#i regret not going back to my roots and using this one in the thread

[deepspacenova]

when winter meets spring

➻➻ ABOUT: zayne x gn!reader | 900 words

I needed some whimsy in my life so here's a little drabble in which Zayne is a winter sprite who falls for a springtime faerie. Inspired by the Spring and Flowers event and @mythblossoms who planted this idea into my head xx

The first time he saw you, the snow was melting. Clinging to the edges of the awakening soil, exhaling its final whisper of frost across roots and buds that were ready to bloom.

He was behind the trunk of a beech tree, half-veiled by the smattering of unfurling leaves as Winter took His final breath and Spring exhaled Her first. He wove some final threads of hoarfrost into the bark as his power dwindled with the change of the season.

There was nothing particularly noticeable about your form when he caught the flutter of your movement. Like any Spring faerie, the snow hissed where the warmth of your bare feet touched the earth, retreating in small rivulets of water. Undoing the work of his people with each step.

That is, until you caught the sun's eye too.

He could almost see the icy blues and greys of winter washing away as the rays painted your skin with deep pinks and reflective golds and soft greens.

And your movement. It was nothing like the frantic faerie buzz he'd previously caught glimpses of. Instead, you moved with a soft reverence, taking the time to listen to the soil's murmurings. Gently coaxing it back from slumber.

Zayne went still as the last of his magic threaded through the bark beneath him. The frost glimmered and faded almost instantly, surrendering to the sound of your voice with him as the air shifted and filled with the scent of damp earth and flower petals.

It was the first time in his existence that he breathed that scent in without fear.

That's when he should have vanished, retreated to the wind-scoured peaks where his people went each year. Winter Folk were not meant to see Spring Folk. It was an unspoken rule, reinforced by the divine and etched into the fractals of each snowflake.

But you were something bright. Something alive. Something warm. Everything he was not.

And you were staring back at him.

Your curious gaze caught his. And.. there was no trace of fear. Only curiosity. Perhaps you, too, weren’t meant to see him?

Still, neither of you looked away. And then, you smiled. He couldn’t remember the last time someone smiled at him without shivering.

“You’re still here.”

He didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. His throat, used for the howling of winter winds and the hush of snowfall, tightened against the unfamiliar warmth. Then, with a voice hoarse from disuse, he rasped, “I shouldn’t be.”

You stepped forward, and the world softened. Flowers opened behind you in your wake. Wildflowers, shy and colourful, bloomed where your skirt brushed the ground. "Who are you?"

He hesitated. Names were sacred to Astra. Identities, even more so. But he unfurled his palm, where a dusting of ice flecks still danced, and let them rise into the space between you. The frost shimmered until it morphed into a shape. A jasmine bloom, delicate and symmetrical. It hovered for a moment, glowing faintly. Then , he let it drift into your palm.

You stared at it with a mixture of wonder and understanding.

“I see,” you said softly.

In the second it took for your hand to close and re-open, the jasmine was brought to life, a flower with veins and petals. It started floating again and, before he realized what was happening, tucked itself into his hair without re-freezing.

And that's when he felt it: the pull, the beckon of the mountains. Winter's thaw was complete.

“I have to go,” he said, backing away a step. Hoping each word conveyed the depth of his regret. Already, the frost in his veins began to retreat.

His time was over.

Your expression faltered slightly, but changed to determination just as quickly when you extended an open palm toward his clenched one.

“Will I see you again?” you asked.

He wanted to say yes. But a sprite cannot lie, and an elusive promise was cruel.

Zayne stared at your outstretched hand, fingers painted in morning light and the hues of things he could never hold without destroying them.

“I don't know," he said quietly. "When I fade, I don’t remember."

Your brow furrowed, eyes scanning his face as it continued to disappear before you. “I’ll remind you,” you said simply.

The words struck something deep in him, something buried in permafrost and forgotten lifetimes. He reached out then, cold fingers grazing your palm. You didn’t recoil at the shock of cold. Instead, your hand folded gently around his.

When Zayne disappeared into the ether of winter, the jasmine in his hair was still alive.

And so it begins.

Every year, he waits for the last frost, silent and watchful. Every year, you arrive before the thaw, humming to the soil.

He never asks why you come early. You never ask why he lingers.

Because you both know what you have isn't meant to exist.

He is cold and silence and endings. You are warmth and laughter and beginnings.

But in that sliver of time each year between the melt and the bloom, the changing of seasons hesitates.

[ifievertoldyou]

my honest reaction

[thebottomfromhell]

Hello. I’m very like your blog. It’s very interested to read. English is not my first language so if I accidentally write something wrong the meaning or some words wrong the pronunciation, please forgive for my mistake.

I’m wondering if you can please do like the Uppermoons accidentally hurt their female human reader who is the love of their life. Like they’re having an argument with the reader and they accidentally hurt their reader feeling or their self-esteem or attack their reader, not on purpose (maybe) and their reader dislike that so they just leaving them.

And in one night, the Uppermoons just go in their reader house as usual to find them but they’re not there and the Uppermoons just couldn’t find them anywhere by that.

It’s a pleasure for me to know that you gladly to it and once again. I’m very love your blog, it’s very interested to read it :]

I'm glad you are liking my posts, I'm sorry this took so long to come out, also I excluded Hantengu's main body because I didn't know how to add him to this prompt. I hope you like it.

Also, I wanted to add Nakime but she would not fir in the prompt, both in saying something hurtful to someone she actually cares about and, most importantly, letting you leave 🥲 I need to write a One-Shot of her with how little I know how to add her in things 😭 Hantengu main Body is also not here for that same reason.

Uppermoons (minus Hantengu main body & Nakime) hurt Female Human Reader and she leaves

Warnings: Manga spoilers, Sad endings,Toxic relationships, Verbal abuse, Excesive use of violence and Threads of death to reader.

Gyutaro (ft. Daki):

"I'M TELLING YOU HE DOESN'T LOVE YOU MORE THAN HE LOVES ME! HE IS MY ONII-CHAN! YOU ARE JUST A WEAK UGLY HUMAN! HE WILL LIVE WITHOUT YOU WEEL ENOUGH SOONER OR LATER NO MATTER WHAT!" Daki doesn't like you, you knew that from the start, she alwaya tries to get in between you and Gyutaro. You have tried telling him that she is constantly being awful to you, but besides telling her to be nicer, he doesn't do anything. He doesn't scold her, punish her or even take your side on the argument.

You have had enough, you don't even remember your exact words, but you told Daki off. You called her a brat, a bitch, a parasyte and said worthless and useless somewhere in between, that is what you remember, and the next thing you knew Daki started crying. That was enough for Gyutaro to show up and start comforting her, giving you the nasty eye. "What did you expect me to do? Just stand there while being insulted? You never defend me!" But Gyutaro is not taking it. "FUCK OFF! NE!"

He faces you, angry. "You think you can compete with her?! Ne? Insult her?! My sister is worth more than ten times what you and your worthless species are!" He didn't even look regretful after telling you that and... it hurt, it hurt a lot, knowing that he thinks that of you and... you already figured out you were only second to Daki, and being told that... "FINE! GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU UGLY PRICK! I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN NOT TO WASTE MY TIME WITH THE LIKES OF YOU!" And you leave, not planing in coming back, Gyutaro knows that, so he won't look for you. He will only stop Daki from hurting you one last time, but besides that? It's over.

Gyokko:

He says a lot of hurtful things when he gets upset, sometimes he says those things even when he is happy or bored. He doesn't like to hold his tongue, but he adores inflicting pain on others. Sometimes it's not even on purpose, he just has already rooted into his brain that.. well, you are a human, he is Upper 5. There is a difference, he is superior, in his mind, and can't comprehend why he would hide that thoughts. It's not that he constantly reminds you how he feels, it just casually comes up, but it still hurts.

You don't even remember what it was this time, you are probably mixing memories and if someone asked you to repeat what he said, you would not be able to do it, you just starting packing up your things and leaving. You can stay in a close inn, but you are not taking his crap a single more day. When he goes to your home, he finds it alone. "Mn? She left? How come she didn't tell me! Bet the stupid human forgot." It took him a few days for him to realize you left for good.

"That little BITCH! WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS!" He destroys your home, angry, his pride being more hurt than him, but that is still unacceptable. "The next time I see her, SHE DIES!"

Sekido:

Sekido says a lot of mean things when he is angry, and he is always angry. This is not the first time he calls you names, even if you were ok by this at first, it was general stuff like "little shit" or "woman", nothing really offensive in your book, but then... then the names became more personal. He started using personal information. The talk of the folk, your parents dissapointments, your ex's words, anything that would get under your skin. All of that because he is angry, and feeling the need of taking it out or something or someone.

"You know what?! I'm done! Get out!" He looks at you as if you were the one who offended him, as you were the problem. "Excuse me?" You don't want to hear it. "I SAID GET OUT! OUT OF MY HOUSE! LEAVE!" You start throwing things, desperate for him to leave, screaming, almost crying, as you feel your eyes hurt. After a while, he is gone... you have some minutes to relax... more or least. You breath harshly, trying to calm down, knowing he will return sooner or later. That is when you decide to grab your things and leave, go somewhere else.

By the time Sekido is back, you are gone... and he starts yo trash out your home. Everything is thrown, burned, ripped... your home... "Fuck her! If she wants to leave then that's her deal! Fucking useless human!" Sooner or later another clone will come to calm him down, but he won't be able to control himself the next time he sees you. You will be dead by then.

Karaku:

Karaku is not particulary hurtful, even if he is not careful with his words (unless he wants something), but he is nice, not good, but nice. Sometimes he makes jokes that might or might not be funny, it really depends. Again, he is not sensoring himself, so dark jokes might be offensive sometimes, specially considering his attitude towards humans. Sometimes it makes you feel.. a bit less, the way he talks about other humans around you, as if you and your kind where pigs or dogs.

Your have told him before, and he always says he will stop.... he never does. "Man, it's like they are all wanting to die. I mean, can you imagine running TOWARDS your natural predator? Only humans. I wonder how they got so far being so dumb.." He laughs and something inside you snaps, you look at him and know you can't continue like this. You don't say anything, just leave. Karaku doesn't follow you. You get home and pack your things, you need some space and safety, so you decide to spend some nights with someone close.

When he goes to your home, looking for you, you're gone. He looks for you inside, repeating several times the same places. He also looked in some odd places like the bathtub, under the bed and the wardrobe. Nothing. He went to look for you again the next night, and the next, and the next. The fourth night he got bored and decided to look for something else to do. He will move on.

Urogi:

Urogi hurts you a lot, but it's all physical and accidentally. You didn't think him able to use something intimate against you, but he did. You know you won't be getting an apology, he won't understand what he did was wrong. Come to think about it, there is a lot of harm he doesn't understand as hurtful. You were just remembering what he told you, trying to joke but only being offensive.

You thought about it, several time, if he did it once he can do it again, he will do it again. Also... is this how you want to spend the rest of your life? Trying to educate your partner? Is that what you want, girl? No. Not really, so, you decided to stop thinking about it and leave. You pack your things and leave over day, when he is away, and won't be able to follow you. You go somewhere else, staying with someone for a while, but you are not dtanding it any longer.

"Y/N! I'm back!" But you are already gone. He looks for you in the house to decide to wait for you, not understanding where you left or why. He waits in your house for days and nights, like a dog waiting for his owner. He really doesn't know why you are gone, but still thinks you might return if he waits. In the end the rest of the clones have to take him forcefully out of your housez destroying part of it in the process. Karaku says Urogi will heal with time, that he will forget you if they find him someone else. So they start looking.

Aizetsu:

Aizetsu is hurtful when he wants to be and only when he wants to be. It's cold, calculated, deep and meaningful. He can't help itz the fact that, that sadder, the most rooted is inside him. He barely does, but he knows how to make others sad, just like he is the sorrow clone. He doesn't like it, but sometimes... sometimes he just want others to feels as sad as they make him, even if it's not their fault, just his very nature as clone.

"Honestly, stop acting as if I couldn't kill you in a snap, don't forget you are just a sad human. Don't patronize me." Said one day he was feeling tired, tried to evade you but you kept following, trying to urge him to talk to you. You both stayed quiet a seconds before you leave, making him sigh. He is there when you start packing up your things, he can hear you, even if you think you are quiet. He knows you intend to go and not return.

And he does nothing about it. He doesn't even say goodbye or watch you leave, only sits and take pity on both. He is the sorrow clone, so the sadness of you leaving doesn't chsnge anything on him. He will move on, but for now he will mourn.

Akaza:

Akaza cares, you know that he does. Part of you feels guilty by this sense of hurt and betrayal when he hasn't done anything. He has never even glanced at other women, talked about others, Akaza is nothing but devoted to you, always ready to comfort, to nurture you. Then why you feel as if he is emotionally cheating on you? There is no other woman, but part of you knows... you ARE the other woman. And it hurts.

He loves you, but you can tell there is someone else he loves more, someone he misses and couldn't be with. You sometimes feel as you are nothing but a replacement. You try to comfort yourself, Akaza also comforts you when you feel bad, assuring you that there is no other woman, that he doesn't meet with anyone else. It's odd, because he is saying the truth, but at the same time.... "Koyuki." He said her name one day instead of yours, and that was all you needed.

"Y/N. Y/N! Please! I'm sorry! I don't know what came to me!" He apologies, almost crying, as you pack up, clearly wanting to stop you but afraid of hurting you if he touches you. You don't listen, you pack your things, only talking to him at the door. "It's over, Akaza. Don't follow me." And he obeys, he just stays there, crying for another missing love.

Douma:

Douma is... it's complicated, he really doesn't know better, because he doesn't know pain the same way you do. He doesn't know that pain... it's bad, you can't even start to comprehend how he doesn't understand that people don't like to be hurt, when he is above pain, sickness and death? When he can't feel anything. That is actually a big insecurity in the relationship, the fact that a traitorous voice in the back of your head reminds your "He can't feel anything, not even love towards you".

You have no idea why you did it, why you thought it was a good idea to ask, to voice out your insecurities... "Douma, what do you think about me? How do you feel for me?" but you did, and it was a mistake. He looks at you a few seconds, only to laught a bit. "Honestly? You are a bit interesting, nothing too much impressive, but I do enjoy being with you. I will make sure to eat you once I have got enough of you, though. I bet you will taste wonderful."

He probably thought he was complimenting you, but you didn't feel it that way. You felt unsafe and hurt, so you decided to leave when he wasn't looking in plain daylight. Douma doesn't look for you, but... if some night, when he is out to kill boredom and time, he finds you... the you will die.

Kokushibou:

Kokushibou ignores you, a lot. He also talks very little. Most part of the relationship you feel it as one-sided, you always have to reach out and even there you feel like you are not appreciated. Sometimes he even ignores you or look at you as if you did something wrong just by greeting him, as if you were annoying, a burden. You have tried to tell him, but as always, it seems to fall on deaf ears. This is not going to last, you know that.

All it took it was one time of him voicing ip this feelinsg instead of giving you a side-eye for you to have enough. "Would you stop bothering me, woman? I want to concentrate." And that was it, after the silent months, you had your limit. You went back home and packed your things to stay with a friend, you need to be with someone that shows care towards you. That is what you tell yourself.

After a month of you not going after him, Kokushibou decides to look after you. Then he finds you are not home, at first he worries, but seeing some of your things missings, he knows you did your choice. It's not his problem anymore then, so he leaves and never comes back. All with the same silence as always.

[stxrshxpxd]

🎄 fic friday;

best friends

90s graham coxon x reader

domestic christmas, childhood friends, sexual tension

“How is your flat suddenly three times smaller than usual?” Graham grumbled from behind the other side of the thick Christmas tree. We had just spent about an hour picking it out and then another half hour carrying it though the city and I was beginning to regret not paying extra for home delivery. Our fingers and noses were freezing cold while we were sweating under our coats and I could barely breathe now when we had finally made it back into my warm flat.

“Hold it,” I ordered as we were barely through the doorway and I let go of the tree, desperately stripping my clammy body of my thick jacket and then my sweater, left in only a thin t-shirt. Graham continued huffing and puffing as he held the tree and tried to keep from poking an eye out with one of the long branches. Despite his frustration I caught the quick glance he gave my torso and I felt weird for a split second.

“Remind me why I’m helping you with this,” he breathed again and his eyes darted up at the ceiling, his somewhat free hand beginning to pry open the buttons of his hot coat.

“Because you’re my best friend,” I sing-songed with a grin and took the tree in my grip again once my body temperature was beginning to even out. It allowed Graham a few seconds to tear his coat off and he too pulled his hoodie off and dropped it to the floor. Before I could even register what I was doing my eyes had wandered too, scanning his broad chest and narrow waist and the bit of his stomach that showed when he struggled to get his hoodie off.

It was true, he was my best and oldest friend but lately these glances had grown more and more common between us, and I couldn’t help but admit that he looked very very cute now with his short hair messy and glasses falling to the tip of his nose.

“Come on then,” Graham sighed and pulled me out of my weird headspace.

We both stumbled through my tiny hallway and made it into the middle of the lounge at last. I let go and took a few steps back, watching the massive tree in the small room and the disheveled Graham next to it. I recognised that it would probably be near impossible to navigate around it and I gave Graham a wonky smile.

“Shut up,” he muttered before I could even say anything and I laughed tiredly, coming back over to the tree and him.

“How much do I have to pay you for us to go back and get a smaller tree?” I teased and got a light punch on the shoulder in response, which I gave back.

“It’s a good tree,” he decided and we both chuckled as he laid his tired arm on top of my head.

“Is that a threat?” I giggled and looked up at his soft face, his glasses pushed back up the root of his nose again.

“Yes, because our friendship is hanging on by a very thin thread,” he joked.

I smiled and absentmindedly let my eyes fall down to his chest and torso again. Maybe he was right.

[a-couple-of-notes]

Too Many Words on Mean Girls the Musical

The discovery of Mean Girls (2024) has sent me into a genuine tailspin, y'all. The adaptation nerd in me is intrigued and screaming. The younger version of myself for whom Mean Girls on Broadway acted as a gateway to musical theater is just screaming. The film school graduate is confused???

I think I'd much rather gush over why the original stage show, despite its flaws, does work--it's generally more fun for me to dissect a thing that I love rather than something I dislike--but the fact is, I am STILL trying to figure out what the hell I actually think about the 2024 movie. I guess this is my flailing, word-vomit style attempt to do so.

Okay, some context: I have watched all three versions in their entirety. I think the 2004 movie is very well-done and absolutely deserves its status as a cultural icon, but I've always connected more with the original Mean Girls musical, which ran on Broadway from 2018-2020. It was one of the first musicals I ever got into, one of the first cast albums I ever bought with my own money, and though over time I came to recognize many of its flaws (the lyrics can be hokey, I wish they'd threaded in Cady's stars motifs better, there's an argument a bajillion people have already made about the girls not being mean enough, etc.), Broadway!MG was always going to hold the peak Mean Girls place in my heart.

But I'm also an adaptation nerd, and I was fully aware of my bias going into the 2024 musical movie. I tried to keep an open a mind as possible, even looking forward to changes and what they might do with new character interpretations or space from cut songs. Maybe I didn't do a good enough job keeping that open mind, because I'm seeing a lot of people who liked the musical saying that this was an okay adaptation. I just. I don't know what they watched. I don't know what I watched.

In roughly chronological (read: increasingly ????) order, a list of bullet points:

I understand the motive behind replacing "It Roars"--not because I think "It Roars" is a weak song, though. I think "It Roars" is actually quite good, despite some debatably rough lyrics; it neatly sets up Cady's excitable energy ("I've got new things to try / like high school, and skateboards, and rapping / and Starbucks venti chai"), her roots in Africa (the drumbeat musical sound, which will recur through Cady's songs), and her naiveté ("Hi teens!"). The transition from African drumbeats/Disney princess to pop/rock as the percussion and guitar kick in really effectively communicates the transition from Cady's world to the world of Western high school. Most importantly, though, "It Roars" introduces us to Cady's fundamental want and a big theme of the show: friendship and belonging. ("They all want to be included like me / so eventually, I'll win!")

But 2024!Cady is a different character, and the movie seems to want to explore different themes (maybe??). So it makes sense that they would need a different opening number, because they're establishing different things. 2024!Cady is quieter, but much more unhappy in Africa; her main want is to live life freely and without regret. Fair enough! That works well with how she'll be challenged in the story, wanting to try living like the Plastics but being forced to hold back in the process. I can get behind that.

HOWEVER. Cady's signature sound is gone, as are pretty much all the signature styles, leaving the musical language of the film much weaker. By replacing "It Roars" but leaving other songs the same ("Apex Predator" and "I See Stars," mostly), they muddy the themes and metaphors threaded throughout. And crucially, they frame "What Ifs" and "Stupid with Love" as dream sequences that get cut off by the Real World of high school.

This is...certainly a decision. It sets up expectations about how the music works in this world that they can't follow through on--there are scenes Cady doesn't see, and therefore cannot dream-musicalize. So when normal people start singing outside Cady's perspective, it's so jarring, because this high school has not been established as a Musical World. (Compounded by the ensemble and the instrumentation sounding thin, and Cady's performance being like it is.)

The establishing of the music as Cady's dream sequences also does a disservice to the real feeling of high school. High school is big and dramatic and the emotions you feel are larger than life. To delineate it so firmly, to have it only be so big and campy in Cady's head, like a sort of "oh, look at that weirdo, thinking that high school is like a musical" feels, to me, so much less genuine.

It sort of felt like if they could have gotten away with playing all the musical numbers as insert songs over the actual action, they would have. They tried so hard.

I think the orchestrations in general are bad and afraid to be a musical. And I don't get people who say that "they had to tone it down for the screen, because you don't have to go as big on screen." I mean, I do, but there is precedent for doing big, loud, ensemble-heavy numbers on screen and it working. Look at The Prom movie, or Hairspray. Look at freaking High School Musical. They could have done it, and it wouldn't have broken the cinema screen or anything.

I love Renee Rapp, I do. But Cady is the protagonist of the story for a reason (just like Emma was the protagonist of The Prom for a reason, and look, the same thing happened there.) Broadway!MG worked because, under all of Regina and Damian's show-stopping numbers, Cady was there as the emotional backbone of the show. You can have your "Stop"s and your "World Burn"s because you have "More is Better" or the reprise of "Fearless" that is tragically missing from the OBC. I always had the sense in the show that everything would eventually feed into Cady's arc; she would learn something from the number (or refuse to), and/or whatever happened through the song would affect her behavior going forward. The sense I get from 2024!Cady is that she exists to be swallowed up by Renee Rapp, which, good for her, but it can't support the narrative.

In general, they've just gutted a lot of Cady's internality by cutting her songs (and her musical asides! Justice for the musical asides!), leading to this lack of agency/accountability/character. Which I find dishearteningly funny, given that the Broadway cast have talked about how this was an issue the creative team was aware of in the original stage show, and how hard they worked to fix it.

I disagree with the notion that the dialogue scenes could replace the impact of these songs. I just don't see it. Once you add musical numbers, you're adding emphasis--here's the big emotional moments I want you to pay attention to. And the emotion dips back down, so we talk--and here's another big emotion, so music, pay attention. The 2024 movie has told us what it considers important: the fun numbers and the Plastics, mostly Regina. And that completely kneecaps the core narrative arc (as well as the pacing, because we're speeding through in weird places before stopping down for a full Regina song).

I just. I really don't know why (narratively--I understand the meta-reasons and they're bad) they cut "More is Better." I'm not joking when I say the movie would have been significantly better with it in. It would have improved the pacing, at least in a musical sense, because going straight from "Revenge Party" to "Someone Gets Hurt (Reprise)" left a surprisingly noticeable gap that made me wonder if they'd forgotten what they were adapting. It would have given Cady a little more voice, and it would have fit really well thematically with what should have been the arc of 2024!Cady--living without holding back, living sincerely. (Also, since Aaron is literally the only person this Cady cares about, that reality check would have packed an even greater wallop.)

I will give credit to the scene with Cady crying as her mom comforts her. That was a good scene.

I was glad they reprised "What Ifs" briefly in the Mathletes competition, although I do miss "Do This Thing," especially because I think it would have worked with 2024!Cady's character arc.

Also, I do sort of get putting "Stupid with Love" over the Mathletes/getting ready for prom, but why the "calcu-lust" portion of the song? And why is it the only song to depart from the musical style this movie is determined to stick to (I'm not counting Damian's iCarly rendition, great as it is--that's meant to be a joke.)

"I See Stars." Okay. Unironically, I love this song as the ending of the Broadway show. I do. You can fight me on it. In Broadway!MG, Cady's driving want is the need to belong, the need for friends; "I See Stars" is her reaching out to the other students (and the audience) and "including" everyone, finally achieving that sense of belonging and friendship by being kind to everyone. The ensemble all coming in and saying "We're all stars," when at the beginning they are so opposed to her ("Just ignore her!") or focused on Regina warms my heart every time. It so earnestly resolves the thematic through line (and also I love Erika's voice).

HOWEVER, it does not work in the 2024 movie. 2024!Cady's desire has never been about friends or belonging. Again, she wants to be herself and live without regrets. I could buy that she would sing an inspirational finale a la "I'd Rather Be Me" or a rousing reprise of "What Ifs" to say something like "we can all do what we want AND be kind to each other." But the thematic throughline to "I See Stars" is much thinner--and the ensemble doesn't even sing together! It defeats the original power of the songs and makes it one more insert song.

I guess what confuses me about this movie the most is that the two takes I've seen are "they changed everything about the arrangements, now it sucks" and "must a movie be good? I enjoy the 2024 movie for what is is." I generally dislike the arrangements, yes, but I think changes to a source material can be interesting and worthwhile, and honestly, the musical arrangements/production is only one of many problems I had with the movie.

And on the other hand, I think I'm frustrated because I wish I could enjoy the 2024 movie for what it is. After all, I enjoy Broadway!MG for what it is, calcu-lust and all.

But maybe that's why--Broadway!MG knows what it is, and genuinely, goofily revels in it. Mean Girls (2024) is a wild mishmash of pop music and TikToks playing over Renee Rapp and the amalgamation of three different scripts of Mean Girls, filmed by a camera that won't stop spinning. That is to say, I don't think Mean Girls (2024) has any more of an idea what it is than I do.

[divineblcth]

Unfinished, Undeniable

Our story didn’t start on an app or in some random way—it started in church, when we were just kids. I was about to turn 15, planning my quinceañera, and that’s the whole reason I even went to those youth classes. I say we met at 15, he says 14—but either way, it was divine timing. We’d skip youth group, hold hands, sneak innocent little kisses. It was sweet, soft, pure.

Turns out, we knew some of the same people. He even went to my school at one point, but I didn’t know him back then. It wasn’t until church that I saw him. Later, I invited him to prom. He said yes… but left me hanging. I had the ticket and everything. That moment stung, and after that, we didn’t talk for years.

But life has a way of circling back. We started talking again, hanging out here and there, going back and forth like some weird cosmic ping-pong. We had small moments—physical intimate moments—but nothing ever got deep enough to root. The energy was never right for us to truly hold space for each other.

Then life split us apart. We each found other people… who taught us deep pain.

I ended up in an on-and-off relationship with Ian from 2019 to 2024. It got dark—domestic violence, trauma, survival.

There were moments when John reached out during that time, but I had to block him. Ian caught wind of it early on, but nothing ever came of it after that.

Fast forward to a couple days after my son’s birthday, March 2024. I finally leave Ian. For good. I don’t go back.

In June, I message John again.

Life throws me into another short relationship—a white guy, same patterns, narcissistic vibes—I move in, see the signs, and leave. Posing as a fake twin flame. A karmic mirror. We trauma bonded.

Come August, John finally sees my message.

And this time… something clicks.

We start talking. Not in a love story kind of way—but more like soul fragments trying to remember each other.

I asked him about his spiritual journey. He told me he was on one. Said he was figuring it out.

I don’t think he was fully awake before I messaged him. But something I did—or just the timing of it all—sparked something. And he began awakening.

Since then, it’s been waves.

Blocking. Unblocking. Silence. Signs. Telepathy. Longing. Energy exchanges that don’t make logical sense—but make perfect soul sense.

We haven’t labeled it. We haven’t had a full-out talk about it. But I know he knows. I feel it.

I’ve seen visions. I’ve felt our daughter in spirit—an angel waiting to be born from us, telling me she chose us for a reason. She’s made herself known over and over.

And I know she will come… when we’re both ready. When we’ve healed enough to receive her.

People wouldn’t understand. They’d ask 3D questions like, “Have y’all gone out?” or “When did you meet?”

And honestly, I can’t even give a straight answer that would make sense.

Because this isn’t about dates or dinners. This is soul shit. This is something ancient and beyond logic.

This whole thing has been like a mirror.

It’s made me face everything I didn’t want to look at—love, longing, rejection, abandonment wounds, sacred rage.

It’s cracked me open and shown me where I still need to grow.

And now…

After all the hope, the prayers, the signs, the holding on…

I had to make the hardest decision yet.

I didn’t cut the cord. I placed it down. Like a silver thread wrapped in love and grief—tucked away with reverence.

Still connected. Still real. Still vibrating softly in some unseen dimension.

But for now, it’s waiting.

Waiting to be touched again—when it can be touched with clean hands and an awakened heart.

It hurts. Deeply.

But I know this pain is sacred. It’s part of my evolution.

Even though I get mad… even though I regret being vulnerable sometimes…

I know this isn’t silly. This connection has been real.

Maybe not in a way people get—but in the way I feel it.

And if he ever does wake up fully…

He’ll know where to find me.

But by then, I won’t be standing in the same place.

I’ll be higher. Softer. Sharper. Whole.

Still unfinished.

Still undeniable.

But finally… free.

[solifloris]

≡;-꒰ 𝑿𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑹 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni

tags : 5+1 trope, pwp (porn with plot), porn with feelings (a. LOT.), poetic descriptions, fluff, with slight angst undertones, references to cards “moment’s respite” “close feelings” “fragment of time” "lightseeking obsession",  unrequited but actually requited love, yearning, miscommunication, love confessions, reader is drunk in scene 5, slow dancing, kissing, heavy petting, grinding, fingering, clit play, slight nipple play, multiple orgasms, first time sex (with each other), vaginal sex (raw), needy sex, creampie, praise, dirty talk, use of pet names “angel” “my starlight”. lmk if i missed any tags !! ((slightly unedited))

wc : 13.4k (😭)

an : PHEW OK. i'm going back to my roots guys ... this is LONG, embarRASINGLY LONG but. if you want to skip to the Fun Part, that's in scene 6 (which is like. more than half of the entire thing really) !! also, play the song as you read i promise you won’t regret it <3

taglist : @spotted-salamander @darlingdummycassandra @milkandstarlight @thoupenguinman @valyvinny [sign up here!] / +tyty @unluckywisher for beta reading a part of this the other day 🥺

AO3 LINK 🔗

Five times he couldn't say “I love you”... And one time he actually did.

—ᴏɴᴇ.

“Do you think Lemonette will finally stop bothering us for a while?”

You stifled a yawn as you walked up to your apartment, Xavier’s own footsteps following not too far behind you. The yellow wanderer had been roaming the city causing trouble, and you thought you’d gotten rather sick of seeing its face around—especially now that it had kept you both awake, the threads of sleep having slipped from you both the instant your watch went off. In that moment, a glance at the time told you that it was well past midnight. The sky surrounding the building was darker than dark, light from neither the moon nor stars enough to bring you out of it, the only comfort being the dim gleam of the hallway lights.

“We gave it a good beating, at least…” came his reply, and you shouldn’t have been so surprised to hear the grogginess present in his voice—as if he hadn’t been a large part of the reason Lemonette was rather… annihilated, for lack of a better word.

You smiled.

“Yeah, and no less thanks to you for it,” you chuckled, stretching as the door to your apartment finally came into view. You realized that you’d never once thought you wanted to be in bed any more than you did in that moment.

A momentary silence fell, and you stood by the doorway, turning around to face him.

Xavier remained still.

He seemed contemplating, scanning over your figure, fingers reaching out tentatively… only to fall back to his sides.

“Xavier?”

The call of your voice prompted a shake of his head, and a hint of embarrassment flashed briefly in his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled.

It wasn’t nothing.

“You’re not… injured, are you?”

A smile spread on your lips, then.

So he was worried.

“It’s just a scratch,” you shrugged. “You know how it is. Just the usual stuff, I don’t even need first aid for it. It’ll be fine.”

Still, he didn’t move.

“So… Will you be able to sleep okay?”

It was almost comical how he said it, what with how obviously sleepy his own gaze had turned. Eyelids heavy, slow blinks in your direction, as if everything he was doing in that moment was with the intention of conserving as much energy as he could… He was tired. Just as tired as you were. Just as jolted out of his sleep as you had been.

You nodded your head, and reached over to give his shoulder a pat.

“I’ll be okay. Really. Maybe it’s since I’m tired from all of that, but I feel like I could get some pretty good rest! I don’t want to keep bothering you with my sleeping problems, anyway…”

Your eyes met, then.

Xavier’s searched yours, as if trying to ascertain that you weren’t just brushing it off. And this time, he seemed to let impulsivity win—or, whatever it was that made him reach out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

His touch was soft. Gentle. Much like it always was; much like he always was, especially when it came to you. It lingered, the feeling of his skin against your ear, settling to rest by your cheek—and perhaps that was what made it feel more intimate, and soothing, than it otherwise would have been.

You didn’t know it could be so comforting just to look at someone like this.

To share a pause in thought, to enjoy the presence of each other… to have a little bit of your worries melt away the way that they did…

The moment offered more solace than you thought it ever could.

But Xavier tended to have that effect on you.

He always made you feel safe.

“Xavier?” You mumbled, your hand reaching up to rest on his wrist.

“Mh?”

“Um… Thanks. It’s not so bad, even if Lemonette had to bother us tonight. Since… I have you, after all.”

And at that, you watched him smile.

Somehow, the dim lighting around his figure made him appear all the more ethereal than he usually did.

“I think the same,” he nodded.

His hand dropped back to his side, then. His mouth opened and closed for a moment, as if trying to weigh what to say next, before he took a prompt step backwards.

“...Goodnight.”

It was soft, the way he said it. You could have missed it if you weren’t paying attention, and something told you that it wasn’t quite… what he had meant to say.

Still, you smiled.

“Goodnight, Xavier.”

In the end, it wasn’t so bad, like this.

—ᴛᴡᴏ.

How many days was it, now, that you’d found yourself in such a situation?

You stood in his kitchen, hands on your hips, looking at the tray of cookies in front of you. Much to your dismay, they were mostly charred, or otherwise deformed, or otherwise… much too expanded to be considered presentable. Your gaze raised to meet a very expectant one, blue eyes nearly twinkling, and you thought—how could he be so confident?

“Xavier,” you started, and you crossed your arms for emphasis.

It was in an instant that you saw him deflate. If he had ears like a rabbit—a thought you’d had for quite some time now—you were certain they would be folding over his face in near-mortification.

Or guilt, perhaps.

You weren’t quite sure which one it was.

You were sure, however, that it was difficult to scold him properly with the kind of expression he was giving you.

You reached up to scratch your cheek; “It’s not terrible… I mean, you’re getting better…”

“...I followed your instructions, though…” You watched him lean over the counter to take a look at what had become of the cookies, and then he, too, found his nose wrinkling in distaste. “They don’t turn out very well, do they?”

“On the plus side… They don’t taste bad!”

To make a point, you held up a cookie and took a cheerful bite.

“...Well, you know. Aside from the burnt ones, I guess…”

A pout formed on his face with ease, and with the way he’d been leaning over, you were able to notice the slight flutter of his eyelashes with every blink.

For a moment, your heart skipped a beat.

“How are you so good at baking?” he sighed. “I know you’ve been trying to help… But is there something you’re not telling me?” His voice sounded a little dejected, more emotion seeping into it than usual, and you could see his desire to learn reflected cleanly in his gaze. Xavier wasn’t often this expressive. You knew he was genuine with all of this, and especially with all of the impromptu baking lessons that he’d dragged you into.

Not that you ever complained, of course.

To you, any moment you got to spend with him was one of comfort; an opportunity you could never bring yourself to pass up on. 

Even if these moments often ended up in…

You took another look at the cookies.

Well, burnt things.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

You knew you weren’t supposed to, and you watched his expression change from one of gloom to that of bewilderment. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as if trying to understand your sudden outburst—and with Xavier, you found, it was this expression that you so unabashedly adored. The confusion made him seem akin to a lost puppy, innocence in his eyes unveiled, a sincere glimpse into the person he didn’t often let you see.

This, with the way the sunlight streamed in through the window, the placement of his kitchen aptly weaved into the path of the sun, made the moment all the more heartwarming.

This was why you could never decline his invitations.

If only to see a little bit more of him the way that you were…

Your laughter settled into a grin, and you shook your head.

“Nothing, it’s just… Xavier, you’re so… So…” You made vague gestures with your hands, trying to find a suitable word. “So cute.”

The confusion in his face no less settled at that, but he crossed his arms. “...Well, so are you.”

You paused.

Your eyes widened.

In retrospect, it wasn’t as if this was anything new. Quips like this would often come out of nowhere; you’d learned to get a little bit used to it. That was the Xavier you were familiar with.

But there was something about the way he said it this time that made your heart skip another beat.

It had been doing that quite often in his presence, as of late.

The softness, perhaps; the directness, perhaps—or maybe it was the way the depth in his eyes made it seem a little more real. He met your gaze head-on, never wavering, never taking back what he’d said.

But in another split second, that moment was gone—and just as you had meant to tease him, now it didn’t seem like the words held much weight for him. There was an easy smile on his face, his eyes softened ever so slightly, but then he reached out for his own cookie to taste. And it was almost as if he hadn’t said anything at all. It was so typical of him to act so nonchalant about it.

Perhaps, part of you wished that he had said something more.

You cleared your throat.

“A- anyway,” you dusted some crumbs off of your clothes, “you can just—you know, try again later? You could follow along with a demonstration, or something… Maybe it was a little much just to recount the recipe to you. But, I really still think you’re improving! This’s a lot better than the last time we baked already, so with more practice I think you—”

Your words felt swallowed down in your throat, his eyes watching you with such intensity that you nearly had to take a step back.

“You’re amazing.”

Huh?

“You’re good at a lot of things. I don’t think I know what I’d be doing with all of this if you weren’t here.”

Again he spoke, with the follow of silent words that, to you, seemed like they never really made it out of his mouth. Like there was something more, something else he would have loved to say out loud, but he… didn’t.

As if he were holding back.

He took the tray from you, setting it aside, his eyes following the sunlight. You noticed him squinting slightly when he found its source, acting, as always, as if he didn’t just say something that could get the butterflies in your stomach acting up. As if the push and pull that had consumed most of the days you’d been spending together as of late didn’t… exist.

You almost didn’t know what to make of it, until he opened his mouth to speak again.

“Can we do this again, sometime?”

“I—huh?”

“I like baking with you.”

His head turned back to face you, and there was a small smile playing on his lips—one that mirrored the one you’d had just moments ago.

“Let’s do this again sometime.”

It wasn’t a question anymore, but a statement.

You swallowed down the fluster in your throat, feeling as if the implications of his words were a lot more than just… This.

But you offered a smile. “O…okay. Yeah. I… I would like that, too.”

It was so difficult to say no to him.

…Not that you’d ever want to say no, anyway.

—ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ.

He would do that quite often, you found.

Your eyebrows knitted together as you glanced up from your textbook, only to find him, chin in his hand, not at all paying attention to the book laid out in front of him. Blue eyes bore into your own, and though that selfsame flurry of butterflies whirled around in your chest, you only crossed your arms at him in response.

The library was quiet.

You were the only ones here at this hour, quite early into the morning, save for a few people scattered in their seats here and there. The only sounds were a few hushed whispers every now and then, the rustling of paper, perhaps the sound of a book closing, a chair scraping. Menial sounds, if only to add to the environment.

Sure, it was a perfect conduit for thoughts to wander, for sleeping to be induced, but—but he promised. He promised to help you study for this exam, or at the very least, that he would study with you so you wouldn't feel alone in it.

Yet here he was, not taking it as seriously as you'd hoped him to.

“What are you even looking at?” you nearly whined, your voice lower so as not to disturb the people around you that were reading. “A library is made for reading, you know…”

You didn't know how to feel at the expression he gave you, rather relaxed and unconcerned, head moving in a little nod. He gestured towards the open book before him; “I have a book,” he spoke matter-of-factly.

You gave him a pout.

“Yes, but you're not reading it…”

“I'm… doing more important things.”

“...Like what?”

“Studying.”

You couldn't tell if he was being serious, but his words definitely made it seem like he was playing around. In fact, had his tone not been so direct, you could have thought he was mocking you.

“Are you making fun of me?” you huffed. “If you didn't want to come here with me, you could've just said so, you know.” You made a face, and then promptly rolled your eyes. “You're not even looking at your book. What are you studying, then?”

And then he smiled. 

And it was less irritating to you than it was worrisome, for there was something about that smile that made you feel caught. 

Though in what, you weren't quite sure yet.

“Xavie—”

“You.”

You blinked, your words cut off, your brows furrowed in confusion. “...What?”

“You, I'm studying you.”

He reached over and brushed against your hair, knuckles just barely grazing over the side of your head, nearly akin to a slight flutter of the wind. In an instant, you felt a faint trace of dust fall down onto the table. Your eyes followed it, the moment passing in silence.

You bewilderedly blew it away.

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak just yet, only quite having the mental fortitude to look back up at him, the confusion on your face ever more evident.

“There was something in your hair,” he smiled.

Your face flushed, then, and you weren't unaware of the particular gleam in his eyes. He might have been stating the truth, but he was obviously still… teasing.

“Xavier—!”

A finger to your lips, this time, and there was no holding back the smile that formed on his own.

“Shhh,” he spoke quietly, “it's a library. You have to be quiet.”

You couldn't help the way your cheeks bloomed into shades of pink, and you lowered your head back to your book, defeated.

He didn't know the things he made you feel.

There was little sense left in you to find some kind of retort.

—ꜰᴏᴜʀ.

“You have kind of a funny interest in all of these legends,” you mused, following him with more careful footsteps.

Your eyes focused on the cone of ice cream in your hands, delighted at the appearance that you were promised. Though you had to plod through such a touristy place such as this for it, you were glad to have the bunny-shaped sundae cone finally right there in front of you. Holding it up a little, you tilted your head to compare the side-by-side image of the vanilla ears with Xavier, and smiled to yourself.

It kind of looked like him.

Little white ears matched the shade of his hair, and you figured it was maybe just missing those blue eyes you loved so much.

The person in question, on the other hand, seemed to have other ideas on his agenda.

He barely noticed your little self-satisfying antics, brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the navigation app you’d installed on his phone. It was endearing how adamant he’d been on sticking with an old-fashioned map; this was a side to him you found that you adored dearly. Moving to circle around him, your eyes shone at his expression of concentration, his eyes narrowed, lips jutted out slightly into somewhat of a pout.

God, you really…

The thought remained uncompleted, and you cleared your throat.

“Xavier,” you reached up to lower his phone, shuffling closer to him to take a peek. “I really don’t think it’s that far… If you’re having trouble with it, just give it to me and—”

The phone screen shut as his finger moved over the lock button, and he promptly put it back into his pocket. A little smile, and a shake of his head, and then his arms were steering you forward as if nudging you along to continue walking.

“Nope,” he said, with a shake of his head to emphasize it. “I’ve studied it enough. We just have to walk a little bit in that direction. We’ll see the lovers’ bridge, then.”

Your eyebrows raised in amusement.

You let him steer you, felt the way his hand moved from over your shoulder to back by his sides, your hands brushing every so often. The only way you could distract yourself from it was to stare intensely at the ice cream in your other hand, one that had endured a few little kitten licks from you, but had its shape more obviously affected by the warmer temperature around you. You wondered, in the back of your mind, if it would last before you got to the bridge at all.

“Why do you want to go there, anyway?” You risked a glance back up at him as you spoke.

This little trip, in and of itself, had been planned on very much a whim—or, you supposed, not very planned, at all. But you could recount the few times you had been out with Xavier, and they had often been on your invite. This time, it was he who had insisted on dragging you out along with him, all to find the so-called Lovers’ Bridge that was infamous for its ‘good fortune’.

The white pedestrian bridge, stretching over the river in a sleek, sophisticated figure, had been used as a filming location for a number of romance movies. Of course, these were films that you had seen… But ones you knew Xavier had yet to, especially with the way he usually avoided all those sappy titles in the first place.

It was odd enough that he'd want to visit the bridge for such a reason… Yet there was more.

And you had found out about those reasons not more than a day before you’d left.

Because more than filming locations, was the superstition behind the bridge—a bridge that had completed its construction on Valentine’s Day, thus earning its name. And it had been swirling with promises and legends ever since, ones that reached the ears of even those outside the area. According to what had spread online, crossing the bridge with the one that you loved would ensure a long and happy life with them as a couple. And something churned in the pit of your stomach as you mulled over the thought, tongue darting out for another few licks on the treat that you held.

The taste of vanilla was cooling on your mouth, a welcoming rush of sugar that served as a means for you to ground yourself a little.

Because you and Xavier were not a couple.

In fact, you were far from it.

You were friends; yes, neighbors; yes, colleagues; yes.

Lovers?

The thought brought a blush to your cheeks, because you wished that you were. And you were aware that sometimes, the both of you tended to act like you were. You spent nearly every moment that you could together, the lingering warmth of his touches and his presence near you whenever he could be near you were burned into your memory.  The rumours at the Association didn’t fall on deaf ears, either. You knew what people were saying about the both of you, and you oftentimes wished them true—you did. The affections you held for him were undeniable.

But that was quite frankly not the reality you lived in.

Xavier had never been clear about it with his signals, nor direct about his feelings, nor—nor anything else. Nothing official had ever occurred between either of you, not in this oddly-structured game of tag, so shrouded in this push and pull, where the rules remained ambiguous, and where the outcomes presented just as vague.

And it was a terrifying thing to assume.

Yet, without properly explaining why… he had been adamant all day to walk straight into it—the bridge, its surrounding legend, all of it. 

“When good luck is involved, it’s better to believe they exist. You have nothing to lose.”

Those were words he was fond of saying, and the only words he would ever use to give you a reason.

The same could be said for this moment.

You found yourself being thoughtful as you fell into step with him, eyes scanning your surroundings, watching the couples that seemed to float in and out of your peripheral vision. There weren’t as many of them as you thought there would be—the bridge was now in your line of sight, its pearly-white structure jumping out against the backdrop of the setting sun. At the very front of its steps was a little bed of flowers; blue, you noted, tinted ever so slightly with the swirl of cotton candy from the clouds above.

The river below it rippled with a darkening pinkish hue.

The sun would be below the horizon in just a few moments.

And at the same time, in perhaps a minute or two, the bridge would be lit up in an equally captivating display of beautiful colors.

Even without the legend, you wouldn’t have minded getting to see something so pretty.

“...Your ice cream is melting.”

You blinked at his voice, your eyes drawing away from the scenery and back to him.

It could have been the shadows of the sunset that made him shine a little brighter in your eyes, now, that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to formulate any sort of response.

His eyes softened, the gentle breeze brushing through his hair.

Sometimes, you thought, there was something about him so inexplicably out of reach. Yet here he was, giving you attention, reaching for your hands, allowing for the heat from his skin to linger upon your own for even just a moment…

And then in these moments, you couldn’t help but think of how lucky you were.

“Aren’t you going to finish that?” he mumbled. There was a slight shift of his gaze towards the cone in your hand, before he looked at you again. “It might make your hand all sticky if we go and walk on the bridge right now…”

He was right, of course.

Your own gaze drifted down to the hand with your ice cream, now less of a rabbit, and more of the standard scoop of ice cream for all that it had melted. Parts of it had even begun to drip down onto your hand, but you had barely noticed the feeling.

“Oh, I… I mean, we can wait for the lights to turn on first, so…”

Blinking again as if to snap yourself out of your reverie, you lifted your hand—

Xavier beat you to it.

He had his thumb and index finger wrapped around your wrist, slowly pulling it towards him.

A smile.

You didn’t miss that smile, how could you? Slight, and perhaps, barely visible otherwise, but your breath caught in your throat—Something had you gravitating towards him, nearly entranced in the heat of his stare, sucking in a sharp intake of breath as his tongue darted out to lick at the stains of vanilla that ran over your palm.

You were blushing, probably.

You couldn’t even tell, at that point.

Soft, tiny little kitten clicks at your skin, almost as if to clean up the mess—you couldn’t really have bothered to focus on the expression you were making, feeling your own heart beat so loudly out of your chest that you were certain he could hear it.

“Xavier…” you mumbled.

His eyes twinkled, and he moved his mouth to the treat in your hand, taking a bite of his own.

“Can’t let it go to waste, right?” he licked at his lips.

The clusters of people, then, long-forgotten in the moment you had dared to share with each other, let out a resounding exclamation at amazement, as a click resounded in the air and the bridge before the both of you erupted into dazzling colors. Yet, your skin still tingled at the feeling of his touch, and you felt dazed as you turned your eyes back to him.

“I guess we, um… We should finish this before we go…?”

He chuckled, and then he nodded—“I… Think vanilla isn’t a bad flavor.”

—ꜰɪᴠᴇ.

The spin in your head made your vision hazy. You couldn’t remember, anymore, what time it was—only that your system had become intoxicated long past coherence, and the grass you sat on had a strangely soothing texture to it. And in front of you, right then, was that red, empty solo cup you’d brought with you outside.

You vaguely made out some loud music, and a voice in the background—Tara’s, probably. But you couldn’t be bothered to decipher what she was saying. You didn’t register that she was actually right beside you, trying to keep you engaged in conversation, a hand over your shoulder.

How long it had been like this?

You weren’t quite sure, either.

What you could remember was that Tara had planned a little girls’ party of her own, and it had gotten bigger than anticipated… And you supposed you’d ended up drinking more than you’d expected to. Eventually, you found yourself out in her front yard. It was the night breeze that felt comforting, despite the cold. There were stars out that night—a few of them shone brilliantly above you, and though you weren’t looking at them anymore, their presence made you smile.

It was only when a shadow passed over your figure that you looked up again, head lolled a little to the side, rapid blinks trying to steady on the person in front of you.

“There you are!” Tara stood up from beside you, dusting off some of the dirt from her pants. With a grunt, she managed to pull you up, though your weight naturally rested on her shoulders. Unbeknownst to you, she let out a pleading sigh. “Sorry, Xav… I didn’t notice how much she drank until she went wandering out here…”

Oh…

Xav.

The nickname registered in your head, and your vision, a little less blurry at the snap the information had given you, managed to form Xavier’s figure in front of you. His hair was a little unruly, the white hoodie so familiar on him a little more disheveled than you knew it to be—his eyes, too, held a certain level of concern that you were able to make out.

He had probably been sleeping.

There was a twinge of guilt that lapsed over your face, but it didn’t last—his presence brought on a giddiness you couldn’t have thought to control, and a lopsided grin easily came to prove it.

You slid off of Tara to fall straight into his arms; the scent of his laundry detergent had you sighing. It was almost by instinct that your arms wrapped around his waist.

“Xavier…”

A nuzzle against his chest had Tara clearing her throat then, and she made a pointed gesture.

“Well! She couldn’t stop talking about you, so I figured you were the person I should call! Sorry, really! I didn’t realize it would get this out of hand, but I do need to get to the other guests, too, so I hope I can leave her in your hands! Thanks, Xavier!”

You didn’t notice her leave, not until you felt a warm hand on your back, a familiar, soothing voice speaking softly into your ear.

“Hey… Let’s get you home. Let me just… Call a cab, and—”

“...But you’ll just leaveeee…”

He paused.

“I’m… Taking you home, so you can get some rest.”

“T’my place?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ll stay w’me?”

The silence that followed only had you clinging to him tighter.

“Seeee…! You’re not answering! You’re gonna leave me ‘gain… And I dunno when I’ll see you again, n’theenn…!”

Your voice trailed off on its own, resorting to nuzzling against him, feeling as if parting from him in this moment would never give you another to hold him so close like this.

But it didn’t last.

The fact was: Xavier was gentle with you; still.

Patient. 

Enough to pry you away from him, enough to get you to comply to get in the cab with him, enough to usher you up to your apartment and unlock the door… until the familiar warmth of your couch had you happily sprawling out, hugging the pillows close to you.

You barely had any recollection of what had happened; it was enough for you to know that he had been with you.

That he was still with you.

“Xavie…”

Your hands reached out for his, registering late that you’d been reaching for the glass of water he was holding rather than the hands themselves.

And you frowned.

“Huh? C’mere… Wan’ hold you…”

You made out the shake of his head, gentle gestures to sit you up properly on the couch.

“You have to drink water first,” came his reply.

His voice was so soft.

You could let it get to your head, the mere sound of it bringing a silly grin onto your face, a giggle bubbling past your throat. “Oooh… Can you say it again?”

It was clearly nonsensical, and you noted yet another shake of his head, the patience in his eyes ever evident despite all of your antics. It could only make you giggle even more, your hands falling to your lap, expression clearly very much out of it.

Until—

“Angel… You’re too drunk. You really need to drink this.”

Angel.

The giggles, the laughter, all stopped abruptly. You felt your expression shift into that of wonder, your eyes wide and blinking curiously. Somehow, the nickname sent all kinds of flutters into your stomach—ones you couldn’t bring yourself to understand, especially in the state that you were in.

You leaned forward:

“You’re right… You’re like an angel…”

Your voice was light and airy, nearly akin to a gasp, and perhaps you might have giggled it off again had Xavier not reacted with a sigh. Because before you could do anything else, he moved his hand to rest gently over the curve of your spine, bringing the glass up to your lips.

It registered, then.

Your response was immediate, as if nearly conditioned, allowing him to tilt the glass upwards. You found yourself eagerly gulping at the water as it flowed down your throat; you hadn’t realized how much you needed the water. You were suddenly all the more grateful he had given it to you, gasping for air once the glass had been drained empty, and then blinking to look at him through hazy eyes.

“Better?” he murmured.

The hand on your back gave you soft, gentle rubs as he set the glass down, and then he reached up to brush the strands of hair from out of your face.

Immediately, you stilled. All traces of your giggles seemingly washed away with the water you’d drunk. You certainly didn’t feel any less intoxicated than earlier, but his touch through your shirt, and the soft caress on your cheek, felt all the more heightened that this moment felt nearly surreal to you. It was then that you could notice those favorite blue eyes of yours, staring into your own, searching your own, soft, and full of worry, and—

And something else. 

Something you weren’t coherent enough to put a label to.

But something that caused tears to well up in your eyes.

“Xavie,” you pouted, though you kept relatively still nonetheless, if only to lean more into his touch. “Why’re you lookin’ a’me like that?”

You caught the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, but he didn’t move away.

“Like what, angel?”

That nickname again.

You groaned as you fell back against the couch, grabbing a pillow to bring it up to your face.

Something about that nickname was driving you insane.

You felt your cheeks flush a cherry red, not just from the alcohol, and more likely from whatever else he was making you feel. You couldn’t quite tell what expression you were making, hidden behind the pillow, fighting some sort of giddy urge to let out a squeal. You didn’t even know how you had the space to overanalyze it. But the questions swirled in your head before you could stop it—has he said it to anyone else before? Was it just… you? Was it supposed to be… Common, and you weren’t aware of it?

The possibilities that plagued you only allowed another groan to sneak past your lips;

“Wh- why’re you callin’ me that, too! A-an’ being all soft with me, s’like… like you mean something…”

You felt the couch shift beside you, and although you still refused to look at him, you felt yourself naturally gravitating into his warmth.

“Do you… want me to mean something?”

This time, you sniffled.

Saved from his gaze, you quickly moved to bury your face back into his hoodie, allowing yourself to focus on his scent, on the way he held you like this, on the way—for even just a moment—he felt… yours.

“Dunnoooo,” you whined. “I’unno what you’re thinking… I never knowww what you’re thinking! Always so nice to me n’then you leave me all alone the next, then I’unno where to find you anymore… Say all these things n’keep me all close t’you, then you act like nothin’ happened…”

You rambled into his chest, your voice slurred and muffled into the fabric, gripping at his hoodie as if he could disappear in any next second. They were similar words to what you’d said by Tara’s front yard, similar feelings of refusing to let him go. But speaking them out with more clarity—whatever clarity you could muster the way you were speaking now—felt like twisting a knife into your heart.

Because all your thoughts had been clouded with him.

They were all-consuming, deliberately buried down into the pit of your stomach only to resurface with an intensity you could barely fathom yourself. How he’d been treating you, the words that he’d say… For the past days, for the past weeks, just—just him. Him, and his eyes, and his hair, and his voice. His touch. His presence. His comfort.

The Xavier you knew you’d come to love.

A hiccup bubbled in your throat, and you let out a quiet whimper in attempts to quell it.

Love.

Was that the emotion you couldn’t pinpoint?

Was that what you were feeling?

The visceral grip that he had on everything that you were; was that what you could call… Love?

“This isn’t the kind of time we should be talking about this…” You felt him murmur into your hair, a soft kiss placed on the crown of your head. Yet he wasn’t pulling away. He kept his hand on your back, soft, gentle caresses, trying to soothe you from the outpour of emotions you had barely the consciousness to control. “You’re not going to remember this tomorrow. How about we talk about it then?”

“B-but… But you always make excuses!” 

“Angel…”

You looked up this time, sniffling in irregulated breaths, eyes watery with tears that were threatening to spill.

“You can’t call me that!” you insisted. Your hands balled into a fist. “D’you know what that means?! W-what if it’s making my heart all restless? N’you can act all calm like it’s nothing!”

“...I’m sorry…”

“An’—an’ you’re… You’re so warm… You’re like a fluffy cloud… N’what if you leave? What if you’re only here ‘cause m’like this, and then the rain passes n’you just leave me all alone again, an’... then the sky won’t have any stars, either, n’I’ll be all alone—”

You could register the mix of confusion and concern on his face, your words barely making sense even to you, but your grip on his hoodie remained tight. You felt it, the way your tears rolled down your cheeks, your own expression a mix of desperation and a confusion that likely mirrored his own.

“Just… Just don’t… Don’t leave, Xavie…” you felt your lower lip tremble. “I’on wanna be left all alone… M’scared… I’on wan’ you t’leave…”

Your voice became smaller and smaller with each word, and you were left there, sniffling for a moment, looking up at him with a certain kind of hopelessness.

You were aware, at least, that you likely looked pathetic in his gaze like this.

“...M’sorry, Xav, I-I’unno what…”

Your words swallowed back into your throat when he reached out, brushing his thumb over your cheeks, over the corners of your eyes, wiping away your tears. His touch, as always, felt like a gentle caress. Patient, despite the incoherence of your thoughts and your actions; kind, despite the way you were keeping him here with you very likely against his will.

But he squeezed your hand.

You knew what that meant.

You gulped, looking up at him again, allowing his touch to lull you into a calm as it often did.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled. “I won’t leave. You have me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Through the haze of your eyes, half blurred from the alcohol and half from the tears, you caught the softening of his gaze. He moved closer, a little bit—slow, steady movements. And then he pulled your arm back over him, his own moving to rest in your hair… Until you were encased in the warmth of his embrace.

Almost just as earlier, except this time more… real.

He didn’t feel like an afterimage, not now.

Not in this moment.

His head dipped down, nuzzling against your neck, and he sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way, I’ll… I’ll do better. I’ll stay with you. I’ll be right here.”

His breath tickled your skin when he spoke. And, to you, these were words that you felt were more genuine than you had heard from him in a while. It was enough to have you comfortably settling into his hold, eyes falling closed, breaths beginning to even you out.

Your head still throbbed.

It was a combination of everything; all of these feelings, and the alcohol that had planted itself into your system far past any level of sensibility.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you wouldn’t recall any of this when you woke up the next day.

You tended not to remember things when you got like this, after all.

But still, your arms wrapped around him, returning the embrace.

“...I love you, Xavier,” you whispered.

Maybe he wouldn’t remember anything, either.

—ꜱɪx ... xᴀᴠɪᴇʀ.

The soft clinking of spoon against the mug was all he could hear.

It was late in the afternoon, leaves rustling gentle against the kitchen window. The atmosphere was quiet, and peaceful—enough for him to let out a little yawn, eyes blinking slowly in the golden rays of the light.

The tiredness was catching up to him.

Fluctuations had been far more unsteady than usual these past few days, and it only meant another morning full of missions for the both of you. Now, here, where in his apartment the both of you decided to relax in, was the first moment of pause the two of you had been granted in a while.

He recalled, too, the complaints you’d muttered on the way back. Though you’d done so on the premise he wouldn’t hear you, he did, anyway. It brought a little smile to his face thinking of the tone of voice you had taken.

For though headstrong and dedicated to your job as you were, you, like all Hunters in the Association, had the right to feel weary. You deserved moments of rest, such as now. Xavier couldn’t blame you for your complaints. He wouldn’t dare.

Like a distant whisper in his mind came words that were familiar to him; words that he wished he had another moment to comfort;

“I’m tired, Xavier… What if I can’t brandish my sword one day? What then?”

The memory made him close his eyes, jaw tightened in a grind of his teeth.

What he’d said, then, were words he had never gotten the chance to fulfil—words he could never take back. He could remember them, still. It was of the last few times that their conversations had been cordial.

And it was the moment he realized that words were not enough; they never would be. Not if he couldn’t live by them. Not with all the promises he had easily broken.

He wondered, then, how many things of the past he’d come to regret.

With a shake of his head, Xavier carried the mug carefully out the kitchen, sure not to let its contents spill. This was your favorite flavor of tea, and it always had been. If he couldn’t make up for lost hours and missed opportunities then, he would make up for it now.

He would try to.

“Hey, Xavier?” Your voice called out, getting steadily clearer to him as his footsteps padded the wooden flooring of his living room. It was his apartment, one he’d know the layout of like the back of his hand—yet he found, instead, that his path had moreso been mapped out by the sound of your voice. “I realize I never got to ask what these are. Is this… Are these what I’m thinking they are…?”

He blinked.

You weren’t where he’d left you, just earlier.

You’d stood up from the couch, the soft rabbit plushie now out of your hands and since left to the side, looking a little dazed. His own gaze flitted from the toy up to your figure, crouched beside a little wooden stand by the corner of the room. In a manner he’d always found familiar, your head was tilted to the side, pure evidence of your own curiosity. And on top of the stand lay a case, beige as most things in his home, raised slightly open to reveal the touches of a little turntable.

Immediately, his eyes softened in understanding.

“It’s a record player. And those are vinyls.”

He walked up behind you to tap on your shoulder, and the way your eyes lit up at the sight of the mug in his hands nearly made his heart skip a beat.

“Really?!” you exclaimed, taking the tea into your own hands. Your shoulders lifted, whether by the warmth of the drink or your own excitement, Xavier wasn’t quite sure. But he smiled, nonetheless.

“Really.”

“Aren’t those from… Incredibly long ago? I mean, I’ve always known you were old-fashioned by nature, but I didn’t expect you to have things like these, too… I don’t think I’ve ever seen them outside of those little antique shops we pass by sometimes.”

You were rambling, almost.

He knew you got like this when you were excited.

Your expression became more animated than usual as you spoke, leaning in to get a closer look, and he almost laughed.

For all the times you’d call him adorable, he almost wanted to say it back to you, this time.

He almost did.

But when you looked at him next, there was a certain plea to your gaze, the corners of your mouth then turned down into a little pout. “Please can we play something?” The hopefulness laced into your voice didn’t go unnoticed by him. “I’ve never heard you use it before! What’s the use of having it sit around if we don’t get to hear what it plays?”

It felt ironic, looking at the image presented before him. The stand the player rested on had two shelves lodged within it, the bottom hosting a set of vinyls, the one above it hosting none other than a stereo. And suffice to say, the stereo had been used a lot more. The case of the player was well-kept, cleaned and shined every now and then… But it was obvious it had barely been used. It might as well have been new. Xavier himself couldn’t recall the last time he’d used it.

But that you were asking him to, only meant that he would give in. It was difficult to say no to you.

He could hardly dream of it.

“Okay,” he said finally, nodding his head in the direction of the vinyls.

The both of you crouched down to look at the titles, Xavier watching intently as your fingers traced over the record sleeves. They were soft, slow, contemplating motions. You took each one out of its place to look at the cover, eyes skimming the title, before putting it back down—rinse, and repeat.

This time, he did laugh. There was a confused sort of wonder on your face; he was sure that these titles were anything but familiar to you.

“Are you having trouble choosing?” he offered, leaning in closer to look at the records themselves.

Here, sitting so close to you, he could feel the warmth from the tea that you had only taken a few sips of, the scent of your perfume equally as notable in the space between you. Part of him, perhaps, wanted to prolong the moment.

He liked being close to you.

“Mmh… I’m not sure what to expect from either of these,” you admitted, your face scrunched up in concentration. Still your hands trailed over the jackets, and without thinking, he reached over to rest his own hand over your wrist.

When you looked at him, he was pleasantly surprised to find the faint traces of a blush over your cheeks.

You truly were adorable.

But he shook his head.

“Well… They’re a lot different from what we’d be used to now,” he leaned in closer to you to give you a little nudge. “I could choose for you, but I want you to experience it for yourself, too. So, maybe… Choose something you feel drawn to?”

He stood up, then, willing his heart to calm enough for you not to notice how your proximity was affecting him. Instead, he busied himself with the case, lifting up the lid completely to reveal the knobs and switches not otherwise visible just earlier. He tried to remember the last time he’d cleaned it, but it seemed to be in a condition good enough to be able to work, anyway. There was a part of him that let out a sigh of relief at the confirmation; the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you with it.

“Katharine McPhee…” you mumbled, then.

“It’s a pretty name. The cover looked interesting, too, and the song title is… Well…” Your voice trailed off with a shrug, and he looked back at you, blinking at the vinyl you held in your hands.

Slowly, his lips turned back into a little smile.

Oh. That song.

You handed it over to him, expression expectant, as you took another sip of your tea.

“I actually… Don’t really remember how to use it.”

The soft admission fell from his lips, an honest warning that only earned a scoff from you in reply. He didn’t look at you this time, as he gently slid the record out of its jacket and placed it on the turntable. He didn’t need to, after all. He’d memorized enough of your expressions—the mirth in your eyes, the tugging of a teasing smirk against your lips that would eventually spill into a grin… He was sure you had your head tilted in quiet observance, his own hands moving to push the needle flush against the record.

After he reached over to flip the power switch on, he straightened, arms crossed, a hope in his eyes that could have mirrored your own. In a similar manner, you peeked out from behind him.

And then the first notes of a song flouted out from the box.

Mellow tunes wafted around the living room, a different kind of fullness to it compared to the music that both of you were used to hearing from the speakers. The gentle strumming of the guitar, the soft hums that started off the song—he breathed out a sigh of relief, while you, on the other hand, let out an exclamation of amazement.

In his head, he would have likened your behavior to that of a puppy who’d gotten a new toy. The mere thought of it had him glancing away for a moment, the back of his hand covering his mouth to hide his smile.

Yet, he—couldn’t quite look away from you.

It was hard to look away.

It always has been, when you had since filled his heart with a song of its own, and he’d always been so vividly aware of your presence ever since.

As if you were the only thing that truly mattered to him.

And perhaps, you were.

He could think back to these past months, every little glance the two of you would share, every brush of your hands, every caress he dared to initiate, every hold on you he’d be greedy enough to take for his own.

One of the earlier nights he’d let his self-indulgence get the better of him, he almost said those words—always on the tip of his tongue, always surging through his heart with an intensity he had to fight back so as not to scare you. And I love you became goodnight; I love you became stay; I love you became come back; I love you became come with me.

It became a glance. It became a touch, it became the tug of your hand. It became gentle ruffles of your hair, it became smiles, it became laughs, it became—you.

Love became you.

And now, the crisp noise emanating from the player seemed to wrap you in its embrace, smoothly, as you began to sway. Your feet shifted side to side as you let your head bob in time with every step, every little shuffle. You’d tucked your hair behind your ear, and your eyes closed. And he couldn’t help but notice—admire—the warm cascade of sunlight over your hair, shrouding you with a glow more ethereal than he’d ever seen… even with you. You were brighter than the sun. Brighter than the stars. Brighter than anything else, brighter than whatever light his Evol could possibly conjure, and just enough to match the warmth that being here with you, unfiltered and peaceful… filled him with.

“You know… I really like this song!” Your voice echoed through the music then, more noticeable to him than any other sound in the room. You turned your head, eyes meeting his own—”You’re right, it doesn’t sound at all like the kind of music we’d listen to these days, but the melody is really catchy, and her voice is really smooth, and—”

“Dance with me?”

Xavier spoke before he could stop himself.

In the next second he felt a sudden surge of heat at his own statement, nearly retracting his words to look away in embarrassment…

But he didn’t.

Instead, he reached out his hand.

He was sure the tips of his ears were near-glowing red.

He tried again.

“May I… Have this dance?”

And for all that his heart rate had always been naturally slow, he could hear the steady thrum of it in his ears. Louder than usual, quicker than usual, more anticipating than usual. If there was anything that could get him nervous, it was you.

Always you.

But you took his hand.

Your palm in his was small, but just as warm as you always were to him. Just as beautiful, as you always were to him. And perhaps, the world began to fade away, then. It often did, when he was with you. Only, now, in the confines of his home, symphonies echoing in the background, he knew that he was free to hold you as close as he did.

Neither of you spoke for a while as he pulled you up against him, his arms wrapping around your waist, your head against his chest. This was the closest the two of you had ever been in a long, long while, and he realized, then, that the pulse of your heart seemed to beat readily in time to his.

“I didn’t peg you to be a collector type, huh,” you mumbled.

You weren’t looking at him, eyes focused on the shuffle of your feet. He took the opportunity to rest his chin on the top of your head.

“I’m not,” he said quietly. “It was… A gift from a friend, but I haven’t gotten to use it much. It’s… been sitting around.”

He felt you laugh softly against him.

“Yeah? But you’ve kept it around, anyway. Who knows just how old this thing is…”

“...But, it works.”

“Mmh… yeah, it does. Thankfully. And… You know how to use it.”

“I hoped that I would.”

This time, you raised your head, and his breath hitched in his throat. Seeing your eyes, so up close like this, brought on a wave of emotion that he found he had to choke back.

It didn’t stop him from speaking.

“I… thought it might be something you’d like. I’m glad that you do.”

The smile that spread across your face in response to that nearly made his heart jump out of his throat. And the tug of your body closer to him was all he could do to keep those words from spilling out of his mouth.

I love you.

He could say it with a look.

And, sure, you had said it.

He remembered that night.

He’d barely gotten a wink of sleep, holding you in his arms as he had, but you weren’t—You weren’t sober. 

And neither of you had talked about that night.

It was as if your relationship had meant to continue for as long as it could without addressing it, and it was driving him insane, and—

And if he could, he would have this moment drag on forever, just you in his arms, a slow dance to the music, as far as he could lie to himself that you were already his without either of you having to say it.

But he knew that was not the case. It couldn't be. And he knew that you knew it, too. He saw it in the way your expression flickered into one of apprehension, and your lips parted to speak.

“Xavier… What are we?”

Your voice came as a soft whisper, with a question he found that he had no immediate answer to. He searched your eyes, brows furrowing, trying to ascertain what it is you were expecting him to say. 

He knew what he wanted the two of you to be.

He didn’t know what you were. He didn’t know what… you wanted.

So that was what he said.

“What do you… want us to be?”

It was as if all he knew how to do in that moment was deflect the question back at you.

And you frowned.

“Xavier, that’s not… I don’t…”

The turmoil that made itself obvious in your voice had his heart dropping almost immediately.

Because that was it.

You weren’t sure.

Those words you’d uttered to him just that night were nothing more than a drunken ramble, and he was right—this wasn’t the same as all those years back. Here you were, in his arms, yet every time he’d think you wanted him just as much as he did you, you’d pull back.

How cruel that you would think the same of him, when you could barely be receptive to what advances he could make.

Then, perhaps, he realized there was a limit to how much he could take.

“I know what I want,” he mumbled, then.

His hands moved up to rest against your cheek, a gesture that had become familiar to you, despite the emotional charge behind it, despite the way he could only wish to hold more of you in exactly this way.

And there was so much of you that he held in his heart.

He didn’t even know how to place it anymore. So many years of feelings he’d harbored for you, always, all this time, yet he never knew how to explain it. Neither to you, nor to himself. Because he’d never felt this way with anyone else. To be so full of contentment in someone’s presence; to be so hopelessly enamored by every little thing—even after all this time, this was new to him. New, and profound, and—

And terrifying.

To love you so wholly, so insurmountably, so… so much.

It almost felt foolish how terrifying it was.

His heart felt as though it had lodged itself in his throat, and he was sure that his voice would falter as a result, but this—this was it.

How could he move forward any longer without letting you know?

And it was the way your eyes remained steely on his that allowed him to speak again, determined—

“I want you.”

The music had since been long forgotten. Familiar, yet faded within distant memory, as the world, once more, became filled with you. It had always been like that. In his mind, there were many things that had since receded into cloudiness; a grey abyss of things that once were. Now, the only thoughts that ever seemed to hold clarity to him were thoughts of you.

How much he wanted you.

How much he needed you.

How much he… loved you.

Perhaps, he couldn’t say those words just yet.

Instead, he swallowed them with a kiss.

A chance; a risk—an obvious display of the bounds of longing that he’d reached, that had filled to the precipice, that had tortured him beyond an anguish of waiting.

It was an anguish that only you could fill.

The touch of your lips against his, soft and supple, the way you craned your neck for more of it, the way your arms tugged him closer, closer, pressing him into you if he should dare pull away… 

“Again,” you whispered.

And he had his answer, then.

You wanted this just as much as he wanted you.

So he kissed you again.

And again.

And again.

“More,” you pleaded, and each and every time you parted with one another, he could only think, perhaps, that there was no place else he would rather be than here with you. The quiet, crackling tune faded into your heedy breaths against each others’ lips. Right then, the music came to its own end, bringing with it a different kind of symphony that now danced within the depths of your eyes.

He felt your hands slide down from his neck back to tug at his sweatshirt, and his forehead moved to rest against yours.

“Satisfied?” he smiled, his voice lighter than it had been today.

“When it comes to you? Never, really.” Your noses bumped together, the slightest nuzzle filled with an insurmountable kind of affection. ”Because I want you, too.”

Those were simple words—but a direct revelation of your feelings, a direct reciprocation of his own, and—naturally, they spoke volumes. Enough for his heart to fill with warmth. Enough for his shoulders to relax, with a sort of relief he wouldn’t be able to explain to you if you asked. And he held you in his embrace, arms still wrapped comfortably around your figure, knowing that he could let go, but… he didn’t quite want to. Not at all. Not when you felt so right with him here; not when the implication of your words settled deeply into his chest.

So instead, he let out a slow, heavy breath, and perhaps he couldn’t help it anymore. His lips gradually inched back impossibly closer to yours, his gaze straying down from your eyes, dizzying, almost, at the way you were barely touching—

“How much?” he mumbled, because an agony of waiting couldn’t possibly be resolved in a single moment.

You let out a soft laugh.

“For forever,” you rolled your eyes, but you smiled. “If having you forever could ever be enough.”

His breath hitched.

Forever.

Forever sounded like bliss with you. Forever sounded far more wondrous than whatever fantasies lived in the pages of those books on his shelves; far more than anything he had ever, ever wished for. And he had wished for this for a long, long time. For you had always been in his heart. He knew, now, that he was in yours.

And forever was as long of a time he was willing to spend with you.

“I’d like that.”

Then his hands gripped your waist tightly, desperately, as his lips came crashing down once more—and this time, the desperation that had coiled itself in the depths of his heart found freedom in the way that he kissed you. Like clawing; almost, as if afraid he could never get another moment like this, as if afraid you could disappear from right in front of him, right then and there.

As if he wouldn't let you. 

He couldn't. 

And the longer the kiss continued, the hungrier it became.

There was the scent of your perfume, the scent of your shampoo, the taste of your lipgloss… All-engulfing, more, and more, until all he could feel was you. All he could taste was you. You, and you—so warm, and so right, and—his.

All his.

All while he felt your hand tangle into the roots of his hair, and you panted hazily into his open mouth, desperately wanting to breathe, and yet—neither of you wanted this moment to ever end.

And the both of you had an inkling of exactly where this was intending to lead.

Feet shuffled against the floor, a few steps backwards, but neither of you got very far before Xavier was lifting you up into the air. His arms supported the weight of your body through your back and your knees, positioning you into a princess carry—he noted the squeal that you let out, your eyes finding his in search of confirmation. It was, perhaps, instinct the way you clung to his waist next.

But he had never been more grateful for the straightforward layout of his apartment, keen to lay you down on his bed with a promise of much, much, much more. The weight on the mattress shifted, and his figure crawled over your body, the faintest brush of his knuckles against your skin. From this angle, you caged between his arms, legs slotted between yours, his weight holding him up by his forearms—you were beautiful.

More beautiful than you always had been.

The redness that surrounded your lips, lipstick askew, swollen from your kisses… Your hair was splayed out against the pillows, disheveled than things had started with. And there was a certain longing in your eyes that, he was sure, quite vividly reflected in his own.

He could feel the way his hair had likely gotten just as unruly, the sting in his scalp still tingling from where you had tugged and scraped just moments before. Yet he made no attempts to fix it, the annoyance of his hair nearly in his eyes of no importance to him in this moment. Not when you were here. Not when the tension in the air left him feeling dizzy, the prospect of having you closer making his head spin.

“My starlight,” he whispered, then.

He watched, fondly, at the blush that covered your face—and he came to the realization that the midday glow had melted into skies of velvet. 

And this was different, now, from any past sunsets he had ever watched with you.

Now, it streamed in through the window in skyburst reds and yellows. vibrant hues painted over your face, your body… A skyward hearth reflecting the solace he could only ever find in you.

And you were his sky.

You were his home.

You were his… everything.

It was these words that were swallowed back as his lips descended past your cheek, past your jaw, down your neck. He would let actions speak louder than words, this time; the words uttered instead into your skin. His fingers worked deftly to undo the buttons of your blouse, hips rolling into you, a friction that had his breath tremble against your neck. And then a suckle over the soft flesh on your shoulder made you gasp—he’d do it again, and again, lips trailing your skin in search of every mark of you he could finally, finally make his.

His eyes closed.

He could savor the sensation—hot breaths against you, the drag of his hands across the smoothness of your skin, those slow, loving circles he rubbed into your waist before he could tug your clothing off of your body.

Not a word was spoken; not yet.

Only hushed gasps and shaky breaths, every roll of his hips, the friction of his erection against the outline of your sex nearly driving both of you into a quiet dance of insanity.

You broke the quiet first.

“Xavier.”

A shaky whisper as his fingers trailed downwards, pressing flush against your lips, feeling the desperate cling of the fabric against you.

Another stroke of his finger, lewdly accompanied with the wet, sticky sound of your arousal—

“Xavier.”

He looked at you, then. Dragged his gaze from over your figure to the haze in your own.

And he whispered; “Beautiful.”

His strokes against your cunt had your bottom lip quivering, hands slipping from over his back to the mattress below. Little taps against your clit, finger dipping the fabric nearly inside, your wetness seeping through with ease… He could feel every pulse of your pussy, your need for stimulation never more clear to him than in that moment.

And—

“Xavier… Xavier.”

You sounded so sweet.

Every utterance of his name had hip drawing in a breath; he had never before in his life heard it called out with so much… love. 

He wanted more of it.

Lips moved to mouth at your breast, as your panties were pushed aside. Slow, open-mouthed kisses, dangerously close to your nipples but not quite—

His finger, then, slid directly over your folds, and you caved.

“Xavier—!”

A louder, uninhibited moan of his name, your back arching into his touch.

And there, displayed in his eyes, was a look of wonder. A look of love.

Your legs spread in response, inviting, daring. You were baring yourself to him so willingly, that you didn’t need to say anything else. The plea in your eyes was enough.

The plea in your voice was enough.

“Xavier…” you spoke again, barely a whisper, your hands moving back to thread through his hair.

And how could he ever deny you? 

You shuddered immediately as his lips moved to wrap around your nipple, the heat of your skin against him pulling the corner of his lips up into a little smile. Every flick of his tongue had your body twitching beneath him, and he felt every little jerk with a certain sense of pride.

It was so easy, then, for his finger to push inside. 

You gasped, and he pushed deeper—the gentle probing of your hole had you pliant and starved for his touch, his name falling out from your lips in a chant.

“Xavier… Xav—Xavier— Xavier—!”

He groaned against your skin. Your sounds were like music to his ears, a jolt straight down to the tent in his boxers that was almost painful.

Yet still, his eyes never strayed from yours.

He let his teeth graze over your bud as his finger curled inside you, pressing against your gummy walls, just slow, easy thrusts to guide you into the rhythm. And he could see it in your eyes. He searched them, equally as lost in the swirl of haze that had you drowned in the pleasure he gave you—and it was beautiful. Almost heart-wrenchingly beautiful. How he had always wished, yearned, to belong to the inner world behind your irises, and now he—he could.

He only pulled away from your breasts to rest his head by your ear, a low chuckle resounding. He felt the effect of it almost instantly as you clenched over his finger, but he didn’t stop there—a second digit found its way in.

“Shh, I know, angel, I know.”

Quiet, soothing whispers against your ear, his other hand moving to brush the hair out of your face.

This time, the light from the window was bathed in twilight—

He smiled.

That even the moon and the stars would smile upon you, would cover you in their light… The sky itself would speak of love. Of you.

He watched, as your hips, illuminated by the evening glow, began to make more desperate motions. You drew his fingers in deeper, guiding them to rub against the spot that had you crying out another chant of his name. His thumb brushed up against your clit, then, and your hand reached out to grab his arm.

Another smile.

“Is it there, angel?” he murmured. His hair fell over your face as he moved to face you, lips ghosting over yours. And he caught every gasp, every moan, ever drone of his name and every shudder of pleasure he could elicit by repeating the same actions.

Again.

And again. 

And again.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, wanting him close, his ministrations unrelenting. Long fingers dipped in and out of the heat between your legs, sounds of slick and arousal emanating from your cunt in time with the murmurs you keened into the crook of his neck.

“Close?” he whispered.

Whimpers fell from your mouth as he kissed at the corners of your lips, gently coaxing you closer to your high. Each pump of his fingers had your body arching higher, higher off the mattress, the soft cooing of his voice a catalyst to the climax you were so close to.

“Please,” you begged. “Please, Xavier… Please!”

Your words nearly made his throat close up, eyes closing momentarily as his cock twitched in response to you.

“I know,” he mumbled, “I know, starlight. You can do it, just a little more. Focus on me. Does it feel good?”

He leaned up to kiss the little beads of tears that formed out of the corner of your eyes, whispering against the flutter of your eyelids as the only coherent response you could give was a feeble nod.

“Then cum for me, angel.”

You gasped, and he felt it. Your walls constricted, your body arched, and his words, his voice playing into the heat in your core, so much so that it was much, much easier for you to let go. The coil snapped, and your hips bucked upwards, his name mixing with curses upon your lips that he found… delightful to his ears enough to smile.

“That’s it. There we go. You’re so good, angel, look at you…” He let out a slow breath as he withdrew his fingers from you, watching as your body twitched in the aftermath of your orgasm. Slowly, he slid down your body, hands gripping your thighs to spread you apart, and he placed a soft, barely-there kiss against your clit.

Your body jerked at the contact, and he immediately rubbed soothing circles into your skin, cheek resting against your thigh as he looked up at you with a smile.

“I know,” he whispered, again, “I know. You’re sensitive. I won’t do too much.”

But you shook your head.

His eyes blinked slowly, carefully, as he felt your fingers in his hair, coaxing him back up to you.

“Angel?”

“You’re an angel.”

Your breathing had calmed enough for you to speak this time, the familiar words falling from your lips in a way that made his heart skip a beat.

“You…” he breathed out in disbelief as your foreheads touched, taking in the slightest hint of mirth that became visible in your eyes.

And after all this time—through all the doubts that swirled in his head, through all the desperation to get the timing perfect, in manner with the perfectionism that had been instilled so deeply into his heart—

It was you who spoke the words first.

“I love you.”

And the lump in his throat had prevented him from responding immediately, but you knew.

Your hand reached up to cup his cheek, and like all the years he had felt such a familiar gesture, he allowed himself to surrender. The weight of his head fell into your palm as he nuzzled closely into you, his own eyelids fluttering, as if savouring every bit of affection that you held in that caress.

“My starlight…”

A feeble rasp of the little nickname he’d made for you was all he could muster in the moment, and you, in return, could only chuckle.

Perhaps, it made the moment feel more real.

A soft sigh fell from your lips as he pressed back up against you, as your hands worked to pull down his boxers, as the throbbing of his cock pushed against folds.

“Starlight, I…”

His words melted into a groan as it was you who moved your hips against him, the slide of your sexes coating his member in your slick. And the quiet of the night could not have rang in his head any louder than the wetness between the both of you, evidence of the desire that rang true in your bodies as his hips seemed to move with a mind of their own. His eyes closed as he dragged his length along your folds, breath stuttering as the head of his cock would catch on your entrance with each withdrawal of his hips.

Your breaths were shaky as you hugged him closer, receptive of his slow grinds into you and against you, and he realized, then, that this was real.

Your words were real. There was no alcohol laced into your words this time. Instead, you nodded your head, and he noticed it—a different kind of intoxication, the reflection of his figure stirring in your eyes with unspoken need.

“Xavier…” You whispered again, and it was a plea.

Such a multitude of ways that you could say his name.

“Xavier… please, take me.”

And with one slow thrust, he was there.

Closer to you than ever; as close as the two of you could be.

A moan fell from his lips as the tight passage constricted around him, the thickness of him stretching your walls to accommodate the feeling of being so full. 

And it was enough.

“I love you…”

His head fell against your chest as he felt himself tremble, the sensation overwhelming. You were so snug and warm around him, so… perfect. There was no stopping the words from falling out of his lips. He would say it again.

“I love you.”

He felt your breath stutter against the crown of his head, and he buried himself deeper into you, nuzzling into your chest, his body alight with a heat that he could barely begin to fathom.

He loved you so much, it ached.

And you moaned as your head threw back, hands clawing into his back, as his hips began to move. Slowly, at first, the languid pacing of his hips allowing you to feel the drag of his length against your walls, allowing him to soak in the way your cunt would suck him right back into you.

“Xavier, Xavier, Xavier…”

Your sounds were soft from your lips, a melody that had him rhythmically moving in the tune of, only picking up the pace ever so slightly—because he could hardly get enough of you. You drank each other in shamelessly, savouring the taste of your skin, every inch of your bodies colliding with every movement, and it was—enthralling. Breathtaking. Every snap of his hips as he breathed heavily against you had you shuddering. You would meet his grinds with needy little humps of your own, and he—

He could lose himself in this.

And all he could focus on was the endless litany of his name upon your lips, the quiet sound of skin against skin, the near-filthy squelch of your cunt with each dance the two of you would play in.

Until he could barely breathe.

Until his lips were back on yours, and you would hold each other close, hold each other tight, never letting go because this—all of it—was exactly what the both of you needed.

Xavier felt it, then. The squeeze of your walls, the flutters, the pulses—he lifted his head.

His vision was hazy.

All he could think of was you; all he could feel was you; all he could see was you. The flush of your cheeks, the way your eyes looked back at him with a darkened, half-lidded gaze, the way your mouth held open in desperate pants for air.

And he moved harder, harder, faster—

“Angel,” he choked out, holding himself up by his elbows on either side of your body.

“D-don’t stop, Xavi, please, don’t—don’t—”

“M.. M’not stopping, angel… I know… I know, feels s’good, doesn’t it…”

He angled his hips, deliberately pushing his cock against the spots inside of you that he’d memorized, and—

“X- Xavier…!”

His teeth grit as you clenched around him, legs drawing over his hips and keeping him flush against you enough to trigger his own release.

“Take it… C’mon… take it, angel, take it, take—it—”

His head dipped to bury against your hair, tucking you under his chin, keeping you caged in his arms for as long as he could. His hips stuttered as he pumped inside of you, spilling his load with a wave of euphoria that had you both letting out a cry of pleasure. And he pulled out just the littlest bit before sliding in again, shallow thrusts making a mess of his cum, the throb of his cock pulsating against your walls…

Muffled groans turn into trembling breaths, heavy pants as the atmosphere gradually relaxed into contentment.

“I love you.”

He peeled off of your body only to gently stroke at your cheek, taking in the glow in your smile at his words.

So he said it again.

“I love you.”

And he leaned in to pepper kisses over the side of your face, like little specks of stardust, a gather of constellations that could only fill his universe full of you.

You laughed, softly, nuzzling your nose against his.

“You make my heart smile,” you sighed, and he placed a kiss at your eyelids in response.

“And you make mine. Always.” An honest reply. His hands found yours, fingers intertwined, a soft, gentle massage into your palm. “...I love you. I’m sorry I took so long.”

And you smiled.

“You did take long,” you hummed. “But now that you’re here… It’s worth it. Just... Make it up to me and cuddle for a little. Okay?"

His eyes fell closed.

This time, he felt—this was a promise he could make for you. This time, knowing he had you, he thought… Perhaps, he could. 

“...Mhm. Rest now,” he whispered. “And I’ll be by your side. Always.”

“You said it again, my heart's in motion; every word feels like a shooting star. I'm at the edge of my emotions, watching the shadows burning in the dark, and I'm in love—and I'm terrified."

[Terrified ; Katharine McPhee]

⁺₊ / an: first of all scene 4 was inspired by the tamsui bridge in taiwan, second of all can you believe this is the first time i used 3rd person pov limited (non-reader)?? and it was such ??? a challenge??? and third of all DID YOU NOTICE… that i used the slow dance trope in direct contrast to sylus’ "once upon a december" drabble hehe i’m smart sometimes <3

ANYWAY my thoughts on this is that writing this made me realize why xavier/mc has always felt so special to me, and why the 21 days card made me so emotional :'> this took reallyyy long to finish because i reaally wanted to convey the gentleness in their relationship (through a reader insert, no less!) while also keeping all that fear and desperation and uncertainties of falling in love still very much real and present 🙏 writing the outline and scenes 5+6 made me cry a little,,, i hope reading this fic has allowed you to feel the depth of their love, too <3

also : mention for @sadfragilegirl for that one request you sent a while back! since you requested "passionate loving smut" with xavier i'd think this fits in with that hehe

© solifloris. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[writinggoblinslivehere]

An Affair (Hero x Villain)

Warnings: cheating, mentions of domestic abuse

“You don’t love him.” Hero leaned forward, their eyes pleading. “You love me.”

Villain looked away, closing their eyes, and Hero’s heart broke.

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” Hero’s eyes burned. A chasm opened in their chest. “You’re leaving with him anyway.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t—” Villain squeezed their eyes shut like they could block out the world that way.

“Oh there’s plenty I don’t understand,” they spat. “Like how you can sneak around with me, telling me you love me, and then go home to a man who doesn’t care about you!” Hero pressed the ice pack to their lover’s bruising cheek. “Or how you can whisper you love me while we make love, but then say you’re choosing him.”

Villain’s hand covered theirs over the ice pack. The touch of their hand had Hero looking into their soft eyes again. “He’s my husband. I have to leave with him.” They shrugged before wincing as the movement pulled their stitches. “I took the vows.”

The mixed determination and regret in their eyes made Hero’s heart shatter all over again. They couldn’t listen to this. They couldn’t listen to the love of their life list reasons for why they had to stay with their abuser. For why their lover chose that asshole over them.

They ripped their hand away from Villain’s, making them hold the ice pack on their own, and stumbled back a few steps. “We were married once. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Villain’s eyes closed. “Hero—”

“No! Stop making excuses for him! He hit you!” Hero thrust their hands through their hair, desperately pulling at the roots. “He lost the right to be called your husband after that!”

The tears that fell from Villain’s eyes had Hero falling to their knees in front of them. They shook their head, the ice pack dropping into their lap. The bruises on their face stood out sharply against the flushed skin. The cuts from the shattered mirror had stopped bleeding an hour ago but Hero knew the deep ones would scar.

“It’s not his fault,” Villain whispered, staring at the ice pack in their hands. “It’s mine. I shouldn’t have told him about us. You warned me not to, and I should have listened to you. I shouldn’t have made him angry. It’s my—”

Hero surged back to their lover, cupping their cheeks. “It’s not your fault.” They ducked their head to look Villain in the eyes. “He shouldn’t have hit you! He’s—”

“He’s right though,” they whispered.

Villain looked exhausted. More than they ever had in any fight. Sitting on the counter under the warm lights in Hero’s kitchen, they looked broken.

They looked like they were ready to give up.

“He’s not—”

Villain pulled out of Hero’s gentle touch. “We shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t have ever done this in the first place.”

“Have an affair?” Hero didn’t move from their place between their lover’s legs. They dropped their empty hands to the counter on either side of Villain’s hips, caging them in. Holding them, even when they couldn’t. “Or fall in love and get married?”

“We’re enemies,” Villain whispered, a fresh wave of tears spilling across their cuts. “We shouldn’t be anything but that.”

“And he’s your husband.” Hero stepped forward until they could feel the heat of their lover’s skin, even through their clothes. “You and I are enemies, yes. We had a messy divorce.”

Villain’s laugh was wet and weak, their chin wobbling with the effort not to fall apart.

“But I never hurt you.” Hero lifted their hand slowly—enough time for them to pull away—and cradled Villain’s face. Their thumb traced a gentle line across their lover’s cheekbone, mindful of the injuries. Even amongst the bruises and scrapes, Villain’s soft beauty still made Hero’s heart pound. Especially their beautiful pleading eyes. Always so full of emotion. It was one of things they loved most about them.

“I never took my anger out on you. Not even when we are on opposite sides of this ridiculous war.” Hero’s other hand reached for Villain’s own. They threaded their fingers together. “He’s your husband now, and he hurts you worse than your greatest enemy ever has.” Their thumb made another sweeping pass, this time to catch the tears as they overflowed.

They held Villain as they trembled. “How can you reason that away? How can you convince yourself it’s okay that your husband makes you bleed more than your nemesis. I am the villain of your story,” Hero whispered, pressing their foreheads together. “And I take better care of you than your husband does.”

Villain broke. Their body shuddered as the sobs racked through them. They clutched Hero’s wrists, tugging them desperately forward as the dam broke.

Hero swore. They wrapped their arms around their lover and pulled them in tightly. Villain buried their face in their neck and broke down entirely.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Hero wound a hand through their hair and wrapped the other arm around their waist. Villain wrapped their legs around Hero’s back and clung to them desperately. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Villain admitted with a cracked whisper. Their body shook with the force of their sobs. “It hurts so much. I don’t want to go. Please don’t make me go back to him.”

“Never.” Hero lifted their lover into their arms and carried them to the bed they’d shared not too long ago.

Villain clutched them tighter, shaking. “I don’t want to go. Please. I just want to stay with you. Please don’t make me go.”

“I will never let you go,” Hero swore. They didn’t let go even as the trembling pair fell against the pillows. “I am never leaving you again. And I’ll kill him before I let him come anywhere near you.”

An almost laugh fell out between Villain’s sobs. “You won’t. You’re too good for that.”

“He is nothing. Insignificant. No one will notice if he disappears.” Hero pressed a kiss to the crown of their head and held them as tight as they dared. “For you, I’d do anything.”

I will keep you safe, Hero swore silently. Even if I have to become a villain to do it.

[fancy-rock-dove]

Chapter Head Art for Maybe Sprout Wings (Full set)

I have had just, So Much Fun working on these. This story really is built on such a great concept, and with such fantastic worldbuilding, and with action so thoroughly in tune with its themes that it really does reward digging into. @moorishflower's writing kills me in the best of ways (and in the sleep deprivation kind of ways but I have no regrets), and designing them was a great time. And on top of that, everyone here has been just, so lovely, so I'm very excited to post the full set of chapter head illustrations!

Stylistic consistency continues to elude me, but hopefully these look like a matched enough set regardless. Cursive titles are the chapter titles, block print is my own title for the illustration. Just for fun, and in tribute to the (probably truly unhinged) amount of time I spent thinking about Symbolism while making these, I'm including one selected Fun Fact relevant to my thoughts on some part of each of these at the bottom of this post in case that interests anyone!

Ch 1: Baobabs are some of the oldest living flowering plants on the planet and can live up to two millennia. I have a lot of feelings about the sheer volume of life these trees can contain (both spatially and in time) and what that means for how we look at them.

Ch 2: If Abel were looking to avoid anachronism, he could still absolutely have left out books that were machine-printed with moveable type, but they'd probably have to have been in Chinese or Korean, from somewhere that had already widely adopted the technology by the 14th century.

Ch 3: Homer's works contain what is believed to be the first written mention of apples in Ancient Greece. Its writing is about as many centuries removed from the events of the Odyssey as the events of this chapter are from the first recorded mention of apples in England.

Ch 4: An ink quill is definitely more aesthetic, but graphite had actually been discovered in England and pencils invented in the decades prior to Shakespeare's first writings. It's entirely possible he could've been jotting down quick notes with a pencil like any stagehand today.

Ch 5: Though Corinthian style architecture is named for the Greek city of Corinth, with which it's associated, its inventor Callimachus is actually thought to be Athenian. The spiny, curling acanthus leaves used in its motifs are generally associated with long life, immortality, and rebirth. Go figure.

Ch 6: Symbolically, clovers are a sign that others are thinking of you. They're associated with good fortune, and apparently also male energy, and seen as a sign of protection. Excellent Fiddler's Green groundcover here.

Ch 7: Three-masted, fully-rigged ships became common in Europe by the 16th or 17th centuries during the Age of Sail because the extra space for sails became more necessary with the increase in open-ocean voyages. Making them the go-to type of vessel for both trade and exploration.

Ch 8: The simple but effective design of drop spindles is largely unchanged from their first documented use in the first century CE. there's evidence of their use for spinning (making a single, stronger thread from many disparate fibers) dating back at least to the advent of agriculture, some 10,000 years ago. Definitely what I picture Clotho using.

Ch 9: The fractal, branching structures of roots, lightning, and Lichtenberg figures are all self-similar: you can get much closer and they'll still appear very similar or identical to the way they were at a distance.

Ch 10: The throne room scenes of Sandman were shot in Guildford Cathedral. The Dreaming's Castle was intentionally designed to be a mashup of a whole ton of architectural styles, but the facade and throne room definitely feel gothic or neo-gothic. It's been a classic for centuries and the gothic-style window is definitely the kind I picture Hob's room having, at least on days the castle's feeling a bit fancy.

Ch 11: The item at the front left there is a weaving shuttle. According to Artemidorus, while dreaming of most kinds of looms indicates that you should expect rest, dreaming of a warp-weighted loom -- the kind which was common in bronze-age Greece and enables multiple people to work together on the weaving -- indicates an upcoming journey.

Ch 12: I feel like I've already talked about the symbolism of this one elsewhere, so for this one, instead of a fact, a comment (that I found fun): The binding circle in this only shows up in areas covered by the puddle of the Dreaming Sea, the means by which the nature of the "gilded ring" was elucidated. :)

Ch 13: Greek ships often had eyes on their bow, which among other things, was intended to imbue them with some will and ability to avoid obstacles. The Argo famously had eyes and also some innate awareness/intelligence, and could actually speak to the crew.

Ch 14: While Calliope, muse of epic poetry and eloquence (and the one invoked at the beginning of the Odyssey) is associated with a book, scroll, or tablet, Erato, muse of romantic poetry and love stories, is depicted in crowns of rose and myrtle. My title for this one was very nearly just (Invocation pt. ii). Also, I have a headcanon that Dream has only seen very bad performances of the Odysseyif ( he's seen any at all) since antiquity. Any show that literally begins by calling his ex is something he's not gonna stay for unless he's really sure she won't actually show up.

Whew! thanks to anyone who actually read to the end of my rambling here! Clearly this whole story has been really, really fun to just turn over in my mind. Cool stuff just keeps falling out of it! Since I would literally be two photos under Tumblr's limit on this post otherwise, how about a couple bonus alternate versions at the end here? Because why not?? I added some red accents to a couple of these for fun, and though it doesn't fit the for the chapter headings, I do think it looks cool!

[pentopaper23]

31 for Daemon/Rhae no regrets sending this - Daemon finds out what happened the night he abandoned Rhaenyra at brothel. He has many feels about it, self loathing, jealousy, regret, anger, sadness. Hit him w everything 😈 There’s some things he never said to his wife about that night, maybe time?

MINOR EDITS MADE - People seems to be mad at this one. *shrug*

31. I’m going to show you what a real fucking is.

 

Daemon was drunk. He would like to say that it wasn’t a nightly occurrence, but he would be lying. It seems like all he did these days was drink and watch his wife with her old lover.  

The day that Sir Hawin the Strong was brought into the war room and he watched the two boys that he called his own embrace him and saw the look on his wife's face. He knew it was over.  

So, he drank and watched her, the small touches here and there that they thought no one noticed. But he did, the gentle hand on her back, the slight brush of his fingers against hers. They settled in his stomach like acid, churning around until he vomited over the side of the sea wall.  

Tonight, they were dancing, Rhaenyra had a smile on her face and a laugh that filled the room and he on the other hand was filling his cups at the high table and brooding. His eyes tracing Strong’s hand and fingertips as they brushed against the open back of her dress. The children had long since been sent to bed, the hall was becoming a drunken pit of a thing. Wine being spilled, whores being pulled on the laps of married man and his wife enjoying the company of another.  

A man that used to fuck her, a man whose seed has taken root in the depth of her womb. Daemon stomach turned at the thought of anyone else having her, of anyone else driving their cock so deep into her that she she gasped for air. Had he not been the one that she wanted? Had he not been the one that made her burn with want. Is he not the one protecting their family. In fury he tossed the wine out of his cup onto the floor and slammed it down on the table. The noise made several people turn and look at him, his wife included. They locked eyes, her filled with confusion and his with fire. Pushing his chair back loudly he marched down the from the high table and out of the main door, the crowd parting in his wake.  

He slammed shut their bedroom door with a scream of rage, the handle rattling as it was flung close. It was not a moment later when he heard it reopen.  

“What is wrong with you?”, his wife demanded as she too slammed their bedroom door. He turned on her in disbelief.  

“Me? I wasn’t the one that’s been eye fucking his knight all night” He yelled throwing the cup in his hand across the room.  

“I haven't been fucking anyone!” Rhaenyra yelled.  

“Thats for sure”, he mumbled picking at the thread on his sleeve. He heard her huff.  

“I know him being here is hard, I understand, and it pains to see you like this. But we need his house’s support if ours is to survive”   

He didn’t answer her.  

“Is this about the boys?” she asks. 

“Don't bring the boys into this. This is about my wife fucking around with the man that everyone knows sired her two sons, everyone calling her a whore behind her back, whispering it against my ear day in and day out.” 

“And you believe them? You believe that he is warming my bed and you are too drunk to notice? Whoring myself out when my husband is limp to do his duty” 

He lunges for her and slams her against the door, the breath being pushed out of her with a gasp.  

“Is this what you want? Hm? You want me to treat you like a whore”, he whispered harshly into her ear, “Is that that he used to do? Your big Strong knight, was she rough when he took your maidenhead? Did he fuck you like I do? Make you scream until your voice is but rough sand?”  

“He wasn’t the one” she bit back smugly, liking the sudden fire that licked at his eyes. His hand shot out and wrapped around her neck, his finger crawling around until he had a handful of hair.  

“Say. That. Again”  

“He wasn’t the one.” she spat out.  

Rhaenyra flinched when he slammed his hand on the door by her head. She smirked satisfied that she had gotten a rise out of him, well two rises if the hardness against her stomach was anything to go by.  

“Don’t...”  

“Don’t what? Hmm? You want to how I let another man split me open. You want to hear how another man took what you couldn't. What you were incapable of claiming that night.”  

Daemon sneered pushing his weight against her trapping her between the door and his hot body, his nose running up and down her neck breathing in the perfume he had watched her apply before dinner. 

“How does it feel, to know that another man had me before you?” Rhaenyra knew that she was poking the dragon. She could feel the fire crackling under his skin.  

“Who? I won’t ask again”, he said while biting her neck. Rhaenyra let out a content sigh. 

“Cristin Cole”  

Daemon stilled, her skin still between his teeth. He bit down harshly before pulling away, his hand coming up to cup her face and to lean his forehead against hers.  

“I’ll kill him” his voice dripping with venom, the complete opposite to the now gentle hold his hands had on her face.  

Rhaenyra didn’t respond, the sound of their deep breathing and the crackling fire were the only things to break the peace. Rhaenyra knew that she had two options; she could flee and knew well enough that Daemon would let her, or she could keep playing along with her drunken husband and sate any fears that he had about their marriage and her commitment. She felt Daemon gently rub his thumb along her jaw and her mind was made up.  

“Use me”  

She could see that for a small moment he was confused, his wine darkened eyes flashed unsurely for a second and he went to move away. She reached out and slapped his face then grabbed his chin in her grasp.  

“Your thoughts of me have darken husband and you doubt our vows” she ran her thumb over the faint scar on his bottom lip.  

“I won't stand for it; do you hear me? I can have you doubt me in other ways but never my vow to you husband. So, use me, make me yours again and put your mind at ease.”  

“Rhaenyra...” 

“Take me”, she pressed her body against his tighter, her nails digging into the skin on his jaw. Daemon slightly nodded and ripped her hand off his face.  

“I’m going to show you what a real fucking is, what that cunt of a knight never could.” Rhaenyra was given enough time to work out if he was talking about Cole or Harwin before Daemon was throwing her over his shoulder and tossing her onto the bed, she bounced for a moment and then began to franticly undo the front of her gown.  

Daemon tsk at her, “Whores don’t take their clothes off”  

Her hands still and she smirked, slowly she leaned back and dragged her skirts up her legs. She came to rest on her elbows and spread her legs slowly. She saw Daemon twitch his neck like a dragon, a slight jerk of his head as he took her in.  

His eyes roamed from her tight breasts and down to the warm wet curls that framed her cunt. His hand dropped to his filling cock, and he palmed himself as he took a seat in one of the chairs by the fire.  

“Come?” He ordered his eyes flickering from her to the floor Infront of him. Rhaenyra eyed him for a second and then slid off the bed. His eye followed her darkly as she walked over to him, coming to stop just out of his reach. He lowered his eyes; the order was clear. Rhaenyra sunk down on to the floor in front of her husband, she was no stranger to what he wanted, she had taken him in her mouth many times before. But never like this, he was always gentle with her when they did this act.  

“Do they still teach whores this skill?” he taunted cocking an eyebrow at her, “I was assured you were the best my coins could buy”.

“I have had no complaints yet, from any of my bed mates”  

She could see his jaw tick and he bit his tongue. He roughly pulled at the laces of his pants and pulled himself out.  

“Well get to it” he ordered sinking back into the chair and parting his legs, he gracefully picked up the jug of wine that was beside him and poured himself a cup. 

His groan when Rhaenyra brushed her hands up his legs as she pulled herself to rest between them. 

She ducked her head and gave his tip a slow suck, her lips wrapping around the wide head. Daemon’s hand tightened around his glass of wine.  

“Do I please you my lord” she whispered and as she licked firmly at the underside, Daemon groan and downed the rest of his wine and slammed the cup back down on the side table.  

Rhaenyra sucked on each of his tight balls, one at a time and jerked her hand up and down his shaft. Daemon hips jerked when she ran her thumb over his head, swiping the cold bead of precum that pooled them. Rhaenyra licked up the bottom of his shaft, and then wrapped her lips around the tip again. 

She looked at him and smiled around her mouthful. Suddenly every inch of his cock disappeared into her mouth. Daemons hand wrapped around her head, his fingers lacing into her hair and guided her bobbing head up and down. He let out a loud moan as Rhaenyra sucked him down her throat, her cheeks hollowing out. For several moments the only sounds in the room were the wet sucking sounds of his wife's lips and his pants.  

Daemon came with a shout; Rhaenyra wrapped her lips around his tip and milked the rest of his cum out into her mouth, her lips still working him, and she swallowed. She pulled off him and wiped at the corner of her mouth, then sucking on her thumb. She then slowly crawled up him, his cock jerked against the brush of her tits as she straddled his lap wrapping her arms around his neck.  

“Is my Lord satisfied? Or was there something else I can do to win his coin?” she asked as she leant into suck at his neck. Daemon was still breathing hard and was slightly lightheaded. He jerked her face to his and melted their lips together, Rhaenyra started to rock her hips in time with the tongues.  

“Please my Lord”, she shuddered against him as his cock slide in-between her cunt lips.  

“Please my lord what?” Daemon said grabbing her hair and bending her neck backwards. “What can this lord do for you?” He said as he pinched her nipples. Her hips jerked and she groaned grinding herself down on him again. Daemon released one of his hands and slipped it down and under her skirts. He stroked a finger through her wet folds and smiled when his finger felt her centre contracting around nothing.  

“Did your knight do this before he fucked you the first time?” He teased, slowly slipping his finger into her, she groaned and shook her head.

“Unsurprising” Daemon mumbled, more to himself then her. He sunk another finger in and he felt her contract around them, her mouth opening in a sigh. He ran his thumb over her clit as she began to move, rising herself up and down. He leaned forward to suck one of her nipples into his mouth at the same time as he pushed a third finger into her. Her back arched and she screamed, her hips starting to jerk faster.  

“Please...please”, she panted as he bit her nipple gently. Her nipples were always sensitive this time of the month and as much as he wished to be rough with her tonight, he would never actually wish to cause her pain. As if she read his mind one of her hands brushed against his cheek in thanks and then clamped onto the back of the chair as she began to ride his hand.  

“Cum”, he ordered, and Rhaenyra collapsed against him, her cunt fluttering and tightening around his fingers and her hips stilled as she moaned and gasped loudly into his neck. Daemons stilled his fingers and felt a gush of wetness surround them. She buried her face deeper into his neck and gave it a soft sucking kiss. He felt he shudder against him and felt a wet tear drop onto his shoulder.  

“Rhaenyra” he asked trying to meet her eye line.

“No”, she said grabbing his face between her hands, “Fuck them out of me, make me forget that they ever had me. Husband take me” she begged. Daemon nodded and rose from the chair, her legs wrapped around his waist. Laying her down on the bed he began to untie her dress. He kissed down her stomach, leaving dark marks in his wake. He ran his fingers over the scars on her stomach, the pearl-coloured lines that mark her as a mother. He moved down to rest on his knees and throw her legs over his shoulders.  

Daemon’s hot breath caused Rhaenyra's centre to spasm, tighten and release in anticipation of his mouth. Then she gasped and moaned as his tongue licked a wet hot path from her hard, swollen clit and down to her entrance. His hands came up to her inner thighs and began to massage, moving closer to the core of her body. His teeth rolling her clit gently back and forth, his hands caressing and probing. When she feels him bite down a little harder on her clit, then plunge two fingers inside her, she screams out his name, "Daemon!" She reached down to tangle her hands in his hair.  

Beads of sweat glisten along her body, her pussy soaked as he plunged his fingers in and out while his tongue and teeth slide over and around her clit. Muscles clenching, her pussy holding onto his fingers each time they are inserted, jolts of electric current bringing her closer to the edge. Rhaenyra's eyes are shut tight her body raising up and down from the bed as Daemon's fingers fuck her while his mouth sucks relentlessly on her clit until finally, everything goes black and light burst behind her eyes.  

Daemon runs his hand along the side of her stomach, and she groans. His fingers like a magnet bringing her back to arousal. Without warning Daemon stands and drags her to the end of the bed, he rubs his thumb over her clit on more time, laughing as her hips jerk and then slowly pushed inside her. He lets out a content sigh, stills.  

"Daemon please..." Rhaenyra begs pulling him down to lay on her, her arm wrapping around his shoulders. 

She whimpered, digging her fingers deeper into his skin. She felt her nails break his skin and felt the blood collect under them. His hand slipped between their bodies, fingers immediately finding her clit, and began to stroke. He circled his middle finger around the swollen nub, and her whimpering grew higher and higher until she was keening. He started to move his hips with quick sharp thrusts, driving himself into her. His knees dug into the bed, and he set a fast pace slamming into her repeatedly. Tilting his head, he bit down hard on the tendon in her neck, almost enough to break the skin, and she was gone. Rhaenyra's body constricted his cock tightly as she came with a scream, while the rest of her body shuddered and clung to him desperately. Daemon braced his hand against the soft fabric of the bed sheets and his other hand gripped her hip tightly and drove up into her body with quick hard thrusts. 

He felt himself nearing his end and his blood sang at the feel of her cunt tighten and fluttering against his cock. His movements grew erratic and his grip on her was sure to leave marks. With a growl, he buried his face in his wife's neck and thrust roughly into her, coming with a sharp yell. His mind was filled with prays to the god to make his seed take, to make her round with his child.  

The minutes ticked by as they lay there, her fingers tracing along his back and shoulders.  

“tell me he isn't having you. The truth and I will never ask again”  

Rhaenyra sighed and didn’t answer. She pushed against him to roll them onto the sides, her hand coming up to brush the hair out of his eyes.  

“Our bed shouldn’t be filled with ghosts my love”  

“But they are not ghosts, they are at our breakfast table. Our dinners. Dancing and touching you for everyone to see” he snapped.  

“But they are not here, and they never will be again.” Rhaenyra said grabbing his face to make him look at her. “They are not here!” she said firmly, smashing their foreheads together.  

“I made an oath to you husband. Bound our blood, our souls. He is but a man that once held my love and I love him as much as I can for the sons that he gave me. But he is not you. You are who I want, who I have always wanted and if the gods had been kinder then you would have been the only one to hold my love.” 

He didn’t say anything, but she felt him sigh against her face. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into her neck.  

“Avy jorrāelan, ñuha ābrazȳrys” he said quietly against her neck.  

“Avy jorrāelan, ñuha valzȳry”, she vows back.  

[antihibikase-archive]

last supper.

It’s a scene that repeats in your dreams ever since that fateful day where you lost your heart.

The dreams were fleeting, always disappearing before your very eyes as you made your choice between the red apple and the tattered doll on the table.

 A red ribbon is wrapped around your neck, with each passing second suffocating you the longer you tried to stall.

The doppelganger before you insists on the apple. He always does.

Your choice is the same every night. You follow what he tells you, unquestioning and afraid, and your dream ends the moment you bite down into the fruit.

Tonight, however, the air is heavy and the ribbon around your neck is tighter.

Momentarily, your hand hovers over the fruit, and he eggs you on.

He’s caught off guard when your hand shifts to the doll instead, damp and dirtied, cold and unloved. 

Its fabric is coarse and its colors have faded. The small head of hair made from torn yarn feels dry and rough, and one of the button eyes have long since disappeared.

“Why?” 

His tone isn’t angry. 

It never was.

It was always gentle and full of unconditional love, and you knew deep down that he only wants what he thought was best for you.

But in the end, he wasn’t you, and you weren’t him.

This was your choice.

“It has no heartbeat,” Your voice is small, like you were a child again. “But it doesn’t mean it’s undeserving of love.”

Your doppelganger sounds like he’s about to cry, taking the apple into his palms and pressing it close to your chest. “Please, I beg you. If this is the only way that you’ll get to live a normal life again, then-”

“I can’t go back to how things used to be,” Though you seek the truth, you know you’re not one to remain rooted in the past. “And I can’t reclaim what I’ve lost. But all I can do for myself now is to accept it, right?”

You hold the doll closer to yourself.

If you take the apple now, eating it until only the core remains, there was no guarantee that you would be the one who would wake up in the morning. 

He means well. 

He always has.

But he doesn’t push further when he hears your resolve.

He glances at the red apple in his palms as it melts into an inky blank goo, spilling onto the marble floors of the dining hall. 

The ribbon on your neck tightens, but even as tears form in the corners of your eyes, you have no regrets.

“It’s always better to die as yourself, huh?” He chuckles bitterly, pressing his hands together in a praying position. “Then I’ll support you as I’ve always had. It’s been nice spending time with you, Slater.”

“Cheren,” You say as your eyes close, drawing your final breath. “My name is Cheren.” 

The thread tightens and tightens, and your vision goes black as you fall into the floor and sink into the growing puddle, where The Heart starts to chant a prayer for you.

[a-humbletoymaker]

The First Half has been completed

[ID START: a picture of 9 crochet plushies leaning up against a tree. END ID]

I have finally completed the first phase of my @hellofromthehallowoods dolls, and am super excited to talk about them! beware, however, as this post will inevitably be long. So long in fact, that I actually logged into this godforsaken website rather than use the app, so I could properly type.

[ID START: a photo of one of the dolls from the above photograph. The doll is of a white girl with brown buzz cut hair. She has brown eyes and wears a red tank top with a black jacket. Her Jeans are blue, and her shoes are black. END ID]

Riot was my first doll, which also means she's my least favorite. This was a doll that made many firsts for me, including crocheting pants, and not rooting the hair of the doll. Given my affinity for doll hair, she just never felt complete too me. She also just seemed incredibly bulky due to all of the layers of yarn blanketing her. It makes her rather stiff. That said, I did learn a lot while making her that you'll see through the rest of the first half.

{ID START: another photograph of a doll from the above image. She is a black girl, with black hair, eyes, and glasses. She wears a dress with a salmon top, and neon pink skirt. It has a teal bow around the waist with a pale yellow center. She wears yellow leggings and teal boots. END ID]

Naturally, Clara came next. I still think she's my favorite of the first phase of dolls. I knew from the start that she wore a dress; although, I had pictured her in something more... calm? regardless, I was doing a huge deep dive into J-fashon at the time, and it likely seeped a bit into my work. I have no regrets. She's adorable! Also she got to be the first doll I've ever embroidered glasses on to!

[ID START: a photo of another doll from the top photo. This one is white with black hair pulled back into two braids. She wears a plain, sparkly blue dress, with matching shoes. END ID]

Did I buy this blue yarn specifically to make this doll? Yes. Do I have any regrets? nope. I based this design loosely on Wednesday Adams, because Friday just frankly gives me those vibes. Her design is quite simple, but I do love how her and Clara look when next too each other.

[ID START: another photo of one of the dolls. This time the doll hangs from a tree, They have choppy black hair, and a patchwork of different skin tones stitched to their body, with pink thread. they have pale eyes, a white shirt, black jacket, and blue jeans. END ID]

Diggory Graves was a challenge to design. A known hill I will die on is that they wear a plague doctor mask; however, I knew I'd have a hard time showcasing their skin if I gave them one. Design wise, I like the stitches, so I originally sewed a plague doctor mask to the side of the head, as I had seen that done with creepy pasta fanart in the past.It didn't look as good in a 3D space as it had in 2D, so I ended up getting rid of it all together. Make no mistake however, this character absolutely wears a plague doctor mask.

[ID START: another photo of one of the dolls. This one has light blue skin, and takers off where the feet should be, to a small crochet paint cord. He has mess dark blue hair, black a blue dress shirt, and a purple vest on top. END ID]

Percy went through a few designs before I settled on one I liked. I have an incredibly hard time doing short hair, and somewhat wanted to choose a design that would allow that to be a feature rather than a flaw. At the end of the day, I just ended up sort of going for it. I had purposefully made Diggory's hair choppy, so why couldn't I do Percy's the same? He did cut both of their hair at some point.

[ID START: another picture of a doll. This one has white skin, puffy blue hair, a light blue jacket under a sparking blue cape. They have a white shirt with black pants and blue shoes. Their eyes are also blue. END ID]

I adore Olivier so much. Just, I would die for them. I had wanted to make them using a mid tone between the two tones you've seen me use throughout this post, but my dog decided that that yarn was his actually (aka he tore it up and had it all over the house.) Living in the woods, while also being blind and thus unable to drive, does sadly mean that I couldn't just go to my local craft store and pick some up; the show still had to go on. I wanted to link them with Friday by using the same yarn for her dress in their cape. I quite like how this one turned out.

[ID START: another picture of a crochet doll. This one has pale skin, black pants, a brown wing like cape, and a red shirt. They have a moth tattoo on their face, have red eyes and pale blonde hair. END ID]

Sadly, Moth is the first, and only time I've ever interacted with a character/ person who uses neopronouns. I'm still trying to get around how they work, and Hello From the Hallowoods is currently my only point of reference to that. I've always imagined Moth having albinism. I don't know why, but I didn't question it when designing the doll. I also went back and forth a lot about giving moth, moth's tattoo, and where it would go. I know its on moth's neck in the show, but the necks on these dolls are frankly way to small to attempt doing that.

[ID START: an image of a dark skinned crochet doll. She had black hair with flecks of red, orange and yellow throughout. She has matching dog ears and a matching tail. Her hair is pulled back into a messy braid. She wears a white tank top with khaki pants and black shoes. END ID]

Please know that I watched an entire 2 hour documentary about Oscar Wilde, and Spirited away, while rooting her hair, yet I still had time to catch up on a few other podcasts as well. She has so much hair. I may or may not have been crying, and my fingers hurt so bad. I probably should have decided to just give her black hair and save myself the pain, but I refuse to make anything easy for myself. I do not regret anything however, because I love how she turned out.

[ID START: another picture of a white, crochet doll. He has long, red and orange hair, that is curled, and is worn in a bony tail. He has red eyes and horns to match. He wears a silver suit, with pink pants and matching silver shoes, END ID]

I was originally going to make Polly before Yaretzi, but someone, who knows who they are, made that difficult. I'm trying to make these dolls as close to the cannon discriptions as I can, so I had to wait out the incident too make sure Polly was OK before making the doll. He was going to be much more pink than he is now, but midway through I decided actually I hated it, and started over in a very me fashion.

You may notice a lack of Mort. I did want to add him to this phase, but I haven't figured out how I wanted to actually go about writing a pattern for him. I adore that hunk of metal so, so much, but I already write my own patterns, and don't really know where to start with him. In all likeliness, he'll make up the final phase of this project. I also didn't post Dogsmell because I hated how he turned out; although he is still on my blog, and will be re-making him at some point.

Because I am going off to college here soon, and do not know what to expect, I have decided to take a break from this project before beginning the second phase. I want to work on other projects in the time being. Once I'm settled in I shall continue on with phase two!

For those wondering, phase two will include these characters in no particular order:

Lady Ethol Malory

Jonah Duckworth

Hector Mendoza

Burn Keene

Violet Keene

Zelda Duckworth

Al

The Omen

Winnona Rider

[river-bottom-nightmare]

it was a clear evening. the sky was all candy-floss pink and clouds were fluffy enough to bite into, the sun's final golden rays rippling through the air like it was the midas touch, and maybe it was because leaves were backlit enough to leave a glow and tim's skin no longer looked sallow and the gravestones scattered neatly around him were softer, rounder, kinder.

alfred had loved clear evenings.

bruce usually took a nap right before dinner and subsequent patrol, to make sure he was rested enough to be at his highest performance on in the field. but tim, still gripping tight to the throes of endless childish energy, could never bring himself to sleep.

instead, alfred would stir up some oddly-flavoured lemonade with whatever fruit he'd decided to buy that week, and the two of them would sink into the secret garden of wayne manor. the grand statement of a house was on a hill, so the lush manor grounds stretched out in front of the two of them, endless and full of any adventure tim's racing mind could think up.

it's hard to remember alfred as soft. no matter the gentleness of the pads of his fingers, no matter his ever-polite tone, there was a type of rigid backbone in him that tim now knew was rare to find a glimpse of. but here, treading those very same overgrown manor grounds, alfred's gravestone was a warm sort of gray, cable-knit and molten iron and downy feathers, far cry from the mocking sleet that tim was used to seeing when he bent his neck before a mausoleum. it was almost as if alfred was trying to offer him comfort from beyond the grave.

"sorry for not visiting earlier," tim said, then immediately winced. alfred never failed to admonish him when he started off a conversation by apologizing. still, shame trickled down tim's spine in a frigid pattern when he realized just how far back in his priorities alfred had been pushed to.

"i was," tim started, then paused to huff at himself in irritation. "i had a lot on my mind."

a wretched apology masquerading as an excuse

the words hung in the open air for a moment, caught by the fading golden sunbeams' web, tangling with tim's regret and anticipation and fear. he let the silence stretch out for a second longer, unwilling to ruin the peace with his fumbling words, before he sunk down cross-legged in front of the gravestone.

"i don't know if you remember this." tim said, staring at the grass in front of the grave instead of the painstakingly hand-carved inscription. someone had kept it trimmed, yet beautifully wild. "you were always busy, either cooking or restocking or organizing. but i used to come to the manor from school, once i got a bit more comfortable around everyone, and i'd tell you about things that happened at school that day."

those rose-tinted memories were a staple of tim's childhood; one of the first things that gripped his wrists tight and drew him into wayne manor's fold, telling him without an ounce of hesitation, you are one of ours.

"there was this one friend that i may have mentioned once or twice. he was, uh, one of my best friends in high school. civvie friends."

god, he hoped he didn't start stuttering. put him in front of a crowd and he could channel bruce's confidence, dick's smooth charm perfectly, bending them under his palms he way his family taught him to. but put him in front of someone he cared about, someone whose opinion took root inside of tim and grew like the most scopic of flowering plants? his confidence crumbled.

you're being dumb, tim told himself. it's a goddamn gravestone.

that didn't stop him from rubbing his fingernails together, from forcing his lips to keep moving.

"i saw him again a couple weeks ago. we were just supposed to catch up, but," a bitter chuckle, "things went a little sideways. like they always do."

tim sighed, bringing one leg up and folding the other underneath. "he got kidnapped. i went to rescue him as robin. and he said something that made me,,,well. i didn't exactly panic. but my brain wasn't working on anything but autopilot for a while afterwards."

the gold in the air was gone, replaced by a soft violet instead, and tim could just see the kind twinkle in alfred's eye, his mustache twitching minutely. do go on, master timothy. i'm riveted.

(and tim would cry stop making fun! and then alfred would say, no not at all, and tell tim exactly what he thought of the middle-school-drama situation he'd landed himself into, would tell him exactly what tim should do, and tim would just revel in the feeling of someone paying attention to what he had to say.)

"i went to go see him afterward," tim continued. "as tim drake, not robin. and he—" a waver, a quiver in tim's voice, balancing on the edge as delicately as a coin. "he asked me to go on a date with him."

tim's voice was almost a whisper when he said to the ground, "i said yes."

the trees kept gently swaying, light was inking across the sky in a deep indigo, and alfred's grave sat silent and still. the world didn't stop moving because tim told someone he went on a date with a boy.

of course it wouldn't. for all alfred could be old-fashioned at times, he'd loved every one of his children and grandchildren openly, wholeheartedly, unconditionally. phantom wrinkled fingers tipped his chin up, an imagined smile spilled over all warm and reassuring, and tim was looking right at alfred's gravestone for the first time tonight.

"i said yes," he said, louder, calmer, more sure. a hundred gathered matchsticks and a spark of novelty in his chest.

alfred's tombstone didn't change, but within the quiet of the buzzing, skittering air, at almost seemed like there was a gossamer thread weaved into it. it almost seemed like acceptance.

tag list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @screennamealreadyused @subtleappreciation @pricetagofficial @catxsnow @bikoncon @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump @xatanna-troy @red-hood-redemption @capricorn-stark @batshit-birds @buticaaba @comics-observer

[mylordshesacactus]

Goals Only Matter In Soccer

A recurring theme I hear from people struggling to “figure out” roleplaying is that they feel their characters are flat, uninteresting, or that they’re otherwise bad at character creation because their characters don’t have “goals.” Or, as the flip side of that coin, that they themselves are bad roleplayers because they either can’t remember their characters’ goals, or can’t/don’t enjoy actually roleplaying those goals.

(A short break for shameless self-promotion: If you want some one-on-one assistance with character creation or are struggling to roleplay, I do one-hour consult sessions to give you specific help in tapping into your RPG character. You get tailored guidance with no attempts to tell you what you “should” do, and I get to ethically keep my therapeutic interviewing skills from getting rusty while in grad school limbo. Everyone wins!)

This is getting a bit esoteric. Let’s use some concrete examples.

Some common “goals” might be: A wizard whose goal is to become more powerful or gain a certain form of knowledge, a noble-born character whose goal is to restore their family’s name or wealth, or the evergreen goal of avenging a great wrong like the death of a loved one.

These are all great character goals! There is nothing wrong with having a character with a clear goal they work toward over the course of the game, and making a character with a clear goal is a great way to get started with roleplaying! 

But it is only one method. And it’s not always appropriate.

I’m about to blow your damn mind: Characters don’t need goals. 

The idea that a well-rounded character should always have a “goal” is pervasive, and honestly harmful to good character creation and roleplaying! And it’s even more difficult to overcome because if you look for roleplaying or character-building advice, “give them a goal” is generally one of the first bullet points. This is well-meaning, and it’s not bad advice. But if it leaves you feeling like your character is incomplete because they don’t have A Goal—or worse, feeling obligated to tack on a “goal” and struggle to prioritize it in roleplay—then it’s not helpful.

Characters do not need “goals”.

But all characters need motivations.

As usual, I’m going to use my own characters as an example so you don’t feel like I’m lecturing you. I think I only have one major D&D character who could be stated to have a “goal”--my halfling druid/fighter, who wants to repay her debt to the Circle so that she can make a clean and respectful break and live her own life without guilt. 

But the others? Benny (Benevolence, but only her mom calls her that), my tiefling bard, doesn’t have a “goal” she works toward; in all honesty, her goal was her pre-campaign life. She likes being a travelling musician, she wants to perform and meet people across the continent! Rinda, my dwarven paladin, has five kids at home--her nieces and nephews, who she adopted after her sister’s tragic death in a mine collapse. She’s got no career ambition because she feels that chasing rank or prestige is inappropriate in a paladin, whose priority should be ordinary people and who needs to be accessible and grounded in the reality of the common folk. Her “goal” is to just keep being an honorable, mid-rank paladin and providing for her family.

That’s not remotely helpful in a tabletop RPG! Those are terrible “goals” for a character in a team-based game! If I followed general beginner RP advice and leaned into those goals, I’d end up that dreaded monstrosity, the player who says things like “but why would my character get involved? She would just let the town guard handle it”.

However, these characters’ motivations are a different story.

Benny doesn’t set out with the goal of becoming a hero; it’s not something she consciously works toward or considers a major aspiration. But she is responsible for what she allows, and at her core, Benevolence was well-named. She was raised by loving parents who taught her how to raise working animals and livestock ethically and with compassion, and who taught her the regret that comes of making selfish decisions. Helping others and minimizing suffering isn’t her life goal. She didn’t set out from home with a dream of being better than her parents, of putting good into the world instead of just mitigating the bad...but sometimes people really do just help others because it’s the right thing to do. 

Rinda? Her driving purpose will always be her family. Caring for them is her goal, the thing she intentionally prioritizes, the thing she actively works for. But her motivations are not the same thing. Yes, she wants to stay close to take care of her kids...but her responsibilities as a paladin are important to. She’s a protector who swore an oath, and her children are not more important than children in the next city over who will suffer without her intervention. Her motivation is to make people feel safe, but that’s not really a traditional “goal”. And she’s a stronger character for that!

So: Motivations > Goals. 

Which does NOT mean that your character shouldn’t have a concrete goal! That’s not what I’m saying at all. Rather...if your character has a concrete goal, arising naturally from their backstory, and you struggle to roleplay that goal, it may be because you’re not tapping into why your character has that goal in the first place. Are they seeking power because they’re terrified of a specific enemy? To prove a detractor or an abuser wrong? In order to accomplish a specific task--and in that case, who or what made them believe that task was important? Why is your rogue trying to avenge the death of his sister--and you can’t say “love” or “grief”. Many people have lose loved ones; what made this specific person decide that the only way forward was murder, and that his target(s) were responsible, and that he personally had to dedicate his life to killing them?

(This course of questioning may lead you to realize that you don’t have an answer. If that happens, ask yourself--is this a realization that your CHARACTER might have? That they don’t know why they’re doing this? Follow that thread! If not, it’s possible that you’ve tacked on an artificial “goal” for the sake of having one, and your character would be stronger without that anchor weighing them down.)

Sedge, that druid/fighter from earlier--her goal is to repay a massive debt so that she can be free of the Circle’s influence and live her own life. But her motivation? A mixture of shame and honor. The Circle saved her from a lot of predatory loans from bad people, rescued her, saved her life. She’s embarrassed at ending up so deep in debt and too proud to not repay that kind of kindness, but also feels a genuine gratitude for their kindness toward a total stranger. She wants to do right by them--but hates being a druid--but has always wanted to be the kind of hero who helps others exactly as selflessly as they did. 

It creates a lot of in-depth roleplay possibilities that wouldn’t exist if I’d just left that goal as simple as “acquire X amount of gold to pay off her student loans” and proceeded to play Sedge as simply money-obsessed.

Even if your character does have a clear goal, their motivations can change and come into conflict with it! A heroic character with debts to repay might easily refuse a huge payday if it requires them to do something shady...but they might not. How desperate are they? A wizard whose goal is to unlock the power to cast Wish might see a path to that goal...but pursuing it would mean abandoning a helpless village in the path of an orc army, and if she stays to defend that village, she loses her opportunity.

What wins out, in the end? And what effect will that choice have on her psyche?

Suddenly it really, really matters why she’s so dead-set on learning Wish. Whether it’s out of pride or fear (which might be easier for her to set aside in the face of innocent lives) or out of a deep-rooted belief that something absolutely essential rests on her learning this spell—something a lot harder to turn her back on.

These conflicts can occur with or without a “goal”. But, whether a character has a “goal” or not, these conflicts and intimate, pivotal character moments absolutely cannot exist in a character without motivations.

[ksalientian]

02. [orv][sl] jindok

text version of two twitter posts. jinwoo/dokja. inspired by shweezyliz 😊

.

He'd seen something strange, in the barren gap between dimensions. Something that shouldn't have been there, but had somehow come close enough to the void that Jinwoo could see it as though he was looking through a film: a train, winding endlessly among the stars, and on that train was a person. More accurately, a child.

It wasn't that Jinwoo didn't already have his hands full trying to save his own world. It was just— the kid had looked so sad, and he was just a kid, right? Jinwoo couldn't have just left him there. 

And, he admitted, he had been curious. There had never been anything new in the gap until the sudden appearance of this train. Jinwoo had to know.

So it was that two years after his disappearance, Jinwoo returned to Earth plus one kid (who was not a kid at all, he had been informed, but an adult who had clearly eaten the same wrong food that Jinwoo himself ate before deciding to become the most unsung hero in history) and minus an all-important bottom line. But that was Kim Dokja's problem.

"Dokja-hyung," said Jinwoo, resting his chin on top of Dokja's head. Even returned to his teenage self, he was still significantly taller than Dokja, whose teenage body was so skinny and pale it made Jinwoo worry. "Why are you so bad at this?"

Dokja squirmed under Jinwoo's weight, but ultimately gave up. His pencil continued scratching in the English workbook. "I was an average student," he said, very politely, "and I didn't spend all my time on the train studying."

"I didn’t spend all my time studying either," Jinwoo pointed out.

Dokja refused to entertain Jinwoo's eminently valid point, and continued to focus on his homework like he was an actual student. Jinwoo regretted setting Dokka up with a proper high school identity instead of throwing him to the GED sharks like Jinwoo himself. 

"Igrit," Jinwoo sighed.

[Yes, my liege.]

"Can you help Dokja with his homework?"

"It's fine, I don't need help," began Dokja, before Igrit said anything, but Jinwoo wrapped his arms around Dokja's waist and squeezed him until he stopped. 

"But I just want to help you," said Jinwoo, seriously. Dokja's ears flushed red. 

In the shadows, his subjects were cheering him on louder than they'd ever cheered him on before. Jinwoo felt a burst of gratitude that Dokja couldn't hear them. They were happy for him, he knew— happy that after losing Haein to sealed memories and his own mismatched mental age, Jinwoo could still find someone to share a life with.

It was too early to bring that up now, though.

He put his head on Dokja's shoulder instead, listening to his shallow breathing. "Can't I?" Jinwoo asked.

After a long silence, during which Beru had to be bodily restrained to stay in the shadows, Dokja gave him the slightest nod. "If you want," he said, quiet as a mouse, and Jinwoo's lips curled in satisfaction.

.

In the mornings, Jinwoo goes next door to make breakfast so that Dokja will eat something instead of subsisting on air for the whole day ("It's just that I didn’t need to eat on the train," he will say, placatingly, trying to avoid Jinwoo's gimlet stare, but Jinwoo has built up an immunity to Dokja's sad eyes now and refuses to let it slide). No matter what he cooks, Dokja eats like a bird; Jinwoo is still searching for the perfect meal.

This morning, because he's feeling particularly energetic, he's taking the time to steam fresh dumplings in the tiny one-person steamer that Dokja had bought and then never used.

[My liege,] says Beru, hesitantly.

"What?" Jinwoo puts the last of the dumplings in the steamer and closes it triumphantly, running a hand through his sweaty fringe.

[Sir Dokja has awakened, but he seems… not in the best of moods.]

Jinwoo opens the fridge, narrows his eyes at its sad contents, picks out a lone ginger root from the vegetable drawer. "He gets moods sometimes, you know that. Just let him come to me."

[As you command.]

It doesn't take long before Dokja finds his way to the kitchen and stops at the entranceway, rubbing his feet together. Jinwoo, still holding the knife he's using to julienne the ginger, turns and waves at him.

"You look like a serial killer," says Dokja, a little absent-mindedly.

"I could be," Jinwoo replies, smiling. Dokja doesn't seem to think the millions of dead in his shadow count as his victims, but Dokja has a weird morality scale that Jinwoo won't pretend to understand.

At first Jinwoo thinks Dokja is just sleepy, but even when the dumplings are done and plated Dokja is staring at nothing, the oddest expression on his face. It takes Jinwoo a moment to place it, but when he recognises it he's immediately disconcerted— it's eerily reminiscent of the way Dokja had looked on the train, back when he was still trapped on it and Jinwoo was still fighting the unending war in between worlds.

"Hyung," Jinwoo says, not quite as sharply as he means to. He makes a gesture to Igrit, who shifts away to guard the perimeter. "What are you thinking?"

For a long moment, Dokja doesn't answer him, only his eyes moving to stare at Jinwoo instead of the middle distance. Jinwoo lets him stare, and he looks his fill too. 

Dokja is very different from Haein. Haein is the type of woman who looks strong from the get-go: beautiful but still perfectly capable of kicking a man in the groin and walking away without a hair out of place. She had woken up like that too, Jinwoo remembers fondly— even with sleep clouding her eyes and no makeup on, she had looked like a dream. A just-awakened Dokja is all messy hair and wrinkles from the pillow, darkness under his eyes and skin dry as a desert. Tired and somewhat fragile. He doesn't look like the kind of person one would trust to carry an entire world on his back. 

But then, Jinwoo hadn't looked like that in the beginning either.

"You remind me of him, sometimes," Dokja says at last, breaking the silence.

"Him?" Jinwoo doesn't know his name, but he knows instinctively who Dokja is talking about. He must be Dokja's Haein.

"Someone I liked to watch over," Dokja answers. Then he smiles wryly. "The protagonist of the world I came from."

"Tell me I'm more handsome," Jinwoo says, lightly, ignoring the immediate shouts of praise from Beru. "Or I'll get jealous." Jinwoo receives a proper smile at that, and his heart settles. 

"On the Yoo Joonghyuk beauty scale, I'm afraid you can't even slap his face once," Dokja tells him, a thread of melancholy hidden in his teasing voice. "But you're definitely taller, at least—"

"I'm jealous," Jinwoo interrupts, and rounds the table to drape himself on Dokja's body. "Hyung is so mean. Isn't this the part where you say I'm the most handsome in your eyes?" Jinwoo can feel Dokja's heart beating where his lips are pressed to warm skin. It's not quite a kiss— they aren't quite there yet— but maybe, after today, they can be.

Yoo Joonghyuk. Jinwoo rolls the name in his mind and remembers it well.

[professorspork]

superhell fic prompt: JAUNE RUNS INTO PYRRHA

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5]

It doesn’t occur to that she’s allowed to talk to them until Torchwick reveals himself to Neo. And even then, well-- Roman Torchwick isn’t exactly a shining paragon when it comes to setting a good example of what’s allowed.

But the idea refuses to stop hounding her footsteps, once it’s come. Once she’s seen it’s possible, without consequences. Still, she waits, and keeps her distance. There’s no sunset, here on the island, no night, but there are shady places beneath the towering roots of the Tree; eventually, they all bed down, and Jaune-- as she’d known he would-- volunteers to take first watch. It’s a heartening display: Yang and Blake twined together like ivy on a wrought iron gate, but each clinging to the hands of their teammates, chained together by grasping fingers. Otters in a stream, unwilling to be separated.

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised to hear her own voice when she approaches.

...I know this can be frustrating, and it can feel like so much effort to progress such a small amount, but I want you to know that I'm proud of you. I've never met someone so determined to better themselves...

“You’ll drain your battery,” she cautions, reaching out with her mind to press the off button on his scroll. His head whips up, expression aghast, and she smiles at him softly. “I’d have thought you’d have it memorized by now anyhow; you haven’t seemed to need it in some time.”

She expects disbelief, perhaps, or shock. Joy would have been nice, but she’d have understood anger. So she’s surprised and---bizarrely proud, actually-- when instead his eyes narrow in suspicion and the first thing he says is, “Your Semblance works.”

“Well, yes.”

“Why does your Semblance work?”

“Because I’m where I’m supposed to be. A soul knows when it’s in the right place. Or the wrong one, as the case may be.”

“Or I’m dreaming.”

“Or you’re dreaming,” she agrees, keeping her voice mild, but feeling it like a punch to the stomach when his shoulders relax at the idea. Does he... not want her here? Goodness, but she’s out of practice. She’d forgotten it was like this; how talking to him had been both the easiest and the hardest thing in the world. “Would you-- prefer that? If I weren’t really here?”

“The real Pyrrha would know better than to ask me that.”

Despite herself, she laughs. “Oh, I wish that were true. I asked myself that every day. Every class, every glance, every study session on the roof. I’m afraid I was never as confident as I should have been.” It’s an embarrassing admission, but an effective one; the walled-up caution behind his eyes dissipates... only for tears to well up in its stead.

“Are you-- can I touch you?”

“I hope so.” (She’d left Torchwick and Neo behind before they’d gotten that far, for obvious reasons.)

“I--” He scrambles to his feet and crosses the distance between them, enveloping her in a crushing hug. It doesn’t feel like she remembers, but then, that’s no surprise-- he’s taller than he used to be, and her body isn’t exactly a body, per se. She’s grateful, even so. Happy just to have the chance to hold him up. She keeps quiet at first, letting him get it all out as he sobs incoherent apologies into her shoulder--

(IloveyouImissyouIloveyouImissyouI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry)

--and contents herself with playing with the short hair at the nape of his neck. Eventually, he calms.

“I like the haircut,” she says, when he pulls away. “It’s handsome. You look so grown up.”

“You look so young,” he croaks in response, and-- she supposes she must, to his eyes. It’s strange to think that she’s the same age as Ruby now; that they’ve kept going on without her, and they’ll continue to do so, once she’s led them out. “Are you--? Have you--?” He wipes at his eyes, laughing at himself a little. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where to start. I just-- I can't believe you're here with me.”

“I'm always with you,” she assures him, unable to suppress the urge to thumb away a tear he’s missed. She keeps her hand there, at his cheek, as she she speaks: “Even when you can’t sense me, I... oh, Jaune. I’m so proud of you. You’ve come so far.”

He sighs and steps out of the circle of her arms, hanging his head to stare at Crocea Mors where it rests in its sheath. You’d never know it to be broken, just by looking. The scabbard hides the damage-- giving him the appearance of being armed and ready though all he carries is a shattered hilt. “Yeah, maybe. I-- I thought I had, but...” He swallows, face filled with shame.

She starts to reach for him again, unwilling to waste even a moment of their time not touching him, but forces herself to relax and drop her hands to her sides. It has to be his choice, doesn’t it? “Tell me. You can tell me anything; you know that.”

His voice falters terribly when he finally speaks: 

“I mean, I feel like you already know. For the longest time, I wanted to be this... I dunno. This warrior, or whatever. And it never fit, no matter what I did, or how hard I worked, and I just-- I resented it so much. Being...” He shakes his head. “I just felt useless. But when I unlocked my Semblance, I had to let that go. And it was hard at first, it took time, but for a second there it finally started to feel like... like I knew my place. Where I belonged; what everyone needed from me. I was good at it. But then Penny needed--” He chokes on a sob, and has to stop and take several deep breaths before he can continue. “Nothing’s changed. I’m still useless. The idiot stuck on the wrong side of the glass, out of his league and forced to watch because someone else has to be the Maiden now and there’s nothing he can do about it. Only this time it’s worse, because this time I actually-- I--”

Unable to hold herself back anymore, she reaches for his hands; he squeezes her fingers tight, like a lifeline. “I understand,” she soothes, voice heavy like a vow. “Did you think I wouldn’t? I don’t think I have to remind you that I’m the only other person who knows what that feels like. To have been the one who killed her.”

He lets out an awful, cynical noise; a parody of a laugh. “Depends on who you ask,” he says in explanation, looking askance towards Ruby. Pyrrha sadly follows his gaze. Ruby’s shifted in her sleep, curled under her cape to be as small as possible with her head nestled in the crooks of Yang’s bent knees. Her arms are wrapped around Yang’s shins in a death grip, as though she fears her sister might fly away at any moment. Pyrrha’s heart aches for her; for the responsibility she carries. Weight Pyrrha could have helped shoulder... if only she’d been a little faster, a little more clever.

She shakes off the feeling; now’s not the time for regret. “But things have changed,” she says, bringing Jaune’s hands up to her mouth and kissing the knuckles. It will be a long time, she knows, before he believes there isn’t blood on them; maybe this small act can help. And if it doesn’t... she has other options. Maybe even a little levity, for once. “You’re not useless. You’re amazing. You’re a licensed Huntsman now; you’re accomplishing things you’d only dreamed of. All the mothers of Mantle adore you. You even got to go on a date with Weiss!”

He boggles at her, wrenching his hands away. “What?! That wasn’t a date, we were just hanging out with Oscar, we--” His jaw falls open, suddenly, and his eyes narrow once more. “Wait a minute. Are you teasing me?”

She grins, sheepish and caught. “I figured it was now or never to give it a go; I didn’t want to waste my last chance to try it. Nora always said it would be good for me.”

“To make fun of me?” he squawks, indignant.

She laughs. “To remind myself it’s okay to be a novice sometimes; that there are things I won’t instantly be good at.” She bites her lip, unable to stop her grin. “...And also to make fun of you, yes.”

He surges forward, then-- wrapping a hand around the back of her neck and pulling her closer, pressing a fierce, grateful kiss to her forehead. Then he does it again; then once more, at the bridge of her nose. And then a final time, against her lips. Quick; intense. Filled with meaning.

She’s got not breath in her, and still she’s breathless.

“I miss you so much,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his forehead against hers. His fingers thread themselves into the hair at the back of her skull, tangled into the base of her ponytail. “So much. I think about you all the time. Every day. Wondering how different things would be, if only...”

“I know,” she says, because she does. There’s more that she should say, probably-- that it’s good that he’s started to move on; that none of them can hold onto her forever. But she can’t quite bring herself to voice the words.

“It’s not fair,” he mutters, then sighs at the sound of it. “I mean, none of it is fair, but-- I feel like a jerk, I guess. That I’m the one who gets to see you, of all of us.”

“You’ll tell them I love them, won’t you? Ren and Nora. They...” They’re doing things she never did, is the thing. Maturing in ways she’ll never have the chance to. Learning that responsibility doesn’t mean putting it all on your own shoulders; that love doesn’t mean giving all of yourself away. It’s overwhelming, how proud she is of them for that. “They were on the right path, in Atlas. Don’t let them convince themselves otherwise.”

He nods, the movement of it levering her own head in shared agreement. “Anything else? Anyone else you’d like me to...?”

So many; too many. But one rises above the rest. “Tell my mother to stop leaving flowers,” she murmurs, wishing she had more to offer than that. “Tell her they belong in the garden; that I like to watch them grow. That’s-- the way it should be.”

“Okay,” he says, and relief rushes through her. “Okay. I will.”

Slowly, they both become aware once more of the gaggle of Huntresses sleeping just a few yards off. Pyrrha could leave dozens of messages with Jaune, if she wanted, but the people she most needs to speak to are right here, within arm’s reach. They need her guidance; it’s selfish not to provide it. She’s taken so long already. And yet...

Jaune beats her to voicing the thought: “I know we should probably wake them, but-- can it be just the two of us, for just a little longer? Please?”

She smiles, and brings a hand up to caress his cheek. “I thought you’d never ask.”