#I just need to imagine the lack of sympathy that man would have for me rn

[martini-with-a-lizzard]

If captain Benjamin Franklin 'Hawkeye' Pierce can do surgery all through the night in the middle of a war zone then I can write a single goddam essay without crying.

[likea-silhouette]

pairing: harry styles x fem!reader

rating: mature

word count: 3k

summary: Harry was once the boy you loved and wanted to spend your life with. The funny thing is that addiction is something that is never predicted. What happens when you run into your ex-boyfriend years after your breakup that was due to his vices?

*based on the song Complex by Katie Gregson-MacLeod*

30-year-old me could've never fathomed life would've looked like this.

The 21-year-old pictured it a million times—a future with him and me, maybe children, maybe a flat.

Our love was solidified in my mind as if something like ours would never change or dwindle. How could it? 

But that's what love feels like at that age—until reality sets in, and those dreams and visions of future eternal love begin to fade. Then, the reality of adulthood kicks in.

Harry started going out—a lot. 

It was not unusual for a man at an age that was just beginning to kiss their 20s, but then it changed. It evolved into this dark cloud that hovered over he and I until it intermingled with every feeling I held towards him.

I could tell he had a problem. The drugs, the drinking-all of it had turned into something far from a normal night of fun. Before I knew it, the Harry I once knew and adored more than anything had evaporated into an air drenched in dismay, regret, and questioning. 

Until our early 20s, our shared friends watched me sling Harry’s arm around my shoulder each time we went out together. Their sets of eyes always preached sympathy, yet their tongues must’ve been cut off-or at least that’s what I assumed due to their lack of actual words. 

Each one of those frequently occurring nights where I struggled to move his flimsy legs out of a bar as his larger, drunk stature slurred words that only made sense to him, I could feel myself hating him a little more.

Eventually, I was questioning it all. Why wasn’t I enough? Why wasn’t his music and his family enough? Why did it have to be substances that turned him into a human that I never met nor signed up to be so deeply in love with?

I began to opt-out anytime Harry said we were invited for a night out with others. I could tell his disappointment the first couple of times I declined. Still, eventually, he stopped letting me know of these invitations altogether, with me only finding out about them as I watched him slip on his coat near the front door and tell me not to wait up for him.

At the tip of our shriveling iceberg, I became so numb that it rarely bothered me anymore. Those first nights when this was more of a rare occurrence, I would find myself crying into a pillow as Harry’s passed-out body lay in a corpse-like pose on our couch. Now, I felt nothing. Everything that once annoyed and worried me had turned into just another item on my checklist that I needed to be bothered with at 3 a.m. on a Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday…

His drunkenness had not only made Harry a completely different person but also made me a person I didn't recognize. It had me questioning whether I was even happy in our relationship, something I had never felt or imagined would happen to two people who were as deeply in love as we once were.

I wasn’t a total novacained creature; even if that’s what I wished I could be. Eventually, those feelings would bubble up and I would find my pot simmering over its edge. Tears would leak and leak from my eyes as I’d pace both metaphorically and physically while I tried to process how this had become what my life with Harry was. My throat would scratch and rub raw as I cried out into our empty apartment until my eyes were so tired and swollen that the nothingness of sleep was the only thing that sounded appealing and worth succumbing to.

___

One night, Harry managed to make his way back home from the bar on his own. How? I wasn’t sure and truthfully, I didn’t care anymore.

Even if that meant he recklessly got in a car while inebriated beyond belief or if he paid for an overpriced cab he’d never have to worry about the price of thanks to fame, riches, and loss of reality.

I nearly jumped off of the couch in surprise as his heavy hand slammed our front door closed.

Little did I know, that very evening, when I was adorned in a pair of Harry’s boxers and an oversized t-shirt, would be the last night I would spend in this living room that we shared. “How did you get home?” I said with my palm lying flat over my heart. “What are you-my mum?” Harry scoffed with a smirk, a clumsy tongue, and a stench of vodka that clung to the fabric of his clothes.

I rolled my eyes, not even bothering to continue a conversation that would never move anywhere except to a space where Harry made rude comments and insults at me. He always got this way when he was gone beyond belief and choosing silence seemed like the best option from my point of view.

“Oh, now you can’t speak, huh?” Harry spat as he took a swig out of the quarter-gone wine bottle that sat on the coffee table next to the glass I had been nursing all evening. Quickly, I stood to my feet. My chest puffed in and out rapidly as I snatched the bottle out of his hands. Harry looked at me in disbelief. “This is the last thing you need right now Harry!” “Oh come on! You really are acting like my mum now,” he said with a joking tone despite my tense face sending him very real daggers.

“I’m not fucking kidding Harry! You’re already far gone as it is.” Our chests brushed as I attempted to grab the bottle out of his hands. It gave me butterflies.

I hated how touching him in any form still gave me a euphoric feeling despite the less-than-enthused circumstance we were currently in and had been in for the last couple of years. With a smirk, Harry held the bottle of wine above his head, extending it beyond my reach. I groaned, not wanting to play his little game tonight. “You know what-fine.” I raised my hands in front of my chest in surrender, “You get even more shit-faced than you are now and I’ll go to Nadia’s place so I can have some fucking peace”.

I couldn’t lie that it stung watching Harry’s mouth downturn at my words, but I wouldn’t allow it to change my mind again as it had so many times in the past. “Babe, c’mon”, Harry whined as he lowered the bottle to waist height. “Don’t be such a prude just because I like having a good time.” “A good time? You getting trashed and then coming home to drink yourself to sleep before you eventually wake up in the morning, puking up everything in your stomach and having the worst migraine of your life-that’s a good time? Meanwhile, I’m the one who brings you food! I’m the one who cleans up the vomit! I’m the one who has to leave early to get your drunk ass home! I’m not your goddamn mother Harry and that’s how you’re treating me and I’m sick of it.”

Suddenly, Harry’s voice rose and his nostrils began to flare-he morphed into a creature that only appeared when mixed with inebriation and anger. “Fucking sue me for going out and having a drink every once in a while!” Once in a while? As if this wasn’t happening multiple times a week. “But that’s the point! It’s not once and a while H, it’s several times a week that this happens.” Harry shook his head and rolled his eyes as he took another sip out of the open bottle. That rapidly beating heart of mine somehow increased even more as my hands acted before my brain could rationalize. Before I knew it, I was smacking the glass bottle out of Harry’s hand, sending glass and poignant, fruity liquid to the ground and on mine and his clothes.

I watched in horror as Harry took a step back and lifted his hands in front of his chest with wide eyes as he examined the evidence of my aggravation and utter exhaustion. Immediately I felt shame and disbelief towards myself and the person I had become. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was being pushed to my very brink, all while living constantly on edge and mourning the loss of who my boyfriend once was. Harry was turning me into someone I didn’t recognize anymore. Quickly, my feet darted between pieces of shattered glass, as I ran to the bathroom and let my ass meet the cold tiled floor. My knees hugged into my chest as I rocked back and forth with gasping breaths and eyes freely sobbing. Harry was mumbling something on the other side of the door, but my state of panic and disbelief shielded me from comprehending a word he was saying. Eventually, he went silent. I wasn’t sure how long I sat on that bathroom floor before I heard the light wrap of a fist against the door. I didn’t look at him as his head peaked around the now open door, but I knew his eyes would be soft and sorrowful. This was the hardest part.

He always looked sorry-so deeply sorry, and I didn’t doubt that he was genuine in that feeling. Harry was a good guy before and I knew that person was still inside of him somewhere, except he was buried six feet under and suffocating underneath the dirt and grime.

Harry proceeded to stare at me and I could tell his mind was going through some sort of internal conflict. Maybe he was regretful? Ashamed? Sorry? Hurt? I didn’t know and I was much too numb to even begin to care now. The damage was already done. Eventually, Harry gave up with his silent ‘I’m sorry’ and retreated to the couch where he drunkenly slipped into a state of slumber.

Meanwhile, I packed a large duffle bag with as many of my necessities as I could fit, and I left. —---

The months following my sudden departure were filled with texts, phone calls, and voicemails from Harry. I never answered any of them, but that never stopped him from trying to reach me. “Babe, I’m sorry. Can we talk? x ”

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted you know? I love you.”

“I’ll quit drinking. I promise this time.”

“Please don’t do this. I can’t do this without you in my life.”“You’re so perfect,” Harry sobbed into the phone with drunken speech, “how could I fuck this up so badly. I’m sorry.” When those methods of communication were not satisfying enough for Harry, he resorted to sending me DM’s on social media to confirm I was receiving his calls and texts.

I left him on read each and every time. When Harry finally let himself believe that my silence was something I was looking to make permanent and not just some sort of other excuse, his calls became more spread out and his texts sparse, until nearly six months after our final dispute, he fell silent and not only from me, but from the rest of the world as well.

—----

Two full years had passed since we split up and I hadn’t heard a single word from Harry since he gave in and granted me the space I silently requested. However, something I wasn’t expecting was that little part of me that felt sad once those calls and messages stopped rolling in. Had he really given up on me after only trying for a few months? I knew it was dumb and selfish to be upset about someone's sudden cutting off of communication when that was the very thing I had done and initiated, yet I felt that silence so cripplingly.

On the night of my 22nd Valentine's Day, I sat on my couch with a joint and a large to-go container of veggie fried rice as I tried to appease my melancholy of the evening, as many others were on this night. Eventually, the drugs kicked in and the TV couldn’t hold my attention long enough, so I found my thumb lazily pressing the letter ‘H’ on the keyboard of my phone as I hovered in the open tab of the browser. I knew I shouldn’t. I had blocked him on anything and everything for a reason, but it had been a few years, and, sue me for being naturally curious…especially on a fateful night such as this.

So pathetic-i’m aware, but somehow I convinced myself that it was okay and that maybe, just maybe, this would somehow bring me comfort or peace. Others were able to look their ex up on social media to get a peak into a life they were no longer a part of, so why couldn’t I google my ex and look for his name in headlines on major press websites? That’s what I told myself as I typed out the rest of his name and hit enter.

Several items popped up, but none were too terribly personal. It seemed that even to the public eye, Harry was nowhere to be found unless it was a promotional photoshoot, tour photos with One Direction, or blurred candids that were taken in secret. There was zero gossip around those stereotypical things you would think a single man would experience; women, getting kicked out of various bars, etc. The only headlines I was consistently seeing were ones questioning Harry’s absence from the public eye. I guess we both had that question in common. However, I at least had images that I could look at.

His face looked slightly more grown up and chiseled. His green eyes that once glimmered still looked nearly the same, minus the deep set purple circles underneath his waterline that were something I couldn’t remember seeing before. His hair was even longer than before and his body had a more athletic build and was filled up with several more tattoos.

He looked good. I wouldn’t deny that. Several minutes-hell, maybe even an hour-went by of examining images of a man who looked like the person you had thought was your soulmate. When you were finally able to pull yourself out of the trance, you threw your phone down on the coffee table in frustration. Your heart was swelling and you hated it. You were smiling as you looked at those images, admiring how handsome Harry still was and that much more as he grew further into adulthood- you hated that even more. You hated that you still adored him. Fucking hated it. —----

Six years later

“Fucking Idiot”, you mumbled as your hand slammed down on the horn button set dead center on your steering wheel. The traffic was horrendous and your patience was naturally always thin, but today made you that much more intolerant of any sort of inconvenience. Your best friend, Nadia, was throwing a surprise birthday party for her husband that would be filled with top-notch cuisines, free booze, and many of his close friends and family members. However, the party wasn’t the cause of your irritability. It’s who you knew could potentially be there that was causing a disturbance within your mind and body. When Nadia met her now husband, you and Harry, who you had just started dating at the time, naturally went out on double dates often, thus, forming a close friendship between the four of you. When you and Harry parted ways, your friendship with Nadia and her partner remained, but Harry was never spoken of. You weren’t sure of the exact reason-maybe it was out of fear of disturbing your peace or maybe they both cut him of-you weren’t sure. Either way, you were grateful that it was an unspoken condition that your friends caught on to naturally. Except for today, you were far from grateful for it; to say it would be helpful to know if your ex-boyfriend would be making an appearance at the same party you would be attending, thus, the both of you having to be in the same room together again after several years, is an understatement.

Sure, you could’ve asked your friend if Harry would be making an appearance today in case you needed to mentally prepare, but you also didn’t want to give off the vibe that you cared about his whereabouts, despite you very very much caring. Especially if it meant you and him being within the same realm again.

Before you could psych yourself into any more made-up horror-filled scenarios of your and Harry’s potential reunion, Nadia’s home came into view as your car rolled into an open parking space.

The area around their home was packed with various cars and people exiting their vehicles with gift bags and envelopes in hand.

As soon as your hand puts the car in park, you are pulling the mirror down and wiping away any concept of imperfection on your face or in your hair. Once finished with your final touches to your appearance, you took a deep breath-in and then out-before grasping the giftbag in your hand and stepping out of the confines of your car and into the crisp air.

Immediately, you are greeted by familiar faces of acquaintances you couldn’t put a face to the name of. Regardless, you smiled politely and spoke the standard conversation starters, such as, “How’ve you been?” or, “I haven’t seen you in ages!”. All paired with a masked smile, of course.

You found yourself scanning your perimeter as you walked to Nadia’s front door and twisted your hand on the unlocked door knob. One last deep, deep breath was sucked in between your teeth and out through your nose as you stepped into the unknown.

To be continued

[mushynka]

ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ. ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴢᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴏʀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴇʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴᴏɴ!

Yeah another sick-fic this time with Leo bc I'm living my best life in sick-fluff-care fantasy. Don't wake me up, please! I tried my best to make it look good. Using "old" english while writing Leo's dialogues was exhousting fr... 😮‍💨

【Ｓｕｃｈ　Ａ　Ｄｒａｍａ　Ｑｕｅｅｎ

Ｐｒｉｎｃｅ？】

Sick Leopold Mountbatten x Caretaker fem. reader

Leopold, the Duke of Albany, was sitting on couch inside your apartment, surrounded by a growing mountain of crumpled tissues. His impeccable posture was slightly slouched, a telltale sign of his dire condition—at least according to him. He sniffled dramatically, clutching a woolen blanket around his shoulders like a royal cape.

“Y/N” Leopold croaked, his voice tinged with a blend of aristocratic gravitas and pitiful despair. “I fear the end is near. This malady, this plague—shall be my end.”

You just returned from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea, rolling your eyes as handed it to him. “Leo, it’s a cold. You’re not dying.”

“A cold?” he repeated, his tone incredulous. “Do colds cause such unrelenting misery in your era? This is far beyond the sniffles. I must have contracted some modern pestilence brought upon by your... technological age.”

You smirked, sitting down across from him. You watched as Leopold held the tea gingerly, as though it were a potion from some dubious apothecary. He sniffed it suspiciously, then took a tentative sip, his face scrunching up.

“Chamomile” You said before he could complain. “It’ll help you relax. You need rest.”

Leopold set the mug down with exaggerated delicacy. “Rest, you say? How can I rest when my body is besieged by this infernal ailment? My head throbs, my throat burns, and my nose refuses to cease its treacherous leaking.”

“Treacherous leaking. You’re so dramatic. Honestly, I’ve seen toddlers handle colds better than you.”

Leopold glared at you, though the effect was somewhat diminished by his red, puffy nose and the tissue clutched in his hand. “In my time, we would not mock the afflicted. We would offer them respect and sympathy.”

“In your time, people probably thought sneezing was a sign of plague and death.”

As if on cue, Leopold sneezed violently into his tissue, the force of it startling even himself. He groaned dramatically, slumping further into the couch. “You see? This is no ordinary affliction. This is surely a punishment from the heavens. Or perhaps it is your climate—so polluted and unwholesome—that has ravaged my constitution.”

“Right. Because the world you were living in was such a bastion of clean air and hygiene.” You said, leaning over to grab a stray tissue from the coffee table and added it to the growing pile in the trash bin. “You’re not being punished, Leo. You’re just… adjusting.”

“Adjusting?” he echoed. “To what? A world where one must endure such indignities as this?” He gestured vaguely at his blanket-swaddled figure. “I am a Duke, Y/N. A man of noble blood. This... this indignity is beneath me.”

You couldn’t hold back laughter anymore. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

Leopold frowned, clearly not appreciating your amusement. “Adorable? I am not a puppy, madam. I am a man in the throes of mortal peril.”

“Mortal peril. You’re going to be fine. Here.” You reached for a fresh tissue and held it out to him. “Blow your nose.”

He took the tissue with an air of reluctant dignity. After a hesitant moment, he complied, the sound rather un-Duke-like. You bit your lip to keep from giggling.

“You find my suffering amusing,” Leopold accused, though his tone lacked real venom.

“No, I find your over-the-top reaction to a cold amusing. If you’re this dramatic over a runny nose, I can’t imagine what you’d be like with the flu.”

Leopold’s eyes widened. “There is something worse than this?”

You sighed, reaching out to pat his knee reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we’re not there yet. Just let me take care of you, okay? You’re going to survive this… plague.”

Leopold sniffled again, looking up with an expression so pitiable that it tugged at your heart despite his theatrics. “You are certain of this?”

“Positive. Besides, if you were really on death’s door, I don’t think you’d have the energy to argue with me so much.”

For a moment, Leopold simply gazed at your face. “Your care is… most appreciated, Y/N. Truly. Even if your bedside manner leaves something to be desired.”

You reached for another tissue, dabbing at the edge of his nose with a tenderness. Leopold’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when he opened them again, there was a warmth in his gaze that made your heart skip a beat. “You’re welcome, Leo. Now drink your tea before it gets cold.”

Leopold sneezed once again.

"Bless you" you said, then a look of contemplation appeared on your face. "Hey, Leo. Is it true that saying "bless you"comes from the belief that every time you sneeze, the devil try to enter your soul-"

You stopped mid-sentence when you realized what you had just said. Leopold's face was pale. "No, no, no..Leo! I was just-"

"Oh my god... call an exorcist!"

Thanks for every reblog/like/comment - means world to me. Lemme know if you liked it ❤️ Have a good day/night and stay healthy ❤️

[bluvlet]

Going to ramble a bit more about The Trolley Problem script. Mostly just talking very briefly about how it varies from the final episode + a bit about some deleted scenes.

What I think is the most interesting change (in terms of what it means for Drew's character) is how in the script Drew writes out the phone number after Blake stabs him in the leg and escapes.

"DREW is tying a piece of cloth from the sofa around the wound on his leg. He gets unsteadily to his feet and crosses to the table. He writes something on a slip of paper and puts it into his jacket pocket, which is on the back of the chair."

To me at least, this makes it seem like Drew was initially written to have had quite a bit more faith in Blake to confess. Writing the number down is only necessary in the outcome that Blake doesn't confess and something happens to Drew. Otherwise, Drew could just tell Blake the number, or Robbie's location, or even bring him there himself. Not having it already prepared, like in the episode, and having him write it down only after his plan goes off the rails, suggests that it maybe wasn't initially Drew's intention to let himself or Robbie die. It perhaps implies Drew expected to be digging Robbie up by the end of the night.

In the episode, Drew's intended outcome is a lot more ambiguous. But there's still a lot of ambiguity surrounding why he writes it down at that moment: is he expecting Blake to kill him? Or is he thinking of killing himself? This scrapped bit works well with more sympathetic readings of Drew. It makes his plan feel a lot more spontaneous, like he went there to get a confession out of Blake and things spiralled out of control. I'm not quite sure if I understand it properly yet.

Another interesting change is how Drew explains (for lack of a better word) the reasoning behind his false pretences.

In the episode:

"BLAKE: So the whole suicide story was made up?

DREW: A desperate man with nothing to live for. I knew it would get you onside."

In the script:

"BLAKE: So the whole estate agent story was made up?

DREW: An innocent man ruined by a crazy woman. I knew it would get you onside."

Obviously this change was made because they cut out the estate agent story and needed to use the next thing Drew has lied about, but it alters the perception of Drew a bit, I feel.

In the script Drew’s ‘way in’ to Blake is focused more around identifying with him. It’s more about Drew buying into Blake’s innocence. Whereas in the episode it instead leans more into Drew being someone mentally vulnerable Blake can potentially take advantage of. They are both ways of getting Blake’s ‘sympathy’, but they feel very different. Focusing on the suicide story aligns Drew more with Ellie. Focusing on the estate agent story pushes Drew more towards Blake. (Although in Drew's story the role he imagines for himself does still align him with his daughter -  the real innocent party, a victim of false harassment accusations and a restraining order. It is is also the role Blake steals from Ellie for himself. This is what I’m talking about when I say these characters are constantly mirroring and playing each other.)

This identification with Blake is expanded upon a bit further when we finally get to see Drew’s drawing: 

"Curious to see the picture, BLAKE flips it open and looks inside. 

There is a portrait of BLAKE as if drawn by a court artist. BLAKE is in the dock, looking sombre in a dark suit. We see a judge in the background. 

BLAKE rips the sketch from the pad and crosses to the fireplace. He throws the sketch into the fire and watches it burn."

Here I am again about to bring up this episode’s many, many echoes. It had been clear from first reading it that the estate agent story was supposed to be a reflection of Blake and Ellie, where Drew plays the same imaginary role as Blake -  the ‘innocent man ruined by a crazy woman’. Drew sketches out that ‘court artist’ portrait of Blake as he himself details being interrogated in the courtroom. Drew is, effectively, using the story and the drawing as a way to imagine Blake being punished.

Returning back to the phone number, this earlier version of Drew appears fixated on the idea of Blake confessing and facing legal repercussions. Of course, this could just be Drew's general desire to see Blake punished, but the way that it manifests is specifically through imagery of pertaining to the law, which works through justice and not revenge.

Blake throwing the drawing into the fire and watching it burn: it's a fun little bit of foreshadowing of Drew's self-immolation. And it is Blake quite literally throwing away the idea of himself confessing - his last chance to 'do the right thing' up in flames.

I also like the small detail of script Blake still trying to use the 'first names to establish trust' trick right at the very end.

"BLAKE: I beg you, Drew, don’t do this. Tell me where he is. I’ll do anything."

Finally, talking a tiny bit more about (but still not exploring the whole thing) the extract I tagged onto the end of my previous post about the script:

"DREW: So what, you're going to throw me into the water?

BLAKE: That's up to you. You can go willingly or otherwise. But I do think it's the best solution."

DREW considers his lot for a moment. He seems resigned.

DREW: Alright. I have nothing left to live for. Talking to you tonight hasn't brought my daughter back. I suppose it was never going to. But you can still do the right thing, Mr Chambers. Father to Father, I'm begging you."

I feel I've mentioned before that I consider Drew's 'father to father' and later 'don't let me die not knowing' to be in reference to Robbie. I consider this moment to be when Blake's confession is no longer about getting justice for Ellie and instead shifts to being about saving Robbie.

Still haven't quite decided if I think Drew is being genuine here or if he's still playing with Blake. Although Drew is clearly severely mentally ill, he is somewhat self aware. ('I knew I was partially responsible for what happened. I drove Ellie away. I was too strict, too mean about her mother. [...] I failed my daughter. I made the wrong choice.') It's, therefore, not completely implausible for him to have this genuine, sudden realisation about his plan, especially if his focus then shifts from getting a confession (justice) to punishing Blake via Robbie (revenge). But who knows.

[whumpsoda]

imagine Nevan having a want, a need of sorts. Darius wouldn’t care of course, but Adrastus spots it simmering beneath the surface and invites the thrall to state his need, without any punishment, but also without guarantee that it could be accommodated.

Nevan fights it at first but after Ad commands it via thrall he finally whispers that he wished Malak was less enthralled so he could have someone to talk to—like he had been when he was sick. a disgustingly selfish need on Nevan’s end that he fully expects to be punished for suggesting.

idk what happens next but I doubt Adrastus would be angry, perhaps having sympathy for the thrall while remaining firm that Malak would remain the way he is(??)

WOHEO Masterlist cw: hypnosis, captivity, servant whump, vampire whumper

———————————————————————

“Something wrong, dear?”

It was obvious to the vampire that something just had to be poking at the man’s usually muddled brain. From Nevan’s furrowed brows to his lack of concentration, his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Adrastus had been aiding him in washing some of the thrall’s dishes, bored of sitting around endlessly with nothing to do. The kitchen was tainted with a pinch of awkward air, but neither seemed to mind too much.

Nevan blinked hard, catching himself and swiftly continuing to scrub the dish between his fingers, flustered. “Um… no, no, of course not, master.”

“Nothing troubling you? Nothing at all?” They pressed, leisurely scraping food scraps into the sink.

Adrastus wasn’t an idiot. Of course he’d say no. He’d probably learned very quickly that his own master was in no way fond of entertaining the feelings of a thrall. A bit sad, if you asked them.

“No, sir.”

They sighed. “Nevan,” he stopped as they turned to face him, avoiding eye contact and biting his lip. “Do not lie to me. If something is the matter, tell me.”

For a moment, he hesitated. “Everything is, is fine, master. Nothing… nothing is wrong.”

“Love, I don’t appreciate you hiding things. I’m not going to punish you for whatever you have to say, I swear on it.”

“Master, I’m, I’m fine!”

They placed a hand to his exposed shoulder, rubbing their thumb over his lush skin. “Shhh, darling, you can trust me. You can trust master, I would never hurt you.”

Their smile only hardened as they noticed him easily slipping under their luscious control, eyes going glassy and muscles relaxing under their sweet, sweet touch. How utterly adorable. “Master… I… I’m fine…”

“You trust master oh, so much. You trust me with every single thought in that little mind of yours, even the bad ones. Master just wants to help you. Master can help you.”

He carefully dropped his plate to the counter, body swaying with silky ease and calm. “I’m… I…”

“C’mon, baby. You can tell Master. You want to tell Master.” Their aura was amping up with hypnotic force, tugging his secret right out from under him.

“I… I wish…”

“Nevan. Tell me.”

His voice fell to a soft whisper as his relent snapped into a shatter of tiny pieces. “I, I wish Malak was… awake. Like me. So, so I could have someone to talk to… like when he was sick.”

“Oh.”

How pitiful.

Yet, how utterly and undeniably endearing at the same time.

“Oh, dear.” Adrastus’ grin faded, falling into that of a compassionate pout. Pulling Nevan into a tight embrace they dug their head into his chest, contact he fully melted into.

After a moment of pleasant, warm hugging, Adrastus pulled the thrall to their level, cupping his chin. “I… understand that. Yes, I could see why you’d yearn for such a thing.”

Their heart split just the tiniest bit at the glimmer in his eye, like he dumbly believed they would consider such a thing. It was silly, really, but only made him ten times cuter. “Though, I’m sorry little love, I just can’t ease up on him like that. He needs such a heavy spell to quell his ever present anxiousness and messy mind. He needs it to feel good.”

“You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes… master…” his words were coated with dissatisfaction and disappointment, but still muddled with daze. So eager to please, he was, even when had he been more conscious he would’ve easily argued.

They would never let that happen.

Adrastus’ grin returned in full, almost as if it had never left. “Good, good. Such a good boy, you.” They tussled his hair, sending his mind reeling and his dopily happy expression to return as well. “Now, just remember, you can always tell me anything else your little mind stirs up, alright? No judgement here, baby.”

“Oh- okay. Of course… sir. Tell… tell you… anything…”

They chuckled, pecking him right on the forehead and whispering beside his susceptible ear. “Such an obedient thrall. Just splendid.”

In that of a flash their demeanor flipped, patting the thrall on the cheek and awakening him from their trance. “Now, back to your chores you go, darling!” Nevan quickly picked back up his task, this time with complete focus and attention like always.

Before they let the conversation go and risk the talk washing right out from Nevan’s memory, Adrastus leaned in close just one more time. “Then make sure you go spend some time playing with your little friend, okay?”

———————————————————————

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud @battyfantasy @xx-adam-xx @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @mylifeisonthebookshelf

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[oops-all-concrete]

This was requested by @wine-effectao3 !!

BG3 characters react to the other companions story events/conflicts! These lovelies watch each other go through so much and I have so many HC's about how they feel/interact. There isn't a HC for every character combination, but I did as many as I have rn- I'm open to a part 2 👀

Spoilers for BG3! Enjoy the fluff ^^

(I don't have another image rn, so enjoy my necromancer durge; Ezerah)

Lae'zel -

Lae'zel tends to keep to her own affairs, so stays distant, but watching the Blade of Frontiers gain horns from the source of his commitment and power over what was essentially a mislead, a lie?? The thought of Vlaakith doing the same to her, makes her sick. But inspired her all the same, seeing him take it in stride. She always spoke highly of him as a warrior. Shadowheart gained Lae'zels sympathies as well after the fall of Ketheric. Both Wyll and Shadowheart never have to worry about their weapons being maintained and sharpened. Lae'zel gladly allows them both as much time to relax as she can.

Shadowheart -

Knowing she and Astarion have such similar stories makes the vampire seem a lot more...human, for lack of a better term. She understands that all his avoidance and irritation with immediate kindness isn't out of just being mean- he doesn't want to come off as vulnerable or easy to take advantage of ever again. She goes out of her way to make comments so people know the kindness is begrudging or hesitant, so people don't get that idea. He doesn't know she does that. She won't tell him either. And as much as they butt heads, Lae'zel would have a cleric at her side at a moments notice if she asked.

Wyll -

Watching a man like Gale (someone Wyll looked up to given his mastery of magic without need for a devil's pact) be told by his goddess his old lover- turn so cold as to ask for his death? Nothing makes him more hopeless. Wyll tried to take his mind off it by asking Gale about his home, asking him about plans, making sure he has them. Because Wyll won't let him sacrifice himself. On top of that, he feels awful for Karlach. She inspires him so much knowing what she went through in Avernus and survived, still giggling and dancing. As a lover of dance, he teaches her ballroom and formal dance, in turn, she teaches him house and breakdancing.

Karlach -

There is nobody she feels for in the camp quite like Astarion. She cannot stand the utter hopelessness, anger and betrayal in his eyes and voice whenever he speaks of Cazador, and how willing he is for help from a devil of all people. She knows that desperation. It hurts to see. She sh!t talks Gortash and Zariel with him, so he has an excuse to talk about wiping the floor with Cazador. She also likes watching Gale get excited whenever she asks him a question about- anything really. She hates when his big brown eyes get all sad, so she'll keep him occupied talking about weave and potioncraft and old scripture.

Gale -

While it doesn't bother Wyll so much, Gale is a mommas boy, and can't imagine not having her. He makes plans for his mother to meet Wyll. She makes amazing brownies, and every person should be able to enjoy a mothers baking. (Wyll loves Morena and visits her often after act 3. She loves him for keeping her son safe.) Other than this, watching Lae'zel and Shadowheart lose the admiration of their Gods hurts him personally. He knows that fall. Goes out of his way to make sure they don't lose hope. "Who's to say you can't still have a dragon? There's plenty around. Bigger. Scarier. Probably also hates mind-flayers. Perfect for a woman of your demeanour." He assures her. / "If its any consolation, I like the new hair, Shadowheart. Between you and me, you look much better with white hair than he does" He jokes.

Astarion -

As a man used to fixing his things (since they're all he's got) he goes out of his way to make sure Karlachs things are all in good shape. Clive gets torn at some point or other, and he's pulling out his fabrics and sewing set and wordlessly returns him to Karlachs tent, much to her relief. Neither of them have a lot- so of course he's going to maintain what she has. She deserves it. Also, Shadowheart telling her story hits home for Astarion a lot. Being vulnerable, scared and otherwise an easy target- and having your whole life turned upside down because someone took advantage of it? He becomes a lot more talkative with her. Even if it's just over wine and complaining. Oh, and of course nothing makes him happier than watching Lae'zel turn her back on Vlaakith. Go her.

Halsin -

Halsin has nothing but praise for Wyll. His endless kindness, his patience with the teifling children, his level-headedness in crisis- he is the leader Halsin wishes he was. Halsin also sees Astarions hunger for power. Halsin might not speak of it often, but he's had at least 3 years of what Astarion's suffered for 200, and he knows how much powerlessness feels like vulnerability. He let's the vampire know he's got a bear at his back, even if its met with an eye roll.

[dreamscapesofimagination]

A/n: there is no love here yet for Jiro and i need to fix that bc mans is my top fav. We love a tall, sciencey man w hot girl tummy problems over here.

Formatted weird bc I am on mobile!

TW: Fluff! Jiro is a bit insecure. He is also head over heels. Ending kinda sucks bc i couldn't think of how to end it lol

Synopsis: Jiro thought he knew a lot about you- average blood pressure, enzyme values, how your lungs sounded beneath the stethoscope- turns out you are also a talented artist.

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

The floorboards creaked as Jiro stepped inside, thankful Yuri had been awake this morning to give him his medication before he had to come do this health check.

Without his meds, he knew he would have to scurry away quickly, and his condition would prevent him from sharing a small breakfast with you.

He didn't quite understand his feelings for you- sure, he knew how endorphins rushed through his system around you and triggered the increase of his heart rate.

He knew the scientific reasons behind his attraction- he just didn't know how to react to it. The two of you had been in limbo- not quite together but closer than just friends.

He knew you reacted the same to him- could see it in the way your heart rate would be erratic on the EKG when he would do it (Yuri had banned him from being around when your heart rate or blood pressure were monitered, and today Jiro was just to draw blood and ensure you appeared well) , or the way your cheeks would warm up when his fingers brushed your skin.

His eyes scanned the church, taking in the homey feeling you had created since moving in.

Plants littered some of the pews, and you had cushions placed around for the cats.

He could hear the shower running, and assumed you were in there. While he waited, he wandered across the old room to set his bag on the desk.

He began pulling out his supplies, before sighing when he realized he had forgotten his pen.

Surely you had one in one of the drawers?

He slid the top one open, eyes widening at what he saw.

A drawing.

Of him.

He carefully pulled out the sketchbook, unable to take his eyes from the drawing as his heart hammered in his chest.

He looked focused in the drawing, and he imagined you had drawn him from one of the times he had helped you study.

Flipping to another page, he felt as if he couldn't breath.

Him again, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.

You had talent, and you used it to draw him, a chronically ill ghoul who struggled to hold conversations even with people he liked.

"Jiro?" the sound of your voice caused him to whirl around, guilty he had been snooping.

His breath caught at the sight of you standing there, in a tanktop and pair of shorts, toweling off your hair.

"I-uh- I was just waiting for you to finish, Yuri sent me to take some blood samples and make sure you are well,"

He winced internally at his stumbling words, feeling his stomach turn at his increased anxiety.

"I don't mind you looking at them, you're just so pretty and I wanted to draw you," a blush coated your cheeks at your admission.

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, feeling his own cheeks burn.

You thought he was pretty? Half the time his already pale complexion was sickly due to his condition (and lack of sleep), circles that nearly matched his hair rimmed his eyes- not to mention his frequent bouts of nausea.

He jumped when your hand waved infront of his face, so lost in his own thoughts that your closeness had gone unnoticed.

"Ji, you okay? I'm sorry if I weirded you out." your voice was sheepish and oh so sweet, round cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He quickly shook his head, "no, you just surprised me. I've never really had someone be interested in me."

Jiro's voice was matter-of-fact, and clearly he was not searching for sympathy.

He had accepted his differences, and his schedule didn't exactly leave room for romance- nor did Yuri think such frivoloties were necessary. It wasn't until he met you that the consideration that he may be missing out had even entered his thoughts.

Yuri had even noticed, urging Jiro to just ask you out if only to stop distracting him with his 'mournful, pathetic expression and moony-eyed stares.'

Jiro had never really noticed nor cared about the captains absence of bed-side manner, though that comment had made him very aware of it.

"Well, now you do. I know you're very busy, but maybe one of the times you're free you'd like to do something?" you chewed your lip as you asked, n action he had long since learned you did when you were unsure of yourself.

An action that caused all his attention to fall to your lips, wondering what they would feel like.

"I think that would be enjoyable," his words came out softer than he intended, and your bright smile after his words caused his already hammering heart to nearly stop.

He wasn't sure he'd survive a date with you, but he would need to be incapacitated to not accept the offer.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

FINDING YOU Chapter 4

Summary: You're in a relationship with Steve Rogers, but his best friend just always seems to be around!

Word Count: 4.1K

Warnings: angst

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 4

The murky morning light barely permeated the drawn curtains as your eyes opened to your phone alarm. Steve's place was empty beside you, he had gone for his morning run and let you sleep in. You were glad, it had been a late night and you were struggling to get up as it was. The sound of wind and rain pounded on the glass and a chill crept through your spine as you eventually threw back the covers. You sighed, it looked like it was going to be a rather gloomy day.

Steve hadn't made it home before you needed to leave and Bucky was nowhere to be seen. A pang of loneliness stabbed your heart and you tried to shake off the ridiculous feeling. You had no reason to feel that way, you had a wonderful boyfriend who loved you and a secondhand best friend who continued to keep you at arm's length, but had a strangely comforting presence in your life. So you shook off the insecurities and set up the coffeepot for them to use when they got home. 

The morning seemed to plod along as a series of mundane lessons, the kids in your classes seemed just as apathetic as you felt that morning. So instead of micromanaging their activities, you let them run wild with their training. At least you had lunch with May to look forward to, her pragmatic approach to life would shake you out of the Monday slump you were in.

You were imagining just how she'd roll her eyes and glare at you until you had forgotten about your problems. Head in the clouds you almost ran face first into Agent May.

"Hey!" you smiled at your friend and colleague. 

"Come," she turned on her heel and marched off in the opposite direction from where you'd come.

You sighed. This wasn't going to be good.

"Where're we going?" you asked. "May?"

Melinda May ignored you, and kept walking. And like the good agent you were, you followed orders. She led you to her car and got in. 

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" you asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

She started the ignition and pulled out of the car park.

"May, you're scaring me. What is going on?" You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the anxiety bubbling up, just waiting to boil over as you demanded an answer. 

You studied May's impassive features,  watching her open and close her mouth a few times, trying to find the words. "There was an… incident."

"What kind of incident?" You felt exasperated by her lack of clarity. 

"We found a time jumper."

"Ooo…kay? And how exactly does this affect me?"

"It's Peggy Carter."

May's words rang in your ear like an exploded bomb. It felt like your whole world had slowed down, your heart sounded louder than you'd ever heard it, your mouth went dry and you couldn't focus on the road in front of you.

You hardly registered May calling your name or the short lived hand on your shoulder. The transference of your emotions from you made her withdraw sharply.

Thoughts whirled around your brain like a tornado. How did this happen? Why did it happen? Why was she here? Was there another end of the world catastrophe that needed to be dealt with? In the end, none of those questions mattered. You knew one thing was certain, you'd just lost the man you loved. 

You heard your name again.

"Yeah?" you turned to face May, eyes taking in your familiar surroundings. She had pulled up outside your apartment building. "Why are we here? 

"Peggy is asking for him," she said, softly.

"So you brought me here because…?" 

"I thought you should tell him."

You scoffed. "Gee, thanks. What do you expect me to do? Go and tell him that the love of his life is back and that he can have her?" You sounded slightly hysterical and tears had filled your eyes.

May's stoic expression remained unchanged, but her eyes betrayed her sympathy.

"I assume he is upstairs?"

"Yeah," you sighed.

Reluctantly you climbed out of the SUV and trudged up the stairs to your second floor apartment. You paused at the door, steeling yourself to the inevitable conversation once you'd entered. The key slid in and turned with ease and the door swung open without you even trying.

"Steve?"

"Ace? What're you doing home?"

You opened your mouth to answer but no sound came out. As soon as you told him everything would change, was it wrong of you to cling on to those last fleeting moments of happiness? You walked over to where Steve was washing dishes. 

The urge to break down and let him hold you was overwhelming. The blonde had the warmest, most comforting embrace and you wanted nothing more to be consoled by the one person who was about to break your heart.

"Ace?" Steve's look was concerned.

"Yeah?" You pushed back the tears.

"Everything OK?"

"Yeah." You made a show of taking off your jacket and putting it on a chair so you could hide your face. It was annoying how easily he could read your emotions.

"Give me a minute, I'm almost done with this."

You couldn't wait, you didn't want to. It was much easier to wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face between his shoulder blades. So you did just that. The heat he emanated, his strong steadfast sturdiness is what you clung to.

Steve dried his hands and wrapped his fingers around your wrists. Gently he pried your finger apart and turned around to face you. 

"Talk to me Ace, why are you home in the middle of the day?"

You shrugged, "I wanted to see you?"

"Now why don't I believe that?"

"OK, but I need you to do one thing before I tell you."

"Ace, what is it?" Concern was etched across his face.

"I just need one thing from you first."

"What do you want?"

"Kiss me," you whispered.

"What?" Steve was astounded by your request. 

"Kiss me, please?" You wished you didn't sound so desperate. 

He complied with your request, leaning down he placed a quick peck on your lips. 

"No, Steve. Kiss me like you mean it."

"I always mean it, Ace."

"Then show me."

Steve wanted to demand a reason for your behavior from you but he knew you could be just as stubborn as he was. It was easier to give you what you wanted. Not that it was a difficult request.

He bent forwards again, locking his lips with yours and you closed your eyes to take in every sensation, committing it to memory; the pressure, their texture, how soft they felt against yours. The eternity you wanted to be lost in was over in mere seconds. Steve’s hands lingered on your face, his thumbs caressed your cheeks for a little longer, leaving you with a gentle forehead kiss. 

“Ace?”

You held his hands to your face, hoping he would never let go.

“Hey, talk to me,” his voice was low, as though he was talking to a scared animal.

That’s how you felt, skittish and ready to run with the slightest movement. Instead you took a deep breath and broke away from the perfect bubble you’d wrapped yourself in. You took his hands from your face and led Steve to the couch.

“Let’s sit for a bit.”

Steve sat beside you, your knees touching, your hands wrapped around his. He watched you expectantly.

“Steve… you remember how you were able to time travel?”

Steve nodded and you heard yourself continue to speak, almost like you were watching someone else.

“Well that’s not the only method of time travel. We’ve had someone who has traveled here from the past. Someone you know.”

Steve frowned quizzically at you.

“Peggy.” Your voice was barely audible.

It was slow, but you could feel him pulling his hands from yours. Your doubts, your fears, your worries, every single one of them had been confirmed at that moment.

“Are you sure?” The hope in his voice felt like a knife through your heart.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “May told me.”

“Where is she?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.”

Steve stood up, he looked like a deer in headlights, not knowing what to do next. He was looking at you but you knew he didn’t see you.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?” 

“May's waiting in the car.” You heard yourself say the words, all the while a voice inside you was telling you to shut the hell up. Instead you put a hand on his back and guided him to the front door. “Let’s go.”

The car ride to the new S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters was deadly silent. It wasn't that you were a stranger to silence, you'd spent enough quiet time with both people in the car in the past, but today was different. May was driving, her grip on the steering wheel was more tense than usual and you knew her empath powers could sense both your emotions and Steve's. 

You cast your eyes across to the side mirror where you could see Steve's reflection in the back seat. He was staring out of his window and though his eyes were open, he looked like he was lost so far in his thoughts that you'd never find him again. Steve had always been a pensive soul and there had been many occasions where he'd float away to a place you couldn't follow.

What was he feeling? Steve had always kept his cards close to his chest but you'd thought he had let some of his guard down around you in the last year. But the man who sat behind you was much more like the closed off person you'd met all those months ago. You'd spent so much time peeling back the layers of thick skin, coaxing him out of the shell he'd built around him, only for the barriers to go back up in mere moments. 

You tried to put yourself in his shoes and exercise some of that empathy you were supposed to have. What would it be like to have someone you'd loved in the past come back to the present? Someone who had been ripped away from you, someone you'd never stopped loving. The feeling of tightness in your chest worsened. Empathy didn't feel like a helpful skill to utilize at this moment in time. You looked back at Steve in the mirror, wanting to wrap your arms around him and hold him closely until the anguish left his beautiful features.

This line of thought got you wondering about Peggy Carter. She was the founder of the organization you had worked for, she’d accomplished so many incredible things and had done so at a time where women got even less respect than they do in the present. You hated yourself for comparing your own achievements to that of another woman, but the overwhelming feeling of inadequacy was crushing. In your heart of hearts, you knew that your relationship was over but you were looking for a way for it all to hurt less. What chance did you have against the legendary Agent Carter?

Directing your resentment at Peggy would be the simplest solution, but the logical part of your brain strongly advocated her innocence. You wanted to hate her, the person you had held in such high regard, almost worshiped prior to this day. Did you dare fight for him? You’d heard the tales of their romance and you knew he still kept an old compass with her photograph in the cover. You’d found it once at the back of his sock drawer. How could you even compete? He had previously confessed that the only reason he had stayed with S.H.I.E.L.D. was because of her association with it. 

Did you know him as well as you thought you did? Steve was a man of few words, but what he lacked in language use, he often made up for with small acts of service. One of your favorite things that he would often do, without you even realizing when he had done it, was fill your car with gas. It was never empty! He’d make small sketches and leave them on your bedside table for you to find when you woke up, or would slip them in your bag for you to find at work. They were often accompanied by a quote or poem which warmed your heart and brought a smile to your face. It was often little things which made you happiest and to you it counted more than larger romantic gestures which were few and far between. He made you feel comfortable in a way that no one else had and you thought you were special to him. 

Sam had often regaled you with tales of their old exploits, saving Bucky from his HYDRA tormentors, the feud over the Sokovia Accords and so many others. You recalled a fond memory of you, Steve and Bucky visiting him in Delacroix, where you’d ended up spending most of your time helping him fix the family’s fishing boat and it almost made you smile. Steve gave his time often and freely to people he cared about. But he did the same for strangers too. He was willing to lay down his life for people he barely knew or had never met. Did that lessen his feelings for you? In the past you would have said no, but the crippling anxiety you sometimes felt was rearing its ugly head.

The emotions and thoughts swirled around inside you, threatening to erupt like a volcano, waiting to leave disaster in their wake. Just when you thought you couldn’t cope with sitting in the SUV any longer and May pulled up in front of your destination. Every movement you made after that felt like you were submerged under water, every step you craved oxygen, but wave after wave pushed you further down. You tried to claw your way to the surface, but you were met with paralyzing resistance, your anguish weighing you down like an anchor, suffocating your very essence. You watched the events unfold through the lenses of frosted glass; entering the building, watching Peggy run towards him, the way he wrapped his arms around her. He didn’t look away, he didn’t look back.

It was excruciating and yet you watched. You watched until you couldn’t. Then you waited. What if he needed you?

At the end of the day, May took your arm and guided you out of the facility. She didn’t drive you home, instead she drove to her house. You’d often suggested that the two of you should live together after you’d left S.H.I.E.L.D. but May had vetoed the idea with a look of pure disgust. But if you’d never moved into your apartment, you’d never have met Steve. 

“Do you need help?” you asked. Standing nervously at the breakfast bar watching May move around the kitchen.

“Yeah, make dinner.” She handed you a knife and you standing alone in the kitchen.

One skill that May had never mastered was the art of cooking. You were happy to start slicing and dicing vegetables, trying not to let the knife accidently take off your finger tip as you vehemently attacked the innocent onions. You’d reached the stage of throwing food into hot oil when May returned, with a ridiculously large glass of your favorite wine. 

“Wine, really?”

“What were you expecting?”

“To be honest, a sparring session.”

“Easily arranged. But no physical contact, I’m not in the mood to deal with your emotions today.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You’d prefer I get drunk and you get high from that?”

“You remember that alcohol is a depressant, miss M.D?” she said dryly.

You glared at your friend before taking an unnecessarily large mouthful of wine. Even though May had little time for comforting others, she cared deeply for you, something you had once doubted. You were very grateful for her friendship and the support she was currently giving you. It was the small act of kindness which tipped you over the edge. Tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over drop by drop.

“What do you think he's going to do?” you whispered, your lip quivering dangerously.

“Does it matter what I think?”

“He isn’t going to stay with me.”

“He doesn’t deserve you.”

“You think Captain America isn’t good enough for me?” you asked skeptically.

“No.”

“Is anyone?”

May shrugged.

“But I want him,” you sniffled.

Even as the words left your mouth you felt pathetic and desperate. He had never stopped loving her. The voice in your head scolded you for ignoring the fact that you were the one he had settled with. It was your fault for wanting to be special. 

Your mind wandered back to the weekend you’d spent with Steve and the baseball game you’d taken him to. It was one of your best memories with him. The joy on his face throughout the game had warmed your heart. You didn’t know a thing about baseball, nor did you care to and it held not a single iota of interest for you. But just because you didn’t understand it or find it interesting, you understood why people could be passionate about a sport. That passion was one of the reasons you’d fell in love with Steve when you’d met him.

That was when you felt like Steve had really opened himself to you. It wasn’t the sex, it wasn’t the words he had used, it wasn’t the way he had said ‘I love you’. It had been the moment he had let himself be vulnerable with you. Steve didn’t talk about his fears to anyone, except maybe Bucky. He was a very reserved individual with strong morals and being given the mantle of Captain America had given him an even bigger reason to uphold an image of strength. It wasn’t an easy responsibility to shoulder and it clearly weighed on him a great deal. Everyone needs someone who they could share their burdens with.

Bucky Barnes was Steve’s best friend, they had a number of shared experiences, he would have been the natural choice to be Steve’s confidant. Except Steve now spent most of his time and energy taking care of the broken supersoldier. It made you feel special, to think that you were the one he had chosen to take care of him, to be his partner, to be worthy of his love. But now you had lost it all.

Dinner was a somber affair following which you curled up on May’s couch. Sleep didn’t come until the early hours of the morning when the tears finally stopped falling.

The coming days were spent hiding out at May’s. Steve tried to call you a number of times but you couldn’t bring yourself to face the situation. You knew you had to go home eventually and there was no way you could avoid him then.

You felt instant regret as you entered your apartment late that night. Sleep deprived and physically exhausted after an intense day of training with May, you rushed into your home and fell into bed. It didn't take long for you to enter a deep slumber, dreaming of the life you could have had.

Morning came far sooner than you would have liked. You washed and dressed on autopilot, trying not to think of the different ways you might run into your beloved Captain. It happened much sooner than expected and liked. On your way out, you heard voices through the door. They sounded happy, full of laughter. 

Maybe if you waited, they would leave and you could escape undetected. After a few moments of silence, you peeked through the peephole, the coast looked clear. You pulled open the door and ventured out only to come face to face with the happy couple locked in a kiss.

There was nowhere to go. You'd already closed your front door, trying to unlock it would attract attention, so would any attempt to slip passed. You were well and truly trapped in a nightmare.

Peggy spotted you first. "Oh, hello. You must be our neighbor!"

"Ace," Steve said your name so softly, you wondered if you imagined it.

"It's nice to meet you," Peggy held out your hand.

The years of training allowed your body to respond appropriately while your brain felt like it had been put through a blender. You shook Peggy's hand politely.

"Nice to meet you, too."

Steve was looking at you like he'd been caught committing a crime.

"Hi," you felt compelled to fill the silence.

"I didn't know you were here."

"I got home pretty late last night."

"You two know each other?" Peggy interjected. 

Steve introduced you to Peggy. "She used to be a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. Now she is a teacher to some pretty special kids."

"Wow, everyone's part of the family here." She smiled at you warmly. 

"Ace, do you think we could have a chat, please?" His eyes were pleading silently.

He wanted to talk about your relationship, your former relationship. Did he want to do it in front of her?

"Maybe we could go for a walk later? After you're done at work?" he clarified.

"Yeah, after work. I should go there, to work, now." You nodded and pushed past them.

"Have a good day," Peggy called after you.

"Thank you," you answered without looking back, not wanting either of them to see your pain. 

There was bedlam when you arrived at the Academy. Two of your students had taken it upon themselves to practice their sparring while they waited. Needless to say you spent most of your morning mediating the animosity that had been created in your absence.

By the time you had scratched the surface of your lesson plan, it was 4pm and your students practically dismissed themselves.

"We're not done here! I'd better not come in to any more destruction tomorrow!" you yelled after them.

You received a cacophony of goodbyes with few assurances of peace. You loved your kids but they were exhausting! As you finished cleaning up and making progress notes, you noticed the time and the conversation from the morning came flooding back to you. It was probably time you headed home to face the music.

Steve was waiting for you outside the building. You spotted him before he saw you and you grabbed that moment to admire his physique and how much you missed how he held you.

“Ace!”

His voice broke through your reverie. “Steve,” you greeted him softly. “It’s nice to see you.”

You weren’t lying. It was wonderful to see him, regardless of the situation and what you knew was coming next. Neither of you seemed to know what to do next, the temptation was to fling yourselves into the other’s arms, but that was out of the question. And you could tell Steve was thinking the same.

“Can we go down to the park?”

“Sure.”

“Let me take that for you.” Steve took your bag from your arms, chivalrous to a fault.

You let him, you would have let him do anything in that moment. The walk down towards Prospect Park was tense, both of you felt like you were walking through a field of landmines.

“I spent the whole day trying to figure out what I wanted to say when I saw you. None of it sounds right now you’re actually here.” Steve finally spoke.

“I don’t know if there is anything to say, Steve.”

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Ace. I lo-"

"Don't." You reached up and put your fingers across his lips. It was a little more invasive a move than you'd intended but you couldn't bear hearing Steve tell you he loved you. Not after you'd seen him kissing the love of his life that morning.

"What do we do now?" he asked as you withdrew your fingers.

"Judging by Peggy's greeting this morning, I assume you haven't told her about our… the relationship we had."

Steve didn't answer but the shame on his face spoke volumes.

"Then the answer is simple. We're neighbors. Do you think we can do that?"

"Ace, I don't want to lose you."

"We don't always get what we want, Steve."

[heliomanteia]

Hi! I've stumbled across a couple of your posts about Calypso and I just wanted to say that it was nice to see someone that thinks about her the same way that I do. She is deeply flawed and does things that are wrong, but she's also a whole person being used as a punishment by the gods for some random man they don't like very much. It's just so wonderful for me to see a person that can see her whole character instead of just her poor meow meow Odysseus potential

(like the rape headcanon which has a single (ONE SINGLE LINE) of evidence in the entire saga for. I'm so sick of people taking this character that probably doesn't even know what sex is and deciding that she's a rapist because she was in the original Odyssey. Literally no one else gets this treatment but her)

Hello, Epic!Calypso means a lot to me and every time I see an incessantly mean post about her I grow to like her more in defiance /lh

I feel a lot of ways about Calypso and I'm very biased because I resonate with her on some deep personal level. But also your ask allows me to rant and so I will:

🌊 I like Calypso as a character because she's complex. She has close to no known lore in the Odyssey and I choose to ignore other texts that mention her because, well, Epic is loosely based off the Odyssey. The musical expanded on the little personality she had in the text in a good way, in my opinion. She's more than a foil/functional narrative part she was in the original text.

🌴 I feel like you're making a good point by saying she probably doesn't know what sex is. While she's clearly an adult woman, she was supposedly imprisoned young (if you follow the general myth, then during Titanomachy) and it's never stated she had prior lovers. She probably has an idea of intimacy but no experience of intimacy. She's also not socialized properly. I would compare her experience to someone living in total isolation or solitary confinement. Of course her people skills are limited. She needs therapy, not public scrutiny.

🥥 Whether or not you believe immortal beings age and mature depends on the source but mythology (generally) offers us examples of growing up and becoming of Gods so I believe Calypso grew up on that island. Her saying she was imprisoned "when young" also kinda hints it imo. With that said, this girl might have as well spent her formative years alone. Loneliness has devastating effects on psyche, I'm surprised she's not deathly depressed. That is, if we choose a sympathetic route — which is what I choose to follow because Epic is overall written as a sympathetic narrative. If it wasn't, I'd just call Odysseus a war criminal that deserves all he got.

🐚 This one is controversial but I cannot help but feel sympathy for the way Calypso imagines a happily-ever-after and genuinely believes in that illusion. It reminds me a lot of how someone with a stigmatized mental disorder would view reality in a distorted way — and sometimes even hurt other people without meaning to hurt them. Toxic (this word is so overused), suffocating love? And from both of her songs we know she didn't mean to hurt Odysseus. Her actions were wrong, her reasonings convoluted, but she did not mean harm. She hurt him without an intention to hurt him and she can't see that she hurt him because her world rotates on completely different system of axis. You could say she understands she might have been wrong but she won't apologize for it.

🍹 I will never keep repeating that she's an immortal character that lacks human morality overall + she's never been around others before Odysseus. The way she's scrutinized for the same things other Gods across mythology do (most of whom are constantly around mortals and have a track of seducing them) is such a knee-jerk response it's funny.

Like I said before, I personally choose to interpret Calypso's "ambush" as at least somewhat physical, but at the end of the day it is an assumption/personal preference. You reminded me, though, how, hm, peculiar it is that she's so far the only character whose mythical counterpart overpowers her musical persona in the fandom about the musical. I appreciate that people are aware of the text of the Odyssey enough (I hope) but there has to be a limit to the complaining. Jorge works hard to create fleshed out characters for his own loosely inspired story that he fills in with his own narratives. I think it gets to the point of ridiculous when a fleshed out character is ignored in favor of a barely defined myth counterpart.

Her character didn't get absolved of the blame, she got two banger songs that completely align with her myth persona, literally what is that thing that makes people so mad about her. Because if it's personal distaste then it sure overpowered the ability to enjoy complicated narratives and characters that do not align with what the main character needs.

[batsplat]

reading your fabio/casey post, im curious: how much sympathy do you give to riders who have chosen money over success? fabio could've gone elsewhere but he chose The Bag and while i feel for him given how bad the bike is (and that there's only two bikes, etc) he did tie himself to the project for years to come

(x) hm interesting one. there's a few different things here

first off, in general I have an extreme lack of sympathy for athletes who choose wealth over success. I understand it's an inescapable part of how sports works, but that doesn't mean I have to like it - these are sums of money that I just feel are fundamentally immoral. nobody should be paid as much as some of these athletes are. now, obviously not all riders in motogp are all that well paid, I get that they don't have a lot of career security and I also get that this is a reason why everyone's jumping at those factory seats. for instance, I do have some sympathy for jorge martin's choice to switch to aprilia, even though he too is of course choosing a less competitive bike. from the estimates of these guys' salaries to us available and considering expenses, that man is not being paid in a manner commensurate to his abilities or success. (though if the adage of 'ducati pays shit salaries but great bonuses' holds true, I imagine he too is very much fine.) still, by the time you get to the numbers fabio was getting chucked at him, fundamentally I... do not care anymore. like that's dumb amounts of money, I don't care how many yachts you can buy. it's disgusting

but, well. it's also what these big money offers mean, right. it's a way for manufacturers to show riders how much they're wanted - and while I also don't like... love that the way to do this involves this many millions, that's how this process works. the reason why casey ended up switching from ducati to honda wasn't a competitive calculation where he saw that ducati was trending downwards and decided to jump ship. it's because he went to ducati and told them to make him a suitable offer, and they didn't do so. from his autobiography:

After the way they'd behaved I had pretty much decided that I was through with Ducati and even though they put a new contract in front of me, for 2011 and 2012, it was going to take a much grander gesture to make me stay. I told them I wanted them to show me what I meant to them. 'What do you mean?' they said. 'That's up to you,' I told them. I gave them months to do it and nothing happened. In the end I had to spell it out. I said, 'Rip up my current contract and show me what I am worth to you.' They wouldn't do it, and that told me all I needed to know. Up until then there was a chance that I'd stay but that effectively made my decision easy.

now, listen, casey's situation was very much its own thing, his bridges with ducati were already burnt and it was always highly unlikely he'd stay. but as he puts it, he was willing to give ducati a chance - if they put enough money on the table to show him they care. this is obviously not a performance-based decision. if casey stays with ducati, he does not win a second championship - it's as simple as that. riders want to feel wanted, they want to feel valued... and the money symbolises that to them, a commitment of faith on part of the manufacturer to the rider. martin's choice wasn't primarily financially incentivised, right (and tbh, if ducati weren't willing to put a large sum of money on the table for him, factory seat or not, they're idiots) - it was that he wanted to feel wanted. it's emotional but it's also practical in that you want to know your manufacturer will rally around you and do whatever it takes to make you succeed. it helps if you know they have a big stake in your success... money plays a role in so many of these decisions - and while I really don't like it, it's also tough to penalise fabio specifically too harshly for it

all that being said, if it really were just about any of the stuff I just listed, I would have less than zero time for the choice. I'm an old fashioned kind of bloke... for me sports is about one thing, and that's winning. but the real problem fabio faced was a lack of great options that could help him achieve said winning. let's quickly run through them:

yamaha: currently laughably uncompetitive. this season has been disappointing from them, even by the standards of their modest pre-season expectations... you would have hoped they'd be a little closer by this stage in the year. but, well, by the start of the year it was clear this would be a long-term project. they have made personnel changes in line with fabio's demands, have made shown themselves willing to follow his development direction and commit fully to him on every level as their star rider. he knows the project, he knows that the money is there - and unlike the two non-ducati european manufacturers, yamaha has a proven track record of winning championships

aprilia: the second/third best manufacturer at the moment, but far off the first. sometimes have the pace to challenge for victory, frequently don't. part of that will be down to the inconsistent riders and not just the inconsistent bikes, but it also doesn't help that it's also the number one technical problem team. aprilia had some strong early season pace around the time fabio was making his choice (remember, vinales really should have been leading the championship coming out of cota - though the fact that he wasn't does of course also tell you what you need to know about aprilia)... but at this stage it seems a little unlikely they'll have a bike in championship contention next season. the manufacturer with the least spending power, still doesn't have a title sponsor

ktm: seemingly full. now, obviously, whenever ktm says they want to stick with their current riders, you can reasonably assume they will change their minds. and they did change their minds, which is how we now have a completely new tech3 line up for next season. but realistically, given pedro's golden boy status and binder's contract spanning roughly until the next ice age, that was the best fabio could have hoped for. yes, there were murmurings both jorge and marc might be an option for the factory team - but I never took those all too seriously, and both riders have a more substantial history with ktm/red bull than fabio does. in any case, ktm will be built around pedro. I suppose you can say fabio should back himself to beat pedro, but that's the kind of call you can make if you think you'll be fighting for championships the moment you join the manufacturer. if ktm isn't there yet next year (which is likely), then what fabio would have had to do is attempt to assert himself against the next great thing, already more established than him within the manufacturer, from a satellite bike, with zero guarantee that ktm will actually be in championship contention any time soon. eh

ducati: well, look, a factory seat was never on the cards for him anyway. you'd have to think he could have gotten a satellite seat of some type, if he really had been willing to take whatever was on the table. ducati has generally liked collecting all the strongest riders, and you'd hope would've been up for it... who knows what spec he would have been able to acquire. if he's on a year old bike, then winning a title would always be a tall order. even if he's on the newest spec... the template here of course is marc, but it felt from the start that this gresini gig was supposed to be a stopgap. fabio is not at the stage of his career where he should be looking for stopgaps, and he still wouldn't have an obvious place to go for 2026. whichever way ducati ended up arranging their riders, there would have been no short to medium term route into the factory team for fabio

honda: lol

at a certain point, it does make sense to go with the manufacturer that is willing to back you as its star. now, look, maybe jorge martin wins the championship next year, in which case fabio's decision will obviously have aged poorly. but you'd have to say that's unlikely... fabio's bet here basically has to be that switching to aprilia might have brought him race wins next year, but sticking with yamaha might bring him more titles eventually. at this stage, neither of his two most plausible options look like championship contenders until 2027. yamaha, however, have a lot of money at their disposal - which they proved by signing him. if he switches now and the aprilia dream doesn't come off, it leaves him in a weaker position for 2027 than the path he's currently on. none of these options are great exactly... but there is a logic to the reasoning here. if there were an equivalent to honda 2011 for fabio to jump ship to, obviously he'd be an idiot not to accept. there just isn't, though, is there? he tied himself to the project for two years, which puts him in sync with basically the entire grid. it lets everyone completely reset for 2027... until then, you'd have to say it's pretty unlikely that anyone who isn't on a ducati will be winning any titles - and if they do, my money would still be on ktm. maybe you think fabio should back himself and take the risk, which is an understandable position. but equally, I do get how sticking with the devil you know and will go to war for you might make sense in the medium to long term. if it really was just the money, I have zero respect for that. but I don't think it was, so I'll spare him a little sympathy. for his troubles

[pelagaye]

red shoes on yellow brick

fandom: honkai star rail pairings: sampo, dan heng, gepard x reader summary: y/n is no dorothy but upon reaching the magical place of welt, y/n sees no issue in helping a number of its people. perhaps even providing them more than what they seek with how unique and charming this individual with red shoes on is. notes: tada! it's a wizard of oz au and may this first fic of mine be to your liking despite the length ehe i kinda had so much making it <3

it's a simple wish truly because when a big unwarranted tornado whisks you away from the comfort of your own residence, all you can want for is just to get back home.

seeing how troubled you've becoming, some lil chibi people who refers themselves as "the mole munchkins" that helped you earlier from the wreckage advises that you go meet a mighty powerful being that calls himself the wizard of welt who can grant any wish you long for.

sounding like a fairy godmother, it definitely captivated you so you might as well see what he's capable off.

the munchkins gives you a pair of red sandals they found on the sides, believing it can help you on the way to the wizard.

honestly, you'd trade the nice pair of red shows you now had on for the sake of getting back if you can.

bidding goodbye to the little fellas who told you to just follow the yellow brick road, you and your rabbit pompom begin the journey you didn't ask for the slightest.

here's to hoping the casts you meet along the way are nice.

sampo as the scarecrow

it is a long way to the place you had to be and the never-ending surface of yellow brick just had to emphasize that.

pompom hops around you indicating the both of you should rest before the pain comes through.

your home would still wait for you no matter what, right?

imagining of the place you yearn for, you notice how you ended up in the middle of a enormous cornfield of crops almost glistening like gold.

in between it all, is a scarecrow on a high pole that looks like it's attempting to do its job of shooing pesky birds away.

for something just made of old clothes and straw, the built of the figure was wide, as if he'd have muscles if he had to be human.

you, being the curious type can't help but stare longer than intended on the decoy figure, as there just seems to be so fascinating about it.

"take a photograph it'll last longer."

a voice shakes you from the trance.

when you try to find who it belongs to, there could only be one place-

looking at pompom before directing your eyes to the scarecrow, it winks at you, almost too naturally.

you inquire him how is able to talk and move.

swishing his threads of blue that acts likes bangs, he tells you if you can maybe bring him down he could explain more.

you find out his name is sampo, he asks what's a pretty person like you going to places like this cornfield.

ignoring the flattery, you share your plans to meet the wizard of welt to get back home.

sampo has no clue about the city you are to visit nor the person you seek.

it doesn't make sense to you that the man made of straw has no idea about the info you shared after the munchkins shared everyone knows about the wizard.

"maybe i can tag along? as a scarecrow with no brains, it might help me out. do you think the big shot can do that?"

sampo explains he's tired always being labeled as an idiot so how will he ever know much more if his head is filled with anything but a brain.

your sympathy gets to you first for some reason.

maybe it's the way how he holds your hands as he begs the question, or perhaps it's the way how he softly smiles as he towers in front of your small figure causing the lack of proximity.

"i'll ask the wizard for everything he can offer for you," you tell him.

sampo as a scarecrow, doesn't deny the determination in your voice, and he feels likes the straws in his stomach getting replaced with something else.

maybe he doesn't need a brain when your wit is enough to keep him afloat above any field.

dan heng as the tin man

ever since he was young, relatives and others have told dan heng he had no heart with the cold exterior persona the young man displays usually.

and with all the metal that's part of him to carry like a burden of his own predicament, dan heng could only accept their false accusations to not make the situation any worse than it already is.

just like in the og game, dan heng flees.

after all who wouldn't with that situation?

he comes across a pink haired girl who he eventually becomes accustomed to.

he tells her about his issues and his friend immediately perks up.

"oh??? then why not visit the wizard of welt??" march suggests.

and so he does, alone.

along the way, through the depths of the forest, he doesn't expect rain to happen.

this becomes an inconvenience to the tin man putting a stop to dan heng's expedition.

all because of a damn rain pour that causes him to rust.

there was no way of contacting march in any way and as much as he tries to budge, he remains where he is.

months might have already passed and dan heng could only reflect how much of a troubling life he got to experience.

that is until a pair of red shoes comes into his view.

the man made of tin cannot bring his head up to see who is messing with his parts but he prays to himself that the newcomers are simply just trying to help his pathetic position.

and next thing he knows, he's functioning again! what a surprise!

dan heng doesn't miss a second to offer his gratitude for the oil he was provided.

but before he even tries, he's taken aback by the beauty you hold as you were explaining you were just passing by with sampo the scarecrow with the help of the yellow brick road to get to the wizard. also explaining you were helping sampo in the process as you'd do anything for people in need.

"you have a beautiful heart," dan heng thinks to himself.

he is surprise to think of this coming from his own mind and seeing that he himself doesn't have one of his own.

at least, that's what he thought he has done as he fails to notice the creeping color of red on your face, matching the shoes you wore.

it fades quickly as dan heng humbly requests if he could come, practically silently pleading to whoever is listening that you accept.

thankfully, your kindness allows to agree.

the journey is much more bearable with your company after that.

everything you do in full willingness, even if it's the bare minimum, is enough to encourage dan heng to get that heart from the wizard of oz no matter what.

what he doesn't know, is that he has already gotten one from the fact he has unknowingly fell in love with you.

gepard as the cowardly lion

for someone who's supposedly a "vicious" "feline" with not much courage, it takes not even a fool to realize how much of a sweetheart gepard is.

at least, that was established after being ambushed by the big blonde whom tried to inflict fear on the current party you had going on.

poor pompom having to deal with the fact he was the main target being the smallest.

regardless of such attempt, gepard was secretly frighten by the unexpected retaliation lil pompom pulls back at him without much effort.

you, already exhausted enough from the bs sampo and dan heng does with each other, decides to put an end to the one sided battle going on with the lion and rabbit.

pompom, at long last, stops beating the poor feline and lets you do your thing with what you've already done with all the strays you've been picking up.

putting in his place by placing yourself in front of gepard, staring back into his blue eyes, you decided to execute the only idea you had.

you boop his nose, catching everyone off guard.

"you are nothing but a big coward," you tell him without missing a heartbeat.

still looking back at each other, gepard lets out a sigh of defeat.

"i am painfully aware of that," he frowns.

he explains that he's both a younger and older brother to two sisters whom he cares about so much and they're practically both the main reason why he wants to be much courageous.

he'd sacrifice everything for the sake of their safety, so until he learns a thing or two, he promises to not comeback to them until then.

so he tries to train himself by being scarier in some way or another.

even if it means attacking strangers out of the blue. what a big dumbie i am so in love with him.

"there are many things i can do and cannot. the very least thing i should attempt is prove to myself that i can find the heart and not be the coward i have been my whole life."

you're practically shaking inside hearing his chivalric sentiment.

while no longer a threat despite not being one in the first place, the honesty he holds convinces you to urge him to join your party.

unlike the other two, it's really you this time who's trying to appeal to gepard the idea of heading to the wizard of welt.

"is that right? you wish for me to come with your pack? that's very kind of you but wouldn't i just cause harm such as earlier?"

you tell him that as long as he can apologize to pompom, who seems to still hold a petty grudge, no hard feelings will remain.

gepard smiles at you softly, admiring the valor you've shown him even if it's in your way.

there's no way for him to decline your offer at this point.

he vows to keep you all safe no matter the dangers that'll try to stop, despite how scared he still is deep inside.

you hug him immediately without much thought when he expresses his confirmation.

it's extremely bold of you, yes, but gepard doesn't mind.

he hopes he can return it asap when he gains the courage he hopes for.

[listenheresweaty]

BURGER VAN BURGER VAN—- Top text, Bottom text. ——— REVIVEBUR X READER - omg guys it’s here can you believe that I took four months to post something I had already written out

——-

Warnings: copious alcohol consumption, mentions of ableist remarks, allusions to underage drinking, jokes about alcoholism by people with drinking problems (addiction is a mental illness guys. Please be respectful about it.) The alcoholism stuff started off as humor based on my own experiences*. I had intended on expanding on it and making it into a larger plot line about recovery/etc but I do not know if I’ll ever continue this work.

*alcohol has played a role in my life but I am not technically an addict. If anything in this fic is offensive, please let me know and I’ll change it/ take it down.

Reader is called “guy” but is otherwise gender neutral. 

There are a couple jokes about Beeduo flirting but it is intended humorously, not with any romantic intent. 

—————-

It was a blisteringly, stupidly hot day, made only more intolerable by the long expanses of hot sand and lack of vegetation. Although, you supposed it was your fault for deciding to get a job in the Las Nevadas Casino- quite literally smack dab in the middle of a desert. Fortunately, just in the edges of the desert territory, where the sands met fresh green grass, sat a quaint, almost minuscule burger van. It received very few customers, partly due to the uninhabited nature of the area and partly because of the owner’s less than appealing reputation. 

You believed that the owner’s— his name was Wilbur--  reputation was mostly undeserved. Sure, he had done some extremely questionable things in his past, and continued to carry himself with a madman’s easy grace and confidence, sending people scurrying out of his way— it was fair to say that most of the people you knew were afraid of Wilbur, despite his lack of physical strength. You, however, could never find him intimidating. He was too much of a loser complete dork. 

Wilbur certainly wasn’t imposing as you walked up to him, eyeing his tall form awkwardly making its way through the van that was clearly too small for him. 

He looked so silly, leaning over the burgers as they cooked, that it was hard to imagine that this was the same man everyone spoke about with such fear. You had to laugh. 

Wilbur stood up straight at the sound, bumping his head against the van’s ceiling and letting out a stream of curses that stopped abruptly when his eyes landed on you. 

“Quite the colorful vocabulary you have.” You teased, approaching the vans window with a playful smile. “Perhaps we should wash your mouth out with soap.”

Wilbur stood still for a moment, hand still braced against the van ceiling, before he relaxed and sent you a lopsided smile. “Only if you do it, darling.”

“Oh shut up.” You laughed. “Why in the world would you make the van so small, anyway? It’s not like it benefits your coworker- the kid’s even taller than you are.” 

“Never question the logic of a genius.” Wilbur sighed like a cat stretching out in the sun, leaning out of the van with his elbows against the windowsill. “What are you doing all the way out here, anyway? You should be working. Don’t tell me-“ he grinned impossibly wider, leaning even closer, “that you missed me that much?”

You snorted. “Absolutely not. You must be concussed. How hard did you hit your head?”

Wilbur’s bottom lip pulled downwards in an exaggerated pout. “Quite hard, actually. I think I might need to see a doctor.” He sighed, dramatically. 

“Awww, poor baby.” You cooed with false sympathy, reaching up above to run your fingers through Wilbur’s brown curls. “Where’d you hit yourself? Here?”

Wilbur was struck dumb, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out—clearly, he wasn’t used to being flirted with. He regained his composure quickly, leaning into your touch with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Mhmm.” He sighed, keeping up the act. “I’m afraid it’s terminal. They’ll have to pull the plug on me.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m already hallucinating.” Wilbur announced, ever so dramatically. “Oh, [Name], sweetheart, will you cry at my funeral?” 

“Of course.” You snickered, trying hard to keep a straight face. “Hallucinating? Really?” 

“Hm.” A smirk pulled at Wilbur’s lips. “I’m already seeing angels.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Must every sentence you utter twist itself into a pickup  line?” 

“Only for you.” The corners of Wilbur’s mouth pulled upwards to form an uncharacteristically genuine grin. The smile disappeared as fast as it came, making you wonder if you had only imagined it. 

“Why don’t you come inside?” Wilbur offered, leaning back into the van (and nearly hitting his head, once again, against the top of the window frame).  

You hesitated. 

“I have air conditioning in here.” He added. 

“Open the door.” You said immediately, making your way to the back of the van and jiggling the doorknob. You heard Wilbur laugh and cross the threshold quite quickly, almost frantically unlocking the doors in order to grab your hand and hoist you in. You sighed in relief at the feeling of the cool air washing over you, whisking away the sheen of sweat that the heat had formed on your skin. 

Wilbur patted the counter next to him and you complied, sitting on the cool marble surface and letting your feet dangle as she observed the world outside the van window. It was a beautiful day outside, all things considered. 

Wilbur gestured to the burgers that were still cooking (actually, at this point, you were fairly certain that they were burnt). “Do you mind if I continue churning out my mediocre meat meals?” He asked. 

You snorted. “Go ahead.” After a few beats of silence, you spoke again. “You know, your burgers aren’t that bad.” 

Wilbur hummed, but maintained focus on the dark slab of burnt meat he was trying to chisel off the grill with a spatula. “Is that so? They sure don’t seem to be bringing in many customers, do they?” He leaned in with a teasing grin. “Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere, darling.”

“It isn’t flattery.” You said. “It’s not your burgers that—“ 

You cut yourself off abruptly, cursing your mistake. 

Wilbur clearly understood what you had been about to say, and raised an eyebrow. The quality of his business wasn’t what customers were avoiding- people avoided him. 

“I suppose your right.” He said shrugging. His easygoing and flippant attitude had returned, but there was a more sullen, guarded undertone to his words. You wracked your brain for something to say, but nothing surfaced. 

A clinking of glass broke you out of your thoughts. “Want a drink?” Wilbur offered, eager to change the subject. 

You nodded absentmindedly.  The sun was setting in the horizon, marking the approach of closing hours for most businesses in the area, including the van. Wilbur rummaged through a wooden cabinet before pulling out two expensive-looking bottles and handing one to you. “Help yourself.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Vodka? Where did you get this?” 

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just a little place I know. Tiny little store far from here.”

“Hm. And this tiny little far-away store sells vodka with the Las Nevadas logo on the cap?” 

You heard him curse softly. 

“Damn.” Wilbur chuckled. “I forgot to remove those.”

You held out your glass as Wilbur filled it, before leaning back against the wall of the van. Wilbur leaned against the counter next to you. 

You swirled your cup around, eyeing the moving liquid before tilting your head back and taking a rather large sip. 

“So, what have you been up to?” You asked him. “When you’re not stealing expensive liquor from the casino?” 

Wilbur shrugged. “Well.. not much honestly. I’ve just been working here at the van. There’s not much I can do on most days— since my fry guy either forgets to come to work or is out flirting with the rival fry guy across the street. Then, I… ‘visit’ the casino.”

You hummed, draining your glass and gesturing for Wilbur to refill it. Wilbur complied. 

“Aren’t you permanently banned from the casino? My boss would kill you if he caught you on the premises.” You continued, only half joking. 

Wilbur laughed. “Oh, he could certainly try. But if a few bans can’t stop me, neither can he.” 

“Can’t he?”

“Of course not.” Wilbur snickered. “He’s like half my height.” 

“He could still snap you like a twig. Hell, I could snap you like a twig.” 

Wilbur smiled. “Oh, I know. It’s hot.”  

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s hot? The fact that I can  beat you in a fight or that my boss can beat you in a fight?”

Wilbur choked on his drink. “Wh- YOU. Not- I’m not-“ 

You burst out laughing. “Damn, okay. I didn’t know that’s the kind of relationship you had with him.”

Wilbur spluttered. “N-no—!”

“I guess there’s more to your rivalry than meets the eye.” You sighed, grabbing the vodka bottle to refill your glass yourself since Wilbur was too busy coughing to oblige. “How romantic.”

“NO. I-I meant YOU—- I don’t have the hots for Quackity, for Gods sake. “ Wilbur looked somewhere between abashed and scandalized. “I hate the man!”

You drained your third glass. “Mm-hmm.” 

Wilbur huffed. “Well, going back to the topic of whether or not Alex— sorry, ‘your boss’—could beat me up-“ 

“He could.” You interjected. 

Wilbur sighed. “Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, YES he could beat me in a physical confrontation— stop smirking!—but you’re forgetting something important. Our rivalry is based on genius. On cold, calculated planning, ALWAYS staying one step ahead…” 

“…and burgers.” You said. 

“And burgers.” He agreed, finishing another glass. “Whew, I should quit drinking for today.”

“You should.” You found yourself saying, the vodka having greatly loosened your tongue. “We wouldn’t want one of today’s beautiful minds to go to waste for a pint or two of heavy liquor.” 

Wilbur stiffened, turning toward you slightly to look at you with wide eyes. His cheeks looked darker than usual, although that might have been the alcohol he had consumed. 

You blinked. “…What?” 

Wilbur paused before speaking, raising an eyebrow. “‘Beautiful mind’?” He repeated, trying to portray smugness but the waver in his voice betrayed some other emotion. “Me?”

You nodded, watching a crimson blush that certainly had nothing to do with the alcohol settle on Wilbur’s cheekbones. You continued speaking. “Yeah. I’ve never met someone who views the world like you do, or has the same talent with words as you. You’re like a poet, honestly. .. you’re pretty incredible.” 

Wilbur stared at you, caught completely off guard for the first time in his life. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to form coherent words, but failed. Oh, the irony. 

It was the last thing he had expected to hear, you realized as you studied his flushed face. After his return, people had been whispering about Wilbur, using several adjectives to describe him-- none of them pleasant. “Insane” and “a ticking time bomb” had been some of the nicer ones. To hear someone compliment the very same thing that everyone had chosen to pick apart and belittle must have moved him greatly. 

You wondered how people could be so foolish. Wilbur had done some reprehensible things, and continued to be morally gray at best, but he was still human.

“Broken mind,” they had all said as he walked past, thinking he wouldn’t hear.

“Beautiful mind,” You had told him. 

Wilbur looked like he wanted to cry, glancing away from you with a poorly suppressed, wobbly grin.

You wanted to hug him. Perhaps he’d appreciate that, after having been isolated and despised for years. 

“I mean that, you know?” You hastily added as Wilbur tried to scoff and brush it off.  

His head tilted.  “…Of course.”

You actually moved to hug him, startling the both of you. Standing a few inches in front of him, you hesitantly opened your arms, praying to the gods that you hadn’t made anything worse. 

He shuddered slightly, nodding, and sank against you, wrapping his arms around your waist and leaning his forehead against your shoulder.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

The next day, you forced your way through the casino, with sluggish movements and a pounding headache. You must have drunk more than you thought yesterday. Regardless, you took off towards Wilbur’s burger van as soon as you had the chance. This time, there were two tall figures moving about in the van. Wilbur’s fry guy, a shy kid named Ranboo , had finally returned. 

Ranboo dipped his head in greeting as you approached. Wilbur remained facing towards the grill, seemingly determined not to burn more meat and unaware of your presence. 

“Hello Mx., what would you like to order?” Ranboo asked. 

“Hmmm… I’m a bit indecisive today. What do you suggest?” You responded. 

At the sound of your voice, Wilbur whipped around, swiveling the upper half of his body toward you and Ranboo. 

You met his eyes and smiled, eyes soft. 

“Well, our five-spice burger is pretty popular right now. If you, uh, aren’t a fan of spicy foods, then the chicken patty is also a popular option.” Ranboo was saying. You turned your attention back towards him. 

“Spicy burger sounds great, thank you.”

“And to drink?”

“Just a water, please.” You didn’t think you could handle alcohol after yesterday. Wow, you were a lightweight. 

“Water?” Wilbur asked as Ranboo turned to prepare the ingredients for your burger. “That’s kinda lame.”

“Shush, you.” You retorted. “How are you holding up, anyway?” 

Wilbur hesitated, and Nadia saw Ranboo glance at them curiously. He probably didn’t want to discuss his moment of weakness in front of his employee. 

“The hangover, I mean.” You added. “With all the alcohol you consumed yesterday, I’m surprised you came to work.” 

He relaxed a bit. “Yeah, I’m alright. Doing better than last night at least, but the headache’s a killer.” He frowned in mock offense. “And don’t you twist the story around! You drank almost as much as I did.”

You frowned. “I did not!” 

“You did too. Alcoholic.” 

“I am not an alcoholic. I’m not the one with three bottles of stolen vodka in a drawer.” You pointed out. Ranboo handed over your burger and water. “(Thank you, Ranboo.)”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Wilbur snorted. “You seem more of a wine person to me. You probably have a stash of Pinot noir under your bed or something.”

“Under my bed? Why the hell would anyone store alcohol under their bed?”

Wilbur shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a wine aunt thing.”

“I give you wine aunt vibes?” You asked. “I don’t even have any nephews or nieces. Or have ever been responsible for any kids.”

“Thank god for that.”

You grinned and halfheartedly slapped his shoulder, ignoring his last statement “Silence, fool.”

Ranboo coughed. “Uhh… if you guys are done flirting… it’s my break now. Can I go across the street?”

Wilbur waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” When Ranboo was out of earshot, he turned to Nadia and sighed. “Hypocrite. As if he isn’t heading to do the exact same thing.”

“Kids.” You shrugged, ignoring the part about the two of you flirting. 

“He’s seventeen.”

“Still a child. Until he turns eighteen, he’s still a child.”

“Fair enough.” Wilbur stared off towards where Ranboo had run off to before turning back to you hesitantly. “So… since he probably won’t return for the rest of the day, how about you and I go somewhere? Together? You can finish your burger along the way.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Go where?”

“I-I don’t know.” Wilbur’s confidence seemed to falter, his metaphorical mask slipping and revealing the nervousness beneath. “Just… walk? In general? I-I know some nice places— or, well, I know that there are nice places around here-“ 

“Sounds nice.” You interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. “Should we go now, then?” 

Wilbur froze. “Yeah. Now. Now sounds good.” 

That’s it I’m done I can’t with this pacing

[likea-silhouette]

read part one here

harry styles x fem!reader rating: mature (eventual smut & alcohol/drug usage)

summary: Harry was once the boy you loved and wanted to spend your life with. The funny thing is that addiction is something that is never predicted. What happens when you run into your ex-boyfriend years after your breakup that was due to his vices? *based on the song Complex by Katie Gregson-MacLeod* ___

30-year-old me could've never fathomed life would've looked like this.

The 21-year-old me pictured it a million times—a future with him and me, maybe children, maybe a flat.

Our love was solidified in my mind as if something like ours would never change or dwindle. How could it? 

But that's what love feels like at 21 until reality sets in and those dreams and visions of future eternal love begin to fade and the reality of adulthood kicks in.

Harry started going out—a lot. 

It was something not unusual for a man at an age that had just begun to kiss his early 20s, but then it changed. It evolved into this dark cloud that hovered over he and I until it intermingled with every feeling I held towards him.

I could tell he had a problem. The drugs, the drinking-all of it had turned into something far from a normal night of fun. Before I knew it, the Harry I once knew and adored more than anything had evaporated into an air drenched in dismay, regret, and questioning. 

Until our mid-twenties, our shared friends watched me sling Harry’s arm around my shoulder each time we went out together. Their sets of eyes always preached sympathy, yet their tongues must’ve been cut off-or at least that’s what I assumed due to their lack of actual words. 

Each one of those frequently occurring nights where I struggled to move his flimsy legs out of a bar as his larger, drunk stature slurred words that only made sense to him, I could feel myself hating him a little more.

Eventually, I was questioning it all. Why wasn’t I enough? Why wasn’t his music and his family enough? Why did it have to be substances that turned him into a human that I never met nor signed up to be so deeply in love with?

I began to opt out anytime Harry said we were invited for a night out with others. I could tell his disappointment the first couple of times I declined, but eventually, he stopped letting me know of these invitations altogether with me only finding out about them as I watched him slip on his coat near the front door and tell me not to wait up for him.

At the tip of our shriveling iceberg, I became so numb that it rarely bothered me anymore. Those first nights when this was more of a rare occurrence, I would find myself crying into a pillow as Harry’s passed-out body lay in a corpse-like pose on our couch. Now, I felt nothing. Everything that once annoyed and worried me had turned into just another item on my checklist that I needed to be bothered with at 3 a.m. on a Saturday, and Sunday, and Monday, and Tuesday…

His drunkenness had not only turned Harry into a completely different person, but it had turned me into someone I also didn't recognize. It had me questioning if I was even happy in our relationship, something I had never felt or imagined would happen to two people who were as deeply in love as we once were.

I wasn’t a total novacained creature; even if that’s what I wished I could be. Eventually, those feelings would bubble up and I would find my pot simmering over its edge. Tears would leak and leak from my eyes as I’d pace both metaphorically and physically while I tried to process how this had become what my life with Harry was. My throat would scratch and rub raw as I cried out into our empty apartment until my eyes were so tired and swollen that the nothingness of sleep was the only thing that sounded appealing and worth succumbing to. Full fic coming soon

[delightfuljellyfishtraveler]

Second ever post in here I’ve been obsessing over Sweeney for the past several months and I have already read a majority of the posts in here about him, so here’s my try at it! Hope you enjoy!

"Ugh, too much damn paperwork..." I state as I go through the seemingly endless slog of articles that are balanced precariously on my cramped desk. I press the heel of my hands into my washed out eyes, The lack of feeling makes my shoulders sag. as i should be angry with the co-worker who dumped all of their paperwork for their case down on me. It was an 'easy case' and a cheerful, 'you'll have it done in no time!' That drained all of the energy I once had when I walked through the steel, double doors. I stand up with effort and sigh in relief as my knees and ankles crack into place. My eyes widen as I look down at the small alarm clock on my desk, I had worked through two of my breaks and my lunch.

'Great.' I walk over to the door of my office and out to the break room where a few stragglers remain after their breaks. The intense smell of cigarettes and something else foul smacks me in the face as I open the doors. All of the people look over and give a forced smile. None of my co-workers liked me, not even the supposed 'yes' man, Rodney. The looks they give me feel like knives were driven into my back, I know why they hate me. I've heard the whispers, 'Lawyers slave', 'Firms pet', and many more. I walk over to the only fridge in the entire building and pull out an empty container with my name written on the lid. I was looking forward to my lunch today. I had a self-made Alfredo that I had the night before, not the kind one can buy in a jar, a homemade Alfredo sauce put over homemade noodles with chicken. I stand there looking at the container in a blank stare, I was always taught not to say anything if I had nothing good to say. But the flood of anger and contempt for my peers was growing faster than my own thoughts. My grip tightens on the container, as I look back at the people I share the same room with.

"Oh, sorry. I thought that was what my wife packed me, she has very similar hand writing." It was Samul that spoke up, his Boston accent lilting as he spoke in mock sympathy. His mouth is quirked up in a prideful smirk as he walks closer with a swagger in his step, as if he fell a deer.

My breathing picks up as my thoughts swirl in my head, my overactive imagination, imagining what I could do to him. Strangle him with his tie, tackle him and stomp his face in, gouge his eyes out with my spoon. Something primal falls over my mind as I take a step closer towards him. My eyes must have gave something away as he takes a step back with a strange look on his face, all of that arrogance gone and is replaced by a outward look of fear.

I take another step forward. 'I could stab my fork into his throat, it would shut him up.'

"Hey, are you okay?"

The sound of my employers voice stops the thoughts and pulls that primal blanket of feeling off of my head and I look over towards the older man. He is the nicest man in the business, the man who saw potential in me while everyone else only saw a woman with nothing. "Uh, Sir?"

"I asked if you were okay?" The worry in his voice is evident, as he knows how my peers treat me like a personal rug. His wispy hair and old blue eyes ooze comfort and remind me of my grandpa.

"Um, No Sir. I feel Ill, do I have permission to head home?" I needed to head home before I did something I regretted.

"Yes, you can head home, just don't forget to double check you logged in everything."

His voice helps to ground me to reality and I nod my head. I rush out of the break room to my gate as the need to move pushes me forward. I walk back to my cramped office and back to what was supposed to be my lunch in my bag. I sit back down and check all the information before logging off. The chair groans as I stand up from it. I take a breath as my head falls onto the desk. I feel so tired, yet so pumped. My body itches to move, to run.

Yet my head feels like a pound of lead. Maybe I am getting sick…

I huff as I stand up with my bag. I ignore all the looks I’m given as I walk right out the door to my car. The sound of the ignition turning lit my heart on fire as the old engine roared to life. A thrill I lost long ago fills my head, and I grin maniacally. The music turns on, and the song ‘Iron’ by Woodkids fills the car. The percussion takes my heart as I put on my seat belt, shift the gear, and rip out of my parking spot. I floor the pedal as I rush to the exit onto the highway. My breathing picks up as I watch the other cars whizz by. I catch a clear spot and gun my old baby down the highway. I gasp as the speed picks up fast. I can feel my heart thrumming as euphoria fills my head. A loud smile crosses my face as I revel in my new feelings.

The drive back to my house was much faster than usual and was a happy blur. It felt good. I turn into the courts of my apartment complex, drive slowly down the street, and turn into my driveway. I park my car, grab my things, and head inside in a tired daze from my drive and the emotional rollercoaster I was on. I open my door and lock it behind me.

The sound of a meow pulls me out of my daze; I smile as I see my black cat strut his way over and rub against my legs. His green eyes stare up at me and blink slowly.

“Hello, my Lugh.” I reach down and pet him with a smile. “You’ve kept the house safe?”

He meows back as he walks back to his sunny spot.

I hang my purse and coat on the hooks and strip my heels off. I groan in relief as my feet hit the floor. “God, I hate those things.”

I walk over to my small bedroom, pull my fluffy pajamas out of the drawers, and walk over to my bathroom; I strip down and take a nice, long, hot shower. I quickly dry off and change into my pajamas. I walk out while brushing my hair, walk into the kitchen, and grab a bag of pumpkin seeds. I reach into the higher cupboards and pull down a bottle of aged Redbreast whiskey and a large glass. With my prizes, I settle down into a plush armchair. I set my liquor to the side and reach for my favorite book. Its cover is worn with age; the pages are yellowed and bent from the continuous dog-earring. The cover is worn green, and the gold lettering fades but can still be read. ‘Irish Folklore And Fairytales’.

I reach over, pour myself a glass, and open the book to my previous place. The book starts with a new chapter labeled ‘Leprechauns.’ The night flies by as I lose myself in the emerald groves and wistful magic. A feeling of peace overtakes my whole body as I linger between the two planes of dreams and reality. I jump when I hear my cat purring beside me. I look over and close the book in my lap. The glass in my hand is now dry, so I set the book down. I smile as I reach down and pet Lugh. “I love you, my boy.”

"…I love you too, my human." "Alright, it's time for bed." *I stand wobbly on my legs as I trudge to my room. I walk into the bathroom and brush my teeth as my mind replays the myth of leprechauns. They loved cream and bread; humans left a plate of freshly baked bread and a bottle of cream on their window sill. If a leprechaun saw it and liked the bread, it's said they would leave a lucky coin on the window sill. An image of my grandmother leaving a loaf of bread and a bottle of cream on the sill flashes. In my tipsy haze, I tell myself, "Why not? I could use a little luck." I finish with my nightly routine and walk back down to the kitchen. I grab a loaf of rosemary and cheese bread I had made the day before and one of the bottles of half-and-half I have in my fridge. I walk up to my room. I open my window and set the load of warm bread wrapped in aluminum foil on the counter. I can feel my family's warmth wrap around my neck and back as the image of the bread and cream brings to mind my late grandmother's kind smile. She always swore up and down that she had seen the great Tuatha de Danann when she was a child. When I was a child, I believed her stories of the children of Danann, of seven-foot giants and grisly warriors of old just beyond the veil. I believed in the faeries and the kings of old. I thrived on her stories; they brought me joy and a sense of wonder that I lost when she left. It was replaced with my father's misery and my mother's hope. I stopped looking in the forests for the little faery lights of my grandmother's stories and looked at my feet. My feet took me across the sea to America, where I started working in the firm as an errand girl.

Tears fall down my face as I think of my grandmother, the loss of wonder, and my path. I lean down and pry the window open a bit.

“deonaigh dom ádh, a anamacha na sean.”

The prayer that my grandmother used to whisper falls from my lips in a tone of reverence, as if I were reliving a memory. I turn to my bed, dress myself for bed, tuck myself into my thick comforter, and close my weary, heavy eyes.

[myalchod]

Silrah + AU in which Farah's not killed but sent to Earth forgetting everything about the Otherworld

Another one that didn't come out the way I intended to, but I've been staring at it for long enough that I'm just gonna go with what I have at this point ...

1. It’s Sky who finds her, chasing a rumour that he hopes might be Bloom into the First World. He watches only long enough to be sure that she doesn’t know him — their eyes meeting across the expanse of parkland, the complete lack of recognition in hers — before returning to the Otherworld. “It’s her,” he tells them, sitting around the table that evening, and sees hope flare in the eyes of the man who raised him. “I know it’s her. But …” and that light fades as he continues.

2. Of course Saul goes. For her, he would always go; even if the rumour proves false, he would risk far more for the possibility that it’s his fairy out there. The bond between them has been dead since the day he’d been dragged to the Solarian prison over a year ago, leaving him certain that Rosalind had killed her, but as he watches the woman who could be her ghost, he feels, or imagines he does, something stir in his chest.

3. He doesn’t approach. At first it’s fear, because there’s a possibility that he’s wrong and this isn’t Farah, but when Musa accompanies him on his next scouting run, she confirms what he’s known in his gut from the moment he first set eyes on her. There’s such sympathy in her gaze that he has to look away, focussing instead on the clouds overhead, wondering if this is the same sky as they see in the Otherworld. The thought is less comforting than it should be.

4. They had talked, in the years after Aster Dell, about what it might be like to forget that day — if walking away from the past might let them find some measure of happiness once freed of its weight. Remembering those conversations, he tries to tell himself that he should stay away; she’s achieved that, and he has no right to wake the demons of the past for his own selfishness. And yet he comes back, again and again, because the pull remains too strong, and because his own nightmares persist and he needs to know she’s safe, she’s well, that at least one of them has broken free.

5. He thinks he’s been discreet, and so he’s entirely unprepared for the day she sits down on the bench beside him. “I don’t bite, you know,” she says without preamble, and as she smiles he’s struck yet again by the lightness of this woman, and the unfairness of bringing the weight of memory to crash down on her again. (And yet.)

6. If this was a First World fairy tale, that first brush of her lips against his would right everything once more. But he knows, better than most, that those tales hold little of reality, and so it is nothing more than a kiss.

[ ask me another ] [ all answers ]

[kyliesnaked]

The Mommy Protocol

Chapter 5.2

(End of setup, I promise)

7 days before the incident

I spent the rest of the day signing documents and answering questions about my personality. I never cared for that kind of stuff. The notion of people’s personalities being tied to shapes in the sky or times of the year a person was born sounded like superstitious nonsense to me. As far as I was concerned, there were only two deciding factors to a person’s personality, how they were raised and how the world treats them. There was more nuance to it than that, but to say that a person is guided by the light of stars that may no longer exist, snuffed out by the decay of time thousands of years ago and whose final moments have yet to be seen by man was lunacy in my eyes. Like most superstitions, there were devout believers but no matter how many times I tried to listen to their reasoning, I always found myself wishing they would just shut up.

Emily was not like those people. She saw the world as a series of puzzles and solutions. Every challenge had a solution and her pragmatic approach to problem solving had led her to seek solutions beyond the limits of man. “We are our own worst enemy,” she said. It was near the end of the day and we were talking about how she got into robotics as a profession. “We dream higher than we can achieve. We are often limited by our fragile physicality. So much so that we created technology to overcome our weaknesses. Autonomous robots are the next logical step, but even the great leaps we’ve made only seem to prompt more questions.”

In an effort to sound more intelligent, I tried conversing on her level, likely sounding like a moron to her ears. “How do we make something greater than ourselves?”

She smiled at me, pleased with my understanding, as limited as it was. I wasn’t stupid by any means, but I struggled to understand some of the terms she had been using. “Precisely! Our developed brains have allowed us to create and problem solve far beyond what our ape brethren can comprehend, but what they lack in brain power, they more than excel at in physical strength. Robotics is similar in this regard. The machines we make and the materials we make them out of are far stronger than we are, but a machine is only as smart as the program that guides it. How can we emulate something we barely understand?”

She was referring, of course, to the human brain. “And that’s where artificial intelligence comes in?”

“Indeed. It is my hope that we can train an artificial intelligence to be better than humans. Imagine a being without greed or selfishness. Without hate or anger. Jealousy or envy. A being that uses empathy and sympathy without need of reward or personal enrichment.”

“But aren’t all of those things what makes us human?”

“Quite correct. But I’m not trying to make a human, I’m trying to make something more.”

I looked through the window at Alyssa. She was in rest mode or standby, I wasn’t sure what the difference was. It was strange watching her be completely motionless. She reminded me of a mannequin in a department store, dressed and posed to sell the newest fashion.

“How do you program behaviors?”

“We don’t really program behaviors. We have what we call protocols. They are a list of reactions based on stimuli. We add these to her theory of the mind A.I.”

I looked at her confused, “You lost me.”

“The layman’s version is that Alyssa learns from the people she’s around and adjusts her behavior accordingly, just like you or I would.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Certainly. Let’s say that Alyssa is with a small child. Like a toddler. Maybe three or four years old. Now the toddler may be having a tantrum or other emotional outburst. Alyssa has a series of protocols she can go through to try to soothe the child and when she does, she learns what works and what doesn’t for next time the child is in that state.”

“But no two states are the same.”

“Correct. So she runs through them all multiple times until she has a functional baseline of what can work with the child and what can’t work, thus learning based on real world data how best to use the knowledge she’s gained.”

“And where do I fit into this? I’m not a toddler.”

“No, you are not. However, Alyssa needs more adult interaction before she can learn from children, and that’s where you come in. The more people she can socialize with, the more she can learn from things like body cues or voice stress patterns to appear more normal.”

I started to question this whole process. If Alyssa was far enough along to have a database to pull from, then what was I needed for? Anyone could fit the job description of talking to someone else. This place wouldn’t need to offer such amenities to get someone in the door.

“It’s getting late,” Emily said. “Go home and get some rest. Start packing and we can pick this up in the morning. When you are ready, we will arrange to have the things you need brought here.”

I yawned, not realizing what time it was until I looked at my phone. I noticed that my cell service didn’t work in the building, which wasn’t unusual. I would only pay for the cheapest plan I could find, and only on a month to month basis.

“What does she do when we aren’t around?” I asked as I stood up and stretched. Alyssa was sitting in the same spot she had been since I arrived. She hadn’t moved in the slightest and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. If she understood what existence was, hers had to be the most empty of anyone I had met.

“She has a power save function. She updates her system with new protocols and information. Like the human mind, hers never stops working.”

“On what?”

“Learning.”

“How can she learn when she’s not given any stimuli?”

“How do we learn as babies? We watch. We imitate. It’s clumsy at first but once we start to get the hang of it, we improve.”

“But that’s stimuli. Something has to happen for her to imitate it.”

“Very true. I guess I don’t really know. If I were here to observe her, then I would be giving her something to imitate. You’ve raised an interesting line of thought, one that we will look into together, tomorrow.” Emily led me out of the room and locked the door with a swipe of her key fob. There wasn’t anyone else in the building and we walked out the front door together. I couldn’t help but be torn. On one hand, Alyssa was left there by herself until morning with nothing to do, no instructions to follow, nothing. On the other, she was a machine, an imitation of life, no more aware of her existence than any of the other machines. She was incapable of understanding isolation or abandonment. She just…was…until such a time when she was needed again.

Back at my dorm, I wasn’t surprised to find a letter from the university on my bed, left there by my roommate. I already knew what it said, or at least I had an educated guess. I was either on suspension, probation, or the university wished to part ways. None of which mattered to me. I felt stifled by the room and took to packing my limited belongings. I would have to return my books to the campus library for a limited refund and turn in my room key but that was of little consequence. All in all, I was packed in less than an hour. My makeup box and suitcase of clothing were really all I had. It struck me as kind of sad, like if I died in my sleep, a suitcase and a makeup box were all I amounted to. No one would speak of me fondly. Hell, I doubted if anyone would even remember my name in a week. I looked down at the dress I wore with its hemline of roses. It was perhaps the only thing I owned that spoke of my personality. Thorny but beautiful. Handle with care. I heard some of the girls from a few rooms down laughing hysterically. They seemed so happy. They were likely living their best lives. College was the peak for many of them.

I thought about the girl I had been with last night. I couldn’t even remember her name or what she looked like.

That will be me, I thought, no one will remember me. I don’t matter to them. I don’t matter to anyone.

Is this what it feels like to be Alyssa? Empty and directionless? Am I no more human than she is?

I feel. She- no. It doesn’t feel. It is nothing more than wires and clockwork. It is just a thing that looks like a person. It’s not a person. I am. I am a person. I have feelings. I am more than the parts that make me. And I…

My roommate burst through the door with her boyfriend. He was the typical jock type and whenever they were together they acted like they were still in high school with revolting displays of affection. She stopped abruptly when she saw me sitting next to the cases on my bed.

“You’re leaving?” She asked.

“Didn’t think I was going to stick around, did you?”

“I just…I guess not. This really isn’t your scene after all.”

“Because I’m not a big party person? Or a slut?”

“What? No! Of course not. Just you never seemed like the type to…you know, follow the crowd.”

The few times we had talked near the start of the year, I had remarked on how I didn’t care for being told how to think. I was honestly surprised that she was listening.

“Well, no good ideas ever came out of doing what everyone else does.”

“Where will you go?” She asked.

“I have a job lined up,” I said. I doubted that she cared. She was just being polite. “I have enough to find a place to live.”

“Well, good luck out there.” I could tell that the conversation had run its course. Her interest in my life only stretched as far as her attention span and with her boyfriend’s hands on her hips, I was clearly a third wheel.

“Thanks. Guess I’ll go have one last bland meal at the cafeteria,” I said, standing up. “I’ll pick up my stuff later.”

As I closed the door behind me I heard her boyfriend say, “Wanna do it on her bed?”

To be honest, it stung a little to be waved aside and ushered out the door so they could fool around. But I did my best to push it out of my mind, to push all of it out of my mind, all of the hurt, the emptiness, the loneliness, and the sadness.