#might polish and put it on AO3 later but for now it's just for the hellsite <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[leashybebes]

living at the edge of the world (2/2)

part 1 | ao3 version here

aaaaand we're done. needs a polish but it should be on ao3 early next week if anyone prefers to read there!

The hospital moves around him.

That's how it feels. Like Buck, still in his turnouts, is pinned and at the mercy of gravity (gravity pulling at the chopper, fighting with mechanics and engineering and winning, always winning and - no) while the whole world moves around him, able to go on somehow, while he's just - here. Noises blur and blend into a background roar that fades under the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, the lights are too bright, his hands hurt from how tight he's been balling them into fists to stop them shaking. 

Tommy had disappeared through those doors into surgery with a crowd of doctors and nurses around him and even knowing that he wouldn't be allowed, Buck had tried to follow only to be - gently, kindly, firmly turned back. And now he's sitting here, him and Tommy both victims of gravity, and Tommy might as well be on the other side of the planet for how far away he feels.

Time stretches and compresses around him, meaningless waves of seconds and minutes and centuries.

He still hasn't cried.

Hen shows up first, with a bag of his clothes and a hug that he collapses into.

"They won't tell me anything," he says, muffled into her shoulder. "I'm not - not an emergency contact."

"Okay," she says. "Go get changed. I'll talk to them."

Buck blinks and he's in the bathroom, dressed in the clothes Hen must have taken from his locker.

His turnouts won't fit into the bag. He remembers they had the same problem after Maddie and Chim's wedding - Tommy's turnouts too large and too stiff to fit in a bag. Buck had run them down to the Jeep, part of him thrilling at the sight of Tommy's name, right there on his backseat. He flips his own turnouts inside out to try to keep the mess off his clothes.

Blinks and he's back in the waiting room.

"He'll be in surgery for a while," Hen says when she sits back down next to him. "His emergency contact is on the way, we'll find out more then. Sorry I couldn't get more out of them."

"That's okay," Buck says, and his voice comes out croaky and weak. He clears his throat, but doesn't have anything to say.

Hen puts her arm around his shoulders and it takes him a beat to lean into it.

"Tommy's tough," she says, and he nods, trying not to remember how scared Tommy had looked, how scared he'd sounded, those awful moments in the ambulance where he'd - where he'd had to be brought back, because - because he was gone.

"I should have told him," he says. 

"Hmm?"

"That I love him. I should have said it. Hen, why didn't I say it?"

"You'll get the chance," she tells him. "You've gotta believe that."

Some indeterminate period of time later, Chim arrives, side by side with -

"Sal!"

He looks harried, still in his uniform, like he came right from his station on the other side of town. Buck only met him a couple of times when he and Tommy were dating, didn't know he'd be the emergency contact, but it makes sense. Tommy's cousin lives near Portland - shit, someone should call him, Buck thinks - and it would have to be someone local.

"Hey, kid," Sal says. "You got here quick."

"We were at the scene," Hen says, her voice heavy with a significance Buck can't parse right now.

"Ah, hell. Alright. Hang tight."

Chim sits on the other side of Buck, him and Hen like brackets, holding Buck together. Buck thinks they're talking but he can't hear it, can't look away from where Sal is at the nurse's station, talking seriously and quietly with someone Buck can't see. 

"Can - can someone let Eddie know?" Buck asks. 

"Already did," Chim says. "Maddie's dropping Jee with Anne and John and she'll be here as soon as she can."

Buck nods, draws breath to say something about Tommy's cousin but it sticks in his throat when Sal turns and heads back towards them.

"Okay," he says. "He's still in surgery, probably will be for a bit yet because of some internal bleeding and they want to set the breaks they can while he's under, too. They sound hopeful, though. They said the care he got on the scene was top rate, really pulled him through. Guess we have you two to thank for that," he adds, glancing at Hen and Chim.

"That's good to hear," Hen says. "I'm gonna do a coffee run, update Karen. Sal, you still milk, no sugar?"

"Aw, Wilson, I'm touched. Usually yeah, but put like, four, five sugars in there for me, okay? Could be a long night."

"Gross," Chim says mildly, but it sounds like a reflex.

"Buck?" Hen prompts. "You want anything else?"

Buck shakes his head mechanically. His stomach hurts. Set the breaks and internal bleeding ricocheting around in his head. 

"Okay," Hen says gently, squeezing his shoulder. She exchanges a glance with Sal, who takes her vacated chair next to Buck as soon as she stands.

Time does its thing - swooping, contracting, passing with no new information. More people trickle in as the hours pass. 

Maddie sits next to Buck and holds his hand. Bobby hugs him and makes awkward small talk with Sal. Lucy and a couple of other people from Harbor trickle in and take up seats around the room. Buck's phone vibrates intermittently in his pocket but he can't bring himself to look at it.

All he can think about is Tommy. Tommy looking so scared. Tommy bleeding and crying and saying how glad he was to see Buck. 

I love you, Buck thinks, hoping wildly that Tommy will hear it somehow.

Finally, finally, an exhausted looking doctor steps through the doors and says, "Family of Tommy Kinard?"

Everybody looks around from where they're seated, talking in twos and threes. Chim nudges Lucy awake and she flails a little. Sal stands to meet the doctor. Buck wants to stand too, but he feels like he's made of lead, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that it's all he can feel. He can't read the doctor's face at all, can't hear what she's saying, can only see that her mouth is moving.

"So he's gonna be okay," Sal says, and then - Buck doesn't know. Sal's saying other things, people are talking, making relieved noises, but he can't hear a word of it. His ears are ringing, his head is spinning, his heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest.

Buck's breath rattles in his chest, and dimly he hears Maddie's voice.

" - ck? Buck? Hey, it's okay, just breathe," she urges. 

And oh, there they are. There are the tears. It's a good job he didn't manage to stand before, because he's pretty sure he'd be on the floor by now if he had. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, lets Maddie hold him from one side, Bobby from the other, doesn't think about the other people in the room - half of them little more than strangers to him - and cries and cries.

Once he's settled down - once he's cried himself out - he realizes that the room is a little less full. 

"Where'd - " he croaks, and clears his throat. "Where'd they go?"

"Captain Harman and Lucy have gone to update the rest at Harbor," Maddie says. "Chim's collecting Jee, and Hen's gone to swap over with Karen. She'll be here soon. Eddie called a couple times."

Buck nods. "I'll call him back later."

"Wash your face, kid," Sal says, not unkindly. "We can go sit with him if you want."

Buck starts to launch himself to his feet but finds himself pressed back into the seat by Bobby, who's holding out a pre-packed hospital cafeteria sandwich and a protein bar.

"Eat something first," he orders, and Buck reluctantly agrees. Even that little movement had been enough to make him feel dizzy. He chokes down the food even though it's so much sawdust, and eventually he finds himself in Tommy's hospital room. 

More tears threaten to spring to his eyes at the sight - the cast on his arm, the bulk under the covers of what must be another under the covers, the stitches near his hairline, the IVs, the machines, the beeping. He breathes through it and hesitates before Sal shoves him towards the seat next to the head of the bed. He drags it around a little so he can sit at Tommy's side, carefully taking hold of the hand on his uninjured arm.

"Jesus fucking christ. Kinard and his hero bullshit," Sal mumbles, sounding shaky for the first time.

"You need to sit?" Buck asks, not looking away from Tommy's face.

"For a second," Sal says, collapsing into the other chair. "I need to update Gina and the kids. I spoke to the staff, you can stay."

"Thank you," Buck says absently. 

Time continues to pass. Staff and second visitors come and go, and thankfully no one even suggests that Buck should move. Lucy drops by with food at one point, assuring him it's lunch time, and sitting with him while he eats. Chim comes by and tells him about the last time he was waiting in a hospital for Tommy, drops off a Get Well Soon card from Jee that joins the growing little cluster on the table next to the bed.

When he's left on his own with Tommy at one point, Buck gets up to pace the room, stiff from sitting in hospital chairs for what must be going on double digit hours now, if it's not already long past. It's when he sits down that he notices the fluttering of Tommy's eyelashes. It could be nothing, he tells himself, as he holds his breath and watches, his hand hovering over the call button. When Tommy's good hand starts twitching, when he tries to lift it towards the mask on his face, Buck slams the button.

"Hey," he says softly. "Stay still for me, baby. You're in the hospital. It's okay, someone's coming."

A nurse appears in the doorway and Buck retreats from the bed. He feels like he's more present in his head now than he was before, mentally taking notes on the nurse's conversation with the doctor he summons, on what they both say to Tommy and to him. As they're leaving, he fires off a text to the group chat, then puts away his phone and takes Tommy's hand again.

Those beautiful blue eyes, still a little hazy with painkillers, turn to him.

"Evan."

"Hey, Tommy. You scared the crap out of us," he says. Tommy's hand, shaking a little, lifts to his face, strokes his thumb over Buck's cheek like the tears are still visible.

"Sorry," he croaks. "Needed a week off and really didn't wanna use up my PTO."

Buck laughs, shaky and a little wild, presses his cheek more firmly into Tommy's hand. "You dick," he says fondly. "Here."

He grabs a glass of water from the bedside table, holds the straw steady for Tommy to take a couple of sips.

"Thanks," Tommy says, sounding a bit more like himself.

"That's okay," Buck says. 

"Were - you were there?"

"Yeah," Buck says, and Tommy's eyes close briefly.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I - I should have been less - I was being selfish - "

And Buck - he can't stand to hear that again. Can't stand to hear Tommy calling himself selfish for using what he probably thought were his dying breaths to try to comfort Buck.

"I love you," he says. 

Tommy's mouth opens. Closes. He frowns as though he might have heard that wrong.

"W-what?"

"I don't know if you remember, I - I said we'd talk? In the hospital?"

"I remember," Tommy says. "But - "

"We will," Buck promises. "We'll talk. We have so much to talk about. But the last - jesus, the last 12 hours, I guess, I've been sitting there with all our friends, and I've just been thinking, I should have told him. He should know. So. Now you do. I love you."

"Evan - "

"You don't have to say it. It's okay. I know it's a lot. I know I'm a lot. But. I was sitting out there, with Sal, and Lucy, and your captain - she is scary, by the way - and Hen and Maddie and Chim and Bobby and everyone, and I just couldn't stop thinking…does he know? Like does he know any of these people love him? Does he know I love him?"

"Well," Tommy says after a beat. "Now I do."

"Now you do," Buck says. His phone is blowing up and he starts to reach for it, but Tommy squeezes his hand to keep his attention.

"Hey. I love you too," Tommy says. "I want - I want us to talk, but I'm so tired, I just - I love you so much. I love you now, I loved you when I left, and it scares the shit out of me."

"Me too," Buck admits, ignoring the way his voice cracks.

"Be brave together?" Tommy suggests.

"That sounds perfect," Buck says. "Go to sleep, honey. I'll be here when you wake up."

"I know you will," Tommy says, and he smiles.

tag list! which idk, i'm not 100% sure is working? i'm sorry!!

@geddyqueer @adiprose @peapodbond @poppyspoppy @stolemyhheart @screamlet @buck-unbewildered @beanarie @chococara25 @fenrirscarsback @hyperfocusthusly

@trombonechurchill @thegingerparty @setmeatopthepyre @rcmclachlan @espressotonicc

@untitledbychoice @sunnywithachanceofbi @onceuponatmi @tistai @blitzynatural @laundryandtaxesworld @mubsterstuff @samjohnssonvt

[hivemuthur]

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 6.

viktorxfemale!reader mature! (for now, I will mark later chapters as explicit when the time comes)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 5K

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary:��ok, so my notes on AO3 reminded me how actually this fic crawled into my brain and it was with Drugs in Our Body. So, what should happen after this chapter is whatever happens in DiOB - it serves as somewhat floating chapter. The story can be read without it, but there might be some gaps in the next and future chapters, as I reference it briefly. So, it's ch.6. -> DiOB -> ch.7. I hope that makes sense, I don't know who I think I am, doing this kind of stuff.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

—

“A C?” you gasped as you opened your paper, the glaring red C screaming at your incompetence. How could this happen? You’d worked on it for an entire week. You turned the paper around, desperate for any explanation, but all you found was Heimerdinger’s poetic scrawl: ‘Not entirely botched but needs more work. Seek and you shall find, Y/N. You can give me a fix-up if you want a higher grade.’

“Don’t worry, I got a D,” Sue sighed, her arms falling to her sides, the paper crumpled in one hand. She hadn’t put in nearly as much effort, spending most of the week hanging out with Alice and doing what she smugly referred to as “girl stuff.”

“Yes, but I put in about a month’s worth of research for this,” you muttered, the frustration spilling out before you could stop it. You caught Sue’s glare and quickly backtracked. “I’m not saying you didn’t! I just… I don’t understand.”

“Well, he says you can fix it. He didn’t say that on mine, look,” Sue said, holding up the crumpled paper. The note read: ‘Not bad. Could be better. Pay more attention to details next time. H.’

“You could ask Viktor for help?” Sue offered faintly; her eyebrows raised. You inhaled sharply, preparing to unleash a tirade of insults about why that was the absolute last thing you would ever do. But before you could, Sue hastily amended, “Or Jayce! He has office hours in the afternoon, or so I’ve heard.”

“I… guess you’re right,” you said, letting out the breath you’d been holding. Seeing Viktor in class was already more than enough to deal with. He acted as if nothing had happened, which only made you more furious. That anger had sharpened even further when Angus had texted to ask you out for coffee, leaving your stomach tied in knots as you agreed.

You met him at a cosy pub near campus, the same one you used to frequent with Hale, Sue, Jayce, Mel, and, well… Viktor—though only because he was coerced, not because you wanted him there. Angus asked you question after question, and you found it surprisingly easy to talk to him. You told him funny stories about your parents being new age freaks, about how much you loved your mum’s Polish cooking, and how your dad had kept you in a strict yoga routine since you were six, grooming you to take over his practice.

You admitted how you’d chosen genetics instead, a quiet rebellion against your mum’s recall healing teachings—only to discover there was some truth to them, realising that everything in the universe was connected.

Angus was fascinated. He told you about his three brothers, who’d gone into law and programming, and how he was the family’s scapegoat. He spoke warmly about his close bond with his mum and his dream of running a facility to help kids overcome trauma through theatre and dance.

You praised him for it, but when he misread your words as an invitation and leaned in to kiss you, you froze. He stopped, eyebrows raised, waiting for you to explain. All you could manage was a clumsy explanation that you’d had a wonderful time, but it made you realise you needed to sort out your own issues first.

He laughed, a soft, knowing sound. “I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be straightforward,” he said lightly.

He seemed like the kind of guy who could easily find someone else, but the thought still left your heart aching. And somehow, it was all Viktor’s fault.

The way he never asked about any of those things. The way he only asked where you were from to wind you up.

You braced yourself through the day, slogging through classes and lectures with the weight of that damned paper gnawing at you. By the time the sky turned dark, you found yourself reluctantly heading back to the science lab, resolved to ask Jayce for help. It felt strange to ask him instead of Viktor—like you were dodging some inescapable fate.

Jayce had always been approachable, quick to befriend the “fresh meat.” If there were any rules about student-TA relationships, he seemed to ignore them with a confidence that made you smile. Viktor, on the other hand… well, he was a different beast entirely.

Stuffing a banana into your mouth as you walked, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in one of the school’s tall windows. Not great, but not tragic either. The real issue was the way your face—mid-chewing—gave away just how much crying you’d been doing. It was painfully obvious, even to you.

You barged into the TA’s office without a second thought. “Hey, Jayce, do you have some time to take a look at this?” you asked, your focus entirely on digging through your bag, where the cursed paper had been unceremoniously shoved earlier.

But when you looked up, you froze.

The person at the desk wasn’t Jayce. It was Viktor.

He glanced up at you, eyebrows raised in surprise at your abrupt entrance. And there it was—already forming—the smirk you hated so much. Before he could unleash one of his insufferable remarks, you scrambled to backtrack.

“Shit, sorry. I thought it was Jayce’s hours. I’ll come back some other time,” you blurted, already halfway out the door.

“Please, don’t be ridiculous,” he said, standing up too quickly, his hand wobbling on his cane. You saw it but decided not to step in to help. “I can take a look.”

His voice carried a careful edge, and you hesitated. You didn’t trust him—not after the last time. He had crossed a line, and you’d felt the sting of it for days. He knew it too. He saw it in the way your body tensed every time he leaned over your workbench in class to offer advice, advice you now refused to take. He saw it now, in the faint swelling of your face, the traces of tears you hadn’t managed to hide.

He knew it had been wrong the moment you stormed out of his office that day, leaving him slumped in his chair with a quiet “Shit,” slipping from his mouth.

Now, as you lingered in the doorway, Viktor saw a chance to make amends. He wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers.

You eyed him suspiciously before finally handing over the paper, reluctant and still keeping your distance. Viktor perched himself on the edge of the desk, flipping through your work, his sharp eyes scanning for Heimerdinger’s signature wisdom.

“Ah, right. He can’t be bothered to write more than this,” Viktor huffed, reading the vague ‘Seek and you shall find.’

“Thankfully, I made notes for you on this one,” he said, glancing up to meet your eyes. There was a genuine effort in his grin that made you uneasy.

“Wasn’t it supposed to be Jayce’s hours?” you asked, crossing your arms as you watched him pull a set of notes from his bag. Why would he make notes for you in advance? It didn’t add up. Was this some elaborate act to stage a redemption arc for himself?

“Why? Has your focus shifted already?” Viktor’s retort slipped out before he could stop it. The playful edge in his voice made your spine straighten, ready to snap back with a sharp response. But before you could, he quickly softened his tone.

“He’s sick,” Viktor said, his gaze steady, almost remorseful. “I’m covering for him.”

You didn’t know whether to believe him, but the vulnerability in his tone threw you off balance. For once, it seemed like Viktor wasn’t trying to wind you up—or at least, not entirely.

You didn’t say anything at first, but you leaned in closer, your gaze falling to the notes Viktor had spread out on the desk. That familiar scent of his—body wash, something clean and sharp, mingled with freshly washed wool—drifted to you. It was oddly comforting, though you couldn’t quite figure out why it felt so… intimate.

He tapped a finger on the first section of your paper, pointing to where you had rushed to conclusions, skipping the part where you should have explained how you’d arrived at your findings. “You’ve got solid results,” he said, his voice low and patient, “but Heimerdinger’s mark was his way of telling you that your argument is missing a crucial part. You skipped over how you proved your hypothesis—how you got to the results you did.”

You nodded, following his finger as he guided you through the mistakes you hadn’t even noticed before. His advice was precise, practical, and, oddly enough, warm. It wasn’t just about correcting your errors—it was the care he was taking with you. He wasn’t simply telling you what was wrong; he was showing you how to fix it, step by step, as though it actually mattered to him.

“This part here,” Viktor continued, tapping another section, “it’s the hardest part for most students. The construction of the paper—the logic of it. That’s what gets people. You didn’t make any mistakes in your research or results. It’s just the way you laid everything out. This is the part most academics struggle with. It just takes practice.”

You swallowed, warmth rushing through your chest. You couldn’t tell if it was the unexpected kindness or the fact that he was taking the time to explain everything so thoroughly, but something inside you shifted. Your shoulders relaxed, and the tension you’d been carrying eased, just a little.

For a moment, you let your guard down. You allowed yourself to actually listen, to trust in what he was saying. But as his steady, warm tone settled over you, a flicker of confusion took hold. Was this real? Was he being this careful with you because he cared? Or were you just imagining it, reading too much into the moment?

Your mind raced, a swirl of emotions and doubts tumbling over one another. It had only been a few days since that… moment. You weren’t sure if you were holding on to the idea of it or if Viktor’s actions now were a sign that something had shifted between you.

You glanced at him. His focus was entirely on your paper, his expression neutral. But something in his eyes made your heart beat just a little faster. Was he really this warm, or was it just the warmth of the moment? You couldn’t tell.

“How is your hand?” he asked suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts. His gaze drifted to the small bandage covering the alkaline burn from the other day. The question seemed to slip out unbidden, and you weren’t sure if you appreciated the reminder.

You blinked, thrown back to that moment by the sink: his voice sharp and cutting, his dark eyes boring into you, his fingers pressing gently against your wrist as his mouth asked, “Why are you not wearing gloves?”

Your pulse quickened as you quickly tugged your sleeve over the bandage, concealing the mark. “It’s fine,” you said, taking a step back.

He spoke your name softly, his hand darting out to stop you. This time, his movement wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t unsure, as it had been before. His fingers closed around your wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough that you couldn’t slip away.

He turned your hand palm-up and carefully began peeling the bandage away. The gentleness of the motion disarmed you, and you stood frozen, watching as his sharp eyes inspected the wound beneath.

You winced at the gesture, and Viktor presumed it was painful, though your face twisted more because here he was, exposing you once again. “Don’t be such a baby,” he chuckled.

“I could say the same to you,” you muttered under your breath. Viktor only shot you a glance, laced with a knowing smile.

“It’s looking good. Let it air out once in a while,” he said. This would be the moment to release your hand, but he couldn’t help himself; he held it for a little while longer. He was about to mention how you could always count on him for help with essays and long-term homework, just to cement the quiet truce between you. But you beat him to it.

“You don’t know the first thing about me.” It blurted out before you could stop it. It just shot out of your mouth like an overworked spring.

Viktor was taken aback. His mouth hung open for a moment as he processed your words. What exactly did you mean by that? It was a challenge you threw without thinking. But he could take it. The silence between you stretched, and when you started to retreat your hand, about to mutter an apology, he spoke, hesitantly.

“I… I know you’re half-Polish,” he said, offering a sheepish smile, as if apologizing for how he’d gathered this information. You shot him a glare, but Viktor wasn’t deterred.

“I also know you’re into genetics.” Your sigh was almost audible. These were the things most people knew about you by now. But he wasn’t finished.

“I know that you know Hamilton by heart.” You raised an eyebrow, but he pressed on.

“I know you don’t abandon your friends when they need you. I know you’re ambitious, smart, and funny. I know you laugh at silly, dry chemistry jokes. I know you chew on your pencil when you’re focused.” Your breath hitched slightly, but you stayed silent.

“I know…” he hesitated, his voice softening, “how warm your hands are when you get… excited.” He knew so much more about you but was too afraid to say it. He knew the feeling of your fingers on his scalp as you pulled him closer into a kiss. He knew the taste of your tongue and the sound of little gasps you made when he touched you. He memorized it all and replayed it over and over again in his mind.

You swallowed hard, feeling a strange mix of warmth and nerves twirling inside you. You didn’t speak, just looked at him, and Viktor, not certain about the effect of his confession, refused to meet your gaze. His touch on your hand was tender now, softer than before.

He cleared his throat, finally asking, “So… what do you know about me?” You blinked, thrown off by the question. You answered quickly, not thinking too much about it.

“I know you’re Czech… and that you’re a sad fart.”

Viktor couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound light and unexpected in the air between you. You felt the tension lift, just a little, as you shared this strange, awkward moment. He released your hand and leaned back against the desk, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, his voice carrying a mix of humour and something more sincere.

“Well, it seems that we need to work on that. I’m so much more than a sad fart. I’m also a stiff, meticulous bastard, I’ll remind you.” He pointed a joking finger in your direction as you rolled your eyes.

“What do you have in mind, then?” you asked, your tone still guarded but tinged with curiosity.

“A… ceasefire?” Viktor suggested, his smile lingering, though his gaze softened slightly. “At least for now.”

Your lips twitched into a half-smile. “As long as you promise not to shoot me in the back.”

Viktor chuckled softly under his breath. “I might have a history of unsportsmanlike conduct, but perhaps we could… start over? Unless, of course, Angus…”

You raised an eyebrow at that, feeling a grin tug at the corners of your mouth. “Oh, you wish I told you,” you teased, your tone a playful challenge rather than an outright denial. “But yes, a ceasefire and a do-over I can accept. No dirty moves, Viktor.”

He leaned in ever so slightly, his voice still playful but with an edge of something deeper. “I solemnly swear.” He held up a hand in mock sincerity before smirking. “No dirty moves… this time.”

His gaze lingered on you, the teasing glint still present, but there was an undercurrent of something else in his tone. He wasn’t making it clear—what exactly were the two of you trying again? Was it just the tentative friendship, the awkward truce formed after your bickering? Or was it something more?

You couldn’t shake the feeling that he might be pushing for something beyond the ceasefire, though he wasn’t saying it outright. Perhaps it was just your imagination, overthinking again, but the uncertainty made you uneasy. You wanted to keep your distance, to hold the upper hand, but something in Viktor’s manner made you hesitate.

Your fingers brushed the edge of your notebook, a telltale sign of your nerves as you glanced up at him. “You’re really not going to elaborate, are you?” you asked, giving him a look that was equal parts challenge and curiosity.

Viktor shrugged, his expression a mix of amusement and caution. “What’s to elaborate? We’re starting over. That’s enough for now, isn’t it?”

You bit your lip, refusing to let him see how much his words made your pulse quicken. Instead, you smirked, masking the flutter of emotions beneath a calm exterior. “As long as you don’t get any funny ideas.”

His gaze softened slightly, though the teasing glint in his eyes remained. “No funny ideas. For now, anyway.” He straightened, placing his hands back on the desk, but the space between you still felt charged and unfinished.

***

To seal the deal, both you and Viktor made an equal effort to keep things neutral—meeting among friends, in public spaces, testing the waters of this truce. One such occasion found you at the pub with the usual group of six, an outing entirely orchestrated by Viktor.

He and Jayce weren’t exactly studying; instead, they were buried in notes, trying to distil their findings into a polished research summary for Heimerdinger. Across the table, Mel and Hale were prepping for their theatre history exam, their discussions frequently devolving into competitive banter as they lobbed historical facts at each other in an effort to outdo one another.

Sue, ever diligent, was rewriting her entire textbook into her notebook as if the act itself would cement the knowledge in her brain. Meanwhile, you were seated cross-legged on the floor, quietly working on your genetics paper, tuning out the chatter as best you could.

The group was a collage of concentration and lively exchanges when you simultaneously let out a yawn and your stomach grumbled loudly, the sound cutting through the general din of the pub.

Viktor’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at you over the rim of his notes, his tone wry as he spoke. “Feels like there is more than one need to address here.”

You shifted uncomfortably, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. You quickly moved a hand over your belly as if to stifle the sound. “Uh, I don’t suppose they have sandwiches here?”

“They do!” Jayce chimed in enthusiastically, leaning forward with sudden interest. Food always seemed to pull his attention from whatever he was working on. “And not the worst ones, either.”

Viktor exhaled with a knowing sigh; his expression lightly amused. “Eh, they are… not bad,” he conceded. His tone softened, and he leaned slightly forward, tilting his head in your direction. “What say you?”

You hesitated for only a second before Viktor began rising from his seat. He moved with a kind of deliberate precision, setting his notes neatly onto the side table. You noticed how his gaze briefly flicked to Jayce’s writing, his lips twitching in approval before returning his focus to you.

“Uh, sure,” you said, already scrambling up from the floor. Your papers lay abandoned dangerously close to the pub’s cozy fireplace, but you didn’t notice. Instead, as you rose, you wobbled awkwardly, your leg prickling with the unmistakable sensation of pins and needles. You grabbed onto Hale’s shoulder for balance. “Sorry, my leg fell asleep.”

Viktor smirked, his hand resting lightly on the head of his cane as he stood. “Are you trying to copy me?”

You grinned despite yourself. “Totally. Can I borrow that?” You reached out toward his cane, your eyes glinting with playful defiance.

Viktor raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening as he straightened his posture slightly. “You can try,” he said, holding the cane a fraction tighter as if to make a point. “But I warn you, it comes with certain… responsibilities.”

“Oh, I bet it does,” you quipped, brushing past him toward the bar. “I can see myself torturing students with such a vigilant symbol of authority,” you added, throwing him a smirk over your shoulder.

Viktor followed, limping slightly but keeping pace with you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation as he shook his head.

Behind you, Jayce called out, “Grab me something too!” but neither you nor Viktor paid him any mind.

Hale sighed deeply, finally turning his head away from Mel, who had been poised to deliver another historical fact to outdo him. Instead, his gaze followed you and Viktor as you approached the bar.

“That,” Hale said, his voice low and contemplative, his eyes fixed on you and Viktor as you waited for your coffees at the counter, “will either be beautiful or tragic. Or both.”

“I’m sorry, what are we looking at?” Sue asked, peering over her notebook.

“Our dear friends poking at each other’s hearts,” Hale replied with theatrical solemnity, folding his arms dramatically.

Jayce let out a loud laugh, shaking his head. “Get out, Hale. Viktor would never.”

“Oh, he already did. Just… look at them,” Hale insisted, gesturing subtly in your direction.

Mel perked up, abandoning her train of thought on Renaissance theatre entirely. “Alright, that’s way more interesting than theatre history. Show me what you’re seeing.”

“Alright, kids,” Hale said, sitting up straighter and adopting the tone of a sage sharing forbidden wisdom. “I will share my magic with you, just this once. Look at Viktor. He’s already deep in. See how he’s leaning toward her? I bet he’s saying everything as quiet as possible, so she has to get closer.”

Four heads turned toward the bar, studying the scene unfolding by the counter. Sure enough, your head lingered close to Viktor’s mouth, your neck stretching slightly as though he were, indeed, telling you a quiet joke meant only for you to hear.

“Or,” Jayce countered, raising an eyebrow, “it’s loud in here, and he’s favouring the good leg.”

“Quiet, unbeliever,” Hale dismissed him with a dramatic wave of his hand. “Now, pay attention. Look at his hand. It’s hovering over her, see? He touches her every so often—nothing dramatic, just enough to remind her he’s there.”

The group watched as Viktor’s hand brushed your arm, subtle but deliberate, before retreating again.

“And now,” Hale continued, lowering his voice for effect, “he’s going to make her look. Watch how he gestures toward the bar—something he said, no doubt very clever—and there it is. She’s looking at his hand.” Your gaze flicked down to Viktor’s hand as he emphasized his point, your expression a mix of amusement and concentration.

“Now, notice her,” Hale said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “She’s holding back, but she’s doing that thing she does when she likes someone. See how she doesn’t look directly at him when he talks? Instead, she leans toward him, like she’s pulled by a magnet.”

Right on cue, you tilted your head slightly toward Viktor, though your eyes remained fixed elsewhere.

“And now,” Hale declared with a triumphant grin, “he’ll look away, and she’ll steal a glance. Ah! There it is.” He pointed as your gaze darted to Viktor’s face the moment his attention shifted elsewhere.

“And what is she looking at, you ask?” Hale continued, his tone dripping with faux gravity. “She’s checking if he’s comfortable with her. Or, in Viktor’s case, if he’s in pain. Watch her eyes.”

Sure enough, your gaze swept over Viktor’s posture, subtly assessing the way his body shifted against the cane.

“And now, for the dramatic finale,” Hale announced, holding up a hand as if to quiet an invisible audience. “He will pass her the first cup of coffee, and she will take it from his hand. That way, they’ll touch—skin on skin. And…”

The group collectively held their breath, eyes fixed on the bar. Viktor handed you a cup, your fingers brushing briefly.

“She’ll look at him and make a joke,” Hale continued confidently, “and—yes, there it is.”

You said something with a wry smile, your eyes glinting, and Viktor’s laugh followed—a soft, genuine sound that made his shoulders relax.

“And now,” Hale finished with a flourish, “he’s shoving four sugar packets into his coffee while she’s not looking. I guess that’s just Viktor being gross.”

Sue stifled a laugh, Mel smirked, and Jayce shook his head in disbelief.

“And this,” Hale said, leaning back triumphantly, “ladies, gentlemen, and beautiful creatures, is the cautious love that we are lucky enough to witness blooming before our very eyes.”

“With your voiceover, it feels like spying on someone having sex, Hale,” Mel quipped, arching an eyebrow.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Hale replied, completely unfazed, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. Reading people was his superpower, and he had seen through Viktor the first day they all met in the very pub that was now their place of refuge. You, he knew by heart.

“Man, you are frightening,” Jayce whispered loudly. “Watching this careful study, well… maybe you’re right, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” he added, glancing toward the bar. He hurriedly returned to his notes, mindful that you and Viktor would be back any second and shouldn’t know what had just transpired. Feeling the weight of three questioning stares, he sighed and elaborated, “Viktor does more of… guest performances rather than full seasons, if you catch my meaning.”

“Oh, let him try a guest performance with my darling girl, and I will shove his cane up his—” Hale’s expression shifted instantly from threatening to sickeningly sweet as he noticed you eyeing him from the distance. “Did you get what your heart desired, my love?”

“I suppose. What are you guys talking about?” you asked, your gaze sweeping suspiciously over the group before landing briefly on Viktor. You sent him a silent question, but he didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in his meticulous effort to sweeten his coffee.

“Nothing… Renaissance theatre history… lip gloss,” came a broken chorus of voices in response.

Your eyebrows shot even higher on your forehead. “Uh… as you wish, weirdos,” you dismissed, focusing on your sandwich instead.

The group fell into a brief silence, the kind that crackled with unspoken thoughts, pens scribbling, papers being shuffled around. Jayce kept glancing toward Viktor one time too many, his eyebrows furrowing as if he were trying to decode something. Viktor’s patience snapped first.

“What?” Viktor asked, irritation colouring his tone. “Do I have something on my face?”

Jayce blinked, startled. “Huh? No, just… never mind,” he muttered, hurriedly returning to his notes. Was it possible for his friend to have a thing with you and never mention it?

Before the awkward moment could deepen, Sue suddenly jolted upright as if struck by lightning. “Shit! I need to pack!” she exclaimed, shoving her notebook into her bag with alarming speed. She leaned over to you, kissed your forehead dramatically, and declared, “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away.”

You rolled your eyes, chewing on your sandwich. “No promises.”

Sue hesitated for a split second, her gaze flickering briefly toward Viktor before snapping back to you. “Or do,” she added with a sly grin, winking.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Have a nice weekend, Sue.”

“You too!” Sue called over her shoulder, already halfway out the door.

Once she was gone, Jayce tilted his head curiously. “Where’s she off to?”

You swallowed your bite and shrugged. “Spending the weekend with her dad. Family bonding time, you know how it is.”

Viktor, who had been stirring his coffee in a slow, thoughtful rhythm, glanced at you. “So, you are alone for the entire weekend?”

You met his gaze, an eyebrow arching. “That’s right. Why? Got something in mind?”

Viktor’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk, but all he said was, “Maybe.”

You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing playfully. “Careful, Viktor. As a wise man once said, too much love can kill you.”

Jayce, who had been sipping his drink, choked on a laugh, sputtering as he tried to regain his composure. Viktor’s brows knitted together in confusion for a moment. He rested his chin on his hand, mulling it over until realization dawned. He straightened, looking at you with mild disbelief.

“Wait,” he said slowly, his voice laced with both amusement and incredulity. “Did you just quote Meatloaf at me?”

You grinned wickedly, your eyes glinting with mischief. “What can I say? I have range.”

Jayce laughed again, shaking his head. “I can’t decide if that’s impressive or completely unhinged.”

“Unhinged,” Viktor replied flatly, though the corners of his mouth twitched in betrayal of a suppressed smile.

You raised your sandwich in a mock toast. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Of course you would,” Viktor muttered, taking a long sip of his now overly sweetened coffee.

But as if taking your cautionary tale seriously, Viktor didn’t reach out to you at all on Friday evening or Saturday. You had half-expected a witty text or some excuse to drop by, but your phone remained stubbornly silent.

You told yourself you didn’t care. If Viktor wanted to brood or busy himself with his mysterious projects, that was his problem, not yours. You weren’t going to waste your weekend waiting for him to decide otherwise. So, when you overheard someone in the dorm hall mentioning a party on the third floor that evening, you figured it was better than wallowing in boredom.

[madameisaacpereire]

i'm devoted to you (sick, and i'm a fool)

❝ He watches you in a way that is both patient and calculating as you place the cigarette between your lips haphazardly and swat at another maple bug crawling over your skirt. Your hair blows in front of your face again. Henry pulls the strands back behind your ear with a tender, methodical sort of care this time.❞

The time you gave Henry a tarot reading.

read on ao3 + guardian angel masterlist.

angel was not herself in this, fixed it the best i could omg it's crazy to see how underdeveloped she was here

 “Humor me,” You gracelessly collapse onto a crimson chenille blanket in the grass, just barely avoiding all the books and papers splattered across it. 

 Henry has been working out here for hours and you’re certain he needs a break— you watched him snap the angelic looking blonde that he’s done everything in his power to be physically closer to for months. The one he buys boxes of chocolates for and angles his entire body toward in every room. This simply won’t do.

 You drop a small blue boxwith a vaguely Egyptian looking illustration and Cagliostro Tarot printed in a white faux medieval font across the face of it in front of him. You know this is likely to catch Henry’s attention— he’s the single most superstitious person you’ve met in your 21 years of life, which is saying a lot considering the fact that a good chunk of your friends at Hampden are in the theater program.

  He looks up at you, blue eyes bright and rimmed with distrust. A curling yellow leaf lands on his left shoulder. It tips back and forth like the scale on the tarot box and a single strand of his dark hair dances lightly in the late September breeze, tilting this way and that until it comes to a stop on his forehead. 

   He fixes it the moment it lands and the leaf tumbles from his shoulder, reminding you of the way a shark or a big cat on the nature channel might be still one second, only to strike the next. You draw your hefty borrowed overcoat tighter as a shiver slithers down your spine. 

“Are you a spiritualist now?” He asks, looking through instead of at you.

“I prefer medium, actually.”

A brownish black bug with red stripes down its body lands on your skirt. Boisea trivittata, you think. You recognize it from an old field guide you read last autumn, curled in the corner of Francis’ aunt’s library. You gently brush it to the blanket and watch it crawl a few tiny paces before taking flight.

“And what precisely do you propose to do with these?” Henry asks, a dark brow quirked up— in amusement or annoyance, you aren’t sure.

 You reach over and run your finger over the side of the box, where it reads ‘Fortune Telling Cards.’ Your cherry red nail polish is chipped at the corner in a neat triangle— you’ll need to fix that later, but for now you don’t mind. For now, all that matters is putting Henry in a better mood. 

 “I’ll tell you your fortune, of course.” 

“All forms of divination are to be rejected, you’ll remember. Recourse to Satan and his demons. Curious of you to suggest, angel. I thought you more pious.” He speaks monotonously as ever, even as his voice sticks, honey sweet, to your nickname. 

It’s difficult not to laugh at this, but you manage.

“And superstition is the deviation of religious feeling and practices,” you open the box and tip its contents to the blanket gingerly, “yet you leave milk out for passing spirits and keep a rabbit’s foot in your glove box.”

He smiles and your breath stills a moment. His smiles are so infrequent these days that it always feels like a precious gift, one he grants only to those most worthy. It splits his face open and renders him handsome— it is the sort of smile, you think, reminiscent of the sort of Dawn Homer describes. The sort of smile that brings the spun gold of new light to deathless gods and mortals alike. 

“Touché.”

He reminds you of a Robert Frost poem like this. You tear your eyes from him before you can say or do something stupid and move the booklet— faded blue with grainy swirls— to your lap. Henry watches, frigid blue eyes locked on your hands with such intensity that they tremble faintly. You wish they wouldn’t but wishing is pointless, it never does anything, so you stack the red backed cards into as neat a pile as you can and hand it to him.

He takes the deck, dwarfing it almost comically in one large corpse-pale hand. His eyes raise to meet yours again, stilling your heart in your chest when he tips his head to the side as if to ask ‘What now?’ 

You shift onto your knees and lean closer to grab his other hand. The contact brings goosebumps to the surface of the skin on your arms, but you ignore it and guide his hand to rest on top of the cards, curving your fingers to press into and subsequently curve his. When he’s cupping the deck like a lightning-bug, you settle back onto your heels and press your fingers into the blanket as if to erase the feeling.

“Commune.” You instruct.

“Speak with them?” It’s hard to tell if he’s pulling your leg or if he really doesn’t know what you mean with the way amusement streaks like lamb’s blood across his face. 

“Just…  okay, close your eyes,” His eyes slide shut obediently, “Now, focus all of your energy on your hands. Like you’re trying to send every thought and feeling you’ve ever had into them.”

His forehead wrinkles with focus as he does so. You resist the urge to smooth it out with your thumb even though you might have done as much three or four years ago— physical contact feels different now; nearly everything does, frustratingly enough.

 “You’ll stop when the deck gets heavy.” At least that’s what your roommate, Ashley, told you when she read your cards a few days ago. 

   Your reading had almost entirely been in the suit of cups (Ace, 9, 10) which— she had shared, her bubblegum and tobacco scented breath wafting into your face as she noisily chomped on a large pink wad of it— suggested you embrace your emotions in order to allow your deepest desires to bloom.

You don’t believe a word of the reading. Of course you don’t: you’re reasonable about these sorts of things. Pragmatic. You don’t let emotion or superstition override ration— or, at least, you try not to— it’s a point of pride; one which Henry has a habit of stretching and bending as he sees fit, finding entertainment in getting you to snap. He’s successful in that a touch more often than you’d like.

He looks younger with his eyes shut. So young that you could almost believe you’re back in Maine on vacation, or sitting on the grass in the backyard of his Missouri house. Beneath his hardened, proud spirit, he’s still the boy he has always been. You don’t know whether this fact makes you want to laugh or cry. You don’t have time to do either.

 His eyes slip open beneath his wire framed glasses, hands dipping with the weight of the cards. Your fingers brush against his wrist as you take them from him, and his skin is warm and soft as it always has been; further proof that he’s mortal still, that his classical studies haven’t lead to an offer of becoming some sort of otherworldly entity. 

You split the deck in two just as your roommate did and tap the sides of those halves together in an ‘X’ shape. When you’re satisfied with how many times you’ve rapped them against each other, you begin to shuffle. The cards are clumsy in your grasp, stumbling and knocking into each other like drunk students at a house party. 

You keep on anyway, trying not to show how much harder it is than you expected. You don’t mind being bad at things normally, but being bad at them in front of Henry is a different beast entirely. Then one flips out, followed by another, and another.

You both lean over them, peering at the cards. A sword, green foliage peeking from behind it. Three of spades.  A red winged flower, marigold yellow, with a red pom pom topping it like a cherry. Six of spades. A man in an ornate crimson and gold outfit, clutching a scepter over his chest. King of clubs— the only upright one in the entire spread.

You set the deck aside and open up the booklet, flipping through with frenzied speed to locate each card’s meaning. You don’t want him to go back to his work while he waits for you; that defeats the entire purpose of this exercise. Henry traces a finger along each card while you mark each card’s page to refer back to, studying the pictures and mouthing the short inscriptions as he reads them.

A few more yellow leaves float down around you, gentle as snowflakes. The reversal, you learn, makes each card mean its opposite. It’s far more complicated than your roommate let on. A page slides down your thumb as you try flipping past it and sharp warmth slices through your finger. A paper-cut. You press your bleeding thumb into your skirt and a minute line of watery blood forms beneath it, marring the white cotton. 

It isn’t the first time you’ve bled for him and it won’t be the last, either. You know this as innately as you know how to breathe— it doesn’t concern you as much as you know it ought. You glance up at him before you begin to speak, as if asking if he’s ready. You wait for him to notice and nod in indication that he’s ready to listen before you go on.

   “It says,” You flip between card meanings, marking them with your fingers so as to return to each meaning easily, “You might be experiencing a shift away from sorrow or resentment, perhaps finding some sort of clarity in forgiveness- that’s the three of spades- but somehow you still feel trapped.”

 He sits up straighter as he listens. You didn’t know he could go any more rigid— it’s a little funny.

  “It’s temporary, however, and this king card instructs you to lead your life with surety and a long term view. You will, it says, leave a legacy of some sort.” You flip the booklet shut with a dramatic flair and toss it to the ground.

He’s quiet and more guarded as he ponders this. The afternoon sunlight glows against his skin, creating a fuzzy halo. It’s beautiful. When isn’t he? You open your pack of cigarettes and perch one between your lips. Henry hands you his matchbook without seeming to think about it for a second. It's a soft yellow thing, marked from The Polo. You light up. Smoke plumes out, smooth and elegant in cloud and scent— at least, compared to Henry’s preferred cigarettes. He wrinkles his nose. 

   “I don’t know how you can smoke those things.”  He takes his matchbook back and fishes out his own cigarettes, chill distaste stamped across his features.

  “Number 1 Reds, dear,” You blow a healthy cloud of smoke his way, a teasing smile on your lips, “Consistently excellent.”

  “Consistently quisquiliarum.” He speaks around his cigarette while he lights it. Consistently rubbish.

You laugh dryly, as if his insult doesn’t injure you in the slightest. But it does; you both know it does.

  “You’re hardly the pinnacle of refinement where tobacco is concerned, Mr. A-Pack-of-Your-Cheapest-Please.”

  He shakes his match out and tucks it into his breast pocket along with the matchbook. Then, with two fingers, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth. 

  “I still have better taste than you, at any rate.” His eyes linger on your lips a second too long.

 You scoff derisively and direct your attention elsewhere, ignoring the way your stomach flips at just the thought of his looking at your mouth. The prospect of him wanting to kiss you is undeniably pleasing, but it isn’t something you dwell on. You stare instead at the way Bunny lounges on the front porch, teapot of champagne between himself and Charles. Charles is reading a forest green clothbound book as he smokes, and it looks— from here— like Bunny is trying to engage him in a conversation Charles has no interest in.

   “Where’d you scrounge up that coat?” Henry asks like he knows the answer, voice cool and measured— though you could almost convince yourself that jealousy lives there, too. Maybe some kind of protectiveness. You could almost convince yourself that he cares.

You take a deep pull from your cigarette— enjoying the way it gums up your throat and makes your lungs feel smaller— then let it out as slowly as you can, making him wait for an answer. Your enjoyment of this perceived jealousy is petty and childish, but you’ve watched for weeks as he shines his spotlight of attention on Camilla— fetching her drinks, surprising her with a book she once mentioned wanting to read— which you don’t blame him for, exactly. 

She’s pretty and sharp, just as witty as you— if not more. She’s also so very similar to him, detached from most visible emotion in a way you know he finds irresistible.Yet you haven’t been able to rid yourself of that ugly prickling feeling beneath your skin when you see them together. It’s a feeling you’re unsure of, one you’ve never felt where Henry is concerned, and you don’t like it one bit. 

You breathe in smoke once more and shift to fuss with your coat buttons. He’s watching you, you know, even as he begins to collect the cards to fit back into the navy box. You still don’t think about why you feel such a thick, black, tar-like burning nagging at you when you see the two of them together. You out and out refuse.

Because, of course, there have been times where you find him irresistibly attractive—  but everybody does. That can’t be helped. He’s Henry, who you’ve known since before he took his first breath, who is smart and unintentionally funny more often than not and sweet, when he’d like to be. He deserves to be with someone like Camilla, if he chooses. He does. 

“I borrowed it from Francis.” You finally answer. It feels lame on your tongue. Pathetic.

“You didn’t need to,” He says like he finds it all ridiculous, “I have a coat I’m not using by the door. You know very well that you’re welcome to it, angel.”

There it is again. Angel. The two syllables that sing through you, head to toe, sticking like saccharine sweet syrup between bone and sinew; the nickname that leaves you stripped bare, stupid, and vulnerable. 

You balance your cigarette between two fingers as another breeze steals by, and take in the comforting crinkle of paper bending as it kisses the pages; you watch the leaves tumble across the grass, in rusty browns and yellows, a select few still bright green. Your hair blows over your face and a single strand of blonde sticks to your lipstick. You tuck it back behind your ear disdainfully, ignoring the cherry colored stain you know clings to it. 

 “You say that as if you’d like me to go change my jacket.” The words tumble out hot and fast, gliding one into the other before you can stop them.

  He pauses.

 “Well, angel, I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t be pleased about it, if you chose to.”

Sometimes you think he does all of this on purpose, just to watch you come unglued. He’ll address you as nothing, not even by name anymore, only to blitz attack with the rapid succession of angel, angel, angel. It leaves you nearly defenseless against him. 

Your cigarette burns so low it almost scorches your fingers, and Henry moves faster than you can even think to, reaching over and pinching it out before an ember can even touch you and smoothly replaces it with a freshly lit Lucky Strike. You don’t like Luckies very much, yet mystifyingly always end up smoking them in his presence; on occasion because you’ve picked one up before you think about it, but most often it happens like this. Him pressing one into your grasp, firm and insistent. You taking it from him obediently, like a child.

You have a similar sway over him at times, at the very least— you’ve gotten him to take a break from working, after all, just to oblige your desire to give him a tarot reading. And he often seems ashamed, even remorseful when you deign to raise your voice at him. You are the one he asks for when he doesn’t feel well; the person closest to him, for all intents and purposes, regardless of how much time you spend apart. 

But this weakness he shows for you, however shocking it is to others, is nothing compared to the soft spot you have for him. All he has to do is call you ‘angel,’ and you keel over yourself; so tender it’s painful, so quickly you bruise.

He waits while you think, watching you in a way that is both patient and calculating. Silence is never awkward with Henry and even this is no exception.  You place the cigarette between your lips haphazardly and swat at another maple bug as it crawls over your skirt. Your hair blows in front of your face again. 

Henry pulls the strands back behind your ear with a tender, methodical sort of care that makes your head spin. You don’t think about the way your blood boils and lurches, or why your cheeks feel so hot under this attention. 

You aren’t a weak person. Not really. You aren’t sure how he does it to you— how he makes you feel sick with fever and foolish as a fawn. How he manages to make you feel so silly and young all over again, as if you’re still a little girl on the verge of pelting him with apple slices over a small disagreement.

You unbutton the coat and let it slip from your frame, accepting the inevitability that is you, giving in to his whims, however senseless they may be. Your white dress serves as a flag of surrender. You stare down at the slim red line of blood, so small, streaked across the skirt. It feels symbolic in a way you can’t explain. Like there’s a metaphor there that you could worry out from it if only you found yourself able to think at the moment. 

Henry places the tarot box on top of the blood stain as if nothing transpired here at all, and begins sorting through papers once more. 

 “Would you mind it terribly if I asked you to bring me a drink?” He asks without sparing you another glance. 

“Of course not.” You take the tarot deck in hand and push up onto your feet, Francis’s coat over your arm.

“Thank you.” His pen begins to scratch against his notebook once again.

You nod and amble back toward the house. You don’t think about it when you agree to do something for him, you just do it. This is always how it has been, and how it will probably always be. That extra card from your reading last week, the one your roommate gave you, helpfully propels itself forward in your memory.

'Careful', she’d warned you, 'You might have the upper hand now, but that balance can change completely at any time.'

You had laughed and pushed off her bed, floating back towards your closet to change— you don't even remember what for— because you had believed, of course, that tarot was utter bullshit. You still do, mostly. But now you think you might understand what she meant about ever changing balance. There’s one between you and Henry. There has been for years. 

You hang Francis’s coat and busy yourself with Henry’s drink. You feel silly and ashamed for it. What’s worse is that you don’t care. You’re happy to do him a favor of any kind; you always have been, ever since you were children. 

  ‘Careful, you might have the upper hand now…’

Not for the first time, you wonder if you ever have, or if he has just had the grace to allow you to pretend it is so. You slip Henry’s coat on before you head back out. It’s significantly larger on you than Francis’s was, but it is also warmer and it smells like him. Like home, if it were a person.

  ‘…but that balance can change completely at any time.’

And if your chest caves in on itself when you find Camilla sitting where you were not ten minutes prior, you pretend it doesn’t make it any harder to breathe. You’ve grown very good at pretending not to love him, after all.

[ohkate]

Regarding AI

You can write something entirely original, with solid grammar and spelling, and still have an AI detector claim it’s AI generated. Writers like me are walking around with the fear of having to wear a scarlet “AI” on our chests, being accused of using AI just for writing well.

In my writing club, we’ve talked about amazing writers we know who have started intentionally adding grammar and spelling mistakes to their work just to avoid accusations.

You can sometimes tell when AI has been used. Not because it’s too perfect but because it’s so not. It writes over-complicated descriptions. It overuses punctuation (at this point I'm scared to use em dashes). It throws in distracting dialogue tags. I can usually tell when I read something with dialogue tags like 'retort' or 'articulated' in places that seem odd.

That being said, AI detectors are not accurate. I spent seven months writing my story Bite, and I used 0% AI to do it. (I mean, I googled what a helicopter pilot might say during takeoff, and some basic research like military ranks, expensive alcohol and car types so the story felt more accurate, and google uses gemini. If that counts, sue me.) I had a beta reader throughout the process who saw the sweat and rewrites firsthand.

Still, someone in my writing group said their story got flagged for AI even though she's never used it before and she was mortified. So I got curious and ran Bite through two different AI detectors. One said “likely human.” The other said “70% AI.” I ran the exact same story through the same detector again a few days later just to see, and this time it said 40% AI instead of 70%... with no changes.

AI detectors aren't accurate because—THEY USE AI.

I’m converting my story to a real book and I’m combing through every line, tightening it, improving it—doing what writers do. But hearing that some literary agents are using these detectors to screen submissions is scary. Because now, if you write anything remotely polished, people might assume a bot did it.

You don’t need AI to write. You need to read more. Write more. That’s how you get better. That’s how I got better. Honestly, writing weekly 100-word Gallavich drabbles has helped more than anything. Learning to strip things down, say more with less... that sharpened every other part of my writing. If you compare my first AO3 story to my latest, the difference is night and day.

So yeah, I hate AI for how it devalues the work we put in. But we also need to be careful not to start a witch hunt. Writing well shouldn’t be a red flag.

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

Untitled Roxy x Reader fic (hurt/comfort)

EDIT: A more polished version is now up on ao3. If you're re-reading it or sending it to someone, then the ao3 version is preferred, but it's not changed enough that I would necessarily suggest re-reading it again if you weren't already going to. <3

For some reason, last night, I decided that it was imperative I write and release a Roxy x Reader oneshot before Ruin. (ETA: To be clear I mean I wrote this before Ruin released, therefore it contains NO SPOILERS. <3) It's an idea I've had for awhile and was going to do as a comic but decided to expand it and write it out instead. I may post a more polished version to ao3 at a later date.

Fun fact: Roxy was my first FNAF crush, before SB even came out. So Ruin will have many chances to break my heart.

Word count: ~3200

----

When the Pizzaplex burned down, none of your colleagues had seemed particularly interested in returning to the ruins. You could understand…some of the techs arriving for the morning shift had been caught in the blaze, and while there were no casualties, there had been some injuries. Yourself included.

After a few weeks in the hospital, the burn mark across your face was just an angry red scar, and the singed hair you’d had to cut off had regrown enough for you to wear a slightly uneven pixie cut.

The other techs said you were crazy to want to go back. The future of Fazbear Inc was uncertain, and the animatronics themselves were just that. Animatronics. Machines. Not worth putting yourself in danger for.

But you’d come to consider Roxy a friend. Sometimes you thought she considered you one, too. She didn’t seem like she would readily admit such a thing even if it were true.

She had at least liked you as a tech, if not as a person. You were the only one who could do her pre-show checks and weekly maintenance without ruining her hair, at least according to her. According to the other techs, Roxanne’s hair was always fine.

You quickly learned that to Roxy, “fine” was equivalent to a reprehensible failure. A disaster. A complete horrific mess. 

You didn’t think your experience with costuming (specifically wigs) in your college’s theater club would ever be something you used after you graduated, but life is full of surprises.

You wander through the corridors of your ruined, burned out workplace, flashlight in hand. You have a few guesses as to where Roxy might be. You desperately hope she’s okay. The structure is mostly intact, but there are a few collapsed portions and fallen bits of decor. You think as long as Roxy had been able to avoid the worst of the heat, she’d be mostly alright.

You make your way to Rockstar Row, your workboots crunching on the debris as you walk.

As you approach Roxy’s room, you hear something that makes you freeze.

Crying.

For a moment you wonder if another tech, or perhaps some urban explorer or rubbernecker is in here with you. Then you recognize the voice behind the sobs.

Roxanne is crying? You’re more surprised than you probably should be. But you’d seen behind her mask a couple times. Behind the vanity, haughtiness, and borderline entitlement, you had occasionally glimpsed a profound insecurity. Beneath it all, you don’t think Roxy actually likes herself very much.

You swipe your badge on the door, and it actually dings and slides open. Or tries to. Something jams it halfway and you have to wedge yourself into the doorframe and push the door open the rest of the way.

Roxy, who had been sitting at her vanity, head in her hands, perks up. Her ears twitch as she glances around. “Who’s there?” she calls out.

You open your mouth to speak, only to leave it hanging open in surprise as you see how badly she’s damaged. So much of her exoskeleton is missing, exposing the endoskeleton underneath. Her hair is a tangled, singed mess and her tail isn’t much better. But most horrifying, her eyes are completely gone.

“Who’s there?!” Roxy repeats, a growl in her voice as she stands up and starts stalking towards you. You can hear the servos and joints in her body creak in protest as she moves.

“R-Roxy, it’s me!” you say before hastily blurting out your name.

She stops, her ears twitching and her claws grasping at the air. At first you think she’s baring her teeth at you, but you quickly realize her broken faceplate has put one side of her mouth in a permanent snarl.

She huffs, turning away. She skulks back to her vanity, plopping down in her chair and burning her broken face in her shattered hands. “What do you want?” she mutters.

You tense, taken aback. “Wh-What do you think I want, Roxy?” you ask incredulously, slowly moving towards her. “I-I wanted to know you were okay. I wanted to help you. I was…terrified you’d…been destroyed,” you say quietly, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She pulls away with a growl. “I have been destroyed! Just--Just look at me!” The rage in her voice doesn’t fully mask her despair, nor does it completely hide her fear. Fear of what? Of what could have happened? Of how close she came to being permanently deactivated?

Her command was clearly rhetorical, for she lowers her head further, digging her claws into what remains of her scalp.

“Roxy…all this can be fixed…” you say gently.

“No it can’t!” she snaps. “I already checked. Parts and Services is a pile of rubble now.”

“Well…what about the loading docks? Maybe we can at least find some new eyes for you…”

She scoffs. “Oh good. Then I can see myself. Because feeling all this isn’t bad enough,” she sneers, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Roxy--”

“FINE!” she growls, pushing back from her vanity abruptly. If the chair weren’t screwed into the floor she surely would have toppled it over. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

You flinch nervously, nodding. Remembering her blindness, you quickly say, “Okay. Here,” you say gently putting a hand on her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she snaps, though she sounds somewhat less defensive and a bit…nervous? Embarrassed? With a huff, she adds, “I’ll just follow your footsteps.”

You bite back a sigh. “Alright,” you say patiently.

You lead the way out of her green room towards the long stairway down to the loading docks. You’re not about to risk trying to take the elevator.

“Here, careful on the stairs,” you say, gently taking her arm again. This time she allows it, albeit with some reluctance as she gives you what probably would have been a withering look if her faceplate had been intact.

It’s a long way down and neither of you want to rush. The sound of your softer footfalls and her heavier ones as you both pick your way down the stairs echoes through the stairwell.

Thud. Clunk. Thud. Clunk. Thud. Clunk.

You watch her carefully. She seems too focused on making it down the stairs to be too sulky for the moment. Small blessings, you suppose. Still, the silence is only stretching out your descent.

“It sounds like one of your knees is out of alignment,” you say eventually.

“The left one,” she confirms a bit gruffly. “I can manage.”

“I can see that,” you say gently. “It took me awhile to notice something was even wrong. You carry yourself well,” you say, smiling a bit.

Roxy grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn’t preen even a little at the praise. That’s unusual for her…compliments usually cheer her up.

“Maybe I can find a new hinge while we’re--”

“Why are you doing this?” she cuts you off.

“W-What do you mean?” you ask, stopping in the middle of the flight of stairs.

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean,” she says. Before you can speak, she continues, “This whole place is finished. Nobody’s coming back to rebuild. What’s the point of you patching me up?”

“I told you, Roxy…I was worried…” you start as you resume your climb down the stairs.

“Why?”

“Because I care about you!” you say, exasperated as you reach the bottom of the stairs. You keep your hand on her arm as you make your way down the corridor, and she doesn’t protest.

She snorts. “You care about a pile of scrap?”

You wish she could see the glare you give her at that. “You are NOT a pile of scrap! You’re just a little scuffed.”

“More than a little,” she huffs.

You sigh. “Okay, maybe a little more than a little,” you admit. You force a smile. “But hey…I’m the perfect tech, remember? If anyone can get you fixed up, it’s me, isn’t it?”

You weren’t normally any kind of braggart. Roxy had been the only one to ever call you the perfect tech, though you feel like that was almost more a point of pride for herself rather than for you. As if she were praising herself for being deserving of the best tech more than she’s praising you for being the best tech. But you still liked hearing it…and sometimes it really did seem like she was directing the praise at you.

Roxy turns her head towards you, her ears swiveling forward. It’s hard to read her expression with her broken faceplate, but eventually one side of her mouth ticks up into a small smile. “...Yeah…” she admits softly.

You squeeze her arm gently, careful to not touch any of the sharper broken off bits.

Once you get to the loading dock, you guide her to sit down on a crate while you look through some of the recent part shipments.

The fire had somehow spared much of this place, but the collapse of P & S had rippled partially through the area and several patches of ceiling had fallen, knocking over piles of crates and leaving the whole place in disarray.

Eventually you find a crate that has the P & S stamp on the wooden slats, and figure that’s a promising place to start. You grab a crowbar and begin trying to pry it open in any way you can.

Roxy’s ears perk and she turns towards you. “What are you doing?”

“Trying--urg--to get this crate open,” you grunt.

She stands and walks towards you. “Let me,” she says. She reaches towards you, trying to determine your position.

You take her hand, your fingers weaving in hers for a moment before you guide her hand to the crate.

“Thanks,” you say, stepping aside.

“Well…pretty silly to make a human do all the heavy lifting,” she says, digging her claws into one of the planks. The wood splinters and creaks and is readily ripped free.

You smile weakly. “You’re right…these arms would never have a fraction of your strength,” you say. Jokingly, you lift your arm and flex…only to realize Roxy won’t be able to see it.

Probably for the best. It was a dumb joke anyway.

She snorts, actually preening a bit as she pulls another board free. “Even busted…” she agrees softly. Her tone is slightly melancholy…as if she doesn’t fully believe it.

She pulls another board free, and you put a hand on her shoulder. “I think that’s enough for now,” you say, guiding her back to the crate she had been sitting on before.

You begin pulling the smaller boxes from the shipping crate, cutting them open and rummaging through them, looking for anything usable. 

Once again, the silence stretches on.

After finding nothing useful in the first two boxes, you glance back at Roxanne. Her hand is over her face, her middle finger slowly tracing the cracks near where her eyes had been. The quiet isn’t doing her any favors.

You shove the box you were looking through aside and pull out another, cutting it open. “Roxy?” you break the silence.

“Mm?” she grunts, still more focused on her faceplate than you.

“You…d’you um…remember that time we ran out of driver bots and that angry dad yelled at me?”

She pauses briefly, turning her head towards you. “What about it?” she asks before going back to feeling her faceplate.

“You remember what you said to me?”

“I called you an idiot.” Was that a touch of guilt you detect in her tone?

You laugh weakly, nodding. “Yes. But you remember why?”

“For letting a loser like that get under your skin,” she says plainly.

“Right,” you say, smiling. “I think about that a lot, you know.”

Roxy scoffs. “Really? Freddy said I was too rude,” she says. If she had eyes she would have rolled them.

You let out a gentle chuckle. “Well…maybe a bit,” you admit, earning a slightly sulky huff from her. “But there was truth to it, y’know? And I think about it a lot. It uh…it’s…helped me. Deal with people like him.”

She cants her head, one ear flicking curiously. It’s a cute expression even with her broken faceplate. “It…did?”

“Yeah,” you say, pulling out another box and opening it. “I-I mean…you were right. I knew he was a loser but I still told myself his opinion meant something. But it doesn’t, y’know?”

“Yeah,” she agrees quietly.

The conversation lapses again, and you try to resist the urge to slow your search in order to come up with a new topic. Luckily, it is Roxy who picks the next topic.

“You remember that time a birthday party ran long, and I was late getting back to the recharge station?”

You freeze. Oh you do remember. You remember that evening well. The animatronics tend to get a little quirky when their battery dips below five percent. Something about a power save mode cutting power to random systems. Usually mobility, but somehow, their…inhibitions, for lack of a better term, also seemed to go by the wayside. As far as you know nobody ever quite understood why, but it was a little like getting loopy from lack of sleep, or even a bit tipsy.

Roxy smirks, hearing your stunned silence. “You do.”

“Y-Yeah…I…I wasn’t sure if you did, though.”

“I remember the important parts.” Before you can start to wonder what the “important parts” are in her mind, she continues, “You’d finally used that salon voucher I gave you for your birthday. Gotten your hair done. Actually wore it down. I never understand why you hide such long pretty hair up that bun.”

You fluster a bit. “Th-The dress code--”

“Oh, you do it without the dress code,” she scoffs, flicking a hand dismissively.

You clear your throat awkwardly, pausing to rub at your cheeks as if you can wipe the blush away. “W-What’s your battery at, by the way?”

She snorts. “Just an idle wondering?” she smirks. “It’s twenty-two percent.”

So it’s not her low battery talking…

Roxy continues, “You know…if you can find a set of replacement eyes…I wouldn’t mind seeing your hair down again,” she says, actually sounding wistful, of all things. You don’t know if you’ve ever heard her sound wistful.

You sigh softly, running a hand over your chopped off hair. “Y-Yeah…” you say, noncommittally.

She glances at you questioningly, sensing something in your tone. But before she can comment, you cut open another box, and find it has the spare eyes you’ve been looking for.

“Found the eyes!” you say. Some of the happiness in your tone is genuine. You grab two amber ones, going over to her. “They’re just standard optics, so you won’t see as well as you’re used to, but…it’ll do for now,” you say, guiding her to lay on the floor.

Her smile fades slightly and she nods, reality setting back in. Despite your claims that you could repair her, she wasn’t convinced she’d ever be as good as she was before. “Guess it’ll have to,” she mumbles.

You put a flashlight in her hand and position her arm to shine it down on her faceplate, giving you light to work with. Your toolkit is beside you, with some extra lengths of wire and soldering iron to work with. As you cut away the burned wires, murmuring apologies whenever Roxy flinches, your mind drifts back to that evening.

Her power had been at one percent when you finally coaxed her into her recharge station. Before you did, though, she had leaned down and pressed her lips to yours. You think she had been trying to nuzzle your cheek. Even “drunk” you don’t think she wanted to kiss you like that.

Neither of you had ever spoken of that night again, until today. She must not remember the kiss, you decide. She wouldn’t bring up that night at all if she did.

The truth is you’ve carried a small flame for her ever since then. Or perhaps a little longer, if you were more honest with yourself. Nothing you couldn’t ignore most of the time, of course…but something that had occasionally managed to put a bit of warmth in your heart when you allowed it to.

But none of those silly little what-ifs you’d allowed yourself to daydream of would ever come to pass now.

You wire in the eyes, then carefully fit them into their sockets. As they come online, the attached eyelids blink shut against the light.

You quickly turn away, keeping your back to her as you pack up your toolkit. “Th-They working okay?” you ask. It’s silly to turn away like this. You can’t possibly delay her seeing your scar for more than a couple minutes. Why even bother trying?

She moves the flashlight out of her eyes and sits up, looking around. “Yes,” she says. She pauses. “...Better than I thought. I forgot the standard optics still have night vision.”

You laugh weakly. “Another thing you have over me, then,” you say in what you had meant to be a good natured tone, but you couldn’t quite keep the melancholy from your voice.

Roxy catches it and glances at you curiously. She stands up, then reaches down a hand to help you up.

Well. No more putting it off.

You bow your head slightly as you turn to take her hand, letting her pull you to your feet. When you stand before her, you finally lift your head to look into her eyes, giving a small, tentative smile that borders on apologetic.

Roxy stares down at you, her mouth opening slightly in surprise. “Wh-What…happened…?”

You sigh, glancing away slightly. “I-I…got to work early, and…I was upstairs when the fire started. It…spread so fast I…had to cut through some pretty bad areas. I-I mean. I guess, something like that…I-I don’t really remember…” you say, your voice starting to shake.

Roxy’s hand is on your cheek, turning your face back towards her as she examines your scar.

You feel your face growing warm. “I-I don’t know how I got the scar, really…The EMTs found me passed out in the employee parking lot.”

Roxy smiles sadly. “You were strong enough to save yourself.”

You blush deeply at the compliment, lowering your gaze. “I-I guess so…”

She runs her thumb over the scar, tracing the ridges of the shiny, discolored skin. “Can it be repaired?” she asks, her tone more gentle than you’ve ever heard from her.

You shake your head, resisting the urge to nuzzle into her palm as you do. “Not…really. My hair will grow back and the scar will probably fade a bit, eventually, but…it’ll…probably be pretty noticeable for the rest of my life…” You feel tears brimming at your eyes and force out a weak laugh. “C-Can’t really…uh…s-switch faceplates on a human…y-y’know?” you say in a wavering tone.

Roxy hums quietly, bringing her other hand up to cup your other cheek. “No need,” she says, lowering her head and gently nosing at your scar.

Your breath stills at her words, your eyes widening in surprise. You’re almost not sure you heard right.

She pulls back, smiling down at you tenderly. “You’re still beautiful,” she murmurs, leaning down and pressing her lips to yours.

[merlyybird]

I was curious if there were any chapters of What Sad Eyes You Have besides the 13 uploaded to ao3? Artist battry-acid has made fanart for later chapters it seems, but your fic only has 13. I'm desperate to read more and would love to know where to find the others!!!

ahhhh hi!! thanks so much for asking about my fic, i'm glad you've been enjoying it. i'm going to use this ask to talk a bit about my process and the state of the fic, so check under the cut if you want to read all that.

so, there Are other chapters that just haven't been uploaded yet---the fic is sourced from a draft that i first wrote a couple years ago now, and at first i only shared it with close friends, which is how @battry-acid knows about story events that haven't been posted yet. because the writing is kind of old, i've been putting each chapter through an editing and beta reading process before i post them online, but i fell off my regular schedule and have kinda left the fic on hiatus for some months. (a lot of life stuff happened + i randomly got really into a different fandom, oops. i'm overall just in a different place, physically and mentally, than i was when i first drafted the fic.)

it seems like wseyh has gotten a fair amount more attention recently, though, and this ask is admittedly very motivating. i recall being like halfway done with editing the next chapter, so i might go against my original plan of posting chapters 14 and 15 both at once and do them individually instead, for the sake of having more stuff out sooner and being a little easier on myself.

in summary---yes there are more chapters waiting in the wings, no they have not been posted yet. i really appreciate your enthusiasm and going out of your way to ask about it, though! the fic isn't abandoned, but you might have to be a little patient with me. in the meantime, feel free to leave comments on ao3 (i'll respond!), and my inbox is always open to those who want to chat about the fic. you can also check out the other short fe3h-related offerings i have on my profile if that interests you.

thanks to you and every reader for bearing with me. i care a little too much about polish and get tired a little too easily. not exactly the most productive combo haha!

[suzukiblu]

hello out of curiosity do you have any idea/ plan for how long the sugar daddy fic is going to be?

cause I was rereading it on ao3 and noticed you said you'd written the first 50k and were polishing it into chapter shaped pieces, and then were gonna write more, and the ao3 fic is nearly 50k, so I was wondering if you're about through with what you'd initially written, and what percent of the total plan it was

(I would not be surprised if this ended up being several hundred thousand words, or even a million... Tim's overthinking probably helps to increase the wordcount for any given event)

I've posted just about all of what I wrote for NaNo; the stuff I haven't is from later in the fic and still needs stitched together.

I honestly thought 50k would cover WAY more of the outline than it actually ended up covering, sooooo uh . . . no idea how long the finished fic is gonna be, hahaha. I MIGHT be a third of the way through now. Or . . . possibly a fourth. It's gonna be a long one for sure, put it that way.

[mslanna]

Unforgiven II

Chapter 25 of Be My Guest now up on AO3

In which Raphael suffers.

I should have stopped them.

The thought is now part of the inventory of his mind. It doesn't matter what Raphael sets his thoughts to, sooner or later, he is back here: I should have stopped them.

But he hadn't. The fire of rejection burnt so high and hot in that moment, the moment Tav tore down the whole home he had built with a few words. The rage rearing its head had been overpowering, the animal urge to grab and slash and hurt.

So Raphael had not moved. Had not grasped the slim wrist and made Tav stay until they understood. Until he understood. There was no understanding in the maelstrom of utter betrayal. He had planned their future out perfectly. Together. Forever.

And Tav rejected it. Rejected him. A feeling he knew too well. Something he would not let stand. He would not be denied. Certainly not by a mortal hopelessly in love with him! They said it, there and then, said they wanted to be his. Tav threw those words at him and left.

Left him.

Without looking back once. Why? He had already seen their tears and the lip bit bloody. Tav hadn't wanted to go. But they had gone anyway. An unforgivable insult. Raphael pretended that only his pride was hurt, told himself over and over that no mere mortal had such power over him. Lies in the face of truth.

It worked, if only a little. If Tav truly held no power over him, his thoughts would not circle the hole they left in his life like hungry predators. But they do. Daily. Hourly. The lack of something in his life is ever-present. He hates it. He hates that Tav is gone. He hates that he cares.

Some days he can convince himself that he doesn't care. Days spent completely engrossed in the task of bringing his hells to heel. Yet, even at the end of those days, the temptation beckons - to retreat, to rest, to yield to the care of somebody who is no longer there.

Of course, he can always ask Haarlep to step up. The little shit is living their best life and always ready to indulge in a professed weakness of their former master. Their price might even be acceptable. Yet Raphael cannot bring himself to ask. Not just due to the humiliation. It feels wrong. He hates it. He abides by it anyway.

Because it won't be long, can't be long, until Tav returns. There is certainty in the thought, a belief built on thin air. The alternative is unthinkable, so Raphael does not think it. Tav is his. One way or another. It is his truth, held up by hope he doesn't admit to and lies.

They'll come back.

Tav loves him. It is the truth. It cannot be denied. It is a pillar the realms rest on. And because Tav loves him, they will be back. Days and days go by during which Raphael is certainly not waiting for Tav to return. He doesn't expect them to grovel or even an apology.

They are beyond that. Tav will return with an explanation. And Raphael will have his words practised and polishes. They will talk. They will set things right. And Tav will stay because they love him and it is the right thing to do.

But Tav doesn't return.

Certainly, they'd come for some of their things. Raphael doesn't spend much time in their suite. It's a hall of empty memories. He slips in still, weak for past comforts. For a while the sheets and pillow smell faintly of his little mouse. After a while the scent wears off. He bunches up the pillow in anger, shoves it back on the insultingly pristine bed.

But all of Tav's things are there. So he puts the blasted contract where they have to find it. On top of their collection of favourite things in the topmost desk drawer. When Tav breaks in, sneaks in as they did before – for Mol's contract, for the Orphic hammer that once again sits in the place of honour in the archives – when Tav comes to steal from him once more, they must find it.

They will understand. Maybe they will just take it for now. But that is an invitation Raphael can follow up on after some time.

But Tav doesn't break in. Every time Raphael ventures into the coldness of his former home, the top drawer is undisturbed. The Helldusk armour in its stand, mimicking Tav's small form perfectly, is still there. Everything is exactly the way Tav left it behind, untouched, slowly dusting over.

So he takes his time to reel Karlach in, a difficult and delicate task. The tiefling is suspicious of devils and rightfully so.

But Karlach has one thing, one thing she desires above all else. And he, Archdevil of Five Hells, can provide it. For a price, of course, always for a price. And if the price may be deemed to low for the service he provides – well, the devil is in the details. Karlach may speak to exactly one person about the price she paid.

Karlach leaves with her heart repaired and nothing but a request as payment. Surely, this good turn will catch Tav's attention. They have no chance but to recognise his goodwill. Raphael has his words prepared, the feast hall polished, the reception planned to the t.

But Tav doesn't arrive at his doorstep. Even when he knows for certain Karlach has reached them, talked to them. He is an arch devil. His eyes, his ears, are everywhere. But Tav keeps on adventuring as if nothing has changed.

Raphael changes his approach. He gets more forward, a little help here and there. Saving their life. But Tav stays silent. Not even an "I didn't ask for this". Tav doesn't acknowledge his interference.

So he decides to go himself. Let things play out like they do in plays and novels with eyes meeting across the distance and budding understanding that dawns in its wake. But when their eyes meet, there is only pain.

Tav turns their head away as if he didn't see the thin line of their lips, the darkness clouding their eyes. It makes no sense. Has he asked for something in return? Never! He stands, reaching out and reaching out and grasping nothing. He crosses his arms, calms the tapping foot, keeps his eyes on them.

The silence is deadening. Tav shakes their head and that does it. Raphael retreats. If the direct approach does not work, he needs something else. But Tav's companions are granite. They do not talk to him, answer no questions, offer no insight.

It's Astarion who finally breaks. But he only offers six words: They told us what you did. No judgement, no tirade nor rage. A simple fact. And behind it the truth: we stand with them to the end. Tav is not alone and they are right.

Raphael stews over those six words for days. Tav is not right. They have no right to burden his thoughts the way they do. Who ever heard of such a thing? An arch devil humiliating himself for a mere mortal. He should- and there his train of thought stops. There are many things the Archdevil of Five Hells should do to Tav. None are appealing to him.

There are many things Raphael wants to do to Tav, but they rejected those. It is a discrepancy he cannot solve. If he cannot have his little mouse – not like a possession. The words sear down sharply. Tav's words. Not a possession. Well, it is obvious that he doesn't own them. Owns their soul, but at what cost?

The damned contract lies untouched in the topmost desk drawer. Tav never comes to claim it – or anything else from the life they shared. Not a single possession. Raphael keeps his eyes and ears on Tav anyway. To make sure they survive, keep them where they are if that is what makes them happy.

He will see Tav soon enough – Tav, who doesn't want to be in his House of Hope. He can't stand the thought. So he will keep them alive and away. A purely selfish act, of course.

Still word gets around somehow, that the Archdevil of Five Hells is trying to lure one very specific human down to him.

Offers to facilitate Tav's demise crop up more and more often in deal negotiations. Rejecting them turns tedious. Raphael doesn't want his mouse dead. He just wants them. A concept the desperate souls seeking him out seem to have trouble grasping.

It should delight him that the human life is short. Nothing but the blink of an eye in the world of devils. Soon Tav must return. Raphael remembers teasing them for believing he preferred their presence in his home to their soul in his possession.

The House of Hope is full of fiends and empty of home. Tav made clear that they do not want to return and will hate every moment once they have to. Raphael doesn't call it defeat, doesn't even call it acceptance. It is a tactical retreat, a break to regroup and consider his options. Even if every day makes it more and more clear that Tav will not return.

I should have stopped them.

[songbirdsanctuary]

Whispers of Loss, pt. 3

I'm somewhat turning this into a series so, I'll post the order they go in later when I have more, but this > 🐑

is the fic that started this and although it'll be later in the series you can read it whenever. Don't go looking for part 1 and 2 on my tumblr, for those you need to go to my Ao3 account, SongBirdSheep, and find it.

Warnings: Starvation? Kind of?

Word count: 3,507

Impulse walked through the shopping district with Zedaph by his side. Normally, Zedaph was a ball of energy, always chatting about his latest wild invention or some random curiosity that had caught his attention. But lately, something felt... off. Zedaph’s usual exuberance had dimmed, like a light bulb slowly flickering out, and it didn’t sit well with Impulse. Zedaph seemed quieter, more withdrawn. Even now, as they walked past colorful market stalls and bustling shoppers, Zedaph kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, offering only the occasional half-hearted response to Impulse's attempts at conversation.

Impulse noticed how Zed’s hands fidgeted with the edges of his shirt, a nervous habit that wasn’t normally there. They had finished their shopping trip much quicker than usual. Normally, Zedaph would insist on stopping at every stand, marveling over gadgets and trinkets, but today, it was as if he was eager to get it over with. As they reached the end of the district, Zedaph cast a quick glance back toward the stalls before turning to Impulse with a weak smile. "It was fun hanging out with you, but I should probably head back," Zed said, his tone light, but his words rushed, like he was trying to escape. "Lots of work to do, you know…"

Zedaph turned, his steps quickening as if he couldn’t wait to be alone. But Impulse wasn’t ready to let him go just yet. He stepped forward, closing the gap between them. "Hey," Impulse called softly, careful not to sound too concerned. "How about I come over for a bit? It’s been a while since we hung out properly."

Zed froze for a second, glancing over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. Impulse could feel the unease in the air, the way Zedaph was trying to put distance between them. He didn’t want to push too hard, but something in the pit of Impulse’s stomach told him that leaving Zedaph alone right now wasn’t the best idea. Impulse had known for a while that Zedaph struggled with self-worth issues, and he’d heard enough about the body dysmorphia that sometimes distorted Zed’s view of himself. Zed had always been good at masking it with jokes and endless curiosity, but lately, the cracks in that facade had been showing more and more.

Impulse didn’t want to outright say he was concerned, but it was hard not to be. He couldn’t just ignore the way Zedaph had been withdrawing, retreating into himself more often. "We don’t have to do anything crazy," Impulse added quickly, trying to keep his tone casual. "I just thought maybe we could hang out, maybe watch something, no pressure." He knew Zedaph didn’t always respond well to being fussed over, but Impulse hoped that offering company without too much expectation might help ease whatever weight Zed was carrying today.

“I... Sure!” Zedaph said, his voice shaky but carrying a hint of relief. Impulse smiled softly, and the two began their walk to Zedaph’s lab. The walk was quiet, with Impulse sneaking glances at Zedaph every now and then. Zedaph kept his eyes forward, lost in his own thoughts. Impulse wasn’t sure if he should try to start a conversation or just let the silence stretch. Sometimes Zedaph needed space, and Impulse didn’t want to push too hard.

When they finally arrived at the lab, they were greeted by the familiar sight of Cotton Candy, Zedaph’s pet sheep. The pink-and-yellow dyed wool gave the sheep a bright, cheery appearance, but even Cotton Candy’s usual antics didn’t bring the usual smile to Zedaph’s face. The sheep trotted over to them, its hooves clicking loudly on the polished floor. Impulse chuckled as the sheep nudged Zedaph’s leg, but Zedaph barely reacted, simply bending down to give Cotton Candy an absent-minded pat on the head.

As they stepped further into the lab, Impulse's shoes made soft, muffled sounds on the smooth marble floor, but Zedaph’s hooves were louder, the clicks echoing slightly in the open space. The sound was comforting in a way—it was part of the normal rhythm of their visits, something familiar in the quiet tension.

“So... what do you wanna do...?” Zedaph asked after a moment, his voice unsure as he tugged at the hem of his shirt. He looked up briefly, his eyes darting toward Impulse before quickly looking away. “I-I can make us something to eat and we could watch a movie? How about that?”

Zedaph’s suggestion hung in the air for a moment, but Impulse could see the uncertainty written all over his friend’s face. Zedaph’s hands fidgeted more, pulling and twisting at his shirt, and his eyes stayed glued to the floor, avoiding any further eye contact. Impulse could tell Zed was struggling, trying to be hospitable even though he clearly wasn’t up to it.

"I’m not that hungry..." Zedaph mumbled after a beat, still not meeting Impulse’s eyes. His voice was soft, almost defeated. "Make yourself something, though. I’ll, uh... find a movie or something."

Impulse watched him carefully, concern deepening as Zed retreated further into himself. The way Zedaph’s shoulders slumped, the way his voice wavered—it was all adding up, and Impulse could feel the weight of it. Zed wasn’t okay, and it wasn’t just about being hungry or tired.

“Alright,” Impulse said gently, trying not to sound too worried. He didn’t want to overwhelm Zedaph, but he also didn’t want to leave him alone in his thoughts. “I’ll whip up something quick, nothing fancy.” Impulse hesitated for a moment before continuing. “If you change your mind, there’ll be plenty. You know I always make too much.”

Zedaph gave a small, almost imperceptible nod as he moved toward the couch, his steps slow and heavy. Impulse could see the tension in his friend’s movements, the way Zed’s hands were still trembling slightly as he grabbed the remote and started flipping through the options on screen. Impulse turned toward the small kitchenette area, but his mind was still on Zedaph.

As Impulse started pulling out a few ingredients to make a quick snack, he glanced over at Zedaph. The flickering light from the screen illuminated his friend's face, highlighting the exhaustion that Impulse had been noticing for a while now. Zedaph looked drained, like he was carrying something too heavy for him to handle alone.

.

.

After the movie, Impulse glanced over and realized Zedaph had fallen asleep. His head was tilted back against the couch, mouth slightly open, breathing softly. The movie’s soft glow flickered across Zedaph’s peaceful face, a stark contrast to the tension he’d been carrying earlier. Impulse felt a wave of relief wash over him—at least Zedaph was getting some rest. Quietly, Impulse reached for the remote, turning off the TV so the room was dim, leaving only the gentle hum of the lab’s equipment in the background.

Impulse stood up slowly, careful not to wake Zedaph as he approached him. He bent down to gently lift Zedaph up, intending to carry him to bed so he could sleep more comfortably. But the moment Impulse wrapped his arms around Zed’s torso, he froze.

Zedaph was light—far too light. As he lifted him, Impulse felt the startling realization of just how much weight his friend had lost. Zed’s body felt fragile, like he could easily snap in half. His clothes hung loosely, and when Impulse’s hand brushed against Zedaph’s midsection, he could feel his ribs through the thin fabric of his jacket and wool. The sensation stopped him in his tracks. He could feel the hard bones underneath, too prominent, too sharp.

A deep frown formed on Impulse’s face. That wasn’t good. How long had Zedaph been like this? Has he been eating at all?

Impulse slowly adjusted his hold on Zedaph, cradling him carefully as he carried him toward the small bedroom at the back of the lab. As he walked, Impulse’s mind raced with concern. How hadn’t he noticed this sooner? Zedaph had always been a bit on the thinner side, but this was different. This was alarming. He couldn’t help but wonder if Zed had been skipping meals, too focused on work, or worse—if he had stopped caring about himself altogether.

Impulse carefully laid Zedaph down on the bed, pulling the blankets up over him. Zed didn’t stir, his breathing steady and calm, but Impulse couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at him. He glanced down at Zedaph, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the covers. His friend looked so small, so vulnerable.

Sighing softly, Impulse tucked the blankets in around Zedaph, making sure he was warm. He sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, just watching him sleep. The quiet room seemed to amplify Impulse’s worries, thoughts swirling as he tried to figure out what to do next. He couldn’t just leave things like this, not when it was clear that Zedaph wasn’t taking care of himself. Something had to change.

"I'll come back in the morning," Impulse murmured softly, more to himself than to Zedaph. He gave one last look at his friend, then stood up and quietly left the room..

.

.

.

Impulse flew gracefully, his dragon wings slicing through the sky with ease as the wind rushed past him. The sun had barely begun to rise, casting soft hues of orange and pink across the landscape as he glided toward Zedaph’s lab. The early morning air was crisp, and Impulse found comfort in the rhythmic beat of his wings, but his mind was far from at ease. Zedaph had been on his mind ever since he left him the previous night, and Impulse knew he couldn’t ignore the growing concern gnawing at him.

As he descended, his wings flared to slow his landing, touching down softly just outside Zedaph’s lab. The sleek, polished building stood quiet, the faint hum of machinery inside the only sign of life. Impulse folded his wings back and approached the door, raising his hand to knock.

He rapped on the glass gently at first, not wanting to startle Zedaph. Through the window, he caught a glimpse of movement—a shadow passing quickly out of view. Impulse waited a moment, but there was no other sign of activity. No response. He knocked again, a little louder this time, leaning closer to the door.

“Zed?” Impulse called out, his voice steady but filled with an edge of concern.

Another long pause followed, and Impulse's heart sank a little. He debated whether he should just let himself in, but before he could decide, he heard the faint click of the door unlocking. The door creaked open slowly, and Zedaph peeked out, his face only partially visible through the small crack. His eyes were downcast, and his usually bright expression was replaced with something duller, more worn out.

“Need something?” Zedaph’s voice was quiet, almost hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken in hours. There was something off about the way he spoke—something flat and lifeless. Impulse had never seen Zedaph like this before.

“I just wanted to see you,” Impulse said softly, offering a warm, disarming smile, trying to coax Zedaph out of his shell. He didn’t want to push too hard, but the last thing he wanted was for Zedaph to retreat further into himself. “I figured we could hang out, maybe grab breakfast?”

Zedaph hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the door as he considered Impulse’s words. He opened the door a little wider, enough for Impulse to get a better look at him. Zed’s eyes were red and tired, dark circles smudging beneath them, and his clothes looked like they hadn’t been changed since the night before. He was still wearing the same jacket, and it hung even looser on him now, emphasizing how thin he had become.

“I’m… not really hungry,” Zedaph mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor, avoiding Impulse’s eyes.

Impulse’s chest tightened. Zedaph had always been on the quirky side, sometimes lost in his own world, but this was different. There was an air of isolation around him now, a heavy sadness that Impulse couldn’t ignore. He had been worried before, but seeing Zedaph like this made it all the more real.

Impulse watched Zedaph hesitate at the door, his heart sinking at how exhausted his friend looked. He couldn’t just let this slide. Zedaph had admitted he wasn’t hungry, but Impulse could see how much his body was struggling, how thin he had gotten. It wasn’t just about being tired anymore—it was about making sure Zedaph was taking care of himself.

“I get it, Zed,” Impulse said softly, stepping forward and gently placing a hand on Zedaph’s shoulder. “But you’ve gotta eat something. Even if it’s just a little bit. You’re looking really worn out, and I’m worried about you.” His voice was steady but filled with care, trying to strike the balance between being concerned and not overwhelming Zed.

Zedaph tensed slightly at the contact, still avoiding Impulse’s gaze. “I’m really not hungry, Impulse,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. He tried to shrug off the suggestion, but there was no real conviction behind his words. It was more of a reflex, a defense mechanism.

Impulse didn’t back down. “Zed, you need to eat,” he said, firmer this time but still gentle. “Even if you don’t feel like it. I know you’re probably not thinking about it, but I can tell you haven’t been eating enough. Let me make something small—just toast or a smoothie. Something easy.”

Zedaph shifted uncomfortably, his hand still gripping the doorframe as if it were his anchor. He looked like he was about to argue again, but Impulse kept his eyes locked on him, his expression soft but unwavering.

“Please, Zed,” Impulse said, his voice quieter now but full of emotion. “Just let me help. I won’t leave until you’ve had something. It doesn’t have to be much, but it’s important. You can’t keep going like this.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Zedaph stared at the floor, his jaw clenched, as if he was trying to fight back some internal struggle. Finally, he sighed heavily, the fight leaving him as his shoulders slumped even more.

“Fine,” Zedaph muttered, almost resigned. “But just something small.”

Impulse felt a wave of relief wash over him. He didn’t want to push Zedaph too hard, but he also couldn’t sit by and do nothing. “That’s all I’m asking,” Impulse said, smiling warmly. He stepped inside the lab, placing a reassuring hand on Zedaph’s back as they made their way toward the small kitchen area.

“I’ll whip up something quick,” Impulse said as he glanced through the pantry, grabbing a few simple ingredients. He pulled out some bread and fruit, deciding to make toast with a bit of jam and a smoothie—nothing too heavy, but enough to get something in Zed’s system.

As Impulse worked, he kept an eye on Zedaph, who had slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs, looking even smaller and more fragile than he had the night before. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, but it was heavy with unspoken concern. Impulse wanted to ask what had been going on, why Zedaph had let things get so bad, but he knew he needed to take things slow.

He placed the toast and smoothie down in front of Zedaph. “Here. Just a little bit, like we talked about.”

Zedaph stared at the food for a moment, as if gathering the energy to eat, before finally picking up a piece of toast. Impulse watched him carefully, feeling a small sense of accomplishment as Zedaph took his first bite. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

“Zed… If you don’t mind telling me… Why haven’t you been eating?” Impulse asked, his voice soft but filled with concern as he sat down across from Zedaph. He watched his friend closely, searching his face for any hint of an answer. Zedaph froze, his body going still for a moment, and Impulse could see the internal battle taking place behind his tired eyes. Zedaph shook his head quickly, his hand trembling slightly as he placed the half-eaten toast back onto the plate.

“I-it’s not important,” Zedaph mumbled, his voice barely audible. He looked away, avoiding Impulse’s gaze, but the words hit Impulse like a punch to the chest.

Not important? How could he say that? Impulse felt his heart drop, frustration and fear bubbling up inside him. Zedaph had been wasting away right in front of him, and now he was trying to downplay it like it didn’t matter.

“But it is!” Impulse’s voice came out sharper than he intended, and he could feel the edge of panic creeping into his tone. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the table tightly. “If I never noticed, would you have starved yourself to death!? Is that what you were planning to do?”

The sudden intensity of his words hung in the air like a heavy weight. Impulse hadn’t meant to yell, but the thought of Zedaph quietly suffering, slowly slipping away without anyone knowing, filled him with a surge of fear and helplessness. His mind raced, trying to comprehend how bad things had gotten without him noticing sooner.

Zedaph’s eyes widened in shock, and he stared at Impulse as if he had never seen him like this before. It wasn’t often that Impulse raised his voice in a way that wasn’t part of their playful banter or casual joking around. This was different—Impulse’s voice was laced with real emotion, raw and unfiltered, and it made Zedaph flinch.

“I… I…” Zedaph moved his mouth as if he were trying to respond, but no words came out. His lips trembled, and his breath hitched slightly. Impulse could see the wall that Zedaph had built around himself cracking, and before he could say anything else, he noticed the tears. They were slow at first, welling up in Zedaph’s eyes, but as the silence stretched between them, they began to spill over, trailing down his cheeks.

“Zed, I-I didn’t mean—” Impulse’s voice softened immediately, the anger and frustration melting away as he realized how much he had hurt his friend with his outburst. “Please don’t cry… I just— I’m worried about you, that’s all.”

Impulse reached out, his hand moving toward Zedaph’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort, but the moment his fingers brushed Zedaph’s jacket, Zedaph flinched hard, pulling away from his touch. He shrank back into his chair, curling into himself as if trying to make himself smaller, his body trembling slightly.

Impulse’s heart shattered at the sight. He hadn’t meant to scare Zedaph, hadn’t meant to push him like this. Seeing his friend so vulnerable, so broken, made him feel helpless. The silence that followed felt suffocating, thick with unspoken pain and confusion.

Zedaph hugged his arms around his chest, his breathing uneven as he tried to control the sobs threatening to break free. “I’m sorry,” Zedaph whispered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make you worry. I’m just… I don’t know anymore.” His voice wavered, and he wiped at his tears, but they kept coming. “It’s just… everything feels so heavy. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

Impulse’s chest tightened, hearing the brokenness in Zedaph’s words. He could see now how deep this went, how much Zedaph had been carrying on his own, and how badly it was affecting him. Impulse cursed himself for not noticing sooner, for letting Zedaph get to this point without realizing just how bad things were.

“You don’t have to do it alone, Zed,” Impulse said softly, his voice filled with compassion. He kept his distance now, not wanting to make Zedaph more uncomfortable, but his heart ached to reach out and hold his friend close, to let him know he wasn’t alone in this. “I’m here. I’ve always been here. You don’t have to carry all this by yourself.”

Zedaph didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, trembling, his arms still wrapped tightly around himself as if he were trying to hold himself together. Impulse could see how much pain he was in, and it broke his heart to think of Zedaph feeling like this for so long without reaching out for help.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Zedaph spoke again, his voice so small it was almost a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this, Impulse. I don’t know how to… make it better.”

Impulse’s eyes softened, and he nodded, understanding the weight of what Zedaph was saying. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now,” he said gently. “But you can start by letting me help. We’ll figure it out together, okay? One step at a time. You don’t have to fix everything by yourself.”

Zedaph sniffled, wiping at his eyes again, his breathing still shaky. He didn’t say anything for a few moment.

Zedaph shook his head and resumed eating.

[solitaire-sol]

05: North

For: @prongsfoot-microfic

Month: August 2023

AO3: Link

Notes: A bit more than the usual 500 words; the actual microfic is 500, but there are some short 'extras' in the form of two endings I couldn't choose between, so I went with a third one and included the extras in case anyone still wanted to read them.

In their third year, fresh from the holidays, Sirius was in the middle of unpacking, eager to put his time away behind him, when James threw himself on Sirius' bed and shoved a small package in his face. Sirius accepted automatically, if suspiciously: James was grinning broadly, his “I know something you don't” grin, and Sirius liked to think that James didn't keep secrets from him.

“Go on,” James urged. “Open it!”

“Alright, don't nag,” Sirius retorted, but tore it open regardless, revealing a box of the kind that typically held jewelry. Something contracted within him, taut with a strange anticipation that Sirius didn't know what to do with, so he forced it aside and tipped a small, gray-black ring into his palm. It looked like ore, polished to a mirror's sheen, but it seemed utterly mundane. Sirius looked back to James with a quirked brow.

“Oh, give it here,” James said, bouncing up to take the ring in one hand and Sirius' hand in the other. Sirius had a moment to wonder why this made him a little breathless, or why he felt strangely warm when James (slightly clumsily, but with great enthusiasm) slid the ring onto the proper finger.

“Now, think about me!” James instructed, as if Sirius needed to be told.

“James,” Sirius said, his tone carrying a slight warning – stop making me feel things with no explanation – but he paused at a faint pulse of warmth from the ring. It felt like sunlight on a cold day, like a shared scarf on a snowy walk, like James, just a few seconds ago, holding Sirius' hand.

It felt like James, and when Sirius turned to James, mouth slightly open but not quite sure which words to say, the warmth increased as if to indicate the shift in direction.

“It works, right?” James crowed, pleased with himself in the way that Sirius always found endearing. “I just about destroyed Dad's workshop, trying to make the charms stick, but this way-- I mean, we can't get you owls,” James explained, his words bumping into each other the way they did when he was flustered. “And when we come back, you're always a little--”

James glanced away. “It's so you don't forget. About me, or... Because we're best friends, right, even if I'm not... where you are.”

It was a bit much to ask of a thirteen-year-old, explaining feelings that were only just beginning to be known, so it was a relief when Sirius flung an arm around James' neck and asked if he was 'going all soppy on him,' and the ensuing scuffle excused both the color in James' cheeks and the irregular beat of Sirius' heart. Really, there was never any danger of Sirius forgetting James, but he still kept the ring through Hogwarts and beyond; it lacked the utility of the two-way mirrors, but there was something to be said for having a little piece of James in his hand, whenever he wanted, wherever he might be.

BONUS?

Years later, when those halcyon Hogwarts days are already lost to the past and Sirius' world has fallen apart, he finds himself shivering through a prematurely cold November, frost riming the surfaces in the semi-abandoned basement he's temporarily taken refuge in, because Merlin knows he can't go back to the Order-- Not with what he knows, not with what he plans to do. Sirius clings to the rage, to the sense of betrayal, and he occupies himself with the many myriad ways he's going to take Peter apart; little Peter, poor, easily-impressed Wormtail, who admired James so greatly and had sent him to his death. Sirius prefers his murderous thoughts to any of the others that crowd around him in that damp, unpleasant space, because he'd rather focus on the prospect of violence than on the life he might have to lead now, the knowledge that one of their best friends betrayed them after all, the guilt of pressing James to change their Secret Keeper, the idea that he'll have to live without--

Sirius' hand goes to that ring, one of many, now, but infinitely more precious because it was the first: Silver-black in the light that drips through boarded-up windows, humble in appearance, Sirius clings to it like a talisman, still unwilling to take it off even though he knows that its purpose has likely come and gone. He knows where James is, after all, or what's left of James, he saw the fallen body and the wide-open eyes devoid of the light and the life that Sirius has loved for so long. Even so.

Even so...

Sirius, back against the wet-slick wall behind him, lifts his hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the ice-cold ring, barely noticing the tremor that passes through him. James, he thinks, James, James, James--

Not the body back in Godric's Hollow, not the man with the shadows under his eyes that Sirius had last seen through the mirror, but James as he lives in Sirius' best memories: The boy that Sirius met on the train, the boy he grew up with, the boy he loved, who grew into the man who Sirius wants, more than anything, to see again. One last time, if never again, he wants to feel that warmth, that sunlight, please--

Alternate Ending 01: Half-Full

Faint but undeniable, that familiar warmth pulses from the ring; the basement remains unchanged, but to Sirius, it's as if the mildew-streaked walls have been suddenly bathed in golden light. The whisper of James' magic, imbued into the ring what feels like a lifetime ago, ripples faintly, like James murmuring in his sleep; for a moment, Sirius can almost feel James' hand in his.

The moment passes, the magic goes dormant, but that's all right. Sirius' eyes close, his breath puffing into mist as he exhales shakily, and he presses the hand wearing the ring against his chest as if trying to draw the remnants of that warmth into his heart. James is gone, but not really. Not in the way that Sirius feared.

Now that he knows this, now that he's sure, Sirius knows what he has to do.

Alternate Ending 02: Half-Empty

... Nothing. There is no stirring of familiar magic, no sought-after warmth; the ring is just a ring, now, as empty as the man who made it, a reminder that nothing lasts forever and the promises of children mean nothing in the face of what men do. Sirius knows this, has known it, but he had hoped, he had stupidly, desperately hoped to be proven wrong.

He tries again, regardless, and again, and again, until he's forgotten why he was thinking of James at all, because it's been so natural for him to do so and now he can never think of James without the reminder that James is gone. It almost makes Sirius want to discard the ring entirely, to rip it from his hand and hurl it into the streets and let it lie there, forgotten, to be buried under the snow. He does not, because even a painful reminder of James is better than nothing, and now painful reminders are all that he has. James is gone, and wherever he might be, if he still exists at all, lies far beyond Sirius' reach.

Now that he knows this, now that he's sure, Sirius knows what he has to do.

[red-the-dragon-writes]

Sevens-Spit Luck

Summary:

Adyr, freshly orphaned - as far as she's aware, anyway - plans to hitch a ride on a pirate ship to get the hell out of this stupid country and discovers abruptly that she might want to sail the high seas instead. Only, there's a few problems with that, like how she doesn't have any experience, and obviously the only way onto the ship she wants a place on is to stow away. She probably could've thought this one through better. Oh, well. If they don't kill her, there's always next time. Or something.

On Ao3 here.

Hope was a funny thing, Adyr thought, holding the knife between her teeth and clinging to the rope with every ounce of force she had in her entire body. This was a really, really Sevens-spit stupid idea and there was no way in any hell it was ever going to work, but she’d let her starry eye blind her until well past the point of no return. The acid sting on the side of her face throbbed in time to her heartbeat, still healing.

The furthest reaches of the horizon began to glow a ruddy violet-crimson. Surely when the sun was up she’d be discovered, if she hadn’t fallen. But until the light of day revealed her, she should have been able to keep herself up here without detection. If it weren’t for the rope…

The Midnight King was a gorgeous capturesail brigantine, with two towering jet-black masts and translucent sails and a narrow arrow-shaped body. It put Adyr, on the shore in the light of day hours ago, in mind of a wasp, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. She was here to see if she couldn’t land herself a ticket to one, just to cross the ocean, but suddenly she had found herself seized with a desire to find herself a place on that ship instead. To be part of that.

Besides, the capturesails were glorious. They didn’t live in the real world, where everyone else did - they were free from all laws but the high seas, beholden to no one but themselves, and they moved around so fast they couldn’t be caught. If everyone Adyr cared about had been sailing a capturesail, then -

Wasn’t worth finishing, was what that thought was. Dead was dead was wasn’t anymore a person and so wasn’t worth thinking about. But she’d set her eye on the Midnight King and set herself on its mast about twelve minutes later. She’d find out what she needed to know later when she found herself a spot, and if it didn’t work out and they threw her overboard she could probably sink the entire ship along with her before the great monsters living in the Lanjjikk could get around to drowning her and then maybe she’d lose but at least she’d take them all down with her, which -

- which wasn’t worth thinking about either. Because it was going to be fine. And it wasn’t going have time to be a problem anyway, because they were still docked, and this stupid, Adyr thought, feeling her fingers slipping as the fibers snapped beneath her, this stupid Sevens-spit rope was going to snap, and then she’d be caught and it would all be for -

“Hey,” someone said.

Startled, Adyr jumped into her Secondform - about twice as heavy and five times as long as she was in smallform, and she wasn’t even fully-grown - and the rope did snap, sending her plummeting straight to the deck. Not instinct’s greatest moment, but at least it also made her snap her wings out, and so the sixty-or-so foot drop wasn’t so bad. She tried her best not to hiss up at whoever’d just climbed up the mast to meet her as she picked herself up from the smooth-polished wooden deck.

“Hey!” they yelled again, fainter now that they weren't right below her. “Who are you?”

Adyr did hiss at that, not really sure how to respond. “I’m not leaving!” she yelled up instead of answering.

“Not what I asked,” whoever it was up there replied, starting to climb down the mast rather quickly, as far as Adyr was concerned. That wasn’t ideal, even if it was still a long, long way. “Who are you? Did Sandar send you over?”

Well, they didn’t sound angry, now that Adyr’s startled spines were starting to settle and she could think a little clearer. “No one sent me,” she called up. “I, um… I want to be part of your ship.”

“It’s not my ship,” the stranger said, climbing closer down the rope ladder like some sort of spider, or something. Adyr eyed the distance between herself and dry land; not far. But she wanted to be on this ship. The others didn’t cut a figure like this one. But if she had to make a break for it, now would probably be the time. Obliviously, the stranger went on, “If you want to sign on, you’re gonna have to talk to our captain.”

“The captain,” Adyr repeated, thrown for a loop. “Just like that?”

“We-elllll…” the stranger said, hopping to the deck. In the low light Adyr could just barely make out a low-cut white shirt, a long sword at her side. A dragon? No, her eyes were too dark, no light in them without the sun. But Adyr had never seen a human carry a sword before. Too alien for them here, or something. Adyr had an odd feeling about this. Almost positive. Which was weird, because she’d just gotten caught, so this was bad. Right?

“…well?” Adyr echoed.

“I’m Zahra,” the stranger said, instead of explaining. “What’s your name?”

Adyr shifted back to smallform, pulling her snapped-apart tunic back over her chest with one hand. “Uh. Adyr.”

“Ad-der,” Zahra echoed. “Ad- Ad-dir?”

“Adyr,” Adyr repeated, and then, because she was still curious, “don’t worry about it. I want a place on your ship. I have to talk to your captain, and that’s it? That’s all?”

“I wouldn’t know, really,” Zahra said. “Not my ship, remember? But I like the Captain, he’s a good guy. And he was talking about wanting someone who can, you know, do the fire thing.”

“I can do ice too,” Adyr said, because she could and she was proud of that. “Not as flashy, but I can still do it.”

“Huh,” Zahra said. “Well. You’re going to have to fix my spot, if you stay.”

Adyr blinked at her. “What?”

Zahra pointed up at the mast, shrugging. “My rope. You snapped it. I need that.”

No wonder someone had caught her, if she was in someone else’s spot. That was something to know, at least. “Sorry. I’ll fix it if I get to stay.”

“Guess I need you to stay, then,” Zahra said, offering a hand to Adyr. Adyr took it, and Zahra pulled her up until she was standing on her own two feet. “Here. Follow me, I’ll show you who to talk to.”

Adyr nodded, trailing along. Maybe the Sevens weren’t spitting on her at all this time.

[castershellwrites]

💢💯🗑️

Mwahahaha, revenge!

:)

Of course you ask this when all my WIPs are hush-hush for fandom bangs and such XD I'll answer as best I can, lol

💢The hardest to write... was chapter 4. I felt like I was focusing too much on action and not the characters' feelings. I like to write close 3rd person and I was afraid I was falling out of it. Also chapter 6 because ANGST. It was so painful.

💯Chapter 1 and the epilogue. Chapter 1 because it just flowed so nicely. There's a good logical flow and the emotion was easy and the characters play off each other so nicely. The epilogue because we were talking about how the fic was getting a bit angsty and I was humming to myself about what a happy epilogue would look like. Then the fluff ending came to me and haunted me until I wrote it. It was nice and short too, so easy to roll around in my mind until it seemed right.

🗑️Nope! No can do because this is for a bang so all details are hush hush hush! But ... Howsabout an except from my EnHoEn Shark Week fics I'm polishing up before putting on AO3? I'd say no pants counts as embarrassing or unsavory ;)

Enji silently swore to keelhaul whoever had thrown All Might a rope. All Might, as he was now known, had been Toshinori Yagi when he was human, before One For All sank at the hands of All For One. Now he was the only other great white shark shifter Enji knew, and constant thorn in his side because of it; that and his insistence that he and Enji should be the best of friends because of their sharked shark forms granted by the ocean goddess. “Play nice love, he did save our asses back there,” Hawks whispered and clung to his captain’s arm. Then he ensured good behavior with a promise licked into Enji’s ear. “If you’re a good boy I’ll give you a special reward later.” Enji huffed and prepared to play nice. “Toshinori, my friend, would you like some tea? Perhaps some pants?”

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍: Sweat Kink w/ Daryl Dixon

a/n: i think this one turned out better than i thought it would. i kind of didn't know what i wanted to write but had a loose idea, and i decided i might as well throw in husband!daryl because why not?

masterlist | kinktober masterlist | AO3

When it came to the apocalypse, you would undoubtedly be covered head to toe in sweat a majority of the time, but there was no reason to be now; as you lived in Alexandria where there were showers and other foreign luxuries such as that. Yes, if you had been given an outdoor job, then of course you would be, but you weren't forced to sit in it as if you were still on the road, and it just felt like Daryl hadn't gotten the memo.

It wasn't like you were complaining, seeing your husband sweat while working on the bike that Aaron had graciously gifted him to work on had arousal pooling in your underwear as you watched him. Maybe the domesticity of it all was what set you off, or maybe it was the fact that you were able to walk out into your garage, steaming cup of coffee in your hand as you watched your lover tinkering with the thing early in the morning, greeting you with a very oily surprise.

It was strange that you had become so family oriented in such a short amount of time, the thought of being married had never been one of your main concerns back when the world was normal, but after meeting Daryl at the quarry and an impromptu wedding at the prison later, it was as though all you wanted was to be around him all the time. You began to think of what it would be like to have children with him, what kind of dad would he be?

So yeah, you were most definitely craving Daryl in a way where you wanted to have his kids.

Another morning, another day of watching him polishing his precious bike, garage door closed as it allowed him to work with just a plain black under shirt that helped him handle the humidity. You ate him up with your eyes, devouring the poor man like blood in shark infested waters. You willingly sat in the hot box that was his workshop, watching him closely, staring at his muscly arms as they strained under the work he was putting in.

“How am I supposed’ta focus when ya keep starin’ at me.” You heard him grumble. “I’m sorry, you're just like—” You blew out a whistle. “You know?” He flushed, his face becoming increasingly redder to the point where you knew it wasn't just the heat. “Stop.” You got up from the little stool he setup for you, getting down on the floor with him as you tugged his chin close to your face.

“You are just so gorgeous, hun.” You complimented him. Bringing your lips together in a heated kiss, your hands buried themselves in his damp locs, Daryl's hands settling on your face as he tugged you closer to him. You pushed him back as you forced yourself to catch your breath, quickly having a seat on his extended legs that were once crossed.

Your make out session didn't cease as you grinded down on him, a heavy groan left him as you tugged his head back so that you could pursue his neck, licking a long stripe from his neck up to the shell of his ear. You could've sworn the man almost whimpered as you placed a peck there.

Your skin stuck together like glue as you dry humped each other before your hands fell to the button of his pants where eagerly undid it, pulling down the fly of them with sudden urgency as you tugged him out of his underwear. Lifting yourself up onto your knees, you hiked up your sundress, pulling your underwear to the side so that you could sink down on him.

You both moaned in sync, your head falling back as Daryl nibbled on your neck as well, sharing the same kind of attention that you gave him. The pain was quick to subside as you moved, your ecstasy falling on deaf ears as you took what you wanted for Daryl. It had been so long, too long, so you knew you weren't going to last, and Daryl seemed to be in the same boat as you.

“Yer so tight, shit!” He exclaimed as he fucked into you, your walls clenching down on him at the praise. “Daryl, you're so big, please.” You breathed, desperately following his erratic rhythm as you pulled him into a sloppy kiss. Tongues buried inside each other's mouths, your teeth clashed and saliva dripped down your chins in a messy waterfall.

When it came to sex with Daryl, it was never this messy. He always made sure that you were comfortable, that the atmosphere was loving and sensual as he praised your body. Now, he used you as he pleased and you would be lying if you said your body didn't preen at the feeling, the noises coming out of you similar to a purr.

“Inside,” You heaved onto his lips, “Inside me, please.” He quietly obliged, brain fogged by the pure need for his release. As he pulsed, a shiver racked your body before a loud moan falling suit, triggering your orgasm, which triggered his, like a domino affect.

Pulling away from him, you gingerly wiped a droplet of sweat from his brow.

“We really need a shower.” You couldn't help but laugh.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02

[web-archives]

Cool Nails Bro | Hunter Sylvester x Gender Neutral Reader

warnings: swearing

summary: "Wait.." He starts again. You grimace rolling off the chair onto the floor staring at his ceiling begging for mercy as he starts back towards you. "Is this why you confessed?!"

"Well.." You replied, somewhat weakly squinting up at him while he stood over you.

OR: you paint Hunter's nails

posted to my ao3 as well word count: 980

Rolling over on Hunter's bed you sighed. He was across the room pacing, which he's been doing, for over 30 minutes ranting about Kevin. And you were sympathetic, you tried to be anyway, it was kind of hard to keep on being sympathetic after the first 10 minutes. It's not really his fault, his best friend getting a girlfriend, his best friend getting his first girlfriend.

He had mostly gotten over his qualms about Emily after Battle of the bands. It was obvious he was still getting used to the idea that Kevin wouldn't have been able to hang whenever Hunter wanted.

That was okay for the most part, except for the fact that you are so fucking bored. You had come over to hang out maybe watch him play guitar for a little not to listen to him rant about Kevin for what felt like years. Years of your life wasting away. Didn't he know that you were here cause you were also his friend?

You roll back over on your right side watching him worry himself into a frenzy over his two friends. Because he did care about Emily, he was just always nervous opening up to new people. He just didn't want to lose them both now. You take pity on the boy.

Pulling yourself up you lean back on your hands and cross your legs infront of you. Hunter, still pacing around the room decided chewing on his nails was more productive than ranting.

The silence was worse you decided.

"You know.." You start, catching his attention he stopped moving glancing at you, "I could repaint your nails if you want?"

Hunter scoffs, brushing his hands down his jeans walking over to his snake. (Ozzy the ball python, he let you hold her a couple of times.) He started moving the papers that were next to her enclosure to the other side of the room while responding, "You? Paint my nails?"

Okay. Ouch.

"Yeah dickhead I paint nails," you responded rolling your eyes.

"I know you paint nails," he replies crossing his arms, raising an eyebrow he continues, "that's also how I know you're shit at it."

You laugh also crossing your arms, smiling up at him, you couldn't keep the amusement out of your voice when you said "I'm going to paint them hot pink," no room for argument.

"That's the least metal thing I've ever heard in my entire life!"

Maybe a little room for argument.

"Fine," you drawl standing up cracking your knuckles while walking over to your backpack, an idea hits you, he just watches as you pick out your black and white polish. Turning to him you smile holding out your hands to present the bottles. "How about skulls?"

He uncrosses his arms and just gestures to his desk, you pull up an extra chair and you both sit down next to each other.

Fuck yeah.

-

15 minutes later and you were currently trying not to panic. Hunter was right, you had no idea what you were doing. One hand and a half later, minus the frantic YouTube tutorial video, you were done with the two fingers on his right hand and sweating. He wanted skulls on his middle finger an homage to his band's old name (SkullFucker, Skull on the Middle Finger.)

And now it was time for you to do the Skull. Yay. You looked at Hunter studying him, he was strangely quiet throughout the whole ordeal minus the snickering you received when you pulled out your phone. He was pointedly looking not at you, the tips of his ears pink. It was moments like these that made you think he might like you back. You put the brush back in the bottle clearing your throat.

Might as well right?

He startled looking at you, swallowing you notice how close you got had gotten, facing each other in the chairs the desk in front of you both, your guy's legs knocking into each other. Practically holding hands.

"What?" He almost whispers, a tad bit defensive, a small bit soft.

You shift your hold on his hands, lacing your fingers together, taking a moment you gather your confidence you start.

"Hunter?" You question, the flush on his ears darkening doesn't escape your notice. "I know this is out of nowhere but-" he tenses squeezing your hand. "I like you," you finish.

It's quiet for a moment, you started to sweat a little bit, watching Hunter you could see when he finally started to digest the information. He was nervous too, you rubbed you thumb back and forth over the back of his hand waiting for a response.

"I like you too," Looking up at him you smile, as he removes his left hand from yours he smiles back at you somewhat nervously and goes to tuck his hair behind his ear.

Before he can finish though suddenly you freeze. 

"Oh my God!" Hunter busts out laughing. Your face starts to burn, groaning you rub at your eyes.

"It's not that bad!" You protest. He throws his finished left hand in your face, standing up.

"Not that bad?" He asks incredulous.

You see, after your first attempt at a Skull on his middle finger on his left hand, it went so badly you prayed a YouTube tutorial would fix it. Sadly the only thing it managed to do was-

"You painted a cock on my middle finger!" He shouts. Walking across the room gesturing. If only the ground would open up and swallow you whole. He was never going to let you live this down.

"Wait.." He starts again. You grimace rolling off the chair onto the floor staring at his ceiling begging for mercy as he starts back towards you. "Is this why you confessed?!"

"Well.." You replied, somewhat weakly squinting up at him while he stood over you.

"Dude!"

[venusthepirate]

like any unloved thing  part one : tangerines and hotel rooms

part one / part two / part three

taglist : @avocado-writing​ @little-sunflower-bug

ao3 ; masterlist

Fawn is lounging on her bed when the phone starts vibrating with an oncoming call. She lets it ring for a few more moments, closing her eyes, before snatching it from the nightstand and swiping her thumb across the screen to accept the call.

“ Yes ? ” She asks. She doesn’t bother asking who it is. She already knows. Come to think of it, she already knows what the call is going to be about.

“One of your regulars just called”, a woman’s voice says. 

It’s her handler from the agency, who takes care of the whole booking appointment thing. No client likes booking directly from her, or others in her same line of job. They like the pretense that it isn’t just a transaction, that some of it is real. They don’t like discussing rates and availabilities with her, it would simply ruin their illusions.

Fawn can’t help but raise an eyebrow, even though her handler can’t really see it. One of your regulars can mean anything. She has no shortage of them.

“Which one ? ” She asks, picking disinterestedly at her nails. The nail polish is starting to chip.

“Gave another name than the last time. Goes by Tangerine now, apparently.”

She snorts. Right, now she knows who it is. Only one regular switches names every time he calls, and he is the only one to use completely random, ridiculously names. The last time he’d told her to call him Blue. She had snorted, taking in his blue eyes and dark navy suit, but had chosen not to comment it. He’d been Sparrow before that, and before that Percival, and Orion.

Yeah, their arrangement had been going on for a while. Fawn wonders, sometimes, if the code names are uniquely for her. She doesn’t think they are, he doesn’t seem the type. Some men do use other names, for privacy reasons. Most are ashamed, fearful things, terrified that anyone might learn of what they do.

Most of them are married, but she’s never seen a wedding ring on him, not even a tan on his fingers.

That’s not it, though. He is not that kind of man. Come to think of it, she isn’t sure she has ever met someone like him.

“He asked if you were available in two hours”, the woman continues.

Two hours. It’s already nine in the evening. She sighs, thinking about the book she had planned on finishing tonight. Well, whatever, she can just bring it with her and finish it there.

She can always say no. Money isn’t really a problem, so it’s not like she is obligated to accept every appointment. Sometimes she does refuse, if she’s busy or simply doesn’t feel like it. But she can never quite say no to him. For one, he might be one of her regulars, but there is no pattern in the appointments he takes. He seems to pop up and out randomly. Sometimes she doesn’t hear from him for months. But he always reappears, somehow. However, she doesn’t take the risk saying no when he calls ; she doesn’t know when he’ll reach out again.

The truth is, Fawn is intrigued.

She wonders what he does for a living. She’s not sure if she wants to know.

“Sure”, she tells her handler. “Did he say where?”

“Same hotel as last time, room 15.”

Fawn hangs up, the arm holding up the phone against her ear flopping back down on the bed. She remains there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Two hours, then. Plenty of time for her to get ready. Not that it takes her much time, but she likes to have the possibility.  

She eats a little, takes a shower, brushes her teeth and puts on a tiny bit of makeup. She doesn’t bother doing what she would usually do with her other clients. That is not why he hired her, after all. A hour later, she heads out of her apartment, shrugging her leather jacket on, putting some earphones in and checking her reflection in the mirror at the entrance one more time. She debates taking a cab, but she likes walking at night, and she’s early anyway. There’s a switchblade in her shoulder bag, just in case.

The cold air outside feels heavenly against her skin. She strolls slowly towards the hotel, swipes a bit aimlessly through the music on her phone, before deciding on some Lana Del Rey playlist the app suggests. Her songs are perfect for slow, dreamy  nights. It puts her in a weird but comfortable headspace, and, as she walks, she feels like she’s all alone in the world. The fact that the streets are completely empty only adds to the feeling. Without music, she would have felt uneasy.

She gets to the hotel eventually. It’s still early, so she stands outside, lights herself a cigarette, and watches the lights behind the large windows. She tries to guess which one’s Tangerine’s room, imagines what he’s doing while waiting for her.

A couple passes by her and goes inside. She takes a drag of her cigarette, slowly exhaling as she watches them. The smoke whirls around in the air, dissipating in tendrils. The woman is wearing a long, elegant dress, and a fur coat over it. She’s holding the man’s arm, who’s wearing an equally smart suit.

Fawn would have felt criminally underdressed, in her long leather jacket, black shirt, denim skirt and platform boots, but it’s been a long time since she’s felt over conscious of herself in places like this. She’s used to the glances and the murmurs, now, especially from fancy people like this. She’s been to this hotel many times.

She finishes her cigarette, crushing the end in one of the ashtrays outside. She takes her earphones off, sticks them in her bag, before finally heading inside. The hall is, mercifully, empty, save for a young woman behind the reception desk, who seems like she’s rather bored. She does brighten up when Fawn  walks towards her.

“Hi”, she tells her. “Someone must have left a card for me ? For room number 15.”

She lets the girl check her registration, turning a bit and letting her eyes wander around the immaculate walls, the plushy chairs and glass coffee tables.

“ Oh ! Yes, here’s your card ! You’ll find the room on the second floor, right to your left after exiting the elevator”, the receptionist says with a large smile. She hands her the card. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here ! ”

Fawn gives her a smile back, turning away towards the said elevator. Once inside, she presses the second-floor button, and waits until the doors slide open. The corridor is as quiet as the entrance hall. She stops in front of the little “15” in golden on one of the doors, swiping the card inside the lock. It makes a small beeping sound, and she comes inside.

The room is large. It’s more of a suite, really, with a huge living-room, large windows and all the likes. She takes of her shoes, drapes her jacket and bag on one of the couches, and pads further inside. The carpet feels very soft beneath her feet. There is a light coming from one of the rooms, so she follows it.

She finds him in the bathroom, lounging in the tub.

She watches him for a moment, leaning against the doorway. He’s a handsome man, she’s always thought as much. He’s the kind that knows it, and is not shy about it.

His hair is swept back, wet and slightly curling at the ends, his face relaxed back, eyes closed. Her eyes swipe down, to his strong shoulders and his arms, which are resting on the edges of the tub. She spies the drops of water cascading down, and tattoos on his skin. She has a few of her own, perhaps more than him, but hers are thinner, more delicate looking. She’s never been fond of the maximalist style, but she has to admit that they do suit him. The bulldog is a bit ridiculous, though.

There’s a golden pendant, glinting around his neck. She’s never seen him without it. Even when he sleeps, he keeps it hanging around his throat. Fawn did not ask, and he did not tell her, even when she brushed a curious hand against it .

Tangerine finally opens his eyes, perhaps sensing her presence, or just the weight of her stare on him. He doesn’t startle, though, and she wonders briefly if he had heard her come inside.

He doesn’t speak, and neither does she. His eyes merely flick up and down her body, in a lazy way.

Taking that as authorization for her to get closer, she does just that, circling the tub to stand behind him. She rests her hands on his shoulders. The muscles feel tense beneath her fingers, but well, he’s always tense, like he’s expecting someone to try to kill him at any moment. Maybe it’s the case, looking at the scars littering his body. She never asks about them, but it doesn’t take too much thinking to figure out they’re not simply accidental.

He relaxes against her touch, almost leaning into it. She lets her fingers trail up his throat and neck, and she holds his jaw and side of his face gently, thumb swiping against his temple. He watches her beneath long eyelashes. She’s, once again, startled by the blue of his eyes. She’s never seen someone with eyes this blue.

They fall close again, and she buries her hand in his hair, lightly rubbing at his scalp. He sighs deeply. She has half a mind to press a hand to his chest, just to hear it rumbling beneath her palm.

Instead, she dips a hand into the warm water in the tub. She takes one of the bottles of shampoo that are sitting on the edge of the tub, scoops a bit into her palm, before winding it into his hair. He doesn’t say anything, so she keeps going, massaging it into his curls, pressing both her thumbs against the base of his skull, just above his neck, up to the back of his head. His eyes stay closed, and she wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

She rinses his hair when she’s done, careful not to get any shampoo into his eyes, swiping his hair back from his face. She leans down, presses a light kiss against his temple, and he hums , relaxing even more. His skin is very warm against her s.

She leaves him alone while he dries himself and puts on some clothes. She walks idly in the suite, watches the city through the large windows. She decides to make herself some tea, rummaging through the small kitchenette. There are two mugs and a few sachets of tea. She chooses chamomile, puts the kettle on, and drops one sachet in each mug.

When Tangerine finally emerges from the bathroom – he does take a very long time – she’s sitting on the large, comfy bed, her mug on the bedside table, reading the book she had brought. She looks up at him when he comes in. He’s wearing sweatpants, hung low around his waist. His hair seems a bit damp still, reduced to a mess of very soft-looking and fluffy curls. He looks… Soft. There’s no other word to describe him right now.

“I made tea, if you want”, she tells him, nodding towards the second mug on the other bedside table.

“Thanks”, he replies, laying down on the bed. He pressed his face against her hip.

“So, Tangerine, now, is it ? ” She asks. She can’t help but smile a bit, turning a page of her book. She adjusts her grip on it so she can hold it with one hand, and lowers the other to pet gently through his hair.

He lets out a groan. “Yeah, just… Don’t ask”.

She snorts. “ Is it because it’s the season ? You know, it’s fall. It’s the season of tangerines and clementines and all the likes.”

“ Sure ”, he says, which is not an answer at all, but Fawn decides not to press it. She isn’t paid to do so, after all. “What are you reading ? ”

“ Pride and Prejudice.”

This time, it’s his turn to snort turning his head to look at her.

“Didn’t take you for a romantic .”

“What, because I’m a hooker ? ” Fawn asks.

He rolls his eyes at her, brow furrowing.

“No, you just don’t seem the type”, he tells her.

“Just messing with you”, she reassures him, patting his head, before resuming the head rub. She doesn’t make a habit of teasing her clients. Some like it, but others just want a submissive thing, a diligent and docile arm candy. Tangerine, though, doesn’t seem to be among them. From what she has gathered from their previous meetings, h e has a very short temper, so she doesn’t push him too much, but he doesn’t seem to mind the occasional teasing. “Have you read it, then ? ”

He sniffs.

“ Of course I’ve read it. It’s a classic.”

“But did you like it ? ”

He hides his face back against her side, which is enough an answer in itself.

“Yes”, he mutters, almost begrudgingly, voice muffled. Fawn grins, delighted.

“Didn’t take you for a romantic”, she parrots, scratching lightly at his head. He huffs .

“I’m not . I just … like romance books, or whatever. Doesn’t mean I’m fuckin’ romantic. ”

She simply hums, giving him another scratch, and he leans his head even further into her hand, almost nuzzling against it.

He’s so touch-starved, almost purring and melting at the slight touch of affection she gives him. He’d been cagey at first, not quite shy, but not exactly willing to allow himself to be vulnerable in her presence, even if it was the reason why he was paying her.  He’d been tense under her hands. She had worried he would almost break or something.

Maybe he had. Something had, at the very least, because then he’d practically melted against her.

She closes her book, folding the corner of the page for later, and placed it on the bedside table, leaning to shut off the light. The room is plunged in the dark, saved from the light from the city outside.

She lays down, scooting so that she’s almost at his height, wrapped her arms around him. He buries his face against the hollow of her throat. His mustache tickles a bit against her skin, but not unpleasantly.

She brushes her fingers to the back of his neck, trailing them slightly up and down to the top of his spine and against his nape, to the soft curls of his hair. He lets out a choked-up sound, and then inhales deeply, pressing closer against her.

“ Okay ? ” She asks, quietly.

He nods slightly, even though she can’t see his face. She feels the motion of his head against her. His body is so warm against her, his skin smooth and heated. She doesn’t know how he can sleep without a shirt on, without waking up in the night freezing, but he seems to radiate off heat.

She closes her eyes, already feeling herself dozing off. It’s late, and the comfiness of the soft mattress beneath her is making her sleepy. Usually, she doesn’t like falling asleep with clients. She doesn’t like sleeping next to others at all : she’s always liked her own personal space. Plus, he doesn’t exactly trust them, and it’s pretty much impossible to fall asleep in a place where you don’t feel safe. She tries to leave directly after letting them fuck her, but some like her to stay for the night, and she has to humor them, pretend to be something else than the hooker they just paid to have sex with.

Mostly she just pretends to fall asleep until she’s sure they are asleep, and then she just scrolls down on her phone and plays game on it until she can finally leave.

It’s not the same with Tangerine ; she doesn’t mind it as much. Maybe because they don’t have sex. Maybe it’s because he’s so warm.

When Fawn wakes up , Tangerine’s side of the bed empty. She finds him sitting at the end of the mattress, his back to her, hunched over his phone.

She yawns, rolling on her back and stretching so that he’s aware that she’s awake, and then remains laying on the sheets a bit longer, lazily observing her surroundings. The sun is already up outside, casting its light into the room through the large windows. There are yellow flecks of light on the ceiling, probably from the sun reflecting through a window.

She glances back at Tangerine’s form. He’s still shirtless. She stares at the muscles in his back, the strong line of his shoulders, the scars littering his skin. They’re all faded, already healed. She wonders, absently, how he got them.

He mutters a curse, and she sits up, scooting over to him. She touches the tense line of his shoulders gently, setting them on him, thumb rubbing against his nape.

“Everything okay ?” She asks.

He lets out a sigh, groaning a bit as she di gs her fingers harder against his back.

“Yeah, just my brother getting on my fucking tits”, he mutters, sounding annoyed, eyes not leaving the screen of his phone as he types something furiously on it. Fawn watches his profile, a bit surprised. He never mentioned a brother until now. He’s never volunteered any kind of personal information, actually. Nor professional, for that matter.

“Didn’t know you had a brother”, she replies, toying slightly with the curls at his nape.

He huffs. “He’s a fucking prick sometimes.”

She resists the urge to snort, and presses her thumbs between his shoulder blades. He sags a bit forward against her touch, as she works at a knot.

“I could give you a proper massage, if you want”, she suggests.

He lets out another groan, sounding almost pained, and shakes his head.

“That sounds like heaven, love, but I need to get going”, he says, apologetic. He sounds extremely disappointed. It makes her smile. He’s touch-starved like a little kid, and he sulks like one. “Got a plane to catch.”

Fawn raises an eyebrow.

“ Oh ? Going somewhere interesting, I hope ? ”

He checks something on his phone before answering. “Yeah, Bolivia, apparently.”

She lets him go as he gets up, looks at him as he rakes a hand through his hair. The soft light of the sun outsides paints his body in warm hues.

“Your payment is on the coffee table in the living-room”, he tells her, grabbing his shirt from where he had hung it in one of the closets. He shrugs it on, buttons it up quickly. “The room is booked until six, so you can stay here until then, if you want.”

She nods, and he disappears in the bathroom. When he emerges a few minutes later, he’s put on some dress pants and his rings are back on his fingers.

She watches him get ready. It’s fascinating, the way he seems to put on a disguise. He transforms from the touch-starved, soft man that almost begs for her affection , to something completely other, someone proper, slick, professional.

Everyone does it. Everyone shows a different personality depending on their surroundings, but some do it better than others. Moreover, those personalities are often close.

Tangerine, though. It’s a drastic change. It’s like the instant he puts on the suit, he transforms, shapes himself to fill it. Becomes the sort of man people are expecting him to be. Confident, assured. Nothing like what he is when he’s alone with her.

“Alright”, he finally says, now fully-dressed. He adjusts his cufflinks, glances up at her briefly. “Until next time, then, love.”

“Sure thing”, she replies easily, smiling a bit. He flashes her a quick grin back, and then he’s turning away, leaving the bedroom. A few seconds later, she hears the entrance door shut close.

She wraps herself in the duvet and pads over to the large windows. Down in the street, just in front of the hotel, she spies a car waiting. A few minutes later, Tangerine exits the hotel, jogs down the flight of stairs and gets into the passenger seat of the car. It drives off, disappearing.

She goes back towards the bed, grabs her phone from the nightstand and checks the time. It’s barely eleven in the morning, meaning she can enjoy the lavish suite for seven more hours. She’s not going to pass up this opportunity.

She runs herself a bath,  takes her time looking through the arrangement of soaps and shampoos. She chooses one that smells like orange blossom and almond, according to the label. It does smell good, though, when she pours a bit into the warm water.

She relaxes in the bath for a n hour, scrolling on her phone without purpose. She watches cat videos until it bores her, and then just elects to lounge in the warm water with some music, but it eventually stops being relaxing as the fumes from the bath starts getting to her head.

There’s a huge fluffy bathrobe hanging from a wall. She wraps herself in it. The feeling of the fabric against her skin is heavenly. She feels like she’s been swallowed by a cloud.

Her money is in the living-room, in an envelope on the coffee table, just like Tangerine told her. She opens it to find a wad of cash inside. She counts it quickly, thumbing through the bills. It’s more than what they had agreed upon. She isn’t going to complain about it, though. Money is money, after all.

She orders herself room service and eats it on the luxurious, comfy couch, still wrapped in the bathrobe, flicking through the channels .

She wonders what business Tangerine can have in Bolivia of all places. Maybe he’s a businessman of some kind, she muses, but the scars on his body don’t really add up. Besides, she is used to businessmen and their antics, and he is definitely not one of them. There’s something too… dangerous, unrestrained about him, despite the expensive suits and lavish hotel rooms.

Fawn knows what dangerous men look like. It’s not difficult, in her line of work. Some are nice, some can be a bit weird. Some are downright dangerous, and she’s learned to stir clear of them, in time.

And she knows this one is dangerous. She has yet to really see this side of him, and she truly hopes she never will. But it’s… Not quite the same. Maybe it’s the way he crumbles against her hands, the way the slight touch peels a layer of the armor he’s put on . The way he seems so… Vulnerable, with her. He doesn’t allow himself to be, except with her. There’s some sort of gratification from it.

It’s five when she finally leaves the room, her handbag heavy with the weight of the money. She gives the card back to the girl behind the reception desk. Outside, she fumbles with her earphones, slipping them inside her ears, and lights herself another cigarette. The air is a bit cold, as the sun begins to set, but the cigarette keeps her warm. She watches as the sky darkens gradually.

On her way home, she passes in front of a small grocery shop. There are clementines and tangerines on the front shelves on the outside. Unable to resist, she stops and picks one up. She wonders if he likes them, if it’s why he chose to give her the name Tangerine. The simple image of him busying himself with peeling off the skin makes her grin to herself.

What a strange man.

-

here we go ! I hope you enjoyed the first part, please tell me what you thought ! part two will be there soon ^^

[prolix-yuy]

Chapter 1: Never Realized I’d Been Here Before

Pairing: Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x F!Reader "Sugar"

Summary: It's only a themed resort.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: T, some introspection, not much in this chapter but will be explicit in later chapters, 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: Welcome to Westworld, babes! I am playing fast and loose with both of these fandoms but it should be entertaining at least. This starts out around Episode 6 of Westworld S1, but you don't have to watch past Season 1 to know what's going on.

And with that...do you know where you are, Dear Readers?

Cross-posted on AO3

Cognitive Dissonance Masterlist || Whiskey & Westworld Series Masterlist

“Is this the high-tech version of going to Hooters for their hot wings?”

Lacey almost aspirates her champagne, instead blowing it painfully through her nose and onto the limo carpet. You scrunch your face up in concern, half for her and half for the security deposit you and the rest of the bachelorette party put up for this extravagance.

“Holy shit, I can’t breathe,” one of the other girls, Dina, says as she tries to pull in sips of air between braying laughs. You just met but you like her style, no restraint when she’s enjoying something. The five other girls are letting out peals of laughter and it makes you puff your chest out just a little bit. You might not be the hottest one in this group of tens (that would be Sophia, who is literally a model) but if you could make them laugh then this bachelorette, and the ensuing wedding, would be a piece of cake.

Hah, a piece of wedding cake you think, but the girls are still fanning their faces. Your comedic genius would have to wait.

Lacey lurches over to your side of the limo and you hook your arms under her armpits, preventing her from draping her white dress on the newly-dampened carpet.

“I am SO glad you are going to be in my wedding!” she squeals as you hoist her up into the seat. The party was starting a little early, which always made you want to do the opposite.

Be the Mom friend.

Make sure everyone is hydrated and at their proper destination.

Then once things settle down and you’re on the tour or narrative or whatever they call it, then you can relax.

Speaking of, a gentle rolling stop signals your arrival at this weekend’s entertainment. When Beth, Lacey’s maid of honor, asked where she wanted to spend her bachelorette, there was hardly a moment’s hesitation.

“I want to do one of those wild Delos parks,” she said excitedly, a chorus of raised eyebrows circling the room. “The Western one.”

“Really?” Dina spoke first, voicing what everyone was thinking. “You? Want to go rough it in a fake Old West saloon? We could just go to Montana, it would be a lot cheaper. And real.”

“I mean, don’t you think it sounds interesting? Like it’s all robots, top to bottom.” Lacey is practically vibrating, which maybe makes more sense to you than her work friends. Lacey was a horse girl, grew up riding and going on vacations to dude ranches. As polished as she was now, paralegal making her way up to lawyer in a well-to-do firm, she was still a country girl at heart. You would know; you’d attended many of those trips when you were kids.

“Plus,” she says, leaning forward enough that you reached a hand out to keep her appetizer plate from tipping, “what better way to spend my last hurrah as a single woman than at a resort where nothing is real?” Her smile twists in a wicked curl and you watch the other girls start to catch on.

Who needs Chippendale's and male strippers when you can have a world built around you, anything at your fingertips with no consequences?

The tickets were booked and bought within the day.

Tumbling less than gracefully out of the limo, the “Magnificent Seven” T-shirts that will soon be swapped for period clothing make you a beacon for the Delos staff.

“Welcome to Westworld,” a thin, beautiful blonde with gorgeous eyes and full lips says, motioning to follow her to the monorail system. You’d heard it was underground, but nothing about how modern it was above. White domes and glistening water features and feeling like you’re two hundred years in the future. A whole world decades in the past hiding below.

“Wait, we need a photo!” Lacey shouts, directing the girls away from the Delos guide who looks more exhausted than perturbed. Beth fishes out one of those instant cameras that prints tiny Polaroids and lines up the group. Everyone holds up Lacey stretched across their arms, her laughing wildly as you all smile for the camera. Then Beth takes a bunch of individual ones, the girls doing their best Instagram poses. You hang back a bit, keeping an eye on everything going on and ready to round up the group if the staff were looking peaky.

Beth shouts your name, and you wave your hand to refuse but she’s got the camera up to her eye and is not backing down. Dropping your hands and giving a pleasant smile, she snaps a photo and hands it to you. Waving it for a second while it develops, you look at your tiny image. The backdrop of the city makes you look very cosmopolitan, your smile small but friendly. You look nice, you guess.

“Look at that hottie!” Lacey coos over your shoulder, trying to snatch your photo away. You giggle and play keep-away before stuffing the photo into your bra with a triumphant, “I dare you.” Lacey laughs and winks.

“It’s my bachelorette, who knows what will happen?” You roll your eyes and let her lean on you.

“Right this way, ladies,” the Delos host finally says, and you assist with moving the girls in the right direction. As the building looms closer you finally let some excitement thrum through your veins. The girls are marveling at the entryway, chatting happily between each other. Lacey has linked your arms and it feels like weight sliding off your shoulders.

Maybe it would be a nice respite from the stress of your life. Let the weekend be carefree. Don’t think back to the argument that followed you out the door.

“What am I supposed to eat while you’re gone?”

“You’ve been guilting me about this for weeks. You know how to order takeout.”

“You didn’t tell me it was this weekend.”

“I told you several times. I put it on the calendar.”

“You should have said it more. It’s messing everything up.”

“I’m literally going to be gone one night.”

“Don’t get snippy with me.”

“I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

The rounds and rounds of the same argument you always have with your fiancé when you go out without him. The moaning and groaning, the wheedling to cancel even though there’s no reason to. Then the anger when he accuses you of ditching him, questioning whether you’re sneaking off, despite sharing your entire itinerary with him.

The words he spits at you as you leave, then takes back via text ten minutes later.

Maybe it was good you can’t bring cell phones in. A complete unplugging would be refreshing. Let you just enjoy the weekend, whatever it might bring. Some antics you’re sure, bachelorette party shenanigans and then back to your life.

You could use the break.

Program boot sequence >>

Host: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels

Storyline: The Golden Circle

Role: Antagonist, double-cross

Begin startup sequence >>

Host Online //

“What speaks to you?” the perfectly manicured and pleasing host says as she leads you through an extensive wardrobe you’d kill to have in your own closet. Racks bespoke for you, lavish accessories, grouped by general theme. It feels much too extravagant to focus.

“Nothing flashy, I’m easy,” you say, eyes skipping over the more risque outfits. Some of the girls will definitely go for the feathers and silks. You hope Lacey picks out something fun, she should get as dressed up as she wants for this. You? You’d rather be in something a little more subdued. Comfortable would be nice too, especially if whatever narrative the girls choose involves any traveling.

“This is nice,” you say, tugging on the skirt of a long blue dress, buttoned up the front over a white cotton blouse and a pleasantly flared skirt. You wouldn’t get sunburn, and the color makes you think of cornflowers in a grazing field. The host pulls out your selection, appraising it without comment before gathering more items you’ll need. Shoes, flat and comfortable. A belt with some of the necessities: coins for “purchasing” from the hosts (everything was already included in the bill, and anything you take out you’re charged for), some handkerchiefs and other odds and ends a lady would have.

As you dress, zippers and hooks replaced with foreign clasps and ties, you finally start to feel some of the wonder of the resort creep in. Sure, it’s probably a little campy at times, but you know Lacey will love it, and hell, maybe you’ll even get to do a little horseback riding.

If all the other girls are willing to do some “roughing it” between the saloons and the possibility of dashing cowboys.

That part twangs your stomach. You’d read the disclosures on their site. Anything goes. The hosts are just machines, after all. You can yell at them, shoot them. It’s implied that you can fuck them too, which makes your shoulders roll back uncomfortably. Maybe you’ll excuse yourself when the night gets too rowdy. Stargazing, even if it's most likely a projection, would be a nice way to slip away if things get handsy.

A poke of plastic against your breast makes you pause as you walk down the corridor to the next room. The little Polaroid picture, the one you stuffed into your bra to keep Lacey from snagging, is still tucked against your flesh. Your mouth twists at this; you were supposed to leave all your belongings at the first check-in. Your phone was locked up in a storage box, your clothes left behind to follow. It would be best for you to hand the photo to the host helping you before stepping into the park.

But holding the photo, seeing a smile you’ve rarely worn lately, makes you want to keep it close. The host would probably toss it out, and you suddenly want the tiny slice of happiness printed on plastic to remind you that you could be. Against possibly better judgment you tuck the photo into the small bag hanging off your belt. As long as you didn’t show anyone it shouldn’t matter. There was some fine print you’d read about the hosts not being able to process anachronisms anyways. It’s promptly dismissed from your mind as you enter another room.

“There’s one final touch,” the host says cheerily as you study the rows of hats lining the walls. Some are clearly meant for men, but there’s a selection of women’s bonnets and headscarves.

“Which would you prefer,” she says, gesturing to the rows of head wear. You contemplate the selection before your eyes skim across a flat-brimmed Gambler hat, light brown and feminine. You doff it and check your reflection in the mirror by the exit.

It amazes you, the work that goes into running this place. You aren’t the easiest to shop for, yet this ensemble fits comfortably and flatters your favorite attributes. Even the hat, which you'd never wear otherwise, compliments the tone of your skin and gives you a more authoritative air than without.

You like how you look. You didn’t expect that.

“Right this way ma’am,” the host says, leading you down a hall to a black door. The noise grows as you get closer, laughter on the other side as the host smiles and ushers you in.

The stark difference between the sterile walls and clean light of the wardrobe area and the bustling interior of this train car shock the words out of you. Door closing quietly behind, you take in the deep cherry wood walls, plushly carpeted floors, and the array of people chatting together. You spot the other girls gathered up by a cocktail table. You were right; many of them chose lavish ensembles. Silks and ostrich feathers and scandalously ruffled skirts. They look amazing, like the glossy photos from the website.

You suddenly feel awkward refusing the extravagance. You didn’t mean to swim against the current and you’re afraid you look like you think less of them.

All that uncertainty disappears when Lacey walks in. You manage to sneak into the group and cheer when she swirls the expensive-looking purple silk skirt, beaded bodice catching the light as she bats her eyes playfully. Her hair is intricately styled, as most of the others are, and she’s touched up her makeup. She looks perfect, but there’s a tiny ping in your heart at her choice. When you vacationed as kids it was more likely you’d be in overalls and ratty t-shirts, stinking of bug spray and sunblock as you let the wind from the ponies’ canters bat at your cheeks.

Not today, you muse.

As they fawn over each other’s outfits, Dina gives you an approving look (she’s all dark beautiful skin spilling out of crimson finery) and comes to stand beside you.

“You look good, girl. Looks like you’ll be schooling us on how to behave,” she cackles, and you warm even more to her.

“I doubt I could ever make any of you behave,” you snicker back, earning an even more approving look. You’ve almost let out the breath you’ve been holding. Just a little more and then you can enjoy yourself. Maybe even let go of some of the pain that’s been plaguing you.

Anything can happen in Westworld, right?

Deploy host >>

Name: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels

Location: Mariposa Saloon

Protocol: >> Engage female guests until 1500 hours >> At 1500 hours, join hosts Tequila, Merlin, Ginger and Eggsy at Statesmen HQ >> Initiate Golden Circle storyline

Protocol accepted //

Host deployed //

NEXT