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leighsartworks216 · 7 months ago

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Christmas Suprises

Zayne x AFAB!Reader

When I say I don't enjoy pregnancy fics or proposal fics, I NEED you to believe me cuz WHY did this fester in my brain until I put it down in a doc

Warnings: Christmas, fluff, domestic fluff, unplanned pregnancy, marriage proposal, crying, literal sleeping together, cuddling, anxiety

Word Count: 2,514

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You stare down at the little white stick, mouth falling open in shock. You can’t even hear the grating alarm of your phone going off anymore, or the eager knocking on the bathroom door. It’s like your mind hasn’t caught up to your body yet. You don’t think about reaching out and opening the door; your body just does it.

“Well?” Tara asks excitedly. “Yes or no?”

The world around you comes back into focus. You blindly paw at your phone screen to hit the button to shut up its alarm. You think your hand is shaking when you look up at your friend.

“It says… I’m pregnant.”

She squeals and throws her arms around your neck, bouncing on her feet, bursting with joy. “Congratulations! Oh, I’m so happy for you!”

You cling onto her. She doesn’t seem to mind, even as you wipe your eyes over her shoulder and sniffle by her ear.

You can’t believe it. You’re actually pregnant. You really, really are. You’re going to have a baby. You’re going to have a baby.

Tara pulls away with a gasp. “How are you gonna tell him?” she asks conspiratorially.

“God, I have no idea.” You stare at the two pink lines on the stick. Pregnant. “He doesn’t even know I’m late for my period, Tara. How am I-?”

“Oh, oh, I know! Tell him on Christmas!”

“On Christmas? Are you sure? I mean, what if he doesn’t want kids? We’ve never talked about it before.” You scoff, rubbing your eyes at the mounting worry welling up within you. It swirls around in your stomach, growing larger and larger as your panic bleeds into it. “We’re not even married! What’re his parents going to think? Shit, what about his career?!” You grab Tara’s shoulders, jostling her slightly with the force. “What if his reputation is ruined because he had a kid without being married?!”

Tara grabs your shoulders in turn, rubbing them sympathetically. “Calm down first, okay? You don’t have to do my idea, but I think you’re overthinking this.”

You sigh. Slowly, you let go of her. “No, no, you’re right. I- I’ll think about it. Thank you for helping me out, Tara.”

“Of course! Just keep me updated, okay?” She giggles. “I need to know how he reacts!”

Even as you’re led to her couch and offered a soothing cup of tea, the panic doesn’t untwist from your guts.

You’re awake first. This doesn’t usually happen, but it’s only fitting that the anxiety that kept you from falling asleep easily last night also wakes you up earlier than needed. You study Zayne’s face in the dim moonlight.

He looks utterly at peace. There’s no tension in his brow. His eyes are relaxed, fluttering under his eyelids to watch a dream play out. Lips slightly parted with soft breaths.

His parents called yesterday, wishing they could be here and apologizing for their gifts being sent late due to the inclement weather where they’re stationed. Zayne always got this childlike sweetness to his expression whenever they were involved, smiling without restraint and allowing himself to be more outwardly affectionate. You’d seen it before when you recorded a video of him on his birthday to send to his parents, but seeing it now, picturing that same happiness on his face with his own child… He’d caught you staring at one point. You’d smiled and tried to play it off. You’re not sure he bought it, but he didn’t say anything about it after the call ended.

You really can’t sleep now. Your heart is beating too fast, tight in your chest with worry. You slowly roll onto your back. The white ceiling stares down at you. You stare right back, chewing mindlessly on your bottom lip.

Time passes by in a blur. You’re not sure how much has gone by when a finger carefully frees your lip from your teeth’s assault. You turn your head to see a freshly-woken Zayne. His hand falls to rest on the bed between you.

“What has you so worried?” His voice has a quiet rasp to it in the morning, especially when he whispers. You could listen to it for hours.

You shift to lay on your side, facing him once again. You distract yourself by playing with his fingers. “Nothing,” you lie with a placating smile. “I’m just hoping you’ll like the gifts I got you.”

He hums, but he doesn’t say anything for a minute. Instead, he captures your restless hand and brings it to his lips. Those pretty hazel green eyes of his close with the kiss he places on your knuckles. “I’m sure you chose the best gifts,” he says. “You know me too well to get me something I wouldn’t like.”

“True…”

He guides your hand to rest on his face. He’s warm from sleep, the barest hint of stubble starting to come in along his jaw.

“Can we open the gifts first today?” He opens his eyes to look at you again. You can feel the way he studies you. You try not to falter as you add, “I know we usually have breakfast first, but…”

A flicker of confusion, gone in a flash. “Of course. But it’s still early. You should try to get some more sleep.”

Maybe he can sense the exhaustion underneath your anxiety, or maybe he can see the bags under your eyes in the dim light. Or maybe he just knows you better than you think he does.

He reaches under the blankets to grab your hip, drawing you toward him like he has on so many restless nights before. You’re powerless to refuse the silent request. So you scoot closer, forming yourself to fit perfectly against his chest. He slips his arm under your head, letting you use his bicep as a pillow. You tuck your head under his chin and press your face against his neck.

Arms wrapped around each other, holding one another close before the breaking dawn of Christmas Day. He traces soothing shapes against your spine. You count his heartbeat as it thumbs by your ear. Somehow, you’re able to find sleep again.

Wrapping paper - neatly undone or carelessly torn - sit in a pile on the floor. Various gifts sit stacked or folded in neat piles on the coffee table, organized by Zayne. There aren’t many gifts in all. Really, you both had most everything you could ever wish for.

But now it’s time for the final gift. You jump up from the couch with a smile. “I have one more gift. Lemme go grab it.”

He shoots you a look. “And why isn’t it under the tree?” he teases.

You wish that simple question didn’t pour gasoline into the firepit of anxiety in your stomach. You wave him off, covering up your uncertainty with playfulness. “It was too important to go under there. I’ll only be a second.”

He hums, but doesn’t say anything more about it, watching silently as you retreat back into the bedroom. You pull the present out from your nightstand drawer. Is it the most secure place to keep something? Well, there’s nothing else really in there; nothing you’d need on a daily basis, anyway. And Zayne would never go in here without your permission. So, you trusted it more than your other idea of hiding it in your jacket pocket.

You hold the box tightly to your chest. God, please, please, please, let this go well.

You almost want to curse Tara for convincing you to go through with this. If the news ends up ruining Christmas and your relationship with Zayne, you’re going to unleash hellfire down on her.

With one last, steadying breath, you head back out to the living room.

Zayne is still waiting patiently, taking this opportunity to look at the cases of the games you got him. He sets them back down when you round the couch and sit down beside him once more. You hope he doesn’t notice your hands shaking when you pass it over.

The gift is small and thin, rectangular and lightweight, he turns it over to find where you’ve taped the decorative paper down to begin unwrapping it. You readjust to sit on your feet with your knees to your chest. Your body screams for you to hide, to escape all the possible outcomes of this situation you’ve forced yourself into. But you want to watch. You need to see his reaction.

He pauses in his unwrapping to look at you. “Are you alright?” he asks, frowning as he wraps a hand loosely around your ankle to rub soothing circles into the jutting bone there.

You force a smile you hope isn’t as strained as it feels and nod. “I’m okay,” you lie. You nod toward the present. “Open it.”

He doesn’t let go right away. You think for a moment he may not even continue. But, thankfully, he pulls away to finish removing the paper. He drops it onto the pile with the rest.

The box itself is a blank white. There are no marks, no labels, no details of any kind that could give away what lay inside.

You hug your legs to yourself. You can’t bear to look away from his face, not even to watch as he unfolds the tab at one end and slides the little stick out. It’s ultimately more rewarding, you think, to see the way his eyes widen ever so slightly. To see him lean forward as he flips the test over in order to read the results. To see the way his mouth falls open with a quiet breath.

He turns his whole body to face you. “You’re pregnant…?”

You nod shyly. “Are you upset?”

He sets the test on the table quickly, but as if it’s the most fragile thing in the world, before holding your face in both of his hands. “Why would I be upset?”

God, he looks at you so earnestly, so tenderly, you’re tearing up before you can stop yourself. Choking up over words that have suffocated you since you were hiding away in Tara’s bathroom.

“‘Cause we never talked about it before and-” A whimpering sob cuts through your words. You inhale shakily. “And we’re not even married or anything, and your job-”

“Hey, shhh.” He brushes away your tears with his thumbs. He leans forward to brush a soft kiss to your forehead, ducking down to stay close to you as he meets your eyes once more. “I have one last present for you, too,” he whispers. “Can I go get it?”

You sniffle and wipe your face with your sweater sleeve. You probably look like such a mess; you can’t seem to get the tears to stop now that they’ve started. “Why isn’t it under the tree?” you tease.

He smiles. “It was too special. Wait here, okay?”

You nod. He presses another kiss to your head before he gets up and disappears down the hall.

While he’s gone, you try to collect yourself. You lower your knees, wipe your eyes until they burn from the friction, and try to even your breathing. Right now, each breath comes in little hiccups, jittery and broken up and unproductive. You haven’t improved much by the time he gets back.

He sits down close to you, wrapping a warm arm around your shoulders to pull you even closer into his side. A small velveteen box rests in his hand. He offers it to you. “I didn’t expect to be giving it to you today,” he admits bashfully, resting his cheek against your head. “But I can’t think of a better time than right now.”

You don’t have to open it to know what’s inside. All the fear that suffocated you for the last couple weeks goes up in a puff of smoke. Instead, it’s like a soothing orb of light has taken its place, healing the burns left behind and filling you with immense happiness. You turn your body into his and wrap your arms tightly around him. He rubs his thumb methodically over your shoulder.

“Should we start talking about children now?” He kisses your head. “Assuming you agree to my proposal.”

A choked, relieved laugh jostles out from your chest. Your tears get on his shirt as you nod stupidly against him. “Of course I agree!” You pull away just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re really okay with this? You… want kids with me?”

He smiles warmly, openly, as if his parents have just called and he’s already given them the news of your engagement. “I couldn’t imagine a better partner to raise a family with.” He brushes the back of his fingers across your cheek, still holding the ring box. “Are you okay with it?” he asks softly, brows pinching together slightly and eyes sharpening. “We never did talk about it. Are you comfortable with carrying a child to term?”

“It’s scary,” you admit. “But… I want this. I want a family, with you.” Your smile feels sure and solid as you whisper, “I love you.”

The seriousness in his expression fades away, replaced with contented joy. This conversation isn’t over, not by a long shot. You know there are still so many things to ask about. Questions about your future together. But they can wait a few more hours.

He sets the ring aside, right next to the pregnancy test. Both hands free, he pulls you into a secure hug, head lowered to rest on your shoulder, cheek to cheek with you. He absolutely envelops you. All you can see, feel and hear is Zayne.

He presses a kiss to the exposed skin of your neck. It’s not feverish and seeking. It’s soft, reverent, grateful. It pours out every emotion that wells up inside of him that can’t seem to fully escape. “I love you, too,” he whispers back.

You slide a hand along his back until you can tangle your fingers in the soft hair at the back of his head. He releases a shuddering breath, heavy with the relief that this is real.

Struck with an idea, you drag your other hand from his back down his arm, gently coaxing him to let go of you. Even in his confusion, he does what you want, slipping his hand from around your body. You guide it to rest over your belly, holding it there with your own. He buries his face further into your neck with a shaky sigh. “How long have you known?”

“If I tell you, you’re going to go into Dr. Zayne mode,” you tease. You press a sweet kiss beside his ear where you can reach.

You feel the grin that curves his lips. “Alright,” he relents quietly. “I’ll stay in fiancé Zayne mode for a bit longer.”

You release his hair in favor of wrapping your arm around his upper back, squeezing him closer, as if such a thing is even possible with how you’re already holding one another. “I’d like that.”

He squeezes you gently in return. “Me, too.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi

#fanfic #fanfiction #zayne #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #lads zayne #lnds zayne #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #afab reader #x afab reader #fem reader #x fem reader

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gothgoblinbabe · 28 days ago

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I Wanna Be Yours (D.D)

Daryl Dixon x fem reader

A/N: heeyyy…how yall doin….long time no seeee

Big apologies for such a long writing hiatus, I literally have been writing since the last story I posted in OCTOBER OF LAST YEAR, just uh I’m American and the election happened and my life fell apart ngl! It’s coming back together and I’m sober enough to want to write more often instead of smoke and drink so I hope I’ll see you again soon with another story. If you followed me for Logan Howlett content, it’s not like I’ll never write for him again - I just went through a hyper fixation that has ended, BUT I still think he’s sexy and I still have 3-5 unfinished works about Logan in the docs so those will eventually see the light of day. For now I’m closing requests as well just because it’s overwhelming <3 hope yall understand but I will be back on that eventually. If you read all this thank you sm for finding this or still following me after so long, it’s the reason I have motivation to finish!

Summary: Being outside the walls leads to an interesting discovery that then leads to you being stoned on your front porch with Daryl Dixon, and to something else entirely…

Warnings: recreational drug use (marijuana) , fem reader, nothing else I can really think of, maybe swearing? Mild intimacy, this one’s a pretty clean one

Word count: 3-4K ish I believe?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Supplies running low always meant the same thing - you had to go outside the walls.

It was almost always you and Daryl - Rick was too busy now keeping things straight in Alexandria, especially with Carl and Judith, and that left the two of you to do the dirty work.

That led you to where you were, begrudgingly following behind Daryl as you scavenged another place.

The house smelled of rot and death - same as most of them did these days. Peeling wallpaper, molded ceilings and eerie silence was all you were met with when entering every abandoned home.

“Clear,” Daryl muttered in front of you, stepping over a broken coffee table. The smashed glass crunched under the weight of his worn boots.

You nodded, entering the last room of the house - a mostly trashed bedroom. The mattress was stripped bare and the contents of most of the drawers were strewn about, except for a closed one in the dresser. You both briefly sorted through some of the clutter until you opened that particular drawer.

“No way..”

Daryl turned at the sound of your voice, watching you pull something out of the dresser drawer.

It was a small jar with a sealed lid, about big enough to clutch in your palm. You shook the glass jar slightly and he watched the dried plant inside tap the glass.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked, stepping closer and inspecting the container from afar.

You unscrewed the air-tight lid and brought the jar up to your nose.

“Sure as shit smells like what I think it is,” you replied with a chuckle, holding it out for him to take a whiff.

“Damn straight,” Daryl nodded after smelling the substance, “that's definitely bud. I’d be surprised if it was any good after bein’ in there for long.”

“Well, we’ll find out,” you smiled widely, shoving the marujuana into a pocket in your backpack, “you in for smokin’ later?”

Daryl couldn’t remember the last time he smoked, though it was probably with Merle. What he did remember was being hungry and horny, the latter of which he already had a hard time avoiding when he was with you.

“Nah, I’m alright,” he finally replied, watching your shoulders rise and fall in a ‘suit yourself’ kind of shrug.

“Well, come find me tonight if you change your mind,” you told him.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Daryl didn’t know what possessed him that night - maybe his childish crush, his need to relax, the stupid itch he had to be around you all the time - whatever it was, it moved him out of his house and onto the road of Alexandria, watching his worn boots shuffle across the pavement under the dim moonlight.

He was walking to the fourth house down from his, on the left - your house. A nice place painted a beautiful sage green, fitting perfectly between the other well kept houses. Before he passed the second house, he could see your form in the dark, sitting curled up in a chair on your porch. When he squinted, he could see a small, warm glow between your fingers.

“Hey, you change your mind?” you spoke when he approached your front porch, raising your eyebrows and flashing him a smile.

Even in the light of the moon, he could still make out your expression. Your grin made his heart feel heavy.

“Maybe, unless ya’ already smoked it all,” Daryl joked, stepping up the porch and leaning against a pillar that held up the roof above you. The potent scent of the burning plant filled his senses.

You held up the joint between your fingers, letting out a small giggle.

“Nope, plenty left.”

You held it up to him, the smoke swirling and spiraling into the night sky. He took it, squinting at the small words printed onto the paper used to roll the joint.

“What’d ya’ roll this with, anyway?” He asked, feeling the texture between his fingers. He was too afraid to inhale before you answered and your hesitation to do so made him even more alarmed.

“It might- uh, it may be paper from a bible.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Gabriel ain’t gonna be too happy about that,” he said before finally lifting the joint to his lips, inhaling slightly. The last thing he wanted to do was cough his lungs out and embarrass himself.

He let the smoke enter and exit his lungs, watching it disappear under the background of the stars. It burned, just like he remembered. He took another hit and passed it back to you, holding in a cough when his second hit was too ambitious.

“Don’t green out on me,” you joked, taking it from between his fingers and putting it back between your lips. You tried not to think about his damp saliva wetting the filter of the joint, indirectly passing it to your lips. It may have been the closest you’d ever get to a real kiss and you’d take it. You’d take any bread crumb Darly would give you, whether or not he realized he was even leaving them.

“Off two hits? You think I ain’t ever smoked before? Hell, if we’d met years before, back when I was with merle - I’d smoke you out.”

You stifled a laugh and shook your head, passing the joint again. He told you many stories about his older brother.

“Yeah, right. You never met twenty year old me - I smoked like Bob fucking Marley.”

That made both of you chuckle, Daryl stifling the noise from his throat with a hand over his mouth. It made you smile even wider - hearing his laugh, even if it was muffled, and seeing the wrinkles next to his eyes when he smiled so wide. It was rare, but you were one of the very few people who could pull that out of him.

After a few more passes back and forth, the joint was nothing but a paper filter topped with ash, forgotten on the sidewalk in front of your porch. You moved from your seat onto the top step, feeling the wood underneath your bare feet.

“Feels nice,” you explained with a small giggle, wiggling your feet atop the finished wood.

Darly only shook his head, joining you on the step. He felt like tv static - whatever that meant. It was the only word he could think to describe the feeling. It really had been a long time since he smoked, so long that he’d forgotten what it felt like. His eyelids felt heavy and he was almost positive you were genuinely glowing under the light of the moon. He wanted to feel like this more often, truthfully. He wasn’t worried he was staring, too engrossed in his view of you beside him to realize he hadn’t taken his eyes off your face in a solid thirty seconds.

“You okay?” You asked with a slight chuckle,raising your eyebrows at him.

He nodded, blinking the dryness from his eyes and turning his gaze away from you and onto the front steps below him.

“Feel fucked up.”

That pulled another giggle fit from the both of you, one in which you thoughtlessly grabbed Daryl’s arm and buried your smiling face in his shoulder. His skin burned where you touched him and he was smiling for an entirely different reason now, wishing you’d stay this close to him.

To his absolute pleasure, you remained with your knees pressing into the side of his legs and your arms wrapped around his bicep, like he’d run if you let him go.

Without knowing how to describe it, Daryl didn’t quite realize what he felt in that moment was absolute adoration for you. Carol would always insist it was love, to which he constantly told her she was ‘off her damn rocker’.

You didn’t even realize you were so close until you finally pulled your face from the leather of his vest and your nose brushed up against the scruff on his cheek.

“Oh, sorry- I’m sorry,” you apologized, letting go and attempting to scoot yourself away before you realized you couldn’t.

Daryl acted without thinking and wrapped an arm around your waist the second you began to pull away. He couldn’t help himself.

“Nah, I don’t mind- ‘s chilly anyway.”

You swallowed, hyper aware of the sensation of his large arm around you. You felt nervous being so close to him, but it ignited a warm buzz within your stomach, something that crept up your spine and chest.

“Bet you can see all my gross pores, bein’ this close,” you joked, only to be met with a slight smile in response.

“Nah,” he shook his head, “ya’ look pretty.”

Was that his voice? Did Daryl say that? He wasn’t quite sure.

“Th- uh, thanks,” you stuttered. You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried. You tried to think of another, smoother reply but nearly bit your tongue when your ill thought out response left your mouth.

“You’re- you look handsome.”

The words came out nervously in quick succession, sincere nonetheless.

“You’re goin’ blind, then,” he joked.

You furrowed your eyebrows, genuinely confused, but kept your sweet smile.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I’ve got an ugly mug.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Definitely not.”

Definitely. Daryl wondered why that made his stomach turn. Not in the way it would when something went wrong - in a way that was unfamiliar to him. Something only you did to him.

“What, ya got some kinda crush or somethin’?” he teased with a wide grin, dipping his head down.

You could feel his hot breath fan your face and you swallowed hard. You tried to crack a nervous smile but became too overwhelmed by just how close Daryl was. Your faces were inches apart. He leaned in further and you felt yourself drawn to him like a magnet, doing the same until your noses were just brushing up against each other. Your breath was heavy, mirroring his, and your heart was racing out of your chest. His smile had long fallen, shaky breaths coming and going between his lips. One nudge from either of you would be all it took to finally share a moment you’d been dreaming about for months.

“Daryl…” your soft lips barely grazed his, fanning your breath over his lips.

“I-I should go home. Gotta be up early.”

Daryl was off you in the blink of an eye, detaching himself and jumping up from the wood like you’d burned him. You inhaled sharply and wrapped your arms around your chest, suddenly aware of just how cold you felt.

“Uh, sure,” you muttered, shaking your head at your own foolish disappointment. What did you think was going to happen - that he’d kiss you? How stupid must you have been to think that?

You said your goodbyes and watched him disappear into the night, his figure fading further and further into the darkness.

“Way to make things fucking weird,” you chastised yourself, groaning in frustration and turning around to head inside for the night.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Daryl barely slept that night. He kept replaying that moment in his mind over and over, where he was centimeters from kissing you, and kicking himself for pussying out at the last minute. He didn’t want your first kiss to be that way, though - stoned on your front porch. He had always told himself he’d confess to you some way - find you flowers or some trinket when out scavenging that he thought was fitting for you and give it to you as a token of his affection or some cheesy shit like that. However he did it, he just knew it couldn’t have happened last night.

The next morning, he felt his punishment for lack of sleep. He’d never been more off his game. He missed every other shot when he went hunting and came back with about half of what he’d usually bring, visibly agitated. What was he going to say when he saw you next?

‘Sorry i didnt kiss ya’? ‘Sorry i ran off ‘cause I was too scared to’?

What if you hadn’t even wanted to kiss him? And why did you say his name - what were you going to say?

He racked his brain for answers, habitually chewing on the inside of his cheek and lower lip. It was around noon when he got back from hunting, the sun shining hot overhead, and he knew you’d be on infirmary duty around now. He could picture you, hunched over a textbook with those old, cracked readers sliding down your nose.

His imagination was right, though you weren’t any better off than him. You hadn’t seen Daryl all day and the worry settling in the pit of your stomach was almost unbearable. You weren’t sure what to even expect from him - certainly not some grand confession of hidden feelings. Maybe he wouldn’t bring it up at all the next time you saw him; maybe he’d sweep it under the rug, like he did most things.

Still, you hoped he’d say something, anything. After what must have been months at that point, the back and forth of wondering whether or not something was there felt like it was carving away at you from the inside out. Even passing onto the front steps the next morning made your stomach twist into a knot of barbed wire.

You closed the medical textbook on the desk in front of you with a loud sigh, stretching your arms over your head. Just as you were about to stand, Denise appeared in the doorway of the office, a wide and mischievous smile on her face. She spoke your name and held up the sweatshirt she had in her hand - your sweatshirt.

“Can I ask you something?”

You gave her a confused expression but nodded anyway.

Denise took a deep inhale of the fabric, chuckling a bit before she spoke.

“Where’d you find pot?”

You caught the article of clothing as she threw it to you, balling it up in your fists and inhaling as she did. Sure enough, the sweater you wore to smoke definitely stank.

“Out scavenging, some stoner’s room,’’ you answered honestly.

Denise sat down across from you and before you knew it, you told her everything - the discovery, the rolling of the joint, the sharing of the joint, and eventually - of the almost-maybe kiss.

“You talked to him about it, right?” she asked finally, arms crossed with her feet up on your desk, “because you need to talk to him about it.”

“I haven't seen him all day.”

The sound of your own voice drowned out the small squeak of the front door opening and closing.

“I don’t even know what i’d tell him.”

Daryl stopped in his tracks at the echo of your words through the empty infirmary.

“That you wanted it?” Denise suggested, “that he should have just done it?”

He stood still, frozen, terrified that even a shift of his weight from one foot to the other would alert you of his presence. You weren’t talking about last night, surely.

“He almost kissed me, Denise.”

Nevermind.

“And you almost kissed him! I don’t see the problem!” she let out a short laugh to cover her frustrated tone.

“It’s- I don’t know, because what if that wasn’t what he wanted? And I- I almost…” you trailed off, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment.

She stared expectantly until you finally spoke, muffled through your fingers.

“I almost told him I did want him to kiss me, but he ran off before I could even start.”

Daryl’s mouth felt dry and his hands felt like pins and needles, all somehow more intensely than he felt when he’d actually been high. That’s what you were going to say - that you wanted him too. He was sure he had to be hearing you wrong until you kept babbling on, spilling the truth like sticky sweet syrup into the quiet room.

“I was gonna tell him how I felt, how I’ve been feeling, but- but, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a bad idea. He’s just so…he’s wonderful, Denise, he’s-he’s…my best friend. He’s just everything I want, and I want to be more than friends-”

He was lightheaded, looking around for something soft enough to fall into incase his knees gave out from underneath him. He had to get the hell out of there. As much as he wanted to listen to you gush about him, if he heard any more, he feared he may really faint. He had to do something now - no more hesitating, no more waiting to see if you felt the same - he just had to act.

Your conversation with Denise was cut off by the click of the front door closing and you both stood to look down the hall, being met with empty silence and a desolate room.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It wasn’t until later that evening that you finally saw Daryl, not for your lack of searching. When you got off your shift, you asked around for him, only to be told that he’d went outside the walls again. As always, that worried you. He could handle himself, but every step outside the walls was riskier than the last.

You were still thinking of him when you heard a knock on your door at sunset. You hurried down your stairs in your loose pajama pants and tank top, heart racing. It had to be Daryl.

Sure enough, you swung open the door to be met with his familiar face, one that always erupted your stomach into butterflies. Your eyes fell from his face to his hands in front of him. A small, tin box decorated in complementing colors fit perfectly in his palms, twine tied neatly around it.

“Had this for awhile,” he said gruffly, voice lower than usual, “figured it was stuff ya’ might like.”

He held it out for you to take and you obliged, fingers brushing his when you took the cool, metal box from him.

You unwrapped it right there, untwisting the twine. Inside, wrapped in an old bit of cloth, were a few pretty things he’d collected for you.

Dried, pressed wildflowers laid atop the contents, still fragrant. Underneath was a beautiful piece of green sea glass and a rusted silver Zippo lighter with your initial scratched into the front.

You blinked, speechless from the sweet, thoughtful gesture.

“I was gonna wait, give it to ya’ another time,” he continued, eyes never leaving the porch floor, “but I don’t want ya thinkin I ran off ‘cause I didn’t wanna kiss ya’. ‘Cause I did.”

Your eyes locked with his when he looked up at you finally. You were frozen, heart pounding in your ears.

“You did?” You asked, almost in a whisper.

There was palpable tension between the two of you - a spark lit by the confession.

Daryl nodded, slow and sure, his fingers picking at the skin around his nails nervously.

“I wanted to kiss you so bad that it scared the hell outta me,” he swallowed hard, “not ‘cause i wouldn’t mean it - cause I would - I just didn’t want the first time I kissed ya’ to be all sloppy and stoned on your porch.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. All you could do was look at him. The light from the setting sun highlighted the tension in his jaw and the vulnerability in his eyes. All of it was so raw, so real, that you could barely believe it. He wasn't a man who opened up easily, yet he was laying himself bare for you.

“I thought maybe I messed up,” you spoke finally, voice trembling, “I never thought you’d feel the same.”

“I do,” he answered with no hesitation, “I feel it. I think ‘bout you all the time - drives me crazy. When i’m out there, i think of gettin’ back to you. When i’m here, Im wonderin’ what you're doin, if you're okay. I wanna be near ya’ all the time - wanna be yours.”

Before you could speak again, Daryl let his confession unravel further.

“I heard ya’ earlier today, y’know, with Denise?’’

Your face fell.

“You heard-”

“I heard, an’ I’m glad I did. I don't know if I woulda’ ever had the guts to tell ya’ anything if I hadn't heard you say somethin’ first.”

Your ringers traced the edges of the tin box in your hand while your heart pounded against your rib cage like it was trying to get out. You wanted to crawl into the floorboards and disappear but instead, you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding.

“Guess I don't have to figure out how to say it now."

He shifted on his boots, awkward like a teenager.

"Still wanna hear it, if you wanna say it."

You stared at him for a moment. You knew you wanted to be honest, finally feeling free to do so. You stepped closer, so close that your toes touched his boots.

“I want to be yours too,” you said slowly, almost in a whisper.

Daryl’s eyes searched your face, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe you at first.

“You do?”

“I do,” you smiled softly, nodding.

He took a deep breath, something unreadable across his face - like a combination of relief and disbelief. Hesitantly, he reached up to touch your face. His calloused fingers grazed your soft, warm cheek.

“Ya’ still think I’m so wonderful? After runnin’ off?” Daryl teased a bit, recalling your earlier words he’d heard.

“Absolutely,” you answered honestly, “plus, you didn’t technically run off - you’re here now, aren’t you?”

“I’ll always come back to you,” he told you truthfully.

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Those words would ring through your ears for a while after.

“And I’ll always be here for you to come back to.”

Daryl’s smile lit his entire face in a way you rarely saw - as if all the weight he carried had been lifted, even if it was just for a moment.

Finally, after all the second guessing, the misunderstandings and feelings suppressed, he leaned in. His nose brushed yours and his warm breath fanned your face just like it had the night before. His lips met yours, soft and hesitant, like you might burn him.

You didn’t.

You kissed him back, slow and gentle, careful not to scare him off. Your hands snaked around his neck and your fingers tangled in the back of his hair. His kiss tasted like cigarettes, a habit you’d always got on his ass about. His arms wrapped around you in silent desperation, pulling you against him after wanting to do so for so long.

When the kiss broke, he rested his forehead against yours, a satisfied grin plastered onto his face.

“It wasn’t sloppy,” you told him quietly, shooting him a smile.

“No?”

“Uh-uh,” you shook your head very slightly, your hair brushing against Daryl’s face, “it was perfect.”

You stood in the golden glow of the sunset for a while, wrapped in each others arms on your front porch as if anyone walking by couldn’t see you. It didn’t really matter - you felt like your world was only the two of you in that moment.

And for the first time in a long time, Daryl didn’t feel like running.

128 notes · View notes

hellinistical · 1 month ago

Text

a review and analysis of the anecdotes needed for the new chapters, as well as being sprinkled with my own theories.

this will be a LONG post and will have MAJOR spoilers for ZAYNE AND SYLUS.

Covering Sylus's "Land of Lost" and Zayne's "Never-Ending Winter", and then for those that didn't read Zayne's "Thorns Under the Moon" in the Prologue to Tomorrow portion of the story.

Additionally, this would be a great thing to read if you dont wanna do the routes or whatever or if you're confused! I tried to break it down supppper deeply and organized it as best as i could. the formatting MAY be off but theres nothing I can do about that cause i literally just yoinked it from my google doc and its the same shit on the power point im doing LMFAO anyways. i also think this is good for people who struggle to write for them!

And finally, a review and analysis of the Timelock Key and the new four chapters will be out later. thanks for reading!

if you'd like to be tagged for the break down of that or future analysis, just comment ! if youd like to see more stuff of this, there's some character thoughts in my masterlist.

ANECDOTE COVERAGE: (scroll down for the route coverage)

Sylus, Land of Lost

0.1- High Alert

Myth v.s. Man, and distinguishing the two.

Sylus is introduced through reputation first, with a wanted poster, a myth, the most notorious criminal in Philos’s history. There is already a legend made about him that precedes who he is as a person.

“He was lucky” with his entrance just flips the myth backwards- no longer is it a metaphor, but it is real. Composed, sardonic, and in control. Sylus’s escape from the space-time prison may have altered or corrupted him. The mist could be a byproduct of that breach—something he brought back that now answers to him. (or has smth to do with his evol since we know that theres already a mist type thing when he uses it sometimes like in his entry in the main story)

The mist could be an ancient, banned technology, linked to the space-time prison’s interior environment. Sylus may have fused with it during his escape—he could be its host or conduit. It feels like it is smart.

There is a huge sense of moral ambiguity with this man. He isn't painted as a clear-cut villain or hero. He uses violence and manipulation (puppeteering with mist), but his actions seem directed toward a larger purpose—likely resistance or rebellion against the Overlord. That line “the Overlord’s luck has run out” implies Sylus is an agent of change or revenge, not chaos for its own sake. He’s driven by his own ideological preferences. And unlike Xavier, with them being like, parallels and directly combating each other, he is supposed to be an answer for tyranny.

Tone/Atmosphere

The story opens in a tight, claustrophobic, almost “noir-like” tone, where suspicion and tension hang thick even before Sylus appears- which makes sense due to the man being kind of perceived as a story to get kids to listen. The presence of seven checkpoints and grumbling deputies builds the sense that something oppressive looms—not just outside, but within the hierarchy of the world. (which we will continue to see throughout the anecdotes and even in the main story). “They scoured the galaxy for rare treasures—gifts for the Overlord's birthday.” This line is bureaucratic and akin to a ceremonial event, but keeping in line with it being dystopian, the wording having it be seemingly grandeur (what with the hunt), but it’s got that pettiness with the fatigue and suspicion. It’s basically bringing about a juxtaposition.

Dialogue/Subtext

The exchanges between the Deputy and Captain establish three things at once:

1. Philos, Feathers Star, the Overlord, the space-time prison.

2. The Deputy is brash, the Captain more informed—suggesting tension between age, rank, and experience. 3. Perception of Sylus: He's introduced as a legend, almost too big to be real. Which I’ve already said but yeah organization wooo

“That name rings a bell…”

“Most wanted criminal in Philos’s history…”

This exchange uses casual disbelief as a tool to lull the reader into a false sense of security before Sylus arrives. His later entrance undermines that skepticism with force.

World Breakdown

Regarding Feathers Star is treated like a capital node—likely a core planet in the Overlord's dominion. The description of the black diamond-shaped planet could be both literal and symbolic: a rare, harsh, precious place shaped by immense pressure. The overlord, of course, is seen as some kinda central figure in authority- not divine, just a ceremonial thing like a king. HOWEVER, the gifts do add some quasi-religious under tones. A cult.

The Overlord may not be a single person, but a figurehead position, used to stabilize control across multiple sectors. Alternatively, the Overlord is a god-king who may be immortal or technologically sustained. (Astra gonna get their ass whooped ong)

Cultural/Political Notes

Deputy- younger arrogance. The captain- institutional loyalty. Sylus might once have been a figure of authority himself—perhaps part of the regime—before becoming its greatest enemy. The empire turned him into a myth to discredit him while simultaneously fearing him.

Feathers star

Black diamonds- compressed carbon (basically a nod to Sylus’s unbreakable control), but the name is a contradiction as it has a stark contrast to it. Another note of a false utopia of some sort.

Back to the Mist

Ik I’m circling gimme a break. it seems emotionally responsive. Its grip tightens as the Captain speaks; it performs violence without Sylus moving. It could be a manifestation of Sylus’s will, semi-autonomous being, or linked to his nervous system/mind.

0.2-Absolute Suppression

Narrative Dissection

The opening imagery is something to take note of, I think: “The impact caused great fire, illuminating the night sky above Feathers Star’s capital.” The anecdote begins with cataclysm—a violent rupture of normalcy. It is literal (explosions, war) and metaphorical (the collapse of dominion, security, and identity).Feathers Star’s capital, once presumably secure, is lit up in unnatural illumination—a foreshadowing of Sylus’s reality-warping presence. The line recalls Biblical imagery: fire from the heavens, divine punishment, or a celestial revelation- him coming is a sign of the apocalypse(?).

The setting of the bunker is critical in that it is a contrast to Sylus; treasure and armouries show materialism and militarism, showing the hoarding nature of the overlord and his force (which is funny cause Sylus is now like that-) and Sylus bypasses with his own will and the symbolic dominance. The bunker is also a false sanctuary. Its doors were made to withstand “any assault”—yet Sylus’s mist enters without resistance, breaking natural and technological law. The contrast suggests that the Overlord has prepared for every kind of power except the kind Sylus brings: psychological inevitability.

The Throne

“Sylus sits on the Diamond Throne, crafted by the Overlord himself.” This is the heart of the scene, and arguably the anecdote. The Diamond Throne, a symbol of conquest and dominion, now becomes a seat of humiliation for its original maker. Sylus doesn’t fight for it—he sits. It’s the natural progression of his presence. The throne, being made by the Overlord, becomes his ultimate defeat—he built his own demise. This reads as mythic irony—the kind of punishment given to gods in Greek tragedy. His pride, his conquests, have led him here.

Power Structures/Philosophies

The Overlord

Represents rule through fear, violence, control. He conquered Diamond Star and turned it into a "cesspool of vice"—his strategy is corruption and enslavement.

His attitude during Sylus’s arrival shifts from bargaining to desperation. He uses humor (“You got the muscle, I got the goods”) as a shield, but it's transparent.

His final surrender (“Yes.”) is not a rational agreement, but a psychological collapse—possibly influenced by mist or Sylus's gaze.

Sylus

Sylus is not a looter, and not a tyrant. His words make this clear: “Unfortunately, none of the loot here will satiate my appetite.”

His objective is not wealth, nor vengeance in the usual sense. He’s after the soul of power itself—planetary control, cosmic realignment. Sylus embodies Absolute Suppression, but not through overwhelming force. He doesn’t destroy the Overlord; he converts him. He renders him obedient, slack-jawed, erased. The eye glow suggests a hypnotic or godlike power—possibly symbolic of omniscience or deep manipulation. This is not magic in the fantasy sense, but presence as pressure. ASIDE from it being an aether core i mean.

Thematic Significance

The mirror question- “Recognizing these gems so easily…Aren’t you just like me?” is a plea from the overlord to reclaim parity- asking Sylus to acknowledge SHARED identity. However, Sylus rejects this through inaction. Doesn’t even dignify it. Basically, this could be seen as “False Equivalence” in that the overlord thinks that plundering and ruling are the highest expressions of power. Sylus sees that as small. They’re insignificant in the presence of something higher—not through strength, but by scale of thought.

Stylistic/Symbolic Mechanics

Repetition of irony and role inversion:

The Overlord locks himself away for safety but dies (spiritually) there. His own identity (biometric data) is the key Sylus uses to enter. He rules through chaos, only to be undone by something quieter than chaos: stillness, presence, inevitability.

Red Carpet imagery:

“It’s as if a red carpet is being rolled out for an unexpected guest.” The “guest” doesn’t act like one because he’s already the master. This line reinforces the reversal of the collapse of ceremony to horror in that the throne room becomes the execution chamber (and yet no weapon was actually drawn).

The Broader Narrative Implications

This Is a Pattern: The Overlord is likely not the first. Sylus seems to move from system to system, leaving behind ruined rulers, empty palaces, and rewritten identities.

He May Be a Cosmic Reset: This isn’t about revenge—it’s entropy given form. The beginning of an unraveling. He wants planets, not for conquest, but perhaps for cleansing. (ala a safe place for him and mc and anyways he was looking for mc regardless at some point)

0.3- Mysterious Visitor

Power as performance- theater of control

This scene is drenched in spectacle—the ruined fortress being rebuilt, the choreographed arrival of gifts, the banquet, the sudden darkness, the birthday cake. Yet at its core, it is a meticulously staged humiliation. Sylus isn't just overpowering the Overlord militarily—he’s directing a psychological play where power is theatrical. The use of props like candles, chess pieces, and cake frosting laced with blood shifts control from brute force to emotional warfare.

This birthday is not a celebration. It’s an execution masked as ceremony, and Sylus is the puppeteer. His control over setting, pace, and tone renders everyone else impotent—especially the High Lords, who are stripped of their status by their powerlessness in the mist.

Chess being a metaphor for mind games

The repeated chess motif is important—Sylus doesn't just want military dominance; he wants intellectual supremacy. Every move on the board mirrors a manipulation in real life. Sylus letting the Overlord "win clarity" only during chess is a cruel gift—it shows he's fully aware of the Overlord’s mental fog and exploits it for his own amusement.

The demand to “round up to 100 spaceships” is more than greed—it’s numerical obsession, a perfect number that signifies control, closure, and perhaps a past offense. It subtly implies that Sylus is correcting an old imbalance with math (I think. Could be waffling).

Mind Control/Gaslighting (slayyy)

The Overlord is “stuck on his throne by the mist”—likely literal and metaphorical. He is lucid only during Sylus' chosen moments. This implies that Sylus has control over his consciousness, choosing when to grant and revoke awareness. The overlord is reduced to a puppet with flickers of sentience, which makes his pain all the more cruel—he remembers enough to beg. When he says “Please, spare me... I’ll give you anything…” it’s not desperation for mercy. It’s total surrender, the moment when power crumbles into pathetic bartering. The frosting—sweet on the outside, violent on the inside—perfectly captures the tone of this entire anecdote.

Sylus’s line, “Beasts don’t belong in cages”, is loaded. It indicates Sylus sees something morally corrupt in the Overlord’s methods—using violence for entertainment, caging living beings. This line alone humanizes Sylus, albeit slightly, hinting that while he, too, is violent, he sees himself as principled.

Mockery

The use of a candle—not just for light, but to blow up the armory—is poetic. It’s a literal spark of destruction masked as birthday celebration. Lighting it on the cake equates the entire banquet to a funeral pyre. When Sylus says “If this is our final celebration, we should make it unforgettable,” he knows he's orchestrating a legacy-killing moment. By forcing the Overlord to taste blood-sweet frosting, Sylus makes him consume his own humiliation. The knife isn’t plunged into the Overlord’s heart—it’s gently brought to his lips. That kind of violence is surgical, chilling, and psychological.

0.4- Out of Reach

Thematic depth

“Out of Reach” subtly but powerfully explores the theme of disillusionment and idealism fading under pressure. Myer still holds onto the fantasy of justice even as the older generation has learned to accept reality’s limits. The boss's line: “Kid, it’s good to dream,” is particularly poignant.

Bigger Boom Boom

The gift ship reveal ties beautifully to the previous chapter: Dozens of ships, compared to "years past," implies this year is different (duh). Myer’s horror at the pillaging reinforces the moral cost of the Overlord's birthday tribute—another way the Overlord is letting Sylus use him as a pawn.

0.5-Judgement of Fate

World Building and its revelations

Space‑Time Prison Brooch: The blood‑soaked brooch links Sylus’s escape from Philos to this massacre, implying a continuity of cosmic artifacts and a deepening conspiracy.

Basically, its supposed to act as a crescendo of destruction. Sylus’s waning power, mythical artifacts, and the dreams of mortal pursuers. It elegantly bridges the supernatural scale of Sylus with the human stakes embodied by Myer.

Zayne, Never-Ending Winter

0.1- Never-Ending Winter

Two World Ya Feel meeeee yessir

Zayne’s duality is central: he’s both a healer and a destroyer. His dream—a battlefield soaked in blood and silence—contrasts sharply with his waking role as a brilliant surgeon. His past is haunted, hinted by the imagery of him stepping over bodies and using dark crystals to kill. That supernatural or metaphorical moment isn’t just a dream—it’s a manifestation of guilt, perhaps from past trauma, war experience, or even literal supernatural powers in a sci-fi or fantasy setting. "These hands have mended heart valves and saved hearts. Yet for the past ten years, these same hands have ended countless lives in an endlessly repeating dream." It positions Zayne as someone who cannot separate who he was from who he is—even if society can.

Hypercompetence vs. Humanity

Zayne is shown to be immensely capable: he performs emergency open-chest CPR under chaotic conditions, something rarely successful in real life. But this scene isn’t just to prove his skills—it humanizes him. As sweat forms despite the cold, as his voice remains calm while everyone else panics, you can feel the burden of his excellence. His competence isolates him, but it also defines him.

Traumaaaa

Zayne cleaning bloodless hands with a disinfectant wipe shows that trauma lingers in muscle memory. He’s mentally living in both timelines—in the snow-covered battlefield of his past and the sterile, clinical present. (Like that thing that dawnbreaker dreams of everything our zayne does with mc and has no mc of his own but i suspect that dawnbreaker is the true zayne ANYWAYS-)

Thematic Significance!

The line between dream and memory is intentionally blurred. The boy in the snow may be real or symbolic—representing Zayne’s own innocence that was silenced, or a literal act from his past. That’s the horror: he doesn’t wake up screaming. He wakes up cleaning blood that isn’t there.

Redemption Through Service

Though tormented by his past, Zayne chooses medicine, rescue, and action. His decision to risk a high-failure surgery shows not just skill but a desperate need to save. It’s not just duty—it’s penance. (But meena, why would he be punishing himself? BECAUSE HE’S ASTRA YOU FOOLS- gets dragged away)

Body as the story

The repeated attention to hands, heartbeats, surgical motion, and even notebooks held close to the chest—all evoke how the body holds truth. There is no need for exposition when the reader can feel Zayne's internal struggle through how he moves and breathes. Infold makes it a point to mention his scars moreso than that of people like Rafayel. His scars are evident especially when he rolls his sleeves up.

Symbolism/Setting

The silence in the dream and the snowy landscape of Mt. Eternal mirror one another. Both are cold, quiet, suffocating. It creates a symbolic atmosphere where death feels natural, quiet, even expected. Mt. Eternal isn't just a location—it's a metaphor for enduring guilt, danger, and immovable pasts. "As the flurry of snow slowly dissipates, the foreboding Mt. Eternal comes into view." It’s telling that Zayne is being dropped back into this exact kind of environment—not only physically but psychologically.

False Daytime

The final scene where flash bombs illuminate the mountain “as bright as day” is metaphorical brilliance. It’s a false brightness. It mocks the idea of clarity and peace—Zayne is still in darkness, even if the snow is lit up. (womp womp sucka)

To compare- the boy in the snow

“There is only a shivering little boy. Zayne stands before him, his shadow looming across the boy's blood-covered face.” This is an image of absolute power imbalance. But Zayne doesn’t act—he simply raises his hand. The interruption of the dream here is haunting. We’re not shown what happens next. That ambiguity feeds the reader’s curiosity but also reinforces Zayne’s internal turmoil: what did he do? (THAT MOTHERFUCKER IS HIDING SMTH)

Emotional Tensions

Internally, Zayne’s stoicism is a mask. Underneath is exhaustion, dread, and a deep yearning to rewrite something irreversible. Externally, The narrative never lets him rest. Every reprieve—like a cold glass of water or a moment of peace—is shattered by new emergencies, new deaths, new reminders.

Deathly Encounter

Mt. Eternal is a character in itself- STAY WITH ME

The environment—snow-covered Mt. Eternal, the field ward, the constant presence of death and blood reflects Zaynes mental state. "The freezing air in his lungs wakes him." This line isn’t just physical. The cold is what brings clarity. He feels alive only when surrounded by death.

Emotional Arc

Zayne is a man collapsing inward. The external composure masks his internal unraveling. He’s too exhausted to dream, but even when he does, his dreams are haunted by death—and himself. He doesn’t remember when he last slept. He lies when he says he “just woke up” highlighting the disconnect from time and reality. Additionally, Zaynes dreams turn into visual allegories of guilt and failure.

“The Grim Reaper in his dream mocks him for his folly, futility, incompetence.” This dream is a direct representation of his inner critic. It manifests as himself in a white coat, standing still—accepting death. It’s a split between his idealistic self who wants to save everyone, and the realistic self who knows he can’t.

Recurring themes/motifs

Mortality/Futility being the central philosophical tension is: Is trying to save everyone noble, or naïve? Zayne carves a tally mark for every death, not to punish himself, but to remember. Each patient is not a number but a memory. This is his quiet rebellion against futility. (low key makes me think of the abyssal chaos story where they had people trapped in the computers) “Yet they still died.” “But he’s not planning to give up.” The tension between idealism and realism is the emotional centerpiece.

Role of Healer (Im a healer, but…)

Zayne was a battle medic in an active warzone. He’s a figure of stability, but also desperation. William’s dialogue was a BIG thing: “Zayne, it’s normal to want to save your energy since you just started here.” Because it implies that he’s new to this scale of trauma (level unlocked!)

Symbolism

Dark Crystals: In the dream, Zayne’s hands form dark crystals. This is a potent symbol; it could imply corruption of purpose, symbolizes how his intentions are becoming brittle, and ties into the mysterious evol system mentioned earlier.

The tally notebook is his tomb of remembrance, being a ritual to honor and in a way, an emotional ledger (#vent channel). Echoes Holocaust witness poetry, war memorials—personal documentation to make sure death doesn’t go unnoticed.

Determination

I cant lie dawg im getting tired anyways THEMES

Duty vs. Safety: Zayne’s conflict revolves around the tug-of-war between personal safety and public responsibility. He chooses self-sacrifice not out of recklessness but out of deep-seated obligation.

Mentorship/Legacy: His instructor represents both a parental and professional figure who wants to preserve life, not lose it to ideals. His plea isn’t just professional—it’s paternal.

Solidarity/Brotherhood: William’s final gesture is essential: it affirms that Zayne isn’t alone in his conviction. His acceptance into the special rescue unit isn’t just procedural—it’s spiritual, like a knight receiving his sword from a brother in arms.

Emotional resonance: "If he can't save everyone, then he'll go to the root of the problem and eliminate it."This is his core creed—heroism, not in glory, but in its raw, sacrificial form.

Zayne’s arc in this chapter follows the "Refusal of the Return" in the Hero's Journey model. He has crossed a threshold, faced conflict, and now is being offered a return to safety—but he refuses. Instead, he doubles down on his journey toward the unknown, because that is where his truth and usefulness lie.

Through Troubled Times

Mission Briefing/A will/

“Our mission is to find the center of the Protofield and eliminate it…” Idkw I added this it just seemed noteworthy. High-key lost my train of thought.

“I'll introduce you when we get back.” William’s question is poignant. Wills represent anticipated death, and his curiosity about Zayne’s "emotional anchor" peels at the shell around Zayne. Zayne deflects, classic repression. But William’s line “I’ll introduce you when we get back” adds human stakes. It’s a quiet but powerful emotional tether to the idea of life after this. “Didn’t expect ‘getting back’ to become an unobtainable luxury.”

Lil notes

He needs immense therapy.

A Long Way Home

More mission stuff

The team’s technical precision and logistical readiness (detailed callouts like "Metaflux barrier test initiated") contrast heavily with the chaos that follows. The structure dissolves into survival, loss, and raw willpower. This showcases the brutal unpredictability of war—even the most meticulous planning can be undone by uncontrollable variables.

Zaynes character development

Self-Sacrifice: He freezes his own legs to stay upright—a brutal metaphor for using your pain to maintain control. His decision to face the Wanderers alone reflects both his guilt (stemming from his past) and his relentless need to redeem himself by saving others.

The moment of peace in the line “can we go back” is heart-wrenching in its simplicity. It acknowledges survival—but also the emotional release Zayne experiences for the first time in the narrative. Sunlight here is not just weather—it's the return of hope, warmth, and clarity after the suffocating cold of war and grief. The “frozen apocalypse of dreams” not becoming reality ties directly back to Zayne’s trauma and internal war. It's a powerful resolution… until it isn’t.

Plot twist, with other notes

William and his lil contamination. The blue crystals appearing on William signal Protofield corruption—a slow death or transformation, possibly into a Wanderer. Zayne's inability to speak is telling. For a man so controlled and emotionally locked down, this moment breaks him. It’s the fear of failing again, of not being able to save the person he cares for most.

Protofield energy, like trauma, doesn’t kill instantly—it spreads, it infects, it lingers. William’s final scene reinforces that not all wounds bleed—some glow.

The title is deceptive (just like the size of my dick)

Home for zayne is a state where guilt is no longer defining him, a place where people can stay safe, and where the past isnt actively poisoning the present.

The Nightmare Worsens

Immediate tragedy

The core of this chapter is the horrific transformation and death of William, Zayne’s close friend and comrade. William becomes infected by black crystals—possibly remnants of the destroyed Protofield or something even older—that violently mutate and consume his body. The transformation is grotesque, agonizing, and irreversible. The core of this chapter is the horrific transformation and death of William, Zayne’s close friend and comrade. William becomes infected by black crystals—possibly remnants of the destroyed Protofield or something even older—that violently mutate and consume his body. The transformation is grotesque, agonizing, and irreversible.

There is NO noble death. It’s just decay.

Post-trauma (the time-skip)

Three years later, Zayne is a doctor, seemingly functional, even celebrated for his Evol-assisted surgical breakthroughs. But the trauma has calcified inside him. He’s buried William’s memory—literally in a drawer, along with his own accolades. However, it is VERY clear that the past isn’t done with him.

Thematic Significance and Analysis

Corruption of Hope- Evol saves lives, but cannot stop death, and sometimes makes the suffering more unbearable. William’s line, “Life… can be terrifyingly ugly,” hits this theme hard.

Heroism vs. Mercy: Zayne's struggle represents the clash between heroic idealism (“I can save him”) and merciful pragmatism (“He’s already lost”). The tension breaks Zayne spiritually. The right choice is impossible. He doesn't kill William in cold blood—William dies by crystal-induced combustion—but that doesn’t absolve Zayne from the torment of not being able to grant mercy.

Memory being a burden: The theme of remembrance vs. repression comes through Zayne's drawer—an altar of sorts. He hides the awards like tombstones. And yet, he can’t move on. The story implies that the snow, the trauma, the ghosts—they never left him. The past isn’t past; it’s patient.

Fate Cycles and the Reaper: The closing lines paint a chilling picture: the Grim Reaper, once a metaphor for death and guilt, is now watching again. His eyes have reopened. Fate is cyclical, not linear. The crystals have returned, and so the nightmare isn’t over—it’s merely paused. This final image sets up a possible continuation, but even as a standalone, it says: There is no peace in survival—only the illusion of it. What happens to the hero who survives, not as a victor, but as the last one left? The title “The Nightmare Worsens” is both literal and existential. Not only does the crystal infection physically escalate, but Zayne's internal nightmare—the weight of loss, guilt, helplessness—deepens and metastasizes. And then it goes back to the crystals, which only appear again.

THORNS UNDER THE MOON/ ROUTE COVERAGE:

Zayne Being Dawnbreaker

Zayne being shaped to become Dawnbreaker is a burdened inheritance- it was GOING to happen regardless. It’s meant to represent sacrifice, redemption, and his universal purpose. It’s meant to display that this role is a cyclic pattern, potentially reincarnated or fated through time, especially if tied to Astra. Mind you, his whole transformation isn’t all about getting some big ol strong power up- its a metaphorically power up that relies more on the philosophical reasonings, whatever they may be.

Beta Protocurve/Linkon

Beta protocurve is more than a new enemy mechanic—it links directly to space manipulation, and in speculative fiction terms, that usually leads to dimensional anomalies, temporal dissonance, or void incursions.

Wanderers being attracted = Ever sowing chaos intentionally, to create another Metaflux rupture or open rift.

Basically this is implying that he is acting as a mythical anchor and it is almost evangelion-like in that emotional trauma and myther converge together.

Another Zayne arc

Ever’s plans to do their own empire using the aether-core enhanced wanderers, manipulating science, trauma, and fate. Their interest in MC is not casual—MC is central to their plan. (which we knew. duh)

Nodding back to when I said that zayne’s trauma is emotional and physical, it’s important to remember that with the reveal (that i am getting to) that his trauma is supposed to happen and is chronological. The nightmares are bleeding into prophecies. The guilt over William, the illusion MC, and the fear of Akso—this isn’t PTSD, it’s Foreseer-induced temporal insight. Remember: he does NOT want his fate, he accepts it out of necessity (cough he’s astra out of guilt and-)

Akso Hospital is used for premonitions

Akso isn't just a setpiece in Zayne’s dreams—it’s a future event he keeps reliving because he may be consciously or subconsciously temporally displaced. Foreseer’s voice suggests time isn't linear for him anymore. “When you and the world wake up,” implies a sealed-statis that could be him becoming a rift stabilizer- basically a living Dawnbreaker lock.

Zayne taking in the black ice → he absorbs chaos metastasis into himself.

He isn't killing the anomaly. He's hosting it, and that implies a toll—possibly one that alters him into Dawnbreaker or fractures his timeline permanently.

Doomed pairing

Zayne’s fear of losing MC and thinking he is a curse to her is what makes his arc tragic. He doesn’t fear death—he fears being the reason she suffers. When he says “Letting her in was a mistake,” he either means that letting her into his nightmare is dragging her into the pain or that letting her into his life like that means that their destinies are tied to HER destruction (NOT his).

However, this is a paradox: it's MC who grounds him. She keeps him sane, real, anchored. The cluster cracks when she is successful. Their soul resonance is literal and symbolic: she is his will to live.

Extrapolation

Zayne becomes Dawnbreaker not because of lineage—but because he takes the metaphysical weight onto himself. He might merge with Astra or be chosen by their essence. (or that ho IS astra).

Akso Hospital event becomes the catalyst where all timelines converge: MC, Ever’s scheme, Metaflux rupture, and Dawnbreaker's rebirth.

MC’s Healing Ability could be aether resonance-based, and her memory unlocking (via dream/future peeks) could mean she is also connected to Foreseer or even Astra in some unknown way. (NOT counting the myths, of course).

Zayne’s real curse isn't Dawnbreaker—it’s loving MC in a world where love leads to annihilation. Which. Imo that’s his own interpretation for the sake of romance but hey! Could be wrong.

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 4 months ago

Text

Love and Other Curses - Part One

Pairing: Dragon!Marcus Pike x f!Reader

Rating: E (18+ only, explicit smut)

Word Count: 10k

Summary: Being the oldest daughter in a poor farming family of seven, you had little hope of marrying for love, let alone marrying at all. But when one morning a letter arrives from the mysterious Prince of Azethia, you find yourself swept away–literally–to a faraway kingdom where mythical beasts are commonplace and magic runs deep in the blood of those who live there… Or is it a curse? It quickly becomes clear that the melancholic Prince Marcus is not what he seems… but can you learn his secret before you–and the Prince–run out of time altogether?

Warnings: Extreme cheese and flowery language ala the most ridiculous romantasy you can imagine; shape-shifting Marcus Pike (he’s a dragoonnnnnn!!); animal attack; animal death; brief violence and mentions of blood; curses; implied virgin reader; arranged-ish marriage; yearning and self-loathing that will break your little heart; non-human genitalia; human-dragon hybrids.

A/N: A few weeks ago I had a dream that Marcus Pike was a dark romantasy hero with a humongous monster dick. One day I opened a google doc and then several days later I had 20k worth of yearning and smut. The beginning especially is HEAVILY inspired by the book Once Upon a Winter’s Night by Denis L. McKiernan, which was the first book with smut in it that I read around age 14 and it changed me forever (and made me completely unhinged). The premise of the marriage proposal is almost exactly the same, to my memory. Credit to the lovely @pedropascalsx for the moodboard edits <3

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part Two

The envelope arrives early in the morning.

Your youngest brother is the one who opens the door to the modest farmhouse where your family lives, and even at the young age of seven, he immediately understands that the item in his hands is precious and expensively-made. You watch as he gasps softly at the feel of the thick parchment against his fingers, inspecting the elaborate wax seal with a little furrow on his tiny brow.

“What is it?” your father asks from the doorway to the kitchen.

Elias turns the thick envelope over and squints at the ornate calligraphy on the front. “It’s… it’s for grande-soeur,” he says in bewilderment, holding it out to you.

“Let me see,” your father interrupts, taking the package himself and frowning at the writing. The deep furrows in his brow deepen. “Elias is correct,” is all he says as he hands it over

You carefully take the envelope from his grip; the careworn hands of your father left a few dusty fingerprints on the expensive vellum, but you ignore them as you read the letters of your name spelled out in a fine flourish. There is no other writing on the front, no indication of the identity of the sender, until you turn it over.

You gasp, nearly dropping the letter in your surprise. “This is the seal of the prince of Azethia,” you whisper. Your volume hardly matters–the little farmhouse is so quiet that your seven siblings and your parents can still hear the hushed phrase.

“Open it!” Lucie, the second-oldest shrieks in delight.

“Patience,” maman scolds her, but you’re already sliding one fingernail underneath the heavy wax seal, trying to pry it up with minimal damage.

You carefully slide the thick parchment from the confines of the envelope and unfold it. Your eyes flit back and forth rapidly as you take in the meaning of the letter. No, no. It cannot be true.

“Read it out loud!” Elias wheedles.

With an unsteady voice, you comply.

Dearest; Many times have I strolled through the woods near your farmhouse at dawn to clear my head after a restless sleep, and my tired eyes have beheld your beautiful form laboring in the fields as though you may never feel fatigue. At first, I was simply impressed by your strength and steadfastness, but I must confess that, one morning, I stood in horror as your young sibling collapsed with a coughing fit, and as I watched you rush to his side and administer aid, I fell deeply in love with your kind and gentle nature. Please forgive my secrecy and imprudence for watching you unseen through the trees. I am accustomed to being a solitary man and have lived alone for many years, and could not summon the courage to reveal myself to you. Please know that, while this letter comes to you with no preamble, I have thought of nothing but this from the moment I first came upon your little farmhouse some years ago. I shall stop rambling now, and get to the purpose of this letter. For circumstances beyond my control, I must marry at once. I apologize that I cannot tell you, at this time, the reasons behind my urgency, but I must confess that I cannot fathom the idea of having any bride but you. I realize this may come as some surprise. Nay, not just surprise, but fear–you do not know me, not yet, and this letter brings no guarantee that I would be a good and gentle husband to you. All I can provide to you, dearest, is my word that I would provide you with all the riches and comforts you should desire as my bride, and that you would reside in splendor with me in my castle. Additionally, I commit heretofore to providing a generous dowry to your family, along with a monthly tithe to ensure that your family lives in comfort for the rest of their days. I promise to you that none of your seven siblings would go hungry from this day forward, and that your petit-frère would receive the medicine he requires. No longer would they need to labour in the fields. All this I can promise, and one thing more: I promise that I will love and cherish you, should you choose to become my beloved bride or not, until my dying breath. There is no need to reply to this letter; in three days’ time, a chauffeur shall arrive to bring you to me. If you so choose, simply wait at the edge of the woods on the east end of your farm at dawn, and when the sun rises, he shall appear. If you are not there to meet him, I shall understand that your answer is “no,” and I will harass you no longer. With ardent affection, Marcus, Prince of Azethia PS. Please do not be alarmed by the appearance of my chauffeur. His kind are quite common in my kingdom, and are not only docile, but quite intelligent and kind.

The farmhouse is silent as you finish reading the prince’s letter. Silent, but for the pounding of your own heart. The bride of a prince you’ve never even met? You can hardly fathom it.

“You should say no, grande-soeur,” Elias says indignantly. “Who is this prince that must purchase a bride?”

“Hush,” hisses your sister Celine. “Imagine never going hungry again a day in our lives.”

“It isn’t up to you,” Lucie argues. “Let her make her own choice.”

“Which is no,” Elias insists again.

You finally speak for the first time upon reading the letter. “Elias… you could finally get the medicine you need,” you say gently.

You look to Mother and Father with a determined expression, forcing your words to be steady despite the lump in your throat and the fear in your heart. “I accept the prince’s terms.”

Celine cheers. Elias shoves her angrily, but when she shoves him back unthinkingly and he begins to cough, the rest of your siblings come to his defense and the small farmhouse dissolves into shouts and arguing.

“Stop!” you cry out over the din. “I’ve made up my mind. Please, dear sisters and brothers, do not fight over me.”

Your father nods, resigned, and looking more tired than you’ve ever seen him. Maman, on the other hand, seems triumphant, her eyes sparkling with the prospect of wealth.

“What did he mean, ‘do not be alarmed by the appearance of my chauffeur’?” asks Pierre, your other brother, three years older than Elias, pointing to the letter still held loosely in your hand.

“He must be terribly ugly,” Lucy suggests.

“Perhaps it is a ferocious beast with the intelligence of a man,” Elias adds. “I have heard tales of such things.”

“Fairy tales, you mean,” Pierre laughs. “No such thing exists in this world.”

“In this world, but perhaps in other kingdoms such a thing is common,” you say. “And Azethia is so very far away.” A pang of sadness washes over you at your own words. “So very far,” you say again in a near whisper.

Elias rushes into your arms, and you pull him close for a tender hug. “Oh grande-soeur,” he cries into your chest, “please don’t go.”

You ruffle his hair affectionately. “Silly frere, I came of age two years ago already. You must know I was never destined to stay–I must make my own way in the world, after all.”

“Yes, but to marry a man you’ve never met? And all the way in Azethia? It will take you a month just to get there, even on horseback!”

“Not just a man,” Maman reminds him, “but a prince.”

Elias blows a loud, wet raspberry in response.

Your dreams that night are troubled. A shadowy figure watches you from the trees, but even as you run at a full sprint, the edge of the woods becomes even farther and farther away. The fields of your farm melt away into a dark, foreboding castle, where, once again, you chase the shadow of Prince Marcus down long, winding hallways.

The next three days pass quicker than you’ve ever experienced days passing. On the third day, you wake long before dawn, and your family helps you pack your scant belongings into a small suitcase. You don your finest dress, the one you usually wear into town–which is still quite plain, but at least free of holes and tears–and walk in the waning twilight toward the edge of the woods with your seven siblings, mother, and father all trailing behind you.

Your nervousness has made you quite early. You stand at the tree line, watching the sky lighten, your breaths visible in the chilly air. Elias shivers, so you remove your outer cloak and drape it over his shoulders.

No one speaks.

The coming sunrise gradually fills the sky with beautiful pinks and oranges, bathing the land, and the tiny little farmhouse that you’ll miss so much, in warm colors. Finally, just as daylight hits the very top branches of the trees, you hear a great thundering sound, almost like… the beating of wings.

You cry out in shock as a large silhouette suddenly circles overhead–too large to be a bird, and too reptilian. Its wings send gusts of air down over you and your waiting family as the great beast lowers itself to the ground. Its landing seems to generate a small earthquake, and although every instinct is screaming at you to run in terror, you stand fast, refusing to move even as your body trembles. Its body is covered in scales of dark green, but when its wings move, you can see a hint of iridescence that gives them the illusion that they are shimmering.

The dragon–for you have no other word for this scaled, winged creature–seems to stare at you. As you stare back, it closes its eyes and drops its gigantic head in what can only be a reverent bow.

“H-Hello,” you address the beast timidly. “Are you the chauffeur of Prince Marcus that is to bear me to his castle in Azethia?”

The dragon huffs in assent, blowing a strong gust of warm air out of its nostrils as it does so. It carefully lowers itself to the ground, and that’s when you spot the ornate leather saddle attached to the beast’s back.

“I’m to ride you?” you ask in disbelief.

The creature’s massive head bobs up and down, and it makes a soft grunting noise in its throat.

With your heart in your throat, you take a few cautious steps toward the giant animal, and hold out your shaking hand until it gently touches the hard scales between its eyes. The eyes–which are a deep, chocolate brown and flecked with gold–close with contentment at your touch, and you conjure up years of memories doing the same gesture with your milking cows. Carefully, you rub up and down the creature’s snout, marveling at the strange feel of its scaly skin. The beast seems to shudder at your touch. Despite yourself, you begin to smile.

“Let us go, then, dear dragon.”

The beast is patient as you share your last tearful hugs with your family, before grabbing your suitcase and awkwardly climbing onto the large saddle. You notice the thick leather straps and buckles, and you hastily fasten them around you, tightening them as much as you can and hoping they’ll hold for what’s about to come. As the dragon spreads its massive wings, you curl over into the soft leather, squeeze your eyes tightly shut, and hold on for dear life.

The sound is deafening as the dragon’s wings begin to beat, creating great gusts of wind as it rises into the air. With your eyes closed, your only indication that you’ve left the ground is the way your stomach seems to drop out of your body. With a squeal of fear, you hold even tighter to the saddle as the beating of the wings sends you up and down, up and down, over and over again. Finally, when you can stand the feeling no longer, the thunderous wingbeats pause for a moment as the dragon glides through the air.

Desperate to catch one last glimpse of your family, you crack open one eye to see them staring up at you in awe as the dragon circles them once, twice, before letting out a great bellow and then beating its wings as it soars higher above the trees and toward the rising sun–and your new kingdom.

Your entire body is aching when, hours later, your ‘chauffeur’ comes to rest in a lush meadow near a spring. You stagger out of the saddle and collapse ungracefully to the ground. The dragon grunts, making a noise of what could only be described as concern, as it turns its head toward you.

“I’m fine,” you say, suddenly wanting to reassure the poor beast. “I’m being silly. You’re the one who’s doing all of the hard work, after all.”

The dragon huffs loudly and turns its head toward the clear stream, and then looks back at you. When you don’t move, it does it again–points its head at the water, and back to you.

“You want me to drink?” you ask.

The creature jerks its head toward the spring and huffs again.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” you say wryly, and gingerly crawl toward the clear, bubbling stream. You scoop handful after handful of blissfully cold water, sipping gratefully from your cupped hands until you’ve had enough. When you sit back with a satisfied sigh, only then does the dragon tip its head toward the water and drink for itself.

“You’re very kind,” you tell it, feeling the need to fill the silence. “Have you worked for the prince for a long time?”

The beast lets out a kind of a snort, and continues drinking.

“I’m not sure what that means,” you say, smiling softly.

When the dragon finishes drinking, it raises his head to look at you, then jerks its head back toward the saddle.

“Time to go again already?” you ask with a soft sigh.

It shakes its head back and forth in what clearly means ‘no,’ and then jerks back toward the saddle again. Your gaze falls on the bags hanging on either side. “Are you saying I should look in those?”

It huffs again in what you’ve decided is ‘yes.’

You comply, carefully stepping around the great beast’s claws and reaching into the first leather bag. You let out a cry of delight as you pull out package after package of food–dried meats, fruits, nuts, and loaves of bread. You take a piece of dried meat and tear off a chunk of bread, and put the rest back.

“Thank you,” you tell the dragon, as you eat your snack. “Those bags, are they all full of food?”

Huff.

“So the journey will be quite long, then?”

Huff.

“I’ve heard that it takes a month to reach the border of your kingdom on horseback, is that right?”

Huff.

“I imagine you are quite a bit faster than a horse, dear dragon.”

Huff. It might be your imagination, but the beast seems to pull itself up proudly at this last question.

“Then I will estimate that our journey will take… one week.”

Can dragons shrug? If so, that’s certainly what this one just did. When you finish your snack, you cup one more handful of water to your lips before standing and stretching luxuriously. The dragon seems to do the same, extending its wings and shaking them slightly. Looking at you, it bows its head and lowers itself to the ground once more for you to climb on.

“Here we go once more,” you sigh as you buckle yourself into the saddle. “I’m afraid I’m not quite used to this yet.”

The dragon whuffs and shakes its head, almost as though it was… laughing. You smile too, and this time, as its wings powerfully push you both into the air, you don’t close your eyes.

“Prince Marcus… is he… nice?” you ask on the second night of your journey. It feels like a silly, childish thing to ask, but you can’t help but give voice to the question that’s plagued you ever since you read his letter.

Your massive companion tilts its head to the side as it regards you, and then huffs in assent.

“It’s rather scary, you see, being promised to a man you’ve never met,” you explain, putting a few more branches on the little fire you’ve built to keep you warm. “I’m sure such a thing doesn’t seem frightening to you, being a dragon and all.”

The beast hums low in its throat as it lowers its head to gently touch your shoulder with its snout. Such a thing would have terrified you just two days ago, but you’ve translated this move to mean reassurance, and you’ve started to find it quite comforting.

“I suppose if he’s a cruel man, he wouldn’t have such a gentle creature in his employ,” you say with a wry smile.

The dragon pulls back slightly to shake his head back and forth vehemently, and you laugh.

“I take that to mean he’s not a cruel man at all.”

HUFF, the beast agrees loudly.

You tend to the fire until it blazes quite warmly. Being in the air all the time has left a chill in your bones that never quite goes away, causing you to shiver even when the sun shines warmly on you. As the night falls, you grow even colder, and you wrap the saddle blanket around you as you huddle closer to the fire. You’d left your cloak on Elias’s shoulders.

A twig snaps in the darkness, and both you and the dragon startle and turn your heads in the direction of the noise.

“Probably a little rabbit, or a deer–”

But your reassurance is interrupted by the cold, eerie howl of a wolf.

“Oh,” you whisper softly. “Oh no.”

The dragon growls low in his throat and stands at attention. The firelight glinting off its golden irises makes it look as though his very eyes are aflame, and you stare at the creature in awe. What a terrifying, beautiful thing, you think to yourself even as the first wolf stalks through the trees in your direction.

You can’t move, frozen in fear as you watch nine more of the predators surround you and your little campfire. All is quiet as the animals stand off against one another, none of them moving as the tension builds. Then, suddenly, one of the wolves lunges toward you.

You shriek, instinctively curling into a ball as you anticipate the sharp bite of teeth into your skin, but before the creature can tear into you, it’s snapped out of midair by the great jaws of the dragon. Your companion lets out a fearsome growl as it throws the wolf aside, its body colliding hard with a nearby tree with a broken yelp. And then all the wolves charge.

You fling yourself out of the way just in time as they all converge upon your protector, who roars and gnashes its teeth, catching one, then two, then three of them in his powerful jaws and biting down hard. Several others land on the great beast's back, and it bellows loudly in anger, shaking its body violently and sending more of them crashing into the trees. Blood splashes on your dress as the wolves are dealt with one by one, their lives violently ended by the teeth and claws of the dragon.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it’s over. The dragon breathes heavily, the hot air from its nostrils creating great bursts of fog that hang in the air around it. It turns back toward you, and then, finally, you find the courage to move again. You fly to your feet and rush forward, wrapping your arms around as much of the dragon’s snout as you can manage.

“Thank you,” you whisper shakily into its scales.

When you pull back, you discover that one of your hands is slick with blood, and you gasp. “Dear dragon,” you say urgently, “I think you’re hurt.”

The creature huffs indignantly and shakes its head back and forth, taking care not to hit you as it does. The message is clear: Don’t worry about me.

“Stop that,” you scold. “Let me see.”

Quickly, you find the culprit: a long scratch just underneath the dragon’s eye, where his scales are softer and more delicate.

“Oh,” you exclaim softly as your fingers trace the angry wound. “It’s pretty deep.”

The dragon huffs and shakes its head again–if a dragon could roll its eyes, you suppose it would be doing so right now. But you’re already springing into action, tearing off a strip of cloth from the bottom of your dress and pressing it firmly to the wound.

“I don’t think I can manage to come up with enough material to bandage it without embarrassing myself,” you say wryly, “but if I keep pressure on it like this, the bleeding should stop soon.”

At the touch of the cloth against his eye, your dragon seems to give up protesting. Closing its eyes, you can swear that it leans into your touch. You sit like this for quite some time, not speaking, pressing the scrap of your dress against the beast’s cheek until both the cloth and your hands are stained red. But the bleeding does, eventually, cease.

Another quiet howl sounds in the distance, probably miles off, but you still jump in trepidation. Giving you a solemn look, the dragon places one giant foot over the fire you built, plunging the woods into darkness once more.

“It was the fire that drew them to us?” you ask, racked with guilt.

A soft huff comes from the darkness, confirming your fear.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I did this.”

You can feel the dragon shake its head gently, and, as your eyes adjust to the dim, pale moonlight, you see its gold-flecked eyes still watching you. Carefully, it lowers itself to the ground beside you, laying on its side, before gently nudging you against him with one scaly wing.

When you feel the heat of its belly through your threadbare dress, you realize what it’s trying to ask. Gratefully, you curl into the beast’s side, and you’re plunged into darkness as its wing gently folds around you, enveloping you in a warmth so complete that you fall asleep in an instant.

The rest of your journey happens without incident. Six more days of flying through the sky on the back of a giant dragon, and six more nights curled up against its side for warmth, and on the dawn of the ninth day of your travel, it finally happens. The dragon grunts to get your attention, and jerks his head toward the sunrise. You follow his gaze, and then you see it.

The castle.

Your new home.

It cuts an intimidating silhouette across the horizon, its many turrets reaching toward the sky, and you remember the prince’s letter.

“He said that he’s lived alone for many years,” you tell the dragon over the rush of the wind. “He lives all by himself… in that?”

Huff.

“My goodness,” you murmur to yourself. It’s all you can think of to say.

It takes less than an hour for the two of you to reach the castle. When you do, the dragon gently touches down near the front gate and lowers to the ground for you to disembark with your suitcase clutched firmly in your hand.

No one is there to greet you.

With increasing nerves, you turn to your companion of nine days and gently wrap your arms around its snout, taking care to avoid the healing gash underneath its eye.

“You’ve been a wonderful companion,” you whisper, and the tears you’ve been holding in since the first sight of the castle finally spill over your cheeks and splash onto hard scales. “I do hope I see you again, dear dragon.”

The animal whuffs softly, and gently touches his long snout against your forehead.

“I do so hope that’s a yes,” you say, and you watch as the great beast rises into the sky. With thunderous flaps of its wings, and a strong gust of air, your dear dragon disappears behind a cloud.

With halting steps, you walk forward toward the imposing front gate of the castle. Shall I knock on the door? you wonder dryly to yourself, but then you see the thick parchment hanging there.

Dearest, I humbly beg your forgiveness for not being here to greet you in person. Something unexpected and unavoidable has called me away from the castle, and I hope to return soon. I have arranged for servants to see to your every need while I am gone. When you arrive, simply knock, and Annette will greet you and show you to your quarters. This is your home now; please do treat it as such. It is my only wish that you be happy here, and, when I am able to come to you, that we are both happy in this place. Your humble servant, Prince Marcus

You frown in consternation. The prince cannot be here to greet his new bride, who he must know is scared and unsure, and has never even seen–

You force the tears down again and stick your chin up as you rap your knuckles against the thick oak door.

Your maidservant, Annette, appears to be a woman of few words. She takes in your appearance–looking alarmed at the dress that you once considered your nicest, now stained with the blood of the wolves that had attacked you. Despite several attempts at washing it, some of the spots refused to come out. She leads you through the long halls of the castle toward your quarters in silence, and the sidelong glances that she keeps sending your way are pitying in nature.

Despite your many questions, she either unwilling or unable to provide any information regarding her absent employer, and eventually you give up, falling into silence yourself as you follow behind her.

Finally, you reach your destination; Annette opens a door and gestures you forward. Unlike the harsh stone hallways of the castle, your quarters are warm, comfortable, and cozily decorated. The floors are covered with plush carpeting and the walls decorated with a beautiful array of tapestries and paintings. Annette gives you one final, wary look before bowing and backing out the room, leaving you alone again.

Immediately, you begin examining your new surroundings. You discover that your quarters consist of several rooms, each one larger than your family’s entire farmhouse. You had entered into a little sitting room with soft chairs and couches, with an ancient-looking bookshelf along the wall, which, upon inspection, is filled with a wide variety of books, including many histories of the kingdom of Azethia, as well as encyclopedias on the flora and fauna of the region.

The next room is your bedroom, which features a massive bed with a soft, velvet canopy and dozens of pillows. The large windows overlook a beautiful garden that you immediately long to explore. Through the next doorway, you can see a large, ornate bathtub and a little table with a mirror, already laid out with more hair ornaments than you’ve seen in your life. There are two doors in here; the closed one you presume leads to Annette’s quarters (the one thing she did manage to say is that she’d be happy to draw a bath for you after dinner). The other one is open and leads to a room filled entirely with clothes. At first, you can’t fathom what you’re seeing, but then you realize… it’s your closet. A closet the size of an entire room.

There are outfits in a variety of styles and occasions–from sensible skirts, to riding outfits, to lavish dinner dresses. Your skin heats up when you realize that each one is your size…and your size exactly–demonstrating just how much the prince had watched you. Just when you thought you couldn’t get more flustered, you notice the dress hanging at the very back of the room, separate from all the rest–a beautiful white dress with a beaded veil. A wedding dress.

You eat dinner that night in the grand dining room–-alone, as usual. You had wondered, as Annette dressed you in a beautiful gown of lavender, if the prince would join you, but his letter had made it seem as though this absence was going to be a bit longer than a few hours, and you aren’t all that surprised when he doesn’t show. Although you attempt to make conversation with the butler who serves you your meal, he merely gives you a polite smile, nods, and slips through the door back into the servants quarters.

Although the emptiness of the castle is beginning to feel eerie, you can’t deny that the food is delicious. Still hungry from your long journey, you empty one plate, and then another, until you’re quite full. You had planned on taking Annette up on the offer of a warm bath, but a wave of tiredness washes over you, and you fall asleep immediately upon returning to your rooms, not even bothering to take off your fancy dress.

You fall into a habit over the next couple of days. You bathe in the morning after breakfast in your quarters, then walk around the castle gardens until lunch. After lunch, you read from one of the many offerings of your bookshelf, and begin working on a diary of sorts in order to organize your thoughts about the strange circumstances you find yourself in.

After dinner, you walk through the gardens again until sundown and the chill of nighttime forces you back to the warmth of your quarters to sleep.

Your surroundings are beautiful… but empty. The servants, for the most part, stay hidden. You aren’t even sure how many of them are under the prince’s employ. You only ever see a handful of them, and none of them seem to be particularly open to conversation with you. You find yourself wishing your dear dragon would return so that you would have someone to talk–and then laughing to yourself as you remember the beast doesn’t talk. And yet, somehow, he was a far better conversation partner than anyone else you’ve encountered so far.

You’re still dressed for dinner, in a gown of deep green velvet, as you walk through the gardens watching the sun set on your third day in this castle. You gravitate toward your favorite spot–a small pond, complete with a little waterfall, with a number of bright orange fish darting in and out from underneath pink water lilies. You sit on a large flat stone beside it and watch them chase each other around until, suddenly, you hear footsteps crunching softly down the gravel path behind you.

You turn in surprise to see a tall, handsome, well-dressed stranger walking toward you. By the way he holds himself, you know he’s no servant–which means that this could only be…

“My lady,” the man says softly, ducking his head reverently as he addresses you. “Please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting all this time.” He extends his hand toward you in greeting. “I’m Marcus.”

You take his hand, and allow him to help you to your feet before he bows forward to gently kiss the back of your hand before releasing it. Now that he’s closer, you can see that he’s not just handsome–he must be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life. His dark hair falls perfectly over his smooth forehead, his lips are full and soft-looking, with a cute little cupid’s bow on his upper lip. He has a strong nose and jawline, but his eyes—

His eyes must be the saddest, most soulful eyes that you’ve ever seen on a person.

“M-My Prince,” you stammer, remembering your manners and bowing clumsily back at him in return.

The prince smiles softly and shakes his head. “No, please–just Marcus. And again, I apologize for my absence; please believe that only the most dire of circumstances outside of my control would keep me away for so long.”

“Is everything all right?” you ask with a small frown at his words.

“I—” he begins, but falters. “No. No, it’s not. I–” he hesitates again. “Please, understand that when I wrote to you, I wasn’t aware of–”

“Aware of… what?” you finally ask, when he doesn’t finish his sentence.

The expression in his eyes is tortured as he gazes at you. “The situation has changed,” he says solemnly. “Please know that I never would have asked, if–”

“If…?” you prompt him again.

The prince shakes his head rapidly as if to dispel an unpleasant thought. “The situation has changed,” he repeats, “and it is no longer advisable that I… that we marry.”

“I don’t understand,” you say, shaking your head slowly as the words sink in. “No longer advisable?”

“Something has happened–something outside of my control, that was unknown to me at the time of my proposal. This being the case, I am willing to release you from your end of our agreement. You can return home, and I will still keep my promise to you and your family.”

“But…” you mutter in consternation, “But I just got here.”

“Your family will want for nothing,” Marcus continues as though you hadn’t said anything. “You can take anything you’d like–your new clothes, blankets, anything–”

“You proposed to me,” you interrupt, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “You wrote me a letter about how you’ve secretly loved me from afar, you sent a dragon to come collect me, and after nine days of flying on its back, I arrive here just for you to send me away?”

“If there was any way I could keep you here, dearest, believe me, I would,” he says, chuckling humorlessly, and you can see the pain in his eyes as he looks at you.

“The poor beast fought off ten wolves for me, did you know that?” you continue, your voice rising in pitch and volume as you lose the internal war with your emotions–and you see the prince flinch at your words. “He nearly lost an eye just for me to come here and be told to go away. And now my best dress is ripped and covered in blood because of it, and I came all this way, and–and—I’m staying right here until you explain yourself to me.”

You throw yourself down onto the low stone wall that lines the garden path, cross your arms, and try to look as indignant and angry as you can manage with your lower lip trembling.

The price–Marcus–stops in his tracks and stares at you as though he’s never seen you before.

“You should–” he swallows thickly, the emotion evident in his voice, “–you should want to leave,” he murmurs. “To escape this place and return home and never again have your doorstep darkened by this sullen prince.”

“To darken my doorstep again, by definition you must have had to darken it once before, and you haven’t done that,” you point out acerbically.

“Why?” the prince whispers, ignoring your childish argument. “Why do you not turn and run? You only agreed to come here for the wellbeing of your family; once I released you from that obligation… why?” His eyes search you entreatingly, desperately. In the soft glow of the rising moonlight, you take note of one tiny imperfection on this man’s face–a faint, white, crescent-shaped scar just underneath his right eye. You find it hardly mars his beauty; rather, its ruggedness seems to improve upon it.

“I… I am simply owed an explanation,” you say, trying not to pout. “Surely I deserve one, after coming all this way and facing death-by-wolves to do so.”

The prince’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips as he stares at you with those soulful eyes. Finally, he speaks quietly. “You’re right. I do owe you an explanation. I can’t tell you everything, for reasons that will soon become clear, but I will try to… to elucidate, as best I can.”

A breeze blows through the darkening garden, and you shiver, the stone wall cold and unforgiving beneath you as you sit stubbornly upon it.

“Come,” Marcus extends his hand to you once more. “Let’s talk somewhere warm.”

You hesitate, looking up at him warily.

“Please,” he begs softly.

Your hand slips into his, and you realize for the first time just how large they are. His warm, strong fingers curl around you and a brief sense of familiarity washes over you, as though you’d met this man, with his sad eyes and soft demeanor, many times before, in another lifetime, perhaps.

The prince leads you to another sitting room–one you’ve never seen before–with a fire already blazing away in the stone fireplace. As you sit on one of the cushions closest to the fire, he procures two steaming mugs of tea, seemingly out of nowhere, and hands one to you. You wrap your chilly fingers around it gratefully.

Marcus sits opposite you and gives you a soft–but sad–smile.

“This land,” he begins solemnly, “it’s… different. A–A power runs through it. A sort of…” he pauses, searching for the words.

“Magic?” you offer.

He shakes his head. “No. Not magic. It’s more like… a curse.”

“A curse?” you repeat, leaning forward in interest.

“A curse,” he nods. “Weaving its power all throughout Azethia and touching both man and beast, but afflicting none more strongly than those who rule it.”

“So you’re saying… you’re cursed?” you ask him, eyes wide.

“My family,” he murmurs, looking away in shame. “For millennia before I was born and for centuries untold after I die.”

“What is the curse?” you whisper with trepidation.

“I cannot say,” Marcus answers quickly. “That’s part of the cruelty of it. I’m not able to tell anyone unless they find–” he cuts himself off with a rapid shake of his head. “I’m not allowed to say.”

“If you knew you were cursed,” you begin carefully, “then why–”

“Why ask for your hand in marriage, binding you to a cursed man?” the prince finishes sadly. “I have dedicated my life to studying this affliction. I’ve spent countless years reading ancient texts, in so many ancient tongues, and in my desperation, I came across one passage that brought me hope. A passage that spoke of love being the key. And oh, dearest, I’ve been alone for so long…” He sighs. “I wish I could tell you my intentions were noble. I wish I could say that I was certain this–that you–were the solution to my kingdom’s problems, but in truth, I was simply a man driven to madness by his solitude, and I had wanted beyond all reason to have a companion by my side for the rest of my days, and you were so soft, and luminous, and good–” he breaks off with a small shudder. “I am sorry, to have brought you into this.”

“I don’t understand,” you say gently. “If you read that love is the key… why, then, would you bring me here with the intent to marry and then change your mind?”

“Things have changed,” the prince rasps, his tone laced with desperation. “The curse… it’s changing. I’m changing. It’s becoming worse, and I can’t, in good conscience, allow you to stay here, for fear that it will eventually consume me until I’m no longer myself.”

“All that has changed between your proposal and now?” you ask in disbelief.

“Yes,” Marcus says simply. “Please, I can’t say any more than this.”

“Then don’t,” you shake your head. “Don’t say anything else. But… maybe I can still help you. Maybe we can figure this out together. Maybe there’s a reason I was brought here–why we were brought together.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. What you’re agreeing to,” the prince warns. He’s so close, now, that you can see that his eyes are actually a deep brown, with hints of amber. With the light of the fireplace reflecting off them, they look like embers themselves. A chill runs through you, unbidden, and you shiver again.

“I’m agreeing to help,” you repeat. “If it’s true what you say–that you can no longer marry, then what if we became good friends instead.”

“You…” Marcus looks utterly bewildered. “You want to be my friend?”

“I came here with the purpose of marrying you,” you shrug. “Is it so strange that I'd want to be friends as well?”

His sad eyes fill with wonder at your words. The flecks of gold seem to dance within them. “You… You are different than I expected,” he says quietly.

“You are different from what I expected as well, my prince,” you point out.

Marcus seems to allow himself a small, genuine smile. It completely transforms his face from that of a lonely bachelor with a mysterious curse into quite boyish, almost impish demeanor. But as quickly as it comes, it retreats, and his face falls as he murmurs, “It's late. I should escort you to your quarters.”

He stands quickly, seeming to hesitate before offering his hand to you again–but you take it anyway. With it, he guides your hand to rest at the crook of his elbow as you walk together down the hallway. As the heat from his arm radiates through your skin, you're struck by how incredibly warm the prince is. The chill from the evening air dissipates completely at his touch.

When you arrive at the door to your quarters, Marcus turns to you and asks softly, “Would you… have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

“Of course I will,” you say with a little laugh. You don't bother pointing out that, since you are the only two living in this giant castle, it would be rather silly to take your meals separately.

“Then I will see you tomorrow night.” He takes your hand in his much larger one and bends down to give it a gentle kiss.

“Until then,” you answer, giving him a small curtsy.

You feel his eyes on you until the door to your quarters shuts completely.

The next evening, you are dressed in a gown of pale pink silk, and your heart thrums with anticipation when a knock sounds at your door, knowing the prince is here to escort you to dinner, and nervous despite yourself to see him again.

Tonight, Marcus is wearing a light grey suit with a waistcoat of dark maroon. Upon closer inspection, you realize that it contains little flecks of lighter pink, and it complements your attire perfectly.

You want more than anything to ask more questions about this mysterious curse over dinner, but you don’t want to trouble the prince any further over what is clearly a sore subject. Instead, you quiz him relentlessly about your new kingdom. How far is the nearest town? What is it called? What is the name of the mountain range you can see in the distance to the north? The prince seems to enjoy this new line of questioning, and he smiles as he answers everything you throw at him and more.

Even still, you can still see the sadness lurking in his eyes–and on his face when he thinks you aren't watching. You don't want to presume, but whatever his reasons for no longer wanting to marry you, they must be significant, because his longing is palpable. For you, or simply for companionship, you aren't sure, but you do know that the way he looks at you does not indicate a man who is remaining a bachelor by choice.

After dinner, you partake in your usual habit of walking through the garden, but this time with your hand neatly tucked in the crook of Marcus's arm as he names the various flowers and shrubs that are not native to your kingdom, and that you don't have a word for.

You sit by the little fish pond long after sunset, and when the evening chill becomes too much and you start to shiver, you find yourself draped in Marcus’s dinner jacket, surrounded by the warmth that still permeates it even after taking it off.

At the end of the night, he once again bows before you to kiss your hand, and this time, you try to hold on just a little bit longer.

There's a spring in your step when you stroll across the castle grounds the next morning, enjoying the warm sunshine and listening to the birds chirp. Marcus had made it quite clear that he intended to dine with you every night, spending the evening together until it was time for bed. You found yourself already looking forward to the next dinner. Despite his warnings about curses and danger and whatever else, you couldn't help but be enchanted by the man. How could you not? He was so gentle with you, so thoughtful and kind, and yet in his eyes there was always that dark, desperate longing that made your breath catch in your chest.

Two days of knowing him, and he was already consuming your every thought.

But your thoughts are elsewhere in an instant when you suddenly hear the sound of beating wings–and far too loud to be one of the birds. You shriek in delight as your dragon swoops down from the sky and lands several paces away on the castle lawn.

“My dear dragon!” you cry, rushing forward to throw your arms around its gigantic snout–your fingers having no hope of meeting on the other side. “How I have missed you!”

The great beast lets out a rumble deep in his chest that you can feel in your own.

“And how is your eye?” you ask, gently palming the area underneath, finding only a thin scar. “Coming along quite nicely, I see,” you answer on his behalf. “Dragons must heal quickly.”

The creature huffs in agreement, and you laugh joyfully.

“It's so good to see you, dear friend. I must tell you about the last couple of days of living in the castle.”

The dragon walks patiently by your side, even though you figure this pace must be intolerably slow by comparison. It seems to listen intently while you talk about everything that has happened, from the odd behavior of the servants, to the delicious food, and even the room full of dresses, which you’re sure he neither understands nor cares about, but it’s so nice just to have someone–well, something–to talk to, besides…

“Oh, and that’s not even the strangest part,” you tell the dragon. “I must tell you about my conversations with the prince. He told me that this land has power–that part didn’t surprise me one bit, dear dragon, as this land must be magical if it could produce such a great and intelligent beast such as yourself.

The dragon shakes its wings rather proudly, and you giggle before continuing.

“But dragon, if the same magic can produce something as incredible as you, then why would the prince consider it a curse?” you wonder out loud to yourself. “Do you know about it? About the thing that he calls a curse?”

The creature raises and lowers its mighty wings in the imitation of a shrug.

“Does he not talk to you much, like I do?” you muse. “How did you come to be under his employ? Have you been his er… chauffeur, for a long time?”

The dragon, of course, cannot answer such a question, and you make a mental note to yourself to bring up your mutual friend and protector over dinner tonight.

Speaking of food, you’re famished. You decide to arrange for lunch to be outside on the castle grounds so you may continue to enjoy your afternoon with the dragon. You whisper your wishes to the butler, who simply nods and disappears, although this request of yours is completely normal.

Just half an hour later, the staff brings out tray after tray for your picnic outdoors: one tray for you… and five trays laden with the finest cuts of raw meat for your companion, just as you had requested. You continue your one-sided conversation with the beast as the two of you eat together, telling him everything you can remember about your conversations with the prince over the last few days.

“Dear dragon, can I confess something?” you ask after all the trays have been emptied, and you’re contentedly full.

Huff.

“He says he no longer wishes to marry me–no, that our marriage would be… ‘no longer advisable,’ whatever that means,” you tell the creature. “But I think I would marry the prince no matter what danger he believes is involved–curse or no curse.”

The dragon tilts its great head to stare at you with one gold-flecked eye, and you giggle and pretend to hide in embarrassment. “Don’t tell him, for goodness’ sake,” you tease. “Perhaps, if I’m able to help aid in… whatever this curse may be… then we will be wed after all. The only problem is, he can’t seem to tell me what it is. The magic prevents him from doing so.”

The dragon seems to nod its head solemnly, and you smile softly back. “I don’t suppose you could give me a hint, dear dragon?”

The creature merely blinks slowly, displaying its double eyelids–like a lizard’s–that wipe sideways across its narrow, reptilian pupils.

You pause, watching its eyes. Watching them watch you. Through flecks of glittering gold against a bed of dark charcoal brown. Cocking your head to the side, you reach your hand up to trace the thin scar below its eye that you had pressed the fabric of your own dress against almost a fortnight ago now. A crescent-shaped scar.

“Dear dragon,” you intone softly. “What do you know that you aren’t telling me?”

Suddenly, without warning, the gigantic beast spreads its wings and launches itself into the air, flapping until it gains enough height to glide through the clouds, disappearing behind the castle.

“Typical,” you huff. “Everyone in this palace is keeping secrets, even the animals.”

“Your dragon,” you say suddenly over dinner. “Does he have a name?”

“Pardon?” The prince looks confused.

“Does he have a name?”

“I–I don’t believe so,” Marcus stammers, sounding unsure of himself. “If he does, I certainly don’t know of it.”

“He must have a name in his own tongue–do dragons have their own language?–they must, I’m sure of it. Anyway, I wish I knew it.”

“If you learned his name in the language of dragons, what use would that do you? No human can replicate those sounds,” he chuckles.

“Well, perhaps if I knew it, I could find a way to translate it into a language I can speak,” you say matter-of-factly. “What other manner of work does the beast do for you”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“He must do things other than fetch maidens for you,” you tease. “How long has he been in your employ?”

“Er, a long time,” Marcus answers awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You’re awfully interested in the beast.”

“I spent nine days travelling by its side,” you reply. “I know the creature better than I know most cows I’ve milked.”

The prince chuckles. “Don’t let it hear you comparing it to a cow.”

“Oh, certainly not,” you reply with a wry grin. “Besides, he took off rather quickly after I questioned him about the mysterious curse on your kingdom.”

Marcus’s eyes darken upon your mention of the curse. “Perhaps he was simply full after your lunch.”

Careful to keep the triumph off of your face, you regard the man across from you innocently.

“I don’t believe I told you about our picnic lunch, my prince.”

The momentary look of panic in the prince’s eyes is all you need to confirm your suspicions. “As prince, I have dominion over this castle, and over any goings-on within it,” he lies quickly, but the damage is already done.

“How did you get the scar on your cheek?” you press.

Marcus springs to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the wood floor in his haste. “The meal isn’t agreeing with me,” he says stiffly. “I’m afraid I must–”

He flees the room before he finishes his sentence.

You follow.

He quickly ducks down hallway after hallway, clearly trying to lose you, but you’ve always been fast on your feet. Finally, you corner him at the door to what appears to be his own quarters.

“One thing that never made sense to me,” you accuse as he backs up against his door, “is the first part of your letter, where you said you fell in love with me after watching me for years during walks when you couldn’t sleep. You said you would stroll through our woods at dawn after a restless night, and yet your castle is nine days’ travel from there on the back of a dragon. You never walked there at all,” you jab a finger at his chest. “You flew.”

“Dearest,” your prince whispers, those familiar brown eyes beseeching you without saying anything further.

“If I’ve lost my mind, then tell me so,” you insist. “Tell me I’m being ridiculous, that this giant, lonely palace has altered my sanity.”

Marcus remains silent, his eyes full of terror as you put all the pieces together.

“I don’t care. You must know that, right?” you plead with him. “If this is it–the big, mysterious curse–then it hardly matters to me. I quite liked you as a dragon long before I met the man.”

“You don’t know anything about this curse,” Marcus hisses through gritted teeth.

“You can tell me,” you insist. “I figured it out on my own, right? Now I know. So the curse of silence doesn’t apply any more.”

Marcus huffs humorlessly through his nose–and now that you know his true identity, it reminds you of his mannerisms as a dragon. “Leave it to you to find loopholes in ancient magic.”

“Try,” you insist. “Tell me something.”

“Okay, okay,” he grimaces, holding up both hands in supplication, “Just… come in. Let’s sit down, have some tea, and just… take a breath.”

You nod, and allow yourself to be guided into his quarters, sitting down on a soft couch while he sends for tea. When he returns and hands you your mug, his fingers press against yours as though he can’t bear to let go–but quickly retreats, sitting down opposite you. You’re both quiet for a long while. You wait patiently, sipping your tea, and wondering if your little game of logic worked to dispel the part of the curse that meant he couldn’t talk to you about it.

“I have been this way since I was a boy, since before I can remember,” he finally says. “This is the way it’s always been with the rulers of Azethia.”

“All dragons?” you ask, eyes wide.

Marcus chuckles softly. “Part dragon, I suppose. Shape-shifters. Legends say that this, er, talent arose during a time of war, when our kingdom was hopelessly outmatched and unable to defend itself. A desperate king prayed to the Old Gods and received a power that he didn’t know how to control. It helped them win the war, but at a great cost. The ancient king lost himself in the beast. Because he could not control it, it consumed him instead.”

“And ever since…?”

“Every ruler–queen, king, prince, or princess–has succumbed to the beast eventually. Some go willingly, addicted to the great power that comes with it. Others take longer, but in the end, their fate is the same.”

“But you read somewhere that love might be the key?”

“It could just be another superstition,” Marcus admits defeatedly.

“But you were going to try,” you remind him. “Then the day I first met you, you told me the curse had changed,” you remember. “What did you mean?”

The prince’s expression clouds over, becoming more guarded. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” you push. “Why not still try and test your theory–the ancient theory–that love will break the curse?”

“Because marriage is no longer an option,” Marcus snaps suddenly, raising his voice for the first time since you’ve met him.

“I don’t understand,” you sigh in exasperation. “Tell me why.”

“All my life, I have been able to change my form from man, to dragon, and back to man again. I thought I had more time… but there are parts of me that will no longer change back to man.”

You cock your head to one side and stare at him in consternation. “You don’t look like you’re turning part dragon.”

“Clothing can hide many secrets,” he says in a monotone.

“Show me,” you demand.

“You don’t know what you’re asking f–”

“You don’t know me,” you interrupt. “Please,” you add, softening your tone. “I just want to understand.”

“You want to understand?” he repeats, sarcastically. “You’ll flee this castle.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” you argue. “The first day we met, you told me to go home. So fine. Send me home.”

“That was never what I wanted,” Marcus argues, his voice rough with emotion. “Never. But it’s what’s right.”

“Then my point stands,” you say stubbornly. “You want me to flee for my own good? Here’s your chance. Frighten me.”

Fire and fury dances in the prince’s eyes as he stands before you. You watch as he slides off his dinner jacket, unbuttons his waistcoat, and sets both aside on the chair. He unfastens the white collared shirt underneath, never once taking his eyes off of you, and you don’t dare to look away either. He shrugs it off his shoulders, leaving him bare-chested in front of you. You watch as he straightens his left arm and shows you the little smattering of dark green scales just under his elbow.

You raise one eyebrow. “I’m not exactly fleeing in terror.”

“I’m not done.” Your mouth clamps shut as the prince begins to untie his trousers. Your heart starts to beat uncontrollably as you realize what he’s about to do. His gaze never leaving you, he lets the fabric fall, and you finally see the part of him that he’s so afraid of.

You’ve seen a naked man before–not in any sexual context, but you have at least seen a human penis.

This was not a human penis.

It’s impossibly long, incomprehensibly thick, and covered with the same dark green scales that you recognize from his dragon form. You can see the hint of iridescence to it as well; the little glints of purple and blue where the light hits it. It’s… alien, unhuman, and… fascinating. Despite your trepidation, you want to come closer. You want to know if the scales covering it are hard like those on the bridge of his nose, or soft like the ones on his belly. You’re terrified by it, and entranced at the same time.

“Now you can see why no marriage of mine can ever be consummated,” Marcus rasps, his voice full of grief and self-loathing. “Now you see why you must leave–before I become more monster than man.”

You slowly rise to your feet and approach him. He’s close enough to touch–all you’d need to do is extend your hand and you’d satisfy your burning curiosity. Your fingers twitch forward, but just before they make contact, Marcus flinches, jerking backward away from your curious exploration. He quickly bends down and wrenches his trousers back up, hiding himself from view as he hastily ties them up again.

“You should go,” he says softly, not looking at you.

You don’t move. You can’t. You want to see it again–see him again, you want to kiss him, you want to throw your arms around him, to shove his shoulders roughly as you call him an imbecile for thinking you’d flee in terror… But mostly, you think back to your dinner earlier, when he had smiled. Oh, you longed to make him smile again. Would he smile at your touch? Would he shy away?

“I think it’s quite pretty,” you admit quietly, wringing your hands together nervously as you stare at the floor.

“W-What?”

“I’m not scared,” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears as you try desperately to tell him it’s all right.

But the prince shakes his head in disbelief. “You should go,” he says again. “Go!” he begs through clenched teeth when you still don’t move. A single tear slips down your cheek before you finally take flight, rushing out of Marcus’s quarters and slamming the door behind you. You don’t stop running until you’ve reached your own rooms, and you collapse in exhaustion and overwhelm on your own bed as you finally let your sobs go.

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x f!reader #pedro pascal #the mentalist

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wynnyfryd · 2 years ago

Text

Trailer park Steve AU part 14

part 1 | part 13 | ao3

fuckin' finally some FLUFF

Dinner is awkward.

It’s awkward, Steve thinks as he spears a Brussels sprout with more force than strictly necessary, because Dustin promised that it was just going to be the three of them tonight, and now he’s sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his leather-clad metalhead neighbor.

It went like this: Steve showed up at the Henderson’s front door with a pie plate and a two-liter of Grapico under his arm, looking like a dork on picture day in his best jeans and a nice polo with his hair actually combed for once, and he lifted his hand to knock only to be greeted by Eddie throwing the door open and hollering, “Be right back, Henderson! Gotta grab— oh, shit.”

And then, more eloquently, “Uh…”

Uh. Like Steve was the one unexpectedly crashing the party.

Steve stabs another sprout.

They’ve been bumbling through stilted small talk about work and school and weekend plans for what feels like a painfully long time, and Eddie has his elbows on the table — didn’t even bother to take his jacket off because he was apparently raised in a barn — and it’s basically dinner with Barb’s parents all over again.

This is finger-lickin’ good.

God. Get him out of here.

“Okay,” Dustin cuts through the stalled-out silence in the room. He jabs an accusatory fork into the air, pointing between the two of them and narrowing his eyes. “You two are being weird.”

Eddie startles dumbly, and Steve just says, “Hmm?”

“You.” He aims the fork at Steve. “Are being.” It moves to Eddie; back to Steve. “Weird. What’s going on? I thought you two were getting along now.”

Steve dabs his mouth with his napkin. Wow. Okay. So they’re doing this now.

Eddie either doesn’t get the memo or just decides to rip it up, because instead of being honest he throws on a theatrical smile and flings an arm around Steve’s shoulders, proclaiming, “Of course we are! C’monnn. Me and this guy?” He reaches up to give Steve a gentle noogie. Steve wonders if you can get a more lenient sentence if the guy you murdered really, really deserved it. “Thick as thieves.”

Claudia smiles fondly.

Dustin’s not buying it. “You’re so full of shit, you know that?”

“Dusty!” Claudia gasps. She gives him a stern look as she tops off her wine glass, then leans over to do the same for Steve and Eddie’s glasses, too. “Stevie, honey, don’t listen to him,” she soothes. “I think it’s sweet. It’s good to see you with some boyfriends your own age.”

Dustin chokes at her word choice, and Steve blushes to his ears.

Eddie’s arm tightens around his shoulders. “Yeah, Stevie,” he smirks, leaning in a little closer. “We’re great boyfriends, aren’t we?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dustin joins in, “best boyfriends I’ve ever seen.”

Surely murder’s just murder, right? Like, from a sentencing perspective? Does it matter how many people you off, or do you just get thirty-to-life regardless?

“Steve, tell mom more about your boyfriend.”

Steve chugs his glass of wine.

—

The conversation turns to less embarrassing topics after that, the words flowing more easily now that everyone’s warmed up with wine and making fun of Steve. Claudia asks what everyone’s doing for Halloween, and Dustin tells her that Eddie and Steve are taking the boys trick-or-treating in the neighborhood with the good candy bars (which was news to Steve, goddammit), and that leads to a discussion of costume plans.

Dustin and Mike are going as a pair again, Marty and Doc from Back to the Future. Lucas is doing his own thing, but he's "totally delusional if he thinks a costume is gonna win Max back." Steve doesn’t really have a costume this year, so he’ll probably just pull some sweats out of the closet, throw a whistle around his neck and go as a basketball coach, and Eddie, surprisingly, has the lowest effort costume of them all.

“Oh, I’m going as a vampire,” he says when Claudia asks. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some cheap plastic teeth and pops them into his mouth. “Ta-daaa.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “You just carry those around?”

“Isn’t it awesome?” Dustin asks.

“Not really, no. It’s not.”

“But S’theeeve,” Eddie lisps around the fangs. The wine’s made him weirder, playful and too-friendly and berry pink in the cheeks. He holds his sleeve in front of his face like a vampire hiding behind a cape and drawls, “I vant to s’thuck your bloood.”

Steve vants to jump out the window. “I’m gonna go serve the pie.”

—

part 15

tags below the cut, comment if you want me to tag you tomorrow 🩷

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#trailer park steve au #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #dustin henderson #claudia henderson #st fic #my writing #my fic

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trippinsorrows · 1 year ago

Text

with me + part sixteen

authors note: this is a nice lil break from all of the angst! ya'll deserve it! just.....remember that storms sometimes come in cycles, so let's just enjoy now! also, my legal knowledge is limited, so we take some creative liberties. just go with the flow, bro.

i also wanna just say thank you, as always, to all of you who enjoy this story of mine! i hit over 100k words and 300+ pages in the google doc i write this in, and it's such a special thing that i feel largely goes to you all for the wonderful support. so thank you!!!!

status: in progress // masterlist

warnings: angst (good-ish?), fluff, language, suggestive themes

song inspo: with me by destiny’s child

faceclaims

words: 7k

taglist: @pixiedust4000 @yolobloggers @msbigredmachine @southerngirl41 @wanderingreigns

The hearing to see if the open case against you moves forward is scheduled for 8am on February 15th, 2024.

You’re outside that courthouse at 7am sharp on February 15th, 2024.

It’s all you could think about in the days leading up. Once you learned that you passed your home inspection, there was a bit of relief but still that bitter feeling of not knowing how the court date would go that kept you in that loop of misery.

Joe, bless his soul, has been a saint, staying with and supporting you in between his frequent trips to your mom’s house to spend time with Callie.

And Alexis…..my God, you’re not sure how and if you could ever repay her. She gave you a detailed play by play of her attack on Mariah, and while on the surface level, it pleased you to know that bitch got her ass beat.

It didn’t do shit to the emotional pain you’ve felt at having your child ripped away from you.

Hate is a strong word, but you hate her. She could drop dead tomorrow, and you’d spit on her grave.

It’s a bold sentiment but also how you feel. Maybe it’ll go away as time passes, or maybe it won’t. Truth be told, you don’t really care too much about it either way.

You’d hoped Alexis would stay around a little longer, as you deeply enjoyed her company, her support, wanted to express to her how much her grounding you and keeping you from catching a case, putting herself at risk for catching a case, meant to you. But, in true Alexis fashion, she’d hopped on a flight and skipped town.

It wasn’t entirely surprising. She can never be in one place for too long, but it does leave a little bit of a sting.

Granted, in her words, “Girl, don’t worry, I’ll be back when my warrant becomes active.”

The memory brings a small smile on your face as you sit in the courtroom, hearing the details of the case presented to the judge.

It’s a daunting ordeal but not nearly as difficult as you anticipated, mostly because there is literally nothing being presented that could implicate you in any way. Truthfully speaking, the prosecutor and your public defender sound like they're advocating for the same thing: a complete dismissal.

It provides you a small slither of reassurance and validates your request to have Joe stay at the apartment. In the negative percent chance that something went wrong today, you wanted to continue to keep his presence in Callie’s life a secret. Push comes to shove, he could serve as a liaison between the two of you.

The presenting of the “evidence” lasts much shorter than you were anticipating, and it’s when the court is ordered to stand, that the rush of anxiety returns. It takes a lot in you to settle yourself, to keep your foot from tapping, to keep from falling out.

Reminding yourself that not a speck of incriminating evidence was presented, thus no basis for moving forward with the investigation, is what keeps your centered.

As centered as one can be in this moment.

There’s a brutal delay in the moments before the verdict is handed, one that makes your throat dry and eyes water. It’s suddenly so overwhelming, but you force yourself to pull it together.

Judge Merritt removes his glasses from his eyes and releases a heavy sigh. “In all my years on this bench, this may be the most frustrated I’ve felt by a case before me.” For a second, your stomach drops. What does he mean by that? “There is not an ounce of evidence before me to support the actions that were taken nor the claims made against the defendant.” A shaky breath leaves your mouth as you ground your feet into your heels. That’s definitely not what you were expecting him to say, but it’s most definitely what you were praying he would say.

“The law is the law, and I respect all parties involved who followed protocol. But my God, what a waste of time and resources.” He then directs his focus specifically on you, gaze almost apologetic. “Young lady, I sincerely apologize for the stress this situation has put you and this innocent child under. What a disgrace. Whoever made these horrific, false accusations against you, may God have mercy on their soul.” He reaches for his gavel. “All charges are dismissed against the defendant on the basis of no evidence. This case is officially closed, and the child is to be returned to the defendant’s custody, effectively immediately.”

At the same moment he bangs the gavel, you double over, hand over your stomach, crying almost instantaneously. “Thank you,” you say in between tears and share a hug with your lawyer. Surely, this is the easiest case they’ve ever defended, but it’s now one of the most important moments of your life.

You don’t hesitate to gather your jacket and adjust the purse on your shoulder as you murmur a goodbye to the lawyer and make your way down the aisle of the courtroom. You’ll probably send him a thank you card with a heartfelt message at a later date and time, but that’s not a priority currently.

The only thing you want and need is to go get your baby.

You’re looking down, trembling hands digging for your car key in your purse when you hear it, the single most beautiful sound to exist in this world, in your world.

“Mommy!”

There’s a good chance you risk whiplash when your head snaps up at the sound of the voice you’ve been almost dying to hear for the past couple days. It’s so worth it when you land your eyes on that dimpled smile that makes your life have meaning.

“Callie…..”

Before you can even close the gap between the two of you, Callie’s little feet are moving across the busy lobby of the courtroom. You literally drop to both knees, arms spread to accept her hug when she throws her body against yours.

The tears intensify as you hold her close, hold her tight, like you’ll never let her go. And you won’t. Never again. “Calista….” She’s crying into your chest the same way your tears are soaking the top of her head. “My baby. My sweet baby….”

Callie pulls back to look at you with a frown you hope to never see on her face ever again. “Please don’t leave me anymore, mommy.”

“Never,” you vow. Law be damned, nothing could ever separate you from her again. “I will never leave you again.”

It’s the joy and happiness you feel at being reunited with your daughter that prevents you from asking just why the hell she’s at the courthouse. But, that question is answered when footsteps approach the two of you.

Your heart swells again. “Mom….”

Your mom is the first to pull you into her for a hug that includes the three of you. She pulls ways, tears in her eyes. “There was no way on God's green earth I was going to let one more unnecessary minute pass before letting that baby be with you again.” It’s clear Joe communicated the time of your court date with your mom to make sure she would be here right on time for the dismissal and subsequent return of custody of Callie to you.

He’s literally the perfect man.

You can’t stop hugging Callie, can’t stop holding her tight, almost needing to have her in your embrace. It’s when you turn to your mom though, needing to express something to her but not entirely knowing how that you loosen your hold a little bit. “I’ve missed you so much, mom, but….”

She lifts her hand to stop you. “I understand, sweetie. We’ll catch up.” You appreciate her so much in this moment. She must know all you want is to be able to have Callie back in your place again, return to some semi sense of normalcy. “Go take your baby home.”

She gets it. You love her and have missed her dearly. However, you just want to go back to your place, especially as Joe is eagerly waiting for Callie to be back with you as well. Just want her to be home.

“Thank you, mama,” you hug her again, sniffling. She holds you for a minute and then steps back, brushing a hand over Callie’s face. Callie, who hasn’t pulled her head away from where she’s laying on your chest.

You thank her yet again for all she did. She had to have been out of work the past week to stay with Callie, and you make a mental note to talk to her about giving her some money for that time she couldn’t work. You know she does okay for herself, but that loss of income has to impact her one way or another.

She may not accept it, but you still want to offer.

The car drive is full of Callie catching you up on everything you missed in the days without her, and you eat up every second of it. She’s even more thrilled when she sees that Joe is at the apartment, waiting for you and her with breakfast already prepared.

He really is a gem.

The three of you enjoy your meal, Callie opting to sit on your lap as she eats, clearly wanting to be close to you.

The feeling is mutual.

Joe had made a comment just yesterday, partially frustrated as it was Valentine’s Day, and he wanted to do something nice for you, something nice with you. But, he already knew you weren’t really in the mood for anything other than sulking and obsessing over your court date. Still, he was just irked about the situation as a whole and its hindering him spending what should be a special day catering to you.

You’d calmly explained to him that the best valentine's day gift you could receive was returned physical and actual custody of your daughter. And to have her back, to have just that, means the absolute world to you.

All you need is her.

Hence why the rest of the day is spent holed up in your apartment, Callie taking the lead and dictating what she wants to do. A lot of play. Some movie viewings. Occasional food breaks. And a lot of wholesome fun.

It warms your heart to see how happy she is to be home.

The three of you are sitting on the floor of your living room, coffee table moved to the side to make room for all of Callie’s art supplies she ‘shares’ with the two of you as you all color. It’s about halfway through the day, when you realize you’ll need to start wrapping up to get her in bed.

Clearing your throat, you catch her attention. “Callie….your dad and I want to talk to you about something.” Her eyes lift from the page and settle on you with a heightened level of curiosity. Reaching out to brush back some of her hair, you start to explain, “you know how we live here in mommy’s place in this town?” She nods. “Well, daddy actually lives somewhere else when he’s not working.”

Her eyes fall on Joe as she asks, “where do you live?”

He answers with the gentleness you’ve noticed he reserves for her and only her. “I live in Florida.”

Her eyes flash with a glimpse of excitement. “Really? That’s where Disney is!”

Joe chuckles, and you can tell he doesn’t want to focus too much on that aspect of the move. He wants Disney to be an absolute surprise for her. “It is, but almost all of your cousins all live in Florida too.”

The excitement grows as she clarifies. “Cousin Jon and Cousin Josh too?”

Joe flicks her nose. “Yup.”

“Callie….” You redirect her attention back to you, taking both of her hands in yours. “Your dad and I think it’s a good idea if….if you and I move to Florida with him.” You quickly add on. “We’ll get a house together, and we’ll all live with each other. That way when daddy comes to visit, he’ll be at home with us.”

You can tell she’s sitting on the words, processing and making as much sense as a 4-year-old can make out of a situation like this. Finally, she asks, “will I still see grandma?”

This is when Joe jumps in and assures her. “I will make sure your grandma can come see you whenever she wants, baby girl.” Callie is too young to understand the underlying meaning of his words, but you catch on quickly. He’ll pay for your mom to come visit whenever she, you, or Callie want to see one another. “And you and mommy can come here and visit however many times you want to.” At this point, as this man is already forking up most, if not all of the money for a house, you have a hard time finding it in you to protest any of this. Especially as it primarily benefits Callie.

Again, she sits on this new information and asks a follow up question. “Can we get a backyard?”

Joe is quick to answer. “We sure can.”

She glances up at him with those sweet eyes you’re almost certain he’s physically incapable of saying ‘no’ to. “A big backyard?”

Joe suddenly reaches over and lifts her up high. Callie’s sweet giggles are food to your soul. God, you missed her. “As big as you want.”

Settling into Joe’s lap, she shoots you a wishful glance. “And a puppy, mommy?”

Laughing, you reach and tickle her side. “Nice try, sis, but you know the rule. Not until you hit double digits.”

Joe gives you that look. That look that tells you this is clearly something he wants to “discuss” further when alone, i.e., try to convince you why you should cave. You’re open for the discussion, but you’re not changing your mind. Callie is entirely too young for a pet, because you would be the one taking care of the damn dog most of the time anyway. And as you weren’t raised with animals, it’s not really your thing.

Maybe a fish.

Settling down, you ask her again as she sits comfortably in Joe’s lap. “So, you’re okay with this? With us moving?” Before she can answer, you add. “We’re going to try to find a house soon, so….so we can move as soon as we can.” This is the part you struggle with the most. Not having a lot of time to prepare for such a big thing, but you also know the sooner you’re out of that town, the better. Not being able to give her more time to say goodbye though absolutely sucks.

Still.

You have to get Callie out of this town.

“What about my graduation?” There’s a hint of sadness to her question. Understandably so. This is a big accomplishment for her.

Joe offers, gently. “We’ll do something special for your graduation. I promise. Maybe invite your cousins.”

“With ice cream?”

“Yes. With ice cream.” Laughing, you share a look with Joe who nods for you to share the next part. “Hey, baby?”

“Hmm?”

“You, me, and daddy are gonna spend some time in Florida this weekend so we can go tour a house and see what we think of it.”

It’s something you and Joe discussed at length the night before. Well, more him telling you that he thought it’d be a good idea if you could get away for a couple days. You’re pretty sure he expected more of a protest from you, but he received none. The idea of being in a completely different state with Callie is more appealing than you think he realizes.

It’s not a hard sell.

As with most of this discussion, she’s clearly intrigued. “Really?”

Nodding, you continue. “Daddy’s gonna fly out with us tomorrow morning, but he’s gotta leave tomorrow afternoon to get back to work, so it’ll mostly be you and me this weekend. But, I talked to your cousin Kaylah and we’re gonna see if you and Ellie can have a playdate.”

Both Kaylah and Trinity have checked on you often in the past week, offering words of support and encouragement that truly held you up in moments where you were already feeling so low.

They make the idea of moving and having that kind of support system that much more enticing.

Connecting with her cousin clearly chips away some of Callie’s sadness as she cheers. “Yay!”

It pleases you immensely that she took the news so well, though a large part of you believed she would.

This is what she’s always wanted.

A family.

————

Traveling with Joe is so much easier than traveling alone, mostly because of how helpful it is to have another adult present when flying with a child. Naturally, Callie stays close to you, but it’s the closeness and holding her most of the time while Joe handles luggage and checking you in for your flight that you appreciate more than anything.

You’re appreciative of all he does for you, but it's physically being there that makes the biggest difference. His money is fine and all, but you don’t care about that shit. You just need him. That’s all.

Of course, he got you all first class tickets but unlike the last time you flew with Callie, instead of her being the social butterfly that she is by making friends with the flight crew, she’s fast asleep in her seat. It’s not entirely unexpected considering the ungodly hour you had to wake her up at to make it in time for the flight. If the situation was different, you’d have objected to such a crunch timeline. However, as Joe literally has a show tonight, the earlier the flight, the sooner you could view the house, the better the chances he can make his flight out in time.

Joe’s apartment is exactly as nice as you imagined it to be. It’s definitely luxury, but it looks like it’s unlived in, which is expected. You know he spends most of his time on the road. He’s probably been at your place more than he’s been at his own in the past couple months.

That’s just the life of a professional wrestler.

You lay Callie down in the guest bedroom and let her get in a little rest while you freshen up in the shower before Joe shows you around his place, where things are and whatnot. He tries to get you to take a nap, but it’s hard for you to sleep, especially when you slept as well as you did the night before.

The best sleep you’ve had since Callie was removed from you.

So, you instead catch up on some emails, mostly work related, navigating a time to meet with your principal and figure out some plan for your resignation. You’d be willing to stay on with the school system to guide and help out whoever they hire to replace you, so long as they understand it would be a long distance type of situation.

Regardless, it’s not a major concern. Your family comes first.

Joe, being the perfect man that he is, fixes a breakfast for you and Callie to eat before you head out. And it’s nice to finally be able to eat without emptying your stomach less than half an hour later. It’s even nicer to be able to share that breakfast with the two people you love the most.

Similar to breakfast, the car ride to the viewing is a fun time, Joe allowing Callie to have control of the music. She, of course, asks you to play her Disney playlist.

You don’t hesitate. You’ve missed this, missed all of her requests, everything about her, really.

But pulling up to said house is an entirely different experience.

“Holy shit,” you breathe as Joe pulls his Range Rover into the driveway behind the red Tesla you’d guess belongs to the realtor his manager hired for ya’ll, Jen.

“Mommy, you said a bad word,” Callie scolds, and Joe chuckles. You shoot him a side glare which only makes him laugh more as he moves to unbuckle Callie from her booster seat.

“Mommy’s sorry, baby.” It’s a genuine apology, but you don’t actually regret what you said. You can’t help it. The house looked huge in the pictures, but it’s massive in person. You feel like you’ve just walked into Beverly Hills or something. Like if the house wasn’t secured by a massive, black wrought iron gate, the neighbors would call the police on you for trespassing on some where did you people come from BS.

Jen, the realtor, is waiting for you in the foyer of the house. She’s nice enough, seems genuine and chill. But, it’s hard to focus too much on her when you’re stuck in a state of awe at the fact that you’re literally standing in a mansion. Callie instantly falls in love just from the fact that her voice echoes near the entrance, among other things as well, but that fact alone wins her over immediately.

You find it strange, however, when Jen basically leaves the three of you alone to tour the house. Granted, you’ve never actually been on a house tour, everything you've seen on HGTV indicated homegirl is supposed to actually, well, sell the house.

“Sis must not care about this commission,” you whisper to Joe, but a gasp immediately leaves your mouth afterwards as you walk into the kitchen. “Oh my god….” You’d fallen in love the minute you saw the pictures, but seeing it in person is a whole other experience. “Look at the ovens.” The open floor plan of the kitchen alone probably rivals half the size of your apartment back home. Maybe more. “Is this real granite?” Running a finger over the cool stone, you realize that in a house this big and luxurious, it only makes sense that everything included is real.

And expensive.

Callie giggles, standing close to Joe. “Maybe mommy can learn how to cook.”

Smacking your teeth, you playfully cross your arms over your chest, warning, “okay, I’m forreal. Ya’ll better leave me alone. I try.”

“Yes, you do absolutely try.” You can’t move fast enough to punch Joe’s arm, a small laugh leaving his mouth at your slowness. Or maybe it’s just his speed. You can tell he’s been hitting the gym harder in preparation for WrestleMania, and it’s paying off, paying off very well. With everything going on, you haven’t had the time nor desire to show him said appreciation.

An unfortunate occurrence indeed.

“Let’s look at the rest,” Joe encourages, leaning over to pick up Callie, though something tells you she’ll be wiggling to get down and explore with her own two feet.

Following them, you’re grateful that you wore your most comfortable pair of sneakers. Exploration of this home is a workout in and of itself.

Sure enough, you’re barely into the back of the house when Callie asks to get down, running into the movie theater room. “It’s just like the movies!”

“It sure is….” Touring the rest of the residence is something like out of a fantasy. There’s not a single thing you can find wrong with this house. The rooms, and there are plenty of them, are large, spacious, ready to be decorated as you see fit. You even come across two spaces that you could see being your and Joe’s office spaces. That’s one thing you really did miss after giving up your office for Callie to have a playroom. This house is big enough for her to have two playrooms if she wants.

And you know Joe would give it to her.

The master bedroom is literally perfect, but the bathroom is even better with a separate shower, bathroom, and large his/her sinks with counter space that links the two sinks. It conjures inappropriate thoughts about how said space could be used.

But, it’s really the backyard that does it for you. It’s humongous, beautiful green grass stretching out for what seems like a mile. There’s a separate attached building that you already know Joe would turn into a home gym, a beautiful pool that’s covered up, covered patio and just nothing but room for Callie to run around.

And she does just that.

Her little legs take her all over the greenery as you take in everything else.

Joe suddenly turns you toward him. His hand is on the back of your neck, and his voice is almost vulnerable, as he asks, “do you like it?”

Maybe if not for the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been on the past week, you’d hit him with your usual smartass remark. But, that’s neither a desire nor an option, as you answer with equal vulnerability. “I love it.” It’s when you see that spark of excitement and relief in his eyes that you see a glimpse of Callie, see her smiling face and big, hopeful eyes. You’d never realized just how much of him is in her. “But Joe, I don’t want you sp—”

“It’s ours.”

One, two, three blinks precede you asking with a stutter in your voice. “W–what?”

His hands shift to your hips as he repeats himself. “It’s ours.”

There’s a hint of alarm growing in your body and projected into your voice. “You’re saying that like it’s supposed to make sense, Joe.”

He brings his lips to your forehead and says, “this is our house.”

You’re hearing him, but you’re not actually hearing him because there’s no way in hell he can be serious right now. No way that he can seriously be telling you that this beautiful house you’re standing in, the kind of house people can only dream about having one day, the level of luxury that’s reserved for Pinterest and vision boards…..is yours.

Chuckling at your probably expected reaction, he adds. “I could tell by your facial expressions just looking at the pictures that you loved it, so I asked Kaylah and Alexis to come see it, since Kay knows what I like, and I know Lex knows what you like.” You suddenly realize why he was being a bit strange with his phone the other day, a stark difference from the man who literally told you his passcode even when you didn’t ask for it. Going through your man’s phone was never your thing, especially with him. You trust him too much for that shit.

It also explains Alexis' sudden departure. She was checking out the house for you, seeing if it was something that you would like. Obviously, it’s not something you like.

It’s something you love.

Joe continues to explain. “Now, technically, the signing isn’t until next week, because I wanted to give you and Callie a chance to see it for yourselves, but it is under contract to make sure it’s ours….if you want it.”

If…..

There is no if in this situation.

“Joe…..” Tears are burning your eyes, and it’s still hard to comprehend just what he’s saying, but the reality is also setting in as well. “You seriously bought us a house?”

His expression softens, voice lowering as he reminds you. “I told you, I love you, and I want to be with you. Wanna be with Callie.”

It’s hard to not be choked up in this moment where this man has literally purchased an entire house for you. And not some small 1 bedroom, 1 bathroom starter home in the middle of bumfuck nowhere but a literal mansion, a dream.

Sniffling, you nod to yourself, laughing tearily and reach up to hug him. Joe’s arms are immediately around you, holding your body close to his. “Thank you.” He must have done all of this in under a week, recognized how difficult all of this was on you and wasted no time in speeding up this process to get you what you need. “Thank you so much.”

He’s always there for you when you need him, and you’re not sure how to help him understand how that means the absolute world to you.

Callie runs over to where you’re standing, trying not to be a blubbering mess. Your emotions have been all over the damn place lately. Thankfully, she directs her question to Joe. “can we come visit here when we move to Florida? It’s so fun!”

You give Joe a nod, indicating to him that he should tell her. This may be a moment for all of you, but it’s a special thing you want him to be able to have with Callie.

“Baby girl….” He kneels down on knee in front of her, gently pulling her closer to him. “This is our house.” She gasps, and you can only imagine the happy smile on his face. “You, me, and mommy, we’re gonna live here.”

“Really?” Her excitement is palpable and stretches across the entire premises. “Forever?”

He chuckles. “As long as you want to live here.”

Callie suddenly asks, clearly realizing just what this means. “I can paint my room?”

That’s one thing you also know she’s always wanted to do, to paint the bland white walls of her room back at your place.

Now though….now she can.

“You can draw on the walls in your room for all I care, baby girl. It’s your room.” He would be that dad, the dad that lets his kid do whatever they want with their space, because it’s their space.

If only you were that mom.

“Uhh, Joe—”

“And get a puppy!” Your eyes go wide at this. This child really is not taking you seriously, but you’re especially floored when Joe’s ass whispers to her something about talking to you about it.

It’s when Callie starts to run around the backyard, happy and ecstatic, celebrating, that you warn him.

“You think I’m playing, Joe. Get that lil girl a puppy, and I promise you, you gon be taking Toto on the road with you. She gon be at your side when you do your slow ass walk to the ring. I’m not taking care of no dog.” And you mean that. Callie can give him all the puppy dog eyes—no pun intended—she wants. She’s just not old enough yet.

Of course, Joe tries to sway you, suggesting, “it’ll teach her responsibility.”

A heavy sigh leaves your mouth as you observe Callie spinning in a circle. This child has the energy of the energizer bunny. “We already have one rambunctious child. Let’s just focus on her first, please?”

Your little family of three is more than enough.

It’s everything you need.

This, right here, right now, is all you need.

————

Joe told you he talked with Kaylah about being a bit of your tour guide and helping you and Callie to familiarize yourself with the area while he was gone, but he didn’t mention that Kaylah would literally be coming over that night.

It’s a surprise when you get a call from the front desk asking for permission to buzz Kaylah in, but you don’t hesitate to authorize it, especially when you overhear Ellie’s little voice in the background.

You know Callie will be thrilled to see her cousin.

And she definitely is, the two girls making more noise than probably what’s appropriate for an apartment, especially an upscale apartment. But, something tells you even if there is some type of noise complaint, Joe won’t hesitate to dead that shit.

“How are you doing? Really?” Kaylah asks as the two of you sit in Joe’s living room on the sofa as the girls play in the guest bedroom. The TV is on Smackdown, but Joe hasn’t made his appearance yet.

You promised Callie you’d call her when he got on screen, so it’s something you pay attention to.

“I can’t believe she would do that to you, and she was supposed to be your best friend?” Kaylah sounds rightfully disgusted. “You and Callie didn’t deserve that.”

“I have my baby back, so I’m much better now.” And it’s the truth. It’s almost night and day how having Callie back in your custody has completely changed your existence. You can actually bring yourself to do something other than cry, can actually experience emotions other than sadness, and most importantly, you can also keep food down.

There’s still some lingering nausea that you wish would just go away, but it’s tolerable. Much tolerable than the constant vomiting.

“I don’t blame you for wanting to leave that place. I don’t know if I could stay there either after that.”

“A part of me doesn’t want to go back now.” Even though you’ve only met Kaylah once, there’s something about her that’s comforting and easy to talk to. “I just….even now, it’s like I have this fear that they’re gonna take her from me as soon as I step foot off the plane.”

She reaches over and places her hand on top of yours. “That’s over with now. The judge dismissed everything. You’re okay, girl. Callie’s back home.”

Feeling the wetness on your face alerts you that those damn tears have returned. For someone who hates crying, you’ve sure been doing a lot of it. And you hate it.

“Thank you, Kaylah.”

She gives you a warm nod and smile. “Oh!” Kaylah reaches over to her purse on the coffee table, digging around before she pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Here. You’ll need this.” Unfolding the paper, she explains, “it’s the info for the doctors and dentists Jon and I use for ourselves and the kids. Ellie especially loves Dr. Pyle. She’s super great with kids, and I absolutely adore my primary and OB-GYN. They’re both fabulous black women who actually listen when you have an issue.”

There’s so many things to consider when moving that it never even crossed your mind yet that you’d need to find a whole new slate of medical providers. Kaylah’s thoughtfulness is so appreciated. “Thank you. I should probably call tomorrow and get those appointments set up now.”

With everything you’ve been through this past week, it’s not a half bad idea to get a check up just to make sure everything is going good internally.

You add that to your to-do list for tomorrow.

Maybe see the OB-GYN for your women’s wellness exam as well. You’re just about due anyway.

She nods. “Definitely, and I don’t know if you and Joe have talked about schools, but Ellie’s private school is really great.”

Private school….

You’d definitely thought about schools for Callie, but a private school wasn’t really an option as you were factoring in your financial capability. Now though….now that Joe is in the picture, you’re almost certain he would not only want Callie to be in private school vs public school, but he’d pay however much it cost to do so.

You’re not entirely opposed, interestingly enough. Especially since Callie is technically the kid of a celebrity, it might be a good move to keep her in a smaller, more private setting.

“We haven’t, but I’m sure it's a discussion we’ll have.” You then remember. “Can you also give me the information for the dance academy Ellie goes to? I think I want to see about putting Callie in ballet.” It’s something she’s been wanting for a while, and accepting Joe’s financial generosity is becoming easier when you think about how it can benefit Callie. She deserves all of the happiness in the world.

And you’d much rather her do ballet than finesse her daddy into getting her a dog that’ll eventually be yours.

“Of course! We can actually swing by there tomorrow, so you can get a feel, if you want.” She offers, and it sounds like a great plan. Checking out the school with Joe is also something you make a mental note to discuss with him. Something tells you Kaylah is a good judge of character, but you need to check for yourself. This whole experience has made you that much more protective of your baby girl. “Joe also asked that I take you guys furniture shopping to start furnishing the house.”

At that, you groan and lean your head back against the sofa. “Girl, it’s gon take a minute to furnish that house. It’s so big.”

“It is, but it’s also so beautiful.” She leans closer to you, hand on your forearm. “And you don’t have to do everything at once, just like the master, Callie’s bedroom, the living room. You know, the main rooms.”

“Oh my goodness, I already know Joe is gonna’ have that girls room looking like a damn toy store.” He already mentioned something about knowing someone who does wall art and murals and reaching out to see if they could do a Disney mural in her bedroom. Not that you’re opposed to that. “He already spoils her. Now that we have this big ass house, I know it’s only going to get worse.”

Kaylah makes a sound and shrugs. “Let him. He loves her. He loves being a dad. Let him spoil her. Let him spoil you.”

“I love Joe for a lot of reasons that have nothing to do with his money. I don’t need him to spoil me financially. Other ways though….” Because of everything that’s happened the past week, you’ve had neither the mental or desire to be intimate with Joe. But with Callie returned to you and the litany of other positive things happening in your life, that sex drive is gradually building back up.

A small part of you is wishing that you’d gotten in a ‘quickie’ in the small space of

‘Callie is sleeping’ time before you went to see the house. Granted, you also know that Joe isn’t a fan of quickies.

If he can’t have you for as long as he wants you, milking out at least 2 to 3 orgasms, he doesn’t want you at all.

“Girl please, that man is like my brother. I don’t need the visuals.” She laughs, waving her hands in a “please shut up” manner. Giggling, you glance at the TV and see the blue lights flashing around the arena.

Sitting up and angling your body towards the back of the sofa, you make a sound when your chest presses against the cushion of the sofa. Your boobs have been weirdly tender too. Ignoring one of many annoying things about being a woman, you shout out, “Callie Bear! Daddy’s on TV!”

Callie runs in there faster than Usain Bolt, Ellie not too far behind. The girls plop on the living room floor, Callie’s eyes glued to the TV, not wanting to miss a second of it.

Your attention is also glued to the TV, but also elsewhere, even as your fine ass man talks his shit while looking so good doing so.

You’ve learned a lot in the past week, been through a lot, but one of the major takeaways has been the importance of community. Of family. Alexis has transcended past best friend territory. A best friend doesn’t do what she did, doesn’t take the heat, even if she won’t feel said heat, the way that she did for you.

That’s something a sister would do.

And while your heart swells at the notion of considering and seeing her as such, having that important conversation with her about what you want her to be in your life moving forward,, it’s also triggered another train of thought.

With change, comes friction, and while that friction can be uncomfortable, it can lead to something beautiful.

Look at you and Joe. Where you started, and where you are now. If you had to, you’d do it all again. It’s just all so worth it.

So, you decide to pull out your phone as Callie goes crazy seeing Dwayne aka “cousin Maui!” appear on the screen and scroll to your earlier messages. Your thumb hovers over that thread, and there’s a brief moment of hesitation before you decide to power over fear and type out a message

You: hi, bianca. sorry for the delayed response, a lot has happened…. but you’re right. it can end with us. when’s a good time to call you? better yet, can we meet up?

You don’t even bother proofreading it before hitting send, not trusting yourself not to back out.

To say you feel 100% confident with your decision would be an absolute lie. You’re still wary about moving forward, but you owe it to yourself, and Callie, to try. From now on, you only want and need people in your life who want and deserve to be there.

And if…..and if your sister is included in that list, then you owe it to yourself to at least see what happens there.

This is a new season of your life, and you intend to embrace it for all it brings.

#roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns x black!reader #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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lixiesfreckless · 1 year ago

Text

Early | l. m.

➸ synopsis: God, you want him so bad it's almost pathetic.

➸ starring: lee minho x female reader

➸ word count: 2.5k

➸ general content: acquaintance!minho, reader is horrendously down bad, insane amounts of pining, like- this entire fic is just the reader pining for him lmao

➸ warnings: mentions of alcohol, mild swearing

➸ rating: teen+

➸ author’s note: I'd like to thank @ashonheavenscloud for the ending idea. sorry for the readers I'm about to blueball

♫ early- junny, soulbysel(THIS IS LITERALLY THE INSPO FOR THE FIC)

“Yeah, I can take her home.”

Ryujin claps a little too loudly, courtesy of the several drinks she had shotgunned an hour before.

“Thank you bestest older brother in the universe,” she slurs, wrapping her arms around the older man, who was furrowing his eyebrows in mild discomfort. You stand there awkwardly, already feeling like you were inconveniencing him as well.

As bad as you felt about it though, you couldn't help the nervousness creeping through your veins at the thought of being alone with Minho.

It's not as if you've never been alone with him. You have; just in transitional spaces. Waiting for the rest of the friend group to show up. Waiting for different trains at the metro station. Waiting for the closer mutual friend to come back from the restroom. Hell, him dropping you off wasn’t really any different.

You really don't talk to him much at all, which makes it all the more ridiculous that you even have a crush on him.

And yet, you just let it fester, held back by the classic best-friend’s-older-brother unofficial rulebook. But you think even if he wasn't related to Ryujin, you still wouldn't make a move, simply too shy to find out what was under his impenetrable blank stare and trademark doc martens.

After snatching up your purse, you quickly say goodbye to your friends before catching Minho at the door.

“Sorry about all this again–”

“I was already on my way out, don't sweat it.”

Minho holds the door to the club open for you, and you step out into the crisp coolness of night, trying to appear as collected as the man walking beside you.

“My car is just around the corner, I'm just gonna grab some water for you from the store, okay?”

You find yourself nodding, although you're barely paying attention; you are focusing on averting your gaze from his face, careful as to not give yourself any more daydreaming material.

His car has one of those proximity keys, so there's no cheerful chirp letting the block know that he's about to open the passenger side door for you. Which is how it should be, because that is not a monumental occasion.

Except oh my god, Lee Minho just opened the door for you to get into his car, you might as well be married at this point.

You watch as he disappears into the little corner convenience store, and returns in record time, barely giving you any time to rehearse any cool sounding conversation starters. Then again, it's not like there would be a long line at well past three in the morning.

Shit. You're in Lee Minho’s car going to your house at three in the morning.

Your thoughts are cut off by Minho jumping into the driver’s side, swiftly starting the car and dropping two bottles of water into the cupholders.

“You live right in front of the memorial park right?”

You settle on a hum, not trusting your voice to sound calm in the slightest as his hand reaches for the gear shift. Coincidentally, that's the same time you choose to take your bottle of water from the center console.

And this is how you learn that Minho’s hands are softer than they look.

You don't stand a chance against the tidal wave of thoughts that flood your mind immediately after the accidental contact, your mind suddenly reeling with images of his hands cradling your face, sliding behind your neck, around your waist, through your hair–

“Sorry,” you squeak out, immediately seizing the bottle and twisting it open, desperate for something to lower your rising body temperature. He actually chuckles in response, and the sound has you focusing on the cool leather seat against your bare back in an attempt to round up your remaining brain cells.

He pulls the car away from the curb, beginning what will probably be the longest ten minutes of your life.

There are some things you pick up on immediately.

For one, Minho predominantly drives with one hand.

You honestly don't get how he looks so relaxed doing it either, side profile completely at ease as his right hand absentmindedly taps on the gear shift. If you were in the driver's seat, both hands would be at 10 and 2 o’ clock, just like your driving instructor taught you. Which is exactly why you take the metro; you feel like a stressed suburban mom when you drive, but don't have the time to rewire your brain to make your hands sit at 8 and 4 o’ clock like everyone else.

But he looks like he's shooting a Hyundai commercial, hand resting comfortably on the top of the wheel as the soft orange glow of the dash illuminates his perfect nose bridge and perfect eyelashes–

“Are you cold?”

“No, I’m good,” you reply, trying and failing to keep the questioning tone out of your voice.

“Sorry- thought I saw you shiver just now,” he chuckles, glancing at you and letting his eyes drop to your legs for a split second.

Honestly, you probably did shiver; just not from the cold.

Also, why on earth did you decide to wear this dress of all dresses tonight?

Backless and short with a halter neckline, one could call this a revenge dress if you had an ex. Except it’s starting to feel like revenge on yourself, because as fleeting as Minho’s glances towards you are, they never go unnoticed, and each one makes the hem feel an inch shorter.

Granted, the slope of the seat makes the skirt ride up anyways, so it was inevitable, but you can't pull it down—he would immediately think you lied to him about being cold. Or get the idea that you didn't want him to look at your legs. Which would be ridiculous; he's practically the whole reason you wore this dress in the first place.

You're stretching your legs out before you can give it a second thought, and you don't miss the way Minho’s jaw sets, or how his finger stops drumming against the gear shift.

Now that made you more than a little curious.

The second thing you notice is Minho’s excellent taste in music.

You assume his phone automatically connected to the car once he turned it on, because no radio station you can list off the top of your head has beats this smooth. You've never considered what kind of music he would listen to, mostly because you were worried about what he would think of your music taste.

But this?

These are exactly the kinds of songs you would play if you wanted to set the mood. They sound like what the world looks like after the last hues of purple leave the horizon. Indigo. Whatever that means.

You can't help but wonder if he was trying to set the mood.

Oh god, you're almost to your apartment and you haven't said anything interesting since you left the club.

You steal a glance at his side profile, once again reminded that Minho can rock any hair color he chooses as the street lights reflect blue off of his jet black hair. It gives him a darker aura, one that stops most lingering gazes on him from ever getting closer. Sure, it's not much different from the color he had before, which was dark brown, but the change makes a difference. To you at least.

You saw its effects in action, watching all night as girls at the club try to approach him to only end up shooting their shot with his companion, who was always eager to down tequila shots with bright eyes and cheeky smiles.

“The new hair looks good.”

“Didn't catch that,” he quickly says, turning down the volume of the music with his steering wheel and slowing to a stop at a red light.

“I like what you did with your hair.”

“Really? I honestly didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“The girls at the club sure did,” you half-laugh, and he turns to look at you in bewilderment.

“You think so?”

“You could have filled a swimming pool with how much they were drooling.”

Minho laughs. He actually laughs at something you said. The sound makes you so dizzy you think someone slipped something into your drink.

The feeling of the car sliding in next to the curb pulls you back down to reality in an instant.

He puts the car into park and you slump into your seat, not at all trying to hide how disappointed you are at your performance tonight.

“Thanks for driving me home,” you whisper, not daring to look him in the eyes as you unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Anytime,” he says so casually, and maybe a bolder you would take him up on that offer.

Instead you nod and smile, and reach for the door handle.

“Y/n.”

You hum and look back at him, trying your best to ignore the turmoil in your stomach once your eyes meet.

“I…this might sound a bit odd, but can I use your bathroom?” He smiles crookedly. “My place is still a ways away–”

“Sure,” you say without thinking, and he nods and jumps out of the car. You definitely can't read into that. Maybe he really can't wait until he gets home. Maybe he doesn't want an excuse to be in your apartment past midnight.

Still, your hands tremble as you twist your keys in the doorknob.

You kick your heels off upon entering, and Minho follows suit, ditching his combat boots by the door as he awaits your instruction.

Looking up, you catch him watching you expectantly, and you indulge the attention before realization dawns on you.

“Oh– the bathroom, yes. Last door on the left, sorry,” you hastily choke out, shaking your head in embarrassment. He chuckles out thanks before sliding past you and disappearing around the corner.

Water. You need water.

The coolness of the marble counter feels good against your bare back as you lean against it, trying to get a grip as cold water rushes down your throat. Maybe you should just attempt to make a move on a different night, when you have a little more liquid courage running through your veins and he’s as hazy as he is handsome. Your mind wanders back to that blissful moment in the car, when he threw his head back in a fit of laughter. That felt so natural, so easy. Why couldn’t you make him do that all the time?

Well, maybe you could, but that requires talking to him regularly, which is something you only do in your daydreams.

Minho suddenly steps out of the bathroom and you fight the urge to choke on your water, setting the glass down on the counter as he approaches you.

“I take it you like jasmine?

“The flower?” The random trivia throws you off guard. “Yeah, it’s my favorite flower…how did you–”

“Everything in your bathroom is jasmine scented,” Minho chuckles, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Ah, well…I found it helps to match everything to your perfume so it seems to last longer.”

“So you’re saying my car should smell like jasmine when I go back?”

“Only one way to find out,” you say with a smile, internally crying over how you just created a seamless segue for him to leave.

He turns to go find his combat boots, and you punch the air, frantically looking for an excuse for him to stay. But he’s standing by the door too soon, running a hand through his silky black hair before giving you a wave goodbye.

“Goodnight Y/n.”

“Get home safe, Minho.”

The door opens, then closes, and you exhale a sigh of relief, or frustration. Most likely equal parts both.

Perhaps baby steps would be the way to go. You haven’t even texted him, and you want him to make a move? Maybe he thinks you aren’t interested because you haven’t exactly been forward.

Sighing, you move towards your kitchen table, and then you freeze. The universe has never given you a second chance so pointedly before.

Minho left his keys.

You reach for your phone, deciding that calling him would be faster than chasing after him, but stop halfway through your contacts once you hear him knocking on the door.

“It’s open!”

He steps inside to see you twirling the key ring around your index finger, and you hold it out for him to take as you walk up to the door.

“I didn’t take you as the forgetful type,” you giggle.

“Let’s just say I was distracted.” He slides the metal ring off your finger, and you know the dip his eyes make isn't a trick of the light.

He turns to leave, even opening the door, but when he takes a step out and turns to look back at you, something shifts in his eyes. Like a cat that’s seen something move in its periphery.

And in your mind, it all happens so unbearably slowly.

He would step back in without a word, moving slowly and soundlessly as he’d break eye contact just to watch the door click shut. You’d find yourself backing into the wall next to him, hands pressed flat by your sides as you’d try to make sense of his approaching silhouette under the dim lighting.

It would feel all too real, his hands sliding around to the small of your back, his chest pressing into yours, his breath fanning across your face. Your breath would catch in your throat, and the first touch of his lips would be cautious, before diving in with unrestrained desire.

You’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss Minho a million times, and with your ever-descriptive reveries, it almost feels real as you ponder the different ways he could pin you against this wall, mouth hard against yours, or light and teasing with feathery brushes of his lips.

God, you want him so bad it’s almost pathetic.

So bad, in fact, that once he lifts the corner of his lips in a smile and turns to leave for the night, it takes everything in you not to throw caution to the wind, and spin him back around. Find out what Lee Minho tastes like for yourself.

But you don’t.

You watch him walk down your hall until he leaves your sight, and even after you’re gone, you spend at least another minute replaying the few moments you had with him tonight.

Next time, you think, chewing your bottom lip as images of kissing Minho resurface against your will.

I’ll do something about him next time.

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

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dingodad · 10 months ago

Note

personally the vriska calling him a pedophile bit wasnt out of place for me. Canonically vriska doesnt shy away from saying that scratch is a sexual predator, she does state outright to his face that he gets off on manipulating little girls in the comic.

i think "would it be in character for vriska to say that" and "does it make sense in the context of the story for her to say that" are two subtly but crucially different questions, though.

like, on the one hand: it has always been textually clear that doc scratch is not LITERALLY a pedophile. he's a completely asexual organism. by using that word to describe him, you're making the subtextual textual. and this kind of "saying the quiet part out loud" is something the HICU have done very deliberately since they took the helm of hs2; they are intimately aware, i think, of the fact that they are fans in charge of deconstructing homestuck for the entertainment of other fans, and that in service of that aim sometimes you need to be willing to have mature discussions out in the open. a lot of the time this has worked for them quite well, especially in terms of getting old readers back on board with a story which has in the past been overly subtle to the point of excruciating boredom. but sometimes it teeters close to the edge of "characters talking like they're fully aware they're getting therapy", and i think this example leans somewhat toward the latter. like, is there really anyone reading hs2 at this point who doesn't already have some understanding that scratch is a predator? who exactly did it serve to make that already blatant comparison that much more overt?

on the other hand... i get the impression that vriska is actually aware of this distinction, on some level? like emphasising the fact that scratch is a child predator is almost a sort of shield for her. the name of vriska's game in this chapter is minimisation; while it's super cool and heroic to admit that part of your tragic backstory involves a sick spider monster and a badass lady pirate, by trying to paint scratch as nothing more than a pathetic kiddy fiddler what she's really saying is that because he never actually molested her then she was never really abused, that she was never really a victim and therefore he was never actually a significant presence in her life at all. that's how she lives with it, by role playing as the predator to forget the fact that she was ever prey.

i think what i question about this is possibly that vriska would even know to use that word at all? writing dialogue that actually feels authentically like stuff trolls would say is another thing i think hs2 has had a rough time with ("that is a completely normal human sentence"?). the gay joke in the tavros chapter was funny because it had been a long time since we heard caliborn and jake do the same gag but it feels like they tried to capture that same energy with vriska calling tavros a "pussy" in this chapter and it fell flat. and it felt just as unnatural for a troll to say the word "pussy" as it did for her to say the word "pedophile". i think what makes alternia and its traumatic knock-on effects so effective is that it's often more insidious than it is explicit; trolls barely have the language to describe all the institutionalised neglect and abuse that is happening around them all the time because to them it's just how the world works! yeah sollux has that line about sex offenders and schools, but i think that basically serves to illustrate my point, because for the most part we all seem to understand that trolls don't have what we would be able to identify as "school" either: sexual abuse and education are concepts that, in the world of homestuck, exist entirely in the abstract; tropes to be evoked but not things that ever actually happen.

that being said, alternia is designed to reflect the structure of homestuck as a whole, and the reason alternia doesn't have sex offenders or schools is because homestuck in general does not explicitly concern itself with these topics. we understand that escaping homestuck and settling down on Earth C means settling down in the "real world", replacing the threat of time-travelling demons with real struggles and real problems, and as a continuation of the homestuck epilogues hs2 naturally IS going to continue to touch on sex and politics and all the other stuff that was delegated mostly to the subtextual in the original comic. i think the structure of this chapter even kind of alludes to this; tavros and erisol beckon vriska to relax for a moment and play childish games with them like she used to do when she was a kid on alternia, but by choosing to forge on ahead with her personal growth vriska is immediately confronted with the fact that becoming an adult is NOT like a webcomic, it's NOT all allegories and RPG battles; it can be sick and it can be hurtful and it can stop you right in your tracks just as you thought you were "making progress" toward "winning".

i just feel that by having vriska apply Earth C vocabulary to an Alternian experience right off the bat, we've skipped over a key part of her transition from homestuck to the real world. would this chapter have been any easier to stomach if it had been about vriska coming to grips with the fact that scratch was a predator in the first place? no, of course not LOL. i think my gripe here might literally just be with the word choice. like i believe the writers have it in them to express what they were trying to express here in a much more interesting way than simply having vriska say "lol he's a pedophile". yes, addressing something literally that has only ever been mentioned before in symbols and whispers is part of the impact of this update, but i don't think that has to come at the expense of the dialogue actually feeling like it belongs in the mouths of these characters

#upd8 #god. um. ask to tag #sa mention #?#csa mention #hs2

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dreamwatch · 2 years ago

Text

STWG daily drabble - 28/09/23

Prompt: horse

Warnings: mentions of chronic pain

This is the longest thing I have ever shared, and the weirdest thing I have ever written. I have literally zero idea where this came from. It's not beta'd, apologies for typos etc. This is just shy of 2.5k words, so yeah... not so Drabble actually.

****

“So, what’s on your mind today, Eddie?”

He sees Doctor Pearcey every Wednesday at 2pm. Has done now for two months. And it’s the first thing she says to him every time he sits down. What’s on your mind today, Eddie? He’s responded in various ways. With anger. With humour. With distrust. On one particularly memorable day, with silence, which Doctor Pearcey matched in spades. The two of them sat there for an hour and didn’t say a single word. Eddie wanted to peel his skin off about ten minutes into it.

He’s in more pain than usual today, has a lower tolerance for her psychobabble mumbo jumbo, so he’s already looking to derail the session before he gets in the room.

“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?” Eddie asks her.

“No, I haven’t. Have you?”

“Hmm, couple of times.”

There’s silence for a minute or so. It’s like they’re playing therapy chicken, who gives in and speaks first? It’s usually him.

“I like them. Like how fast they are, you know? How free you feel on them.” He digs his thumb into the leather of the armchair, leaving little crescent nail marks.

“And what’s got you thinking about that today?”

The beautiful purple Kawasaki he passed on his way here today would be the easy answer. But when did he ever do anything easy?

“Wayne hates them. I’ve been wanting one for years, but he begged me not to. Asked me to wait till I was twenty one. I think he thought I would just grow out of it.”

“And have you?”

“Fuck no. I want one more than ever.”

She waits.

“I’m twenty one next week, and I won’t be getting a motorcycle because my leg is fucked, and I can’t twist or move properly.” He doesn’t bother hiding the bitterness. “It doesn’t matter, I mean, it’s whatever at this point, just another thing I can’t do, add it to the fucking pile, right?”

He changes the subject and she follows along behind waiting for breadcrumbs. Eventually their time comes to an end and he’s desperate to get out.

“Do you trust me, Eddie?”

He lets out an incredulous laugh. “You work for the spook agency that started this fucking nightmare. So, no, not really.”

She smiles back. “That’s fair.” She walks to her desk and scribbles a note before handing it to him. Eddie takes it from her like it’s poisonous.

“Meet me at that address on Sunday. Two PM. I’ll be waiting.”

And that is definitely not how the sessions usually end.

——

Wayne is working so Steve offers to take him. And Eddie isn’t going to say no to spending some time with him, especially when he’s walking into the unknown. Although the unknown appears to be…

“A horse sanctuary? Why the fuck does she want to meet you at a horse sanctuary?”

“Maybe she’s going to shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

Steve slaps him against the chest with the back of his hand. “Dude.”

“Sorry.”

He sees her standing at a fence watching a couple of horses wander around the paddock. The ground is a little rough below his feet and his leg has been a complete nightmare all week, so Steve walks with him, hand gently resting at Eddie’s elbow as he traverses the uneven ground with his cane. It makes him grateful and fucking furious all at the same time. Such is his life these days.

“You came. I’m glad,” she says, smiling brightly.

“Well, my curiosity door was opened,” replies Eddie and Steve stifles a laugh beside him.

Steve heads back to the car, squeezes Eddie’s elbow gently, before saying goodbye to the Doc. She watches the exchange intently, and Eddie feels entirely scrutinised. He hasn’t spoken about Steve in the sessions, has no intention of doing so and the last person he would want to know about it is someone that works for the fucking feds.

“So, why am I here, exactly?”

“I thought you might like to get out of that stuffy office for a change. You never seem very comfortable.”

Eddie laughs. “Uh huh, and what is it that gave you the impression I’d be comfortable in a field full of horses?”

She shrugs. “Humour me.”

See, it was shit like that that drove Eddie crazy. Humour me. It’s Sunday. Right now he could be lying on his bed playing guitar, reading, hanging out with Steve. He could be jerking off. All of which was preferable to standing in a field full of horseshit.

“Okay, well I’m not in a humorous mood, so I’m going to leave you to your equine endeavours.” He turns to leave.

“There’s someone I want you to meet. Before you go. Will only take a minute.” The Doc waves at a stable hand and a few minutes later Eddie is face to face with a beautiful white horse.

“I swear to god, if you tell me his name is Shadowfax…”

She laughs. “No, this is Tony. Tony, meet Eddie.” Tony whinnies, nodding his head up and down, his mane blowing gently in the wind. Eddie smiles. God damn her.

Eddie reaches over the fence to stroke Tony. This gorgeous, graceful animal, and it’s called fucking Tony.

“He’s beautiful. How come he’s here?”

“He was a race horse, I believe. But he was slow, didn’t make his owners any money. So now he gets to live here and lead a good life.”

“Doesn’t he miss racing? Like, aren’t they bred for that? What does he do all day if he can’t race anymore?”

“It wasn’t meant to be. But he’s patient, and kind and now he helps people learn to ride. And he’s very, very good at that.” She turns to face him, one arm hooked over the fence. “You said you were disappointed at not being able to ride a motorcycle? Correct?”

Where the fuck was this going?

“Yeah… ?”

“Why ride a steel horse when you can ride the real thing?”

Eddie splutters. “You have to be kidding me?” She just keeps smiling. He stares at her, open mouthed and wide eyed. “You’re fucking serious?”

“I’m fucking serious,” she says, with a glint of mischief. “You wanted the freedom and the excitement of riding. Well, I’m offering it to you. Or, Tony’s offering it to you, really.”

He looks between her and Tony. “Did you miss the part about my leg being fucked? How the hell am I even supposed to get up there? And what if I fall? No, absolutely not.”

The Doc gives him a long hard stare. “Do you trust me?” she ask him.

“No.”

“The sanctuary has a programme for disabled riders. Tony is the best of the best. You’d be perfectly safe. Come on, Eddie. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“This was… very nice, I guess, of you to think about this, but no. Sorry. It’s not the same as a bike, like at all. I have control of the bike, my bike can’t just run off and start jumping over fences and shit.”

“No, but your bike’s not smart. Tony is smart. He’s kind. He feels his rider, he knows what they need, knows when they’re scared. He fills in the gaps, takes the lead when a rider needs it, hands them back control when they don’t. He can guide you. Look after you. Your bike can’t do that.”

He feels his resolve wane. He sighs. Animals, they get him every time.

“People get hurt riding horses.”

“Sure, but they don’t call motorbikes donorcycles for nothing, Eddie.” Touché.

He shakes his head, this is such a stupid idea, but eventually that little pixie voice in his head just says fuck it, and within fifteen minutes he’s wearing a very unflattering helmet, climbing a mounting block and being helped into the saddle on Tony’s back.

He feels like he’s going to slip off the other side, and every time Tony moves his head forward toward the ground Eddie panics because it feels like he’ll just lean forward and drop like a rock to the ground. It's incredibly disorienting.

Eddie grips the reins so hard he sees his knuckles go white until the instructor shows him how to hold them properly. They show him how to guide Tony but ultimately Tony is doing all the work here, Eddie is just along for the ride.

He’s led around the paddock, and yeah, he feels stupid at first, self conscious sitting up in the air for everyone to see. But eventually he gets into the swing of it, and it’s… nice. Nerve wracking, but nice.

They’re going at walking speed, he can feel the rhythmic sway of Tony’s body, and it’s comforting. Why is it comforting? It’s not exactly the Kentucky Derby, but he can’t stop himself from grinning.

Eddie knows fuck all about horses, less than fuck all actually, but if he didn’t know better he’d say that Tony was enjoying himself. And as much as he hates that she’s right, he feels at peace. Feels like he trusts this animal, who he literally just met, but who seems to be having a ball wandering around with this asshole on his back.

“Wanna pick it up a bit?” asks the instructor and Eddie’s about to say ‘fuck no’ when Tony comes to a stop. Like he knows Eddie’s not sure. Eddie strokes along Tony’s thick, white mane, and pats his shoulder.

“Eurgh, yeah, shit, okay,” he says before leaning forward and whispering in Tony’s ear, “look after me, okay? Cause I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing up here.” Tony answers with a swooping nod of the head and then they’re off.

They’re barely going any faster as Tony trots around the paddock, but Eddie can definitely feel the difference. The soft, comforting sway has been replaced by a harder jolt. He’s going to pay for it tomorrow, can already feel it in his hips and back, and he hasn’t got the strength in his leg to properly push up from the stirrups, but it doesn’t matter.

The last time he was on a motorcycle he was seventeen, and it belonged to a friend of Reefer Rick’s. He was riding pillion and they were going way over the speed limit, and he’d never felt more alive, more free. He was young enough and dumb enough to think he’d never get hurt. He was invincible at seventeen. He wasn’t even a little bit scared of falling off. The folly of youth.

In three short years the folly of youth has been replaced with constant dread and a little bit of paranoia.

This isn’t the same as that careless charge up the highway, not by a long shot, but it’s exciting in it’s own way, like going on a roller coaster instead of walking through an alternate universe.

He feels at peace. A moment in time when he’s not having to think about doctors appointments, worrying about Wayne, worrying about his future. His life has got so small since March. The kids are at school and he’s not, but he can’t work so he spends endless unfilled hours at home, waiting for other people to have space for him.

The constant churn in his mind slows, his thoughts empty, his worries silence.

They go back to a steady walk, Tony’s body lilting from side to side, a gentle rock. Eddie already loves him. He’s a fucking sap. Horses? Rich people pets? No way man, not for him. But this guy, this is Eddie’s guy now.

As they turn in the paddock he sees Steve leaning over the fence, grinning.

“Nice hat!” Asshole.

Eddie flips him off but Steve just laughs, sunglasses pushed back up on his head. Steve can read him like a book, and Eddie knows he can see it. The complicated emotions today is bringing out in him. The joy and the excitement and the little bit of sadness. Steve raises his eyebrows, that little silent okay? Eddie smiles shyly and nods in response. They’ll talk properly later, when Eddie is trying to unpack everything.

It’s over too soon. Eddie’s helped down and fuck, yeah he’s in a little pain now, but Jesus it was so worth it. He pats Tony, strokes his neck, tells him what a beautiful boy he is, and Tony leans over nudges his nose against the side of Eddie’s face. There is a conversation happening between them, just this little quiet acknowledgement of something. Eddie doesn’t want to leave him. He feels… changed, weirdly. Like it was spiritual. Like something inside him got cracked open just a little.

“So?”

Doctor Pearcey stands behind him, looking pretty pleased with herself.

He tilts his head to the side, makes a big show of it. “Yeah, it was okay.” Eddie knows she sees through his bullshit. They’ll be talking about this next week. No need to go through it all now.

They head back to the car, Steve at his elbow again, and Doctor Pearcey hands him a card with the sanctuary number on. “Just in case you’d like to come back.”

He does. Wayne is going to enjoy giving him shit, and he doesn’t even want to think of the number of jockey jokes in his future, but he really does want to do this again.

The car ride is quiet on the way home, just the sound of some top forty shit in the background, but Eddie’s mind is elsewhere. He feels still, his head is clear and quiet. Ridiculously relaxed.

“How’s your ass?” asks Steve.

Eddie grins. “Haven’t had any complaints.”

“Jesus Christ.” But he’s laughing. They’re both laughing.

“So, you want to do it again? We can make it regular, I’ll just make sure Keith doesn’t schedule me for Sundays.”

Eddie stares at the side of Steve’s face. This guy. This fucking guy.

“You’d do that?”

“Of course I would.” Steve looks studiously out at the road, hands firmly at ten and two. “I’d do anything for you.”

Eddie feels like he’s skipped a breath, but tentatively reaches his hand across the console and pokes at Steve’s thigh. Steve takes a hand off the wheel, reaches blindly to find Eddie’s, gives it a little squeeze before letting go. They don’t look at each other.

He leans back in his seat, imagines Tony, galloping, mane trailing behind him in the wind. Just beautiful.

Why the fuck did they call him Tony?

#stwgdailyprompt #steddie #steddie fanfiction #eddie munson #steve harrington #cw chronic pain #stranger things #not really that angsty #little bit fluffy in places #who am I?#my writing #dreamy writes

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visceravalentines · 1 year ago

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a goddamn break

that's right boys it's a saw fic from me, the clown

2.5k words. neat n tidy little character study of my favorite guys in loathe with each other. no content warnings. not explicitly coffinshipping but anything's coffinshipping if you glare at it long enough. I fucked with the timeline of saw iv to make this make sense but literally time isn't real especially in these movies. hope you like it!!

Peter Strahm tells his doctor he doesn’t smoke, and if he were hooked up to a polygraph, it would read as true.

That’s because he knows how to lie in a way that makes the words fact, at least in that moment and the one that comes after. It’s because he quit in college, cold turkey, the day after he got his diploma, and the doc doesn’t ask if he used to smoke.

It’s also because the battered pack of Camels he keeps in the pocket of his suit jacket doesn’t count. That’s for emergencies only.

Today constitutes an emergency. The last two weeks have been a goddamn emergency. Every waking moment since he set foot in the Metropolitan Police Department has been nothing but dead ends and incompetence. Today is one of a long string of days he’d rather fast-forward through to get to the good part, the part where he wins.

He’s never had a liaison turn casualty before. Detective Kerry had a good head on her shoulders, knew which way was up. She’d reached out to the FBI for help on the Jigsaw case, not the other way around. That was the mark of a good cop. One who knew when they were out of their element.

Strahm isn’t ready to admit he’s out of his element. Not yet. Because he isn’t.

He just needs a smoke.

His jacket is slumped over the back of his garbage office chair in the shitty little temporary office he shares with Perez. She clocks him rifling through the pockets, raises a sympathetic eyebrow.

“Don’t,” he warns before she can open her mouth.

She puts her hands up like she’s negotiating with a terrorist. “I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” she concedes.

“Understatement.” Strahm shoves a sigh out through his nose. “I wanna talk to Jill Tuck again.”

“I know you do.”

Her tone borders on consolation. Strahm shoots her a look. “She’s the key, Perez.”

“She’s a big shiny window and you’re a bird flying at top speed,” she replies. “There are other avenues.”

Strahm shakes his head, taps the pack of Camels against his palm. “I wanna talk to her again.”

Perez rolls her eyes, mutters a curse, and he feels a surge of pride. He's rubbing off on her. “I’ll bring her in.”

“Has forensics pulled their heads out of their collective asses yet, or is that too much to ask for in this shithole precinct?”

Perez smiles beatifically. “I’d rather not answer that.”

Strahm makes a sound like a shoe in a dryer. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“Take fifteen.”

He grumbles something unintelligible even to himself and stalks out.

There’s a door to the alleyway near the men’s room. Strahm knows this because the two aren’t clearly labeled and he’s gone through the wrong one twice. As he turns down the hall he sees that someone has propped open the external door with a rock to keep it from locking behind them, probably some other idiot chipping away at their respiratory health.

He almost reconsiders, almost turns around to find his way to the front of the building. But that’s stupid. He can stomach five minutes five feet away from another person.

Strahm pushes his way through the door, descends the stairs to his left, rounds the banister to the right, and stops cold.

Hoffman turns that dead-eyed stare on him, blows a lungful of smoke through those Hollywood housewife lips. “Agent Strahm,” he says in a monotone that conveys the most mild surprise conceivable.

Strahm considers walking back in the building for five whole seconds. He has no qualms with casual incivility. But he sees Hoffman doing the same math, catches the twitch of a smirk that may as well be a gauntlet thrown at his feet.

Peter Strahm is many things, but never a coward.

He slouches over begrudgingly, finds a section of wall, gives Hoffman a noncommittal grimace and dares to hope, just for a moment. It would be possible for this interaction to pass in silence, incredibly possible. Painless, even.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Hoffman remarks, and Strahm grinds his teeth.

“I don’t.” He digs in his pocket for his ancient Bic lighter. He picked it up at a gas station in St. Louis years ago, never saw the need for an upgrade. Bic makes quality products.

Hoffman takes a drag, watches him pull a cigarette from the pack. “My mistake,” he says in the back of his throat. Smoke wafts loose from his mouth.

Strahm strikes the lighter once, twice, thrice. It sparks, but no flame except a flash of white-hot irritation.

He pictures Perez telling him to picture a beach.

He strikes it six more times even though he knows it’s not going to work, tries to count to ten in his head and fizzles out around four, remembers now the last time he lit up in Baltimore and thought to himself I better fill ‘er up.

He did not, of course, do that. Unfortunately.

Strahm straightens his head and looks hard at the brick wall across the alley and waits for it. He can feel Hoffman savoring the moment, knows exactly the sanctimonious look that’s plastered on the detective’s smug fucking face.

If he makes him ask for it, on his sainted mother’s grave, Strahm will shoot him.

Hoffman exhales serenely. “Need a light?”

Somehow that is worse.

Strahm keeps the cigarette pressed between his lips and his eyes straight ahead and holds out his hand to the right. He’ll be goddamned if he lets Hoffman light it for him. He feels the brush of the detective’s fingers on his palm and the familiar weight of a Zippo, uncomfortably warm from Hoffman's pocket.

When he flips it open he sees an engraving, worn down by what appears to be the frequent back-and-forth rub of a thumb across the letters. Saint Mark. He doesn't want to know.

Strahm lights up and hands the Zippo back to Hoffman like it might carry some disease. He fills his lungs with a bittersweet buzz and lets his head drop back, blows smoke to the sky. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“Anything to help the FBI,” Hoffman replies, and Strahm really can’t tell whether or not he’s trying to be more punchable than he already is.

He inhales again and holds it as long as he can. Enough time has passed since the last time he smoked that it goes right to his head, makes his brain hum behind his eyes. He feels better immediately. The smell always whisks him back to his undergrad days, to the stairwell outside the campus library where he used to take study breaks. Cold night, dark clouds, sodium street lamps. A certainty about himself and the future. A support structure. Simpler times.

“Made any progress with Jill Tuck?”

His pleasant memory gets shredded like paper through Hoffman's weird little teeth and he’s back in an alleyway that reeks of trash and vice, stomach acid creeping up his esophagus. Strahm taps his finger, watches flecks of ash spiral down and disappear near his shoe. “What do you think?”

Hoffman takes a thoughtful drag like he’s never heard of a rhetorical question. “She's a deeply troubled woman.”

“Great insight,” Strahm snaps, “really valuable stuff there, detective. Why am I even here?”

“I just figured with your expertise, you might be more successful than me.” Hoffman wears a look of such mock deference Strahm wants to gag. “I'm sure whatever training you get at the FBI is unmatched.”

“Don’t give me that shit.” Strahm doesn't want to play this game, not in this city, not this time. “Look, I know you don't want me here. I know I stepped on your toes at Detective Kerry’s crime scene. That's my job. I come in and stomp around until something shakes loose.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly. Please don't mistake me for someone who intends to make your role in this harder than it needs to be.”

There's something besides cigarette smoke behind the words, something weighty. Something that gets Strahm to look directly at the detective for the first time.

Hoffman looks back, unblinking, and Strahm thinks of a shark behind glass. He thinks about perspective and how an object seems motionless when it's coming straight at you. He thinks all this too fast to parse meaning, but his instincts are good, have always been good, and the hair on the back of his neck wants to stand up.

“I think you’re a good cop, Hoffman,” he says carefully. He’s swimming slow back to shore. “I think your department has been sacrificed on the altar of obsession one by one and you’re still here.” No splash, no wake. “Whatever else that means, it means you’re smart.”

Hoffman blows smoke and gives Strahm a look of gratitude so patronizing it makes his skin crawl. “I appreciate that, Agent Strahm. The past several months have been…taxing.”

The past several minutes have been taxing, but Strahm keeps that to himself. He can't shake the feeling that something big just passed him beneath the surface, barely missed him.

“What’s your instinct?” Hoffman asks. “How much do you think Jill knows?”

Strahm scoffs. “Plenty. Enough to write a trashy memoir and disappear from the public eye if she really wanted to. But she hasn't. Why?”

“Because she's involved. Anything she says could incriminate her.”

“No shit.” Strahm sucks on smoke. “And no offense, detective, but I've seen those interrogation tapes. You're too fucking soft on her. You want juice, you gotta squeeze.”

“With all due respect, I'd like to see you try.”

Strahm bristles, shoots him a glare. “Is that a fucking challenge? You think I'm gonna meet my match in Jill fucking Tuck?”

“You misunderstand me, Agent Strahm.” Those eyes glitter with something like mirth. “I mean I truly would like to see you try. Jill Tuck has been a hurdle since the start of all this. Like it or not, we're all players in this game. It's about time she gets pulled off the sidelines.”

Strahm examines him with interest. “You make it sound personal.”

Hoffman breaks eye contact, settles his gaze on some invisible point down the alley. A look of remorse slides over his face like a shadow over the sun. “At this point, how could it not be?”

Whatever else might be going on here, even Strahm has to concede that’s a reasonable response. His mind conjures up memories of closed-casket funerals past and he thinks of his colleagues back at the home office. He thinks of Perez. He clenches his jaw, remembers he’s supposed to be relaxing, takes a hard drag and is rewarded with a wave of nausea.

Hoffman is talking again. “Have you had a chance to look through the case files for the last three Jigsaw games? I think there were ten victims total. If you're right and John Kramer's health has kept him from hands-on involvement, maybe there might be something we missed, something–”

Strahm holds up a hand and exhales around his teeth. “Can we not do this? I just–I need a break from this Jigsaw bullshit. For like thirty seconds.”

“Sure thing,” Hoffman says amicably. He stubs his cigarette out on the wall, leans back against the brick, purses his lips. For a few blessed seconds Strahm thinks he might let the silence stand, or even better–leave. But then: “Got any plans this weekend?”

Strahm pounds his closed fist back against the wall with a little more force than he means to, closes his eyes, chews on a sigh. “No,” he says loudly with what he hopes is sufficient finality.

“Do you fish?”

“Do I what?”

“Fish. Go fishing?”

Strahm groans. “No, detective, no, I don’t fish. I spend enough time sitting waiting for lower life forms to take the bait in my professional life, thank you very much.”

Hoffman lets out what might be a laugh. “Fair enough. You strike me as more of a hunter anyway.”

“Never been,” Strahm says dismissively. This is a lie. He knows the woods of rural Vermont blind. The first time he shot a gun he was seven and the kick knocked him flat on his ass.

“I like to fish. Head down south when I can find the time. You ever been to Bass River?”

Strahm grunts, gives up, slumps against the wall mirroring Hoffman’s posture. “No.”

“Beautiful country. When this is all over, you and Special Agent Perez oughta make the drive down. Worth the detour.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Where are you and Perez staying in town? Maybe I can make some local recommendations, help you make the best of your time here.”

Alarm bells again. Something in the water. Something coming at him. “I don’t know,” Strahm deflects, “some place downtown. Old as fuck. No water pressure.”

Hoffman chuckles. “Sounds like my last apartment.”

“Yeah, you guys have a real issue with property values up here.” Strahm examines his cigarette, figures he can get one more pull off it. “Have you considered razing all the abandoned buildings so Jigsaw runs out of chessboards?”

Something like a smile twists Hoffman’s lips. “Arson, special agent?”

Strahm flicks his filter across the alley. “Whatever works.”

“Litter, too,” Hoffman observes.

Strahm rolls his eyes so hard his neck kinks. “This has been fun, but I’d better start combing through the four thousand page report your medical examiner handed me this morning. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He stands up straight, winces at the tweak in his back, stretches his arms behind him.

“See you around,” Hoffman says.

Strahm makes it halfway up the stairs to the landing before Hoffman calls after him. He almost ignores him, thinks better of it. Gritting his teeth, he leans over the railing. “Yes, detective?”

Hoffman regards him coolly, his gaze like a blunt steel blade. “I'm sure it goes without saying, but…be careful who you trust. If there is an accomplice, we ought to proceed with caution.”

Strahm resists the urge to sneer. “No disrespect to your department, but I’m here because I’m competent. Some chemo-addled freak and his band of misfit toys? I’m not exactly shaking in my boots.”

He could swear Hoffman smiles, just for a second. A flash of teeth that doesn’t reach the eyes. “I understand. It’s just I would hate to see you…how did you say it?” He bites his lip thoughtfully. “Sacrificed.”

Strahm decides, once and for all, that Mark Hoffman is spooky.

“I appreciate your concern.”

He flings the door open and ducks inside without waiting for a reply.

For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Strahm submerges himself in the cold, clinical mire of half a dozen autopsy reports. In the back of his mind, behind the descriptions of catastrophic injury inflicted on the human body, he is elbow-deep in a dissection of his own.

He replays the conversation in his head again and again like a microcassette tape, trying to pinpoint the moment when Hoffman shifted in his estimation. He tries to reconcile fact and gut feeling and is left wanting from every angle. The thing about fishing–you only ever see what takes the bait. What passes it by lives on unknown.

All the while, from the time he shuts himself in his office to the moment his head hits the hotel pillow, Strahm tries to shake the feeling he's being watched.

He doesn't succeed.

#peter strahm #mark hoffman #peter strahm fanfiction #mark hoffman fanfiction #saw fanfiction #literally so jittery about posting this sksnfjdndks it's not even x reader!! it's just new and scary!!!#it was so much fun to write tho. oh google docs we're really in it now

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buckychristwrites · 2 years ago

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When The Rain Gathers | Chapter Two | j.t.

↳ Pairing: Jamie Tartt x f!reader

↳ Word Count: 3.7k

↳ Summary: Pain hits like a downpour, but when a heartbreak from your past is what greets you at your new job at Nelson Road Stadium, it's more like a catastrophic tsunami.

↳ Warnings: Enemies to lovers, Discussion of parental abuse, fluff and angst.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Main Blog

“Fuck. Focus.”

Jamie paced outside of the door of your new office. The door was open, but the inside was completely bare save a desk, three chairs and a laptop. Due to the impending doom in his brain and the never-ending racing heart in his chest, he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. So, instead of waltzing into the changing room just moments before training was due to start, as he normally would, he was there an hour early, waiting for your arrival.

Hesitantly, he made his way into the empty office. Wherever he waited, he would feel like a shithead, so might as well feel like a shithead with his arse in a seat. It didn’t have any signs of you in it just yet, which made sitting there alone much easier to swallow. It wouldn’t be the same in the future, once the room was covered with your fingerprints and homey touches. He took the seat closest to the window. Heavy rain hit the glass and rooftop, making sure to echo throughout the entire building. It made him think of the drive in front of his mum’s house back home, and a little red car packed with luggage.

Blinking, he looked away.

“Jamie?”

He turned to find Dr. Fieldstone at the doorway. Her hand was on the frame as she stared at him.

“You alright, Doc?” He asked, shifting so he could comfortably face her. She took a glance around the room in obvious confusion.

“What are you doing here?” She asked. He took a glance around himself, realising how silly this must’ve looked.

“Got an appointment this mornin’,” He said. It was a lie. But him feigning confusion was the only sort of explanation he could come up with. Sharon shook her head.

“Your appointment would be with me, but I don’t have you on my schedule.”

This made Jamie scrunch his face up in confusion.

“I thought…” He pointed to the desk. “I thought she…” Before he could continue with his thought, Sharon shook her head. It was like she read his mind.

“Your appointments will continue with me,” She explained. “I was informed there’s a… conflict of interest.” She tilted her head to the side thoughtfully.

He wondered how much you had told Sharon. Did she know everything? Did you tell her what he did? The kindness on her face suggested that she didn’t have a clue, but then again, it’s her job to pretend to be nice to him, wasn’t it?

He brought a hand to his face, running it across his forehead. Of course Sharon wasn’t being nice because it’s her job. That was just his mind running away from him.

“Don’t get yourself worked up, Jamie,” She assured him. “We’re not allowed to treat people we know. It’s just not ethical. Nothing more than that.” He released his held breath. Giving him a knowing look, she leaned forward into the room, lowering her voice. “You can tell me why you think it’s about more than that at your appointment… tomorrow.”

Oh man. She is good.

Dr. Fieldstone did not loiter, just gave him a final look before walking back to her office. Jamie remained seated as he ran a hand down his face.

He tried to think of literally anything else, but when he looked outside at the rain again, all it did was bring back more memories of you.

Every second that he was awake since the revelation yesterday, which had been a lot more time than he would’ve liked, he was on the brink of a complete mental breakdown. At this moment in your office, he found himself preemptively doing his grounding techniques.

“I see and feel this desk,” He muttered to himself. He placed his other hand on the chair. “I feel this chair. I see a white wall. I see the…the rain…”

What am I going to do without you?

“God dammit.” Resisting the urge to punch something, he ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe he should just go down to the changing room and get ready for training. Did this conversation really have to happen right now, this early morning? Maybe it could wait, at least until after training.

But it couldn’t. Jamie knew that well enough. It was already affecting him at home, keeping him up at night. Lord only knows how it would hurt him during training, if he didn’t get it out of the way. And if he fucked up on the pitch, Roy Kent would have his balls.

He knew the only way to move on was to open the door to communicate, and the only person to do it had to be the one who closed that door in the first place. Him.

“Thank god me appointment is tomorrow,” Jamie muttered to himself as he grabbed his phone from his pocket, opening Instagram to pass the time.

“No, mum, I don’t have any appointments today,” You said into your phone speaker as you drove down the road. “It’s my first day. I think I’ll just be signing paperwork and going over policies. All that general stuff.” Behind you came a loud giggle, and when you glanced in the rearview, you caught Ivy hitting her hand against the window. She had always loved the rain, which she couldn’t have learned from you. The rain was your worst enemy.

“Did ya see Jamie Tartt?” Your mum asked, trying to sound casual. You stared out the windscreen, wondering why she would do this right now. All it did was force you to revisit the anger you had felt all of last night that she didn’t warn you of his place on the team.

“Yes, I saw Jamie,” You sighed.

“Did you kick him in the fuckin’ balls for me?”

This made you laugh. “No, unfortunately, my new boss who’s kind of scary was right there.” From the other side of the phone, you could hear her mutter something incoherent before she responded.

“Please do, when you get the chance, love.”

As you pulled into the car park of Nelson Road Stadium, Ivy let out another laugh. You could see the car of your babysitter waiting for you.

“Alright, mum, I gotta go,” You said as you turned the car off. “Love you. I’ll phone later.”

“Love you, darlin’,” She said. “Give Ives a kissie from her nan.”

“Will do.” Ending the call, you stuffed the phone in your pocket before grabbing your bag and climbing out of the car. When you opened the door to the backseat, Ivy was focused on the stuffed teddy on her lap. “Alright, love. Are you ready to go with the babysitter?”

Ivy furiously shook her head.

“No, please.”

You knew it would be hard. She had loved her babysitter back in the United States. Ivy wasn’t the type to become accustomed to strangers quickly, and you worried about the young girl behind you, who was climbing out of her car just as you undid Ivy’s seatbelts.

“Thank you for meetin’ me here!” Shannon called to you as she shut the car door and made her way over. “My mum needed help with somethin’, and it was faster to meet you than to race home.”

You glanced over towards her car, spotting the car seat that was similar to Ivy’s. A sigh of relief fell from your chest. At least you didn’t have to transfer the car seat over to her car.

“I should be thanking you,” You said as Ivy curled into your shoulder. “I know it’s last minute but I needed someone fast.” Shannon leaned her head towards Ivy, sending a wave her way. Though the toddler didn’t completely hide her face, she didn’t reciprocate the gesture, either.

“Hello, Ivy,” She said delicately.

You set your daughter down on the cement. She pressed herself into your legs before looking up at the sky. For a moment, she seemed to forget the fear, her little hands reaching up as she smiled at the clouds. It was hard not to watch when she got like this. You had never seen any toddler behave like this about anything, so of course it would be yours who would have such a delightful, intense love for something.

“She loves the rain,” You explained to Shannon, who was looking at her in awe and confusion. “I’ve never met a toddler more obsessed.”

Shannon kneeled down to Ivy’s level, her eyes warm and friendly. “I like the rain too. Would you like to be friends, Miss Ivy?” Ivy clearly was debating this, looking up at you for reassurance. You gave her a little nudge with a smile.

“I like Shannon,” You told her. “I think you’ll like her too. But you do have to go with her.”

Ivy’s gaze found Shannon again as you guided her to the young girl. With all of the hesitation in the world, when Shannon offered her hand, Ivy took it but not before throwing you an unsure glance.

“Maybe we can jump through puddles for a little bit before going back to the house!” Shannon suggested excitedly. “Would you like that?” Ivy’s eyes seemed to glaze over, and then she was jumping up and down in excitement. You sighed in relief as you kneeled down to say goodbye to your daughter.

“I love you, babe,” You said to her, giving her a kiss and hug, which she lovingly returned. “Mummy’ll pick you up after work, okay?”

“Love you, mummy!” She shouted as you stood up.

As Ivy turned to face Shannon, you grabbed a box of belongings for your office out of the backseat of your car. From what you could tell, as far as first meetings go, Ivy was doing incredibly well. Better than you had expected, considering the stress of the move and the new environment. Although, leaving her with babysitters never got any easier. You wished it were possible to just bring her to work with you. Having an adorable, therapy toddler would be perfect for the players.

Well. Except the one you wanted nowhere near her.

You gave them a quick wave before making your way inside. When you threw one last look over your shoulder, you found that Ivy had already found the largest puddle she could, jumping into it and sending water scattering. The anxiety in your chest was replaced with ease. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

The security guard waved you through without looking up from his computer. It was livelier this morning than it had been the previous day, with people shuffling down the hallways in packs. As you quickly walked in the direction that Rebecca had shown you to get to your office, you kept your head down. The first day jitters were hitting you hard at this moment. Sounds seemed to fade as you made your way up the stairway towards your office. The idea of being alone for even a moment before you started working with Sharon sounded just heavenly.

You froze at the top of the steps, your eyes quickly spotting the presence waiting for you.

He was wearing a hat that boldly said I,COG. The brim covered his face as he looked down at his phone, but you knew it was him. You inhaled sharply before taking another step forward.

“Well, this isn’t quite the welcome wagon I had wanted.”

Jamie jumped out of the seat, his phone clattering to the floor. Without looking at him, you crossed into the room and rounded the desk, so you were on the opposite side as him. His eyes followed you the whole way, your chest burning in anxiety. This was the last thing you had expected, let alone wanted, to happen when you walked into Nelson Road Stadium that morning. You set the box of your things on your desk before letting your hands rest on your hips.

“Fuck,” He muttered as he snatched his phone off the floor. The red in his cheeks and the disgruntled look on his face told you everything you needed to know. He was dreading this conversation just as much as you were.

“What can I do for you?” Your voice was professional as you tried to put a wall up between yourself and him. Jamie stared at you before shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“I just…Well…” He sighed. “I thought we should… talk.”

You let out a prolonged “Oh…” with the corners of your mouth ticking upwards in a smile, but it wasn’t a kind one. The professionalism you had been forcing was quickly melting away.

“A bit late for this talk,” You said, your eyes staring at the ceiling in thought. “Let’s see… about three years! Yeah, three years too late.” It was hard to keep your anger level down, as it was already boiling over in your chest. The heat that rose up your neck and into your cheeks was intense.

Jamie shook his head. “You have every right to be angry-“

“Well, thank fuck that I have your permission to be angry. No idea what I would do without it.”

Jamie’s hands gripped at the strap of his bag like he was holding on for dear life. You could see his nails were down to the nubs. You couldn’t help but wonder; When did he start biting them again? Pushing the thought away, you scolded yourself for caring.

Part of you felt bad for the sarcasm, but you couldn’t help it. Before starting this line of work, you were the most sarcastic person there was, and seeing Jamie brought out parts of you that you hadn’t visited in a long time.

It felt like you had jumped into one of your daydreams. The dreams of finally getting to tell Jamie off for the turmoil he caused. In some of them, you were angrier, throwing things and screaming in his face. In others, you were indifferent to him, examining your nails as he begged for forgiveness at your feet. Now that the moment was here, the reality was it felt like it was a combination of a lot of things. The biggest emotion you felt, however, was just pain. Simply looking at him caused your chest to ache.

For Jamie, however, all he felt was guilt, and waves and waves of devastation. Simply looking at you reminded him of his past failures, of the man his father had turned him into. The man he had been working so hard to stop being. When he would dream of this moment, he never imagined you’d forgive him, so at least you were following the script.

“Can I just explain-“

“I don’t want an explanation,” You said firmly, waving your hand. “I just want to come in, do my job, and leave. I didn’t ask for any of this.” He glanced around the room as he carefully considered his next words.

“Did- did ya know? That I play here?” He asked slowly. You had begun pulling papers out of the box when he spoke, and you dropped a pad of paper down quite loudly on top of the desk, causing Jamie to flinch.

“Yeah, Jamie,” You said, rubbing one of your eyes with a fist. “I not only continued to follow your career after you fucking dropped off the face of my world, but I decided to uproot my entire life and move back here from the other side of the Earth and take a job at this football club specifically just because you play here. And I did all of that because I’m still hopelessly in love with you, and am trying to win you back.”

Jamie cocked a head as he stared at you. Though he should've been focusing on your words, regardless of how malicious they were, he was trying to pinpoint what was so different about you. A long moment passed before he spoke again.

“Your accent is different.”

He could tell the statement caught you off guard, as your breath hitched in your throat.

“The Americans got to me.” It sounded rehearsed, and he wondered how your proud Mancunian mum handled hearing you talk these days.

The two of you stared at each other in stunned silence. His eyes wandered until something in the box on the desk caught his eye. A small figure with deep brown hair and familiar looking eyes. Taking a step forward, he reached for a picture frame that was on top.

“Who’s-“

You snap the lid shut, almost catching the tips of his fingers.

“What right do you have to know?” You asked, your voice cold. “What right do you have to know anything about me anymore?”

He heard it. The quiver in your voice. The falter in your hard exterior. It was disarming. This felt so much different than any other anger you had ever directed towards him. In all of the years he had known you, you had never shut him out like this before. He didn’t know how to take it.

He conceded. “I guess I don’t.”

“Great,” You said with reformed confidence. “Glad we agree. Now get the fuck out of my office.” Without wasting another second, you turned away from him, as if your heart wasn’t drowning in devastation. Instead, you kept pretending that it was fire in your chest.

He hovered as you began to unpack the box once more. When you set out the picture frame he had reached for, you had angled it so he couldn’t see who was in the photo. Briefly, he considered trying to look at it again, now that it was out in the open, but he didn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was make you angrier than you already were. Instead, he turned, and made his way out the door and down the stairs.

The changing room was well and alive when Jamie entered. Laughter and conversation greeted him like an old friend. He made his way to his locker with his head down. Though some hellos were tossed his way, he didn’t return them. His head was spinning too much to speak.

“Oi.”

Jamie turned to find Roy Kent making his way towards him. He sat down on the bench next to where Jamie had set his bag down.

“Did you talk to her?” He kept his voice low to avoid the nosey teammates from overhearing. Jamie scratched his nose.

“Erm yeah. We talked.”

“And how did it go?” Roy sounded surprisingly curious, and, though anyone knew he would never admit it, concerned.

Jamie shook his head before saying, “Fuckin’ awful, mate.”

“I think it went as well as expected,” You said into your phone. In the heat of the moment after Jamie had left the room, you did the first thing you could think of to clear your head: Call your mum.

“Did ya…” She hesitated, and you knew whatever she was about to say next wouldn’t be something you liked. “Did ya tell him? About Ivy?” I sigh heavily, the breath forcing its way out of my chest.

“Of course not.”

“He needs to know, love,” Your mum said softly. “Is he a right prick? Of course. But he deserves to know that he’s her-“

“Don’t say it, please.” With your free hand, you rub one of your eyes. You smack it down against the wooden desk before speaking again. “I’ll tell him when I’m ready.” You heard her laugh softly, making you wonder if she was trying to hide it from you.

“The longer ya wait, the harder it will be, d’ya know what I mean?”

“Yes, mum.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and then you heard a sigh come through the phone.

“You need to call me more so you can start talkin’ like a Mancunian again,” She scolded. “Can’t stand this new pseudo-American accent on you.” You shook your head in annoyance.

“Okay, bye mum,” You said, hanging up before she could say anything else. The phone made a loud noise when you tossed it across your desk. Resting your head in your hands, you let out a loud sigh. The day was not starting how you would’ve liked.

A gentle knock at the door forced you to look up. Sharon walked into the room with a laptop and a giant binder. Across the spine read “Policies and Procedures.” She was eyeing you, but you couldn’t read her expression. As easy as it was to read everyone else, you clocked Sharon as the type who could hide herself away very well.

“You ready to get started?” She asked, sitting down in the chair that Jamie had previously been sitting in. Inhaling deeply in an effort to appear calm, you nod.

“Of course.”

Out of the binder, Sharon pulls a stack of papers.

“These are just the standard tax forms and policy agreements.”

Without audibly responding, you take the stack and begin to flip through them. The room was silent besides the rain that continued to fall. It was hard to focus, as Jamie’s face kept appearing in your mind. Rope in the fact that you were being watched by someone who could professionally read people, and the struggle was intensely real.

“So…” Sharon started in a casual voice. “You and Jamie Tartt.”

You glanced up in surprise. It was entirely unexpected for her to bring up. Sharon had a knowing smile on her face, the epitome of innocence. She didn’t wait for you to respond before speaking again.

“What’s the story there?”

You think about her question. To say something. To not say something. Without meaning to, your eyes fall on the photo of Ivy that now sat on your desk. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Sharon following your gaze to the frame, though she couldn’t see who was pictured on the other side.

“It’s a long one,” You tell her as your eyes fall back to the paperwork. She leans back in the seat.

“Well, I’d love to hear it sometime,” She said in her gentle tone, a hint of curiosity. “If the look on Jamie’s face this morning, or your demeanour right now are any indicator, I’d say it’s certainly an interesting one.”