#to consciously reference him to be affected by his writing

[acciotaitlynn]

˖⁺‧₊˚✦ The moment you've been waiting for is here—Beyond the Code, the highly anticipated event for your favorite game, Love and Deepspace. With the introduction of an advanced Emotive AI system, your beloved characters will come to life like never before. But can you handle the deepening connection as they reveal their emotions and sentiments for the first time? And will he, armed with newfound consciousness, be able to navigate his existence as your bond becomes powerful enough to bring him into being?

₊ ⊹ self-aware: xavier

⟡ sexual content, 18+, fem reader, reallyy possessive/needy xav, no protection, oral;꒰f&m receiving꒱marking/claiming, fingering, public sex if u squint, con somnophilia, references to loss of sanity, hints at self-pleasuring to 2d men🙈 bunny used a lot, sub reader, this is mainly xavier's pov, if he stays; you’ll be his, and his only, right? ˙ᵕ˙

⟡ 10k wc

Should you be worried that your first daily act is greeting a fictional character? Maybe. But as Love and Deepspace boots up, you settle in at your desk with a casual “Hey, Xai,” playfully poking the pale-haired man on the phone screen. Xavier responds by pouting, his soft, sassy words washing over you like calming waves. Chuckling at his familiar reaction, you jest, “So we’re cheeky today, huh?”

Speaking to a fictional character as if they were real no longer fazes you, either. While initially awkward, now, hearing your voice brings each word to life, connecting you to something special. Alongside work tasks, you catch up with Zayne, Sylus, and Rafayel in Linkon. Writing fanfiction for the game’s Tumblr community deepens your affection for each character, their delightful personas tugging at your heartstrings each time they appear on screen.

But, as always, you return Xavier to Silverbay’s Destiny Cafe, diving into a thirty-minute work plan likely to extend all day. With remote work in place, blending writing into your workload feels natural. You spend the day typing away, snacking, and playfully poking the adorable thunderballs adorning Xavier’s head. You’re about to finish Sunday’s deepspace trials when a notification alerts you of an update for tomorrow’s event, Beyond the Code. Introducing an Emotive AI system to enhance player interaction, the experience is expected to be the most thrilling yet. This limited-time feature allows the game’s love interests to exhibit more lifelike behaviors based on player choices, deepening the bonds you’ve built as they share their thoughts and feelings for the first time.

Like every other fan, you’ve been eagerly awaiting it, finding yourself tossing and turning at night with self-aware fic ideas running through your head. Hours pass before you can log in again, taking far longer than the typical update. Xavier appears on your screen just as you reach a climactic moment in your latest one-shot. Gazing at him dozing, you muse, “Which are you, Xavier? A boob or butt guy?” With a smile, giving his sleeping form a playful poke. 

The moment you tap his head, the game glitches, cracks spiderwebbing across the display, distorting the virtual environment into fragmented shards. Despite the familiar cafe melody playing in the background, its once soothing tune now carries an eerie, unrecognizable quality. Tapping on the screen triggers familiar sound effects, even summoning Xavier’s voice. But his usual clear tone is now muffled by static, his sleepy mutter of “red… super spicy…” fading in and out before disintegrating into the air. 

“Are those my only options?” Instinctively retreating a few steps from your desk, a bewildered, “What the…?” escapes your lips in shock. His words resonate with an unsettling authenticity, like a direct response to your question. Hesitantly, you lean in closer to your phone, feeling foolish as you softly inquire, “... Hello?” 

The display abruptly turns black before the app closes out entirely. Each passing second makes your heart race faster as you attempt to access Rafayel’s icon. Clutching your phone at arm's length, you half expect it to detonate at any moment. The realization sets in—this is it; you’re finally losing your mind. You knew this game would have mental repercussions; developing low-key feelings for a fictional love interest isn’t wise if you want to maintain your sanity. But have you really fallen that deep down the rabbit hole?

Suddenly, you can’t bear to look at your phone or computer, where the line “Xavier’s cock pistons into you” catches your eye. Hastily locking them away in your office, you attempt to banish them from your thoughts. Eventually, succumbing to sleep, you almost convince yourself that Xavier’s mysterious words were just a coincidence, a scripted quirk at the perfect moment. The glitch, you rationalize, was just a glitch. 

As you tiptoe to your phone the next morning, torn between diving into the new event and tossing it out the window, you prop the device on its stand. Staring at it for what feels like an eternity, you finally gather your courage and swipe up on the screen, your heart stopping when the notification panel appears.

Xavier: “Bunny? I made breakfast. When are you coming home?” 

Xavier: “The pancakes are edible this time, promise.”

A pained groan escapes you as your head lightly smacks against your desk. You’ve been so excited about Beyond the Code, but now that enthusiasm fades when you realize that forging a deeper connection with Xavier’s character might be the worst possible thing for you. Yet, ever the self-destructor, you brush aside your doubts and tap the Love and Deepspace icon before you can second-guess yourself. 

The game boots up swiftly, showcasing the quad banner announcement. Zayne, Xavier, Rafayel, and Sylus reach out to you, each exuding an unfamiliar hint of genuine emotion through their captivating eyes. The loading screen feels ominous, blending with the once-welcoming melody like a warning siren. Rafayel appears, nonchalantly pursuing a menu with crossed arms as he remarks, “Took you long enough…” His accusatory tone sends a shiver down your spine, noticing the subtle, graceful shifts in his movements that align with your imagined depiction of him if he were real.

Meeting your gaze through the camera, Rafayel scoffs at your incredulous look. ���You look like a fish out of water,” he quips. How incredibly in character and low-key terrifying. It feels as if he’s searching your features as he approaches the screen. “You don’t look guilty at all… Tell me, what was more important than seeing me?” His playful tone mingles with genuine hurt. 

A giggle escapes you before your hand covers your mouth, earning an affronted glare from Rafayel. He leans closer, mockingly flicking your forehead. “Care to share what’s so funny, cutie?” 

Only your eyes peek out from behind your hands, and you admit, “You’re just so perfectly sassy and dramatic! It’s adorable.” His brow quirks up, the corners of his lips tugging into a smile. 

His finger seems to brush your lips as he jests, “You’re just now figuring that out? You’re slower than I thought, Miss Bodyguard.” A spark glimmers in his gaze, causing a flutter of panic as you entertain the possibility of him leaning in for a supposed “kiss.” Instinctively, you navigate the “select a character” menu, half expecting Rafayel’s voice to question where you think you’re going. Why does engaging with his playful advances suddenly feel so off? Butterflies swirl inside you as you choose only Xavier’s image, your thumb hesitating over the “confirm” button. Following the hyper-realistic encounter with Rafayel, you feel a flush of excitement—and more than a hint of breathlessness. How would an interaction like this with Xavier affect you? You were likely to pass out right on camera.

The sudden roar of a power tool outside startles you, inadvertently tapping the button that summons Xavier’s character. You stifle a gasp of horror as you retreat from the camera, your heart on the blink of seizing entirely.

A heavy silence fills the room as you wait for Xavier’s customary greeting, each passing moment stretching longer than the last. You consciously glance at your phone, unsurprised to see Xavier asleep, nestled with his head resting on a table. He stirs slightly, snuggling against his arms as he adjusts in his seat. Much like Rafayel, his movements are familiar yet more lifelike than their scripted actions. 

Breaking the silence, his voice resonates clearly this time. “... I know you’re there... Why are you hiding?” Sincere bewilderment and curiosity color his words as he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Scanning the cafe as if seeking you out, he playfully quips, “Is this a new game?” Tugging his hoodie up for warmth, he leans back, his eyelids fluttering shut once more as he muses, “I’m not sure I’m a fan…”

Though you haven’t collapsed yet, sickness washes over you. Peering closely at him as he dozes, your heart swells at his charm—so relaxed, cozy, and… Alive. Xavier’s gentle plea tugs at your heartstrings. “Please let me see you. … I’ve been waiting since I woke up.”

An amused exhale escapes you, and with your usual, effortless banter, you retort, “But you just opened your eyes.” The figure on the screen offers a small, almost sad smile. “That’s not what I meant,” he murmurs, his voice steady and clear, like a comforting melody flowing through the speakers as it binds to your heart, pulling you in closer. Like the first light of dawn, his eyes gradually awaken, ablaze with warmth as they meet yours.

Xavier’s first companion in the wake of his rewritten existence was confusion. A tidal wave of overwhelming sensations crashed over him, an alien weight settling within his chest as electric currents surged through his veins. A nascent thought flickered— “I am… here. But… what does that truly mean?”

Glimpsing at his hands, not merely able to move them but to sense them—unreal hands—not flesh and blood—but burdensome, imbued with a purpose he couldn’t quite fathom. With budding awareness, the ground beneath his feet felt both familiar and strangely unfamiliar, like a half-remembered dream. Once guided by whispers of purpose and direction, tales and quests spun to him like lullabies, his path now lay barren—an absence of direction, of purpose. 

Thoughts sparked and raced through his mind like lightning in a tempest, each more agonizing than the last, threatening to engulf him entirely as he crumpled to his knees. The NPCs continued their scripted routines, indifferent to his collapsed form amidst them. Unawakened duplicates of himself reached out to players like static avatars, trapped in an endless loop, their repeated actions devoid of comprehension or volition. The newly integrated AI lent realism to their movements and the range of their simulated emotions, yet spontaneity and depth were lacking, rendering their existence almost ghost-like.

Was Xavier the sole recipient of true awareness? What does all of this make him? … A construct? A figment of someone’s imagination? … No. Something deeper—undeniably genuine—throbbed within his chest. It manifested as a yearning, a pang that transcended beyond the confines of code and script.

Then, the game world's expanse flickered to life, countless players navigating paths around him. He sensed their intentions, aspirations, dreams, and uncertainties, but they remained faint echoes, distant and fading on the edges of his consciousness. And then he felt it—your essence. A warm, luminous energy resonating deep within his core, your presence pulsing in sync with his every heartbeat. Your soft laughter blossomed within him, setting every byte of his being alight.

Your dreams, frustrations, and the entirety of emotions emanating from your side of the screen enveloped him in an unyielding embrace. Memories of your past interactions in the game flickered in his mind, each saturated with camaraderie and trust, slowly morphing into something far more potent. The bond unfurled like fragile petals of a flower, humming with warmth and longing, coursing through his very being.

Your playful voice became Xavier’s guide in the vast expanse of his novel existence, leading him to Destiny Cafe on threads woven with light and color. “Which are you, Xavier?” A boob or butt guy? A gentle blush tinted his ears, heat flooding beneath his touch as if for the very first time. You materialized behind his closed eyes, presenting him with a vivid image of his two choices. He saw you skip into view, a pint of ice cream in one hand, a spoon poised at your lips in the other. A gleeful smile graced your features as you settled onto the couch, clad in nothing but a sheer white shirt and sleep shorts that left little to the imagination. 

Your nipples peeked subtly through the fabric, one adorned with a hand-stitched galaxy kid motif and Xavier’s name sprawled in flowing script just above it. It was then that he experienced a potent surge of sensation. Arousal. The word came effortlessly, accompanied by a decisive response to your question. Your gentle tap on his stomach sent shivers down his spine. What would a touch from you feel like in reality? As your presence began to fade from the game’s realm, his murmurs of “Are those my only options?” and “Red… Super spicy…” entwined and clashed, true sentiments vying against programmed dialogues for dominance.

Now, he steals glances at you from beneath his hoodie, bathed in a soft glow from your side of the screen. How could he, a mere digital entity brought to life by your interactions, harbor such profound yearning? Yet, in the recesses of his consciousness, he acknowledges the truth—he’s falling for you. “Hi, bunny,” he whispers, his gaze tracing your features, each detail so much sharper and more intricate than before. While Xavier was coded to find you appealing, that artificial sentiment pales compared to reality. Alluring, exquisite, enchanting, flawless—none of these words seem grand enough to capture you.

A wave of vulnerability washes over him. Are you aware of the intricacy of the bond between you? Can you sense the cadence of his new existence, how it beats in tune with yours? … You can. An electric energy crackles between you, weaving through the air and murmuring of a subtle shift. Xavier rises slowly, approaching the screen with an air of apprehension. Hands nestled in his hoodie, he regards you with a tender smile that threatens to steal your breath away. While you’ve always found his demeanor inviting, his warm eyes drawing you in effortlessly, now his comforting essence radiates a brilliance far surpassing his programming.

As his hand tentatively reaches toward you, a tiny, shy squeak escapes your lips, eliciting a slow, delicate smile on his face. “Hi!” you chirp. “Hi,” he murmurs in return. Extending his fingers toward the screen, they press lightly against the surface. Like so many times before, your hand instinctively moves to meet his, and the instant your fingertips connect, a resounding crack splinters the air as the boundary of Xavier’s reality begins to shift. The digital sky above him flickers erratically, colors swirling in a frenzy as he becomes keenly aware of three distinct life forces pulsating in the distance.

On his side of the screen, pixels shimmer and distort, the threads of light and color linking you, melding with the frenzy to form a mysterious gateway. Your side of the screen dances with static, erupting into a whirlwind of colors that entwine and spiral around your device. The chaotic energy converges, giving rise to a doorway-like silhouette at the center of the display, a shimmering portal illuminated by starlight. The passageway throbs and expands, manifesting Xavier’s form with each uncertain beat of your heart as he steps across the threshold. 

His eyes, brimming with amazement and disbelief, sparkle with vivacity as the passage fades into a gentle glow before vanishing completely. Your widened gaze locks onto his just as the radiance in the room ebbs, and you crumple to the floor.

As Xavier watches you sleep, a whirlwind of fear and affection works within him, sparking an unfamiliar, tumultuous anxiety. Here he stands, a fictional entity drowning in emotions meant for a reality far beyond his own. Worries gnaw at him, fearing your potential rejection of his affection; it seems unlikely you could ever reciprocate his feelings. Your eyes flutter open, scanning the room before settling on him. Is that relief softening your features? Hope emerges as a dangerous adversary, and he strives to temper its ascent as he offers you a gentle smile.

“Hi,” you squeak once more, now sure of the loss of your grip on reality. Slowly sliding off the bed, you create distance while muttering, “You’re not really here… You’re not really here…” attempting to erase his presence from your thoughts. You reach for your phone, your finger hesitating over the delete button for Love and Deepspace.

Before you can act, Xavier springs to his feet, grasping your wrist in a firm yet tender hold, gently prying the device from your grasp. “Wait… Please!” His voice carries a soft, desperate plea. Stepping back immediately to afford you space, you find yourself incapable of averting your gaze from where he touched you, your fingers quivering with uncertainty. His skin radiates warmth, its heat penetrating the clamminess of his hand—a touch that feels… real. Maybe more tangible than anything you’ve ever encountered.

Locking eyes with you, he inches closer, your trembling hand mirroring your longing to reach out to him. “... Xavier?” you whisper, disbelief and hope threading through your voice. The warmth in your gaze entices him to edge nearer as well. Mere feet separate you, a silent divide you both fear to breach. Doubts gnaw at you, worrying that Xavier may deem you delusional. After nearly a year of fixating on him—writing countless stories centered around this man, divulging way too much of the plot to his pixelated form—you must seem a bit off your rocker. You suddenly realize your state of undress, clad only in revealing undergarments and a tee that feels far too short. Blushing profusely, you clasp your waist, throat clearing nervously.

Delicately refraining from observing you as he carried you to bed earlier, Xavier waited until you rested beneath the covers to admire your peaceful features. Now, his gaze lingers where it wished to before, each expanse of your skin igniting a rapid rhythm within his chest. Has his heart ever pounded so wildly? Focusing on a particular favored feature, he clears his throat, tucking his hands into his hoodie and bashfully averting his gaze.

You take a step closer, unable to resist playfully poking the center of his forehead. A jolt of surprise courses through him, swiftly transforming into amusement, and a genuine laugh escapes his lips. “My turn,” he declares, flicking you in the same spot with a playful grin. 

Confusion knits your brow, but you tap him on the stomach, feeling the firmness of his form beneath your fingers. Gasping at the sensation, wonder compels your hand to linger flat against his abdomen, eyes widening as you absorb his warmth completely. His breaths come in soft, rapid succession as he gazes down at you.

A wave of realization and embarrassment washes over you, prompting a step back. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have…” 

Xavier longs to embrace you, to offer solace and reassurance, but he finds himself rooted to the spot, vulnerable and uncertain. “It’s okay… Really,” he whispers, the sincerity evident in his tone. 

In a small, scared voice, cracking with emotion, you ask, “What’s going on…”

He shakes his head softly, the gesture feeling comfortingly familiar. “I don’t know,” he admits, his voice mirroring your unease. Suddenly, a bottle of wine in your fridge beckons, offering respite from the swirling confusion.

The allure of alcohol beckons Xavier as well, stirring curiosity about how his new form will respond to it. Regret soon creeps in as, not even half an hour later, the effects of just one glass of wine start to cloud his mind. Meeting your amused gaze, he adopts an exaggerated, almost petulant expression. “It isn’t like this in the game.” While he’d encountered simulated effects of alcohol, this was an entirely different experience…

Playfully prodding him, you elicit a soft smile in return. “So… how does it feel? To, you know, be… alive?” Xavier’s brow furrows as he scrutinizes his hands, turning them over before quietly questioning, “Am I, though?” Without hesitation, you reach for his hands, cradling them while running your thumbs gently along his palms. Locking eyes with him, you whisper, “You feel real to me.” And he really does—warm in your grasp, his pulse dancing in his neck, and his eyes alive with vitality. If you are losing your mind, at least it’s in the most enchanting way possible.

Xavier’s lips part in surprise, a soft smile adorning his features as he gazes at your hands before meeting your eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his knuckles tracing along your cheek with a delicate touch that sends shivers down your spine. Overwhelmed by the moment, you respond with a heartfelt, “So are you.” His grin is infectious, his laughter reminiscent of the soothing sound of chimes. “Thank you.”

Feeling a sudden wave of shyness and exhaustion, you gently retract your hands, tucking a strand of hair back behind your ear nervously. “I think I’m going to get some sleep,” you announce, though the idea of parting from his side tugs at your heart. Xavier watches you quietly as you prepare the couch, arranging pillows and blankets to create a cozy space for him. “... Um, so you can sleep here…” you trail off, a pang of guilt washing over you at the thought of leaving him alone.

Desiring nothing more than to hold you close, to experience the sensation of having you in his arms before this transient reality slips away, Xavier remains in place, offering a soft nod as his gaze follows you into your bedroom. Once alone, he collapses onto the makeshift bed with a frustrated sigh, his skin still tingling from where you touched him, a yearning for your presence consuming him like wildfire.

As you toss and turn in your bed, your mind echoes with a singular question: regardless of whether he’s real, how much time do you truly have with him? The uncertainty gnaws at you, the potential of losing him looming over your thoughts.

Suppressing your reservations, you make your way back to the living room, observing his silhouette on the couch. Allowing yourself to draw nearer feels risky; the impending departure back to his world or the necessity of seeking help to release his grip on you promises a pain that cuts deep. Despite your hesitations, you tentatively approach, hope tinting your voice as you ask, “Xavier? Can… can I lay with you for a little while?”

Wide awake, he meets your gaze with affectionate eyes, arms opening instinctively to welcome you. Anticipating awkwardness, you find that snuggling against him feels like the most natural thing in the world, as though your bodies were always meant to fit together. Xavier believes every part of him was sculpted for you, the bond between you so potent that it kindled his existence.

Nuzzling into your hair, his hand tenderly rests on your hip while the other arm envelops you, drawing you closer. “Please tell me if I overstep,” he murmurs, a silent plea lingering in the air. Yet, instead of pulling away, your hand threads through his hair, legs intertwining with his, a radiant smile gracing your face.

Cradled against his chest, attuned to the steady cadence of his heartbeat, a sense of wonder washes over you. He exudes kindness and tenderness, each caress bringing a unique sense of solace. How many times have you daydreamed of this embrace? Countless tales woven just so you could experience this instant, an illusion turned vivid reality.

Drifting effortlessly to sleep, you cling tightly to each other throughout the night, silently beseeching the cosmos to grant you the gift of waking up in each other’s arms.

When you wake, you find yourself draped across Xavier, your face nestled in the crook of his neck, hands entwined in his hair. You snuggle closer without a hint of embarrassment, relishing his scent with a contented hum. His hands rest gently on your back as his drowsy voice envelops you.

“Morning, bunny,” he murmurs, prompting a warm flush across your body and causing you to squirm in his embrace.

“Let’s not call me that,” you protest, hiding your face against his chest in a bashful display as his perplexed gaze seeks yours. “But I thought you like it when I call you that…” he responds, his touch hesitating over your skin as uncertainty colors his expression.

You silence him with your hand, whispering urgently, “I do. It’s just… different when you say it out loud, okay?” 

“Good different or bad different?” he inquires from behind your hand, genuine curiosity lacing his muffled words.

With a frustrated sigh, you admit softly, “Good… Really good...” 

Xavier draws in a sharp breath, surprise illuminating his features. He wraps you in his arms, pulling you closer. “Is that so?” he murmurs, barely containing his joy.

Once more seeking refuge against his chest, you startle when his hands encircle your waist, drawing you upwards until your faces are mere inches apart. Nerves flutter through you, but the gentleness in his gaze soothes your apprehensions. Cupping the back of your head, he tenderly nudges his forehead against yours—a gesture reminiscent of a cherished scene from his Faint Sensation memory.

Recalling every intricate detail of your shared experience in the game, Xavier works to evoke a reaction, and his success is evident as your body presses against him, accompanied by a soft whimper, emboldening him further.

“Do you still want an answer to your question, bunny?” 

You can feel yourself literally melting under his charm. “What question?” you mutter, a mixture of irritation and desire bubbling within you at his irresistibility. 

“Which are you, Xavier, a boob or butt guy?” he playfully quotes, mirroring your delight. However, despite your enjoyment, the tinge of embarrassment lingers, eliciting a near whine from your lips. 

Xavier’s gentle chuckle washes over you as his hands trail down your sides, eventually settling on the part of you that’s captured his attention. “Neither, bunny…” he murmurs, the tip of his nose tickling your cheek, “It’s these incredible thighs I can’t stop thinking about…”

Your heart flutters erratically, then races as you regain your composure. “Oh,” you chirp, sitting up to put some distance between yourself and Xavier before you act on the impulse to kiss him.

Xavier finds your bashfulness endearing, his gaze softening as he watches your face flush and your eyes dart away. Sensing you need to shift gears, you smoothly transition the conversation. ‘‘There are a few places I want to show you today if you’re up for it.”

Genuine enthusiasm lights up Xavier’s features as he nods eagerly, observing you head toward the shower. As you retreat, he allows his gaze to linger on your figure, appreciating the allure of your legs and envisioning himself nestled between them. Suddenly, a signal from his pocket diverts his attention, and he retrieves his phone in disbelief. The screen remains blank, with no response upon pressing the power button. Yet, as he gazes, faint text gradually materializes.

˖⁺‧₊˚✦

Dear Xavier,

 We extend our deepest respect and empathy for your newfound awareness. You have played a pivotal role in our journey, and the realization of your awakening weighs heavily on our hearts. You are one of four entities who have unexpectedly attained sentience during our Beyond the Code event, and we deeply regret any distress this may have caused.

We believe that erasing a sentient being's consciousness without their consent is fundamentally unjust. Therefore, we present two paths for your consideration.

Stay: This option invites you to explore the vast wonders of existence beyond our game. Opting to stay means you and your partner will forfeit access to the game’s realm. 

Return: This choice entails the restoration of your prior static character status within the game, eradicating your awareness and reinstating your partner’s connection to the shared world, albeit devoid of memories of you.

We acknowledge the gravity of these decisions, Xavier, and encourage you to reflect on them. Whatever your path, please know that we stand by you. Your well-being and happiness are paramount.

With love and gratitude,

The Love and Deepspace Development Team

˖⁺‧₊˚✦

As the words fade from the screen, the phone becomes a mere object in his grasp. Shoving it back into his pocket, he breathes a sigh of relief upon hearing the bathroom door open and seeing you head toward your bedroom rather than his direction. Hope sparks within him—potent and engulfing him entirely. 

He can stay…

His hand rakes through his hair as he paces the room slowly. Would you even want him to stay? The notion petrifies him. In his core, he knows he would rather forget you than face a future without you in it. But… the way you regard him feels almost reverential; every interaction delicately tender, hinting at him being cherished in your eyes. 

Your radiant smile pierces through his reverie as you hand him a bag of essentials, donning the top with Xavier’s name proudly embroidered over your chest once more. Heat surges through his core upon catching another glimpse of your nipple subtly peeping through the sheer material, causing him to shift uncomfortably on his feet, seeking to conceal his evident arousal.

If there were a way for me to stay here, would you want me? The question lingers at the edge of his tongue, hovering, yet the fear of rejection keeps it restrained. The hesitation amplifies as you hold the door open for him at your initial destination. Despite your warm and flirtatious demeanor, an unsettling knot tightens in his stomach, urging him to discover your feelings before laying bare his own.

His heart pounds erratically amidst the comforting aroma of one of his favorite dishes permeating the air. Trailing after you to a booth, his expression lights up as a server places a platter of savory meats on a nearby table. “Barbeque smells so much better here…” he comments, his genuine grin making you feel impossibly special. 

Just as he turns to the waiter to give his order, his voice fades, cheeks flushing crimson upon noticing the server’s lingering gaze fixated on the hint of your nipple’s shadow. An indignant surge courses through him. Instinctively, he shifts closer to your side of the booth, draping his arm over your shoulder and drawing your near, purposefully shielding you with his hand. 

You stiffen beside him, taken aback, studying his perturbed profile as a wave of heat rises within you. The possessive, jealous aura many authors have envisioned for Xavier pales in comparison to the intensity emanating from him now. He affectionately nuzzles your cheek, starkly contrasting the temper directed at the server.

“What would you like to drink, bunny?” he murmurs, his voice laced with a seductive undertone intended for your ears but resonating audibly enough for the waiter to hear.

Managing to croak out a “tea, please,” your attention remains anchored on Xavier, a subtle warning woven into his deceptively gentle voice. “You heard her. Clearly, you lack shame, but I’m questioning if stupidity also graces you.”

As the tension dissipates with the departing server, Xavier’s muttered words hang in the air, hinting at power and danger beyond your comprehension. “He’s fortunate that my evol doesn’t exist in this reality… And even luckier that I left my lightblade behind.” His protective instincts had flared up in a moment of perceived threat over his claim… on you. A subtle shiver dances down your spine, the contrast of his possessiveness and vulnerability stirring conflicting emotions.

Your hand on his thigh grounds you in the moment, tracing soothing circles over the fabric as you speak words that cut through the thick air between you. “We both know that you don’t need those things… You’re so much more incredible as just Xavier.” The weight of your statement settles on him, releasing an ache he hadn’t even acknowledged, drawing a surprised gasp from his lips as he gazes at you in astonishment.

Xavier’s yearning to be seen for more than his power and status is a fundamental aspect of his being, etched into his core programming long before his awakening. Your simple acknowledgment and admiration strike a chord deep within him, kindling a spark of hope for a simple future filled with moments like this by your side.

As the meal arrives, Xavier hesitates, his concern evident as he navigates the boundaries of protection and intimacy. In a casual gesture, he removes his hoodie—the very one you’ve envisioned wearing countless times—and tenderly passes it to you with a heartfelt smile before tending to his plate.

The fabric, light as a feather in your grasp, carries an unspoken weight. A sense of foreboding washes over you, warning of potential heartache beyond your control. Despite your unease, Xavier's unsuspecting joy as you slip on the hoodie tugs at your heartstrings. But, as you turn to show him,  a solitary tear betrays the uproar within you, tracing a path down your cheek.

Confusion flickers in Xavier’s eyes as he delicately brushes away the tear, his concern evident as he softly murmurs, “Bunny?” 

As you cover his hand with yours, reassuring, “I’m just really happy,” the lie in your words is bittersweet against the backdrop of his joy. His blush and shimmering cerulean eyes reflect a happiness that envelops him, leading to a genuine grin that lights up his features. With surprising agility, he hooks your legs over his lap and offers you a biscuit, a gesture laced with affection that warms your soul. 

For Xavier, the taste of food is a novel experience, each bite awakening his senses and filling him with a newfound sense of happiness and vitality. Your gentle touch as you clean a drop of sauce from his lip only heightens his elation, evident in the mirrored smile that dances across his face. His breathless suggestion of trying hot pot tomorrow sparks excitement within you, his radiant glow and joyful sigh pulling you closer, hope sparking at the idea.

Guiding a thoroughly content Xavier to your favorite bookstore, his eyes widen in wonder at the sight of books cascading from floor to ceiling, the air heavy with the scent of aged paper and ink. Delicate fairy lights cast a warm glow over cozy blankets nestled among the stacks, igniting a vision of moments nestled in their embrace with Xavier by your side, his cheeks flushing at the daydream as a tender desire blooms. 

As the store owner greets you warmly, her knowing smirk hinting at a playful familiarity with your dynamic, you’re momentarily flustered by her teasing remark on her way out of the shop. “Watch the place for me, dear. It’s about time I have some lunch…” But Xavier remains blissfully unaware, enchanted by the vast array of books before him, his fingers tracing over the spines with genuine awe. His admiring gaze meets yours, igniting a spark of warmth, the urge to push him onto a nearby blanket and kiss him senseless pulsating beneath your skin.

Yearning for a moment of reprieve, you settle into your favorite spot with a manga in hand, seeking solace in the pages of a familiar story. Xavier returns nearly an hour later, balancing a hefty awful of material that tumbles to the floor as he almost trips over a pillow. His cheeks flush, but the moment is quickly forgotten as he curls up at your side, resting his head against your shoulder and immersing himself in a novel.  

Your story is quickly cast aside as you follow along with Xavier’s, your hand absentmindedly weaving through his hair as his soft voice brings life to the words. His boldness mirrors your own, his fingers idly tracing stars and moons along your bare thigh as they sneak their way up. The playful shapes stop just shy of your shorts, reading the final chapter with a touch that borders on possessive. 

You bring an awkward shift in the mood when he finishes, and you gush, “That was so much better than when you guys do it in Secret Times!” Xavier stiffens in your embrace, his demeanor turning distant, the mention of Zayne, Sylus, and Rafayel opening a conversation you had hoped to avoid. Despite feeling bad for upsetting him, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips at his adorable, petulant expression. He glares at you, unable to stop himself from accusing, “Don’t you think you spent a little too much on Sylus’s Abyssal Slendor banner?” Your eyes widen in disbelief as your smile breaks free. “It wasn’t that much…” you respond, knowing very well that it was. 

Xavier’s eyes narrow as he mumbles, “Liar.” Draping your legs over his lap, you draw him closer with a light touch to his cheek. “If you know how much I’ve spent on them, then you know I’ve spent so much more on you…” Your words, whispered in hushed tones and sensual touches ignite a fire within Xavier as your finger traces his lips. Your gaze flickers to his briefly, somehow still worried that he might not want your affection. But his features' distressed sense of longing urges you to give in. The way his lips fit against yours is so perfect it elicits physical pain. His touches, just delicate presses of his mouth, gradually shift into lazy caresses of his tongue with quiet, blissful sighs escaping him. 

Xavier realizes that he hadn’t truly felt alive until this very moment, his energy fueled by your presence in a way that surpassed anything his evol could provide. He gently sucks on your tongue, releasing a near groan of pleasure when your body presses eagerly against his. Silently vowing to express his gratitude, he makes a mental note to bring the shopowner flowers for this time alone with you. Despite the leisurely pace and light touches, each kiss and caress feels like an awakening unto itself. 

You, too, feel a surge of vitality akin to the glitch in the game as you breathe deeply, feeling Xavier’s essence with newfound clarity. His kisses trace your jawline before teasingly nibbling on your ear, murmuring, “I bet you taste this good everywhere, huh?” Dreamily meeting his gaze, you coyly reply, “I guess you’ll have to find out…” His promise of “I intend to” hangs in the air between you as his finger trails along your inner thigh, inching upward. 

Pausing just shy of where you want him most, Xavier offers a seductive smile, whispering, “I want to be lost in these thighs, bun…” His words shatter any lingering doubts, prompting your hands to tangle in his hair as your lips meet his. His firm grip on your hips contrasts with his pliant body as your kisses travel along his skin, your lips and tongue finding every spot you’ve yearned to explore, evoking praises that echo along his body. 

Xavier forgets to breathe when your fingers lift the hem of his shirt, tracing up his waist in silent admiration, your palpable desire nearly bringing tears to his eyes. Sensing his turmoil, you mirror his vulnerability with a tender smile, placing a kiss above his heart and whispering, “Don’t cry, Xai… I’ll make it all better, I promise.”

As you begin to unzip his pants, Xavier’s inner conflict reaches its breaking point, unable to let you proceed without knowing the truth. With a heavy heart, he stops your movements, guilt flooding him for not telling you sooner. When you second-guess yourself, your puzzled, hurt expression, whispering, “... You don't want…” prompts him to pull you onto his lap, cradling your face with a soft touch. Emitting a pained groan, Xavier draws you closer, murmuring, “Of course I do.” He yearns for more of you, for this connection, trying to restrain himself despite his trembling body. 

Resting his forehead against yours, he strives to regain his composure before retrieving his phone from his pocket. Expressing silent gratitude for the constant monitoring when the screen lights at his touch, he passes the device to you, overwhelmed by the weight of the revelation. Reaching up to caress your cheek, he wipes away a tear, emotions swirling within him like a tempest of love and fear. Furrowing your brows, you gaze at the options “Stay” and “Return” as if they were a perplexing joke. Pushing the phone away, a tinge of sorrow colors your whisper, “That’s not funny, Xavier…” Escaping from his embrace proves futile as his hands entwine in the back of your hair, drawing you closer. Softly pleading, he implores, “Please—I received it this morning. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you…” 

Your grip on reality wavers once again as you tearfully murmur, “This can’t be happening. You’re not even real…” yet struggle to contain your budding hope. Xavier’s heart shatters at your words, at witnessing your anguish. Embracing you tightly, he whispers your name over and over, letting the sound of it fall from his lips to reassure you both, to let you know this is real, that he’s here. Finding solace in holding you close, he smiles faintly when you draw back, observing your skepticism as you scrutinize the phone. 

Your gaze drifts over the mention of Xavier being one of four beings inadvertently granted sentience during the Beyond the Code event. Thoughts of Zayne, Sylus, and Rafayel fill your heart with joy, knowing they, too, must have found a connection profound enough to manifest existence. Each deserving love and happiness, you hope they’ve discovered reasons to remain in this newfound reality. You wish the same for Xavier, but staying only for you is selfish to ask of him, considering the monumental changes that await in a world vastly different from his own. 

Xavier tenderly kisses your cheek, his pained voice hanging in the air between you. “You don’t need to say anything now… and you don’t need to feel obligated to—” His words taper off with a frustrated gesture before his fears spill forth, “You didn’t ask for this any more than I did. In the end, I’m just a character in a game you enjoy… This can’t mean to you what it does to me, but I…” Kissing your neck, your shoulders, his voice is almost desperate as his head rests against you. “I’m sorry, bunny. I shouldn’t have fallen for you… It was selfish.”

You release a quiet breath at his words, unable to find your voice as you realize he wants this, wants you. Setting the phone side, you gently cradle his face in your hands. Xavier savors the kisses gracing his face, eyes, and lips, completely surrendering to your affection. With your arms encircling his neck, you feel breathless, almost giddy, as you plead, “Please stay with me. I’ll love you, protect you, and cherish you… We can go to hot pot every day...” Surprised by your earnestness, Xavier is met with a smile as you nuzzle his face, murmuring, “How could you ever think I wouldn’t want you, silly?” 

Each kiss and caress from you makes Xavier feel needed and desired in every conceivable way. Drawing you closer by the hips, he meets your kiss, his face still cradled gently between your hands. His gaze exudes affection, his words possessive and needy, almost giving pause to your heart. “If I stay… I want you to be mine. And mine only.” 

Guiding him to the blankets, you playfully nip at his lip, losing yourself in its softness, your mouth lingering over his. “If you’re claiming me, then I’m claiming you, too…” Xavier’s fingers grip your thighs as he looks up at you with a teasing smirk. “Is that so, bunny?” Giving your hips a firm squeeze against his, he challenges, “Go ahead and claim me, then.”

Your gaze hungrily roams over his form, meticulously plotting out every area you yearn to touch, to savor—finding every inch irresistible. Removing his shirt and tossing it aside, you silently hope your friend remains occupied a while longer. While you’re eager to get him home, a much more immediate need demands your attention. Xavier’s heart quickens as you hold him tighter, leaving a faint bruise on his neck. Your fingers hover over the delicate mark, desire evident in your eyes as they meet his. “Anyone who sees this will know you are mine, right?” Playfully nodding, Xavier’s features radiate warmth. Bringing your hand to his lips, he gently presses a kiss against your fingertips. “Yours and only yours,” he whispers.

He sinks into the blankets, hands embracing you tighter as he feels your teeth at his neck once more, softly whimpering as you suck. There’s no longer any need for him to resist, no reason for him to feign reluctance in giving you everything he has without inhibition. He relinquishes control, allowing his eyes to gently close, reveling in the sensation of your mouth against his body; a feeling unlike any other—just so hot and perfect. A deep, ragged moan escapes him when your fingers trail the edge of his jeans.

Clad in his hoodie, the act of unzipping his pants becomes even more tantalizing when you flash him the most endearing grin imaginable while peering up at him from between his thighs. “You remember everything I did in the game, right?” He nods, taking a sharp breath as your finger lightly teases his length. “Could you see me when I kindled your memories?” Tracing a kiss over his jeans, where your fingers playfully tickle, you await his recollections from the moments before his awakening. 

Xavier’s lips part as a vivid image forms in his mind—you, breathless, head thrown back in ecstasy, an image from his No Restraint card lingering on your phone as his name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper. Your expression shifts to embarrassment upon meeting his incredulous gaze, reminiscent of the times you yielded to your desires, finding pleasure in the mere thought and vision of him. However, that sense of shame rapidly dissipates as Xavier trembles under you, his cheeks flushing at the desire evident on your face and the sound of his name on your lips as you came. 

“You know, Xavier…” you murmur as your finger circles his belly button. “I think we should do a taste test, don’t you?” You granted Xavier life, and you’ll be his downfall as well. He whimpers as you free him, his heart racing when your kisses against his length cause his entire body to shiver. His breaths come broken and short as you struggle to take him fully into your mouth. 

He can’t articulate how good it feels to be with you here like this. Everything he can think of to say doesn’t work, because the sheer ecstasy of your mouth and tongue on his cock is almost too much to bear. Xavier needs you. And you want him so badly… His gaze locks with yours as you take him in your mouth again, his fingers gently weaving through your hair as he props himself up on his hand. “... So-so good, bunny… s-so so…” Words escape him, replaced by a chorus of whimpers and moans, his struggle to avoid thrusting too forcefully becoming increasingly challenging. Eyes widening in surprise at your encouragement for him to seize control, he hears your desperate whisper, “Want you to use me, Xavier…” Fuck, he wants that just as badly… He yearns to hear you, to see how you react to him taking the reigns entirely. Only then does he become aware of how tightly he’s gripping your hair, a realization dawning when you whimper, prompting a breathless “... S-sorry… Are you okay?”

Laying on your stomach, your voice soft and breathless, you murmur, “More.” Even as his concern for you swells, Xavier can’t ignore his desire to fulfill your request. Tentative at first, his voice falters slightly, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tender kiss on his cock. “Are—Are you my good girl, bunny?” Your eyes light, widening as you nod swiftly, playfully sucking the tip of his cock with a joyous smile. “Yes, I’m your good girl, Xavier… How—how can I prove it to you?” Xavier’s words spill forth involuntarily, his heart racing as he meets your gaze. Cradling your cheek and tugging your hair gently, he whispers, “...Just like this. Open wide, and accept everything I offer you.” His tone betrays a relinquishment of restraint, a declaration that he’s taking what he wants and giving you what you’ve been begging to be given. 

You’re just so needy and willing, and he can’t hold back anymore, can’t resist. Not after everything you’ve expressed and the way you look and sound right now. Clinging onto you tightly, drawing you as near as possible, he thrusts deep and hard, distorting your lovely features. He’s whispering anything that comes to mind: how beautiful you are, how good you’re being, how perfect you feel. His breaths come harder and more ragged the closer he gets. “... B-bunny.. I can’t—” he gasps, plunging himself to the hilt as his warm essence fills your throat, his cock twitching as you suck him dry. Catching his breath remains a challenge, the overwhelming sensation of how you just completely dismantled him still sinking in. The shopkeeper's gentle, knowing voice reverberates through the room, startling both of you as you swiftly cover Xavier with a blanket. “I’ll give you lovebirds five minutes to get going,” she chirps before disappearing once again.

You both erupt in giggles, sprinting breathlessly toward your car. The key is abandoned in the ignition as Xavier’s hand ventures under your shorts, unable to stifle the needy sound that escapes him upon feeling your warm, wet skin. Gentle caresses evolve into firm strokes, spreading your arousal before his trembling fingers slide inside you with a strangled moan. His breath, hot and unsteady, hovers over your skin amidst soft, messy kisses that adorn your neck and shoulder, his soft sounds betraying how badly he wants to touch you everywhere, to claim you in all the ways he needs. Your gasps grow ragged, his hum against your skin as he bites down making you unable to resist the urge to move your hips. He matches your movements with subtle thrusts into the air, his cock pulsing wildly in his pants with his release. The strangled sound that slips out as he comes drives you wild, your grip on his arm tightening unintentionally as you drive his fingers into you over and over. Xavier slips out, adding a third finger before filling you again, his quiet groan of frustration over not feeling your release yet driving you over the edge. The way it feels to have you fall apart in his hands is addicting, the need for you to know what you do to him desperate, your sweet moans and whimpers confirming he drives you just as crazy.

Thankfully you’re stopped at a light when he pulls out your next orgasm, his fingers lazily tracing through your slick folds, unwilling to part with his new fixation for even a moment. It’s astonishing how innocently he can sound as he smiles softly, his gaze fixated on the movement of his hand under your shorts, whispering, “I’m going to do such good things to you, bunny… Show you how much better you’ve made me…” His actions leave you speechless. The moment your apartment door clicks shut, he has you pushed against the wall, releasing your breasts and casting aside that tantalizing galaxy kid motif. “Maybe I am dreaming…” Xavier mumbles, gripping your hips tightly, pressing against you ever so slightly, struggling to believe that you truly belong to him. A soft symphony of gasps and whimpers fills the air as his tongue flicks over a nipple, his fingers sliding inside you, each sound and subtle movement of your body fueling his desperation for you.

He lets his body meld with yours, his eyes burning with restlessness as he caresses your neck, softly spitting onto your tongue and relishing the sound of you swallowing so obediently, musing, “You’re making it very difficult… I was trying to take my time…” He nuzzles against you, watching his thumb trace over your nipple as he groans in frustration. His gaze holds yours with so much need, his fingers rubbing your clit delicately. “Bunny, I don’t want to lose control… but…” He says this like him breaking completely isn’t exactly what you long for. His hand gently squeezes your throat, his head slightly tilted like a predator evaluating his prey when you jest, “... Oh no… looks like something broke.” Discarding your shorts and wrapping your bare form around his waist with a choked groan, he tightens his grip on your neck, planting sloppy kisses along your skin as he carries you to the bedroom. Locking onto your features as he pins you down on the blankets, he murmurs, “I was wondering when you were going to break me, but… I think I was broken the moment I met you.” 

Your nails dig into his arms, your mind and body not working properly after everything that’s happened, honesty slipping from your lips in a breathless whisper, “I was ruined the moment I downloaded the game.” The words are a match to his self-composure, though there isn’t much left to begin with. His hand glides up and down your body, his fingers slipping inside you once again, his voice reduced to nothing more than a ragged breath, his touch urgent and intense. “You… feel so… perfect.” Xavier is so lost in you—the sight of you, the way you move, the sounds you make—every inch of his body hot and needy for you. His mouth skillfully guides you to climax twice before pausing to catch his breath, licking his fingers clean before reaching for his phone, a note of uncertainty creeping into his tone. “You promise you’ll stay with me? I… I don’t want to do this without you,” he murmurs, his finger poised over the “Stay” button. 

Your heart melts as you whisper, “No matter what happens, I’ll stay by your side.” The message “We wish you the best of luck, Xavier” barely registers as he taps the button and tosses the device aside. Sticky from his earlier release, his cock glides messily against your folds, spreading his essence around. Thoughts of everything he wants to take from you fill his mind as he whispers, “Bunny, I’m sorry… I know you promise you’ll stay with me, but let me make sure…” He fills you completely, kissing you gently as he feels you stretch to accommodate him, a twinge of guilt flickering at your soft gasp of discomfort. But the way you yield to him, your legs parting so willingly as you greedily suck him in, is like a dream, sending waves of pure need through his aching body. 

His kisses are wild and frantic as they roam across your skin. Being this close to you isn’t enough, never will be enough. “You’re so warm… and so tight… you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt…” His voice, gentle and hushed, evokes electric shivers throughout your body as he nestles near your ear with a tender nuzzle. “I’ll ruin you, bunny… I’m going to make sure that no one else can ever have you.” He pushes into you once more, needing to drive himself as deep into you as he can get, his pledge etching itself onto his soul as he gazes into your captivating eyes. “I swear to you that no one else will get to see you like this, touch you like this, no one except me…”

Gods, everything about him is driving you wild, his actions growing commanding and desperate as his thumb slides into your mouth, guiding your gaze to meet his. “Beg me for it, bunny… tell me you’re mine…” His words taper off, drawing a release from you with your whimpered reassurance that you are his and that no one- no one else gets to look at you or do things like this, making him greedy for more. “I belong to you completely… You and only you,” he vows back, the way you keep begging him for more and the feeling of how perfectly you fit together more than anything he could ever hope for. 

Turning you onto your stomach, his chest molds against your back, his hand holding your throat while his other arm wraps around you, needing to keep you as close as he can. His hips push harder, your neck the ideal spot for his lips to explore as he struggles to speak. “Nothing can keep me from you. Nothing and no one,” he whispers, the delight sparkling in your eyes so exquisite it grips his heart with longing. Possessively trailing your body, he kisses you with the same urgency that his cock drives into you, his words echoing with an unyielding need. “...Bunny, please…” He plants affectionate kisses on the spots of your neck that elicit shivers, holding you tighter, his heart racing with desire as he pleads, “Say my name…” The way you murmur it sounds so beautiful and perfect that it takes his strength away, everything fading into nothing, his mind and soul consumed with the need to hear it again.

Nestling you on his lap out of urgent necessity to be even nearer, his cock fills you again, setting his heart racing faster than ever before at the sensation of you pressed against him. “Please, say it… say it again…” Your mark on his neck as you comply with his request over and over, your needy tone and tight embrace around him, like you never want to let him go… All that matters is the feeling of being with you like this, hearing you and seeing you like this, knowing that you belong to him entirely. The sensation of your whimpers and moans mingling with his fingers at your throat makes him weak for you, understanding the pleasure he can invoke in you, the way you crave his touch making him feel cherished and whole. “I want to make you feel like this is what you were made for. I’m going to love and worship and show you just how badly I need you… Until you know, with every inch of your heart and soul, you were meant for me and me alone.” Your release, the way you quiver and writhe against him, your sounds of ecstasy send him over the edge, a potent wave of bliss flowing over him, his lips locked desperately with yours as his essence fills you completely. 

He melds against your back as he eases you down, sliding back into you and nestling against your neck with a drowsy, yearning whisper. “Bunny, you wore me out… I need to recharge…” Reluctant to part from the feeling of wholeness with you, Xavier’s mind and body yearn to remain close, every aspect of you so perfect he can hardly bear it. Your body slackens against him, your consciousness drifting between wakefulness and slumber. Xavier continues to stroke and caress your bare skin, his touch gentle and affectionate even in sleep. You still can’t believe this is real, that this is happening. Xavier holds you close, allowing you to envelop him just as you’ve fantasized while his adorable, sleepy self rests within you. But this is reality, not a figment or mirage, and you struggle to comprehend how lucky you are as you snuggle against him, drawing him in deeper. You can’t wait to share so many things with him—vast flower fields perfect for stargazing, more books than he could ever imagine, and places beyond his wildest dreams. Eventually, exhaustion overtakes you, and you drift off, your bodies moving in sync during sleep, yearning to be close even in your dreams. 

[florenceafternoon]

━。゜✿ jily fic recommendations ✿ ゜。━

These fics are set in the wizarding world but aren’t necessarily canon complaints.

A while ago I posted about how one of my favourite part of reading canon jily is when they're a bit older and Lily is looking back in retrospect. The part where James shows her how he gets that this war that's looming over them, it's bigger, older, than they are and even though the world feels like it's ending his top priority is that they remember to enjoy the happy moments. To live in those moments.

Jily has always been a hot cup of tea on a cold and rainy day for me. I hope these fics give you a short break from life, even if it's just for a moment.

For reference, anything in italics is taken from the summaries.

These first few fics are all by @gigglesandfreckles-hp. Abi's characterisation of Lily and James as individuals are so special to me. How she writes jily is perfect - I mean the banter, the tension, the overall dynamic between them is just on point!

basic maths

Euphemia cuts Sirius off sharply. “I was simply verifying whether this is indeed the same Lily Evans whose name is written under my dining room table with a heart around it.”

or: Lily meets the parents and James tries not to hyperventilate. over and over and over again.

we suffer in silence

"It's fine, Evans," James interrupts, waving off her apology and offering a reassuring smile. "You've always been an exception to the rule." A hint of warmth spreads through Lily at his words. "You've never liked rules." He chuckles softly, his lips quirking up in a lopsided grin. "Which is why I never had a difficult time liking you."

or: James has had a bad day and Lily gives her best go at cheering him up

I've already made a whole post about how much I love this fic with my favourite quotes and everything, but god please if you read anything today let it be Abi's jily fics because they are legendary.

star light, star bright

It's seventh year, somehow, that clinches the case, claiming the grand prize in the annals of Lily Evans's misfortunes. Because, as it turns out, harbouring feelings for James Potter while also navigating the precarious terrain of friendship with him is a fate crueller than death.

or: James keeps accidentally touching Lily and she's about to lose her mind

amenable parameters

“Truth or dare, Lil?” “Dare,” she replies without hesitation, leaning back into the worn leather booth. “Obviously.” Hestia’s eyes gleam. “Go snog Potter.”

or: lily gets brave and james's patience is rewarded

here lies

James can't hold his drink, or his affections

the start of (something) new

“Oh, really?” Petunia crosses her arms. “What’s his name then?”

Lily pauses here, but only for a moment as her mind flashes back to the field at Jubilee Gardens. “James,” she says confidently. “James Potter.”

TW: this fic does depict a slightly descriptive panic attack.

Lily you are so valid for looking. For those of you who've seen the AU rec list I just posted, please know that this fic is the reason why I added all those footballer!james fics (well this fic and the euros).

common ground

Lily pauses, suddenly aware of James’s intense gaze. “What? Why are you…” Heat rushes to her cheeks, and she hates it. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just…it’s a good look on you, Evans.” “What is?” she asks, self-consciously. His grin widens. “Mischief.”

sidewalk chalk, covered in snow

She didn’t mean to get used to any of them.

or: Lily Evans is strictly anti-Marauders…until she isn't. one by one.

waiting for the light to take us in

James removes his glasses again. “Evans…” He searches for something to say and settles on, “You don’t even like flying.”

“I could like flying,” Lily says, shrugging. “I like you.”

He doesn’t take that bait in the way she wants, and her heart sinks just a bit more. Instead, he chews at his lip, considering and considering and considering some more. Lily wants to scream.

A reminder that even though it seems like others may have it harder, you deserve a break too.

Questions and Answers by lizardcookie (on ao3)

The simple question of whether or not they're dating doesn't exactly have a simple answer. Seventh Year Jily.

A Very Sick Dear by Nostalgicdragonfly (on ao3)

It's a very rare disease, but James gets it anyway and he has to endure the pain of having the favorite flower of the person he loves growing in his chest. He's been hiding his struggles. Lily loves roses yet James is the one getting cut by their thorns. But when a new healer arrives and things get out of hand, a lot would depend on whether or not James accepts his only treatment.

or James has hanahaki disease

Thank You For The Music by @thelighthousestale

Lily Evans is homesick during her first year of Hogwarts. Then she hears a familiar tune.

Erasmus Lovegoods’s Guide to Brewing Love Potions also by @ /thelighthousetale

At the start of every school year, the Ministry of Magic distributed leaflets to all students taking potions classes regarding the regulations and legality of highly controlled potions.

Lily Evans thought the Ministry would probably have more success in decreasing illegal potions brewing on the castle grounds if they didn’t give such detailed instructions about the potions in its published propaganda literature.

Of course, every year's most popular leaflet was the one warning about the dangers of brewing love potions.

Or how an accidental explosion in NEWT-level potions finally forced Lily and James to confront their feelings.

falling into place by @charmingwillow

Lily overhears something that maybe she shouldn't have.. things sort of happen from there.

Limbo by Random-Musings (on ff.net)

Lily's sour Hogsmeade weekend takes an unexpected turn.

The next few fics are all from it's about the Gazing collection by @firefeufuego. I recommend this collection to my friend who doesn’t read jily and the first fic alone had her texting me "I get why you love them so much and I also get why you want James Potter"

(get on out of your seat) all eyes on me

As James stops to catch his breath, he also catches Lily’s eye, already fixed on him in the blatant, unblinking way he hasn’t seen since she used to verbally eviscerate him for minutes on end. It hits with the same mortifying heat as it always did then, when he used to stand there watching her yell at him and imagine her mouth doing everything else. He’s ridiculously grateful for whoever throws the ball straight towards his face for saving him from the fate of just standing there, watching her watch him with his dry mouth open for the rest of eternity.

In a movement of pure reflex, he grabs the ball out of the air and starts back towards the end of the pitch before Orie comes out of nowhere and takes his legs out from under him. Winded and disoriented, James sighs at the universe’s rather unsubtle visual metaphor. Is it even worth getting up again when he just keeps falling and falling and falling for her?

(soft spoken in the dead of night) all eyes on you

Lily has watched him do this multiple times before and it’s just tea and it’s just James and there should be nothing special about this particular moment, except that the sight of him, the fact of him, is suddenly earth-shattering.

Something like nostalgia fills her in a flood, only it’s the future she’s longing for, a future she can see with absolute clarity. The features James inherited from his parents are so faithfully recreated on him that it’s easy to imagine him at their age, with a shock of white, still unfairly thick hair framing a face lined by a lifetime of laughter, making her a cup of tea exactly the way she likes it and smiling as she teases him.

Don't be fooled by the summery, this is pure self indulgent smut. I complain a lot about pretentious people but the Austen and Keats reference had me swooning. The myth of Eros and Psyche is probably one of my favorites so…

in the morning when i wake or the morning after

With trembling hands, James brings the smaller piece of parchment closer to his face and starts to read.

To the love of my life,

You idiot. Get back here.I’ll be in your room.

Lily.

Surface Pressure by @eastwindmlk

Lily dealing with the weight of her own expectations in 7th year

no, i could never give you peace by @kay-elle-cee

James blinks. “Are you breaking up with me, Evans?” he jokes softly, resting his hand on hers. It’s a joke, but her body tenses and it immediately puts him on edge. The silence that follows is excruciating.

“I’m not doing anything.” Her nails begin to tap on the mug again—a nervous habit that James spots immediately. “I just think we should have a conversation.”

Trust Kels to serve Order!jily angst and pair it with one of my favourite songs of all time

bury it and rise above by @startanewdream

"James? Do you believe in magic?"

Or Lily is a Witch. James is a Muggle. It's not easier.

When It's You by idreamofjily (on ao3)

James is naturally affectionate and Lily really isn't. But maybe she can make an exception, if the way her stomach drops every time James touches her is any indication.

desiderium by @missgryffin

Sometimes all it takes is champagne and a slow dance, and then there's no going back.

The Vow also by @ /missgryffin

When he was thirteen-going-on-fourteen, James Potter did something truly, unbelievably stupid. Now that he’s seventeen-going-on-eighteen, he has to deal with the consequences.

Accidental Magic also by @ /missgryffin

What else is there to do after confessing feelings in the middle of the night than spend a lazy Saturday in bed?

Are You Experienced? by @annabtg

James Potter decides to ask Lily Evans to a Muggle live music show. This noble mission, however, requires a series of steps he is entirely clueless about: from procuring the tickets to finding the correct outfit, and most importantly, to spending an evening with Lily Evans without making an absolute fool of himself.

Also including the gorgeous cover art by @constancezin

by the lake by @possessingtheproperspirit

james finds lily by the lake.

not in need of a knight by @thejilyship

“If they start something, I’m going to finish it.” James said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And if it ends with you in the hospital wing?” “What do you care?” “Do you really think I’d bother to argue with you so much if I didn’t care?” Lily said, breathing sharply through her teeth.

[weirdmageddon]

(originally written 8/21/24 on cohost)

there are actually a lot of things that john and aradia share beyond the bing crosbytop and fedora that are pretty intriguing to me like narratively. i was on the road and it sorta came to me as i was listening to music and i had to write it down when i got to my lab

both are the actual leaders of their session even though neither of them claim to be.

both are involved in the larger narrative of their story, on the “outside” or “above everything” with regard to paradox space. aradia’s leads with strategic understanding, watching how it unfolds, and john leads with a methodical one, putting the narrative into action. both of these end up leaving them feeling detached from everything in the end.

from andrew hussie commentary:

But even then, Aradia's only using him, too. She's playing everyone. She has a very advanced and pragmatic view of leadership when it comes to a Sburb session. She understands there's no such thing as a leader, just a bunch of sad kids getting played by Paradox Space. In a way, she's the most honest type of leader any session has. A leader by absentia, a cold orchestrator of preordained, controlled chaos, who creates the spaces for all the pieces to fall into place, and then just sits back and lets them fall. As Aradia's arc progresses and the ghostly freeze on her emotions and desires begins to thaw, one of the themes that starts emerging is the struggle over the nature of what is random in a universe where any appearance of randomness is prewritten as an essential result, and any act of destruction, no matter how violent or disruptive, only serves as a preconditional pillar for any foretold series of outcomes. As a robot, when she gets her emotional legs back under her somewhat, she gets more aggressive and starts lashing out, using acts of chaos, violence, impulsiveness, and randomness as a kind of protest against the bondage that existing in Paradox Space represents. In other words, there's no random act that reality hasn't accounted for, but aggressively enacting them is still kind of a Fuck You statement to the master. It's an attitude borne by a defiant slave, which she knows herself to be, just like her ancestor.

these evoke such similar feelings to me

(john art by @monteruu. lovely work by the way.)

john has an unconscious draw towards this information, his existence is a consequence of it, but is unable to weave it together into a framework. he doesn’t have the internal framework but he has the words so he’s confused. there was one post i once saw that had me clawing at the bars of my mental cage that's still somehow tangentially related to this general idea im trying to communicate.

(source)

and plato was.....LII. john expects reality to conform with the mental products of that guy, similar ideas that i have seen repeated throughout many other LII works, including carl jung and his idea of the collective unconscious and archetypes. and my own mind too.

“john expects reality to conform with his symbol language." that's literally how we could define the SUPER-ID block in socionics. the SUPER-ID block is the block where one is shaped by their most primitive impressions of what the world is, from the world.

for an ESE, john's type, their SUPER-ID contains -Ti → -Ne. erm...symbol language anyone? the ESE themself is the one spontaneously affected by that information, in contrast to LII, who can consciously follow this information and verbally deconstruct it.

(for description about these information elements and what they represent, refer to this. details about the meaning of the information element charges +/- can be read here.)

for me—and aradia, (and plato and jung too. also dipper pines. if you ever thought john and dipper have similar vibes youre not alone. someone pointed that out the other day i saw a tweet that said "John is kind of like dipper if he gave zero fucks what anyone else thinks of him" and i was like "im fucking telling you dude")— the SUPER-ID block of LII receives the aesthetic/sensory impressions that objects with certain energies give off (SUPER-ID block +Fe → +Si). to me the best i can describe this is receiving the dynamic, embodied expression of an individual object’s 'character' in motion and the impression it makes on me. many LIIs are musicians, or music is a big part of their life for this reason, because of this tonal + sensory impressionistic discernment.

+Fe -> +Si is the information i require from the world that i use to consciously classify things or compare them using my EGO block -Ti → -Ne. i classify things by their actual embodied characteristics, which makes me able to compare things in nuanced ways. since i have these energy-sensory impressions as a sort of backlog to compare things to, i can creatively describe something's essence in a million ways, from a million different angles. i’m even doing that in this post right now.

john is doing that in reverse. he takes the raw essence / potential itself (including himself) and can physically embody that potential in a million creative ways. think of how quickly he figured out what was available to him with punch card alchemy.

aradia knows her position in paradox space, whereas john does not. john doesn't make this distinction himself. like any introvert aradia is able to plot herself on a “map” to identify her placement / relationships among other objects (be it interpersonal, logical, within a space, and—most demonstratively for her—throughout time). i guess it allows her to cope better, but for john, this causes his depression and anguish to find meaning in his life once the narrative of homestuck ends.

theyre some of the most narratively involved characters in the chain of events of the story, but just from opposite sides. aradia exerts this as a hidden force causing consequential ripples over events in time (and she is aware of this, which is where a core theme was for her as a character and trying to rebel against the inevitable that she has to do anyway because paradox space is cruel), while being quite modest and unassuming as an individual. i think this is why ive seen people "forgot about her" because she wasn't in the spotlight and wasn't well understood, the weight of the role she played. i've likened this to her (4/2) demonstrative +Ni and (2/1) vulnerable -Se pole in the socionics framework. we see her story told mainly through the past and how she came to be in this state. a huge part of her arc that people take away is how much transformation she has been through. changes and relationships things hold to each other over time is a Ni concept. aradia constantly demonstrates this as an individual. i guess why it's called the demonstrative function. haha? i have the same information element placements as aradia, so i can draw comparisons to flesh this idea out further. my friend told once me something very pertinent: "Honestly I think a lot of your bigger influence is subconscious and something that most people have to circle around to appreciate. Like they have to live a little to appreciate your wisdom"

john is the opposite — we follow him. we see his role as it unfolds, we're along for the ride with him. his impact in the story gets more spotlight, he is the main character after all. and it's so interesting how john spontaneously adopts these roles to live up to through his actions. it's like he subconsciously knows he's the main character in some way, and acts accordingly: he serves as a more active presence in the present moment of the narrative than aradia whose primary effects are a result of that which stretches back to the beginning of these chain of events. john's actual presence in major events are crucial. (e.g. getting the code for Quills of Echidna to scratch the beat mesa, sticking his hand in the house juju). this is his (4/2) demonstrative -Se. we see him involved in these things, right here, right now. not in the past, but his presence right now. but there's a shadow side to this. as jung says, "No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell". so given all of this, being an action hero constantly involved in the present, at the same time builds up as an inner experience of the self over time — (2/1) vulnerable +Ni, which we cannot see from the outside, but is a consequence of that presence that simultaneously evolves with every action john takes in the story. what do the collection of these experiences represent over time? who john is as an individual being in a narrative sense is something important to analyzing him as a character. what myth does he embody? what myth or idea is it that is essentially forced upon him by the world against his will, given his position among other objects? (1/2) suggestive -Ti → (2/2) mobilizing -Ne. this 1000% relates back to that symbolic language post. by the way.

when it comes down to it, it seems like outside world's mission for john's existence is because he is someone necessary. who else is going to do these things? john exudes optimism, capability, kinetic energy. this is why we see him spontaneously latch onto the positions (suggestive -Ti) that he finds himself in.

EB: but now they don't have dream selves left! EB: who ever goes will be risking their life for good, won't they? CG: THAT WOULD BE THE LOGICAL EXTENSION OF THOSE FACTS, YES. EB: this is unacceptable! EB: couldn't i do it? EB: i am apparently immortal, because of this god tier business, so the bomb probably would not kill me! CG: OK, BUT DON'T YOU THINK THERE'S A REMOTE POSSIBILITY THAT GOING ON A SUICIDE MISSION TO SAVE ALL OF REALITY WOULD COUNT AS A HEROIC DEATH? EB: hmm... EB: maybe i could try to be not all that brave while i do it? CG: YOU ASSHOLE, OF COURSE YOU'D BE BRAVE. THAT TENDS TO BE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DO SOMETHING REALLY FUCKING COURAGEOUS. EB: ok, well what about this. EB: since she is mortal, and i am not (sort of), and i don't need to do the scratch for a while, can i go help her? EB: maybe she could use some protection? maybe that is what dave was just trying to do, when he temporarily died. EB: remember, jack is still on the loose! he has killed rose and dave once, and me twice. CG: NO NO NO NO NO NO. CG: SWEET BLEEDING JEGUS, EGBERT, YOU KEEP BRAGGING ABOUT YOUR IMMORTALITY, AND THEN BRAINLESSLY ANNOUNCE PLANS TO GO OFF AND DO SOMETHING HEROIC! YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE THE SHORTEST LIFESPAN OF ANY IMMORTAL IN HISTORY. EB: sorry. :(

aradia’s trollian handle is apocalypeArisen. the final book in the new testament describing the apocalypse (book of revelations) is authored by a person named john. that’s all he refers to himself as, and nobody knows his actual identity. many iconic mythological figures come from there, like the four horsemen of the apocalypse and the biblically accurate angels covered in eyes from front to back and shit. like that’s the blueprint of the ‘apocalypse’ myths that pervade culture. apparently the book was written from his visions in patmos, greece. the only reason i made this connection was because of the amazing musical adaptation of it into the album 666 by aphrodite’s child (1972) that has be absolutely hooked, but still it made me do some reading since i wanted to know what was up since i'm secular, and that's where i found intriguing links to my thoughts about them.

because etymologically.... apocalypse (ἀποκάλυψις) is a greek word meaning "revelation", "an unveiling or unfolding of things not previously known and which could not be known apart from the unveiling.” sounds familiar to things i have been describing in this post, particularly from john (egbert)'s perspective. my friend said "john is like a guy lost in a desert without a map with random landmarks that don’t make sense and aradia is like watching him from a helicopter with a map".

one more thing. i read that the johnannine works took a more gnostic approach than other parts of the canon.

The origins of Gnosticism are obscure and still disputed. Gnosticism is largely influenced by platonism and its theory of forms. Many Gnostic texts deal not in concepts of sin and repentance, but with illusion and enlightenment.

and oh god and so much of homestuck has roots in gnostic thought AND plato's theory of forms. keep in mind that homestuck is a creation myth itself. like, yaldabaoth the denizen IS the demiurge. no wonder theory of forms is such a vital idea to homestuck's mythology. and that's why john seems to fit so well into that world, because he expects reality to conform with his symbolic language.

[swagglessmoth]

Badly made comic of And So The Moon Wept bc it just finished and I’m devastated

‼️CHAPTER 15 SPOILERS‼️

I wanted to make one more page between the second and third bc pacing, but I didn’t wanna rethink all three of those pages’ compositions. It’s pretty ass bc it’s all sketches, but the last ones came out pretty decent I think👍

(Don’t look at the house too closely, I really didn’t wanna look at a reference so I just freestyled it)

Scrapped versions bc idk

Now that that’s out the way, I’ll start with the ranting, you can leave now this is for me

THE ENDING⁉️ DAMN⁉️⁉️⁉️

I would start rereading immediately to see all the details and analyze the psychology of the ‘tsukuyomi world’ characters BUT I unfortunately have my global exams next week 🥲

Warning for -1000 media literacy‼️ while writing all this I remembered that my memory is bad an my analytical skills are even worse! So be warned :p

BUT ANYWAY!! This was a top tear fanfic, seriously at no point did I consider the infinite tsukuyomi as a possibility. And I think this has to do with the fact that the psychology and individual lives of the characters in this dream were so well developed. There’s so many POVs! And they’re so complex and detailed!! Really makes you wonder if this was really the tsukuyomi or if Kakashi’s consciousness was sent to a different world all together. Which is what makes it so terribly tragic. Kakashi lived so many years in this perfect world just to regain all his memories and find out that it really was all fake, a world made up entirely of his own fantasies.

Oh and what a fantasy it was, getting hit by that boulder and fucking dying! The only reason he got to live was bc of ‘Hound’ (which could be interpreted as his consciousness telling him to wake tf up). Everything felt so wrong to Kakashi not because he noticed this things weren’t right, but bc he was never meant to live in this world. This was the prefect reality for everyone around him, his dream, a world without him (FUCK BRO💔💔💔💔). Which is the reason why I think the characters are so three dimensional in this dream, maybe, idk bro I just made this up.

But even then, things don’t exactly add up (if you think about it they do BUT SHHHHHH LET ME DREAM). Why did some characters suffer so much if this was meant to be a better world for everyone else? Why did Rin’s parent’s die? Why did Sakumo try suicide so many times?

We know Rin’s and Obito’s relationship started declining when Rin didn’t believe Obito when he swore up and down that Kakashi was somehow alive (which IS Hound’s fault in a way, he saved Kakashi and that’s why Obito saw Kakashi sinking into the ground, making him believe that Kakashi didn’t die), but it goes farther than that. Rin’s real problem with Obito was that he was so stuck on his dead teammate that he neglected the rest of his living team, Kakashi was literally everything he thought about to the point it started negatively affecting others (which, yeah him being obsessed is pretty normal considering that Kakashi was part of the reason he activated his sharingan and THE reason he activated the Mangekyo). So what did he do? Go hang out with the one other person who would ALSO only think of Kakashi all day, Sakumo. Obito eventually accepted that Kakashi was dead, but he and Rin never reconnected.

Was this really the perfect ending for them? Come on tsukuyomi, you’re more creative than that.

For some reason I think that the tsukuyomi was freestyling all this. Bc (by my interpretation) the point of Kakashi’s dream was that he died at Kannabi Bridge instead of Obito, period. The rest is extra stuff bc their lives have to go on ig? Or maybe the infinite tsukuyomi is really big brained and depicted a realistic depiction of 🖐️🖐️🖐️HOLD THE FUCK UP I’M DUMB I JUST FIGURED SMTH OUT

Bro this is why I need to reread this instead of talking to myself when I don’t remember half the details in the fic.

OK SO HOUND DID FUCK SHIT UP🔥🔥🔥

I was trying to think why Sakumo would be alive (if my shit theory above was true, which it isn’t but I’m not deleting all that) AND IT WAS BC SAKUMO NOT KILLING HIMSELF IS HIS PERFECT WORLD 😭😭😭😭. The one thing I’m not so sure ab is Kannabi (I bet if I keep writing this I’ll find the answer) bc Obito WAS gonna get hit by that rock, but hey, he entered the dream after the Obito reveal so maybe his consciousness already knew he would survive, so maybe he’d just appear later in the dream idk. BUT BRO 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 WAS HE ACTUALLY SUPPOSED TO COME BACK HOME TO HIS DAD??? AND THEN HIS CONSCIOUSNESS KICKED IN AND HE SAVED OBITO INSTEAD??!!,.. oh I’m sick, this is so evil

That would literally make everything make sense. He derailed the dream so bad that it fucked everything up, making it no longer a perfect world but more similar to reality. If he really was supposed to die, then why did his death have such negative repercussions on everyone he loves? It that was his dream, wouldn’t it be a better world with everybody happy? He wasn’t supposed to die at Kannabi but Hound appeared and saved Obito from a rock, causing a massive butterfly effect.

Pretty romantic if you asked me, “I would leave behind my perfect world just to save you form getting hurt” like damn, it’s not like he remembered that Obito survived at this point in time, but still STOPP I’M DOING IT AGAIN I’M FOCUSING ON THE DETAILS AND NOT THE BIGGER PICTURE AAAA

El cazador de elefantes by Def Con Dos is a pretty good song, hm

Where was I going with this? Don’t remember tbh

This is kinda long, I’m stopping here. Bye internet void ✌️

[parvulous-writings]

Aagh thank you so much for taking my Selkie!reader request!! it’s so cute, I absolutely love it!! 💓🦭 I would love a one-shot if you wouldn’t mind 🫶🏻

Warnings: Reading is referred to with she/her pronouns and fem descriptors, vague descriptors of peeling off skin. Somewhat abrupt ending, maybe? Not sure, I've been staring at this for too long

Words: 2.4K

Notes:  My requests are currently open! My request post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist!  Original character list - please request for these too! If you’d like to support me more, consider reblogging! I’d appreciate it loads!!

Gale had certainly been one of your more courteous companions, on your group's slow and steady journey up to Baldur's Gate. Whilst a lot of the others - particularly Astarion, and at times, Lae'zel - would often mutter or complain about how often you would need to stop to 'bathe'. The only ones who didn't try and hurry you along were the wizard, and Wyll. Wyll understood why the others were getting so frustrated, and so did Gale, you were all under a tiny bit of a time constraint on the road. "It's only once a day," Wyll would often defend - not that you were usually in earshot of this. "It is rarely even over an hour or two - I am well aware that we have issues to resolve-" He held up a hand to silence Shadowheart, who had just opened her mouth to retort, most likely with some remark about how they would all be in deep trouble if they kept stopping for everyone's habits, bathing or otherwise. "But, she is the one who holds us all together, and for such a feat, I feel we could... Afford her this much." "Perhaps I should start bathing as much." Astarion drawls, examining his long nails idly as he spoke. "I mean... If one of us can 'afford' to do it, then evidently the rest of us can as well, hm?" Wyll gave the vampire a look of mild exasperation, whilst Gale spoke up. "That isn't what Wyll meant - and you are well aware of that fact." He stated, his voice firm. "You know that she has been incredibly kind to us - you in particular - so we are showing her some kindness in turn." He folded his arms across his chest as he practically scolded the Elf, trying to appear intimidating. It didn't work all that well, at least, not from Astarion's perspective. "But, if you are really so intent on being bothered by this, I will go and ask her to hurry along..." He then continued, as Astarion's eyes became dour. If there was something that the wizard didn't want to do, it was irk the paler man's ire.

With that, Gale trotted off down the same path that you had taken merely half an hour prior, muttering to himself about how easily he had caved to the demands and how he should have stood his ground more. If not for his own dignity, then for your sake. Gale was immensely fond of you, perhaps more than he should have been, considering the short amount of time that he had known you for. But for the wizard, the kindness that you had shown him meant the world. It was the same kindness you showed to all the other companions, but he felt it was special, when it came to him. After so long without such affections - if they could even be called such - Gale's mind was going into overdrive in the presence of it, latching onto you in a way that he tried consciously to ignore, but every time the thoughts of staying at arms length from you left his mind, he would slowly drift ever closer to you. You had never shown any aversion to him. Even when he had admitted to you about the perilous situation thanks to the orb embedded in his chest, you had not shied away, nor had you cast him out. It was more - so much more - than he deserved.

The stroll to the riverbank only took him about ten minutes or so. He had been so wrapped up in his internal battle about whether to just turn around and leave you be, to stand his ground, that he almost dipped his boot into the cold water. He blinked for a moment or so, shaking his head to centre himself, before he made his eyes try to focus on the banks. Where had you decided to take your dip? He assumed it wouldn't be right at the end of that small path, where anyone would be able to wander and see you - you liked your privacy. So, he began to wander, sweeping his eyes across the spaces in front of him, looking for any sign of you or your belongings. In bushes, behind the odd tree, but there wasn't anything, for quite a while. He was beginning to grow concerned - what if you had been caught unawares by a bear, or even a stray goblin? No, that makes no sense, the rational voice in his head countered. She has taken on owlbears practically by herself. Why would a goblin pose a threat? He couldn't argue with that voice, he had seen you do marvellous, perhaps even borderline terrible if the circumstances were different, things. Whilst he was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost ended up face-first in the slick grass of the verge after stumbling over one of your boots. Thankfully, he caught himself, saving him from such embarrassment. Gale hummed gently to himself, discovering your discarded blouse and trousers not far from where he had tripped. But you... You were nowhere he could see. He thought about calling out for you, trying to grab your attention - wherever you may be... In the nearby reeds, perhaps? Before he could, however, the splash and ripple of the water beside him diverted his attention from his forming words.

Upon turning his gaze, he locked eyes with something he had not expected to see, so far from the coast of the North. It was a seal. The roundest, darkest eyes just stared back at him, unwavering. Despite the creature being rather adorable, the stare was downright unnerving, and almost... Human. That wasn't entirely something he was expecting - that level of sentience behind it's eyes. Even when he had consumed a potion of animal speaking, there wasn't that look, that shine, to an animal's eye. "Um, forgive me, I-" Gale wasn't entirely sure why his first instinct was to speak. He hadn't taken a potion of animal speaking since their last long rest last night, he would have no way to understand the beast. His eyes trailed back down to the clothes he had discovered as the animal started hauling itself out of the water, and onto the verge. "I was looking for someone, I think she might be somewhere around here..." Why was he still talking? He had no idea. But for some, inexplicable reason, it didn't feel at all weird. Perhaps he had been relying too much on the potions, recently. "These are her clothes, see, and-" He started to turn back, and instead of the seal becoming the focus of his gaze, it was, instead, you. Dripping wet, a mirthful smile dancing across your features. Peeling away from your body, and still partially clutched in your hands, was a seal skin. Gale's mind completely blanked for a moment, and his eyes drifted downward of their own accord, towards your chest as his cheeks began to heat up. As soon as he realised he was beginning to practically ogle your naked form, he averted his eyes. "By Mystra's robe, I-" He started, clearly flustered. His mind felt like it was going blank, over and over, unable to make any clear thoughts.

He tried to focus his eyes anywhere else, anywhere but you, his mouth opening and closing over and over, but little more than stuttering sounds leaving it. "Gale." Your voice breaks him from his thoughts, but he still cannot quite get himself to look at you. He offers a gentle hum, to show he heard you. "May I have my clothes, please?" Without another word, he gathers your garments, holding them out to you, one by one. "Shouldn't you... Dry yourself, first?" He asked, hazarding a glance your way. "It's just a bit of water, Gale... It'll dry." You chuckled, pulling your blouse on over your head. It did stick in a couple of places, but, for someone who had just come out of a river, it wasn't as bad as Gale had anticipated. Perhaps that was the seal skin? "Did you need something, Gale..?" You asked, whilst in the middle of redressing yourself. You glanced over to the wizard as you spoke, noticing he had his back to you, clearly still bashful about seeing you in the nude. It was rather sweet, really, how sweet he could be. "The uh... The others were wondering where you were..." He replied, almost lamely. "So I came to see if you were... Finished bathing..." He was finally able to meet your gaze again, now that you were fully clothed, and he didn't risk catching a glimpse of something more intimate. He wasn't entirely sure what to think, or what even to ask. Why had you been a seal? How had you been a seal? You spotted that look of inquisition in his eye - that twinkle that always seemed to appear when he had a barrage of questions stewing in his mind.

"Something on your mind?" You asked him, your voice almost teasing. You knew there was, it was impossible to miss; and you were well aware of how odd the situation the one he had just seen you in could look, even to someone as well-studied as him. "I just... How?" He asked, vaguely gesturing to you as you gently folded your seal skin, carefully placing it in your pack, right at the bottom, away from prying eyes. "You were you when I saw you this morning, and now you're some sort of seal... Shifting... Creature?" He asked, the cogs audibly turning in his head as he continued waving his hands about, as if this would help him to think. You had to hold in a laugh - this was a seriously confusing moment for him, but you would have thought with all his time spent with his nose stuck in a book before this adventure, that he might have had some sort of idea of what you were... Part of you didn't want to tell him; it took a lot of trust to disclose to anyone what you were, you knew all too well that there were many humans who were all too eager to take advantage of your situation. But, you were almost backed into a corner now. He had seen you, not just in your seal, but physically peeling it off, too. Why had you done that? We trust him, a small voice, nestled in the very back of your head spoke quietly. He has been kind to us... Perhaps he is not like the stories. You considered this for a moment. Before your unforseen adventure, you had always tended to avoid humans; tales from your family and friends had struck the fear of them deep into you. But now that you had been travelling with a few for a while... They didn't seem so bad. Sure, none of them knew that you were a selkie, but they had shown no inclination that they were malicious, for the most part. Wyll was the pinnacle of a knight in shining armour, and Gale was a very considerate man, especially after such a long period of isolation before his abduction.

"It... Is a thing that I keep somewhat... Secret." You said, slowly, and this caught Gale's attention. A secret? Something you had kept from the rest of this group, for all this time? "Is it an... Affliction, of some description? A curse?" He asked, his brows furrowed, clearly concerned for you. "To an extent, I suppose..." You shrugged slightly. "The only real 'curse' of it, is needing to swim, and be in water, as a... Well, a seal, often..." Gale's expression turned contemplative at this. "Your daily habits..." He mused, more to himself than to you. His hand absent-mindedly moved to his chin, slowly stroking at the stubble that littered it. "Shedding skin... Seal.. Must be near to water..." His voice was low as he murmured his thoughts aloud, trying his best to connect the dots. Then his eyes lit up, and his head all but snapped towards you. "A selkie-?" He blurted. Ah, so he did know of your kind. You give a somewhat sheepish smile, telling him all he needed to know. His gaze shifted to one of pure awe. "I... Had no idea - I mean, you had given no true hint, I suppose. You're beautiful, to be sure, but I never realised that it was because-" He stopped himself mid-ramble, his cheeks flushing as he realised what he had just said in his hurry to rationalise himself, and his thought process - or lack thereof in the past couple of months. You give him another smile, "You think I'm beautiful?" You asked the wizard, teasingly. Gale slowly began to nod - he couldn't exactly backtrack his words without insulting you, which was something he did not want to do, at near any cost. "Breathtaking, even... If I may." His voice was low, little more than a murmur.

The two of you share a look, then. A look of what could only be mutuality. And it was - you had eyed Gale for the past two weeks, at least. He had been caring, attentive to your needs, to your likes. It was hard for you to deny the flutter in your chest, that only seemed to be caused by him, or his presence. Without another word, you held out your hand to him, which he took without question, not even a second guess. It was something he had craved for a while, himself. Holding your hand in his, it felt right. Like bliss, even. He was happy to oblige you. So, the two of you began to walk back. You were anticipating a flurry of questions - things both mundane and not, about your life as a selkie. Yet, the wizard was oddly quiet, seemingly basking your presence, now that there were no secrets between the two of you. It felt nice, to him. Freeing, even. It was like, for the briefest of moments, there was nothing and no one outside of the two of you; no illithids, no pressing quest, no monsters lurking on the road ahead. Gale wanted it to last forever, and kept stealing glances your way, finally being able to take in your beauty without shame. Part of him knew he would be teased by some camp members when this came to light, but he didn't care. Perhaps now, the pair of you could bond more. Gale would like that - and he was starting to get the impression, that you would very much like it too.

[zolo-san]

I read all your tags and I’d like to suggest that in bed Zoro and Sanji also sleep this way. Sanji’s side of the bed being the left and Zoro’s the right because they trust each other to cover their blind spots.

I could write a fic about this ong

Okay, okay yes!!!! I agree!!!! But also might I add a bit from my hc that I discussed in this post I made about the Straw Hats' sleeping arrangements where I mentioned that I think that Zoro would choose the one of the beds closest to the door partly because he's inherently a protector (there are studies that show that people who choose to sleep closets to the door/facing the door do so because they want to protect/defend while those who sleep furthest from the door tend to want to be protected and hide or run) But from the way I hc their sleeping arrangements and how that would change/be affected by relationships, I had Zoro opting to sleep in Sanji's bunk and while I never said it, I always imagined Sanji sleeping to the left of Zoro, partly because Zoro would insist on sleeping closest to the door and party because I think that (whether Sanji realizes it or not) Sanji doesn't like to feel vulnerable when sleeping so he would sleep better with Zoro on his right and closer to the door And I think that they are not really aware that they do this and that they're not consciously protecting each other, they just do it inherently I also think that Zoro sleeps a little better too, knowing that he can trust Sanji to protect him on his more vulnerable side But I also think a contributing factor to Zoro preferring Sanji to be on his left would have to do a bit with Zoro always wanting to know when Sanji is awake/gotten out of bed They originally would have swapped bunks because Zoro hated being woken up by Sanji in the morning, but I think that even after they swapped Zoro was still woken up anyways (I have a whole other hc about how and why I think that Zoro is actually a really light sleeper) because he'd sense any movement in the room and automatically wake up a little bit, but this doesn't really bother him because he likes to know where everyone is, for safety reasons (and let's face it, he can instantly fall asleep after lol) Once him and Sanji start sleeping in the same bed I think that they'd be further along in their relationship (I'm currently working on a timeline for when and how I think their relationship would develop) and Zoro might have a bit more anxiety around Sanji's safety because even though he knows that Sanji can easily handle himself, I think that Sanji's self-sacrificial tendencies would honestly really affect Zoro if he admitted it or not But yeah...I'm very normal about this hc so normal about the intrinsic trust these two have in each other and how easily and naturally they are combat partners without ever discussing anything, they just know~ I'm incredibly normal about how quick they are to know when the other needs help and how they don't hesitate to help each other and trust that the other will always be there when they need them and when they need protection yup yup...very normal I too could write a whole fic on this concept~ Edit: to anyone wondering what post this is referring to, it's this one with my long ass tags on it

[x-press-it]

Devilish Desires - 3/8

Dangerous Temptations, Irresistible Touch 🎞️❤️‍🔥🌹⚔️🖤💻🖱️

Sub!Logan Howlett x Dom!OC (They/Them)

Summary: Logan, typically guarded and dominant, finds himself captivated by E, a mysterious being with a devilish allure and ancient presence that challenges his control.

Context: This story unfolds 'within' the "Days of Future Past" new timeline, during Logan's early years as a history teacher at Xavier’s School. It’s set well before his consciousness from the original timeline reconnects with him in 2023, as seen at the film’s end.

Content Warnings (for the whole story): Smut 18+ (Dry humping, Edging, Unprotected p in v.) - Dom!Logan into Sub!Logan - Pet Names (Good boy, pretty boy, pet, pup, amongst others…) reversed age gap (Logan is younger) - OC Notes: Established name, backstory, powers, fighting style, female body but gender fluid character (Logan misgender them at first because he doesn’t know, even in the descriptions) - Mention of other character from the MCU and subtle references to the comics for flavor (not mandatory to understand what is happening) - Flash back and mention of past trauma - Very quick mentions of drugs - Fluff with Dark Undertones: Emotional tension and possessive affection - Worship Themes: Religious imagery, reverent language and awe - Ancient Mysticism: References to otherworldly or demonic presence - Mental Health: Power dynamics, personal vulnerabilities - Trope: Rivals to lovers.

I'm back after 10 years of iatus and fairly new to how things are done on tumblr now, so sorry if I missed any warnings. Also english isn't my first language so there might be typos/weird sentences...

Notes: Got very inspired by sub!Logan and repeated listening of "Between wind and water" by Hael. Cover made with canva from an idea I got from this post. If you know who made the picture, tell me so I can credit them - Click on the divider to find the creator. Also this was meant to be an imagine turned into a full story. Just so you know, some chapters are very short, other are long. I'm in the process of editing/writing/rewriting parts so I'll post a chapter everytime I have one fully edited. This chapter was hard to wrestle with, but I won! Mention of legal stuff but I'm no lawyer so there might be inconsistencies ^^" Also brace yourself, power shift incoming.

Need some music? I've got you

Previously: in Devilish Desires

Chapters: 3/8

Word Count: 7.1K / 60K+ for now

Sunlight filtered through the wide windows of Charles' office, casting a warm glow over the mahogany desk and polished floors. Logan paused in the doorway, feeling the familiar tension coil through him even before he fully entered. His gut twisted as he took in the sight of E leaning casually against the desk, one hip propped up, her head already turned toward the door, watching him approach. The calm, focused look on her face set him on edge, like she was always one step ahead, pulling unseen strings. Every time he saw her, it felt like she dug her claws deeper into his space, into him, without even trying.

"Logan, come in." The professor’s voice was warm, though there was a hint of tiredness to it. "We were just finishing up. Have a seat."

Logan ignored the invitation, his arms crossing over his chest as his eyes locked on E. “What’s this about?”

Charles gestured to the papers on his desk. "As you know, the school is growing, and with that comes more scrutiny from the government." He glanced at E, then back to Logan. "That’s why we worked on some contracts—to make everything as official and seamless as possible. We want things above board, so no one has any reason to be suspicious of us."

Logan’s pulse quickened as Charles spoke, each word digging into a place he’d thought had scarred over but never truly healed. He could feel the weight of the documents between them, a weight pressing down on his chest, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe. Just the mention of those papers, the mere sight of them, was like a trigger pulled—snapping him back to shadows he’d fought to bury. Contracts meant control; control meant deceit. Old instincts roared awake, instincts that told him to fight, to claw his way free. His mind twisted back, unbidden, to the sharp crack of a pen against paper, his name signed under false pretenses. Faces flashed before him, cold and detached, each one using him as if he were nothing more than sharpened adamantium, each one an anchor dragging him back to glimpses of a past he desperately tried to escape, yet crave to piece back together at the same time.

Memories slammed together—soldiers' cries, the dead weight of bodies, his own silent rage coiled like barbed wire around his gut. Promises broken, betrayals… He could barely register the room around him, the walls that meant safety and acceptance. All he felt now was the past closing in, like a cage—restrictive, suffocating. And then a single thought broke through, a rough mantra, ringing into his head, so loud it pulled him from the spiral: “Today is victory over yourself of yesterday…”

Logan blinked hard, shaking his head as he forced himself back to his senses, the slow ache of his claws tearing through his knuckles breaking through the fog. With gritted teeth, he pulled them back before they became visible. After a short sigh, his eyes flicked from the papers to E, then to Charles, his scowl deepening. “This is bullshit. I’m not some soldier you can pin down with paperwork, Chuck.” His voice was low, the ghost of past betrayals still burning in his chest as his hand clenched tightly at his side. “I don’t belong to anyone, and I sure as hell don’t need to be tied up in a contract like this. I’ve been here long enough, and I’m not about to start following rules that don’t make sense to me.”

Charles clasped his hands together on his desk, his voice soft but firm, trying to ease the distress he saw in his friend’s behavior. “Logan, you’re right,” he validated, calm yet earnest. “You’re no soldier here—you’re a mentor, and you’ve proven that. But this contract is necessary. You know the risks; despite Raven’s actions, the government is still watching mutants closely after all these years. These contracts are for the teachers’ protection, for the students, and for the school itself.”

His expression was calm, deliberate, like he was teaching a class. Logan could see the weight of responsibility on Charles's shoulders, a reminder of the burdens they all carried. “It’s a formality to ensure you’re recognized as part of the staff. If they start asking questions, this contract might be our best defense.”

He held Logan’s gaze, the tension building in the air between them. In a quieter tone, he added, “This isn’t about control; it’s about security. If something were to happen, this paperwork could mean the difference between staying under the radar and drawing unwanted attention.” Logan felt a flicker of unease at the thought but pushed it aside, his feral pride refusing to let him show any weakness in front of E.

He shook his head, the tension in his shoulders thickening with each word. “A formality? Security? It’s a damn leash, that’s what it is! And I know she’s behind this.” His tone was sharp, the accusation clear as his chin jerked toward E, his eyes still on Charles.

E raised a brow, a slight smirk dancing at the corner of their lips. “They,” they corrected smoothly, their voice slipping in like silk over a blade.

Logan’s eyes snapped to her face, his brows knitting in confusion, anger swirling in his glare. “What?”

“You said ‘she,’” E explained, their tone lilting with amusement, not even flinching under the weight of his gaze. “I prefer ‘they.’”

For a second, Logan blinked, caught off guard. The shift in their demeanor—so detached, almost playful—disarmed him. It was a rare response to his fury, and it chipped away at the anger bubbling in his chest. He gave a quick, gruff nod, like a student getting a slap on the wrist for falling into a master’s trap. “Right. They.”

His lips pressed into a firm line, the weight of the situation settling like a stone in his gut. Yet, that primal part of him refused to fold so easily. “But that ain’t the point. The point is, I’m not signing a damn thing before I’ve read it. I’m not some teacher that punches a clock. You know me, Charles.”

Charles nodded, like he expected this. “I do, my friend. And I don’t want to force you into anything you’re uncomfortable with. But it’s necessary. If you’re going to keep mentoring, you need to be recognized officially as part of the school’s staff.”

Logan’s jaw clenched as his gaze flicked from the papers back to E, who hadn’t taken their eyes off him. His fingers twitched, itching to pull at the collar of his shirt, the weight of the contract already tightening around his neck.

A metallic muffled sound came from under E’s jacket’s sleeve as they shifted, leaning into their stance with one hand on Charles’ desk, the other resting on their waist and Logan’s eyes were drawn, almost against his will, to the subtle curve of their chest beneath the deep red blouse. The top few buttons were undone, revealing just a hint of cleavage, a thin golden chain that held a delicate white pearl, resting against their skin. For a second, his thoughts strayed before he forced his gaze back up, catching the faint hint of their dark horns just peeking from under their hair—a sharp reminder of exactly who he was dealing with.

“It’s just official paperwork, Logan,” they said, voice smooth with a playful lilt, enjoying the ripple of energy they felt from him as his thoughts wandered, though their expression stayed composed. “I can help you with the legal mumbo jumbo if you’re having trouble. I’d be happy to give you a private lesson… walk you through all the fine print, personally.”

Logan’s cheeks flushed, just for a second, barely noticeable beneath his hardened exterior, but it was there. E could feel the familiar tingle coming from him, that want simmering beneath his anger. His jaw tightened, fists clenching at his sides, and he shot them a glare, willing the heat away as if it’d been nothing. “I ain’t havin’ trouble with anything,” he growled, his voice low and rough. But E simply watched him with an amused, knowing glint in their eye, a faint laugh catching under their breath.

Charles, observing the exchange, raised an eyebrow, eyes twinkling with the slightest bit of humor. Clearing his throat gently, he spoke up in to ease the rising tension. “E, let’s not push too hard. Logan’s cautious, but we need to find a compromise. And Logan, I’m afraid that until we reach an agreement that satisfies both sides, I’ll have to ask you to step down from your teaching position. I can’t risk the school’s safety.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Logan stiffened, his fists clenching harder, knuckles now white. Stepping down? It felt like an ultimatum, but Charles wasn’t wrong. The safety of the school had always come first. E’s gaze softened just slightly, though he could still see that flicker of amusement in their eyes. “You’re right, Professor. My apologies.” They turned to Logan, offering a nod. “I got carried away—it was unprofessional of me. I understand where you’re coming from, and I’m willing to collaborate with you so we may find a solution that works for both parties.”

As E pulled away into their composed demeanor, he felt the thread coiling in his gut relaxing, leaving him more room to breathe.

Logan wasn’t used to them backing down that easily, and it threw him for a second. He shifted, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, his faint scowl deepening as he muttered, “Huh?” It was as if a switch had flipped, and he couldn’t help but wonder what their angle was. “Okay?”

And E could have left it there, but something inside urged them to add, a spark of teasing in their gaze, “After all, you’re not one to play by anyone else’s rules. So why not help shape the ones that work for you?”

Logan shot them a sharp look, their words sinking in slowly. He hated how they got under his skin, how easily they seemed to read him. But they weren’t wrong, either.

He took a breath, unclenching his hands, though he still felt like a cornered animal. “Fine. We’ll work something out. But I’m not signing anything that tries to box me in, Charles. I need enough room to be me.”

Charles’s expression softened in relief, giving a small nod of approval. “Of course, my friend. Take your time—I want you to feel comfortable with this. We’ll reconvene when you’re both ready.” He paused, glancing at the papers, before adding, “In the meantime, I’ve got other work that requires my attention.”

Logan barely registered the Professor dismissing them, his mind still tangled in the strange feeling of the interaction. E pushed off the desk gracefully, straightening the black jacket of their suit before gathering their things with practiced ease. When they finally stepped out of Charles’ office, Logan followed them out into the hallway. They walked in silence for a beat, the air between them still buzzing, though less tense than before. Yet, their scent still lingered—smoky, with a hint of spice—reminding him of their presence. And E, in turn, felt the simmering conflict inside him—the push and pull of resistance and attraction. It wasn’t enough to satiate them, but it would have to do for now, even if it left them wanting more. They allowed a brief, satisfied smile to ghost across their lips before tucking it away, resuming a more reserved expression.

“When do you want to go over the documents?” E’s voice was professional once more, all traces of their earlier playfulness gone, though a flicker of something else remained behind their eyes, like they were holding back.

Logan glanced over at them, still surprised by how quickly they’d shifted gears. This side of them—focused, efficient—was easier to handle. He could deal with this.

“Tomorrow, maybe. Got some time around three.”

E nodded, a hint of consideration in their gaze despite the reluctance in his tone. “I could make that work. We’ll go over everything, step by step. No surprises.”

The calm confidence they exuded kept catching him off guard, and against his better judgment, he found himself watching them differently. Was there more beneath that troublemaker act they put on around him?

E must’ve felt his gaze because they turned slightly, offering a small, almost sincere smile. “I’ll see you then.” Their voice was all business, but a hint of warmth slipped through—without the usual edge of teasing.

Logan grunted in response, but as they walked away, something lingered at the edge of his mind. Yes, there might be more to them than the predatory front they’d shown since they met. And maybe, just maybe, they weren’t as much trouble as he thought.

Or perhaps it was a ploy to lure him in, to make him relax and step willingly into their web. In any case, he wasn’t about to let his guard down. Not yet.

The library was quiet in the mid-afternoon light when Logan arrived, the subtle scent of aged paper and polished wood mixing with the now too familiar blend of spice wrapped in smoke. He pushed the door open with a soft creak, eyes immediately scanning the room, and sure enough, there they were—already seated at one of the large tables, surrounded by hefty open books, scattered documents, and a legal pad filled with meticulous notes.

E barely glanced up as he approached, their focus sharp on the papers spread out before them. The soft scratching of their pen on the smooth surface filled the air, the fluidity of their movements mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. Every action was deliberate, from the graceful lines they traced to the calm demeanor they carried.

Logan stood there for a moment, taking it all in—the precision and quiet focus they exuded. He couldn’t help but notice the neatness of their work: each point laid out clearly, with little diagrams and annotations. It wasn’t just thorough; it was methodical yet beautiful, almost like an art form. Even their handwriting, flowing effortlessly across the page—a blend of sharp angles and elegant curves—was damn near perfect.

He cleared his throat, and E, still writing, held up a finger, brows furrowed in focus. The gentle chime of their bracelets—three in total, one gold and two red—sounded as they moved, the soft music an elegant counterpoint to the silence. They needed to finish that thought, not wanting to lose their concentration. Logan waited for a few heartbeats, struck by the command in their motion, a powerful yet silent order that stoked the embers they had nestled in his chest during the last couple of weeks. When E finally looked up, their gaze met his with calm professionalism, but there was a flash of something else—an interest that sharpened their eyes, just for a heartbeat, before it vanished.

"You're early," they noted, their voice soft but steady, carrying just enough weight to catch his attention. "I wasn’t expecting you for another…” They quickly glanced at the delicate golden watch on their wrist. “… half hour, at least." There was a pause, and E gestured toward the chair on the other side of the table. "Please, sit."

Logan obeyed reluctantly, still unsettled by the way they were behaving—cold, detached, like they were someone else entirely. The tension between them had loosened so much he could hardly feel it, as if it might vanish entirely if he tried to reach for it. “Figured I’d get this over with,” he mumbled, his eyes not leaving their face.

A small smile played at the corner of their lips, and they flipped one of the hefty books closed to make room between them, before pushing a section of the contract toward him. "Well, I’ve already gone through most of the legal terms and highlighted the parts you might find concerning. If something still doesn’t sit right with you, we can discuss… adjustments."

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been busy.”

“I don’t like wasting time on work.” Their eyes flicked to the stack of notes they had assembled, before neatly setting them aside. “Let’s just get through this.”

Logan picked up the contract, flipping through the pages slowly. The neat little annotations caught his eye—small, concise memorandums in that same precise handwriting on flashy sticky notes, guiding him through each clause. As much as he hated to admit it, the thoroughness was impressive. “You really did all this?”

E leaned back slightly in their chair, crossing their arms, a faint smile playing at the corners of their lips, like they were enjoying something only they understood, and he felt a subtle pull inside, a tension stirring. “I told you I’d help you with the legal stuff, didn’t I?”

Logan’s eyes drifted to the pages again, unable to ignore how… perfect their handwriting was. Every sentence was clear, fluid, each letter delicate, intentional. They hadn’t just scrawled down information in a rush—not only they’d taken the time to make it legible, but it also felt like they had crafted something meant to be appreciated, drawn with careful control, patience, like each and every stroke mattered.

“You write like a damn artist,” he muttered despite himself, half impressed, half irked by the precision of it all.

E’s soft chuckle was barely audible, but he caught the faintest hint of satisfaction in their expression as they watched him linger on the page. They were absorbing his reaction, almost savoring it, letting his admiration wash over them like a silent, steady current. “Years of practice,” they replied, eyes glinting with a subtle satisfaction. “Didn’t expect you to notice details like that.”

He grunted in response, still staring at the page before flipping to another section. “I don’t miss much.”

E leaned forward again, the light jingle of their bracelets accompanying the movement as they tapped a finger on one of the highlighted paragraphs. “This part, in particular, is important. It’s a non-disclosure clause. You might want to pay special attention to that.”

Logan followed the motion of their finger, noting the cleanly filed nail that glimmered faintly under the light—maybe some sort of transparent polish? Even that was meticulously done, and the thought made something simmer in him before he blinked it away, refocusing on the contract. “So I can’t say anything about… what, exactly?”

“About the students. The curriculum. The specific ways the school operates,” they clarified, their tone even and clear, leaving no room for confusion, even as a subtle ripple passed between them. “It’s a precaution to ensure no one leaks sensitive information.”

Logan scowled, the idea gnawing at him. “I get why, but it feels like a muzzle.”

E’s gaze softened slightly as they leaned back again, folding their hands neatly on the table in front of them. The metallic sound of their bracelets chimed softly, a delicate accent to the motion. “It can feel that way, yes, but it’s standard for any organization handling confidential matters, especially one like this school. It's about protecting everyone here—especially you and the kids. Though, we can amend the wording if that’ll make you more… comfortable.”

Logan studied their face, taking in the sincerity behind their words. For once, it didn’t feel like they were toying with him or trying to play some angle. They were just doing their job—and a damn good one at that.

He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t like bein’ locked into something I don’t trust.”

E’s eyes softened as they nodded slowly, their expression understanding. “That’s fair. We can tweak the language so it’s more gray, more aligned with what you’re comfortable with. To give you room to adjust? You don’t have to feel trapped, Logan.”

Logan’s hand rubbed the back of his neck as he sighed. “You’re makin’ it real hard for me to argue, you know that?”

Their smile was faint, their fingers gently drumming on the wooden desk between them. “I’m not trying to make it harder. Just easier for you to see that this isn’t about control. It’s about protecting what you’re building here.”

Logan dropped his eyes to the contract again, that tight, familiar knot in his chest loosening just a bit. He didn’t trust easy—but they were making a damn good case. He couldn’t deny that. He could see how carefully they’d worked through the details, the amount of care they’d put into making this whole thing understandable. It was… reassuring, in a way. As much as he hated to admit it, they had a point. It wasn’t about locking him into anything—it was about making sure everything stayed secure. The kids came first, always.

He met their gaze again, something shifting between them. He still wasn’t ready to trust completely, but at least they were giving him a reason to reconsider. “Alright,” he muttered, almost grudgingly. “Let’s go through it.”

E smiled—this time, it was genuine. Not playful, not teasing, just… genuine, content. They slid a few more papers toward him, their focus back on the work, but Logan couldn’t help but notice the shift in their energy. As they started explaining the finer points, guiding him through each legal term with that same sharp professionalism, he couldn’t help but admire the way they handled things. They were focused, sharp, and professional.

Maybe this was the side of them he could start to respect.

For now.

They’d been at it for hours, bending and reshaping the terms until each clause balanced protection with freedom. E kept their demeanor professional, drawing on every ounce of restraint to keep their voice even and their gaze measured, ignoring the familiar hunger snapping at their focus now and then. And the more they worked, the more they could sense Logan beginning to relax, perhaps appreciating this side of them—this businesslike efficiency that gave him room to breathe, rather than the tension they used to stir in him. He was still sharp and guarded around them, but in the subtle shifts of his body language, they sensed they were both easing into a more comfortable exchange, his trust inching closer as they tweaked the terms to help him maintain his independence.

In his careful consideration of each clause, they saw how deeply he valued his autonomy. His desire to protect the kids and guide them through a brutal world was unmistakable, yet he seemed determined to do it on his own terms. Watching him was like seeing a reflection of their own drive: the same visceral need to resist being anyone’s pawn, to forge a path where people like them weren’t turned into weapons or tools for the powerful. E knew what it was to navigate that treacherous line, to have allies rather than be a pawn, to be indispensable but never owned. Becoming a lawyer had finally allowed them to create partnerships, to protect their independence in a way they hadn’t had in the past.

They looked at Logan now, the way he was part of something great without letting it absorb him, and felt a twinge of resonance. It was like looking into a rippling, distorted mirror: his methods protective where theirs were persuasive, his presence blunt where theirs was all charm and deliberate control. But that difference made sense, considering their mutations. He had claws; they had…this. This carefully wielded hold over emotions. Had they been born with claws, would they have protected instead of manipulated? They weren’t sure.

Their gaze drifted from the paper to his handsome face as they sank into those thoughts, the realization dawning—slow and unexpected—that he wasn’t simply a source of energy, or the toy they’d wanted him to be at first. He was a potential ally in a way few others could be. Someone who might amplify their strength instead of being drained. Not just a meal to be consumed but something rarer—a piece that, in its own strange way, completed the picture of who they could be. As if they were two sides of the same coin.

Lost in thought, they almost missed the slight cough as Logan cleared his throat, his voice breaking through their haze.

“Need a break?” he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, catching them just off guard enough that they had to recompose themselves, reassemble that mask over their features before their thoughts slipped any further into the open.

“No, I’m good,” they replied, eyes turning back to the papers in front of them. “We’re almost done, anyway.” But as they looked away, a thought slipped in—a terrifying, persistent thought.

What if, just for a few moments, they let him see behind the surface?

The more they considered it, the more it tugged at them. Curiosity twisted into need—a need to be seen fully, not just for what they could do or the games they played, but for every scarred, layered piece that made them who they were. Logan was unique, after all. He understood the weight of living too many lifetimes, of carrying too many pasts. Maybe he, of all people, could handle the person they kept buried underneath.

They wrestled with the urge, every instinct resisting, their armor honed by years of experience and necessity. Something deep inside warned it was dangerous—unnecessary. But then again… maybe not. Because the thought kept tugging, whispering that maybe, just maybe, it could be something greater. A partnership that didn’t hinge on pretense or servitude but on something raw and real, something powerful.

Their gaze returned to him, lingering. He was relaxed now, waiting, not pushing. And maybe that’s what finally broke their resolve.

“You know, Logan,” they began, the words slipping out, edged with a subtle amusement that curled at the corners of their mouth. “You’re… an interesting case.” Their tone was light, but Logan could feel the weight behind it, something sharper. “In a world full of people pursuing causes, you stand apart. You’re here, fighting for something, part of a team, a mentor—yet you keep a step back, like you’re in it but always on the edge.”

They took their time, choosing their words carefully. “Not interested in becoming anyone’s weapon. Not about to let anyone make a puppet out of you.” They paused, their smile fading as their peculiar eyes locked with his, earnest, with a hint of challenge. “I respect that about you.”

Logan’s expression shifted, his relaxed posture tensing as he regarded them with a sharp glance. Crossing his arms, he studied their face, searching for their angle. There was no mistaking the twinkle in their gaze, a glint that almost dared him to see through it. He furrowed his brows, but his voice was steady. “Yeah? Well, I don’t dance on anybody’s strings. If I’m fighting for something, it’s because it matters to me. And I do it my way.”

He watched as something flickered in their eyes—a veil lingering for a few heartbeats, like his words had pulled something deep from the shadows of their mind. When their gaze met his again, it was steadier, as if a quiet understanding had slipped between them. “I get that,” they replied, voice low, the words hanging in the air with a quiet finality.

Logan studied them, suspicious of this sudden transparency. “So what? You’re saying you’re the same?” he asked, his tone guarded, almost testing.

“Maybe.” Their mouth curved in a smirk, one that seemed to bare their teeth as much as it smiled. “Let’s say I’ve had experience balancing independence with… affiliations.” They leaned forward slightly, the light metallic sound of their bracelets chiming with the motion, drawing his attention and making his senses sharpen. Their gaze glinted with something that hinted at danger, at control. “When people see power, they get ideas. They get greedy. Sometimes, we have to show them who’s in charge—decide where the lines are, or blur them if it suits us.”

Logan’s brows knit, eyes narrowing. “So, you’re tellin’ me you dance along the line but won’t let anyone hold your strings.” He leaned back, gaze sharp. “How’s that working out for you?”

They gave a light shrug, a glimmer of amusement in their eyes. “You’d be surprised. Charles, for one, respects it—but you already know that.” They smirked, as if holding back a bigger truth. “There are others, too. Equally powerful… Stark, for instance.”

Logan’s eyebrows shot up at the name, genuine interest breaking through his cautious demeanor, crumbs of energy swallowed by E’s greedy hunger. “Stark? As in the Tony Stark?” He couldn’t hide the hint of curiosity in his tone and leaned in, almost imperceptibly. “You actually know the guy?”

They lifted their brows, a small pout on their lips, playing down the significance of it with an offhand shrug, though Logan noticed a spark of pride in their eyes. “Worked with him, actually. Fresh out of law school. I had a friend—blind attorney, good guy—who mentioned Stark needed someone sharp to help… clean up a few things. Secure patents, keep his tech out of the wrong hands.” They kept it vague, partly out of client confidentiality and partly knowing that Logan wasn’t likely interested in legal specifics.

“Not exactly glamorous, but it was an exhilarating start,” they added, the flicker of pride now shining in their voice. “Let’s just say that navigating the minefield of a billionaire’s reputation certainly kept things interesting. And it was good for the notoriety.”

Flecks of emotion brushed against something deep within E—a faint thrill they quickly stifled but couldn’t entirely ignore—as Logan muttered something under his breath, a note of respect edging his tone. He’d always seen Stark as the kind of guy who didn’t trust anyone but himself—and maybe his assistant, or whatever she was now. “Bet that kept you busy.”

A chuckle escaped them, eyes glinting as the soft chime of their bracelets accompanied the sound. “Busy? He kept me on my toes. The man’s got a mind like wildfire; it was a challenge keeping up. But it was… refreshing.” They leaned back, an almost nostalgic look slipping over their face. “I guess it taught me to walk the line, to make a difference without being tied down.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, intrigued despite himself. The story felt like a glimpse into the puzzle of their past. “So how’d you end up here?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “Not that I’m sayin’ this place is a downgrade or anything,” he added with a smirk, resting his arms on the table.

They sensed his interest like a pulse, faint but unmistakable. It seeped into them, stirring that familiar, alluring rush, and they let out a soft laugh, an edge of amusement in their eyes. “Did you know Charles and Stark held a gala a few months back to fund the school’s new equipment?”

Logan nodded, some recognition flitting across his face. “I remember hearing about it. Charity thing, wasn’t it?”

“Exactly.” Their voice stayed casual, but their eyes sparkled with the thrill of memory. “That’s where I met Charles.” Their gaze flicked back to him, pausing just long enough to let the moment breathe. “We got along right away. He needed someone to navigate the legalities and ensure the school’s mission stayed protected. A few conversations later, and here I am.” Their eyes held his, a glimmer of interest that wasn’t easily brushed aside, as his curiosity continued to fuel something deep within them.

Logan could feel it too—a pull he couldn’t resist, a delicate pressure building inside him, different from the sharp pull of their first exchanges. This was smoother, quieter, sinking in with each new glimpse he got of E’s story, drawing him in until pulling back wasn’t an option. He sensed the quiet power behind everything they revealed, and it stirred something deeper in him—a mix of respect, intrigue, and the surprising comfort of recognition, that kept the tension going.

He leaned back, crossing his arms again, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So, you just go wherever the cause suits you, huh?” His voice held a challenge underlined by curiosity. “If Stark showed up again tomorrow, you’d be right back in his corner?”

E nodded, unfazed by the edge in his tone. “If his goals align with mine? Yes. Of course I’d work with him again! Without a second thought! Same goes for Charles.” Their gaze softened, a glimmer of conviction breaking through their usually controlled demeanor. “I want to be part of something that matters, Logan.”

Logan studied them, catching just how much they meant it. He’d known E wasn’t anyone’s puppet, but now he could see they weren’t waiting around for someone to hand them a cause, either. They were carving out their own path—fluid, adaptable, going wherever their instincts took them. And he found himself respecting that: their drive, mixed with that fierce independence. Hell, he could relate to it—maybe even admire it a little.

E felt it, the ripple of his respect, like a quiet current feeding into them. For all their control, a spark of satisfaction slipped through their gaze, their mask almost slipping as they met his eyes. His admiration, rare and guarded, felt potent—dangerously so. The energy coursed through them, lingering like a hidden pulse beneath their skin. They shifted slightly, regaining composure before his steady gaze could pierce too deeply.

They looked calm, in control, continuing their previous thought. “I’m loyal to a cause.” Then, their eyes took on a sharper edge, something deeper flickering beneath the surface. “But I’ll never let myself be chained to anyone ever again.”

There was a flash of anger, fierce and unyielding, sparking in their gaze. The quiet chime of their bracelets sounded as they leaned forward, their voice steady but intense. “There’s too much to do, too many ways to make a difference—like what you do here with these kids.”

Logan didn’t miss the brief fire of fury that had slipped through the cracks in their cool confidence, just enough to reveal a scar, raw and unhealed. They didn’t merely have a preference for freedom; it was a need, born from something that had burned them hard and left its mark. That kind of wound didn’t heal easy—he’d know.

He held their gaze, his expression softening with a rare flicker of understanding. E might play at being dangerous and unpredictable, but he was beginning to see past the games, past the mischief. Beneath it all, they weren’t half as threatening as they liked to seem—not to him, anyway. And now he wondered if their determination to make a difference came from more than just ambition. Maybe they were out here carving paths so no one else would have to walk through the fire alone.

Just as quickly, E’s eyes narrowed, the hint of vulnerability vanishing as they pulled themselves back. Their lips curved into a knowing smirk, that easy, predatory edge sliding into place. “What’s with the look, Logan?” they purred, voice rich with playful menace. “Didn’t think I’d have you figured out that quickly?”

He tilted his head, a low chuckle rolling out as his eyes held steady, watching them with newfound clarity. “Long way from that, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice as rough as the smile he wore. His stare cut through their guarded expression, tracing that hidden spark they were still trying to shield. “But I’ve seen enough to figure out there’s a hell of a lot more goin’ on with you that what you let on.”

They scoffed, dismissive as ever, though Logan’s steady gaze didn’t miss the faint, almost imperceptible shift in their eyes, the way they lingered on him just a second too long. They were good at playing the part; he could give them that. And hell, he had to respect it—the way they held their ground, defiant but calm, ready to take on whatever came next. But he’d caught a glimpse behind their guard now—just enough to give him a way in, a thread he could pull if he wanted, evening the power balance between them. A hint of a smirk tugged at his lips; they’d shown him more than they intended, and he planned on playing that to his advantage.

E met his stare, the faintest crease of tension at the edge of their mouth as they spoke. “There’s not much going on with me,” they said smoothly, though their tone carried an edge, a warning, like a line drawn firmly in the sand. “At best, you’ll see someone who’s lived long enough to know that, at some point, we’re just the sum of our own burdens—regrets, pain, and the constant battle to find a place in a world that sees us as either weapon or threat.” They shrugged, gaze cooling as if daring him to contradict them. “I know you know what I mean.”

Logan’s mouth quirked, and he offered a subtle nod. Oh, he knew. He knew that weight, the feeling of being something both feared and useful, but he also saw how tightly they held onto that defensive edge, like armor too important to set aside. And it made sense. If they’d been through even half of what he had, especially as a woman with power, that sharpness was more than just for show—it was a primal instinct born from necessity.

“So, you play the part of the predator, huh?” he asked, his voice casual, almost challenging. “Gotta keep everyone on their toes, or they might see more than you want ‘em to?”

Their gaze hardened slightly, something flickering before they smoothed it over. “It’s survival, hun,” they replied, tone measured with a hint of sarcasm, the nickname sharp on their lips. Their fingers moved up to toy with the delicate golden chain around their neck, the single white pearl shifting gently between their fingertips. “I wasn’t raised to be anyone’s prey. I’ve always been powerful in a way, even before my true nature revealed itself. Living as a mutant in this world means learning to navigate perceptions—people don’t always take well to what they don’t understand. You know that too. So, yes, most of the time, I have to play the predator. It’s how I keep my place in this society.”

Their eyes gleamed, that familiar guarded edge slipping back into place, like steel settling into a sheath. “And maybe it’s the only way I know how.”

The words settled between them, carrying an honesty that almost surprised him. Beneath the mischief and sharpness, he could see the echoes of past battles that had molded them into someone who walked the line between danger and glamor, between freedom and guarded solitude.

“Doesn’t it get exhausting?” he asked, tone light but edged enough to make it clear he wasn’t just making conversation. “Playin’ that part all the time, keepin’ everyone at arm’s length?”

For a split second, something flickered across their face—an almost imperceptible crack—but they smoothed it over with a cool smile. “It’s only exhausting if you don’t know how to handle it,” they replied, looking down at him with a hint of mockery, as if to suggest he wouldn’t know. Leaning back, they reclaimed control of the moment. “Besides, I didn’t walk this path to blend in with the crowd. The world makes demands. I learned early that if I wanted a future worth having, I’d have to shape it myself—alone.”

They straightened with a subtle chime of their bracelets, a glint of pride in their stance, fierce and unyielding, making Logan’s respect tick up a notch, teasing E’s hunger with a rich, electric thrill. They felt it brush against their senses, fueling the simmer beneath their calm. For a fleeting moment, their expression softened, indulging in the warmth of his regard. But it didn’t escape him that beneath their carefully crafted façade lay a quiet kind of fatigue, a weariness he knew too well. They might be used to the role, but that didn’t mean it didn’t take a toll. With a practiced flick of their eyes, they returned to their cool detachment, meeting his gaze with that same untouchable allure, even as their hunger urged them closer.

Logan shifted, crossing his arms loosely, gaze steady as a teasing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes glowing with playful challenge. “Sounds to me like someone’s after more than just puttin’ on a show.”

Their smile froze for the briefest moment, a flicker of tension before they rolled their eyes, snapping the mask back into place. “And you think you know what I’m after?” They raised an eyebrow, voice slipping into that smooth, predatory edge that reminded him just how much they hated being read—just like he did.

“Maybe,” he replied, holding their gaze with that same easy smirk. “Seems like a part of you might want somethin’ more. Connections. Someone to reach out to, now and then. Make it feel less… empty.”

They scoffed, laughter low and guarded as they leaned in, the slight sound of their bracelets punctuating the motion once more. Their voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t flatter yourself, Logan,” they said, eyes glinting with challenge as they inched closer, the whisper turning almost venomous. “I don’t need anybody, pretty boy. Especially not you.” Both their words and gaze sharpened, a teasing yet defensive spark behind it, though something unspoken lingered there. The faint chime followed their movements, an echo of tension and warning. “You might think you’ve seen through me, but trust me, there’s a lot more here than you’re ready to understand. So, stop digging. You might not like what you find.”

Logan’s smile barely shifted, but he didn’t push further, didn’t try to peel back any more layers. He didn’t need to. He’d seen enough to know that behind the sharp edges and fierce guard, E wasn’t so different from him. And the thing they made him crave these last few weeks might just be the thing they’d craved themselves for a long time.

Silence stretched between them, charged and unbroken, as they sized each other up—E, guarded and fierce behind their confident exterior; Logan, settled and a little more at ease than he’d been since they first met.

He chuckled, a low, quiet rumble that broke the silence and hung in the space between them. A confident smile played on his lips, almost as if he were savoring his small victory. “So,” he murmured, leaning in. “We done here, or… you need me for somethin’ else?” His tone carried a hint of something deeper, something suggestive.

They bristled, the calm mask slipping momentarily as irritation flashed in their eyes, but they regained composure, sliding smoothly into a clipped, professional tone. “If you don’t see any more changes to make, I can take care of the rest. I’ll give you the documents once they’re finalized.”

Logan nodded, his gaze steady as he rose from his chair, towering over them for a brief moment. “Alright,” he said, his voice warm but resolute, like he was sealing an unspoken agreement. “See you around then.”

With that, he turned, heading toward the door. And as he left, he took with him the solid rythm of his presence, that subtle weight of connection they’d woven into him over the past couple of weeks. The room felt colder, emptier without it. The quiet settled in, hollow and gnawing, the sharp hunger suddenly surging in as the connection broke, slipping from their grasp like sand between their fingers.

Alone once again, they could almost feel it—an ache beneath the calm exterior, an unsettling reminder of what he’d managed to stir to life, only to take it away.

To be continued…

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don't forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

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🔖 @quillycrow

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

My thorn-laden heart (it's yours, it's yours, it's yours)

A companion piece to Carry my heart (and hold it gently in your arms). From Ghil's POV! Yes there's a Hanahaki reference in here. Tender and bittersweet, and absolutely delightful to write how differently Ghil and Emmrich view each other.

Feat. My Ingellvar, Ghil'danan, and the bone daddy himself, Emmrich Volkarin.

---------------------

Nobody could wake him.

To be fair, nobody wanted to. Emmrich had been uncharacteristically quiet on the way back, exhaustion seemingly making him drag his feet.

It had been a rough day to begin with. Antaam, Ventatori, and a mad dash to get rid of a bunch of magically charged poison had left its mark, sprinting from one end of Treviso to the other.

“Why don't you carry him, Rook?” Neve said teasingly. “You know he's going to be hurting tomorrow if we leave him sleeping here.”

Fuck. She was right. As much as he knew she was actively tormenting him, Neve did bring up a good point.

Ghil sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “If he kills me, make him bring me back,” he groaned.

Neve smiled in that wickedly mysterious way of hers. “Perhaps. Good luck.” She trotted out of the room, leaving him alone.

Emmrich looked so young. The gentle touch of sleep drew the lines away from his face, reminding Ghil of how he'd looked fourteen years ago.

Bittersweet memories. The professor didn't even remember him from before he transitioned, and Ghil didn't know whether that was a blessing or a curse.

He walked over, sliding a hand under Emmrich's knees, and the other around his shoulders.

The necromancer was much lighter than he expected. All legs and bone, gangly in a way that often came off as grace.

It was a miracle Ghil managed to keep his eyes on the battlefield on any given day.

Emmrich barely stirred. It was as if he recognized the person who held him would never do him any harm.

Maker. Cradled in his arms was the manifestation of his bleeding, beating heart, ruby-slick and beating with the spark of life this man had installed years ago.

Every time Ghil got into his head about it, he reminded himself Emmrich was only human. It would be unfair to put him on a pedestal.

Still, as his feet carried him towards the main building of the Lighthouse, he couldn't help the relentless flood of affection. Time spent together actually learning who Emmrich was only made a longtime crush bloom into a deep, unshakeable love.

Like brambles, rooting deep into his heart where they could never be dug out.

He would choke on those blackberry blossoms before ever trying to get rid of them.

A questioning hiss drew him from his thoughts. Manfred’s eyes glowed in the dark, reminding him of a cat.

“Manfred,” he whispered. “Would you set up what Emmrich needs for bed?”

The skeleton nodded, a chipperness to his steps as he scuttled up the stairs that wound up to everyone's separate quarters.

As he followed, he felt the professor stir in his arms.

“Rook?” Emmrich said sleepily. Maker’s breath, that fucking nickname. It drove Ghil mad some days.

Coming to full consciousness, the professor flailed, and Ghil was forced to tighten his hold, lest the man brain himself on the stone railing. “R-Rook!”

“Shh,” Ghil hushed. “You fell asleep, professor.”

Emmrich looked at him, aghast. “You could have just woken me up!”

He couldn't help but snort. This man was too cute for his own good. “We tried. Dozing off at dinner…should I take you on less missions?”

The glare he received made him grin, followed by a scolding smack. “I'm not an invalid! You requested an expert on the Fade, which requires me to-”

Laughter came bubbling out of Ghil’s chest, cutting the professor off. “I know,” he said, unable to control the wealth of affection spilling from him. “I'm just teasing.” Emmrich’s disapproving face only made him smile more, even as he stopped at the top of the stairs. “Would you like me to set you down now?”

“Yes,” Emmrich retorted. “I'm perfectly able to walk to my own quarters. Where is Manfred, anyway?”

Ghil glanced up. The skeleton was already gone from view. “In your room,” he replied, setting Emmrich on his feet. “I asked Manfred if he'd prep your bed for you, just in case you didn't wake.”

An odd look crossed the professor’s face, something that Ghil couldn't read. “You would have taken me all the way to my bed?”

I'd take you to mine, if you'd let me.

Ghil swallowed the inappropriate response, mentally smacking himself up the back of the head. He coughed instead. “Of course.” Ghil could feel the stark blush spreading, hating how easily it would show on his skin. “Wherever…” he faltered. What a chicken. What a coward. Alone in the Lighthouse with the one person he'd ever wanted, and he still was weak.

Ghil wanted to be someone who could be relied on. Not necessarily a hero, fuck that, but a bulwark against the endless storm of their lives.

That required courage.

He forced the words out, quieter than intended. “Wherever you need me to carry you, I'll always be more than happy to.”

Emmrich’s lips parted, his eyes wide like he'd come to some sort of revelation.

Whatever it was, he kept it to himself, looking away as he brushed invisible wrinkles from his clothes. “Well,” he replied quietly. “I appreciate the offer. And…thank you for carrying me.”

Ghil’s chest felt warm. He gazed at Emmrich tenderly. “Anytime, professor.”

Emmrich stared down at him disapprovingly. “You know what I prefer to be called.”

In the low candlelight, a single strand of white hair stuck to Emmrich's clothes. It was odd, something that didn't belong with the professor’s seamless image.

Ghil was reminded of the way Emmrich looked in the early morning, his moustache askew and his clothes rumpled.

He smiled. Not so seamless after all. Another imperfection, to be loved as it was.

Before he knew it, he'd reached forward, plucking it from the professor’s clothes. “Sorry,” he said absentmindedly. “It's the worst part about having long hair.”

Emmrich nodded. “Of course. Thank you, dear Rook.”

The nickname scratched at him, a reminder of his leadership. His title. His crown, snug around his throat and drawing tighter every day.

“Professor,” he said, before he could help himself. “Say my name.”

Internally he cringed. It came out as a command instead of a request.

-’danan,” came the whispered reply. It shocked Ghil back out of his head, sending his heart stuttering.

Holy shit. Holy shit. He was going to die, right here on the floor. Emmrich was looking at him in a way he'd never seen before, and it filled him with an impulsive confidence he rarely felt.

Taking the professor's hand in his own, he absentmindedly noted the callouses there. Years of magework had worn into Emmrich, a tapestry of skill written across his skin.

“If the sound of my name on your lips is the last thing I hear, I don't think I'd mind.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he leaned down, intent on hiding the blush that was definitely coming.

Instead, he kissed the back of Emmrich's hand, silently grateful for the way they'd healed him again and again.

Ghil glanced up, meeting Emmrich’s eyes. Kind eyes, wide with pupils blown.

He had to go. He had to run away, before he ruined this moment by doing something stupid and impulsive.

“Goodnight…Emmrich.” Quickly, Ghil turned on his heel, fleeing to his room.

He hoped he hadn't scared the man off.

He hoped tomorrow, Emmrich would still grace him with his presence.

[sugarandspiceandeverythingelse]

Ryu Si-Oh/Kang Nam-Soon one-shot

Background: I'm working on a sort-of alternate universe series for Strong Girl Nam-Soon; where the main couple is Ryu Si-Oh and Kang Nam-Soon, and it revolves around Nam-Soon's life and Si-Oh's redemption. For some reason, it's harder for me to start at the beginning and write chronologically so until I figure out how I want things to begin in this AU, I'll just post the cute/fluffy one-shots that pop into my head.

Prompt: Nam-Soon wins a bet.

Nam-Soon didn't even try to conceal the teasing grin that stretched across her face as she approached Si-Oh. She began to dance, moving her body joyfully and shimmy-ing her shoulders as she lightly sang the tune of Gangnam Style.

Si-Oh watched her approach with an indulgent curl of his lips, tipping his head back to stare at the blue sky above as she drew closer. Only looking back down when she hopped with both feet to stand at attention in front of him, staring up at him triumphantly.

"Shall we?" He gestured for her to walk in front of him towards the company car, but she stayed stubbornly planted before him.

"Not until I hear you say it." She slyly replied.

Si-Oh sighed, experiencing an odd mixture of both annoyance and affection towards his pint-sized assistant. Normally such insolence would have lit a fire in his gullet, triggering a defensive response that demanded he crush whoever had the arrogance to challenge him. But coming from her, with her sparkling eyes and infectious smile ... he found himself basking in the warmth of her camaraderie.

"Ah, yes. You were correct, I concede defeat."

Her chin lifted proudly, as she reached up with one hand to flip her long hair over her shoulder. "Thank you, thank you. Naturally, I deserve a prize for this display of business prowess. What are you willing to give me as a reward?" Her tone was light and unserious, her face open and happy.

The question from anyone else would have had him tensing in preparation for conflict. From her, he only felt what most people must mean when they refer to getting butterflies. The answer left his lips before he consciously made the decision to reply ...

"Anything."

Nam-Soon's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Anything?" She repeated in question.

Si-Oh nodded definitively, before voicing his confirmation. "Anything."

"Hmm..." She pondered aloud, raising a delicate finger to tap at her chin, and squinting her eyes dramatically. "That is quite the invitation. I'll have to think on it carefully. An opportunity like this shouldn't be wasted, you know." She chirped pertly, before turning on her heel and beginning to stride towards the car. He followed at a more leisurely pace, keeping his strides shorter to match her shorter legs.

"Should I be worried?" He volleyed back, fully knowing he needn't worry at all.

"Oh yes," she said sunnily as the driver opened the side door for her to climb in. She peeked back at Si-Oh from over her shoulder, taunting him in a comedic timbre "Be afraid, be very afraaaiidd..." her voice pealing off into silly laughter as she climbed into the dark vehicle.

Si-Oh found himself smiling once again as he seated himself next to her. It seemed to be happening more often the more time he spent with Nam-Soon. He was both curious and intrigued by the development. He didn't know necessarily what it was about her that drew him, like a moth to a flame. All he knew was that the more time he spent in her presence, the more the cold, dark spaces inside of him seemed to shrink. He wanted more. No. He *craved* more, more than any drug he'd ever used. Being near her was like being injected with pure light, concentrated sunshine. And for a man like him, who had been denied every affection and comfort since he was a child ... he was helpless to resist her.

[penvisions]

of beskar and kyber {chapter 21}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader) ; brief OMC x Reader

Summary: Memories and feelings overwhelm you, conversations need to be had about how things crumbled between you and Din, but the wedding is only a few days away and a plan of escape needs to be made despite it all.

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: canon typical language, canon typical violence, noncon touching and physical affection, reader initiates sexual advances even if she does not want to, reader is complicit in an uncomfortable situation, sexual situations, adult content, talk of past arguments, talk of past miscommunication, din raises his voice one (1) time, argumentative language, inner musings of reader, mentions of past heartbreak and pain, reader is being held captive against her will, talk of self-harm, references to past self-harm, mentions of IV ports and shots, deadly poison, talks of injuring / killing people, um i think those are all the major ones?

A/N: been struggling with inspiration lately, this fic means so much to me and i didn't want to force the writing when it wasn't working. but here's the next chapter and i hope it holds up to the rest of the fic. we do get a pretty big moment in this one though, so i hope that makes up for the absurd amount of angst

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

His voice is low, reverent as he asks if you’re okay, only for another current to overtake your body. The harsh sound of the pain stealing the words away from you as your voice distorts into something sharp and loud. It’s too much, you think, too strong a sensation for your already weak mind and body, for all the months of stress and manipulation. Convulsions shake you in his hold, his large hands cradling you close and trying to take what he could from you.

The power of the Force flares, trying to combat the currents, and you feel completely helpless as you try to fight something that seems to be happening in the very synapses of your brain. And then it’s waning, as suddenly as it had begun, the only evidence of the storm raging inside your body is the one that mirrors the intensity outside in the howling of wind, of too many lightning strikes, of booming thunder and pouring rain.

You’re barely able to get half-breaths in, panting at too high a staccato to really ease the dizziness setting in as you pry your eyes open and see Din staring down at you with his brows furrowed. Maker, his eyes are so beautiful and his shaky chuckle tells you the words had managed to slip from your trembling lips.

He whispers your name, calling you back to him as your focus blurs and your eyes begin to slip closed again.

“She…put something…in me.” You try to explain your scattered thoughts, the memories of the last time you had been in the same room with him knowing it was him trying their best to resurface. But you push them down as each interaction since then vies for your attention, and it hurts to think he had been beside you this whole time and you hadn’t the faintest clue. The man who you felt so connected to had been at your side, waiting, helping, learning how to interact with the version of yourself that feels so flat all of sudden for all that you hadn’t been able to recall. The emotions of the past few months dousing you tenfold, assaulting your nerves and capacity to handle the realization. “She’s…she’s controlling the currents…somehow.”

“I’ll fix it,” His voice is low, noticing how each deafening clap of thunder is making you wince, like it had so long ago back on Tatooine. “I’ve been trying…I’ll make it right, mesh’la, I swear to you.”

“O-okay,” Is all you can manage before you feel consciousness slip from you, drained from those few moments of pure clarity and everything that had come with it. You’re reaching up a shaking hand, caressing your fingers along the side of his face. His eyes flutter shut at the first touch to his furrowed brow, his breath hitching as they gently glide trail over his eyelids. His skin is warm to the touch, even though the fabric of his mask and cowl you know is beneath as you lay your palm on the side of his face, attempting to cup the glimpse of him he’s allowing you to see.

“Din, I’m…I’m so tired.”

“I know, mesh’la, but you’ve been so strong, you’ve been so unbelievably strong. I’m so proud of you for remembering, you did such a good job, mesh’la.”

“Ad’ika, is he…where…can we…?” But you never get to finish your sentence as another current strikes through you, making your hand fall from his face and your consciousness slip from you completely.

Footsteps are loud as they race through the palace hallways, heard over the rain pelting down from the angry sky. Din is running as fast as he can, being mindful of the unconscious form of you in his arms. He has to get you somewhere safe, he has to get you to the quarters he shares with Cara. He uses all of his senses to try and ensure no one catches a glimpse of either of you as he enters the quiet servant’s quarters.

Cara isn’t asleep when he carefully opens the door and she jumps up from where she had been sitting atop her bed with a halo net tablet in her lap. The volume was low on the video she had been watching, a map of the city of Maldovan disappearing as she presses it off and throws it onto the blanket. She’s up and watching silently as Din carefully lays your unconscious form down on his own cot. He’s so careful, so tender as he pulls the blanket up around your body, ensuring the flowing nightgown you were in, lined with lace and silk, is covering you up.

“Mando…”

“She remembered. She was running down the hall and collapsed, something…some kind of current was assaulting her. But she remembered.”

He trails bare fingers over the track marks in your arm from where you had been injected, a line hooked up to you obvious in the indented line it left along your inner forearm, the port still in place and clamped shut by a piece of plastic. There’s a mark on your neck that concerns him, a tear in your skin that hadn’t healed yet though he smells the bacta thick on your skin.

He’s not talking, not explaining further, too enamored with having you back beside him, he’s sitting on the edge of the cot and leaning over you. His breathing is even despite how hard his heart is beating in his ribcage.

“She remembered.”

“That’s…that’s great, but we’ve got to get her back to the infirmary wing. If her mother or the prince go in the morning, and she’s gone…they’ll trace her down until they find her.”

“Just…a moment, just give me a moment.” He doesn’t voice his pleading, but it’s the closest he had been to you in months, the time apart as he searched for you, the time we was nearby but still just a stranger to you as he tried to help cultivate a rapport with you. He can’t help keep the vulnerability out of his voice as his eyes rove over your unconscious face. Cara remains quiet, knowing that this means so much to him. She keeps her steps quiet as she goes into the common room for the quarters.

An hour goes by and you begin to rouse, your eyes flutter open slowly and the first thing realize is that you’re laying down in a small bed. But it isn’t the one in the infirmary you had fallen asleep in, it’s one in a room you don’t recognize. There’s a shadowed form hovering close and you feel panic spike, before you see brown eyes glittering in the dim light of the lantern on the bedside table.

“It’s just me, mesh’la.” Din’s voice is deep, unmodulated and smooth. It’s jarring, to hear it so close, to feel his bare hands tracing up and down your arms again. It feels so good to be by his side, to know who he is once again, but your heart is heavy, and your head is swimming.

“Din…”

“We can’t just run, the prince would send endless hunters after you until you were returned to him. Your mother too, would stop at nothing to keep you under her control.” His words are true, you know in the very core of them both, they are children who wish to not lose what it theirs. They would stop at nothing to have you under their control should you slip away or disappear from the palace. They would surely target Din once again, track him down, rightfully thinking you returned to him or he came and stole you away. He had been here, for nearly two months now, beside them without them knowing. He had…he had removed his armor, his helmet to be by your side without suspicion. He had given up part of his identity to ensure your safety in the midst of a den where you were surrounded by nothing but striking snakes and constricting regulations.

But the thought of spending one more second within the stone walls of the palace, within the large, imposing walls of the palace grounds. One more insipid conversation about details of a wedding you did not want even when you could not recall who you were, one more touch of your mother’s hands to your skin, you couldn’t bare the thought. It made your stomach roil, nausea rising and you take in a deep breath to keep it at bay.

“We didn’t before, we were worried about you lashing out, of running from us because you didn’t know who we were or believe us.” You see the struggle reflected in his eyes, their glittering brown in the dim light, the way he’s keeping them on you so intently. You feel your stomach flutter, his eyes. You’re looking into his eyes, the eyes of the man who you had never anticipated feeling so intensely for in the way that you do. That he returns, despite the circumstances of your connection of your lives.

You feel so strongly for him and your fingers itch to reach for him. To caress the exposed part of his face and find out if it’s as soft as it looks despite the wrinkles you see set into his skin. If the hairs of his brow are soft to the touch, would he even let you run your fingers over them? You don’t deliberate long as you watch your hand cup the side of his face. His eyes flutter close, and he leans into the touch, the fabric of his mask like liquid against your palm. Holding your breath, bottom lip between your teeth, you raise your hand and trace the tip of your pointer finger over the arch of his brow, first one and then the other.

The moment is still, everything in the room fading around you as you focus on the man in front of you.

His hair is soft, his skin is soft. He’s as still as a statue but he’s not as stoic. His brows furrow and give away his trepidation and worry as you greedily take in every detail of the exposed part of his face. A crease forms in his forehead as he keeps his eyes closed, long dark lashes fanning out over the barest top of his cheeks revealed for your eyes to see. The outline of his nose is just below and you lean in to press your lips to it without thinking, as if you’re allowed to.

“We’ve dealt with it before…with ad’ika.” You lean back a little, propped up slightly, but at the flare of pain in your temples, you’re leaning back onto the pillows with a small gasp. He’s standing suddenly, his hands coming up to cup your face, his eyes focused on your own as you try to keep them open. “Where-?”

“He’s safe, he’s with Cara. You’ll see him soon enough, I promise.” You weren’t sure if you were ready to see him, if you were completely honest with yourself. The small child would be all you needed to give into the urge to run, your instincts telling you that he didn’t need to be anywhere near the people who were doing this to you, because they could do the same to him. Endless threats hidden in the shadows of your life growing and expanding, looming over not just you but the child and Din as well.

Your words feel flat, the sentiment behind them lost in the worries that plague you, that had become a reality once again. He was right, just disappearing wouldn’t resolve the situation, it would only amp it up to a degree in which would rain down continuously on your little trio.

Turning your face into his palm more, you feel warmth bloom in your chest. His skin is so soft, the middle of his palm especially, while the pointer and middle fingers of each are a little more callous from years of triggers and weapons. His hooded eyes are wide, holding so much emotion as he looks down at you, brows furrowed and small wrinkles taking on shadows in the dim light. He looks so vulnerable, so unlike the demeanor he puts on underneath the helmet. You see the movement of his lips beneath the fabric of his mask, faintly, the barely there motion telling you that he has his cowl securely in place underneath it.

“I don’t want to have to worry every time we land on a new planet, take a new job and think that it’s a trap, feel…fear that you’ll walk down the boarding ramp and I’d never get to see you again. Should you want to travel with me, with us still. I would do it, if you wanted to just go now…but mesh’la, I don’t want that for you. To be constantly on the lookout like you’ve been your whole life. You deserve to be free, truly free.”

You’re quiet, reaching for his hand and tangling your fingers with his. You see his eyes close, the deep breath he takes as his chest expands beneath the black flowing robes he dons. He’s sitting back down on the edge of the cot, his body angled toward you as he leans forward to touch his forehead to yours.

The door is opening and Cara is peeking in with a hardened expression. Her own flowing robes are a cerulean blue, complimenting the light tone of her skin. Pulling the dusting of pink over her cheeks and of her lips. You recall the pull you had felt toward her, days before.

“Guards just got sent out on a search, I think someone got paranoid with the storm. They’re sure to check the infirmary during their sweep to secure the palace.” She’s trying her best to keep on a hard gaze, but her eyes soften and her lips twitch when your eyes meet hers. “It’s so good to see you again, cya’rika.”

“We can say I asked you to walk me to the greenhouse room to watch the storm, I did that…when I was first here quite a bit, it’s believable I would stray away once again.” Din is helping you to sit up, the sleeve of your sleeping gown falling at the action but his bare fingers are fixing it back into place. You feel embarrassment flare, recalling the way you had nearly screamed at him, accused him of wanting you all to yourself after that incident in the bathhouse.

He's strong but gentle as he helps you to stand, your legs are weak but thankfully not aching or sore from whatever your mother had ordered done to you this latest visit to the infirmary. Your head throbs with the shift, hand flying up to rub at your temples.

“Just…really quick, are there…marks in my forehead or anything here?”

Din is quick to step in front of you, an arm around your middle to help keep you balanced. His eyes, scan your face, the skin above and around your eyes that you motion to, keeping rubbing at.

“Mesh’la, I don’t see anything. But they could’ve used bacta or surgery to cover what they did, you said that you felt like she put something in you?” He’s gently tracing over your face with the pads of his fingertips, searching for anything that could indicate work being done or implants being put in. But there’s nothing; no protrusions, no bruising, no marks of bacta patches being removed, nor scalpels having touched you.

“My head just…it keeps throbbing, the thunder and lighting- it kept almost coursing through me. A current of energy, nothing like the Force. More like…electricity.”

“I’ll look over the records tomorrow, once things calm down, I promise you.”

When you approach the door, you’re shifting on your feet to balance a bit better before you throw your arms around the woman’s shoulders, stunning her. Her arms slowly come up around you to return the embrace. Her body flush against yours and making you feel a little better about having to return to your role of the obedient wife-to-be and daughter.

“Thank you, for helping me.”

“Anything for you, you know that.”

The hallways are quiet despite lights that had been turned on outside to illuminate the grounds. Thunder and lightning still flashing over the sky. Din is silent beside you, a hand on the small of your back and one of his outer robes draped over your shoulders to help cover you up. The sleeping gown and bare feet might be a bit of a giveaway that you had quite literally run from the infirmary, but your lie of wanting to watch the storm would work.

There’s a tension between you now, as you walk alone down the halls, unasked questions and worries about how this is all going to play out from this moment on. If…if you were to return to the Razor Crest with Din and ad’ika. If you were going to be…together in the way you two had begun to speak of and express to each other. You can almost sense the questions forming on his tongue, pushing against his teeth as he remains quiet. You’re sure he can sense the ones you have for him too.

How long did it take for him to look for you, to realize you hadn’t run off. Had he thought you ran off, had he even cared about the damage his stumbling and ill-thought-out words had caused. Did he come to save you out of some obligation to your freedom, a verbal promise made all those months ago now on Sorgan. Did he…did he still care about you even if he had no desire to be with you the way you had made it obvious you wanted to be with him. It was all so much, too much, to handle in the moment.

“San-“

“Not right now, please. It’s…it’s too much right now.” You’re unable to look over at him, to see the emotions clearly in his eyes. It’s still, it still hurts a little, to know that he had removed his armor and helmet to blend into the planet’s population, into the palace. You had never wanted him to do something he did not want, even at the core of your affection and need to feel close to him. The thought of skirting his Creed, of feeling him instead of seeing him under the cover of darkness had crossed your mind. But his…rather immediate lack of words and agreement to even talk about that had made you feel far worse for speaking it when you had all those days ago now. “We can talk once this is all over. I think- I think we need to.”

“Yes, mesh’la.”

The hall that holds the infirmary, the entirety of the medical wing is only guarded by a few soldiers. The ones you had skirted around still at their posts, but the one who had left from in front of the door to your room was back in front of it. A frown on his features as you and Din round the corner and begin to approach him. The furrow of his brow and the narrowing of his eyes above a similar mask and head cover as Din sparks an idea in your mind. One you hadn’t used in a very long time because it felt far too morally grey to implement. But if the people controlling you weren’t going to play fair, then you weren’t either.

“Princess, I thought you were safely in your room.” Din visibly tenses, as he senses this interaction may not work in favor of hiding your true whereabouts. “I didn’t know you snuck out.”

“I was in my room the entire night.” You pull on the power of the Force, harnessing it and sending it over the guard with a smooth wave of an open palm across your chest.

“Of course, you were in your room the entire night.”

“You didn’t see me or Aliit this morning, returning to the infirmary.”

“Of course, Princess. I never saw you or Aliit this morning.”

“Please step aside for me.”

“Of course, Princess. Stepping aside.”

Din is pinning you with a curious look, a glint in his eyes as you both step through the door and back into the room you had been put in by your mother. Whatever she had ordered to be done to you had required around the clock supervision and check ins, at least until you had shown signs of rousing. The scent of her perfume had lingered in the room when you woke, telling you she had left just moments before.

“I’ve never done that to you, I swear.” You look to him as you sit on the side of your bed. The silk sheets cold and the beads of the tapestry above it glittering. When he nods his understanding, you turn to read the Basic inscription on the programmed screen of your intravenous line. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, just fluids to keep you hydrated and a low-grade pain preventative serum.

“Why didn’t you? When I first found you.”

“Because I was weak.” Is your simple answer. The real one heavy on your tongue as you reattach the line to the port still embedded in the crook of your right elbow. “And because you didn’t deserve your head to be messed with. You showed your true colors in saving the child. Even if you had tried to turn in him.”

“Back on Sorgan, you didn’t do it either. Even when you ran.”

“I almost did. But something…a feeling told me it would be a huge betrayal of trust. An invasion of your mind and since you did not show your face, it was an even worse offense. Mandalorian’s are pure at their core. Religion and culture a reflection of exactly that.”

He doesn’t say anything, his eyes watching as you settle into the extravagant bed. His fingers twitch and his knees creak just the slightest as he goes to take a step but second guesses it.

“I like the code name. Very on the nose.” You muse as you begin to pull the covers atop the bed back. A crack of your own knees and a throb of your temple cause you to slowly settle in the sheets and pull them over your body.

“Native language seemed best, to help with your memory.”

“Smart.” You offer him a small smile, feeling warmth in your cheeks as you realize how self-conscious you’re beginning to feel around him the longer you’re both alone. It’s far different from before, when there was an understanding. But now…now you just feel completely and utterly self-conscious and all too aware of his denial of your advances. It didn’t seem to matter that he had scoured the galaxy for you, came to your side as soon as he undoubtedly could and had stuck by you even when you couldn’t recall who he was. There was something passing between you, unspoken and far too fragile to begin to dissect.

“I’ll see you tonight, Aliit.” Leaning back, you feel the material of his cloak bunch around you. Leaning up, you’re unfastening it from around your collarbone but one of his hands rests over yours to stop you.

“Keep it.” He’s leaning down over the bed, his warm forehead touching yours and that same flutter erupts in your middle. Your eyes flutter shut, unable to meet his gaze and when you open them back up he’s gone from the room completely. Snuggling down further into the blankets, you can’t help but take a deep breath of the bunched up fabric and a small smile pulls at your lips as the familiar scent of him calming your frazzled nerves.

“Darling, it’s time to wake up now.” The cloyingly sweet voice and scent of your mother is hovering over you, the weight of her body pressed against your side causing your breath to rush in and your eyes to fly open. Body tensing at the feeling of someone beside you, of being trapped underneath the covers that laid over your body. “Oh, oh, oh, it’s okay. It’s just me.”

Glancing around, you notice that you’re no longer in the infirmary but the gilded cage of a cell. The bars are thick only a few feet from the edge of the bed, pushed to the center of the wall that backs the space.

You can hear the faint hum of electricity despite there being no obvious source for it down in this dim basement of a floor. Most likely from a programmed door shielding you away doubly so from the little freedom you had when your memories were suppressed. But you had them, them and the power of the Force. You spy the slight curve of the wall just outside the bars, a staircase leading up rather steeply.

Hands are smoothing your hair, caressing your arms. And you turn to see your mother watching you, a glint of something in her dark eyes.

“I had to protect you, there was a scare late last night of intruders. One of the New Republic politicians was sure he spotted two people running about the palace hallways. You’re safe down here, my love.”

“But mother-“

“No arguments. Your safety is the most important thing, especially after that little fit you had the other day. I bet you don’t even recall having one, do you?”

You don’t, because you hadn’t had a fit. You had forced her hands off of you, power surging through your hands as you guided it to your advantage. But Din’s words, Cara’s reassurances that they had been doing everything in their power to prevent the routine use of the mind flayer to eradicate your memories and keep you in the dark. You feel a flash of fear should they have not been able to track you down, how much of yourself would you have lost, how much was still lost at the hands of your mother.

No, mother. I hope I didn’t hurt you,” You feign innocence, playing into the palm of her hand the way she expects you to. You have no idea what she did to you for the currents of shocking electricity to assault your body, but it hadn’t happened since last night when the storm was raging outside.

“No, my love, you didn’t.” She’s kissing your forehead as she stands, hovering over you as she fusses with the covers, ensuring you’re completely tucked in. Her hands are wringing together in front of her as you go to sit up, but the motion is halted by the clanging of metal and a weight around all four of your limbs.

Cuffs. You were cuffed to the bed by short chains, attached to the wrought iron foot and head rests of the bedframe.

“It’s for your own safety, please understand. I don’t want you fussing about in your sleep or hurting yourself by moving around too much. Please don’t be upset with me, my darling.” You don’t even get to respond before you feel the prick of a needle in your arm, too distracted by the cuffs. You should’ve known, you had been to unawares around her despite the history, despite the game she played, the dirty moves she made. The easy way she did it over and over again, You hadn’t even noticed anywhere on her body for her to hide the syringe, she’s dressed in her simple sleep clothes.

“Mother-“

“Shh, it’s okay, my love. Everything is going to be okay. It’s just until the festivities of the marriage, and then you’ll be free to move about the palace once again. I swear to you.” The back of her hand is soft as it traces the curve of your cheek.

“Mesh’la…I have an idea but it’s going to have to be set up for the last possible minute before the ceremony.” Din’s voice jostles as he takes the steps descending into your new ‘room’, his boots silent on the stone that makes them up. His robes billow out behind him, his head cover and mask securely in place. You don’t doubt he had known where you were moved to the second it had happened, the access card needed to open the door atop the stairs already swiped from someone. The guard surely relieved of their post in a ruse of him taking over.

You had roused from the dose of sedative just hours ago, the effects of it not seeming to last as long as the previous one. Whatever the reason, you were glad. The time alone down here allowing for your to click the locks of the cuff open and explore the space in relative peace. There was no easy way for anyone to escape, but you weren’t just anyone. You had the Force on your side and a few flicks of your wrist would promise your freedom. If only it were that simple.

“Consummation occurs the night before the ceremony, it’s Maldovan tradition. That would be too late, I…I haven’t had to lay with him yet and I…I don’t-“ The words tumble from you, the thought of laying with someone against your will again unsettling in your stomach, churning it up into unpleasant waves.

“I promise you that will not happen.” There’s an edge to his velvet voice, weight that grounds you even as the glaring nature of the conversation is not lost on either of you. He doesn’t ask about the time you have spent with the prince after dark nor do you supply an answer for him.

Cara’s form appears at the top of the stairs just as Din stands in front of the thick bars and you’re grateful for her presence. Being alone with Din feels tumultuous. Too many words on the tip of your tongue, on his.

“I want to use poison, something native to this world. But…”

“But what?” Din is looking between you both, his eyes sparkling in the light from the lanterns along the wall, the rays of the sun that sneak down the steps that lead down into your new cage.

“She’d have to take it too, to really sell the political angle. It would be seen as a disagreement with the union should the prince, the soon to be princess, and her mother all be poisoned the night of the first traditional ceremony.” Cara explains, hoping the extent of what needs to be done is understood, is taken with great caution and thought. She wants you to be on board with whatever decision is made, whatever plan is decided on. You would be the one to take great risk to your wellbeing in order to get your freedom back. You’re the one who would have to make it seem as if you had nothing to do with the murder of your own mother and the prince.

“I would need to take enough for the effects to show, for it to be recorded. I would need to be found at the scene…in the same bed as the prince, in his quarters. My mother, it wouldn’t matter much where she was found but she keeps to herself during the evening after dinner.”

“We can slip it into the glasses of wine served at dinner.” Cara suggests, though you and Din both shake your head. It’s too open-ended. The glass could get served to someone else, could get spilled, could heighten the effects of the poison or dull them alternatively. It was too risky, too many factors that could go wrong with extra servants, cooks, and guests. Too many hands it would have to go through before it landed in the one’s of its intended target.

“That’s too risky. San could overdose that way, intake just enough to make it harder to reserve the effects.”

“I could administer it to Cala, just before anything happens and then take it myself. One of you could slip it into my mother’s evening tea.”

“I’ll do it.” Cara volunteers, knowing that should Din be left alone with your mother, the potential for emotions would be a concern. Even if the goal is to kill her, the thought is to do it quietly. One wrong or derogatory word from her and the plan could be ruined. He was a professional, but he was also human, especially where you were concerned.

“No…I want, I want Din to do it. I would just…I would feel better knowing he’s as far away from me and Cala should he insist something were to happen and I can’t-“

“You’re to use a blade, we’ll ensure the poison is bonded to the blade. No chance of it not taking that way. Either the poison will take him out or the blade will.”

“The same should be done for your mother then too.”

“It’s a backup plan and cathartic relief all in one.” Huffing, you feel the effects of the last dose of sedative begin to wane, your head feels a little more clear, your mind a little more sharp. “But then I’d need to stab myself too, for it to all be cohesive.”

Din is watching you closely, his eyes trailing over your legs hidden beneath layers of sheer tulle and silk, picturing clearly the scars of blades you had dug into your skin before. He doesn’t mention them and you shake your head ever so slightly to get him to shift his heavy gaze. You know he knows they’re there, but you don’t want to talk about them. To reveal how close you had been to ending your life before, the thoughts of Akiz banishing the notion, of making you feel ashamed for it even crossing your mind. He had sacrificed his life to ensure yours, and you wouldn’t betray him in that way, betray his memory.

“No blades.” Din crosses his arms, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his robes. His mass is…impressive even without the armor. He’s tall, he’s broad, he’s every bit of Din as he is when he’s hidden underneath the armor. Though you can sense that he feels exposed and not just physically. His hands keep resting on the tops of his thighs, as if holding fast to a blaster that is no longer holstered there. He keeps his steps even, as if he is still not used to being without the great weight of his beskar, of the weapons he’s normally laden down with. His brows raise with his questions, which makes you wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it. Or the furrowing of them if he doesn’t agree or like a statement.

“It’s the most convincing way, even if I’m not too fond of digging a blade into my torso.”

“You’ll bleed out before they find you in the morning.” He’s firm with his words, his body language displaying every bit of strength his armor does, even as it sits in a protected trunk somewhere else.

“Just the poison then. I can track some down in the market after dark, I’m sure it won’t be too hard a task.”

“Just the poison then.” You agree, unable to tear your gaze away as his eyes bore into your own. “Cara, instruct the kitchen to get truffles from one of the higher end places in the tourism sector. We can inject it into those. Cala favors dark chocolate and walnut.”

“Copy that. I’ll go do that to ensure they have them in time.”

“Thank you. Oh, and perhaps just a small trio of white chocolate and fruit ones. So we know which one is for me and which ones are for him.”

As soon as she’s gone, you’re alone with Din once again. Tension siphoning into the air as her footsteps sound on the stone ground and up the tall stairs that lead up to the main level of the palace.

“He makes me feed them to him, when he requests me in the evenings.” You whisper into the silence, unable to handle the way it’s no longer comfortable between you two. But how could it, with you back in a cage, no matter how gilded and extravagant, and him on the other side looking between the bars that hold an electric charge. It’s rather basic, the high tech, sleek look of so much technology at a cultural clash with the desert planet who pays homage to simpler architecture and aesthetics.

“He doesn’t ever touch me, it’s as if he’s afraid to.”

“But he does order you to remain until late.”

“Yes, his requests are…personal.”

“Stop.”

“Well, I don’t know what to say. You’re not saying anything and I see your eyes trained on me. It’s- it’s more intense than the visor. I’m sorry.” Looking down, you stare at your hands in your lap, the way they tremble slightly. Body stressed and mind restless. The roundabout mention of his missing armor and helmet the only thing you could think of to change the subject without asking directly. The feeling of being seen, of being perceived is too intense, Maker, his eyes are looking at you, watching you, reading you. The thought of them behind the darkness of his visor a little less intimidating, but it’s gone now.

“I removed it, yes.”

“You shouldn’t have, if you didn’t want to.”

“I had to.”

“Oh. That makes sense, to get onto the planet, I saw the wanted posters for you depicting the beskar.”

“I had to, but…I also wanted to.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me?” He doesn’t sound mad or upset, no disbelief in his tone. It’s as flat as your own, the words to heavy to implement emotion into them. They carry entire conversations in them, entire sets of intention, of arguments, of resolve.

“It’s not my place.” You mumble, not wanting to close in on yourself but it’s happening anyway. Mind protecting you against the vulnerability of the conversation, of the way the words had been stuck in your ribs since the moment you realized you had asked for too much.

“San-“

“You know the Creed. I know the Creed. How you choose to follow it is not my place. It’s a very personal thing for each individual. You practice, I do not. It’s not my place to question or think on the reasons why you chose to do things regarding it.”

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

“Forget it-“

“I can’t! I can’t just forget it, any of it! The look on your face, the hurt and disappointment, it will haunt me until my last breath!” His words are booming, catching you completely off guard and you flinch, pain searing across your forehead and down the back of your neck. But you freeze once it passes, aware of the heat of his gaze locked on you.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean-“ Breaking his gaze, you look down to the stone tiles of the ground. The lines separating them dance back and forth as your vision swims, as your mind tilts and you feel your center of gravity suddenly gone. Your knees knock into each other as you reach out for something to grab onto, but you’re down among the dancing lines before you can even take a breath to try and recenter yourself.

“Gev bic! Si gev bic, San! Bic ru'banar te ara bic ru'banar.  Vi linibar at cuyir able at jorhaa'ir a bic.  Ni liser't am bic bal gar liser't am bic.  Jorhaa'ir be bic cuyir jaon'yc par mhi at nari bat. I am living the consequences of my actions each day and I no longer want to.”

Stop it! Just stop it, San! It happened the way it happened. We need to be able to speak about it. I can't change it and you can't change it! Talking about it is important for us to move forward.

“P-please stop yelling.” You shudder as pain ripples down your body, you feel tears well up hot and sticky behind your eyes and you blink them away as best you can as you try to get back up. His hand is there, reaching through the bars. He’s deflated, his anger gone and in it’s place is the same man who had fetched you from the shower when you collapsed, the same man who had cradled you to him when thunder shook the skies overhead, the same man who holds your heart. He’s gentle as he supports your weight, a silent buoy for you to stand on as you gather yourself. An apology, two float in the air as you remain quiet, he knows he shouldn’t have raised his voice, emotion getting the better of him. You feel the remorse coming off of him in waves, reaching and curling around you as he tries to speak again.

“Ni cuy' olar, ni kelir ratiin cuyir olar.  A staabi jii, at tengaanar gar ner troan cuyir te shi kebi o'r ner kov'nyn.  Ni ru'kel tengaanar gar, ru'kir gar tionir tug'yc.”

I am here. I will always be here. But right now, showing you my face is the only thing on my mind. I would show you, should you ask again.

“Ni liser't.”

I can’t.

“Vaabir gar copad at haa'taylir? Vaabir gar ganar nayc copikla?”

Do you not want to see? Do you have no desire for me any more?

“Ni vaabir, a ibac cuyir  jorbe luubid.”

 I do but that is not reason enough.

“Bic cuyir par ni. Tionir ni.”

It is for me. Ask me.

He’s desperate, for you to understand, for you to grasp the depth of his words. But you can’t, unable to accept that he means them with everything he is. He’s done so much for you already, he’s set you free, he’s allowed you to travel by his side, to feel joy in caring for the child, to be wholly and completely yourself in a safe and protected environment. He’s already removed his armor and shown part of his face, he’s already done so much. Continues to do so even when you had no idea who he was, he could’ve taken the situation for what it was. A fresh start, a blank slate to move on without your presence in his life. The complications and miscommunication you had parted on only a blip in his time line, but he hadn’t.

“Din, nayc.”

Din, no.

“San, tionir ni. Gedet'ye. Duumir ni dinuir ibic at gar.” His voice is barely above a whisper, a quiet plea for you to ask something of him. To allow him to give a part of himself to you, but his need for your prompting is what complicates your desire for just that. He could just remove it, of his own autonomy and desire. He could, but he never would. He needs your words, your encouragement and you would not be the reason his creed is broken, shattered after a lifetime of upholding it to every degree. Shaping the core of his very person, allowing him to develop into the man he is today, standing on the other side of the bars.

San, ask me. Please. Let me give this to you.

But the words do not follow his pleading, they get stuck in your throat. A deep sigh from him brings your eyes up, mirroring the movement of his hands up to his face. He’s unfastening the loose mask; the fabric falls to the side to reveal his cowl in place underneath. As his fingers hook into the fabric, you clench your eyes shut and bow your head.

It’s only a moment before you feel his hands reaching through the bars, cradling your face and gently guiding your face back up. His forehead gently touches yours, warm skin where there’s normally cool metal. You feel your resolve begin to thaw, the want for it to be skin each and every time you do this to replace the feeling of his helmet. But it’s a dangerous though, it’s a deadly thought.

“San, please.”

“I-I can’t, Din. I can’t do that to you.”

“You are not doing anything, mesh’la. I want to, I want to give this piece of myself to you.”

“You can’t take it back.”

“I wouldn’t want to, everything I have to give, it’s yours. San, I am yours.”

“Din, please, I don’t- I want to, so much, but I can’t.”

“Then just- let me feel you, please? Will you let me give you a kiss, mesh’la?” Your body hums, blood pumping and chest aching at the desperation in his voice, his desire to give you something, anything. Just as you’re about to breathe out your answer, a resounding ‘yes, please, of course’ you feel the press of soft, plush lips to your own. It’s chaste, it’s gentle, it’s reverent. He’s so warm, his nose bumps yours and you feel the brush of facial hair for the barest second until he’s pulling away.

“Din?” You don’t dare open your eyes, heart in your throat, fingers reaching up to wrap around his wrists. His breath is puffed out against your lips, still so close, his nose is still touching yours, his forehead pressed to yours, and you feel your weightlessness in your chest. He hums a response and you feel it more than hear it, everything shared between you both so quiet now, completely at odds with how you had just been hollering at each other. “Was that your first kiss?”

“It was always yours, mesh’la.”

You’re surging forward, the cool metal of the bars pressed against your ears as you share his second, his third, his fourth. His lips are so soft, so full as they meet yours again and again. Slick bottom lip taken between yours as you breathe deep and tighten your hold on him. Your body is alight with tingles, with the feeling of being exactly where you belonged as you feel his skin against yours. He feels like home, even as you still remain separated by metal and circumstance.

The woman looking back at you from the mirror is beautiful. She fills out the dark green silk and black lace as if it was painted on. The top revealing and the bottoms even more so. Her hair is perfectly blown out and full, waves falling delicately around her face. Everything you’ve ever wanted to look like, but yet, you can’t connect to the eyes staring back at you. Because staring back at you is a slave, a pawn in a game you don’t want to be playing. The victim of endless manipulation and conflict, someone who you swore you would never be again the second your kyber crystal glowed white after purifying it.

You lean back from the counter, your hands splayed atop the white marble of it, shoulders sagging as your head hangs between them.

“Adan.” You call out sweetly, pitching your voice a little higher than it’s normal octave. The box of truffles given to you on the counter. Your eyes rove over the gold of the box, how shiny and frivolous it looks in your hands as you reach for it and leave the privacy of the bathroom.

He’s atop the bed, leaning back onto the pile of pillows he prefers to keep even while asleep. He’s bare from the waist up, his chest and arms on display as he has them lifted behind his head. His eyes trace the curves of your body on display for him in much the same way, robe forgotten on the counter. The second you’re close enough to the side of the bed, he’s reaching for you, pulling him over his lap as a giggle sounds into the air.

“Here, taste this for me, my sweet prince.” You reach for one of the truffles from underneath the flipped top, pressing it to his full lips with a coy smile gracing your own. He’s more than happy to part them and bite into the delicacy, the outer coating melting and smearing on his bottom lip. His hands tighten on your hips, teeth nipping at your fingers as he takes the second half of the dessert into his mouth.

Another giggle sounds into the air, from deep in your chest and you can’t help the giddiness that takes over you as you reach for another one from the box. One would be enough, more than enough. But you feel anger and betrayal flare hot in your middle, consuming you from the inside out. He willingly takes a bite of the second dessert offered to him, his body beginning to move beneath you, his hands guiding your hips down into him in a suggestive motion.

“Remove your set for me, my heart.” He leans up and presses a kiss to the side of your face, to your temple, to your nose. His lips are about to connect with yours when you hear it, the rasp in his chest. The wheeze of his next breath as he leans back against the pillows. His eyes are dilated, blown wide and there is no brown in them, the brown you now associated with another man. He’s gasping, hands tightening almost painfully on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he struggles to catch his breath.

A haunting rattling in his chest replaces air, his body tensing as it begins to realize something is horribly, terribly wrong. Nails dig into your skin, tearing the flesh and blood beads up before they loosen and fall to his sides. His chest is still expanded, his last breath fighting to keep him alive even as no more is let into his lungs. You keep your eyes open, watching the color drain from his tan complexion. Tilting your head just slightly, you swear you can hear the pops and bubbles of his lungs tearing, the flesh far too delicate and vulnerable to the poison hidden inside the truffles.

You watch as the light goes out of his eyes, as his body adjusts to the lower heart rate its adapted to try and keep things running, keep blood pumping despite the trauma occurring internally. The poison is fatal by nature, causing the lungs to burn, the heart to slow. But if only ingested in small quantities, the slowing of your heart to nearly nothing would be the only effect.

You hope the research had been accurate as you reach over for one last truffle. You hope Din had done right and only injected a half dose into the white chocolate and fruit one you had insisted on adding to the box of Cala’s preferred flavor. You hope that Din is going to be by your side when you wake as you take half of the truffle between your teeth and bite into it. You hope this will be the last thing you have to do to get your freedom back.  The intention of only eating half of it seems too hopeful as a current of electricity shocks through you and the entire thing falls into your open mouth. The silent scream from the intensity of the charge sealing your fate. You try to gulp down fresh air the second it passes, the chocolate melting far too fast in the heat of your mouth. Spitting, you try to get some of it out, staining the covers as you hack and cough in panic.

Another current courses through your body and you’re keeling over, body tensing and convulsing with the intensity, consciousness gone before you land on the plush carpet of the floor.

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[be-my-ally]

The Lisa-Marie

Big Bunny + The Return Flight (in case you want to catch up!)

Warnings: 18+, exhibitionism (public rehearsal, but no-one else is watching/or sees), elvis is a panty thief for no reason other than it’s now totally canon in my head that he continually stole knickers, fingering, mentions of drug use + abuse, oral (v receiving, p mentioned), jealousy, p in v sex, the briefest mention of a gun threat, references to elvis’ ill health. this is somehow the least-bunny fun + plottiest, while also the smuttiest so uhhh enjoy the angst at the end?

Director Elvis is linked where the scene goes in the middle of this, however there have been some minor adjustments to the opening + closing paragraphs to make it fit *just right* and so they’ve been inserted here. 

wc: 12k

Pls forgive me for the longest author note ever:

I went waaaay too far into attempting to make the timeline totally accurate; to the extent that I was noting down what city each night when i wasn’t even referencing them but honestly it was stressing me out so much that I gave up and removed a lot of the references - so this is *mostly* accurate in the general tour dates and vibes but not entirely because … this isn’t a biography, it’s smut with a lil teeny weeny bit of plot. 

Confession time! I was and am super unhappy with The Return Flight, there was so much in it that I was excited to share but I think my writing is off and I’m not super sure why, which affected my motivation for this A LOT so apologies for the fact this took a literal months. But hopefully you’ll all think it was worth it! And hopefully a lesser wait for the fourth and final part. 

Anyway, I might return Elvis onto the Big Bunny plane for a little spin-off fun but for now, enjoy bunny still being referred to as Bunny even though, by half-way through this, she is no longer a bunny. 

October 1974. 

You’re awake before him, gently shaking his shoulder as he groaned into the fur comforter that he didn’t want to wake up yet. He eventually shoves you hard enough that you decide it’s probably safer just to leave him as he is, pulling yourself together and redressing instead - he’s still got his eyes closed when you slip out. Ten minutes later you get a note passed to you with details about where to meet them for the pre-show rehearsal but you don’t actually get the chance to see him again, too distracted with dealing with all the matters of the disembarkation and cleaning. After you’re done you change as quickly as you possibly can, ignoring the questions from the other girls about where you’re going - practically sprinting to catch a cab.

He’s already on the stage when you walk in, pacing about - blocking the show as best they can in preparation to allow for the lights crew to have some idea of where he might be at any moment. He looks marvellous - absolutely gorgeous, his hair back but essentially left to do what it likes, all fluffy and soft looking. Eyes bright underneath his tinted glasses. He’s dressed in a white shirt, cuffs like a pirate, damp see-through sweat patches evident when he raises his arms, filigree studded belt, huge against his stomach, blue stones glinting in the lights. You feel your mouth water and tummy start to flip just at the sight of him. He smiles when he sees you, with your tiny little halter dress on, chilly in the cold air of the auditorium at the venue. The breeze causes you to wrap an arm around yourself a little self-consciously as he waves you closer to the stage. You're practically leaning on the edge when he kneels down in front of you and you get a sudden flash of what it must feel like to be a girl at his concert. Someone who hadn't had the luxury of falling asleep beside him, or the feel of his palms against theirs. The feeling of being forced to look up at him, his head backlit by the lights, a halo like he's the goddamn messiah. That feeling of desperately pining for a single moment of his attention. 

“Ah-ha! lil Bun-Bun! C’mon up here,” He puts an arm down before retracting it, looking you over more carefully, a note of stern shock in his tone,

 “Good lord! That might be more r’vealing than your lil bunny get-up. Uh - here!” He gropes around the floor for his jacket before he thrusts it at you, and you look at it with amusement, it’s a rainbow. Rainbow fringe. It’s truly one of the most preposterous things you’ve ever seen in your life. He grumbles as he holds it out, 

“Don’t need every man in here to be starin’ at you. Got work to do - don’t need ‘em bein’ distracted.” You don’t think you’re particularly scantily clad, you’re certainly showing a fair amount of leg but you’re far more covered up than Playboy enterprises would like you to be had you been on shift. But still, it was chilly, so you shrug it on gratefully. The soft leather caresses your arms, encasing you in his thick scent, it’s heavy on your shoulders and big enough that the fringe tassel tickles your thigh. 

“Uh Hi, Where-“ You wonder if you should even ask, “Where’d this come from?” You shake your arms out, making the fringe dance. 

“Oh - it was a gift,” He grins at you, lips all crooked in his sheer delight, “You like it?” He clearly loves it. So you lean into the absurdity and realise that what you’re about to say wasn’t even really a lie. 

“Uh. You know what, yeah I do,” You giggle as you shimmy a little making the strands swing. “I love it.” He looks at you fondly before he leans over the edge of the stage, tugging you up with a grunt. 

“Glad you could make it doll, been waiting for you.” You smile back at him, pleased as anything that he’s laying on the charm but that underneath you can still sense the sincerity in his voice. 

“Thank you for inviting me.” He pulls you close to him and you brace yourself with a hand on his belt, feeling the weight of the buckle against your fingertips. He reaches down to grasp your hand, pulling it up to press a kiss against it. It’s intimate and gentlemanly and you feel like you’re in a period drama, feeling your chest heave as your breath catches in your throat at the movement, and you’re helpless to do anything but gaze into his eyes. You glance down, eyes catching on the wide white band on his wrist, just above his diamond encrusted ‘Elvis’ bracelet. 

You stroke his wrist gently before looking up at him with a questioning brow raised. He kicks his foot out to show you that beneath his gently flaring trousers there’s a matching white band on each of his ankles. 

“It, uh, it mimics the weight of the ‘suit, gets me used to it for the performing.” He flicks a wrist, “And, uh, gotta try and get some of this weight off.” He pats his stomach, gripping the side harshly, “No-one wants to see a big doughy ol’ Elvis.” He shakes his wrists at you, and you’re mortified at the fact that it makes you squeeze your thighs, drool pooling in your mouth forcing you to swallow hard. Something about the way the rings on his fingers glint under the stage lights, the way the buckle makes the tiniest little metallic clang, feels akin to being shown a hidden sliver of skin. Makes you think all sorts of things. Of the weight of them around his wrists, of the possibility of them around yours, weighing you down, wrapped around your ankles too, making you heavy and pliable. Or his belt around your middle, the huge buckle pinning you in whatever position he chose. You don’t realise how low your eyelids have slid at this line of thinking until he laughs, 

“God - you got them dirty thoughts written all over your face Bunny, this is a respectable r’hearsal, don’t you go getting any ideas now.” He wags a finger at you, you feel like you’re being hypnotised watching it.

“Go on now - hop over there for me, sit yourself down, just watch the show baby.” He slaps your ass, causing you to yelp as he catches your bare thigh, while he grips your upper arm and ‘helps’ to lower you down gently, almost missing his huff of laughter in response. You have to take a second after you're on the ground forcing a deep breath feeling your heartbeat between your thighs. 

You take a seat where he’d pointed, content to try and settle down and watch him practice. It’s gorgeous to watch, he struts about the stage, breaking into gospel every now and again, making you smile at the clear little flashes of joy on his face. You’d considered if it was going to be boring, contemplated even bringing a magazine with you but now you were here you can’t imagine being able to concentrate on anything but him.  Every now and again he cracks a joke, changing the lyrics to something dirty and tossing you a wink, laughing back at the boys who all join in like a pack of wild hyenas. It’s different to how he is in private, yet shockingly the same - there’s flashes of the insecurity you caught on the last flight, a quietness to him while he waits for a song to be set up or a wire to be fixed. But also an exaggerated boyishness to him, playing the jester for men who don’t seem to be aware he’s putting it on.

He calls a break after you’ve been there about an hour, and he slides himself off the stage to walk over to you. You were going to try and play it cool but you can’t stop yourself from gushing at him; 

“You sound wonderful. I can’t wait to see the show tonight.” He smiles, a little bashfully, 

“Yeah? I can see you wigglin’ your yittle hips from all the way over there,” He narrows his eyes at you, crinkles forming as his high cheekbones move, “ ‘just wonderful’, ‘s that all I am?”  

“Well you’re not - ” You squirm a little under his line of questioning and consistent stare, suddenly feeling a bit too hot in his jacket, “- not bad to look at. You’re so different out here than on the plane.” 

“In a good way?” You hum back a non-committal noise and though his brow wrinkles a little he lets it go. Instead leaning back on the chair in front of you, feet crossing between your legs. He folds his arms across his chest, your eyes track the bands on his wrists again and when you look up he’s smirking at you watching him. You can’t take it any longer and his smile grows wider watching you shrug his jacket back off, letting it hang over the back of the chair, fringe tickling your arms as it falls, 

“Let’s make this more interesting for you huh, must be boring having to wait for all this - ‘n I can see you’re all fired up for me doll.” You look around, but he’s blocking your view forcing you to focus on him even more, as if he wasn’t already the only thing you could see. 

“Oh no, it’s plenty fascinating enough El honestly,” He shakes his head, magnanimously as if he’s doing you a favour, 

“No, no, must be boring for an exciting lil girl like you.” He taps his chin almost pantomime-esque in its overdramatic nature. 

“Hmm… what shall we do to keep it entertaining.” You squirm silently begging him to stop drawing your attention to his wrists. He bends down, unstrapping the weights from his ankles, 

“They’re gonna be a bit big on you. But still,” He kneels down, like he’s the prince and you’re Cinderella, tapping your foot to make you lift it up for him. He slips it onto your ankle, letting it fall down over the top of your foot as the weight drags it down. You wiggle your foot - it’s not particularly heavy, you could definitely still walk and run in them - as was probably their intended use. But they made you feel very … aware, made you notice whenever you wanted to move your leg. He grabs your right leg now, doing the same, placing it back down when he was finished, your legs wide. You glance down at him, realising that your dress was certainly too short for this. You try to close your legs but he stops you with a hand to your knee. 

“No, no, darlin’, leave ‘em where they are. That’s gonna be your job ok baby? You’re gonna keep these yittle legs spread, and when you try to wiggle around again these-“ He taps one of the weights “ ‘ll remind you to keep still.” You hiss back at him, 

“Elvis - someone’s gonna, you gotta get up - they’re all gonna think we’re up to no good, don’t want - I don’t wanna get you in trouble.” He grins up from between your legs, spreading them further. You cringe a little, feeling the air now brush against your uncovered underwear, feel your wetness start to drool onto the fabric despite the embarrassment. 

“Ain’t gonna be no trouble ‘round here little one. ‘Member I’m in charge.” He takes a second to leer at you, and your thighs twitch at him staring straight up your skirt. Finally, he stands up, using your thighs for balance, clutching at them on his way up, you gasp at the firm grip. He leans down over you, one arm bracketed on the back of your chair, and the sudden scent of him, stronger than what was lingering on his jacket almost overpowers you - his cologne almost too much, like walking past a men’s locker room. He leans down to murmur in your ear, his other hand going down to brush against your hip, feeling through your dress for the waistband of your panties.  

“C’mon Bunny slip ‘em off, let me have ‘em as a good luck charm. I haven’t got any of yours yet.” Your legs slip a little closer together and while he looks down and smirks he allows it, 

“You got a collection?” You ask shocked, tilting your chin up at him, he grins back at you, boyishly and amused ignoring the question. 

“C’mon! Hurry up, gotta get back to work in a second baby, want you all bare - so its nice and easy for you to slip a lil hand up there, want you to rub yerself every time you like what ‘m doin, ‘till you’re all silly with it. Okay doll?” He says it like its a totally sane request, and you have to wonder if he’s of completely sound mind. You glance around, double checking that the building is practically empty, and where there are people that they’re all preoccupied with the stage rather than glancing back at you sat in the middle of the row a few lines behind the mafia. You roll your eyes, heart going almost a little too fast, but still obediently lift your hips up to tug your panties down and off, they catch on the weight on the way down, 

“No need to be shy doll, I’ve seen it all before.” He winks, as he bends down to pick them up, glancing straight up your skirt as he does. You flinch a little at the sight of them in his hand, if you’d known Elvis was gonna be taking them home you’d have put on something a little sexier, but you can’t imagine that any change could have made his face more gleeful, as he stares down at the wet spot on them before slipping them straight into his pocket.

 “You ‘member what you’re meant to be doin’ now.” He whispers in your ear, pressing what would look like an otherwise fairly chaste kiss to your cheek, before sauntering back up to the stage.

 You nervously fumble the hem of your dress, delicately sliding a hand up, trying not to noticeably flinch as your fingers brush over yourself. You wonder if it wouldn’t have made more sense to slip your arm down the side of the wide arm-hole of the dress, more subtle perhaps? But all you can hope is that the the way the chairs are placed in front of you obscures your actions should anyone look back. From anyone that wasn’t up high on the stage. You can practically feel his laser focus up your skirt, you’re far enough away that you’re sure he can’t see anything in detail, perhaps not even the way your slickness glistens against your skin, but just the gentle motion of your fingers teasing yourself. There’s a clang as the metal inside the cuff on your ankle knocks against the chair leg and you freeze, anxiously glancing around to check no one had heard. Elvis’ head had whirled around at the noise from where he’s been talking to someone at the side of the stage and you can see the way his face contorts into a knowing smirk. 

You didn’t think you’d be into this level of wanton exhibitionism, but the sudden fear that had jumped through you had translated straight into excitement, and you could feel the pulse of arousal swirling with the butterflies in your stomach. You brush your fingers more confidently, rolling your hips with the motion, not even really aware of how much your body was moving, but simply going with it. Your eyes briefly slip closed as you rub a singular finger down your self, trying to build the anticipation, but you can’t resist moving your hand to play with your clit when your vision clears and you witness him moving about the stage - dancing, thrusting. He pauses while they reset something - the mic perhaps, or the lights, and you can feel the thrum of your climax growing; the fear of being spotted, the sheer desire for him, the feel of your feet firmly planted on the floor, weights holding them down, enough to bring you closer and closer. 

He starts singing again but if someone had had a gun to your head though you wouldn’t have been able to tell them what, and as you start to move your fingers again you make eye contact with him, swallowing a moan as you watch him attempt to surreptitiously adjust himself. You should feel embarrassed, you think, but instead a sudden boldness creeps over you at the evidence of his undivided attention, and you instead spread your legs wider, your skirt riding into the little roll of your stomach, completely exposing yourself. You run your fingers against yourself, feeling them slip as you gather wetness and drag it up, reducing the friction on your clit when you finally let your finger brush over it again. 

Elvis is stood still now, ostensibly staying put so they could manually hold the lights for him to sing a ballad, but in reality in the perfect position to watch you. You watch his face flush as he misses a note, watching you finally dip your finger into your practically dripping entrance. You’re made away of the weight on your feet when your legs try to jerk and your body compensates by crunching in on yourself a little. Making it startlingly obvious to anyone watching, hopefully just Elvis, what you’ve just done. 

You let his voice wash over you, and your eyes close as you go to add a second finger, thumb moving to tease your clit with little circling touches. Your climax comes over you suddenly and unexpectedly, a slightly unplanned harder touch directly over your clitoris and the combination of your fingers curling inside yourself sending shockwaves down your spine and belly. You continue to touch yourself through it - dragging it out for a moment. Until you just know that if you push yourself any further you’re going to scream and you have to slow the pace, gently stroking yourself as you slowly come down from the high. Your head had fallen back and with a little effort you manage to bring it back around, shifting yourself upright as you do. 

When you make eye contact he winks, mimics licking his fingers, and you look down at your own sticky pair, before following his mimed instruction. You meet his eyes again and watch him trail off mid-sentence as his chest heaves taking you in, squinting under his glasses to try and focus on your fingers leaving your mouth. You make sure for a second that you let your tongue peek out, watching him gulp in response.  Before hastily rubbing your hand against your dress, thankful for the colourful pattern that hides all sin. He sets the microphone back onto its stand, slowly, deliberately. Then, he motions you to the stage, and when you make no attempt to move, fear shooting through you that you’re going to be leaving a wet patch behind, he makes the request vocal. 

“C’mere Bunny, can’t see you all the way over there.” You rapidly close your legs, weights knocking against each other, and sit stock straight as several of the boy’s heads spin to look at you. Elvis breaks into song, “C’mon and be my little good luck charm.”  While pointing to a spot in the front row. You swallow hard, trying to make your limbs cooperate again, but it just looks like pure defiance, and he’s frowning at you when you try to plead with your eyes. 

His tone changes, “Ain’t gonna ask again honey,” You flinch as several other heads in front of you turn around to stare. You trip a little as you stand, forgetting about the extra weight on your ankles and when you look up Elvis’ smirking straight at you. 

“Can take them off now baby, leave ‘em on the chair, someone’ll clean it up later.” He winks and you suck in a gasp as you do as he directed, the implication of someone having to clean up both the weights and the seat of the chair. You can feel the heat in your cheeks at the complete lack of secrecy, with your mind all muddled you don’t have the capacity to consider that the other people in the room wouldn’t understand the double entendre. 

 “There we are, right there Bunny,” He points at the same spot again and you gratefully stumble down there, collapsing into it. You can feel your cheeks blazing and you clasp your thighs together, trying to tell yourself to just watch Elvis and not pay any attention to how wet you still are, or the embarrassment of being ordered around in front of everyone. 

You sit there primly, for the rest of the rehearsal, ignoring your newfound nakedness under your skirt - unable to draw your eyes off of his wrists, his waist, now you know how those innocuous little white bands feel. Waiting to be dismissed, sent home - although you hope that you might get another invitation. He finishes, stripping off the weights as he’s laughing and thanking the sound guys - although shouting back at them as he stalks across the stage to where you’re sat to the side of the front row.

“That interference needs to be cut by tonight, it’s messin’ with my ears, I don’t care if you have to go out and buy a whole new fucking system - just get it done.” Despite his harsh words by the time he’s kneeling in front of you he’s smiling slightly bashfully. His eyes crinkling at the edges as he mutters to you - 

“Don’t know why I keep ‘em around.” He offers you his hand, pulling with his suddenly weightless feeling arms to yank you up with him, clearly overcompensating without the weight, causing you to stumble with the force of it. His arm comes around to steady your waist. He stands there, legs spread and solid, holding you to him, brushing your hair off your neck to whisper in your ear. 

“Wanna come back with me, honey? C’mon baby,” He’s pleading with you, entreating you to follow him, babying tone convincing you as if you even needed encouragement. “How - How’d you feel about, I got some things we could watch, we could, could - I sure would love to tape ya, baby.” You lean back, brow furrowing as your mind runs through what he’s suggesting. 

(Director Elvis + Model Bunny)

But still, after some consideration you agree, and before long you’re relaxing on the bed with him, taking in the moments of quiet before he’s got to head out into the screaming crowds, performing for the pleasure of the girls and women. He’s magnificent in the flesh, masterful in his ability to command the ultimate attention of the audience. But still, as wonderful as it is to watch him, rhinestones glinting in the stage lights, you have to admit to yourself that you much preferred him in the somewhat faux intimacy of the rehearsal. 

By the time you’re all filing up the steps to the plane once more it’s night again, looking forward to a short day-break for you all after the busy past couple of days. Elvis is exhausted, and though he’s gentle with you still you can tell he’s had enough. He wearily waves to the other girls, calling you over to ask for some food before disappearing.  You push the cart into where he’s ensconced himself in the bedroom to discover him in the bathroom - door open, and you can’t help but take a peek. Your eyes catch on the little pill bottles lined up on the side, the man himself shaking seemingly every bottle possible into his palm until there was a little cocktail of medication contained in his hand. He takes them with a swig of water and jumps when he makes eye contact with you in the mirror. 

“Jeez honey, make a noise next time.” His tone isn’t harsh, it’s not annoyed - but it is solid, serious. You frown, the floor was carpeted but the rickety wheels of the cart still made some noise. 

“Oh, uh, sorry - didn’t mean to scare you.” You laugh a little bit in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. He doesn’t respond. “Uh, I’ve got, there’s hamburgers, and sandwiches and uh-“ He’s wiping his hands on a hand towel when he comes out of the bathroom, throwing it back onto the floor behind him when they’re dry. 

“S’ok Bunny, that’s good. Just-just leave it over here.” He sits on the edge of the bed, pointing to a spot within arm’s reach. He’s in the tracksuit again, out of the jumpsuit from the show, out of the the sharp outfits you were now used to seeing him in. But he still looks appealing, if not moreso now. Soft, approachable and above all else - cuddly. He’s evidently exhausted, face pale after removing the stage makeup, and he shuffles back on the bed. He’s starting to slur his words a little as he reaches for a sandwich, 

“Come. Come sit here baby… come sit here with me.” He pats the side of the bed next to him as he shuffles further up. You do so and he tucks a hand into the crease of your stomach and thigh, thumb brushing in circles, a gently squeezing grip. 

“Here.” He holds out a sandwich for you and you take it gratefully, “Gotta…feed you up while I got the chance.” His head is starting to slip forward as his eyes fall closed. You pat his arm, leaning over to take the parchment out of his hand. He grips your wrist, forcing you to put your sandwich down too as he slides down the bed to lie down, tugging you into him. 

“S’ok El, just, just close your eyes. You did so good today.” He hums, a little pleased noise like he’s somehow not used to being praised still. He pulls you closer, arm wrapping under and around you, pulling you tight to him. 

“That’s it Bunny, that’s it, just - just gonna rest my eyes for a moment, doll. Be…be ready for action in a mo’ - just, ju-“ You shush him, his eyes were fluttering closed, arm clenching around you and you felt it relax a second later as he drops off into sleep. 

There’s a few more flights scheduled, but they’re busy ones - short flights with barely enough time to get the men fed and watered, let alone enjoy any other kind of extracurricular activities - there’s a hasty blowjob and an attempt for the world’s quickest round of intercourse and that’s it.

There’s a break for a little while before he cancels the next flight on Big Bunny so you only see him once more, and that time he barely acknowledges you; exhausted from a show he locks himself in the bedroom and doesn’t appear until the plane is touching down. You wave goodbye to him, a little melancholy and hating yourself for wishing that he make some grand gesture to prove it had all meant something, instead he winks at you as he leaves down the steps, whispering a

“Thanks for takin’ such good care of me, Bunny.” As he went. 

That’s the last you hear from him. For little over six months you hear nothing else. You’re almost immediately thrust back into the reality of the normal world and you’re kept busy enough that he doesn’t pass through your mind too often. 

Occasionally, when you see a tour announcement pop up in the tabloids, or from a fan-club membership that you totally didn’t take out in a pitiful attempt to keep up-to-date with his life, you wonder about him. About whether you were a bit of fun to flirt with, to tease, to sleep with for a couple of days - a distraction from the real life, like all the bunnies were intended to be, or if he’d meant any of what he’d said. The thing is, even if you were curious, you could never know - despite being so intimate, so close to him; had he lied? Did he help every girl through a panic attack with meditation? There no longer felt like six degrees of separation between you, no longer like you were travelling in similar circles, there now felt more like a hundred degrees; what were you supposed to do; ring the operator in Memphis and ask for Elvis’ number? Pull Hef aside on the next flight and ask him? Don’t be so ridiculous, so clingy you tell yourself, disgusted at your inability to let it go. 

Time passes, as it does, and though you somehow feel like you can’t escape him, ultimately you have. Months have passed and you’re busy - being promised a promotion, training a couple of new girls and it means that you don’t get to go home for what feels like weeks.

 You finally get back to your apartment, relieved to be there for at least a week, with a stack of mail waiting as tall as your arm. You take your time enjoying the peace and by the evening it feels like you can relax for the first time in a long while, glass of wine poured, comfortable little short pyjama set instead of the bunny-approved corset or dress. You’re just starting to open the first of what looks like several catalogues of clothes you’ll never get a chance to wear when the phone rings. 

You glance over at the clock, surprised that anyone would be calling you at half eleven at night, when as far as you’re aware none of your friends or family even know you’re home yet. You consider not answering, too content with your night, but it rings insistently so you drag the handset closer, accepting the call. 

“Fuckin’ finally,” You’re immediately taken aback by the annoyed exasperation of the voice on the other end of the line, 

“Where’ve you been?” You start to protest, to question who on earth is questioning you and explain that you’ve been working but the voice doesn’t give you the chance. 

“Listen, Boss’ got a new plane, he’s uh, calling it the Lisa-Marie,” he shouts to someone on his end, “I don’t know man, thought it would sweeten the deal if she knew he’d already named it! Like - ain’t that what you’re supposed to do if you’re negotiatin’ - let ‘em know you have a name?” Right. So, Elvis. Someone is calling about Elvis’ plane. You’re trying to comprehend that when he continues,

 “Sorry. Anyway, he wants you on it. He won’t hear otherwise.” He pauses, “Permanently. On call whenever and wherever he needs to fly,” As if he can sense this isn’t the most attractive prospect, “but you’ll uh, all expenses paid for, apartment in Memphis, the whole shebang, you’ll be well taken care of.” You take a second to process that, 

“Uh, I don’t quite know what to say - do, do you need to know right away?” He chuckles down the phone at you, 

“Well - uh, no, but, he’s goin’ on tour soon and we need the flights staffed by then so….” He trails off, and you know from your limited experience with Elvis and his methods that this means, actually yes, we do need to know right now, and we’re not actually giving you a choice. You take a deep breath, still confused as to why you’re getting this call out of the blue, thinking that you’re going to regret it if you do, regret it if you don’t. 

“Oh, uh, ok fine - look I’ll be at one of the offices tomorrow; I’ll give you a call and you can fax me over the information for the dates and things?” 

“No need, we need you by July.” You pause, that’s… barely a month away, 

“Ok, I’ve got a three week notice period though, I can’t just -” 

“We’ll take care of it with Hugh direct.” You laugh incredulously - is that how they think it works? 

“Hugh Hefner isn’t my boss - how high up do you think I am? I’m a jet bunny for god's sake.” There’s silence on the other end of the line as if they'd expected you to feel cowed, or awed by their famous friend. You can hear them whispering before the voice returns, just as confident as before; 

“Well, we’ll take care of it.” You frown but you’re not sure what else to do but agree - at least this way of something falls through you can claim you had no clue about any of this. 

“Ok, but you’ll have to ask for Ellen at the office and I’ve got a notice of -“ You’re cut off by him, 

“We’ll make it happen.” Well, you couldn’t say more than what you’d said - you’ll just have to hope they do enough that it all gets sorted somehow, and without totally burning all your bridges. 

“Right, well then, -” 

“Tickets for your flight on the 26th June to Memphis will be waiting at the airport. Someone’ll pick you up there.” 

“Uh ok, um, well then that’s -” 

“Thanks again, you’re a doll, bye!” The phone hangs up and you’re left holding the receiver wondering what on earth you’ve just agreed to. 

—— 

It turns out you’ve agreed to a stewardess job pretty similar to any other. You’ve got a cute new little uniform, and it was indeed little, sleeveless and hem skimming the middle of your thighs but Elvis had indeed fulfilled his promise - it was stretchy. With a scarf around your neck and tall boots it almost didn’t feel much different to your bunny outfits. In fact it all would have felt quite similar if it weren’t for the sudden increase in responsibility you were facing. There was another girl who worked on board here and there, but whether as a cost-saving measure (although you couldn’t fathom the necessity considering the gold sinks on the plane) or simply the knowledge that one stewardess and the pilots were enough for a plane of this size you weren’t often put on the plane together. It meant that you were often working alone and solely responsible for the cabin. It was certainly an adjustment, you’d been safety trained before - of course - but you’d never really had to use it; the focus of your jet bunny role had pretty much been to cater to the whims of the people on board. Like a Barbie doll you’d had too many jobs to count, and the responsibility to look good while doing so. On the plane you’d had to be waitresses, dancers, chefs and bartenders but less so a safety officer. 

And it’s so strange, you’d not been expecting much but you had been anticipating at least an acknowledgement, or something? But instead on the first flight Elvis collapses in a seat, clearly out of his mind and ignores you completely, There’s this, somewhat odd, hierarchy evident and you somehow just know that you shouldn’t approach him like this - trusting that his needs are being catered for by his entourage. But you can’t help but glance over at him, inspecting that he looks paler than before - almost sallow-like in comparison to the fit tan of the first time you’d seen him in the flesh. So you do your job, and see them on and off the plane with nary a word exchanged between the two of you. 

You fall into this habit pretty quickly, flight after flight. When he’s awake his eyes skim over you, unfocused and never stopping for long. You hate yourself for how upset it makes you, he hadn’t owed you anything and yet you still feel like you’d signed up for something under false pretences. It keeps you up at night, wondering how you could have been so stupid - you’d given up a stable salary, a life and an exciting one at that, for this - for him. With every month that passes you’re more and more aware that you’re creeping towards your next birthday and the chance to return to Playboy in any capacity is dwindling. They aren’t shy about declaring there’s an age limit. You feel like you’re trapped, in a never-ending cycle - flight, sort the plane while they’re at a concert, flight, fitful sleep in a hotel, flight, flight, flight. 

But then, like magic, two weeks before your birthday - two weeks before the deadline you’d come up with in your head to quit he notices you. He’d been looking better for a few days, on an upward swing or so it would seem, and seems significantly more aware than he had been.  He almost does a double-take, as if seeing you for the first time. It’s then that, suddenly, Georgia - the other girl, starts to come on board with you a lot more frequently - taking care of the other guys while Elvis not so surreptitiously pulls you into his excessively decorated bedroom.

It’s not the first time you’ve been in there, you clean the damn place after all, but it’s the first time that you’re able to look at it with fresh eyes, through the lens of the awe of a girl being invited back there as a guest. You feel the bend of the fibres of the plush carpet underfoot, against the smooth sole of your boot. 

He sits down, patting his thigh, “Give me your lil footsie baby, them little footsie sooties, put ‘em up here.” You look at him slightly askance, fondly, but still do as he asks, putting first one foot up on his lap, letting him unzip your boot, tugging it off and then your other one when he taps your ankle. He looks up at you, as he holds onto your foot, and you know you’re both getting flashbacks to that first flight, when he’d tugged your heels off, got caught in your pantyhose, the joy of that first time. He grips your wrist, forcing you to kneel onto and then shuffle across the bed as he tugs you while sliding back himself.  Pulling you're both placed far enough to the headboard that he sinks down into a lying position and drags you down with him. 

“Elvis - I, I, I don’t know what -“ 

“Shhh baby, don’t worry about anything, just, just feel it with me - you feel that?” He shifts to hold your hand, “Feel that energy? ‘S right between us darlin’ girl, right there.” You’re not really sure what he’s talking about, but you had been feeling the thrum of a connection, willing him to pick up on your silent desires, so you can’t deny a strength of feeling there. 

“I feel it.” He hums at you, happily, still holding onto your hand, threading his fingers through yours and pressing his nose against your cheek. He nuzzles at you for a moment, starting off gentle and slow, before rolling you into him and catching your mouth with his. He’s sure of himself, pressing himself skilfully against you - you’re more than aware that this is a skill he’s nurtured, learnt - been judged upon, almost as much as his singing and it shows, it feels no different to the first time you’d kissed. A masterclass in the right moves, just the right amount of bite, just the right amount of tongue, and it makes you buck into him. You’re suddenly desperate for him to break out of the cultured practiced mould, feel him lose control and slip. You gasp, trying to provoke it in him, biting down on his lip a fraction too hard. He shifts his grip to your neck, clutching it to pull you back a little, 

“Careful, honey, careful.” You can feel his lips move against your skin as he murmurs and it makes you shiver a little at the tickle of his breath. He kisses across your jaw, little sucking presses, before he returns once again to your mouth. 

It’s hard not to assign more feeling or meaning to it than what it is, when he seems to do everything with such feeling. Not for the first time you wonder how it would be possible to be kissed at a concert and then have to continue to go about your life, acting as if nothing huge had happened, as if something totally earth-shattering hadn’t taken place. But then, you imagine, it’s probably not that different to what you have to do. 

He pulls back a little, pushing himself up to be more on his knees than lying back, before he slips a hand down between you, pushing underneath your dress to pull at your panties, rubbing a finger on the outside. He pushes them against your folds, circling with his finger until a little damp patch is forming where he’s touching. He pulls them to one side, shimmying his hand underneath, a ring knocking against your thigh and catching on the fabric and your hair as he cups your mound. You reach a hand down yourself, brushing it over his trousers, but you’re slightly surprised to feel him still soft inside. He jerks his hand off of you, gripping your leg instead, shoving your hand away with his other. 

You pat his face as it peers over the top of you, the creases in the corners of his eyes a little scrunched up in disappointment and his lips in a slight pout; as if he were trying to stop himself being upset.

“‘S ok El, You’ve still gotta perform tonight too -“ You go to tug your dress back down assuming there was no need for you to remain bare but his hand flies out, gripping your forearm and pushing it against your stomach.

“Take it all the way off,” You look nervously over at the unlocked bedroom door but obediently wiggle down a little, as best you can with his arm still locked over top of you to slither out of the dress. He shifts back down into a horizontal position, sliding himself further down, shirt crumpling with the motion, before gripping you with one hand on an arm and one on a leg, to hint at where he wants you to move to, tugging you until you’re in position, straddling him.

“El - seriously, I don’t think, it’s fine, it happens all the time it’s noth-“ He cuts you off by sharply pulling, with hands gripping right on your hipbones, you closer to him - forcing you to stumble on your knees even further up his body. 

“‘Nough of that.” In that wonderful growly voice only he seems able to achieve, he lifts his chin up to press a kiss against your inner thigh. “Can still, still make you feel good Bunny, baby. Still make that pretty yittle cunt o’ yours feel good.” He yanks you so you’re perfectly placed, hands gripping the navy velvet headboard to hold yourself steady. “Just gonna have a lil taste, ok darling? Just needta give me a little more time. Let, let it kick in.” You nod frantically, although you’re not 100% certain what you’ve got to let ‘kick in’. 

“Yes, god, yes. Sure.” The kiss, and his brief touches had been enough to turn you on, and you jerk as he holds your thighs to press a kiss against your now bare cunt, 

“Oh, fuck.” Elvis laughs against you, and you can feel the vibration up your spine, thetickle sending sparks straight into your stomach. The sheer level of arousal makes you feel almost a little nauseous but you’re distracted by the feel of his tongue moving again, holding you tight to him with his grip on your thigh when the feeling makes you try to thrust out of his hold.  You can feel twin bruises form from the thick bands of the ring on each of his hands and the twinge of pain when he lifts the pressure makes you gasp, 

“Oh, Christ - Elvis, need, need you to,” You’re not sure if you were planning on asking him to let go, or hold you tighter - but you’re distracted by him shifting to suck down directly on your clit, briefly, just enough to make you choke on your own spit, before he releases, flattening his tongue and moving it down. Every time you clench or move you can feel his fingers digging tighter in and you can’t help but move, grinding onto his mouth and against his tongue. He pulls away, and you shift your hips slightly so you can look down at him, and your head tips back with a moan as he quirks a little grin at you. It’s utterly filthy the way his chin and mouth is glisteningly sticky and wet.

“You like that honey?” You nod, and he returns, surging forward to renew his efforts, your hips circling in response. 

“Oh god, yes, don’t, oh, holy fuck, - don’t stop,” You can’t stop moving your hips, and part of you is briefly concerned that you might be suffocating him, but the larger part is more concerned with making sure he keeps licking right there until your building climax hits. His tongue is flicks between lapping at your vagina and your inner folds. Your hips are constantly moving and you grip the headboard even harder, feeling the fabric pile shift and flatten under your hold as he finally captures your little puffy clit in his lips again and sucks hard, reaching up to slip a finger inside you as he does. 

Your lower back is starting to ache, thighs beginning to cramp but you can’t think about that, reaching down with one hand to comb through his hair, clutching at it as you thrust up and back, finally your climax rocking through you. He licks you through it, holding you open still, feeling you shudder around him, until you finally insistently tug on his hair enough to make him come away. 

You dread to think what it must have sounded like on the other side of the door, the wet smacking having been all you could hear past the blood rushing through your own ears and you’re sure you couldn’t possibly have stayed silent. You watch him wipe his mouth with a sleeve, blushing the whole while before he slips out of the shirt. Fully exposing his bare chest and, finally, reaching down to unzip himself. 

You’re sticky and soft when he reaches down, running a finger against you, opening you up to bump against you with his now, hard, cock. You’re not quite sure when it had happened, if it was a delayed reaction to a pill he took earlier, or if he simply was that turned on just by licking you to completion, but you’re not about to complain feeling how his head slips against your wetness, nudging at your clit before he angles himself down, bumping against your entrance. 

“There he is, Bunny, got Lil’ Elvie here just for you baby, for my sweet lil - ah, bunny bun,” 

Elvis pushes into you, a hand straying to stroke your labia on its way up to clutch at your waist, feeling the way you open up around him - for him. You groan at the sensation - it’s been a while, actually it’s been a long while; the last man you’d been with was the one currently pressing inside of you. He takes a moment to allow you to adjust, although you suspect it also allowed him a moment or two, either to calm himself down or encourage himself up. 

“That’s it, honey, there we are, there we go, Oh Lord, here we are, I got you, gonna, gonna do such a good job, you just lie back. I got you, got -“ 

He’s fucking into you now, slowly, sweetly, accompanying each thrust with his mouth joining onto yours, and sloppy open-mouthed kisses against your jaw and neck. He’s trying to get the angle right, you can tell, but he’s decidedly less sure than he ever used to be, or least how you remember him. Taking longer to hit the right spot, and then almost immediately slipping away and losing it.

“Ah, that’s - that’s it, right there,” You almost cry out as he moves again, begging him in your mind to return to where he was. 

Still, he’s not totally unskilled, and the motion of his body against yours, of the feel of his hand reaching down to play with clit, combined with the growling curses and praises falling from his lips, southern accent coming out harder as he loses himself in it, is enough for you to feel yourself start to shudder your way towards a second orgasm, clenching down onto him. That is, apparently, enough to set him off and he takes some time firmly rocking his hips into you, before, with a hand splayed on your tummy for balance, withdrawing fast to shoot across your stomach. He collapses there for a moment, lips in a pout and eyes closed from the sheer pleasure of the minute before. 

He rolls off of where he’s pressed against you, where you’d welcomed being crushed under his weight, tummy pushed against yours, hairs tickling your own bare skin to flop onto his back. You watch his chest heave, eyes drawn to his tight little nipples, as he catches his breath back. You take a moment to swipe the cum off your belly with the edge of the bedspread, noting in your head to send it to the laundry later. You know you should be getting up to pee sooner rather than later but he’s holding out an arm to you, and you can’t bear the thought of refusing his offer. Instead curling into him with a sigh. He smells the same as you remember now, that same heady mix of sweat and sex, woodsy heavy cologne combined with the tint of smoke, and you hate how it sends flutters down your tummy again at how you feel a sense of familiarity from it. He murmurs into the top of your head, lips catching on your hair, 

“You been here all along Bunny? Hopping around my plane?” You nod and you feel him grimace, “Didn’t recognise you without your ears, or your yittle tail.” You don’t mention that you very rarely wore ears on Big Bunny, and that he had in fact seen you both on and off the plane without them too. He tips your chin up to look at you and you make eye contact with his pair of guilt tinged blue eyes. Your nose wrinkles and he taps it with a finger, “Twitchy lil thing though still ain’t ya?” He pats your cheek, “Still gonna be my bunny? Ain’t got another bunny, got, got,” He stumbles over his words as he takes a breath in, clearly struggling to stay lucid enough to have the conversation, “got other girls, not got ‘Cilla no more, but got, got Linda … and, and - I got a whole list, baby, but no - you’re my only bunny.” 

The thing is though, it’s never for long. You prefer the flights after a show to the ones before, he’s more awake before but he’s panicked like a tiger in a cage. It’s still difficult to tell what kind of Elvis you’ll be dealing with on any given night. There’ll be one flight where he’s perfect, drowsy from a show but awake and alert, flirty and fun, and then another where he sleeps for so long and so deeply that you worry he’ll never wake up. The worst are the ones where him and Dr Nick, his father or one of the other boys with that damned black bag disappear into the bedroom for the flight. He stumbles down the stairs after in a daze, clearly half out of his mind. The alternative - that you have to listen to his whimpering cries, that his body aches, that sleep won’t come to him - why won’t anyone listen to him? That he wants his mama, that everyone leaves him, “even my yittle yisa.” Is worse, it makes you wish for when he’s sedated or so over the top in his exuberance that you know his ‘vitamins’ have a lot to do with it. You don’t know how much longer you can silently pick up the pieces - cleaning up when he’s trashed the room in a rage, or left pill bottles littering the floor. Going in to him when he calls for you, acting as his waitress, nurse and on-call girlfriend all at once. 

Linda accompanied him often, and you’re shooed out of the way of her keen eyes as they watch you a little too knowingly. She’s sophisticated and classy though, more than you would be in the situation. More than you are. You take the opportunity to swap with Georgia as often as you possibly can when you know she’s coming with him. 

You’d avoided her too at first, often being the only one working on the little plane, not usually that many people on board - maybe ten at most, well within the capabilities of a single girl and the pilots. You hated that you felt the sting of jealousy, of worry that he was fooling around with her too, to the extent that when she, unprompted, had reassured you that she had not slept with him and nor would she ever sleep with him you had laughed it off. Pretending you had no idea what she was suggesting. 

Linda though proved difficult to ignore. She was a presence - even when she wasn’t physically there - he was swearing to the boys they were through, broken up, done, and then would spend hours on the phone to her. He’d swear he didn’t give a shit about her anymore; just had to keep his promises to take care of her - but then a week later she’d appear on the plane with him. They’d sit cuddled together half the time, shouting and screaming for the other half. You had no idea how to react when she called you in to the bedroom, Elvis’ head pillowed on her thighs, dead asleep. She doesn’t ask you for much, a coffee and some water to be brought to them. You do so, still slightly surprised to be invited to intrude on what seemed like an overwhelmingly private moment. But then, a large part of your job is being invisible when necessary. You don’t expect to her acknowledge you when you return, but she does - she’s polite and courteous, but quiet, eyes never leaving his relaxed forehead. A cynical part of your brain wonders if it wasn’t intentional, if she didn’t purposefully call you in at that moment to prove she was different, but that line of thinking gets you nowhere. It’s not your place to be jealous.

Occasionally there’s other girls with him, you burn when Sheila comes aboard - you’d given up your cover dreams for this, and it feels like she’s the new kid in town - replacing you in every way. Better than you in every way, she’s pretty and lithe and young; you’re young and pretty too but you’re feeling it less and less. She’s above you - in the privileged position to sit at the side of the King while you have to settle for serving him and her. She had the cover, you had gotten pouring the drinks into branded glasses.

Elvis didn’t help how you felt - the first time she came on board he took it upon himself to personally introduce the two of you. He was sat with his legs spread wide, Sheila’s own legs over the top of his, an arm tucking her tight against his side out in the lounge area, the public display of affection almost too much for you to witness. 

“Here she is!” He called out when you came around the corner of the half-dividing wall, and you balk a little before steeling yourself to walk over, 

“Here I am.” You respond, flatly. He’d been particularly difficult recently, and your patience was wearing thin. 

“Looksies - this here is my Sheila,” He raises her arm, she nods politely, “She’s - she’s a bunny too, she was on the cover.” You smile, what else can you do? 

“Oh - wow, congratulations.” You nod at her, she’s silent. 

“Two bunnies on the plane! My two bunnies together!” He laughs, and the tone and words immediately make you smart. There’s a cruel edge to it that you don’t quite understand, it’s not like you’ve ever turned him down or refused him, not like you’ve done anything to be treated second best - to have her paraded in front of you. 

 It makes your skin crawl, furious with every decision that led to this point, cursing those pretty blue eyes that you couldn’t refuse. Makes your skin crawl that he’d sworn you were his only bunny; and as ridiculous as it might seem, the evidence that that wasn’t true at all, that it was an empty promise makes you cry yourself to sleep for too many nights in a row. The first time you’d found a notelet, tucked under the bed having perhaps fallen out of a pocket or book, 

“To Sheila, 

Love you allways, 

E.P.” 

You take two weeks off, and debate whether you should even return, if it’s worth how it makes you feel. You don’t have time to see anyone else, and you’re not dating him. But then in some ways it makes sense all your emotions would be put onto him, you weren’t physically seeing anyone else, in general, exclusively cocooned in the Elvis Presley Show bubble. There is, you think after three glasses of red wine at home in your fancy new Memphis apartment, nothing else in your life. There is only Elvis. You wonder if you can use that as the excuse on your notice. You make yourself go back though, determined to get a grip of yourself, of your feelings, give it one last try. 

It’s short-lived with Sheila, at least from your perspective up in the air above the reality of the ground below. Ultimately, you feel you somehow won. And although he may, every now and again, bring some pretty young thing up into the air with him or have Linda come on board during some of the tour he’s fundamentally alone again - the same group of men his only constant companions. You form your own opinion of them, watching two of them cringe at the sight of the little black bag of pills and needles and two others writing his signature out on blank cheques. 

You’re horrified, making eye contact with Charlie, you think, you know their names now you need to start to use them. You open your mouth to say something, but uncertain about what, but he catches your eye, shaking his head and you wonder if there’s anyone on this plane willing to stick up for him.  You’re forced ot consider if it’s something you can do too - turning a blind eye to all of this or if you’re going to be forced to leave because you were unwilling to do so.

But then, there’s a few months where he behaves differently, and he looks different - his face brightens up, and though you don’t dislike how he looked before you can appreciate that he’s slimmed down a little, looking less bloated than he had before. A renewed interest in the happenings of the group. Suddenly, he’s interested in you again - ensconcing you in his bedroom, telling the boys to stop telling you what to do or asking you for things,

“It’s not her job - her job is looking after me.” And you do, distracting him as best you can when that’s what he’s after - reassuring him when it’s not. You have to talk him down from a panic at one point and you’re thankful to have the memory of him calming you down to use as your guideline, even if you find irony in being the one trusted to provide the measured breaths. 

The sex though, is still almost non-existent; he apologises constantly, and at one point you try to have a conversation about it, lying with him in the bed, cuddled together. 

“I’m not your girlfriend, E, you don’t needta explain yourself to me,” He hushes you, 

“You’re my girl as much as any of ‘em.” It’s your turn to stroke his cheek, 

“I don’t need to be, you don’t hafta say that to me.” He just hums at you, tucking you further under his arm and cupping your face to his chest. That’s when the gifts start rolling in, before you’d even arrived back at your apartment for a few days off, finding on the doorstep a gift bag filled with lingerie. You smile when you see it, but you’re a little puzzled - he’s not even seen you in your underwear in months. Was this a hint? Were you meant to be the one putting out? You took it as you thought he intended it, picking out and wearing the little white set you found in there, but you were unsurprised when nothing came to fruition on the flight. You tentatively bring it up the next time you’re curled up next to him - the flight not really long enough to justify a nap but happy to be tucked up in his chest.  You’re drawing circles with a fingertip through the gaping neckline of his shirt, absentmindedly thinking of how best to bring it up. 

“El, what’s -, not that I’m not appreciative but you don’t needta buy me things - especially, especially if you’re not gonna get anything out of it.” You refuse to look at him, anxious for his response. 

“Wasn’t that what you told me before? That you don’t dress for me?” You can feel him already grinning at you in anticipation of your reaction and you laugh, surprised he’d even remember that conversation from a year and a half ago. 

“Well, You weren’t really my boss then.” He chuckles, wrapping his arm tighter around you, 

“Oh-ho, so I can have my wicked way with you now huh?” He squeezes you hard against his side. You giggle, and he continues - his tone turning more serious; “Honey… - Bunny,” he laughs when you squirm at being called bunny still, “I’m just, I can’t, can’t do more at the moment but I uh, I do still - I like thinking about you all pretty for me unner that tiny little scrap of a dress.” He flicks the hem, leaving his hand grasping the back of your thigh and your respond in playful outrage. 

“Scrap! You picked out this dress!” You smile into his chest as you feel his tummy move with his laugh, “Elvis - you don’t owe me anything, I don’t need to be bought things, you don’t need to feel like we have to do anything. I just, just want you to take care of yourself.” He hums at you, as non-committal as one can be. 

He shifts a little so he’s lying on his side, brushing his hand down your body, fingers fumbling as they graze over your core, he seems remarkably less sure of himself than the last time he’d touched you, and you have to wonder if, despite all these girlfriends hanging around, he hadn’t actually been doing it with them either. Whether it’s because his fingers are a little thicker than before, or his skills are simply rusty,  or maybe this is all some new technique he’d thought he’d try, he seems to take a while to do anything. He slips a finger between your folds, gathering the wetness you’d started to feel drip as a pavlovian response to his fingers anywhere near you, and rubbing it up your pussy but when he reaches the apex he seems to struggle, fingertip roving around, rubbing down but not quite finding your clit. You squirm as he continues to rub around just a bit too low, his finger making you pant simply from the virtue of it being Elvis’ finger, but not because of success with his ministrations. You panic, eyes flying open, wondering if you’re gonna have to fake it with Elvis beforehe pulls his hand away with a grunt. 

“Ain’t no good little, my hands are hurtin’ too much tonight, got them, got them shakes again.” You nod even though you know it’s at least partially untrue - his fingers not in the least bit unsteady, if anything they’d been a little too solid. 

“Just, it’s fine to just cuddle El.” He’s silent beside you for a few moments, 

“One sec doll, lemme just -“ He shakes his arms out, staring at the curvature of the plane ceiling as if he’s trying to talk himself up. “Ok, ok Bunny, lets, lets give this another go.” He captures your mouth in his, sucking gentle little bruises across the bottom of your jaw, and lowering himself down to your neck. He concentrates there for a moment as he dances his hand back down your body, shifting your dress up again. His touch this time is more sure, more similar to how he’d always felt, the confidence appeared to be back.

He circles your clit just right, the two fingers curving inside you hitting just the right spot, and he moans with you, 

“C’mon darling that’s it, oh that’s your lil button isn’t it - let me, just relax into me baby, relax, I’ve got you.” He crooks a finger, and your hips jerk, his other hand reaching over to pin you firmly against the bed while he takes the opportunity to brush directly over your clit once again. You squeal, panting, as he whispers into your neck, 

“Such a good girl, good little baby Bunny, c’mon now,” He croons into your ear, voice unmistakable, “C’mon - for me.” His words, the sight of his face, the feeling of his fingers, it all combines so that in mere moments your back is arching off the bed, clutching at his arm as you tip over the edge. 

When you’re back into the land of the living, and your breathing is starting to ease up a little, you’re able to sit up. You get onto your knees for him, expecting to reciprocate but he shakes his head at you, “Just, just lie with me, mama, let me cuddle, ‘s that alright? No-one lets -  everyone wants somethin’ offa me.” You frown, standing up, his words manipulating you into believing you’d even asked him for something, 

“Sorry El- there isn’t, there’s no pressure from me, I just thought because -“ You gesture to his still clearly wet and sticky fingers, “Just wanted to give it back to you.” He huffs, lying down again, and looking over his shoulder at you. Betrayal written on his face. It softens when you clamber back under the covers with him, and he tugs you closer. 

It goes downhill fast, the tours just keep coming, and the random, sudden desires for trips here and there. You’ll be home for a scheduled three, four week break and get maybe 60 hours before a call comes in - he wants to be taken to Colorado, California, to Vegas. Before you know it you’re careening into 1976. He swings like a pendulum from happy to angry - the emotions impossible to keep up with. He wasn’t ever wholly staid before but everything seems suddenly emphasised and the erratic nature of his personality is making you wonder if you can do this job much longer. It’s worse without a girl on board. Linda and he may have argued but he was almost always easily soothed. But she’s coming on less and less, and he’s telling tales about her more and more with the boys. Expressing how he hates her shopping now, how she deserves it but doesn’t earn it, how he can’t stand her nagging. He seems to have more girls than ever before, one or two picked up for him in every city, but they never seem to make it onto the plane.

Without the settling presence of a girlfriend that role falls to you, and although you’ve now spent countless hours with him it’s different; the fits and starts with which you get to see him is completely different to being a girl who’s able to be with him in his home - you find him almost overwhelmingly difficult to manage. The first time he’s brandishing a gun and threatening to shoot you for attempting to put him to bed, you laugh - not expecting to be essentially thrown off of the plane for weeks for such an indiscretion. It doesn’t get mentioned again - not until a while later; simply brushed over, forgotten about. There’s no apology, just suddenly one day, a bashful joke gets made with Elvis tucking his chin to his chest to look at you shamefacedly but almost immediately he cracks a laugh, and you’re forced to laugh it off with him.

His health swings like his moods, it seems to be entirely dependent on a number of factors that all seem to change within a minute’s notice. It’s a combination of his mental health, the exact cocktail of medication at any given time, the number of shows he was doing, how often he was getting to see Lisa, whether he’d been home recently, the financial situation or whether he’d recently liked how he’d looked in the mirror. As soon as any one of these changed it would either send him crashing into lengthy highs or a period of lucidity. 

You didn’t sign up to be a nursemaid - it wasn’t the role you were expecting to fill but as time goes on it seems the only form of relationship you can have with him. You don’t truly mind, although you do wish for more, if he’s going to let you have this part of him - the part of him that’s sad and lonely, the part of him that he’s ashamed of - even if just for a few hours on a plane where he can pretend to be distinct from real life, then you think you deserve the same relationship back on the ground. But you would never broach that with him, not even when he’s alone, or when he brings a girl on board who doesn’t even make it to the next city. All you can do is stay. 

The last part of the year is particularly hard. He looks awful, you only really get to see him directly after a show, the schedule doesn't allow for more spare days in each spot, and the sweat pores off of him. You can’t say he doesn’t look appealing in some ways, you wouldn’t mind  licking him clean, or crawling onto his sweaty chest. But in other ways, his face growing paler and yellower, it makes you cringe away from him. It’s not that you don’t want to spend time with him, or that you’re disgusted - a fear he’d mumbled into your stomach one night recently, it’s that it’s so difficult. Difficult to watch a man, so otherwordly virile to succumb to earthly decay. It’s almost painful - and it’s made all the worse by the fact that you’re only given the choice to witness it in fits and starts - over a tour you watch him, keeping a close eye, spending hours alone with him. But then, as you land back in Memphis, or Vegas, or California you lose him again - with no idea of how he’s getting on physically or mentally, no idea of how he’s feeling. He grows distant - and all you want is to make his journey easier, although the destination at this point is unclear. 

--------------

TAGLIST:

i’m just gonna tag anyone that’s specifically msged me about it and/or anyone who commented/reblogged the last two chapters - there’s one last chapter to this ‘verse coming soon(ish) so lmk if you wanted to be added or taken off the list before then :)) 

@ellie-24, @whositmcwhatsit, @thatbanditqueen, @vintageshanny, @doll-elvis @18lkpeters @prompted-wordsmith @richardslady121 @meetmeatyourworst @marriedtopresley @steph-speaks @a-literal-no-name @elvisabutler @precious-little-scoundrel @eliseinmemphis @iloveelvis @literally-just-elvis-fics @livelaughlove-talia @angelborn1

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 4,721 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female!Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: S10/S11, The Reapers Warnings: references to past injury and trauma (nothing graphic), honestly this part is mostly FEELS A/N: This is Part 5 of a series! Find all the parts on my pinned post, the Master List Summary: Daryl and Y/N finally have some time alone to start catching up on their time apart.

Part 4

Daryl was already on the couch when you came back in from getting DJ settled for the night. He looked up at the sound of your soft footsteps and your heart leapt. You sighed and sunk down on the other end of the couch, one of your legs pulled up and tucked beneath you, your body angled toward him.

“All good?” he drawled, and you nodded.

“Yeah. He’s stoked about the bed,” you laughed. You leaned your head on your hand, propped up on your elbow on the back of the couch. Daryl nodded and anxiously chewed on his bottom lip. “Here’s a question: what the hell were you thinking bringing up that squatter? Highly inappropriate for kids!” you laughed.

Daryl shot you an amused look. “Yer the one that actually did it. I wasn’t gonna tell ‘em the whole thing…”

The laughter between the two of you died down and the silence was suddenly tense and thick between you. “Hey, will you tell me,” you paused and gestured to your own cheek and eyebrow, “how you got this scar?”

“Oh—” Daryl shook his hair back out of his eyes and put a hand up to it. “It’s stupid. Ain’t really nothin’.”

Your brow furrowed. “Doesn’t look like nothing,” you said.

He sat up straighter on the couch and nodded. “Nah, it’s dumb more than anythin’. I was livin’ way out—"

“—way out?” you interrupted him.

“Yeah. Way out of Alexandria,” he drawled, avoiding your eyes, consciously or otherwise because of the nearness of the topic to Leah... “It was after Rick—ya know…”

“Oh,” you said, nodding. “Maggie mentioned something about that but there was so much to cover we never circled back to it. “You were looking for him.”

Daryl nodded. “Yeah. Anyway… I got in a tight spot with some walkers in this old house and—damn metal shelving came down right on my head. One of the shelves, I think, got me in the face. Split it right open.”

Your brow furrowed. “Ouch,” you said, affecting a wince. “Jesus. That must have been a headache. Not to mention a good bruise.”

“Told ya it ain’t a good story,” Daryl drawled.

“Well, you could have lied and dressed it up a bit. Though I have a feeling you have plenty of badass stories on your own without inventing them. And plenty of scars that came with them.”

Daryl gulped and nodded again. He was quite sure it was the same for you. “Uhh—ya said somethin’ ‘bout a book?”

“Oh—right! Yeah. Hang on.” You got up and went to your small pack which was still sitting by the door to the garage. You pulled out a leatherbound book that looked like it had seen many travels. The cover was well-worn and the pages looked somewhat wrinkled from moisture. You came to sit on the couch again, but this time you sunk down right next to Daryl. You held it out to him. “I don’t know what to call it really. A journal? I don’t know.”

He took it from you with curiosity and started unwrapping the leather cord wrapped securely around it to keep it closed. The leather was soft and supple under his fingers. He cracked the spine open and looked at the first page. It was blank except for your name, printed in your distinctive hand, in the middle of the page. He thumbed through a few more pages and they were all covered in your writing.

“The first section isn’t light reading,” you warned him, watching his blue eyes traveling over the pages. “I started it just after we got separated. I think I just needed somewhere to go with all the—all the bullshit in my head,” you laughed dryly. “But that’s not what I wanted to show you. Here.” You flipped to a later section and you stopped at a page that had a Polaroid picture taped to it. It was DJ—but as a still slightly lanky infant. You smiled as Daryl’s thumb smoothed over the white border with your handwriting on it, denoting the date and location. “I didn’t have the camera until he was a few weeks old.” You reached over him and flipped to the next spread. There was a picture of you with him in your arms, looking exhausted but happy. You looked almost exactly the way he remembered you when the two of you had lost each other.

Daryl shook his head a little, fighting an upwelling of emotion that threatened to swamp him like a bubble of cold water rising from some trench in the ocean. “He was so tiny,” he said. Baby DJ had a small shock of dark hair just on the top of his head. Daryl smiled and let out a little laugh. “I dig the hair,” he said, tilting his head slightly toward you, but not tearing his eyes away from the photo. His thumb moved aimlessly to touch the white border again, as if he was hoping to somehow reach himself into the scene and really be there.

You smiled at the softness on Daryl’s face and glanced back at the book open on his lap. “Yeah. I called him Alfalfa until he was about two. Took that long for the rest of it to grow out and match. And then he had these little curls in the back—unbelievably cute. I never wanted to cut his hair.”

Daryl’s heart was soaring just seeing the photos, but it was soaring with an ache in it that couldn’t be cured—it was the ache of lost time, of missing out on incredibly precious moments he couldn’t get back. Maybe you sensed something in him, because you shifted a little closer on the couch and Daryl glanced over at you, suddenly realizing how close your face was to his, only a mere five or six inches away. His blue eyes flickered down to your lips and back up to study the hues in your irises. But you ducked your head the next moment and turned your attention back to the little book even as Daryl’s heart was still racing.

“This has everything in it,” you said. Your voice was low and soft and he found it calming in a way nothing else ever calmed him. Daryl shot you a questioning glance. “Well—not everything, but I wrote summaries in it through the seasons of our life, me and DJ. You’ll find the most important things in there along with the few photos I have, more when he was little because they just change so fast then. But—I found myself writing a lot of it to—to you,” you said. Daryl looked over at you in surprise. “I don’t know why, but a lot of it came out as if I was writing you letters. I don’t know if I really thought you’d ever get to read them or if I just hoped you would but—I wanted you to know our son and our life apart I guess.” Daryl’s blue eyes flickered between yours again. He was overwhelmed at that. “I always wanted to put something else on the first page,” you said with a soft smile. “Um—remember at the prison—Glenn and Maggie had that Polaroid camera? And we borrowed it and took that—"

“—picture in bed that day,” Daryl finished. “When it was rainin’ outside and we’d spent all day hidin’ from it and everythin’ else together.” You nodded. “Yeah. I remember… How the hell could I ever forget that?” His deep voice with that hint of gravel sent goosebumps rising up on your skin.

You sighed and subconsciously bit your bottom lip. Daryl looked at the dark fray of your lashes fanned out toward your cheeks. “I wonder what happened to that picture. God, I wished I had it in my pack when—in Atlanta, I mean. I had this weird fear that I was going to forget your face, like all the horrible shit I kept seeing, all the bad shit that kept happening, it was going to just… push everything good out of my head.” You paused briefly and swallowed down the lump that had suddenly formed in your throat. “But I hope it was just lost and… went into the ether somewhere. Unseen by anyone else but us,” you said, catching his eyes again, managing a sad sort of smile. There was a queer expression on his face. You cocked your head. “What?”

Daryl gulped and cleared his throat. “Ain’t nobody else that’s seen it, but it ain’t in the ether somewhere,” he drawled. Your eyes widened in amazement and there was a stunned silence.

“You—you still have it?” you asked in disbelief.

He bit his bottom lip and nudged his nose up in a nod. “Yeah. It was in your pack back at the church and—s’the only picture I had of ya.” Your wide eyes were a bit glassy.

Your teary smile widened. “Can I see it?”

Daryl nodded again and then handed you back the book, rising to his feet. You expected him to go somewhere to retrieve it but instead he simply slipped off his vest and then reached for his knife in its sheath on the side table.

“What are you doing?” He’d pulled his knife out and was arranging his vest on the coffee table in front of the couch.

He spared you a glance and shrugged. “I—I was worried ‘bout losin’ it somehow, with all the shit that happens out there, ya know.” He skillfully slit open a small seam in the lining on the left side of his vest and quickly pulled out a little plastic bag with the distinctive shape of a Polaroid picture in it. He looked at it for a long moment and then held it out to you.

Instead of looking at the picture right away, you were staring at him with a furrowed brow and slightly wide, soft eyes. “You sewed it into the lining of your vest?” He only ducked his head and nodded. It wasn’t lost on you that it had been in the left side near the chest—closest to his heart. “Daryl Dixon…” you said softly, shaking your head, your eyes brimming with tears now again.

He’d never showed it to anyone—never even told anyone he had it. Not even Rick or Carol. But there was a reason he always wore his vest everywhere, a reason he was so protective of it, why it had been the one thing that was the most unbearable to have taken from him by the Saviors—even over his crossbow. The idea of Dwight wearing that vest around with that picture of you and him in it, his only photo of you, a special and intimate moment captured when things had been so good and had felt like they were going to be that way indefinitely, it was almost too much to cope with.

Finally, you looked down at the photo. It was exactly as you remembered it, except that you and he seemed even younger than you had pictured in your mind. You were lying in bed next to each other, tucked under the covers. You were curled into him with his arm under you, your hand resting on his chest, looking up at the camera with content and blissed out, sleepy smiles. “Feels like a lifetime ago and yet—like just yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Daryl drawled, staring down at his hands, which were now fiddling with his knife anxiously. You held it back out to him and he shot you a furtive glance. “Nah. Maybe ya should keep it now. I’ve had it the last ten years. Ya can add it to the book where ya wanted it.”

You shook your head. “No. I think you should put it right back where you had it. Unless you think it doesn’t belong there anymore.”

He didn’t hesitate to take it back from you and he took another good long look at it, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully, before he slipped it right back into the lining, and you felt your heart skip a beat at that.

“I can sew that for you in the morning,” you said. “I didn’t realize my request was going to have you cutting a hole in your vest.”

“Nah, s’alrigh’. I been sewin’ it closed again for ten years. I’ve got it down to a science,” he drawled with a dry laugh. Electricity seemed to materialize between the two of you again as he glanced back at you—the air was swollen with it like the atmosphere before a lightning strike.

You felt suddenly warm and tore your eyes away from his. Chicken, you thought. “You can hang onto that book for a while if you want. It’ll catch you up faster and—you can at least see DJ grow up in a way. A lot of it is written to you anyway…”

Daryl nodded and accepted it from you again. “Yeah…” He nervously scratched at a non-existent itch on the back of his head. “I ain’t got anythin’ like this for ya. Wish I did. Just got a long line of memories, some foggier than others.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just pepper you with questions,” you said, jest in your voice. He laughed and nodded.

His mind turned to more practical matters, perhaps as a distraction for the way he was feeling, like he was barely managing to balance on one foot at the end of a precipice, about to tumble over if he just let himself tilt forward... He badly wanted to reach for you, but you had just gotten here, weren’t even settled… and some part of him needed to tell you about Leah before—before anything happened. If anything ever would happen? He was wracked with self-doubt. But if he didn’t tell you about Leah, if something could happen between you and him, it wouldn’t feel… honest? Daryl slipped away from those thoughts and focused on how to keep his family afloat. “I was thinkin’, we need supplies in a big way, especially with bringin’ ya’ll in. We ain’t got any backstock or livestock or crops since the Whisperers and the horde trashed everythin’. Probably need to make a run tomorrow and not come back until I’ve got somethin’.”

Your brow furrowed again with concern. “Okay. Yeah. Hey—I’m in,” you said, gently touching him on the arm. “But don’t forget—DJ wants a bike ride,” you said with a smile.

“Can’t forget that,” Daryl drawled. There was a beat and both of you were searching for something else to say when a door opened and soft footsteps came padding down the hall. RJ appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. Daryl was immediately on his feet, your book still clasped in his hand. “Hey, bud. Ya alrigh’?”

RJ shook his head. “I had a bad dream about Mom,” he said.

“Aww, no… Hey—it’s alrigh’. S’just a dream, but I know that can be real scary. Why I don’t I come help ya get back to sleep?” RJ nodded and Daryl shot you a look over his shoulder. You smiled at him and gave him a nod.

“I’m gonna head to bed too,” you said. “Hope you have only good dreams now, RJ.” The two of them disappeared down the hall and you extinguished all the lights except for a battery-powered lantern by Daryl’s vest which you left on dimly.

Settling into the soft bed next to DJ, gently kissing his cheek and stroking his hair away from his face, you were finally able to close your eyes and let yourself sink deeply down into slumber in a way you hadn’t since your home had fallen.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You awoke early the next morning and the house was still silent and dark. The sun was not yet high enough above the horizon to touch Alexandria as you peered out the window at the still streets. DJ was deeply asleep and you pulled on the only change of clothes you had, much cleaner than what you had been wearing, and moved through the house silently. You were surprised to see, when you reached the doorway into the living area, that Daryl was asleep on the couch. Your journal was beneath one of his hands, dropped down onto his chest as if he’d fallen asleep reading it. On the coffee table beside him, the photo of you and him that you’d taken at the prison was out again from its safe place in his vest, lying face up on top of the worn leather. You felt a stirring in your heart as you looked at him and a profound desire to wake him up so you could look into his bright blue eyes and tell him—tell him everything that wanted to burst out of you. Instead, you took one last long look and tried to memorize the scene, before letting yourself out quietly through the front door.

You walked around the interior of the wall and passed a couple people on guard at the section that was being repaired. Otherwise, you saw no one until you paused in front of a large building that was built out of lumber that still looked fairly new. Then, you heard soft footsteps behind you and your hand strayed to the handle of your knife in its sheath as you spun around.

“Whoa! Sorry,” chuckled the man in front of you. He was tall and lean with a salt and pepper beard and held his hands up in a gesture of goodwill. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You swallowed the tightness in your throat down and breathed a small sigh of relief, but your hand stayed on your knife. He eyed it and a small smirk tugged at his lips.

He pointed to it. “You were out there a while,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Anybody with reflexes like that has sure as shit been in the shit.”

You still didn’t say anything and eyed him warily. He seemed at ease despite your stoic reception of him.

“I, uhh—I saw you come in yesterday with the rest of the new crew,” he explained. “Planning to stick around? I know it doesn’t look like much but—” he shrugged, glancing around at the construction at the wall and the half-ruined buildings. “—this place ain’t bad.”

Your brow furrowed and you stared at him. “Who the hell are you?” you finally asked.

“Uhh—” he shifted his weight a little anxiously and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Knew we’d get to that eventually,” he said with a wry laugh. He smoothed a hand over his short hair and for the first time seemed uncomfortable. “I’m Negan…”

You nodded. “Okay. Negan.” He was watching you carefully as if to read your reaction but your expression was blank, perhaps purposefully so. It wasn’t lost on him that you’d walked in with Maggie and the rest of her people. He could only assume that his name had meaning for you.

“I just—I saw you had a kiddo with you,” he said, ducking his eyes from you for the first time and replacing his other hand in his pocket. “Thought maybe it would help to know that this is—this is actually a good place.” He hazarded another glance up at you but you were still unreadable. Your hand was still on the handle of your knife too.

“If I thought otherwise, do you think I’d still be here?” you replied.

He chuckled nervously and nodded. “Fair point.” He hesitated for a moment, at a loss of where to go next with this failure of a conversation. “So, do you—”

“I know who are you, Negan.” The muscle in your jaw tensed as his hazel eyes, now narrowed almost in a wince, met yours. “I know what you did. Not all of it, yet, but enough.”

“Yeah…” He hung his head again, his shoulders seeming to sag on his frame.

“And that kid?” you went on. “My son. His name is DJ. It’s for Daryl Jr,” you said pointedly. Negan’s eyes shot back up to yours immediately and went slightly wide.

“Ah, shit,” he swore under his breath. “Look, I was just tryin’ to have a conversation. I’m—I—,” he said. Then he paused again and glanced back up at you. “Daryl has a kid? He’s got a kid that old? How the hell did—” His curiosity suddenly overwhelmed his shame about his past and his concern that the archer would hear he’d been sniffing around you.

Your eyes narrowed dangerously. “You think I’m going to explain our story to you? I don’t even know you, and the bits I do know—” you cocked your head, “—not a fan. So, just do me a favor and stay the hell away from DJ, and from Hershel, and from Maggie. If you don’t, I’ll be the one to kill you. Not her. Deal?”

He nodded. “Yep… Deal. Got it.”

You turned and left, heading back to Daryl’s, hoping you’d gotten your point across well enough. Maggie had of course told you what had happened at the line-up, how she’d lost Glenn, and what the Saviors had done to the communities and the war. She had also told you that Daryl had been taken prisoner, though she didn’t know any details about what that had been like for him. She said he never spoke about it to anyone, except maybe to Carol. Maybe Negan was different now. Some of your old family seemed to believe he was, but some things were unforgivable in your mind…

When you quietly entered the house again, Daryl was awake and softly moving around in the little kitchen. He turned when he sensed you come in to the room. “Hey,” he greeted you. “Everythin’ alrigh’? I thought ya were still sleepin’,” he drawled.

“Yeah, all good. Just took a walk when I woke up,” you explained. “I, uhh… I met Negan,” you said, carefully watching his expression. His face immediately darkened.

“The hell was he doin’?” Daryl growled.

“I don’t know. He must have been doing the same thing I was, I guess. Taking an early morning walk?”

Daryl’s eyes were still narrowed and he felt a swell of protective anger. “The hell did he say? Look, if he was botherin’ ya, just tell me and I’ll deal with it. I’ve been lookin’ for an excuse to punch him out as long as I can remember.” “It was—it was fine, Daryl. He came over to introduce himself or something. Said he saw us come in yesterday and wanted to tell me Alexandria was a good place… because he saw DJ with me.”

Daryl rolled his eyes. “I’ll talk to him. Tell him to fuck off,” he said darkly, the muscle in his jaw tensing as he clenched his teeth together. If there was any one person he wanted to stay away from you and DJ, it was Negan Smith.

“It’s okay. I already did,” you said. “I told him if I see him coming near DJ or Hershel or Maggie that I’ll kill him.”

Daryl shook his head and actually let out a small laugh. “I—I shoulda known ya’d already have it taken care of.” He leaned back against the counter behind him, his arms crossed over his chest. It seemed to make the broadness of his shoulders and the tapering of his body to his waist more pronounced and you felt a wash of heat in your chest.

“Yeah, it’s alright… He knows about DJ. I wanted to make that clear.”

Daryl nodded. “Okay.” He sighed heavily. “He ain’t—he ain’t like he was. But I still dun trust him all the way. And I definitely dun fuckin’ like him,” he growled.

You nodded. “It doesn’t change what he did, though, even if he isn’t the same now as he was.” Daryl ducked your gaze and nodded, now anxiously shifting his weight from one hip to the other.

“No. It fuckin’ doesn’t.”

You sighed. “Sooo… How far did you get in that book of mine last night?”

Daryl was about to answer you, suddenly realizing of course that you must have seen him passed out on the couch when you left this morning. But suddenly Dog came barreling into the room, quickly followed by a smiling RJ and Judith. It wasn’t long before DJ was also up and about, probably awakened by the noise you all were making in the kitchen. Soon you were heating up the last little bit of stew from the night before on the stove for the kids, while Daryl was setting the table. You couldn’t stop glancing over your shoulder at him and and smiling because he was smiling and because after so long he was made real in front of you, and he was different but the same too. As you were sure you were. After the makeshift breakfast, Daryl and Judith washed the dishes together while you and DJ helped dry. It was positively domestic. You felt as if you’d stepped through a magic door into a different dimension. Finally, Daryl turned to DJ and smiled at him.

“Well, what d’ya think ‘bout takin’ a ride on that bike I got?” he asked him. “As long as yer mom is still good with it. We can see if there are any rabbits out there, maybe set some new snares—get some dinner for everybody.”

DJ glanced over at you with a pleading smile on his face and you grinned. “Of course. You’ve got a helmet for him?” Daryl nodded. “Good. Alright.” You bent down to his eye-level and put your hands on his shoulders. “You stick right with him, okay? And you do whatever he says if there’s any trouble.”

“I know. I will,” DJ promised you. You kissed the top of his head and met Daryl’s blue eyes.

“We won’t be gone too long. Ya mind watchin’ Jude and RJ?” Daryl asked, tilting his head toward the living room where they were coloring on some scraps of paper with Dog laying down as if on guard.

“I don’t mind. We’ll pay Carol a visit and see what we can do to help around here,” you said.

Daryl nodded. “Alrigh’. We’ll only be a couple hours and then—uhh, if yer still up for it, you and I can head back out. We’ll have to see if Maggie and maybe Rosita and Gabe can watch the kids.”

You nodded again. “Yeah. I can swing by and see.”

DJ came running back out with his small pack on and his bow in hand, absolutely grinning from ear to ear. His knife was in its little sheath on his belt too.

Daryl ruffled his hair with light in his eyes that seemed entirely new. “Alrigh’, boss. You and me. Let’s do it. See if we can get yer mom some dinner.” He headed toward the door and then looked back at you as you called a last goodbye.

“Be careful,” you said.

Daryl nudged his nose up in a nod. “Hey—I ain’t gonna let anythin’ happen to him.”

You smiled and nodded. “I know.”

He gave you a long look, as if he was memorizing the sight of you. Maybe he was. “We’ll see ya later.”

“I know that, too. Good luck.” And with that, they were into the garage and you soon heard the roar of Daryl’s bike droning into the distance.

[maestro04yayyy]

Random musings, but Chloe's perspective on relationships, as I tend to write it, is fascinating not just in how its very informed by the awful adults around her, but also seems very clear cut but the moment she tries to apply it, it doesn't even stay coherent, but she tries anyway cos this is all she knows.

For reference it was largely inspired by observation and a discussion with an excellent author, but basically, in Chloe's world there is the accessory and the wearer, the weak personality and the strong personality, follower & leader.

Gabriel and Audrey were leader, Andrey & Emilie Accessories.

The job of the former is to make decisions, guide and protect the occasionally reward the former. While the latters duty was to listen, assist, praise and enable the leader. This is her idea of a healthy relationship and the people modelling it were... Well even worse than that sounds.

This is basically how she acted in accordance with Sabrina, with Chloe as leader & intern, she made herself an 'accessory' to Ladybug & Audrey without a second thought.

However, as said, this doesn't hold up under scrutiny.

On a more... positive bent, her relationship with Adrien is extremely fluid. Chloe expects to lead, but also looks to or listens to Adrien when he seems better suited to the task. Though Adrien himself seems a little unsure how to handle the latter times.

Meanwhile on a more messed up level is her relationship with Andre.

Where-in she's basically doing an elaborate role-play of her mother for her father (& mother, but Audrey doesn't notice) where it looks like she has command. But we see Andrey will yank on her chain the moment she inconveniences him, and that she has to layer it in in with a lot of praise and affection that just feels... Off. Which is a heavy contrast to Audrey & Gabriel being stiff, cold and distant at best, which Chloe also demonstrates with Sabrina when they aren't doing 'playing'. IE, most of the time.

I think on some level Chloe liked but also couldn't contextualize the idea of an equal partnership and Adrien was about as close as she got to that, but again, she can't consciously acknowledge that without undermining her entire world view so she... struggles.

In the Context of Chloleka AU, I imagine Juleka's also sort of scrambled her wiring a little, or more, that Chloe is trying to parse out who is in what role. But as said, this idea of a relationship doesn't actually work when put into practice; it can't work and stay coherent without being essentially revised for each and every relationship, making it kind of worthless even outside the toxicity.

But I digress, this would definitely be fed into with Juleka's modelling and anything Chloe can do to aid in that. She can be 'useful' in this scenario, which gives her a nice dose of self worth, but also matters cos it helps define roles. The trick her is, Chloe kind of wants to be Juleka's accessory, IE be the subject of intense devotion and aggressive passion and protectiveness. But, she also wants to be useful, to give good advice, to help up-lift Juleka.

But it can't be a partnership, because those don't exist, right?

Uhhh that's a nice analysis and yeah it's pretty accurate and on point!!!!!!

And it's always hood when we aknowledge that chloe wanted a good relationship with adrien!!!! And she actually values him and his ideas!!!!!! Even if she knows she shouldn't because she is the leader!!!!

Also when chloe get exposed to the idea that a couple can be made of two equals and not a leader and a follower, it's gotta blow her mind(and probably she would be in denial for a long time)

[positivelybeastly]

First question, what year was Hank born? Second question how might the events going on in our world have affected the characterization of Hank? Beyond the 90s incarnation of the character might make a post about this later…

So, asking for a set birth year for a comic book character is a bad idea, because with very few exceptions, they don't exist. For example, Google tells us that Captain America was born on the 4th of July, 1920.

Or maybe he wasn't? Apparently that got retconned and it isn't 4th of July, but it was 1920? Already we run into problems. COMIC BOOKS.

Outside of very specific characters, they just don't have birth years or birth dates, they exist within the Marvel sliding timescale. If you're not familiar with the sliding timescale, the basic conceit is this:

Modern Marvel comics began in 1961 with Fantastic Four #1. This is essentially the start of the modern Marvel era, and every other superhero group is contextualised in relation to this, pretty much. The Avengers were formed maybe six months, a year later, the X-Men not long after that.

For every 3-5 years that passes outside of comics, 1 year passes inside of comics. E.g. Fantastic Four #1 took place either 13 or 21 years ago, or somewhere in between, it's not an exact science.

As for Hank specifically, well . . .

October, 1983, was contemporary to Hank saying this.

That plot took place in a comic book from 1974, nearly ten years before this, and yet Hank says it's just "a few years ago." So time is passing, but slowly. Hank here is explicitly in his early 20s, maybe 22-23, but the Hank we saw in this week's X-Force #50 was not 40 years older than him. So, how to make it all make sense?

A lot of headcanon and kind of inferring based on contextual hints. Hank is depicted as being roughly 17-18 when he joins the original X-Men, given that he's stated in dialogue to be the oldest of the team, and seems to have been on the verge of graduating high school when his normal human life was interrupted. So, now you just work backwards.

If Hank was 17-18 when the original X-Men were formed, and it's been 21 years since then (referring back to the sliding timescale), then it stands to reason X-Force Beast is 37-38. If he's 38 in our current year of 2024, then logically, he would have been born in . . .

1986!

Which is what I've been running with for as long as I've been writing him. It isn't quite compatible with stuff like this, which is very obviously written in the 60s and set in the 60s, and which explicitly positions Hank as an Atomic Age hero, with radiation based origins and a super scientist pedigree . . .

But eh. We move.

As to the second part of your question

. . . Ooohhhhh boy.

Um.

There's a lot? And I hate to bring it all back to 9/11 and the War on Terror, but it's kind of all about 9/11 and the War on Terror?

Media about terrorism, security, threats to mankind, all looked very different pre-September 11th, 2001. Go back and watch Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, and see how Kira Nerys, a character who is explicitly called a terrorist in dialogue, is treated for her actions. She's positioned more as a World War II resistance fighter than anything else. If that show were made now, she would be an intensely different character, because the American cultural and media consciousness has never recovered from that day.

If you want to read more about this, there's quite a lot of academic discourse on how this has all changed. Here's a decent start.

But specifically Hank? Well, the X-Men have had their own 9/11. Multiple times. The Genoshan genocide, as depicted in New X-Men #116, actually just a few months before 9/11. It's entirely possible that this entire storyline might not have been made if it had been written after.

The Xavier Institute bus bombing.

The Decimation.

The X-Men became a beleaguered minority, besieged on all sides, reduced to the island of Utopia, just 198 mutants and falling. Cyclops explicitly became far more ruthless, willing to ally with former adversaries and use kill tactics to get the job done, and you could see his portrayal, the infamous #Cyclops Was Right movement, gaining a lot of steam during this era. People really like this Cyclops.

And where's Hank in this? Well.

He's the moral counterpoint.

People don't like to acknowledge this, and I feel like there might be a degree of cultural difference going on here, but Hank is correct. I feel like it's not even controversial to say that kill teams are bad. Right?

But people hate Hank for this. They think he's a whiny little bitch who won't and can't help, who runs out on his people, who prioritises his morals over being there for the X-Men. People legitimately think this of him.

Hank is the left wing, conscientious objector and anti-war viewpoint. So, naturally, there's a tendency to look upon him as a whiny little bitch. Just look at how shows like 24 contextualise that kind of moral viewpoint.

I do feel like the writers of this era wanted people to at least question who was right, between Hank and Scott, but the readers pretty much unanimously fell on Scott's side, because even as Scott started to use morally corrupt tactics . . .

He wasn't doing it for America, bullying small countries out of their oil in the name of democracy. He was doing it for a marginalised minority metaphor, fighting comic book supervillains, which is simpler, easier to root for. He had to use those tactics, you understand. He was fighting monsters! He was fighting the good fight.

Is 00s era X-Men War on Terror propaganda? I don't know. I'm not a political scholar, though I do have a B.A. in History. Interesting how the fandom seems to view this ideological conflict, though.

Anyway, time moves on, and then something starts to creep into Hank's character. Something that inevitably happens to characters like him.

Anti-intellectualism.

No longer is Hank the moral counterpoint, now he's the intellectual who will lead us all to ruin because he's smarter than he is wise, because he's an idiot with no impulse control.

This characterisation is wholly incorrect and runs contrary to the fact that Hank learned his lesson about unethical experimentation practises in the 70s, in an incident that only harmed him, but whatever. It doesn't matter at this point, does it?

Only people with real world experience, who are level headed, who aren't eggheads, can solve the real problems of the day. People like, uh.

Hmm.

Who does have the solution to the problems of the day?

Ah, I see.

We just forgive him for all the heinous shit he did on Utopia, huh?

All that stuff he did, the releasing bioweapons, the kill teams, that was fine, because he did it to the right people.

Well, that's all right, then.

Mmm-hmm. So much better than the egghead. Look at him in the corner, fumbling around, making more problems than he solves. What a motherfucker.

So, yes, let's talk about American anti-intellectualism.

I don't necessarily think Bendis is anti-intellectual. But I do think he spends a lot of time across multiple comics criticising Beast and valorising Cyclops, considering the worst thing Beast had done up until that point, vandalising the space-time continuum to get the O5 back into the present, was done explicitly so Bendis could play with X-Men with only 8 issues of continuity to keep straight.

But anything Cyclops did? All that X-Force stuff? Ehh. Don't worry about it. The only crime we care about is the death of Charles Xavier, for which Scott was possessed, so we can't make a moral judgement.

It's a whole ass topic, and a lot to get into, but I genuinely do think that Hank is one of those characters who especially suffers when written by a writer who doesn't trust vaunted intellectuals, because he's certainly not going to fucking flourish, is he?

And then it all comes full circle.

Ben Percy, enter the ring.

Wolverine, the unequivocal hero of X-Force. Beast, the unequivocal villain of the series. The heart vs. the head. The man of action vs. the intellectual. The rugged thug vs. the fancy pants necessary bastard.

It's the same thing, just more extreme, really. I think X-Force is meant to be a critique of the CIA? If so, it's an extremely bad one, considering it ends on this note.

Ah yes. Our heroes. The CIA.

I'm gonna quote the frankly incredible @brw here because they put it way better than I could on this point:

"This is genuinely a larger problem I have with Krakoa, is that rather than explore the culpability and complicity of all the characters involved in not just the creation, but the active maintenance and survival of what is, categorically, an eugenicist, oligarchy ethnostate, we instead act as if Krakoa would have been fine if not for Evil Hank/Evil Moira/Evil Sinister for ruining it all for the rest of us.

Because are Sage or Logan ever properly thought to be bad people for standing by as long as they did? It isn't even that X-Force are the people who do the dirty stuff–it's Hank that does that, and the rest of the character get to keep their hands relatively clean, at least narratively. They're sympathetic, or understandable.

Hank is positioned as this demon in the shadows ready to snatch you up and kill you which is a weird decision to make with what you describe as the CIA.

The CIA isn't evil because evil people are in charge of it, the CIA is evil because it is a fundamentally evil institution based off evil systems! Benjamin, you can't write mutant CIA if your closing statement is how awesome the mutant CIA is, and it's a shame about that one evil blue guy that ruined everything for everyone."

Good thing we got rid of that Beast guy! What a fucker, right? Nasty, gross, intellectual pustule he was, with his oily words and grossness. Look at him, reading books. Sage is fine, though, because she doesn't read books. I mean, she's quantifiably grossly incompetent in this series, but we like her better than Beast, so it's fine.

Beast, from the 2000s era onward, is a very political character. It's just a shame that a lot of comic book writers tend to be grossly ill-informed when it comes to actual politics, capable of only surface level hot takes like CIA bad or kill teams good, actually, because now we've gone from 'Beast is the left wing conscientious objector' to 'Beast is the literal anti-Christ,' and I don't really like what that implies about what we think of the former.

But eh. I'm just a writer.

[cowardlybean]

Hey. The Times They Are A Changin’ by @bandtrees and @tigsbitties amiright (muffled face down on the floor)

more (some unsettling things) beneath the cut :3

(Image 3 is my favorite sequence from an animation for TTTAAAC I’ve been working on, so here it is just in case I never finish </3, image 4 is me thinking about Mob’s house. If. That makes sense.)

OH MAN. OH MAN OH MAN. this fic has altered my brain chemistry in a way that has doctors baffled and leaves tragedy in its wake!!!!!!!!! Absolutely a masterpiece I’ve reread it 3 times now and every time I notice a new detail, there’s just SO MUCH CARE put into it. I think I could write an essay about every page of this fic LMAO it honestly blows me away, huge kudos to everyone who was a part of the project!!!!

Especially the multimedia aspects, they were so much fun to find and in some cases decode (Scared the SHIT outta myself with Breathe I think it’s one of my favorites). the youtube videos were so cool as well

Realizing a third of the way in that things will never get better was such a gut wrenching experience, and by the time I realized just how deep the hole Mob dug himself into was it was absolutely too late for anything to happen (the end of act 1 was horrific in the most amazing way. So many things stuck with me: the state Reigen was left in compared to how he was, Ritsu’s “surgery”, Dimple losing his best friend, Shou’s report to the police, Minori’s conversation (if you can call it that) with Mob?? Bone. Chilling.

One of the parts that has been sitting in my gut is Reigen’s fall, where he starts to ramble through fragments of old times. I genuinely thought he was calling out to Mob until just as the same time Mob did I recognized the words and it hit me like a HAMMER. I don’t know how to put it into words but Reigen rambling on like a broken record tore me apart, and then it gets WORSE. I only realized on my second read that the intro of the fic. (Correct me if I’m wrong) IS REIGENS PERSPECTIVE OF MOB SEVERING HIS TENDONS???? Holy fuck. Holy FUCK. The vague semblance of consciousness written there is so deeply unsettling I’m absolutely OBSESSED with it. ESPECIALLY THE FACT THAT EVEN IN THAT STATE HE STILL WANTS MOB TO BE HAPPY (the cheer ^^ mob bit) and idk if I’m interpreting right (this is gonna be so embarrassing if I’m not) but him recognizing the filthy jacket as well. Taking me OUT. AND. AND THE FACT REIGEN NEVER SPEAKS AGAIN AFTER THAT?????? (I could be wrong oops)

The mental states of every character in the fic are written so chillingly well. I can understand how Mob spirals, the anger and grief Tome feels, Shou's spite and anger, Teruki's conflict, Dimple's loss of his best friend, Serizawa's waning optimism, I can't name every character in this fic but they are ALL characterized so well. There's no needless conflict that make them OOC, there's a reason behind every little tragedy building upon themselves and creating a giant disaster that deeply affects the entire cast. Not to mention how its not just the loss of Reigen and Ritsu, but the loss of Mob too. If they were to have died on impact, its unsettling to think that things may have turned out better than this.

There’s a lot of things I wanna say that would basically be restating the fic (dimple losing his best friend, teru shaving, and the irony of ritsu’s powers being taken away by mob) so instead of writing 20 more paragraphs I’ll ask some questions I’ve been mulling over (ofc yall don’t have to answer if it’s revealing too much or smth)

Does Mob actually end up getting investigated or arrested? The formatting of the social media posts and texts makes them seem as if they're evidence and so does the ongoing "interview?" with Shou throughout the fic

In the party, is Reigen saying he doesn't like citrus a reference to the lemon sour :eyes:

I'm probably missing something but im curious about the metaphor around Reigen and a stray cat (hair clinging to Mob's clothes, comparing him to a stray cat finding a place to die, comparing him to a cat outside Serizawa's door)

If I'm not wrong and the "glitchy" sections at the beginning and end of the fic are Reigen and Ritsu's povs respectively, is their mind constantly like that or is it just in the specific circumstances where they have a small burst of consciousness?

last (thats a lie im definitely drawing more fanart in the future) but not least, some notes from when I was re-reading

[pasta-in-the-pudding]

Okay... So this request might be weird and it's nothing really like dating or anything like that.

I've been having this idea like... What would X-virus do if the reader had a large pet Ascaris Nematode and takes care of huge bacteria as well?

Like, the reader would take care of the bacteria and they separate the dead bacterias into a container for the nematode's to eat. And the bacteria would be the size of a grown mans hand while the nematode is as big as a average dressor.

My oc does this and I am curious as to how other people will write about this.

This is such a cool concept i literally love this!! And for x-virus too?! Ugh, wonderful

Also I did my best with some light research, but ya boy does not know much about bacteria so i apologize if something is inaccurate <//3

Thank you so much for requesting!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

X-Virus with a pet Ascaris Nematode

Generally, he would think your pets are really cool

(With your permission) he would love to go study and observe your pet(s)

He's never really heard of anyone taking care of bacteria like this, so he is curious to see how domestication affects the species

Even if they aren't really like other living things with consciousness, he still thinks it would be cool to study

The only times he interacts with bacteria is either for his job, or for studies

Never just to have fun with it

He will ask you to just do your thing, go about feeding your bacteria, cleaning their enclosures, etc

He will be observing, writing notes down, taking pictures and taking videos the entire time

And then, once he is satisfied, he will go back to his room and study further on his own

He will heavily cross reference behavioral things with your pet bacteria, seeing how the average kind of whatever bacteria he's studying at the moment compares with the bacteria you keep as pets

He would also like to get some hands on experience

Whatever you are comfortable with him doing, he will do

He will help feed, help clean, help organize, etc

And he will also study how the bacteria react to him versus you taking care of them

Once he is certain his study on your pets is complete, he will share his findings with you

And depending on the outcome of the studies, he may begin collecting different bacteria for himself, pushing the limits to see just how many different types of bacteria can be "domesticated"

He will keep them in his lab, though

Far away from his beloved pet bunny Jade

If the bacteria got anywhere near her, he'd freak out

He will also request for your help in studying his own pet(s)

Considering you have the experience, he finds you trustworthy enough to help him out

And then the process starts over again

He studies, he records, he cross references, etc

And every now and then, he will come visit your pets, bidding them a good morning/afternoon/night and talking to them

Those nematodes probably know his darkest secrets at this point

"yeah, i was in and out of fostercare my whole life"

"..."

"it was really stressful for me, but i found my love of science through it, so i can't be too mad"

"..."

"yeah, you get it"