#but there's a tiny snippet that came to mind

[polinsated]

I love your fic idea about to wedding night redo. Have you started? 👀

Hello, and thank you. Yes, I have, actually. I've been writing a lot of details and dialogue ideas in my notes. It's so late for me, but I don't want to forget anything. Anyway, here's a rough little piece I've written out...

"I am sorry for my emotions. Once again, I find myself compelled to apologise to you for not allowing you to have the wedding night you deserved, in spite of my anger and worry for you during that time. I wish so much, that we could go back in time and redo that day, Pen."

"Colin..." Penelope presses her finger against his lip, silencing him. "Forgive me for saying so, but you need to stop talking."

Colin's mouth falls open just a bit, and his brow furrows in both shock and wonder at his wife's boldness. His eyes still shine with unshed tears. "But I was only trying to—"

"You do not need to keep apologising."

????? 😊

[misspygmypie]

Meet & Greet... and more? Pt. 2

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader Words: 2492 Click here for Part 1

Please do not repost, thank you, and leave some feedback :)

It was a quiet evening at Lando’s apartment. The driver sat hunched over his laptop, his focus fixed on race strategies and upcoming circuits. His thoughts, though, were miles away from racing. They lingered on the Meet & Greet event from a few days ago, the moment he had met Y/N and her adorable 4-year-old son, Noah.

Lando had been smitten from the first minute he saw Y/N. Her genuine smile and the way she looked at Noah with such love had tugged at something deep inside him. He had given her his number with the hope that it would lead to something more, but as the days passed with no text or call, his hopes began to fade away.

Oscar had noticed the cloud hanging over Lando. During a break at the team headquarters he approached his team mate. “So, have you heard from Y/N yet?”

Lando’s eyes had lost their usual sparkle as he shook his head. “No, nothing. I’m starting to lose hope, to be honest. Maybe she just wasn’t interested.”

“You never know, mate,” Oscar had replied, “she might just be a bit shy or overwhelmed. Give it time.”

And so Lando had continued with his daily routine, a part of him still hoping, even if it was only a flicker. Then, on this particular evening, his phone buzzed, jolting him from his thoughts. It was a message from an unknown number and he frowned, unlocking the device and opening the text.

He glanced down, and his heart skipped a beat.

Y/N: Hi Lando, it’s Y/N from the Meet & Greet last week. I just wanted to say thank you again for the great time and the bear. Noah loves it and is always hugging it when he sleeps. Here’s a photo of him with his new best friend 😊

He looked at the photo and felt a huge smile instantly creeping on his face. Noah was nestled comfortably in his bed, the bear clutched tightly in his tiny arms. The sight of the peaceful sleeping child with the bear’s head peeking out from the covers made Lando’s heart melt.

He quickly started typing a response but paused, his fingers hovering over the screen. He wanted to convey how much it meant to him that Noah loved the gift but he also wanted to make sure his message came across just right. He was a professional at handling high-speed racing strategies, but this - this was a whole different kind of nerve-wracking.

Finally, he took a deep breath and typed:

Lando: Hey Y/N! Thank you for sending this, it’s absolutely adorable! I’m so happy Noah loves the bear and it was really great meeting you both. Is Noah usually this sweet when he’s sleeping or is he just showing off to his new bear? 😄 Hope you’re doing well!

He hit send and immediately felt a wave of nervous excitement. He glanced at the screen, replaying his message in his mind, hoping it didn’t sound too over the top or awkward. A few seconds later, he received a reply.

Y/N: Thanks, Lando! He’s usually a bit of a tornado during the day, so it’s nice to see him so peaceful at night 😄 We’re doing well and he keeps talking about meeting you. How about you? How’s everything going?

Lando’s smile widened and he felt a renewed sense of hope. They were actually starting a conversation and eagerly he tapped out a response with new found confidence:

Lando: Things are going great, thanks for asking! The racing is keeping me busy, but it’s always exciting. I’d love to hear more about what you and Noah have been up to?

As he hit send Lando leaned back in his chair, still smiling happily for the first time in days. The city lights outside seemed a little brighter and the race strategies on his laptop took a back seat for the rest of the night.

From that day on, each morning Lando would wake up and check his phone, eagerly scrolling through the messages from Y/N. Her texts were often filled with snippets of her and Noah’s daily life. 

One morning, Y/N sent him a snapshot of herself and Noah at a local park. Y/N was smiling brightly, looking effortlessly beautiful in a casual, sunlit setting.

Y/N: Just a day out at the park with Noah. He’s been running around non-stop!

Lando stared at the photo, struck by how stunning Y/N looked. Her natural beauty and radiant smile had him feeling a bit flustered. How does she manage to look this beautiful all the time? he wondered. And how is someone like her still single?

As their conversations continued, Lando found himself constantly impressed by Y/N. Whether it was a candid shot of her cooking dinner, playing with Noah, or simply relaxing at home she always appeared effortlessly beautiful. Another day, Y/N sent him a photo of Noah proudly showing off his latest artwork: a crayon drawing of a race car.

Y/N: Noah wanted to send you a picture of his latest masterpiece. He says it’s a McLaren, but I think he might be a bit optimistic! 😄

Lando chuckled at the message and immediately typed back.

Lando: That’s fantastic! I love it. Noah’s got quite the artistic talent. I’ll have to show this to my team, they might want to hire him for some design work!

In return, Lando shared stories from his life at McLaren, often with a humorous twist.

Lando: So, yesterday I was running late for a meeting and accidentally wore mismatched socks. Of course, I didn’t realize until halfway through the day when one of the engineers pointed it out. They’ve been teasing me about it ever since!

She replied with a laughing emoji and a playful message:

Y/N: Sounds like you’re fitting right in with the team! At least it’s not as bad as the time I tried to make dinner and ended up with something that looked like a science experiment gone wrong. Noah still teases me about it!

Their exchange of stories and photos continued and Lando loved hearing about their adventures and looked forward to the new stories they’d share. Then, one afternoon, he decided it was time to suggest an in-person meeting. He drafted a message and it took him nearly two hours to actually send it off.

Lando: Hey Y/N! I’ve been thinking about how much I’ve enjoyed our conversations these past few weeks. It’s been great getting to know you and Noah better. I’ve got a weekend off coming up in three weeks and I was wondering if you’d be up for meeting in person. I could fly out and we could grab coffee or something. Let me know what you think!

When he got Y/N’s reply it made Lando’s day.

Y/N: Hi Lando! That sounds amazing. I’ve really enjoyed our chats too. Noah would be thrilled to meet you again and it would be great to catch up in person. Let’s definitely plan for that weekend. I’ll look forward to it!

Lando: Awesome! I’m really looking forward to it. I’ll keep you updated with my flight details as we get closer to the date. Can’t wait to see you both!

________

As he settled into his apartment after a long day of working out and preparations for the next race he couldn’t wait any longer to share his next idea with Y/N. Over the past few days he had been thinking about how much he wanted to see them much earlier and he was nervous to find out what Y/N would say.

Lando: Hey Y/N! I was thinking... instead of our planned coffee date, how about joining me at the next race? I’d love for you and Noah to come. What do you think?

He hesitated for a moment before hitting send, his heart racing. A few hours later, Y/N’s response appeared on his phone. 

Y/N: Wow, Lando, that’s an incredible offer! I’m sure Noah would be thrilled to see the race but honestly, I’m not sure if we can afford the travel expenses right now. It’s a bit beyond our budget.

Lando’s heart sank a little but he was determined to make this work. He quickly typed back:

Lando: Please don’t worry about the cost, I’d really like to cover everything for you and Noah. It would mean a lot to me to have you both there. Just let me know if that works for you!

He felt hopeful. He wanted to ensure that money wasn’t an issue and that they could enjoy this experience without any worries. Minutes felt like hours as he waited for her response. Finally, Y/N’s reply came through:

Y/N: Lando, that’s so incredibly kind of you. I’m sure Noah will be ecstatic about this! I really appreciate your generosity and can’t believe how thoughtful you are. I’ll talk to him and start making arrangements. Thank you so much!

Lando’s smile grew wider as he read her message. He quickly responded:

Lando: I’m thrilled you’re excited! I’ll handle all the details, flights, hotel and race passes. I want to make sure everything is perfect for you both. I’ll send you all the information shortly. Can’t wait to see you again soon!

The next day he coordinated every detail meticulously, ensuring that everything was taken care of for their visit. He could hardly keep his excitement to himself and it didn’t take long for Oscar to notice the change in Lando’s mood.

The two drivers sat together in the lounge area, enjoying a rare moment of downtime between team talks. While Oscar sipped his coffee and flipped through a magazine Lando practically radiated with joy.

“Alright, spill it,” Oscar demanded, setting the magazine aside. “You’re practically glowing. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

Lando’s eyes sparkled as he looked at Oscar, clearly unable to keep his emotions contained. “So, Y/N and Noah, right?”

“What about them?”

“Well,” Lando said, practically bouncing in his seat, “I Invited them to the race next week.”

Oscar’s curiosity piqued. “And?”

“And,” Lando continued, “they are able to make it!”

Oscar’s smile widened. “That’s fantastic news,” he beamed at his friend and meant every word. Lando had been talking about them nonstop since the Meet & Greet and especially after Y/N had finally texted him back. Lando would update him on their texts and show him the pictures he would get.

Lando’s grin widened even further. “It means a lot to me that they’re coming out. I’m really looking forward to seeing them again and showing them around the paddock properly this time.”

“I’m really happy for you, mate, it sounds like it’s going to be a great weekend.”

“Thanks! I can’t wait to see them!”

________

Y/N looked out the kitchen window, a soft smile playing on her lips as she imagined Noah’s reaction. Noah was sprawled on the floor, concentrated on arranging his small collection of toy cars.

“Hey, Noah,” Y/N called out, trying to keep her voice casual while she bubbled with excitement. “Can you come over here for a minute?”

Noah set aside his cars and trotted over to his mom, his tiny sneakers scuffing against the kitchen tiles. “What is it, Mommy?”

Y/N knelt down so she was eye-to-eye with him. “Guess what? Lando invited us to the next race!”

“Really? We’re going to see Lando again?” Noah’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Yes” Y/N confirmed, her excitement barely contained. “We’re going to fly out to watch the race and spend some more time with Lando!”

Noah jumped up and down, his little fists pumping in the air. “This is the best day ever! Can I bring my toy cars to show Lando? And my Lando hat?”

“Of course you can bring your toy cars and I’m sure Lando will be thrilled to see your hat.”

Noah’s excitement was contagious. “Can we start packing now? I want to make sure we don’t forget anything!”

“Not just yet,” Y/N said, chuckling. “We still have a little bit of time before we leave. But we can start picking out your favorite race car pajamas and making a list of what to bring.”

Noah nodded vigorously. “I’m going to wear my pajamas every day until we go! And I’ll make a special drawing for Lando too. Can I put it in his car?”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea. I’m sure Lando will love it.”

As traveling day approached, excitement filled the air at Y/N’s home. Noah could hardly contain himself, racing around the house with his favorite race car pajamas and a carefully packed backpack full of toy cars and race-themed items. Y/N, on the other hand, was busy with last-minute preparations, ensuring everything was ready for their trip.

Finally Y/N stood in the hallway, surveying the scene: a large suitcase packed with essentials, Noah’s backpack and a neatly organized tote bag filled with snacks and travel necessities. The sight of it all made her smile, but she had one more thing to do before they left.

With a grin, Y/N picked up her phone and snapped a quick picture. In the photo, a Lando cap poked out of Noah’s backpack and next to it was a little sign that read “Ready for the race!” She made sure to include a glimpse of Noah’s favorite race car pajamas draped over one of the bags.

She typed out a quick message to Lando, her excitement evident in every word:

Y/N: We’re all packed and ready for the big race! 🏁 Noah is beyond excited and insisted on showing off his race car pajamas and Lando hat. We thought you might like to see how ready we are for the adventure. Y/N & Noah

With a satisfied smile Y/N hit send. She knew Lando was busy, but she hoped the photo would bring a smile to his face.

A few hours later, as Y/N and Noah were finishing their final preparations, Y/N’s phone buzzed with a new message. She picked it up and saw a reply from Lando, accompanied by a photo of his own.

Lando: Hey Y/N! Wow, you guys are definitely race-day ready! 😎 I love Noah’s hat and pajamas. Can’t wait to see you both. I’ve got a little surprise planned for Noah! See you soon!  

Y/N showed the message to Noah, who was practically bouncing with excitement. “Look, Noah! Lando says he has a surprise for you!”

“A surprise?” the boy’s eyes widened. “What do you think it is, Mommy?”

Y/N shook her head with a smile. “I’m not sure, but I’m sure it will be something amazing!”

_________

Click here for Part 3

Tag: @barcelonaloverf1life @remmysthings

[eightpackdiaz]

was listening to so high school and i got struck with a kingdon vision…an exes (to lovers) au

(there’s like 2k words under the cut, i dont know what came over me)

so mel and frank met in her first year of undergrad, he was already in his third year, and the way they met was…almost cliché, really, it’s the first day back from summer break, and half his classes already are swamping him with work so he walks his ass to the library because he wants to be a doctor, and he will do well in school, and he will prove his father wrong. except he gets there and the tables are full, because of course they are, it’s still summer and the library has AC so people are there and not even half of them are actively studying. But he looks for a table and there’s one little two person table right next to the back window and he can see a girl already sitting there. She has her back to him, so all he sees is a loose blonde french braid, the back of a pink tshirt, and a very neat pile of books to her right. He feels bad asking because he also doesn’t like sharing the table, but he really needs to start studying, so he walks up to her.

Once he’s in front of her, he forgets what he is going to say for a second. He can’t really see her face, but he can see glasses, and a face covered in sun-kissed freckles, and he thinks his heart is beating a little too fast, and oh fuck. she’s looking up at him with a tiny smile and, wow, okay, maybe that’s what it feels like to meet someone who is your type (even if he previously thought he didn’t have *a* type).

She says “can i help you with something?” and he white knuckles his backpack strap to keep himself from doing something stupid like reaching out and adjusting her glasses, he powers through

“Hi, sorry, do you mind if i sit here? i really need to get started on my papers, and people are here and they’re not even doing homework! how’s that okay? anyways, sorry, i know it can be annoying to share a table, but i promise i really just need to study” why is he rambling?!, he hasn’t been a rambler for years and now she’s looking at him funny but she doesn’t look put off yet, that’s good.

“of course you can! i understand, it can be upsetting that people don’t use the library for actual studying. my name is melissa, but everyone calls Mel, nice to meet you” she punctuates this last sentence with the cutest little wave he had ever seen anyone over the age of 5 make, and woah okay he’s staring, he needs to get a grip

“i’m frank! nice to meet you, are you new here? i don’t think i’ve seen you before, i would remember” okay why is he sounding flirty, he need to stop he said he was only gonna study and he really meant it, but she doesn’t seem to register it or simply chose to ignore it,

she gives him a bigger smile and says “i am! first year of undergrad, i take it you’ve been here longer?”

“i’m starting my third year of biochem, hoping to go to medical school after!”

“me too! not biochem, i mean, i want to go to medical school once i finish mine, i’m in biology!”

and so they start studying, he’s doing his best to not be fidgety and annoying, but he can’t help it and he finds himself stopping himself like four different times, until she very obviously catches him the last one.

“i understand if you need to fidget, it won’t bother me, and i’m sure it would help you focus more, i sometimes need to stim to really concentrate”

and he just looks at her, in awe, because this is the first time someone *isn’t* bothered by his fidgeting

And so they have little snippets of a conversation during their hours of study that day, at the end he tells her that he would like to do this again, and she smiles, and tells him she would too, and before he knows it they’ve exchanged numbers, with mel explicitly stating “i do prefer phone calls because i have a hard time deciphering people’s tones via text” and as he sees her walk away he gets a feeling deep in his bones that his life is never going to be the same again

during that first week they study together three times, he’s not ashamed to say he reached out the very next day after that first meeting, and actually, he’s not ashamed to say he reach out all three of those times, but every single time he called, he was met with a bright and warm “hi frank! how are you doing today?”, so all things considered he’s more than happy to keep doing it.

studying with mel is amazing, really. they’re a great team, he learns a lot from her, and tells her that. he has the wild thought that if they were to practice together, they would save s lot of patients.

they’ve been study buddies for about three weeks when for the very first time, they hang out without the pretense of homework, he invited her to go with him to try a new pizza place he heard about, and truly, he has no expectations.

he likes her, of course he does, shes so beautiful, and so smart, and her eyes are so bright, and even when he can tell that she’s missing her sister she never lets that affect the way she treats others, always so kind and patient. she’s in no uncertain terms someone who he knows he’s gonna fall inlove with, he just knows she doesn’t see him that way, and he’s okay with that.

mel is the funniest person he’s ever met. he spends half the dinner laughing and he thinks that maybe she doesn’t first get most jokes but my god her own sense of humour is amazing, and they have enough rapport now that she can appreciate some of his darker jokes, especially because since day one he now follows them immediately with “its a joke”, and it’s great, and god, he wishes this was a date.

he feels it important to note that whilst she does recoil to most people’s touch or proximity, after that very first day she has been okay with him standing or being near, he doesn’t touch her much, doesn’t want to test his luck, and also doesn’t think his heart could handle it. but he’s always near, always almost touching, and she lets him, and he feels like he has done something right.

so for about two weeks after that, they start hanging out more and more, yeah he has a friend group, and she’s making her own friends but they make time for each other. they meet for coffee on the way to campus, or meet in between classes just to talk about anything other than school, and little by little he can tell that this crush of his is becoming more.

they’ve known each other for about two months, when they’re in his apartment, his roomates aren’t there (yes he made sure of this, no not like *THAT*) and they’re watching a movie, and they’re sitting in the sofa and then she leans her head on his shoulder.

his heart is going a mile a minute, she initiated the contact and god, her hair smells like strawberries, and he can feel her breathing through his tshirt, and he feels her cheek move, so now he knows she’s smiling.

the movie ends, and she looks up, they hold eye contact for about 5 seconds before he blurts out “wouldyouliketogoonadatewithme” before he chickens out

she just blinks, and he sees her trying to process it, but he waits, he will always wait for her.

“yes, i would like to go on a date with you. i like you, and i could tell that you liked me too, but figured maybe i was confusing signals because you didn’t ask”

and so he explains, that no, he very much does like her but he is a coward. she just smiles and says “i would never call you a coward”

and so they go on a date, he’s had a handful of first dates in his life, but he has never felt this at peace in one before, there’s nerves of course there’s nerves, but it’s like his system knows, it’s like it’s saying “there you are, i’ve been waiting for you” and it lets him feel calm.

the date is amazing, he asks if he can hold her hand, and her answer is to take his hand and swing their joined hands between them and he thinks his heart will explode. at the end of the date, he walks her to her house. he asks if he can kiss her, and he sees her thinking about it, but he waits, he will always wait for her.

she nods, short and determined. he leans in, projecting his movements so she knows what to expect.

he swears he can see fireworks when he closes his eyes, he feels like floating, her hands are clutching the front of his shirt and he decides that it’s his favourite thing ever. they part, he bids her good night and takes a deep breath after she enters her house, he feels delirious to think it, but one day he’s going to marry that girl.

he meets becca after dating mel for six months. becca’s funny, and crazy smart. she tells him in no uncertain terms “i told mel to find someone to kiss at college, so you’re welcome” the responding blush in mel’s checks is what frank’s dreams are made of.

they have a lot of firsts, firsts for him, firsts for her, and firsts together.

they date for about two years. he knows this is it, he knows he’s never going to love anyone the way he loves her, he’s known it from the very first time he sat in front of her.

then he gets accepted to med school on the other side of the country, and he knows she won’t want a long distance relationship because they’ve talked about it, and she loved him but this was a boundary for her, and he applied there because his mom moved to pittsburgh last year after the divorce, and he misses her, and because he really likes their medical program, and because mel from the very beginning told him to stick to his life plan because as much as they love each other, they both have dreams, and those dreams might be similar but they’re not the same.

The day he gets the acceptance letter, they both know their relationship has an expiration date. They are officially together right until the morning he’s set to move away. They wanted to break up amicably, they still love each other so deeply, he thinks knows she will always be his one true love. They kiss goodbye, and they’re both crying, and as soon as they part she says “i love you, and i want you to be happy, so please. try to move on, we can be friends in a few months, but first, we need to try to move on”

the day they become friends again never comes. he loves her so much it aches, but he knows she’s right, and he also knows they might never see each other again, and he needs to focus on med school, and if he can do something is make his mom proud and prove his dad wrong, and…

goddamn it, its been two years and he still can feel the ghost of her touch, he can still hear the way he used to call her name, he can still….he needs to stop. he needs to get laid, he needs to move on. she probably has moved on already, he doesn’t know, because he’s been too much of a coward to check, and because she said to be friends when they move on, and he hasn’t moved on so why even try to reach out.

abby is the polar opposite of mel, she’s also clearly into him and he thinks she’s fun and attractive so he goes for it, he knows there’s a saying about getting under someone to get over someone, and he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t care that she’s not who he really wants her to be.

“i’m pregnant” abby says into the phone, it’s late, and he was studying for an exam, and he’s in the middle of his third year of med school. what the fuck is he going to do.

abby and him are friends, they like each other, they fuck sometimes, and she wants to keep the baby, and he likes her enough to think that he might convince himself one day that he loves her.

so life goes on, they get married because her parents want that, they have tanner and he loves his son, and there’s a pandemic, and he’s just starting his residency and the world is falling apart, but things get better, him and abby are still really good friends, he tells himself he’s not lying to her when he says he loves her, because he’s not, she’s the mother of his kids, and he does love her, she’s just not. well.

it’s just another random thursday, and he’s leaning on the desk in front of him because his back is killing him and he’s only been here like 20 minutes, but he’s trying to space out his pills so, he is doing his best, and then robby wants to introduce the….

he knows that braid. he hasn’t seen her face, and robby is talking but he knows that…

“…second year resident, dr melissa king, fresh from the VA” robby says, like this isn’t taking the air straight out of frank’s lungs. he blinks, looks away and at the computer because this can’t be happening, she’s here. his life is falling apart, his back is killing him, abby is angry at him for god knows why, but shes here, his mel is here.

“everyone calls me mel. i’m so happy to be here” he wonders if she hasn’t realized he’s right behind her. he’s looking at that braid, he’s standing behind her and he can’t stop staring, and he’s suddenly 20 years old again.

[enhaflixer]

Sined sealed and undone is such a beautiful story! I loved it! It would be lovely if we could get some more snippets of their lives someday! Maybe about the pregnancy or when the baby is born???

First Trimester

Jay doesn’t know how to react at first. Not really. He’s not shocked—he’s prepared on paper. They talked about children. They were careful. But deep down? He always knew Mina was going to come early. And yet somehow it still knocks the breath out of him.

He doesn’t celebrate at first. He calculates. Sits up late reading medical journals and government maternity policies. Makes a spreadsheet of every hospital in a 100km radius. Sends your doctor a thank-you gift after every appointment.

You find him one night in his study, staring blankly at a half-done nursery mood board, his phone open to an article titled “Intergenerational Trauma and Pregnancy Outcomes.”

“Jay,” you say gently, stepping into the room. “You’re allowed to be excited, you know.”

He blinks at you like he forgot how to breathe. Then:

“I don’t want her to inherit anything broken.”

You kneel in front of him.

“She won’t. She’s getting the best of you.”

Then, softer:

“And the rest she’ll learn to survive. Like we did.”

He wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. But you don’t mind. He needs this more than you do.

Second Trimester

Jay gets weirdly charming during this time. Like, glowing. He stops answering calls after 6PM. Starts making dinner. Starts… humming while folding laundry???

You ask him one day, “Are you nesting?”

“I’m stabilizing our home environment,” he says, dead serious, as he alphabetizes the spice rack.

He talks to your belly every night, even before you can feel movement. His voice goes low, affectionate, incredibly gentle—like he’s already protecting Mina from the world.

“Hi, Baby,” he whispers against your stomach. “It’s Appa. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll handle it.”

You cry the first time you hear him say her name.

He panics and tries to call your OB.

You have to explain that these are happy tears.

Later, you find a leather-bound journal hidden in his drawer. Inside: handwritten letters to Mina. Every week. Every milestone. Every fear. Every dream.

Third Trimester

Jay is officially in full Dad Mode™. He speaks to your belly in boardroom Korean. You swear Mina kicks harder when he starts using his “negotiation voice.”

He buys three diaper bags. Tests the car seat installation seven times. Has every caregiver within his family vetted by a private firm.

But also? He’s scared. You catch it in quiet moments—when he watches you sleep with a crease between his brows. When he lingers at the hospital lobby longer than necessary.

“I don’t know if I can protect you both,” he admits one night, forehead pressed to your shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” you say softly. “You just have to love us.”

And he holds you tighter. Doesn’t say a word. But later that night, he changes your contact name in his phone from just your name… to My Family.

The Birth

Jay doesn’t cry. Not until they place Mina in your arms, all tiny fingers and sleepy squints and scrunched-up nose that definitely came from him.

Then he’s gone. Sobbing silently, shoulders shaking, forehead pressed to the edge of your hospital bed like he’s trying to keep himself from collapsing.

“She’s real,” he says. “She’s here.”

And you nod, exhausted, whispering, “She’s perfect.”

Jay kisses Mina’s forehead, then yours. His voice cracks when he says, “Thank you. For giving her to me.”

Postpartum / First Months

Jay doesn’t sleep. Not out of stress—he just can’t look away. He watches Mina breathe. He learns how to swaddle from six different sources and compares their efficiency. He insists on doing midnight feedings because “you carried her for nine months, I can carry her through a few nights.”

He works less. Holds more. Laughs more.

One night, Mina won’t stop crying no matter what either of you do. You’re both exhausted, on the edge. You find Jay in the living room with her on his chest, softly singing a lullaby his mother used to hum to him.

“Please sleep, Mina,” he whispers. “Appa needs to believe the world is good again.”

She finally settles.

And you know, in your bones, she already believes it is.

Because he’s here.

And he loves her.

And you.

More than anything.

[monstersandmaw]

a biker orc has spawned in my drafts... here's an unedited snippet from what I have so far. Lemme know if you want the rest and I'll do it.

male orc, modern fantasy setting, gn reader who uses a cane as a mobility aid but their disability, while accommodated for later in the story, isn't the focus, or an issue.

___

You were used to your dog getting stares from people in the park. Tiny as a teacup, and as ugly as they came, Tinkerbell had been a rescue three years ago, and the two of you had pack bonded better than most werewolves who grew up together. The little chihuahua cross (crossed with what, no one knew and it would take an entire mage’s laboratory to unravel the DNA of your mystical little creature anyway) was sort of sandy coloured, with white socks and a hint of Jack Russel about the tail, but her bug-eyes and little teeth were all chihuahua. There was a tuft of longer hair on her head that made her look like a gremlin after midnight, and she had the attitude to go with it.

She also hated everyone.

It didn’t matter if they were the cutest, sweetest little fawn, or the gentlest fairy, she hated them.

So when you were taking a break on a chilly bench at the edge of the park after walking her as far as your body would let you that day, and three orcs on obscenely loud motorbikes drew up to the curb only a few metres away and cut the engines on their bikes, you fully expected her to go absolutely ape shit on them.

One of the orcs removed his helmet and propped it on his bike’s mirror, and pointed at The Creature. A very un-orcish giggle escaped him and he began to make little cooing noises over her, so much that you found your mouth curling into a smirk at his antics.

The others kept their helmets on, but you could tell the were orcs too just by their build. They were laughing at their mate, who was rapidly losing his mind over your dog. Quite why, you had no idea, but there it was.

“She’ll eat you for breakfast, buddy,” you called over to them, and the orc without his helmet froze.

His expression turned from gooey-eyed to comically devastated and you couldn’t help the laugh that erupted out of your chest.

Tinkerbell looked up at you and then over at the bikers.

“I’m warning you,” you said with mock-seriousness. “She’s a killer.”

The orc without the helmet swung his leg over his monster of a sports bike and came round the front to stand, staring at her from a distance. You, in turn, stared at him.

Where his mates had perhaps more stereotypical clothing for the kind of bikes they rode — both choppers — he had on a baggy black hoodie which you hope was armoured underneath. By contrast though, his faded black jeans were tight around his tree trunk legs, and there was a slight rip in the thigh that showed his dark, olive green skin. The jeans clearly had knee armour though, and he had sporty looking biker boots instead of the scuffed, black work boot style shoes his friends had on. His black hair was plaited back off his gorgeous face in a complicated braid that was studded and adorned all the way down with charms made of bone and metal and wood, and it ended below his waistband. His tusks were rounded at the tip, unlike the more traditional orcs, but he did have a cuff of engraved silver around each one, showing he was over the age of twenty five.

His hands were covered by black, armoured gloves that did unreasonable things to your sex drive for some reason, and he crouched down and held one hand out towards Tinkerbell, though at that distance he couldn’t possibly hope to pet her. He was a good six or seven metres from the bench, but Tinkerbell took notice. They were all hard to miss, after all.

The orc’s mates were snickering openly, and one of them had got out their phone to record their friend. You hoped they wouldn’t get you in the frame. You had no inclination to become some prop on a stranger’s social media, though you didn’t mind if Tinkerbell had her five minutes in the limelight.

Propped up beside you on the bench, your walking cane started to slide slightly along the wooden seat, toppling slowly towards the ground, and you grabbed for it and tucked it up against your thigh. The movement freed up your hand for a moment, and it was all the excuse Tinkerbell needed to yank herself free of your clutches and launch herself at the orc.

“Oh shit,” you gasped, but the dog was off like a guided missile, trailing her pink leash behind her as she tore across the grass towards him, yapping wildly.

Instead of sinking her tiny little dagger teeth into his armoured arm though, she bounced up like a wayward baked bean and hurled herself at his chest — honestly, you couldn’t blame the girl — and he caught her, giggling like a small child. You stared, astonished, as the creature who had once fought a five year old at a birthday party for a single square of cheese proceeded to charm the hell out of a seven and a half foot orc with a litre sports bike that looked like it could eat a dragon for breakfast.

“What the actual fuck?” you hissed as the orc continued to fuss your minuscule dog and make little baby noises at her as he held her up like he was presenting a well-known lion cub to an audience while she squirmed in his frankly illegally huge hands before lowering her again and nuzzling his flatter nose against her pointy one and setting her down on the ground with surprising care for someone so bulky.

Baffled by her betrayal and change in personality, you stood awkwardly — painfully — leaning on your cane for stability, and the orc’s green eyes tracked the movement, his attention sliding from the dog to her owner as you eased yourself to your feet.

There is a bit more written but this felt like a good spot to leave it for now. Lemme know if you want the rest!

(EDIT: Chapter One is now up on Patreon - free to access from 21st Feb 2025)

[whump-till-ya-jump]

Writing Snippet #1

Author's Note: Hey it's my first time posting writing on here so I'm kinda scared, but here it goes.

TW: Drugging, caretaker villain, sidekick whumpee, and restraints

They knew they shouldn’t have trusted the food even after Villian took a bite. Look at where it got them; their head too heavy to carry, their eyelids drooping and threatening to close at any minute. There was also a buzz, in their head, and a warm feeling that encompassed their body. God, they were such an idiot. 

There was a creak and footsteps, but it was muffled like their ears were stuffed with cotton. “Enjoyed your meal, I assume,” a voice rang above them. 

Sidekick opened their eyes, or at least tried to. But all they got was a blurred preview of the room they’d been in for the past three days. The last thing Leader told them was, “Don’t let them get into your mind kid.” It was that and then the blood loss dragged them into darkness. They woke up here, roughly bandaged, and chained to the wall. 

Villain crouched down so their face was right in front of Sidekick’s, “I really am sorry, but this was the only way I could check your wounds, I'm sure you get it.” They went to unlock Sidekick from their restraints, and they were too out of it to process the movements fast enough.

 Don’t let them in, don’t let them get close. This mantra had been playing in their head since day one. Anytime the criminal tried to go near them, they would kick, bite, thrash, and scream like a rabid animal, which, of course, made Villian scared they would hurt themself more. 

They reached for Sidekick’s wrist first, where a leather cuff was secured. When they made contact, the tiny hero flinched and let out a small whine. “I know, I know, but you need help.” There were 4 cuffs, two on the hero’s wrist and two on their ankles. Villain made sure not to take off the power-dampening cuffs under the wrist restraints. When all the bonds were off, they gently brought their captive up into their lap.

 Sidekick tried to wriggle out of it but it was like a fish flopping in a net, their limbs uncoordinated and messy. They tried to speak, “wha- whare yu doin,” but their tongue was heavy and it came out all slurred. “It’s okay, I’m just going to fix you up.” It took Sidekick a second to come to, but when they did, they thrashed weakly. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to give you new bandages and make sure your cuts aren’t infected.”

“Nhhn- no!”

“I need to kid.”

 Villain brought their hands to the little head in their lap, carding their hands through Sidekick’s hair and playing with it. Oh god, they thought, that feels really fucking good. They sighed, deep and content. 

“Feels nice right?” they heard from wherever Villain was. They could care less where they were, as long as the feeling didn’t stop. The buzz grew louder and the warmth got stronger, Sidekick was so tired. 

There was a laugh, “Looks like that food is doing wonders for ya kid.” The talking felt nice, it made their skull rattle and shit did it feel good. Honestly, everything felt good, they let out a little noise from their throat. There was more laughing from above, “You can sleep kid, no one is going to hurt you, I just need to patch you up. You’re safe here.”

 Were they safe? No, surely there was something they were forgetting, there had to be. When they tried to think, all that came up was fluff, and each time they blinked, it was impossibly harder to open their eyes.

 They wanted nothing more than to surrender themselves to the warmth and the darkness. So when Villain’s hands scratched a really good spot, that’s exactly what they did.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!!!!

(My Masterlist)

[edwin-paynes-bowtie]

Did I have a really bad night last night in no small part because of a s2 spoiler? Yes. Did I have a Payneland Meltdown? Sure.

But this morning I have gained clarity, and a couple of things have made me feel better about some of the spoilers. I'm going to share them with you in hopes that it will quell some anxiety.

George and Jayden seem extremely excited about the season 2 that they read. It appears super genuine in the new Gameodens, and even if you wanted to argue that it was For the Hype, George also seemed really pumped about them before the show was canceled. They don't seem like performative people regardless, but past behavior also indicates that, yes, the excitement is real.

Both Jayden and George expressed that Charles and Edwin are soulmates. They have read all of the available scripts, and they are still expressing that (very true) sentiment.

They also explicitly said that Edwin and Charles are basically married anyway and that "dating" would be a "step down" for them.

Re: the "fight" that triggered my Episode last night: there is genuinely no way that the boys would have fought for an entire season, let alone forever. It wouldn't make sense and would be antithetical to the entire point of the show. Not to mention George and Jayden having professed them soulmates! "Tense for a lot of it" could mean many things, including that things were tense for a lot of the fight (rather than the season) and got less tense as the fight progressed. "A lot of it" could also just mean 1-2 episodes since they don't really fight.

George and Jayden also explicitly said that disagreements could be healthy, so I'm going to believe that they meant they came out stronger on the other side.

Also, as a kind soul in my comments last night said, there's really nothing for them to fight over besides each other. It probably would have been out of love anyway.

Re: the Catwin sex. Disclaimer is that I don't mind this because I've always thought it would be an interesting plot point. BUT, as a hardcore Payneland shipper myself,I understand why people might not like it. Please remember that it's part of a story! It's the middle of a story, not the ending! Catwin is likely, as I hoped for, a step on the journey toward Edwin figuring out that he only wants these experiences with Charles. Every road leads back to them.

I actually think that Jayden and George might have said that all roads lead to them as well in one of the Gameodens, but I don't know where. Maybe I dreamed it.

We are getting tiny little snippets of 8 hours worth of television. We have maybe a collective 150-character Tweet and 1.5 minutes of out-of-context video spoilers. Catastrophizing doesn't make any logical sense. (I'm not talking down to anyone here, I promise. I'm repeating the mantra I told myself for like an hour last night.)

Season 2 was also not intended to be the last season! They wanted 6! This is Act 2 of 6. It's not even the middle of the story!

[alvfr]

🌹 hii! Any Marvel content?

Btw the Rot snippet!! Amazing!

Aaah, thank you ❤️ And I thought for sure I had some Marvel-writing laying around, but I couldn't find it so I decided to act on my impulses and write this little thing I've had in the back of my mind for a while. It went slightly beyond a snippet, but I am who I am unfortunately. also I headcanon that xavier does not read minds unless permitted, which is in line with how this movie ended originally. paring: logan | james howlett/reader cw: fem mutant!reader, no use of y/n, set after days of future past, implied memory loss or time travel shenanigans, profanity, no smut wc: 1.9k

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

It is considered cliche to start a story with someone waking up, but that is nonetheless where this story begins. When everything you knew or thought you knew about the world changed. And out of every way your life could be turned on its head, you never thought it would be to the soothing tones of Roberta Flack playing on the radio. From the depths of your subconscious rose a tiny voice asking a question. What radio?

Roberta’s voice overpowered your internal one and became the first thing to wake you from a deep and comfortable slumber. Too deep and too comfortable, perhaps, compared to what you were used to. The same went for the bed — too soft and too warm and too nice smelling. A part of you tried to piece it together and failed. What bed?

For several long seconds before you fully woke, you pondered if you had died sometime during the night and woken up in heaven. More and more of your body stirred, though, indicating vitality. Including your eyelids that blinked open only to immediately squeeze shut at the incessant sunlight streaming in through the window. Faint alarm bells chimed in the back of your groggy mind. What window?

Still, not enough to break through to the rational part of your brain, you settled further into the fluffy pillow and closed your eyes again. A slight breeze tickled the back of your neck though and you twitched in annoyance. You twisted your head this way and that, but the tickling continued so you tried turning around to pull the covers up over your shoulder. Except you found yourself locked in place by something warm and heavy. Someone warm and heavy whose breath continued to tickle the back of your neck.

Your eyes burst open, and your entire body froze, not daring to even breathe. Your mind finally caught up to the unnatural warmth that came from the way your body slotted together with someone else’s in the large, comfortable bed you had never seen before. In a room you had never seen before. You twisted your head to peek at the person behind you, the one pressed flush up to your backside. With their hairy legs entangled with yours, with their scruffy face nestled into your neck, and with their muscular, heavy arm splayed over your midriff. 

First, you saw nothing but large tufts of dark brown hair, but your movement must have woken him. Definitely a him. Sun-blessed skin, a solid, rugged jaw covered in something that went way beyond a five o’clock shadow, and deep-set, weary eyes that remained closed for now. He grunted and groaned as if wordlessly admonishing you for disturbing his peaceful sleep, and his arm around your waist tightened. Much like yourself, he squeezed his eyes shut first and rubbed his face back down into the pillow and your neck, scratching his scruff onto your bare skin. Shockwaves spun through both your mind and nerve endings when he absentmindedly placed a kiss on your exposed shoulder.

“What the fuck?” you whispered, not really sure why you had not bolted from his grip. It was almost like that even if your mind could not comprehend what you were doing in this strange bed with this strange man, your body had no qualms about it. “What the fuck?”

“Hng?” the man grunted again and took several tries to blink his tired eyes fully open. Unfamiliar hazel eyes stared at you, and you stared back, watching his lip curl in irritation and his heavy eyebrows pull down to a scowl. Somehow, the sight of you did not seem to disturb him, quite the opposite, in fact, as he leaned over with eyes half-closed and kissed you right on the mouth. Soft, chaste, warm. Familiar in a completely unfamiliar way and gone before you could even comprehend what had happened. A sound vibrated through the man’s chest, almost a growl before he promptly closed his eyes and laid back down. “Hrmm.”

Every part of you burned, a hot blister running everywhere you still touched and where you had touched. Your mouth hung open from where his kiss had landed, a hint of wetness on your bottom lip that chilled in his absence. Both the intimate act itself and the strange nonchalance with which he did it made you want to implode. 

You held your breath, unable to either inhale or exhale, with your head reeling at the idea of being kidnapped by some weirdly cuddly pervert before his grip on you tightened and his eyes snapped back open. The confusion shone off of him, and you stared at each other, both unblinking and unmoving.

His voice came gruff and heavy with sleep, “Who the hell are you?”

“Who the hell are you?”

His focus danced around the room, not settling on either you or the interior. He tilted his head backward in the direction of the radio but did not fully turn, probably because you pinned him down with the way you lay. “What year is this?”

“What year is this?”

Now he did turn around, flipping over so you fell back onto the mattress. The movement tugged down the covers, revealing his hairy muscular chest that your fingers itched to run your hands over, and you dug your nails into your palm instead because what the fuck? You didn’t even know this guy, and even so, you could feel the way your stupid body pulled toward him. 

For some reason, the man stared at the fancy radio that declared it was playing ‘Golden Oldies’ on the holographic display and let out a tiny sigh of relief. “Twenty-twenty-three?” he asked you as if that was the most important question where you lay half-naked in bed together. “Is this twenty twenty-three?”

The earnestness of his question made your own take the backseat for a spell. You sat up, noting how you had on an unfamiliar black t-shirt, and rubbed your face. “I thought it was, but with the way you’re asking, I’m not sure anymore.”

“Is everyone,” he swallowed, and you noted the way his throat moved, “alive?”

“Define everyone,” you mumbled, but something glinted on your hand, and you pulled it away from your face to look at it. That had not been there last night, either. A ring. A simple, nondescript golden ring. Almost like a wedding ring. “What the fuck is this?”

The man raised an eyebrow, seeming unconcerned, and ran a hand over his scruff. “Hey, no judgment.”

Ignoring him, you pulled off the offending object and gave it a critical glance. “Who the fuck is,” you squinted at the tiny text, “James Howlett?”

“What?” His panicked tone spoke volumes, and you turned to stare at him. Was he James Howlett? When you said nothing, his voice grew tighter. “What did you just say?”

He had frozen with his hand still up by his face, and you both noticed it at the same time. The disturbingly similar ring on his finger and you wrenched it off him before he could protest. It was the same cut as the one you had, just larger and thicker, and with a different engraving, this one containing your name.

“What the fuck?” you snapped and tore out of the bed, mind overriding your meddlesome body as you hurled the rings at him. Then followed with the books from the overfilled bookshelf by the window. “What kind of disturbed, twisted, pathetic loser are you? You kidnapped me to live out some—”

He dodged the incoming projectiles, sounding more weary than angry. “Hey. Hey! Calm down!”

“—stupid handmaid’s tale bullshit fantasy—”

The man grabbed a book from mid-air and yelled, “Hey! I didn’t drug you or kidnap you, okay? I’ve never even seen you before!”

“Right! Sure! You just happened to have a ring lying around with my name on it in case I happened to wake up in your bed for some reason? You’re sick, mister! Sick!” You reached for another book but grabbed hold of a picture frame instead and were about to fling it at him. Except you caught sight of the picture, eyes widening to an unnatural degree, and held it up. “What in the ever-loving reverse Stockholm syndrome is this?”

The picture showed you, in a wedding gown, next to him, in a suit. Remarkably realistic, down to the genuine smiles on both your faces and the flurry of confetti that rained down over you from beyond the frame. 

“Whoa, hey, I’ve never seen that before. Lady, listen to me, last thing I remember, I was in 1973 trying to fix the future.”

“Oh my god, you’re insane. You’re completely out of your mind! I’m leaving and so help you god or anyone else if you try to stop me! I’m a mutant, you know; I can kick your ass seven ways to Sunday!”

The man’s face locked somewhere between confusion and amusement from where he sat in the bed, surrounded by books and messy covers. It did not occur to you that you should have been scared of him before you strode across the room, heading for the door. Almost as if your body overrode that particular feeling, as if deep down you knew this man would never hurt you.

Your brain was fully onboard with the getting-the-hell-out-of-here-plan, however, and you tore the door open only to reveal a hallway you had never seen before filled with kids you had never seen before. All kinds of kids, really, some of them obviously mutants and some at least human-looking. The myriad of noises and displays of powers momentarily distracted you from the bald man in the wheelchair right outside the door that you were sure you had seen before.

“Good morning,” he said with a polite smile, fingers steepled in front of him. “I’ve come to inform you that we’ve regretfully had several students complain about noises from your room. Again. I must ask you, again, to please keep it down as long as you are staying here near the dormitories. I know this is an inconvenience, but the refurbishment of the teacher’s lodgings is expected to be completed within a few more days. We have, wisely as it seems, included several layers of soundproofing.”

“Charles?” 

“Holy shit, you’re Charles Xavier.”

“Language, Professor Howlett,” Charles fucking Xavier said with a raised eyebrow. To you. He called you Professor Howlett and you could not even think of a reply while he raised a wrist to check his watch. “Speaking of, don’t you both have classes to teach?”

You only stared and let out a strained whispered, “What?”

“Charles,” the man behind you — presumably James Howlett — repeated, and you heard the rustle of cloth as he got out of bed. He sounded breathless when he said, “You did it.”

“Did what, Logan? ” 

Okay, maybe the man was not James Howlett? Either way, he came to stand next to you but paid you little attention from where he stared at Xavier. Open-mouthed, in awe, relieved, happy?

When Logan said nothing, Xavier gave you both a short nod. “Just keep it to an acceptable volume, please. Everyone knows you are happily married; there’s no need to remind everyone quite as frequently as you are. And get dressed, please! Class starts in five minutes.” 

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

Like my writing and want to see more? Reblogs and comments make me write faster 💕 Thank you!

[myjjongie]

౨ৎ to my beloved ── p. jongseong ⟢ teaser

SYNOPSIS . . . Moon Yn daughter of a notorious Duke who is said to be one of the Emperor's most loyal aides is married off to Archduke Park Jay. Their marriage soon became the talk of the country. Everyone adored the joining of Yn, daughter of Duke Moon and the Emperor's eldest son Jay. Two people the Emperor cherished very deeply. Unaware of Duke Moon's true intentions, he desired the throne the Emperor sat on. Using his own daughter as a means of infiltration he marries her off to Jay. Yn being shackled down to her father listened to everything he told her to do. Eventually when the day came for the overthrowing of the Emperor's throne Yn dies before ever knowing who truly won in the end.

OR

IN WHICH . . . Yn is sent back in time to before she married Jay, before her father started preparations to overthrow the Emperor, before everything was lost. Finally having a second chance to save the people most dear to her. Yn won't let her father control her as he pleases this time. For Yn will make her own decisions despite the unforeseeable future. With this second chance she'll marry Jay with the intentions of helping him without the control of her father. ⌇WORD COUNT . . . 382 ⌇

.ᐟ PAIRING . . . archduke!jay x archduchess fem!reader

.ᐟ GENRES . . . oneshot histrorical au, time travel trope, enemies to lovers (if you squint your eyes hard enough), magic/magical beings are a thing, contract marriage, she fell first he fell harder, angst, yn was a villainess in her past life (???)

.ᐟ WARNINGS . . . yn unalives herself (in the beginning), family abuse (all from the father), heavy descriptions of certain topics, detailed scenes with physical touch

.ᐟ STARRING . . . enhypen (all members) ive (liz) nct (chenle + mark) aespa (giselle) + possible mentions of other idols

•

꒰ evie's note : so i cooked up this snippet an hour or so ago. posting this fic teaser to test the waters in a way cause i only have a smau being posted at the moment. i've also been itching to write write something and it's been a hot minute since i've gotten my creative brain juices flowing as well. back into reading manhwas again so if this reminds you of any of those, yes. and yes it's about jay again IM SORRY i miss my pookie bear angel can yall blame me :( also if i finish this within a timely manner i wanna have it out before the end of next week tbh. really hoping i'm able to do this fic justice for yall. but alas enjoy the tiny bit of what my brain cooked up. ꒱

taglist ( open! send a ask/comment to be added ) . . . @shinkenprincess-oh @jiryunn @rebeccaaaaaaaa @fancypeacepersona @thinkinboutbin @nnnecubrate @pyreflyforest776

perm. taglist ( open! send a ask/comment to be added ) . . . @ikeulove @leehsngs @nickiminajleftasscheek

YN POV .

My eyes blink open to see the view of an all too familiar ceiling above myself. It was the same cream colored ceiling that belonged in my bedroom in the manor at the Moon duchy. Slowly sitting up my eyes scanned my surroundings. It was exactly as I had remembered the room, the sitting area for when guests were over. The windowsill where I had often read books to pass time through the day. The tall walls decorated with intricate designs only a Duke could afford for a singular room. Thing was the last time I had been in this room was before I left for the Park duchy. When I left to get married to Duke Jay. My mind was a mess of memories as it all dawned on me.

I remembered the blazing fire as I ran through the trees in the forest next to the Park duchy. I could recall the stinging pain as the branches scratched and tore at the skin of my arms. Then the feeling of my legs numbing as I sprinted in the heavy dress that was tailored for a archduchess to wear. My head ached as everything came back to me. Remembering the sound of the knights corning me in the forest, shouting how I needed to go with them. Jay wanted me alive, but I knew it was all a lie. My father had started a coup d’état, he always craved for the higher power in the aristocracy. Being granted a duke title while not being related to the royal family simply wasn’t enough for him. So he sought out higher power, the throne of the Emperor. Jay was one of the Emperor’s sons, there was a feeling in me. Jay wouldn’t stand for his wife being the daughter of the man who wanted to take his father’s throne as well as his life. If the knights captured me to take me to Jay he for sure would have killed me with his own hands. With no other choice I took my life. In hopes that there would be one last thing I had control over before I died. It was laughable at how in the end I only had control over how I got to die and who got to kill me.

©myjjongie 2025

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 1: Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Summary: For five grueling years, Taskforce X was both your lifeline and your torment. Mission after mission, you faced impossible odds with the dangling promise of a reduced sentence. Now, at last, you’re free—no more Belle Reve, no more danger. You’ve put that chapter behind you, determined to leave it locked away in the recesses of your mind.

But Amanda Waller has other plans. When she appears back in your life, she brings a new mission—and a new team. This time, you’re working alongside Rick Flag Sr., the father of your former team leader, and the members of Taskforce M. As the stakes rise, so do unexpected emotions. Tensions give way to an undeniable connection between you and Rick, a bond that deepens with every mission and threatens to pull you back into a world you thought you’d left behind forever. Warning: Slow-Burn, Age Gap, Violence, Swearing, Smut. Pairings: Rick Flag Sr/Reader Masterlist

The heat of the midday sun bore down on you, relentless and oppressive, as if the universe itself wanted to smother you in its sweltering grasp. The streets buzzed with activity—passersby clutching their coffee cups, vendors hawking their wares, the rhythmic hum of distant traffic blending with snippets of conversation. You sat in a wobbly metal chair at a sidewalk café, its plastic seat sticking uncomfortably to the backs of your thighs. The tiny table in front of you barely held your laptop, a half-eaten croissant, and the Styrofoam cup dangling loosely from your fingers. You swirled the lukewarm liquid absently, watching the streaks of coffee residue paint the inside of the cup as the faint aroma of roasted beans and freshly baked bread wafted through the air. It should’ve been a peaceful moment, but your mind was far from it.

The screen of your laptop flickered to life, taunting you with yet another No Results Found. Your jaw tightened instinctively, the tension radiating down your neck. Shaking your head, you raised the coffee to your lips, letting the bitter liquid slide down your throat. Its warmth spread through your chest, a fleeting comfort against the cold frustration settling in your gut. Placing the cup down, you tapped your fingers against the cool glass of the table, trying to ground yourself in something tangible.

Same shit, different day. The thought curled in your mind, bitter as the coffee. You leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and cleared the search results. The action was mechanical now—type, search, fail, repeat. You knew what you were doing was a fool’s errand. People who didn’t want to be found knew how to vanish, especially in your line of work. You’d done it yourself, slipped off the radar when it suited you. But this wasn’t just work. This was personal, and the gnawing need to find answers, to make sure, refused to let you give up. Still, with every dead end, the frustration boiled hotter, a cauldron of anger and helplessness threatening to spill over.

The sun dipped momentarily as a shadow crossed your table. Reflexively, you snapped the laptop shut and leaned back in your chair, your heart jumping into your throat. A woman slid into the seat across from you, her presence filling the space with an air of authority so heavy it was almost suffocating.

“Long time no see,” she said, her tone sharp and clinical, a razor hidden in velvet.

Amanda Waller.

Her name alone was enough to make your blood run cold. Memories flooded back—her standing on the other side of prison bars, her unreadable expression masking the calculated ruthlessness that defined her. She had once held your fate in her hands, delivering an offer that came with strings so tangled they threatened to choke you. You had taken it, knowing full well the price, but it didn’t make you hate her any less.

You couldn’t decide what burned hotter: the simmering anger or the nauseating dread her presence stirred in your gut. Amanda Waller wasn’t just a woman; she was a force, a puppet master who played games with people’s lives as if they were nothing more than chess pieces. She was power personified, her influence stretching like dark tendrils into every corner of the world you thought you knew.

You met Amanda Waller’s sharp gaze, fighting to keep your face blank, but the effort only seemed to make the bile rise higher in your throat. Waller had a way of peeling back layers without saying a word, her presence alone dredging up memories you would’ve rather buried. She wasn’t just a reminder of what you’d done in the past; she was a mirror reflecting what you’d become—someone who had made compromises, crossed lines, and lived to regret it. The years you’d spent trying to distance yourself from her world felt futile in this moment, with her sitting across from you, calm and calculated as ever.

Still, you forced a sarcastic smile, the corners of your lips twitching with disdain. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you quipped, the edge in your voice barely concealed.

“I wouldn’t call busy the right word for what you’ve been doing,” Waller countered, her tone dripping with condescension. “I thought we had an agreement.”

Her words stung like a reprimand from a strict parent—or worse, an overbearing relative you’d never been able to stand. The kind that didn’t know you but loved to judge you anyway. You scoffed, rolling your shoulder in a dismissive shrug as you grabbed your coffee cup.

“No,” you said flatly, taking a deliberate sip, “I believe you made the agreement, and I stayed quiet.”

Waller’s eyes narrowed slightly, her hands clasping together on the table in that deliberate, predatory way of hers. “You agreed when you stepped foot out of Belle Reve,” she reminded you, her voice low and weighty, like a ticking time bomb.

You tilted your head slightly, letting the silence stretch between you for just a beat too long. “Cut the shit, Waller. You and I both know you’re not here to talk about whether I’ve kept my end of the agreement. So why don’t we skip the theatrics and get to the part where you tell me why you’re really here?”

“What? No friendly chat? It has been a while,” Waller replied with a faint, predatory smile—the kind that made your fingers itch to grab your laptop and swing it across her face.

“We don’t do friendly chats,” you said dryly, leveling her with a pointed look.

She studied you for a moment, her lips pursed in thought, before she spoke again. “Rick Flag—”

“—is dead,” you cut in, your tone as flat as the coffee now cooling in your cup. You took another sip, watching for her reaction over the rim.

Waller gave the faintest twitch of her lips, her mask unshaken. “Word travels fast.”

You shook your head, leaning back in your chair. “Or slow. It’s been a few years now, hasn’t it? Since that clusterfuck in Corto Maltese?” A smirk played at your lips. “Bet that cut deep—losing one of your best.”

Waller’s jaw tightened for just a moment, but her composure returned almost instantly. “Flag thought very highly of you,” she said, her tone softer than you expected, though still measured, “Neither one of would be sitting here if he didn’t.”

Her words hit you harder than you cared to admit. Rick Flag Jr. wasn’t just a leader to you—he was the backbone of Task Force X, the moral compass in a group that often had none. You’d fought alongside him, trusted him in ways you hadn’t trusted anyone in years. He was steady, brave, and stubborn as hell—qualities that made him both a great soldier and an infuriating human being.

Memories flickered through your mind like flashes of lightning. Flag barking orders during a mission, his voice cutting through the chaos with an authority that made you fall in line without question. The way he would give you that look—half exasperated, half amused—whenever you made a sarcastic comment in the middle of a firefight. And then there were the quieter moments, when the weight of what you’d done caught up to you, and he’d remind you why you were there. That he’d make sure you got to go home one day.

He’d believed in you when you didn’t believe in yourself.

And now he was gone, his death another casualty in Waller’s endless game of manipulation and control.

The bitterness of the coffee did little to soothe the knot in your throat, but you forced yourself to take another sip anyway. The heat grounded you, chasing away the unease that threatened to surface. Your voice was steady but laced with resentment as you finally said, “He deserved better. A hell of a lot better than what you gave him.” You set the cup down harder than you intended, the thud punctuating your words.

Waller’s face was impassive, unreadable as always. “Flag knew the risks. He made his choices,” she replied coolly, as if the weight of a life could be boiled down to logistics and protocol.

You leaned forward, your voice sharpening into a blade. “And you made damn sure he didn’t have a choice at all.” The words carried more anger than you’d intended, but you didn’t care. You shrugged, feigning nonchalance to mask the storm roiling beneath your skin. “But I’m not here to reminisce,” you said with a pointed glare.

Waller didn’t flinch, leaning back slightly as if your accusation was nothing more than a passing breeze. “After the unfortunate and regrettable events of Project Butterfly,” she began, and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at her attempt to spin the disaster, “the government has put a hold on all Taskforce X programs for the foreseeable future.”

A wry grin tugged at your lips. “What a fucking shame,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sympathy.

Her expression didn’t shift. “So officially, we can’t use humans on the task force anymore,” she said matter-of-factly, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t use non-humans.”

Your grin faltered. Something in her tone made you sit up straighter, the casual indifference replaced by a prickle of unease. “Okay…” you said slowly, drawing the word out. “Where exactly are you going with this?”

Waller leaned forward, her tone cooling to an unsettling calm. “Rick Flag Senior has returned to ARGUS. He’s agreed to lead Taskforce M.”

Her words landed like a fist to the stomach, knocking the air from your lungs. You blinked, then let out a humorless laugh, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as if trying to shield yourself from the cold truth. “That’s low, even for you, Amanda. A man buries his son, and you drag him back into the mud like he never left? Do you even hear yourself sometimes?” You’d met Rick Flag Sr. before, back when Belle Reve was your gilded cage. Those brief encounters, fragmented as they were, had stuck with you. He was a man of few words, and what few words he spoke carried weight, like the thud of an iron door closing behind you. His eyes, steely and unwavering, would bore into you with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. He could take your measure with a glance—no judgment, no malice—just a sharp understanding of who you were, what you could do, and what you were capable of.

There was something about him that was fundamentally different from Waller. He didn’t speak in half-truths or veiled threats. What you saw with Rick Flag Sr. was what you got. His bluntness was a sharp, unpolished tool that never veered into cruelty, even when it could have. He had an uncanny ability to be firm without being harsh, his no-nonsense demeanor setting boundaries without needing to impose them. There was no posturing, no manipulation—it was all business, but there was a quiet dignity behind it.

It was strange, seeing a man like that caught in Waller’s games, surrounded by people who thrived on deceit. Rick had always struck you as the kind of person who would walk away from all of it if he could. But every time he looked at you, there was this subtle shift in his eyes, like he was trying to decide whether you were worth saving or whether you were beyond redemption. In a world that never offered anyone second chances, his steady gaze was a rare commodity.

Maybe that’s what stung the most—the realization that he wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t a pawn in Waller’s game, but somehow, he kept coming back to it. He had lost so much. His son, his sense of purpose, and perhaps a part of himself, all shattered in the wake of the war he’d been dragged into. And yet, here he was, again, called back to lead her task force.

The man deserved peace, not this endless cycle of violence.

“He volunteered,” Waller replied, her voice flat, unyielding.

“Bullshit,” you spat, leaning forward as anger flared in your chest. “Nobody volunteers for this unless they’ve got a death wish.”

Her eyebrow arched at your defiance, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Waller was as unshakable as ever, her patience infuriatingly calculated. “As I was saying,” she continued, ignoring your interruption, “Taskforce M has just completed their first mission. A relative success.”

“Relative?” you echoed, raising a skeptical brow.

“There are… kinks to be worked out,” she admitted, her words clipped, deliberate. “But they’re as solid as they’re going to get.”

You let her words hang in the air, suspicion creeping in like a slow-moving fog. “And what’s this got to do with ruining my day?”

“Because,” she said, her voice dropping with a razor-sharp edge, “I need you.”

You froze, then a grin broke across your face, unrestrained and gleeful. In all the years you’d known Amanda Waller, you never imagined those words would escape her lips. “I’m sorry, what?” you said, leaning forward as if you hadn’t heard correctly.

“Don’t make me say it again,” she snapped, her irritation slicing through her calm façade.

Grinning, you reached for your coffee, savoring the rare power shift. “Why me, Amanda? What could I possibly offer Taskforce M?”

Her gaze bore into you, sharp and assessing. “You can get information no one else can.”

Your smile faded as unease coiled in your chest. “What kind of information?”

“Taskforce M operates in some of the most volatile regions in the world,” she said, her voice low. “We need someone who can slip through cracks, gather what’s missing, and…”

“Spy, murder and steal for state secrets?” you interrupted, setting your cup down as memories clawed their way to the surface.

The taste of bitterness lingered on your tongue as your mind unraveled the tangled web of your past. Espionage had been your craft long before you ever landed in Belle Reve. A game of shadows, deception, and carefully measured risk. You'd learned early on that the world of intelligence was no place for the faint-hearted. It wasn’t just about gathering secrets—it was about manipulating them, weaving them into something valuable, something dangerous. And for a time, you had been damn good at it.

Your contacts were your currency. You played people like a well-tuned instrument, your every move calculated, your every word chosen with precision. Diplomats, soldiers, businessmen—everyone had their price, and you had a gift for finding out what that price was. The art of extraction came naturally to you—whether it was sensitive information or valuable assets, you knew how to slip in and out unnoticed, leaving no trace behind. The thrill of it, the high of walking that razor-thin line between success and failure, had become your addiction. But addiction always comes with a price. And that price for you? Betrayal.

You’d made the mistake of thinking you could trust your own network. You’d believed that the people you’d worked with were bound by the same code, the same unspoken understanding of the game. You were wrong. Every contact, every ally, every deal had been a calculated risk, and in the end, you lost. One payday, one moment of overconfidence, and everything unraveled. The contact you’d trusted? Sold you out to the highest bidder. The intel you thought was secure? Flipped, manipulated, used against you. The very people you’d helped, the ones who’d benefitted from your work, turned on you without hesitation, feeding you to the wolves for the right price.

That last mission—the one that ended your career as a free agent—had been the last straw. You’d been brought in to handle a delicate extraction. A government official with sensitive files—nothing too complicated. But somewhere in the execution, things went sideways. The clean getaway turned into a bloodbath. And when the dust settled, you found yourself betrayed, exposed, and framed for the mess. The cold, harsh truth? They wanted you out of the picture. Dead or alive, it didn’t matter.

But alive you remained, a prisoner in Belle Reve, your reputation in tatters. The very bars that held you were a testament to how badly you’d miscalculated—how your overconfidence, your need for control, had led you to underestimate the treachery of those around you. In that cage, you learned a hard lesson: no one in this world was truly trustworthy. Not even yourself.

Waller shrugged, her indifference sharper than her words. “I never said that.” But her eyes betrayed her intent. “Officially, you’d be a consultant. Unofficially? That’s between you and your conscience.”

Your stomach churned, but you straightened in your seat. “And does Senior know about this? About what you’re asking me to do?”

“He knows I’m speaking to you about joining the team as a consultant. Beyond that, it’s need-to-know.”

A grin tugged at the corners of your lips despite the heaviness settling in your chest. “Bet he loved that idea.”

Her expression remained unmoved, but her voice carried the faintest hint of exasperation. “He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the possibility of you returning to Belle Reve. Even less so about working with you.”

The jab stung, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned forward, your grin sharp. “Guess we’ve got something in common.”

Her silence was telling. This wasn’t an olive branch; it was a noose, carefully laid out for you to step into. Waller knew you better than you liked to admit. She knew the lure of the game, the thrill of outmaneuvering the system, was too strong to resist. And even as your instincts screamed at you to run, you couldn’t help but feel the pull. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you looked away, trying to clear the fog in your mind. The street was alive with noise: pedestrians chatting animatedly, cars honking in an endless chorus, the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee still wafting through the air. It felt like a world far removed from the conversation you were having. The normalcy of it all seemed like a cruel contrast to the weight of what Amanda Waller was asking of you. You sighed, running a hand over your face before finally breaking the silence. “Thanks for the consideration, but I’m not doing it.” You looked at her then, unwavering. “I’ve done my time. I’m done with suicide missions and being your puppet.”

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but they were the truth. You had sacrificed too much already—your freedom, your soul, your trust. You had fought and bled for people who would toss you aside the second you weren’t useful anymore. This wasn’t the life you wanted, not again. Not with her. You drained the last of your coffee, the warmth of the cup a fleeting comfort as it settled into your chest like a final anchor. It wasn’t going to change the cold weight of the decision you were about to make.

You stood, sliding the laptop towards you and tucking it under your arm with the kind of finality that only came from years of experience with ending things. “It’s a hard pass for me,” you said, your tone clipped, emotions running dry. You turned, your footsteps firm and steady, as you made your way toward the door. This was the end of the conversation. Or at least, it should have been.

Then came the voice that could stop you in your tracks, like a knife cutting through the noise of the world around you.

“I can get you who you’re looking for.”

You froze, mid-step. The words hit you like an electric shock, the grip on your laptop tightening as an icy chill crawled up your spine. The blood in your veins felt like it had turned to ice, and the pounding of your heart echoed in your ears, the sudden rush of adrenaline making your muscles tense. You didn’t dare move at first, your mind racing.

Slowly, you turned back to face her, your eyes narrowing as you regarded the woman who always had a way of getting under your skin. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice low, cautious, a protective wall wrapping itself around your words. The wariness was clear, but it couldn’t mask the raw edge of hope that flickered behind your eyes—a hope you couldn’t afford to entertain.

Amanda’s smirk was enough to make your skin crawl, the kind of smile that said she was already two steps ahead. She knew how to play this game better than anyone. “You do this for me,” she said smoothly, her voice dripping with calculated ease, “and I’ll give you access to everything I have on them.”

Your jaw tightened, a muscle in your cheek twitching involuntarily. The calm that had settled over you moments ago was now long gone, replaced by a knot of dread twisting painfully in your stomach. You wanted to tell her to shove it, to walk away from this damned conversation once and for all. The words were on the tip of your tongue, but they never came. Instead, your mind reeled, flashing through the endless hours of searching, the months and years spent chasing down dead ends and false leads.

The sleepless nights. The gnawing frustration. The moments where you felt like you were drowning in the abyss, and every effort to get closer to the truth only sent you further into the darkness. You had been relentless. You’d scoured the public databases, hacked your way through layers of encryption in private ones, and even dove into the depths of the dark web. And still, after all that, you had nothing.

But here she was, offering a glimpse of what you’d been searching for—a lifeline you knew you had no right to take. But God, you might have to. She had access to intelligence networks you could only dream of, systems and people that could uncover what had remained hidden from you for so long. If anyone could get you the answers you needed, it was Amanda Waller. You didn’t want to admit it, but deep down, you knew she was your best shot.

“How do I know you have anything?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, thick with caution and skepticism. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you tried to keep the tremor in your hands from showing.

Waller’s eyebrow quirked in an almost amused gesture, her composure unshaken. “When have I ever not held up my end of a deal?”

The words, so simple and yet so full of meaning, stung harder than you expected. You hated it. You hated the way she made you feel cornered, like there was no choice but to comply. You wanted to walk away, your instincts screaming at you to sever this tie before it could tighten around your neck. But how much longer could you keep searching on your own? How many more years could you waste, hunting for a ghost that may not even exist anymore?

The weight of your failure pressed against you, each second in her presence adding another layer of suffocating pressure. Frustration and anger boiled inside you, mixing with a growing hatred—not just for Waller, but for the situation she was dragging you back into. A part of you wanted to burn it all down, walk away with your dignity intact. But the part that had been clawing at the back of your mind—the one that couldn’t let go of the hunt, the need for answers—pushed you to the brink.

You clenched your fists, every muscle in your body coiling with tension as a wave of frustration surged through you. Rick Flag was going to make this so much harder than it needed to be. You knew him. Knew the way he operated, the unyielding sense of duty that anchored him to whatever mission he was on, regardless of the cost. That was the thing about Rick: he was predictable, almost painfully so. He didn’t take shortcuts, didn’t play games, and he sure as hell didn’t like it when people bent the rules. Especially people like you.

You’d seen firsthand how relentless he could be. There was no room for anything but obedience in his world. If you were going to be working beside him, it meant playing by his rules. No matter how much you hated them.

That was the part that stung the most—the thought of being stuck in that damnable situation again, constantly battling with a Flag’s ‘right way’ of doing things. Every conversation, every mission would feel like a tug-of-war, him pulling one way, you pulling the other. His rigid sense of honor and duty was like a wall, unmovable and suffocating. You’d never been one for order, and Rick Flag Sr. thrived on it. He was going to drag you through every painful step of this mission as if you had no choice, no say in how things played out.

You could already feel it: the pushback, the constant friction. It wasn’t going to be smooth sailing. And deep down, you knew it wasn’t just the job that would make it hard—it was him.

You spat through gritted teeth, the words bitter as they left your mouth, “Fine. But I’m not dealing with Flag’s bullshit.”

The satisfaction that flickered in Waller’s eyes was colder than ice, sharper than you’d expected. Her smirk shifted, taking on a darker, more sinister edge, like a hunter savoring the moment before the kill. She had won this round, and she knew it. There was no escaping what she’d just set in motion.

“You’ll work side by side with him,” she said smoothly, her voice slipping like silk over steel, her control unwavering. “You’ll follow my instructions, provide backup when he needs it. But your real mission? It’s your own. Parallel to his. Do you understand?”

Her words settled in your gut like a heavy stone. Parallel, she said. That meant walking that tightrope between cooperating with Flag and doing whatever the hell you needed to do on the side to get your own answers. That would be no easy feat, especially with Rick breathing down your neck, watching your every move. He wouldn’t trust you—hell, you didn’t trust him. But in Waller’s world, trust was a luxury you didn’t get to have.

You didn’t respond right away. Your mind was racing, weighing the consequences of every move you’d make from here on out. No matter what Waller said, the real challenge wouldn’t come from her. It was going to come from the man you were stuck with—the man who believed in following the rules, in doing things the “right way.” And as far as you were concerned, that made this mission more of a trap than anything else. The weight of her words settled like a lead anchor in your gut, pulling you down into a pit of suffocating uncertainty. You froze, your breath hitching in your chest as your mind screamed at you to run, to stand up, to refuse her demands outright. This was a decision that could haunt you for the rest of your life, and yet… the silence stretched on, suffocating you in its weight. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t turn away from the only chance you had left to find what you’d been looking for.

Reluctantly, against every instinct telling you to walk out, you nodded.

"Yeah," you muttered, your voice barely more than a whisper, as if saying the word out loud made the reality of it all even worse. The word felt like defeat in your mouth, heavy and bitter.

Amanda’s smile widened, like a predator who’d finally cornered its prey, her victory confirmed. “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten hundred hours.”

The moment those words landed, disgust rippled through your chest, spreading like poison through your veins. This was it. You had just signed up for something you knew would break you. You felt the weight of your decision sinking in, an overwhelming pressure that twisted in your gut. You had just agreed to be pulled back into the madness—no going back, no excuses. The anger roared in your chest, but you swallowed it down. "I fucking hate you," you muttered under your breath, the words bitter, raw, and full of venom.

Waller’s response was a low, almost amused chuckle. Unfazed by your resentment, she gathered her things with that same infuriating calm she always exuded, her back straight, her confidence unshaken. "Always a pleasure."

And just like that, she turned and walked away, her every step radiating that unnerving, unbreakable confidence that made you want to scream in frustration.

You were left standing there, alone, the weight of your decision crushing down on you. The world outside the café moved on—pedestrians chatting, cars honking, the city alive and unaware. But inside, everything felt frozen, stuck in the moment where you had sealed your fate. Anger, frustration, and a deep sense of failure swirled in your chest, gnawing at you like a persistent ache. It was a suffocating, unrelenting feeling.

And beneath it all, a growing sense of regret—quiet but undeniable—settled deep in your bones. <><><><><><><><><> Rick Flag Senior hated every single aspect of this.

He didn’t need a consultant. Taskforce M was his responsibility, and he’d proven time and time again that he could handle it. Sure, it wasn’t perfect—missions rarely were—but he’d built something functional, something with potential. Bringing in an outsider, someone who didn’t know the team, their quirks, or the trust they were starting to build, felt like a slap in the face. No, it felt worse than that—it felt like Amanda Waller didn’t believe in him. And that burned in a way he didn’t like to acknowledge.

But it wasn’t just about having a consultant. It was you. That was the part that twisted the knife deeper. He didn’t need someone like you—volatile, unpredictable, and with a track record that made his skin crawl. You were the antithesis of everything he valued in a teammate. He prided himself on discipline, order, and loyalty, and you? You were chaos wrapped in charm, a mercenary with a moral compass so skewed he doubted it even pointed north anymore.

Rick leaned back in his chair, the creak of old wood breaking the heavy silence of his office. A part of him wondered if this was just Waller testing him, making sure he could still handle the job. Maybe she thought he was losing his edge, and this was her way of keeping him in line. But if that were the case, there were a dozen others she could have sent. Capable people, experienced operatives who had the kind of restraint he respected. People who wouldn’t make him want to grind his teeth every time they opened their mouth.

Instead, she’d saddled him with you.

The thick folder on his desk seemed to glare at him, daring him to open it again. He already knew its contents by heart, but the sight of it still made his stomach churn. Espionage. Murder. Theft. Treason. There was even a terrorism charge in there, though that had been dropped early on. Your rap sheet read like a checklist of everything he despised, every line a reminder of just how different the two of you were.

Then there were the reports from Belle Reve, pages filled with cold, clinical observations of your time in captivity. Notes on your temperament, your willingness—or lack thereof—to cooperate, and the missions you’d been forced to undertake for Waller. And then, buried deeper in the file, were the reports about you working with his son. Rick Flag Jr.

That was what had made him pause. What made him agree to even consider this arrangement in the first place. His son had worked with you. Trusted you enough to go into the field together, to fight side by side. There were even notes in the margins about missions where you’d saved each other’s lives, instances of camaraderie that Rick couldn’t ignore no matter how much he wanted to.

But trust didn’t come easy to him, especially now. His son had been everything Rick valued in a soldier: brave, loyal, and unwavering in his sense of duty. Could you have corrupted that? Or had there been something redeemable in you that his son had seen and he couldn’t?

He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his graying hair as he stared at the folder. The weight of Waller’s decision sat heavily on his shoulders, pressing down like an iron chain. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to push back completely. Maybe it was the thought that he owed his son something—owed him the chance to see if there was more to you than what was written in black ink on those pages. Rick leaned forward, elbows digging into the edge of his desk, his eyes fixed on the folder that now felt like a monument to his growing frustration. Every instinct screamed that this was a mistake. Bringing you into Taskforce M was bound to complicate things in ways he didn’t even want to imagine. You weren’t just a wildcard—you were a loaded gun aimed at everything he had worked to build. Yet, despite the storm of doubt churning inside him, he had agreed. Waller had played her hand perfectly, and now he was stuck with the fallout.

The sharp knock on his door jolted him from his thoughts. His head snapped up just as the door creaked open, revealing John Economos peeking through the small gap. His glasses were perched high on his nose, and his curious expression shifted to mild concern as he took in Rick’s appearance. The older man sat hunched over the desk, the tension practically radiating off him.

“You ready?” John asked, his voice tentative as he eyed the scene. Rick’s jaw was set tight, his brow furrowed deeply, and his fingers drummed against the desk with barely contained irritation.

If John was being honest, he didn’t really understand why Rick was so worked up about you joining the team. In his mind, you were one of the few operatives who managed to bring a spark of life into the chaos of their missions. He remembered how you’d built an easy camaraderie with the squad, even when the missions were at their bleakest. Your dry humor and biting wit had a way of cutting through the tension, and more often than not, it was your jokes that got the team laughing in spite of themselves. John liked that about you—how you could find the absurdity in everything without letting it dull your edge. He didn’t see the harm in having you back. If anything, it might make the team feel less like a collection of expendable assets and more like, well, a team.

Rick sighed heavily and got to his feet, pushing the chair back with a scrape that made John wince. Without a word, he moved to the door, swinging it open wider and stepping into the hallway. John hesitated for a moment before following, the tension between them palpable. Rick shut the door behind them with a firm click and started down the corridor, his strides brisk and deliberate.

“As I’ll ever be,” Rick muttered in response, his tone clipped.

John fell into step beside him, stealing glances at the older man. There was something simmering beneath Rick’s composed exterior, an unspoken weight that seemed to drag at his every movement. John wanted to say something, to lighten the mood or at least acknowledge the obvious tension, but he held back. Rick wasn’t the type to open up easily, and pushing him wouldn’t help.

Still, the silence between them felt heavy, and Rick broke it first. “She here yet?” His voice carried a forced casualness, but John wasn’t fooled.

John glanced over, adjusting his glasses. “Uh, yeah. She showed up about half an hour ago. Waller wanted to talk to her before the briefing.”

“Of course she did,” Rick muttered under his breath, the words dripping with irritation. His mind immediately went to what Waller might be saying to you. Setting expectations? Laying traps? Manipulating the situation in ways only she could? He didn’t know, and it gnawed at him.

As they approached the briefing room, Rick’s steps slowed. The weight in his chest felt heavier now, a mixture of dread and resignation. He didn’t want to see you sitting there, didn’t want to deal with the complications your presence would bring. But he had no choice. He was in this now, and no amount of frustration or second-guessing would change that. John noticed Rick’s hesitation as they neared the door, the way his pace slowed just slightly, as if he was already dreading what—or who—was waiting inside. Taking a breath, John decided to speak. “Look, man,” he said, his tone gentler than usual, “I know this isn’t ideal for you, but... she’s not all bad. Might even help, you know?”

Rick didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the door ahead, his expression a tightly controlled mask. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, guarded. “I guess we’ll see.”

The words lingered, heavy with apprehension, as they reached the door. The muffled hum of voices inside filtered through the cracks, a constant reminder that the moment he dreaded was here. Rick squared his shoulders, bracing himself, and pushed the door open.

The familiar ops room greeted him. The glow of computer monitors bathed the space in cold light, staff members clicking away at keyboards or murmuring quietly into headsets. The hum of machinery filled the air, blending with the muted conversations, but none of that held his attention.

No, his focus landed squarely on Waller, standing near the center of the room. She was speaking to someone seated in a large swivel chair. The chair swayed lazily from side to side, and Rick caught the repetitive motion of something being tossed between two hands.

As he stepped closer, the object became clear—a blue stress ball, flipping casually through the air. You were lounging in the chair like you owned the place, the picture of unbothered confidence. Rick came to a stop next to you, his eyes narrowing as he looked down.

The ball stilled as you paused, your gaze meeting his. And then it came—that grin. That familiar, shit-eating grin that had the uncanny ability to set his teeth on edge. Rick regretted saying yes to Waller all over again in that moment.

You’d aged since he last saw you, that much was clear. There was a hardness in your posture now, a sharper edge in the way you carried yourself. Time and experience had left their mark, but your eyes were the same. They still held that gleam he remembered from years ago, the one that screamed, I’m going to make your life hell.

“Looks like we’re about to become besties,” you said, your grin widening.

Rick let out an exasperated sigh, dragging his gaze away from you to glance at John, who had already retreated to his station. Then he turned to Waller, her ever-impenetrable expression meeting his with a subtle challenge. She knew exactly what he was thinking—hell, she was probably thinking it too.

When Rick didn’t respond, you let out a dramatic huff, resuming the lazy toss of the stress ball. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re still a fucking peach,” you quipped, your tone dripping with casual mockery.

“So, she’s consulting,” Rick said flatly, addressing Waller directly, deliberately ignoring you.

“She’s right here,” you cut in, spinning the chair slightly to face him more directly. “And she has a name.”

Rick’s jaw tightened, his patience already wearing thin. His eyes moved back to you, locking on that infuriating smirk. The chair continued its gentle swing until, without warning, his hand shot out, gripping the backrest firmly and stilling it mid-motion. The sudden halt caught you off guard, though you didn’t let it show, keeping that same irritating grin plastered on your face.

He turned back to Waller, his tone sharp. “What exactly is she consulting?”

Waller, unfazed by the tension crackling between the two of you, met Rick’s glare with her usual composed confidence. “She’s here to assist with your operational strategy,” she said smoothly. “Her expertise is... unique.” Rick’s hand lingered on the chair a moment longer before he finally let go, his grip leaving faint indentations in the leather. Waller’s words hung in the air, a leaden weight pressing down on him. Unique. He scoffed inwardly. That wasn’t an endorsement—it was a warning. You weren’t here for your operational strategy or whatever fancy title she wanted to slap on it. You were here because Waller saw you as a weapon, one she could aim and fire. And now, for reasons that made his stomach churn, you were his problem.

Rick’s voice was measured, but the frustration simmering beneath it was unmistakable. “Operational strategy?” he repeated, the words practically dripping with disbelief. His sharp gaze locked on Waller, probing for the ulterior motive he knew was lurking beneath her calculated exterior. “And yeah, I know about her expertise,” he added, the bitterness in his tone impossible to miss.

His calm façade was a thin veneer, cracking under the weight of his growing resentment. Waller’s methods had always grated on him—the manipulation, the way she wielded people like tools. But this? This felt like a personal jab. He didn’t trust you, not because of who you were, but because of what you represented: another one of Waller’s gambits, a pawn she’d placed on his board without his consent. The entire setup left a sour taste in his mouth.

Across from him, you leaned back in the chair, the blue rubber ball spinning lazily between your fingers. The grin that tugged at the corners of your mouth was infuriatingly nonchalant, your body language relaxed in a way that seemed to mock the tension in the room. “Then you know I’m good at what I do,” you said, your tone breezy, almost playful, though your eyes stayed fixed on Rick’s face. They gleamed with something sharper than your words—a challenge, perhaps, or a silent dare for him to push back.

Rick’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could feel your gaze boring into him, testing his patience. The words slipped out before he could stop them, sharp and cutting: “Not good enough to not get caught.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the air thick with tension. Your grin faltered, just for a fraction of a second, and Rick caught the flicker of something in your expression—irritation, maybe, or a flash of old wounds reopened. But just as quickly, the mask slid back into place. You tilted your head slightly, your smile returning, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes this time.

“Touché,” you said softly, your voice low and measured. You didn’t bother defending yourself or explaining the circumstances behind your capture. Instead, you met his gaze with unflinching resolve, the grin fading into something closer to quiet defiance.

Rick clenched his fists at his sides, his frustration mounting. He hated the smugness you carried, the way you seemed so unbothered by the gravity of the situation. But more than that, he hated the part of him that suspected Waller had a point. He didn’t want to admit it—not to her, not to you, and certainly not to himself—but your presence here wasn’t just a coincidence. There was a reason for it, even if he didn’t like what it meant.

Waller broke the silence, her voice calm and measured. “Enough,” she said, her tone carrying an edge of finality. “You don’t have to like this, Flag, but you do have to make it work. Both of you.”

Rick’s eyes flicked back to her, his frustration now mingled with resignation. He had signed up for this, hadn’t he? The job. The sacrifices. The compromises. But as he glanced at you again, watching as you tossed the ball lightly between your hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this particular compromise was going to be hell to endure.

Rick turned back to Waller, who watched the exchange with her usual composed detachment, though he thought he caught the faintest twitch of her lips. “The last mission was successful,” she began, her tone measured, “but at what cost? Things happened that didn’t need to happen, and I don’t want to see that again.”

Her gaze flicked to you, and Rick followed it, noticing the way her eyes lingered for a fraction too long. “I know this isn’t an ideal situation, Flag, but you need to look at the bigger picture,” she added, her voice softening ever so slightly.

You snorted, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the chair’s arms. “Because you’re such a big-picture kind of person,” you said, your tone dripping with mockery. It was a calculated jab, and Rick knew it. You wanted to see how far you could push before someone pushed back.

Waller didn’t miss a beat. “Contrary to popular belief, yes,” she replied smoothly, glancing at you with the same detached confidence she always carried. Rick sighed, running a hand down his face, the coarse scrape of his palm against his stubble grounding him for a moment. Frustration warred with exhaustion, but he forced himself to focus. He hated every part of this: the manipulation, the power games, and most of all, the way Amanda Waller had this uncanny ability to make him feel like a pawn. But no matter how much he despised it, there was no denying she was right. You were here for a reason, and whether he liked it or not, he’d have to make it work.

“So,” he said finally, his voice rough and reluctant. “What do we need to do? Where are we going?”

Amanda reached back to her desk and pulled out two thick cream-colored folders, her movements deliberate. “San Sebor,” she said, placing the files on the table with a soft thud. “We’re tracking black market weapons stolen seven years ago. Weapons that were never supposed to leave U.S. soil.”

Rick’s brow furrowed as he opened his folder. Maps, grainy photos, and endless pages of intelligence stared back at him. He flipped through them methodically, while you, on the other hand, lazily flicked open your file and scanned it with a raised eyebrow.

“Didn’t you guys already have your fingers in that pie?” you asked, your tone carrying an edge of amusement. You leaned back in the chair, your posture relaxed but your eyes sharp as they glanced up at Waller. “From what I remember, the government backed the coup that overthrew the old regime. And now it’s just... what? One big capitalist playground?”

Rick stiffened slightly at your flippant tone, but Amanda’s expression didn’t falter. She met your gaze with the same unyielding calm. “Things have happened over the years that were... beyond our control,” she said coolly. “But recent intelligence indicates we now have a chance to recover those weapons.”

You flipped to another page, skimming reports of arms shipments, encrypted communications, and dossiers on key players in San Sebor. “How’d they get stolen in the first place?” you asked, your tone almost casual, but your eyes didn’t leave the file.

Amanda’s answer was clipped. “Classified.”

You smirked without looking up. “Shocking.”

Rick couldn’t suppress the brief tug of his lips at your dry remark, but he quickly masked it, turning his attention back to Waller. “So you want us to retrieve these weapons?” His voice carried a note of skepticism.

Amanda nodded. “Yes. Everything you need is in those folders—maps, layouts, recent intel. The president of San Sebor is expecting you there by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” you echoed, closing your folder with a soft thud. “That’s a bit short notice.” Waller’s lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smirk. “I’m sure you’ve had shorter.”

You rolled your eyes slightly but didn’t argue. Instead, you raised your arms with a lazy stretch, the chair creaking beneath you. The cream-colored folder dangled from your hand, its edges already slightly bent where your fingers had fidgeted against it. In the same hand, the blue stress ball spun idly between your fingers, your movements slow and deliberate, as if you had all the time in the world.

“Guess I’d better pack a bag then,” you said, the sarcasm in your tone as sharp as ever.

“Not just yet,” Waller interrupted, her voice firm and cutting through the room like a whip. “You’ll meet the team first.”

You paused mid-spin, tilting your head at her in mock curiosity. “Meet the team?” The corners of your mouth twitched, betraying the beginnings of a smirk. Then, your gaze slid to Rick, who stood next to you, still pouring over his folder. “So, General,” you continued, your voice teasing as your eyes danced over him, “are you giving me the grand tour of the team?”

Rick looked up, snapping the folder shut with a sharp, deliberate motion. The sound echoed in the room like the punctuation to his rising irritation. “Guess I’ll have to,” he muttered, his tone flat. He turned on his heel, his shoulders tense, and moved toward the door. Pausing, he threw a glance over his shoulder. “But be warned,” he said with a hint of grim finality, “they’re nothing like your old team.”

Your brow arched slightly, intrigued by his words, but you didn’t reply. Rick had already turned away, his jaw set, as though eager to escape. He’d almost made it when Waller’s voice sliced through the room again.

“Oh, and General?” she said, her tone laced with calculated amusement.

Rick stopped, his body stiffening as he turned slowly, dread pooling in his chest. You stood just behind him, your expression a mix of mild curiosity and suspicion. Waller’s gaze flicked between the two of you, and Rick braced himself for whatever was coming.

“Keep it in your pants this time, won’t you?”

For a moment, the air seemed to leave the room. Rick’s stomach dropped, a wave of heat rising to his face as his jaw clenched tightly. Anger, embarrassment, and the bitter sting of humiliation swirled within him. He shot a warning glare at Waller, who merely smiled, knowing full well the chaos her comment would ignite.

Beside him, you shifted, and Rick didn’t have to look to know you’d caught on. The grin that split your face was audible in the tone of your voice. “Oh no,” you said, a laugh bubbling in your throat as you moved quickly to catch up with him. “Rick Flag, you fucked on the job.”

Rick let out a long, exasperated sigh, his strides lengthening as he exited the room, determined to leave the moment behind him.

“Hey, no judgment,” you continued, falling into step beside him, the blue ball now bouncing rhythmically in your palm. “We’ve all been there.”

Rick didn’t reply, his silence a wall he hoped would shut you out. But inside, frustration gnawed at him. Waller knew exactly what she was doing, and now you were running with it, your teasing a relentless needle in his side.

“So,” you drew out, your tone practically dripping with exaggerated curiosity, “who was it? Friend? Foe?” You tilted your head, your smirk turning sharper. “Teammate?”

Rick swiped his card at the security checkpoint, the door’s beep loud in the tense silence. He stepped through without a word, his shoulders rigid as the heavy doors slid shut behind him.

The corridor ahead stretched long and stark, the fluorescent lights casting harsh reflections on the pristine white walls. Your footsteps echoed beside his, the rhythm uneven as you occasionally tossed the ball and caught it again. Rick stared straight ahead, trying to block out your presence, but the weight of your gaze was undeniable.

You, on the other hand, observed him with curiosity. His rigid posture, the tightness of his jaw, the way his hands flexed and unflexed at his sides—all of it spoke volumes. He was uncomfortable, agitated, and maybe even a little ashamed, though he masked it well.

The silence between you and Rick was suffocating, thick with unspoken tension and the weight of everything left unsaid. As your boots echoed against the cold, sterile floors of Belle Reve, you found your thoughts drifting, unbidden, to Rick Flag Jr.

When you left this place before, you hadn’t thought much about him. He was just another cog in Waller’s machine—a soldier following orders, the golden boy with a sharp jawline and unwavering conviction. You hadn’t expected to miss him, hadn’t expected to feel anything at all about him, really. But being back here now, in the belly of this hellhole, his absence was glaring.

Rick Jr. had been a constant during your time on Task Force X. His no-nonsense attitude balanced the chaos, and, begrudgingly, you’d come to respect him. You remembered the quiet moments on the flights home, the way he would throw a deck of cards at you and tell you that it was your turn to deal, the way you’d both throw your hands up at each other when the other was annoyed at whatever the other was doing, the push and pull between you which almost always ended with compromises and a sharp grin on your end. He had that rare quality of being genuine—a trait as alien to Belle Reve as sunlight. He treated you like a person, not someone tainted by the weight of what they had done. And now that he was gone, the void he left was sharper than you anticipated, like a ghost brushing past your shoulder every time you turned a corner.

Finally, the oppressive quiet was too much. You broke it, your voice softer than you intended. “I’m sorry about Rick,” you said.

Rick Sr. stopped mid-stride, his body stiffening as though you’d struck him. For a moment, he seemed frozen, his breath caught in his chest. His grip tightened on the folder in his hands until his knuckles turned white. You saw the faintest tremor in his shoulders, the kind of grief that simmers just beneath the surface, restrained but ever-present.

“He didn’t deserve what happened,” you added. The words came easier now, though they carried a weight that made your chest ache. “He was one of the good ones.”

Rick’s jaw worked as he swallowed, his throat bobbing as he wrestled with the surge of emotion. The edges of the folder dug into his palm, grounding him in the moment, pulling him back from the brink of memory.

Hearing you say his name—his son’s name—brought an ache to Rick’s chest that felt impossible to push down. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not without his voice betraying the grief clawing its way up his throat. Instead, he squared his shoulders, focusing on the door ahead as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality.

With a deep breath, he swiped his card and stepped through as the door hissed open, revealing yet another stretch of lifeless corridor. Rick’s voice, when it finally came, was gruff and edged with finality. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

[th0rnback]

FoM: unused snippet - Tea time

Confession time: 🫠 I have so many snippets that never made it into FoM because most of it was domestic fluff with nowhere to go (and I totally wrote them to soothe myself after just giving Ed a shitty time) OR just alternative routes I wrote up.

I do this with so many fics its probably why writing takes long.

But yeah… Have some [unedited] Tea time since I'm back on shift for 4 nights tomorrow.

[Set during Ed’s time settling in @ Riza’s apartment during the Gray Man case]

⬇️🫖☕⬇️

Routine was ingrained into Edward.

Being under Archer’s regimented command had made it a necessity. The endless cycle of orders, travel, chaos—assignments that spanned the breadth of Amestris—always circling back to New Optain. It was a rhythm, a loop, relentless in its precision. And Edward, as much as he bristled against the structure, found something oddly comforting in it. A consistency in the repetition. A dull, familiar hum beneath the Kimblee brand style of chaos.

Even the mindless polishing of his boots had turned into a soothing ritual. Born of necessity to avoid a harsh scolding from his superior, but eventually twisted into something meditative. A task that allowed his brain to go quiet while mismatched hands moved on autopilot. Still, it wasn’t the kind of routine he ever would have chosen for himself.

Living with Lieutenant Hawkeye had opened an entirely new realm of routine. One gentler. Mundane, even. But in that mundanity was something tender. Intimate. A first taste of domesticity.

It was long, measured walks with Black Hayate before and after work—no matter the weather. Giving the pup a small treat before leaving the apartment became as natural as tightening his laces. Boots came off at the door, neatly tucked against the wall, his own set of looking silly and small next to Riza’s. Dinner was shared, even if rushed or made from leftovers. Those humble meals—thrown together from cold rice or bits of meat—tasted better than the hardtack or slop he managed to eat when on the road with Kimblee.

Then came the nudge toward the bathroom; a quiet insistence from Riza, subtle but unwavering, where a steaming bath would be waiting with sweet suds and not caustic bar soap. On top of all that, there was laundry days and other tasks that he was sure other twelve-year-olds would sneer or grumble over, but he didn’t.  Nope.

This slow pile of routines that grounded Edward in ways he hadn't known he needed, like…tea.

Edward couldn’t remember ever drinking tea before being here. If he had, it was lost in the amnesiac haze. But now? Now, tea in the evening was a ritual.

It wasn’t grand or ceremonial. It started small—just something Riza did without thinking. But Edward had begun hovering in the tiny kitchen, slowly edging closer and closer, always drawn by the faint clink of spoons and the soft whistle of the kettle. Like now, he stood there as she prepared the leaves, his metal and flesh fingers curled on the counter, nestled so near her side that she had absentmindedly tucked him under his arm like the mama birds in the trees did with their chicks…

Three mugs clinked softly as they were set down on the counter by Roy.

The Colonel had arrived shortly after dinner and had yet to leave, not that Ed minded. Like most evenings, Roy appeared at Riza’s apartment, claiming it was for the sake of “reviewing paperwork,” as it didn’t seem to matter if they were in the thick of a serial killer investigation—his hand-cramping pile of reports followed him. Tonight, there was no paperwork. Just a grumpy reason to escape the sound of Maes Hughes's endless stream of chatting to his wife Gracia, hiking up Roy's phone bill.

Although, if Edward was honest, he had an inkling Roy was forever giving flimsy reasons to be here.

Edward's eyes drifted to the trio of mugs now lined up. Normally, it was just two mugs, but with Roy’s presence, came a mildly altered routine of teatime. The first mug looked like a miniature tankard—ceramic, sturdy, with an irregular glaze of black-to-blue ink splatters. The second was far more refined, bone-white with delicate blue swirls and soft pink blossoms hand-painted across its surface. The third was pale gray, round and squat, speckled with warm yellow. Ed scowled at it instinctively.

Riza, who’d noticed immediately, slid the gray-yellow speckled mug away with the ease of someone fluent in silent communication.

Roy’s brow lifted, amused. “What did I miss?”

“I don’t drink from that one,” Ed said without looking at him, as if the idea was absurd.

“Edward’s rather taken with the failed attempt I made at pottery class with Rebecca,” Riza said, opening the tea tin with a casual grace. “Middle shelf. Red.’’

“The wonky one,” Ed clarified helpfully, pointing with his automail finger toward a mug tucked at the back of the shelf—a red one, oddly shaped, a little too lopsided and thick around the middle like it had sagged in the kiln. “S’the best one.”

Having a preference felt surreal and made his tummy flip in the best sort of way.

A small, twitchy paranoid part of Ed expected to be given a glare or be dismissed. Instead, Roy let out a snort and retrieved the misshapen mug.

“Naturally,” was Roy’s drawled remark.

Ed gave a nod, satisfied that the routine was reestablished correctly, and settled into the quiet comfort of the moment. He missed the knowing glance of affection exchanged above his head—Riza’s soft smile met Roy’s lopsided one, the kind of silent exchange that came with long-standing familiarity and a shared softness they didn’t need to put into words.

Edward, for his part, was too busy watching Riza's hands.

The boy always did during this part of the evening. There was something calming about the ritual of watching Riza make tea or putter around the tiny kitchen —the way she worked without hurry, her movements precise and growing steadily familiar . She measured the tea, tapping the leaves into the strainer, snapping the lid shut with a gentle click. It was a blend she’d served him every evening since the first night he’d been welcomed into her home with Black Hayate embedding fur into his uniform.

Chamomile and passionflower with a few additional things she added during the process.

The Sharpshooter once told him the pairing was supposed to ease restlessness and invite sleep. It never really worked. Not for him.

But Ed never said anything. The taste was nice enough and the scent alone was akin to a balm. Event he routine itself -  the boiling water, ceramic clinks and peaceful scents – was soothing after a long day.  He watched her like she was preparing some kind of magical potion or an alchemical solution of some sort…

Like the act of steeping tea could transmute the day’s weight into something lighter.

Finally, she poured the soft, golden tea into each mug. No milk. Edward watched her add a spoonful of honey to hers and Roy's, and pushed himself up onto his toes to see her stir it in. Then, as she spooned a generous dollop of honey into Ed’s, he dropped back onto the flats of his feet. Fingers twitching and waiting the what would follow, he watched her add another spoonful, unaware of the happy hum that escaped him.

“And the kid gets two spoonfuls of honey, why?” Roy asked, his voice soft, almost too casual.

If Ed didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a touch of jealousy in his voice.

Riza didn’t miss a beat. “Edward could use a little extra sweetness.”

Roy leaned his elbow on the counter, his tone smug “Ah. Or is it because I’m sweet enough already, right? I always suspected you —”

“Because you don’t need extra honey,” she cut in, dry as the desert.

Roy blinked, affronted. “Why does that sound suspiciously like an insult?”

Riza said nothing, her silence loaded and expertly delivered. Ed bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the grin tugging at his mouth. He still had trouble reading decent people—figuring out if kindness was real or some kind of trap—but this... This was the Colonel and the Lieutenant’s strange sort of banter and affection. Familiar and gentle. A rhythm they unconsciously danced to.

“I’m in perfect shape,” Roy added, mildly affronted.

“I didn’t say otherwise,” Riza replied, voice laced with amusement as she stirred in that second spoonful into Edward’s tea.

Edward could practically hear Rebecca Catalina in his head—sharp-tongued and unfiltered— and always seeking to tease Roy mercilessly. She’d have pounced on that moment without hesitation, no doubt reminding Roy that circle was, technically, a shape. Not that Roy was out of shape. Not, really. He was broad-shouldered, barrel-chested and thick through the chest and arms with muscle despite not moving much from behind his desk.  

Roy was stocky sturdy and, dare Ed admit it, felt safe.

Regardless, the big felt a ticklish laugh curl in his throat. Edward swallowed it down, turning his head just enough to not be seen, using Riza’s arm as a shelter. Before the conversation could continue, routine continued as it always did and – like clockwork - Riza pulled the spoon from his mug while the honey still clung to it.

She held it aloft without looking in silent invitation, waiting.

And, like the many times before during evening tea, Ed gently plucked it from her hand and popped the spoon into his mouth. The warmth of honey bloomed on his tongue, and for a heartbeat—for one small, perfect moment—it felt like the world didn’t feel like it was collapsing beneath him.

[villifx]

wrote this little snippet based off of this post by @louifaith bc the idea is so cute. it's just a first encounter between daryl and a little alexandrian girl and i never got any further bc i'm not a writer LOL

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"I like your fairy wings."

It takes a moment to register the words before Daryl realizes they're directed at him, and another moment for him to realize that - shit - so's a pair of big brown eyes. His boots come to a slow stop as he regards the child. The girl couldn't be older than six, a tiny little thing with unruly curls and scabbed knees, gripping a piece of pink sidewalk chalk in one hand. Her curls fall into her face as she leans to try and look behind him, clearly wanting another glance at the wings on his vest.

The fuck?

"Ain't no fairy." Daryl mutters gruffly, unsure of what to make of the girl. A lock of hair clings to the corner of her mouth and she pushes it away, smearing pink chalk over her cheek in the process. Scoffing quietly, he lets her walk behind him as he quickly scans the area, looking for any sign of a guardian but it seems the girl's just out playing on her own; it's strange to him, to be in a place where someone would feel safe enough to let their child outside without being right behind them. It reminds him a bit of his youth, before his mother died, when she'd send him out to ride on his bike and tell him to be back when the streetlights came on. Different times. Now, that sort of thing felt too irresponsible. Too risky - even with walls.

He feels pressure against his back and jumps, turning to look at the little girl as she grins up at him. Her hand is still raised in the air, fingers outstretched and tinted pink. Daryl has half a mind to tell her to quit it, to go find her mom or pops and leave him be, but a little giggle tumbles past the girl's lips and he finds himself short of words. Not a moment later she turns and bounds away, leaving Daryl alone. For the remainder of the day, he's entirely unaware of the little pink handprint lingering on the back of his vest.

[keeping-writing-frosty]

Unnamed Western WIP Snippet

[Author's Note: This is a VERY rough draft. Very first draft actually. I am sure there are typos, and other BS. I am just trying to share a little. I hope it is enjoyable despite it all. Most of it is under the cut.]

Seven Years Ago

There came a wind that whistled through the tiny cracks between the wood of the cabin’s walls, bringing with it a chill that caused tiny pin-prick bumps to cover Alexandra’s arms. A small fire in that old cast-iron stove crackled and hissed as it burned away all the volatile elements in the dried-out firewood within. On top, bubbling softly, a small pot filled with the strong, bitter coffee that she had grown so fond of; mother didn’t like it, but it was something she shared in common with father. One of many things.

Despite its relatively tiny size, there exuded a lonely kind of way from it. With just herself, and this cruel, frozen winter, leaving her to just her thoughts. What has come to mind over and over again is a desire for more. To do more, to earn more than just squeaking out a sort of life day-to-day.

At the foot of her parents’ bed, sat a weathered chest, bound by iron and locked since Father passed. And in truth, Alexandra had never looked in it. Both Mother and Father never let her look within, yet as she stared at it from her perch on the rocking chair. She stood up, there were no other family, no siblings, or uncles, or aunts, or grandparents. Everything that belonged, and would belong, to the O’Sullivan’s family, belonged to her. Despite lacking a key, she removed the Winchester rifle from off its rack on the wall. One solitary, solid strike from the butt hit with a thud, then another, and once more to finally cause the lock to break off and clatter onto the floor below.

Within were relics of Father’s forgotten and old life, before he met Mother and settled down here. From the life he lived by the gun, “a righteous man in an un-righteous time. Must bring about the judgement of the Lord,” he told Alexandra this one night when he was deep into the drink shortly after Mother’s death. His words still rung in her ears, “there is no greater calling, lass, than the culling of evil. That it pays well is just a bonus. To be taken care of both in this life and the next, nary a greater calling than that.”

Stuffed in an old, time-worn holster was the Colt Walker revolver that Father used to end the lives of so many bad-people that plague the relatively lawless lands. Despite its age, it still gleamed in the low light, as if freshly-polished and cleaned. On the left side of the wooden handle, there were twenty-six tally marks. She bit her bottom lip whilst pulling it from the soft confines of the holster. Stood up to hold the heavy, yet somehow, familiar weight of the rather long-barreled gun. Alex looked down its sights, pulled the trigger—having already checked that it was empty. Maybe this was meant to be, her destiny as well.

Wrapping the belt around her waist, pulled it taut and buckled it securely. Alexandra pushed the gun down back into its holster and squatted beside the chest again to go through the rest. An old photo of Father from before he met mother, still just as large as ever but youthful, seemed more careful and without a beard, a rather dashing fellow—Mother had good taste after all. Her face scrunched up at just the mere thought of thinking her father was handsome.

“Gross,” she said to the empty cabin.

Through the other mementos of a nostalgic past, of when the west was free for everyone and anyone without the encroachment of civilization from those posh, lazy folks east of the Mississippi, Alexandra found her father’s old, wide-brimmed rawhide that fit rather loose on her head. It didn’t matter to her. It felt right—it all felt too right. As if this was her calling, perhaps the blood that ran her veins was the same that ran in the crusaders of old. The same that fought against the darkness, to keep it at bay so the light could live and grow.

His hat still smelled of him: deep, richness of tobacco and the beautiful astringent peat of the scotch father would constantly take a nip of. The thick woolen Union jacket, just as warm and comfortable as the day it was made, smelled of his comfort and kindness, of his fierceness and his sense of duty. When Alexandra wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled it tight across her chest., it felt like a strong, loving hug—almost.

Knock-knock-knock! A heavy hand almost beat on the door.

“Alexandra! I need my rent money, or I have to call upon the sheriff. I do not want to do that,” Old Man Jackson’s gruff voice carried with it both authority and sincerity.

With a deep breath, she stood up and walked over to the door and pulled it open. “Come in, please. I don’t have your money, but I am a-thinking of leaving anyways.” Alex pulled out a chair as she walked over to the stove. “Coffee? Get a bit of that chill off the bones, sir.”

“Please and thank you,” a puzzle expression crossed Old Man Jackson’s weathered face as he spoke. “What do you mean you are leaving? I am pretty sure your parents would have wanted you to settle. Start a family. Turn the land into something fruitful. We can talk over new terms, if’n it helps. Get you the deed over time.”

With a warm-hearted smile, Alexandra placed the steaming mug of coffee in front of the man and sat down across from him. “No, I appreciate it, but there’s something burning deep inside. These lands are in desperate need for a righteous soul—”

“In such an unrighteous time.”

“—aye, yes.”

The old man, who had seen more sunrises than most ever will, took a long drink from the coffee and thanked the young woman for the libation. “I’ve known your family a long, long time. Longer than even your mother knew. Did your father ever speak on our history?”

Alex shook her head and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Figured not. No one likes to speak of the bleakness, even if done for good reasons. We used to ride together. Hell, I taught him about the bounty hunter business. When he was still fresh-faced, hardened by the war. As we all were then. No side won that shit show, and all got broken up over it. It’s why everything is so…well, more people like you would not be a bad thing.

Listen up, okay? I want to tell you about the time your father and I took down Black Hat Bailey and his Psycho gang. It all started when Red Rock Mines were raided, dozens killed, more raped and wounded…”

****

Tag List:

@fablesandfragments @seastarblue @vesanal @theink-stainedfolk @leahnardo-da-veggie

@aalinaaaaaa @an-indecisive-nerd @write-with-will @the-ellia-west @carb0n-m0n0xide

@inadequatecowboy @kitkins13 @watermeezer @shepardstales @bardic-tales

@dyrewrites

[365emotionlessfaces]

i’m literally so in love with her

The Aspiring Teachers Program

Part 4 WC:~1.8k

The next couple days came and went pretty much the same way. Melissa and her Aspiring One kept winning, or at least placing in the top three, and every time Melissa saw that bright smile, she found it harder to not kiss the girl. Their friendship had grown quickly over the past few days, and by the time dinner rolled around on the fourth day, they were practically inseparable. They had gotten so comfortable with each other, it almost felt weird to not be touching in some way or another, whether it was shoulders or knees touching, linking arms to walk around, or all out holding each other’s hands when they were only in need of one useful limb.

The days ended the same way, too. They would don their swimsuits and make their way to their private beach, laughing and bonding before dinner, which was also paired with laughs and smiles that neither of them would admit meant anything more. Her Aspiring one would tell her all the things she would do if she got to go home with Melissa, and Melissa allowed herself to imagine what it would be like. Having this pretty young thing there to treat her like a queen, all the time. Living a life with someone who went out of their way to do nice things and say nice things. She shook the thoughts from her head. This is just a kid. Even though Melissa knew that she’d be getting one helluva sweet deal, she knew that the kid had her whole life ahead of her, and Melissa would turn out to be the Joe in her life. Not being good enough for her.

So, instead Melissa would redirect the conversation and share horror stories from teaching, and when the girl didn’t waver in her dream of teaching, Melissa got to tell her all the things that made sharing her knowledge worth it.

They tried staying out as late as possible on the fourth night because they both knew that after dinner tomorrow, everyone would be packing up and heading back to their homes. Melissa couldn’t admit out loud that she wasn’t ready for this to end. Here was this girl promising Melissa the life she’d always wanted, and the redhead knew she’d have to give it up. So she just enjoyed her last night with the girl, and tried to push the dread for the morning out of her head.

Dreams came to Melissa fast, and unrelenting that night. Snippets of a life she could never have. Parent Trap sitting across from her at their table, eating dinner in the home they shared. Slow dancing in the living room while Burl Ives sings Christmas songs through the radio. Double dates with Barbara and Gerald. Looking through a maternity ward window at a tiny baby with a tiny bracelet that says SCHEMMENTI-

Melissa jolted awake and sat up quickly, mindful not to hit her head on the bunk above her. It was still dark, but almost out of instinct she looked across the room to Parent Trap’s bed. Melissa could just make out the silhouette of the young girl. She leaned against a post of the bed frame, and sighed.

‘I’m being ridiculous. I’ve got Joe at home to worry about, hopefully not for much longer, and what would Nonna say?’ Melissa huffed out a silent chuckle at the thought. ‘Might give ‘er a heart attack. Not even done with my divorce an’ I show up with a doll on my arm younger than the broad Joe had?’

After five minutes, the post was starting to dig into her back, so she decided to use the bathroom light to check her watch. When she saw she had ‘two freakin’ hours??’ until breakfast, she decided that she was gonna watch the sunrise from her little secret beach. As she dressed for the day, and exited the cabin as quietly as she could, Melissa hadn’t noticed that the star of her dreams had woken up.

Melissa only had about ten minutes between herself and nature before she heard footsteps approaching. She turned to see her Aspiring One with that beautiful smile, and those glittering eyes.

“Hey. Good mornin’, hon,” was the first words Melissa spoke for the day. Her voice was slightly groggy, despite being awake for a while now. She saw the young girl flush, and despite being slightly confused- she hasn’t blushed at ‘hon’ before-, she drank it in. This was the last day she’d ever get to see this gorgeous young girl and she’d like to spend it right by her side.

The girl took a seat next to Melissa and linked their arms before replying, “Morning, Em,” with a smile. The sun hadn’t made it over the trees across the small lake, but it was clear that it had come over the horizon behind them. The young girl didn’t say anything else, she just laid her head on Melissa’s shoulder. The redhead leaned her head against the top of the younger girl’s and they watched the sunrise in a comfortable silence. Melissa couldn’t help her mind wandering, imagining what it might be like to be able to wake up next to Parent Trap every day to watch the sunrise together.

After watching the beautiful colors cross the sky signaling the start of a new day, they pulled apart, but only slightly. “I’m really sad that we’re going home tonight,” the young girl said. Melissa hummed in agreement. “I really like you, Em. I wish we could go home together.” Melissa looked over to see the girl blushing again.

Melissa wished that, too, but she knew what she had to do. “Listen, kid-” The redhead was cut off when her Aspiring One placed their lips together softly. The kiss was brief, the young girl pulling away just as quickly as she had leaned in. Melissa had to use every ounce of self control not to throw everything out the window and just take the girl here on the beach.

“Sorry, I, uh, I just wanted to know what it would be like before you shot me down,” the girl said sheepishly. Melissa’s heart felt like it was shattering inside of her chest. They both knew what was about to come.

Melissa sighed before she spoke. The tears were already welling up in her eyes, so she looked down at her hands. “You’re young, you’re just a kid. You got your whole life ahead o’ ya. You’ve got school to go to, and I’ve got a divorce to win. I’d love nothin’ more than to be able to run away with you or somethin’, but I couldn’t do that to ya. It would never work, anyways. You need to go back home to Michigan, and go to school, and be the best teacher they ever see ‘round those parts.”

Melissa couldn’t bear to look back up to the girl. She finally let the tears fall when the girl stood and left, without saying anything more. Melissa couldn’t help but feel like she had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Melissa and her Aspiring Teacher won the last contest, of course, but the young girl only spoke to Melissa when she had to. Her voice was still full of kindness, but it wasn’t as enthusiastic, and her eyes had lost their sparkle. Was the shine in the girl’s eye just in Melissa’s imagination? Now that she had broken the girl’s heart, and her own, she couldn’t seeit anymore?

At dinner, Parent Trap sat with a group of kids her age, instead of with Melissa. The redhead, unable to stand being in the same room as the girl without being able to be right next to her, took her dinner to go. On her trek back to the cabin, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to get a headstart on packing. Entering the cabin, she looked to the bed where her Aspiring One had spent the last week, and sighed, tears welling up once more. She’d been on the verge of crying too many times today for her liking.

Sandwich in one hand, she tried to use the other to heave her suitcase onto the bed. You would think that it being almost empty would have made the task easier, but somehow Melissa managed to almost drop her sandwich, which made her let go of the suitcase to make sure her dinner stayed safe and edible with both hands. As the case went tumbling, it opened and out fell a little stuffed eagle, clearly handcrafted, wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey and denim shorts.

“Oh, Ronny! I forgot about you,” Melissa mumbled aloud. She had brought Ronny along in case they did somethin’ stupid, like a show and tell type thing. She then, of course, would have told them that he’s named after the quarterback playing for the Eagles the year she started teaching. She bent over to pick him up, and as she stood back up, she had an idea to end on better terms with the young girl that may or may not have stolen Melissa’s heart in the span of a week.

Melissa was pacing when Parent Trap returned from dinner. Her bags, long packed, sat near the door waiting for her.

“Hey. I was waitin’ for ya. I, uh, I didn’t wanna leave without saying goodbye and tellin’ ya that, uh, that I’m really glad I met ya,” the girl looked back at Melissa and frowned, but waited for the redhead to continue. Melissa reached down and grabbed Ronny from where she had set him on Parent Trap’s bed. “I hope I didn’t steer you away from teachin’, I still think you’d be amazing at it. This is Ronny,” Melissa held him out to the girl. “I got him from a student on the last day of my first year. I want you to have ‘im.”

The girl took the stuffed eagle before replying softly, “Thanks, Em.” Melissa looked at her while the girl smiled back at her, but Melissa could tell that the smile would never reach the girl’s eyes. Her still-not-sparkling-anymore eyes. Melissa sighed a ‘You’re welcome,’ before heading towards the door.

As she grabbed the handle of her suitcase, she turned to look at the girl one last time. “Maybe in the future, we’ll meet again. When you’ve finished school, and I’ve finished with the disaster in mine,” Melissa told the girl hopefully. She knew how unlikely it was. She only knew the girl’s first name, and the girl didn’t know her name at all. How would they even find each other?

“Yeah… maybe,” floated across the room softly and quietly. The girl didn’t even turn back to look at Melissa as she said it. Melissa just put her head down, and left the cabin. She cried in the taxi, and on the plane, and in the other taxi, and even a little bit once she was home.

Part Five

[myokk]

WIP Tag Game

Thank you for the tag @okeydokeylackey !!!! I LOVED YOUR SNIPPET & everyone should DEFINITELY check out your art/writing (I know I always love seeing it on my dash🥹🫶)

Rules: Share a snippet from whatever you’re currently working on, and then tag 5 people.

***DISCLAIMER THESE ARE ALL TYPED UP STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS AND UNEDITED BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAH***

Oneshot:

A beetle slowly makes its way across Sebastian Sallow’s desk.

The classroom is silent - save for the scratching of quills furiously calculating the Arithmatic probability of who will be the next Minister and the quiet murmur of his professor as she helps Hobhouse (how did he even get into the N.E.W.T. level?) - and Sebastian is going absolutely mad.

He counts how many seconds it takes for the beetle to reach his abandoned quill (fifteen). But, when it takes its seventh step after making it over the quill (an auspicious sign), Sebastian slams his hand down on top of it.

The loud noise echoes through the silent classroom and Sebastian hears her snickering coming from behind him as the whole class turns to see what has happened. His ears turn red, he wishes he could jinx her somehow, and yet he is terribly curious to see what she has sent him this time. Sebastian hopes that everyone has gone back to their equations and stops staring at him, because now that it’s in his hands, his fingers are itching to open it. His hands eagerly - shamefully eager, if you ask him - unravel the note he’s crumpled up in his hands - almost a shame that he destroyed the beetle, it was one of her better creations - and Sebastian soon curses his haste.

His ears would be an even deeper shade of red were his blood not currently draining to a different part of his body. Sebastian shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he continues reading the note, his eyes flying across the tiny note once, twice, three times before he crumples it up and adds it to the graveyard of the other notes she has been sending him all day. The words fuck my soaking cunt flash up at him and he adjusts his schoolbag so that if anyone walks past and looks into it, they won’t suspect a thing.

You see, this has been going on all day. Sebastian knew that when his seventh year started, it was going to the culmination of their academic rivalry, but he never expected this. That witch has made taunting him her personal vendetta, and it’s working.

Sebastian can’t get her out of his mind.

FIC - CHAPTER 25: (honestly I might delete this scene or save it for later)

She wanted him to hate her.

Hatred wasn’t what she saw in his eyes now, though.

Almost as if she were watching herself from afar, not in control of her body, Eloise came to a stop in front of Sebastian and looked down at him. The green light was highlighting his face and he looked ethereal, otherworldly. She watched her hand reach out and touch his cheek - hesitant, unsure - and when he didn’t jerk his head away as she expected - as she deserved - she moved to sit down next to him in the tiny space. Her knees bumped into his just like their noses bumped against each other as she moved her face towards his. Still, he didn’t move away.

She felt his warm breath fan across her lips. Maybe they stayed like that, lips not-quite-touching, for an eternity; maybe it was only a second. Eloise was only aware of Sebastian’s intoxicating presence, of the way his breath hitched when she finally bridged the gap between them, of the way her heart surrendered itself to him. This kiss was nothing like what they had shared before. It was hesitant, soft, sweet. His hands came up to her face, holding her in place as he deepened the kiss.

Eloise didn’t know what had gotten into her - she was supposed to be avoiding Sebastian, hating him, and yet she couldn’t pull herself out of his embrace. She was melting into his touch, his thumbs brushing themselves down her cheeks, her neck, fingers going through her hair, over and over as if to reassure himself of her presence, his lips moving languidly against hers. Eloise sighed into his mouth, almost-smiling but not-quite: she was nervous, as complicit as he was in this kiss, maybe even more, considering she had been the one to reach out first. But then -

Sebastian pulled away from her, puzzled, his hands moving back to cup Eloise’s face. He was saying something, rough thumbs gently brushing away the thick tears rolling down her cheeks. When had she started crying?

NO PRESSURE TAGS: @holdmymallowsweet @writing-intheundercroft @morelikeravenbore @sav-less @gothic-lottie @kay9leo @celestial--sapphic @libellule-ao3 @anomalyaly AND ANYONE ELSE WHO WANTS TO DO IT IM SERIOUS !!!!!!!!! I CAN NEVER THINK OF WHO TO TAG & I WOULD LOVE TO SEE LITTLE EXCERPTS OF YOUR WRITING🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

[theteasetwrites]

Begin Again

Chapter 3: Éveil

❧ Media: The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon ❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: none ❧ Word Count: 5.5k

❧ In This Chapter: You awaken in what seems to be a convent, crawling with nuns. When you find Daryl, you must come up with the next move in order to get home, but your current circumstances complicated things as your trust in the strange nuns proves thin.

❧ A/N: Hey there! Long time no see. So um I'm still doing this writing thing, believe it or not. And I'm working on this series slowly but surely. The second season of DD is supposedly coming out in September, so I have some more time to finish up season 1! Well, as much of it as I can. Anyway, enjoy this long-awaited third installment. Reader meets Isabelle... there's some tension there for sure. But who knows? Maybe they'll become friends <3

You woke with a start, your heart racing as soon as your eyes shot open. Above you, there was a thin drape of natural linen—a canopy. Underneath you, a rather firm bed.

Looking around, you tried to make sense of your surroundings, to assess your safety. No walkers, but the place was so different from the last you remembered. What stood out to you most was the crucifix, directly across the room and mounted high upon the wall. A less than welcoming motif.

At your right, a small wooden table, upon which sat a burning candle with wax beginning to drip down the iron holder. A glass of water was beckoning to you, so you sat up quickly, tearing the neatly tucked blankets off your body and reaching over to take it in your hands. The liquid soothed your sore, dry throat as you drank it greedily, letting it dribble down your chin and onto some fabric that adorned your body. You looked down—you weren’t in your own clothes, but a white woolen frock that reached your calves. You’d had an extensive collection of nighties and lingerie back at home, but this was much more… modest for your taste, with wool sleeves and a high neckline that threatened to cut off your breathing. 

Without another moment’s hesitation, you raised yourself to your feet, bundled up in thick hand-knitted socks that protected them from the chill of the old wooden floor beneath you. You moved slowly, steadily, until your dizziness took over, causing you to grasp at the bedside table and shake the wobbly little structure until the glass fell to the floor, breaking into a hundred tiny shards.

But that was hardly noticeable to you as you came to, remembering everything you could before you had blacked out: the young French woman and her grandfather, the two paramilitary men, the mysterious blurred figure approaching as your eyesight faded to black… Your memory faded in and out after that, with only snippets of what must’ve happened since you passed out. You recalled what seemed to be… nuns. They were women dressed in long white gowns, their heads shrouded in hoods that framed their faces. 

That wasn’t all you remembered, though. There was a faint memory of a scream echoing through your mind, a scream that you’d only heard a few times in your life, but you knew it. It was a scream of agony, which had riled you up in your stupor as the nuns had tried to restrain you last night. You recalled the panic, the fear as you heard him cry out in abject pain, the screams echoing through the walls from somewhere else, somewhere not too far away.

The memory made you move, your shaky but determined steps taking you towards the door of the room you’d been seemingly confined to, with several other unoccupied beds lining the walls. But your head was dizzied from the sudden movement as equilibrium took its time to set in. Your body careening swiftly towards the wall, you clung to the dark fabric of a curtain. The light of the window it draped over was enough to shock you into coherence, or at least some semblance of it. Pushing back the fabric, your eyes adjusted to the bright, cool light of the morning. 

The window gave way to a new scene playing outside, in a courtyard. You made out old, pale bricks forming elaborate arches encircling a slightly overgrown, yet somehow cared for, garden. Tall cypress trees that seemed particularly well maintained reached up to the open air, where voices echoed between the walls of the courtyard. Speaking in French, of course, so you couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but a child’s voice chimed above the others. 

As your eyes began to collaborate with your ears, you pinpointed the child in the courtyard—a boy. Or at least, you assumed to be a boy. You couldn’t make out his face, as he was wearing a… helmet. A silver knight’s helmet that must’ve compromised his vision as he stumbled around, two rusty tin cans strapped to the bottom of his feet to make him almost taller than the nuns that playfully chased him. In his hand, a small wooden sword. 

Chickens scurried around as the boy wobbled on his tin cans, brandishing the sword at the veiled women chittering around him in amusement. The boy could not keep balanced, however, making a wrong step as he lunged towards the nuns, only to stumble onto the ground. A few of the nuns quickly swarmed him, doting on the boy with pitiful “aw’s” and other expressions of overbearing, smothering concern that you as a mother were not unfamiliar with. 

But this scene was just a distraction, a pointless waste of time that could’ve been spent finding your other half. Pulling yourself away from the support of the wall, you pressed on towards the door. You stumbled forward, just about to reach for the doorknob when the doors were pushed open from the other side, startling you backwards momentarily. 

A young nun, one you could vaguely recognize, stood in front of you, her dark brown eyes wide and her hands outstretched as if to usher you back to bed. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” she exclaimed slightly, though you could not bother to even attempt to translate with what little you had picked up from your French-to-English dictionary. 

The nun came forward as you tried to side-step around her, but her hands grabbed onto your shoulders, her worried face matched up with yours. This time, she spoke in English, “You must lie down. You need rest.” 

Dizzied but determined, you shook your head so hard you swore you could feel your brain bouncing off the interior of your skull. “No.”

Despite a brief struggle, you pushed past her, limping slightly as you came into a narrow hallway that opened into a bright corridor of arched windows, letting in the nearly blinding sunlight that momentarily obscured your sensitive vision. 

There was no time to ask questions, and no time to wonder how on Earth you ended up in a… convent. All that concerned you now was finding Daryl, whose cries of torture and pain still echoed inside your head. God only knew what they had done to him, and you didn’t trust a nun as far as you could throw one. Though you yourself hadn’t grown up Catholic, you’d had a childhood friend who did, and her horror stories of the corrupt church she grew up in were enough to keep you mostly guarded when it came to Catholicism and its most ardent practitioners.

You could feel the nun behind you, walking quickly to keep up with your pace. At one point, she grabbed your wrist, pulling you back to look at her again. You huffed in aggravation, combined with the irritability that accompanied your worry. 

“You must rest,” she said, squeezing your hand gently. 

But you yanked your hand away, too frustrated to even try to say anything back. You turned around again, making your way to the first door across the hall, in the hopes it would lead you to wherever Daryl might be. 

The large wooden doors creaked as you pushed them open, into a room not unlike the one you’d woken up in. Much the same, actually, except for the bathtub at the far end of the room, on which your eyes set first, because Daryl’s soaking wet head turned around and looked your way, his face relaxing in relief, yet still cautious as the nun beside him looked up at you, dropping the wet rag in her hand into the water. 

You’ve got to be kidding me. 

Your lips tightened as your back straightened to stand up a little taller, more rigidly. The wave of relief that washed over you was soon overpowered by combined confusion and embarrassment… with just maybe a tad bit of irrational resentment of the rather attractive French nun ostensibly bathing your naked and possibly disoriented husband. You supposed you had a right to be just a little skeptical.

“You’re awake,” said the nun, smiling at you in a way you could not quite find very comforting. Her intention seemed innocent, as did that of the other nun, but perhaps you just could not get past the habit, yours and hers. “I see you’ve met Sylvie.”

She nodded towards the nun behind you. You followed her gaze. The younger, shyer nun bowed her head, remaining silent before scurrying away. One less nun to deal with, you supposed. 

“My name is Isabelle,” she said. Her English seemed more confident than that of Sylvie, her accent sounding almost more English than it did French. “You must be (Y/N).” Isabelle must’ve sensed your immediate discomfort at the fact that she seemed to already know your name. She perked up to say, “Daryl was quite concerned about you, asking where you were. Of course, you were asleep.”

“And now I’m awake,” you replied softly, but with a somewhat stern tone. 

In your mind, you faced a very sudden dilemma, an almost amusingly irrational conflict of thoughts. What you knew in your head and your heart to be the most sensible belief was that these nuns seemed good-natured, taking in two injured strangers and providing them shelter. Perhaps they could even somehow aid in your journey home. After all, that was what you wanted: people who could help. 

But there was that doubt that contradicted all your hopeful rhetoric. That possibility that these nuns could be some sort of a clandestine cabal of cannibals or a bloodthirsty band of brutes in disguise as meek servants of God. You’d seen stranger things before, heard of stranger things, too. It had to always be considered when approaching new groups, especially in a world where the likelihood of someone killing you was higher than the likelihood of them helping you with seemingly altruistic intent.

And then, of course, was the part of you that you were embarrassed to even think about. The part of you that was purely annoyed at this Isabelle for having the audacity to bathe your husband… But you had to repress that thought, because you knew it was just a very petty, irrational, ridiculously juvenile jealousy that was skewing your first impressions of this woman. 

However, you figured you’d cut yourself a little slack and allow yourself the momentary annoyance, considering you’d never once in your relationship ever been jealous of another woman. You figured this one moment of weakness wouldn’t sully your track record, especially considering just how much your skull felt as though someone had reemed into it with a battering ram. 

The silence did not become less awkward, of course, only more heavy, with you practically staring down this strange nun whose balance of gentleness and seriousness seemed to challenge yours, and with Daryl sitting naked in a bathtub, probably not very comfortable.

“Well,” sighed Isabelle, picking up a few towels in her arms as she walked by you, that small smile still on her face, “I’ll go fetch you some fresh clothes.”

Your eyes followed her as she shut the doors behind her. You couldn’t help but be suspicious, after all.

With a huff, you quickly moved to the large tin tub at the center of the room, where Daryl began to lift himself out, but you wordlessly stopped him, kneeling down and gently grabbing his shoulder with enough pressure to coerce him back into the soapy water. 

You eyed his skin carefully, searching for any injuries you might’ve not seen, or ones that he might’ve gotten while you were asleep. The one that drew the most attention, though, was the hand-shaped burn on his left forearm, the one that worried you so much that you were sure you’d dreamt about it in your restless sleep.  

It looked different now, much more healed, despite the clear indication that it had been through more trauma—more burning. In fact, you knew the look of it.

“They cauterized it,” you said to yourself, taking the cloth the nun had left floating in the cloudy lukewarm water. You rolled up your long sleeves and took his arm, carefully washing around the wound. “I heard you screaming last night. I thought they had you in some… medieval torture device.”

He watched you intently scrubbing further up his arm, your face concentrated on the task at hand, as if you were inspecting Isabelle’s ability to properly bathe him. Afterall, you were the world’s only authority on the subject. 

“Was just a hot stick,” he said, the soft gravel in his voice offering immediate relief to your somewhat frazzled state. “Said it stopped it from spreading.”

The term spreading frightened you. Did that mean the burn would’ve covered his whole body? Or that the burn soon would’ve caused Daryl to turn? Everyday you learned more about a new walker variant, you missed the days when you assumed they were all the same basic dead people with a propensity for biting things.

“Well,” you said, “I’m glad they did it.” That was about the only courtesy you would offer those nuns. 

Now dabbing the cloth along his collar bone, you began to reach his neck and face, where wet strands of his long dark hair clung like sinuous clumps of tangled seaweed. Your other hand carefully pulled back each piece of hair until you could properly see his face—the scar that ran over and under his left eye, and the new cut on his forehead that still worried you. 

“I wonder if they have something to put on that.”

“She did,” he said, and for a moment, you had no idea who he meant. “The, uh, nun.”

Oh, her.

“Isabelle?”

Chewing his lower lip, in the way he often did, he grumbled a low, “Mhm.”

“She… put it on?”

“Yeah. Honey garlic, or somethin’.”

Honey garlic? What a bitch.

“That was nice of her.” You swallowed hard, annoyed by how annoyed you were. She did something nice, she helped your husband. Your sudden jealousy almost terrified even you. 

Of course, Daryl could sense it, that odd feeling of distaste you had for her actions. He knew you well enough to know that, when it came to taking care of him, you were the only one qualified to do so. Anyone else stepping on your toes, albeit well-intentioned, was going to get you a little bit out-of-step.

It was almost amusing, though, he had to admit. Afterall, he’d never seen you like this. It was subtle, but he noticed it, and it was clear that you were, despite all your composure, a bit jealous.

Daryl knew jealousy very well. It was a silly emotion to have in the context of your relationship, considering there was no distrust nor betrayal in any sense, but sometimes, he simply couldn’t help his attitude when a man back in Alexandria or the Commonwealth or even back at the prison got a little too comfortable around you. He’d never do anything irrational, but his thoughts would run wild, mostly born of his own insecurity. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen ya jealous before,” he said, watching you lift his arm to scrub underneath. 

You almost dropped his arm as you looked at him, wide-eyed, then broke out into a small laugh, as if to hide your embarrassment. “Jealous? Jealous of what?”

He tilted his head at your act. He knew you knew exactly what he meant. “The nun givin’ me a bath.”

Somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief, you stared at him with a raised eyebrow and a twitching smile, culminating in a dismissive scoff.

“Please. I have a lot more to worry about than some… French nun. She didn’t do a very good job, anyway.”

“Yeah,” agreed Daryl, watching you scrub his chest with uninhibited enthusiasm. “She didn’t get in all the nooks and crannies like you always do.”

You scoffed. “Well, I certainly hope not.”

He huffed out a laugh under his breath, which you quickly caught. 

“What?”

“You’re jealous, angel.”

Despite the blush blooming upon your cheeks, your lips straightened into a tight line. Daryl flinched slightly as you half-heartedly whipped the wet rag against his chest. 

“Stop it. I’m not jealous, that’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you got nothin’ to be jealous of.”

A small smirk lifted your blushing cheeks. Only Daryl could flirt with you in a convent somewhere in France and still make you feel like a schoolgirl. 

And only Daryl could flirt with such a straight face, his eyes doing most of the talking as he roamed your body, somewhere between checking you out and checking you for injuries. 

But he couldn’t see much beyond the modest nightgown that covered most of your body, all the way up to your neck. 

“Ain’t ever seen ya in a nightgown like that neither.”

Your eyes followed his as you looked down your chest, examining the large white cotton thing draped over your body.

“Mm, you like it?”

He straightened up in the bath, making the cloudy lukewarm water splash against the sides of the tub. Of course, he’d find you adorable even if you were dressed in a trash bag.

“Yeah. Real cute… Help me outta this thing, would ya?” He winced as he tried to lift himself out of the tub, his soaking wet arms straining hard. If you were at home, you might’ve taken the opportunity to admire his well-developed muscles, but the situation was much too unfamiliar for such a thing.

So you stood up, grabbing his forearms as he winced in pained soreness. His weight made you strain hard to help him, but soon he gained his footing and stepped out of the tub, dripping water all over the stone tile. 

In a rush, you turned to grab a fresh towel, left by Isabelle, you presumed. Despite knowing he was more than capable of drying himself, perhaps a part of you wanted to make up for the attention that the nun had given him earlier, so you wrapped the towel snug around his shoulders, your hands running up and down his arms to dry them. 

The room was silent for a while as you focused intently on towel-drying him. He watched in slight fascination at your diligence, his eyes never leaving your concentrated face despite your eyes never meeting his. 

Cute, was indeed the word that came to his mind during this moment, a little pocket of intimacy and affection within the confusion and peril of the unfamiliar world in which you found yourselves now. 

At least, he thought, you were with him, because he wasn’t quite sure he could get very far without you. 

“We’re getting out of here, right?” you asked, reaching up to wrap the towel around his head and knead his hair dry as he scrunched up his face. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Soon as I get some clothes on.”

Indeed, the first step to getting out of here was getting Daryl dressed, lest he walk around naked in a French convent and scar a few nuns for life. You turned to look around you, until your eyes landed on a neatly folded stack of clothing, sitting on a wobbly wicker chair. As Daryl was left to dry himself, you lifted the first article—a sweater, made of charcoal colored wool. It looked just about Daryl’s size, and you always liked the rare occasions on which he wore the sweaters you picked out for him, so the outfit the nun had chosen for him was so far granted your stamp of fashion approval. 

Next, a long pair of wool pants, black in color. The waist was quite wide, you reckoned. You were all too familiar with Daryl’s build—widest in the shoulders, slimmest at the waist. He’d lost some weight recently, too, on account of extensive traveling all over the east side of the States, and the fact that you weren’t able to make him cookies for the last several weeks. You were sure these pants would fall off him about as soon as he’d slip them on.

“These are way too big,” you sighed. “We’ll have to see if—”

But as soon as you lifted the pants, two more articles of clothing revealed themselves at the bottom of the neat little pile: a set of off-white cotton briefs, which amused you greatly, as Daryl’s usual underwear consisted of boxers, and a pair of… Suspenders?

A smile split your face as you held back a small chitter at the sight. 

“Never mind,” you simply said, holding up the brown striped suspenders for him to see. “These will hold them up.”

He looked up at you as he dried his feet. His face was contorted in mild confusion, having never really paid much attention to such an old-fashioned accessory. “What the hell are those?”

“Suspenders. You know.”

“Pfft,” he scoffed, beginning to slide the briefs up his legs. “Yeah, think my grandpappy wore those. I’m not.”

“Why not?” you asked, a slightly disappointed pout to your lips. “You’d look cute.”

He tilted his head in lighthearted annoyance at the thought. “I’m not tryin’ to look cute.”

Of course, you knew that, and you knew that yours and Daryl’s mission was one of utmost seriousness. You couldn’t be distracted by moments of humor or amusement. However, you also knew that Daryl’s practical, survivalist nature would be more responsive to your persuasion if you took a new angle in this approach.

“Daryl,” you said, watching him pull up the pants that were, as you predicted, much too wide for his waist, even when he’d finished buttoning them. “Those pants are going to fall down. You don’t want to be constantly pulling up your pants while we’re trying to get home, do you? It would slow you down.” 

As much as you found the image rather amusing, you didn’t want that either.

Without another sound, besides an aggravated huff that you knew to be his reluctant admit of defeat, he pulled on the sweater, then took the suspenders from your hands and started his attempt at putting them on himself. 

He did not succeed.

“Here,” you laughed. “Let me.”

It took you a second to figure out the mechanics of the things, but within moments, you were securing the button fasteners to the corresponding holes on the inside of the waistline on his trousers. With a steady hand, your eyebrows knit together and your tongue slightly poking out between your lips in concentration, you adjusted the suspenders until they seemed to fit snug against his chest, but not too tight to cause discomfort. You flattened out any twists or kinks, then patted his shoulders in satisfaction at your tailoring.

“There.” Stepping back, you couldn’t hold back your smile. Your eyes roamed all over him, taking in his new look, courtesy of the nuns. Despite the lack of trust in them, you had to admit, they had provided you with a great source of amusement. 

“Oh, cutie pie,” you teased with that old pet name you’d drunkenly bestowed upon him about ten years ago now, in a place far away from here. “You look positively adorable.”

Daryl huffed, but you saw a faint blush grace his cheeks. He could pretend all he wanted that he hated being called “adorable” or “cute” by you, but both of you knew the unspoken truth. 

His eyes lingered on you for a while, and as usual, you couldn’t quite tear yourself away from them—those swirls of rain clouds tinting an otherwise blue sky, with the slight reflection of green that could be caught only at certain angles. At this point in your life, you’d recognized every minute shift in hue, and each one was like another reason to let yourself get too preoccupied with his eyes. 

For his part, a bittersweet mood befell him. At once you were here with him, all he could ask for, and you were here because of him. Everything was because of him. He thought back to it now, how the choices he made this far somehow landed you oceans apart from your family. It killed him inside.

But you did not let him dwell in that state for long. You pressed your lips to his in a firm kiss, as if to forcibly derail his train of thought which you knew was entering the territory of a typical Daryl pity party. 

Only a moment passed after your lips separated that the door to the washroom creaked open. It startled you back slightly, and both of you straightened with an acute alertness that came naturally after so long on the road. The nun, Isabelle, stepped towards you, with a neatly folded pile of beige-colored clothing in her arms. Upon that pile sat a pair of short lace-up boots, worn but practical. 

“Here are your clothes,” she said before placing them upon a nearby chair. With each move you found yourself studying her, trying to see if there was something you could pick up on that would indicate deceit or some hidden agenda. The woman was difficult to read, however, and even Daryl couldn’t quite know what to make of her just yet. 

Isabelle held a soft smile as she met your gaze for a few moments. Her eyes were clear blue and her skin was pale as a porcelain doll. Of course, being a nun, her hair was hidden, tucked neatly under the white veil atop her head. From what you knew of nuns, which wasn’t much, you understood that her veil signified her rank within the cloister. A veil of white meant the wearer was a novice, still yet to take her vows, whatever that means. Married to Christ, or something like that. 

“Thank you,” you replied, your words quickly forming a new sentence: a question, of which you had many. “What happened to our clothes?” This was spoken with a tad bit of urgency, as not only had Daryl been wearing the angel-winged vest he’d prized above any other article of clothing in his possession, there was also a small assortment of polaroid photos zipped up securely in the pocket of your vest. You just hoped the nuns hadn’t disposed of your clothing, as most of it was tattered.

“All the possessions we found you with are beside the beds you awoke in,” she replied. Her voice was so… calm. Assured. Satisfied. You did not like it. Not one bit. She seemed all too pleased at your presence, as if she knew something you didn’t, but something that would ultimately benefit her. Whatever it was, you couldn’t place. “Dress yourself. I will show you both around.”

A quick exchange of looks with Daryl and the two of you were of one mind. “We’re not stayin’,” he said, much to your approval. Though you’d been eager to find people who could help you get home, you didn’t want to linger longer than needed. If you could get whatever help you needed here, you’d take it, and use it to get home. Besides, your trust was wavering. “We’re tryin’ to get back to America. Soon as possible.”

Isabelle’s face was unmoving, with that same indecipherable calmness that made you uneasy. There was more to her than she let on, and you had a feeling that Daryl could sense it, too. 

“You need rest,” she said, her eyes fixated on Daryl, then moving towards you. “Both of you. A day and you’ll be back on your feet.”

Though the thought of just one more day away from home killed you a little inside, you knew she was right. You were still exhausted, and Daryl would probably want to recalibrate in terms of geography. It would be wise to take a moment to get your bearings before setting out again, but one thing was certain: you weren’t taking your eyes off the nuns. 

“In the meantime,” Isabelle continued with a slight huff to her voice, “get dressed and come out when you’re ready. I’ll take you to the courtyard. You could both use a bit of fresh air.”

With a smile she exited, closing the door behind her. Still, however, you were wary. What if she was eavesdropping on the other side? You stepped closer to each other, ready to speak in whispers. Even sign language, if necessary.

“I don’t like this,” you whispered. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Daryl chewed the inside of his bottom lip in thought. Deep thought. This threw you off a bit. Shouldn’t Daryl be agreeing with you? Not that he didn’t, at least from what you could glean from his facial expressions, but there was something going on in that head of his. Some… conflict? 

“Daryl?”

Another few beats of heavy silence as he rubbed his chin in thought. “Think we should try to see if they can help us.” 

For a moment, you were stunned, unable to speak except for an exasperated huff. “What? Daryl, they’re nuns. Something tells me they don’t get out much.”

Another pause. “Let's just… see,” he said. “They’ve made it this long, they gotta know their way around. Hell, maybe they’ve got a radio or somethin’. There’s gotta be other communities, like back home. Maybe they know some people who can get us back. All we need’s a boat.”

It drove you nuts when he was right and you weren’t. In this case, you couldn’t even bring yourself to admit it, but you knew it. All you could do was relent, and remind him that you weren’t staying. You knew he knew that, but just to be sure. 

“Tomorrow we’re out of here,” you stated plainly. “We can see if they can help us, but we’re not staying longer than that. The sooner we get back on the road, the better.”

Daryl nodded in agreement, but his eyes scanned your face curiously. Your cautiousness and reluctance to trust the nuns was stronger than his, which both surprised him and intrigued him. He was usually the one who had his defenses up. Not that he didn’t in this case, of course, but it seemed you were more so than usual. 

“I don’t trust ‘em anymore than you do, but let’s be smart about this. Just ‘cause you don’t like Isabelle doesn’t—”

Surprised at his words, you scoffed. “What?”

He huffed. “You don’t like her.”

“I never said that.”

He shook his head in slight amusement. 

“Daryl.” Your arms crossed in front of your chest as your lip twitched in annoyance. At the very idea of Isabelle filling your head again, or at Daryl’s assumption, you weren’t sure. “I’m not jealous. I’m a grown woman, I don’t get jealous. Maybe… she annoys me, okay?”

“Okay.” He held up his hands as if in defense. “So I’m takin’ the lead when we get out there then, right?”

As you turned to begin removing your second-hand nightgown, you let out another scoff. “Oh, really? Daryl, I’m not going to fight with her, if that’s what you’re worried about. You know, I can be unemotional if the occasion calls for it.”

Daryl knew you well enough to know that indeed, you could suspend your feelings, despite the fact that you most often wore them on your sleeve, but he also knew you were a lot like him: stubborn. 

“Just trust me,” he said, his hand curling over your now bare shoulder. Its warmth was like a gentle summer breeze caressing your skin. And now you were annoyed at him for knowing how you melted under his touch. Typical. “I’m gonna get us outta here. I’m gonna get us home…” 

The rest was unspoken. He could’ve said more, could’ve gone on and on about how horrible he felt, how he felt this whole thing was his responsibility because of the chain of events that had brought you here in the first place. He couldn’t bring himself to vocalize it completely, though, for fear he might break down in a moment of weakness. As much as he knew you’d never judge him for his emotions, he still felt compelled to maintain his stoicism for as long as it could hold out under the weight of frustration under the surface.  

The silence between you settled in uncomfortably for a moment, until you turned to face him, your eyes glassy and your lips curled slightly on one side in a smile that seemed heavy, like it was a burden on your visage. But you tried to hold it. You tried for him. 

“I know that. But you’re not alone. We’re in this together, like we always are. And if you want to take the lead for now, that’s fine with me. Just don’t expect me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he said, his expression softened under your gaze. “I might need ya to step in if I do somethin’ stupid.”

“Mm, well… If that nun touches you again, I might step in either way.”

~

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