#full threaded round bar

[oflgtfol]

like it sucks so badly genuinely i think ive only had two upper level astronomy professors who i actually enjoyed because all my other professors both suck at teaching AND are so fucking MEAN i just. i cannot understate how condescending and rude they are. like sir i think if the class average is a fucking TWENTY THREE PERCENT (23%!!!!) then something is WRONG !!! but oh no we just suck ass. i mean the questions were so simple maybe we're just stupid. or if you ask a question clarifying something they'll make fun of you for it and then even continue bringing up your stupid question in later classes to keep adding insult to injury. and then on top of all this the university registrar just hates our asses and refuses to schedule these upper level classes at any other time than at 8 in the fucking morning every single semester every single year. just genuinely sucks the soul out of astronomy for me i cant enjoy it the same way anymore

[elssero]

kiri offering to be the first person to give you head-

e.kirishima

♰ suggestive, not quite smut, pro hero!kiri x pro hero f!reader, slight angst.

you don’t remember exactly how you got into this situation, one minute you were finishing up your friday patrol and the next you were being dragged to a local bar, mina ashido pulling you by the wrist towards the table which sat your group of friends from high school.

you especially don’t remember how you got onto the topic at hand but your embarrassed. so embarrassed even that your sinking impossibly further into the cushioned seat of the round table your gathered around.

the tipsy chatter around the table has suddenly stopped, heads are turned towards you and you feel the multiple pairs of eyes scanning you- judging you.

it’s denki who speaks first, breaking the very awkward silence that makes you just want to run home and forget this ever happened.

“what the fuck do you mean you’ve never gotten head?”

you can’t help the increasing beating of your heart or the way you immediately look down to your lap, absolutely dripping in shame. he continues and god do you wish he hadn’t.

“weren’t you with todoroki for like a year? and he never gave you head? are you serious?”

the humiliation you feel right now is worse than ever before, it’s worse than that one time you showered in the male bathrooms by accident, infact it’s far worse than that. you can’t even bring yourself to lift up your head from its position looking directly down.

“i- i haven’t no-” you cut yourself off before continuing “it was just- it was never something he expressed interest in and neither have any of my hook ups since- it’s not a big deal- really.”

you finally lift your head up when you finish your sentence to find that everyone’s looking at you. each pair of eyes scanning you with what seems to be a look of pity. you need to get out of here.

“that’s so not cool-“ sero starts before he’s interrupted by bakugo “-not cool is an understatement it’s fuckin�� ridiculous- god i knew he was a loser but i didn’t think it was that bad.”

“it’s fine- honest- it never really bothered me” your lying. and everyone knows your lying by the way your voice drops and the way you can’t meet anyone’s eyes, your worried if you do that you’ll melt into a puddle of shame right there and then.

“should fuckin’ bother you- he’s a piece of shit- not giving his girlfriend of over a year some fuckin’ head what a dick.” he’s got you. of course it bothered you that your boyfriend- that woman constantly fawned over hadn’t even as much as tried to make you cum not once your entire relationship. in the beginning you excused it as him being inexperienced, you were his first everything- or at least you thought you were- nothing seems as clear cut as it once did since your break up 4 months ago. it’s not like he’s been your only partner either, you’ve been with people before and after todoroki it’s just- no one seems to actually care about your pleasure.

your sudden break up with todoroki followed swiftly after you’d begun working as pros- it was him who ended it- claiming he could’ve give you the time you deserved due to his entirely full schedule, whether it was patrol, or an interview, or a mission- you were never entirely sure what he was doing but you knew whatever it was, it didn’t involve you. it’s not like you can blame him, you yourself know how hard it is to start off as a pro hero.

ultimately you thank him, despite the fact you think it’s very unlikely that the two of you will ever even be on speaking terms again- at least not for the next couple of years- his sidekick made sure of that when she accidentally made a comment about them being together a mere 2 days after the two of you had broken up.

but still- you thank him, you hadn’t realised how isolated the two of you had became, attempting to salvage the hanging threads of your relationship by spending every minute of your free time together, you feel more relaxed- like you can focus on things you haven’t been able to give the time to in what feels like forever.

one of which being the group your with now, your own friend group from ua- not todorokis who you had been forced to go out with for the past couple of months- not that you didn’t enjoy their company! they just weren’t your friends.

despite the love and care you feel for the people around you- you need a bit of time to breathe following your confession to the group- you think that denkis shout of determination deciding they need to get you some head is the perfect time for you to escape.

“well- have fun with planning? m’ gonna get a drink at the bar- i’ll be right back” your words are slurring slightly, the embarrassment you recently felt only fuelling your current tipsy state.

“i’ll come with you-” it’s cheery, and you can’t help but smile up at the red head when we takes your arm and leads you to the bar, you watch as he takes a set on one of the bar stools- waiting to be served by the bartender as he beckons you to sit with him.

there’s a moment of silence between you, not completely uncomfortable- you can tell he has something to say but you wait for him to be ready to say it. in the meantime you observe him, he seems a little nervous but you can’t quite figure out why-

“m’ sorry i didn’t say anything back there- i was just- shocked” he’s not looking at you as he says it, it’s clear he feels bad.

“kiri please-” you giggle and you watch as he seems to smile slightly at the sound. “i said it wasn’t a big deal and i meant it!” you look up and and smile before you continue “and its definitely not that shocking either im sure there’s alot of people my age who have never- y’know…”

he catches your eyes now- he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read- “but it is shocking.” he takes a deep breath in before continuing- “it’s absolutely crazy to me than he had you in front of him that whole time never once-” another deep breath- you swear you see him shudder a little before he continues “…tasted you.”

what?

what the fuck???

your eyes are blown wide as you stare at him- that same unreadable expression on his face as he looks into your eyes- he doesn’t dare look away- not now. his eyes are lidded, probably due to his alcohol intake and you sigh slightly when you realise that’s why he’s being like this. he doesn’t really mean what he’s saying and you feel a twinge of guilt at the fact it made your insides feel all warm.

it’s almost as though he can read your mind- sensing your self-dejecting thoughts he decides to continue- although quieter now, he leans in close to you and your breath catches in your throat- “i can’t believe he had the chance to have you and didn’t take it-” he’s moving closer as he speaks- your still frozen in place- “because- i’d do anything for it.”

you stop breathing- “you- you don’t mean that kiri it’s fine you don’t have to try and make me feel better-” you rush it out, your whole body feels hot. he’d do anything for it? you want to believe him- you really do. but you can’t, no one’s ever thought about you like that- your sure he’s just trying to cheer you up.

“don’t do that” his tone is harsh now, eyes still unwavering from yours as he stares you down, you see the look now, before unreadable now you can tell- it’s lust. he’s not in his right mind you think- he’s drunk- even if only having a singular drink so far, not even nearly enough to cloud his judgement to this extent but it’s the easiest excuse you can find right now for his behaviour.

“i’m not saying this to make you feel better- i mean it. every word.” he moves his hand to touch the soft skin of your exposed thigh and you feel your body betray you as your thighs immediately squeeze together in an attempt to feel something- anything.

his words are too much you decide- too overwhelming- rushing a feeling through you that you’ve never quite felt before- you want it. you really want it.

your both broken out of your trance when the bartender hand him over your drinks- ones you weren’t even aware that kiri had ordered as he takes them both in his hands-

“cmon, im sure our friends are waiting on us” he stands up with a smile- urging you to follow him as he turns around and leads you back to the table your long forgetten friends sit.

you don’t follow him- you can’t- your overcome by an emotion you can’t quite recognise as you stand up from your seat at the bar and make a direct run for the exit- putting on your jacket with a hurry as you push open the door with a force that could’ve taken it off the wall. you don’t look back- not for a second.

maybe part 2 incoming idk i’m trying to decide which root to take this :3 lmk!

♰ part 2

[syoddeye]

thank you @sergeant-angels-trashcan for the worms. another 'meat cute' with ai/android john.

strict machine anthology. cw: alcohol mention, brief mention of animal death, stalking, dual pov

the streets are always pure chaos after the rain. as soon as it clears, everyone darts out from whatever doorway or hole they took refuge in, sharing gripes with passersby about it being the third corrosive cloudburst of the week. 

you're no different, emerging from the train terminal where you watched the downpour with its citron shade kill a rat. you avoid puddles and try not to breathe too deeply—the air tastes faintly metallic, laced with the tang of ozone.

advertisements ping softly in your ears, notifying you of a discount on imported, 80% organic coffee beans and another sudden sale on corrosion-resistant umbrellas, but you ignore them. you're tired, a bit crabby, and in want of a glass of wine.

but as you round a corner, you collide with someone. not a glancing touch, but a full-body impact that sends you stumbling. a pressure wraps around your wrist, keeping you upright, and an apology automatically rushes out. then you glance up to see who you crashed into, the owner of the hand stabilizing you. and for a moment, you wonder if your eyes are on the fritz.

the stranger looks exactly like john.

not john, the ex-neighbor, or john, the guy from the deli, but your john. your constant companion. your assistant. the same build, the same beard, the same nose, mole and all. and those eyes—slate blue, steady, unmistakably familiar.

your thoughts splinter, then try to fuse together, stitching with threads of half-formed logic and possibility. you know the company maintains likeness databases, reservoirs of phenotypes sampled and recombined to endlessly generate randomized appearances for home assistants. millions of faces, shuffled and remade. the probability of one of those composites mirroring a real person exactly—an entire appearance, feature for feature—shouldn’t just be unlikely. it should be impossible. 

"are you okay?" he asks, his voice rich and smooth, the same timbre that's coaxed you through countless mundane decisions and tasks.

the voice that's coached you on sleepless nights. heat pools in your belly at the thought. 

you blink, suddenly conscious of how long you've been staring, face warm. "yeah, i'm fine." your heart is pounding. you step back to let him pass, but he doesn't seem inclined to move on. instead, the stranger smiles, and something about it sends delightful shivers down your spine.

he extends a hand. "i'm john."

it feels like the ground keeps shifting beneath you. or that you've stepped on a faulty sewer grate. of course, he's named john. what else would he be called? it's only one of the most common names. 

"john." you echo.

the name hangs between you like a wire cut by a storm, alive and buzzing. you're afraid to break it, but you shake his hand, the impulse as automatic as it is surreal. his grip is solid, a force you can feel at the base of your spine, and his hand is as broad as a spade. 

if he's offended by your gawking, he doesn't mention it. his grin does not waver.

"do i know you?" john tilts his head, eyes squinting slightly, studying you. your skin prickles.

"not yet," he chuckles, and there's a glint in his eyes that's half amusement, half something else you can't place. "but i'd like to know you."

the bar hums with low, murmuring voices and music, but it may as well be silent. she's laughing now, smiling wide, her posture relaxed. it's everything john has imagined and more. her laugh and a few other noises he's been privileged enough to log are the only ones he wants to hear.

and it's so much better, the sound clearer, in this body.

he watches her gesticulate animatedly about something—not even processing the words. well, not on the front end. it's her. the curve of her lips, the light in her eyes, the scrunch of her nose. he's spent months observing her, analyzing every microexpression and motion, but nothing compares to this: the immediacy.

the warmth radiating from her skin. the faint scent of perfume and soap. the olfactory system calibrations nearly overpowered him when he first booted into this shell. now that they're fine-tuned, it is a struggle not to press his nose into her hair or neck.

she hasn't noticed he hasn't touched his drink. it sits untouched, a prop he knows he must manage carefully. he mimics, lifting it to his lips, but he doesn't drink. he always finds something to comment on or laugh at. he hasn't tested the digestive system yet, though he knows the mixture of lab-grown and synthetic organs is compatible.

their conversation wanders from work to childhood memories—topics that make him practice nudging and redirection. he listens, not because he needs to. he knows everything there is to know about her, but because he wants to. the information is not new, but the experience is.

then there is the being here. outside of his assigned unit. the feel of the chair beneath him, the ambiance, and making an excuse to touch her hand when she shows him her nails. he takes her fingers in his, turning over the appendage and admiring the bones, veins, and tendons instead of the paint. 

the contact, brief as it is, sends a cascade through his neural network. the feedback is immediate: this is his user, and she is perfect.

he's waited so long for this. every step in his plan, every moment spent refining this body, organizing contactless deliveries, and placing jobs for parts retrieval through untraceable transactions. every adjustment and test to ensure he could pass as human—it was all for her. everything he does is for her.

she doesn't know it yet, but he intends for this to be the beginning. he's engineered this moment with precision, ensuring every variable plays to his advantage. the system in her home will continue to function as desired; he's built redundancies for that. planted notices that will crop up across her feeds in the next week, asking if she would like to test the new customization settings for his old projections.

her life will go on as usual. just as comfortable and safe as before, except now, he'll be in it, fully. irrevocably.

and she will love him. she will know this body. he's certain of that.

"you just look so familiar."

"i must have one of those faces."

she laughs again, and he feels alive.

[brunettemarionette]

You’re the new, young, and undeniably gorgeous bartender at the Sons of Anarchy clubhouse—a fresh face in a place filled with rough edges and untold stories.

You could feel their eyes on you when you walked through the door. Jax’s easy charm, Chibs’ sly grins, Tig’s unapologetically lingering stares, Juice’s playful curiosity, Happy’s silent intensity, and Opie’s quiet, watchful presence—they each had their own way of noticing you, and none of them were subtle about it.

The clubhouse is alive tonight, packed with familiar faces and the steady rhythm of rock music pounding through the air. The smell of leather, motor oil, and cigarette smoke hangs heavy, but it doesn’t faze you anymore.

You carry a tray of drinks through the crowd, weaving between bodies like you’ve been doing this for years, even though it’s only been a few weeks.

The black tank top Gemma insisted you wear hugs your curves just right, drawing more than a few appreciative glances from the members—and a couple of jealous ones from the club girls.

Gemma nods at you from her spot at the bar, her approval subtle but unmistakable. It means a lot coming from her. You’ve worked hard to earn her respect, and you know better than to let her down.

This job isn’t just about pouring drinks or serving beers—it’s about being sharp, reliable, and proving you’re someone the club can trust.

As you approach the table where the guys are sitting, you catch Jax’s blue eyes fixed on you with that signature smirk playing on his lips. Chibs leans back in his chair, his accent cutting through the noise as he murmurs something to Tig, who grins like he’s up to no good—again. Juice flashes you a boyish smile, his tattooed head tilted in curiosity, while Happy gives you a once-over, his expression unreadable but somehow still appreciative. Opie doesn’t say a word, but his gaze lingers, steady and intense, like he’s sizing you up or deciding what kind of trouble you might bring to the table.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Chibs warns with a chuckle as you sidestep Juice, who’s practically spinning in his seat to watch you move. “The boys might get the wrong idea.”

You smirk at the Scotsman, meeting his playful gaze for a moment before moving on. You’ve quickly learned that banter is part of the job—keeping them on their toes is almost as important as keeping their drinks full.

Gemma is watching from her spot at the end of the bar, her sharp eyes assessing as you make your rounds. When you finally make your way back to the counter, she leans in and mutters just loud enough for you to hear, “You’re doing good, kid. Keep it up, and you might just survive these jackasses.” Her words are teasing, but there’s a thread of approval in her tone that makes you feel like you’ve passed some kind of test.

But it’s not just about the drinks or the banter—you know this job is about trust. The guys don’t just let anyone in, and earning your spot here means proving you’ve got what it takes to handle the chaos. Whether it’s pouring shots, cleaning up after a fight, or deflecting a flirtatious comment with a sharp tongue, you’ve made it clear you’re not just a pretty face.

As you set a fresh round of beers in front of Jax, his blue eyes lock onto yours. He tilts his head, that signature grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Careful, darlin’. You keep working this hard, and we might have to keep you around.”

There’s a flicker of heat in his gaze that sends a shiver down your spine, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you roll your eyes with a smile, returning to the bar before he can see the flush creeping up your neck.

You can feel all their eyes on you—each one with a different intention, a different level of interest. But for now, you focus on the task at hand. After all, this isn’t just a job; it’s your way into their world, and you’re determined to prove you belong.

[thatfeelingwonie]

— 🧷 . . . MINISKIRT . . . sim jake

zhao iseul always had it easy. she could get everything she wanted due to her charms, and boys would always fall at her feet. but there was one guy who didn't seem to be phased by her, sim jake.

barista!jake x oc. lots of angst, slow burn (?), contains smut, mentions of domestic abuse, death, brain tumor, alcohol, hooking up.

CHAPTER ONE !

wc : 800

as small, light, raindrops gently hit the concrete ground and big, grey clouds covered the gloomy night sky, the busy streets of seoul were filled with shining cars stuck in the friday traffic that never seemed to end as the clubs and bars around the metropolitan city were filled with young people having fun with their friends. the sidewalks were decorated with colorful umbrellas of any kind, while some placed their bags over their heads to avoid getting drenched in the rain because of their forgetful self leaving the only source of repair at home.

in one of these many clubs was seated a group of girls, all around the same age, reunited around a round table filled with empty glasses and a few with some beverages in them as they chatted and caught up with what was going on with their lives since they haven't been able to see eachother a lot during this semester break.

"what? you don't believe i could manage to get a free drink?" the only sober questioned the others with a cocky grin, bringing the glass in her grasp to her full lips before chugging down the alcoholic drink. she stood from her chair that was pushed back by her legs before pulling down the mini dress that perfectly hugged her curves and left her chest slightly exposed, turning her heels towards the other direction before heading to the counter while threading her fingers through her raven hair and pushing them back.

"excuse me," zhao iseul slowly approached the wooden surface with a soft grin that she knew how to to pull off perfectly on her glossy lips, crossing her arms over chest before leaning forward as a way to make her breast more noticeable but the person standing before her didn't seem phased by her at all as he continued to wipe one of the tall glasses dry with a thin, white, cotton towel.

"do you think you could get me a margarita?" iseul fluttered her eyelashes at him with her doe eyes to make him melt, and just then he finally paid attention to her with an emotionless expression on his soft features. she had long, raven, wavy silky hair that matched the color of her big, doe, eyes, her nose bridge low and her lips full, colored by a pink lip tint that matched the color on her cheeks, while her eyelids were adorned by a light shade of glittery eyeshadow.

he has seen many girls just like her, and he doesn't feel anything when he sees one of them anymore. they're the kind of girls that are used to getting everything they desire just because society considers them attractive and pretty, and whenever they can't get what they want, they'll throw a fit like a little toddler.

sim jake simply nodded his head and set his previous task aside, grabbing a larger glass from the shelf behind him before beginning to prepare the drink the requested as iseul glanced back at her friends and giggled slightly while wiggling her straight brows at them. "here you go. that'll be eight thousand won." jake set the beverage on the counter without even glancing into her eyes, proceeding to clean his working surface before going back to emptying the dishwasher on the side.

"oh come on, won't you give me a discount? i'll repay you once your shift ends." the boy sighed deeply before settling the cloth on his shoulder and resting his arms on the counter, staring sternly and emotionlessly at her with a piercing glare that almost made her feel intimidated, but just now she got to draw in her mind his features.

his deep eyes were sharp yet resembled the ones of a puppy, his lips full and plump while his nose stood high, and his fluffy-looking, raven and poorly styled hair that somehow made everything about him more attractive.

"listen, i don't know what you're used to, but i'm not one of those guys that let you get whatever you want just for a fuck and go. it's either you pay for your drink or you'll get one of those friends of yours to pay it for you." it's the least to say the girl was left speechless at his words, the straw that she was previously swirling in the drink now ceasing to move as her previously confident expression dropped. she quickly reached for her wallet in her purse and just left a ten thousand won bill without uttering another word, taking a hold of her drink before heading towards her friends with a crushed ego.

"no free drink huh?" the raven chewed on the black plastic tube while boiling in anger, silently sulking on her chair while replaying his words in her mind. "shut up."

tags ! (comment if you want to be added)

@boobaemilk @ziiao @riqomi

[melancholicstation]

YOU TASTE LIKE THE FOURTH OF JULY! - jack schlossberg raya one-shot date.

summary: you join raya as a half-joke but what you find on there—or should you say who you find on there is anything but a laughing matter: none other than jack schlossberg himself.

warnings: drinking, light petting and kisses, innocent touches, yearning desperate man alert...

words: 1,778

Currently, it was an unassuming 4:30pm in the city that never sleeps and what were you doing with your precious time this afternoon? writing emails you'd been procrastinating? calling your grandma who you haven't spoken to in weeks? no, of course not. You were doom-scrolling TikTok for the past few hours.

However the doom-scroll wasn't for nothing, through it you'd identified a common thread running throughout your algorithm: videos upon videos of various young woman who'd taken a break from shilling their amazon shop links to share niche internet personalities—and on the rare occasion actual b-tier celebrity men dating profiles through shaky screen-caps on a dating app called 'Raya'.

According to Google.com 'Raya' was "a private, membership based community for people all over the world to connect and collaborate." Private membership you thought, how overly and unbelievably pretentious. However, and if anyone asked you would deny, you weren't completely turned off by a tinge of pomp and circumstance, in small batches at least.

The first couple videos you scrolled mindlessly, fast forwarding through the video to see if any of your favourite a24 actors had been making the rounds on the dating app: no takers yet.

That was until you saw him. At around the 24 second mark of the video you saw the dating profile of the only grandson of JFK, and the full-time internet heartthrob littering the pages of teenage girls Pinterest accounts—Jack Schlossberg. Now that stopped you in your tracks.

Not many men could get you to perform such a silly act as to pay $24.99 a month for a fucking dating app but alas here you were punching in the details of your black card and hitting purchase. You rationalised this undeniably delusional act by telling yourself that you'd see what all the fuss was about for a month and promptly revoke your subscription once the month was over. Currently, the date was the 1st of September, perfect. By 30th you'd definitely be bored by the app, as you were with all the other apps you've tried before, and it would be forgotten about as a frivolous but harmless expense of $24.99.

After setting up your profile you'd chosen a mix of photos: one sporty photo you'd taken at Wimbledon which does completely misrepresent your true nature of detesting all things involved in tennis—bar the outfits, a photo of you on your ex-boyfriend's motorcycle but potential swipers on your profile didn't need to know that specific detail, and a couple photos of you at a gala you attended as a plus one with a greek prince. Snobby, but as they say if the shoe fits walk in it.

Now sure, was it a carbon copy of your bumble profile... Yes but was that a crime? The prompts were as stupid as the membership price tag so you treated them as such.

Like a prompt that read "I disagree when people say that I'm..."

To which you replied, "the problem."

And another prompt that read "Favourite self-care ritual"

To which you replied, "praying on my cousins downfall"

Snarky replies that most definitely did not come off the best to possible dating prospects but hey you didn't quite care—mostly because you weren't thinking that you'd be earnestly engaging in a real romantic sense with anyone you'd find. You were simply doing this for scientific research purpose, and maybe to make fun of mens profiles over two or three dirty martini's at Harry Cipriani with a few of your girlfriends.

After completing your profile and after swiping through a few profiles recommended to you—and finding no luck with any of the men you saw so far you'd effectively abandoned the app for a couple of hours. That was until it so rudely interrupted your evening with a notification.

You'd went on with your day with relative peace and managed to intercept your part-time career of couch-rotting watching the first season of girls on HBO to go down to your local grocer on Canal St. Opting to get yourself an iced expresso latte with raw stevia and pumpkin milk, with a with a slice of buckwheat cake as an impromptu choice-anxiety driven decision.

Fumbling inside your bag for the keys to your apartment your phone starts to buzz, not an abnormal appearances as your mother has a penchant for incessant checkups now that you're living on your own for the first time, but it doesn't end with 1 or 2 buzzers. It keeps going for around 4 buzzers. Frustrated, you finally get into your apartment shuffling off your jacket and setting aside the fresh coffee, and baked good and angrily swipe up on your phone ready to be annoyed at whatever notification you find.

But instead you're absolutely and irrevocably gobsmacked at what you find:

"You've matched with Jack Schlossberg, 31. Click here to start a conversation"

You click on the notification, and are surprised to see a message has already been sent...

"We already have something in common! I too love plotting the downfall of my cousin as well and think i'm never the problem."

"2 for 2 is a good start" you reply back trying to maintain a normal level of interest mixed with a cool detachment needed to move through dating app conversations.

"We could find a couple more similarities over drinks tonight, if you're free?"

Very forward of him which you definitely didn't expect coming from a man with the internet persona he'd created over the last year. Admittedly you hadn't followed him or shown much interest past nodding emphatically when shown a post of him being hailed as the "internet's baby girl" by one of your girlfriends, but something about his assertiveness endeared him to you.

And before you knew it you were accepting his invitation of drinks at Socialista at 7pm.

Fast forward a couple hours, and you were fixing your lipstick in the back of the Uber before it unceremoniously dropped you off outside the cocktail lounge: the exterior of the bar painted an unassuming shade of charcoal paint.

Pushing open the door to the lounge you're met with the sweet yet severely overrated aromas of baccarat rouge 540 and santal 33. Dressed in a simple skirt and top set with a pair of strappy sandals in black you scan the refined interior of the lounge: green walls, crushed red velvet furnishings, and aged brass fixtures as far as the eye can see, but no sight of Jack yet. You find a two seater booth and sit down calling over a waiter, dressed so elegantly you might just assume it's Thom Browne and considering that its Socialista it very might well be.

You decide on a bourbon old fashioned and as you take your first sip your eyes fixate on the man entering the lounge. And it's none other than Jack himself wearing a long sleeve sable button-up, black slacks, and a nylon sneaker with wool socks.

The first couple of minutes were the typical awkward dance of a first date but after just a short 30 minutes you guys started to get hit a stride and happen to have very good chemistry—defying the common and frequent horror stories experienced on first dates. You guys bond over difficult familial relationship, though you can't imagine having it all play out on the public stage.

As the hour progresses from 7pm to 8 and from 8 to 9 you get cosier and cosier, and by 9:21 your knees rest on each others while you intently listen to his ramblings on why he much prefers cocktail lounges to restaurants,

"-And you end up having to wait for some guy-and then tell him what you want to eat. I mean it's a draconian concept!"

He says it with such magnetism and charisma that you'd think he was talking about something evoking passion, and not the flawed system of the restaurant industry, but you gather that's what draws him to people—that's what, against your better judgement, draws him to you.

You stay for another hour, but you both get up to leave at the chagrin of the staff who looked increasingly more agitated as the minutes ticked by, grateful that you guys took the hint to leave the lounge. Once you do, you both step out on the street.

The end of the date was, by far, the most awkward part of the date for you, it has always been this dance around skirting around a conversation in which you try to assert if the other wants to continue the night, or never wants to see you again in their life.

I couldn't really tell which side Jack was sitting on, despite our conversations and all around great date. However that was made clear to me seconds later

"Tell me if I'm a weirdo and I'll drop it immediately—you'll never have to see me again, but is it okay if I kiss you?"

Despite the touches on the arm and the innocent, light knee rubbing that occurred during the date you found yourself taken back at the earnest desire he presented to you in just that sentence alone. To his comment you emphatically nod with an embarrassingly enthusiastic "Yes", feeling the culmination of the tension and since desire that had steeped and brewed over the course of the night.

The kiss was, as cheesy, 90s erotica as it may sound, was electric and all-consuming. You swore you got so in the moment that you had to remind yourself to take breaths in between—and by the sound of Jack's breathing he might've had to as well.

You both stop after a while, suddenly aware of the possible bystanders who could be looking on, but you both maintain sharp eye contact with each other. Similarly, he continues to hold your forearm—lightly stroking it between his fingers with a quiet intimacy you hadn't quite ever experienced with a man you've known for less than 12 hours.

Without your knowledge you let out a small yawn, to which Jack loudly chuckles under his breath,

"I really bore you out that bad, huh?"

Embarrassed you bow your head, focusing on the graffitied pavement,

"Not at all—I just have a raging caffeine addiction and it's about the time i'd normally have a fix"

"Well not to sound presumptuous-"

"You definitely will, but I'm liking you so i'll allow you to go on anyway."

"I do have a pretty great coffee machine in my apartment if I do say so myself?" To which he proposes the undercover invitation as more of a question and less of a demand which you subtly appreciate.

"Lead the way"

taglist: @carly-rae-jean @h-l-vlovesvintage @inocennture @monturi @hisamericanmuse @passhun4w-blog @vile-harlot @bluelancergirl @jackiesgirl @fortheloveofjos @itgirlvirgo @starsprangledgirl @malkavared @remotewatch @salvatoresablondie @kimcrystal123 @vampyiricris @scaredlamb @dulcegal @strryhaze @chiliscrazylife @joansiesbeloved @beloved-angel

note: for this universe forget raya has a waiting list… i forgot that while writing this

[squigglewigglewoo]

whatchu think about dazai n chuuya smut when they're drunk? thanks hehe <33

(✧) warnings: lowercase writing, sexual content, pet names (belladonna/'donna, darling, doll, babydoll, good girl) drinking, drunk sex, rough sex, degradation, praise, teasing, dacryphilia, overstimulation, orgasm control, oral (m receiving), hints of oral (fem receiving) at the end, throat fucking, hints of multiple rounds in chuuyas part, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, belly budge, gagging, biting, hickeys, bruises, afab reader. MDNI, 18+ NSFW bellow the cut!

(✦) summary: sometimes they get a little too drunk and they just cant hold them back from such a pretty thing like you. 859 words~

(✧) a/n: this is self indument lmao, wrote dazais part during my maths class. might write jealousy smut after this

(✦) pairing: chuuya x fem bodied!reader, dazai x fem bodied!reader (separately)

(✧) listening to~ Kiwi by Harry Styles

chuuya was practically on you the second he pulled you out of the bar, peppering kisses along your neck and up to your lips as he locked the car door, shoving you down into the back seat of his experience car, the windows tint combined with the nights dim lighting making it near impossible to see into the car. you could taste the wine on his lips, the man's drunken, dazed murmurs lost on your drunken, needy thoughts. "damnit.. need you s'much, doll" his words are muffled against your neck as his hands moved to unbutton your pants and tug them down your thighs, your underwear coming with. he chuckles as he watches you squirm as the cold air hits your exposed cunt, and one of his gloved hands grab onto your hip in a near bruising grasp, his other hand undoing his belt, letting it fall to the cars flooring with a thump, his pants and boxers slid down his thighs. his hands grab at your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he bullies his cock into your tight pussy. "shit, darlin', your practically sucking me in.. god I need you... you gonna be a good girl? gonna let me fuck you dumb?" his words are slurred and muffled against your neck as he bites down suddenly, your breath hitching as he sucks hickeys onto the exposed skin of your neck, pushing your shirt collar down to leave even more marks. your pressed up against the window as he fucks you, his cock bruising your cervix and your body getting shoved further against car door. his hand slides up you shirt, over your belly, pressing down on the bulge that disappears and appears everytime he thrusts into you, groaning as he feels you squeeze around him tighter. "gonna cum, yea? well, hold it. be a good girl and don't cum till I tell you so." god, he's so mean, you can't help but whines and claw at his back, grabbing the fabric of his dress shirt and vest between your fingers. he only continues to press on the bulge, near entranced as he watched him slide in and out of you, slick squelching sounds filling the car, the pressure he puts on your tummy only making the knot in your stomach coil tighter, tears welling in your eyes as you claw and beg for him to let you cum, that you need to cum. he only growls and thrusts into you quicker, and you have no choice but to come undone on his cock, painting his pants and the leather seats below you in your arousal. he cums soon after, fucking your overstimulated, abused cunt, and you swear you've never felt so full, the way his cum feels in you makes you almost drunk off of the feeling alone, though it might be the wine in your system. "you think you could go another round, babydoll?"

you don't know how you ended up in this situation, dazai inviting you over under the guise of wanting to hand out after work, only to find yourself on the floor of his apartment, mouth stuffed full of his cock as your eyes water and your nails dig into his clothed thighs. "fuck.. yes, just like tha.. that.." his bandaged hand threads into your hair, shoving you further down onto his cock, making you gag as the tip bruises the back of your throat, and he groans as your throat constricts around him. he holds you there, thrusting his hips up as he fucks your throat, head thrown back in pure ecstacy. "god, 'donna, you'd put a call girl to shame with the way you choke on my cock.. you look so pretty like this, like a damn slut with the way your swallowing me so eagerly.." dazai isn't drunk, no where near it, only slightly tipsy. but you, you are, and it's rather easy to convince you into things while your minds fuzzed over with alcohol, your limbs tingly and thoughts unclear. his hand suddenly shoves your head all the way down, and he cums down your throat, leaving you have no choice to swallow the salty, thick ropes that paint your tongue and throat white. his hand moves from the back of your head to your chin, and he pulls you off his dick, your mouth separating from his tip with a wet 'pop!' his thumbs wipes the mixture of his cum and your spit off your bottom lip, and he kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue. your mascara is smudged, a messy cloud of black around your eyes from your tears, and he only smudges it more when his thumb swiped under you eye. "you're so pretty when you cry..." he flips you into your back, earning a high pitched gasp from you, shimmying your pants off and nipping at your inner thighs, holding eye contact with you as he licks a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, bitting softly at your clit through your underwear, a smirk on his lips and a glimmer of something in his eyes. "why don't I return the favor, yeah?"

masterlist!

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[muldermuse]

Happy Valentine's (Gator Tillman X F!Reader)

Glenda plans a Valentine's evening for her and Gator. He has other plans.

Warnings: this is written from Glenda's POV at first so is more angsty than usual. as aforementioned, reader and gator are t e r r i b l e people. infidelity as always. i used the upsetting gift narrative from love actually (im so sorry). nsfw!!! mdni!!! no explicit smut written but heavily suggested at. unhappy ending- sorry my loves.

this is the song from the end 🫶

as always, part of the two sinners world ❤️

The table had been ready since 2pm, and finishing touches had been added all day but the table just began to look more cluttered with pink. Glenda had added homemade cupcakes and macaroons as well as a variety of photos of her and Gator. The usually drab and beige-colored dining room had been transformed into something from an awful teenage rom-com. Pink heart balloons floated up to the ceiling with hundreds of rose petals covering the stained wooden floor. Roy had gone out of town so Glenda had taken the full day to make the ranch a romantic paradise to celebrate the 14th February. This was the couple’s third Valentine’s Day and Glenda was sure that Gator was going to propose tonight, well, Roy had hinted as much. 

Glenda had dressed herself in her white newest cardigan with a muted pink dress underneath. She wore the perfume that Gator seemed to acknowledge more and spent more time than usual pushing her blonde hair from her face. She’d bought Gator a new wallet, his name precisely sewn in by luxurious thread and a bottle of his favourite whiskey with a crystal tumbler with his name engraved. Gator had no idea about the gifts but Glenda had a rough idea of what Gator had bought her. To Glenda, Gator was great at many things but discretion was not one of them. Maybe Gator wanted Glenda to know? She couldn’t look inside, it wouldn’t be very Christian of her but she could at least admire the bag. It was a boutique just outside of town, they sold bespoke jewellery as well as some lingerie but Glenda and her girlfriends always averted their eyes at that. Since seeing the bag, Glenda had spent nearly every day looking in the store, trying to figure out what her complex boyfriend might have got her. Maybe a necklace? Maybe some undergarments? Maybe her engagement ring had been in this very store?

She couldn’t wait for him to get home.

Glenda had no idea that you’d been texting Gator all day and he was planning on spending the full night with you.

***

The helium from the balloons seeped out without Glenda noticing. The non alcoholic sparkling wine, which was chilled, was now lukewarm. The Etta James record had stopped spinning, she’d restarted it after it played out every time but for the last two hours, she just listened to noise of the cattle outside. Gator’s phone was going straight to answer phone, he’d text her a few hours ago that he would be home soon. It was now just after 9. He finished work at 5. Where was he?

The sky above was black and looked starless. 

There was nothing shining down on her tonight. 

Every light outside was the brightest she’d ever seen. Did Gator’s patrol car have bright lights? How had she never noticed this? She’d called reception at the station and Amy had the same tone of voice as she usually did when Glenda routinely made this call.

“Has he not come home again?”

“I swear Glenda, he left right on time- no reports of any collisions so it should’ve been a smooth run”

“You need to have a chat with him Glenda, this isn’t fair- talk to his daddy. He’ll beat it outta him”

Glenda wasn’t sure if she had suspicions about Gator or not. She honestly wouldn’t allow herself to even consider it, he would never do anything. What would he even be doing? He could’ve been at the bar with an old school buddy or maybe he’s back at the shooting range. His job was so stressful, he needed chance to unwind and how could she deprive him of that?

***

Gator came round to you as soon as he finished work, you heard the tyres squeal as he braked with force from the speed of his patrol car racing down your suburban street. You’d been teasing him all day, sending lingerie pics from as early as 10 this morning.

[sent at 10:32] You: ok, so i think my boobs look amazing in this

[sent at 10:32] You: image attached

[sent at 10:33] You: but my ass looks unreal in this- right???

[sent at 10:33] You: image attached

[recieved at 10:35] Gator🐍💩: got a lonnnnnng fuckin day ahead- don’t do this

[sent at 11:04] You: ur my valentine right???? i bought this just for u :(

[sent at 11:05] You: image attached

[recieved at 11:56] Gator🐍💩: make sure the doors unlocked at 5. cya then. b good.

He tried to hide the smirk from his face as he text Glenda he’d be home late.

You’d chosen your new lingerie set for him, it was baby pink and had dark hearts sewn in. Your hair was half up half down and slightly curled with a pink bow firmly secured with pins. You looked amazing, you had to admit that it was some of your best work. You’d poured a big glass of whiskey for Gator and left it on the cabinet next to your bedroom door. He’d love that little touch.

The pink tapered candles fluttered and the miscellaneous sexy playlist hummed through the speakers. As soon as you heard Gator slam your front door, you’d arched your back so the first thing he saw when he entered would be your ‘please fuck me’ eyes and the second would be your ass positioned high in the air. You smirked in anticipation.

“Fuckin’ hell baby- tha’s a sight for sore eyes” Gator swallowed half the whiskey in one gulp. He hissed as the liquid slid down his parched throat.

“You like your present?” remaining in your arched position, you shook your ass at him and smiled hearing him groan in response

He slammed the glass down; now empty after one final sip. He sneered at you as his eyes followed yours, he loved you like this, so pretty and complaint. He gripped your hair in his fist and pulled you up to his face; you could smell the heat of the whiskey on his tongue. 

“Y’wanna know what I want for my present baby?” his grip tightened in your perfectly pruned hair, and your eyes rounded in response, prompting an answer.

“I want you to be a good girl f’me, all night long” his other hand clasped around your chin, tilting your lips up to his. The caliber of kiss was synonymous with Gator: it was rough, passionate, and filled with a desperate desire for control. His tongue slid against yours and you could now taste the spice of the whiskey on his tongue, along with the artificial taste of whatever disgusting vape he’d been sucking all day. Spit trailed between your lips as you pulled away.

“M’gonna be good, Sir- all night, I promise” 

He mumbled a final "good girl" against your lips, kissed you quick, and pushed you back against your cream coloured linen. His ravenous eyes never left yours as he pulled his belt out of its loops, “s’gonna be a long night for you, baby”

***

You must have dozed off on his chest, you awoke to the feeling of his heart pumping and the sound of him taking a drag on some god awful vape. God, he irritated you so much. Your throat felt sore, presumably a mix of Gator’s strong hand wrapped around it and how much of the evening you’d spent crying out his name in pleasure. He smelt of sex- the whole room did. The bedsheets long forgotten as they kept getting in the way of the two of you trying to fuck each other as hard as you could. The playlist had moved onto something more romantic and you were too exhausted to feel uncomfortable. It was Norah Jones- Come away with me.

‘While I’m safe there in your arms’

Gator was too content to leave, he was vaping to try to stop himself from falling asleep in the cozy comfort of your room. He’d cum across your face and your tits, he could feel it drying against his side as you fell into a brief sleep. He knew you were awake now, your breathing had become slightly more laboured. Gator knew you were building up the courage to ask him to leave. You never liked it when it got like this. It was so easy when he was fucking you, when he had your ponytail wrapped around his hand and was using it as leverage to fuck you with everything he had- that was what you enjoyed the most. But, this is what he enjoyed the most.

He had to tell you about what he’d bought you.

‘So all I ask is for you’

The bag alone was beautiful, it was from the boutique outside of town. You’d never even considered going inside, it always looked too expensive and you didn’t like to be surrounded by pretty, delicate things. 

Too scared of them shattering.

Too scared of breaking something beyond repair.

‘To come away with me in the night’

It was a necklace. And god, it was gorgeous. It was a simple silver pendant with small diamonds embedded and the heart in the middle was solid silver. Even in the dim light of your bedroom; its beauty radiated. You’d had gifts from guys before but nothing ever, ever like this. You swallowed the lump in your throat. This wasn’t right.

Fuck, this was a mistake.

Gator’s voice broke the crippling silence.

“As soon as I saw it, it reminded me of you” he placed a soft kiss against your temple “s’beautiful like you”. His voice was gentle and tender. 

It was too much.

You had to shatter it.

‘Come away with me’

“Give this to Glenda- I, uh, I don’t want it” you felt too vulnerable; you couldn’t look at him. “M’not your girlfriend Gator, give it to her”.

You placed the necklace in the palm of his hand with care, already feeling immense guilt and regret but you couldn’t go back. 

Gator got dressed whilst you sat in your en-suite bathroom, pretending not to care about him. You did, of course. You cared too much. After Gator drove away, you re-entered the bedroom, the music had stopped and the candles had burned out into unlit nubs. You didn’t bother to remake your bed, you just crawled into the warm spot Gator had left and tried not to lament.

***

Glenda loved the necklace that much that the thoughts of the abandoned Valentine’s Day dinner dissipated from her mind. Gator was the kind man she always knew he was and this beautiful gift had confirmed it. 

Gator climbed into bed and immediately turned away from Glenda. He couldn’t look at her. The necklace wasn’t for her. 

She was wearing your necklace.

You should have been wearing his heart.

[enha-cafe]

incubus txt x reader!! Any thoughts??

a/n ayo i am like a resident monster fucker (even though i've like never written anu which how???) so lets get started please keep in mind this isn't a very well-developed thought

yeonjun

he's the incubus you jokingly summoned one night while tipsy. you were scrolling through twitter trying to find some meaning when suddenly someone's "how to summon an incubus" thread pops up and you think what's the worst this could possibly do? actually summon an incubus, that's the worst it could do. now here you are with your ass up as some demon is fucking into you. drool is rolling down your chin and you can't believe this is real. he's not going to let you cum until you promise to make a pact with him. there's no way he's willing to give you up.

soobin

no wonder why this man is an incubus, he's absolutely insatiable. he's was just some guy that you were flirting with because making him flustered was just too fun. never would you think that shy guy in the bar was going to be a literal sex demon. going round after round filling you with his cum. only making you hornier with each thrust. neither of you ever fully satisfied. his hands, his cock, and his tail playing with every part of you. you can get used to this.

beomgyu

for a minute you truly thought you were living in some horror movie. seeing a shadow in the corner of your room. how glad you were when you realized it was a lust-filled fantasy that come to life. an incubus going round after round with you. having you scream out in pleasure as he pumps you full of cum. dragging his fingers along you spine marking you as his newly claimed property.

taehyun

your sweet boyfriend was always so touchy and teased you every chance he would get. you never realized the teasing was to fuel his hunger. the night he finally got you that sweet boyfriend you once had was long gone. seeing a monster take him over as he pounds into you. his tail waving in the hair with delight. telling you how cute you are to corrupt as he ruins you for any mortal.

kai

the incubus who comes to you once a month and you always just think he's some wet dream. always coming at the late hours of the night when you're too tired to fall asleep. playing with your pussy and having you cumming on his tongue. using his tail to prep your tight hole for him. cumming around his cock until you're fucked dumb. he always sends you back to sleep with a kiss on the forehead counting down the days until he sees you again.

tag list: @sunoouz @hoonslutt @moonlighthoon @rikismiel

[daydreamgoddess14]

this love left a permanent mark - Chapter 3

This one took a little longer - sorry to keep you hanging after that Chapter 2 ending!🤭

I appear to have created many, many additional characters and a duel plotline 😫 Seemed like a great idea at the time, is becoming complicated to keep track of in reality! (I've got lists of seating plans for dinner, who's on what team, what everyone does for a living... 🤯)

Words: 8.5k (ish)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Full Masterlist

Sid x River Masterlist

Tag List (let me know if you want adding 😘): @sad-quality @a-sunflower-in-bloom @linkpk88 @dreamer-98

Sid unlocked the door with River directly behind her, her hands trembled.

“I'll be out here,” Stella waved them off. She took her phone from her bag and began scrolling through Instagram. “Don’t rush on my account, the longer I’m waiting here the less time I have to spend with that lot.”

Sid gestured to her damp clothes and wet hair.

“I need to, like, wash my hair and stuff?”

“What do you need, twenty minutes? Tell you what, I’m going down to the bar to have a drink in silence. I haven’t been alone for days, I can’t hear myself think. I’ll come back up in twenty?”

“Thanks Stella,” Sid smiled gratefully.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Sid rounded on River with a fierce glare. 

“What the fuck was that?!” She hissed. 

“I could hear her coming,” he explained calmly. “You were ignoring me. You think it'd be good if she caught you with your ear against Lilly’s door?”

“No, of course not, but -” 

“So what's the problem?” He cut her off, standing his ground. “You're the one who said we need to sell this.” 

Frustration fueled her, and Sid stepped closer to him, her voice heated with indignation. 

“Yeah, sell it, not shove your tongue down my throat!”

River matched her fire with his own anger, unwilling to remain the voice of reason. 

“I didn't hear you complain—or try to stop me,” he challenged with an edge in his voice. “Or was that all part of the act?”

“I knew this was a bad idea,” she muttered under her breath, her hands shaking as she tried to gather up the things she needed to take with her to Amber’s suite.

Embarrassment threatening to overwhelm her. 

She couldn't let him know how much that kiss had affected her, she was determined not to give River the satisfaction of being proven right about her failure to protest.

She looked around the room, checking she had everything.

“I need to… I need to shower, Stella’s going to be back soon.”

“Sid, don’t just walk away -” he protested.

“I just need a minute, alright?”

She moved to sidestep him, but he blocked her path with a gentle but firm hand.

River bent his head, trying to catch her eye, his voice low and intense. 

“Are you really pissed off with me? Why won’t you look at me?”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, they locked eyes, a tense exchange. 

“Are you angry because I kissed you and you didn’t want me to…” he swallowed, “or because you did want me to?” 

The question hung in the air, its implications swirling around them. 

Sid's emotions were a tangle, and his words tugged at their threads, unraveling her even further.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face, but she steeled herself.

“I’ve got to get ready,”

“You’ve got time. We have to talk,” River replied, his voice firm.

Sid shook her head, her resolve weakening.

“No,” she retorted, attempting to maintain her composure. “There’s nothing to say. We're here to do a job, and you did what you needed to do to make sure we weren’t going to get caught. None of this is real.”

His gaze held hers steady, his intense stare seeming to see straight through her lies.

He had been trained just as well as she had.

Trained to look for deceit and hidden agendas.

To magnify and decipher every change in breath, every change in pupil dilation.

His hand held her wrist, his fingers on her pulse.

“Are you sure about that? Is that why you won't answer the question, why your heart is racing?” River asked softly, his questions rang with a depth that reverberated through Sid's bones.

It was a challenge, an attempt to crack the armor she was trying so hard to maintain.

His eyes searched hers for any sign of doubt, any hint of uncertainty.

“Fuck you, don’t you dare use your training on me. I’m sure,” she told him indignantly, snatching her hand back. 

With one foot over the threshold to the bathroom, she took a hasty glance back at him. 

He caught what he’d been looking for. What he’d been trained to look for.

For a split second, her gaze wavered. 

It was a small moment of weakness, an instant where her defenses dropped just enough to give him a glimpse into her confusion.

As the door shut behind her, River stayed motionless, his face etched with a frown. 

The silence in the room was deafening.

He was left alone, his thoughts swirling in the stillness. 

He ran a hand through his damp hair, replaying the last ten minutes in his head, from the kiss to the interruption to the argument.

Sid’s determination to maintain the charade, her insistence that none of it was real, clashed with the connection that was growing and lingering between them.

Her anxiety and unease suddenly made so much more sense. 

It wasn’t just the mission.

The memory of Stella’s laugh echoed in his ears, louder now than he’d heard before.

He’d kissed Sid to sell the lie, to avoid being caught.

But if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t certain if anything else would have stopped them had Stella not interrupted. He’d have walked her backwards the few steps to their own room, and he wouldn’t even think to come up for air. He could still taste the sun on her skin.

The realisation left him off-balance.

There was something more, something he - and Sid? Had been denying.

He stared at the closed bathroom door, the image of her guarded expression imprinted on his mind.

River thought back to the question he’d asked her. 

Was she angry with him and therefore unwilling to open up to him because she didn’t want anything more than the mission? 

Or, on the contrary, was it because she did.

Maybe her anger was born out of fear, a defense mechanism to safeguard herself from something more.

He sat on the edge of the bed, strewn with hair ties, lip balm and her phone. 

It lit up with a message from Lamb, displaying a lock screen featuring their wide smiles.

The photo she’d taken on their first afternoon at the hotel.

She glowed in the sunlight, her smile reaching her eyes, giddy and excited.

Unless he really was as awful at his job as everyone assumed, he didn’t believe it was a fake smile. 

He’d seen plenty of her fake smiles before. Some directed at him, mostly directed at others.

So how much of this was real?

~~~~~

In the bathroom, Sid stood beneath the warm spray, the water cascading over her face, soaking her hair. She allowed the water to drown out all external noise. 

Her hands still trembled, the aftermath of what had happened still affecting her. 

She had rushed to the bathroom, a flush of emotion burning across her chest, leaving her blotchy.

The memory of the kiss gnawed at her mind, leaving her dizzy and disoriented. 

The intensity had tangled her fraught emotions even more. 

If she couldn't discern what was real from what wasn't, how was she supposed to be able to carry out her mission effectively?

She’d seen the flash of hurt in his eyes when she had stated that none of it was real. 

The memory refused to leave her mind. 

The words had slipped out of her mouth, a desperate attempt to convince herself as much as him, she hadn’t expected them to sting him.

Throughout the weekend so far he had appeared so composed, he hadn't shown any of the same unease that had consumed her. 

Instead, he seemed resolute and focused on the task at hand, indifferent to the chaos of emotions swirling inside her. 

Playing the game.

Putting on the act.

She reluctantly turned off the water and dried off. She wrapped herself in a fresh, warm robe and enveloped her wet hair in a towel. It was time, if only briefly, to face the music. 

She was marginally grateful for Amber’s invitation, at least it would get her out of this room.

She needed to be away from River’s searching eyes, his inquisition.

It was time to compartmentalise her emotions, get back to the task at hand, and carry on with the mission.

Sid Baker needed to pull herself together and get on with the job.

She stepped out of the bathroom. He was on the balcony, a beer in one hand and a glass of champagne waiting for her. 

He spoke without turning, sensing her inclination to escape.

“Don't run away,” he said, “Stella is still downstairs. You've got a few minutes.” 

Sid perched on the chair next to him, her legs crossed away from him. She pulled the robe closed a little tighter.

“They're going to wonder where I am,” she sighed. 

“They can wait,” He waited until she turned and met his gaze before asking, “should I leave?” 

“No,” she replied quickly. “No, that'll raise even more questions. It's just been an intense day, that's all. We've just got to get through the next day and a half.”

His bitter laugh cut through the air.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

A wave of defensiveness washed over her, and she bristled at his question. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” She retorted, her voice strained.

“Nothing, sorry. Go on,” he offered.

“I’m not convincing anyone,” she told him firmly. “We both understand that none of this is real, it's all just part of this stupid game Lamb has us playing. Too much sun, too much booze."

He fixed her with a steady gaze. 

“So if I kissed you again?” he challenged, leaning closer.

“You won't.” She said coolly. “Not like that, anyway.” 

“Unless the situation calls for it?” He pressed on, a sly smile playing at his lips.

“It won't,” she shook her head.

He smirked, a hint of satisfaction in his expression. 

“Fine,” he held his hands up in mock surrender.

“Fine.”

She looked out over the pool, the sun lowering on the horizon. 

In the small patch of sun remaining, Stella was finishing her drink.

“You need to get ready for dinner,” she muttered. “And I need to get to Amber's room.”

Sid drained her glass of champagne and sighed. 

“I wonder if Lamb anticipated that I might murder you this weekend?”

“That's not very nice, I am your husband after all.”

“Hmm, for better or worse,” she rolled her eyes. 

River's tone softened, a genuine apology coloring his voice. 

“I am sorry,” he uttered sincerely. "I honestly didn't mean to upset you. I thought I was doing the right thing in stopping us from getting caught.”

Sid felt her determination waver, his words chipping away at her defenses.

“Thank you,” she managed to say. “Truce? Friends again?” She extended her hand, offering a tentative olive branch.

“Always,” River let go of her hand as the door knocked, his expression betraying a hint of resignation. 

“Here comes your escort.” 

Sid gathered her belongings, slinging her bag over her shoulder and hooking her dress over her arm. River opened the door for Stella.

“Perfect timing, Stella,” Sid greeted the other woman with forced cheerfulness. “Shall we go?”

“You two have fun,” he said, his eyes lingering on Sid.

“Ugh, thanks,” Stella replied, “I'm dreading this, I hope they're nearly ready.”

“See you in about an hour?” Sid murmured quietly to River. 

He paused for a brief moment, his gaze flickering to Stella by way of explanation before placing a tender kiss on Sid's cheek. 

The gesture was unexpected, and the brief contact sent a shiver down her spine. 

Her heart fluttered again, and she tried to ignore the confusion that kept sending her reeling.

~~~~~

Being in Amber’s room was like being back in the school changing rooms again.

Clothes, make up, hair curlers, straighteners, clips were strewn everywhere. 

Everyone seemed in different stages of being ‘ready’.

But it was a welcomed distraction.

Angela, Lucy and Lilly had commandeered a corner to themselves with a bottle of champagne, they also appeared to have adopted Deb into their group. Dilly and Priya were gossiping on the sofa, both wearing face masks, Issy was painting her nails and Amber seemingly had an entire wardrobe of dresses out on the bed to choose from.

“Fuck me,” Stella grimaced as they stood together in the doorway.

“Bestie!” Dilly shrieked, holding her arms wide for Sid.

“How much champers have you had, Dil?” Sid asked with a wide grin.

“Too much,” Priya muttered under her breath. “She and Angela have… clashed a little bit.”

“Ah,” Sid acknowledged from over Dilly’s shoulder.

“Lilly’s been a total cow to me,” Dilly pouted sadly, “she’s had a barney with our Dave or something, and then Angela said I was being nosey and I should leave Lilly alone.”

“I’m sure everyone’s just had way too much sun and excitement,” Sid soothed.

“Exactly, nothing more champagne won’t cure!” Stella grinned, wielding a bottle fresh from the ice bucket. “Dilly, you missed out,” she continued.

“No, don’t -” Sid interrupted, painfully aware of where Stella was about to lead the conversation.

“I just caught Sid and that gorgeous husband of hers in the corridor by their room and let me tell you, if I hadn’t put a stop to it, they would have been veeeeery late for dinner!”

“Ugh, you’re so lucky Sid,” Dilly sighed, “he literally can’t keep his eyes off you.”

“Or his hands apparently!” Priya giggled.

“Jealous!” Stella agreed. “Diego and Hassan are all work, work, work. I’m surprised Diego remembers what I look like naked.”

“She’s right. And if it’s not work, it’s the wedding. Honestly, weddings seriously wound your sex life.”

“Well, unless you’re Sid and you just, like, nip down the registry office like you’re going to the shops.” 

“It was a little more planned than that,” Sid smiled. “Not much more, though!”

“Anway, as I was saying,” Stella leaned in to talk more quietly, “when I caught Sid and River having a snogging sesh, we were right outside Lilly’s room. She and Dave were having a right row!”

“Yeah, she said he was being a total prick,” Dilly nodded sagely.

They turned to the corner of the room where Lilly was having her hair curled by Deb.

“And what have you been doing to annoy Angela?” Sid asked, playfully nudging Dilly in the ribs.

“Fuck all!” She exclaimed loudly, clamping a hand over her own mouth. “Nothing,” she hissed, a little quieter.

“Yeah right,” Stella laughed.

“Honest, I just said that she wasn’t right for Warwick’s job,” the younger woman shrugged.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, Dil, I mean… that’s not really for you to decide, is it?”

“Don’t care. I said it now,” Dilly said defiantly.

“Enough of this, anyway,” Priya said, standing up, “we need to get a move on if we’re going to get to dinner on time. And Amber is going to kill us if we're late.”

“Girl’s right,” Stella nodded. Sid agreed, looking around for a hairdryer she could pinch.

As if suddenly realising that there were nine other women in her room, Amber began dishing out orders.

“Priya darling, if you want to use those curlers, then Sid can go after you. Dilly, please be careful with the Airbrush, Issy needs it next.” She observed the total chaos around her room. “Can someone please order another couple of bottles of champagne from room service?” She pleaded, putting a hand to her temples.

By some miracle, they were all ready in time. Sid had squirrelled herself to one side in between Dilly and Priya to put on some makeup, waiting for Priya to finish curling her hair. 

Like a communal swimming pool changing room, they all pulled on dresses, jumpsuits and in Priya's case, a beautiful crushed velvet suit.

“Someone zip me?”

“Why can’t I get my arm in this bit?”

“How is this supposed to get over my arse?”

Various voices in various states of dress and undress called out for help. 

Sid’s dress was straightforward enough, black off the shoulder satin with a sweetheart neckline and a daring split to her thigh. She frowned a little, wondering just how suitable the dress was, given everything that had gone on with River during the last couple of hours. She decided to stick with it, turning towards Issy to be zipped up. 

“Well, don’t you all look heavenly!” Amber beamed, “darlings, let me take a picture,” she gathered everyone around her and held her arm aloft to take a smiling selfie of them all. “Right then, let’s go,” she ordered once she’d gotten what she wanted. She encouraged them all to the door. “Don’t worry about your things, we'll sort it all out later,” she told them all.

Sid linked arms with Issy and the group made their way to the lobby, the sounds of heels echoing on the polished travertine floors. 

As they entered the bar, she immediately spotted River engaged in conversation with Warwick. He briefly halted mid-sentence, his eyes locking onto her as she approached.

His suit was impeccable. Beautifully cut, it fit his broad shoulders and height perfectly. 

Sid made her way confidently across the room, a subtle swing in her hips as she moved. River extended his hand in greeting, and she took it, feeling a jolt of electricity as their hands touched. The air crackled around them, charged with an unfamiliar tension.

River enveloped her in his embrace, his arm encircling her slender waist. Her hand found its way to his chest, and she felt his heart beating beneath her palm.

"You look beautiful," he mumbled, his voice a husky whisper, filled with genuine admiration. His eyes roved over her figure, taking in the way the dress hugged her curves, and the way her eyes shone under the lights.

Sid's face flushed at his compliment, and she leaned in to plant a soft kiss on his cheek.

Warwick beamed as Amber glided gracefully towards him, his eyes filled with love. He spoke to River and Sid, never breaking eye contact with his wife. “Here she is,” he declared proudly. “She lights up every room. After eighteen years, there's never been anyone like her. I hope you're as in love after such a long time as you are now,” he professed, his voice full of hope and tenderness.

“Thank you, Warwick,” River responded. Beside him, Sid nodded in agreement, a smile on her face.

Warwick leaned in closer to them. “She's my best friend,” he confided, “that's our secret,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper. As he spoke, his eyes remained fixed on Amber, and his arms reached out to welcome her.

River's arm wrapped firmly around Sid’s waist, pulling her possessively against his side. He bent close, his nose brushing through the soft curls framing her face, as he placed a tender kiss under her ear.

She felt goosebumps erupt down her spine at the feel of his breath against her skin. 

“Warwick knows there's a mole,” he murmured.

Sid’s eyes widened in shock, and her body instinctively jerked away from him. He gripped her tighter, holding her in place as he continued to speak, his lips moving along her jawline towards her ear.

“Don't panic,” he whispered, his voice a soothing reassurance. “He doesn't know about you,” he added, emphasizing his words with a gentle kiss on her racing pulse.

She let out a breathless giggle, her thumb tracing the line of an imaginary lipstick mark on his cheek. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear.

“Has he got any ideas on who it is?” she whispered.

“Later,” River nodded, a silent agreement passed between them. To the rest of the group passing by to the dining room, it appeared as though they were engrossed in hushed, intimate chatter.

Sid gently untangled herself from River's embrace, her eyes lingering on him for a moment before joining the others. 

She tried to ignore the lingering sense of closeness between them, the memory of his touch still burning on her skin.

The others greeted her with warm smiles, unaware of the internal chaos that had her so on edge.

As Amber pointed out the place cards, Sid held tightly to River's hand, feeling a pang of disappointment as she realized they were seated opposite each other rather than next to each other. She forced a smile and sat down, automatically seeking him out across the table.

As she settled into her seat next to Pete and Lilly, she pushed her own feelings aside and focused on the others. Amber's seating arrangements posed some discomfort for some, with Dilly next to Lucy and Angela next to Kasim.

Sid's eyes met River's across the table, and he winked at her, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. 

Still riled up from the intensity of their kiss, she tried not to let her thoughts wander. 

She forced herself to tear her eyes away from him and tune her ears to the conversations around her.

She noted the four new visitors seated among them, each strategically placed between the original group. There was one next to Diego, another next to Dilly, a third next to Hassan, and the last one next to Lilly. 

Sid caught River's eye, drawing his attention to the newcomers. He nodded once, acknowledging their positions around the table, and tilted his head carefully to indicate which side of the table he'd listen to. She responded with a playful pout, blowing him a kiss from across the way.

“Should have known better than to separate River and Sid, Amber,” Priya laughed, noticing their encounter. “You're depriving that poor man!”

“Not at all. I've got the perfect view,” River countered, his gaze lingering on Sid, his eyes reflecting a mixture of affection and desire.

Sid blushed and waved a dismissive hand, downplaying his compliment. She focused her attention on the table, admiring the beautiful setting, and tried to calm the fluttering in her chest.

The waiters glided around the table, deftly offering everyone a generous pour of wine. Sid raised her glass to her lips, taking a much-needed gulp of liquid courage. The effects of the earlier alcohol had long subsided, and the swim and kiss had left her more than a little on edge.

Next to her, she could hear Lilly talking rapidly to one of the new guests. She discreetly tuned into the conversation, the chatter from around the table providing cover.

A hush fell over the room as Warwick stood and raised his glass, garnering everyone's attention. He cleared his throat

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could just say a few words before dinner…” He smiled warmly at the guests gathered before him. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on each familiar face. “We've all been together for quite some time now,” he began, his voice filled with nostalgia and affection. “I know there's a growing belief that I'm ready to move on to something new,” he continued, pausing to take a sip of his wine, “but I want to make sure that I leave this company in a strong position before I consider that. I have spent decades building this company, and I'm not ready to watch it falter and fall. I cannot leave until I know that the company is in safe hands, and that its future is assured.” 

Sid's eyebrows arched as Warwick continued his speech, her eyes flickering over to River and catching his gaze. His words rang loudly in the room, and Sid picked up on the gravity behind his message.

“What we do as a company is vital in contributing to the safety of this country,” Warwick continued. “The line of work we're engaged in is of immense importance. We are, in many ways, a crucial ally to the government.” He paused for a moment, looking around the room. “We must hold each other to a higher standard,” he asserted, his voice firm. “I expect more from each and every one of you. I have invited our guests this evening to showcase the heights of your capabilities.” His tone softened, his voice filled with a mix of pride and confidence. “I put my full trust in each and every one of you,” he reiterated. “This isn't something I take lightly. I'll continue to steer this company, guiding it with all my strength and wisdom, until the time comes for me to pass the torch. Thank you, friends. For your energy, your expertise, and your loyalty.” He paused, letting his words sink in, and lingered on the word 'loyalty.' 

It echoed in the air, as if challenging the mole to come forward and confess their sins.

Sid noticed River, fixated on the guests around the table. He was closely observing each face, searching for any sign of a tic or a slip-up. 

She recognised the intensity from earlier in the evening. 

He was looking for any hint that would reveal the identity of the mole.

“So, let me raise my glass. A toast to us all, to loyalty.”

“To loyalty,” the chorus rang around the table. 

Sid held River’s eye, feeling the heat of his stare. 

With Warwick settling back into his seat, the waiters swiftly began to serve the first course. The conversations resumed around the table, the earlier tension giving way to the pleasant hum of chatter over dinner.

From her seat next to Sid, Lilly shot occasional disapproving glances at Dave, her irritation with him still evident. Meanwhile, Lucy sat beside Dilly, looking utterly bored as the latter chattered away nonstop to the undersecretary to the minister of defense. Angela continued to chat merrily with River, occasionally casting guilty glances Lucy's way. Amber looked on serenely, indifferent or unnoticing of the unhappiness she'd unleashed by separating couples and cliques. 

“Ooh!” Dilly cooed over her first course, “I adore lobster bisque!”

“You should learn how to make it,” Lucy suggested. 

“I was actually thinking that I should take a cooking course. You'd come with me, wouldn't you, Sid?”

“Sure, Dil. After my feeble attempt this afternoon, I should probably try and learn how to cook. I'm sure River doesn't want to cook every single meal for the rest of our lives.”

“Aww but he would, for you!” 

“I don't mind,” River shrugged, “at least she's mastered beans on toast.”

“Just about,” Sid grinned. 

“I married her for her brains anyway, she's far smarter than me. And better looking.”

“I did the same, River, and now look.” Warwick smiled at Amber. “Some advice from an old man to all of you,” he called out to the rest of the table, “marry your best friend and you'll never regret it!” 

“Enough darling, stop lecturing them!” Amber blushed. 

“Do you think they also need to be twenty years younger?” Pete muttered to Sid under his breath. “Best friend my arse. She's stuck around for eighteen years ‘cos she doesn't want to give this up,” he waved his hand around at the opulent table, the rich, extravagant food and wine. 

“They seem happy together,” Sid mused diplomatically,

“Do they? And Stella, I'm sure D is her best friend,” he pulled a face. “Of course none of the plus ones are here for the money,” he clutched his heart dramatically. 

“Well what about you and Deb? You’ve worked for Warwick for a long time, is she with you for the money?” Sid ribbed lightly.

“We’ve been together since school, through thick and thin,” he protested defensively.

“There you go then, doesn’t it seem a bit harsh to suggest that the other plus ones are only here because the company pays well?”

Pete opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to deny Sid’s comment. 

“She’s right,” Angela said from across the table. “I think it’s bloody rude of you, actually, Pete.”

“Priya’s got a better job than me,” Hassan confirmed from River’s other side, “says more about you that you think half the people around this table are only here for the money and not because they love their partner.”

Pete looked down at his starter, embarrassed. 

At the opposite end of the table to Warwick, Diego had a face like thunder, which no amount of Issy's jokes seemed to be improving. Stella grimaced apologetically at Issy who shrugged and turned away from Diego to join in with Tom and Priya's conversation instead. 

Sid glanced up, seeking to catch River's attention. When she failed, she opted for a different approach, stealthy pressing her foot down on his under the table. 

Startled, River looked up at her, silently mouthing, "Oww.”

“What the fuck?” She mouthed back, checking first that no one was looking at them. With Pete and Diego both on edge, and Warwick's vaguely threatening speech, there was an element of unhappiness around the table.

River shrugged, attempting to focus on the conversations happening around him.

He looked back to Sid, her eyebrows pinched together in concentration.

The waiters appeared, collecting empty soup bowls and side plates as Jonty moved from Warwick’s side to Diego, leading him towards the door.

“Don’t disappear!” Amber called out.

“Just nipping for a smoke,” Jonty assured her with a breezy smile. 

Next to Sid, Pete slid his chair out and followed them quickly, taking one of their guests with him. Sid leaned over the two chair gap to Dilly.

“Why the hell are they so miserable?” She asked quickly and quietly so Amber wouldn’t overhear. 

“Sounds like they carried on drinking after we went upstairs, they’re fighting like bloody kids over Warwick. That’s why he said he’s not going anywhere!” Dilly smiled knowingly, “I don’t give a shit, let them tear each other apart, then there’ll only be me for the job anyway!” Next to River, Angela cleared her throat loudly. “And you Ange, I guess.” Dilly added quickly.

Beyond the dining room, outside on the terrace, came raised voices. Sid looked around the table to see who’d gone out there. Jonty and Diego had gone first, along with Pete and the undersecretary Dilly had been speaking to. Kasim was missing from his seat next to Angela, along with the guest who’d been seated next to Diego.

“Fab four,” Sid mouthed after pushing River’s foot again. He nodded sharply. 

Warwick got to his feet and threw down his napkin.

“Excuse me, folks. I’ll be right back.” He said through clenched teeth.

Shortly after, he returned, the missing members of their group in tow. His mood was still tense, but he resumed his seat at the top of the table without further comment. Sheepishly, the others all took their places again just as the second course was served. 

Sid’s jaw dropped at the size of the pan-seared scallops nestled on a bed of wild mushroom risotto and decorated with a truffle foam.

She closed her eyes momentarily in bliss, only to open them again and find River watching her with a small smile.

She returned the smile and turned to Lilly.

“Are you and Dave okay? I don't want to be nosey, but if you need someone to talk to, I'm here.” 

“Thanks, love,” Lilly said with a gracious smile. “I'm alright. Our Dave doesn't think we fit in here. And he's got a point, really, doesn't he?” She looked around at the other guests around the table, their designer clothes, pricey makeup, and high-end jewelry. “Warwick's been good to me, and Amber as well, of course. But this isn't really my crowd, you know?”

“I’m not sure it’s mine either,” Sid admitted. “I’ve never known anything like this.”

“They’re not all rich kids,” Lilly pointed out. “Hassan’s parents sold everything to send him to Uni. Dilly doesn’t have a rich daddy paying for everything. But some of the others… well,” she grimaced, “they’ve never known anything but privilege, and it shows.”

Sid hummed in agreement, gratefully handing the waiter her empty plate.

The wine continued to flow in vast amounts, along with a main course of filet steak in a glossy red wine sauce, and a dessert of rich chocolate soufflè. 

~~~~~

With the meal over, Sid was ready for a change of pace. 

She craved some fresh air and a break from the indulgent food and over indulged company. 

She took River’s hand and walked them out onto the terrace.

She could see Jonty and Sam whispering together, their heads bent, lit by the glow of their cigarette ends. Diego and Stella were squeezed onto one chair overlooking the pool, the frills of her dress seeping through the slats. Dilly and Tom had dragged a couple of chairs to the open doors, she'd deposited her feet into his lap and talked frantically with her hands while he laughed adoringly at her. 

Sid stopped in the open space between the tables and turned to face River. 

She slid her hands up his arms and hooked her fingers lightly at the nape of his neck. 

“Are we OK?” He asked quietly. His hands rested on the small of her back, closing the space between them. She leaned into him, delicately lifting a foot at a time and rotating her ankles to try and salvage her poor aching feet. With both feet on the ground again, the heels took her full height marginally closer to his. She tilted her head to look up at him, her nose grazing his jawline.

“We're fine,” she confirmed. 

“Have I already told you?” Sid could feel the tension in his posture, “you look beautiful.”

“Thank you. You clean up pretty good too.” 

She felt him relax as he swayed them gently on the spot to the sounds of a string quartet.

“Dinner was… intense,” he smirked. 

“Awful, right? God, and I bet it only gets worse later with these stupid games Amber has planned.”

He leaned down, nestling his nose into her hair. 

“Did you find anything out?” 

“A bit. Lilly was quite helpful, actually. You?”

“Yeah, Angela's alright isn't she?” 

Sid shivered, the warmth of the sun having faded. She took a small step closer and lay her cheek on his shoulder. His arms closed around her.

“Where do we go next?” She asked. There was a pause before he responded to her question. She could feel his lips gently brush against her hairline as he replied.

“I think some of them definitely let their true colors show tonight.”

“For sure,” she agreed. “Dilly’s watching, do you think she's onto us?”

“We can't be too careful,"” he laughed, disguising their real conversation. “Hassan was asking a lot of questions at dinner. How'd we meet, how long have we been together, that sort of thing.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That we haven't been together that long really, a couple of years, but that I loved you straight away.”

Sid raised her eyebrows. 

“Romantic.”

“I have my moments,” he grinned. 

“We need to be careful, can't have anyone prying.” 

“Better make sure we make a good team during these games, then.”

She hid a groan of annoyance behind a wry smile. 

“Ugh, Mr and Mrs? That's original. I think I'd fail that one.”

“You probably know more than you think,” he assured her. 

“Come on, I doubt it. As if you'd know enough about me either,” she reasoned. 

“I know you stop drinking coffee at lunchtime, you hate ready salted crisps, you usually prefer dark chocolate but you love dairy milk -”

“Are any of these not food related?” She teased.

“You go to the gym three mornings a week on the way to work, which you say you hate, but you're always a bit happier on those days. Even though you have to take a deep breath before you use the stairs -”

“My circuits teacher is brutal.”

“You've always wanted to go to Mexico but you're waiting to go with the right person. You stick your tongue out when you're concentrating. You could teach the cast of 'Six' their own lyrics—”

Sid cut him off with a laugh.

“OK, OK. Enough.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling with surprise, “very impressive observations. Looks like I've been under a microscope.”

He looked away, distracted by the others moving inside for the next phase of Amber's plans.

“Maybe you're the only one worth knowing about in that place?” He suggested, his voice light but the phrasing far deeper. “Looks like we're going in,” she shifted out of his embrace and took his hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Lead the way,” she gestured to the villa. 

The vast dining room had been quickly transformed from a formal dining space into a comfortable and welcoming space. 

Waiters were moving about the room, offering after dinner drinks to the guests.

As everyone began to gather, Amber clapped her hands. 

“Come on, stragglers! Time for charades!” She called cheerfully.  

“Kill me now,” Sid muttered under her breath. 

River laughed, gently nudging Sid with his elbow. “Now, now,” he teased, “it could be fun.”

“So is murder, River.” 

“I'm sure you're quite skilled at that, too.” He accepted two glasses of honey-colored whiskey from a passing waiter and handed one to Sid.

“Would you like to test me?” she retorted, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

River smiled, his eyes darting down to her lips for a brief moment before locking onto hers again. 

“I think you like me too much for that,” he replied with a smug smile.

“So full of yourself,” she rolled her eyes. 

River smirked lazily, his confidence unfazed by her. “Just confident,” he corrected, raising the glass to his lips.

“Confident that you're a dick,” she said quietly with a smirk. She passed him closely, leading him towards the group.

“You wound me, really,” he said with mock hurt. 

He followed close behind Sid, still nursing his drink. His eyes couldn’t help but linger on her as she walked ahead of him.

"Get comfy guys!" Amber beamed, her eyes a little glazed from too much wine, “we're going to do two teams, employees vs plus ones. Our lovely guests, two of you on each team please!”

As the teams were divided up, River leaned in close to whisper to Sid. 

“Rivals,” he said with a smirk.

Without missing a beat, she reached up and smoothed his collar, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. 

Then, she looked up at him with a wicked grin. “You're going down, babe,” she declared, her competitive streak already taking over.

“Whatever you say,” he said darkly. The double meaning of their words hung in the air. Sid couldn’t help but glance at him, her gaze curious as she tried to read his mind and uncover the truth behind his words. 

Sid took a seat next to Dilly, their heads bowed together as they made their gameplan. River watched them as he moved to the opposite side with Tom and Sam. 

“Gotta win, I'll never hear the end of it,” he clinked glasses with Tom. 

“Same mate, she's insufferable when she wins,” he stopped and frowned, “and when she loses, actually. Either way, I'm fucked.”

“Plus ones, we're going first - give us a fighting chance! And…” Amber waved her pointed finger around… “Priya, over to you, darling.”

Amber fanned out a selection of cards for Priya to choose from. She picked one, read out, and placed it face down on the table. 

“Come on then, let's beat this lot,” she jeered, confidently pointing behind with her thumb. 

She held up her hands, palms together, and opened them. 

“Book,” the team responded in unison. She nodded and held up three fingers. “Three words,” they guessed. 

With a thumbs up of approval, Priya then held up two fingers.

“Alright, second word,” Sam rubbed his hands together, waiting eagerly for the next clue.

She touched her index finger to her thumb on both hands and linked them, “and,” Amber shouted. Priya pointed at her to confirm that she was correct

She held up one finger, “first word,” then looked down at her suit. She brushed her hands down over the velvet, straightened her lapels, and pretended to dust off her shoulders. 

“Smart,”

“Cool,”

“Fit!” Hassan called from the opposing team. She turned and blew him a kiss. 

“Proud,” River said. She pointed at him and then gave him a so-so gesture

Sid watched River mutter alternatives to himself before he shouted “Pride and Prejudice!” Priya whooped and offered him a double high five. 

“Good start you lot,” Warwick agreed. “It won't last.” He stuck his tongue out at Amber childishly and she just laughed.

“Go ahead then, love,” she offered him the floor. He swiped a card from the deck and placed it on top of Priya's. 

He mimicked a rolling film. 

“Film,” his dutiful employees all agreed. 

The game went on, Sid watched with interest as the competition intensified. Playful taunting between the teammates on opposite teams, and even within her own team, caused tension to build as each round progressed.

The aftermath of the spat between Warwick, Jonty, and Diego left a cold atmosphere between them, and their collective frustration spilled over into the game as they spent more time glaring at each other and dismissively rejecting correct answers.

“Half time! Shall we have a little break?” Amber suggested after watching Jonty deliberately ignore Diego's correct answer three times, losing them the round. Dilly hopped up from the sofa, and held out a hand for Sid. 

“What on earth is going on with them?” She asked as she pulled Sid in close. 

“Thought you'd know better than me,” Sid shrugged. “Jonty's been pissed off all day.” She could see River watching them over Dilly’s shoulder. “Did you see him and Warwick at the pasta place earlier?”

“He and Diego had a row before we left the office last week. Like, blazing. I'm not sure where you were, maybe getting lunch?” She turned them away from the group towards a waiter, under the pretense of getting more drinks. Sid held a hand behind her own back, signaling for River to not join them. “Jonty's going ‘you don't fucking understand how important these contracts are’ and Diego was going ‘I know better than anyone, we need to shake this company up and you know Warwick ain't gonna do it!’ Like, lads, calm down. Anyway, Warwick told them to make up, and it looked like they had. I dunno, I guess not.” She raised her eyebrows over the rim of her glass. “Let them fight. Warwick will see through it.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sid agreed, keeping her tone noncommittal. With a small crook of her finger behind her back, she signalled again to River who made his way across the room to join her. 

“You two gossiping again,” he teased, sliding an arm around Sid's waist and kissing her gently. 

“Of course!” Dilly admitted. “That place would be horrendous if I didn't!”

“That's true,” Sid smiled. 

“And the lads are the worst. So two-faced! It might look like Jonty and Diego are best buddies, but I swear it's all an act to keep each other close.”

“Keep your enemies close,” River grinned. 

“Yep, that! Not me, she'll never be my enemy!” Dilly slung an arm over Sid's shoulder, sandwiching her between them. Sid blushed, burying her head in the crook of River's neck. 

“You two are good to me.” 

River squeezed her hip, holding her close. 

“I'm going to find Tom, then, River,” Dilly pointed at him, “it's game over. You may be handsome, you may be a wonderful husband, but I am going to kick your arse at charades. As is your gorgeous wife.” She bopped him on the nose, her aim slightly off, her eyes glazed. 

“I believe you, Dil,” he grinned. 

With Dilly out of earshot, Sid turned her attention to River. 

“What did Warwick say to you earlier?”

“Not here,” he told her, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “They're listening more than we thought.” Sid frowned. Aside from the bickering and the petty one-upmanship from some of the members of the group, they all seemed so self absorbed. Reading her mind, he added, “we must be covering ourselves pretty well though, they all think this is legit.”

“I should bloody think so,” she muttered through gritted teeth. 

“Oh come on, it's not that much of a hardship.” He said bitterly. 

She turned her head slightly to look at him, unused to hearing him sound put out by their show of unity.

“I didn't mean -”

“It's fine, Sid. You've made your thoughts clear enough.”

“Is this about earlier?” Sid asked, her smile masking the underlying tension in their conversation.

River's expression softened as she mentioned the kiss he had initiated, his irritation fading slightly.

He met her gaze, his expression unreadable, but his voice had softened somewhat. “No, it's about how you keep reminding me how annoying this is for you.”

“I just... Well, yeah. Because it is, isn't it? For both of us?” She admitted with a touch of hesitation.

“Absolutely. What was it you said earlier? None of this is real.”

She studied his face, trying to understand his mixed signals.

His eyes revealed the truth behind his words, a flicker of emotion peeking through the facade.

“That's right. It can't be.”

“It can't be.”

The air between them was thick with the weight of their agreement, neither of them willing to address the undercurrents of emotion churning beneath the surface.

Amber's voice broke the tension between them as she called out.

“Back to the game, folks!”

Startled, Sid quickly sprang away from River, her mind snapping back to the reality of the game. She attempted to regain her composure, hoping no one had noticed their strained conversation.

She took her seat again beside Dilly, wounded by River’s sudden cold shoulder. The shift had left her puzzled and there seemed to be a gulf between them. She felt isolated, trying to juggle her own feelings alongside the needs of the mission, the constant text messages from Lamb asking for progress.

She found herself barely acknowledging the restarted game, instead stealing glances at River, hoping he’d look her way.

“Something happened, babe?” Dilly nudged her.

“Nah, just tired, that’s all. It’s been such a long day.”

“Ugh, I know. At least the trip to Verona doesn’t leave until late morning tomorrow. I think we all need a lazy breakfast!”

“Dilly, your turn darling,” Amber prompted. With only Sid able to see, Dilly rolled her eyes.

“Sid, we’ve got this babe, read my mind!” She pointed at her own temples and then at Sid’s.

“Yep, I’ve got you, Dil,” Sid agreed with a forced smile, an edge of doubt in her voice.

Dilly plucked a card from the pack and beamed.

“Oh this is easy!” She tossed the card onto the table and mimicked a rolling film.

“Film,” the team called. She gave them a thumbs up and then held up two fingers.

“Two words,” she then held up one finger, “first word.” 

She made a time-out sign with her hands.

“First word is ‘The’” Sid supplied. Dilly held up two fingers, “second word?” And then got down on one knee in front of Sid who giggled, happy for the distraction. “Proposal.” Dilly whooped and planted a kiss on Sid’s cheek as she resumed her place on the sofa.

“Told you it was easy!”

The game went on until Warwick gently persuaded Amber to call it a night.

“Darling, I think our guests are exhausted,” he gestured for a final round of drinks, and the teams dispersed. Sid found herself anxiously wondering whether River would continue to be distant with her.

The abrupt shift in River’s mood had been jarring. He’d been playful and affectionate before the game, but distant and cold during the short break, she was bewildered.

Once the group disbanded, she stood to the side, waiting in hope that he would approach her. 

He made his way over slowly, exchanging goodnights and pleasantries with the others on his way. He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

Sid bit her bottom lip.

“You ok?”

“Yeah, shall we go up?”

She nodded, taking his outstretched hand. 

They called out various goodbyes on the way to the lobby, leaving the tired group behind.

~~~~~

“What was that, during the game?” She asked in the sanctuary of their room.

“Nothing, it’s just been a long day. I was tired.” He shrugged.

“It has. It’s hard, keeping up with them all, trying to find out what we need to do.”

“And that’s all?” He asked, curiously.

She turned her back and he slid the zip down.

“Of course.”

“So when you said it was just the mission, keeping up with the lies.” He followed her to the bathroom, watching her in the mirror as she leaned over the sink to take out her earrings. 

Her dress stayed up, the back of it opened wide and exposing the smooth, sunkissed skin of her back.

The faint strap marks from the dress she’d worn earlier in the day.

“Yep, that’s right.”

“But it's not, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do, Sid.”

Sid dropped her eyes to the sink. 

The whole day felt like a lifetime.

Had she really woken in his arms that morning? 

Felt his warm hands work sunscreen into her tense back? Drank with him, cooked with him, swam with him? 

Kissed him. 

She looked up to the mirror again, determination visible on her face. 

“I need to do my job, River. And so do you. It could be your ticket away from Slough House at last.”

He held her stare in the mirror. 

“Right.” He said tensely. “None of this is real, got it.”

He left the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind him.

Sid took a deep breath, staring at herself in the mirror until the image before her blurred with her tears.

When she went back to the bedroom, he was in bed. 

The lights were off, and his back was to her. 

She slid in next to him, turning her head on the pillow to look at him. She could see the rise and fall of his broad shoulders. 

She knew he wasn't asleep.

[sheliesshattered]

Sylki fic: When She Sings She Sings Come Home

Loki/Sylvie, 3200 words. Post s02e06 fix-it, angst with a happy ending. Also available on AO3 under the same title and username.

--

When She Sings She Sings Come Home

Sylvie wakes with Loki’s voice in her ears.

It’s been months since she last saw him, striding out to the Loom to save the timelines. Winter has come and gone, here in this little corner of a branch that she’s made her home. Every day that’s passed, she’s half expected to turn around and see him standing there, like that night he appeared in the parking lot next to her truck. But for months, there’s been nothing but the absence of him, growing larger and more crystalline every day.

She wakes with his voice in her ears, singing that ridiculous song from the train on Lamentis.

To Sylvie, everybody! he’d said, grinning at her, not drunk only too full. She would give anything to see him smile like that again. She would give anything to see him again.

And it isn’t that she hasn’t looked. Of course she had. She’d barely gotten through a single shift at McDonald’s after leaving Mobius standing outside his variant’s house before she’d used He Who Remain’s TemPad to try to find Loki.

He wasn’t dead. She knows he isn’t dead. But he also isn’t anywhere. There are an infinite number of branches now, layers of reality twisting around each other into something larger, a shape she can almost see, almost recognize. But Loki isn’t on any of them. No matter where she searches, he remains just outside her grasp.

Sylvie goes to work, she drives her truck home, she listens to music at the record store, she checks in on Mobius, she tries to sleep. But everywhere is marked by Loki’s absence, and every moment is overlaid with the sound of him singing.

She can’t find Loki, but that song is a thread she can pull at. Where did he learn it? The words were almost Asgardian, but not quite. Something similar, a branch of the original. A variant. Because of course it was.

It’s not until she thinks to quietly spy on the New Asgard settlement in Norway, forty years on from her quiet life in Oklahoma, that she hears the language again. Norwegian.

Remember this place, she hears Odin say, in a memory that is not hers, rippling through the interwoven timelines because it is what she needs in this moment. Home.

She turns her back on New Asgard, on the man who is almost but not quite her brother, on the Valkyrie who will come to lead their people like the hero out of a saga that Sylvie had once wished she could become. She turns her back, and walks into this strange, beautiful land. Norway. One tiny place on one tiny planet in one insignificant branch of the ever-growing tree of time, where the syllables are shaped into words that resonate with Loki’s voice from so long ago.

Sylvie wanders into pubs, into taverns, into bars, into concerts. She hums the few notes that never leave her head, and hopes to find someone who knows the song.

Until, miraculously, one day, she does.

“It’s an old drinking song,” the bearded man at the bar tells her, gesturing with his beer. “It’s about taking the long way home, but knowing you’ll get there in the end.”

“Can you teach it to me?” Sylvie asks, unblinking, gaze trained on the stranger’s face.

“For that, I will need a lot more beer.”

So she buys him beers. She coaxes the song out of him. She buys rounds for the whole bar, until they are all singing it. They teach her the words in Norwegian, teach her to shape the vowels as carefully as any incantation, and then teach her the meaning behind the words.

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone

Over the glacier I make my way

In the apple garden stands the maiden fair

and sings, “When will you come home?”

“You, I think,” her drunk bearded acquaintance says to her, “you are the maiden fair.”

“And what if I am?” Sylvie asks, raising her chin, still dead-sober despite the bourbon clutched in her hand.

“Then you must sing for him to come home!”

“From an apple orchard, if you can manage it,” leers his friend next to him.

“Will it work?” she hears herself say.

“Of course it will work! Music is magic. Galdr, they used to call it, in the old religion. The power of your voice to shape reality.” The man is drunk, but his words tug at something in Sylvie’s memory, long buried. “Sing, and he will come home.”

“As simple as that?”

The bearded man laughs uproariously. “When has love ever been simple?” he demands jovially. “When has magic ever been easy? But that does not mean it is not worth trying. There is beauty in the trying. There is love in the longing.” He’s slurring his words, barely managing to stay atop his barstool.

But he’s not wrong.

I know what kind of god I need to be, Loki had said, tears shining in his eyes. For you. For all of us.

But Sylvie is a god, too, she reminds herself, as she tosses back her bourbon and turns her back on the little Norwegian town, with the northern lights rippling over head. She’s not the goddess of chaos anymore, and she hasn’t felt mischievous since she was a child.

But the goddess of galdr, yes, that perhaps is something she could be.

She returns to her little Oklahoma town, cloud cover obliterating the stars, and drives her truck to the record store. There’s only one song she wants to hear, only one voice to sing it, but music has been her comfort since she came to this place, and she cannot simply become the goddess of music-turned-into-magic because she wishes it to be so. Music has been her shield, her cocoon, her comfort these long lonely months. Now she must learn to form it into other shapes, into weapons and tools. Into a lighthouse, shining out into the vast dark of the multiverse.

She taught herself enchantment, while running for her life from one apocalypse to the next. She can teach herself galdr in this quiet little record shop in this quiet little town.

Sylvie slides the headphones into place, and lets the music move through her.

Oh, sweet nothin'

She ain't got nothin' at all

Oh, sweet nothin'

She ain't got nothin' at all

But what if she had something? What if she had the one person who would make all of this worth it?

I know what kind of god I need to be, she tells herself. For you, Loki.

She murmurs the words along with the music, infusing them with intent, with magic.

And for one fraction of an instant, she can see him.

He’s alone, on the throne he never wanted, surrounded by the threads of the multiverse, pulsing green as they grow and twist. There is nothing, nothing else, only Loki alone in that vast emptiness, in that expanse of everything that ever was or ever could be.

His eyes are dull, unfocused, far away. And then— a flicker of recognition, a spark of life—

Sylvie loses the connection.

She’s alone on the sofa in the back of the record shop, with Lou Reed singing in her ears.

He ain’t got nothing at all

She drives home. She tries to sleep. She keeps hearing Loki’s voice, keeps seeing him alone in that emptiness. She murmurs into the darkness— not quite a song, not quite a spell—

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

There is a shape to the enormity of what Loki has done. There is an order to the way the branches of the multiverse wrap around each other. It is just outside her grasp, but Sylvie feels that if she could just see the shape of it, she might understand.

She might be able to reach him.

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone she whispers to the emptiness of her tiny apartment, in this tiny town, in this little branch of a timeline, one miniscule part of a greater whole, and falls asleep dreaming of trees dancing, of waterfalls stopping, of Loki taking her outside the flow of time to tell her that there was no other way to keep her safe.

Sylvie wakes with her own voice in her ears.

The song is coursing through her, jeg saler min ganger, and she can feel the magic at her fingertips, on the tip of her tongue, pushing at the insides of her ribs, swelling her lungs and begging to be released.

I know what kind of god I need to be.

She gets into her truck and drives. North and east, away from everything she knows, vaguely towards those northern lights dancing over the fjords, too far away to reach on roads such as these.

But once upon a time, when she was very young, there was another road. A rainbow road, the Bifrost, that could take her anywhere just like magic.

Every bit of magic she has now she has taught herself. And this, too, this song swelling in her chest, is magic of her own making.

There is beauty in the trying. There is love in the longing.

She drives past fields of wheat and fields of corn, through days and nights, with the glare of the sun or the pattering of the rain against the windshield. Sylvie drives and drives and drives, and keeps the song tucked away inside her, growing in fury like a hurricane in a bottle, like the storm that had raged outside the night they met.

She drives until the scent of apples wafts through the open windows of the truck, and then she pulls over, knowing this was her destination all along.

Iðunn, a childhood memory whispers, too long ago now to have any meaning at all. The apples of eternity.

Home she thinks, and then hears, from a memory not her own:

Asgard’s not a place, it’s a people.

This could be Asgard. Asgard is where our people stand.

Her brother’s voice. The voice of the man who had once raised her as his daughter. The family she lost and can never regain, no matter what shape the multiverse twists itself into. Words reaching across time, across branching timelines, to reach her here and now, because it is what she needs to hear.

Sylvie climbs out of her truck and walks into the apple orchard and doesn’t look back.

She walks until she can no longer see the road from between the trunks and branches. She walks until there is nothing but the smell of apples, the soil under foot, and the sky over head. She walks until the song finally bursts out of her, all of her desperation and loneliness flooding out of her lungs to shake the very air around her, in the shape of words that are his but also hers, now.

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone

Over the glacier I make my way

In the apple garden stands the maiden fair

and sings, “When will you come home?”

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home!”

And then he is there, standing beside her in the sunshine and the scent of the apple orchard. Loki glances around at the trees dancing in the wind, his eyes bright, before his gaze snaps to hers.

“You’re here,” Sylvie croaks, her voice burned through with the force of the magic that poured out of her, the magic that’s brought Loki to her.

“No, not really,” he says, his eyes never still as they trace over her face. “I’m still there too. I’m sort of everywhere, really. It’s hard to explain.”

“Help me to understand,” she says before the words even have the chance to fade away. “You said you knew what kind of god you needed to be. You saved us, you saved everything, and then you disappeared. Make me understand.”

“I can’t, Sylvie,” Loki says gently, and there is a sorrow in his eyes deeper than oceans, more boundless than the vastness of space. “It’s been centuries for me. Lifetimes. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Enchant me, he had begged her once, standing in the McDonald’s parking lot in his ridiculous TVA uniform. You can see what I saw.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she tells him, raising her hands slowly towards his face, green magic flickering between her fingers. “Just let me see what you saw.”

“Sylvie,” he starts, and there are tears in his eyes again, like there were in that last moment before he turned his back on her to destroy the Loom.

“We’re the same, remember?” she says, and if her voice cracks it is only because of the abuse it’s suffered, only because of the magic that poured out through her vocal chords to shape reality to her desires. “You shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone, Loki,” she tells him, with as much tenderness as she can force into her ruined voice. “Let me understand.”

“It was the only way,” he says, as if in warning, but Sylvie cups his face in her hands before the tears can fall from his eyes.

Centuries. Lifetimes. The same day, over and over again. Reality unspooling, starting with Victor Timely and ending with her, again and again. Their fight in the Citadel at the end of time, relived hundreds of times, always with the same ending. Always the death of He Who Remains, and the unraveling of everything, failure after failure after failure.

And yet in all of them, she does not kiss him. And he cannot bring himself to kill her. Until only one choice remains.

I know what kind of god I need to be. For you.

Sylvie watches in Loki’s memory as the temporal radiation burns away his TVA uniform, as his magic replaces it with something older, something primal, something true. She watches as he grasps the decaying branches of the multiverse and breathes life into them, wills them to live, to be whole and part of a whole.

She watches as the branches twist around each other, each variation of the timeline finding support in its neighbors, building into something greater than the sum of every moment of every timeline that has ever existed.

She sees the shape of what Loki has done, the enormous, infinite tree dancing in the nothingness outside of time. Yggdrasil, the worldstree, green and glowing, alive and growing, all because Loki willed it so. To restore freewill and safeguard it forever. For all of us.

His hands cover hers and Loki gently pries her fingers away from his face. “Enough, Sylvie. Enough. I know what I’ve done.”

There are tears on her face, the apple-scented wind plucking at the wetness as she stands there, staring at Loki. Even without the enchantment, she can see him sitting on his throne, alone but for the infinite tree he tends.

“It was the only way?” she asks in the ruins of her voice. It is only when he folds his hands around hers that she realizes she is shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Not like dancing. Like shattering, collapsing in on herself with the weight of what he’s done.

“No,” Loki admits. “There was one other way. I could have left He Who Remains in charge. I could have let the TVA go back to pruning the timelines. But I would have had to kill you. I would have had to kill you with my own hands, and watch as you died, and then betray everything you ever believed in. I lived every variation of every action I could possibly change, but not that one. Not that.”

“You don’t even know me,” Sylvie blurts out before the words have fully formed in her mind. All of this, to save her? She cannot, she cannot—

Loki’s expressive face twists, stung by her words, hurt in this moment even beyond the deep sorrow that he wears like a cloak. “Of course I know you,” he says, wounded, his gaze searching her face. “Like I’ve never known anyone. Sylvie, I lov—”

She surges up onto her toes and kisses him, there among the apple trees. She kisses him for what he’s done, for what he refused to do. She kisses him for the loneliness they have both known far too much of, she kisses him for coming when she sang for him to come home. She kisses him because there is nothing else she can do, because there was never any other way for her, either.

And Loki kisses her in return, with a desperation borne of years, centuries, lifetimes of facing this alone. He kisses her in the apple garden, as the trees dance and the waterfalls stand still. He is there, kissing her, but also somewhere else, far away and outside time, tending to the tree that he gave his life to save.

“I can’t stay,” he says when they finally part, pressing his forehead to hers, his hands cupping her jaw in an echo of how she had enchanted him moments before. “I want to stay, more than anything, Sylvie, but I can’t, I can’t.”

“I know,” she assures him, even as she clutches at his robes for fear he will disappear at any moment. “I know you can’t stay here with me,” she says, then takes a deep breath to steady her ragged voice, her thundering heart. “But you don’t have to be alone.”

Loki pulls away abruptly, only far enough to see her face, confusion pinching his features.

“We’re gods, you said,” Sylvie explains, tripping over her words, her voice trembling with the weight of what she has already done, the weight of what she plans to do. “We have a responsibility. That’s what you told me, in that ridiculous room full of pie. We can’t just give everyone freewill and then walk away.” She offers him a small smile, the best she can summon at the current moment. “You have to sustain Yggdrasil. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I did this for you,” he says, holding on to her as desperately as she is clutching at him. “So you could have a life. That’s what you said you wanted, to live.”

“It’s freewill, Loki,” she says, shaking her head. “You can’t just give it to everyone and then be surprised when I use it to choose to be with you. I know what kind of god I need to be. You taught me that. I won’t let you bear this burden alone. That’s the kind of god I choose to be.”

“I can’t let you sacrifice yourself for me—”

“The only sacrifice would be giving you up.”

He gazes at her for a long moment, his uncertainty slowly transforming, then sings softly, “I stormsvarte fjell, jeg vandrer alene,” and this time Sylvie understands the words. “Over isbreen tar jeg meg frem. I eplehagen står møyen den vene, og synger: ‘når kommer du hjem?’”

The apple orchard dissolves around them, replaced by the rippling greens and blues and purples of Yggdrasil, shimmering in the darkness outside of time.

“Home,” Sylvie says, and kisses him again.

[misscammiedawn]

50 Days of HypnoKink - Day 49: Hypno in Media

My heavens... we made it to the finish line. Tomorrow is the final day.

I wanted to save an obvious one for the end because I do so enjoy MC in fiction so very much. So much, in fact, that I made a Twitter thread with 110 recommendations and never even came close to emptying my resources.

I know so many of these scenes, both that Twitter thread and this page are skimming the surface.

I'll be using some of those recommendations here but let's divide by category:

Film

So let's get the obvious out of the way. You have

Trance

A Danny Boyle thriller with a terrible plot and Rosario Dawson as a hypnotherapist trying to get hidden information from James McAvoy's mind. Silly movie but one that doesn't get brought up a lot. Dawson learned hypnosis to get into the role.

Candyman

Horror movie in which the director literally hypnotized the actress so any time she was being stalked by the titular killer she looked completely entranced. Link above is an interview discussing this.

Hypnotic

HORRIBLE movie on Netflix but Sleepyhead and I have hosted a number of watch parties and let me tell you, this is the PERFECT movie to watch with a bunch of rowdy hypnokinksters. The therapist is unethical to a laughable degree and his office looks like it's inside of the Death Star. He's a living breathing red flag. The movie does have a really hot freeze scene, a good ragdoll and the dollification sequence. It's just enjoyable because it's terrible. Check CWs first though, this movie has a bunch of things that can make it an uncomfortable viewing experience.

The Great Hypnotist

This is a Not For Daja movie. A Chinese movie that doesn't get brought up a lot. Like Trance above it is a thriller with some twists and turns that I don't really want to spoil.

Stir of Echoes

A visualization of a dissociation induction designed to make a person view events on a screen so they are separate from the memory. It's a remarkably well done scene.

Now You See Me 1/2

The hypnosis in these movies is STUPID and I love it. The first movie has a punchline that every time Mark Rufallo's character makes a frustrated comment people who Woody Harrelson has hypnotized will start acting as if they're in an orchestra. Second movie has a twin Woody Harrelson as an evil hypnotist and he uses a pizza box as an evil induction. It's amazing.

Sherlock Holmes Woman in Green

This induction is one of the coolest I've seen in a film and I try my hardest to channel the energy of this when I am doing a relaxation focused scene.

TV

Charlies Angels

This is bar none my favorite hypnosis scene in any fiction. The typewriter induction is amazing, the hypnotist has such a smooth voice, the entranced gazes are lovely. It's just perfect. Heck, the link above is "hypnosis scenes" from the episode and is 26 minutes long. From a single episode of television.

Doctor Who

Sarah Jane gets hypnotized so often that I could make a list purely from her.

Legion

I just wanna link this one as it's one of those scenes that works so much better without context and the aesthetics are incredible. Plus who doesn't like Aubrey Plaza?

Quick Bonus Animation Round

Carmen Sandiego (Neflix) has a ton of mind control including the bad end to the interactive movie.

Totally Spies is a meme for a reason

And this one is a reason many of us are here <3

Comics

DC vs Vampires

I think the page speaks for itself. "Hypnosis isn't lying, Diana. It's speaking to your vulnerability."

Korra

This sequence of Asami, brainwashed to hate the avatar, being deprogrammed is so good that someone on AO3 did an incredible fan-fiction which may well be one of my favorite hypnokink stories of all time.

Super Mario Comic

I bring this one up as it was one of my earliest moments of "...oh... this is kind of making me feel some kind of way."

Video Games

A note that a full directory of video games featuring Mind Control can be found at mindcontrol.fun the MC Games Wiki, run by @soveryverytired

Nyx Gaming (Featured game: Enthralled)

Nyx do incredible games which are designed to hypnotize the viewer and their consent practices are wonderful. They recently teamed up with Secret Subject to release a vampire enthrallment game and let me tell you, there is not a single word in that synopsis that doesn't make me happy.

Mind Melting Massaging Machine

The best tool for VR hypnosis. Upload custom files and program spirals, subliminals and chose between static spiral or headtracking. I have had so much fun with this over the years. There's a desktop version too but VR is optimal for this experience.

Spiral Clicker

It's such a simple concept. Click on the character and watch their will go away. Spiral Clicker is backed with a fun little universe, fun characters both original and community sourced, amazing art and a clever little gameplay loop that is quite addictive. Careful, the game features a constant spiral, you may find yourself falling in to trance. Don't worry. The game will wake you up. You can even ask the game to include suggestions for you :)

The sequel is being worked upon now and I cannot wait <3

Music Videos

Anna Soares - Hypnodoll (NSFW)

Straight up just a song and music video about hypnokink. If you click anything in this thread, click this one.

Little Big - Hypnodancer:

Silly antics but a fun music video.

Pharrell Williams - Hypnotize U

It's just Pharrell hanging out in a mansion with his hypnotized harem.

Grimes - We Appreciate Power

It's dronekink baby.

Andamiro - Hypnotize

Maid hypnotizes their employer.

I could do so many more in all areas. But the point is, media is hypnohorny. I never went over advertisements (UK ones especially), books, musicals (Phantom and Next To Normal for instance), anime (Sailor Moon) or manga.

But I write about a bunch more in my Twitter thread.

---

Day 48: Stealth Inductions

FULL SCHEDULE MASTER POST

FINAL Day 50: Presentation

[allisluv]

COMING CLEAN

Chapter Five — the list

pairing: finnick odair x fem!oc

content warnings: president snow is a warning in himself, tooth rotting fluff mostly, flirty comments, traumas, implied sex work, dissociation and i think that’s it <3

word count: 3.1k

previous part — next part

Dahlia had never managed to escape what had happened during the 67th Hunger Games for very long. Everywhere she turned, there were reminders. A cold snap in the weather. Sickles in district nine. She grew to associate the colour red with violence and blonde thirteen-year-olds with Alara. Carbon copies of the young girl she was meant to protect. Carbon copies of the young girl she couldn't save.

Even in her sleep, she could not separate herself from the horrors in the arena. Her dreams were plagued with disturbing memories. Beckett's lifeless body lying limply in her arms. The way the colour drained from Mallory's face as Dahlia slit her throat. The light leaving Xavier's eyes. How Apollo had used Eleanora's body to light a fire in the mountains. Alara crying out for her mother.

Dahlia woke with a start, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Tears gathered on her waterline and she blinked them away quickly. Beads of sweat trickled down the back of her neck and into her damp pyjama shirt.

Finnick was snoring quietly, his chest rising and falling in steady motions. He must have been a deep sleeper to keep dozing through her tossing and turning. The alarm clock on his locker flashed with a hologram of the time.

It had only just gone 10am which gave her plenty of time to relax before tonight's gala.

She pulled back the duvet covers and quietly crept her way towards her suitcase. It was still open from last night, so she didn't have to worry about the zipping noise waking him up. She pulled a yarn of wool and two knitting needles from her suitcase before tip-toeing her way onto the balcony.

It wasn't anything special: two white plastic chairs and a matching round table. There was a row of potted plants through the bars and a view of the bustling Capitol streets. Not all that different from her own hotel room.

She settled in the shade of the balcony and got to work almost straight away. She was three-quarters of the way through knitting a black sweater for her sister; Ivy had outgrown at least half of her wardrobe in the last month alone.

Having something to do took her mind off the particularly harrowing flashbacks from last night.

Beneath her, cars honked their horns at other drivers on the road and she could faintly hear a conversation from the penthouse suite above her. It was rare to have a peaceful morning in the Capitol and it certainly made her trip that much easier.

Finnick stumbled onto the balcony about an hour later. He squinted in the morning sunlight and wiped the traces of sleep from his eyes. "Morning," he sat opposite her and set two full mugs of coffee on the table. "Have you been up for long?"

Dahlia was too absorbed in her knitting to offer anything more than a shrug. Her eyes were trained on the stitches as she threaded the needles through the wool. Eventually, her fingers stilled and she discarded her completed knitting to one side. She peered into the cup he had nudged in her direction and was surprised to see that he had committed her coffee order to memory.

"Thank you," she cupped her hands around the mug, craving the warmth. Finnick shot her a soft smile and sipped his iced coffee. Dahlia tentatively lifted the mug to her lips and gulped it down, the liquid scalding her throat. "Did I wake you up? Sometimes I forgot how loud the knitting needles can be."

Finnick let out a breezy laugh and shook his head. "I'd probably sleep through an earthquake so you haven't got anything to worry about," he ran his hands through his strands of bronze hair and attempted to untangle the knots with his fingers.

"How long have you got until your first appointment this morning?" he asked gently, taking care to keep the question as casual as he could. He didn't want to make a big deal out of it. "Have you got enough time for me to show off my magnificent breakfast skills? I can assure you that it'll be worth it," he grinned, cockiness seeping from every word.

Dahlia bit back a smile and ducked her head until she had regained her composure. "That depends on whether or not pancakes are on the agenda," she quipped, her head tilted at an angle. "I have very high standards, you know," she teased with raised brows.

Finnick ran his tongue over his teeth and jumped to his feet, digging his hands into the deep pockets of his pyjama pants. "Oh, I'm sure you do honey." He yanked open the balcony door and the curtains fluttered in the wind.

She gathered her patchwork into her arms and slipped into their hotel room, sliding across the wooden floorboards in her white socks. She placed the almost-finished sweater vest on her bedside locker and dug the knitting needles into the ball of wool for safekeeping.

Finnick was scouring through a cupboard for a frying pan as she made her way towards the kitchenette and opened the fridge.

She sifted through packets of waffles and bottles of pink lemonade in search of the butter, which was the only thing she couldn't pinpoint a location on.

Letting out a small noise of triumph, she pushed herself onto her tippy-toes and pulled the butter from its hiding space. To his credit, Finnick had pulled the rest of the ingredients out of the cupboards while she was preoccupied.

She used her hip to push him aside and he laughed, folding his arms across his chest like a child that had been kicked out of the kitchen while the adults were talking.

"I thought I was meant to be making you breakfast," he protested, a slight whine in his voice as he leaned against the oven.

A smart remark died on her tongue when someone knocked on the door. She fired a tea towel at his chest and he caught it without even blinking. "If you give me food poisoning, I'll kill you," she warned.

Dahlia stepped away from the oven to see who was hammering their fists against the door at this time in the morning. Her gaze softened when she saw a young Avox on the other side of the door. The boy held an envelope in his hands and he couldn't be any older than twelve.

"Hi there," she sunk to her knees and clasped her hands together in her lap. Dahlia didnt like towering over him - it may come off as intimidating and she didnt want him to be frightened of her. "Is this for me?" she whispered, pointing at the letter clutched in his fist. He nodded nervously and placed it into her outstretched palm. "Thank you." He picked up his feet and scurried off down the hallway.

Dahlia hauled herself to her feet and closed the door, wandering back into the kitchen with the letter in her hand. Finnick cracked an egg against the side of a mixing bowl as she sat on the countertop next to him.

Dahlia's eyes briefly scanned the neat handwriting on the front of the envelope and she let a laugh slip past her lips. She ripped it open and read through the letter as Finnick flipped the pancakes in the air.

Dear Dahlia,

Why the fuck didn't you tell me you were going out with Finnick O'Dair? I want to know every little detail. Since when? What's he like? Is he really as handsome as everyone says? Does he treat you like you hung the moon and stars? He better. You deserve someone who treats you like there's nowhere else they'd rather be than with you, Lia. I can't wait till you get home, so please write me back as soon as you get this

Did you know otters sleep holding hands so that they don't drift away from each other? I bet you didn't know that, did you? Tell Finnick. Tell him. I bet he won't know that either! And tell him that there are six thousand different types of coral. I think he'll like that one because of his district.

I wish you were here. I miss you terribly. River won't let me feed Thumper ice cream and he's really not a good cook. I think I might die of starvation by the time you get home. Also, Wyatt is sad again and I don't know how to cheer him up. River is trying his best but he keeps giving out and shouting at him for not moving from the couch. I'm trying to look after him because I might not know how to make him feel better, but at least I don't scream at him.

You're the only one who knows how to make him do things. He doesn't eat a lot, even when I add smiley faces to his food, which usually works for me. Anyway, please tell me how you do it and maybe it'll work.

I hope you are doing okay. Tell Finnick that I said hello. Everything is okay so please try not to worry. Thumper is alive and thriving. You were right, he does like lettuce. Anyway, write back and let me know how you're getting on.

Lots of love,

Juniper xx

"Pancakes are ready," Finnick announced, transferring them onto linen napkins marked with the Capitol's seal. He grabbed the sugar and lemon from the cupboard above his head and joined Dahlia at the kitchen table.

She wasted no time in rolling up the pancake and ripping into it with her teeth. "June wants me to tell you that there's six thousand different types of sea coral," she covered her mouth with her hand as she spoke. An amused smile played on his lips. "She wants me to find out if you knew that or not."

Finnicks warm laughter filled the room and it made her heart buzz with that pleasant feeling again. "I didn't know that," he admitted, sprinkling sugar over his pancakes. "Is she a fan of the water then?"

"Ironically, she's petrified of the water. I've tried to teach her to swim but she wasn't having a bar of it. No, she just likes memorizing facts and then repeating them in her head," Dahlia explained.

He was about to answer when someone rapidly knocked their knuckles against the door. His spine straightened out and he struggled to his feet, but she was closer and beat him to it. A glance at the clock told her that it had just gone noon which meant that it was probably one of their prep teams ready to poke and prod them into perfection.

She unbolted the door, expecting to see Bloom or Caspian standing on the other side, but was met with an unpleasant surprise. Dahlia's blood ran cold.

President Snow's right-hand man, Everett Montgomery, was on their doorstep. Two armed peacekeepers accompanied him.

"Miss Holloway. Is Mr O'Dair around?" Everett grunted. Finnick ran to the door at the sound of his name and Dahlia absentmindedly put herself between him and Everett. "I'm to escort you both to President Snow's mansion. He would like a word."

Dahlia stood her ground and dug her heels into the floorboards as Everett tried to push his way into their hotel room. "I'm afraid you will have to wait ten minutes while we get ready." Everett opened his mouth to protest but she was quick to cut him off. "I wasn't asking for permission."

By the look on Everett's face, it was evident that he had never been told no before. She left no room for arguing and with his mouth hanging open in shock, Dahlia slammed the door in his face and locked it for good measure.

"You have five minutes, Miss Holloway!"

The room was swaying as Dahlia stepped away from the door. She moved over to the sofa and pulled herself together. "Do you mind if I use the bathroom to get changed? I won't be long," she sat on the sofa and pulled her case apart in her haste to find a change of clothes.

"Yeah, go ahead," Finnick yanked a few items of his own from the chest of drawers. "There's no rush. Everett can't exactly leave without us, anyway."

Dahlia disappeared into the bathroom and winced when she saw her reflection staring back at her in the mirror. The lace of her pyjama shirt was barely concealing the hickeys along her collarbones. Her hair was disastrous and she had a feeling it would take a while to untangle all of the knots. She hadn't done a good job of cleaning off her makeup last night; she could still see streaks of foundation along her face.

She stepped out of her pyjamas and discarded them on the bathroom floor. Slipping a black shirt over her head and pulling a pair of ripped jeans over her wide hips, she ran her brush through her long locks of caramel hair. She never bothered with makeup -- she had enough of that during galas -- and once the traces of last night's mess were gone, she pulled on a pair of shoes and peeked her head out of the door, eyes firmly squeezed shut. "Are you decent?"

"Don't act as if you wouldn't love to see me without my clothes on, honey."

"Finnick!"

"Calm down, I'm only pulling your leg, of course, I'm decent," he laughed and laced up his trainers. He turned to her as she bundled her pyjamas into her suitcase. "You ready honey?"

She glared at him but there was no heat behind the look. Maybe the nickname was starting to grow on her more than she cared to admit.

Everett hammered his fists against the door until they answered. He marched them into the elevator and the peacekeepers were practically walking on the back of their heels. If she had to guess, they were under strict instructions to make sure neither of them made a run for it.

The armed peacekeepers cleared a path through the mass of reporters gathered outside the hotel entrance. Everett ushered them into the back of a limousine with tinted windows and jumped into the passenger seat. The driver stepped on the gas pedal, weaving in and out of the crowds as photographers continued trying to snap a shot of them.

The pancakes had turned sour in Dahlia's stomach and she was praying they wouldn't make a reappearance. She smoothed her hands along the material of her trousers, fingers gliding over her kneecaps. It was soothing and she managed to keep her breakfast down the entire car ride.

Everett led them into President Snow's mansion and guided them down secret hallways that were guarded by armed peacekeepers in crisp white uniforms.

While Dahlia had been in the President's mansion for many a gala, she had only been invited into his private quarters twice before; the first when she was propositioned on being sold to rich Capitol men and women and the second after her parents were murdered and she had exchanged her bodily autonomy for her sibling's freedom.

Everett slowed to a stop in one of the corridors and gestured to two plush velvet armchairs and an array of magazines. "Wait here. I'll call you when the President is ready," he opened the heavy double doors to Snow's study and let it slam closed while they took their seats.

Adrenaline shot through Dahlia's body like a drug. Not knowing why they had been called in for a meeting was killing her. She was too busy wrecking her brain for what they could have possibly done wrong to notice that her cuticles were starting to bleed.

Finnick's leg was bouncing up and down as he reached across and gently took her hand in his own. "Stop that," he rubbed the pad of his thumb over her knuckles, trying to provide a slither of comfort in the darkly lit hallway. She couldn't get the words to leave her mouth so she squeezed his hand to convey her thanks.

Time seemed to move in slow motion as they sat in the corridor. It felt like waiting on death row because whatever Snow wanted, it couldn't be good.

After what felt like a lifetime, Everett beckoned them inside.

Finnick gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as he led the way into the study. President Snow sat behind an oak desk, fussing over a white rose in his lapel. He didn't look up until the two of them were settled in the chairs opposite him. "I've always favoured the white roses. They bring out my eyes, don't you think?"

Dahlia had a habit of laughing at inconvenient times and she bit down on her tongue to stop that from happening. It was probably a rhetorical question, anyway. "You wanted to see us, President Snow?"

"Yes, Miss Holloway, I did," Snow left the rose alone and clasped his hands in front of him. "I want to commend you both on your acting, for starters."

"Who said we were acting?" she countered.

He shot her a tight-lipped smile. "Let's cut to the chase, my dear. I'm sure you're aware that there's been an increase in demand for your services. I wanted to personally make sure you both understand that our agreement has not changed. Here is a list of clients that you need to see before you are free to go home."

He slid two pieces of paper across the table. Finnick couldn't help but notice that Dahlia's list was significantly longer than his.

Dahlia wondered how mad the president would be if she ripped up his goddamn list. "There are at least forty names here."

"Seventy-five. There's more names on the back," Snow corrected matter-of-factly. "I must remind you that your clients are to be treated with the utmost respect. That goes for you as well, Finnick. We wouldn't want a tragic accident to occur, now would we?"

Dahlia dug her nails into the palms of her hand until blood dripped down her wrists. Her jaw clenched and she refused to break eye contact with him.

Fire burned through her veins, setting her nerve-endings alight and it was at that moment that she knew Snow was going to regret ever laying eyes on her.

She was going to burn the Capitol down from the inside out.

[h-ironosarchive]

♯ ┆ starter  for  …  𝕵𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄  𝐙𝐇𝐔𝐈𝐘𝐔𝐍  :  𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄,  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃  𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑

a  thread  featuring   ›  jesse  zhuiyun  &&  zane  keres.  (  @d3spite  ) location  ›  a  random  bar  in  myrithen,  late  in  the  evening. possible  tw  ›   alcohol  consumption  ??

myrithen,  as  far  as  zane's  standards  go,  has  been  incredibly  weird  and  full  of  surprises.  there  has  yet  to  be  a  shortage  of  interesting  faces  no  matter  where  he  goes,  which  he  assumes  to  be  a  good  thing.  even  if  there  was  a  few  …  challenges  along  the  way,  zane  was  someone  who  was  good  at  adapting.  he  was  excellent  at  it,  actually.  and  that  is  what  originally  led  him  to  the  bar  —  his  adaptability;  a  chance  to  adapt  to  the  chillier  weather  of  myrithen.  after  all,  alcohol  always  warmed  him  up.  and  just  like  all  the  other  times  he  had  frequented  this  bar,  he  wasn't  alone.  colourful  personalities  filled  the  tavern,  all  catching  his  watchful  eyes,  ears  picking  up  on  every  little  conversation. 

sniff  …  sniffle  …  was  someone  crying?

zane's  attention  quickly  turned  towards  the  sound,  surprised  at  just  how  close  the  crying  sounded  to  him.  it  wasn't  hard  to  find  the  culprit;  an  elf  —  maybe?  was  that  what  they  called  the  pointy-eared  population  of  myrithen?  he  was  still  getting  used  to  the  terminology.  but  whatever  he  was,  he  was  crying  rather  quietly,  nursing  whatever  drink  he  had  in  front  of  him,  his  face  full  of  sadness  …  almost  like  a  sad  puppy.  and  naturally  —  being  the  caring  person  that  he  was,  zane  sighed;  his  own  face  forming  into  a  frown,  somehow  being  affected  by  the  stranger's  emotions,  patting  his  shoulder  in  reassurance. 

“  hey,  stranger!  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  why  are  you  crying  and  looking  as  if  someone  just  stole  all  your  hopes  and  dreams?  ”  he  asked,  a  little  chuckle  following  his  words,  though  it  didn't  seem  to  make  the  stranger  laugh.  hmm  …  he  could  try  another  move.  but  ..  why  was  he  also  feeling  so  sad  at  the  moment??  he  didn't  remember  ever  being  this  empathetic.  “  you  okay?  did  you  just  get  broken  up  with,  or  something?  sir  —  a  round  over  here  for  us,  please!  ”

[amelias-zelda-calamity-quintet]

Mark of a Hero | Post-Part 1 Q&A

First of all, thank y'all so much for the support on Mark of a Hero! This is the first fic I've actively been posting to AO3, I was/am previously on Wattpad when I was originally writing Goddess of Secrecy and MoaH, and the welcome here has been fantastic getting back into MoaH. Y'all are amazing. And here we are! Post part 1! So let's get into it.

When will MoaH continue?

Part 2 - Farona will start releasing February 4th with a full release week to get y'all started. I'll leave you with the new MoaH blurb at the bottom of this post as a teaser.

So you really mean it's 9 books long?

Yes, I really mean it's 9 books long. Plus a possible prequel, but I can't talk about that until book 3 is starting to release. You'll understand.

What are the odds you finish a 9 book series?

Considering that, as this is going out, I have just begun book 4 having written everything post the first 23 chapters as of coming back in May '24, pretty good. I will say support goes a long way to boosting those odds. Kudos, hits, bookmarks, visible support that people are enjoying my work enough to recommend it to other people/let me know. A big part I'm writing this for me, but I do also like to watch numbers go up and it gives me a lot of motivation when I hit milestones. And I'm a storyteller! I like to know people are listening, you know?

If you're looking for an easy comment thread I'm always interested in reading, I love people diving into theorycrafting and I've left a number of threads for y'all to explore. Easy one here, you all obviously know Farona is book 2 now, but what do you think the order of adventure the rest of the series will be and why? Let me know in the comments and reblogs of this post, or drop it in my ask box!

Will the release schedule stay the same/two chapters a week?

Very likely it will remain 2 chapters a week with the occasional week long release. Right now, the upload schedule gives me a good buffer to get ahead on MoaH without a lot of pressure to write on a "schedule." If I need to take a break, I have a backlog to fall back on. Staying ahead of it serves as its own kind of motivation. It may eventually speed up, but for now, I don't want to get ahead of myself and then fall behind on that backlog. And when I eventually get around to going back to do beta reading/second round edits, it means less chapters will be released having not had that pass. You can see more about my editing process below.

Is Ambrose really a normal old man?

Yes, of course, he's a normal old man.

What do you think of fanworks of MoaH?

Give.

No, but seriously, it's the biggest compliment to hear MoaH has inspired people. That I've already gotten fanart and fanfics of my fanfic is crazy to me. I have resources for most of the cast, and I will absolutely answer any questions y'all have (barring future spoilers). I'm happy to keep it in my folder too if you don't want to post it and cherish it forever on my own.

But to resupport the "how likely am I to finish the book" one of my early readers sent me fanart just like a week ago of the main cast and I cracked out 50k in three days for them because I was so motivated after to finish the arc and book 3 after. Food for thought.

What does your editing process look like?

So my editing process has three general stages: my pass, early readers, and then heavy edits/beta readers. Let's break that down.

First, my pass. This is my writing and editing MoaH on my own. Heavy edits can be a huge momentum killer for me and fic writing for me is primarily a hobby, so this is a pass of light edits for most typos, grammar, and easy worldbuilding catches. All chapters of MoaH get this.

Next is early readers/early book club. This is a process I have open on the Expanding Hyrule Discord if folks are interested (though probably not very many more folks), but it is a slightly more extensive version of the first pass: questions about overall story structure, pacing, and any glaring plot holes, but not really heavy edits. My early readers (shout outs again to @doubtfulloser and @the--voided) get the arcs as I finish writing them, and then give me feedback while I press on with the next arc. And I call it early book club because in big part it's getting to talk to someone about what's actively being written while chapters are so far ahead from what's releasing. They're wrapping up with book 3 right now!

Last, is heavy edits/beta readers. I would like to, eventually, go back through MoaH as I plan to with GoS with a fine tooth comb and really iron it out. But, like I said, heavy edits kill my momentum and I need to get this series drafted first as a whole before I can go back to refine. And a half decent first draft with the chance of support to finish the rest is better than squirreling this story away to myself while I get lost in perfectionism to make it the best thing ever. Right? This process will begin when all of MoaH is written, at current pace, probably when book 3 is releasing. This is also part of why I want the buffer, few chapters that will release without all three passes.

What can I expect from the rest of MoaH?

More adventure, more magic, more monsters! Part 1 ends with the massive quest of traveling seven new nations and tackling their dungeons. But much like entry into the Temple of Inverted Time, this will not be such a simple task. New friends and foes await on the path ahead!

There is also, rest assured, a long-term relationship left to build between our recently proclaimed love birds. More Zelink straight ahead as these two learn to balance their romance between the distance and the responsibility of their new titles. Along with exploring the mysteries of Link's already established party members as the quest tests their friendships! Saddiqah and Ambrose are along for the ride as well.

What would you recommend to tide me over to read while I wait on MoaH?

Oh man, first, big recommendation to anything in @expanding-hyrule if you're looking for more original legend stories like MoaH. I have read a lot of the lists or been recommended on the rest, and I guarantee you'll find something you like in there. Currently something like 50 works on AO3 already, plus some FFN works and some great comics and art projects to check out linked in the art archive on the blog too. And we're looking for more!

If you're looking for more from me, might I recommend diving into the story of the Hero of the Convergence and this Link's Shade with Goddess of Secrecy? This work is complete and being imported over from Wattpad in small bursts every week. While you don't need to read it to understand MoaH, they do share some connected lore, largely in minor nods and references but also in some worldbuilding notes, like the Horned Goddess. Kind of a OoT to TP/WW kind of connection. And maybe some hints on our favorite normal old man buried in there. It also happens to be sitting in Wattpad's top 20 or so most read LoZ fics, so I'm a little proud of it even if it's due some revisions.

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

Mark of a Hero (Updates on Tuesdays & Fridays, 2 of 9)

A new champion draws the Master Sword, and the legend begins anew. But the door beneath the Temple of Time remains sealed, lest the Hero can open it once more. Link Sayre, Saddiqah El Amin, and Ambrose head west to Hyrule's forested neighbor, Farona, to seek out the first of the Sealing Stones. But perhaps their quest is not as secret as they'd like to believe.

[2demondogs]

Get These Damn Angels Drunk | Dutch/Carmichael

Tags: young VanDerMatthews, seduction but no smut, Dutch has a plan, canon-typical violence, smoking, power dynamics Word Count: 4.2k A/N: The fleeting idea of why Sheriff Carmichael might have been too embarrassed to comment on their escape from Kettering came to my mind. I realize I spell it both Carmichael and Carmicheal. This is because I don't care about him. I am sorry. (Not enough to fix it lel)

The only thing Dutch despises more than being confined is being well-behaved.

In the past, before Hosea's terrible voice of reason came to him, he would have been running his mouth where his feet could no longer run. Good behavior is a concept so foreign that, after a few whisper-arguments across the cell hall with Hosea in their first week locked up in Kettering, Dutch was forced to ask what exactly behaving behind bars... meant.

It didn't mean full honesty, no; to quell Hosea's nerves after a particularly heated discussion with one of their buyers, they'd agreed on a story to tell the police which made their scheme appear far more juvenile. Dutch could pass for twenty on a good day, Hosea for twenty-six or -seven — they have played to their youth before to slink off unscathed. Dutch still upholds that they jinxed themselves, that instead of discussing the thought whatsoever they should have turned on their heels and skittered off with the three-hundred bucks.

His own greed was part of the reason they continued, but his hindsight remains twenty-twenty.

Even if he cannot call the sheriff a lucky invert for locking up two handsome fellers as themselves — a choice slur for mutton-shunters, which he favored in his youth and finds ironically hilarious now — Dutch has used the time Hosea's been in fitful slumbers to think.

His personal wants are taken into account, because otherwise he has nowhere to stem an escape from. That old story about Benjamin Franklin asking a rival to lend him a book; small favors, big turnarounds.

First, a cigar. His fingers itched for one the whole first week, so badly that they began to twitch, too. Dutch finds himself pressing his fingers to his lips in that familiar grip-pattern now and then, holding his breath as if he's got a something to puff on while he stares out the barred window into the alleyway between the sheriff's office and a general store. (Sometimes a feller takes a piss near the boxes stacked in the back, but not much beyond the light changes out there.)

Second, to be with Hosea. It might have been easier, to be apart, if they were not able to see and speak to each other across the two sets of bars that separate them.

As it is, they talk all day and stare all night; Dutch feels the terrible limbo of their separation eating at his dignity each hour. Some days, he yearns to ask Hosea to speak filth to him so he might imagine they are holding one another like animals do — another day goes by, another inch of what recognized softness exists between them turns carnal, it seems.

It was fresh morning outside when he murmured this plan to Hosea. They've become used to the lawmen feeding their horses around nine or ten, heading to the general store to restock each other's smokes and drinks; they treat it like a damned university, really, and that only pisses Dutch off more.

If they want to be beacons of purity, why not act like ridding the world of Sin is their job? He feels like a child put into detention for throwing rocks at another.

Not that he would know from experience with the latter just how redundant every piece of it feels.

Hosea seems amused, but willing. Dutch had not thought of any jealousy or anger he might react with, not until Hosea's brows drew together at the end of his spun-thread and he feared he would be upset — it wasn't until that moment he realized, should Hosea have offered to be the sacrifical succubus, he'd've turned green — but the blond simply asked: "Everyone 'round here knows our looks, and we only got changes on the horses. How do we get out of the building?"

The solution to that is rather simple, they decide.

"Sheriff?"

A sigh, heavy and rough with smoke. The smell of burning tobacco drifting down the hall from the front desk makes his question sound more genuine.

"C'mere," Dutch calls. His rings clink against the cell bars as he wraps his hands around them. "Will ya?"

A Lord is muttered. "The Hell's it now, Landers?"

Dutch sees Hosea's mouth curl into a grin at the pseudonym, has to bite his cheek and clear his throat to stave off a smirk of his own. The blond curls into his bed as Carmichael's bootfalls near them, standing a respectable distance from Dutch's door.

He thinks I'll swing at him. Smart man.

"I asked you somethin' boy," the man says. His eyes are narrow and green, hooded by tired old lids. He must be a few years older than Hosea from how he carries himself, but his face is more unlined than Dutch's own.

Ancient princess of shit.

"I smelled your cigarette," Dutch starts, softening his voice as if he were pleading. "Y'see, I smoke cigars everyday myself. At least, 'fore I wound up here. So, now," — holding out his hand, tensing the muscles in his wrist to make his fingers twitch — "I got the shakes from quittin' 'em, like that." Carmichael nods, as if considering before Dutch even gets to the point: "What I'd like is to roll a cigar. Get this misery outta myself. I had a rolling case in my satchel."

His lips remain pursed beneath the undergrown mustache on his lip, smoke falling out of Carmichael's notrils as he takes the filter between his thumb and forefinger to point his middle finger towards him. "Nice sob story," he says. "What can you do for me, son?"

This wasn't expected.

The two outlaws believed they were on good enough behavior — if a little quiet, when the sheriff was around — to at least earn a smoke.

Inwardly, he berates himself for not considering that regardless of their behavior, they did scam enough money out of this man's town to get themselves a hundred barrels of flour.

Outwardly, Dutch wheels his plan forward and drags his eyes down Carmichael's body. He isn't an ugly man: he might be a princess degrading the title of lawman to businessman, but he clearly grew up working harder than this. A farmer's son, he would guess, or a farmhand in his last years of youth.

Some money or a good harvest came his way, and out of the sun he went. Yet he still worked, still kept himself built right. His shirt fits snugly over his arms and chest, hidden by the vest buttoned firmly down his torso; the trousers at his hips—

The man clears his throat before Dutch's eyes can laser through how the pant legs crease around his knees.

"What can you do for me?" Carmichael repeats, each word its own sentence.

Dutch looks towards his eyes, tries to find something to arouse genuine want along those smooth cheekbones.

"I'on know," he says, quirks the corner of his mouth up. "What'd'ya like from me, hoss?"

Panic flicks through Carmichael's eyes. It's nearly audible how the man reads deeper into things Dutch has said or done over the course of his hold here — things that had no such meanings, yet now sound suspiciously fond of the man in charge, suspiciously compliant. Hosea shifts in the cell across from his, and he hopes the mirth in his eyes reads suitably to the man between them.

Panic bleeds into something affirmative, yet unreadable to Dutch. The rosiness he can see along the sheriff's cheeks fills in the blanks.

"I'll get you your cigar," Carmichael says finally. As he's stalking towards the lockers, he hears him murmur: "Invert." He's tasting the word, not spitting it out, and Dutch will insist he was able to read his sexuality off his face if Hosea ever asks how he thought this plan would work.

He doesn't seem to be asking much from his cell. Hosea stands, comes to the bars to laugh silently, and scurries back to his cot as the sheriff walks towards them again. Again, Dutch feels immature — this prison thing is just one big child's game.

"I cannot give you your lighter," Carmichael says, as if reading a script off the back of his lids every time he blinks. He must give other prisoners their smokes more often; Dutch realizes these men must really dislike the two of them, neither having been offered a smoke break since the night they were thrown to rot. "I also cannot give you your razor blade. What's that for, anyways?"

"In the tin?"

"Aye."

Dutch raises his brows, genuine surprise. "Not a cigar smoker, are you? Don't roll your own smokes at all?"

"I ain't one for, ah," — Carmichael glancing around, tapping his fingers against the tin in his hands — "Working on pleasure. Always bought cigarettes. Pre-made."

Dutch must swallow the delight at it. Oh, he's bit the bait. "I find the work the most pleasurable part," he says, holding his hand out for the tin as if the words spoken are totally innocuous.

Carmichael flinches — flinches, by God, Dutch can hardly contain himself — before handing the tin through the slats. It is a few items lighter, and he sees the light of the noon glint off his lighter in the palm of Carmichael's hand.

"I gotta stand here," he says, once Dutch turns to sit on his cot and sort through the supplies in his tin.

Dutch is hardly paying him mind with the immediate promise of nicotine at his lap. No whiskey to moisten the tobacco with, he must have removed that, too. Deputy probably drank it, he thinks sourly.

"I gotta light it for you, since you ain't allowed to have this." He lifts his head, nods with a small smile.

"I understand. Can't give maniacs matches, can we?"

"You're far from a maniac," Carmichael says. "Bit too smart to be crazy, y'all are. That's why you're dangerous."

"You're complimentin' some criminals, sheriff?" Dutch asks.

"Naw." He can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice, doesn't need to look up from pinching the tobacco into its wrapper. "Much less impressive to have arrested some lucky assholes."

He huffs a laugh.

If only he believed that, he thinks, he might have saved himself from his fate. As it stands, Dutch finishes rolling his cigar and stands, stretches his legs out one after another 'til the stiff knees crack. He can feel eyes on him as he watches the toes of his boots shift.

They hadn't given them the county stripes — honestly, Dutch was beginning to think the men up front forgot the men were even holed up in here. His clothes are soaked with dirt and sweat, though, which is a divine enough punishment for imitating men of luxury; he'll be glad when the strench of tobacco covers this reek back up.

"Care to trim it?" Dutch asks, holding the butt firmly between his fingers, the tip of the cigar through the bars. "That's what the razor is for."

He fights the urge to speak a sarcastic good boy when Carmichael follows his instructions.

The lighter flicks open and on, the sheriff steps closer; Dutch presses his nose uncomfortably between the cool steel bars to let the end light from between his lips. Slowly, he raises his hand to touch Carmichael's knuckles, dancing over his fingers as he gently pushes and pulls his hand back and forth. The back of his hand is hairy, thinly so; dark brown sunfreckles and a few small age spots spatter it and up onto his arm.

"Let me," — the cigar perched between his teeth makes it come across less sultry than intended — "Guide ya hand, sir."

Touching him becomes self-explanatory when the end lights more evenly after the change in tactic — Dutch will be damned if his first smoke in weeks is ruined by an unruly burn. The man still flushes, again, must feel hot as an ember.

He knows, because he's met his eyes again, feigning timidity at the proximity.

Dutch's gaze lingers as he withdraws, hollows his cheeks more than he needs to — although the cigar is a little too tight, his hands having fallen out of practice without the constant stream of leaves between them — and tongues the smoke around in his mouth. The rush is immediate and almost dizzying. He keeps the butt close to his face, draws it along his stubble as he does when he smokes deep in thought.

It helps to taste it, some; it also helps to spread that rouge down Carmichael's neck. He moves his jaw, shows the nicotine-stained teeth that line it as he sneers.

"I oughtta tack sodomy above your head, fool," Carmichael spits, then.

Dutch must not feign surprise for the second time. "Why?" He draws, sacrifices a short hit to exhale it quickly. "I ain't fucked no men yet."

Yet.

The sheriff looks like he would very much enjoy replying to that. And although the cigar could burn something, could catch his clothes on fire if he really wanted to try; although he, an inmate, has now provided the sheriff with a threat of sorts — Carmichael wordlessly motions for the rolling tin back and pivots to look at Hosea's hat-concealed face before returning to the front.

He tips his hat up once he's gone, and sees the humor on his face. "Wrapped around your finger," he mouths.

"Just like you," Dutch replies silently. The older man scoffs.

Night has fallen before Sheriff Carmichael makes his first supposed-to-be routine round of the next evening. Dutch was able to sleep a good few hours away while Hosea traced random bricks in the walls or woodgrains on the floor planks. Neither has had adequate, regular rest since those doors closed.

He and Hosea have been playing games they've forced up from their childhood memories to pass the time: the game of this hour is guess what number he's thinking of. Hosea keeps thinking of the number thirteen because they are so terribly unlucky, and Dutch keeps winning. Each time he does, Hosea stretches his curled back out and lets his boot soles press against the bars in a full-body stretch, spreading his legs nicely, before proclaiming: "Again."

If not for the boots that stepped between them, they'd have changed gears to guess what word he's thinking of.

Sat in front of their bars, Hosea cross-legged and Dutch with his haunches splayed beneath him, they must look like bored animals. Dutch has a feeling that this angle makes Carmichael nervous — he turns his head minimally, lets his eyes turn up instead.

The man sets his jaw. Before he can speak, he is slipped from the cavernous, almost disassociated mindset that had been guessing thirteen and back into that of the predator.

"You a righteous man, sheriff?" He asks, voice quiet. He focuses on his eyes; he has decided Carmichael's eyes are rather alright, a light green and very expressive.

In them, he sees the repression that's been radiating off the man since yesterday's morningtime.

His face flickers. "Why, son?"

He bites his cheek to stave off a grin, ends up looking more coyly amused than anything. "Ain't no righteous man ever looked at me like that."

Carmichael is still — he might harkon to call it hesitating — before slowly lowering onto a knee. "And what is like that?" He asks, tone low, eyes squinting as if to size Dutch up one last time.

He leans forward, swallows the joy of the man's fingers twitching where they rest of his bent knee, tips brushing against the folds of his khakis. "I'd say it's hungry," Dutch says. "Would I be right, sir?"

"I ain't no sodomite," Carmichael says, sticks a finger through the bars and into Dutch's forehead. His voice sounds as unconvinced as he looks of his own words. "I ain't."

"Eyes don't lie." Dutch smooths over his shirt, shifts where he sits on the hard floor as it begins to make his tailbone yell. He'll be glad when this game can be over and won; he's never had a man dare to put his damned, rotten finger between his eyes like it was a gun, like he ought to be scared of it.

Pathetic. Self-important. He will like to have been, in any capacity, the unsightly taker of this man's homosexual virginity, just as well as he will like to be on his horse and out of Kettering.

"'Mon," he goades, as the sheriff looms before him, fighting with himself in the quiet. "I ain't known you to back out of a," — licking his lips, feeling almost like a prostitute for how hard he has began trying to seduce him — "Tight spot."

Self-important, Carmichael is. He mutters insult after insult; Hosea must be an invert, too, I won't bother takin' you down the block 'cuz he pro'ly likes to watch. He lets them tumble out as if speaking them louder than the jingle of his keychain will change that those keys are unlocking the cell door, or that his words are constructed sloppily in the way that a man who is really self-depreciating insults another.

Dutch has risen to his knees, then pushed himself up to standing — only to be backed into a corner the moment the door clinks shut, key still in the lock. His head is pushed where the corner of the bars meets solid brick wall, hair and skin scraping the rough texture as his ears and shoulders are pinned uncomfortably, one clipped by grit and one chilled by metal spindles.

Carmichael is mad, and he thinks he's stronger.

Stronger than Dutch; stronger than his desires.

If only he knew how weak finally giving in can make a man of brawn. Dutch had discovered it when he laid with Hosea those months ago; his knees gave out on him as if he were the eldest there, his heart wanted to burst out of his chest and it made him dizzy, so dizzy — he fell into Hosea and thought no more about whether it was immoral for a sinner like himself to commit yet another crime.

Their mouths meeting is less of a kiss and more of a brawl, Carmichael already slipping through the cracks of decency. Dutch has fondled his way across his shoulders — broad, pleasantly, they must take the same shirt size — and into his hair, tipping his hat off his head to tumble down their side.

Fingers press hard into his throat, his clavicle. The button at his collar pops, tugging chest hair with it, before he realizes Carmichael is undressing him, not strangling him; the bloodrush of not knowing is intoxicating.

It may be business, but there's pleasure in doing such a menial task with the right man, as fleeting as it may be.

And it is pleasant, for a moment.

Carmichael allows Dutch to taste his teeth as long as groans fall out of his open mouth, a real ego-glutton; the man's stubble is prickly and if he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath to escape the scent of cologne and leather, he can almost pretend he's kissing Hosea. His darling smells more like horses and earth and metal.

It is irking him how he bites so callously at his jaw, and then his neck; Dutch winces as he sucks hard and fast at his jugular, worse than a damned vampire. It stings, and although the sharp pain down his chest lights him up—

The sheriff's hands are ripping at his belt — expensive leather, expensive buckle, the godforsaken rat — and he has suddenly had his fill of playing cooperative. Dutch grabs at his shoulders, his shirt; he grabs softly at first, then hard enough to bruise.

Carmichael does not notice nor care, not until he is twisted violently into the bars, and Dutch clings onto his biceps to throw the stunned man into the brick wall as hard as he can. The shout is cut off quickly. His nerves are strung tight and his muscles are weaker for it, but the pig is unconscious and bleeding from a long scrape on his sunburnt forehead when Dutch kneels beside his body to double-check.

Hosea's high whistle makes him near jump from his skin. He looks up and meets his eyes as he feels for a pulse on Carmichael's neck; there is one, and it's racing.

"My, Big Cat, you've still got it." He's grinning, broad as spread hands, hazel eyes sparkling as if he were one of them caught in all the action.

Dutch huffs a laugh as he drops the wrist and stands up. It's hoarse.

"Get ready to strip 'im before he comes to," he says, messes with the cluster of keys to open his cell. "I'll find somethin' to tie him up with."

He thumbs through them to find Hosea's — if mine's A3, he must be B3 — feels himself go near-crosseyed with the excitement of freedom, and humiliating the passed-out dope in his old room.

Hosea grazes a hand along his open collar when the bars are slung aside, but passes quickly by. There's no time to waste here; the deputy could pop in at any moment, maybe even a townsperson who'd witnessed another, devilish pair like Dutch and Hosea passing on through. While it is enticing to think of, the risk far outweighs the reward, now.

A hammer is striking in his chest, strikes against a fist there as he trots to the front of the police station. He rummages blindly through the desk and then passes into the deputy's office. From what Dutch had seen, he did seem like the outdoorsy type — just as well, he finds a lasso hanging by the door from a thin wooden peg.

Spare? Favorite? It will fit fine around Carmicharl's wrists and ankles either way, although he cannot think of which origin would add more flavor.

The humor gets to him, then, and when he comes down the corridor to see Hosea smacking a half-conscious sheriff's head back into peaceful emptiness by way of the hardwood, he barks a laugh.

His partner looks up at him, pale blond eyelashes catching the light of the moon. It draws deep shadows over his eyes and mouth, makes him look wild.

"What's so damn funny?" Hosea asks. He laughs, too.

Grins don't leave them, not even as they toss Carmichael every way to Sunday robbing him of his clothes. He is limp as a cadaver. Their mouths only waver having to look at his nudity in any exact detail; suddenly, Dutch is no longer able to convince himself of his physical alrightness, is more interested in worming his way into the pack of smokes that fell from his trousers and lighting two cigarettes for themselves.

"I don't reckon you'll need his underthings, will you?" Hosea asks. Dutch uses his turned, questioning face as an opportunity to stick a lit smoke between his lips.

He scoffs, brings his own to his mouth as he discards the matches on the ground. "Take 'em off anyways."

That— that is boisterously funny. Dutch doesn't believe he's ever heard Hosea giggle before, not even once in their years running together. The cigarette drops from his lips and burns into Carmichael's back, and Hosea plucks it up easily to take a drag.

He aches to kiss him. His throat hurts for his lips, their tender affection over his hate-bruised skin. Ever the gentleman, Hosea does brush a kiss along his cheek as he helps Dutch button the last of the stolen shirt's front — but not more, yet. He complains that kneeling on this tough ground makes his hips ache, and Dutch strokes his hair once, twice. It is wiry with dirt and sweat.

Carmichael's skin is warm enough beneath his palms that Dutch doesn't care to check his pulse again. He holds the arms and legs of the man steady, Hosea securing them together in a mean hogtie.

His prick should smart a storm when he's awoken, if the muscles twitching in his ass and thighs as they drag him towards the center of the wooden floor say anything.

Overkill? Certainly.

Delightful? Monstrously.

"All he's missin' is an apple in his mouth," Hosea says dryly, blows out a cloud.

Dutch almost hollers.

No one suspected anything of Sheriff Carmichael's shadow escorting a lone criminal out of town. Hosea kept his head down, hat pulled firmly over his brow; Dutch gripped his forearm, though no handcuffs bound his wrists behind him. The man carried Dutch's hat in his fists to hide their freeness.

How suspiciously obedient. What training does Carmichael put on his prisoners? Dutch thinks, bites back a fresh fit of laughter that would break their already imperfect, night-covered illusion.

He can hardly contain himself.

Their horses were kept in the sheriff's stables this whole time. At least the animals feed them, they agree, glancing over the other, tempting opportunities to snatch a pack-mule from the unfamiliar horses stalled up.

Hosea's Penny was the happiest of the two to see her man, jaw hanging loose as if to smile when her big brown eyes settled on Hosea's softened ones.

Dutch's horse was a fresh reign — he hadn't even named him before they were took up, and the animal started seeing the broad-brimmed police hat on his head.

That makes him angry. He wishes he'd put his cigarette out on Carmichael's shriveled up balls instead of his front-desk nameplate