeful, each movement deliberate as he tends to my grazed cheek and elbows, a silent vow of protection and care woven into his actions.

“Now, where can I find your hair dryer?” Xavier asks, his eagerness evident in the sparkle of his eyes and the gentle curve of his lips. The dim light of the room casts soft shadows across his features, adding to his allure as he waits patiently for my response.

Guiding him to the location of my hair dryer, I make my way to the kitchen to prepare some refreshments. The aroma of chocolate muffins wafts through the air as they warm up in the oven, filling the kitchen with a tantalising scent. Meanwhile, I carefully brew a fragrant cup of green tea, the steam rising gently from the cup as it steepens.

Returning to my room with the refreshments in hand, I find Xavier already waiting. With a warm smile, I place the food and drink on my side table, gesturing for him to sit on my dressing stool while I settle onto the bed beside him. As he inspects the wetness of my hair, I can't help but notice the soft glow of the streetlights seeping through the window, casting a tranquil ambiance over the room.

Handing him the hair dryer, I set it to medium heat and watch as Xavier meticulously blow-dries my hair with the brush I provided. Each movement is executed with care and tenderness, his focused attention ensuring my comfort throughout the process. Xavier playfully teases me about the small leaf in his hair, insisting I placed it there, to which I respond with mock offense, playfully stuffing a chocolate muffin into his mouth. Laughter fills the room, muffled by the treat, as we enjoy this lighthearted moment together.

“All done,” Xavier announces with a smile as he switches off the hair dryer.

Throughout the interaction, I can't help but feel a sense of warmth and affection for Xavier, grateful for his unwavering support and the comfort of his presence. The glimmer of streetlights seeps through the window, casting a soft glow on Xavier's features, particularly his blue eyes. In that moment, a tranquil stillness envelops my apartment.

As the sound of the hair dryer fades, I rise from my stool and move towards Xavier, who remains seated on my bed. I wrap my arms around him in a heartfelt embrace, my gratitude overflowing for his timely rescue. Overwhelmed by my emotions, I surrender to the warmth of the moment with Xavier. With a gentle kiss planted on his cheek, I convey the depth of my appreciation, cherishing this intimate connection between us.

Xavier's warm smile softens his features, his eyes brimming with tenderness as he gently reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face. "Princess, from this moment forward, I vow to protect you wherever life may lead," he murmurs, his voice a soothing melody that brings peace to my soul. Nestled in our peaceful embrace, cocooned in warmth and affection, I realise the depth of the bond between us. This connection is precious, a beacon of light in the darkness of uncertainty.

With a contented sigh, I nuzzle closer to Xavier, guiding his head to rest on my chest, where he finds solace in the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. His arms around me are a sanctuary, offering solace and comfort in a world of chaos. And in that moment, I know with unwavering certainty that I am exactly where I belong.

Moved by the depth of my emotions, I lift Xavier’s head to meet my gaze, cupping his chin with my hand, and without a word, I press my lips softly against his, sealing our love with a tender kiss. It's a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes, expressing all the love and gratitude that fills my heart. As our kiss deepens, I feel a sense of completeness wash over me, as if I've finally found my home in Xavier's embrace.

Reluctantly parting, breathless and exhilarated, a sparkle in Xavier's eyes reflects the emotions swirling within my own heart. In the lingering sweetness of our embrace, I know that our love will endure, steadfast and true, through every twist and turn that life may bring.

—by prettyobsessed⋆˚✿˖°

Editor’s note: So sorry! Work has been so hectic, but I hope this piece that I wrote will make your heart flutter♡

It’s for my Xavier gurlies; those who love his gentle side. Will Part 2 show more of a darker side to him? Stay tuned! For a bad boy Xavier ✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧

On a side, side note: I realise I enjoy writing slow burn scenarios. Do you guys prefer a fast-paced one instead? Feel free to let me know!

—

this content is copyrighted by @prettyobsessed. all rights are reserved. it is prohibited to replicate, imitate, plagiarise, or repost my content on any other platform without authorisation. translations are also not permitted unless proper credit is given🌷

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heliads · 2 years

Note

Heyy can I get Four x fem!reader, where four can see sher struggling and offers some private lessons, you can take it from there xo

as a fic writer, i love taking it from there (xo)

masterlist

Four is not particularly suited to kindness. He never has been. That’s part of why he never fit in with the other Abnegation, after all; his inability to carve away pieces of himself to give to others stuck out like a sore thumb. That, and the fact that he hated their two-faced duplicity with a passion so burning that it left him choking on the smoke.

He’s always figured that even if he was Divergent, even if he contained multitudes of other factions within him, he never once showed a shred of Amity, either. Kindness, generosity, none of these have ever described Four. He certainly shouldn’t be wishing for it now.

Yet, when he looks across the Dauntless training room, which is strewn with the fighting figures of initiation’s latest round of transfers, he doesn’t feel that usual call to apathy. Not now, at least. Four had supposed it would come later, when the initial interest of new faces had worn off and he was left with irritation prickling under his skin, that fidgety sort of feeling he gets when people refuse to do what’s good for them.

Four has never been the most patient, even if he is forced to play the long game of waiting and hiding due to his status as a Divergent. It makes him insufferable, or so he’s been told. Usually, Four just assumes he’s better off alone and not reaching out to anyone. Fewer secrets are shared when no one knows about them in the first place.

That doesn’t explain why he’s ignoring that favored precept of his in favor of staring at one of the initiates yet again. Four tells himself that he doesn’t do favorites, that he treats all of the trainees with the same blunt criticism and harsh words. It makes it easier that way. He once knew a few instructors who would place bets on their favorites, but they always ended up losing more than their money when their chosen trainees didn’t make the cut.

Dauntless may not be a place that encourages its pupils to choose safety over fun, but Four always betrayed that particular principle while leading initiation. He’s only been at it for a year or two, he can’t afford any screw ups now. That’s why he would do well to ignore that one initiate in the corner. It would be his best choice, but for some reason, it’s the one path he refuses to travel.

As if Four has ever been known for his rational thought. There’s a reason he’s not in Erudite, after all, why he scorned every faction one after another until he could only ever end up here in Dauntless. Dauntless, where at last he’s the one in power, where he’ll risk his life again and again because at least in this faction people wear their hatred firmly on their sleeves instead of hiding it behind some ambiguous political game.

Perhaps Four isn’t one for politicking, then, but that’s no surprise. He does what he pleases, he likes who he likes, and when Y/N L/N happens to glance up at him when she finishes a round in the fighting ring, she doesn’t look remotely shocked to see him looking at her again. No one is, but then again, no one notices Four’s attention except Y/N herself.

Y/N is a transfer. Y/N is an initiate. Y/N is the one person that Four really should be avoiding, but can’t seem to manage it. He doesn’t know what it is about her that keeps calling his interest back to her again and again like the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers, but his heart refuses to explain. His head has tried to make amends, but his heart keeps on traitorously beating, still seeking her out after every time Four promises himself he won’t trust that magnetic pull to her again.

She never follows up on his attention, which makes her better than him, at least. She knows the rules. She’s also a little bit afraid of him, Four thinks, which hurts him more than it should. Y/N seems to be frightened of nothing in this world but him, and that is why he can’t bear to look away. Should he glance over at her once and find her willing to stand near him, maybe he would be able to guide his breathing back to a normal state, his heartbeat to return to rest once more.

It has yet to happen, however, and Four thinks he knows why. See, he knows what he thinks when he encounters Y/N, the curious storm of emotions all centrally positive that linger around his heart, but she has absolutely no idea of that. She wouldn’t, because whenever Y/N looks at Four or any other Dauntless training instructor, she thinks not of them as people but as physical manifestations of her initiation rank. Her rank, which happens to be pretty damn close to failing.

In all his time in this world, all his experience with heroes and cowards, fighters and thinkers, Four has no idea why Y/N’s rank should be that low. He knows what his eyes see, of course; fights lost, punches not thrown, but it makes no sense to him. Four is accustomed to the dropouts of Dauntless initiation, the ones who would rather go live with the factionless than stick through training. They’re nothing like Y/N, not in the slightest.

Those kids, those unwanted former initiates, they’re afraid. All of them, they’re afraid. Terrified to throw a punch for fear of bruising their knuckles, hesitant to step in a ring lest they take more hits than they dole out. They lose before they even try, but that’s not Y/N.

Y/N is brave, like he said. Braver than Four, probably. He would love to see her fear landscape if she could manage to make it past the first round of initiation. It would probably be pretty close to empty, what from the way she stares down even the most dangerous threats without a blink of an eye. Four has a brief terror that he might open her fear landscape just for it to hold him and nothing else, but he forces that thought away just as quickly. He doesn’t know that. Nobody does.

Y/N is brave, and that’s what makes this so hard. If she had half the spirit that she does, if she flinched away from every blow like the others, Four could brush her off like the other trainees. She would blend into the crowds, and he would go throughout his life without this trial of conscience that he’s undergoing now.

That’s not the case, however. Instead, Four looks at her and he sees the strength of Dauntless, the bravery, the need to get ahead. Y/N should be at the top of the rankings, but she isn’t. Four has a theory for that, though. Despite the fact that Dauntless loves to pride itself as the equalizer, that its initiation lets anyone from any background succeed, that simply isn’t the case. At the end of the day, trainees with more experience will pick up skills far faster, and that means they’ll always win.

That’s why cruel Candor and Erudite manage to make the transition so well. Y/N lacks that experience, and so although she’s learning things at an excellent rate, she can’t beat the prior knowledge of the others. Four remembers one time in which she’s been struggling with knife throwing. He had given her one hint and just like that, she was hitting the bullseye every time.

If Four wants to keep Y/N around a while longer, that’s what it’s going to take. More of that advice, more of that help. Y/N has the ability to change this faction just like him. Four just has to make sure that she makes it through initiation long enough to make that work.

Four isn’t supposed to have favorites. He does, it’s her. That’s why, despite days of him telling himself that he won’t get involved, he finds himself making up his mind. Still facing torment in his own head, Four drops by the training room later that evening, hoping some time alone with a punching bag and his own bruised knuckles will clear up his mind.

When he opens the door and sees Y/N there still, practicing her hits, he knows then and there that he has no choice. Four walks briskly through the training hall until he’s by her side. He watches her form for a few moments more; she knows he’s there, he can tell by the stiffness of her shoulders, her guard is already up.

He speaks at last, words echoing around the spacious room. “Punch more from your own strength. You’re pushing the bag, you don’t want to do that. Snap your fist forward instead.”

Four demonstrates with one quick hit. Y/N nods, mirroring him. Four has to bite back a smile. The change is immediate. A voice in the back of his head tells him that if he just stayed a little longer, helped a little more, she’d become a better fighter overnight. It’s not hard to convince himself to linger by her side.

“Good,” he murmurs, “now, try hitting with more combinations. Four hits instead of two. You’ll disorient your opponent.”

Once again, Y/N does as he says, and once again, she does it perfectly. That’s another problem with initiation, Four thinks, it’s impossible to help every student as much as they need, what with the incoming class of transfers growing so rapidly every year.

Y/N practices a while longer, then relents, taking a step back and giving Four a quizzical look. “Why are you doing this? I mean, I appreciate the tips, but I don’t think you do this for every initiate.”

“I don’t,” Four confirms, “maybe I just want to see you win tomorrow. Is that such a surprise?”

Judging by the expression on her face, the answer would be yes. “Last time I checked, you were supposed to make sure everyone had an even playing field. I didn’t think private punching lessons were included in that.”

Four has to try his utmost to smother a laugh. “They’re not. Still, I wanted to.”

“You wanted to,” Y/N repeats contemplatively, “what, you got tired of seeing me get my ass kicked all the time? I know you watch my rounds more than the others, that must be it.”

Four swats her gently on the shoulder. He’s just as surprised about it as she is; nothing they’ve done has brought them close enough for soft friendship. Still, it feels right. Maybe that means something.

“Self-pity doesn’t treat you right,” he says, “I like it better when you’re walking around like you own the place. Sometimes I think you do.”

Y/N laughs. “And melodrama has never been your strong suit. I think I like it, though.”

Four likes it too. He raises a brow, inviting her sarcastic remarks once more. “Does that mean you’ll allow the lessons to continue? You won’t keep pushing me away with your own disbelief?”

“I’m still debating,” Y/N retorts, but she’s grinning and that makes it much better.

Four leaves the punching bag, not her; he walks to the ring instead. Climbing easily up, he extends an arm for Y/N to join him. She takes his hand without a second’s hesitation, and Four has to fight all parts of himself to hide the swarm of warmth that cloaks his insides when he realizes her fear of him is gone, if it was ever truly there at all. Perhaps he was just looking for excuses to stay away, knowing nothing would work for long.

Y/N puts up her fists, interrupting his musing. “So? Are we fighting or not?”

“Of course we are,” Four says, getting into his own opening stance.

After that, he loses himself in the even rhythm of punches and kicks, blows and strikes. Sometimes he calls out tips and tricks, other times he lets Y/N learn from what works well and what doesn’t. Even after the night ends, when their strength gives out and they both walk away with new bruises and old grins, Four knows one thing for certain: this is not the end of Y/N’s time in Dauntless, nor her time with him. No, their story is just starting. It is one that he looks forward to with all his heart.

divergent tag list: @rogueanschel, @with-inked-solace, @gods-fools-heroes, @23victoria, @manyfandomsfanvergent, @ilovexavierthrope

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chalkscene · 8 months

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lovebrush chronicles ⇢ NOT LEAVING THIS GARDEN OF EDEN

you did follow through your plan, you tell yourself. you saved earth and went straight back home. you just didn’t plan on going back to eden. after all, home is where the heart is.

ft. ayn alwyn, alkaid mcgrath, lars rorschach & clarence clayden

note: reimagined eden endings because i’m still sad i didn’t pull a single eden ssr illustra <//3 also i apologize for the big blocks of texts lmao

“hey, chief. remember little leaf?” o’connor suddenly asks. AYN freezes at the mention of his second-in-command’s endearment for you and though he doesn’t mean to intimidate his companion, there’s a permanent glare in his gaze on o’connor which makes the latter panic in fear. o’connor’s hands shoot straight to his head as he begs, “please don’t burn my hair. it was just a question.” the chief stifles a snort, “i’m not gonna do anything.” o’connor sighs in relief before ayn answers his earlier inquiry, “i remember. why do you ask?” “i was just wondering. how do you think she’s doing?” in an attempt to mask the longing he still feels since you left, ayn simply shrugs, “safe, probably. she’s home now.” “she is.” it’s not o’connor who speaks this time and just like that, ayn feels his entire body go tense—he’d know that voice anywhere. unbeknownst to him, you’ve been standing just a few feet behind him. the moment you walked into the busy tavern today, the members of the order perked up at the sight of you but before they could express the slightest glee, you urgently signalled them to hush. you’re grateful that despite their undying loyalty to ayn, they play along. when you finally speak, the room falls into complete silence as every single member of the order awaits ayn’s reaction. his suspicions are confirmed by the smirk from o’connor who’s now looking past him and straight at you, beaming, “hey, little leaf!” ayn spins on his heel to face you, the usually blunt man now rendered speechless. you can’t help but tease him, “i can’t believe i managed to sneak up on you. you’re losing your touch, ayn.” the seconds that follow pass in a blur and you find yourself in the strong yet gentle embrace of ayn’s arms once again. “you’re back…” ayn mutters, clear disbelief in his tone as if to convince himself that he’s not dreaming and you barely contain your giggles, feeling hopelessly smitten with this boy, “like you said. i’m home.”

with the lantern glowing in his hand, ALKAID is strolling along a commercial district—the exact replica of the street he took you to in eden—and like they always do, his thoughts drift back to you. if you could see this new eden, would you be proud of him? he can’t help but wonder. he hasn’t fully regained his capacity to feel a multitude of emotions since he paid the price to rebuild eden into a better place but one thing’s for certain—he yearns for you. but he also knows that if a star were to fall from the sky tonight, it would be incredibly selfish of him to wish for your return. he can only wish for your safety and happiness wherever you are. that should be enough, he tells himself. you already granted him three days to be his lover—much more than what he deserved after everything he had done. he’s not in any position to demand for more. but the universe is quick to differ because sitting on a bench just a few feet away now is your figure. before he can stop himself, alkaid calls your name and you immediately turn to the sound of his voice. both falling in a state of disbelief at the sight of each other, neither of you say anything for a moment. “hi,” you speak first. it takes some effort but alkaid manages to find his voice, “what are you doing here?” “i didn’t know where to look for you,” you suppose that’s not exactly what he meant with his question but your reply still answers it all the same—i came back because i promised i’d find you. your eyes then dart to the lantern in his hands, “you still have it.” “i kept it. i don’t know why i brought it with me though,” he admits bashfully, his boyish grin so childlike it leaves no trace of the master of eden he used to be. and it’s the loveliest you’ve ever seen him. “i was going to give it to you before you left,” alkaid adds, “you can have it now so you can bring it back home… if you want it.” “if that’s the only reason you’re giving it to me then i can’t take it,” you try to sound as solemnly as you can and guilt immediately gnaws at you when alkaid visibly deflates at the rejection. still, out of respect for your decision, he simply gives a resigned nod, ”i understand.” “i don’t think you do.” you can no longer fight the smile pulling on the corners of your lips and alkaid looks nothing short of confused. “alkaid, i’m staying.”

after a long trip beyond the borders of eden, LARS couldn’t be more ecstatic to go home and get some rest but as he rummages his backpack for his keys, something at the foot of the door catches his eye—a small pot of cactus. maybe his mind is playing tricks on him but the prickly succulent looks identical to the one he gifted you during your time in eden. he recounts the past events, from your arrival in this world down to the moment you left. he’s sure he packed the cactus for you. “at least, put that in a box before you stuff it in my bag next time,” you quip as you come into lars’s view, raising your finger to show him the small bandage over the spot where the cactus pricked you. with the traveler stood frozen and speechless, you take it upon yourself to cross the distance between the two of you. soon, lars is reaching for your hand as if to inspect the tiny wound but that is the furthest thing from his mind right now. he’s trying to process the sight of you standing in front of him and holding his hand and that this is all, in fact, very real. still, he manages to match your teasing. “how about daisies, hm? would that be better?” brazenness drips from his tone but there’s obvious sincerity swimming in his eyes. you can’t even describe how badly you missed those blue eyes. “much,” you tell him. in an instant, the playful atmosphere dissipates until there’s nothing but genuine longing in the air surrounding you both. “i thought you went home,” he says softly but you don’t miss the subtle shiver in his voice as he keeps it steady. “i did.” “why did you come back?” “i wanted to see you again.” “but it’s safer there.” “i feel safer with you.” lars doesn’t have a rebuttal to that. “i missed you, lars.” “i missed you, too,” he mutters as he takes you in his arms, planting a chaste kiss on your forehead, “are you sure about this? i don’t think i can let you go again.” with a giggle, you cradle his face and bring him closer for a kiss that he’s eager to reciprocate. “i don’t want you to,” you mumble against his lips.

eden has begun to live up to its name since CLARENCE took over but sometimes, the falcon in him still comes out and clarence finds himself at a shooting range practicing his aim—not that he ever needs it. he can hit multiple bullseyes in a row within seconds. but better safe than sorry and today is no exception. when he shoots the last of his ammunition, an audible thud shortly follows, catching his attention. he immediately glances at the target and at the center, among his many gunshots, one rubber bullet stands out. on full alert, clarence scans the area to deduce the possible source of the dart only to be met by the last person he ever expected to find in eden—you. “i didn’t think i’d get that on the first try,” you quip. “what are you doing here?” the urgency in his voice contradicts the cheeky expression on your face. “i took some shooting lessons and i wanted to show you,” you tell him proudly, “but i’m not sure if they’re eden standards.” clarence huffs out a laughter at your remark as he shakes his head in amusement. your playful wit hasn’t changed one bit, to his relief. “if you want me to teach you, just ask,” he banters. “i literally hit a bullseye,” you retort but clarence only shrugs, “beginner’s luck.” his mock indifference reminds you of the clarence—or rather, the falcon—you met when you first arrived in eden. it’s only been a few months but it all feels like a distant memory that you can’t help but laugh about it now. not wanting to waste another second apart from him, you cross the space separating you, running into his arms where he catches you with ease. “i was scared you wouldn’t remember me,” you mutter against his shoulder and a soft chuckle escapes him as he deems the mere idea of your confession ridiculous, “i never stopped thinking about you.” when you eventually pull away, clarence’s gaze drops to the gun in your hand. “what kind of gun is that?” “this?” you hold it up so clarence can get a better look at it, “it’s a nerf gun. and it’s just a toy.” you point the gun at clarence and aim for his arm. before he can protest, you pull the trigger to prove it causes no serious injury, “see?” still, the impact makes him flinch. “where did you get it?” “i brought it with me.” the insinuation of home in your reply slightly dampens clarence’s mood. he can’t help but ask, “how long are you staying?” “depends,” you answer in a tone that’s unwaveringly cheery, “how long are the lessons you promised?” the corners of clarence’s lips quirk up at your joshing and hope begins to bubble in his chest, “as long as you want them.”

#lovebrush chronicles #lovebrush chronicles x reader #lovebrush x reader #lbc x reader #ayn alwyn #ayn alwyn x reader #ayn x reader #alkaid mcgrath #alkaid mcgrath x reader #alkaid x reader #lars rorschach #lars rorschach x reader #lars x reader #clarence clayden #clarence x reader #clarence clayden x reader

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lesbian-in-leather · 8 months

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Let's Talk About Alastor

Hazbin Hotel is rotting my brain so it's time for me to ramble about it to no one in particular!! Obviously this post will contain a whole multitude of spoilers, so please don't look under the cut unless you're fine with that/have seen the full season

As I mentioned in the tags of this post, I have SO MANY THOUGHTS about our beloved Radio Demon, especially in regards to the finale and how I think his plot could go next series, so buckle up folks, this'll be a long one

First off, let's talk about the way he fights. When he's fighting anyone, Alastor is big, and showy, and fucking deadly. We see it time and time again—he has fun when he fights, he enjoys the carnage and, most importantly, the terror he elicits from his foes. And that's why he was tasked with dealing with Adam—he's insanely powerful, and if anyone can take down the head of the exorcists, it would have to be Alastor (because obviously they didn't know Lucifer would show up to help, and Charlie hasn't fully come into her power yet, but that's another post). And he knows it! He knows he's powerful, he knows he's deadly, he knows everyone is shit-scared of him, and that's what he relies on.

And then the finale happens. He's in that final battle, and he's actually put to the test. And in terms of sheer power, for once in his afterlife he isn't the strongest in the room. He's actually outmatched, or at least on an even footing. And if he'd fought like everyone else, then maybe he would have succeeded—if he'd taken Carmilla's advice, I have no doubt that he would have won, or at least held Adam off for long enough that the others could have come and helped him. But he never stood a chance. Because he fights like an angel, and that's why he loses to one. Look at Carmilla's conversation with Vaggie:

"You leave yourself open with every swing; you fight like someone unafraid of harm" "Angels wield no shield, little armour, and fight with reckless abandon"

Remind you of anyone? Rewatch Alastor's fight with Adam—he's fighting just like he always does. He has multiple opportunities to take him out, but, like always, he chooses to play with his food. He's enjoying himself, he's riling Adam up, dancing around him, taunting him. Because at no point does he consider that he could lose this fight—he has no armour, no shield, he didn't even bring an angelic weapon! He just has his trusty radio mic (the source of his power? Perhaps... but that's a discussion for another post) that Adam breaks. And the genuine fear in his eyes, in his voice when that happens? He has no idea what to do. He never even considered this could happen. Everyone else is fighting for their lives, but he was treating this war like simple sport... until suddenly he couldn't.

And speaking of motivation, once again we can look to Carmilla's song to see why he loses when the other, objectively less powerful souls (Husk, Angel, Cherri, hell, even Nifty) succeeded. Yes, they weren't against Adam, but they were still fighting exorcists—you know, the same angels that have been decimating hell's population unchallenged for literal centuries. But they didn't die. Because they were fighting for what they truly believed in, because they had a real reason to not only fight, but to live. I saw it mentioned in this post earlier, and they make such a good point! Charlie's fighting for her dream and for her people; Vaggie's fighting for Charlie; Lucifer for his daughter; Angel, Husk, Pentious and Cherri are all fighting for their friends (something Charlie gave them, btw, but again, that's a different post). But what's Alastor fighting for? Power? Fun? To prove a goddamn point? I think he loses because even he doesn't really know why he's fighting. I mean, listen to Out For Love and tell me it doesn't apply to Alastor just as much as Vaggie:

"I see you're driven by your detestation Your every step is stoked with animus You need a different type of motivation Or there's no way that you can handle this I know you're thirstin' for vengeance, Vaggie You're out for blood But you'll only stand a chance if you're out for love"

Which would bring me onto where I think his plot will go in future seasons (should we get them), but first we need to clear a couple of things up and try to understand his character as best we can. Now here's the thing, I know a lot of people are divided on the topic of Alastor's feelings. Some people say he genuinely cares about the others, while some say he's just putting up a façade and playing the game, and that all of the supposed evidence of his feelings are actually manufactured manipulations. But I think both readings are true, and also, neither of them are.

Because I think Alastor does care about the others, to an extent. But I also think he refuses to acknowledge it, to recognise that part of himself, that he's buried those feelings so deep he doesn't even know that they can exist within him anymore. I think whoever holds his leash (Lilith? The seven year gap is a little too convenient to ignore, but at the same time, now that we know where she is, what's her motivation? Anyway, another post) pushed him towards the hotel for their own purposes, but I also don't think they're particularly checking up on him. I think his mission is to do with Charlie, but I also think he's grown genuinely attached to her over the months they've known each other. Why do I think this? I'm glad you asked!

First off, let's examine his reactions in various key moments throughout the series so far:

This first shot is the most annoyed we see him for the entirety of the song Should Have Stayed Gone, despite singing with one of his (many?) self-proclaimed rivals, Vox. Now yes, he does look moderately peeved, but I would argue that it's much less to do with Vox, and much more to do with the focus on television and his constant fear of irrelevancy (more on that later in this post). Then look at his expressions later—

Now he's enjoying himself, he has that ever-present shit-eating grin we all know and love. And, most crucially, no one else can see his expressions during this song. No one's looking at him in the first pic, and for the rest of the song he's in his radio booth, so it's safe to assume that his expressions are far less guarded than when he knows he's being observed. Why is that important? Well, let's take a look at another Alastor-heavy episode, shall we? That's right, no Alastor analysis would be complete without a delve into Dead Beat Dad, so here we go!

Right off the bat, we're shown his dislike of Lucifer. I know some people say it was all for show, but I disagree. Hear me out—Alastor's smart, no one's arguing otherwise, so why make an enemy of the literal devil just for sport? Now, let me be clear—I don't think he actually sees Charlie as a daughter-figure (at least, not consciously, and certainly not as strongly as he was making out). The thing is, he is good at reading people, and all it took was one look at Lucifer can't-wait-to-break-the-door-down Morningstar for him to realise that Charlie's affection was what mattered the most to him. However, his hatred of Lucifer was not all for show. So why did he hate him? The fact that he hadn't heard of him certainly won't have helped (again, Alastor definitely has a whole complex, we'll get to that), but his loathing started before Lucifer had even spoken to him. How do I know? Take a look at the moment when Lucifer has literally just opened the door

Look at that eye twitch. No one's looking at him. No one can see it. But the sheer, unbridled rage is so evident that he can't quite keep it from his face. And all Lucifer has done is hug his daughter. Now, assuming the two have never interacted before (Lucifer certainly doesn't seem to remember him, and Alastor doesn't act as though they've met) what reason does Alastor have to hate him? If Lilith is his master, perhaps it's on her behalf? But he doesn't seem particularly loyal to whoever holds his leash, far from it, so that leaves us with the two most logical options: either Lucifer is the one holding his leash (not impossible, but I wouldn't say it has much evidence thus far), or Alastor is genuinely opposed to him because of how he's treated Charlie. Because he does care about her, however little he'll admit it to himself.

Just to really hammer this point home, I'd like to show just some of the many other instances of Alastor being genuinely furious with Lucifer over the course of this episode—in fact, seeing as we've already talked about Should Have Stayed Gone, let's constrain ourselves to Hell's Greatest Dad for now, shall we?

All Lucifer has to do is laugh at the start of this song, and just look at Alastor's face! That's anger, or at the very least intense annoyance—with ever-smiling-Alastor, the proof is always in the eyebrows. Then we get this wonderful sequence of expressions while Lucifer begins insulting him:

Oh, and just in case you need a comparison, here's a shot of Lucifer insulting Alastor side-by-side with two different instance of Vox insulting Alastor. And some people still think Vox is his rival and he was just messing with Lucifer?

Now you may say, "Ah, but that's not a fair comparison! Alastor was clearly winning his argument with Vox, whereas he and Lucifer were on a much more even footing!" to which I would reply yes! Exactly! That's why Vox isn't anywhere close to being Alastor's rival, and also at least part of the reason Alastor cared so much when fighting with Lucifer. If winning against Lucifer was as easy as Vox, of course he'd pick that fight. But it wasn't. At the start of Hell's Greatest Dad, he's getting straight up humiliated (as those four waiter-esque pics demonstrate). And yet, he keeps fighting. Partially for pride, I'm sure, but some part of him absolutely cares about the argument he's making.

How do I know that? Well, you see, first of all we take a look at how Alastor acts when he first starts singing. As we all know, Alastor's power lies in his voice—his face was made for radio—and he's (almost) always so much more in control when he's talking, and always in control if his radio filter is in place. In fact, the stronger it is, the more he appears to be taking charge. So, when he first begins to fight back against Lucifer, he immediately puts that Cheshire-Cat-esque façade back into place, quite literally dancing around Lucifer as he does so:

And yet, his energy is so much higher than normal. He's leaping around, his usually calculated movements suddenly far more erratic and energetic than we've seen him. For example, in his first verse alone, he goes though all of this:

Not only is he using far more power, he's become so showy, his expressions are so much more unhinged than even he usually is, his pupils are near-constantly slitted, and, most importantly, take a look at his colour palette. Right at the very start it's still his classic red and black, but then—without Lucifer even interrupting—he gets so invested in convincing Charlie (and, by extension, proving himself better than Lucifer) that he switches to what I have dubbed his Powerful Palette. It only ever happens when he's demonstrating his full abilities; when he's angry at Husk, when he's fighting Adam, when he makes a new deal, and... now. Arguing with Lucifer over who's a better father to Charlie. And while usually it's in brief flashes before he returns to normal, here he stays consistently in his greens and pinks, for a good majority of the song. You don't think that means he really cares, even just a little bit?

And when Lucifer has the gall to interrupt him with his golden fiddle, and just look at Alastor then;

Look at his face, look at his posture. Alastor, notorious for waving his arms around in grand, swooping gestures, is standing there, gritting his fucking teeth, fists clenched, arms folded at what must be an uncomfortable angle. The only time he moves is to concede a tiny step so he can drop a fucking piano on the literal devil.

Now this bit is so interesting, because he, very briefly, seems to believe that he's won, or is at least winning. And even then, he doesn't relax, he doesn't return to his normal colour palette or even his normal expression. He's still furious, you can see it—with Vox, it was a game. This is personal, and then when Lucifer is actually not only fine but still fighting, now playing a new instrument, (literally playing the devil's chord) to deliberately ruin Alastor's melody? Oh that's pure rage.

This first expression is his immediate reaction to it and, perhaps even better, the other two are him trying to contain it. Because he knows he can be seen, but he physically can't look any more collected than that; he can't control his expressions during this song. If he could, he would, because it would irritate Lucifer all the more, and he's more than smart enough to realise that. But neither of them can control themselves here, because both of them really, genuinely, care.

Then he physically places himself in between Charlie and her father, not only pushing him out of the way, but then going so far as to physically drop him out of frame with a gesture reminiscent of a Roman Emperor as he reinstates his claim over Charlie—again, feeding into his need to be relevant and powerful (we're getting to that part, I promise). But isn't it interesting that this time, he didn't even use his power? He pushed Lucifer with his bare hands, not bothering with the intimidating shadows or powerplays, because for once it wasn't about that. For once he wasn't focusing on the person he was fighting, but on the person he was fighting for.

Now this exchange is so interesting. Because Alastor misses a really good opportunity to get Charlie on his side, and I think he misses it purely because he (almost certainly without realising it) gets actually, genuinely offended on behalf of his friends. Because when Lucifer calls the others losers, he's insulting Charlie's family. Knowingly and callously! Right in front of them! And if Alastor was in his right mind, he would have absolutely pointed it out with a fake gasp and a shit-eating grin. But look at the way he reacts to Lucifer's interruption—the narrowed eyes, the tensing of his shoulders, the flexed wrists and clenched hands. That's genuine anger; it's too immediate and out of character to be anything else. Because he didn't intentionally goad Lucifer into saying that. And instead of taking advantage of the opportunity, he responds by, very childishly, asking Lucifer to "butt out" of his song. Because they were Charlie's family first, and he may feign indifference, but he included himself among them for a goddamn reason, and how dare Lucifer insult them like that?

And again, compare how he's moving and standing to how he was in Should Have Stayed Gone. In this gif (and Hell's Greatest Dad as a whole, but let's focus on this bit right now) he's glaring, his shoulders are hunched—he tries for his usual nonchalance by pushing Lucifer out of frame with a swing of his hips, but then is immediately betrayed by his expression, and his reaction the second Lucifer comes back at him. Meanwhile, in Should Have Stayed Gone, this is how he acts while taunting Vox:

He's so much more relaxed, he's visibly having fun, and Vox is the one bending himself out of shape to try and get Alastor's attention win the argument. Another interesting parallel between him and Vox in these numbers is when Vox is clearly losing towards the end of his part in Should Have Stayed Gone, compared to Alastor's first verse in Hell's Greatest Dad.

I mean, these frames are just a little too similar, don't you think? Both of them desperately trying to grab the attention of the subject of the song, duplicating themselves and leaning over the borders to try and be noticed... oh Alastor.

And now, finally, we get onto the bit that I've been promising for this entire post: Alastor's inferiority complex. The thing is, I think I've worked him out (at least, to an extent). We've seen time and again that he hates the idea of being irrelevant—the fact he doesn't like any technology beyond radio (leading to the real reason for his annoyance in that very first picture I used, when he sees everyone gathered around Vox's screens); his reaction when Carmine said she had not in fact, been wondering where he was; his reaction when Lucifer says he's never heard of him; the way he rushes to "remind people why he's here" at the end of Dead Beat Dad, and the fact that when he first arrived he took out all of the overlords who dared to dismiss his power, just to name a few. His fatal flaw is clearly pride—he wants people to know him, he needs to be relevant or he doesn't know who he is.

And I think that's the real reason he hates Lucifer. Because, father-figure or not, the two of them do represent the same position in Charlie's life. But why would she need help from a human soul (albeit an insanely powerful one) when she has a literal angel around to do whatever she wants? Yes, Alastor is powerful, but if Lucifer is back in the picture... well, we all saw it in the finale. Alastor was quite literally fighting for his life, and barely escaped with it, while Lucifer was dancing circles around Adam, shapeshifting, taunting, joking, and all the while he was periodically rescuing Charlie too. His attention wasn't even entirely focused on the battle, and he wasn't even really trying to hurt Adam until the end when shit got personal.

And I also think that's why Alastor got so scared. Because he almost died. As I said right at the start, he fought like an angel. He didn't even consider getting hurt as an option. And now he's having a crisi of mortality, and being powerful and scared is a dangerous combination. So where will his story go from here?

Well, from the fact that he's still at the hotel, I think that's evidence enough that he's being forced to stay with Charlie—despite all the very real evidence we have that he does genuinely care about her (I mean, they way he talks about shaping her to Rosie? The gentle looks, the fact he loaned her his mic? Don't forget how he looked when that got broken, it's clearly so important to him, and he gave it to her twice. Not to mention the whole 'wanting to be relevant in her life' thing that I've been going on about for like, half of this post. Remember what Rosie said about words being easy, but actions are hard? Yeah, he says he doesn't care, but... anyway). So, he's being forced to stay while he looks for an out in his contract with someone. But where does that leave him in the wider story? Well, I do think he'll eventually turn on Charlie and the rest of the gang, but I also think that it'll be temporary. Assuming the crew gets as many seasons as they want to tell the full story (never a guarantee, but here's to hoping) then I think he'll probably stay for a while next season but work against them behind the scenes, then make an open move against them, then be gone for a while, then start his long and arduous journey back into everyone's good graces.

Obviously his deal with Charlie will come into play, and I think he'll probably use it as leverage to get out of his deal. "I'll make Charlie do what you want—without hurting her, or making her hurt anyone else—and I get to be free from this bullshit" kinda thing. I also think it'll be very interesting when that happens, because I have a theory on what he meant by the deal having "clipped his wings"—I don't think he can take anyone's soul anymore. Think about it; we've only seen him even attempt two deals this season, and not even once has he attempted to add a soul to his supposedly ever-growing collection. It would certainly clip an overlord's wings to not be able to amass any more underlings—especially since it seems that the more souls someone owns, the more powerful they are, not just in terms of owning other people, but in actual, tangible power. So I think he'll eventually get out of his deal, and then he'll be free and he'll go utterly off the rails... for a while. But it won't be as fun anymore. Husk and Nifty will have been forced to turn against their friends, and Alastor won't care what they think, because why would he?

Except suddenly he does. Husk's silences suddenly feel a lot more pointed, and Nifty refuses to even look at him, and suddenly he feels something he hasn't felt in a very long time, or perhaps he's never felt it at all. He feels guilt. Regret. He wants friends again, because they were loud and annoying and they didn't respect him but... he'll realise that his affection for them wasn't all for show, not even by half. Because he almost died for them. And even when he's talking about it, scoffing at his own perceived weakness... he calls them his friends.

And that's when the real fun will begin, because the Radio Demon On A Mission will be a force to behold, and god help anyone who gets in his way, because once he figures out the love he's fighting for... oh, he'll be unstoppable.

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madamemachikonew · 1 year

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This Mortal Coil - Adeptus Baizhu x Chronically Ill Fem!Reader (3k)

A repost from my old account since I'm not sure how many people actually saw it what with all the visibility glitches. I wrote this for me to commemorate the year anniversary of my MS diagnosis, but sharing with all of you; a lot of Baizhu fans are chronically ill/disabled yet weirdly nobody seems to write for a sick reader...

The frail owner of the Bubu Pharmacy is secretly a snake adeptus, in the final phase of his life. While everyone knows of his quest for immortality, nobody knows the true reason why.

As he watches you, his sick mortal lover, sleep, he is alone with his thoughts and reminisces - both with joy and sadness - on your time together.

+++ Contains much angst and portrayal of degenerative chronic illness +++

It's on AO3 here.

__________

In the still of the night, Baizhu sits perched on the side of your bed as you slumber. With a gentle hand he caresses your brow and head, taking comfort in the feeling of the silky strands of your hair as they run through his fingertips like sand through an hourglass. It reminds him of the precious gift of time. As he watches your steady breathing in the flickering lanternlight, he cannot help but reminisce in this quiet moment of respite from the bustle of the Pharmacy.

Looking down at you through long eyelashes, the glow of the lantern catches his amber eyes, which exude a kindness he shows to nobody else.

As he sits with you, he recalls the first time that you, his favourite patient, had sat in his office and told him “It feels like I’m disappearing.”

He had looked at you with a quizzical expression until you had described your confusion at how your limbs had become numb, tingling and weak, your brain foggy and forgetful. The mysterious numbness had started to creep up your body.

“Like you are disappearing?” he had replied, his voice hollow as he recognised only too well the symptoms you had described.

It had been an apt description, for it was in some respect, true. The incurable illness that was silently ravaging you was destroying your body, and with it, your very essence of self. Not only was it disabling the switches that allowed you to feel and control your body, but your very personality would slowly erode, not just from the weight of your troubles, but because your emotions were also becoming harder to control.

Baizhu’s heart aches at the recollection of how you had wrung your hands in the face of his sombre words that had turned your world upside down. And how his heart had broken that he had been the one to deliver the news that shattered your dreams before his eyes. With a painful look in his eyes, he thinks back to how he had relentlessly tried a multitude of remedies to bring you relief; pushed needles into your supple flesh to release the flow of your Qi energy, given you pills and tinctures, salves and ointments, massaged and stretched your muscles to release their painful tight spasms. And you had borne the discomfort of his treatments without any complaint. Unlike his other patients, not once had you ever complained of the bitterness of his medicines. Over time, he had realised that his desire and passion to heal you was not just that of a doctor, but as someone who loved you.

A loving gaze in his eyes as he beholds your sleeping form, he recalls how you had asked him what his favourite flower was. His heart swells with emotion at the thought of how you had brought him those flowers as a thank you gift for his efforts. He laughs softly to himself at the recollection that he had eaten them because he had not realised that they were a gift to display in his office. His heart had fluttered with joy when, in the course of your frequent charming conversations during your consultations, he had discovered that you enjoyed floral teas and infusions, because it meant that despite him being an Adeptus, you both had something in common.

As the lantern flickers once more in the silent bedroom, he remembers the day he had summoned enough courage to blushingly confess his love for you with soft and quiet words. Back then he had dreamed of you sleeping by his side as you do now, but had never dared to believe that it would one day become a reality.

“You’d love me, even with my illness?” you had replied in shock and disbelief, your eyes filled with tears. “Even knowing what is to come? Even knowing that I will one day lose myself and suffer the indignity of becoming nothing more than a shell?”

Your reaction had startled him, for it had never occurred to him not to love you or take care of you until his dying day. You were no less worthy of love just because your body had decided to destroy itself and it had wounded him deeply to hear you speak that way about yourself, as though there could be people in the world who would see you as a burden.

“You will always be you.” he had replied with misty eyes as he caressed your cheek. “No matter what comes to pass, I will always see you as you are now, radiant and full of life, for that person will always be in here. ” He had pressed a gentle fingertip over your heart before holding your trembling body close as you sobbed on his shoulder at his words, clinging painfully to him as your fingertips dug into his back as though your life had depended on it.

With a slender finger, he wipes his eyes before caressing your head once more, pulling the covers up a little around your neck, around which hangs a protective Adeptus amulet he made for you; his first gift to you that wasn’t medicine.

As he delves further into his vivid memories, he feels the same butterflies as he did on the day that he had revealed that he was in fact an Adeptus. He had done so with apprehension in his heart, for he knew only too well that a snake did not have the beauty or majesty of other Adepti. Unlike a crane or a deer, most people would shudder and recoil at the idea of a snake spirit. And your reaction had startled him once more; you had cupped his face in your hands, repeating his own words to him – that the person you loved was still inside of him, no matter which physical form he took.

A smile blossoms on his face as he recalls the first time he had unveiled his true snake form to you as you had knelt on the grassy mountainside under the moonlight. How you had giggled when he had coiled his large scaly body around you, given your cheek a soft boop with his nose and rested his head in your lap, his flickering tongue tasting your happiness in the air. Instead of running in fear, you had hugged him tightly and called him beautiful. Your gentle hands had given him headpats for hours and scratched under his chin as he purred with blissful contentment and nuzzled against your soft warm body. Your soothing touch, so replete with love, had sent him into a deep, almost hypnotic meditative trance. In this way, chastely holding one another under a blanket of stars, you had spent your first night together, both knowing true peace for the first time in your lives.

That night had been the first time in a long time that he had shown his true spirit to a mortal, and even longer since he had been touched with any degree of affection. He had wept hot happy tears at your unhesitating acceptance of his fearsome form. Since then he had been your constant companion as well as the guardian of your health and your heart.

A warm feeling washes through Baizhu as he thinks of how much he loves coiling around you as you sleep, emanating a healing frequency that vibrates and hums through you, relieving your pain and fatigue, soothing your frayed nerves and easing the tension in your muscles. It brings him so much joy to envelop you in the vibrant purr of pure love, knowing you can feel a sense of peace in the knowledge that you can entrust all of your fears, weariness and anguish to him.

With a soft smile, he remembers how you had excitedly asked him about Adeptus cuisine, wanting to make him something he enjoyed, and the eagerness with which you had been willing to try his dishes, no matter how unconventional to the human palate. He had replied that he liked to eat flowers with a pleasant scent for breakfast, as they bring him a good feeling inside, calming and relaxing his soul. You had laughed melodiously and told him how cute it was. He had never been called cute before and it had made him feel as warm inside as an afternoon nap in the autumn sun. He wondered if you knew how cute you had been in that moment, with your bright and honest smile. You had giggled even more when he had bashfully confessed that he had eaten the flowers you had given him so long ago.

In the days when you were more mobile on your feet, you would go for walks and fill baskets with his favourite flowers for him to eat, or infuse them as a fragrant tea for the two of you to share, or stuff them into his pillow so the calming scent would help you both relax as you slept. The scent and the sight of these flowers would forever remind him of you.

As he continues to caress your head, he recalls the nervous flutter in his heart when he had told you all about the four sacred Adeptus love rituals marking the various stages of commitment to one another and his joy when you had shyly asked if he wanted to perform those rituals with you. To mark the first attraction and your burgeoning connection, you had fed each other orchids and lotus seeds at the Ritual of Pink Clouds, so-named after the clouds at dawn and the satin blush on the cheeks of shy new lovers. The Ritual of Flowing Waters symbolised your intent to deepen your relationship, irrevocably entwining your lives and sharing all your joys and tribulations. You had both gathered purest spring water from two different mountain streams and solemnly poured it into a single cup from which you both drank. Then the handfasting Ritual of the Blossoms, tying a cord he had woven himself from auspicious and medicinal plants and flowers, pledging yourselves to one another in this life and all of the lives to come. And then, after he had meticulously prepared the room with incense, lanterns and ceremonial foods, and you had both bathed to purify yourselves in accordance with the sacred tradition, you became an entanglement of limbs on a soft bed of silk and flowers as you consummated your love with his human form during the Ritual of the Red Moon, bringing each other to the heights of divine pleasure with happy tears as you bonded yourselves to one another for all time, the Blood Moon demurely hiding its face to give you privacy as it eclipsed itself in shades of warm carmine. It had been a moment so intimate, it had felt as though your very souls had touched.

Replaying these memories in his mind, it devastates him that your physical vessel, which houses such a kind, loving and honest heart, is disintegrating before his very eyes. It is being ravaged by an illness that has swept through you like wildfire, bringing untold destruction in its wake as it eats your body, mind and soul from the inside, like an Abyss curse. When he had first met you, the Bad Days were few and far between, but lately they have been increasing in number, and starting to outweigh the Good Days. You are but a prisoner inside your own body, which has become your jailer and your torturer. Your own mortal enemy. It is as though your body is possessed of a maleficent spirit with a mind of its own, hellbent on wreaking some sort of revenge for a sin unknown.

As he looks down at you nestled in the cosy bed and hand-knitted blanket, he reflects on how he had encouraged you to be creative, to preserve your neurological function and manual dexterity and help brighten your mood. So you had learned to knit, and had made a purple scarf for him out of the softest yarn, a physical manifestation of your love that he could wrap around himself to keep warm during the winter months, his snake spirit being sensitive to the cold. With great fondness he had run his fingertip over the irregular stitches, where your fingers had faltered; the imperfections making its charm. He had given you baoding balls to manipulate, and the gentle peals of their magical chimes were a source of comfort to him - as long as you could turn them, it meant that things hadn't gone too far.

And now your loving hands are numb and weak, barely able to grasp a teacup or open a jar. The baoding balls have fallen silent. It pains his heart to relive in his mind how you had cried the day you had irretrievably lost the feeling in them in the space of a few hours, but not because of the loss of function. The biggest woe of your selfless, loving heart was that you could no longer feel him as you caressed him. With a tear in his eye, he remembers how he had coiled helplessly around you to comfort you and how you had both wept as you once again petted his head in your lap, unable to feel his ivory scales rippling beneath your fingertips.

While his fingers continue to absent-mindedly caress you, Baizhu’s eyes glaze and become distant as he recalls how, with despair in his heart, he had prostrated himself before the Lord of Geo himself, begging him for help. The stoic dragon king had looked down at him and told him dispassionately that this pain was a sign that it was a most sincere love indeed. But that the pain was simply a natural consequence of living an immortal life. He recalled how, his forehead pressed into the dirt at Morax’s feet, his tears had fallen, causing glaze lilies to sprout from the ground. In his desperation, he had picked the flowers and brought them home to you to grind into medicine, but their taste was bitter and they had had no therapeutic benefit.

In accordance with his contract, Baizhu had protected the mortals of Liyue in his own way – unlike other Adepti he was never a warrior, but a healer.

But the many centuries spent in service of his obligations have taken their toll, and his body is now weak and decrepit, as frail as the mortals he has served for so long. Even more so. Even Rex Lapis himself is not immune to erosion. And yet, the insolent logic of nightmare had brought you – the woman he had waited an eternity to meet – into his life when he was least equipped to protect you, when his healing magic was at its lowest ebb. He spent every day wracked with regret at his past actions. Perhaps if he had been less selfless, he could protect what he truly loved now.

The cruelty of the world pained him. The cruelty of seeing you suffer, the inability to relieve your sickness or cure you in any meaningful way, the tragedy of only finding you when he was at his most vulnerable and weak. He was not even strong enough to carry you to your bed. All he could do was slow the progression of your illness and keep the inevitable at bay for as long as possible, and each time it would sap his own body of its strength. But he would gladly give every drop of his life essence to preserve your joy of living and bodily integrity just a little while longer. Seeing your smile and hearing your laugh echo in the world for just one more day would be more than worth it. How could he know that you would gladly give up your own health if healing you meant losing him?

And now he finds himself maligned by the citizens of the Harbour, their ungratefulness manifest as they mutter behind their hands and mock him for his quest for immortality, besmirching his name with rumours of experiments and cruelty against the apprentice he sheltered from Director Hu. Being an Adeptus, he had known of Qiqi’s story and had felt indirectly responsible for her plight, having seen her mortal form shivering with cold and fear in that cave so long ago, when even he had been forced to reluctantly pick up arms. And so, despite not being a man of high calibre or courage, he tried to relieve his karmic burden by taking her in. Robbed of her memory in her immortal form, she had no recollection of him.

What the two-faced gossipmongers who kowtow to him whenever they need healing do not know is why he seeks to unlock the elixir of immortality. How he longs for them to understand that it is for his true love, so that her fragile mortal vessel may hold her soul to accompany him for the rest of his days. And it is for himself, so that he may live long enough to find a cure for her suffering and, if he cannot, so he may continue to infuse his essence into her weakened body, to preserve her a little while longer.

Tonight, he curls his frail human form around you, spooning you as you sleep, a look of serenity on your beautiful face. Today had been A Bad Day. But not The Worst Day. The plane of unconsciousness is the only place where you have any respite from the daily struggle. But of course, in the morning you will wake once more. With the sun always comes the painful feeling of dread in his heart. Will today bring more deterioration? Will today be the last day that you can feel a limb or walk unaided? Will today be the day that your sight will finally fail, or you will suffer the indignity of losing control of your bodily functions? Every cursed dawn will herald a day closer to your inevitable fate, which is why you both take refuge in the tranquility of the night.

For now, all this cold-blooded reptile can do is absorb your warmth as he presses his face into your fragrant hair, smelling of the flowers he so adores. And weep bitterly.

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saltygilmores · 6 months

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Thoughts While Watching Gilmore Girls: 3x8 Let The Games Begin (Aka Let The ShitCircus Begin) (Send In The Clowns) (Send Help) (Part 1)

You can read my thoughts on all previous episodes in my Pinned Post. Ladies and Gentlemens, do you know what time it is? it is officially Literati Kickoff Time.

To get everyone up to speed, in the last episode, Rory recieved a Public Dumping for the Ages, Dean has stepped down as Rory's Primary Male Life Ruiner and handed that crown to Jess, Shane has been eviscerated into a bloody pulp, Lorelai and Luke both missed the showdown at the DM and so Lorelai learned about this tea off-screen sometime between the last episode and this one. It's yet unclear whether Lorelai learned what happened through second hand gossip or if Rory dusted off her Season 1 Balls of Steel and had the courage to inform her mother that Dean was out and Jess was in. Episode Opener: we see Rory and Lorelai walking through town shortly after the dance marathon, complaining about their sleep deprivation and achy feet. ("At least you bitches still have your feet," says Shane's dismembered ghost, looking down at her new webbed swan feet).

What is this shirt? It looks like an octopus ejaculated on this shirt.

Hey baby hey baby hey! J: Hi R:Hey J:Hi Lor: Hi (Who told you you could speak? Butt out, bish) Luke: Hi Jess: Hi R: I have to get to school. J: Me too. R:Bye J:Bye. Bye. Lorelai: Bye (bish, I swear...) R: Bye Luke: Bye Jess: Disappears

Only THE CUTEST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED?! That was so cute, they should be immortalized into a pair of Precious Moments figurines. The little plaque on the figurine would be titled "Idiots In Love." So naturally, a certain Grinch in a lavendar blouse has a problem with this and it only further reassures her that Jess is nothing more than A Sex Criminal (who would never murder anyone).

Yay. Lorelai and I are both crying on the inside over this development, but for vastly different reasons. Anyway, look at her hanging her head! This bish is in mourning! Look at how depressed this bish is! Hahaha! Get SAD, BISH! I WILL LICK YOUR SALTY, SALTY TEARS! Ahem. I haven't seen such a somber delivery since the medical examiner delivered the news to Shane's parents that he had positively identifed her mutilated corpse.

Who will visit my home and sift through my panty drawer now? Luke: What happened? Lorelai, somber as a funeral director: Jess happened. Luke, uncharacteristically giddy with excitement: Wow! WOW! This is great! Wow! Rory and Jess! Jess and Rory! This is great! Don't you think this is great! Honestly Luke and Lorelai reflect both sides of my conflicting feelings about the Literati Shit-Circus. Lor: "I'll tell Dean you said that." I'm sure you will before the next time you gargle his dick. I think it's the next episode where Lorelai tells Dean, "Just because you and Rory broke up doesn't mean we did." #Sick

MOMMY FAIL! Rory is 18. She's a fucking adult so leave her alone. Anyway, what does that mean? I think it's code for "It's about time Rory dated a boy who knows how to remove a bra.' Luke: I know Jess is tough (LOL, yeah, he's a real toughie, just look at that last exchange) but he likes Rory and Rory's a good kid. Her good will rub off on him.

You are so full of baloney. You're a Baloney Superstore. You are the Walmart of Baloney. Oh, this episode contains multitudes. Lorelai is insufferable on not just one but two fronts. Heavens to betsy. This is the episode where she has a shit-fit over Richard taking Rory to interview at Yale. One of the most ridiculous Lorelai tantrums I can ever recall, at least in the earlier seasons. Maybe not as insane as "I'd rather my child and I be homeless than accept a loan from my mother to save my termite infested house" but it's up there in the top 5 for me.

I am so brave. Ar FND, Richard invites Rory to embark on said Road Trip to Yale, which shouldn't be a big deal for a child with any other mother besides Lorelai Gilmore, but this is Rory so she is shaking lke a flu stricken chihuaua at the thought of her mother finding out she would ever deign to visit a school endorsed by her grandparents. She reluctantly accepts, then quietly pees her pants.

God speed, girlypop.

Fun with Product Placement time: Rory went to fetch a soda from the kitchen, and my immediate thought was: "These rich bitches better have name brand Coca Cola in their fridge, and not that odd Hansen's soda that Rory is always drinking", and they do. A real honest to god prominently labeled Coke can. Girlypop here is feeling the heavy weight of possibly displeasing her mother in both her romantic and academic choices. She has a lot on her plate right now. While the car is parked in the Gilmore Grands driveway after FND, girly pop musters up the courage to tell Lorelai "Grandpa wants us to go on a road trip to Yale" which causes Lorelai to huff and immediately exit the car. She begins storming back into the house, intent on demanding that her father explain this unbelievably callous and cruel attempt to brainwash her daughter into considering another school besides Harvvard. Rory stops her at the porch. where a lengthy argument ensues. Rory has to (once again) dig in her heels to defend her position against Lorelai over something so STUPID. I am really sitting here watching Lorelai and Rory go back and forth forever just because (ADULT) Rory wants to visit a college campus at the invitation of her own grandfather. Lorelai even calls Richard a "master manipulator" for this evil plot. You know what Rory, stop asking Lorelai for her input. Since you don't have a car, just hop on a bus to New Haven and just fucking go. After comparing the city of New Haven to leftover sludge at the bottom of a coffee pot, Lorelai decides she's going to accompany Rory on the trip anyway, even though its been made quite clear she does not have to go (just like the Sherry Baby Shower). In both instances, Lorelai's presence will ruin everything. Per @frazzledsoul: "Lorelai is so spoiled here. Imagine being a parent of a teenager and your worst problem is what Ivy League school your kid goes to." Amen. The rest of this episode promises to be a complete shitshow of epic proportions. At least the next episode is "Deep Fried Korean Thanksgiving", one of the best.

#gilmore girls #gilmore girls season 3 #denise rewatches gilmore girls #let the games begin #ltgb #literati #jess mariano #rory gilmore #luke danes #send help

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anonymousewrites · 1 year

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One Hell of a Love (Book 1.5) Chapter Twelve

Sebastian Michaelis x Demon! Reader

Chapter Twelve: One Hell of a Crisis

Summary: (Y/N) and Sebastian handle the issues aboard the train before having an encounter with Claude.

After a few minutes of running, (Y/N) and Sebastian looked out over the train below them, farther down the hill they overlooked. Ahead lay a divergence in the track. On one side was a town where there would be a stop and the bomb the kidnapper left would explode. On the other, the track continued. It was clear what the demons needed to do.

“Forks would hit better from here,” said (Y/N).

“I agree,” said Sebastian. He threw three forks from his jacket pocket. The cutlery precisely hit the levers on the side of the track, switching the train’s path from the station to continuing on tracks.

The demons leapt down from the hill onto the locomotive of the train. The conductor was staring at the change in direction in shock.

“Excuse us,” said (Y/N). The conductor whirled on them. “There is a bomb on this train that will detonate when it stops. Do not pull the brakes, whatever you do.”

“H-Huh?” The conductor was not given an answer as (Y/N) and Sebastian entered the passenger cars again.

“Ah! You’re Phantomhive’s butler and maid!” exclaimed Fred from where he was curled up with a stomach ache.

“Where is the Young Master?” asked Sebastian curtly.

“He went to save a child in the freight carriage,” said Fred.

(Y/N) narrowed their eyes. Ciel was likely running straight into trouble or had done so already.

The door opened behind them, and the nervous conductor cleared his throat to speak to the passengers. “I-I came to inform you…Not long ago, the train switched to a different track and is now headed in another direction. On our current course, we are heading towards an unused iron bridge. It probably won’t be able to withstand the weight of this train, so our final destination…” He swallowed. “Will probably be heaven!”

There was a moment of silence as the passengers absorbed the information. Then chaos broke out as people screamed and ran about. (Y/N) was just impressed by the conductor’s delivery of the news as if it was a normal change in destination (though they were cursing their bad luck that a bomb prevented them from stopping but the tracks were also going to run out).

“Then, we’d better stop this train quickly,” said a new voice.

(Y/N)’s nose twitched as they faced the other end of the passenger car. A man walked into the room holding Ciel as a hostage with a knife to his neck. Ciel looked annoyed. (Y/N) was irritated by the multitude of issues being thrown their way.

Sebastian was amused. “Young Master. So you have been taken hostage once again. It really seems like you enjoy being captured.”

“What are you talking about?” huffed Ciel.

“So…it was you.” The “priest” stood up. His face twisted in anger. “Johnny the Slaughterer.”

The passengers froze as yet another emergency appeared; the murderer had escaped containment.

“Look who’s here. Jack-Knife Hayward,” said Johnny. He brought the knife to Ciel’s throat again before addressing everyone present. “You can guess what’ll happen to this boy if someone doesn’t stop the train, right?”

“We would all like the train to stop, I assure you,” said (Y/N). They smiled brightly. “But if it does, a bomb planted by a kidnapper will detonate.”

The murderer now looked as confused and worried as the rest of the passengers.

Fred groaned and pulled himself to a seated position. “A-And there’s also a cholera outbreak.”

Hell, our luck is terrible, thought (Y/N).

“A train with a bomb inside, heading for a shabby bridge, and as if that’s not enough, there’s cholera, too?” listed off Johnny incredulously.

“Indeed.” Sebastian shook his head ruefully. “It’s a full-course critical situation.”

“Enough with this farce,” said Ciel. “Sebastian, (Y/N), do something to resolve this situation. Now. That’s an order, Sebastian.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Sebastian bowed.

“I am tired of this mess,” remarked (Y/N) in agreement.

“Enough of this!” said Johnny. “I don’t care about cholera or bombs. I’ll get out of this on my own!” He pulled Ciel with him and exited the room.

“Young Master!” Sebastian moved after him, but Fred caught him around the waist.

“Wait! You’re just servants! This is too much for you,” said Fred. “At a time like this, we should rely on the help of all the professionals who happen to be gathered aboard this train! Let’s join forces and fight against evil.”

I preferred his brother. (Y/N)’s nose twitched.

“I see. You’re being quite optimistic,” said Sebastian.

“He may be right,” said Jack (Jack-Knife Hayward). “In the past, I also made a living as an assassin.” He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal more of his tattoos. “Then, Johnny killed someone important to me, so I decided to quit and become a priest. A passage of the Bible says, ‘Thou art thine enemy.’ It’s time to bring this matter to a close. But I currently have no weapons.”

“Use this.” The grumpy Japanese man unwrapped his precious parcel. He extended a katana to Jack. “This katana, Zantoumaru, is a treasure handed down through our family. I brought it with me to pass on to my son, who is studying here, but I think it will be better employed helping you.”

“Then, you can leave the bomb to me,” declared the archaeologist, standing up. “I happen to have worked with timing devices when excavating ruins. Normally, you have two cords: a black one and a red one. One is a dummy. If you cut the right one, you’ll succeed in deactivating the bomb, but if you get it wrong, then BOOM! The only problem is that it will take time to locate the bomb.”

“Oh! Maybe we’re safe!” cried the timetable obsessed man. “The switch ahead is important! If we switch at the track bound for High Peak, then switch again at the following point…Oh! We can gain twenty minutes!”

“Oh, yay!” cried the passengers as ideas were thrown out.

(Y/N) wasn’t sold, and although they were impressed, they trusted their and Sebastian’s abilities much more. Sebastian though the same and opened a window.

He smiled. “Thank you for very much, but we can do it alone.”

As the passenger’s blinked in confusion, the demons flipped outside onto the roof of the train. Ahead of them, Johnny was dragging Ciel towards the back of the train.

“You’re persistent,” huffed Johnny.

“Please hand over the Young Master,” said Sebastian.

“Yeah…Just wait there. I’m coming,” said Johnny.

(Y/N) nearly rolled their eyes. He clearly had something he supposed was “clever” in mind. However, it wouldn’t work.

“I won!”

Johnny dropped to the ground as the train sped towards a tunnel, grinning madly as he expected Sebastian and (Y/N) to be killed upon impact with the tunnel’s ceiling. His eyes widened with horror, instead. Sebastian stood tall, his head burrowing through the ceiling with ease since his demonic self was stronger than the stone that did no harm. (Y/N) had at the last moment bent into a backbend, contorting themself past human capabilities.

Sebastian stepped forward towards Johnny when the train exited the tunnel. Johnny let go of Ciel in fear and scrambled back.

“Here, Young Master,” said Sebastian, extending a hand.

“Y-You’re monsters!” cried Johnny.

(Y/N) picked up Johnny by the collar, and the man trembled at the strength of the maid. “Goodbye, murderer.” They tossed him off the train.

“Now, for the bomb,” said Sebastian. He turned and grabbed the edges of the train car. “Even if there were red or black cords…” He lifted the ceiling from the train, revealing the bomb attached to the inside. “…there would be no need to choose between them.” Sebastian through the ceiling into the air, and the bomb detonated far above them.

“Hey. Think of the passengers,” said Ciel, glancing at the man in the cloak and hat, still sitting at a table.

“All is well,” said Sebastian pleasantly.

“That was the dining car,” said (Y/N).

“Besides, that passenger…” Sebastian trailed off when he and (Y/N) met each other’s gaze. “Oh, well. Next is the bridge problem.”

Sebastian and (Y/N) jumped from the roof and ran to the front of the train, stopping on the tracks before the bridge. The two planted their feet. The train approached. They were hit. However, their strength outperformed the engine of the train, and it slowed to a stop before hitting the unstable bridge. It hung on the edge with the two demons in front.

“You barely made it,” said Ciel, climbing down from the roof.

“How could we be Phantomhive servants if we could not properly cook a full course critical situation?” said Sebastian smugly.

“Besides, everyone is disembarking as we speak, all in one piece,” said (Y/N) as the three walked to see the rest of the passengers getting off the train.

“Y-You’re wonderful, Mr. Butler, Mx. Maid,” said Fred, stumbling towards them and holding his stomach.

“Right! The cholera outbreak.” Ciel looked at (Y/N) and Sebastian. That was the last crisis to solve. “There’s a chance that all the passengers might be infected.”

“Of course not. No one has cholera,” said (Y/N), smirking when Ciel turned to them in confusion. “They have stomachaches. If you recall, they all ate the eel pie on the menu and then had rice balls with plum. Eel and plum are not a good combination, and together they caused the pains of what people assumed was cholera.” They held up a vial. “Digestive medicine should do the trick.” They tossed the vial to Fred, who eagerly swallowed and jumped up when he felt better. (Y/N) smirked. “Humans have such sensitive stomachs; they should know better than to mix certain foods.”

“You two aren’t ordinary servants,” said Fred, looking at (Y/N) and Sebastian.

“We are a hell of a pair of servants,” said Sebastian.

“Sebastian, ensure the passengers disembark safely,” said Ciel. “And make sure my luggage is unharmed.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Sebastian. He and (Y/N) walked towards the freight car. Sebastian broke off to check on some passengers, and (Y/N) went to check the luggage.

(Y/N) picked up Ciel’s valise and, content with its intactness, turned to leave. They were met with Claude standing directly before them.

“(Y/N) Noir,” said Claude simply.

(Y/N) didn’t flinch at him knowing their current human name. Just as Sebastian had investigated him and the Trancy Manor, it followed that Claude would investigate them. “Claude Faustus.” Not letting him initiate the conversation, they looked him up and down judgmentally and tsked. “For a butler, you’re not very put together. Why, you have frosting all over your nose.” (They absolutely knew them and Sebastian dealing with the train had caused it, but they weren’t about to leave Claude a chance to speak).

Claude didn’t flinch at their words either, but he opened his mouth, and his long tongue reached up to lick the frosting away. (Y/N)’s nose twitched in distaste.

“You work for the Phantomhives, correct? Alongside, what is it now, ‘Sebastian Michaelis?’ ” said Claude.

“You know I do.” (Y/N) didn’t play games. Well, not with demons such as Claude.

“And yet you have no contract.” Claude’s eyes traced over them. The curiosity rested lightly in his words. “I suppose you play this part for entertainment. It must be getting boring. Perhaps you’ll find a more…stimulating environment.”

“As you could see today, life is never boring at the Young Master’s side.” Sebastian stepped up beside (Y/N). His words were amiable, but his gaze was hard as his eyes met Claude’s. He didn’t like the other demon approaching (Y/N).

“No, it is not,” agreed (Y/N). They raised an eyebrow distastefully at Claude. “I doubt I could find anything more ‘stimulating’ between contracts. Certainly not in a den of thieves.” The jab at Claude stealing Ciel’s soul was clear.

“I can see you’re quite content,” observed Claude, his eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly as he looked between the raven and cat demons.

“What called you into our business today?” said Sebastian, curtly moving to the point. He wouldn’t dance around the point with Claude, the thief of Ciel’s soul, especially not when the demon’s attention was so enraptured with (Y/N).

Claude’s eyes moved from (Y/N) to Sebastian, and he pulled a letter from his pocket. “If you’d like to investigating His Highness, you need only enter through the front gate.” He knew Ciel was looking into the Queen’s Spider after her mention of his involvement in cases that grew suspiciously criminal. He also knew Sebastian didn’t want Ciel near the Trancy Manor in case anything went wrong with his memories and soul, but Sebastian would have to let Ciel go once Claude continued to speak. “Besides, you want to help Young Master Ciel exact his revenge, do you not?”

Sebastian plucked the letter from his hand. (Y/N) glanced over and read the invitation. It was to a costume ball for Halloween.

“I shall see you there,” said Claude, turning and walking away.

(Y/N) and Sebastian didn’t respond. Sebastian already knew he would go. He had been searching for a way to bring Ciel’s soul to maturity once more, and he was capable of dealing with Claude in order to get his meal. (Y/N) would go because Sebastian did. They wouldn’t let him go to the Trancy Manor, the den of demons, as a lone demon versus a group.

Sebastian knew they would come, but he was torn. On the one hand, having them near would satisfy his own desires and also mean he could be at their side if the Trancy demons attempted anything. On the other hand, Sebastian wanted (Y/N) nowhere near Claude. He had seen Claude’s reaction when they had appeared.

The moment Claude had taken in their demonic aura, there had flashed in his golden eyes something wild. He had torn a piece of (Y/N)’s skirt away in his attempt to grab them. And now he had approached them and insinuated they should leave the Phantomhive household and come to the Trancy Manor for a more “stimulating” experience.

Sebastian’s eyes flashed fuchsia. He didn’t like the way Claude looked at (Y/N). He didn’t like the way his eyes followed them covetously. Claude was planning something, and now it didn’t just involve Ciel. It involved (Y/N).

(Y/N) wouldn’t be tempted from the Phantomhive household. No…that wasn’t right. No, (Y/N) wouldn’t be tempted from Sebastian. Claude couldn’t understand it, but (Y/N) was remaining by their former mentor’s side. Not even the promise of more entertainment (which His Highness was constantly creating, if a bit impetuous and vulgar with Hannah) interested the younger demon.

That was alright, though. Claude didn’t need to rely on words and promises to draw (Y/N) in. His plans were along far different lines. Claude preferred a more action-oriented plan, anyways.

Taglist:

@technikerin23

@im-making-an-effort

@izzieg3987

@jinxxangel13

@alexpangender

@otomyoli

@neenieweenie

@nex-crowley

@anxious-chick

@bellacastiel

@v1l-ismissing

@agentdedf1sh

@idkhowtoplayhoyoversegames

@iamsexytrash

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skinomyteethh · 1 year

Text

to be or not to be?

pairing; kelly nickels x fem! reader

summary; thoughout kelly's newfound fame as bassist of L.A guns he had been acting different though you weren't sure if it was due to the restless nights they'd spend preforming or another aspect

contains/warnings; mentions of cheating. oral (female receiving). fingering. teasing. slight cum eating? little to no dialogue. may contain spelling errors :(

authors note; I need kelly nickels' magic stick in my mouth. also it deleted the damn ask so </3 anyways I hope y'all enjoy reading this!!!

cheating in the eighties or seventies rockstar scene was not at all unusual or taboo, it was extremely difficult to find a rockstar who hadn't cheated on their spouse. hell, robert plant not only had his wife maureen he also had a tour wife and a multitude of other groupies alongside him. these stories seemed to absolutely terrify [name], the thought of her boyfriend cheating on her while on tour was extremely stomach churning.

she sat on the sofa of their shared apartment, staring at the television emotionlessly and in deep thought until a phone call disrupted her thinking. a soft sigh parted her lips as she stood up and turned off the television, walking over to the phone in the kitchen, answering it.

"hello, this is [name]." she stated rather blandly, hearing the stumming of a guitar and clashing of cymbals as well as loud laughter. "hey babe, it's me, I just wanted to check up on you." his voice was somewhat raspy, it signaled that he had continued his excessive smoking habits. this whole rock 'n' roll scene seemed to be fueled off of addictions.

[name] hummed, maintaining her hold of the phone against her ear as she laid against the wall, fooling around with the coiled cord of the telephone before finally responding. "i've been alright, how about you? are you enjoying the tour?" her tone seemed curious yet curiosity was far from what she was feeling, she had her suspicions.

a short moment of silence came upon them, though it was shortly broken by the sound of Kelly chuckling. "it's been hectic, but i'm glad you're doing alright. we're heading back to Los Angeles later today!" just as she was about to respond she heard another voice, it was the voice of another female, she sounded extremely flirtatious and seemed to have a stupid valley girl accent.

"babe, sorry for cutting the conversation short but I have to go." he remarked, letting out a small laugh before hanging up. [name] stood still for a minute, the phone still in her hand, that whole predicament was strange, unsettling even. perhaps now Kelly was apart of the bunch of idiot rockstars who cheated on their partners/spouses.

she sauntered back to the sofa, turning the television back on. overwhelming thoughts began to fill her head as she leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. what if Kelly had been cheating on her during these past months? what if he had been cheating on her prior to those months? those thoughts filled her head as she slowly drifted to sleep.

at around mid-day the loud, almost uncanny creaking of the front door both opening and shutting startled [name] out of her sleep. she sat up, feeling slightly dazed, not fully awake. her eyes glanced back as she heard the rather heavy bass guitar case drop onto the floor. Kelly hummed placing a soft, quick kiss on her forehead, taking a seat next to her.

upon feeling his lips against her forehead all thoughts prior to his arrival began swarming back, causing her mood to sour. he noticed her sudden and rather drastic mood change, wondering what on earth could have caused it. "did you have fun with her?" her question caught Kelly off guard, what could've caused her to think he was with another woman, despite what others may think he was a loyal, committed man with no desire for anybody but [name].

"what are you talking about?" he queried, raising an eyebrow in confusion. [name] responded with a scoff, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "you think i'm stupid? I heard that girl Kelly." flashbacks seem to hit him like a wave crashing onto the shore. the girl whose voice she had heard was tracii's new groupie girlfriend, he would never and could never cheat on [name].

"that was tracii's girl." [name] rolled her eyes, her expression was tainted with judgement, she still thought he was lying. Kelly sighed, closing his eyes. he was somewhat irritated at her accusations, out of all the people in this horrid world Kelly thought [name], his girlfriend of however many years would know he would never even think of doing something like cheating.

and he was going to prove it.

Kelly was going to make her realize he still loved her. she was slightly by his abrupt actions as he somewhat roughly threw her onto their bed, haphazardly taking his clothing off. his eyes trailed down to her white lace panties, he trailed down and slotted his hand in between her thighs, tugging at the waistband of her panties with his pearly white teeth.

a soft, desperate whine escaped her lips as he tugged them down. he hadn't bothered taking them off of her completely, they were low enough for him to engulf in her pretty little cunt. his warm tongue began to eat her out rather messily, his chin was dripping wet with her arousal as he slightly nudged his nose against her clit, licking up and down her folds as if she were to be his last meal ever.

her hands roughly tugged at the roots of her jet black hair, moaning out random praises as he brought her closer and closer to the edge. Kelly circled his tongue around her clit painfully slow, [name] glanced down at him, absolutely breathless, finally muttering a coherent sentence. "babe, please.."

desperation and neediness were clear in her tone as she quietly spoke. he hummed, bringing his pointer and middle fingers up to her lips. [name] shakily opened her mouth, enveloping his fingers in the warm of her mouth, coating them in her saliva so he could prep her and finally give her what she desired the most. after a minute or two he pulled his fingers out of her mouth, bringing them down to her entrance, inserting his pointer finger, then his middle finger.

[name] bit her bottom lip roughly, gripping the cool, white sheets below her as he slowly and rather gently fingered her. soon enough, one of her hands wrapped itself around his wrist, maintaining his fingers in place as she eagerly fucked herself against them like an absolute whore. Kelly simply watched her in amusement, placing soft, teasing kisses on her inner thighs.

her movements eventually became sloppier, less desperate and calculated, it signaled that she was getting extremely close to reaching the edge. he simply removed her hand from his wrist, pulling his fingers out of her. at that moment she seemed to despise the feeling of emptiness in her, whining as she took off his underwear.

Kelly desperately slotted his dick between her wet folds, the head bumping against her clit as he moved his hips back and forth, up and down. her arms reached up, and wrapped themselves around his neck, desperately holding onto him, loving the feeling. he halted his movements shortly after, grabbing the base of his dick, breathing heavily while he lined himself up with her hole, reaching his hand down, slapping her cunt before inserting himself into her slowly.

he moved his hips closer to her, watching as her soaking cunt absolutely devoured every inch of his cock. Kelly sighed euphorically as he finally inserted himself completely into her, bottoming out. [name] began to crave him even more than before, slowly moving her hips against him, his hands gripped onto her hips tightly, stopping her movements as he began to roughly thrust in and out of her.

each time their hips met her body felt an overwhelming wave of pleasure, her tits bouncing to the rhythm of his thrust. Kelly leaned down, pressing his chest to her back, placing soft kiss on the back of her neck as she moaned breathlessly. he reached his hand under her, groping one of her tits, adding even more pleasure into the mix.

every thrust, every groan, every touch drew her closer and closer to her orgasm. her moans began to grow louder and her body became somewhat limp as she finally reached her high, cumming all over his cock. "that's a good girl.." he mumbled, continuing to thrust into her, overstimulating her sensitive cunt.

his hip movements became sloppier by the second until he finally spilled his load deep inside her. slowly and shakily he pulled out, once again slotting his head in between her thighs, spreading her folds open with his fingers, pushing whatever mixture of their cum spilled out back into her.

finally, Kelly sat up, laying his head against the headboard, breathing heavily. "I hope that showed you how much I absolutely love you and how I would never cheat on you hun." he mumbled, bringing her closer to him. [name] let out a breathless chuckle, laying her head down on his abdomen, glancing up at him.

"it definitely proved something like that."

#fanfic #kelly nickels #kelly nickels smut #kelly nickels fanfiction #la guns #kelly nickels imagines #la guns x reader #smut #kelly nickels fanfic

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apparitionism · 8 months

Text

Bonus 2

Here’s the second part of a holiday story, begun in part 1, about how Myka and Helena, in a vaguely season 4 world in which nobody’s going to go to Boone but through which they have thus far been separated, are reunited for a day-before-Christmas-eve retrieval in Cleveland. Helena has been summoned by Claudia to serve as Myka’s backup, for Pete is spending some holiday time with his family... but as it turns out, the retrieval is necessary because—plot-semi-twist!—Pete Christmas-gifted his cousin, who is a bigwig at an accounting firm, with an artifact, a pen that apparently has something to do with Santa’s naughty/nice list. Which said cousin used to confer end-of-year bonuses—and penalties. As this part opens, Myka is just beginning to process the fact that the whole situation is Pete’s fault...

(And no, I didn’t manage to bring this thing in for a landing in this part. Nobody faint from the surprise.)

Bonus 2

“Okay,” Myka acknowledges, because what else can she do? The fact is that in any Warehouse-related context, “coincidence” is a non sequitur, and she begins formulating a plan to Christmas-gift Claudia with a T-shirt featuring that sentiment. How fast can she get a custom T-shirt made?

The irony is that Claudia would know.

“Yeah,” says Pete’s cousin—Pete’s cousin! She might be affirming the Claudia-irony in Myka’s head, or the situational irony Myka is now stuck in, or any of the vast array of ironies that make up the Warehousian unfolding of time itself. Myka would not have expected Pete’s cousin’s words to contain multitudes. And yet.

“He told me it was the kind of thing he thought I’d like,” that cousin continues, “and he was right. Effects aside, it’s a gorgeous implement. Perfectly balanced... which I guess works on an existential level too, doesn’t it? Naughty, nice.” She shifts the pen to rest a delicate crosswise on an extended index finger, testing its equilibrium as a chef might a knife.

The pen—or is it merely a different species of knife?—basks in Nancy Sullivan’s regard. “Resonant little instrument,” she says, with clear affection. “Anyway, we were talking about Pete.” A different sort of affection now colors her voice. “He went into this big production-number apology about it being sort of secondhand.”

“Oh?” Myka says, distracted by pens, knives, resonances... but, right, secondhand. Of course it’s secondhand. No new item could be an artifact. Or could it? This seems like a Steve-conversation topic.... and it certainly beats “H.G. is god knows where” for philosophy.

“Not because it’s not new,” Pete’s cousin says, apparently reading Myka’s mind, “but because he initially was thinking he’d give it to somebody else.”

Myka repeats her interrogative “oh?”, but she’s getting a feeling again.

“Yeah,” says Nancy Sullivan, and Myka really has to applaud her talent for broadly applicable affirmation. “He said he wanted to give it to his partner because, and I quote, ‘she likes the old-fashioned stuff,’ but then he realized he shouldn’t because, and I also quote, ‘she’s got this whole family feathery-pen dealy-thingy and I don’t want to upset her.’” She waves the pen again, this time directly at Myka, like a conductor imploring the oboes to pick up the pace. “And he told me his partner’s name,” she concludes.

“I’m sure there are lots of Myka Berings in the world?” Myka tries, weakly, raising her hands as if to offer Nancy Sullivan all those other Myka Berings. The last vestige of defensibility... then her hands drop, because really. She looks at Helena in apology, with only an indistinct, tangled sense of what she’s apologizing for. I’m sorry I occasioned this is part of it, yet there’s a deeper fault she feels but can’t quite ideate, one more consequential than an anodyne “oops.”

“Listen, he’s a really good guy,” Nancy Sullivan says.

“I agree completely,” Myka assures her. But in the interest of full disclosure, she adds, “Mostly completely. I mean, I’m going to kill him for this.”

Helena says, “Are you.” Her tone brings Myka up short: it’s impossibly knowing, suggesting insight into everything Myka has been thinking, about someday and talking and things.

Again with the reading so right.

Myka would love to have the panache to do more than glance furtively at Helena, to pull off a playful, similarly knowing response, like “that depends on my backup” (or something actually clever that will doubtless occur to her during some post-holiday post-mortem). Instead she goes with a not at all interrogative “Oh.”

Nancy Sullivan looks from Myka to Helena. Then she says, “Okay, revision: A really good guy who might be hanging onto some unreasonable hope.”

Myka wishes she could keep from glancing yet again, now, at Helena—now as she grasps the fullness of her underlying error, now as she formulates a hopeful plan regarding someday saying out loud “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize that he had any such hope and that I didn’t make completely clear that any such hope would never have been anything but unreasonable”—but the wish doesn’t work. She glances... thus proving Nancy Sullivan’s point.

“He didn’t mention you,” Pete’s cousin tells Helena. “I think I see why.”

“I’m both offended and pleased,” Helena says, with her customary little thank-you head-bow.

Rather than luxuriating in the familiarity of that head-bow, Myka tries to head off a more detailed discussion of Helena’s role in it all (and what a nondescriptively limp phrase that is) by observing, “The sixth-sense thing is quite the family trait.”

“Ah. Sure. You’ve had experience,” Nancy Sullivan says, a little droop in her voice.

Has she taken Myka’s words as criticism? Myka hurries to reassure, “Sometimes it’s very helpful.”

“But. Other times.” This is heavier, and now she must be referencing her own vibe-related experiences.

“Your family get-togethers must be really... charged?” Myka tries.

Nancy Sullivan offers another all-encompassing “Yeah.” Then she laughs. “But at least we don’t have a feathery-pen dealy-thingy like your family does.”

Helena clears her throat, an attention-garnering ah-ha-hem, as if it’s in the stage directions preceding her next line in some farce. She inclines her head: more stage-direction drama. Finally, “You do now,” she says in benediction.

Nancy Sullivan’s jaw drops. “Wow,” she says, and “wow,” she repeats. Then she laughs again and says, “He really should’ve mentioned you.”

Myka might laugh too, but she is preoccupied by the way in which Helena’s well-chosen articulation has persuaded her body to remind her that it and she have reached no mutually satisfactory agreement about appropriate reactions.

And that in turn sparks Myka to a realization: once the retrieval is accomplished, there may be a nonzero chance that she and Helena could enjoy a bit more of that liminal together-presence...

Myka’s body makes its best effort to crash through the gauzy ideating her brain would prefer to do about what such time could entail, and after no small amount of nethers-vs.-cerebrum struggle, she manages to propose, truce-wise, a simple Let’s just hope it exists.

Surprisingly, body and mind are willing to shake on that, giving Myka leave to slip on a glove and pronounce, “Just give us the pen. Then it’s over. Mostly. The money will probably revert... so you’ll most likely have to redo the bonuses the old-fashioned way.” Hearing herself, she amends, “Well. The regular way.”

“I don’t mind redoing. But reverting...” Pete’s cousin tightens her fingers around the artifact, pulling it near to her body as if she might be considering, for one last “maybe,” the idea of punching her way out.

Myka tenses, and she doesn’t need to cast a glance to know that Helena is doing the same.

She glances anyway... and indeed, Helena alive with wiry readiness is a sight worth the seeing. So worth it, in fact, that Myka is genuinely, if improperly, disappointed that said sight doesn’t cause the truce to collapse.

After a moment, however, color returns to Nancy Sullivan’s knuckles, and Myka removes the pen from her slackened grip.

But then Nancy Sullivan cocks her head. “Is it really over though? I feel like something else might be happening.”

No. No. Absolutely not. “Something else is always happening,” Myka says, affecting nonchalance as she slides the feathery foolishness into a static bag, ignoring its yipping sparks of protest. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nancy Sullivan casts a skeptical look at the barky little bag. “If you say so. Anyway seeing Pete’s face when I tell him you and I –and he and I!—are fellows in family feathery-pen dealy-thingies now? Might end up being the second-best end-of-year bonus of all, given everything.” There’s a little mockery in her voice, echoing the cousin Myka knows so well.

“And the best such bonus?” Helena inquires.

“Docking Bob’s pay,” Nancy Sullivan says instantly.

Myka snorts, and Nancy Sullivan turns back to her and says, “Are you okay with me being glad we met?” Like she’s mostly but not entirely sure of the response she’ll get, and that’s another echo.

“Only if you’re okay with me being glad too,” Myka says, her own voice sounding a familiar note—one she’s pretty sure Pete would recognize.

After a nod, Nancy Sullivan turns to Helena. “I’d say it to you, but I feel like there’s something extra going on with you, like—”

Myka steps in: “Honestly, always,” and then she’s hustling Helena out of the office even as Helena chirps, “I’m both offended and pleased by that as well!”

Back in the elevator, Helena speaks first. “I did not expect that,” she says, sounding entertained by—practically bubbly about—the entire scenario.

“I should have,” Myka grumbles.

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“Oh god no,” Myka says, involuntarily. “Too easy if anything.”

Helena’s eyebrows rise, and her eyes accuse. “I’ve known you for no small amount of time,” she says.

Myka’s previous review fights that statement, but she doesn’t speak of it.

Her lack of response prompts a heavy I-am-no-longer-entertained sigh. “Must I return to the phrase ‘your truth’?”

“Please don’t,” Myka says. That’s also nearly involuntary, but it sounds too harsh, like she’s dismissing as unimportant that bookstore interaction, as well as the entirety of those in-extremis manifestations of herself and Helena. Rather than apologizing for that, for surely it would prove far too entangling, she tries to draw Helena’s attention back to the entertainment. “I like Nancy Sullivan. She reminds me of Pete and his mom.”

“Pete’s mother? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

That’s a bit more jousty, backed by curiosity. Good. “She’s a Regent,” Myka says, for it’s the most salient piece of information she has about Jane Lattimer.

Helena stills. Her jaw hardens. “Then perhaps I have indeed had the... pleasure.” Cold. Cold. Cold.

You idiot, Myka scourges herself. Why couldn’t she have done the normal thing and left Pete’s mom as “Pete’s mom”? But now, but now: now she’s seen this wound, down there under the ice, and she wants to test that ice, but she can’t, regardless of her wish and want to know know know, to know everything Helena has been put through, so as to know whom to hate (and she hopes that doesn’t include Pete’s mom) and whom to someday thank (and she double-hopes that does include Pete’s mom). “Anyway I think the cousin had the right idea,” she says, pushing back to the now, to what just happened. “Using an artifact to do what are really decent things, even if they were judgmental.”

“Rather Old Testament,” Helena says. “Strangely inappropriate for this holiday, no?” She asks that like she’s really thinking—wondering—about it.

Myka congratulates herself on having provided a distraction, however minimal, from whatever Regent-pain her unthinking reveal caused to surface. “I hadn’t thought about Santa being more Yahweh than Jesus,” she says, to enhance it, “and I’m not sure what it says about my position on salvation that I genuinely wish we could have let her keep that pen. Or even better, if we could maybe ferry it around to deserving arbiters... wouldn’t that contribute to the greater good, even if it’s in a judgy Old-Testament way?”

Helena’s face moves as if she’s about to answer, but before she can, a rupturing screech of metal-on-metal complication resounds decisively through the space, and their ear-popping descent slows, slows, slows...

...and stops.

After an appropriately irony-bearing pause, Helena says, “This elevator seems to disapprove of your suggestion. Or perhaps it’s your theological indecision that displeases?”

All Myka can manage is an extremely resigned “I am not surprised.”

Efforts to summon help strengthen the “disapproval” interpretation: they’re fruitless. No one answers the emergency line, and this mirrored box is, according to both their phones, the place where cell service goes to die. Or where that service is interfered with by a theologically offended pulley-based mechanism.

“I genuinely cannot believe we’re stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. It may be the most true statement to which she’s ever given voice.

After a beat, however, she concedes, “But of course I can.”

Helena casts her gaze around. Once again, exaggeratedly stage-direction-y. “At least it’s reasonably well-appointed. For an elevator in which to be... stuck.” She seems to relish articulating “stuck,” so she’s back to being entertained. Not quite bubbly, but definitely entertained.

Myka can’t get past her annoyance with the elevator’s disapproval, so she says a peevish, “I don’t like mirrors.” She’s painfully aware now that they cover not only the walls, but also the ceiling. She can’t even look heavenward in supplication, sarcastic or otherwise, without regarding herself. It really is too much.

Given that no other communication technology is working, she resorts to the Farnsworth. She gives thanks for Warehouse mojo, or whatever enables it to elude the elevator’s wrath, when Claudia answers with, “No info on ‘lists, making them’ yet.”

“We dealt with that,” Myka tells her. “New problem.”

“Another artifact?”

“Who knows? Maybe Pete’s in an elevator somewhere else in this town making bad decisions, and they’re redounding to our detriment.” She’s vamping. Stuck in an elevator with Helena, she’s vamping. Instead of simply basking in such fantasy-made-fact, she’s vamping.

She doesn’t bother wondering whether Helena knows she’s doing that; if this little adventure has done nothing else, it’s reminded Myka that Helena always knows. It’s both wonderful and terrible to be so legible, particularly to someone Myka so often finds frustratingly illegible.

“I’m not following,” Claudia says.

Speaking of illegible: Myka, heal thyself. “We’re stuck. In an elevator,” she clarifies.

Claudia makes a noise that, impressively, marries a gasp and a snicker. “Are you really? Or did you push the stop button, like people do?”

“Like people... what?”

“When they want to have a little uninterrupted chat,” Claudia says, pedantic, as if now she’s the one who’s “clarifying.”

“Nobody does that in real life,” Steve says from offscreen. Myka is pleased to know he’s around.

“Myka just did,” Claudia insists in his direction. “Didn’t you,” she insists at Myka.

“If I did,” Myka says, “why would I be calling you to get us out of here?”

“Yeah, why would she?” Steve asks, but from farther away.

Don’t leave! Myka wants to exhort. She would never admit to needing backup in a counter-Claudia sense... but she does appreciate when Steve provides it.

“Oooh, because maybe the chat didn’t go so well,” Claudia says with great, and to Myka’s thinking entirely inappropriate, relish.

Trying for calm pragmatism, she says, “Wouldn’t I just... unpush the stop button then?”

“Myka,” Claudia says. It’s the most chiding, disappointment-laden use of her name Myka has ever heard, even when measured against all the times her father has uttered those two designating syllables. “Believe me when I tell you I’m a fan,” Claudia goes on, turning mollifying, “but you really need to lean in when it comes to tropes.” Myka can’t imagine how to respond to that, so she doesn’t. Claudia sighs—seemingly everyone’s preferred go-to when Myka fails to produce words—and says, “Did you try calling maintenance? Pushing the emergency button? Using your cell?”

“Yes, yes, and no service. Do you genuinely think I don’t understand modern communication technology?”

“I think you pretend you don’t understand newfangledness all the time. Particularly when you’re trying to show off how sympatico you are with H.G., who incidentally doesn’t seem to be piping up like I’d expect. Did you knock her unconscious after your terrible chat? Or maybe during it?”

Helena has indeed been very—very surprisingly—quiet while Myka has explained the situation to Claudia. And she doesn’t step in to help Myka out now. So much for any counter-Claudia backup.

“There was not a chat,” Myka says.

Helena is regarding herself in the mirrored ceiling.

“But there could be one now?” Claudia nudges. “Let me see if I can see what’s up. I’ve got cell service.” She disconnects.

Helena abruptly abandons her ceiling self-contemplation, focusing her gaze upon Myka. It’s disconcerting. “Are you attempting to avoid an uninterrupted chat?” she asks.

Myka can’t suss the question’s sincerity. And notwithstanding all her ideas about talking, she suffers a cringing internal “yes.” Externally, however, she says, in what she hopes offers at least a veneer of sincerity of her own, “No.”

She doesn’t follow up by asking “why would I be doing that,” because Helena would probably have a guess. And because that guess would probably be accurate: “You are a coward,” Helena might say, and Myka would regrettably have to either tell the truth and agree, or lie and disclaim any emotional investment in whatever the outcome of such a chat might be.

Silence. Longer than it should be... or is it as long as Myka deserves?

You wanted time together. Don’t bellyache about the form it takes.

“Your objection to mirrors,” Helena eventually says.

“What about it?” Myka asks. Her very soul flinches.

“What is it?”

Myka has never before stated her dislike of mirrors aloud, and she regrets having done so now. To play it off, she says a dismissive, “An artifact.” And yet the truth is that despite the unnerving nature of her interaction with Alice’s mirror and how it continues to prey on her mind, it isn’t really that—or rather, that only intensified her dislike.

But when Helena proposes, “Yet another ‘dealy-thingy’?”, clearly (and preciously) trying the phrase out in her mouth, Myka misleadingly (intentionally misleadingly) nods and says, “They’re all dealy-thingies.”

To that, Helena says, “Interesting.”

Myka would probe that word, but to do so might destabilize the ground, here in an elevator. Instead, for the moment, she tilts her head in the direction of the Christmas muzak, the literal elevator music, being piped in. “Oh, sure, that still works.” She gestures at the speaker, a thin dark stripe between two mirror-panels, from which the sound is emerging. The elevator is nothing if not insistent.

In truth, she doesn’t mind Christmas carols. She does mind the bowdlerization thereof, and isn’t that an attitude the dogmatic elevator really ought to share? O holy night, the stars are brightly... synthesizing? It’s wrong.

Now even her mind is vamping. Great.

Helena tilts her head toward the speaker, however, and Myka appreciates her willingness to be redirected. At least for a moment.

In fact, for all her vamping, mental and otherwise, Myka finds herself absurdly content to simply stand against a mirrored elevator wall and regard Helena... who in that instant of Myka’s acknowledged contentment seems to accept their predicament as unlikely to be resolved in a timely fashion: she sits down, of course elegantly, resting her back against her side of the box and stretching her legs (her legs, Myka’s body notes, just to let her know it’s still paying close attention) out in front of her.

The looking-down perspective is a bit disorienting—although at least this time it has nothing to do with being stuck to a ceiling—but Myka has no time to process it, for Helena’s next salvo, looking up, is, “You’ve been expecting me to remark further on naughtiness, haven’t you.”

Reading, yet again. “I kind of have,” Myka admits. It seems an overly judgmental statement, particularly given that Myka has to deliver it as if from an elevated bench. And yet... she kind of has.

“I’d rather not fulfill that expectation,” Helena says. “If we could speak of other things.”

Myka is a little thrown, but thankful. “That is entirely fine by me. What do you want to talk about?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly,” Myka says, meaning it as an answer to either interpretation of Helena’s interrogative: Are you asking what I want to talk honestly about? or Are you asking, with honest intent, what I want to talk about? She hopes Helena will respond similarly.

“Something that interests you,” Helena says.

That’s not in any way what she was expecting. “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s a word similar to, yet very different from, “honestly.” What, in a real sense, interests Myka? In this moment, all she can think to say is “you.” And perhaps because her normal inhibitions are disordered, here in this stopped elevator, that’s what she blurts out.

And that seems, incongruously, to take Helena aback. “What about me?” she asks.

Myka can’t say “everything.” It’s the real answer (really), but it’s far too... big. For an unexpected reunion, an unexpected uninterrupted chat—although Claudia or rescuers could at any point interrupt it, which Myka should hope happens (should)—it’s far too big.

So: smaller. What occurs first to Myka is “where have you been”—but that would most likely seem accusatory. She needs something else. Something something something...

In the aftermath of the Warehouse not being destroyed, she’d felt herself full of hard-earned wisdom and bravery: enough, surely, to stop hesitating. Enough, surely, to act. Or enough, at the very least, to articulate.

“Wisdom” and “bravery” now seem nothing more than labels on empty containers, and so “faintheartedness” is the fullness with which Myka here initially accuses her today self. But as Helena breathes and waits for an answer, Myka revises that, gentling it to “caution.” And she adds “care.” Because she is trying to attend to, to appreciate, that breathing. And that waiting.

These might be nothing more than self-indulgently comforting shifts in vocabulary... but then again they might be akin to the shift from “Christmas” to “end-of-year.” Gentle. Inclusionary.

The something something something that occurs to her—because in attempting to avoid her own reflection, she is confronted instead with multiple Helenas—concerns a topic she probably should censor but doesn’t: “When you were a hologram... or a projection, or whatever we should call it... did you have a reflection?” She then reflexively backtracks, “It shouldn’t matter? But I don’t know.” That last, she means both ways. She doesn’t know: whether the reflection existed, or whether it matters. But maybe it’s a sneak-up on things, because she shouldn’t ignore things, and because a seemingly inconsequential tangent might tiptoe toward importance.

“I don’t know either,” Helena says. “I suppose I would have?” Her face contracts. “Or perhaps not, as I don’t know how that holographic projection of myself was... projected. But I do intend to look into it.” She says this last as if Myka has caught her in some inattention, a recklessly uncompleted assignment.

“I never even started majoring in physics,” Myka laments, which is true but also, she hopes, reassuring in an I didn’t do the homework either sense, “so I don’t know the optics of it. Projections. Light and mirrors. “ She doesn’t mention that in the wake of Pittsburgh, she had indeed tried researching such things... she’d got as far as some advanced volumetric displays, ones using dust particles as screens onto which lasers projected light, but at a certain point, a tipping point, the idea of Helena existing as—being relegated to—nothing more than light and dust seemed to scream a surpassing insult, a degradation conjuring death, and it was more than she could bear.

For now she puts that away. She shakes her head, shakes it free, and changes tack. “Anyway, that’s probably the wrong approach. This is Warehousey, so thinking outside physics, the laws... okay, all I know about reflections, unphysically, is that vampires don’t have them. So if you didn’t have one, then maybe all holograms are vampires?” Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. She would have done better to speak of dust, that and light and despair. Going with vampires instead? Talk about vamping...

“Presumably not vice versa,” Helena observes, seemingly taking Myka’s words far too seriously. “Certainly fictionally. Also not overly flattering, in the syllogistic sense of ‘Helena was a hologram, therefore.’”

“They’re very popular though,” Myka temporizes.

“Stoker’s novel was all the rage,” Helena allows.

The chat stalls out. Interrupting itself?

Myka nevertheless feels pressure to fill the silence: it’s her fault. Will a simple truth suffice? “I didn’t expect to be spending the day before Christmas Eve with you,” she says. “Or any day with you. In Cleveland.”

A small smile from Helena marks this as a more welcome fill than a question about reflection. As do her next words: “Nor I with you. In Cleveland, or any place. Equally, I didn’t expect to be sent on a mission with you.”

“That part of it went well.” Myka gestures at her bag that contains the artifact.

“We did—and now do once again—make a good team.”

“I’m glad we got the chance to do it again. Glad, but also... relieved.”

“Relieved,” Helena echoes.

That wasn’t a question, but Myka answers anyway. “Well, obviously, first,” she says, feeling herself launching into an explanatory babble that she fears she’ll be powerless to stop, “because you didn’t have to talk anybody out of using Joshua’s trumpet, so that really makes a difference in terms of how we—”

“‘First’,” Helena quotes, interrupting (stopping), conveying her full knowledge that that too is a vamp. “And second?”

“That we still are.” This, Myka says simple and frank.

“A good team?”

That is a question. Myka knows “yes” is the only sensical answer, so she tries to say it. But the depth and weight of the ways in which she and Helena “still are” choke her: they “still are” in the basic sense of existing, which was never a certainty; and even better, higher, these hours they’ve spent together today have made clear, to Myka at least, that they “still are”... well. She’d like to finish that with something like “in love,” but instead she tries to leave it, even in her head, at “still are,” with their time-crossed, maybe-destined predicate undefined.

“A good team” should be good enough—true enough—for now.

So after a stretch of time during which Myka knows she’s been focusing her gaze far too intently on Helena, she manages that “yes.”

Helena waits to speak.... are her eyes glistening more brightly than usual, or is Myka hallucinating? “I’m relieved as well,” she says, and Myka chooses to simply delight in whatever prompted such a saturated sparkle.

It draws her closer.

She crosses the small-yet-large elevator-width that separates them. “I need to either sit down beside you or help you up,” she says. “Do you have a preference?”

“For?” Helena’s eyes continue to glow.

That shine... Myka has hopes. They may not be realized, but she has them: the product of relief, “still are,” and an unknown predicate. “Whatever’s next,” she says.

A bit of time passes, with Helena now being the one focused most intently. “I’ll stand,” is her verdict.

Myka reaches down with both—both—hands, offering, and Helena reaches up, accepting. Their fingers meet and clasp, and too cold, Myka thinks, for both of them have a chill in those extremities... but first impressions of temperature promptly fall away as the new reality of the clasp roars into precedence.

Myka has never been so certain of, so certain of and enchanted by, what must and will happen next in her life. Never in her life so certain, as the clasp tightens, as their torsos lean, as Myka’s body begins an at-last congratulation, one that will become a celebration—

A voice from somewhere overhead barks, “Everybody okay in there?”

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #holiday (but not Gift Exchange)#Bonus #part 2 #you never can tell what mechanisms might be up to #sneaky ghosts in machines #(sneaky ghosts ARE machines)#anyway like I said in part 1 #I wanted to put a couple of people in a clichéd situation #and the way this part ends was probably obvious from the get-go #but really #was that space the right venue for...#anything?#Claudia's encouragement aside

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